Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I guess this is where my OCD gets personally offended—like, not in a clinical sense, but in a “my brain cannot compute this level of chaos” kind of way.

We’re going to the beach. A weekend. Two days. Maybe three if we’re feeling reckless. The itinerary is essentially: sit near water, occasionally enter water, complain about sand, repeat. And yet somehow, people are out here packing like they’re relocating permanently to a coastal kingdom with no access to civilization.

Two. Giant. Suitcases.

For what? Are we planning outfit changes for every emotional phase of the tide? “This is my 9:00 a.m. contemplative shoreline look, this is my 11:30 ‘accidentally got splashed’ ensemble, and of course my 2:15 ‘dramatic walk away from the ocean’ outfit.” Meanwhile, I’m over here with one bag thinking, “Swimsuit, shorts, shirt… I think I’ve covered every possible scenario short of a royal gala breaking out next to the surf.”

And that’s the thing—where exactly are we going that requires this level of preparedness? Cabo isn’t suddenly going to announce a surprise black-tie event between margaritas. San Diego is not going to revoke your beach access because you didn’t bring six pairs of shoes. Hawaii is not sitting there thinking, “Wow, she only brought three outfits? Embarrassing. Send her back.”

It’s a beach. The dress code is “barely trying.”

But no, apparently we need options. Endless options. A backup for the backup of the backup, just in case the vibe shifts dramatically between brunch and sunset. Because nothing says “relaxing weekend” like dragging 80 pounds of ‘just in case’ through an airport so you can wear the same two things anyway.

That’s my favorite part—you know it all comes down to two outfits. The “I just got here” outfit and the “this is all I wear now” outfit. Everything else is just emotional support fabric.

So yes, maybe it’s me. Maybe my brain just prefers efficiency over hauling a portable department store across state lines. But if we’re going somewhere where the primary activity is existing near water, I feel like needing two suitcases raises some deeper philosophical questions.

Like… are we going to the beach, or are we fleeing society and starting a new one?

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, the totally normal state of things—where a blizzard is auditioning for a reboot of The Day After Tomorrow somewhere near Chicago and across Wisconsin, while Phoenix is apparently preheating itself to “surface of Mercury” levels…in March. But please, do go on about how this is just “weather being weather.”

Our proud climate-change-denying community in Whitby—armed with Facebook memes, a vague memory of one cold winter in 1996, and an unshakable belief that thermometers are part of a global conspiracy—would like you to know that none of this is unusual. Fifty-mile-an-hour gusts whipping snow sideways last week in Chicago? Seasonal. That same place casually hitting 60 degrees this weekend like nothing happened? Also seasonal. Weather just likes to keep things spicy, apparently.

And let’s not forget the grand finale: an atmospheric river absolutely soaking Hawaii like the islands offended the sky in some deeply personal way. Entire systems dumping water nonstop? Just a quirky little drizzle with ambition. Happens all the time, right?

Because clearly, the atmosphere just woke up one day and said, “You know what would be fun? Let’s do all the seasons, everywhere, all at once.” No broader pattern, no underlying cause—just Earth being whimsical. A little chaotic. Like a golden retriever with a chainsaw.

And sure, scientists have been politely waving charts, data, and increasingly panicked PowerPoints for decades. But what do they know compared to Uncle Larry, who once saw snow in April and therefore concluded the entire concept of climate change is a hoax? Case closed. Somebody get that man a Nobel Prize.

So yes, everything is perfectly normal. Blizzards one week, springtime the next, desert heat months early, and tropical regions getting wrung out like a sponge. Just your standard, everyday, absolutely-not-concerning-at-all planetary mood swing.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, the latest entry in the “ideas that definitely won’t end civilization” file: the brilliant suggestion—apparently floated by Newt “Ginger” Gingrich—that we solve problems by… nuking a canal into existence. Because when you think “infrastructure project,” you obviously think “thermonuclear detonation,” not, say, shovels or engineers.

Now, whether Gingrich actually meant it or was just spitballing in that special way certain politicians do—where every sentence sounds like it was brainstormed during a sugar high in a war room—is almost beside the point. The real question is: did Donald Trump hear it?

Because if he did, we all know how this script goes.

Step one: hear something wildly impractical.

Step two: misunderstand it completely.

Step three: repeat it confidently, louder, and with more adjectives.

