Message From the Beast: Your Continued Existence is Intolerable

I feel like God is getting me out of Miami ahead of a tsunami.

Did you see what Doug McMillon, the CEO of Wal-Mart, said about Trump? The President called the Charlottesville murderer a terrorist, which was appropriate, but it wasn’t enough for McMillon. Apparently, Trump was supposed to come out and say violent leftists who plague other people’s rallies are good citizens. He was supposed to limit his criticism to those on the right, and he was supposed to ignore the non-racists who showed up to protest the eradication of Confederate history.

Trump wasn’t playing that. He correctly criticized the leftist nuts who show up and riot at other people’s events. McMillon, who seems not to realize that some people who buy products from his troubled corporation are conservative, says Trump “he missed a critical opportunity to help bring our country together by unequivocally rejecting the appalling actions of white supremacists.” Obviously, Trump did condemn white supremacists. McMillon is just angry because leftist criminals got part of the blame.

What a coward. What a panderer! Unless he lives in a cave, he knows leftists have been beating conservatives in the streets for over a year. He knows most violence at conservative rallies comes from leftists who were not invited, and he knows leftists commit murders at their own events. Doesn’t matter to him. He wants far-right nuts to pay, but he expects Trump to say it’s fine and dandy if BLM burns a supermarket or beats up a reporter.

Everyone has conveniently forgotten Dallas. Remember last year? A far-left black nut named Micah Xavier Johnson killed five innocent cops at a BLM event, and he also wounded eleven people. Are we keeping score? The left is way ahead.

Have you noticed that conservatives aren’t much of a presence at leftist events? That should tell you something about who is doing most of the instigating.

Doesn’t matter to McMillon. Left good, right bad. That’s what Trump was expected to say.

I completely understand why some people think it’s a bad idea to honor historical figures who fought for (among other things) slavery. It’s a little strange that Stone Mountain is decorated with sculptures of Robert E. Lee and company. It’s weird that Robert Lee Moore Hall, the physics building at the University of Texas, is named after a racist kook. Maybe some things need to be changed. But wetting your pants and rioting is not the way to get it done. Demonizing people for putting the Confederate flag on their vehicles is not the way to get it done. Losing your mind and throwing a never-ending tantrum, like a baby with perpetual colic, is not acceptable in a civilized society.

Leftists need to be held accountable for their Nazi tactics. It’s more important to hold them accountable than to hold alt-right wackjobs accountable, because leftists have much more power. The alt-right is a little fringe movement which will never get anywhere unless leftists frighten white people into joining it.

The creep who drove his Dodge Challenger into a crowd is guilty of a terrible crime, and no one in his right mind would try to excuse him. At the same time, how about not going to other people’s rallies and attacking them with rocks, pepper spray, slingshots, and poles?

The problem with leftists is that they think rioting is a mitzvah. I went to Columbia University ten years after the famous riots, and I can tell you for a fact that people who were there were proud of it. Many people who were too young to participate talked with awe about the riots. They wished they had been there. They admired the rioters. This is a sickness peculiar to leftists. They think they have a right to go anywhere they want and threaten people with force. When it comes to violence, leftists are caterers. You supply the party; they supply the beatings.

You have to wonder what kind of provocation the driver had put up with. There is no justification for driving a car into innocent people, but violence tends to generate more violence. If most protesters stayed behind the police and used words instead of weapons and fists to make their point, wouldn’t stories like the one in Charlottesville be less common?

Leftists have no self-control. What do you think would happen to me if I drove a golf cart through any ghetto in America, or through West Hollyood or Dearborn, with Confederate flags waving from the roof? Do you think people would smile and ask me to pull over and chat? Come on. If I merely got black eyes and broken ribs, I’d be beating the odds.

I don’t feel sorry for white nationalists or supremacists or whatever they call themselves this week. I don’t feel sorry for leftist thugs who turn out to fight with them. The nuts on both sides are disgraceful. I do feel bad for innocent white people, Christians, and conservatives who are now lumped in with the sheet-wearers and skinheads. We don’t deserve the PR we’re getting, and we won’t deserve the filthy reprisals Charlottesville will spawn.

