Monday, December 30, 2019

Revised bucket list


Video frame grabs from 18 months ago, when I recorded the Vimeo lectures and did a comic reading of Rock and Roll Rest Home. Glad I did both.

There are a trio of new titles I want to proof and distribute on Amazon, books that old friends rubbished. Old friends no longer matter. Chiseltown is 128 pages, Heaven a short 54, and Four Strange Stories 170 pp., a total of 120,000 words written before I became weak and mentally vacant. Sleep is elusive. Shakes and sudden jolts. Flaky, itchy lesions head to toe, hands and feet incurably scarred. Parts of my face are numb with creeping paralysis.

I saw my daughter. Wonderfully pretty. Deeply intelligent.

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Thursday, December 19, 2019

Loneliness



Self inflicted and -- fixable?

I could join a church, read the Bible.
I could memorize who's who in sports.
I could triangulate a market, use another pen name.
I could worry about global warming.
I could plead for forgiveness.
In short, learn to lie.

click to enlarge
I look at this stuff with a combination of pride and boredom. My experience of working for others was uniformly grim. Nothing was right except wandering  alone, however myopic, stupid, immoral, and penalized. The worst penalty of all is boredom, unable to savor a story written yesterday or 20 years ago that exploded in a volatile cloud of creative fuel. That's why I pushed forward, seeking another horizon to be attacked. Like all military conquests, it was necessary to kill people and break things. I killed my life, invested every dime that crossed my palm, burned credit cards, ignored flak from friends and family, subsisted on cold coffee, cigarettes and terrible food I despised, like a renegade, a filthy revolutionary in rags.

I bitched about it, far too often. I lost faith routinely, empty and beaten. The big wide world of prosperity and comfort mocked me. Decades stole my youth. Poverty is a badge of shame. No book sales. No movie sales. Crushing isolation.

I did, however, tell the truth. This is me.

"A third rate Romanticist has nothing." -- Ayn Rand, The Romantic Manifesto
Go the hell away and bother somebody else. You're dead!

Actually, less lonely than I was a month ago. Neighbors stopped by often. They been extremely kind to me, took time to talk, helped me through a rough patch. Nice people.

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Saturday, December 7, 2019

Kaput

Tom was bored by Chiseltown. Theresa likewise rubbished Chiseltown, said it was beneath me. This is what happens when I write comedy. No one laughs. If I write about the drama of rough sex, I get pelted with curses and condemnation. Total silence from Alaska about The Executive Branch. Zero support from Objectivists. No books sold. That's the bottom line.

Hmph. So old and stupid that I tell the same anecdotes over and over, can't remember user names or phone numbers or passwords. When my laptop dies, I won't be able to open email or log on to Amazon, Audible, Lulu, or PayPal. Maybe it doesn't matter any more.

I can't find Clare or her pal Linda. For all I know, they're both dead. Di locked me out of the house and refuses to speak to me. My hands and feet are covered in painful scaly scar tissue, an incurable auto-immune disorder, I'm told. The power utility sent an email, didn't receive the check I sent and threatened to shut off my electricity in a cold tin barn. That's a lifetaker in winter. No light, no heat, no power to operate a laptop with a bad battery and twin screen cancer blobs, top and bottom. With or without electricity, I don't think I can write a 300-page novel, the next logical thing to do, months of focused concentration. All it seems I can do is listen to the radio and play solitaire, AM skip after nightfall, Des Moines, Chicago, Cincinnati. Saturday afternoons it's The Neon Beat and Seems Like Old Times on FM from Arkansas.

Nowhere to go, no money to go anywhere. I can't even feed myself. No car. No phone. I look like hell, missing teeth, itchy flaky forehead, scalp, and eyebrows. I've been trimming my hair with a scissors, looking in a mylar panel. My bathroom is a bucket in an unheated woodshed, my bed a plywood pallet that I share with a dog. Nice enough dog, elderly and affectionate. Needs eye surgery, heartworm pills, flea pills, and a rabies shot, none of which is going to happen. An evil growth on my forearm has to be excised soon, might involve chemo.

I lost count. Twenty something books, not including the anthologies. A million words. I have the distinct impression that it's over and out with sauerkraut. That's a gag line I gave God in my last book, Heaven, unpublished. I can't quite bring myself to upload it to Lulu or Kindle, fording two deep, fast running creeks in leaky rubber boots, walk a mile and a half to a nice neighbor who lets me use her wifi in exchange for stacking wood on her porch, a three mile round trip, 6000 footsteps in cold wet socks, to reach no readers. I don't want to do it.

If someone could have shown me the future ten or twenty years ago, I don't think it would have deterred me from writing fiction, good bad or ugly. My nonfiction doesn't matter. No one cares what I think. But I lived all the fictional stories I wrote, every page, every moment of life and love and cruelty and comedy, signature work that no one else could have done.

The future is dark and cold, powerless. I sleep about three hours a night. One last project, to format a book for publication, probably a bestseller, written by a sensitive and warmhearted ally. Easy job. A few keystrokes and a cover layout. Be gratifying to see him succeed.




Friday, November 1, 2019

Film rights for sale

With my back to the wall financially and an 18 year old to send to college, I need to sell the film & TV rights for a series of private eye novels called The Case Files of Cable & Blount, a modern Nick and Nora Charles, equals in life, a tough ex-Marine paired with a brainy Silicon Valley heiress. Four novels cover multiple adventures, fighting mobsters and serial killers, covert ops overseas, and a global chase to find each other when separated in unexplained circumstances, 640 pages total, suitable for episodic TV or a feature film project.

Five star Amazon reviews: "The combination of courage, tenderness, integrity, and brains is way out of the ordinary. Alternately growls, whimpers, and seduces." (Erik Svehaug) "A master of sly observations, of the truths hidden in words. A big dose of literary fun, that even if played out in today's world, echoes to the time when men were men and writers weren't afraid to tell a story." (L.B. Johnson) "One part grit, a dash of over the top machismo, a pinch of womanly intuition, add heartfelt devotion, murder, and heat over a flame of erotic pleasure." (Librarian)

The text is frankly adult. It could be adapted for a general audience. The high concept is an update of 77 Sunset Strip, a pair of wealthy L.A. detectives with high tech communications, luxury cars, aircraft, a black female ex-cop sidekick, and family NSC and CIA contacts.

There have been numerous genre retreads with a husband and wife team, but Chris Cable and Mary Blount are action adventure wildcats, drawn into tense life and death operations that sidestep stern FBI bombast and LAPD's mulish, molasses slow cops.

A multi-year option is offered, email wolfdevoon@gmail.com


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Sunday, October 20, 2019

Apparently unable


Private government

In the first, fundamental sense of the term, private government describes the power of each individual to control the conduct of his or her life, whether right or wrong, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, courageously, cowardly, or cooperatively with others. In America, toleration of differences and separation of church and state were a precondition for national union, and it resulted in a widely understood right of individuation legally protected by the First Amendment. The state cannot compel a citizen to attend a church or be taxed to support a religious sect. Individual decisions concerning education, career, marriage, and finance are largely unregulated, despite a mountain of legislation and administrative rules imposed to limit individual choice. Liberty stubbornly persists as a matter of personal aspiration or folly, contrary to the best efforts of family, neighbors, and politicians to induce conformity.

That, however, is not the topic I wish to discuss. Private government has another meaning pertaining to constitutional law, not in the present, but the future. In tempestuous infancy and adolescence, the U.S. Constitution was a legalized tug of war with periodic explosions. Colonial frontier pioneers did not perceive an obligation to be stewards of the planet. The Federal Convention of 1787 did not debate LGBTQ or transgender privileges, and the Civil War was not fought to give birthright citizenship to foreign anchor babies.

American constitutional thumb wrestling was a brief struggle in the sweep of human history, even if we graft it to the dead root of English common law. Some historians point to ancient Rome as a source for concepts like contract, or Bible stories as the source of all law. Athenian aristocrats experimented with democracy and trial by jury. The Code of Hammurabi is taught in U.S. law schools as the ancient basis of equity and criminal law, improved incrementally by thousands of years of judicial and legislative thought.

Wait a minute. Spaceflight was derived from rock throwing?

Obviously not. The American Experiment was a clean break with all previous governments, and it was totally rewritten twice, by Civil War and by 20th Century Supreme Court decisions. If the Founding Fathers knew what we've done to their Constitution, they'd shout from their graves to damn us. Everything in law today is a radical break from its original intent, no better than juvenile delinquency, defying Madison and Franklin and Otis. You don't know who Otis was. Nor do you know why Franklin proposed that judges should be elected by lawyers, or why Madison opposed a Bill of Rights. Without Madison, Franklin, and Otis, there would be no Constitution to reinterpret and coin gay marriage rights.

