Books for Everyone!

April Fool’s Day 2022

Typos & de Tocqueville

Today I entered into my Brave browser:


I laughed. The typographical error, or typo, reminded me of the time when I speed-tapped Zippo’s (instead of Zappo’s) into the blank computer line-space that is supposed to bring you wondrous results that match whatever is in your mind to find . . .

Well, there’s the rub.

Or the typo.

I’ve stopped shopping at Zappo’s, but that e-tailer had a good run where my gambling needs were concerned.

The other night, I watched a hilarious Murder, She Wrote, Season 7, Episode 2: Deadly Misunderstanding. The accused murderer is a cub reporter for the new owner of the newsprint rag in Cabot Cove. That sleepy seaside village is the murder and, it seems, adultery capital of America.

In the end, the lovestruck swain is cleared of all charges, except that of falling for a ditzy dame whom Jessica Fletcher has hired to type her manuscript. A fall from a bicycle has rendered Jessica without the use of her wrist, or some other vital bone for manual dexterity on her ancient typewriter. The power of the press gets revealed for all of its toxic hypocrisy — and this show aired in 1990!

The accused amour is lectured by the Pulitzer-prize winning editor NOT to bury the most crucial fact in Paragraph 5 of the story: it gets put in the lead paragraph, first-thing!

Yup, Master Jeff, he of the googly eyes for his fellow creative writing student, the love-starved and endlessly-sighing, married woman named Melissa — Jeffy Boy was decades ahead of his time. Online News buries that verifiable truth in Paragraph 50, if indeed there is any truth, or a hint of it!

The Who-What-Where-When-How are typically entirely left out of the Snews Story. (The blatant disregard for bothering to Find Out Why is a major reason why I left a journalism career early in my adult life.)

Re-ordering the brass-tacks priorities of print-journalism started ominously during the early years of cable-news, but, presently, the only priority is Get That Click. The entire story-structure has been reversed; it’s completely upside-down. A person under the age of 30 might not recognize the inverted misinformation pyramid that is the structure of a Fake-News-Article.

Ergo, the Freudian slip of typing fingers often gives me the truer sense of what I am searching, or of what is not there to begin with. (Ending a sentence with a preposition consists of clumsy grammar, but my objective here is a conversational tone.) It can be extremely frustrating for anyone to attempt to find online the physical products that were once electronically hawked a decade ago, and that dearth of goods is the result of more than the Bare-Shelves-Bimbo of our current crisis.

The Web Browser and the Search Engine are the culprits here; and they must be compatibly mated, as in looking for freedom of speech and liberty-land commodities in all the right places.  The Duck and the Brave lion might not sound like sympathetic soul-mates, but they’re more simpatico with emancipation of those electrons than are the hoary hucksters who grew filthy rich through their online-snoop racket.

The inanely, and insanely, rapidly growing industry to protect your online privacy — through an app, no less — assures me that the free market is still alive, though perhaps not completely healthy or recovered from the money-orgy of creepy oligarchs selling your data through telling you, “You’re in a safe place here.  You’re liked.”  Double-click.

During the early 2000s, and right up until 2016, online searches for merchandise were quick and almost efficient, albeit highly skewed by a grotesquely biased search engine. After November 2016, I kept my vow to find a vastly different vehicle to drive my web-searches. I switched from the ghastly algorithm g-monster to The Duck. And if the Duck shows itself to be a sneak-thief, a liar, and a manipulator, much like more former boyfriends than I care to count in my memory, then the Duck is off. I’ll wring his neck without regret.

The major problem for me during those fifteen years of trying to adeptly procure many items was the appallingly slow rate at which brick-and-mortar businesses were switching their inventories and sales-pitches to a digital marketplace.

Talk about Neanderthal!

The Chi-Comm virus-crisis then effectively finished off most of those laggard, clueless to the consumer, urban-centric companies and corporations. A new Boilerplate Excuse Form was born, but, basically, the Corporation is always wrong.

The first two decades of online transactions (for legal enterprises) brought to the customer the uplifting experience of covertly captcha’d data. There were entire dossiers amassed for some individuals, perpetrated secretly, in the most oily, diesel-oily, of ways by the geeks, freaks, and creeps behind the screen. I’ve long been well aware of the weirdo peeping-Priuses behind the gathering of “analytics” for sale to Macedonian data farms. (See Flag Day 2013)

Evidently, not enough Americans were aware, or, if they suspected the heist of their private parts, they didn’t care. Sometimes, victims are willing accomplices in their own crimes against themselves. Online bullying is one thing; lining up to be cyber-assaulted for a subsequent revenge-lawsuit-windfall is quite another. I’m sure the U.S. Injustice Department will sort out that intent to harm in a mere matter of three or four or five decades.

