Rabble With A Cause

Cena de antiguas compañeras de clase. 35 años. Currículums brillantes, buenos sueldos, Instagram lleno de “mujeres empoderadas”. Entre risas, Elena deja la copa, se toca la barriga y dice: —He decidido dejar mi trabajo unos años para criar al bebé. Juan y yo lo hemos decidido así. Un segundo de silencio. Sonrisas tensas. Hasta que habla Clara. Bio morada, hilos sobre patriarcado, postureo 24/7. Deja la copa de golpe: —Es un error gravísimo, Elena. Renuncias a tu independencia para ser la chacha de tu marido. Es un retroceso. La mesa se congela. Elena se encoge. Mira al mantel. Se le cae la sonrisa. Ahí entro yo: —Pensaba que el feminismo iba de que las mujeres pudieran elegir su vida, no de que todas hicieran la misma. Clara gira la cabeza, molesta: —Esa es una falsa libertad. Estás perpetuando roles de género. Ya sin sonreír: —No, Clara. Lo que perpetúas es tu ego. No quieres mujeres libres, quieres discípulas. Si una amiga no encaja en tu guion, la tratas de ignorante y la humillas delante de todas. Se pone tensa: —Estás alienada. No entiendes nada de estructuras de poder. Traducción: “No repetís mi eslogan, así que estáis equivocadas”. El resto de la cena, Clara la pasa deslizando el dedo por el móvil, tecleando con rabia. Seguro que redactando un hilo sobre “lo duro que es ser feminista rodeada de mujeres machistas”. Al salir, Elena me agarra del brazo. Ojos brillantes, voz bajita: —Gracias por defenderme. Pensé que estaba loca por querer criar a mi hijo. No está loca. Está rodeada de un activismo que ama más el relato que a las personas. Reflexión: Hay un feminismo que presume de “liberar a la mujer”… siempre que elija carrera, éxito y oficina. Si elige maternidad, hogar o cuidado, de repente es sumisa, retrógrada o “lavada de cerebro”. La libertad no es aplaudir solo a la CEO. Es no tratar de traidora a la que decide criar a sus hijos. Cuando tu “feminismo” te hace atacar justo a las mujeres que dices defender, ya no es un movimiento de liberación. Es otra religión más, con dogmas nuevos y la misma intolerancia de siempre.

If we have to pay property taxes on our land and vehicles (in some states) even after paying the loans off, then why not mandate property tax on everything else you own? Clothes. Cookware. Your bed sheets. Seems to me that many alleged “conservatives” are siding with the left and are defending the indefensible. There should only be a sales tax at the time of purchase federally and at each state level. If sales taxes and tariffs cannot generate enough revenue to fund federal and state government services, then they are spending too much money, are too bloated, and need to be downsized with a metaphorical axe. It’s as simple as that.

The current anti-Israel and even anti-Jewish sentiment online is a social contagion, no different than transgenderism or autism before it. Of course, there is actually a condition known as gender dysphoria. But every family in Hollywood didn't suddenly and coincidentally have at least one child with gender dysphoria at the exact same time by natural processes. And of course there is actually a condition known as autism. But every family in Manhattan didn't suddenly and coincidentally have at least one child with autism at the exact same time by natural processes. You aren't an Israel skeptic, and you didn't start "noticing." You were told, and shown by interested parties, and you were rewarded with attention and dopamine by the tellers and showers. And as with every social contagion, what you have been told and shown is an overwhelming quantity of selectively chosen half-truths -- or full-truths with half-context. You believe you are a free thinker, but when every "free thinker" arrives at the same conclusion at the exact same time... well, the thinking isn't as free as you believe it is.

I think we can agree the issue is internationalist leftism. Reactionary right-wing stuff can be an issue too, but they're exactly that. Can we make a pact to destroy the Communists and their ilk, together?

