What’s a Trillion, More or Less?

Elon Musk

Last week’s declaration that Elon Musk has become history’s first trillionaire has me thinking about what a dollar means in today’s economy. Not in the ordinary moralistic sense of it being wrong that he has a trillion dollars, while nearly one in five American children is food insecure. No, rather, I question what Elon actually has. Because it sure isn’t money in the sense that most citizens have money.

Start with how Musk became rich. He didn’t create or sell anything valuable. His IPO on SpaceX common shares enjoyed a price jump, causing the fraction of shares in Musk’s hands to increase. In other words, his “net worth” includes the promised future value of transactions he hasn’t yet made. You or I can claim future transactions as personal value only under specific circumstances, controlled by regulations and personal integrity.

This personal integrity component matters. Musk’s notorious buyout of Twitter caused massive financial losses that reduced stock values by half. Then he stopped the bleeding by selling Twitter’s successor company, X.com, to xAI, his tech startup. He moved his holdings from one pocket to another, giving himself a markup along the way. He later repeated the trick, selling xAI to SpaceX, mere months before selling SpaceX to Wall Street.

Each of these transactions created money without creating value. Neither Twitter nor xAI saw their corporate functioning improved by the transaction; in fact, neither has ever turned a profit. Neither has SpaceX. Smarter critics than me have analyzed the SpaceX IPO and determined that it involves nothing but high-minded promises and Elon’s personal financial network. Tesla’s mediocre cars have no resale value, and the Boring Company’s tunnels barely exist.

Please remember, when we discuss Musk’s “net worth,” we mean its dollar value, not actual dollars he has. Musk’s fortune mainly consists of his stock portfolio, which mostly comprises his own companies. He pumps their floating value by making his companies seem desirable, but he also controls the supply, keeping them scarce. He cannot ever sell his stock holdings, because that would flood the market and crash their value.

Musk isn’t a trillionaire because of products he makes, services he provides, or material he sells. He’s a trillionaire because of resources he owns. This is the definition of capitalism. Sometimes, when we reformists deride “capitalism,” conservatives accuse us of opposing free markets. Not so: markets exist in economic models other than capitalism. Rather, capitalism is the system that controls who owns which resources, and how they’re priced.

Home Depot is a market. So is the informal collocation of off-the-books day laborers in the Home Depot’s parking lot. Home Depot’s market is regulated by legislation, Federal Reserve policy, and labor law. The day laborer market is regulated by trust and honor. But only the Home Depot is capitalist, since it also owns its concrete slab building, its supply contracts, and the parking lot where the day laborers meet.

But Musk has reached a plane where Home Depot can’t reach. Home Depot has value only if it creates value for other people. It must sell product at sufficient mark-up to generate profit, but not so much that it discourages commerce. It must both read the present market, and anticipate future trends. And it must make moral compromises, such as letting undocumented day laborers use its grounds.

Let’s put it another way. A friend of mine, a registered Libertarian and outspoken Musk supporter, owns the local craft brewery. He owns his building, his tanks, his trucks, and his distribution contracts. But to remain solvent and pay his workers, he must produce beer. He can’t sell futures on his proposed ability to produce epoch-making innovative beer, eventually, then punt down the road. He must sell beer now.

This doesn’t apply to Musk. Of the six corporations Musk controls—Tesla, X Corp, xAI, SpaceX, NeuraLink, and the Boring Company—only Tesla currently sells products on the open market. And those, as reported by neutral reviewers, are good-enough cars whose resale value is undercut by limited battery life. Musk mostly sells the promise of future dividends, a promise he’s never consummated, and keeps moving into the future.

It’s apparently paradoxical. He’s charmless in media interviews, disdains workers and women, espouses small-f fascist politics, and sells mostly empty promises. Yet the retail value of those promises has made Musk a trillionaire. Which means that, ultimately, the foundation of that trillion is Musk himself. At least Cornelius Vanderbilt, for all his dick-swinging vulgarity, built actual railroads. What even is Elon’s trillion?

Trek vs. Wars, or, Who's the Better Star?

The original Star Trek bridge crew, sitting comfortably with their moral certainty

Throughout my lifetime, one defining debate in niche culture has been: which is better, Star Wars or Star Trek? Which franchise reflects what we latterly call “nerd culture” in the most practical, incisive way? I’ve always disagreed with the question, because it seemed to me that the two franchises served different purposes. Arguing which was better seemed like debating whether you loved your pancreas or liver more, as though removing one would kill you less.

Star Trek always tried to be more concrete, humane, and values-driven. The structure always featured a new encounter with an alien species, rampant technology, or breakaway sect. And each conflict was, each in different ways, solved by the characters applying Gene Roddenberry’s humanist philosophy. Exactly what that means changed over time—the original series was more swaggering and colonial than TNG, for instance—but it was built to change. It was designed to remain open-ended.

By contrast, George Lucas designed Star Wars to end. It intended to encompass Luke Skywalker’s transition from provincial peasant to galactic hero, and at least as Lucas outlined, it would then end. Whether we want that “original” ending to be the medal ceremony at the conclusion of the first movie, or the destruction of the Empire at the conclusion of the third, either way, the story intended to resolve with Luke assuming his mature role.

So Roddenberry wrote one franchise to continue, while Lucas wrote the other with an arc that resolved. Yet time hasn’t allowed either outcome. The recent release of The Mandalorian and Grogu, the twelfth canon Star Wars feature film, accords it with the MCU and James Bond for stories that just continue, long after the cultural milieu that created them has ended. And Star Trek has, if anything fared even worse, at least in fan accounting.

Recent Star Trek outings like Strange New Worlds and Starfleet Academy have received pummelings from fan critics. Admittedly, the internet has given cranky fans a nearly limitless platform to complain about virtually everything. Especially with popular franchises, new entries have suffered in the ratings because of advance fan opposition; outings like Captain Ake or the Fifteenth Doctor have been lame ducks before their episodes even appeared, because of closed-minded, hostile, and even violent fan reactions.

The Abrams movies resurrected Yoda, because Luke wasn't allowed to finish growing up

Put another way, Star Trek’s core audience doesn’t experience the show anymore, they revere it. Most current Star Trek fans weren’t alive when the original series aired, and even first-generation TNG fans are in their fifties and up. The most vocal and committed audience base didn’t experience Star Trek in its cultural context on Cold War belligerence and America’s struggle with its own imperialist history. Star Trek wasn’t an abstraction, it manifested America’s fraying conscience.

Like holy texts, like the Bible or the Koran, Star Trek seems (falsely) to speak for itself. The cultural conflicts it commented upon have become fodder for historians and schoolbooks, not something the audience is steeped in. You could say something similar about Star Wars, which certainly commented upon the post-Vietnam landscape. But Star Wars held itself aloof, a willingly timeless goulash of space wizards, samurai movies, and Flying Tigers splendor that pretended to neutrality.

J.J. Abrams, who sanded Roddenberry’s humanist morals off Star Trek, also snipped off Star Wars’ Jungian roots. He turned the Starship Enterprise into a Lucasian circus, while he rendered the Millenium Falcon into a time capsule that, somehow, must keep fighting. Admittedly, he didn’t do that alone. Besides the connivance of producer Kathleen Kennedy, the process included Lucas himself, who licensed new content in 1990 and flooded the market with novels, comics, and canon movies.

In other words, Star Wars, like LotR or Narnia, was always supposed to end. But, controlled by America’s largest media conglomerate, it can’t; not while money exists to wring from audiences. For thirty-six years (as I write), Skywalker and company have been forced to re-fight their original battles, amended only by meaningless set dressing. They never get to govern the galaxy they liberated, because they’re busy constantly resisting another apocalyptic empire that, somehow, never dies.

