Jor-el -- Residential Industrialism's Unwelcome Prophet

This, I can't believe. It's too far out there. Not with how good things have been going. It doesn't gibe. Common sense says no. This takes the wind out of me.

Can't anything go right? Where's this guy get off? Did he have to show up? Of all people, now supposedly with a prophetic perspective on things? All doom and gloom, like anyone wants to hear that. I don't want to hear that. All these things, I was thinking.

We were at the school. Some of the neighbor companies rented the gym for a nice ceremony, so they could present me my "Super Brain" plaque and bouquet of roses. What's his face -- Ted Spooner -- was giving a talk and I was looking at my watch, thinking of lost production time. When this guy shows up -- Garrett Al -- and the conclave parts like the Red Sea to let him through.

He was accompanied by some neighbor kids who set off a half dozen firecrackers, and that got our attention; the acoustics in the gym are brutal. I looked down from the stage and saw what looked like a prophetic figure in a robe, like a Halloween costume but way too real. He had the robe (check), the beard (check), right down to the bony pointing finger, meaning there was something unworldly about him. The others didn't know him, but even in the mysterious garb, I still recognized my old nemesis, Garrett Al (also known as Geritol.) (Most of you will remember him as the guy who showed up and allegedly tried to force himself on me for sexual favors during my long hiatus. When we were friends, I gave him the nickname Geritol as a play on his actual name.)

"I am Jor-el," he announced loudly, his bony, quivering finger still pointing at me. I immediately thought of the name, Superman's dad on Krypton, and not a half bad progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el!

"Speak your piece, Garrett!" I commanded, "Then get out!" At that point, I still had three tires back home I wanted to finish before watching "Baggage" and going to bed.

Garrett, or Jor-el, to be respectful, told the assembled group, local representatives of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), of fearful things, including the massing of armies and authorities against us, and the coming swift and final victory of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). As he spoke, somehow there was a sign obvious to everyone -- possibly left over from the firecrackers -- the smell of sulfur, that gave Jor-el's words credence.

His words -- delivered with a lot of tremelo in his voice and a stare, almost like you'd see in a blind guy -- cut us to the quick. He claimed to foresee foundations falling, death and despair, children orphaned, fires raging, and a modest increase in prices for consumer goods. It was strictly "Four Horsemen" stuff, presented with a lot of gusto. Garrett's a natural orator, speaking without notes the entire time.

Maybe you can tell, I was wavering between belief and disbelief. His whole style was one that demanded belief, yet, remember, I'm Super Brain -- if any of this was true, wouldn't I know it? Who, after all, is Garrett Al? He lives out near the scrap metal mountains on the north side of town. Where he would spend his day ... seeing the sun constantly reflected ... off pieces of metal haphazardly arranged ... hmm, possibly an actual way to stimulate a mystical experience ... and tap into omniscience ...

I wanted to disbelieve, and still I'm not sure. I remember Garrett Al as that pervert in my yard, and the police hauling his sorry butt away. I wanted to ridicule him so badly. I wanted to tear him down, then bring the ceremony back to its senses. What about his name? The syllables are nuts. Gar-ret-Al, like Uni, Roy, and Al. You've got AL, OL, and EL, almost like AL-CO-HOL -- is he drunk? But, d--- it to h---! There is indeed a strange, cryptic progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el, the very guy who prophetically warned Krypton of impending doom. And haven't I always reviled the elders of Krypton for failing to see the mountains erupting right through the very windows of their council room?!

But what about the others of our RIM assembly? They were trying to shout him down, just like the elders of Krypton, "He's mad! A madman!" Something about it pierced me through. I started to shiver as I saw the others guffawing and backslapping, their big gaping maws replacing normal human mouths, their bad teeth looking like big horse teeth, and the terrible bad breath you could taste from here. They were waving their arms and making threatening gestures toward him. Someone might've pulled a folding chair at any minute! Garrett was in danger of his life! But he was standing there like the suffering servant, or a dumbwaiter.

I called out to the crowd, holding up my Super Brain plaque, now worthless in my eyes, and finally got them quieted down. Among my consoling remarks, I said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen! In view of Jor-el's words, I suggest that we all retreat to our several hearths and family altars, holding close our children and womenfolk and comforting them, and crying out for mercy to whatever god it is you worship, hopefully including widely among our number the one true and living God."

The Everlasting Pride Of Residential Industrialism

This is really something to be proud of. I'm so proud to be part of the incredible Residential Industrial Movement (RIM).

We've had something great going on since the beginning, but now, in these recent days, as we consolidate our gains and establish ourselves as part of the industrial mainstream, it's something everyone's recognizing and admiring. We've come a long way!

It's been very fun for me to see the progress and the way the RIM has come into its own. As the philosophical father of the whole thing, of course I'm busting with pride. Seeing the factories, the workers, the finished products on the line, the trucks pulling out, and supply trucks pulling in -- it's a beautiful thing.

As far as I can tell, it's always going to be this way, or better! The enemy's incursions -- the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) -- have subsided greatly, thanks to the ways we've shaken up their business model. I knew it! High production far outstripping demand would keep prices dirt cheap and leave the other guys scrambling. They treated me like crap, but now the shoe's on the other foot.

As we go on from victory to victory, making strides, making gains, from here on out, let us never forget the feeling we have right now. We've reached the top of the mountain, you know? We've not only seen the Promised Land, we've entered it, and, check it, you don't always get a twofer like that! And that's where we will stay!

Now, I know you don't need another "pep talk" from me. But please indulge a proud papa. Plus, you were the ones who gave me the impressive (though undeserved, I must aver) title of "Super Brain." Surely, you can allow me a little speech, if I promise to keep it short, and I do! We're family, whether we know each other or not. When I go to a town and see a RIM facility, a factory in someone's backyard, even if I've never been there before, I know I'm home!

Anyway, what I want to say is: The future is bright! We're not turning back now! And this is something you're a part of. And that's the way it should be. And you can be proud of that, because we've all done it together. It wasn't just one guy, not even me, who did it all. I built my factory, you built yours. We all did our own thing, and it's been good.

Keep it up, OK? If you're making disposable diapers, you're lucky. Because kids are always going to have to go, sooner or later. If you're making wheels for hospital beds, that's great. Because health care is cutting edge stuff. If you make vats, you're doing something remarkable. We always need a vat to put stuff that otherwise would just be spilled on the floor. Or if you're like me, specializing in tires and electricity, of course there's a market for tires. Cars, trucks, playground swings. The point is, we need you! Keep it up!

My pride for what the RIM has accomplished in just a few short months is great. My heart is overwhelmed. I'm emotional. It's never been better than this! But we're looking for even greater things ahead!

Super Brain ... over and out!

Blue Skies Ahead For Residential Industrialism

I love the happy songs. They put a lilt in my step and lift in my spirit. Like "Happy Days Are Here Again," the old fashioned song that came after the Depression. Or a little newer, "Happy Together," so happy together. And I think Willie Nelson did a great version of an old chestnut a few years ago, "Blue Skies," nothing but blue skies from now on.

That's how I see it out ahead of us for the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), nothing but blue skies from now on. With an occasional smokestack, at the most five or six per block. With the blue skies peeking out everywhere, giving that great look of good cheer we all sort of like.

I've been doing a lot of thinking, thanks to the general proclamation that I should be known as "Super Brain." You can't have a name like that, or a brain like that, for that matter, without trying your best to live up to it in the most responsible way. So I'm super busy, doing with my super brain what you might expect, thinking in super ways. Another word for what I'm doing would be "cogitating," or we could say "mulling," "considering," or "ruminating."

