Archive for the ‘literature’ Category

Murray Rothbard Endorses Norman Mailer: When Left Meets Right

April 30, 2014

Silverwolf had taken a vow of silence, until the silence of the voters will have silenced his nascent candidacy in the upcoming primaries.

But the network of interstices that link various thinkers sent us on a refresher quest of the key political, economic and issue positions of two of our favorite philosophers; they were thinkers, and very perceptive.

First, we rewatched Norman Mailer’s 77 min documentary, “Oh My America”. Really good. Chocked full of insights, like most of Mailer’s non-fiction writing. And deep insights, like Sartre, one after another until your exhausted from the mental pleasure. Mailer gives a lot of very valid observations of the times, which no one born after 1977 can ever really grasp, just like those born in the 1940s and 50s can’t existentially grasp what it was really like to live in the 1920s and 30s. In ancient times, men didn’t change very much from one generation to another. Now, it’s a completely different culture every 20 or 30 years.

At the same time, we began to reread Professor Murray Rothbard’s “For a New Liberty: The Libertarian Manifesto”. Like the Communist Manifesto, it lays down, in simple detail, the basic Libertarian principles, and the moral basis of many Libertarian viewpoints. It is a book that will really make you think, and even if you don’t agree with Libertarianism, you will know what it means after reading this work.

In the midst of all this, we began to rummage around for that book we knew we had on Norman Mailer’s campaign for the Mayoralty of New York City, but rummage though we might, we couldn’t find it. So we hurried to the internet and searched for Mailer’s 1977 campaign. There were several articles, but none that talked in great detail about the campaign and its strategy.

However, in one written by John Buffalo Mailer, his son, he mentions Murray Rothbard. And suddenly we thought, what would Rothbard have thought about this campaign? Did he have any contact with it?

With baited mind we googled Mailer and Rothbard, and there it was. An article written by Murray Rothbard, not only praising Mailer’s run, calling him the Libertarian alternative, but, for the first time ever in “Libertarian Forum”, formally endorsing anyone for public office. This was truly a marriage of Left and Right, and it was very heartening to hear this supposed Rightwing Fanatic endorsing a staunch Leftist.

Norman Mailer defined himself as a “Left Conservative”. He once said his views on birth control were to the Right of the Catholic Church. He contrasted the two types of Republican or Rightwing Conservatives as the “Principle Conservatives” and the “Flag Conservatives” Robert Taft would have fallen into the first class; just about every major Republican politician in the last 40 years has fallen into the latter class McCain, Palin, Boehner, Gingrich, Bachmann, McConnell, Christie, Perry (ha!ha!),
Schwartznegger, Guliani, the Bushes, the list goes on and on.

Mailer and Rothbard were a thousand miles above these people, although they obviously didn’t agree on many issues. It’s interesting too that while many are assaulting “Seccession” as a Rightwing nut issue (and personally, we think a Federal America would be stronger than 50 independent states, or having some secceed. Who’d want to exchange their currency and pay a bank 5% for the privilege every time you crossed a state line? And what about Federal Enforcement of Civil Rights guaranteed in the Bill of Rights?), Norman Mailer was advocating in his campaign, not only that New York City should succeed from New York State and become the 51st State, but also that all the neighborhoods that make up New York should have their own autonomy, elections, run their own schools, etc. A devolution of power to local control.

Mailer quips in his documentary that the sad thing was that, up until a week before the election, he actually thought he was going to win, along with his co-campaigner and candidate, Jimmy Breslin, the newspaper journalist, who was running along with Mailer, for the head of the city council. Mailer ended up with 4% of the vote.

If you want to read Murray Rothbards paean of praise for Mailer’s candidacy, here it is:

The Left and Right contra Fascismus.

Hooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

A Deca-Millionaire’s Library for $5

November 3, 2013

One of the great advantages of the cyber world, one of which evidently few take advantage given the number of downloads registered, is the possibility of acquiring a digital book collection comparable to anything any Lord or Noble of the last 500 years could have assembled. When you consider the cost of building rooms to house tens of thousands of books, often having the shelves extend to the roof so that a ladder mounted on a rail was necessary to access the upper reaches, and the cost of heating those rooms so the books didn’t develop rot, along with the cost and bother of cataloging and labeling (and perhaps hiring a full-time librarian), you can see that, up until now, only a wealthy nobleman or business magnate has had the capacity to enjoy such a library

Nor does this consider the time, cost, and bother of visiting hundreds of bookstores in assembling a collection, or paying the exorbitant prices that books have reached during the last 30 years. This vast expenditure of time, effort, and money, was formerly necessary to anyone suffering from the disease of Bibliomania, and its attendant perversion, Librophilia.

But no more. Now, for about $5 worth of CDs or DVDs, the avid but economically modest Bibliophile can legally obtain a collection that would rival any ensembled in the last half-millenium by the wealthiest of the wealthy. Nor would he have to go from room to room, climbing ladders and re-descending, to look at a few books. On the computer, he could visit these tomes in moments, and know if they are the ones of which he has need or desire.

But given the pathetically low number of downloads we see on scholarly and literary books of all kinds, after years of being available online, we can see that this vast gift is not being taken advantage of by hundreds of millions of people.

Mankind is slowly degenerating in mind, and his language reflects this. Reading the prose of people who lived before the age of homogenized Fascism, we are brought in contact with ways of perceiving reality that are lost to the modern robotized man. And not only is that prose perceptive, but aesthetically elegant, unlike the dry bureaucratese that modern writers and politicians think and talk in.

There’s an old saying that if you’re carrying books and gold, and you fall down and drop both of them, first pick up the books.