Step four: insist it’s “never been done before, people are saying it’s genius.”

And suddenly, we’re one rally away from a proposal to “open up beautiful new waterways using the best nukes, tremendous nukes, nobody nukes canals like we do.”

Of course, there’s the tiny, nitpicky issue that nuclear explosions tend to come with side effects—radiation, global outrage, the minor inconvenience of turning nearby geography into a glowing cautionary tale—but let’s not get bogged down in details. Details are for experts, and experts, as we all know, are highly suspicious people who keep ruining great ideas with “facts.”

So is it true Gingrich seriously suggested nuking a canal? Maybe, maybe not. But is it believable that the idea could bounce around the echo chamber, pick up a few layers of confidence, and emerge as a fully formed “policy concept” endorsed by Donald Trump?

Absolutely.

Because in this era, the only thing more reliable than bad ideas… is their ability to somehow get worse once they’re repeated.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Not long ago, we were told—loudly, proudly—that this was America’s deal, America’s fight, and we didn’t need a single ally. Fast forward five minutes, and suddenly the same voice is out there asking the rest of the world to jump in. And the response? A global chorus of, “You started it. You handle it.”

Europe? Busy.

Asia? Also busy.

Everyone else? Mysteriously unavailable.

Turns out when you spend years insulting allies and torching relationships, they don’t sprint to your side the moment things get complicated. Who knew?

But don’t worry—we’re reassured that we don’t actually need them anyway. That’s right: we’re simultaneously begging for help and declaring independence from help. It’s less foreign policy, more emotional rollercoaster.

And then comes the strategy—if you can call it that. The war, we’re told, will end when he “feels it in his bones.” Not based on objectives, intelligence, or conditions on the ground—just a good old-fashioned skeletal hunch. Somewhere, apparently, there’s a femur whispering, “Wrap it up.”

But the real masterpiece is the reasoning for the war itself: Iran’s nuclear threat. Urgent. Existential. Can’t wait.

Which is fascinating, because we were also told not that long ago that Iran’s nuclear capability had been “completely obliterated.” Gone. Finished. Problem solved.

So now we’re left with a simple question:

If it was already obliterated… what exactly are we fighting about?

Did the nuclear program grow back? Did it reassemble itself out of sheer determination? Or—and this is a wild thought—was it never actually “obliterated” in the first place?

And let’s not forget, there was a deal in place that limited and monitored Iran’s nuclear program. Inspections, restrictions, oversight—the boring, effective stuff. But that was scrapped, because apparently diplomacy isn’t nearly as satisfying as detonations.

So here we are:

A nuclear threat that was supposedly eliminated… but now justifies a war A deal that managed it… intentionally dismantled Allies we “don’t need”… being asked for help And a war timeline dictated by bone-based intuition

It’s like canceling your fire insurance, declaring your house fireproof, then calling the neighbors for buckets when the roof starts burning—while insisting you had it under control the whole time.

At this point, the only consistent strategy is inconsistency: say everything, contradict it later, and hope nobody notices the gap between “obliterated” and “urgent threat.”

And if they do? Don’t worry. The bones will let us know what to say next.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

History has many traditions. Some nations have tea ceremonies. Others have royal parades. The modern GOP, however, has perfected a far more flexible ritual: the ceremonial blaming of the nearest Democrat for something that already happened.

Take the current episode starring Vice President J. D. Vance. With gasoline prices climbing thanks to the latest geopolitical fireworks, Vance has heroically stepped forward to explain that the real culprit is… of course… Joe Biden. Never mind that the price spike followed the war initiated by President Donald Trump. In this storytelling method, cause and effect are treated more like loose acquaintances than close relatives.

Apparently, the logic goes something like this: if Biden once lived in the same century as the problem, he is probably responsible for it.

But this creative approach to timelines is not new. The GOP has a proud history of it. After the horrific attacks of September 11 attacks, some particularly imaginative voices eventually managed to work Barack Obama into the blame narrative—even though, at the time, Obama was serving as a state senator in Illinois and was roughly as responsible for global counter-terrorism policy as the guy running the hot-dog stand outside Wrigley Field.

Still, details like chronology can be terribly inconvenient when you’re trying to build a good political ghost story.

The pattern is simple:

Something goes wrong. Someone from the GOP helped cause it. A Democrat—preferably one who was nowhere near the controls—must be located immediately.