And what I've been thinking, cogitating, mulling, considering, and ruminating about is the future of the RIM. To do that, in part, I look back, where we came from. We've been at it seemingly forever, since May of this year, I think, or June. I know I really got into industrial affairs in April, becoming an opponent of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) at that time. Then a few weeks later, it seems, I proposed the theoretical framework for what became the RIM, which was that If any man can have a factory, every man should be able to.

But not all of us have a big tract of land at the outskirts of town. Therefore our factories must of necessity be right where we live, in the residential districts of our towns. Hence, the Residential Industrial Movement was born. And it took off, now to the point that virtually every city in the country has a lot more facilities, in formerly strictly residential areas, given over to industry and mass production.

I was fortunate to get the credit for the idea, fortunate because they say a great idea will have a thousand fathers! But the people in the RIM were good people, recognizing me alone as the philosophical father of residential industrialism. That was earlier than the "Super Brain" designation, which also is a great honor they gave me.

But looking ahead, that's what we're thinking about today. All of us have probably noticed how the MIP has apparently shrunk into the background. We don't hear much out of them these days. The rumors have it that they're trying their best to play catch-up, because our production base is so much broader, and our willingness to produce in quantities substantially higher than demand has shaken up their entire business model. And playing catch-up, that means they're likely on the ropes, dazed, mentally addled, woozy, beside themselves, and possibly at death's door. I'd love to hear they have at least one foot in the grave!

But I'm going to try to keep this positive. If the MIP is on the run, that's great. Because it opens the field, and the future, to us, with there being "no stopping us now!" That's a happy thought ... and that'd make a great audience chant if I were giving this as a speech in a stadium: "No stopping us now! No stopping us now!" I've got a big smile on my face, for our progress ... but, [he admits with a sly grin on his face] for the MIP's many travails!

Super Brain says, "So let it be written, so let it be done!"

My concluding advice for the day is to keep up the good work. Keep 'em on the ropes. Invest your profits as much as you can in your factories and increased production. And don't forget to look out once in a while and enjoy the blue skies!

Super Brain Scans Our Industrial Future

Thanks to my post on how I rival even super computers, now they're calling me Super Brain! (For completists, I also mentioned the subject here.)

Super Brain? That's quite a title! I tried to shrug it off and say no, but the acclaim has been too great, from comments here at the blog, emails, and, of course, neighbors. I'm taking the title, somewhat reluctantly, but I'll try to live up to it as best as I can.

The acclaim started rolling in about 10:15 a.m. yesterday. Most of the factories take a break about then, giving everyone a quick chance to look at the latest scoop on my blog. The emails and comments started coming immediately. The calls and actual visits built then throughout the day, with a few of them actually using the term "Super Brain." Also, the florist was here with a few deliveries. Most of the flowers I'm giving to nursing homes. The big spray spelling out "Super Brain," I'm keeping.

So, reluctantly, I guess you can call me Super Brain. Hope it fits. For one, I do rival super computers, and apparently now even other human brains. But really, I didn't ask to be this smart. It just happened. I watch Jeopardy, have filled in a few Sudoku puzzles, graduated from school, and I've read a few books. The rest is just native intelligence, the ability to spell my name, balance a checkbook, and do three step projects without reviewing the instructions.

One thing I'm already doing is a lot more thinking. But the first official act I'm going to do as Super Brain -- and I'm getting ready to do it right now -- is to scan the future as it relates to the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), our industrial future. I know you can't see what I'm doing, but I'm alternately pausing and gazing at the wall and typing. What am I thinking? I'm not seeing anything very distinctly ... I'm focusing in ... shutting my eyes ... hoping I don't drift off, since I'm up very early.

When I do this, shutting my eyes, I'm still looking, but I'm looking up, like I'm seeking something from beyond. A message, an image. I tend to trust the intuitive stuff of life, the flashes of insight I get, which can be quite literally a flash. It happens, maybe just a thought -- POP -- but it's something that is usually true. So ... I'm looking ... looking ... looking .... and ---- Wow!

Guess what? I don't know how to say this, but I think I really saw something! I have the sudden conviction that this thing is about to come to a head! That's what I saw, the indicators pointing to the very welcome good news that this thing is about to be resolved, and I'm so very, very happy.

Friends, as Super Brain I feel I can now deliver good news to you. The indicators are pointing to this one thing, and I will proclaim it. The data has been processed and the conclusions are in: I can now predict the defeat and demise of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) within our lifetimes! That's a fact. Along with that, quite naturally, I see the security of the RIM established forever!

There's a lot of sunshine, Super Brain sees that. But, wait, what is this? I'm scanning the inside of my forehead, looking for flashes of insight, and a cloud has passed through. Meaning ... yes! ... the security of the RIM and the demise of the MIP will not come without additional challenge. I know, no one wanted to hear that, but you don't really have to be Super Brain to anticipate how that would be the case. We've been through so much already, and the MIP is not obviously staggered or fatally wounded yet, so of course there will be tough days ahead. But keep the ultimate prize in mind, which we have already glimpsed: Victory is ours!

Just for fun, I wonder how fast a super computer could've come up with this. Probably not all that fast, because it'd take a programmer longer to type in the questions and variables than it took me just to look at the wall. So, once again, I've left the super computers in the dust. Super Brain gets his work done and is taking the dog out to pee before the super computer manages to get warmed up! But I don't feel like taunting this morning ... because ...

It's a day of gladness for the RIM! We shall prevail!

Now, I know everyone will be looking for additional details, but, please, just put it out of your minds and get back to work. We shall prevail according to what our strength is, and our strength comes in our work ethic, our ability to produce quality goods in mass quantities, and in our dirt cheap prices. Fill your warehouses to capacity! Keep supply high and let demand catch up. We can't lose!

On a personal note, thank you, everyone, for the title of Super Brain. I shall wear it with honor. Super Brain has spoken!

Industrialist's Brain Rivals Super Computers

I hate always being the guy who has to toot his own horn, but think of all the money I'm saving.

In sports, you have a teammate who steps up and says, "Joe's too modest to say it himself, but I'm not -- he just played the best game of his life." Then Joe pays him off in the dressing room and everyone's happy. With the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), there's plenty of guys who'd be willing to say it for me, but I'll spare them; they're busy, plus it's just an unnecessary expense.

So I'll just say it myself. And, really, it's not like I'm claiming for myself anything all that great. I'm just saying my brain rivals that of super computers.

After all, I think I know what super computers know, but I'm pretty sure there's not a super computer that knows what I know. Because I haven't been examined by one, it hasn't had a chance to get my mental coordinates into its system. And in certain respects, even if it did, it'd probably short out and never be the same. It'd be twitching and babbling, spitting out incoherent or obscure phrases like, "Cheese hits my tongue with a furry feel." Let's say a super computer were to say that. Guess what, I said it first, yesterday at lunch. So there's proof that my brain rivals that of super computers!

But how this came up had nothing to do with that. It came up yesterday in my post on praising the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), when I was trying to work out some of the mysteries of karma, or, as I call it, the psychic price. I've been thinking deeply about these issues, trying to unravel things that are very nebulous. You may have followed the arc of my thinking, which happened at about 400 mph, faster, they say, than a super computer. I decided against praising them, and I believe I decided right.

As I explained, tearing them down might help pay some of their psychic price, or atone for some of their karma, with their suffering. But praising them might help puff them up, making them susceptible to greater karma on down the road. But I came to the conclusion that with the MIP's vastness as an organization, the discernible difference in the psychic price owed was likely to be negligible. And, in fact, it might serve to increase our psychic price, because it'd all be a lie.