Meanwhile, Star Trek had no limiting arc. It had little canon continuity until The Wrath of Khan; it simply responded to surrounding culture. This fluidity reflects in how the franchise constantly moves Khan Noonien Singh’s birthdate: Trek isn’t designed to be consistent, it’s designed to be current. Yet fan reverence for its roots keeps the most strident audiences from seeing the story in the present, reducing it into a lifeless artifact, a fly in amber.

Life in the New Protein Carnival

We already know that public standards in food consumption are deeply fad-driven. From the grapefruit diet of the 1930s to “organic” food in the 1970s—a concept that means something very different now than it did then—to low-carb diets in the 2000s, mass-marketed ideas of healthy diets rise and, usually, fall. We’ve all experienced serious dietary regimes in our own lives or those of loved ones, usually dressed in the ceremonial robes of science.

Currently, high-protein diets apparently dominate. Health-conscious eaters, especially men, seem obsessed with ensuring every meal includes a source of protein. (Speaking anecdotally, of course.) For most people, “protein” is synonymous with red meat, which results in people gorging on beef and pork. Of course, we can ask who benefits from this, especially in America’s highly subsidized meat growing system, with its network of often inhumane confined animal feeding operations. But how does this diet affect humans?

A recent stumble through the grocery store showed me significant numbers of foods bolstered with protein. High-protein breakfast cereals and breads. High-protein granola and pretzels. High-protein cheese and yogurt. Okay, those last two might just be opportunistic marketing, because cheese and yogurt are just dairy products fermented to bring out the protein, which is the substance that makes them more solid than milk. But even where “high protein” is cynical marketing, it’s become ubiquitous.

Then I saw high-protein water. Okay, it was sparkling water, which is already fortified with ingredients like sugar, fruit juice, and herbal supplements. But seriously, folks, high-protein water? Whose diet is so lacking in basic nutrition that they have to supplement it with faux soda-pop? At some point, these markers become an indication that the market has become saturated, and that it’s nothing but an advertising niche, intended to part the gullible from their money.

In fairness, I’m a biased source. Doctors recently diagnosed me with a disease caused by my body’s inability to eliminate proteins, which my liver turns into uric acid, and deposits in my joints. Early last month, gout left me in such disabling pain that I could barely walk for days, and spent weeks relying on a cane. This reflects my diet, and my mother taught me several recipes, all of which started by browning the meat.

For some people, gout also comes from drinking alcohol. Not me, though; I don’t drink often enough for that. Though determining the exact culprit would require expensive lab work that I can’t afford, my doctor and I decided, based on best available evidence, that my gout was most likely caused by overconsumption of animal protein. Alleviating my symptoms means reducing my meat and cheese consumption, so I basically have to relearn how to cook.

Not everyone has gout, certainly. But approximately one in 25 American adults has it, enough to count as medically “common.” Nor is gout the only protein-related disease, despite it currently looming large in my life. Excess protein can cause kidney and liver diseases, cardiovascular problems, digestive inflammation, and plain old weight gain. That’s saying nothing of nutritional insufficiency when eaters fill up on meat, and the protein crowds out vegetables, fiber, and other diverse foods.

Some people need (or want) higher protein for legitimate reasons. Bodybuilders and weightlifters need protein to achieve the useful, photogenic muscles that pay their bills. Patients suffering from certain nutritional insufficiencies or malabsorption issues may need more protein than most people. But these are specialized cases and, especially for the bodybuilders, a temporary state necessary to achieve clearly defined goals with end dates. Nobody ought to eat like this for the rest of their lives.

Yet the popularity of ketogenic and low-carb diets have people loading on proteins in hopes of looking like fashion models well into their fifties. The American diet is already the most meat-rich on Earth, and the health risks have been visible for years. Jordan Peterson famously put himself on an all-red meat diet, claimed extravagant health benefits—and has almost vanished from public view over the last year as his body lapsed into catastrophic collapse.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I don’t advocate complete vegetarianism. I tried that in graduate school, and discovered that the human body simply can’t replace certain nutrients that come from meat. But like in most of life, health comes through balance. Gorging ourselves on proteins has only temporary, nominal effects. Putting proteins in places they don’t belong, like fizzy beverages, isn’t healthy, it’s a sign of deep cultural imbalance that will warp our bodies and health.

The New Gods of the Old World, Part One

Nnedi Okorafor, She Who Knows

Najeeba, daughter of Xabief, has never conformed to the standards of her people, the Okeke, who reside in a far-future African dreamland. When she receives The Call, which usually only summons boys, her family understands and accepts her urgent feelings, but the rest of her village doesn’t. Seriously, a girl following The Call into the wilderness to pursue her people’s highest mission, salt mining? But this is only the beginning of Najeeba’s journey beyond civilization.

Per her author’s note, Dr. Nnedi Okorafor originally intended this novella as a companion to her breakout novel, 2010’s Who Fears Death. It covers similar themes, including ethnic identity under conditions of persecution, and being female in male-dominated places and professions. But as in the other novel, this story’s protagonist discovers that, when you change the world, you can’t control all the changes you start. And you certainly can’t control others’ response to that change.

The Salt Roads lead Najeeba and her family to the Dead Lake, a relic of some apocalyptic event that transformed Africa centuries ago. We never learn exactly what happened. But we witness the aftereffects: a land where agrarian citizens use another society’s nigh-magic technology, without really understanding it. Physical relics like the Dead Lake dot the land, letting the Okeke survive amid the devastation. And the Okeke share the land with sorcerers and tormented spirits.

But once away from the safety of village, hearth, and comforting gender roles, Najeeba discovers that her Calling isn’t the only unique thing about her. She discovers untapped powers that change her family’s fortunes, bringing sudden wealth to her impoverished village. But her X-Men-like superpowers draw attention from forces that her traditional people would prefer to continue ignoring them. Soon, phantoms begin pursuing Najeeba across the desert, while very human enemies threaten her ancestral home.

Dr. Okorafor champions an art movement she calls “Africanfuturism.” Spelled exactly thus, don’t abbreviate it, she’ll catch you. Her theory, which she asserts is interdisciplinary, involves applying the same speculative eye to African peoples and places that science fiction authors have long dedicated to Western societies. It’s more than that, but that’s a useful precis. Here, Dr. Okorafor uses time-honored themes of human resilience, and matching human venality, in the face of distant apocalyptic devastation.

Nnedi Okorafor

The Okeke people live an ancestral lifestyle, organized around community, land, and ritual. But they’re also divided: the Nuru caste drive cars and pursue capitalism, while Najeeba’s Osu-nu villagers plow, keep herds, and mine salt. This hierarchy derives from the Great Book, a holy writ which Najeeba’s father studies relentlessly, but which Najeeba distrusts. Okeke religion involves gods and spirits which intervene directly in human affairs, but which doesn’t apparently involve what Westerners call “faith.”

If it feels like I’m excessively describing background, this isn’t coincidental. This novella covers three years of Najeeba’s adolescence, but besides her personally, it describes the world Najeeba rebels against. Her people have centuries of tradition that kept them alive following whatever pivotal devastation nearly destroyed their world, but those ancient traditions have become ossified. Now some people preserve tradition, even at great harm to themselves and others, because continuity has become its own destination.

This isn’t a freestanding story; it starts a trilogy of novellas within which Dr. Okorafor expands the story and setting of Who Fears Death. This expansion serves a purpose, not only for the story, but for the audience. Confession time: when Who Fears Death dropped, I initially gave it a disparaging review, because I didn’t understand Dr. Okorafor’s purpose. I read through White Euro-American eyes, and dropped the ball. I was so young and daft.

For readers who, like my younger self, need a broader context to understand Dr. Okorafor’s mission, this novella reveals a larger world of culture and experience. This setting feels lived in, occupied by people whose lives are defined by work, but whose choices are shaped by Sufficiently Advanced Technology. And it demonstrates why, in a world of male intransigence, female rebellion becomes the reasonable choice. Najeeba’s mostly quiet resistance isn’t merely personal, it’s also necessary.

