Generalismo: (n.)

One who speaks with absolute authority, while being the authority on absolutely nothing.


As a member of the human race with eyeballs, ears, and a functioning neocortex, I’ve developed many reasons for loathing Donald Trump. With any luck, if you’re reading this, you’ve got a few of your own. Just in case you want to borrow some, here are a few of mine. Ya know… just for kicks:

He’s a greasy flimflam man who’s conned, corrupted, and bilked thousands of people out of their money. He’s a low rent panic merchant, sowing fear and hate with abandon. He’s a hysterical, thin-skinned reactionary. A misogynistic twerp. A crooked huckster. An exultant failure. A wrath-brimmed bully. A gaudy dilettante. He’s a bigot. A brute. A sleaze. An ass. A fool.

He’s cheerfully advocated for torture; the construction of a border wall with no sane explanation how to fund it; he’s suggested our military should murder families simply under suspicion of their being related to terrorists; he’s blithely stated that abortion should be criminalized; he’s mocked the disabled; banned journalists; he somehow remains in thrall to the misapprehension that dousing an object in gold renders it a veneer of elegance. Just recently, he’s prolonged a fight with the parents of a fallen soldier, called Hillary Clinton the devil, and kicked a crying baby out of one of his rallies. 

Class act, this guy.

Donald Trump is a man who stands in cross-armed opposition to the most basic civic virtues of this country. And grins.

He is a pauper of the soul.

Nothing about this is shocking. We all know about it. Because he’s been this way for as long as he’s been famous. And he’s been famous, I’m sorry to say, for my entire time on this planet.

But still… there’s something about Donald Trump that I loathe beyond all else. It rivals his vulgarity, his combativeness, his classless narcissism.

It’s his vagueness. His sniveling, abject vagueness… and the cowardice that’s behind it.

Donald Trump has turned vagueness into the most devastating weapon of our age. Forget about the hats – vagueness is the brand of his entire campaign. It’s the grease with which he lubricates his bullshit machine. It’s how he’s soared to such infamy… on the oily wings of meaningless sloganeering and mushy innuendo.

It’s a toxic sludge that has polluted our discourse, threatened our civic order, and advanced his own personal agenda. It’s the act of a spineless, soulless twerp without purpose or conviction… and if we had even a sip of the quick spirit of our founders, we’d send him and his brood packing.

When Donald Trump speaks, facts are irrelevant. Utterly. We need only know that with Trump, we’ll get the “best” of whatever’s there to offer. The very best. Better than you could ever believe. Many people say it’s the best.

We joke about this. Even America’s upcoming Vice President, and enthusiastic youth group talent show moderator, Tim Kaine has joked about this. We need not know the details of his plans. It’ll all be great. The best. Believe me.

Think of pretty much any Trump statement. Every time he speaks, he justifies his bizarre, racist, myopic, or invented truths by claiming to have heard them from, “plenty of people” or, “something I read” or, “people [who] tell me.”

When asked who he’d nominate to the Supreme Court, Trump responded: “really great legal scholars.”

When asked about his plan to cut corporate taxes in the face of our country’s $19 trillion dollar deficit, Trump said: “That’s right. We’re gonna grow the economy so much…”

In an interview with Scott Pelley, Trump mentioned how we need to “get back” jobs from Mexico, China, and Japan. “Everybody’s taking our jobs,” Trump explained. When asked how he would get these jobs back, Trump responded, confidently: “You get em back.”

Want to know about his economic team? “I have the smartest people on Wall Street lined up already.”

How will he finance civic improvements and his general attempt to “make America great again”? “We’re going to absolutely be able to pay for it. My economy will expand so rapidly– we’re going to take jobs back from other countries. And we will be able to pay for it.”

When challenged by NJ Senator (future president and captain of my soul) Cory Booker, Trump insisted: “I know more about Cory Booker than he knows about himself.”

Do you hear the innuendo? Do you see the circular logic? The bullshit. Can you smell it?There is no detail here. Not a jot. Not a comma. There’s no thinking. There’s no plan. No consideration. No dedication. No belief. There’s nary the flicker of a fucking neuron.

His every sentence is the rank exhaust of a mind unburdened by thought, consideration, or expertise. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And worse… he doesn’t care.