So live like a wealthy nobleman in Cromwell’s day or the Deca-millionaires of our time, with a literature collection the envy of all Mediaeval England. Go pick up the books.

Hooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf’s Apologia for His Blog’s Artistic Failings

September 1, 2013

Dear Readers —

The manner in which Silverwolf has been obliged to write his blog posts has inevitably produced innumerable blemishes in them, from an artistic point of view. The significance of many posts was only developed by degrees in the progress of the blog, but the rearrangement and amendation of the blogposts, which each day’s political news continually rendered desirable, could be effected very imperfectly or sometimes not at all, due to the fact that the blog had already been published to the worldwide web by clicking the “publish” bar. Of the defects in the constructions of the blogs, due to this cause, I am painfully aware. Especially will they be apparent to any government snoop who may be at pains to peruse these posts.

I must trust to the singular attraction of the wonderful cause of Libertarianism (i.e. Classical Liberalism or Jeffersonianism) itself to render my pages agreeable in spite of their faults. For myself, I must say, in all modesty, that the most exciting novels I have ever read have failed to hold my attention with so close a grasp as has been exerted by the fascination of my own blog posts.

If my blog posts give a clear and intelligible account of the Philosophy of Libertarianism, especially as it impinges on the American Political Scene, I hope it may derive such an interest from them as will serve in part to hide, or at least to obtain an excuse for, its faults of execution.

Sincerely yours, Lobo Silverwolf, Esq.

Hoooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Uncle Ben Franklin’s Lessons in Capitalism: The Best of Poor Richard’s Dictums

August 4, 2013

For one taking the first steps upon the long Capitalist road from penury to wealth, there are few more valuable guideposts of Reason than the observations and wisdom of “Uncle” Benjamin Franklin, who was the physical embodiment of the economic philosophy of America. In his Poor Richard’s wise sayings, we find the basic wisdom that guided the men of the 18th century in their economic thinking, and which undoubtedly reflected a general psychology that must have existed for centuries before Franklin wrote down these gems of wisdom. Some of them are not originally Franklin’s, but come to us from general sayings of the times, or from various specific cultures. But they all seem to reflect a basic wisdom and insight into universal human behaviour when it comes to economic matters, and we can easily recognize ourselves and our own past economic follies when we read them.

Silverwolf read these when he was a wage-slave, beginning the miserable process of accumulating Capital, a process in which the first hundred steps are the hardest, and which, the longer one works at it, becomes easier and easier. They provided inspiration and insight into the truths of Capitalism and general human economic psychology that were invaluable, not only in observing ones own economic behaviour, but also in observing the behaviour of others. Make a foolish mistake and learn from it, and one will be able to recognize that mistake in others.

Anyway, for what it is worth, Silverwolf gathered together all the dictums of Poor Richard, published by Franklin in the 1730s and 1740s, and selected those which he thought were the most relevent to the budding Capitalist in terms of economic behaviour, but also those that reflected wisely on the necessary psychological outlook of the would-be Free-Marketeer. And here they are:

Light purse, heavy heart.

When bread is wanting, all is to be sold.

Would you live with ease, do what you ought, and not what you please.

Hope of gain, lessens pain.

All things are easy to industry, difficult to sloth.

Necessity never made a good bargain.

Diligence is the mother of good luck.

Wealth is not his who has it, but his who enjoys it.

He that buys by the penny maintains not only himself, but other people.

The use of money is all the advantage in having money.

If you have time, don’t wait for time.

There are three faithful friends, an old wife, and old dog, and ready money.

At a great pennyworth, pause a while.

Industry need not wish.

If you’d be wealthy, think of saving more than getting.

Industry, perserverance, and frugality make fortune yield.

Sloth (like rust) consumes faster than labour wears; the used key is always bright.

Light gains, heavy purses.

He that resolves to mend hereafter, resolves not to mend now.

Want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge.

What maintains one vice would bring up two children.

Many have be ruined by buying good pennyworths.

Tis a well-spent penny that saves a groat.

Great estates may venture more; little boats must keep to shore.

Patience in market is worth pounds in the year.

Diligence overcomes difficulties; sloth makes them.

Sloth moves so slowly that Industry must run all day to catch up to it.

Get what you can, and what you get hold, Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.

Diligence is the mother of good-luck.

Creditors have better memories than debtors.

If you desire many things, many things will seem but a few.

After crosses and losses, men grow humbler and wiser.

The creditors are a superstitious sect, great observers of set days and times.

Buy what thou hast no need of, and e’er long thou shall sell thy necessaries.

Lend money to an enemy and thou’lt gain him, to a friend, and thou’lt lose him.

Lying rides upon Debt’s back.

Well done, is twice done.

He that hath a trade, hath an estate.

He that speaks ill of the Mare, will buy her.

If you’d lose a troublesome visitor, lend him money.

He who multiplies Riches, multiplies Cares.

The second vice is lying; the first is running in debt.

Wise men learn by other’s harms; Fools by their own.

Drink does not drown care, but waters it, and makes it grow faster.

The busy man has few idle visitors; to the boiling pot the flies come not.

If you’d know the value of money, go and borrow some.

Beware of little Expenses, a small Leak will sink a great ship.

He who buys had need have 100 eyes, but one’s enough for him that sells the stuff.

When the Well’s dry, we know the Worth of Water.

The Borrower is a Slave to the Lender, the Security to both.

Spare and have is better than spend and crave.

The Art of getting Riches consists very much in THRIFT. All men are not equally qualified for getting Money, but it is in the Power of every one alike to practice this Virtue.