These are huge issues. It's hard to quantify karma; you have to admit that. And things that are hard to quantify would be tough for a super computer to handle. I can imagine a super computer going, "Hey, I'm only a super computer! Not that guy at the blog!" To which I would reply, "You got that right, Mxyzptlk 5000!" I'm just going to say it; I don't care at this point: I think I am smarter than a super computer. At least I haven't seen a super computer yet that can keep up. Look out, I might just make my own super computer. Then maybe we'd have one that knew its way around the block...

I actually have it in my genes to do so, too. I've never mentioned this on the blog, but it's an absolutely true fact: My dad, the swami, built one of the world's first personal computers. Whether you'd call it super or not, that I can't say. We kids thought it was pretty super. It had blinking lights. It was a device he called "Mr. Know-It-All," and we fed it punch cards. A question was printed on the card, and somehow "Mr. Know-It-All was able to blink the answer (A, B, C, or D) through reading the punch card.

But I believe they've come a long way since my dad's great little device. Now we can Google our answers, no longer needing cards. And a super computer is even better, because it quickly scans through every variable and possible answer, at long last settling on the correct answer after something like .000009 seconds. Very slow, because I can usually give you the answer in a snap.

But I'm not putting down super computers. They're fast because they're built for speed. And this is something interesting: A super computer only knows two things, 0 and 1. Apparently the less you know, the smarter you are! So it's cycling through those two numbers at super speed, shuffling off a few 0s, then throwing in a few 1s to make it look good. The answer comes spitting out, and if you have more 0s than 1s, that's still good. In the super computer world, a lot of 0s still adds up to something!

Whether kids are smarter than a super computer, I don't know. Kids are smarter than a lot of adults on the computer. We've all heard that. I know my teachers didn't know a thing about computers, word processing, Google, or anything. Total ignoramuses. Of course that was before any of this existed, which is something of a good excuse for them, looking back on it.

We in the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) think highly of ourselves and our skills. This comes from the confidence we get in doing it ourselves, digging in and building factories, plants, and entire industrial complexes of our own. We've gone from regular yards to these great facilities in a matter of months. So you can see, whatever it is, if we set our minds to it, we can get it done!

Super computers can do a lot. But they haven't built one yet that can rival us ... or me.

Should We Praise The Major Industrial Powers?

I come to bury the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), not praise them. The evil they do will live after them, and whatever good there is will be interred with their bones. So let it be with these rotten SOBs!

There has been no worse enemy, as far as I'm concerned, than the MIP. They have been against the common man as long as I can remember. They've sold us shoddy goods and their prices have been ridiculous. And as far as their attitudes toward the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), they have been a fierce opponent, trying every means, hook and crook, to drive us out of business. For me personally, before there was a RIM, they physically harassed me, confining me to my home, and even shot fireballs over my roof (thank God it wasn't thatch.)

The last thing I personally would do, by nature, is praise them! As far as I'm concerned, the quicker we drive these rotten SOBs out of business and refit their factories for the cause of good, the better off we'll all be. Then we'll let the more innocent underlings come over to the RIM cause. But as for the MIP executives and fat cats, they'll be left high and dry, with us even closing to them any pencil pushing jobs we may have had.

But it could be that I need to revise this whole scenario, thanks to an idea I had a couple days ago. I was writing about "the psychic price" -- karma by a different word -- that we can't always be big, psychologically and so forth, but we must occasionally be little, so that personal (and corporate) inflation might be counterbalanced. There are parts of this, of course, that are not merely internal to the person or organization, one being the whole matter of the general populace hoping for your organizational demise. Because man loves tragedy.

The idea I had was that constantly attacking the MIP might be actually helping them, in that as we reduce them it serves to pay their psychic price. The thought was this:

Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them! We'll have to think about that one!

And think about it, I have! I've been racking my brain, really stretching it out and torturing it, at least according to the definition of torture before the Bush years; going by the Bush definition, I've been giving it a strenuous workout for its own good and it's loving it. Anyway, I've been ridiculously wicked to my brain, according to the old definitions, thinking over this whole issue of what to do about the MIP, whether to praise or tear them down.

So those are the possibilities. How would it go to praise them? What would I be praising? Their workmanship, or lack thereof? The way they've sold us expensive goods, then have never made good on guarantees when it breaks? Or, more personally, the way they shot fireballs over my house, which could've very well been made of thatch had Grandpa not insisted on regular shingles, abiding by city ordinances at the time?

If I praised them, just for the sake of argument, how could I do it sincerely? It'd be a lie! I'd be nauseated. And it would probably be equally the case that I'd be working up for myself a worse psychic price than any benefit I'd derive from saying it. Because I'd know. And everyone who knows me would know. And, frankly, I think a lot of the enthusiasm that the RIM has seen in the last five or six months has come because we know we're in a serious struggle against these rotten SOBs. Some of the intensity might be gone if we suddenly turned nice. Then where would our gains go?

We do have a serious beef against these guys, and it seems to me we have to treat it seriously, despite this interesting theory that is really little more than reverse psychology. To pretend otherwise would be ... inadvisable, foolhardy, shortsighted, ignorant, ridiculous, terrible, and lame.

It might turn out that I have it all wrong, but I think it's a chance I'm willing to take. Because it also seems to me that some aspects of the psychic price, especially over an organization of such immensity and disparate parts as the Major Industrial Powers, are very slow moving and not so easy to influence or sway. Particularly through some kind of reverse psychology that's just trying to trick karma by false words. At best, it'd be like continental drift, meaning we'd see very negligible benefits, if any, even in the long term.

The conclusion has been reached. My brain, rivaling the super computers of most countries, of course including those of the United States, has decided: We shall continue to tear the MIP down! There shall be no praise!

Advice For Industrialists: Cool Your Jets

I'd love to be able to spell every variation of the sizzling sound of cooling your jets, the sounds you hear when you're letting off steam, turning down the heat of a crackling skillet, or opening a suction door slowly, swwwwwitzzzzzz! But you can use your imagination, and imagine that as part of your own jets being cooled.

We need to be cool. Red hot in certain ways, but cool within. Stoked, of course, but with a cool outlook. And we'll have the greatest success, without overheating, without burn marks as a part of our makeup, especially if we slow down and take it easier.

I'm doing it myself. That's why I'm offering it up as advice. I've been ripping along red hot myself. Mass producin', struttin' my stuff, keepin' the lines cranked at a feverish pace, lovin' the interchangeable parts, always buildin' bigger warehouses... Then I'm down, a little, and have a nap ... and in the long run I'm ready to kick it in gear again, my jets steamin', spittin' out the flames... What a life!

Call it age, perhaps... I prefer to think of it as gaining wisdom in my ... old age. Thinking maybe I need to pace myself so I'm not burnt out. That's the key thing. Get more done in the shortest amount of time, or pace yourself so you can produce more reliably over the course of the foreseeable future? I think for me, it's probably best to cool my jets somewhat.

You know we've been red hot as well against the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). That's been an awesome ride, putting the clamps on those SOBs. But I had a great thought yesterday:

"Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them!"

It doesn't really seem all that great to me this morning, but I have to remember the context, which was that humility is necessary to counter psychic inflation. And if we're always tearing down the MIP, conceivably that could be adding to their humility, therefore making them ultimately stronger. So, if I were to go with that, and it's still only in the theoretical stages, that would mean cooling our jets in that sense as well.

But we'll put that one on hold, and say that today we want to look out for ourselves first. This is our time. We don't need to be pushing ourselves non-stop. It's time to start looking our for number one, taking a breather in all our production. Ultimately our output will be better for it.

I know, I know, some of you will think I've gone soft. I've been out in nature a couple days, and obviously, like nature, you'll say I just want to lay around. And really, I guess that is the way of nature. It's always out there taking it easy. You never see any animals. They're in their nests or dens or dams or holes sleeping. Other than my dog, some fish, and birds, I haven't seen any animals. Oh yeah, that spider a couple days ago, I saw him. The trees are always in one place, too, never getting anything done. The sky just drifts by. Nothing seems to get anything excited. Either that or I just always happen to live in boring places, where nature goes to retire.