Audiences who haven’t read Who Fears Death will probably enjoy this novella by itself. It’s barely 160 pages, and the events of the prior novel only receive mention in the final two pages. Dr. Okorafor creates a smart, subdued, and notably concise tale of the social forces that shape our lives. She investigates what her protagonist can control, and what slips beyond control. And she sets the stage for bigger, darker journeys yet to come.

Living on Planet Gout

My gout-infested left foot, photographed
in the ER on May 6th, 2026

In 19^th-Century literature, gout, the disease, signals seedy characters: cruel landlords, rapacious capitalists, maiden aunts judging your choice in men. Both Austen and Dickens used “gout” as shorthand to indicate that this character didn’t understand current mores, because this character couldn’t walk out of the house without excruciating pain. In 21^st-Century literature, gout barely exists. Like malaria, it’s become something Anglophone writers no longer mention.

That’s why, when I was diagnosed with gout last week, my first thought was: I’ve become an anachronism. Based on the Availability Heuristic, a logical fallacy, gout seems rare today because it’s mainly mentioned in older literature. But gout remains, indeed, remarkably common. It’s not that the disease doesn’t exist anymore, it’s that we’ve stopped talking about it. As I’ve needed to think about it recently, I’ve reached some conclusions.

Austen and Dickens used gout as a moralistic shorthand which their intended audiences simply understood. That context has drifted away. We can consider why this happened by what causes gout. Though the underlying cause is usually medical, like kidney disease or cancer, the proximate cause to symptom flares is usually lifestyle-related, and reflects the foods we eat. It’s common after consuming salt and sugar, but especially animal proteins and alcohol.

When Austen and Dickens wrote, meat agriculture and brewing were still labor-intensive processes that racked up costs which knocked onto consumers. Not that people didn’t eat meat or drink alcohol in older times; venerable traditions like Christmas hams and Saturday booze-ups preceded these authors. But they were less common indulgences. Only when automation streamlined production did most people consume red meat and liquor regularly.

Victorian authors wrote when most ordinary citizens subsisted on diets composed mainly of cheap carbohydrates. As Paul Graham writes, before the 20^th Century, most people’s diets consisted more than half of bread, not because it was highly nutritious, but because it left people feeling full. More nutritionally dense foods, like vegetables, protein, and seeds, kept humans alive, but weren’t very filling. Also, without salt and spices, they often tasted bland.

Humans evolved in conditions where vital nutrients like magnesium, calcium, and zinc were abundant, but sodium, protein, and sugar were rare. These latter three are necessary in appropriate quantities. However, because they’re rare in nature, our bodies retain them greedily, while our kidneys process away the more abundant nutrients in our urine. As Dr. Janet Bond Brill writes, modern diets after automated agriculture are backward to our bodies’ processing abilities.

A Victorian cartoon of the capitalist
hierarchy (click to enlarge)

The landlords, capitalists, and sexually repressed older relatives who populated Victorian moral fables, were therefore coded as having the resources to consume steak, wine, and dessert. In a time when these foods were uncommon and expensive, simply having gout meant these characters had enough money to spend it on themselves, not their families or communities. Marx would later shorthand such characters as “the bourgeoisie.”

But economic conditions have changed. Not only do more of us have more money, but a combination of extractive farming, automated production, and government subsidies have made once-expensive foods downright cheap, in constant dollar terms. Red meat and wine, once occasional indulgences, have become snacks we gobble without thinking. Convenience foods, the staple of poverty diets, are flush with sodium and protein that only the rich could once afford.

Gout is, therefore, no longer a moral judgement on individuals; it represents a consumer society. While not everyone has gout, we who do are more likely to have painful flares earlier and more often than our ancestors did. In Victorian times, switching to a gout-resistant diet meant eschewing self-indulgent goodies which most people couldn’t afford. Today it means pricier, unsubsidized fresh ingredients. Gout has become the default, not the exception.

Maybe that’s partly why the anti-bourgeoisie revolution Marx predicted never occurred. Not because we aren’t disfranchised like our ancestors during the Industrial Revolution, but because our society buys our loyalty with cheap treats. Marxist revolutionary art often specifically depicts the bourgeoisie class overeating and drinking. Nowadays, excessive rich food is a sign of poverty, not wealth. Time and capitalism have overturned Marx’s economic equilibrium.

If you’ve never had gout, I don’t wish it upon you. The excruciating pain is often poorly placed; I could barely walk for a week, as putting any weight on my left foot caused nearly the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. However, statistically, you’re more likely to have flaming gout flares than virtually any generation ever. And preventing that won’t be possible through good individual moral choices; it requires amending an indulgent economic system.

Obsolete Men and Vanishing Adulthood

This essay is a follow-up to Obsolete Men and the Gendered Violence Epidemic and Obsolete Men vs. Shrinking Women

Braden “Clavicular” Peters

I don’t like giving Braden “Clavicular” Peters free oxygen, largely because his philosophy is so dangerous that I fear it becoming airborne. His belief that life belongs to those who are good-looking enough is maybe not controversial, as we merely average-looking men can attest. But his desire to manipulate his physiognomy to become as absurdly handsome as possible, involves a regimen of intensive self-harm.

It was bad enough with men like Andrew Tate, whose abusive workout regimen has distorted his body as badly as his soul. Any psychologist can tell you that obsessive bodybuilding, to the point where your body becomes cartoonish, emerges from the same well of self-hatred that manifests in women as anorexia nervosa. Tate is loud and charismatic enough to make his insecurities everyone else’s problem, at great mutual cost.

Peters, though, doesn’t just distort himself. Bodybuilding is only part of a larger regimen, which includes injecting dangerous drugs, wolfing down questionable supplements, and self-flagellation. He became the public face of “looksmaxxing” in recent months as the most grotesque part of his regimen—self-administered facial beatings with a hammer—went viral. He believes that treating himself with violence will make him more conventionally handsome.

And he isn’t entirely wrong. Recent photos show Peters looking like an exaggerated form of a mid-20^th Century matinee idol, with big shoulders, great hair, and a well-defined chin. Of course, as I write, Peters has recently turned twenty, so whether his good looks represent his abusive regimen, or simply graduating from awkward adolescence, is subject to debate. What we can’t debate, though, is: this man looks thirty.

Telling a twenty-year-old woman that she looks thirty would probably get you smacked. In American culture, female physical beauty correlates with outward markers of fertility, which means youth. Women use ointments, tinctures, injections, and surgery to stave off the appearance of age, though the results are questionable. Lauren Sanchéz Bezos’ recent appearance at the Met Gala resulted in laughter at her augmented appearance and questionable wardrobe.

Lauren Sanchéz Bezos

But for men, looking older is desirable. In interviews, Peters describes injecting himself with steroids at age fourteen to achieve the shredded look that normally requires years of dedication and effort. His famous, highly defined jaw, does indeed come to most men through years of small-scale trauma, sports injuries, and dangerous work. Like millions of adolescents, Peters wants to skip the dues-paying stage and be recognized as an adult.

Who can blame him? As entry-level professional jobs dwindle, men keep jobs into their twenties and thirties that formerly belonged to teenagers. Countless adults, of both biological sexes, cannot afford to move out of their parents’ houses. Student debt, once a ten-year commitment, has become a lifelong burden. The average age of first-home purchase is now forty. In such an environment, paying one’s dues in linear time is downright foolish.

In such an environment, Peters doesn’t want to merely look good. Placed in his social context, Peters wants to speed-run adulthood, or anyway the one aspect of adulthood which he can control. Savvy media manipulators can fake the personal characteristics that make older men attractive to women, including emotional regulation and economic stability. But only those willing to treat themselves violently can look old enough to enter the market.

