2025/12/03

It Can't Happen Here

"The conspicuous fault of the Jeffersonian Party, like the personal fault of Senator Trowbridge, was that it represented integrity and reason, in a year when the electorate hungered for frisky emotions, for the peppery sensations associated, usually, not with monetary systems and taxation rates but with baptism by immersion in the creek, young love under the elms, straight whisky, angelic orchestras heard soaring down from the full moon, fear of death when an automobile teeters above a canyon, thirst in a desert and quenching it with spring water--all the primitive sensations which they thought they found in the screaming of Buzz Windrip.
 
 
There's a book I've been quote-mining recently, and you can expect me to keep doing so for a while longer. That's not due to its trenchant futurology or its lyrical virtuousity. Not that it's terribly written, but Sinclair Lewis' style is decidedly prosaic and strained a bit too hard to interweave It Can't Happen Here with both the middlebrow diction and jargon of 1935 and real-world references or analogies which have somewhat dropped out of public consciousness in the intervening ninety years and counting. Purely as a dystopian vision, it measures poorly against the field's defining works like 1984, Fahrenheit 451 and Brave New World. It lacks the same grandiose sweep, the same universal insights. But, weirdly, all of the above can also be seen as its strong point.
 
I can't remember how I ran across the book, but its central villain's rise to power has tracked eerrily in every description and plot point that more modern phenomenon of Trumpism, from a lack of even casual acquaintance with the truth to blatantly insane campaign promises to fickle political alliances, to the blatant idiocy deliberately ignored by his supporters, to even the artificial folksiness and crass, casual dudebro mannerisms which should rightly shame any public figure out of the public eye. But don't.
 
Described from the viewpoint of a small-town New England newspaper editor, instead of dropping you in medias res into a dictatorship already established, this alternate America's rapid crash into fascism lays out the venal or delusional psychological tricks by which commoners allow or collude with their own descent into helpless subjects of a despot, during each step of heightening restrictions, privations and terror. As such the story falls into that rarer subgenre of an apocalyptic procedural, outlining day by month the personal impact of social decline, every social nicety you lose, every right you never knew you'd miss, every tiny vanishing luxury, every fresh insult piled upon injury.
 
But others surely have done all that better. The novel's true strength lies in the flip-side to its lacking universality, because it is indeed a vision of how it can happen (and is currently happening) here, in Anytown, U.S.A. Lewis captured facets of small-town yankee psychology which the more ambitious or flamboyant dystopias miss. The distinction is a white-collar vs. blue-collar one drawn elsewhere between, say, the Addams Family with their old-world manners and obscure tastes and The Munsters with their more limited appeal to the "meat&potatoes" 'Murican baseline, but also one of shallower social structures. I've said before that it's damned hard to find the traditional European gemeinschaft represented anywhere in American life, or, as a result, in their artistic output, except in stories about backwater dregs like Winter's Bone. Thus, while for example a previously discussed description of social decline in Il gattopardo might center on customs whose origins lay forgotten in the mists of time, ancestral homesteads, generational debts, restrained manners and privilege and art and millennial institutions like The Church, the cast of It Can't Happen Here inhabit a looser milieu of social clubs and college sports teams and puritanical frigidity.
 
Lewis manages to drive home the point that Americans' more confused loyalties in no way insulate them against a fascist takeover. Sure, the demographic friction might be a few centuries shorter in the making, but "niggers" 'n "kikes" nonetheless made acceptable targets of opportunity for profit-minded yankee rabblerousing. Instead of a few gigantic levers of traditional grievance which a European dictator might pull, a fascist takeover in the States must press a myriad tiny buttons, but these are still open enough for the pressing and less protected by a self-respecting bourgeois intelligentsia available overseas. All it takes is a few slogans, a few marching songs, a bit of folksy babbling about the good old days (whatever those might be) and the ever-useful harnessing of envy against one's neighbours, and up spring the gulags in Vermont as surely as they do in Siberia.
 
In may not be the most artfully penned world classic, but it's one everyone on this side of the pond probably should have read fifteen years ago.