Be all that as it may, no, I have not gone soft. Maybe the contemplative life out in nature does tend to slow a guy down. But honestly, I've been scouting nature for new factory sites, so technically I've been working. Yes, maybe I did fall asleep by a big tree, cooling my jets a little. But I've been working hard, friends, and I'm tired. Other than that, I've been strictly busy, trying to formulate my letter to the governor and legislature about ceding some of this public land for additional industry. That's where my priorities are.

The thing is... Like I said, I'm old. And I'm getting the wisdom that comes with years, and I'm just thinking it would be good for us, once in a while, me anyway, to kick our shoes off and take it easy. That's all.

Hey, I think that's how the story of Rip Van Winkle goes, even though I haven't heard it for 30 years. He's out in nature, isn't he? And he's scouting locations for new factories. And formulating letters to the government. And he falls asleep by a big lazy tree. Then when he wakes up, he has a beard down to his knees, his pants are wet, and he's soiled himself, 40 years worth. He's got jock itch all the way up his neck. And enough bug bites to earn him the nickname Rip Van Pizza Face. He's cooling his jets.

Then he wakes up. And it's no longer five miles to the nearest factory, but it just so happens he's in some woods with a 35 foot buffer zone between it and the nearest tire factory someone's built. He goes back to his town and there's factories and smokestacks everywhere. He bathes in one of the runoff ditches and lives happily ever after. There's enough Social Security checks stacked up in his mailbox, he's able to.

Cool ... your ... jets! At least consider it as a possibility...

The Ant-Sized Industrialist

Sometimes it pays to be the little guy, small, wiry, able to adapt more quickly, and able to undercut the other guy up there lumbering around. Swinging at his kneecaps or mandibles. I had that in my post, "Industrial David Slays Industrial Goliath." And something like it in yesterday's imaginary scenes, "Hail The Conquering Industrialist."

So it's a little thing, but it's popped up a few times, physically portraying what is also a psychological theme, that it's not always good to be big, sometimes you have to be little; there needs to be a balance. You get a big head, become nothing but head, and someone who's better balanced comes along and cuts you to pieces. In the psychological realm, you blow up so big, you pop. The lesson: Don't quit while you're a head.

You've noticed this with some of the bigger companies. They'll have their major product, then they'll also have lots of cutesy littler products. It's not just cola; it's also grape, orange, etc. It's not just ordinary cards; it's also the littler department, and even littler subdivisions. You might say that's just creative expansion, not having all your eggs in one basket, appealing to other markets. True. Or it could be they know you've got to have a mix of big and little. If you're too big, your customers want you to fall. If you have a bunch of smaller entities, it takes the pressure off the big guy. A sore thumb still has the rest of the hand.

That's also one of the reasons you have to be humble in religion. "Such a worm as I" and "a wretch like me." One, your standing is before the divine, who is a jealous god. Two, if you're not humble, you're not going to see the ongoing expansion. And you do want to see something. But any abiding in the expansion without quick and frequent trips back to humility guarantees a hard fall. See Milton, or any televangelist story that makes the news. You can get big, but you'll blow up. Even the divine got too big for its britches, since there was nothing around, and that's why we had creation. The flood story is about getting little again, but without the lesson actually being learned.

You can see how this affects the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) in its struggle against the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). Which one has the more naturally littler elements? Clearly the RIM, as the power (so far) is dispersed among many companies, backyard factories. The MIP have to really work at this, but of course they know it, which is one of the reasons it's so hard to bring the SOBs down. Which leads me to an idea: Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them! We'll have to think about that one!

In my imaginary scenario yesterday, I was able to stride across the world, receiving the acclaim that did the biblical Herod in and consumed him with worms. How was I able to do that? By becoming extremely small and working willingly with that. If I may polish my knuckle and brag on myself for a second -- but just once! -- that's how I live. Down among the dust bunnies, the used cotton swabs that missed the waste can, and spider webs in the corner. I might spend the morning cold and naked, curled up in the drain on the basement floor. And hope no one sees me, so I can get the maximum value out of it.

Kids do it all the time. If you start out little, it's easy to be little. They're playing with their little soldiers, imagining themselves killing one another. It's very cute, but look what psychic good it does them! Not realizing any of this, they center their thoughts and imaginations in the very large and the very small, and their little guy gets killed once in a while. Then they count to three and he's alive again. So they do all right. But we adults ... for us everything starts out actual size ... so we suffer.

My real concern, of course, is how all this pertains to industrialism. And I sketched out some of the meaning for industrialism above. We want to become big, really big, big enough to knock off the MIP once and for all. But one of the ways we'll do this is to remain very very small, so small we're an insidious presence in the world, not just a lumbering giant. Remember that phrase, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And I'm thinking of the Cyclops, that old story. He's got one big eye, meaning it would've been better if he would've had two smaller ones.

It's great to be big. It's also great to be small, to balance things out. Because this phenomenon of the psychic price is real. You're going to pay it in full, bit by bit or all at once. If you're paying it down as you go along -- and it's better if you're not 100% conscious of it -- there will be equilibrium. If you defer the payments forever, guess what, it'll be so huge it'll wipe you out.

So, I may be a colossus striding from one victory to another. But I'm also ant-sized, tangling with dust bunnies and making a tent out of tissue paper and popsicle sticks. How low can you go?

-------------------------------

Believe it or not, I took the picture of the spider yesterday. Isn't he cool? The little guy taking a whack at it, meant to represent me, even though it's not me, was pasted in. Needs a shadow.

I was at a nearby park -- trying to clear my head, and scout locations for new factories, if I can convince the legislature to turn over public lands to industry -- and I happened to see this spider crawling up a web. It got to the top and just sat there, so I got my camera and took several pictures of it.

I don't see too many examples of this guy on the internet, but the ones I see lead me to believe it must be a marble orbed spider. The yellow skateboarding helmet appears to be its most distinctive feature.

Anyway, that's a slice of life, the life of nature as it exists in the wild. Which we're currently stuck with.

Hail The Conquering Industrialist!

Today's post is a highly personal one, as I buck up my self-image after a day of terrible doubt. Remember yesterday, I envisioned my own passing and that of my blog, as seemed all but certain at some point in the next five billion years.

Of course it seems absurd even to me that something this piddling would set me back. But in fact it did. I think there's something about extremely large numbers, billions of years, that messes up my thinking. You know?

Our thinking -- and I think this is true of other people too -- can be spooked. Because we're so used to thinking in terms of today and tomorrow and Christmas and our next birthday. To suddenly see yourself dead, the entire world destroyed, and your blog ended is different.

So yesterday, through the day, I had a hard time putting it out of my mind, but I did my best. As much as I could, I focused on my current reputation, the boldness I live by, the success I've had, and my life's overall mojo. This became a matter of exaltation, lifting myself in self esteem. As a life coach for others, naturally the saying, "Physician, heal thyself," applies to me.

For this purpose, then, in the exaltation process, I envisioned myself in the greatest terms. I became the embodiment of the conquering industrialist, like the dreaded monarchs of old.

You also can imagine it: There's the parade of the conqueror, leading in his foreign captives, along with the beasts of the foreign countries, and their women. Picture it with me, but remember I said it was highly personal. I have to work on my own personal issues, even if some think it's tasteless to do so in public.