However, let’s continue looking at that same broader context. The ways that men used to hasten rugged good looks, like playing sports or doing difficult physical labor, are all communitarian. There’s no such thing as solitaire football, and building a house requires a team. The ways men formerly organized themselves into communities, including labor unions, religious congregations, and even bowling leagues, look increasingly quaint, if they even still exist.

Peters has to speed-run adulthood alone because, otherwise, he has nowhere to go. Modern life has become mostly solitary and, unless you’re born to money, the chance of getting ahead through hard work and ingenuity alone is virtually nil. Peters has made himself a mass-media grotesque, but in doing so, he’s captured our attention, the one meaningful resource for cash-poor boys hoping to make themselves a life in American modernity.

Our solution must involve getting outside our own homes, and outside our own heads. Easier said than done. But even as churches and unions seem irrelevant, many communities still have adult sports leagues, maker spaces, and public libraries. Individuals and small groups can organize new networks, like community choirs, improv companies, and charitable volunteer organizations.

We must seek the trappings of adulthood, once hoarded in the workplace, out in the large rcommunity.

Creating a Marketplace for Reliable Guessing

Philip E. Tetlock, Expert Political Judgment: How Good Is It? How Can We Know?

Why are professional prognosticators so consistently bad at predicting the future? We know this phenomenon most clearly from basic cable news, where credentialed experts prognosticate about how good, bad, or volatile the near future will be, usually in ways that support their ideology. But it manifests in other environments: business professionals who fail to forecast economic trends. Legislators who let lush opportunities slip away. Inventors pushing questionable technology.

Canadian-American psychologist Philip Tetlock, currently at the University of Pennsylvania, asked himself this question immediately after Operation Iraqi Freedom. Mass-media oracles predicted either swift, easy victory, or else nigh-apocalypse. The reality reflected neither partisan extreme, but instead descended into the same quotidian brutality that has characterized American intervention since WWII. Why, Tetlock asks, were both sides so wrong, and why has nobody paid for their overconfidence?

He favors the metaphor of foxes and hedgehogs, which he pinches from Isaiah Berlin, though it’s far older. Foxes know many things, Tetlock writes; hedgehogs know one big thing. Mass-media operators love highly credentialed experts, especially on economics and world affairs. But those experts’ predictions are often only marginally better than committed dilettantes who read newspapers daily and remains informed. Further, the more advanced one’s credentials, the more marginal the gains.

So far, so good. Tetlock’s description essentially accords with our recent experiences of camera-friendly experts reliably whiffing their predictions. My problem arises when Tetlock transitions from describing to explaining. A consummate scholar, Tetlock is reluctant to say anything which he cannot support strictly from quantifiable evidence. And holy moly, does Tetlock have extensive and thoroughly documented evidence to deploy.

Let’s make something clear: despite his praise (often muted) for well-informed dilettantes, he writes for scholarly audiences motivated by deep research. He fortifies his prose with histograms, p-values, and confidence intervals. He spends several column inches breaking down the mathematical modeling which supports his conclusions, and he seldom goes beyond the evidence. He dedicates an entire chapter to anticipating and transcribing his critics’ likely counterarguments.

Philip E. Tetlock, Ph.D.

Tetlock briefly acknowledges, but doesn’t expand much upon, the reality of who receives attention. TV pundits, hero CEOs, civil rights activists, and tech bros all broadly favor certainty, volume, and swagger. Reliable predictors, working from diversified backgrounds and intellectual caution, can look timid on Sunday talk shows or corporate board meetings. Put another way, saying wrong things confidently looks more telegenic than trading in likelihoods, conditionals, and caution.

Unfortunately, Tetlock himself demonstrates this. He refuses to offer opinions without sourced evidence, and he refuses to offer evidence without lengthy discursions on mathematical variance. Because his status relies on measurable outcomes—what he terms “reputational bets”—he refuses to place everything on one spin of the roulette wheel. The product he thus creates is more likely to be accurate, but less compelling in a media-saturated “attention economy.”

He also omits something I consider vitally important. The principle of homophily means we’re more likely to spend time around people like ourselves. Scholars congregate with other scholars; journalists chill with media professionals; lawmakers drink with lawyers. We see this particularly in economics, the scholarly field least likely to cite sources from other disciplines: our environment discourages seeking differing influences, disconfirming evidence, or even a diverse friend network.

Invested dilettantes make reliable predictions, perhaps, because they see how hypothetical outcomes postulated in scholarly journals actually unfold in daily life. Unfortunately, to calculate his confidence intervals on reliable predictions, Tetlock generates a core sample of prognosticators who are, like himself, flush with academic credentials. If military historians predict one outcome for war, and generals predict another, maybe consult the enlisted men carrying weapons, not more historians and generals.

Rereading what I’ve written, I feel I’ve misrepresented Tetlock’s product. I like his thesis, that intellectual diversity trumps depth in creating reliable forecasts. Later chapters on public accountability are particularly promising, if underwritten. Especially in subsequent years (Tetlock’s first edition appeared in 2005), we’ve seen public experts become increasingly hostile to criticism or disconfirming sources. Doubt has become, not the precursor to better thinking, but a sign of disloyalty. Unsurprisingly, experts have become more likely to be wrong.

Considering my doubts, and new evidence since 2005, we could perhaps read this volume as a prolegomenon to further research. Tetlock himself co-wrote a subsequent volume, which I’ve already purposed to read. But I feel it actually serves Tetlock’s thesis to suggest that future research should come from an interdisciplinary source, perhaps a public-private partnership. The future of the forecasting business is too valuable to entrust only to other forecasters.

Obsolete Men vs. Shrinking Women

This essay is a follow-up to my previous essay Obsolete Men and the Gendered Violence Epidemic

Sabrina Carpenter

If, as I stated previously, modern masculinity means rejecting anything feminine in the self, what then is modern femininity? This matters as women’s appearances have come in for renewed criticism. Louis Theroux, in Inside the Manosphere, followed several men whose male reinforcement routines involve obsessive exercise and bodybuilding, making their bodies huge and brawny. Simultaneously, we’ve witnessed the recent rise in demand for feminine smallness.

Smarter critics than me have commented upon the rise in Ozempic bodies. Celebrity women who once tied their public personas to their larger frames, like Amy Schumer and Adele, recently lost weight so rapidly that it’s essentially impossible without synthetic pharmaceuticals. Large women gaining small bodies requires expensive drugs and full-time exercise routines, so it’s obviously impractical for most women. Yet it’s widespread enough recently to appear normative.

Some time ago, I read an essay—now lost—critiquing gender roles in “romantasy” fiction. The author noted a recurrent theme she called “size gaps,” presented as almost equally reprehensible as age gaps. Many romantasy novels feature hulking, muscular leading men, basically walking slabs of uncooked steak. Their leading women are dainty flowers, maybe skilled swordswomen, but usually small enough to ride piggyback on their lovers’ shoulders.

This underlines part of my problem: we define gender in our society oppositionally. Men are large, tall, and muscular; women are small, slight, and shouldn’t have muscles. Standards of feminine beauty have changed little since 1925, when Lewis & Young praised a woman for being “five foot two, eyes of blue.” A century later, feminine beauty icon Sabrina Carpenter (five foot zero) omitted trousers from a custom Louis Vuitton suit, specifically because of her height.

Not to criticize Carpenter personally; she had no more control over her height than I had over becoming exceptionally tall. But her social icon role, beautiful and sexy but not necessarily for men, includes her body type: short, buxom, with large facial features. We see similar behavior from other women who sway cultural standards. Lizzo, Melissa McCarthy, and Kathy Bates, all celebrated large women, recently lost weight with GLP-1 drugs.

Criticizing Hollywood bodies is nothing new. Women on camera have long been expected to maintain teenage proportions well into adulthood, a standard only possible for those who can afford personal assistants and pricy gym regimens. But the recent rise in waif-like women, coupled with the concomitant visibility of ox-like men, reflects a brutal reality: men must not look like women. And women must not look like men.