Donald Trump knows about, cares about, and understands nothing. Nothing. He’s an idiot. And were this a different time, a different country, and I suppose were human beings not the dullards they seem so dead set to be… this would be an issue. But he wears his idiocy with gaudy confidence. Absolute, unquestioned, ironclad, fulminating confidence. And this is what makes him so powerful.

Consider how cowardly this is. The cruelest cowardice. The kind of cowardice that, during wartime, would get you shot. Trump uses this rhetorical vagueness to elide. To slither. To slime his way away from any responsibility for what he says or does. He’s turning the entire country on its head. He’s fomenting racial, cultural, and religious fury. He’s urging violence at his rallies. He’s raging, insisting we tear the whole system down around us… yet is bereft of any plausible reason as to why, or any suggestion for what’s to be built after the rubble is swept away.

This is the linguistic equivalent of giving a pistol to an eight-year-old.

It is rhetorical terrorism.

And as such, it renders Donald Trump an enemy of this country, its principles, an its people.

He is a traitor to the human race. An enemy of thought.

He should be torn out of the goddamn world.


Hokum’s Razor: (n.)

All things being equal: the most simplistic explanation is the one most likely to be believed.


Okay. This is gonna be nuts.

I am going to prove the principle of Hokum’s Razor to you. And weirdly enough, there’s no better example of it than the word itself.

Stick with me, k?

Hokum’s Razor is a verbal riff on two things:

First – the word “hokum” which is a fun way of saying “nonsense.”

And Second – Occam’s Razor – the 14th century philosophical precept which most of us think means something like this:

“All things being equal, the simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”

Here’s the thing: That’s not what Occam’s Razor says.

It’s actually a line from the movie “Contact,” and is a slightly fancified way of putting this generally held scientific principle:

“When there are two competing explanations for an event, the simpler one is more likely.” 

Unfortunately, this principle also is not Occam’s Razor. It’s actually another simplification of an entirely different statement:

“We are to admit no more causes of natural things than such as are both true and sufficient to explain their appearances.”

This… also… is not Occam’s Razor. William of Ockham didn’t write that statement. Isaac Newton did. In his own reinterpretation of Occam’s Razor. Even friggin Newton wanted a chance at rewriting the goddamn thing.

So… what the hell is Occam’s Razor? Naturally, there are several different statements that scholars say are William of Ockham’s words. And, surprise surprise… they’re all in Latin.

I’m gonna give you my favorite one. Not that I read Latin. I don’t. It’s just the most impressive-sounding one. It it is:

“Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem”

Translated into English, this means – and I’m not kidding:

Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily.

Like, really. That’s what it means in English. Don’t complicate shit… As if he knew people were going to spend centuries quoting and misquoting him.

Please join me as I soak in this perfect, bonkers irony.


As I was saying…

Do you see how I inadvertently proved my own point? I didn’t do this on purpose – I realized it after the fact.

I could have based the definition to Hokum’s Razor on that statement… on Occam’s actual Razor… but I didn’t. Because that statement (despite its precise language) is actually far more complicated a thought than Contact’s definition – “All things being equal, the simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”

Occam’s Razor is too tough an idea. Too unforgiving. It’s a precept often used by physicists to strip away faff, metaphysical irrelevancies – as strict and as serious as a carpenter’s rasp.

It’s too complicated.

I’m not smart enough to really understand it.

So I chose the simpler one.

And this… I think… is why we’re fucked.

We’re fucked because I’m dumb. And because I’m right.

When faced with a complex set of circumstances… most people will choose to believe whatever’s easiest to understand. Because the vast majority of us just don’t have the time for nuance. True complexity makes us itch. Even the moderately educated, and reasonably intelligent among us (hello!) don’t want to dedicate ourselves to the mastery of a concept.

We’re happy just to fudge it.

And that, I’m sorry to say, is why Donald Trump is probably going to be our next president.

Because on the one hand we have Hillary Clinton who (despite it all) is a sober-minded, dedicated policy machine. She’s a seasoned states-person, and a strict rationalist who understands and thrives on the complexities of the issues facing this country and the world at large.

And then there’s Donald Trump. He’s gonna, “Make America Great Again.”