Well, there you have it. All the distilled wisdom you need to set the Capitalist world on fire with your activities in the Market. Just add in a reading of Professor Murray Rothbard’s “Man, State, and Economy”, along with its adjunct, “Power and Market”, and you’ve got all the basic true knowledge you need to be a Capitalist.

Hoooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

The Charles C. Bunkley Infallible Roulette System

March 4, 2013

The Charles C. Bunkley Infallible Roulette System

A Short Story by “Lobo Silverwolf”

Charles Bunkley stared at himself in his hotel room mirror. He looked pale around the cheeks and the chin, but his nose and forehead were a Mojave nut-brown. He’d shaved for only the first time in the last six years yesterday, as he prepared for his trip to Las Vegas. Then, early this morning, he’d began the long drive from Wonder Valley, east of 29 Palms, to Sin City, taking the back roads at 35 and trying to stay calm. Now he was finally here, and in an hour would take place the culmination of six years of study, of spinning the roulette wheel he’d set up in his cabin thousands of times a day and recording the results, of reading everything he could on roulette and its strategies, and finally, only a few weeks previously, of coming upon the idea whose result was an infallible system. For centuries men had searched for a system in roulette that would guarantee them a profit, but it was only he, Charles Calvin Bunkley, who had, amongst all men on earth, discovered that system. And now he was going to use it.

Charles dressed leisurely, putting on the unused blue suit and tie he had bought years ago for just this day. Once finished, he looked like any other nicely dressed tourist who would blend in easily with the background. There was no need to attract attention. The casino must never suspect that he had a system, or he would be banned from every casino in America once the news got out.

Instead of taking the concourse that connected the hotel to the casino, Charles went out onto the street again, to look at America one more time before he became a wealthy man. Right now, financially, he was much the same as the tourists and dressed-up single ladies that passed him in the street, but in a little while he would belong to an aristocracy that had always been worshipped in America, in spite of the lip service given to its love of the poor.

He entered the main door of the casino, detecting immediately the hated smell of tobacco smoke. It was something he would just have to put up with for a time; the money would make it worthwhile.

He went to the cashier, withdrew the 50 Franklins from his shoulder money-belt, and asked for five thousand-dollar chips. The cashier seemed unfazed by the request; she must be used to high rollers.

As Charles moved in the direction of the various gaming tables, he repeated to himself, over and over, “middle-red-28”, the three bets he must make to win, that had come to him in a flash once he’d discovered the final key to his system.

Charles went in search of a roulette wheel, looking for a table that was fairly quiet. He spotted one, manned by a young woman with such jet-black hair that Charles thought she must be partly Native American. Suddenly he felt that this was a good omen, for had not Native Americans once been referred to derogatorily as “Redmen”, and since this was not a man, the “Red” corresponded exactly to the second element in his three bets. But then he questioned why he needed an “omen”  at all to confirm the validity of his system. Did not this show a lack of confidence in the system’s infallibility, and had he not been logically sure that, willy-nilly, his system must work?

The dealer invited the few players standing at the table to place their bets, and Charles placed his five thousand-dollar chips on the middle column, which paid 2-to-1. She spun the wheel, spun the ball in the other direction, and finally called out “eight”. Of course, Charles had won, and she pushed two stacks of five similarly-colored chips next to Charles’ original five. Then Charles placed the three stacks of chips on Red. The dealer spun the wheel again and Charles watched the ball intently. When it fell onto a red number and stayed there, he didn’t even notice what number she called out; he was waiting for that fresh supply of 15 thousand-dollar chips, which were pushed towards him a few moments later.

Deftly, he crammed the six stacks of $5,000 each onto number 28. He noticed that the young woman now watched him, and the betting table, intently. He caught the pit boss, standing off to one side, eyeing the proceedings and tightening his lips slightly. The other players and spectators at the table quickly became hushed as they realized the magnitude of the bet. Then the dealer spun the wheel, and sent the ball circumnavigating the bowl in the other direction. Charles watched the ball, then looked up, repeating to himself, over and over, “My system is infallible; my system is infallible.” He closed his eyes.

He didn’t hear the color called out, only the words “twenty-eight”.

He’d done it! His infallible system had worked and he was a millionaire! He’d done what no man had ever done before!

He could not help but grin, and several spectators actually broke into a small round of applause. He supposed they thought him plucky; but Charles knew that there was no luck involved.

He tipped the young woman a thousand-dollar chip, and placed it on “seven” for her, then walked away. He had not used the system when he placed that bet, but just random chance, and it didn’t surprise him, as he moved away from the table, to hear “thirteen” called out. She must have been sorely disappointed, but at least she’d had a momentary thrill. And it was important for the casino to see him lose a bet; they must not know of the  system.

At the cashier’s window, Charles asked for 50 Franklins, which he replaced in his shoulder money-belt, and a cashier’s check for one-million and forty-four thousand dollars. Tomorrow, when he got back to 29 Palms, he would deposit the check in a large bank, and, when it had cleared, spread the money around several banks so that it was all Federally Insured. He wasn’t going to lose it after six years of struggle.

Returning to his hotel room, he took the concourse that joined it to the casino. There was no need to walk on the street now, with the rabble. Did these well-dressed couples that now passed him know that they were passing the first man in history to successfully figure out an infallible system in roulette? No, of course they didn’t, but it was a fact which he obviously must keep secret. No, he would never tell anyone.

But, now that he knew the system actually worked, he would use it again and again, until he was one of the wealthiest men in America. A wave of euphoria swept over Charles: all things were possible for him now.

