Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s Christmas Day, that sacred annual pause when we celebrate peace on Earth, goodwill toward men, and—if you’re running certain political operations—ICE raids before brunch. While some families exchange socks and awkward hugs, Christie Gnome and Dumb Donald, the Mango Mussolini himself, are faithfully observing the season in their own tradition: cruelty, gift-wrapped in buzzwords and tied up with a ribbon of selective outrage.

This is, after all, the season of giving. Giving speeches about law and order. Giving interviews about “security.” Giving marching orders to agents to knock on doors in the dead of night. And taking—taking parents from kids, taking workers from jobs, taking communities and calling it “restoration.” It’s a holiday miracle how the Nativity gets reinterpreted as a zoning ordinance and the Three Wise Men are replaced with three press releases explaining why compassion is unaffordable this quarter.

We’re told these raids are about “gentrifying the country,” which is a fascinating euphemism, because gentrification usually means nicer coffee shops and inexplicably expensive toast—not a coordinated effort to make America look more like a catalog model from 1954. Funny how the dragnet never seems to snag immigrants from places with vowels you can pronounce without rolling an R. No Scandinavians sprinting from yoga studios. No Irish nannies tackled outside brownstones. No Canadians—politely apologizing, no doubt—being escorted away from artisanal breweries. The enforcement has a palette, and it’s aggressively beige.

Meanwhile, Christie Gnome plays the dutiful ornament on the tree of enforcement, all tinsel and talking points, while the Mango Mussolini conducts the choir: louder, meaner, and wildly off-key. “Chief Con” is a fitting title—part carnival barker, part strongman cosplay, all confidence and no receipts. He assures us this is about fairness, which is rich, considering fairness here means targeting the same faces, the same neighborhoods, the same accents, year after year, like a cruel Advent calendar where every door opens to the same punishment.

So Merry Christmas, America. Light the candles, sing the carols, and watch as the calendar keeps turning while the world keeps revolving—sometimes forward, sometimes in shameful little circles. If there’s a lesson in this season, it’s that peace on Earth is optional, goodwill is conditional, and the people who talk the loudest about Christian values are often the ones least interested in practicing them. Still, hope persists—quiet, stubborn, and inconvenient—waiting for a year when Christmas is about giving again, not taking notes on who looks “out of place.”

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Capitalist Fever Dream and the Healthcare Circle Jerk

I genuinely cannot wrap my head around the libertarian-themed masturbation festival that passes for Republican healthcare policy. You know the one: a room full of very serious people, furiously congratulating themselves for discovering that healthcare is not a benefit to society—while standing in a society, breathing public air, driving on public roads, protected by public fire departments, and occasionally rescued by public emergency rooms they insist should cost the price of a small yacht.

Somehow, in this fantasy, healthcare is a personal luxury, like a Rolex or a third vacation home, rather than the basic maintenance required to keep human beings upright and functioning. Republicans—especially the Scrooge McDuck wing, swimming naked through their gold coins—have decided that the best possible system is one where Americans pay exorbitant amounts for insulin, chemotherapy, and emergency surgery, while literally every other developed nation on Earth has said, “Wow, that’s insane. Let’s not do that.”

And before anyone screams “SOCIALISM,” let’s pause and acknowledge reality: Germany has universal healthcare. Japan has universal healthcare. Canada has universal healthcare. The UK has universal healthcare. France, Australia, South Korea—pick a capitalist country, throw a dart, and chances are they figured out that sick, starving, bankrupt people make terrible workers and even worse consumers. Yet somehow, America—home of the spreadsheet warriors and MBA bros—can’t grasp this radical economic insight.

Which is wild, because this is Econ 101. Not graduate-level Marxist theory. Not a leftist manifesto. Introductory economics. A functioning capitalist system requires participation. People must be alive. People must be healthy enough to show up. People must not be one ambulance ride away from lifelong debt servitude.

If workers can’t eat, they can’t work.

If workers aren’t healthy, they can’t work.

If workers are drowning in medical debt, they can’t spend, invest, innovate, or take risks.