Have you ever watched a horror movie with vampires? Not sexy vampires for middle aged dumpy wine aunts to masturbate to, but actual lore accurate vampires? The kind of movie where your grandfather is scratching at the window asking why you won't let him in, but there's something wrong with his eyes and the tone of his voice, and either that's not him, or worse yet, maybe it is him, but with everything that made him love you stripped away and replaced by insatiable hunger? The main character is never stupid enough to let him in, is he? It's always grandma. About halfway through the movie. And she's always the first to die, slaughtered the moment she opens that window, but almost everyone else sheltering in the house quickly, follows, leaving the protagonist and his scantily-dressed girlfriend to flee across the moors at night, pursued by the blood-hungry corpses of everyone else they ever loved. You've seen that movie, right? Well, I feel like I'm in that movie. It's not that I hate grandma. She's nice. Loves people. Bakes cookies. But she keeps trying to open the goddamned window. Every time I point out that some institution of our former society is being worn as a skinsuit by corrupt self-interest masquerading as socialism masquerading as compassion, there's always those guys who are shocked and betrayed that I attacked their beloved thing. No. Your beloved thing is gone. It doesn't matter what it did for you 30 years ago. It's not 30 years ago now. The soul of your beloved thing was eaten by a monster, and now it has become a monster itself. It doesn't matter whether I'm talking about the Catholic church, Christianity in general, the Republican party, the American Medical Association, the NRA, Disney, whatever. It's always the same. There's always the guy who is shocked, angry, and betrayed, because we're both supposed to be "right-wing", and here I am, attacking his beloved grandpa. I must be an evil nihilist straight from the bowels of reddit. But I am not trying to rob you. I am trying to help you. That is not your grandpa. That is a vampire. What's almost worse is that there are some guys who do, eventually, understand. After they yell at me a bit and call me a grandpa-hater or something. But the first thing they say, when they figure it out is... "Can't we save the skinsuit?" They're still hoping, on some level, that grandpa is still there. That there's a cure. That they can have their beloved institutions and traditions back. Well, I'm not hopeful. I mean, I can't say for sure whether they can or can't, but that's not important. That's the wrong question. We can't worry about saving Grandpa right now, because we have to save ourselves first. We have to survive the night. And if you're not willing to stake Grandpa through the heart for that, or, worse yet, if you try to stop the rest of us, yelling "Grandpa! Noooooooo!", grabbing at someone's wrist as he's trying to raise the big wooden mallet, then... Well, then you're not an enemy, but you are a liability. And so we have to put you in the back seat. We can't stop attacking Vampire Grandpa to spare your feelings. The hour is too late for us to listen to friends who can't tell the difference between us and the enemy.

Just a friendly reminder.... no one comes back from a near death experience and says they saw Mohammad. It's always Jesus Christ.

The symmetry of this turn in the air.

Every bird screaming outside at 4 AM is doing it on an empty stomach, after a freezing night, while burning 2.5 times more energy than sleeping. And they've been holding it in for hours. Scientists call it the "dawn chorus." It kicks in 30 to 60 minutes before sunrise, and every species joins at its own exact moment. Robins and thrushes go first. Wrens and warblers come in a few minutes later. Sparrows hold off until there's enough light to actually see. Bird researchers at Cornell say the entrance timing is precise down to the minute. In 2025, a lab working with zebra finches cracked it. In complete darkness, hours before dawn, a bird's body starts flooding with hormones that build the drive to sing. But it's too dark to make a sound, so the pressure keeps rising. The second that first sliver of light appears, it all fires at once. Researchers called it "rebound singing," the bird version of finally getting to talk after being stuck on mute all night. Dawn air is cool and still. Wind dies down and background noise practically disappears. Birdsong carries up to 20 times further in those conditions than it does at noon. For a male bird announcing "I survived the night and this is still my spot," dawn is the best time to be heard. I love this part: it doubles as a morning workout. Some sparrows start singing at lower speed and narrower pitch, then gradually sharpen up over an hour or two of practice. One species, the Red-eyed Vireo, was recorded singing 22,000 times in 10 hours. Just constant repetition until the voice is dialed in. Only the strongest, best-fed males can keep this up. Females are paying attention. A loud dawn concert is a live audition, the bird proving it has enough energy to spend on music instead of just staying alive. City lights have thrown the whole thing off. When researchers tracked over 60 million bird calls across 583 species, they found artificial light adds 50 minutes to a bird's singing day. The birds start 20 minutes earlier and keep going 30 minutes past when they'd normally stop. American robins in heavily lit areas sometimes begin two full hours before sunrise. Some European robins have given up on mornings entirely and just sing at night to avoid competing with traffic. Those birds at 4 AM are staking out territory, auditioning for a mate, warming up their voice, and proving they made it through the night. All before breakfast.