Back in his room, he prepared to leave, feeling too elated to sleep, and not even considering now that he was paying for a room till tomorrow, so he ought to stay to get his moneysworth. He would never have to think in such mean terms again.

He opened his suitcase, and began to carefully pack the few belongings he’d brought. Then he noticed his large, three-ring binder notebook with his six years of statistics; within that book lay the secret of his success. He picked up the notebook with a feeling of affection; it was his old, old friend. He put it down again, and opened the front cover. Then, carefully unclipping it, he removed the essential element in his system, the element that had eluded him for six years until recently when, in a flash, he’d conceived in his mind the infallible system.

As he removed the Smith and Wesson snubnose, he smiled at it. It felt heavy and powerful in his hands, like gold. He released the cylinder catch, twirled the dial, and removed the single bullet it held. Then he went to the bathroom, and dropped the bullet into the toilet bowl, flushing it so it moved out of sight.

This time he hadn’t needed that part of the system.

The End

Hooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf’s Short Story: “The Man Who Loved Margaret”

March 2, 2013

” The Man Who Loved Margaret”

A Short Story by “Lobo Silverwolf”

I am a murderer. I lay awake at night and think about it, over and over. I killed a man, although I know they’ll never come to arrest me. But I did it nevertheless.

I first noticed Judson a few years back, when he moved into the neighborhood with his good lady. One day I ran into Ted Bagley at the hardware store, and he told me that the property next to his had been sold, down at the end of the cul-de-sac where it hits the old abandoned City Park, and than the Judsons had bought it. Ted told me they were Rosicrusians, a sect I recalled had placed ads in most of the magazines I’d read as a teenager. “Send 10 cents for the answer to Eternity.” I didn’t think there were any Rosicrusians left by now.

What impressed me about Judson when he drove past was how spotless his truck always was, and, when curiosity sent me on a hike down to the old Park in the middle of winter, how immaculately kept his house and lawn were. There, in the midst of the pine forest, was a uniformly emerald-green lawn, with a home to match, right out of the San Fernando Valley. Not a twig was on the lawn, and those that had been were placed neatly in a stack, awaiting burning. The roof and gutters were spotless.

About a year later, it suddenly struck me that recently, when I’d seen Judson’s truck pass, he was always in it alone. Then I ran into Ted Bagley at the Senior Thrift Shop. He mentioned that the Judsons had gotten divorced, and that Clem Judson was living there alone.

I figured it must be pretty rough for a guy used to living with a wife to suddenly be on his own. Men like Ted Bagley and I were used to it, but for a man who was used to having a woman around all the time, it must have been hard.

My studies having completely absorbed me at that time, I don’t think I gave another thought to Judson for months. Then suddenly it struck me that I hadn’t seen Judson for quite a while. So, the next fine early spring day, I took old Madge Newgate’s two dogs out for a stroll to the old Park, knowing that it would score some points with Madge, since she can’t take them until she has her hip surgery, and she wouldn’t forget me when her trees started to rain apples in the fall. I figured that by walking Truman (Madge is a Democrat) and Izzy, I could get on Madge’s good side while seeing if Judson was still around.

When I got there, his truck was there sure enough, but it was caked with mud, and the windows looked dirty. Then I noticed that the roof of his house had a large patch of moss growing where the sun hit it; he’d have bear claws if he didn’t get up there soon. And the lawn was no longer green, but mottled with large brown patches, and covered in twigs and branches.

I smiled to myself: now that Judson no longer had to please his good lady, he’d let all that busy-work go by the wayside, and his place would gradually assume the well-worn look of a comfortable old shoe, like Ted Bagley’s place and my own.

Still, it bothered me a bit that Judson had let the place go like that so soon after his wife left. Had it all been her ship-shape insistence that kept the stead so immaculate, or was something else going on?

A few days later, curiosity sent me out once again to the old Park, not for the walk so much, but because I wondered how Judson was managing. I’d never spoken to him, other than the time he’d offered me a ride to town when the pump went out, having seen me walking down the street to Madge’s carrying several empty water bottles. I’d thanked him, but explained that I just had to go a block, and that had been the limit of our history of conversation.

As I passed the house, everything seemed the same. I went on, and was almost past his driveway, when I suddenly heard a yell.

“Hey neighbor!”. I turned to see Judson running down his driveway towards me. I could make out a big grin on his face, and as he approached, he had a look of pure joy on his visage.

He came up, extended his arm, and shook my hand vigorously, putting his other hand over it, like some long-lost friend. What struck me about him was the wild tousled appearance of his hair, which was greasy and matted, and plastered all over his head in clumps, as if it hadn’t been washed for weeks. A fetid odor of animal sweat hit my nostrils, such as I’d only experienced at a zoo.

He looked right at me, with a wild, joyous gleam in his eyes.

“Guess what, friend! I’m getting married! And to the most wonderful girl in the world!”

I mumbled a congratulations, but he kept on talking over me.

“I’m so glad you are the first to hear about it. So glad.” He suddenly seemed moved almost to tears, and his voice cracked a little. “You don’t know what old friends like you mean to me.” Then he brightened right up.

“I just got the news. Pa called and said that he and Ma have decided to give their approval. So now I can marry Margaret!” Judson clapped his hands together in joy, like a little kid. Since Judson appeared to be in his late 50s, I wondered how old his parents must be. “But you’ve got to come see a photo of her. Come on up to the house, and I’ll show her to you.”

The look in Judson’s eye told me that somehow it would  be a mistake not to go along, so I said “Sure, I’d love to see it.”