Here comes the conquering industrialist, conquering what exactly? The Major Industrial Powers (MIP), doing his best to take them captive. In cage number one, a big gold cage on wheels, we have MIP executives who have been captured. They're nude, displaying their very small parts, and slumped against the bars. In cage number two, a big silver cage, we have MIP officials, nude, displaying slightly larger parts, angry at the executives for advising them to cut corners, making them susceptible to Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) forces. In cage number three, a big bronze cage, we have MIP underlings, foremen and leadmen, also nude, displaying larger parts yet, angry at the officials and executives for giving them such shoddy leadership that their products turned out inferior and overpriced. And in the last cage, the fourth, a big corrugated cardboard (paper) cage, we have MIP peons, workers, truck drivers, and lunch ladies, all nude, displaying the largest parts, except for the lunch ladies, angry at the underlings, foremen and leadmen, and the officials and executives for implicating them in this massive fraud called the MIP.

In this scenario, I am the conquering industrialist, along with other RIM leaders, distributing whips and cattle prods with which to threaten the MIP captives. But at the last second, in my mercy, I command them to set their weapons down, and release the MIP failures, who take multiple paths out of town. Of course the peon class we would welcome more gladly into the RIM ranks; that goes without saying. And up the line it would go like that, with the MIP executives receiving the most scorn, being passed over for any pencil pushing jobs there might've been. As said, they take various paths out of town.

OK, now put this industrial parade out of your mind. And picture me, consolidating in my own person everything, the best the RIM has to offer. I become larger than life, a colossus, striding over the world, going from victory to victory. I take my place, the red giant sun behind me, even it being dimmed in the effulgence of my glory. I occupy such a position of prominence and pride, like the biblical Herod who became filled with worms and died, the people can't even look upon me for the brightness. "This is not a man," they shout, "but a god." I advise my tribunes, much shorter than I, to plead with the people, that such a conquering industrialist considers the word "god" beneath him. They must do better!

Three graybeards step forward, who have studied theology and depth psychology, and they go into a big clawing death match, scratching and biting. One graybeard falls. The other two bring out cudgels, mallets, and spears, and fight. The larger man has the smaller man down. But the smaller man thrusts a scimitar into the larger man's gut, all quite a surprise to him, I must say. The winner's graybeard red with the others' blood, he proclaims me the master of life itself, knowing how many factories depend on my beneficence.

As to the conquered women I mentioned, they minister to me in private.

Right here, after their ministering, I become fully aware of the phenomenon of 'The Psychic Price,' and I become so small the people can't see me. The women don't know what happened to me. I am suddenly dressed in rags and, unlike Herod, am able even to elude the much larger worms that are on the way to consume me. Notice how great I am! Because this is the stumbling block that gets everyone else! But I am a very small man, dressed in rags, little more than a worm myself!

I pick up a used toothpick, its size in relation to me the size of a huge sword. This now is the conquering industrialist's sacred sword. I turn a corner, unseen by anyone, and run right into a dust bunny. I use the sword, this toothpick, to cut my way through the dust bunny thicket. I'm becoming smaller all the time. I'm so humbled. I'm being blown about in the wind and happen to land on top of a fleeing beggar's sandal. He's running because the whole crowd is running, not knowing what happened to the colossus who had been before them. Even the women wish I'd come back.

But the beggar is looking out for number one. He runs to a place beneath a bridge, where he stays. I'm there, now hiding behind a grain of sand. I hear him thanking his lucky stars that he wasn't trampled. He falls asleep, and I hear him blubbering in his sleep, that God should bless their mighty victor, meaning me. "Keep him safe, snuffle, snore," he says. "Bring him prosperity, snuffle, snore," the beggar prays.

As I hear him pray, I'm increasing in size. Finally, I'm normal sized. And because I have powers, I start a campfire and make the man a decent meal of two eggs, four pieces of bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes with strawberries, sauce, and whipped cream, which you might recognize as IHOP's current special, the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, Bacon and Eggs Combo, embarrassing to say but delicious to eat. (I don't actually say it. I just get the waitresses' attention, point at the menu and grunt.)

After a while, the beggar sniffs the air like a horny camel, being very much like a thankful Ali Baba at this point, knowing Allah has sent him the food of the gods, something apparently from IHOP. He looks over and sees me keeping the eggs warm in the fire. I have on a very coarse fiber sack dress, or maybe I should call it a prophet's robe. And a hood. My head is pulled in so he can't see my face. The hood's hole keeps everything very dark within. But when I turn my gaze on him, he's able to see two gleaming lights, my eyes.

I suddenly remember he saved me, turn off my eyes and the darkness within, revealing myself very much a normal man, a humble man. He sputters, "You, you, are you?--" "Yes," I smile, a smile playing across my lips, "I am me. Good to know you, kind beggar."

(Let this be a lesson to you. Sometime in the future you too might see me. Oftentimes, I'm right out in public. But I will be that anonymous person you may not recognize. I could be in the next booth from you in a restaurant. I might be that guy in the library earnestly scanning every magazine they have. When you look over, maybe I'll have my eyes turned on, or maybe they'll be turned off. You never know. In fact, I've done many things in life quite anonymously. The other day I put money in a parking meter; no one around appeared to recognize me; I did it like any other person. But maybe you'll be one of the first, after this beggar, of course, to know it's me. Wouldn't it be great for you to recognize me?)

I tell the beggar to come to my factory. I give him a whitewall tire for his trouble. I take off the prophet's robe and put on my normal clothes. People come by to see me, telling me of incredible dreams they've been having about me and the end of the world. I soothe their frazzled nerves, telling them, "No, as long as I'm in the world, the Earth will be spared."

That is what the conquering industrialist speaks. That is what the conquering industrialist declares is done.

All Aboard! Industrial Smokestacks In Space

Could it be that industrialism is not eternal? Will our factories indeed be nothing but burned out cinders? Is there no way we can pass on the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) to future generations?

I made the mistake again of watching the Science Channel on TV. There's times in the day I really like to watch this channel, because I get all kinds of dirt on the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) from their "how they do it" shows. Since I know these clowns couldn't make a paper bag, and then couldn't fight their way out of it if they could, it's obvious these shows are carefully patched together from stop action footage, then sped up.

Be that as it may, a couple days ago, they had one of their other shows, stuff about outer space and all the dangers lurking out there for the Earth. I thought scientists were supposed to be optimistic, "Better Living Through Science" and all that crap! But the scientists on this channel were pessimistic in the extreme, never painting a very rosy picture for the world in the long run. In fact, I haven't seen one yet who thinks the world can go on even another five billion years!

But, for the sake of argument, we're going to accept their figures. And immediately throw up our hands and wonder what it all means for the longevity of industrialism and what we might be able to do about it.

The problem, as sketched out on this show, was that the sun, as a star, has a lifespan. And it's already getting up there in years, with only around five billion years left. At that time, it will expand to a gigantic size and be "a red giant," possibly even expanding as far as the Earth itself. Others are less certain about that, with the possibility that it will simply be an enormous red ball in the sky, filling the sky. Either way, it's bad news. Meaning at the very least, it'll be the end of daylight savings time as we know it.

Well, I don't have to tell you, this whole scenario is the worst thing I could hear. Right when I got the RIM going, right when I finally had something to really live for, right when I was going from victory to victory! There's always some scheming SOB willing to step up and take it all away! But maybe I should calm down, because, after all, five billion years is still a very long time. One billion years is a thousand million years, and just to go one million years would take forever. Then multiply one billion times five. It's scary. But think how fast the last 10 billion years went by...

The good news is they had one optimistic scientist (somehow one escaped the editors) who thought we will have devised a plan and the technology necessary to leave the Earth and go to another planet. It really got me thinking, ever since I saw the show, that we'll have to pack up everything out of our factories and make a run for it. And hopefully the RIM industrialists alive at that time will have the upper hand over any MIP industrialists who might still exist. Because we don't want the MIP's incompetence, shoddy wares, and sky high prices to follow us among the stars!