Just as Bush distorted, packaged, and sold the War on Terror… because, “They hate us for our freedom.”

Just as religions elide their inconsistencies… because, “God works in mysterious ways.”

Just as the NRA will continue to obstruct gun restrictions… because, “the only thing to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”

Because the world is way too much to think about… and questions keep us up at night.

Because ignorance truly is bliss.


Horrorism: (n.)

1. Resolute political inaction in response to violence, death, and destruction.

2. A culture growing accustomed to Terrorism.


Five days ago, a man walked into a gay bar in Orlando and murdered 49 people with a legally-purchased assault rifle. We have a name for this.

We call it, “terrorism.”

In the days that followed, we’ve all responded in our own particular portrayals of grief – each role sickeningly familiar:

Most of us post messages of sorrow and outrage to social media. Many of those messages lead to arguments that lead nowhere. Our leaders confess their heartache and frustration, while pundits and essayists ferret out what’s to blame. One by one, our late-night funnymen (and woman!) add their newest statements of sorrowbewilderment, outrage, and solidarity.

The NRA, sniffing blood in the air, responds with their standard position of moral cowardice and reptilian self-interest.

That we’ve become so accustomed to this – the slaughter of our neighbors – and that our systems of government have been either unable or unwilling to muster any substantive action against it… that, I propose, requires its own term.

I call it “horrorism.”

I’ll explain…

Back in college, I had this really great Gothic Lit professor. He was born for the role. As if by mandate of the Greek muse of Irony: he was hollow-cheeked and gaunt, a morbid yet ultimately benevolent weirdo who looked entirely too much like Edgar Allan Poe. He lectured in a dreamy, faraway croak. His office was a book-strewn crypt in the basement of my campus’ oldest and most begargoyled building.

Oh, and his surname was the Italian word for dark.

All of this is true.

I was probably 19 when I took his class. Which, I’m sorry to say, was a while ago. And while most of his lectures have faded over time… one lesson sticks with me: the difference between Terror and Horror.

Now to you or me, terror and horror are pretty interchangeable. Were there some distinction to be drawn, it’d surely be a tedious and pedantic one. We can swap those terms in conversation without any major derailment of understanding. For example: as a borderline arachnophobe, it doesn’t really matter what I call the feeling I have about, say, a spider crawling up my leg – the outcome remains the same: I will rip off my clothes and set the couch on fire.

But there is a distinction to be drawn, though. And while it is predominantly a somewhat fusty, academic distinction… it’s still an important one.

Here’s the difference:

Terror comes first.

Terror is dread. It’s what we feel in anticipation of something horrible. In slasher movies, Terror is the coed reaching for the blood-smeared doorknob.

Horror is what she sees once she opens the door. It’s terror, realized. It’s what we’re left to live with once our fears have come to pass.

To paraphrase my Gothic Lit professor: Terror is the smell of a corpse in a dark room. Horror is what you see when you finally turn on the lights.

According to the Gun Violence Archive, there have been 23,965 “incidents” (by which they refer to shootings) this year.

141 of those incidents were classified as Mass Shootings.

6,149 people have been killed.

260 were children.

That gun violence of this magnitude can inflict itself on so many people without warning or reason – that it could happen to any one of us at any moment: that’s terror.

That even in the face of such unimaginable violence and sorrow – that this terror has become normalized by the feckless self-interest of our leaders, that we would rather fight about this online than see it changed in the world, that  billion dollar industries in this country thrive on the harm we cause one another, that millions of Americans would hold their desire to own a machine gun above another person’s right to not be murdered by one, that we could witness the murder of children and somehow be unmoved: that’s horror.

If we’re going to have to live with this as our new reality – I think it’s only fitting that we give it a name.

The fear of violence inflicted on us is terrorism.

But our inaction is a violence we inflict upon ourselves.

It’s time we call it what it is.


Hothstage: (n.)

One held captive for a time by an insurmountable amount of snow.



I’m a sucker for a snow day.

I love everything about it – the peacefulness of it, the white noise that fills the house as snow tings against the windows, the slow, patient obliteration of every discernable shape outside. Getting snowed in is an event, a little bit of home theater complete with set dressing and props: the blanket cocoons and muppet movies on repeat, the stovetop cauldrons of chicken soup and half-finished board games. There’s something illicit about snow days; they feel like you’re getting away with something… or from something – the humdrum responsibilities that come with being a living, functioning human being.