When we got to the house, I was struck by the huge mound of plastic garbage that lay just outside Judson’s kitchen door, as if he’d just been throwing out whatever used packaging he’d finished with. He led me into the living room, which seemed to carry the same, stale smell of sweat that emanated from Judson, and sat me down on an old sofa, in front of a computer and screen.

“Now look at this. This was taken a little while back, but my fiancee hasn’t changed a bit. Watch!”

A huge grin filled Judson’s face as he clicked the play icon. On the screen I saw an old black-and-white newsreel film. Horses were being led into a paddock, while well-dressed men stood around and talked. Then the horses were at a starting gate, and the camera showed a panorama of a large crowd watching the start of a race, and the racetrack.

The race began, and suddenly the camera shifted to several spectators in a reserved box. I thought I recognized the old Queen of England, the one before the current one.

“There she is,” yelled out Judson, so suddenly that I started for a moment. “There!” He put his finger on the screen, on the figure of a young Princess Margaret, standing beside the Queen. “Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she the most wonderful girl you’ve ever seen!” Judson was almost raving. “I tell you, neighbor, I can’t wait to hold her in my arms and call her my own.”

Then he looked hard at me. “Well, what do you think of her?”

“She’s charming”, I said. I noticed Judson suddenly looked at me suspiciously, and the start of a scowl crossed his face. But then he grinned broadly. “Yes, you’re right. Charming is the word. Now look at this.”

Judson let the clip play on. It showed “Monaveen” winning the race, and Princess Margaret clapping wildly, jumping up and down a little, and generally showing the camera that she was very, very pleased.

“Boy, am I glad it’s you I first get to tell the happy news to, at least in this neighborhood. But, the news is spreading fast, and the joy of my bride’s friends knows no limits. Look!”

He clicked on another clip, which showed the streets of a British town thronged with wellwishers, waving their hankies at Princess Margaret and smiling broadly. The commentator told of the Princess’ visit to Lancashire, and Judson mentioned that his bride was so well-liked by everyone she met, that she was known as a “Princess”. I tried to react normally, but by now I was deeply disturbed by Judson’s mental degeneration. The man was obviously a raving lunatic.

Finally, he put on another clip. It showed the Princess tapping a giant block of stone with two light fairy taps of a malet, and saying, “I now declare this stone well and truly laid,” which was followed by general polite applause.

“Doesn’t she have the most wonderful voice you’ve ever heard?”, he asked me. I decided, in light of his glare after my “charming” comment, that it was safer to just go “Umhumm”. This did not produce a glare. And he went on, “It’s the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard. I can’t live without it.”

Suddenly Judson stood up and said, in a most formal manner. “I’m afraid there is a great deal to do before the wedding, so if you’ll kindly excuse me.” He didn’t look at me, but strangely straight ahead as he said this. He wore a hangdog expression, as if he were so exhausted, he couldn’t move the muscles of his face.

“Of course, there must be loads to do, and I really should be getting back,” I said.  “Congratulations once again, and I am sure you’ll both be very happy.” He looked at me suddenly as if I were a stranger, and I walked out of the house and up the drive as quickly as I could without it looking unnatural.

“The poor fellow” I said to myself, as I returned to my “old shoe”. Judson had obviously completely lost his mind since his wife left. It bothered me immensely, and I found Judson coming into my mind all evening, as I tried to concentrate on my studies. What could I do for the poor soul?

That night, I awoke after a good sleep, and found myself immediately thinking of what I could do to snap Judson out of his delusions. I was ranging around for solutions in my mind, when I recalled a book I’d read perhaps decades earlier, in which a psychiatrist was mentioning that, with certain patients, he used an approach of telling them to their face that their delusions were pure drivel, and that they had fully the capacity to be sane if they wanted to be. He would then prove to the patient beyond any doubt that they could not possibly fly through a window as they claimed they could, or be Napoleon, or signal to a passing aeroplane pilot that they had been kidnapped by Martians and needed help. He claimed a very high success rate without long drawnout analysis with his “cold bath of reality” technique.

The next morning, while putting out the cat food, a plan came to me. I would download and print out a copy of Princess Margaret’s obituary, and send it anonymously to Judson, even driving the 30 miles up to Wedmore to post the letter there, so the postmark would not look local. I couldn’t let Judson know it was I who’d sent it.

Driving back from Wedmore after posting the letter, I felt like I’d done another good deed, like walking Madge Newgate’s dogs. Judson would be very disappointed when he’d read of his bride-to-be’s death, but the shock just might bring him around from his delusions.

I figured it would take a day or two for the letter to be delivered, and on the third day, after the mail had come, I walked down to the old Park to see if I could see Judson around his place. But when I passed the house all seemed quiet. His truck still stood in the same spot, and all was silent. Then I saw Judson in the distance, on the far side of his lot, gathering pine twigs. He seemed alright, and a hope sprang up in me that somehow he’d snapped out of his condition.

That night, about 3a.m., I was awakened by the noise of a diesel truck passing, and as I awoke, another truck passed. My bedroom walls were suddenly filled with flashing red lights and dots which swirled around the walls, and which then quickly subsided as the noise of the motor began to fade. I wondered if yet another drunken teenager had slammed himself and his girlfriend into a bloody pulp against a tree, as they raced down to the old Park for some teenage hanky-panky on a Friday night. It seemed to happen about once a year, year in year out. Then my mind drifted back to my studies, and what I must accomplish the following day, and then I was out again in the outer blackness of sleep.

I was awakened early at 7 by the phone. When I answered it, it was Ted Bagley.