This isn’t ideology—it’s arithmetic.

Yet here we are, watching grown adults argue that a system where people delay cancer screenings, ration insulin, and avoid the doctor until they’re practically dead is somehow good for capitalism. Because nothing screams “robust free market” like a workforce too sick, stressed, and broke to participate in it.

The irony is breathtaking. The same people who worship at the altar of productivity, GDP, and “job creators” are actively sabotaging the very inputs their beloved system requires. They don’t want healthy workers; they want desperate ones. People chained to jobs for insurance, too afraid to quit, organize, or innovate because losing employment means losing access to basic survival.

This isn’t rugged individualism. It’s feudalism with copays.

And let’s be honest: this has nothing to do with efficiency or freedom. If it did, we’d be copying the systems that work better and cost less. This is about protecting profit margins for middlemen who add no value while extracting billions. It’s about preserving a hierarchy where pain is a feature, not a bug—because pain keeps people compliant.

So no, I still can’t wrap my head around it. A capitalism fever dream where human beings are expendable inputs, healthcare is a privilege, and society pretends this is rational. The rest of the world solved this problem decades ago—not because they’re more “left,” but because they’re more serious.

America’s healthcare debate isn’t about economics. It’s about whether we’re willing to admit the obvious: a society that refuses to keep its people healthy is not pro-capitalist, pro-freedom, or pro-anything except cruelty dressed up as ideology.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s December 25.

Call it Christmas, Saturnalia, Sol Invictus, Festivus, or just that day in December when the stores are finally closed and no one expects anything from you anymore. The labels are flexible; the exhaustion is universal.

This is the day when months of manic planning—decorations, travel logistics, gift anxiety, and the annual debate over whether candles near dry pine trees are “festive” or “reckless”—are mercifully over. The calendar exhales. The credit cards whimper. The wrapping paper begins its slow migration to landfills, where it will join the ghosts of resolutions past.

Now begins the quiet, liminal week before the New Year: the societal pause where no one knows what day it is, emails feel optional, and time itself seems to be held together by leftover pie. This is when we reflect. We look back on the year and decide whether it was good, bad, or just aggressively there. We tally our wins, our losses, and our ability to survive all of it without screaming in a Target parking lot.

Soon, we’ll make promises. Grand ones. Meaningful ones. Promises about health, patience, budgets, boundaries, and maybe learning Italian for reasons that remain unclear. We will mean them sincerely—for about three weeks. And that’s okay. The ritual isn’t about success; it’s about hope, or at least optimism with a short attention span.

Whatever you celebrate—or don’t—the truth remains: the calendar keeps turning. The planet keeps spinning. History keeps lurching forward, sometimes gracefully, sometimes like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Even with the mango-hued menace currently haunting the White House, this too shall pass. Empires wobble, headlines fade, and eventually, even the loudest ego becomes a footnote.

So call today whatever you like. Celebrate, rest, reflect, or ignore it entirely. Tomorrow will come regardless. And somehow—against all evidence—we’ll still be here, making it through, one December at a time.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

George Bailey never wanted to work for Bailey Global Financial Holdings, LLC. He wanted to travel, to build things, to leave his small town and see a world that hadn’t yet been securitized, leveraged, and wrapped in a cheerful app interface. But life, as always, had other plans—mostly delivered via email with the subject line “URGENT: Q4 Liquidity Event.”

Bailey Global wasn’t a humble savings and loan anymore. It was a “too-big-to-fail, too-big-to-understand” institution with a glass headquarters, a slogan about community, and a CEO who spoke exclusively in shareholder value metaphors. The town of Bedford Falls still existed, technically, but most of it was owned by subsidiaries, shell corporations, or “strategic partners” headquartered three time zones away.

George was a middle manager now—Vice President of Regional Synergies—which meant he was important enough to be blamed but not important enough to decide anything.

On Christmas Eve, the algorithm noticed a problem.

A few billion dollars—real money only in theory—had vanished during a routine overnight transfer. Not stolen, exactly. Misplaced. The system calmly flagged it, auto-generated a risk memo, and forwarded it to George, because the algorithm had determined he possessed the optimal blend of accountability and disposability.