Yes, when Dick the Butcher, in the Shakespearean play, Henry VI, suggests: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” the vision of a leviathan army of tax-sucking shysters was not on the horizon. Or maybe it was. That presumably venerable profession of law was, during the Elizabethan era (the 16th century), a necessary evil for the defense of the realm, though not of democracy, or of citizens since that form of egalitarian government had yet to be envisioned, much less tried.

By 1840, the American experiment in republican democracy had begun, in earnest, with the ribald, raucous, and resolute energy that marks the American people. The commoners of the States were warned, in writing, by the prescient Alexis de Tocqueville to beware of the lawyer class, or the growth of the lawyer class. (Currently, that growth is a malignant tumor on the body politic.)

I’ve read, from cover-to-cover, both volumes of the English translation of the French book, Democracy in America, by Monsieur de Tocqueville. During his expedition through this New World, this French aristocrat was thirty-five years old, capturing many captivating sights. He’d fled an unstable post-Revolutionary France to critique this new nation, perhaps in the hope of finding more wrong with American society than with the society of his own.

There were, indeed, many faults and glaring inconsistencies in the government and governance of this fledgling nation, but de Tocqueville became supremely fascinated by the peoples of this Western land. He’d been commissioned by the French government to study the prison system in 19th-century America. He and his colleague (a Frenchman by the name of Gustave Beaumont) used this pretext of official business to unofficially conduct their business of studying this unique country and its bizarre inhabitants.

The two Frenchmen journeyed from town to town to town, starting in New York City, and extending through the wide-open regions of the very young United States. The Valley of the Mississippi, the Forests of North America, the Prairies, with its wandering tribes of natives, and the traces of an unknown people are meticulously described. The opinions of de Tocqueville formed a literary reconnaissance of an America in its infancy, with a society that was unlike any he’d seen or about which he’d read.

American society of the 1830s, with its abhorrently unjust system of slavery, was of immense interest to this philosophic historian. Many of his observations are timeless; just as many were born of their time, and, therefore, provide more a snapshot of that era than an imprint for posterity. Those two volumes of text were accurately annotated for those moments, but they also sagely contemplate the future, and remain inescapably honest.

Thus was born a classic piece of literature. (I found the writing style and content of de Tocqueville, even in the translated English, to be reminiscent of Blaise Pascal, which is to say, classically French: direct, logical, unapologetic, striving for clarity and accuracy, and avoiding equivocation, which comprises the bane of good writing.)

In Democracy in America, de Tocqueville richly, boldly, and precisely analyzes the democratic revolution, a process that the author posits had been underway for a few hundred years prior to the American War of Independence. This aristocrat believed that the French Revolution ultimately failed because of the lack of experience and foresight of those furious agents of too-rapid change. Those viciously political partisans were so in love with the ideals of the Age of Reason (the Enlightenment of the 17th and 18th centuries) that they lost all sense of reason in carrying out their bloody purges. (I think their lust for power overpowered any love those murderous neurotics might have held for a noble idea or ideal.)

The modern-day corporately-paid propagandists would deem those morally-imperative crimes of the French Revolutionists to be Regime Change and Governmental Reform:

The coup was justifiably performed under the aegis of Whatever It Takes to Get Rid of A Legitimate Sovereign, and Get Our People In There and In-Charge.

Oui, a coup d’état is not what it used to be.

The French state, l’État, under King Louis XIV, had been attempting modernization, of a sort. France has rarely, if ever, gone willingly forward, into the future. Centralization of power is beloved by the French bureaucrats to the point where the nucleus of command must perforce implode because of its acquisitive acquisition of too much power. And then heads roll.

Monsieur de Tocqueville thereby recognized the true revolutionary nature of that amalgamated mongrel race of peoples called American. He likely looked for, but could not find, the acquiescence of Americans to a sovereign, to a King. How could he have, given the fact that the brave, boisterous and proudly uneducated masses of an incipient America had fought a long bloody war to wrench those 13 colonies free from the suffocating grasp of an English king over them?