“I hope I didn’t call too early, but I thought you ought to know. Clem Judson shot himself last night. He’s dead. I was out at Clarendon last night, fixing a pump, but got back around 2:30. Suddenly I heard a shot, and figured it was a deer poacher, but it sure sounded close. Then half an hour later two ambulances from the fire department showed up. They’d gotten a call from someone who kept moaning that “Margaret’s dead. I can’t go on living without her. I’m gonna kill myself, so please come and pick up my body. You can find it at…” and he gave his address in a clear, calm, voice, and signed off with a “Have a nice day”. The 911 dispatcher figured it was probably one of those goofy calls they get on the weekends from someone whose had a little too much, or some mischievous kid, — you know what this valley is like —but they know the County’ll get sued if they don’t respond and it’s genuine. They found Judson with half his head blowed out.”

I was too shocked to correct Ted’s grammar, and, thanking him for telling me, I rang off.

I sat stock still in the living room for perhaps half-an-hour, thinking to myself over and over, “I killed Judson. I killed him just as surely as if I’d taken the gun and put it to his head myself. I murdered a man, another human being. I’m a killer.”

So what can I do except tell you, and tell the world. I have committed the one crime that can never be expiated. I killed a man.

The End

Hoooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Smoking Gunter Grass

April 16, 2012

Silverwolf watched with fascination, last night, as he attended the torchlight parade of the Libertarian Brownwolves, which prefaces their annual bookburning. As you know, Libertarian Silverwolves refuse to burn any books, even those of their sworn enemies, but the Brownwolves have no such qualms.

And so it was that with high spirits, and singing “Masters of War”, the marching Brownwolves, with flambeau torchlights ablaze, cast their copies of Gunter Grass’ novels into the annual anti-Fascist bonfire. Copies of “Cat and Mouse” and “The Tin Drum” could be seen flying through the air, along with an occasional copy of “The Flounder” to help fuel the flames. Adding a copy of “Mein Kampf” to the conflagration always seems to help Grass’ books burn well, although the stench from the combusting paper can be overwhelming to Libertarians.

The old Waffen SS Murderer veteran is defending the child-hangers of Iran. He’s still sorry he and his fellow veterans could only murder 6 million Jews, and the remnants managed to survive in Israel. Now he has a hero in the Child-Murderer and Warmonger Ahmedinejad. This is what comes of letting the Nazi War Criminals live after the War. Too bad they weren’t all executed, or chained to gurneys for life on gruel. Two appropriate punishments for War Crimes.

Now that the Grass has been burned off the shelves, there’s more room for Rothbard, Rand, and Russell. There is Libertarian Integrity in this world, and also Fascist Scum. They live side by side.

Hooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

There Is a Free Lunch at The Mises Diner

February 3, 2010

One of the most common dictums thrown at one in America when one is growing from pupdom to wolfdom is “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” You hear this not only from cynical socialists, who feel that no Capitalist would ever give away anything for free unless he expected a higher return by the action, but also from hardboiled business types, who think that if a deal sounds too good, there’s always a catch in it, and who think that all other businessmen think exactly as they do.

But this duo of sceptics would be contradicted not by any swindling capitalist or even greater swindling socialist, but by the most pro-Capitalist, pro-free-market outfit in America: the Mises Institute; for what the Institute has done is not only made available copies of many of the classics of the Libertarian-Austrian School of Economics philosophical-economic outlook for free, but now, in the last few weeks, added a whole new raft of recordings to be inspected with a circumspect ear (to mix metaphors). These latest jewels of scholarship include two series of lectures delivered by Professor Murray N. Rothbard at the NY Polytechnic Institute in 1986, an excellent reading of A. J. Nock’s “Our Enemy, the State” by Jock Coats of Oxford, essays of Herbie Spencer, as well as readings by Jeff Riggenbach, who is also an excellent reader with a rich, resonant voice. (Herbie Spencer, known as Herbert to his friends, was a late 19th century British Libertarian-leaning essayist, who, according to Rothbard, became more statist as he aged. You can see this in the upper half of his face, which became like a human being later in life, while the lower half retained its wolf-like hirsuteness.) And the cherry is a brief, crisp recording of a short lecture Mises gave during an interlude in the US Steel corporation’s program in 1962, in which he explains why the free-market is so different from the old monarchies and church-dominated societies. (The reason is, if you’re curious to know, because instead of expropriating wealth by looting or taxation, which the king or church-priesthood had done is olden times, the free-market requires that a man serve his fellow men in some useful capacity by expending energy, and he will only be able to garner a living if he can fulfill some useful need. Therefore, his wealth is dependent on the consumer, not on legalized looting, and each consumer must, in turn, find something to turn his hand to so that he may procure the wherewithal to secure those commodities he needs for survival, or wants as fripperies. Thus the consumers, and not the kings, priesthood, or even the businessmen, are the real kings in a true free-market economy.Like Rothbard, Mises could make pellucid murky economic problems with a comparatively short, understandable explanation.)

The two Rothbard series of lectures feature one on a history of America from 1870 through King Roosevelt II from an Austrian School economic perspective, and several on the basics of economics like Value, and the Determination of Prices. These constitute the brown rice and beans (bread and butter for you junkfooders) of economic understanding, which can then be applied to the gallimaufry of American political history. Rothbard’s technique of historical analysis, which always asks “Qui bono?”, who benefits from a specific piece of legislation?, is one that logically explains not only the vast giveaways of the public’s wealth that were doled out to corporations during the 19th and 20th centuries, but the current massive giveaways by Obama, Geithner, Pelosi, Reid, Schumer, Frank, and that whole gang of “experts”, well paid at the public university’s feeding troughs, who said that the sky would fall if we didn’t bail out the megabanks, AIG, and Detroit. The same lies, the same “sky is falling” arguments, and it’s a hundred and forty years later. The same liers; the same gullible public quickly gulled, like the flocks at the seashore, with a few crumbs of bread that will be piled on the backs of the unborn. Socialists don’t give a damn about the unborn slaves that will have to slog for years to pay off the debt that they are building up right now so that those corporations they say are too big to fail can continue to give their enormous bonuses. They are the sadistic torturers of the unborn.