Be that as it may, I'm not interested in political footstamping or current notions of political rights. What matters is the future, and I'd like to return to the idea of private government. Let's suppose that the public tussel of democracy is arbitrary and unpredictable. The United States is a bankrupt nonprofit corporation, a global welfare fountain that no one owns.

Private government is totally different. Instead of voting, free of charge, expecting the U.S. to hand you a pile of benefits, in a private government there are joint venturers (partners) who pony up "cash calls" to retain their right to elect a board of directors. There are no taxes, no regulation of commerce, no social benefits. The sole function of a private government is national defense, funded by insurance companies, banks, and wealthy individual citizens who can afford to buy a vote to determine the scale and scope of national defense. It's less nutty than it sounds. The American Revolution was funded entirely by private backers and fought by volunteer civilians.

I wrote a short story and recorded a lecture to explicate the idea.

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Monday, September 23, 2019

Tough little predator


Seven days a week I'm as pliable as clay, easily chumped, a softy who cries if I see something innocent, e.g., Ingrid Bergman in The Inn of the Sixth Happiness, especially the third act when she leads 150 orphans through Japanese lines across the mountains to safety, or when Jane says to Michael: "It's her, it's the person!" in Mary Poppins. Break out the Kleenex. It happens when I feel my way through a page of my own writing, when he loves her and she loves him. I'm a sucker for love and lovers, Jimmy Stewart nervously rotating his hat in his hands while talking to a girlfriend's mom (a terrific Capra insert in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) or Greer Garson holding a wounded Nazi pilot at gunpoint, and allowing him to eat, in Mrs. Miniver.

I like writing comedy, and I might be pretty good at it. I laugh easily. I shot G-rated comedy and goofball satire. I laughed on the set, silly unscripted improv that cracked me up. I talk to dogs and cats and cows, little birds nesting in the barn, neighbors and strangers, cops and crazy Vietnam vets. I'm a good listener and a good audience, happy as heck when I hear my daughter sing. I loved a thousand musicians and vocalists and dancers and actors in England and Australia and Holland and two dozen U.S. cities and villages, coast to coast.

So, who is that evil-looking character in the photo? Hard as nails. Armed and dangerous in a previous life, a daredevil who challenged pirates and prosecutors. I was an umpire who called balls and strikes in a prison baseball game played by killers and bank robbers, because no one else wanted to. That hard face is adamant about justice. It's impersonal, and it doesn't matter that I've been ignored and ridiculed and threatened. Justice matters.

That's all well and good, no regrets, but I have a problem. I've written everything I know and every story I could imagine. Something happened with my last novel, Chiseltown, the story of a fictional filmmaker and a low-budget movie. He has six weeks to organize it, six weeks to shoot everything, and six weeks for post production, working at lightning speed, no room for error, and every conceivable obstacle thrown in his way. It was a fun project for me, a goofy situation comedy with enough drama and verisimilitude to make it real.

I doubt that Chiseltown will earn two cents in royalties. My third wife slammed it, said it was beneath me to write about a B movie. It was published at Lulu because I didn't have $5 in the bank to buy a proof copy, a precondition for global distribution via Amazon.

That, in itself, doesn't bother me. None of my books sold more than a handful of copies, and I'm more obscure than ever as an intellectual or storyteller. Perhaps that's how it should be. The difficult problem I have is nothing further to say.

In a couple of days I will be 69 years old. I can take a lot of punishment, if there's a story to tell, but I'm empty, nothing left to explore or express. Poor old warrior, toothless and sick, kaput creatively. When I look at that photo, taken a year ago, I see a hard old midget inured to hardship. No mortal can do that perpetually. I should take up golf or ping pong.

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The Woman In My Dreams

It's impossible. She belongs to someone else. She's beautiful, intuitive, healthy, my equal in every way, and she comes because she cares about me. I beg her to go away and she ignores me, stays for inexplicable reasons of her own. I'm old and ugly, don't want her to touch me, and her presence is painful because I need her so much.

It's a damn dream, so stop it, just stop it. Every moment is golden and warm. Her clothing is expensive and casual and simple, office attire that fits her comfortably and slips as silently as water on her thigh. She knows me, and it tugs at her conscience, doesn't want to be here.

So, go. Just go. I can't please you, can't smile, can't stand straight and tall as a man, too late in life for romance, no matter how much I want it again, haunting me while I sleep at night. I'm helpless when I dream. The truth does whatever it will.

You know what's funny? I write in my dreams, whole stories, polished phrases and scenes that I remember a few minutes when I awaken and then forget when I get out of bed to free the dog, wash my face, brush my teeth. Betty reported that carpenters build in their sleep. Do priests pray and Democrats concoct lies when they dream, or is it vice versa?

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Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Four Best Books by Wolf DeVoon



These four books are certainly representative, three novels and a volume of short stories, written during the past few years. There are many more that I care about, but these four in particular were mature and deliberate, as if each might be the last.

Chiseltown is my most recent, the story of a fictional filmmaker and a feature film. There's quite a lot of humor, some mildly adult intimacy, and an accessible narrative of how a "low budget" movie is created and completed, almost always a question of Who Knows Who.

Charity was part of a series (The Case Files of Cable & Blount) told in first person, a parable of privilege, discovery, black ops, and a cryptocurrency caper that destabilizes global banking. I like it because it deals with an important truth, that love is unchosen destiny.

Partners is set in 1975, an icy Wisconsin winter, an intimate struggle of triangles and tragedy. Men are killed. The stakes are as high as humanly imaginable in a war of innocent romance and steely determination.

Four Strange Stories is a collection of dreams, truths, seduction, and a complex portrait of a free society in the future, the widest possible mirror of what I think and feel as a man.

It cost quite a lot to create those works, plus twenty other self-published books, a half dozen screenplays, and thirty or forty miles of film and video. I started as a teenage filmmaker, learned to write along the way. My first job in Hollywood was an original screenplay. The last one was a cubicle at Disney, spending six figures of Mickey's money. I felt it was time to quit the "fillum" business. There are a couple recent video lectures, if you care to see what I look and sound like at age 69.

It stuns me when I apprehend that there's another story to tell, doubting my ability to write another full length novel -- however I am certain of this much: I cannot disown my literary legacy, nor the ideas that I endeavored to communicate, right wrong or purple. Like Popeye the Sailor, I am what I am and that's all what I am.

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Thursday, August 29, 2019

Just so you know

'Chiseltown' is completed. It is an intensely personal story, although it has nothing to do with me personally, as odd as that may sound. It's about a fictional filmmaker and a movie, from the first phone call to the last. That's how movies are made. I suppose it's not so different in other walks of life. Somebody calls, you do something, there's another phone call to find out if they liked whatever it was that you did. A producer calls, a movie is made, and then there's another phone call from a preview screening to report average Jane and John Doe audience response, in Fresno traditionally. Audience cards don't matter. What matters is whether the movie made them laugh and gasp and cry real tears, because movies should do that.

Along the way, 'Chiseltown' presents a detailed, accessible education in filmmaking, how a script is written and funded and translated into actors and location shoots and sound stages with forced perspective to create a convincing night exterior scene, or an apartment, or a repair shop. Bruno Heckmeier is making a low-budget movie. There are severe obstacles to overcome. He has an unusual home life. There's an enormous amount of comedy for light entertainment purposes. Some of the story is serious literature. Some is slightly adult.

I found that I cared very deeply about the 7 or 8 principal players in this story. There are many more bit players, and if it seems unusual to have so many characters, please consider that the movie Bruno makes involves a production company of fifty skilled professionals, stunt men, two very capable stars, and an unusual supporting cast. It's a very short schedule, six weeks to organize it, six weeks to shoot everything, and six weeks of post production. Trust me, that's working at lightning speed.

It's a personal story in two respects. I had to write the movie for Bruno to make. And I had to live in Bruno's shoes (and those of all the other characters) with honesty, humor, drama, and a deep understanding of the men and women who call themselves "show people," no matter what their specialty or contribution to a motion picture is. Camera grip, driver, bookkeeper, electrician, set decorator, or seamstress -- they are people who sacrifice much to work a few weeks on a movie, a collaborative art that cannot be created without them. I've done many "below the line" production jobs for an hourly wage, in addition to "above the line" writing, producing, and directing.  You have to take my word for it. Directing is a high privilege.

It's done by lots of different men and women. 'Chiseltown' is directed by a talented, goofy, warmhearted, intelligent middle aged guy who got stuck on Poverty Row doing low-budget movies, while others did studio pictures with an average budget of $75 million. Bruno has to conceive and execute a feature film on 1/5 as much money, and he wants it to succeed, not only at the box office, but critically as well. Being an "indie" confers a great deal of freedom. No studio moguls, Teamsters, or IATSE work rules. The whole of Los Angeles as a locale, in a "period" setting that's fun to shoot.