At this point, friends, I'm going to keep going as though nothing's amiss. I'll make it a vow. But it's still hard to believe, if any of this turns out to be true, that at some point all of this, the world, our factories, and this blog will cease to exist. I didn't think anything would make me quit. But someday there'll be no tomorrow. When that happens, whatever archives I have accumulated will have to suffice for those pioneer industrialists on the new world. It's a downer, but I'm going to use it to motivate me to do my very best in the meantime.

Yesterday, a day after seeing this show, I stepped out to a nice sunny day and went to a local park. I thought the whole thing is very fragile. Yet nothing else in nature seemed to realize the danger. I looked at the leaves of the trees moving in the gentle breeze, the decorative rocks in a nice arrangement, a few birds taking a bath in a fountain, and others flying in tandem across a beautiful blue sky. Crickets and other insects were making their droning noises from the grass and bushes. At first, I thought what anyone in my position would think, what a great spot for a factory this park would be; any industrialist looking out his window here would love the view.

We're going to keep going. That much is certain. Exactly how long we're going to make it, that's anyone's guess. But it's not too early, as far as I'm concerned, for someone to get started on plans for our escape, that residential industrialism, of the people, by the people, and for the people, should not perish from ... wherever it is we end up.

The Intuitive Industrialist

Intuition is an aspect of our experience that makes us feel like reality can be inside out. We think we have it all figured out, by reason, then a kind of abiding, strange sixth sense is there to give answers and direction instantly and unforeseen by our ordinary range of consciousness.

Or something like that. What I actually know about it -- even though it's probably as much as anyone -- is very little. But I know I depend on it, and treasure it when it's there, to see me through another day.

Hearing, seeing, feeling, tasting, and touching -- we get a lot of pleasure and pain from our ordinary senses, which we know as they're mentally registered in the brain. Intuition's up there somewhere too, feeling more like a friend in the attic who swoops down when you need him, then ducks out of sight after the need passes.

One of the biggest immediate needs is to avoid danger. So I'll always find myself looking all the various directions, scanning the scene and registering it. But it's those glimpses right at the periphery, or those quick insights on a large collection of sensory input, that really impress me most. If you've got it, the best way to use it is not to use it; just let it do its own thing. Too much consciously trying to stimulate it and you're blocked. Unless an actual immediate need arises, especially unforeseen. Then you have to trust yourself, and in the end, nurture intuition the best you can.

But my focus can't be intuition as a general subject. With my role as one of the country's leading residential industrialists, I need to put this vital information out there for the benefit of my industrial compeers. Each of them, from Ted down the street (making vats) to Ike across the road (in the truck business), can learn to trust his intuition in the industrial field. As each man does so, he will have a greater level of confidence that everything's going to work out for the best. And to get out of the way.

In my opinion, they're miles ahead of others who aren't in industry, because I've found that industry itself enhances intuition. That's the way it's been with me. Because it looks like the more scanning you're doing of the scene, the more intuition you have. And with a million and one challenging circumstances in industry, there's always something unforeseen popping up. Forklift problems, spoiled parts, fights in the break room, a fire in the warehouse, a dead mouse in the water softener -- the list of problems we face everyday is endless.

Industry has so many drawbacks -- I'm not meaning to discourage anyone! -- that you always have to be on your guard, open to what the moment might bring. And one source of so many drawbacks has to be our workers. Workers, of course, are our biggest asset, because we couldn't do anything without them. But they're also perhaps our biggest headache, just because they are.

And we have some real lulus! Most of these cretins don't know the slightest thing about any of this. So the industrialist, you see, has to have a lot of intuition, because he needs it to make up for their lack. They have no foresight, no sense of responsibility, and, in so many cases, no intelligence. You have to step them through every little thing because of their terrible incompetence. They don't know a girder from a girdle.

It sounds harsh, but, thankfully, it's not true of everyone. Although we do get a lot of stupid people, mostly guys under 25, as you would guess, who've grown up not knowing a thing. Whenever there's a terrible accident, it's usually one of these dunces involved. They've never had to take responsibility for anything, so if a hundred pound part, say, comes falling out of the upper lines, they're usually the ones who'll get clunked. You never want to say to one of these idiots, "Don't put your hand in this," indicating a dangerous place to put your hand, like a punch press or a box of tightly packed gears, because they'll think you're kidding and do it anyway. The look of grave concern on your face or your profusely sweating brow don't stimulate any sense of consciousness or intuition in them.

But thank God, there's enough irresponsible, drunk folks down on Skidrow having illicit relations every night, because that's what we depend on to keep our reserve of cheap, albeit stupid, labor high. These kids are such idiots, you don't even have to give them a paycheck, just an occasional case of beer and carton of cigarettes -- and maybe a gift certificate to a tattoo parlor at Christmas -- and they'll show up ... when they do. They're tearing around the parking lot in their cars, but you close the gate and get out the cattle prod and eventually you can herd a sufficient number in. Most of them can get enough things done, the really simple stuff, that it's still beneficial to have them around. Of course, having them around is a real double-edged sword. You need all your senses, and that includes intuition, to counter the great danger.

Intuition, then, is something that's hard to describe and define, even for the intelligent industrialist, but it's with us nonetheless. And the more we learn to depend on it -- which usually happens if we're glancing around all the time like a bird leery of predators -- the more it'll be there to help us. Each of us will be more successful industrialists the more intuition we have, and the more we learn to trust it.

Industrialism Changes Your Thinking

If you've got your own factory, and probably most of you do by now, then you know exactly what I'm talking about, that industrialism changes your thinking. I like the picture; I have the bliss of an erupting smokestack in my head, psychologically speaking. All the good things of industrialism influence my daily outlook. Serene.

This would probably be true with anything. I know for me I get into things. Like if I concentrate on anything long enough. Like music. It's probably true for everyone. If you listen to an album 10 or 12 times, you'll be thinking about it in your sleep, humming the tunes, thinking about it until you're blissed out, or sick.

For me, and others I've talked with, the fact that we spend most of our lives looking at conveyor belts, a constant parade of consumer goods in various stages of assembly, parts bins, pallets, etc., means that's what we're thinking of. Every few seconds, even when everything's shut down, I can hear the beeping of trucks and forklifts backing up in my head. We eat, drink, and sleep it, and even let it keep us warm at night. There it goes again, beep beep.

But it does keep me warm at night. I was writing about this very thing recently, how I'm turned off to both women and men in this matter of keeping warm at night. Just to clarify there, I've never been turned on to men, but I would be even less so now if I had been turned on to them at all before. As for women, yes, a few of them have turned my head now and then, but thanks to industrialism, it's mostly then. You see enough lunch ladies with deep voices and hairnets, it does something to you.

Most of the changes in my thinking have been positive. No matter what I'm doing, I'm trying to do it in the most efficient way possible. And part of efficiency is the desire to mass produce. You set up the parts in a particular way, you coordinate how everything has to go together just so, then you assemble the item, repeating the steps until you're done. But it can be hard to turn off. The other day, my mind drifted off in an industrial reverie while I was doing something, and when I came to I had about 75 BLTs on the kitchen counter! And I usually only make two. It's impressive that I could fry 50 pounds of bacon without realizing it.

Then when you have an increase in efficiency, you want to keep refining it, always gaining a second or two here and there, always trying for the extra edge. I find myself speeding up all the time even when it's not necessary to do a good job. I allot myself a certain amount of time and take deadlines very seriously. Seemingly gone are the days when I can really relax and take my time and do a particular thing without the pressure of aiming for greater efficiency. And it can be painful if you nick yourself shaving as often as I do. Industrial speed, like the old ginsu knife guy.