Braden Peters

Such attitudes have very real consequences. One of the best actors I ever shared the stage with, a beautiful woman with dynamic range and powerful singing chops, also stood over six feet tall. This made her too tall to gaze up soulfully into most men’s eyes, which precluded her from substantial roles. She bounced through some insulting comic relief roles that reduced her to a function of her unusual height, before leaving the industry altogether.

Switching genders, I see the culmination of this trend in the male “looksmaxxing” influencer Braden Peters, stage name Clavicular. Peters put himself through grotesque paces to achieve his appearance goals: drug injections, day-long bodybuilding runs, even beating himself with a hammer to maximize his jawline. The regimen has arguably worked, because he looks like an exaggerated caricature of a midcentury Hollywood leading man.

But he’s achieved his goals at a catastrophic price. By his own admission, Peters began injecting himself with synthetic testosterone supplements at age 14 to hasten adult characteristics. Within five years, he’d consumed so much fake testosterone that his body stopped producing the natural stuff. In essence, Clavicular chemically castrated himself. He maintains the external appearance of a sexy man, but his (ahem) primary sexual characteristic no longer works.

Sabrina Carpenter and Braden Peters are opposite sides of the same coin, and I do mean opposite. If women are shorter than men, then Carpenter’s exceptionally slight height becomes aspirational. If men are harder-featured then women, then Peters literally beating his face with a hammer to maximize his jawline becomes an acceptable price. Influencers define both binary genders by looking as little as possible like the other.

I’m using external appearance, like height and build, as metaphors here. The problem is much more pervasive. As American society generally becomes more accepting of alternate gender presentations, our cultural gatekeepers have become even more rigid and restrictive. This is still currently a fringe issue, mercifully. But then, so was the alt-right, until it conquered the government. Left untended, these positions risk becoming mainstream.

How To Build and Destroy an Empire

1001 Books To Read Before Your Kindle Battery Dies, Part 122
Adam Hochschild, King Leopold's Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa

Belgium’s King Leopold II aspired to become one of Europe’s great powers, although Belgium, a loose regional federation, didn’t exist before 1830. Becoming a colonial empire, on par with Britain and France, allowed Leopold a quick, cost-effective way to achieve greatness. It certainly helped that he didn’t care who he hurt, and saw native peoples on colonized land as a treatable nuisance. So he set eyes on the Congo.

Journalist Adam Hochschild previously covered South Africa’s waning apartheid government, a beat that put him in contact with CIA and MI6 officials and their off-the-record stories. One such story involved the CIA’s multiple slapstick efforts to overthrow Patrice Lumumba, the only democratically elected leader of the post-colonial Congo. Further investigation led Hochschild to a colonial history that, in the 1990s, was largely forgotten in Europe and America.

Using primary source documents, including eyewitness testimony and elaborate government and business records, Hochschild reconstructs Leopold’s process. Europeans in the 19^th Century desperately wanted to see themselves as heroes. They bankrolled adventurers l ke Henry Morton Stanley, whose wanderings in Africa’s interior were polished to conceal his actual violent tendencies. Europeans also moralistically raged against Arab slave trading, despite having barely ended the Triangle Trade themselves.

Leopold managed his age’s three great influences—moralism, adventurism, and industrialism—to build support for Belgian intervention in Africa. Except not in Belgium, which cared more about building a reliable domestic state. So Leopold sold bonds overseas, got lucrative British and Prussian loans, and mortgaged royal properties to subsidize his plans. They paid off, too, as Stanley inked treaties with Congolese nations that gave Leopold massive territorial control.

Territory that, incidentally, he never visited.

But, burdened with debt obligations and international prestige, Leopold quickly needed to show profits. He hired agents who cared little for rules, armed them with newfangled carbine rifles, and set quotas. This turned out to be an excellent formula for lucrative export markets, provided nobody cared about the human cost to native peoples. Several state agents made a mint, while Leopold became fabulously rich. Natives fled the bloodshed.

Adam Hochschild

Then as now, money and property became their own justifications. Agents of the state corporation didn’t care whom they hurt, provided they got paid. Those forced to do the actual work never saw the rewards, and indeed were punished severely for even minor noncompliance; casual maiming was common, and company soldiers destroyed entire villages when quotas weren’t met. Africans lived as slaves in their ancestral homeland.

Not everything in Hochschild’s telling is bleak, though. As Leopold’s hybrid of military, government, and capitalism grew to unprecedented power and violence, others began resisting. While many state agents reveled in violence, others were sickened, and carried their stories back to Europe. One such disillusioned state agent was Joseph Conrad, whose novella Heart of Darkness continues telling the resistant story long after Leopold’s colony ended.

Two other resisters were E.D. Morel and Roger Casement. A journalist and a state bureaucrat respectively, they carried news of Leopold’s brutal government to the very countries that owned Congolese bonds and debt instruments. Leopold attempted a PR campaign in Europe and America to assure Whites everywhere of Belgium’s moral valor. But Morel and Casement shone lights on how Leopold’s administration governed, and who got rich of African labor. World sentiment finally turned.

Hochschild writes history without moral sentiment. Those who resisted Leopold’s imperial experiment often had their own racist lenses, and sometimes preserved power as much as they resisted it. While Leopold’s Congo may have been exceptionally violent, Morel and Casement overlooked British and French abuses in adjacent colonies. And Conrad, though conscious of the damage empire caused, never had courage enough to abandon his privileges.

Of all problems in writing this history, though, Hochschild acknowledges the greatest himself: Africans left few primary sources. Even oral history wasn’t coordinated until the survivors of Leopold’s terror were aged and vanishing. Congo historiography winds up being a heavily European narrative; Africans become somebody Europeans speak with, or speak for, not autonomous individuals who speak for themselves. History is as much a matter of what’s missing as what’s known.

Despite these yawning gaps, Hochschild’s history is thorough and enlightening. It’s also timely. When it appeared in 1998, it was revolutionary and even dangerous, but Hochschild’s broad themes have become intrinsic to the modern narrative of resistance. Because, although company agents aren’t massacring villages or cutting off hands, the underlying parallels are way too visible. History is never about the dead; it’s about we who live in the aftermath.

Obsolete Men and the Gendered Violence Epidemic

CONTENT WARNING: this essay contains direct discussions of sexual and gendered violence. I've tried to remain dispassionate and considerate of readers’ sensibilities, but the subject remains what it is.

Nobody asked my opinion about the “global rape academy” story that exploded on social media last week, nearly a month after CNN first reported it. As a book blogger with a negligible audience and few respondents, my interpretation doesn’t matter. Certainly nothing I say will ameliorate the repellent content and persistent harm this “academy” has perpetuated. I’ve debated whether my contribution would do more harm than good.

But in one of those flukes of synchronicity, this story overlapped with several others. The story gained traction as I finished reading Gareth Russell’s The Six Loves of James I. Russell writes that, nearing the end of his life, King James strenuously avoided entangling England and Scotland in Europe’s wars of religion. For this, British political and religious leaders disparaged James as “feminine,” and therefore unworthy of power.

Millions of viewers watched Louis Theroux’ Netflix documentary Inside the Manosphere, which dropped almost simultaneously with CNN’s report. Theroux interviews representatives of a highly public form of masculinity, which rewards displays of strength and valor, while actively disparaging women. Theroux’ interviewees call their girlfriends “the dishwasher” and discuss monogamy for thee but not me, demonstrating the inferior position they reserve for women.

Anti-estrogen pills for men have begun invading my all-night doomscrolling sessions. Minimally regulated supplements, sold by mostly anonymous vendors, promise to help aging men eliminate man-boobs and soft guts, while turning them into sexual powerhouses guaranteed to please their partners. These ads’ innate subtext includes that any implication of femininity, including softness or having boobs, undercuts one’s status as a man and a husband.

