Using the USG pyramid structured below, I shall give examples of how this tramp has navigated this quaking edifice, from its traditional to its current core concerns.
Level 1: The Lowest American Priority is Traditional Faiths, the ruins upon which the present edifice has been constructed.
For my own personal observances I use books and soliloquy when alone. More important to me is to support those I stay with in their own observances. In some places this is church going, in others conversation. One for instance is my mother, a devote catholic, who called me the other day excited that the new Pope is American. For her this unites the two most important aspects of her retired life. Though money took her away from the Church in her prime, in her old age, she has returned. With her wanting to know what I thought about this, I selected the positive threads that seemed least obvious and presented those for consideration, concealing any negative threads that seemed obvious or obscure.
Level 2: Recreation is a solid second level priority considering it is done every day, with TV often replacing play, as a kind of passive worship.
I support my hosts in their recreational activity as a bystander, coach, participant, as I may. This is an easy crease in life to ride on the Overton Railroad.
Level 3: Eating is necessary for life and work and has become recreational, even adventurous, as well.
My attempts to stay light and maintain some strength has put me at odds with USG eating guidelines. This is my most diplomatic activity, eating politely while a guest. Mostly, my ability to eat anything but liver and banana has aided peace of company and dissuaded a target fitness level. Taking charge of dishes for the mostly overworked makers of these meals in homes, and keeping down money cost and family friction for the generous hosts who dine me out, are now practiced routines.
Level 4: Media, in Fatty America is more important than eating, both being consumption activities.
I find a way to enjoy News of all angles, movies, game shows, documentaries. Where I want to be irritated with some of this media, it all serves to educate. If it may not be used for history writing, it may certainly be used for fiction. A recent Maryland news story about 7 men being arrested and charged for hundreds of violent crimes as part of a bank customer robbery ring is an example. The law officer was the Anne Arundel County top cop. The criminals were all PG County hood rats with KFC friendly names. While the top cop preached about not coming to his county with your crime, the news cast declined to show the pictures of these 7 crooks. This was a machete virus gaslight operation to comfort Conservatives that they were being protected in their rabbit dens from the thugs they went into debt fleeing from, and also assuring the Liberals that these thugs are certainly not of a racially oppressed group.
Level 5: Sleep, necessary for life, is variable in the sleep awake American dreamscape.
Sleep has been reclaiming this old tramp body and ravaged mind, dragging these ruins by stages to The Crossing. Rather than fight it as I did in the past, resulting in wicked horror novels, I have been drifting along in its clutches, using the resulting distress for more subtle horror.
Level 6: Money, necessary for financing USG, is the daily observed American cult.
As I have learned to live within my writing means, a happy thing has happened. I am now being financed in travel by men I coach. This gives the ability to write in more locations, meaning more varied fictions settings and biographies. This happy circumstance also enables me to divert increases in writing income to grandchildren and hosts engaged in the recent post-shamdemic revolt against anti-natal/native USG doctrine.
Level 7: USG; Leviathan, is served by every aspect of American society.
My own personal revolt against USG is limited to writing and training. Writing on history and correcting its foundational lies, which offers no threat, as USG subjects cannot absorb history contrary to their fairy tale conditioning, is a time capsule project for some reader of the future. Real time resistance is limited to training in obsolete combat methods that offer no threat to the ominous death machine we are forced to worship through tithe and lie. It does keep the ancient spirit alive in the hearts of those few men who wish to fight the lie internally. Helping fighters in their arts, to practice the obscene arts of survival and defense in the very guts of the machine dedicated to their helpless submission, is my one joy. For some reason, just as interest in these activities rose in 2016, then crashed in 2020, have risen once again, in late 2024. Crime minds have reached out for another season of combat training. The long year whispers like autumn though she cries winter.
The most dangerous aspect of living under the velvet-soled boot heel of USG, I share with you, the reader, so shall give one example that did not make it into my travel writing.
The Coastal Starlight, from San Jose to LA, saw Ben, a Michigan man, worn down by money getting to a pudgy, diabetic, hyper-tense state. His remaining pleasures were food and media. He had done well, had a house, an RV, a car, money, still worked in consulting. But he is alone. We were the same age, with him seeming 20 years older. He treated me kindly, rescuing a stone age man from the gears of the machine he did not understand, in many ways. He had no woman. I yet enjoyed these fruits of olden days. He was fully inducted into Media and USG. Any time his smart phone blinked out, he grew agitated, despite the beauty of the scenery. We approached Space X! We had both read science fiction avidly as youths. He was all about space travel, me still lusting for the green babe on Star Trek. The burning of Teslas had hit high gear. We passed by Space X as his service went out again!
He could not help it:
“Everything I believe in, space travel, clean energy, orbital rather than repeater based communication technology, government efficiency, has all been usurped by this terrible person—Elon Musk!”
He looks at me to see if I am offended, so, I go on cue, “You mean that dude that looks like a Bond Villain?”
“Exactly, thank you! Is it wrong for me to be glad his cars are being burned, even though it is not proper politics? A friend of mine hates him like I do, just lost 50K on selling back his Tesla truck in protest. Am I wrong for not embracing space, because he is there making money from it?”
“Not at all, Ben. But might I suggest, that as Mister X is eating steak with His Orangeness, that he is probably tendering a joke that the greatest suffering over the car burning is being borne by his ideological enemies who bought that clean car?”
Ben looked at me with raised eye, “You boxing coaches could be assassins in another time and place.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
Service comes back on, and then an invisible mountain intrudes and rocks Ben out of his trance, into my tender care, “No, and the man who has the orbital array I would love to embrace, is that Evil Musk! I can’t bring myself to do it. The terrain does not account for this. I should have service here!”
“Ben, might I observe, that if Mister X is half the villain that I think he is, that he is probably using his orbital platforms, constructed with your tax dollars, to interfere with your signal, so that you will have to reach out and embrace his endless, communicative night!”
Ben looked at me over his diabetes-monitored shoulder, cringed, then smiled, and laughed, “Thank you—I can enjoy watching Bond Movies again!”
I hope that slice of this often anonymous life helps the reader with negotiating this endless, programmed, strife.
