I found this yesterday via Tam and have been thinking how to comment/elaborate on it: “Assortative Relocation, Remington, and You” by WeaponsMan.

He’s taking the long look at Remington’s just-announced decision to open a plant in Huntsville, Alabama.

Remington has been identified for nearly two centuries with an otherwise unheralded burg in upstate New York. Ilion. That’s where a man with the marvelous name of Eliphalet Remington designed his first gun. And since 1816, apparently not much else has ever happened in Ilion other than … Remington.

The company says it has no intention of abandoning its plant or employees there; it’s just expanding (and good for Remington). Furthermore, a Cuomo spokesthing waves its arms and frantically shouts, “New York isn’t losing any jobs! New York isn’t losing any jobs!”

But this is how it works. Even a union official (member of a crowd that tends to be oblivious to ways in which actions produce consequences) understands.

SAFE Act … general nannying … high costs of doing business … crushing regulation = eventual goodbye.

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This is another of those where I begin without knowing where I’m going. Bear with me.

—–

About 15 years ago, I attended a funeral on a desolate hilltop in Wyoming. I’ve avoided weddings and funerals most of my life. This was only the second funeral I’d ever been to.

The first had been conventional, insincere — and an excruciating ordeal for everyone involved.

The Wyoming funeral was the most sincere thing you could imagine.

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“If you knew you were going to die this year …”

I suspect that Frederick, the dying man who just paid for Joel’s new batteries, is the anonymous soul who allowed me to print his story here last year.

I don’t know. But judging by the great spirit Frederick has shown Joel and the great spirit with which “Anonymous” approaches his death, it’s a good guess. Judging by the fact that Frederick is now in hospice care, I guess his time is short.

So Frederick and Anonymous, whether you are two or one, thank you for sharing your tremendous spirit and may you have peace in your journey. You’re an inspiration and an amazing example of a free man.

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Watched the SuperBowl last night. First football game I’ve seen in 20 years. But I used to love pro football and with “my” Seahawks playing (not to mention this being the Stoner Bowl), I had to tune in on the computer.

Funny how the game seemed pre-ordained to go the Seahawks way from its first seconds. The instant that flubbed first snap flew over Peyton Manning’s head and the ‘Hawks fell on it for a safety just 12 seconds into the game (earliest score ever in a SuperBowl), the Broncos seemed out of focus, off their game — and doomed.

And sure enough, from then on, the Seahawks could do no wrong and the Broncos could do no right. Or rather, even when the Broncos weren’t making awful mistakes, even when a Manning pass hit its intended receiver smack in the gloves, Seahawk defenders were right there to knock the receiver down. Manning actually passed for more yardage than Russell Wilson,IIRC, but you’d hardly have known it by watching the game. The Seahawks pwned the Broncos.

Of course, the doom could have reversed any time in the first half. Or during the half-time break. But it was sealed when — just 12 seconds into the second half — the Seahawk’s Percy Harvin returned a kickoff 87 yards for a touchdown (and made it look like a perfectly choreographed bit of football ballet).

If I were superstitious, I’d even note that Denver’s doom came with two 12s. The Seahawks are so famous for their “12th man” (their ever-faithful and very loud fans) that before the game they even charged onto the field waving a giant blue flag with nothing but a white numeral “12″ on it. The fans love their Seahawks and the ‘Hawks know the fans are part of their team.

Yep, Denver was dooooooomed.

—–

But of course, nothing was pre-ordained. It looked to me (I could be wrong) that, while they were also just overplayed by a team that was totally “on,” the Broncos doomed themselves by getting rattled. Every closeup of Manning’s face, from the get-go, showed consternation. I’m no football expert, obviously, and maybe Manning just looks that way all the time. But consternation often goes before destruction and a nervous spirit before a fall.

—–

My point (and yes, I have one aside from merely yakking about football) is that there are so many things in life that seem destined to have happened — but of course only seem that way because they’ve already happened. In reality, things could have turned out radically different, and not just last night at the SuperBowl.

There are many things that seemed destined to happen — that didn’t. For instance, the “success” of gun control. Back in ’93 and ’94 some of us were the ones with the consternated faces. But our nobler fellows got a second wind. Doom averted.

Currently, a whole boatload of bad things seem destined to happen. Privacy seems doomed to be slain by the combo of technology and big institutions. Freedom seems doomed to fall under waves of ignorance, apathy, and powerlust. The U.S. economy appears doomed in the long run by fiscal and political folly.

But we don’t know. We can’t know. All we can know is that that crisis presents opportunity. As can new technology, black swan events, and … well, a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil.

And what we can do is keep breathing, not get ourselves too consternated to function, take a break now and then — and hope to fly like a Seahawk when the wind is right.

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Boy, this working for a living stuff is hard. Stimulating, challenging, often fun, and a great way to break a long financial drought. But hard.

This afternoon for the first time in quite a while, I was able to wrap up work before meandering in the woods with the dogs. Brilliantly sunny day — and we’ve had more of those than any winter I can ever remember here. I’m sorry for you in the east suffering all those Bad Boy winter storms (Zeus or Giorgio or Henri-Claude or whatever they’re calling them, these days). I’m sorry for you Californians facing a dangerously dry summer. But here? Glorious!