It’s less a governing philosophy and more a national game of political hot potato, except the potato is on fire and the same people who lit the match keep yelling, “Why would Biden do this?”

At this point, it almost feels unfair to single out Trump as the first president or GOP leader to blame others for his problems. That would ignore the long, storied tradition of creative historical editing that made the moment possible.

In fact, if gas prices go any higher, we may soon discover that Biden wasn’t the only one responsible. Give it time and someone will probably trace it all the way back to Obama… or Jimmy Carter… or possibly the inventor of gasoline itself.

Because in this particular political universe, responsibility works a lot like inflation: it always seems to drift away from the people currently holding power.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

For a planet full of supposedly intelligent life, we’re having a remarkably hard time figuring out how to stop the United States from treating international relations like a toddler’s birthday party where someone else got the bigger slice of cake.

At this point the foreign policy strategy seems pretty straightforward: if you want the bombs to stop falling, just give the Transactional President exactly what he wants. Whatever it is today. Money. Praise. A shiny new deal with his name on it. Maybe a hotel licensing agreement. Possibly a gold-plated statue of himself riding an eagle while the national anthem plays. Who knows? The important thing is that he gets it immediately, because otherwise someone somewhere might get invaded before lunch.

Diplomacy used to involve complicated things like alliances, treaties, international law, and mutual interests. How quaint. Now the system appears much simpler: whoever flatters the loudest and opens their checkbook the widest gets a temporary pause in the “freedom delivery system.” It’s less like global leadership and more like trying to calm a child in the cereal aisle who has decided the world will end unless he gets the marshmallow box.

And the world, understandably, is trying to figure out the rules. Is it tariffs today? Military bases tomorrow? Naming a golf course after him? A loyalty parade? Perhaps if enough leaders pat him on the head and say, “You’re the biggest, strongest president ever,” we can avoid another round of cruise missiles being used as a mood stabilizer.

Because that’s the troubling pattern: the only thing that seems to distract the leader of the most powerful military on Earth from hurting other people is getting exactly what he wants at that exact moment. Not strategy. Not restraint. Not diplomacy. Just gratification.

Which leaves the rest of the planet in the awkward position of trying to manage a superpower the way exhausted parents manage a tantrum in a grocery store: keep your voice calm, hand over the candy, and hope he doesn’t knock over another display on the way out.

It’s an inspiring model for global stability, really.

Who knew that the key to world peace was simply appeasing the loudest kid in the room? 🌍🙄

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Armageddon: Now With Cruise Missiles and Congressional Funding

Well, here we are again. The United States is attacking Iran. Because if there’s one lesson we’ve learned over the past few decades, it’s that military action in the Middle East always works out smoothly, calms everyone down, stabilizes the region, lowers gas prices, and definitely doesn’t spiral into decades-long chaos.

But the real excitement isn’t in the Pentagon or the oil markets.

No, the real enthusiasm is coming from a very special corner of American politics—the religious End-Times crowd—who are practically giddy because apparently bombing Iran might finally kick off Armageddon.

Yes, that Armageddon. The big one. The grand finale from the Book of Revelation. Fire, plagues, cosmic battles, the whole apocalypse starter kit. And if everything goes according to plan, Jesus returns, the righteous get their heavenly upgrade, and paradise begins.

Now most people, when they hear the phrase “Middle East war,” think things like:

“This could destabilize the region.”

“This could kill a lot of innocent people.”

“This could spiral into something far worse.”

But the prophecy crowd hears the same news and thinks:

“FINALLY. We might be getting close to the season finale.”

Because in their view, wars involving Israel and its neighbors aren’t horrifying geopolitical crises—they’re plot developments. Every missile launch is basically another page turning in the biblical screenplay.

Some people watch CNN.

Others are apparently watching Revelation like it’s a sports broadcast.

“Alright folks, if this conflict spreads just a little further north, we may be looking at a full Ezekiel 38 scenario. That’s a bold move, let’s see how it plays out.”

Now let’s examine the theology driving this excitement, because it’s truly something.

The theory goes roughly like this:

War breaks out in the Middle East. Global chaos spreads. Massive destruction occurs. Jesus returns. Believers get eternal paradise.

Now you might notice a tiny logistical detail buried in the middle of that plan.