I’m disturbed by the sudden campaign to get pro-white agitators fired and banned and so on. What would happen if the same rules applied to anti-white cranks? Al Sharpton would be on welfare. Louis Farrakhan would be banned from Twitter. A whole lot of black people would be fired from their jobs. Do we really want to force people out of the economy simply because they old repugnant views? If they can’t get jobs, they will still need food and shelter. One way or the other, you and I will end up paying for it. I say let them work. I don’t really care if the guy who aligns my tires thinks my race is a line of evil subhumans designed by Mister Yacub (a core belief of the Nation of Islam). Just align my tires, stay out of jail, and pull your own weight. For eighty-nine dollars, I don’t expect you to believe what I tell you to believe.

Well. Not my circus, not my monkeys. That’s something I have to remember. I am not behind either of the Charlottesville factions. As time passes, the carnal and the simple will be increasingly inclined to riot and commit murder over political and moral discord. You won’t see me wearing a football helmet and an umpire’s vest, swinging an axe handle and claiming I’m standing up for Jesus. I would never fight for Jesus. Not for one second. Say whatever you want about him. My religion doesn’t call on me to do violence in order to advance the cause, and I don’t care enough about conservatism to go out and act like a baboon.

Doug McMillon’s Nurembergesque letter shows how far America has fallen. Things are getting bad out there. I suspect heavy-duty, widespread rioting is coming soon, and the idiots on TV will back the leftists no matter what they do. There is nothing the rest of us could do to get them to excuse us or help us. We have already been adjudicated guilty. The only way to please the left is to cease being what you are. This is is how genocide starts. The left has a genocidal mindset. They think the earth would be a better place without us.

I can see why the Beast’s minions will want to behead people. The existence of people like me is a problem to the left. Rehabilitation is not going to work well, and besides, murder is more satisfying, because of the element of punishment. I’m very glad I won’t be in Miami when the gloves really come off.

For a long time, I’ve believed the Beast was not just a man, but a movement. I believe carnal humanity is the Beast, and I believe the Internet will be its voice until a man who embodies the Beast arrives. Have you noticed how articles are popping up, saying, “The Internet” says this or that? “Donald Trump Goes out with Crooked Tie Knot, and the Internet is not Happy About it.” The Internet is a hive mind, and it’s not a good mind. Who do you think controls it? Not Jesus. I promise you that.

For years, I’ve been saying that the Internet was Satan’s counterfeit Holy Spirit. Like the Holy Spirit, it unites people in thought and purpose. It’s a sad, pathetic counterfeit. It can’t work miracles or tell the future. It’s wrong all the time. But Satan isn’t ubiquitous or omnipotent, so it’s the best he can do. Now I think I’m being proven right. The Internet is turning into the mind of the Beast. Remember how the Bible says Christians have the mind of Christ? Whatever God has, Satan tries to rip off.

How weird will things get? I know they’re trying to microchip people now. How long will it be until we go past Google Glass and end up with smartphone-type devices that are implanted? How long will it be until we’re forced to accept the implants, “for the good of society”? Are we going full-tilt Borg in the future? It’s not beyond us. We really are that stupid.

If we could be implanted with Internet-connected devices, we’d be a natural step forward from the Internet of Things. We’d be the Internet of People. It would be as close to a superpowered, omnipresent, unified, God-like mind as Satan could ever hope to get. He could order his minions around with great efficiency. Flash mobs for every purpose! Go to this house, drag out this person, and cut him to pieces. Kill this politician. Rape these Christian kids. Will it come to that? I’ll bet it does, if God allows the world to continue.

It will be the Tower of Babel, rebuilt with Wi-fi. It will be something to see. And if it happens, people will love it. They will scorn anyone smart enough to think it’s dangerous. We love every gadget that makes life more convenient and destroys our privacy and free will.

I feel like I just predicted every important thing that will happen in the next twenty years.

All I want is to get away from the nuts for a spell so I can breathe. Sooner or later, if I’m still here, they’ll come for me and kill me. That’s okay. It’s unavoidable. But later is better!

I guess I sound crazy, but think how I would have sounded had I described today’s America to someone twenty years ago. Beatings over Confederate flags! Colleges telling white students and teachers not to set foot on campus on certain days! Bruce Jenner, castrated, proudly, at his own expense! I would have sounded pretty strange.