I always experience emotional awe when I've finished a story. 'Chiseltown' is in a class of its own, among all the stories I've written, among all the fictional characters that I loved and still love, of course. The story of making a movie is a personal confession of my lifelong passion.  'Chiseltown' is a movie I didn't get to make, and it's deeply gratifying to have directed its fictional creation. Many of the characters are based on people who I knew and worked with and loved.

Please buy a copy (less than $5 at Lulu) and review it. Thanks.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/wolf-devoon/chiseltown/paperback/product-24225665.html

Friday, August 16, 2019

Attn Salem radio host Eric Metaxas

I have a dog. If the sun is too hot, he sits in the shade. When he hears or smells something that constitutes a challenge to his safety, he barks. When he tires, he snoozes. When he's thirsty, he drinks, and when he's hungry, he eats. He's independent, affectionate, playful, obedient, knows his name and listens to me, because he knows I can help him. Some of the procedures are uncomfortable, like removing a tick. He's a rational animal in many respects. He likes friendly people and friendly dogs, especially females of his own breed.

Simple facts. It does not matter where the Universe came from. It has no bearing on our life. Physical principles like gravity, propagation of heat and light, phases and chemical properties of certain elements and molecules, radioactive isotopes, density, electromagnetism, cosmic rays, and numerous other objectively observable and measurable aspects of the Universe are rational subjects of study. Tall tales concocted by ancients are not. Eyewitness statements concerning "miracles" and alleged "resurrection" of a charismatic rabbi who was put to death are irrelevant to the study of reality. Biologically, when an animal dies, it is dead. There is no life after death, an impossible contradiction in terms. Magic words and rituals can't influence industry or agriculture, except as psychological assaults, no different than false advertising, arbitrary constructs of political obligation, wishful thinking, or idleness, none of which are beneficial. Proper nutrition, reality-oriented cognitive development, and work to provide for the future matters. Medical knowledge matters. Hygiene matters. Capital and durable goods like structures, roads, utilities, and machines extend life and health. Science and math are the keys to success. Prayer and worship achieve nothing in physical reality. Without physical equipment, you would have no radio show, no books, no food or water or medical care.

There is abundant geologic evidence of erosion, deposition, subsidence, tectonic shifts, and extinction events in the rock record to prove that the Earth is billions of years old. Your ability to travel on aircraft resulted from applied science and math, unrelated to claims of faith in supernatural guidance. The entire historical record of religion has been dubious conjectures,  opposition to science, and misdirection of resources. Evil is willful evasion of knowledge. Fantasies of "divine right" to conquer and rule were bloodthirsty evil wrought by mysticism, whether Jewish, Catholic, Anglican, Masonic, Hindu, Apache, Islamic, Mau Mau, or Nazi.

Effusive praise for homosexual Elton John is idolatry, sir.

I think you're an honest guy, no cruelty in you, and very funny. Comedy requires enormous courage and cleverness, which I know from associating with other talented comedians. So, I salute you personally despite epistemological and ethical differences. It would be a strange world if everyone agreed. New ideas emerge from time to time in human history. I think it's accurate to say that you are happy with the Bible, a collection of ancient tales, correct?

www.wolfdevoon.net

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The paradox of achievement



Do you know the story of Thomas Alvah Edison? Uneducated, impoverished, got a job tossing bags in an express car, taught himself Morse Code and worked as a night operator. An idea occurred to him. Duplex telegraphy would double the traffic on a circuit. Then he showed bankers how to speed up stock tickers. Then voice recording, evolved into a wax dictaphone. Then practical electric light and the fixtures required for illumination. We still call modern lamp bases "Edison" sockets. Then a motion picture camera, one of the first in history. Edison was a terrible husband and neglectful father, went on road trips with Firestone and Ford.

No comparison of stature intended, but that's how I lived my life. I was kicked out of school at age 14. I worked in a shoe factory. I learned to smoke cigarettes, pot, and opium in cheap nightclubs and hippie crash pads. Then I discovered 16mm and began a lifelong romance with making films. Thousands of feet rushed through the gate, ran through projectors. I pioneered a burst-frame technique, cutting in the camera, multimedia shows, trick handheld shots.

All this would have been fine, except that I read Atlas Shrugged at age 22. Two years later, I defended myself in Federal Court, appealed to the Seventh Circuit, and went to prison. The experience damaged my moral character profoundly, which was never glued on very well in the first place as a libertine hippie, inflamed by the ideals of Objectivism. To make matters worse, I moved to Hollywood, determined to succeed as a filmmaker, a far more ambitious plunge into vanity and temptation. There were loves, losses, seductions, music clips, and movies as a brash young film director who wrecked everything he touched. At age 40, I had one last shot at success in London. Good show, an A-List cast and crew. No sales. It doesn't matter how the next ten years played out. There was a misfire at Columbia Tri-Star and little video projects, exile on a ranch, a year at Disney pushing paper, a nightclub in Nevada, and another assault on New York. I lived in Holland a couple years and Scotland a couple years, unable to earn a living no matter what I did. And then a funny thing happened. I started to write. My essays caught the attention of an editor.

Remember Edison? -- uneducated and impoverished, ultimately a successful inventor. I was similarly situated, with the additional handicap of radical Objectivism. A stint of publicity and privilege in Costa Rica challenged and freed me. I hit upon an idea, then another. Years flew by, probing the depths of a new career, convinced that I could succeed intellectually.

Cut to the present. Grinding poverty, real hardship, at all points of the human compass a life of constant humiliation, including colossal failure as a husband and father, unread and zero expectation of being noticed. When one is self-published, it kills any hope of being agented or published or selling film rights. Worse, my books are politically verboten, a neanderthal sense of life, irredeemably white male. At age 69, it's doubtful that I can continue. My life is ebbing away, and it's easy to conclude that I failed in every conceivable way. I will be buried in a pauper's grave, no one to mourn my death, no Wikipedia page.

And yet, the body of literary work is immense and original. Some of the fiction is excellent, and the ideas I propounded will survive and triumph. The paradox of achievement is strange indeed. If I had a conventional path, higher ed, and a prosperous career, I would have never conceived The Freeman's Constitution or defacto anarchy. Feeling the approach of a final season or two, I recorded a series of videos. Whenever I doubt my success as an inventor, I replay 'Abbreviated Wolf DeVoon: Part One, Part Two' and rejoice at its clarity, complexity, scholarship, and dignity. It was a life well spent.


click to enlarge

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Thursday, July 11, 2019

Religion

When I was 11 years old, I told Rev. Boland that I didn't believe in God. He replied without criticism that "You're not the first one." I concluded that Rev. Boland didn't believe in God, either. He was a good minister who people listened to and admired. A couple years later, he quit our congregation and moved to the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior. Quite beautiful up there and almost no Germans. I don't remember the replacement minister's name, but he wanted to build a new concrete block building for social activities, and he fired my mother, who played the organ in church a dozen years somewhat badly. God eventually caught up with him, disbanded his elderly debt-laden congregation, and later destroyed the historic Friedens church with a bolt of lightning that ignited its steeple and gutted the interior.

In college, I went to a splendid old Catholic church and asked the priest how it was possible to perform rituals that were obviously crazy? He said it was important for social control, to keep people from doing wrong. Made no sense. His parish was too rich to do wrong.

In Tripoli, it was almost impossible to shop for food. Minarets blared five times a day, and shops closed for prayers. There was one bookstore in downtown Tripoli. It was jammed with hundreds of Korans, all kinds of fancy bindings, no other books, no foreign newspapers. I pitied the guys who flew to oil rigs in the desert. Pilots in flight knelt and prayed. They used bungie cords lashed to their control column as an autopilot. Allah flew the plane. Muslims actually believe that everything happens according to the Will of Allah. Two plus two equals four because Allah wills it, and Allah could change his mind, make it humanly incalcuable.

I learned to be tolerant of friends and neighbors who attend church. They're good, decent people who have been kind to me, a sort of reverse toleration, which puts me in mind of the Maryland Toleration Act of 1680 or thereabouts (I forget the exact year). Catholic Maryland pledged to tolerate other sects of Christianity, particularly Nonconformists and Anglicans,  and to put atheists to death and burn their homesteads.

In the U.S. Supreme Court case of Engel v Vitale, the court held that we are a religious people and we have Christian symbols and slogans on our money, Congress prays before they begin each session of legislation, and the Supreme Court itself has prominent architectural features that pledge allegiance to the Ten Commandments, and therefore prayer in public schools is unconstitutional. Atheists took this as a cue to tear down public Christmas displays of cows, sheep, and kneeling kings adoring a plastic Baby Jesus in a manger. Reindeer led by Rudolph with an electrified red nose are okay, I think, although strictly speaking, Santa is a religious figure, transmuted from an historic Saint Nicholas who threw gold through a window to save three daughters from imminent sale into slavery by an impoverished father. Santa became a jolly old fat man in red courtesy of Coca Cola advertising art. In Holland, "Sinta Klas" wears a white robe and red bishop's miter, accompanied by a servant, to give gifts on December 6th, unrelated to Christmas, which is a solemn ceremony, although scholars know that Jesus was born in springtime, and the DOB was moved to late December to co-opt pagan winter rites involving little fir trees, burning logs, reindeer meat, heavy drinking, and revelry.