2025/11/29

The Surrender of Social Capital

"a well-run tyranny is almost as scarce as an efficient democracy"
Robert A. Heinlein - Friday 
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"What makes me sick about Hearst and the D.A.R. is that if THEY are against Communism, I have to be for it, and I don't want to be!"
Sinclair Lewis - It Can't Happen Here, 1935
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"The property of [France] is absolutely concentered in a very few hands, having revenues of from half a million of guineas a year downwards. These employ the flower of the country as servants, some of them having as many as 200 domestics, not labouring. They employ also a great number of manufacturers, & tradesmen, & lastly the class of labouring husbandmen. But after all these comes the most numerous of all the classes, that is, the poor who cannot find work. I asked myself what could be the reason that so many should be permitted to beg who are willing to work, in a country where there is a very considerable proportion of uncultivated lands? [...] Another means of silently lessening the inequality of property is to exempt all from taxation below a certain point, & to tax the higher portions of property in geometrical progression as they rise. Whenever there is in any country, uncultivated lands and unemployed poor, it is clear that the laws of property have been so far extended as to violate natural right."
 
Thomas Jefferson - letter to James Madison, 1785
(note he was writing this shortly before Malthus provided the counter-argument to simply letting the rabble stake infinite claims for their infinite progeny) 
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Lookin' to get my culture on (as one does) I tried watching Das Lehrerzimmer, which turned out to be one of those movies every professional critic feels obligated to praise because if it's 'tackling issues' in a rudderless and stilted manner, it must somehow contain deep truths. While I'd normally welcome more criticism of modern interpersonal bureaucracy, that won't be found in a work which can itself manage no more than a tepid "careful now" as it merely confirms the existence of topics. Worse though, in order to advance such a plot without anyone playing the villain, all characters are forced to instead play the fool, making deliberately moronic choices at every step which fit neither into a realistic portrayal nor into the more consciously exaggerated old absurdist theater mold. It's hard to empathize, much less sympathize, with a bunch of clowns derping around worse than even your stupidest coworkers while the visuals and audio push you to feel invested and even anxious about their plight. I don't. I feel firing-squady about their plight.
 
One could, however, credit the flick with at least one brilliant impression on later reflection: that through that entire hour and a half of discriminatory implications and polite hand-wringing, nobody in the zimmer actually gets lehrered a single damn thing. Whatever's happening in that school, it ain't math, science and reading comprehension. And, as anyone who's met a GenZer can attest, that's all too realistic a depiction of past decades' cultural downshift.
 
On a completely unrelated topic, Bill Maher continued his descent from "tell it like it is" comedian to political mouthpiece recently with a New Rule attacking New York's newly elected mayor Zohran Mamdani and the rest of America's few Democratic Socialist politicians. Now, granted, the U.S. only acquired a semi-official socialist movement in the past ~15yrs and much of what you hear from them resembles less a valid political platform than the same idiotic virtue signaling and moral purity tests which have already sapped the (supposed) left wing's credibility. It is also true that Mamdani will either prove a Trumpish charlatan with no intention of fulfilling his ludicrous campaign promises or an imbecile whose effort will crash and burn spectacularly in a year or two, as the changes he's promised cannot be effected at a metropolitan level, either because New York is too big or too small. Taxing companies and parasitic billionaires might work for a large, powerful country leaving them less room to run with the loot, but not when they can simply move their office half a mile outside city limits. Rent control requires a shitload of ancillary subsidies and regulation to ensure apartments are actually livable. As for fully free public transit? I don't know what the hell that is, because we didn't even have it under a literal communist regime! It works well for small towns with light and predictable demand, but for a metropolitan clusterfuck? For just one problem, how many extra cops do you plan to pay to kick all the hobos out of their now free dormitory cars?
 
But none of that explains why Maher felt a need to lie in conflating socialism with totalitarian communism (especially as he himself spent decades' worth of shows outlining the differences for idiots) and pull an argumentum ad North Koream, except to virtue signal as anti-socialist to all the redneck imbeciles still obsessing over the Red Scare.
 
Funny thing: when phrase searching that Jefferson quote above, for the second hit down I got "was Jefferson a socialist?" which, given he was writing three or four generations before it even became an issue, I'm gonna call a bullshit question. How about: he was smart enough to note the absurdity of infinite wealth accumulation and the needless cruelty of enforced poverty and six and a half years later the French Revolution more than proved his point. But the only question relevant to the average moron is that of tribal affiliation: was Jefferson an "us" or a "them" either a dirty godless commie or a filthy decadent capitalist pig and should we mindlessly attack or mindlessly defend him while never bothering to understand what he said?
 
It's easy to forget that communism did originally address quite real imbalances of power like the 19th-century robber barons, sadistic fucks like the Carnegies that kept their workers under a slaver regime and could order a bought-and-paid-for private or state military to violently crush any dissent. So what will you do to prevent sadistic fucks like Bezos and Musk from starving the population to death on a whim? And what name will you append to such worker/consumer protection and individual rights measures other than socialism? Because there is none more fitting.
 