It's also a little disconcerting when you get out of your element, the industrial setting, because, of course, your thinking goes with you. I was at the city library yesterday, trying to relax. I was really there to look through their books about inventors and inventions. I wanted to get a list of everything that had been invented, figuring that anything they didn't mention would be fair game for me.

But then I got a stack of magazines from the rack, put them on the little table next to one of the easy chairs, looked up at the clock, and proceeded to scan through them as fast as possible. I had a feverish pace going. In the end, I left a heap of magazines on the floor five foot deep. I managed to make it through everything from The Advocate to Z Magazine! Pretty good time, too: 8 minutes, 42 seconds! Then I noticed I was the center of attention for everyone in the place.

I liked hanging out there, very quiet except for one thing. I complained to the librarian about all the loud beeping but she swore she didn't hear it. So I just tried to put it out of my head and enjoy myself.

I saw this one guy there -- he caught my attention with his look. He had a real industrial strength leather jacket and jeans. He was dressed up like a guy who never takes his clothes off. They fit him to a T. He had long hair, a beard, looking almost messianic, and was carrying a pack and a guitar. Now here's a guy, I thought, who (maybe) knows how to live. I'm not sure he knows how to live; I'm just guessing. It seemed like he was carrying everything he had. That'd have its bad side, because you need somewhere to put your stuff. But it'd have its good side, in that he obviously goes here and there singing his songs and maybe sleeping under the stars.

It started me thinking: Here I am with a Grandma, a house, a half acre, a tire factory, an electrical generating plant, a warehouse, this blog, my dog, and many other things. But am I blessed? Or is all this a big weight around my neck, holding me down? But now, looking back, of course I'm blessed, now that I'm back in my factory. The beep even fits in here! So, it's dangerous to go to the library, because it, like everything else, can influence your thinking, however, in a negative way.

By the way, when I was sitting by the magazines, the guy with the guitar disappeared behind me and I didn't see him again. I wanted to study him. I wondered where he went and if I might see his guitar stashed behind a stack of books, but I didn't. Then, amazingly, as I was leaving the building, here he came back in! It made me wonder why he even left ... 15 minutes before. Did he need to plug the meter for a parked suitcase? Our eyes almost met, but it didn't happen. I was a little afraid I wouldn't be able to shake him, so that kept me from asking him about his guitar and whether he knew any cool songs.

How about that? Our eyes almost met. Looking back, I should've allowed it. He might've been my industrial double. Just an ordinary guy, who started thinking about going on the road with his guitar, then it got the better of his thought process and now here he is, no other place. But even almost is kind of cool. A road person, a leather jacket guy, a guitar guy, a messianic beard guy, living in his world of the road and scrapping for quarters, probably, in a rare encounter with me, the writer of this famous blog, the philosophical father of the entire Residential Industrial Movement, and who knows what all I might be famous for in the future? I know if I ever run for office, I'll have a few sexual comments to answer for. So I might take the easy way out and become a priest.

But had it happened, he would've looked at me and I would've looked at him. And each might've felt a little sorry for the other. And each might've felt a little envious of the other. And maybe I would've won him over, or maybe he me. Maybe he'd like the security of industrialism keeping him warm at night. And maybe I'd like the feeling of really taking a chance in life, of showing up at libraries with my guitar or piano in whatever town I happened to find myself.

But that's all passed now.

Anyway, I spent last night in a warm bed, and that guy, who knows what kind of night he had? A wild animal nibbling at his beard, then pulling back in and going to sleep. I'd guess I had more comfort, even with the beeping, but he probably had more to write a song about. Being him would change my thinking just as much as anything. Whether I have industrialism or not, my thinking is always going to be different.

Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Men

It should probably go without saying that given the choice between industrialism keeping me warm at night and men that I would go with industrialism every time. That is 100% true, but I want to make it very plain after some of the comments I got yesterday on my post, "Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Women."

I wasn't expecting to delve into the subject of the butt ugliness of men today, since I thought that was a given. But, again, with the comments suggesting that I prefer men for keeping warm, as well as the rather obscure charge that I'm a "misogynist," I figured I needed to make my feelings crystal clear. (For those of you not with "the in crowd," according to Webster, a misogynist is a hater of women. That's ridiculous! Some of my closest relatives are women, including Grandma herself.) My point, and I may have been inelegant in my expression, was that I prefer industrialism and hard work for keeping me warm at night, not women. The same thing goes for men.

What is there that is so wonderful, so fascinating, and so warmth-giving, about industrialism? That's a great question. With industrialism, you have machines and tools that are fresh, vibrant, and given to durability and efficiency. You can wield the tools and weld the parts. The machines work in terrific sync with the mind of the worker, being an extension of the man. But with their great power, they'll be spitting out everything from paperclips to vats long after the worker has died at his post and has been replaced by his son. (We turn off the machines for 10 minutes in tribute to the fallen, then the whistle blows and it's back to work.)

In my own factory, I can have a whole team of men manning the stations and I'll stand there and do my part, or, all alone at night, I can go in, start up the line on "super slow," and work on a product all by myself. The machines clink and clank in harmony and the tools are pliant to my hand and demands. It's a thing of beauty, a hint of eternity's bliss. Surely, heaven will be full of enormous factories and tools up the yin yang.

Now, to answer some of my critics, might I prefer men for keeping me warm at night? By no means!

I look at the male form and I'm revolted, to say the least. I prefer the female form, even with the severe criticisms I leveled against it. And since there's basically one thing on the man's body that makes him a man, let's just cut to the chase and address it. But, again, since I don't do blue material, I'm going to have to be a little vague on the terminology I use to describe the male "business."

You've got -- in the "business" region of the male form -- a bit of "business" that you can't miss. It's more or less oblong with more length than girth. It has two general states, the quiescent or detumescent state and the tumescent or hardonescent state. To give the best description of it, just let me say you know the difference when you see it. In the former state, it's shrunken and looks like a wrinkled, boneless finger, aimed downward. In the latter state, it points toward the north star and can fill the room; it's definitely the center of attention when it's most active.*

Now, is this male member attractive or butt ugly? I insist that it is butt ugly. For the excited possessor of it, there can be no greater treasure, that much is true. But for anyone unfortunate enough to be looking on, it is at the very least an annoyance, and at the best embarrassing. You have to think, Is this the best nature could do? To which I would say, Yes. But that's just it; it's a natural appendage with a natural function; it's not meant as an object of detached beauty, although some of these butt ugly men might be more beautiful if it were detached, their hormonal levels being out of whack. They think it's their source of power when all it is is a thing for urinary excretion and the occasional work of procreation. It's not something to keep you warm at night.

In my opinion, the more guys parade them around, the less desirable they'd be as a mate. How much better it'd be if they were fitted with a glass box, attached to a catheter for its most common use, and kept well preserved for the rarer instance of the procreative drive at the key time in their mate's estrous cycle. "Break Glass In Case of Ovulation," or perhaps if she's howling at the moon and can't be stilled any other way.

My opinion, then, is that nature got it right, but man, parading himself, showing up at the park, whipping it out behind every bush, and even trying to get cozy with knotholes in trees, is going too far. It's not that good looking! In fact, it's butt ugly. Keep it to yourself! The rest of us don't want to see it!

Then, all the other aspects of the male form, the head region, the neck, the torso, the legs, the feet, and working back up, the buttocks region itself, are butt ugly. As far as I'm concerned, it's similar to the problems of the female form, with so many extremes of largeness and smallness, and every other possibility of deformity, that the only fully accurate verdict that can be rendered is: BUTT UGLY. It's definitely not what I would like for keeping me warm at night, not by a long shot.