My parents were partly pagan. I was born in late September.

Forgive me, just thought of something. Music is holy. My mind flashed back to Los Angeles in the late 70s. The Blue Note jazz club was on the top floor of a Hollywood office tower. The Baked Potato was on Cahuenga, a stone's throw from Universal. The Lighthouse was in Santa Monica, and there were headliner jazz concerts in Orange County. Over the years, I worked backstage at a bunch of big showrooms in Sydney, London, Lake Tahoe, and the Bay Area, never tired of music, always enjoyed multitrack mixing, working with choreographers and dancers, dozens of superlative musicians and shockingly gifted vocalists.

Amen.

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Sunday, July 7, 2019

Pleasant memories



Taking my daughter to the theater, a truly excellent Celtic Women tour de force in Houston. Relaxed intimacy of the Regal in Subiaco to see a Disney musical, then a tribute to Sinatra. A day at the Aquarium to feed rays by hand and marvel at white tigers. Zoos and museums all over the world. White sand beaches, horse stables, and a butterfly dome. Driving her to visit kid friends, a hundred trips that were never dull. She tops the best of pleasant memories, too many to inventory. Watching her take off in an airplane, 'pilot flying' at age twelve. Hearing her voice echo in a storm sewer in conversation with her sidekick, an intrepid lad who was miles behind her intellectually. Two neighbor girls for a sleepover, making bed rolls for them on the floor and feeding them as generously as possible. A big list of honors and duties as a Dad. I carried her in my arms from Greenwich to Whitehall, sleepy and limp.

My first real job, in a noisy factory, pocket money, learning craftsmanship at age 16. A dozen years later, riding the Main Line and the Broad Street Subway daily to another job, another craft. I would learn all the trades, blue collar and white, from ditch digging and demolition to custom electromechanical gismos that I designed, tested, aligned, and installed. The steely thrill of refurbishing a complex sound system with multiple zones and multiple triggers, to be heard over the din of slot machines, made possible with 1/3-octave measurement of the environmental racket to push announcements through a narrow slot of frequencies, heard clear as a bell. Installing sound bars and speaker systems that I built by hand.

I had a basement radio shack when I was a kid, listened to the world and chatted with grown men on CB. I soldered Knight Kits together with steady concentration, a delight when I threw the switch and it worked. There were Estes rockets and nichrome igniters.

Most of the films and videos were wonderful experiences, too many to list. Thousands of moments, hours, days, nights, and situations that were electric, monumental, unrepeatable, mine to savor because I made it possible and it succeeded as signature work. The stream of life on screen. The glory of cutting -- directing the editor with a snap of my fingers to mark the exact moment, one of the highest pleasures known to man. Standby, ready, snap!

I liked operating equipment myself when I could, an old Steenbeck, a Sony 800, or a clunky control track rig. I can't guess how many cameras I held in my hands. I adored mixing music, creating a stereo image and sonically shaping each input on a big desk. Every time I hung a luminaire and focused and gelled it, I felt the sweaty reverence of painting with light.

OMG -- the women!

Solemn admiration for Wright's Price Tower, Pei's Bank of China skyscraper, and the oils of Vermeer's Melkmaid in a museum. I was born in the era of passenger rail -- journeys on the Chicago & North Western, the 20th Century Limited, the Reading Line, British Rail, superwide Deutschesbahn, cramped Dutch inter-urban, and steam V&T. To be completely honest, I very much miss the L-1011, finest airliner in history. No brag, just fact, my 3-D video microscope and focusable fiber optic lamps diagnosed what was wrong with the L-1011 cockpit windows, a manufacturing defect in the gold film layer that defrosted it. I explained how to fix it. My pal Bud Alger did the main cabin video projectors. Lockheed was a local Burbank customer.

I suppose that the streets of New York were grand, but I was so busy that I seldom saw the skyline, although I shared a 3rd floor Midtown walk-up with a good view of the Empire State Building illuminated every night. Covent Garden and Wardour Street were nice. I spent two years in London and a couple more in Scotland. I learned to love the game of snooker. There is a rugged simplicity of Scots that makes one a better human being by osmosis.

And that brings me to the subject of literature. RLS has a place in my heart like no other, the simple tale of Kidnapped, a great gift that I often re-read, always fresh and inspiring. I own a volume of Hammett's novels and have a sharp recollection of Bogart as Sam Spade. Chandler said that the best Marlowe was Bogart. I would be hard pressed to say which of his movies was better -- Bogart opposite Kate Hepburn in The African Queen, or Bogart opposite Edward G. Robinson in Key Largo, or Bogart fencing with Sidney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon. A thinking man's hero, ruthless, inquisitive, and necessarily stupid.

The human experience as I understand it is a string of blunders, the natural karma of heroes and heroines, the plot twists of Atlas Shrugged. Francisco -- oops ... Hank -- oops ... Galt as a final choice. The blunders in Fountainhead are infinitely worse. I think it's all of a piece, the pleasant memories and colossal disasters. I did not dislike carrying a loaded gun, safety off, ready to kill or be killed any moment. Prison was a memorable challenge. I think it may be necessary to suffer, in order to experience the heightened vista of joy.

Do you know what pure joy is? Arriving to hear the raised voice of a confident 1st A.D.,  who presses an electric bell to grab attention and shout: "Director on the set!" Too old to direct, I took up writing. Same sort of business, to make a movie happen in the reader's imagination. Same sort of pleasure, the magic of mise en scene, every page.



http://www.lulu.com/shop/wolf-devoon/four-strange-stories/paperback/product-24166175.html

Thursday, June 20, 2019

The goal of my writing


Hat tip to Rand, who inspired me to do something similar, no comparison of stature implied. I began reading her works in the early 1970s, kept at it until I found every syllable. I was luckier than most, because the University of Wisconsin and city libraries had collected quite a lot. In Philadelphia, I found LP recordings of her speeches and videos of her TV interviews. I was obliquely involved in multiple attempts to bring Atlas to the big screen during her lifetime, so I was privy to considerable gossip. Publication of her Journals and web chatter completed my appraisal of who she was. Others had personal encounters. I did not. Nor did I have any interest in or respect for The Collective, the Brandens, Peikoff, the Society, TOC, Sciabarra, or anyone else, however intelligent and industrious they were. I studied her fiction and drama. It seemed particularly contemptible that others made a career of restating her ethical ideas, which I deemed the least important aspect of her legacy. Not asking you to agree, speaking only for myself as an individual, a former filmmaker, screenwriter, legal theorist, and author of several novels and a pile of nonfiction books and essays.

I was ill-prepared to write anything, sketchily self-educated with little formal schooling. All schools infuriated me, especially higher ed. So, I read authors I liked -- RLS, Balzac, Fitzgerald, Gene Rhodes, Ray Chandler, and Dashiell Hammett, with as much depth and passion that I devoted to Ayn Rand. It was a little tedious to study Grotius and Aquinas, but it paid off, gave me a good grounding in classical logic. I became aware in great detail that legal philosophy was beset with tiny errors that grew to fallacies writ large in constitutional law. Few men saw the genius of Paine's mature thought or the obvious truths argued by Otis and Lincoln.

Please forgive the digression. It was never my goal to be a legal scholar. I got pushed into it. One wonders -- however briefly -- why law students are exempted from studying Madison's Debates In The Federal Convention and Henry Steele Commager's Documents of American History. Our forefathers faced fundamental questions and flunked the test. It fell to me, an idiot in many ways, to repair the damage by writing a new constitution, another task that I got pushed into. One cannot build a free nation, unless it is secured by due process of law and an independent apolitical judiciary. Laissez Faire City died for want of common law courts. My work is often shunned without debate, because it asks men to think. LFC liked my soap opera serial The Good Walk Alone and published several of my essays on government, but drew the line at taking practical steps to transition from arbitrary dictatorship to civilian due process.

Dictators and their henchmen were durable antagonists in my fiction, beginning with a first novel set in the distant future on Mars. It's an enormous challenge to write a first novel, and it required several revisions over the years to straighten out and simplify the story of a brave man and a brave woman who changed the course of plausible fictional history. That's typical Wolf DeVoon, boy meets girl and they fall in love, defend each other and defy the threat of lethal force wielded by loveless hardened autocrats. It might be the whole of human history, a never ending passion of private action in defense of liberty and justice.