Now, of course once socialist protection measures advanced to communist state ownership - of everything - those states themselves even more thoroughly crushed the populace, because ANY human element, once allowed to reign unchallenged, will be a tsar, will be a khan, will be a Nero and Caligula and Torquemada, will gleefully bathe in the blood of innocents, will rehash every flavor of sadistic oppression soon leading to collapse. When it comes to the real-world game of civilization, if anyone wins, everyone loses.
 
But then we may simply be under an illusion that these sociopolitical transitions ever represented a discursive trade-off between publicly accessible ideologies, and that brings us back to schooling. The past couple centuries' industrialization created a demand for skilled labor and middle-class invention which forced rich investors to tolerate the lower classes' education in the interest of... interest. But they've always strained to restrict education solely to the skills needed to operate their machinery and the information age makes tighter control possible again, promises unlimited surveillance and forced consumer spending. The rise of copy-pasting artificial "intelligence" offers the rich an alternative. No longer must an educated middle class be tolerated to lead, entertain and indoctrinate so long as such functions can be automated by 1984's "versificator" and no longer need competent scientists be recruited if massive processors promise to brute-force technological solutions.
 
Thus public education must die a living death, so that the world can once again return to the perennial ape-friendly pattern of masters and slaves, and nothing in between. Kill phonics, kill multiplication tables, kill universities most of all, devote more hours to football, inculcate identity politics instead of reasoned social awareness, argue about capitalism vs. socialism while the rich get richer off corporate socialism, pick an ideology to make yourself feel big by participation and champion it to take over all of society. Crush any who would oppose your shibboleth. Much as in The Teacher's Lounge, this idiotic plot would never hold together if all the actors weren't bending over backwards to lobotomize themselves toward their primordial utility:
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"The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the proles from bondage. Before the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneously, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them, spreading false rumours and marking down and eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not desirable that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations. And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific grievances. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them very little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were allowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and animals are free.'"
 
George Orwell - 1984

2025/11/26

AoW4 Factions, 2

AoW4 has managed the odd feat, unequaled since City of Heroes, of inspiring me to not just write up a character bio but constantly create new factions and give them all more or less whimsical flavor text. So here they are, one by one:
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After my elves I wanted something nasty and aggressive, but the material affinity actually made them more akin to slow-advancing zerglings, especially as they need to surround targets to overwhelm them. Very little recovery potential if the front line falls apart. Human overpopulation's creepy enough in its subjects' disposability, but how callous would a true r-strategist industrial society turn out?

2025/11/24

Bloodlines 2.02 - Fuckin' Nuclear

This century gleams.
Above each doorway, beneath humblest eaves, upon a myriad stalks like sunflowers returning their gift, a brash future glares its challenge against the inheritors of darkness. The sparest tenement boasts electric candle-flare enough to shame the gaudiest palace feast in centuries past, each street aglow to the horizon with an ocean's conflagration of spermaceti. The City of Light dims in remembrance. Above, the Milky Way washes out to a milky pudeur at such garish displays, the stars I called my faithful guides across lifetimes of wandering blinking out in annoyance, mocked by fools lighting their own way to dusty death. This Promethean gift the kine take as their due, with such galling aristocratic detachment: 
Oh, little matchstick girl, will you sell me a whiff of phosphor? Your city of pitch footing and coal gas galloping chokes my senses, your gleaming metal facades scorch alive old fears of the witch-hunter's heated brand. And there, secreted in your coat, buzzing and chiming for your limited attention: what cacodaemon thought to wed a pocket Victrola to an ever-flowing gossip rag?
 
Had I foreseen this incandescent, screeching madhouse, I should have hunted down those fools Marconi and Tesla in their cribs and by hallowed leechcraft eased the world of this plague of buzzing fireflies, this insult to the mute eternal night beyond. 
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Feeling Bloodlines 2's tedium set in more firmly with every simpleminded fetch quest and slapfight against identical mooks, I'll set aside my many other complaints to ask: will any detail of my character or the setting ever prove relevant? Why force a premade player character on me if you're not going to give him any personality?
 
The culture shock of a creature four centuries old and a century absent is elided in a single paragraph of dismissive exposition, then ignored, begging the question of why an "elder" vampire was warranted in the first place. At every step, TCR's gaggle of sorry excuses for writers pass up chance after chance at colorful dialogues which would've taken no more development effort than voiceovers triggered by environment. The Christmas tree you see as you walk out your door the first time could've been a commentary on shifts in religiousity, a visit to Fletcher's bar with its speakeasy history could be punctuated with: 
"Ah, but those were gayer days."
"Oh. About that word..."
 