By 6 p.m., compliance, legal, and HR were all on the call. They spoke gently, sympathetically, the way people do when they are about to destroy your life with perfect professionalism.

“George,” they said, “this isn’t personal. But regulators need a name.”

By 8 p.m., George stood on the edge of a bridge—not because he was broke, but because he was irrelevant. His entire existence had been reduced to a footnote in a quarterly report titled Losses Absorbed.

That’s when Clarence appeared.

Clarence wasn’t an angel with wings. He was a burned-out contractor from a consulting firm that had once tried to fix the bank’s risk models and failed. His badge still worked, which in this world counted as a miracle.

“I’m here to show you what the world would be like if you’d never been born,” Clarence said, pulling out a tablet.

With a swipe, Bedford Falls transformed.

Without George, the bank still existed—bigger, sleeker, more profitable. The same houses lined the streets, only now they were rentals owned by an investment fund based offshore. The old family businesses were gone, replaced by identical storefronts selling the same five products at “dynamic prices.”

George’s brother was still a hero—but his medical debt had bankrupted him after the parade.

Mary still lived in town, working three jobs, all classified as “independent contractor opportunities,” none offering health insurance.

And the bank? The bank had paid record bonuses the year George was never born. The missing billions had been written off, the stock rebounded, and the CEO had testified before Congress with a concerned expression and no consequences.

“See?” Clarence said. “The system doesn’t collapse without you. It just gets colder.”

George noticed something else: in this world, no one even remembered the loss. No panic, no community rally, no neighbors showing up with envelopes of cash. Because there were no neighbors anymore—only customers, users, and risk profiles.

“But I helped people,” George said. “I kept homes affordable. I made sure people mattered.”

Clarence nodded. “You slowed the machine. That’s the sin it never forgives.”

Back on the bridge, George wished—desperately—not for money or success, but to matter again.

When he returned home, nothing miraculous happened.

No townspeople flooded in. No pile of cash saved him. The bank still fired him. The regulators still fined the company a fraction of what it lost. The CEO still got a bonus.

But something had changed.

George woke up the next morning and told his story. Not to the bank, but to the town. To journalists. To anyone who would listen. He named the machine. He explained how it worked. He reminded people that finance was supposed to serve life—not consume it.

The bank called him “disgruntled.” The stock dipped for a day.

But the story spread.

And somewhere—quietly, inconveniently—people began asking dangerous questions again.

Clarence watched from a distance, checking his tablet.

“Every time a person refuses to believe this is just how things are,” he said, “an angel gets their wings.”

And somewhere in the distance, a bell rang—muted, algorithmically filtered, but still ringing.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It was Christmas Eve, 2025, and the city glowed the way it always did—towering LED screens looping holiday ads, drones blinking red and green above traffic, and storefront windows promising joy, luxury, and limited-time offers. Snow fell softly, just enough to look festive on camera, not enough to slow anyone down.

On the corner outside a closed pharmacy sat a little girl in a too-thin hoodie, her sneakers held together with duct tape. Her phone—three generations out of date, screen cracked like a spiderweb—had died hours ago. No data. No battery. No way to call anyone who might care.

She wasn’t selling matches. No one needed matches anymore.

She was selling nothing—which is what happens when you’re too young to work, too poor to shop, and too invisible to matter.

People hurried past her, eyes locked on smartwatches and notifications. A man livestreamed himself handing a coffee to a friend while stepping around her. A woman posted #Blessed as she nearly tripped over the girl’s backpack. Somewhere nearby, a church hosted a candlelight service sponsored by a telecom company.

The girl pulled a single match from her pocket. She didn’t really know why she still had them—maybe they’d been her mother’s. Maybe they were just something small she hadn’t lost yet.

She struck it.

In the flicker, she saw warmth: a tiny apartment with the heat actually on, a table with food that didn’t come from a convenience store, hands reaching for hers without checking a phone first. The flame went out.

She struck another.