It's not my purpose to plug my work. I'm not difficult to find, if you care to read something I wrote. Recent work found an appreciative core of friendly reviewers. I'll speak about my last novel because it's the last one I will write. I'm old and sickly, and I don't want to repeat the death bed karma of RLS, proudly telling his wife that Katriona, sequel to Kidnapped, was the best story he had ever written. It wasn't. It's important to sense when it's time to quit, while the quitting is good. The very last story I attempted, a novellete, offended and disgusted an old friend. I tore it up. It's time to quit. Scott Fitzgerald died with unfinished work ("The Last Tycoon"). Chandler died with unfinished work ("Poodle Springs"). I shouldn't compare myself with Fitzgerald or Chandler, far better authors than I was. However, I'll say a few words about "Partners," a much admired swan song that was completed while I had the vision and power and momentum to conceive and execute a thrilling full-length novel.

I think it's fairly clear that most novelists are best if they write about themselves. Melville's seafaring tales, for instance. Hemingway's adventures in Spain and Cuba. Vonnegut's war experience. "Partners" is set in 1975 in Milwaukee, the locality and era of my hard youth. I remember it in sharp focus, and the main character is a slightly taller, better me. I knew the love interest, slightly brighter and braver than the girl who loved me. It's a story of triangles. There is a glamorous ex, maddeningly stupid. There is a professional killer who the main character is drawn to partner and understudy, pulling him away from the love interest who holds the key to his happiness. The background is another personal flashback, Cosa Nostra, hippies, and corrupt police. Drugs were cheap. Sometimes, life was cheap.

If someone had told me 20 years ago that all my ignorance, aspirations, global adventures, and years of experimentation as a novelist would result in the bittersweet tale of love and loss in "Partners," I would not have believed it. It was not on my radar. I poured everything I had into a four-part series, The Case Files of Cable & Blount, loved every word of it, adored Chris and Peachy, two years of writing full time, 10 hours a day, 7 days a week. The final volume of that series is a marvelous adventure in stereo, separated and searching for each other. But when it was finished, it had to be finished. I didn't want to repeat the mistake that Forester made, taking Hornblower into elderly decline. I had to leave Chris and Peachy in their active maturity, early 60s. I had no plan to write anything else. Suddenly, clear as a bell, the city I grew up in. A guy age 31, sitting at a cheap lunch counter, reading classified ads to find a job that he didn't want to do, because all jobs were the same. Not enough money, not enough challenge, every day exactly the same as every other. Fifty bucks in his pocket with rent due on an empty single apartment in a crummy neighborhood. A gust of fate taps his shoulder and sweeps away his long hair and mustache, puts a chrome .357 on his hip in icy winter.

The goal of my writing was unexpectedly fulfilled in a masterwork. Nice, but it's extremely odd that I quit writing, incapable of starting another novel, unable to conceive or execute a good short story. A switch has been turned off by illness and infirmity.

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Sunday, June 9, 2019

Hayseed


Living in the wild is quite an experience. I just whacked an acre of tall grass and weeds, three more to go, just to maintain a little patch where it matters, so I don't lose control of it. Snakes in the grass is a real issue, and I've learned what "hayseed" means. Takes 15 minutes of effort with a whisk broom and then water to get clean, after an hour of beating back Nature. The invasive wild grape vines are a threat to life and limb, and every variety of broadleaf wants to eat the walkway, the barn, driveway, gardens, tool shed, and pumphouse. I'd poison them, but it would take a thousand gallons and I don't care to spray myself in the process. The primary purpose of whacking back profusely wild Spring growth is to announce to those who drive past my property on the county road that I'm here, mind your manners and stay clear, unless you're invited to visit. A half dozen folks stop by from time to time, nice people who care about me and my dog. We chat a few minutes. When I was ill, they were worried enough to bring hot vittles and broth. Sometimes they invent chores I can do for pocket money.

The butterflies are beautiful, five species, jet blue, orange, tiny little powder blue, speckled, and black P-38s with a long split tail. Ants everywhere and every size, a constant battle to keep them at bay. Huge hedgehogs and silly bunnies. Black bear and raccoon, serious threats. Neighbors have seen bobcat. Coyote packs threaten cattle herds. Spectacular eagles, equally grand hawks, giant turtles migrating to complicate road traffic, and whitetail bucks barking to marshal their females. Wild turkey, quail, loud choruses of frogs at night. Every sort of crawling bug and moth you can imagine. I don't want to talk about ticks. Let me repeat that. I don't want to talk about ticks.

Thunderstorm on the horizon. Big ones knock down limbs and uproot weak trees. "Windfall" has a specific referent, picking shit up after a big storm. I've been fighting the sycamore to keep it from eating a 7000 volt high line and fighting herds of wasps to keep them from eating me. On a cool day, there's firewood rounds to split with a heavy mawl, bank it in neat stacks under roof to provide heat next winter.

A finch has taken it into her head that it's her barn, her stack of wood to nest in. I walk in to do something or other, and she suddenly panics, a great fluttering of protest. If the male is nearby, he flies to the rescue, chrips loudly. Ooops. Another nest just outside my office door, teeny weeny chicks peeping when Mom or Dad arrives with a worm.

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Saturday, May 25, 2019

Casino lizard

My daughter will be 18 soon, a matter of months. I need to hand her money for college, no choice in the matter, which supposes that I can do such a thing, and maybe I can.

The only asset that matters financially is film rights, and the ideal sale would be a franchise, like Game of Thrones was a franchise that ran eight years, big money behind it, graphic sex and violence, which makes one wonder about the television market. If I had my druthers, I'd remake 77 Sunset Strip -- and maybe I have. There are four Chris & Peachy novels, which I created to pitch as a franchise, a modern Nick and Nora Charles,"Thin Man" husband and wife magic starring William Powell and Myrna Loy about a hundred years ago, when movies were fun. My stuff is less innocent, but equally hetero, which is a impossible sell today.

That said, there are two novels in particular that people seem to like, the second Chris and Peachy story, The Tar Pit, and my last full-length novel, Partners, set in 1975. Partners might be recorded as an audiobook soon, which is excellent publicity. Another Amazon-powererd Audible project, The Constitution of Government in Galt's Gulch with a pro narrator will be completed in October, a royalty split that didn't cost me anything up front, good publiicity for name recognition. I've worked on name recognition 20 years, seem to have been successful in libertarian circles and a boost on Google. Not as famous as Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity, but I don't have a radio show. I'm not sure that I could. Whatever talent I have is best on the page, heavily edited. Reading a speech is okay, but I don't have the gift of gab, off the cuff, unless I'm being interviewed by somebody with a brain. I'm not a talk show host, don't have the stomach for a 24-hour news cycle hammerlocked by Washington and political gossip.

A gem in the million words I wrote was called "Human Goodness Proved Beyond Doubt." I re-read it this morning, one of my better columns published above the fold by Laissez Faire City Times a long time ago. Back then I could sizzle on the page, examining U.S. GDP of 1993 and calculating how big a share government swallowed, about 40% back then. I haven't done the math recently, but there's a ceiling of 50-something percent, which government took during the peak years of World War II. Over half is economically unstable. Think about it. Suppose that government and its contractors and entitlement beneficiaries grabbed 60% of GDP, demanding more than the private sector could produce. Bankruptcy for all concerned.

I guess I've lost interest in explaining the obvious. A neighbor lady brought me a jug of milk, so I'm sipping cafe au lait this morning, a nice treat that put me in mind of Paris, one of my least favorite places. I had a 24-picture Columbia deal in my back pocket when I went to visit one of the biggest distributors in Europe, based in Paris, tied to RTL in Luxembourg, who backed my first feature. The Frenchman in Paris scoffed that stars wouldn't travel to make little TV movies in Luxembourg, despite the fact that BIL and the Foreign Ministry helped me put together a deal to build and operate a studio in Luxembourg. Never happened. When Columbia changed hands, the great and the good (Streisand's former hairdresser) grumbled that I wasn't spending enough money -- only $250,000 per pic, to give young, qualified Euro directors a shot at making a second or third movie for TV. Columbia dropped out.

That was part of my past, big projects that misfired. I started writing because my film career was stuck in first gear. I needed people to fund my ideas with tens of millions of dollars, back when the dollar bought more than it does today, especially in Europe. The price of TV movie production today is astronomic. Game of Thrones, for instance, a "low-budget" franchise shot in Northern Ireland for tax breaks, still cost millions per episode to cast, costume, stage the stunt action, re-record dialogue, and so forth. Nevermind why movies have to be dubbed to clean up dialogue in post. There's music and sound effects work involved, too.

I'm disappointed that my two books on movie production fizzled. Not quite as sexy or dumb as Save The Cat and endless chatter about 16x9 digital gizmos. Directing is not about gizmos or story "beats" that can be plotted on a computer screen. Sorry. Ancient history. Two more self published books that failed to win readers. I fell into the habit of self publishing my work to archive it at Ingram, Amazon, or Lulu, because I didn't trust my laptop. I've had several that died. Self publishing also helps in name recognition. Google thinks I'm a novelist, which is a helpful leg up. Maybe I earned it.