I do not care. I’m going to say what I like, and besides, I’ve already incriminated myself beyond repair.

Three more days, and I will have a new address. Can’t happen soon enough.

Just the Apocalypse

I’m starting another day of preparation to move, and it looks like it’s happening none too soon.

For a long time, I’ve been predicting an upsurge in persecution against Christians, white people, men, and conservatives, and it’s manifesting in a way that surprises even me. We just saw a vehicular murder in Virginia, by a purported white supremacist, at a rally convened by his kind. The left ignores the widespread and prolonged wave of beatings and murders white Christians and conservatives have endured, but they are seizing on this rare act of terrorism as though it proves all of their paranoid fantasies are justified. People are predicting “unrest” in other cities, and of course, that means riots, looting, arson, and violence against white people.

I wish I did not have to mention race, because it makes me sound like a white supremacist, but the truth is the truth. Leftist nuts aren’t picky about their victims. They don’t check ID’s and vet backgrounds. If you’re white, Christian, or conservative, you’ll do. I mention race because it’s the primary means by which victims are selected. You can be a strident Hillary supporter and be yanked out of your car and beaten just because your white skin makes you look like a Trump voter.

Americans don’t know the Holy Spirit, so they have no roots to hold them in place. We are stupid and fickle. We blow with the wind. We listen to every foul spirit that whispers to us, and we are very, very quick to change our positions on things. A few years back, the vast majority of Americans were against gay marriage, and no one cared about the Confederate flag. Now people are being fired from their jobs for refusing to support gay marriage, and no one seems to think that’s bad, and you can get a beating for having a stars-and-bars bumper sticker. People will actually say you were asking for it. This is happening in the same country that had a Dukes of Hazzard movie a few years back, with no issues.

We are a heartless people. By that I mean we have no core and no guts. That makes us extremely dangerous. If you think there is no way the masses could turn on Christians and start beating and killing us in the streets in the near future, think about what we’re already doing to those who don’t toe the PC line.

Miami is a rotten city. It’s full of ghettos, like a body full of abcesses. Between the ghettos, there are big swaths of Cubans, and Cubans have a real problem with blacks. Sooner or later, this place is going to light up. I don’t want to be here when that happens. I don’t want to be here today, for that matter.

When things heat up here, it won’t be pleasant for Hispanics and whites. Stopping at traffic lights will be dangerous. Living near ghettos will be dangerous. Being black around Cuban cops will be dangerous. When the people with no roots start tearing at each other, I want to be elsewhere.

The Holy Spirit is the only dependable source of morality and restraint. The alternative righteousness offered by the godless life is just a thin scab over an infected wound that can erupt at any second. If you don’t have the Holy Spirit to anchor you, you can believe or do anything, no matter how stupid or evil it is. Most Americans, including most Christians, never hear from the Holy Spirit. They listen to Oprah and movie stars and dope-addled musicians. They think “nice” and “righteous” mean the same thing. They’re like the big banyan trees that fell over during Hurricane Andrew. They were huge, sprawling trees with wide root systems, but when they fell over, people could see that the roots were only a few inches deep. Typical Americans will torment and kill whoever the devil tells them to. Don’t doubt it. It’s coming. It already happens in ghettos, and evil that succeeds first in ghettos eventually spreads to the rest of the nation. Look at rap, crack, illegitimacy, and marijuana.

The move north is a huge job, and I’ve been much more nervous about it than I should have been. I don’t believe in worrying. I use supernatural tools to fight it, but sometimes I forget, and then I feel agitated. I’ve been so caught up in the mechanics of moving, I’ve forgotten to feel a lot of the joy that should be associated with leaving Miami. This move is going to work. I may have to return a few times. There may be some humps to get over. But it’s a done deal. I need to focus on that so I don’t cheat myself out of the joy of escaping.

Today I’m focusing on that joy. I’m done with this place. I’m leaving a million bad memories behind. Most of the horrible ordeals my sister put my family through happened here. Most of the problems between my parents happened here. I had a lot of empty, toxic friends here. I chased poisonous dreams here. After this week, apart from rare visits, I won’t have to look at this place. I’ll never have to drive by a familiar location where something awful happened. I’ll never have to see the house in Miami Shores, where we lived for most of my revolting childhood.