Steps two and three involve catastrophic suffering and the collapse of civilization.

But apparently that’s just the necessary setup for the heavenly real estate development that comes afterward.

In other words, the sales pitch sounds something like this:

“Yes, millions of people may die and the world may burn… but have you heard about the amenities in eternity?”

It’s a fascinating worldview where war isn’t something to avoid—it’s something to accelerate.

Diplomacy slows down prophecy.

Peace delays the Second Coming.

And if you really believe the apocalypse is the gateway to paradise, then every bomb dropped in the Middle East isn’t a tragedy…

It’s progress.

Which leads to the absolutely surreal position the United States occasionally finds itself in: a nuclear-armed superpower whose foreign policy is being cheered on by people who are actively rooting for the end of the world.

Think about that for a second.

Most civilizations try to prevent Armageddon.

We apparently have a voting bloc that’s trying to schedule it.

Call me crazy, but maybe foreign policy shouldn’t be guided by interpretations of ancient apocalyptic poetry written two thousand years ago during Roman imperial occupation.

Maybe the strategy meetings should involve diplomats, historians, economists, and people who understand the consequences of war.

Not people flipping through Revelation like they’re checking the instruction manual for how to trigger the apocalypse faster.

Because if your geopolitical strategy is literally:

“Let’s see if we can help start the biblical end of the world,”

that’s not really national security.

That’s a doomsday cult with aircraft carriers.

And honestly, if Armageddon is truly part of God’s master plan, I’m fairly certain it doesn’t require help from the Pentagon.

God probably doesn’t need a congressional authorization for the use of force.

And I’m pretty sure the Second Coming isn’t waiting for the United States military to provide air support.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The marketing department in Washington deserves a raise. Not because they’re good at democracy, mind you, but because they’re excellent at naming bills the exact opposite of what they actually do. Which brings us to the charmingly titled Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act, better known as the SAVE Act.

“Save” is such a warm word. It sounds like rescuing kittens from trees or preserving national parks. In reality, the SAVE Act appears less interested in saving democracy and more interested in carefully trimming the guest list for it.

Because if you read past the title—and lawmakers always hope you won’t—you discover the central idea: make voting harder for a whole bunch of people. Not through dramatic speeches about restricting voting, of course. That would be bad optics. Instead, it’s done through bureaucratic gymnastics like requiring proof of citizenship documents and making sure the name on your voter registration perfectly matches the name on your birth certificate.

Now, on paper that sounds simple enough. But in the real world, millions of Americans—particularly women—change their names when they marry. Suddenly the name on their birth certificate doesn’t match the name on their driver’s license, their voter registration, their bank account, their Costco membership, or the name their dog responds to.

And who, statistically speaking, is more likely to change their name after marriage? Women.

And who, historically speaking, includes a lot of married women who take their husband’s last name? Republican households.

Which means the SAVE Act may turn into the legislative equivalent of stepping on a rake.

This whole strategy actually has a bit of historical precedent. Back in 1980, conservative activist Paul Weyrich, co-founder of the Heritage Foundation, gave a speech that became legendary in political science circles. In it, he explained the electoral strategy with refreshing honesty:

“I don’t want everybody to vote… our leverage in the elections quite candidly goes up as the voting populace goes down.”

There it is. No euphemisms. No marketing. Just the blunt political math.

And that philosophy has hovered around parts of the Republican Party ever since: if expanding the electorate tends to help the Democratic Party, then perhaps the solution is not to attract more voters—but to shrink the pool.

Enter the SAVE Act, stage right, wrapped in a patriotic bow and waving a flag.

Supporters argue it protects elections from non-citizen voting, which sounds terrifying until you remember that documented cases of non-citizens voting are already extremely rare. We’re talking about a problem roughly on the scale of shark attacks in Kansas.

So the solution, naturally, is to create new hurdles for millions of actual citizens.

It’s a fascinating approach to civic participation. Instead of saying, “How do we get more Americans engaged in democracy?” the question becomes, “How do we make the paperwork just annoying enough that some of them give up?”

Because nothing screams confidence in your political ideas quite like hoping fewer people show up.

And yet the most ironic twist may be the name-change requirement. If the bill is applied strictly, a large number of married women—many of them reliable conservative voters—could suddenly discover that their birth certificate says “Susan Johnson,” their driver’s license says “Susan Miller,” and the government says, “Sorry Susan, democracy requires a paperwork scavenger hunt.”