Come on! -- seven!  Baby needs a new pair of shoes and money for college.

www.wolfdevoon.net

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Tuesday, May 14, 2019

The Speech

It's a privilege to be here. I'd like to talk about our history as a free people, examine some of the problems we face, and suggest a path forward.

Americans rightly celebrate our achievements. We landed on the moon. We accept the idea of competition and "creative destruction." If you haven't heard that term before, creative destruction is the willingness to embrace and reward progress, to let go of traditional ways of doing things. Daily newspapers used to be composed with individual bits of lead, letters of the alphabet that fell down tubes into rows of words in an iron form. Then it became cheaper and faster to use a film strip on a spinning drum, to flash letters on strips of photographic paper that were pasted down in columns and re-photographed to make a metal plate. Then came computers. No lead, no photo sensitive paper or plates, an entirely new method of distributing news without printing presses, ink, or newsprint -- on the internet.

Radio was the dominant means of transmitting entertainment, then television, then color television, three national networks and cable TV, superceeded by cinema-quality big screen digital video, hundreds of competitive channels and razor sharp Blu-Ray, free HD YouTube and handheld mobile devices -- inconceivable to the pioneers of radio 100 years ago.

The same thing happened in transportation. When I was a boy, there were tens of thousands of miles of passenger rail service, connecting small towns and big cities. Only rich people traveled by air, and passenger planes had propellers. Then came the jets, and I remember the excitement of riding in a huge four-engine Boeing 707 that thundered into the air. Gone now, of course, replaced by 727s that were kicked out of service in turn by quieter, fuel efficient two-engine jets -- creative destruction resulting from competition among Boeing, Lockheed, Douglas, Airbus, Pratt & Whitney, Rolls Royce, and competitive airlines who wanted better aircraft. Efficient airlines survived. Braniff, Pan Am, and TWA did not.

In Houston, Texas, there are very few old buildings. Houston has thousands of brand new buildings, brand new highways, constantly being renewed as one of America's most dynamic multicultural centers of commercial trade and truly superb medical care. There are wealthy families who live in Houston, but its strength as a sprawling, busy metroplex is a wide, deep horizontal spread of middle class employment and opportunity for all. The same is true of Silicon Valley -- new companies, new jobs, new wealth, new buildings, new roads. It was historically true of Los Angeles, once an industrial powerhouse of aerospace pioneers and machine shops, optical research, electronics, oil wells and advanced drilling tools.

I know that America has changed, no longer quite as muscular or industrious. When I was a teenager, I worked in a shoe factory in Wisconsin. Pretty good job for a kid. A noisy, busy factory with a lunch break, a good starting wage and training. Later on, I was offered an apprenticeship at a machine shop. Gone now, of course. Whole factories were disassembled and shipped to China from Cleveland, Akron, Milwaukee, Detroit, Toledo, Buffalo, Chicago. Our industrial heartland was hollowed out as a source of working class income and pride.

The 1950s and 60s were cold, long winters and big snows, unlike my parents' experience in the exceptionally warm 1940s. The March of Dimes raised literal dimes to eradicate polio, and we fought a Cold War to deal with treason that gave Russia our nuclear secrets. Soviet power was our own creation, you know -- a policy of pragmatism to defeat Adolph Hitler. We sent weapons and food, and director Frank Capra depicted Slavic peasants as medieval, smiling innocents in U.S. propaganda films shown to every American soldier. FDR gave Stalin the breadbasket of Central Europe at the Yalta Conference, tripling the population under Soviet control. We gave them oilfield tools and financed exploration and development of Russian oil and gas fields, powering Red Army transport and Soviet air power.

Red China arose as a result of American indifference and exhaustion. We had other things to do, with Europe in ashes, millions of "displaced persons" to feed. We paid France to reoccupy Indochina and Britain to retake Burma and Hong Kong. We occupied Japan and Germany, and the Marshall Plan put Western Europe on a path of sullen dependence, from which it never recovered. I lived in England several years during the 80s and 90s. The misery and squalor of socialist Britain under the Labour Party was shocking -- and Margaret Thatcher's valiant quest to modernize and liberate England failed. I was in the newsroom at ITN when she resigned as prime minister. ITN's university-trained journalists celebrated with a case of champagne, intellectually committed to British labor unions and the explicit creed of communism. Mrs. Thatcher was unable to uproot or reform the National Health Service or government housing benefit that perpetuated poverty and sloth, a frozen society of a privileged few and millions of beggars, incapable of building anything new -- not much different than Soviet Russia.

After decades of American sacrifice, the USSR collapsed. We did not defeat it militarily. It's a fiction that Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher forced Russia to reform. I don't know why we attribute all social change to speechwriters and sabre rattling. Communism collapsed because communism is absurd, pretending that central planning by bureaucrats and secret police would improve the world, driven by committees of obedient party members with no incentive to change anything. They built public monuments and misdirected the private lives and labor of interchangeable, rightless victims, instead of freeing or feeding them. It was a Russian proverb under Soviet rule that "We pretend to work, and they pretend to pay us." Independent thought was a crime, American free enterprise damned as exploitation.

It is therefore tragic that the U.S. incrementally became communist, all power centralized in the hands of overpaid bureaucrats and prosecutors, no different than the Soviet system in its haydey. I have a specific reason for saying that. If you've been alert to the scandal of CIA and FBI officials fabricating a case against Donald Trump and his campaign aides, while turning a blind eye to Hillary Clinton's felony crimes and obstruction of justice, then you know what I'm saying is true. Career bureaucrats like Rod Rosenstein and Lois Lerner looked like deer caught in the headlights, nothing to say in public and agreeing to everything demanded by those who held real power -- the power to prosecute and bankrupt a bureaucrat, like snapping a twig. Million dollar legal fees are commonplace if the FBI decides to investigate a "process crime" like forgetting an email you sent, or something you said in a pub, over drinks.

The pioneer colonies in America were communist, especially the Puritans led by wealthy tyrants who tolerated no dissent, no discussion of theology or policy. They interrogated and exiled anyone who deviated from the party line, which included the policy of buying slaves and capturing Indians to exchange for more slaves. Our founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and George Washington were slaveholders, which they regarded to be a supernatural right. An early U.S. Supreme Court decision held that Cherokee Indians were in a permanent condition of pupilage with no right to property or due process of law.

There's no undoing history, whether ours, or ancient civilizations like Sparta and Rome that waged war as a first principle of shared social purpose. It's good that the Russians launch our astronauts to the International Space Station, and the Chinese make consumer products and Christmas decorations, but that does not disguise the fact that we have military bases in 120 countries, 700,000 Defense Department structures worldwide, bombers and ICBM silos on hair-trigger readiness, a big fleet of strategic and hunter-killer submarines, guided missile cruisers, destroyers, and carrier battle groups patrolling the world, coordinated by hundreds of surveillance and communication satellites. Who pays for it?  We do -- or rather, some of us do, private sector citizens who are employed and pay Federal income tax. Roughly one-third of all Federal taxes and Federal borrowing are devoted to readiness for war. I'll return to that topic, but first I'd like to discuss the notion of civilian employment.

When I was a boy, there was nothing else. If you wanted food, or shelter, or transportation, or medical care -- you had to work for it and pay for it. Schools were provided by localities who voted reasonably small property taxes. Teachers did not have big salaries or retirement benefits. They were admired as public servants, no different than police officers or judges. Federal taxes including Social Security contributions were small, and the job of politicians was to balance their budgets and limit state and Federal spending for essential programs like national defense, higher education, and scientific research. The University of Wisconsin developed vitamins and agricultural science that justified the money invested in research. Hospitals trained our doctors and nurses and promoted public health knowledge. There was a state hospital to treat mentally ill people and a prison for criminals, although communities and families looked after most of those who had difficulty managing their own affairs. We seldom locked our houses or cars. Milk was delivered daily to homes in glass bottles. Bakers and butchers had individual shops on a main street with local banks and a dozen Mom and Pop retailers who stocked American-made clothing, American-made furniture and shoes, sporting goods, TV sets, locally grown vegetables and fresh fish from Lake Michigan, bolts of fabric and sewing notions from New England.