All three influences share the supposition that femininity is necessarily inferior. Any man showing feminine signs is perforce disqualified from being a king, a husband, or even a man; men must purge femininity through war, domination, or chemical self-mutilation. Men must hurt or kill anything feminine within themselves, not only internally, but in highly public displays of masculine reinforcement. Anything less diminishes a man.

Should we wonder, in such conditions, that some men—and indeed, some women—consider the feminine necessarily deficient, no matter who displays it? Womanhood becomes, not another manifestation of human potential, but an enemy to control and restrict. Men raping their wives, or men intruding themselves into women’s personal space in public to demand sexual favors, aren’t merely criminals or assholes. They’re defending their dwindling male prerogative.

This form of masculinity often, but not necessarily, correlates with political conservatism. Right wingers like Paul Joseph Watson, who popularized the epithet soyboy, and Alex Jones, whose rage at progressives often becomes so pitched that he screams wordlessly into the microphone, perform notorious displays of machismo. Jones’ shirtless horse rides, a naked mimicry of Vladimir Putin, are pointedly anti-American in nature.

Nor are these displays unique to men; because conservatives consider anger a prerequisite to seriousness, conservative women adopt public displays of macho anger. Tomi Lahren notoriously starts her broadcasts already spitting rage. Candace Owens loves getting belligerent, often cussing into the microphone to prove her legitimacy. If violence and war are necessarily masculine, and therefore strong, these women will remake themselves as masculine as possible.

Most men lack the social reach of Alex Jones, manosphere influencers, or President Taco. They can’t hurt women as a class. They’re reduced to hurting women as individuals—which means the women to whom they have the readiest access. Reducing gendered violence to a sexual fetish also allows them to commodify their violence; CNN reports that several “academy” participants sold one another unregulated sedatives online.

Woman hatred as entrepreneurship. Yuck.

These men drugging and raping their wives are functionally equal to ICE agent Jonathan Ross, who videoed himself shooting a mother in the face, then calling her a “fucking bitch.” Whether it’s murdering mommies in the street, belittling them on podcasts, or turning them into lifeless sex dolls in their own bedrooms, these men all treat women equally. Femininity deserves to be hurt, both in myself and in the world.

I take comfort that these displays are rare. As Snopes reports, the 62 million users number, popularized after CNN’s report, describes the entire hosting website, a porn outlet owned by a New York smut entrepreneur. The “academy” itself had barely a thousand active users. Even this, though, isn’t wholly comforting, as the site’s content is entirely user-generated, and therefore almost certainly contains other illegal content.

I wish I had uplifting, humanitarian solutions. Sadly, we’ve reached this position behind a raft of causes: male economic obsolescence, rapidly changing gender roles, diminishment of hierarchy and violence as mandatory social organizing tools, and more. We neglected the causes until they became a crisis. History warns that the situation is unlikely to reverse itself now, unless something brutal upsets the apple cart.

Until then, all of us, male and female, will continue paying the revolting price.

The Other King James Version

Gareth Russell, The Six Loves of James I

James Stewart (Stuart) was crowned King of Scotland, probably illegally, at only ten months old, inheriting from Mary, the mother he barely met. He was raised under spartan conditions, with the expectation that he’d eventually command in battle against the English, the French, or his own barons. But by disposition, he was better suited to scholarship, theology, and poetry. Desperate and lonely, he sought companionship wherever he could find it.

Anglo-Irish author and historian Gareth Russell has written multiple biographies of European monarchs’ private lives. Russell admits he chose the “six loves” angle as a deliberate parallel to Henry VIII’s six wives, but pinning down exact numbers is difficult. He has to reconstruct James’ private life through diaries, letters, and other contemporary documents, many written in coded language. Because unlike Henry, James’ multiple dalliances were with men.

Russell describes James’ strict, cloistered education, under Presbyterian clerics who despised anything even slightly feminine. They taught him to distrust his mother’s legacy, women’s advice, and anything nurturing or fair within himself. (Poetry, back then, was highly manful, and James became an accomplished lyricist.) They also mostly denied him any friends his own age. His childhood seems bleak and lonely; no wonder he rebelled when he came of age.

Even before reaching adulthood, James began the royal prerogative of keeping “favorites.” These were all men; he showed little interest in women, either erotic or platonic. Rumors of James’ relationships ran rampant, though his contemporaries described them only obliquely, as addressing them directly would’ve been unseemly. Courtiers described James’ male favorites as “minions,” a word that had judgmental connotations that modern English has largely lost.

Understanding James’ relationships in modern terms is difficult. In early modern Scotland and England, sexuality was an action, not a state of being; the word “homosexual” wouldn’t be coined for centuries. Russell includes a detailed appendix on the processes of translating Jacobean-era social descriptions into modern English, because like race, sexual identity is a social construct, one which James’ contemporaries, like ours, often deployed maliciously.

In this book, Russell attempts to write a strict biography of James’ private life, not a history of his political reign. This proves difficult. Back when monarchs had actual political power, it was often difficult to separate kings’ private and public lives, especially when kings like James plied his favorites with the one gift a chronically cash-strapped monarch could give: aristocratic titles. Private life and public power were inextricably entwined.

Gareth Russell

James broadly favored good-looking men in their early to middle twenties. Most shared his scholarly inclinations, though in Russell’s telling, at last one favorite was a doofus whom James thought he could rehabilitate. At this late date, it seems painfully naïve to pretend James didn’t have sexual relationships with men, though his association with the King James (Authorized) Bible has made admitting that difficult for some commentators.

But again, James wasn’t homosexual in the current sense. He apparently never loved his queen consort, Anna of Denmark, though he certainly respected and trusted her. Sometimes he seems to have even liked her. They had seven children, and when Anna died, James was legitimately grief-stricken. Russell also identifies at least one, possibly two women James had as mistresses, affairs noted for their passion but not depth or durability.

From the monarchy of Scotland, James graduated to the monarchy of England. The English crown had less power under constitutional standards, but more prestige, and becoming King of England entangled James in European power politics. James’ willingness to trust male favorites with court authority left him vulnerable to aristocratic criticism, especially as he disfavored foreign wars, which contemporaries disparaged as terminally feminine.

Then as now, calling a man “feminine” was the highest insult.

In Russell’s telling, James’ private life seems a balance of contrasts. His strict Calvinist upbringing, with its disdain for women and femininity, probably influenced his relationships with men, in ways his teachers never intended. He wrote extensively on theology, but was ambivalent toward faith. He was proudly Scottish, but barely visited the nation after becoming King of England. He loved his favorites so deeply that he jeopardized his kingdom.

Most important, there’s no separation between King James and James Stewart. He trusted his wife, his lovers, and his sons with remarkable power. He experienced passionate love but jealously guarded the royal prerogatives, eager not just to be king, but to be seen as majestic. All subsequent British monarchs have descended from James, through a distaff line. He wasn’t always prudent, but he was always King.

Last Star, Straight Onto Mourning

Catriona Ward, Nowhere Burning

Poor adolescent Riley needs to escape her abusive foster home, and the impossible girl outside her second-floor window offers the sanctuary she needs. All Riley has to do is run away across the Colorado Rockies and learn to fly. As unlikely as that sounds, it’s better than staying put. But when she reaches Nowhere, the strange ruin of mid-century grandeur overlooking Boulder, she finds a compound of frightened fugitives like her, all somehow permanently children.

It wouldn’t be accurate to describe Catriona Ward’s latest book as a retelling of Peter Pan. More like a self-conscious homage. Ward, whose previous works have relied upon sudden reveals and last-minute surprises, offers three converging narratives building toward a secret she’s previously kept. But this time, the reveals don’t feel earned, not like natural extensions of the ongoing story. It feels like she’s deliberately lied in order to blindside us at the last minute.

