Steven Crowder: the alternative universe

Making money is evil. Taking money is righteous. Supporting a black conservative is racist. And Steven Crowder goes Occupy all the way, complete with a peace dance. Welcome to the flip side. Make sure all your container lids burp. Everything is about to get tossed.



New conservative hero: the guy who took on Crowder's evil twin. Now, after witnessing insanity in full summer bloom, all I have left is one question: What brand of jeans have that kind of stretchy give?

What about Watermelon man?

John says we're soft.

He didn't mention anyone by name. It seemed like a general statement, i.e. everyone. This he told me under the direct summer sun while shining each watermelon in the back of his truck.

He might have a point. At this moment, I'm sitting in my 76-degree home and eating apple sauce, which is the equivalent of apples post-chew. Before I even sat down to write this, I changed from a dress to shorts, so I could get cooler. Then I poured a glass of cold water, so I could be more refreshed. And turned on my ceiling fan, so I could labor under a perpetual breeze.

Too soft? Yeah, okay. You've got me there.

I've driven past John nearly every day for weeks. Through the excessive heat warnings, the temperature map plastered on Drudge, the dire predictions of death's imminence if you step outside, there's John. Sitting off SH 97. Waiting to grab customers leaving Sand Springs and heading toward Sapulpa. And hoping they might fancy a fresh watermelon.

In the, aghast, triple digit temperatures.

When I asked him how he handled the heat, he simply said, in this very country boy voice, "I'm use to it. I didn't have an air-conditioner until 2009."

And there you have it. John's tough.

He is, by the way. Quite so. I don't know if he's a man of integrity or honor, of intelligence or information, he could be all of those things. Or none of them. I only spoke to him for a quarter of an hour, and that included getting interrupted by customers and losing my pen twice.

He is, however, a worker. When I asked him why he does it, he simply said, "You've got to do something."

That you do.

John use to lay cement. He still does to fill in the payroll gaps. It's work few people want because, and we come back to this, they're soft. And he isn't. Not a point he makes for vainglory sake. Just a reason why he can always find work.

He sells watermelon in the summer, hay in the winter and spring and fall, and works a few cows in between time. That all came after a short duration of hauling. It didn't, however, pay the bills and so he had to move on.

No nest egg. No unemployment benefits. He just moved on to whatever work was before him.

"Are you making money selling these?" I asked this after one of John's customers asked me if I like watermelons and I accidentally answered honestly. No, not really. I should have used more creativity to get out of that one.

Yes. He's making money. He's sold 1,025 watermelons in five weeks. Or, another way to look at it, he and his business partner have sold 38,700 pounds of watery fruit. To put that in other terms, John has sold the weight equivalent of 500 books, four SUVs, and two killer whales.

That's a lot of fruit.

He drives 350 miles one way to Texas to pick them up, and then all the way back to sit in the brutal heat. Within weeks, or even one, John says there won't be any more watermelon. So he's got only days to turn his last load around.

"If you'd wear a green-stripped t-shirt, we could sell these in an hour," he told me.

Aww, shucks. Thanks. But today I wore red.

John is one of those rare breads in American culture. He works without complaint and does whatever needs to be done. And doesn't believe life is unfair, he's been short-changed, and someone owes him recompense.

Though, if you wanted to buy him a cold beer, he'd drink it.

"I have to do something."

He didn't take my compliments easily. I admire that kind of tenacity, that kind of work ethic, that kind of pioneer spirit. When I told him I saw that in him, he just did more hemming and hawing and a little grin here or there.

"So, what do you do with your down time out here?"

"I just sit," he said, back to polishing those money makers. "I figure out when I'm going to go bankrupt and how long before I'm living out here in my truck." Then he laughs. "Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm going to be just fine."

Knowledge is Power. And other trite truisms I'm going to repeat.

He liked to watch them burn. The crinkle and recoil and inflamed edge of paper when fire grasped it around the mouth.
He seared the ideas.
Scorched the information.
He lit the books and smiled into the ravenous flames with their fingers reflecting in his black pupils. Then Fire Chief Beatty returned to his station in Ray Bradbury’s classic, Fahrenheit 451, for a robust laugh and a round of cards with the other fire-lickin' boys.