Now she saw a Christmas tree—not perfect, but real. No filters. No ads. Just lights and ornaments made by someone who cared. For a moment, she felt safe. The match burned down to her fingers and disappeared.

She struck a third.

This time, she saw her grandmother—the one person who had ever told her she mattered. Her grandmother didn’t say work harder or be grateful or everything happens for a reason. She just opened her arms.

The girl struck all the remaining matches at once, afraid of the dark, afraid of the cold, afraid of being alone again. In their brief, beautiful glow, she felt something close to peace.

By morning, the snow had covered her completely.

The news mentioned her for twelve seconds. A ticker scrolled beneath the anchor: “Tragic reminder of homelessness during the holidays.” Comments poured in—thoughts, prayers, and arguments about personal responsibility. A crowdfunding link went up, then was quickly forgotten when a celebrity scandal broke an hour later.

By noon, the sidewalk was cleared. The city moved on.

And somewhere deep in the data centers humming beneath the world, the lights stayed on, the ads kept playing, and Christmas continued—warm, bright, and just out of reach.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I saw a bumper sticker today that said LOVE, except it didn’t actually say love. It threatened it. The letters were spelled out with an AR-style rifle, handguns, and a grenade—because apparently in some deeply confused corners of America, the highest expression of affection is a catalog from a weapons manufacturer.

And I just stared at it, trying to understand what kind of moral gymnastics you have to perform to arrive at the conclusion that instruments engineered for the sole purpose of killing human beings are an appropriate font choice for the word love.

Love.

Not defense.

Not fear.

Not don’t tread on me.

But love.

That sticker didn’t say “I care about my family.” It said, “I confuse power with virtue.” It didn’t say “I value life.” It said, “My emotional vocabulary begins and ends with violence.” Because when you spell love with guns, what you’re really saying is that your vision of human connection is conditional, armed, and itching for a justification.

Let’s be very clear: guns are not symbols of love. Grenades are not metaphors for compassion. An AR rifle is not an abstract philosophical concept—it is a machine designed to efficiently end lives. That is its purpose. That is its job description. No amount of flag decals or cursive script changes that reality.

So when someone chooses those tools to represent love, what they’re actually advertising is not affection but paranoia. Not community but alienation. Not strength but fear so intense it needs to cosplay as toughness.

Because real love is vulnerable. Love is unarmed. Love requires trust, empathy, patience, and the terrifying act of not assuming everyone around you is an enemy. And for people who have built their entire identity around suspicion and grievance, that kind of love is unbearable. It’s much easier to love something cold, mechanical, and lethal—something that doesn’t ask you to grow or listen or care.

That bumper sticker wasn’t a celebration of love. It was a confession. A confession that somewhere along the way, we let marketing, politics, and rage rot a perfectly good word until it could be repurposed as a threat. Until love meant “agree with me or else.”

And that’s the saddest part. Not that someone owns guns. Not even that they like them. But that when asked—implicitly, by a single word—what love looks like, they answered with objects designed to make sure someone else never gets to experience it again.

That’s not love.

That’s a warning label.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring—not even the mouse.

The tree lights flickered, cheap LEDs dim,

Like promises made and then gutted on a whim.

Dad sat alone by the glow of a screen,

Blue light despair in the space in between

Hope and exhaustion, caffeine and dread,

Scrolling past headlines he wished he’d misread.

The stockings hung limp, no real sense of cheer,

Inflation-adjusted dreams cancelled this year.

The furnace hummed like a tired old friend,

Much like the faith that things might mend.

He stared at the bills—medical, rent,

Student loans haunting the youth that were spent.

He whispered, “Maybe ’26… maybe then,”

As if hope itself were a stubborn old pen.

When bing! went the alert, loud, shrill, and absurd,

Another notification, another dumb word.

The anchor looked grave, the chyron screamed bright:

“Donald Says Greenland Is Key to Our Might.”

“Strategically important,” the headline declared,

As if conquest were casual, as if anyone cared.

“Why stop at maps?” Dad muttered with spite,

“When fantasy wars keep him busy at night.”