In the first narrative, Riley escapes her abusive home situation, dragging along her brother Oliver, too young to understand what’s going on. They hike to Nowhere, the remains of a palatial mansion that burned years ago. There, a commune of adolescents has established a stable society without adults. Riley feels both drawn to and repulsed by their self-reliance, backed by simple, useful roles and their leader’s home-brew religion. They worship something that needs constantly appeased.

The second narrative follows Adam. An architect and builder, Adam contracts with prestigious actor Leaf Winham to build improvements on his Colorado mansion, called Nowhere. Leaf is charming and acclaimed, but distrusts fame, and prefers to keep his secrets. Adam feels drawn to Leaf, to the point where he abandons his life, including his pregnant girlfriend. Only when Leaf controls Adam, and he has nothing to return to, does Adam begin uncovering Leaf’s dark secrets.

Finally, documentarian Marc and his camera operator, Kimble, have decided to investigate the urban legends surrounding Nowhere and its cult of children. They want to become the first adults to approach the ruined mansion in several decades, and capture its secrets on camera. But the closer they approach the building, the more friction starts emerging from Marc’s deeply buried past, and it becomes increasingly clear that he’ll hurt his closest friends to keep his secrets.

Catriona Ward

It’s obvious, early on, that these narratives unfold out of sequence. Since Adam’s story unfolds in a Nowhere untouched by fire, it clearly precedes the other two. We read in expectation of how the building’s secrets, clearly known in the other threads, will come out in Adam’s past. Also, how exactly do the other two narratives relate? Marc clearly knows more than he tells Kimble, despite call her the sister he wished he’d always had.

The problem arises here. I’ve read two previous Catriona Ward novels, where plot points revolve around information the characters have, but don’t share. In Little Eve, the narrator is self-consciously telling the story and playing with narrative conventions, in the Agatha Christie style. In The Last House on Needless Street, the secrets are buried under facts the characters take for granted, and therefore haven’t thought about in years. We feel surprised without ever feeling deceived.

Here, the characters clearly know, and often think about, the secrets motivating their choices. They just don’t tell us. The revelations come as raw info dumps, sometimes several paragraphs long. Once the characters reveal the secrets they’ve nurtured, we don’t feel surprised or illuminated, as we have in previous Ward novels; we feel lied to. We can forgive that once, because people lie. But as lie after lie gets revealed, we feel manipulated, not enlightened.

This hurts because Ward’s set-up is so good. Besides Peter Pan, previous critics have compared Ward’s premise to The Shining and Lord of the Flies. Ward isn’t merely imitative, though; she uses these time-honored influences to question how good people with honorable intentions make, and constantly re-make, civilization. Leaf Winham, the charming narcissist, and the children’s religious rituals, are just two forms of community building that work well for adherents, until the moment they don’t.

Reading, I felt like Ward had devised characters, situations, and a nonlinear form that served her psychological writing style well. But she hadn’t figured how to tie the multiple threads together, so she pulled a Hail Mary and hoped we wouldn’t notice. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed, if her previous books hadn’t been so good that they set my expectations so high. Sadly, the product feels like a good premise, finished with a cheap rug-pull.

In the Hidden Corners of My Hometown

This West Coast modernist design just sprouts in the middle of a post-WWII development.

Flailing my way through protracted unemployment, I recently started driving DoorDash to get cash moving in. My community is too small to produce enough business for me to live off my gig, but it brings in enough to keep groceries on the table. The gig has provided another important education I didn’t realize I needed: despite living in one small city for over twenty years, I’ve discovered how much of town I just don’t know.

My central Nebraska city has a population slightly above 30,000 people. By current American standards, that’s dinky, but on a historical basis, actually quite large. Legendary ancient cities like Chichen Itza or Babylon topped out around 20,000 people, the practical maximum for societies where the majority needed to farm, and urban infrastructure had to primarily support pedestrians and mule carts. Modernity can support much larger populations, though, mostly because of cars, electricity, and Portland cement.

Modernity has also produced something that ancient cities could’ve never supported: single use zoning. When cars put much larger distances within easy reach, citizens building a business in front of their house, a stable in back, and extra rooms for an inn on the side, makes less sense. American communities are now built in sprawling, monolithic ways that discourage visitors. There’s little reason to visit huge swaths of one’s own city without a prior invitation.

This results in acres upon acres, streets upon streets, where I’ve never visited—until now. DoorDash invites me into single-use residential neighborhoods I’ve never previously had purpose or permission to enter. Visiting these quarters for the first time, I witness eclectic architecture, some of it deliberately either minimalist or rococo, and differing ideas about how large the surrounding yard should be. I’ve also witnessed that, the newer the community, the less likely to contain sidewalks.

Very large lawns, without sidewalks or parks, encourage children to play close to home. Current urban design (which, often, means no design, just vibes) discourages children from one of childhood’s primal impulses, the desire to explore. Wandering away from home may be impractical in new developments and, depending on traffic patterns, unsafe. This means children only have opportunities to meet friends and make connections in officially approved spaces, mainly school and, for some, religious congregations.

Just one of a development of identical crackerbox duplexes with postage stamp lawns,
no sidewalks, and no curbside parking—completely hostile to visitors or teenagers.

The extreme opposite, I’ve observed, is small houses, mainly duplexes, on small lots. These are single-story houses with attached garages, requiring a large physical footprint. However, these developments also lack sidewalks, which means not only no pedestrians, but no curbside parking for guests. These houses seemingly go mainly to young families as starter homes, so maybe they don’t entertain much. But it dampens their ability to perform time-honored neighborhood rituals of group bonding through hospitality.

Small starter homes have no parking and no place to set up picnic tables. Larger homes for established families have space and parking, but are so far away that neighbors can scarcely see one another. Either way, these designs discourage traditional neighborhood activities, like block parties or tenants’ unions, and functionally prevent neighbors from getting to know one another. The McMansions, in particular, look awkward, flexing their design flourishes to impress neighbors they’ll never meet.

Traveling to shared spaces, like work or school, requires either an overland hike without sidewalks, or car rides that create traffic jams. My city is small enough that “jams” are fleeting annoyances. But larger unplanned cities like Houston, which is over forty percent paved, can be dangerous during the morning commute. Ambulances trapped in rush-hour traffic have become a notable part of the Houston experience. So was the city’s inability to drain after Hurricane Harvey.

Current urban design standards divide routine activities. This isn’t entirely awful, as most people wouldn’t want to live beside a lead smelter, kimchi cannery, or hog abattoir. But most people also can’t walk to restaurants, shops, or even their neighbors’ houses. All daily business happens enclosed in hermetically sealed, climate-controlled metal capsules. Ordinary people have diminished opportunities to make friends, discover quirky experimental businesses, or, as I’ve learned recently, see most of their own town.

Old cities like central London, Paris, or New York south of Houston Street are designed around human needs: useful sidewalks, homes designed to double as business sites, and multi-story structures that utilize vertical space as assertively as horizontal. We can’t just regress, because history goes proceeds, even when we wish it wouldn’t. But we can look to older spaces for inspiration for innovative ways to utilize newer, more current spaces that aren’t hostile to visitors.

The Deep, Dark Mines of the Uncanny Valley

T. Kingfisher, What Stalks the Deep

Shellshocked veteran Lt. Alex Easton’s sole qualification to investigate unexplained phenomena, is that they’ve seen it before without flinching. But where they previously fought ineffable monsters in their native Gallacia, a mysterious Eastern European land of dismal swamps and forests primeval, this time, they’ve been invited to America. But then, if there’s a place as old and as hostile to humankind as Gallacia, it must surely be Southern Appalachia.

T. Kingfisher’s “Sworn Soldier” novellas, starring Alex Easton, whose unique gender identity doesn’t translate into English, each delve into different horror subgenres. The first retold a Poe classic, highlighting a theme Poe introduced, but didn’t explore. The second followed the conventions of folk horror. This third unpack a theme popular in recent movies: the legend of mysterious humanoids dwelling in the caverns and mines permeating America’s eastern mountains.