Some day, I’ll have this same joy over leaving the earth. Right now I’m going to a place of temporary and limited refuge, and I’m extremely grateful, but no place on earth is free from curses. I want off this planet. Sooner or later, the nuts and murderers will come to us no matter where we live. When they get to my new home, I hope I’ve already move on to paradise. No mature person wants to live a really long life on earth. Clinging to this life is a symptom of spiritual underdevelopment. It’s like insisting on wearing diapers when you’re in high school.

These things are really happening. I wasn’t imagining things when I thought God was warning me about increased persecution. It’s here. It’s ramping up. It’s not going to stop. If I’m still on this planet, it won’t be long until I see the horrible things I’ve been expecting. The green shoots of wholesale murder and sadism are already visible. Thank God, I won’t be in a big city when the spectacle unfolds in its full glory.

I changed mailing addresses and subscription instructions. I have to get TV and Internet service in order today. On Saturday morning, the caravan departs. The movers will be on the road, and so will we. My dad’s old car will be in the hands of the Salvation Army, my truck will be in the hands of a shipper, and that will be the end of it.

Get ready for blog posts about tractors, manure, and rifles. This is going to be great.

Let the Spinning Commence

I don’t know much about the Virginia rally murders, but I know enough to make a few comments.

First, this is a gigantic PR victory for the left. Minorities and leftists commit the vast bulk of terrorist acts and violent crimes in America, yet leftists persistently try to portray Caucasians, conservatives, and Christians as violent, ignorant morons who need to be watched, disarmed, fired, and controlled. The Virginia murders will be very useful to the propagandists. If the correct person has been arrested, the murders were committed by a white conservative male, and the left will do its best to connect him to Christianity. He was even driving the perfect propaganda vehicle: a Dodge Challenger. It’s a crude, souped-up car that appeals to psychologically underdeveloped macho men and which is styled to evoke memories of times conservatives miss. It’s a close relative of the Dodge Charger used in the TV show The Dukes of Hazzard. That car had a Confederate flag on its roof. Connect the dots, even when there is no connection.

Second, the left’s evidence is contaminated by the suspect’s background. The left demonizes Southerners all day, every day. It would have been perfect for them had the suspect been from the South. Unfortunately for the spinners and accusers, he’s from about as far north as you can get without moving into Canada. He’s from Maumee, Ohio, which is located just south of Lake Erie. An enlightened Yankee, committing a racist crime…not compatible with the party line.

Third, this entire event lies outside the purview of Christians, even though the left wants to make white nationalism justification for persecuting us. Like a friend of mine says, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Christianity is not compatible with white nationalism or any other type of identity politics. It doesn’t matter if some of the racist nuts claim they’re Christians. The movement is not primarily Christian, and it does not have the backing of white Christians, generally.

This was not a battle of Christians versus “progressives.” It was two collections of Satan’s drones, pitted against each other for his amusement. Christians don’t have a dog in this fight.

Trump isn’t involved, either. Maybe most white nationalists support him. So what? Most people convicted of violent crimes support Democrats, as do most terrorists. Doesn’t make Hillary Clinton a murderer or terrorist.

People who go to rallies like this one, on both sides, should leave Jesus out of it. They certainly aren’t consulting him when they plan these disgraceful events.

The murderer is a wicked buffoon, and prison is better than what he deserves. The people who showed up at the rally to pepper-spray white supremacists are the devil’s puppets. White supremacy is a joke, and the tiny fringe group that keeps it alive is an embarrassment to everyone who uses sunblock. They need to go back to their Section 8 housing and part-time jobs at convenience stores and beg God for forgiveness.

As for Christians, this isn’t our party, but we will be presented with the bill. We are the Clevingers of the world. It doesn’t matter what we do or say. We will be blamed and attacked. “Christians are the problem” isn’t the conclusion. It’s the premise. Just like, “Jews are the problem.”

I had a funny thought the other day. I realized I would rather live among white racists than among progressives or in areas thick with minorities. At least white racists wouldn’t come after me. They wouldn’t see me as a threat; they would tend to give me the benefit of the doubt. I would be hassled less, unless I were put in a position where I had to speak up.