With astonishing insight, foresight, and just plain sight, this French aristocrat wrote:

“The happy and powerful do not go into exile, and there are no surer guarantees of equality among men than poverty and misfortune.”

That poverty and misfortune in the States are presently set to reach historic heights, or depths, depending upon one’s viewpoint, pocketbook, and degree of foresight into the most recent political plunder of the rights of We the People. I nonetheless believe that the brave individuals of my homeland are reaching toward liberty and justice, and truth, in the quintessentially American way: they’re working their tails off to attain it. I humbly count myself among those heroic volunteers to the cause of the Republic.

I heard the other day a podcast pronouncement that the American Moment is over. It’s done, kaput, finished, doomed, and hurriedly consigned to the bargain-bin, or the trash-bin, or the looney-bin.

The rebel American in me revolts exceedingly against such an opinion. The Scots-Irish in me starts looking for her broadsword, to sharpen it more finely. The Dutch in me cautions my temper to consider the pitiful state of the source of the statement. I must allow for the projected enmity of a person whose own beloved Old Country is about to hit rock bottom, although that bottom is usually proven a false one.

A deadly hatred has destroyed the political class in America. From the ruins of their evil purposes shall arise American Moments of even grander greatness, of the magnificence that has been thwarted and denied my land of liberty for many decades.

Dante Alighieri informed all who were willing to listen to him: the devil laughs at the sight of the torture of the damned. I wonder if those homegrown traitors and wicked tools of the enemies of America will laugh at themselves. We, the Patriots, are not damned, nor are we doomed.

The time has come when making money online is less a matter of the oppressive multi-national presence, and more a matter of small businesses, conquering that mercantile Mount Everest — of marketing beyond the digital selling platforms which behave as if they own these United States.

These States cannot be bought, sold, owned, traded away, or bartered — by anyone, save the citizenry. The fat-cat power brokers broke themselves, not this republic, for which I stand, and for which:

“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Advertising — or, more accurately, slickly NOT advertising — to that “one nation, under God, indivisible” is what is doing in the corporate pigs. Those moronic magnates continue to market their wares to slivers of a population in the zip-code country that has, miraculously, united itself, in spite of what the elites and the political swine had in mind for these united states.

A fabricated and manufactured demand for a foreign fabricated and manufactured product, such as a solar panel, that is subsidized by the taxpayer, and provides kickbacks and payola to the politicians, but offers that repugnant tax-credit (see Taxpayer Joe jump) for engaging in the politically-bought and socially-approved behavior: that economic plan is not capitalism. It’s a socialist scheme.

Ever hear of Solyndra?

The American consumers never did line up to buy those execrable electric cars, so the Fed, State, and County fleets got filled up with mandated percentages of those financial lemons. The e-car is not cost-effective and never will be, regardless of how many fibs and myths are wrapped around that ugly dud of an albatross.

The road back to sanity is not paved with electric cars.

Part of that Old Normal involves the quaint notion of truth in advertising. For advertising to be successful, it must be based in truth. Fraud and deceit are not long-term selling strategies. As a marketing tactic, deception is a quick loser. No wonder The Experts get paid so fantabulously to lie to the pollsters and politicos and pols. The ongoing con game: tell them what they want to hear!

The advertising ether-space might very well give way to the by-gone look of the premier magazines of yore — when paid ads ruled the news-page, with the exception of the front page, where a headline was actually attached to, and fit, the body of the story. The day the Front-Page became a location for ad-fodder was the day the News died. And that was well over a decade ago.

The old rules for capitalism still work, despite, or because of, the hellhole that the globalists have made of supply-and-demand, supply chains, and reality-based consumer demands for a product. Once upon a glorious time in America, the world of advertising ruled a profitable, albeit morally-challenged, industry called journalism. The old-school old rules will make a populist return, with a libertarian vengeance.

All that ads that are fit to print onto a profit-spawning page, now called a website, with enough factual info for any fine mind to use:

There’s the formula for a digital revolution.

The sleazy, slutty and nutty public g-men and g-women bedded the equally sleazy, slutty and nutty privacy-freak g-men and g-women. (And I did commit a telling typo of the word, public, leaving out the “l”.) Theirs was an unholy union of crooks, rogues, and racketeers. Surely, the States can do better where commerce and any kind of congress are concerned. I’ve hope that even the U.S. Congress can, one day, pass a bill into law, and read it first!