Dr. James Denton, a supporting character from Easton’s first story, has telegrammed Easton for their help. He admits Easton isn’t particularly qualified, except that they’ve faced similar conflicts before, and he needs a partner who won’t ask stupid questions. So Easton crosses the ocean, rides America’s rails, and walks into West Virginia’s dark, forested mountains, a terrain from which more intrepid explorers have frequently failed to return.

Many American folk myths speculate that something dark and mysterious dwells underground, a horrible monster which we’ll uncover by mining for hydrocarbons or even just spelunking. This monster is usually whispered to be older than humankind, and eager for small provocations to resurge and take America from us. Of course, this is coded language. We “Americans” know who we stole this land from, and why they deserve to reclaim it.

Kingfisher salts these themes with a Lovecraftian influence which she acknowledges in her afterword, but which she doesn’t hammer needlessly. Rather, she describes two war-torn old souls, walking wounded, who investigate a land older than human conception. There, they discover a cavern that cannot possibly exist, guarded by a force so close to human, that its very existence personifies the uncanny valley. But that force is holding something worse back.

T. Kingfisher (a known and public
pseudonym for Ursula Vernon)

Reading this novella, I’m reminded of Stanisław Lem’s signal classic, Solaris. Both stories feature humans encountering an intelligence so different from themselves that they cannot truly communicate. Though Easton and Denton have more success than Kelvin in making peace, they struggle with some of the same problems. What does it mean to “communicate” with an intelligence that isn’t human? Or to speak individually with a collective intelligence?

But our protagonists bring something to the story that neither Lovecraft nor Lem considered: capitalists’ willingness to burn everything that doesn’t turn a profit. Lovecraft’s shoggoths and Lem’s ocean planet encounter humans primarily through scientists and explorers. Kingfisher’s primordial intelligence comes to light because humans dynamited the mountains and uncorked Earth’s mantle in search of power and money. Therefore, “first contact” means not curiosity, but pain.

I’ve become a particular Kingfisher fan because she reverses widespread cultural expectations. In this case, besides Easton’s blunt defiance of the Anglophonic gender binary, Easton also sees America as exotic and foreign, reading America back to Kingfisher’s audience. Burned out on conflict, Easton sees American glorification of the Spanish-American war as bizarre and uncivilized. America’s much-bandied national youth seems ridiculous amid Appalachia’s uncountable antiquity.

One could continue unpacking Kingfisher’s themes. Cartesian dualism versus the Freudian psyche, perhaps, or the failures of technological triumphalism in the face of Earth’s unimaginable age. Kingfisher plays with these thematic contrasts and reversals like Lego bricks, creating a whole that readers recognize from previous books, but which is entirely her own. Her ability to use common strategies to tell an uncommon story is why I’ve become a Kingfisher fan.

Although this story remains short, it’s the longest yet of Kingfisher’s Sworn Soldier novellas, over 170 pages plus back matter. This gives Easton space not only to investigate their themes, but also to confront the monster. But this story also has perhaps the largest company of characters yet, and Kingfisher doesn’t give everyone full development. Easton’s loyal batman Angus, in particular, gradually disappears from the story, which is disappointing.

That said, this story largely maintains the momentum of the previous “Sworn Soldier” novellas. Though I might wish the story was about fifty pages longer, to give every character the space they deserve, that would’ve changed the novella-reading experience. Kingfisher’s distinct voice and nonconformist attitude remain visible and keep the narrative popping. It reads like a slice of popular literature, just seen through a lens like you’ve never read before.

The White Privilege Party, Part 3

This essay is a follow-up to Dinner and Drinks at the White Privilege Party and The White Privilege Party, Part 2.

Woody Guthrie

If the fash hate one thing, it’s being called fash. Or even told they’ve done something fashy. Even when faced with their overwhelming fascism, or with subject experts like Timothy Snyder or Jason Stanley demonstrating their fashy tendencies, they become angry and defensive. President Taco’s claim to be “the least racist person there is” has become the tragicomic emblem fascists’ need to be seen as nevertheless good.

Returning this series to where it began, the question remains of whether protestors should use confrontational chants while challenging the current administration. Specifically, whether they should use Woody Guthrie-type songs to call fascists “fascist” to their faces. In conservative, semi-rural, and racially homogenous places, such boldness will precipitate conflicts, which discourages White protestors from getting involved.

“Fascism” is a notoriously slippery concept, since it adapts itself to local conditions. Snyder and Stanley have useful, but often inconsistent, definitions. For our purposes, let’s define fascism as the hardened and intolerant extreme of the hierarchy I described last time. Fascism not only requires some people to remain powerless for others to have powerful, and divides power racially, but enforces this mandatory division through arbitrary violence.

The history of hierarchical violence reveals something remarkable. As theologian James Cone writes, Jim Crow racial violence didn’t happen to kill the targets. It happened to remind survivors that the perpetrators would face no consequences, because they owned the system. Likewise, the Roman church didn’t burn witches and heretics to force conversions in early Christendom. It only burned nonconformists in the Renaissance, once its political power was unquestionable.

Put briefly, hierarchical violence happens when perpetrators know they’ll face no meaningful punishment. In my lifetime, Kyle Rittenhouse, George Zimmerman, and Bernard Goetz knew or suspected that the racially slanted justice system wouldn’t hold them accountable for shooting Black people or their White sympathizers. So they strapped on guns and went hunting on American streets.

We’ve watched “red states” legalize driving cars into protestors. We’ve watched them refuse to prosecute bullies attacking children. We’ve watched the current administration target harmless dissidents on camera, knowing they won’t be prosecuted, or even meaningfully reprimanded. The deferral of each consequence basically ensures that the next street-level fash will feel authorized to attack, maybe even to kill.

Equally importantly, perpetrators don’t see themselves as villains in this arrangement. Fashy narratives reinforce the belief that hierarchies are necessary, and therefore equality is oppressive. Any attempt to fix unfairness is innately unfair to those who benefit, or think they do. Therefore those protected by the status quo, even the poor and forgotten, are too likely to violently defend what dwindling privilege they have.

The term “extinction burst” has become modish recently. Once you remove reinforcement from previously rewarded behavior, the behavior becomes more extreme and calcified before it disappears. Recent discussions spotlight violence specifically, as America’s overall culture no longer rewards racism, homophobia, and other bigotry as openly as before. But that exact change puts protestors in conservative areas at greater risk.

Please don’t misunderstand, I know these forces are contradictory. People are violent because they know nobody will hold them accountable, but they know nobody will hold them accountable in the exact places where their dying ideology still matters. Florida, which legalized driving cars into protests, has one of America’s oldest median resident ages. Nebraska, where prosecutors won’t charge men who attack kids, remains substantially isolated from the larger economy.

This paradox underlies Critical Race Theory. CRT founder Derrick Bell claimed, with evidence, that racism has proven infinitely elastic as its successive justifications become obsolete. Violent economic necessity justified slavery, but morphed into organized bigotry under Jim Crow. Once the state withdrew support, bigotry became disorganized, like background noise. With each morph, the system excommunicates its former defenders.

The three vigilantes I named—Rittenhouse, Zimmerman, and Goetz—all retreated into anonymity after their acquittals, and became parodies of their prior selves, because their persons didn’t matter. They claimed “self-defense,” but their selves were an afterthought. Their supporters abandoned them because once they bolstered the narrative that White (or White-adjacent) people owned the system, that system no longer needed them.

White progressives fear angering the fash by calling them fashy to their faces, not only because fashies are violent, but because they’re as much displaced by the cultural shifts happening around them as the conservatives are. They’ll hang onto their illusions that they can persuade the fash, because the alternative is plunging headlong into uncertainty. The old system is dying, and to those accustomed to winning, that’s terrifying.