I'm guessing here but he probably won every hand. Somehow.

In the classic, though starkly believable, world of Bradbury's control-heavy culture, information wasn’t power. Except, of course, to those who silenced it.

“You can’t build a house without nails and wood. If you don’t want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don’t want a man unhappy politically, don’t give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it.”
That's Beatty at his finest.

Ignorance.
Chief Beatty believed in the bliss of it. The utter joy of knowledge nothingness. Too much information made people think. And thinking brought about empowered individuals who warred and struggled and took life on the chin.

Those kind of people decide for themselves. They contemplate. Deduce. Mull over and meditate on. Dare I say it, they might even study both sides of an issue. And then form an opinion, discover a truth, find a solution, create a cure, fill a gap, and open a previously closed door. They might create running water and racing wheels, garage doors and paper plates, shoe inserts and air-conditioning, railroads and raisin cereal and rain guards for your Mazda.

They might turn out to be revolutionaries. Without bloodshed. And healers. Without egos.

They might, eek!, turn out to be capitalists.

Atlas Shrugged, the Movie

Well, golly. I'm excited. I really am.



When Passion of the Christ came out, my family went to watch it and then had dinner after to discuss. I remember asking my father, while diving into a bowl of chips and salsa, what he thought about people criticizing some of the artistic license Mel Gibson took, like the opening scene of Jesus with the snake in the garden.

My father said something rather brilliant, as he always does. "I'm not going to criticize him for producing a story about Jesus when I haven't done it. Too often, we like to sit back, do nothing, and criticize others who are doing something worthwhile."

In other words, for those on the right so badly wanting a movie that reflects their free-market ideology who are already finding minor points of contention because the movie wasn't done how they'd do it, well...you should probably just zip it.

Until, of course, you make an Atlas Shrugged movie of your own.

Check out the website and prepare for the April 15 premiere. I'll be there

Steven Crowder, ladies and gentlemen

He's back. And so am I.

His excuse? I have no idea.
My excuse? I had a cold. And I don't believe in fever blogging. Or drunk dialing. Or alphabetical filing.

What I do believe in is the Toothfairy, wishing on a star, and small business. Not necessarily in that order.



Dang. Wish I was rich like that guy and borrowing six figures so I could pay interest on a tax payment.

a Love Letter to Capitalism

Free Enterprise. Yummy. Wish I ate pork.

Cary, our suave Capitalist

Mark Steyn wrote a love letter, or at least a respect letter, about Cary Grant recently. It's excellent, a winding tale of the man's humor and greatness, achievement and memorable moments.
I'm a huge Cary Grant fan. You have no idea how huge. Thus, I had to send Steyn a response. Here is his article. I definitely recommend it. And for you, my committed and not-so-committed readers, is my response.

You can't create a character like Cary Grant. But Cary Grant did.

Whatever he was or could be, he became. He isn't simply the embodiment of style and seduction, if either can be considered simple, but a character of capitalism. He dreamed. He gambled. He risked it all. He walked onto the open road and dreamed a dream. Then he reaped the fruition of his labor.

He personified the spirit of American exceptionalism: from a child of poverty to a man of legend, all without the aid of anything more than his charm. And oh what charm.

I was nine-years-old when he died, not even coming to understand his cinematic and personal significance until decades after his death. Then when I noticed, I noticed. I think all who cross the path of Cary Grant find their motion halted. You have to stop, have to notice. There is something about that man that simply cannot be ignored. He's Cary Grant. And he understood the responsibility it required.

You're article was magnificently right. Cary Grant pulled off a feat extinct in today's glamor brigade, he created a sellable product while never losing appreciation for it's customers. He could be debonair and rogue, manly and flirtatious, all while receiving devotion in humility. He was real. He was grateful. He was gracious. And in the end, that is what solidified his class.

Cary Grant was something, all right. But he would have been nothing without the worn shoes, undying spirit, unfailing gumption, and capitalistic spirit of Archibald Leach. And they both knew it.

Quote Them

"We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion: the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission; which is the stage of the darkest periods of human history, the stage of rule by brute force."

Ayn Rand
author of Atlas Shrugged
(1905-1982)