None of that exists today. Government employment, government contractors, and welfare beneficiaries soared to a quarter of all working-age U.S. citizens. Taxation claims half of all private sector labor and profit. Government debt, state and Federal, is measured in trillions, most of it held by foreign lenders, growing every year without hope of paying it down. Our cities and towns are beseiged by drug abuse, alcoholism, violent crime, seething envy and accusations of "white privilege." We import shoes, clothing, fabric, furniture, flooring, sinks, toilets, and computers from China, allegedly clean produce, deadly narcotics, and auto parts from Mexico, smartphones, big screen TVs, and deepwater drilling rigs from Korea. It would be nice to think that Americans still produce jet aircraft, but it's an illusion. Boeing airframe parts are sourced globally, with critical titanium shapes imported from Russia. Our DC motors, permanent magnets, and solar panels -- the nuts and bolts of "green tech" -- are Chinese, a near-monopoly producer and supplier of scarce rare earth metals. There are tens of millions of undocumented Mexican and Central American migrants, African and Arab refugees who will likely remain wards of the state forever, clustered in enclaves, uninterested in becoming English-speaking Americans, contributing nothing except resentment and lawlessness. Our doctors and nurses are quitting the profession. The cost of health care for an average family and the threat of serious illness is a new nightmare, last in line for diagnosis and treatment unless you're a government worker or military veteran or welfare beneficiary entitled to free care and free food, paid by those who work and pinch pennies to put food on the table for their sullen, screen-addled children.

It did not have to be this way. And so far, I have not named the worst problem of all.

In the 1950s and 60s, Americans were fabulously wealthy, compared to the rest of world. We had industrial processes and transport that no one else had -- and Americans were welcomed with open arms wherever they traveled, paid universal respect and thanks for the role we played in liberating the world during World War II. I experienced it personally when I went to Holland in the 1980s -- immediate, open gratitude and warmth extended to me as the son of an American soldier who drove a halftrack in World War II and liberated Holland.

One of the places where American know-how and money were respected and welcomed was Arabia. The Brits were a colonial power historically, not exactly the nicest, friendliest people to do business with -- and no longer strong enough or rich enough to command respect. Arab kings and ministers were delighted to welcome American geologists and engineers to look for oil in the desert. Oil wealth would enrich a primitive, sparsely populated kingdom. What we found was the world's largest oil reserves -- a vast subsurface carbonate platform that was like the fairy tale of Goldilocks and The Three Bears. Not too low, not too high, just right to cook and capture three hundred billion barrels of light, sweet crude, two-thirds of the known oil on earth. After American equipment manufacturers and American drillers built a massive infrastructure to tap the reserves of Ghawar, the Saudis seized everything. Expropriation of U.S. and British international oilfield assets would happen repeatedly -- Mexico, Venezuela, Persia, Iraq, Kuwait, Libya, Nigeria, Brunei -- empowering the world's worst dictators and setting the stage for a global cartel called OPEC that would hold us hostage, because America was no longer able to produce enough oil domestically to fuel American growth. We're still stuck in that squeeze, importing 5 million barrels a day from Arabia, despite heroic, high tech horizontal fracking of U.S. shale deposits, a process that costs five times more than a straight hole in the Arabian desert. Arabs have to employ American contractors, and the Saudi crown jewels aren't as productive as they once were, but it remains that Arabia is the sole source of oil for Germany, Japan, Korea, India, and Israel, who are 100% dependent on imports. Our U.S. Navy 4th, 5th, and 7th Fleets escort supertankers past adversaries and pirates, to deliver oil to our allies, to China, and half of the world's population, including us, as net importers.

I mention this, to discuss something else. With oil wealth gushing for 70 years, Middle East populations exploded. Saudis funded construction of mosques worldwide and preached the evil of American liberty, American military power, and our defense of Israel, who repeatedly smashed Arab armies and keeps millions of dispossessed Muslims in concentration camps. Sorry to be blunt. It's no secret that Israel attacked Lebanon and Syria, that America supports dictators in Egypt and Jordan to bribe their cooperation in defense of Israel, and we are at war with Iran, an oil-rich tyranny challenging American-backed Israeli power and our military alliance with Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Qatar. The entire region is a powderkeg, squatting on two-thirds of the world's oil reserves, riven by division of Islam into two rivals camps.

Let's ignore the fact that 15 of the 19 World Trade Center and Pentagon cutthroats on 9/11 were Saudi nationals, and that Osama bin Ladin was a Saudi cleric, the wealthy son of a Saudi family who were quietly flown from Beverly Hills to Riyahd by our government after 9/11. I want to speak about something less despicable than secret foreign policy. It's almost trivial that Mossad tricked us into invading Iraq, at a cost of 75,000 U.S. "wounded warriors" and two million Iraqi refugees and war dead, a fertile breeding ground for ISIS and another bout of mass murder and misery, unending civil war in Syria, three million more refugees and their terrified, sickly children with no hope of repatriation to a war-torn, shattered homeland.

What I'd like to focus on instead is the threat of terrorism on U.S., U.K., French, and German soil. It has little to do with payback for our combined military operations in Arabia, however cruel and utterly pointless that was. The principal reason for Islamic resentment of the West is our cultural decadence, which radical jihadis see as punishable by death. They are at war with pornography, homosexuality, and equal rights for women, who are free to dress almost naked in public, as they perceive it, compared to the sweltering black bags that Middle East women are forced to wear. I worked in Libya for a time, before Khaddafi was gang raped and dismembered -- and I was viscerally revolted by the constant unending misery inflicted on women and female children in an oil-rich, vaguely modern, utterly filthy Arab city. We had to buy bottled water, because tap water was unsanitary.

Angry resentment of Western obscenity and decadence isn't limited to radical Islam. Roughly one-third of white, native-born Anglo-Saxon Americans are equally disgusted and outraged about homosexual marriage, pornography, drug use, illegal immigrants, welfare queens, anchor babies, urban violence, and teenage abortion on demand without parental consent. They lost confidence in American democracy, voted for Republicans who did nothing and continued to spend us into penury. They held their noses and voted for Trump because they had no choice. American evangelicals were desperate to reverse the edicts of activist judges and Federal regulations that were strangling economic growth. Let's put that aside. The well of revival has been poisoned by the Deep State and apparently unsolvable social problems.

Before we go any further, I want to confess that I'm equally culpable in the disipations and de-evolution of American society. I was a child of the TV generation, easily tempted by Hugh Hefner and the Sexual Revolution, a pot smoking hippie and sex-mad libertine, free to travel and raise hell as a freelance filmmaker -- privileges that were bestowed by U.S. industry and global military dominance that I did nothing to support or provide. Along the way, I made a few observations from an independent perspective.

I'm sorry. I don't think there's any hope of reconciliation between black and white Americans, between Born Again true believers and Hollywood whores -- or the hordes of homeless who are living on the streets of Los Angeles in tents, dazed and drunk and drugged, shitting on the sidewalk, immune from arrest. It has special meaning for me. I lived in Los Angeles, worked at the studios, got my start as a film director by working for black producers. There was a gap in American history during the 1980s, a racial concordance that allowed a straight white boy to work with independent black producers, black writers, and black stars. It no longer exists. The reins of power today are solidly LGBT, cloistered in Malibu and Beverly Hills, protected by private security guards, because the streets of Los Angeles are no longer safe. Studios are dark, film labs closed, and production is something that happens in Canada, or New Mexico, or Georgia, and in darkened digital animation cubicles in groovy Marin County.

Something else has changed for the worse, affecting every U.S. city, after 50 years of urban Democrat rule. American policing collapsed. It became too dangerous to enforce the law. I did a survey of state-of-the-art police technology recently -- gunshot locators, drones, and cell tower triangulation that allows digital cops to monitor every known bad guy and listen to his conversations whether his cellphone is active or turned off. Response times are better, but the result in law enforcement is not. DC cops were at the scene of the Seth Rich shooting within minutes. They transported him to a nearby hospital while he was still conscious. The cops had body cameras. No final words before he died at the hospital. No culprits identified. It remains an unsolved murder, forgotten, despite huge cash rewards offered for information leading to arrest and conviction of the murderers, allegedly robbers who forgot to rob the victim, a Democrat National Committee staffer who backed Bernie. Puts one in mind of the Meuller special counsel team, 18 Democrat prosecutors who grilled hundreds of witnesses, spent 25 million dollars, and took two years to conclude that there was no Trump conspiracy to investigate, after leaking lies to the press, to smear Trump and swing the 2016 midterms, no interest in the fact that Hillary destroyed 30,000 emails subpeonaed by Congress.

In a wider context, I think what we're witnessing is the folly of policing. FBI field agents knew and reported that secretive Saudis were enrolled in a Florida flight school, training to fly 757 jets on a simulator, no interest in learning to land it. Saudi diplomats were seen meeting with other 9/11 conspirators in Los Angeles. Mass shootings by known jihadis and known lunatics slipped through the fingers of FBI and local police. Our border enforcement and the War On Drugs are in tatters. America's civil society has been robbed and denuded of security. I don't blame law enforcement. Failure demonstrates the folly of policing. Peaceful, well ordered society is a cultural phenomenon. Cops cannot correct a broad collapse of social norms.

Nor can our military forces achieve global security. What could they possibly do about Iran or North Korea? Nuke them? Invade and occupy them? -- with millions of dead and dying to pick up and say, shit, we're sorry, orders were orders.

America talked itself into industrial poverty, dependent on Mexico and China, intellectual poverty, unable to question the bureaucratic bluff of "climate change" or transgender fables taught to kindergarten students. When I was in kindergarten, the main attraction was seeing how a butter churn worked, milk and graham crackers, a midday nap on individual mats.