The best alternative, what I've found, and I hope others may discover this for themselves, is the hard but satisfying work of industry. If you're blessed to have your own factory, like so many in the Residential Industrial Movement, you can tinker around with the industrial forms to your heart's content. If you're simply a worker in someone else's facility, you can work on your own warmth issues during your regular shift and maybe on breaks, if they'll allow it.

Whatever your level of involvement in industry, may you stay warm every night, with a warmth you can be proud of in the morning!

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*There's a lot more that can be said of the phallus and phallicism, such as the connection with religion and deities. It's a rich but dangerous field of study. Check out this quote:

"In approaching this subject, it behoves me to walk warily. For, to some writers so repulsive that they shirk even its necessary elucidation, it exercises a fascination upon others which is not conducive to sound reasoning. Has not a President of the Anthropological Institute declared that "so soon as a man begins to study phallicism he goes crazy"?

From "Shinto - The Way of the Gods," by W.G. Aston, 1905, p. 186.

Since I don't want to go any crazier than I already am, I shall not say much more about the subject. Instead, I'll find my warmth in industrialism, thank you very much.

Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Women

There are the pleasures of the flesh, which are very fleeting, and there are the pleasures of life that are much longer lasting, like what you can get from hard work in industry. Working with metal, belts, girders, plastic, rubber, resulting in stacks of finished wares.

It may sound ridiculous to a lot of people -- mostly those infected with embarrassing diseases -- but to some of us it's really the only way to live. Why would I want to trade the standard, uniform, long-lasting output of the best industrial labor, say, for some butt ugly woman who's here today and gone tomorrow? I wouldn't!

I know, calling someone butt ugly sounds a little harsh. But bear with me, that's really the way it is. With even the best looking women, if you look at them a little closer, you see some real butt ugliness. Maybe too much girth, not enough girth, spots on their skin, thin wispy facial hair, much too tan, not enough sun, bug eyes, narrow eyes, squinty eyes, a huge honking nose, maybe one too sharp or too flat, a mouth too small or too big. Or someone who's always licking her teeth or smacking her lips.

Also, you get all these butt ugly ones with big elephant ears, hair that's a mess, hair with too much hairspray, hair that's been in a hairnet all day, hair that's bristly, hair too thick or too thin, or hair that's gray. You start looking and you immediately see wrinkles around the eyes, a furrowed brow, wrinkles around the mouth, sagging skin around the mouth, jowls, a big out of place black hair coming out of the forehead, neck sagging, or neck wrinkles. Then there's too much makeup or not enough.

On thing I always consider butt ugly is too many piercings. Some of them are extremely big, like in the ear lobe. I don't want any ear lobe holes that are big enough to fit a telescope through. Or piercings all the way up the ear, enough holes to hold a dozen birthstones. Or tongue piercings, how hideously butt ugly those are. Nose piercings the same, jewelry sticking out of the lips, nose rings, cheek rings, piercings around the eyes. It's butt ugly. Any piercings are bad, as are tattoos. Tattoos are the worst, like ugly bruises that never heal.

And speaking of the eyes, it's hideously butt ugly to have eyebrows that have been plucked and different fake ones penciled in, or eyebrows that are too thick, so she looks like Stalin or some other walrus character. I'd prefer eyebrows that are natural, haven't been messed with too much, but aren't too thick, too thin, not a forest, not cobwebs. Also, eyes that don't wander, aren't shifty, aren't weak-looking, not one looking straight out and one looking at 2 o'clock, and not crossed like a cross-eyed lion. Everyone's so crazy about Mona Lisa's eyes and smile. She's butt ugly.

It's butt ugly if the neck is too long or too short, too thick, too thin. Let's just avoid all the funkiness of extremes on necks or any other body part. I'm not looking for birth defects, birthmarks, two of anything where there should be one, one of anything where there should be two. Just keep it simple, the way nature intended, like in the old National Geographics. The tribal women walked around naked all day and the guys were smart enough to be off building squirrel traps or missionary pots.

I'm seriously against anything as hideously butt ugly as a woman whose body has problems, moving past the head and neck downward. And there's not really any reason to specifically describe each thing. You know it when you see it. If there's any deformity, any variance from a narrow standard, any sagging, any flabbiness, any hyper-thinness, anything aiming in oddball directions, any freckles, blemishes, wrinkles, differences in size, that makes for a butt ugly imbalance. You can keep it.

I find it extremely butt ugly if there's any kind of difficulties with the arms and fingers. Too narrow, too bony, fidgeting with them, fingernails that have been chewed, fingernails that are too long, fingernails with dirt under them, painted fingernails, fingernails with designs painted on them, fingernails with polish (except a very thin coat of light pink, I like that). Of course, any flab on the back of the arms would be out.

I hesitate to mention the breasts, since that's one of the main things, but a lot of them are butt ugly. And it's the same as above, the size (too big, too small), the shape (distended, pair-shaped), the feel (like five pounds of bricks or five pounds of feathers), the perkiness (too perky, not perky enough), too much separation between them (where you could join them on her back), or too much closeness (where cleavage persists even when fully nude). I'm not looking for Chesty Morgan. And I'm not looking for a body builder with shrinky dinks either.

Let's go quickly to the floor. You have the same problem with feet. They're butt ugly. I'll bet I haven't seen five women in my lifetime with feet that are presentable. They're too big, too wide, too short, or something's wrong with them. Big knobby toes, bony joints, missing the pinky toenail, problems with fungus, odor, dirty, one thing or another, hammertoes. I've heard of men (perverts with odd fetishes) who like to worship women's feet. That's disgusting. These men simply hate themselves so much they find any horrible butt ugly body part appealing.

The legs. A lot of guys say they're leg men. Not me! For the most part, they're butt ugly too. Too short, stumpy, or too long and thin. I'll give it to most women that they shave their legs. That's good, but you have to keep doing it. You rub a leg that hasn't been shaved in an hour and it's already bristly. It's like adopting a porcupine. And could they please not nick themselves so many times? The last thing, one of the last things, I want to do is rub some bristly leg and come up with blood on my fingers or a picked off scab.

Now, going up, we're up to the supposedly good stuff. Which also, frankly, is also butt ugly in so many cases. Since I don't do blue material, I need to tread lightly in this area. Of course the butt is literally butt ugly. There's no real difference between a man's and a woman's butt. The same disgusting crack up the middle. Just once, I'd like to find one that was smooth all the way across. But, since that's never happened, we're left with various grades of butt ugly ones. Too big, that's a huge problem. There's something odd about the curve of a woman that gives them bigger butts. You see big bubble ones, sticking out like bench, I hate those. And of course any woman who has to pad her pants, she's automatically disqualified.

Now, and this is the really blue part, so my vocabulary needs to be very careful. There's the meat of the goodie, as they call it. And I don't know what you think, but these are extremely butt ugly too. Like a couple of prunes sharing the rent, or a bed of oysters gone bad. There's so many flaps and folds, creases and twists, you're left with the mystery of "What's that thing supposed to look like when it's well" Then it's all mixed up in proximity to every other disgusting function of the human body, you have to conclude, "None of this was made for pleasure, just functionality." I'd need a fumigator just to consider it! Imagine the fun dates you could have with the Servicemaster guy going in first.

The human body -- I'm sorry to say -- is simply too butt ugly to deal with! Away with it! Good riddance!

That's why I stick to my work, the reliable work of industry. You have your factory. You're out there with the tools, putting pieces together, welding things, hammering them into place, heating them up with a super refined flame, then cooling them off in ice cold water in a second's time. You have a metal panel, it fits into place. And with a few quick, tight screws, it's all ready to ship.

That's how I want to spend my time. With a full day's work. Working up a sweat doing an honest day's labor ... That's what keeps me warm at night and really satisfies.