Monsters

If he is indeed a monster, we have created him.

— John D. MacDonald

A Santa Barbara surfing instructor drove his young son and infant daughter to a ranch in Baja California earlier this month and murdered both of them with a spearfishing gun. 

The children

He was arrested at the US border on the way home.

A QAnon follower, the surfing instructor told police he killed his kids because they were infected with serpent DNA inherited from his wife and would grow up to become "monsters." 

He had to save the world from them.

Friends and associates described the surfing instructor as a "loving family man," although he "believed some weird stuff."

There's no need to ask, who's the real monster?

But who's the monster's maker?

I'm reading John D. MacDonald's 1960 novel The End of the Night, a chilling tale of a crime spree that Stephen King once called "one of the greatest American novels of the twentieth century."

Part-way in, one of the narrators (there are several) ponders the reasons why an otherwise admirable man can kill in cold blood, often without a rational motive.

It's too easy to say he's a "monster."

"A monster?" the narrator asks. "If he is indeed a monster, we have created him.

"He is our son. We have been told by our educators and psychologists to be permissive with him, to let him express himself freely. If he throws all of the sand out of the nursery-school sandbox, he is releasing hidden tensions. We deprived him of the security of knowing know right and wrong. We debauched him with the half-chewed morsels of Freud, in whose teachings there is no right and wrong—only error and understanding. We let sleek men in high places go unpunished for amoral behavior, and the boy heard us snicker. We labeled the pursuit of pleasure a valid goal, and insisted that his teachers turn schooling into fun. We preached group adjustment, security rather than challenge, protection rather than effort. We discarded the social and sexual taboos of centuries, and mislabeled the result freedom rather than license. Finally, we poisoned his bone marrow with Strontium 90, told him to live it up while he had the chance, and sat back in ludicrous confidence expecting him to suddenly become a man. Why are we so shocked and horrified to find a child's emotions in a man's body—savage, selfish, cruel, compulsive and shallow?"

MacDonald wrote that 61 years ago, but could have done so yesterday.

The surfing instructor is currently being held without bond. 

A GoFundMe page asks for donations for his wife.

Robert's Rule of Online Content

There's an inverse relationship between the quality of gated content and the quantity of fields required to clear the gate.

Tired of Tu Quoque

If you want Black people to trust the vaccine,
don't blame them for distrusting it.

— Dr. Rueben Warren

I'm as empathetic as the next guy, but I'm tired of tu quoque. 

A logical fallacy, tu quoque (Latin for "you, too") turns a criticism back on the critic, instead of addressing it.

Example:

   Climate change threatens our species. We must end deforestation. 

   Sure, and you drive a car.

Tu quoque—also known as the "appeal to hypocrisy" or "whataboutism"—is a red herring used to take the heat off. 

As a reply to a criticism, it's weak, illogical, and blatantly self-serving. 

It lets you off the hook for anything and everything.

And it drives me bonkers.

Right now, tu quoque is being used by apologists to excuse Blacks from getting vaccinated (according to the CDC, as little as 15% of the Black population has received the vaccine).

Public health officials want everyone vaccinated. 

Unless they are, officials warn, Covid-19 will continue to kill. Over 500 Americans die every day from it.

If you criticize Blacks' vaccine-resistance—no matter your own color—you're immediately reminded of Tuskegee.

But in fact most Blacks have never heard of Tuskegee, you answer.

So you're reminded of things like poverty, pharmacy deserts, 1619 and systemic racism.

Tu quoque. Criticize my foolishness, I'll criticize yours. Never mind the substance of your criticism. 

Never mind the fact that spreading the virus encourages mutations. 

Never mind the fact that the virus can cause life-long medical problems. 

Never mind the fact that over 800 unvaccinated Americans die from the virus every day.

   You tell me I should get vaccinated. 

   Well, you're a racist.

That's tu quoque. 

I'm tired of it.

NOTE: Without doubt, White, Hispanic, Asian, and American Indian vaccine-resistors are just as illogical as Black resistors, if not more so. Fallacy is an EOE employer.

A 2,000-Year-Old Industry That's Overdue for Disruption (and It isn't Prostitution)

This is the age of disruption.

— Sebastian Thrun

Q: How many industries have remained the same for 2,000 years?

A: Two. 

The first is the "oldest profession," prostitution; the second, the trade-show industry.

That's rather remarkable when you consider the Product Lifecyle Theory.

The theory assumes obsolescence and disruption are baked in, and that only continuity in consumer tastes can forestall a product's inevitable decline.

We know the tastes matched by prostitution haven't changed much—if at all—since Caligula's time. They continue unabated.

Perhaps the same can be said of trade shows. 

As the Ancient Romans did, people still want to meet "face to face" to swap stories and do business, pandemic or no.

The question isn't whether they'll want to continue to do so, but how much? How much will they want to meet face to face—and at what cost and inconvenience?

Show organizers are counting on the answer being a lot.

But their confidence may be based on a pre-virus worldview.

Businesspeople post-virus are favoring smaller, state and regional shows to get their "face-to-face fix," shunning large confabs and southern hot spots.

The days of large national and international shows may at long last be numbered—and their audiences easy pickings for some disruptor waiting in the wings.

I'm hardly the first industry-watcher to say tradeshow organizers' business model is overdue for disruption, and won't be the last.

But 2,000 years is a hell of a long time to grow without innovation.

The Cats of War

Any citizen should be willing to give all that
he has to give in times of crisis.

— Eleanor Roosevelt

We spoil our kitties today. 

Spoil them rotten.

We spend $34 billion a year on their food alone—most of that wet food.

We serve our kitties beef, chicken, duck, turkey, rabbit, and fish. 

We serve them pâtés, chunks, chunks with gravy, chunks with broth, flaked, sliced, shredded, ground, semi-moist, dehydrated, raw, boiled, lightly boiled, steamed, lightly steamed, healthy, organic, natural, locally grown, gluten-free, grain-finished, cage-free, grass-fed, free-range, sustainably caught, non-allergenic, prescription-only, adult, lean, and vegan.

Our kitties are pussies.

The kitties of World War II were sterner stuff, the sort of tough felines you'd want around during a cat-astrophe.

They accepted sacrifice for a noble cause, and did so willingly.

Canned cat food had only just come onto the pet-food market when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

FDR (a dog owner) didn't pussyfoot around. He immediately mandated rationing, deeming cans "essential" and cat food "non-essential."

And so America's cats were dealt a double-blow.

Besides table scraps and mice, canned food was all they had known. 

Ron in 2021: What, me sacrifice? 

Now, the Axis was denying them that necessity.

But did cats complain about rationing? 

No! Like all good citizens, these purry patriots threw themselves, head to tail, into the US war effort.

The munched on mice and tables scraps for the duration—never protesting, never complaining, never losing the courage to go on.

Now that's pawsative thinking.

We could use more of it.