I worry about conservative appeals to the Constitution and our Founding Fathers, ignoring the Civil War, civil rights legislation, Congressional re-districting by race, college admissions by race, and mandatory employment by racial quota. Anyone who takes a cursory glance at the Founding Fathers would see tax evaders and brutal opportunists who won independence from England by the grace of a French fleet that arrived in time to save a Continental Army who the Founders neglected to pay. Appeals to Biblical "law" are no different than jihadis mesmerized by the Koran. Have you ever considered what the Declaration of Independence actually claimed? -- the "separate and equal station" to form a new government. Swell. A new nation divided against itself, winners and losers, property owners and paupers, masters and slaves, a ritual show of hands with Kavanaugh confirmed by a single vote, the thinnest possible "majority" after smearing him with unsupported, almost cartoonish lies told in a quavering voice by a CIA contractor whose father and grandfather were CIA operatives. She shed no tears in testimony. She couldn't say how she got home after being laughed at by two high school boys at a party with loud music in the distant past. She was not raped.

You've been very patient, while I painted an ugly portrait of the current situation. I will finish with a simple American idea, one that contains everything we need to save ourselves and our innocent posterity. It's liberty -- a long forgotten concept that actuated Americans throughout American history and gave us every good thing worth having. Do you remember how I began this speech? Competition and creative destruction, conducted by individual actors without restraint by Soviet committees or a show of hands in a swing state or a party convention.

No one wants to discuss liberty or common law justice, because they're beyond the reach of sovereign government. They're not in the Constitution, nor in the Bill of Rights. I should note in passing that James Madison was opposed to a Bill of Rights, because it reversed the notion of limited powers in the Constitution. He was forced to yield by a nervous Virginia Assembly led by Patrick Henry, who thundered against ratification of the draft Constitution. In Virginia and New York, it was a very close contest, to ratify or reject Union. Just two individual votes among 57 state convention delegates in New York could have sunk the U.S. Constitution.

The origins of common law predated the Constitution by five centuries, and it was a firmly fixed principle of U.S. constitutional law from the very beginning, that every provision had to be interpreted according to the principles of common law -- which were not spelled out in the text of the Consitution. We inherited common law from England and a medieval priest named Grotius, who examined the question of a shipwrecked sailor who had been cut off from the protection of his homeland. He concluded that such men had individual rights, not given by God as such, but by his circumstance. So, think of yourself as a shipwrecked sailor, possessed of individual rights, reflected in modern common law, in property, contracts, and family life. If you think about it, we live in defacto liberty most of the time, deciding without government permission which career to pursue, who to love and marry, where to live and work in a fundamentally free society.

The funny thing about liberty is that there's no guarantee of success. Competition among our friends and rivals keeps moving the goalposts with creative destruction and new standards of achievement, personal as well as professional. Women expect more from men today. There is no guarantee of success, but freedom historically gave us prosperity and pride. Throwing up your hands in surrender is never profitable. As Baruch Spinoza taught -- another medieval philosopher -- all things noble are as difficult as they are rare.

Thank you.

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Sunday, April 21, 2019

Shunned, ignored, or stupid?

My first book (1991) sold 10,000 copies. I was hired to write video scripts in London. Then two prominent weekly webzines separately and independently published me above the fold, an audience of 40,000 unique page views per month. A couple years later, I won 25,000 followers at Seeking Alpha who were notified when I wrote a new financial article. My weekly columns for Alrroya were published in English and Arabic. I appeared opposite Krugman.

Consequently, I acquired the idea that I could write. Whether I could write fiction was a coin toss. Some readers said nice things about Mars, others had technical complaints, and literary agents declined it. Very few "print on demand" copies sold. There was equal disinterest in a paperback pairing a hot female cop and a handsome plutocrat. The work of creating Harry and Laura, followed by Janet and Archie, distilled and precipitated a commitment to romance as the overwhelmingly dominant factor in psychological life, especially during our 30s and 40s when careers are made or ruined, risky gambles taken, passionate love and electrifying eros the result of sudden thermonuclear chemistry. No one expects romance to happen.

Romance in the wider sense is a heightened adventure that presents difficult and dangerous choices, horsewhipped in my longform debut Mars Shall Thunder, more comically but equally grim in The Good Walk Alone. Life and health are risked universally a thousand times a day, in traffic, at a fast food restaurant or school cafeteria, at a gay nightclub or at home. It happens to everyone. We age and die. Vital young adults in their 30s are eager and beautiful, at the summit of physical strength. Murderous conspiracies challenged Harry and Laura on Mars and likewise Janet and Archie in Atlantis to respond, wielding official government powers.

The next thing to do as a novelist was to delete official government powers, make it private wildcat power, totally anarchist and indifferent to money, an independent Chris and Peachy. They kept me busy two years. I had some nice reviews, enough to persuade me that I was on the right track and should continue writing fiction. That's easier said than done. After a major project involving characters I care about, I always had to detach and bang out some nonfiction gumph, a quart of creative Drano. Readers avoided my nonfiction without fail, and reviewers deigned to throw spitballs. Unfortunately, in the course of not writing novels, I hit a couple home runs in the philosophy of law, important work that needs to be seen and studied.

I'm unable to do anything to promote readership, and I've stopped writing. Book sales have flatlined after single digits last year. I'm satisfied that 'Partners' was a masterwork (the whole extent to which I possess any talent) and 'Executive Branch' sharpened matters. I'm done.

Why I'm shunned and ignored, I dunno. Nothing I can do about it. It might be a social disease. The political conspiracy against Trump is congruent with a boycott of action adventure stories involving a powerful white guy and an equally courageous white superbabe. I assert that such people exist in reality. I've met them. Chris and Peachy are a little more active, a little sexier than most, but not so different than hard combat vets and the hot females who want them.

Let's be honest about it. A straight white hero, armed and dangerous?  And worse than that, indifferent to people of color and liberal government, a blur in the rear view mirror. Chris and Peachy were pampered sprigs of wealthy clans in control of institutional power -- a pair of ruling class black sheep. What they do as often as possible is to celebrate a red hot sexual attraction that can't be delegated or saved. It ought to be obvious. There is a cohort of white male warriors, ex-Marine Corps "devil dogs" with superior fighting skills. If threatened, they attack. Their women are likewise armed, dangerous, devoted, and unafraid.

Chris and Peachy -- an irresistible, unending, permanent romantic union. Polygamy doesn't change anything. They were bonded by physical and mental chemistry that no complication can bend or distort, destined to cleave closer in four wild action adventure novels.

Whether it was a long, lonely multi-year folly or a milestone reached and won, the intimate saga of Chris and Peachy freed me to show and tell what I knew about life. 'Partners' was a personal retrospective of how life used to be in the simpler 1970s, when ordinary men and women needed and defended each other and accepted the truth of life on life's terms.

Baffles me how anyone can believe the absurdity of immaculate conception and virgin birth, resurrection of a dead man, and retail immortality bestowed by faith. It also troubles me that I outlived Paul Tweeten. I think Paul gave up. It's a heavy burden to fail as a filmmaker.

Tough that I, too, failed as a film director, but it escapes me why I've been blackballed as an novelist. Straight white people don't read any more? There's been a flood of self-published indie authors, a vast clutter of dsyfunctional chick lit, vampires, and LGBT fantasies.

A handful of positive reviews kept me going.

    "A master of sly observations, of the truths hidden in words, echoes to the time when men were men, and writers weren't afraid to tell stories."
    "The combination of courage, tenderness, integrity, brains and raw sensuality is way out of the ordinary. Alternately growls, whimpers and seduces."
    "The truth is often dark and brilliant at once. DeVoon is great with description."
    "Gripping, marvellously portrayed."

Hmph. Flowers that bloomed a few days like dogwood. Easily the prettiest tree in the forest, a spectacular herald of Spring, bare again in a blink. Puzzles me that my intellectual work was quoted by a constitutional scholar in Kathmandu, totally ignored in America.

I recorded a series of videos, put up a web page to archive my stuff for posterity. I expect to be erased from Google, banned by Amazon, and buried in an unmarked grave, no obiturary. The future belongs to legislators, school teachers, Jews, and people of color. I'm not angry about it, but it worries me that inertia should squash everything else, zero interest in liberty or private heroism, hand on heart fealty to religion and a show of hands, fascist government by morons and ugly manipulators incapable of producing or preserving anything of value.

As a pauper, it's a struggle to find 1000 calories a day. Prices matter. I ate ultracheap canned mackerel imported from China, until I noticed the label warning about cadmium and lead. If this is my last year, always a threat, it was worth every hardship that I endured as a creative explorer, and I have no regrets. Embarrassment wasn't much of a deterrent or penalty.

www.wolfdevoon.net

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