Big storms throw everything into chaos. They shut down cities and ground airlines. They force the purveyors of public transportation to cancel their routes. They stuff grocery stores to bursting with the harried and the panicked… thousands upon thousands of gortex-clad people in a desperate scramble for perishable necessities – bread and eggs and milk. Big storms upend routine. Force you to stay in place. They make you sit. Hunker down. Talk. Go slow. Snow storms make you make the most of them.

And in this way, they are very much like the opening of The Empire Strikes Back.

How’s that for a transition?

I can hear you duh’ing me, Internet. Snow. Hoth. Snow on Hoth. Duh. I get it. But it’s more than that.

The first third of ESB is a great piece of storytelling. It opens on the second chapter of a massive saga by slowing things waaaay waaaay down. It takes its time to set the stage, reintroduce its characters and remind us of what they’re up against. It’s in those slow opening moments that we start to see real characters develop. We see them deepen their friendships and start falling in love, we see a hero take the next essential steps in his journey, and we get a crystal clear metaphor of just how plucky and hardscrabble the good guys really are: fresh from their big victory at the end of the previous film and with the bad guys hot on their trail, the Alliance takes a deep breath, bundles up, and carves a tiny bit of solace out of a miserable, frozen wasteworld. Good metaphor.

All of this comes about because the story, essentially, takes a snow day. It stops. It wraps itself up. It snuggles up to the people who matter most, and lets the snow fall outside. ESB is my favorite (my only favorite) Star Wars movie… due in large part to that very thing.

It takes its time.

I love taking my time. It’s my favorite way of getting where I’m going.

So, me? I’m excited about Jonas. I can see him scudding closer and closer, and I don’t mind a bit. I’m locked and loaded; got my kitchen fully stocked, two dozy cats, a girlfriend, some books, a video game, and some movies. Empire Strikes Back, naturally.

I’m staying put this weekend. And I can’t wait to see where that takes me.




Swallop: (n.)

The feeling of being clobbered in the chest by a hasty gulp from a carbonated drink.


One day a few years ago, I’d taken my car in to the garage to have some expensive part re-expensived. After a mere five minutes I’d managed to annoy the mechanic, so when he offered to get me a ride back to my apartment (as it would take the day to re-expensive my car), I panicked and insisted that I could walk.

This was in August. In New Jersey. And the heat and humidity had already reached critical, mouth-like levels. This was also during the long chapter of my life when I refused to wear shorts (an almost Calvinist period of affected self-denial, courtesy of my 20s). So, leaving him my contact information, I trudged out the door and waded my way through a hundreds-degree swamp of blinding sunlight, and choking humidity.

In jeans.

For about four or five miles.

By the time I made it home, I was quite near death. I shambled into my apartment groaning like a madman. I unbuckled my jeans which, being completely soaked-through with sweat, dropped to the floor and pooled around my feet. I needed hydration desperately, so I flung open my refrigerator and grabbed a frigid bottle of seltzer water, which I downed in one sloppy, guzzling swig.

All was slaked and satisfied. All was crisp and cool. And in an instant… regret pierced relief like a knife in the heart.

The carbonation, all jazzed up by its whitewater splashing down my gullet, went full supernova in my esophagus. It felt like I’d swallowed a hot rock, or a fistfull of bees. My eyes watered, my ears rang. I listed about the kitchen like a drunkard, too dazed to be still, too beset to adequately flail. I pounded my hand on the countertop once, twice, the pressure building and building in my chest… as if at any moment a fount of seltzer would burst, Xenomorphically, through my ribcage and redecorate my kitchen in Panebianco Red.

Ready to pop, I reeled back, opened my mouth wide, groaned the guttural groan of the over-seltzered… and I burped. Burped a burp that was more than a burp – it was a kind of birth. A tearing, keening, muscle-knotting display of physiological theater. A kind of meat opera.

I coughed. I drooled. I dabbed tears from my eyes. And finally I laughed – alone, in my underwear, standing in my kitchen beside an open refrigerator, my pants piled about my ankles, an upended bottle of seltzer glugging its remaining contents onto the floor. And, as ever, my brainless cat standing sentinel, gawping at me in abject befuddlement.