Could The Nomad comment that The Great War was good eatin' and such fruitful catastrophe could never be duplicated? Maybe give us an aside about women's suffrage or flapper fashions vs. modern ones? Something about the damn dirty commies? It's bad enough our protagonist has zero opinion on new technologies, but could he not show some passing interest in the improvement of those he would have encountered in more primitive forms, like the velocipede or motor carriage? Sure, piling on too many such asides could sound goofy if they're not properly spaced out and interspersed with more serious, plot-relevant content.... but come on... nothing?!
 
Even when their own script sets up an obvious opportunity, they fail to follow up on it logically, like the fact a vamp sleeping since 1920 should react with confusion at Benny's "nuclear" comment. Maybe you could insert short information age training dialogues at the start of each night in your haven. Or imply the PC speed-read a few books like Armand in Interview. Or hell, yes, try to imagine how modern light pollution would look to someone who went nappy-naps back when street lamps still ran on oil. Take advantage, in some way, any way, of the backstory you so thoughtlessly spat out. Have a reaction, an opinion, of some kind, beyond "give me quest!" It's not as though game design is lacking in examples to follow. Your ghost buddy is even a direct counterpart to Joey Mallone from Blackwell, where he played so much more fruitfully off the heroine. Or hear how much mileage Gabriel Knight got out of its protagonist and narrator snarking at the much sparser pixelated scenery back then.
 
Bloodlines 2 is an astoundingly lazy product in many ways, but this becomes especially obvious in facets of development where even a minimal effort and interest would have easily borne proportionately far greater fruit.

2025/11/22

The Engines of God

"Grabbed a book and read the cover
It honestly was beautifully done
Like trying to hide the daylight from the sun
"
 
Modest Mouse - Fire It Up
 
 
Having spent much of my fiction reading the past decade on Wells, Heinlein and other duddies of venerable fuddiness, I've been meaning to catch up on more recent (relatively speaking) science fiction. Thus, based on the authors' recommendation below some page or another of A Miracle of Science I picked up Jack McDevitt's The Engines of God, the 1994 opener to what is apparently a rather lengthy series starring the same protagonist. That fixation dampens my further interest, but the first installment was palatable enough.
 
Aside from the necessary phlebotinum of a warp drive, the story sticks to fairly hard science basis. Heroic archaeologists are struggling to discover why a now-extinct alien culture got knocked back to the stone age before a bunch of rich fucks pave over the planet to breed more mindless wage slaves. Also, why would aliens visit our solar system without stopping by to say hello? And most importantly, what species in its right mind would plan construction projects on a boring geometric grid?
 
The core puzzle concerning various alien civilizations works out quite well in fact, slyly teased and corroborated just gradually enough to let the reader keep guessing, and delivers a memorable finale. Problems arise mostly with the stuff in between. It may seem a bit harsh to dredge up Ambrose Bierce's old witticism that such-and-such novel's covers are too far apart, but here we pretty clearly have a shorter novella interspersed with two or three short stories to pad it out to 400 pages to fit the mass market publishing paradigm.
 
As a flaw common to SF writers, characters take awkwardly long to differentiate, and some have little personality beyond filling a set piece like romance subplot or tragic death or disposable redshirt, which gimmicks as we all know all fiction must include on pain of conciseness. A Miracle of Science would actually serve as good counterpoint in looping its apparent digressions back into the main plot, which The Engines of God repeatedly fails to do with its designated comic relief and heroic stand and so forth. To fill the supposedly critical human interest components, an unnecessary proliferation of characters are given an unnecessary quantity of page space, which they by necessity spend engaging in various hijinks in parallel to the main attraction as a way of - supposedly - maintaining readers' interest.
 
But it's those humanizing elements which in fact feel more artificial, included to satisfy a lowest common denominator of social acceptability. The story needed a more tangible, physical conflict for its climax, plus an injection of tragic sacrifice, and it needed exactly 1.35 units of empowered modern heroine who must be supplied with a love interest as per subsection A, paragraph three of the storyteller's chewed cud of conduct, and we simply must have <A WHIMSY> by which to showcase her free spirit.
 
Too bad all that monkey-friendly storytelling is tainted by a legitimately interesting cosmic phenomenon and a well-paced intellectual, exploratory effort to unravel it, or it might have qualified as "literature" instead of lowly genre fiction.

2025/11/20

Z-ray vision

I stared at this light pole for a good half-minute one winter -
- before realizing I must be seeing the precise route of the electrical cable inside, which gave off exactly enough heat to allow windblown snow to stick without melting it.