Another line scrolled—his jaw clenched tight:

Ships bombed “somewhere,” Venezuela in sight.

Details were foggy, the justifications thin,

Freedom™, apparently, needed more tin.

Dad leaned back slowly, rubbed eyes grown sore,

From watching the world slide closer to war.

He glanced down the hall at a bedroom once small,

Now housing a twenty-year-old, adulthood and all.

A kid who grew up on lockdowns and lies,

On drills, on debt, on normalized cries.

Too old for toys, too young for a flag,

Yet just the right age for a body bag.

Dad thought of the letters, the drafts, the call,

The “service” speeches that mean nothing at all.

He pictured a future traded for pride,

For an ego that needed the world to comply.

Outside, a drone buzzed—not reindeer, no sleigh,

Just surveillance humming softly away.

No magic, no miracles, no angels in flight,

Just algorithms watching us sleep through the night.

So Dad shut the laptop, the glow finally gone,

The room left with shadows and the quiet of dawn.

He whispered a prayer—not patriotic, not loud,

Just human, exhausted, and quietly proud.

“Please let them live. Please let them stay home.

Please let this madness not be what they’re shown.

And if hope still exists when this chapter is through,

Let it arrive late—but let it be true.”

’Twas the night before Christmas in a world gone askew,

Where peace felt outdated and truth overdue.

And somewhere beneath all the fear and the fright,

A father still wished for a silent good night.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

From the Rubicon to the Billionaire Bunker: A Love Letter to a Republic in Denial

As the United States limps toward its 250th birthday, it’s worth noting that this is about the age when great republics stop throwing dinner parties and start arguing about who gets the knives. Rome, famously, made it to roughly the same milestone before discovering that “eternal” is more of a branding concept than a guarantee.

Rome, you’ll recall, proudly declared itself a republic. Democracy-ish, anyway. Sure, only male property owners counted, slaves were a thing, women were a punchline, and the Senate was basically a country club with togas—but still, vibes. Sound familiar? Replace “toga” with “blue suit,” “senator” with “donor-funded incumbent,” and you’ve got C-SPAN with better lighting.

America, of course, was not supposed to be Rome. The Founders read Roman history the way modern Americans read WebMD: obsessively and with great confidence they wouldn’t make the same mistakes. No kings! No emperors! No concentration of power! Checks and balances! Virtue! Civic responsibility! And for about five minutes, that worked.

Rome didn’t collapse because of barbarian hordes alone—that’s the cinematic version. The real rot set in when wealth consolidated into the hands of a tiny elite, political power followed the money, and public institutions became props in a performance staged for the masses. The Senate became a rubber stamp. Elections became pageantry. The republic hollowed out long before it fell down.

Again—sound familiar?

In Rome, a few ultra-wealthy families owned everything: land, armies, politicians. In America, we call them “job creators” and give them tax cuts so generous they make Caesar’s triumphs look modest. Rome had bread and circuses to keep the public docile; we have culture wars and cable news panels yelling at each other while billionaires quietly buy another senator.

Rome didn’t intend to become an empire—it just kept expanding “for security reasons.” America didn’t intend to become an empire either; we just accidentally built military bases everywhere and call it “defense.” Totally different. Completely.

And just like Rome, when inequality grew unbearable, strongmen emerged promising to “restore greatness,” “fix corruption,” and “represent the real people.” They always do. Rome got Caesar. America keeps auditioning.

The irony is that Rome knew what was happening. Writers warned about corruption. Philosophers lamented lost virtue. Senators gave impassioned speeches while cashing checks from the very elites dismantling the system. The republic didn’t die screaming—it died nodding politely while saying, “Well, this is concerning.”

Which brings us to the present: a democracy where voting is technically allowed, influence is purchasable, and policy responds less to citizens than to capital. A system where wealth no longer whispers—it legislates.

Rome teaches us that republics don’t fall because people stop believing in them. They fall because too few people matter, too much power pools at the top, and everyone else is told to be grateful for the spectacle.