In another few seconds, that moment would be gone. I would wipe my face and pull my pants up… pat my cat on his furry head, and move on with my day. I’d cancel my car-contingent plans. I’d clean my cat’s litter box. I’d make a sandwich, and watch an episode of Frasier (no doubt). I’d return to the ordinary stuff of days that right now I couldn’t possibly recall with any accuracy.

But that episode with the seltzer bottle – that I can’t possibly forget. Moreover, it acts in my memory like a lens – bringing into sharp focus the moments that proceeded and followed it. Amid all the things I’ve forgotten – important and inconsequential alike – this day I remember in vivid detail. Had it not been for that idiot spasm of seltzer-fueled grotesquerie, followed by the absurdity of me in my undies, drooling like a doofus and wiping my face on my forearm… I wouldn’t remember that day at all.

That’s what a moment of foolishness does – it sticks in your memory like a pushpin in a photograph. It holds fast that which time and nature seem dead-set to take away. And the only cost is a little bit of pride, and the reminder that your body is way more gross than you’d like to admit.

How lucky is that?


Drivebye: (n.)

A rapid and indiscriminate farewell made while exiting.


You’re tired.

Your feet hurt.

You’ve partied enough.

You don’t even remember why you came to this party.

And there’s an uncomfortably good chance you were responsible for the toilet overflowing.

Time for a hasty exit. Are you actually going to shake everyone’s hand? Hug everyone you said hi to?

No way. Huggin’s for chumps.







Reb Herring: (n.)

A racist symbol that draws attention away from the systemic inequality and hatred it represents.


Let’s start here: South Carolina should take the Confederate flag down.

*NB: I will be using South Carolina as a stand-in for any government, institution, or individual who flies or wears that particular symbol.*

The First Amendment purist in me maintains they shouldn’t be made to take it down. I don’t think anyone has the right to do that. But the people (legislature, governor… whomever it is that makes the official decision) of South Carolina should absolutely choose to respect the wishes of so many Americans (and, ya know, the tenets of basic human decency), and remove the Confederate flag from their state capital – and ideally, everywhere.

But here’s the thing – even if it is taken down – it doesn’t actually change anything.

This issue has overwhelmed the media right now. It’s being discussed on every news channel – editorialized and analyzed and explored in countless magazines and blogs. Facebook is replete with endless threads debating and pontificating on either side of the issue. It’s the one hashtag to rule them all.

But all I can wonder is what the actual outcome of its removal would be.

The lowering of the flag would be a kind of victory, yes. For well over a century, it has been a symbol of hate and violence and treason, and to fly it today over a state capital is a symbol in and of itself. It is a tacit suggestion that the government of that place, and the people it represents, endorses those beliefs. It’s vulgar and hateful, and a daily reminder to some that they will never be truly welcome, and that the suffering their ancestors endured, and the inequities they themselves must face are alive and well right there… in the seat of that state’s political leadership.

Lowering that flag would be a victory of symbolism, for certain.

But we’ve had symbolic victories so many times in our history. Marches and elections and even legislation. And while those symbols have represented a beautiful and moral intention… they’ve honestly done little to render a meaningful change in the fixed and unjust realities they opposed.

Poverty has worsened. Racism has woven itself into every single institution of power. Rates of incarceration, drug policy, education, home ownership… you know the list… there’s no need for me to continue it. The effects of institutionalized racism have become a kind of offhand reality in this country. And those realities and the horrifying effects they have on our neighbors remain unchanged no matter how many symbols we upturn.

The men and women protesting right now understand far better than I ever will the toil that remains to turn a symbolic victory into something real.

Doubtless, they have known and lived an inequity I’ve only read about.

And really, I’m not writing this to them. I’m writing this to people like me. Those with the privilege to talk about these symbols, just to hear ourselves talk. People who rant and speechify and tweet tweet tweet about our thoughts and feelings, in the absence of real, substantive action.

We should take the flag down. Yes. And we should feel pride in its absence. But let’s not for a moment think that its removal erases the very real and persistent inequities it represented. Or that we are in any way released from our responsibility to act, to vote, to work, to toil, and to fight for the betterment and equality of our neighbors.