Which means the SAVE Act might accomplish something rare in modern politics: accidentally suppressing the votes of the very coalition it hopes to protect.

In other words, after decades of carefully engineering ways to reduce turnout, someone may have finally designed a system that tells millions of loyal voters:

“Thank you for your support… unfortunately your maiden name is required for entry.”

Democracy saved. Just with fewer participants.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, the great mystery of modern governance: the miraculous disappearing act of tax dollars. Every April, Americans dutifully send their hard-earned money to Washington with the naive belief that it might come back to them in the form of something extravagant—like a bridge that doesn’t collapse, a highway without craters the size of bathtubs, or perhaps the radical luxury of affordable healthcare.

But alas, that kind of fiscal recklessness simply isn’t in the budget.

You see, fixing roads is expensive. Repairing bridges costs billions. Expanding healthcare access? Don’t be ridiculous. Where would we ever find that kind of money?

Now, blowing things up on the other side of the planet—that is a sound investment.

Bombs, after all, are the ultimate disposable purchase. You spend millions designing them, millions building them, millions transporting them, and then—poof—they’re gone in a matter of seconds. No resale value, no dividends, no economic return, no infrastructure improvement, no healthier population. Just a very expensive firework show followed by a press conference explaining how freedom has been defended.

It’s really quite efficient if you think about it. A bridge might last 80 years and benefit millions of commuters and businesses every single day. Imagine the irresponsibility of tying up money in something that productive. Much safer to convert billions of dollars into smoke and debris within a few seconds. That way no one expects long-term benefits.

And think of the accounting simplicity. Roads require maintenance. Hospitals require staffing. Schools require teachers. Infrastructure requires planning. But bombs? Once they explode, the paperwork is practically finished. The asset column becomes a crater, and everyone moves on.

Meanwhile, Americans bounce down highways that resemble lunar landscapes, drive across bridges that engineers politely describe as “structurally concerning,” and try to navigate a healthcare system where a routine medical visit costs roughly the same as a used car.

But please understand—priorities must be maintained.

If the government suddenly started pouring trillions into infrastructure, healthcare, and economic stability, people might begin expecting their tax dollars to actually improve their daily lives. That’s a dangerous precedent.

Far better to continue the current system: collect taxes from the public, solemnly explain that fixing domestic problems is unfortunately too expensive, and then immediately authorize another few billion dollars for extremely high-tech objects designed to explode dramatically somewhere far away.

After all, potholes may be annoying, but they don’t make nearly as impressive of a boom. 💣🇺🇸

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There are many traditions in the United States military. Saluting the flag. Honoring the fallen. And at a dignified transfer ceremony—when the remains of American service members return home at Dover Air Force Base—there is one particularly complicated ritual: you take your hat off.

It’s not difficult. Millions of Americans learned this before they were ten years old. Ball caps come off during the national anthem, during prayer, and certainly when six flag-draped coffins are carried off a military transport plane.

Yet somehow this proved to be an unsolvable puzzle for Donald Trump.

This is the same man who constantly assures us he loves the troops more than anyone. The same man whose supporters wrap themselves in flags, wear “Back the Blue” T-shirts, and treat military worship like a competitive sport. The same crowd that will write a 900-word Facebook post about someone kneeling during the anthem.

But when American soldiers killed in the war with Iran were brought home, the commander-in-chief showed up wearing a white “USA” baseball cap—reportedly even one sold through his own merchandise line—while saluting their coffins. Critics from across the political spectrum immediately pointed out the obvious: at a ceremony literally called a dignified transfer, maybe take the hat off. 

Apparently that was asking too much.

And just to make the moment even more surreal, some coverage on Fox News briefly showed older footage of Trump without a hat—accidentally (they say)—which critics noted had the convenient effect of hiding the actual moment from viewers. 

So let’s recap the modern definition of “support the troops”:

Start a war. Send young Americans to die in it. Receive their bodies back on American soil. Keep the campaign merch on.

But don’t worry—the red-hat brigade will still insist that they are the true defenders of the military. After all, nothing says reverence for fallen soldiers quite like refusing to remove the hat in front of their coffins.

Because apparently honoring the troops is very important… right up until it interferes with the branding. 🇺🇸🧢