But the new items on the menu should not blind one to the solid, staple fare that Mises has in the pantry of its archives. There, for example, is Rothbard’s “For a New Liberty”, perhaps the first book any would-be neophyte Libertarian should read, perused aloud in excellent rendition by Jeff Riggenbach. No need to strain the eyes now, you can listen to it while taking the (subsidized) public transport, or while waiting to have your genitalia examined by a lusty Brunehilde at the airport. Thank goodness we Americans still have a “Right to Privacy”, eh what?

Anyway, there is plenty of “free lunch” for us Capitalists to stuff our brains with until bursting at the Mises Diner. Fortunately, unlike the fare at many other Brain Diners, there are no brain-clogging cholesterols of lies, no mind-hardening triglycerides of Leftist propaganda, no simplistic schemes like the money crank’s idea of printing up money and handing it out as a solution to shortages, or the Georgeist’s taxing land only. There is only economic truth, amazing in its simplicity after baffling economist theoreticians for over 2000 years, explained in the Woody Allenesque, quickfire, pace of Professor Rothbard, and always sprinkled with lots of humourous quips which usually are pretty good.

So don’t let the cynics give you any of their guff. At the Mises Diner, there is such a thing as a free lunch.

Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf Officially Declares the ‘Eldritch Project’ “A Failure”

January 21, 2010

Silverwolf’s muzzle is truly drenched today as he comes to the sad and long-procrastinated realization that his famous “Eldritch Project”, which he initiated two and a half years ago with such gusto, has come to a crashing halt. It is, Silverwolf must admit, a failure.

We all know with what high hopes Silverwolf attempted to modify the English language, while at the same time seeing if the power of the internet was so great that it could alter the common use of English heard around the world. This was the aim of the Eldritch Project, an attempt to introduce the rather obscure word “eldritch”, meaning “weird”, as a frequently used term in both worldwide spoken English, and international internet usage. This jolly old adjective, probably of Scottish origination, was employed by Robert Louis Stevenson, amongst others, in his “Master of Ballantrae”, and Silverwolf, for some unknown and still unexplained reason,  was seized with a frenzy of fervour to bring this word to the attention of the world internet consistory.

But today, Silverwolf must admit that the project is a dismal failure, an utter repudiation of his vainglorious and rather pompous dreams of affecting worldwide English by effecting a change in parlance. But no go. Not even a “close but no cigar”.

Therefore, Silverwolf, with dewdrops streaming from the lachrymal glands, sadly closes the books on the “Eldritch Project”. Our thanks to all the half-dozens that participated. At least we tried to graft some life onto the moribund  world literary grapevine.

Well, there’s always “slubber”.

Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf’s Unorthodox View on Copyright

December 24, 2008

Silverwolf believes that, when it comes to artistic creations such as writings, conventional music, photography and film, and virtually any other medium, there should be no such thing as intellectual copyright.

First, let’s examine the worst reason for this view: the often bandied about Leftist “solidarity” of so many artists with “The People”. Anyone who adopts a Communistic attitude towards material goods should surely support such a Communistic view towards copyright. So, Silverwolf must wonder why, after so many decades, he still sees those little circled “c”s on so many artistic products emanating from Stage Left. Surely, such individuals should believe that they owe their all to the proletariat, and certainly forcing the prolls to have to purchase artistic creations is one of the most hypocritical activities a Leftist could undertake, in Silverwolf’s view.

But now let’s examine the actual reasons for why virtually all artistic Copyright is a fraud.

Firstly, all the components used in these creations are themselves creations of others, who are not receiving one iota of credit or material compensation for having their creations used currently. Do Shakespeare, or the Hathaway descendants, receive one penny in royalties when someone uses a word first coined by Shakespeare in one of their verbal compositions? Literally, every word we use is the creation of an individual, or a collective society which spread the use of a word (and probably a word created by someone long forgotten). When contemporary writers use these inventions of others, do they ever bother to annotate each word with a reference, or even a word of thanks, to the first person listed as having used it in the Oxford English (Unabridged) Dictionary? Silverwolf has never seen it. Are not these writers committing flagrant theft? Yet, they then have the gall to claim that their arrangement of these creations of others deserves some kind of special treatment, and even belongs to them, and that people should have to pay money for their arrangement of these words, for a very long time indeed.

Music presents a very similar situation. The notes were invented long ago, as were the instruments used to reproduce them. Anyone claiming copyright on music, should actually have to pay copyright to the inventors of notes and silence, and the inventors of musical instruments. Likewise, virtually all musical ideas are based on previous musical ideas, often created by a forgotten musician at a fraternity beerbash, or created hundreds of years back by some drunken Renaissance man. Monteverdi and Frescobaldi are probably at the root of all modern music, but who ever gives them a cheer, or even a word of thanks, at the rock concert? Such ingratitude!

Of course, photography and film also fall into this category. Since all photons are created by Providence, and the photographer or film maker is certainly not creating the light but rather the Process of G-d, it really is a bit much to have people claim that a photograph is “theirs”.  And Cinema presents us with merely a more complex art which is at core made up of the other arts we are discussing: writing, music, the capture of photons. Actors, as Hitchcock realized, are merely cattle, conditioned to deflect the photons in whatever pattern the director chooses to choose (and then claim as his own).