So here we are, candles out, cake cut, celebrating nearly 250 years of democracy—assuring ourselves we’re nothing like Rome, while walking the same road, reading the same warnings, and insisting this time will be different.

After all, Rome didn’t have a Constitution.

And we’ve never ignored ours when it was inconvenient.

Right?

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

On Christmas morning, Billy tore through wrapping paper like it owed him money. He knew—absolutely knew—there would be an AR-15 under the tree, because the internet had told him that’s what freedom looked like now.

Instead, he found two envelopes.

The first was a certificate for a firearm safety course, taught by actual instructors with actual credentials, conspicuously not sponsored by the NRA, YouTube influencers, or a guy named “Tactical Dave.”

The second was a membership to a shooting range where:

All firearms stayed at the range All ammunition stayed at the range All usage happened under supervision And nobody yelled “from my cold dead hands” at the check-in desk

Billy blinked. Confused. Betrayed.

His wise relative sipped coffee and said, “You don’t start with power tools either, kid. You start with instructions.”

At the course, Billy learned boring, uncool things—like muzzle discipline, trigger awareness, and how quickly accidents happen when confidence outruns competence. At the range, he learned something even more shocking: shooting was fine, controlled, and kind of… ordinary. No hero music. No cosplay. Just responsibility.

By the end, Billy realized something deeply un-viral:

that respecting guns mattered more than owning one,

that safety was the real flex,

and that most problems in life are not improved by adding a rifle.

That Christmas, Billy didn’t get an AR-15.

He got perspective.

And honestly, in 2025, that might be the rarest gift of all. 🎄

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Statues, Plaques, and the Art of Hero Worship Gone Completely Sideways

If you ever needed a single, crystalline example of how upside-down our political moment has become, look no further than the Turning Point event where GOP leaders—Mike Johnson included—floated the idea of erecting a statue of Charlie Kirk in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Yes, that Rotunda. The one reserved for people who shaped the nation, preserved democracy, or at minimum didn’t build a career out of yelling into microphones and confusing decibels with ideas.

Let’s savor the audacity. Not content with book deals, donor lists, and a permanent residency in the algorithm, we now apparently need to immortalize Charlie Kirk in marble. Because when future generations tour the Capitol, nothing explains American democracy better than: “Here stands the podcaster who perfected the art of grievance cosplay.”

Meanwhile—and this is not a metaphor or a talking point—the same people clutching pearls over “political symbolism” refuse to hang a plaque honoring the January 6 Capitol Police officers. Not because it’s controversial. Not because it’s complicated. But despite the inconvenient fact that Congress literally passed a law requiring that plaque to be installed.

That’s right. This isn’t some symbolic gesture stalled in committee or lost in bureaucratic purgatory. The plaque honoring the officers who physically held the line against a violent mob is mandated by law. And it still hasn’t gone up. Apparently, in today’s GOP, the rule of law is sacred—right up until it makes them uncomfortable.

Because hanging that plaque would require acknowledging a reality they are desperate to memory-hole: that on January 6, law enforcement wasn’t protecting Republicans from Democrats, or patriots from tyrants. They were protecting democracy from radical right Trump supporters who tried to overturn an election they didn’t like.

That’s a harder story to swallow than carving Charlie Kirk’s haircut into limestone.

So instead, we get fantasy hero worship. Not of courage, sacrifice, or public service, but of ideological loyalty and media clout. The modern Republican Party doesn’t want heroes who defend institutions; it wants influencers who attack them while insisting they’re the real victims.

The Capitol Rotunda, once a space meant to honor those who upheld the republic, is now being auditioned as a shrine to outrage capitalism. A podcast studio with better lighting and worse consequences.

The contrast couldn’t be clearer. A plaque honoring officers who upheld the law—required by law—is ignored. A statue for a political activist who has never defended the Capitol in his life is enthusiastically proposed.

If this feels like the most insane thing you’ve heard all year, that’s because it is. In today’s GOP, bravery under fire earns you silence. Obedience to the narrative earns you marble. And democracy, apparently, can wait—again.