Anyhow, so instead of charging out and back for the sake of doggie exercise and canine elimination needs, I actually rambled. Meandered. I might have even managed a few minutes of strolling. It was amazing. Really.

—–

And now I’m just rambling here. Just writing down whatever comes to mind. These little verbal expeditions tend to embarrass me, but they also draw a lot of thoughtful, touching comment. Which is I guess at least part of what this blog ought to be about. It’s one of the best feature’s of Joel’s blog, that he just exposes all those warts and lets you visit him inside the Secret Lair on good days and bad.

—–

Still, other things go on in the world.

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• Just when you think anti-gunners couldn’t make themselves sound more obviously stupid.
• Good reason to get a Finnish passport. :-)
• Four minutes. Four. To crack Obamacare “security.” Eh. No surprise, really. Fools.
• I became a writer by accident. For two years, I wouldn’t admit I was one because in my experience, they were mostly a bunch of drunken ne’er-do-wells. But maybe that’s a good thing.
• This focuses on what will trigger the next stock market mess. Implications (about triggering effects) go way beyond that. You’ll see what I mean.
• How to get rich and stay rich Again, not what you’re probably thinking.
• The entertaining McDonnell indictment. The good governor and his charmingly frugal (and subtle!) wife could have taken a lesson from that last link.
• Andrew Cuomo vs “Boo” Burnham. And the media vs reality.
• When graphic designers get bored.

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This is so short and so delightful I’m reprinting it in full. If you wrote this and object to my reprint, please let me know. It’s been getting around a lot.

—–

Empathy Test
By George R. Shirer

The assessor is attractive in a button-down kind of way. Blonde hair, pink jumpsuit, digital makeup set to minimal. Her face is a sculpt, something from one of the mid-level catalogues. Attractive, but not too attractive. The same face you see on a thousand other people. Only her eyes, brown and liquid, are original.

“You failed your empathy test, Mr. Clawford.”

Her tone is carefully modulated. No condemnation there, none at all. Just carefully presented curiosity.

“I know.”

“You haven’t been taking your dose.”

It isn’t a question. I shrug.

“No.”

“Why?”

The assessor leans forward. Her pink uni-suit tightens slightly, emphasizing the shape of her breasts. It’s a cheap trick, meant to distract one, make your interviewer more susceptible to the subharmonic pulses they use in these interview rooms, to make one more compliant.

“Compassion fatigue,” I say.

The assessor arches her brows. “Honestly?”

“Honestly. I’m tired of being chemically forced to care for my fellow man.”

“Are you experiencing nausea? Fatigue? Some people develop a sensitivity to the pills over time.”

“No, nothing like that. I just decided not to take my dose.”

Her carefully modulated expression becomes one of concern.

“You are aware that refusing to take your dose is illegal?”

“It’s a class two offense. I know.”

“Will you take your dose now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I sort of like feeling like a bastard. Does that make me a bad person?”

“It makes you . . . atypical,” says the assessor. She shifts in the chair. “This is the second time you’ve failed an empathy test, Mr. Clawford.”

“I know.”

“There are three options at this stage,” says the assessor. “You can take your dose and agree to daily monitoring for the next three months.”

“No. I won’t take the dose any more.”

She nods. “Fine. The second option is isolation. You’d be placed under house arrest and not allowed to leave your residence until you resume taking your dose.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. I think, miss, I’ll go for option three.”

She frowns. “Exile to the Cold Isles?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that if you choose exile, Mr. Clawford, it’s a one way trip?”

“I know.”

“And that is what you want to do? To go and live among the callous and the unfeeling?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d rather be an authentic bastard than a fake nice guy.”

Her grin surprises me. She stands and her suit tightens, turns matt black.

“Good answer. Come with me. We can be in Christchurch within the hour.”

I’m confused. “We?”

She laughs. “What? You didn’t think the fuzzies would trust one of their own to do these assessments, did you?”

“You’re one of the cold?”

“No, Mr. Clawford.” She gives me a look that I’ll get from lots of people over the next few weeks, part condescension, part genuine sympathy. “I’m one of the free.”

—–

Tip o’ hat to EN.

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I can tell you what living boldly is not.

Living boldly is not flinging yourself randomly at every injustice or every cause. That may be bold. But it ain’t livin’. And it’s not effective at creating freedom. (To paraphrase the great trickster Abbie Hoffman: Random action produces random results: Why waste even a rock?.)

Living boldly is not being obedient while waving your arms and ranting about how bad everything’s getting. (Not even if you rant really, really forcefully and get lots of hits on your blog and have lots of followers on Twitter.)

Living boldly is not flipping off cops just to show you’re brave and defiant.

Living boldly is also not being forever strong and fearless. You can live boldly and still have weak moments, emotional meltdowns, failures, self-doubts and plenty of 3:00 a.m. fears for the future. (Ask me how I know.) Living boldly is what you do in spite of all that.

Living boldly is creating your own life in your own way, even if you’re depressed, discouraged, defeated, and downtrodden. Even if you fear — or are downright dead-solid certain — that the whole damn world is doomed.

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