(And here we digress to record an actual conversation that took place, so legend goes, on the old Hollywood trail.

Billy: Mornin, Hitch. Sure is a fine lookin herd of actors we got us here.

Hitch: Yep, they ought to make some fine prime sirloin, once we drive em in to Hollywood.

Billy: Man, they sure are dumb critters, aint they?

Hitch: Yep, jes give em a little of that buttered flattery, and they’s is tame as a caponed rabbit. Then you can move em around, just so, so that the photons hit there faces just right. And voila, you got another hit.

Billy: Whats vowala mean Hitch?

Hitch: I dunno? Say, you and the boys are certainly gettin a reputation out in these parts. They’s startin to call you the Wilder Bunch.

Billy: Hitch, one day the names of Billy and the Wilder Bunch will be known from coast to coast.

Hitch: Well, you jes make sure it’s for the right reasons, or they’ll be no shortages of witnesses for the prosecution.

Billy: You sure got a strange sense of humor, Hitch.

Hitch: Yeh, and you got what they call “Prisoner’s Ears”. Well, Billy, I’d say it’s goin to get dark pretty soon round here.

Billy: You sure know your lighting, Hitch.

Hitch: Yep, I sure do, don’t I. Better get them doggies bedded down for the night, Billy, and pronto.

Billy: Aw, Hitch, you know it dun’t take more than a minute or two to get an actor and them heifers bedded down together.)

 In fact, the Copyright notion is so ridiculous when it comes to film, that filmmakers have often given a sop to their collaborators by endlessly listing their names at the end or the beginnings of “their” films. The Collectivist nature of filmmaking must be overlooked, and the fiction maintained that it is a film by “so and so”. But you’ll notice that the Producer, the fellow who writes the check that sets the whole process in motion, is the one who usually gets the last credit. In his mind “He” is the real maker of the film. Yet, none of these will admit that it is the photons, the ancient words, the long-ago created notes, the previously discovered technical effects, and the hit-and-miss theatricals of quondam films, that brings about the latest “creation”? Kinda like saying the cook made the meal, when it was the farmer who actually grew the food, and the trucker who hauled it to town, and the boxboy who unpacked it onto the shelf, and the gas company that supplied the cooking fuel. Nor do they ever point to the creators and the manufacturers of cameras as the real creators of photography and film. Have you ever seen a film created by “Bolex” with the assistance of a lot of so-and-sos?

Moving on to a completely different class (apparently), we come to that of “inventions”, those devilishly ingenious gizmos that eccentric American grumpy old men have been developing in their “shops” for a good century now. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”, is the ubiquitous response when readers come across these gems in some popular mechanical magazine. Up to that moment, no one had ever thought of that, but when presented to the mind of the non-inventor, the first question is “That’s so obvious, why did that never strike me?”  Well, the obvious and existential answer is that  it never struck you because you were not bright enough to ever have it cross your mind.

The famous “grapefruit squirter shield spoon cum juice wiper” is a prime example. What enterprising mind came up with the idea of a grapefruit spoon with an attached shield to protect the devourer from those nasty spits of acid juice that have wreck so many a suit? It was bad enough to not have thought of such an obvious one. But to not transcend this very obvious improvement with the further refinement of a battery operated shield wiper, so that the devourer could continue to make sure he wasn’t swallowing any seeds, shows the non-inventor the poverty of his imagination.

But in this case, has the inventor really invented something new, or merely taken two old ideas, the windshield, and the windshield wiper, and applied them to the necessity of FED officials who have to attend early morning prayer breakfasts, in which the main prayer is that the world will continue to believe in the US Dollar, before they attend Congressional hearings ,where the entire financial nation will be watching every bead of sweat on their beaded brows?  To have grapefruit juice stains on their FED official ties could seriously undermine the international stability of the Dollar, and therefore there was a huge market for these spoons, at whatever price one could unload them to the FED for, certainly many times their actual value, as is permitted now. When the penny dropped, and it finally dawned on the Democrats that it could also be used to keep egg off their ties, before they questioned the FED officials on television, it’s use spread to the Liberal halls of congress. Some of the Congressional Women even used it to keep egg off their coiffures.

The point being, inventions follow the same pattern as so-called artistic creations. They are constructed from the tiny atoms of truth found by earlier scientists, and then re-arranged into new patterns, but certainly not created from scratch. (The exception being when there is a scientific revolution that completely sweeps away all the former misbeliefs, like the abandonment of the “ether” and “phlogiston” theories. Or the discovery of sub-atomic particles, which look more and more like patterns of energy without substance, save for that energy. And does this prove that Bishop Berkeley’s Subjectivism is perhaps the ultimately true philosophy?)

So lets away with the fraud of Copyright, of invention, of creation! There is only the tired repetition of the artistic maxims,  ad nauseum ad infinitum, over and over, and occasionally a new arrangement which the artistically starved pounce on as “the latest creation”.

G-d created everything long ago. All Copyright is is the malappropriation of G-d’s creations under the guise of the ego.

Silverwolf’s blogs were created a billion years ago. All he is doing is manifesting ancient atoms of axioms. There is no creation involved. Why, Silverwolf’s so-called “creations”  are as determined by the laws of physics, as much as a black hole, or the start of combustion in the old potbellied stove. So if you don’t like them, don’t put the blame on him. It’s not his fault, and he really had nothing to do with it.

Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwww! — Silverwolf