If I had to choose, I would rather live among alt-right nuts than in Baltimore. It’s not much of a choice, however.

People complain about “white flight,” especially in Miami, but the simple truth is that people leave places where they’re mistreated. This is why Chicago is full of black people; they moved there from places like Mississippi. “Black flight” isn’t even a recognized phrase, and if it were, who would criticize? I certainly wouldn’t. I would not want to live in a place where I had to get off the sidewalk when a person of another race passed by.

Here’s something else that’s sort of funny. A black friend will be house-sitting in my dad’s Miami house after we move. I’m going to leave him a signed document saying he has the right to be in the house, and I’ll put my contact information on it. Cubans have serious racial issues, and Cuban cops here are just too itchy. One hassled him the other day while he was riding his bicycle through the white neighborhood where he lives. I don’t want to have to come back to Miami and bail him out of jail once a week, because he has been arrested for serious crimes such as having an unregistered bicycle or walking on the wrong side of the street.

It would have been nice had integration been more successful, but we seem determined not to get along.

I’m moving to an area where, as far as I can tell, there are a lot of nice Christian people with good intentions. Supposedly, there is not much racial tension there. Hope I’m right.

To get back to the Virginia nightmare, I won’t bother to watch the news. I don’t have to. With leftists in charge, I can predict it.

Things That are Obvious Aren’t Necessarily Perceptible

One of the many things about God that amaze me is the obviousness of his truths. God will give me a revelation, and once I have it, I’ll realize I should have known it already.

I believe the reason God’s revelations seem obvious is that human beings have supernatural blindness. The fact that something is obvious doesn’t have much impact on our ability to see it. Sometimes we choose to be blind or deaf. Sometimes spirits cloud our perception. God’s revelations ARE obvious. Our inability to see them isn’t caused by stupidity. It’s caused by our biases and by supernatural interference.

Here’s an obvious truth God showed me this week: there is no difference between God’s commandments and his advice.

I don’t use the word “commandment” to refer to the Ten Commandments. I use it to refer to anything God tells us to do. After all, Jesus told us to obey his commandments, but we are also told we are not under the law. If we’re not under the law, then he was not referring to the Ten Commandments or any other parts of the Jewish law when he told us to obey. He was talking about the orders we receive from the Holy Spirit.

I need advice right now. I have Dade County real estate to fix up and sell or rent. I have to get a lot of things moved to Marion County. A lot of loose ends are waving in the breeze. I keep asking God to tell me what to do. If someone tells you what to do, what is he doing? He’s giving you a command. Even if you think of it as advice, what’s the difference? God is always right. You should always do what he advises you to do, so surely his advice has the weight of commands.

When we rebel, we must be cutting ourselves off from advice. We spend our lives in rebellion, and then we ask God for advice, without repenting or resolving to be obedient. Does that make sense? Of course not. We’re saying, “I never obey you, but I’m going to make an exception this time, so tell me what to do.”

No wonder we spend so much of our lives lacking guidance.

In the Bible, God told people what they needed to do, and they paid no attention. We are cursed with human government, which is filthy, incompetent, and stupid, because we chose kings over priests and prophets. Jonah was swallowed because he refused to go to Nineveh. The Hebrews wandered and died in the desert because they rejected God’s counsel. Moses was kept out of Israel because he didn’t listen. Look at Adam and Eve. They lost the entire world because they didn’t take God’s advice.

God is still God. We may be forgiven, but we still have to obey, and disobedience still causes terrible problems for us.

Suddenly, I want advice, but what about all the times I decided to make my own decisions with my little monkey brain? I wasn’t interested in advice then. Now I expect God to come running and tell me what to do. It doesn’t make sense. If God helps me, it’s not a reward. It’s patience and mercy.

Something to think about, the next time you decide to make your own plans and do things your own way.

Hope this is helpful.

Hola, Amigos

I am back in the land of joy, better known as Miami. I returned from Ocala today, and I am already basking in the rudeness and stupidity. As soon as I hit Palm Beach County, other drivers got nastier and less able.

We closed on the new house today. It’s a done deal. The sellers will stay on for two weeks, and then we take possession. It’s still not entirely real to me.

The property is far nicer than anything I thought possible. It’s secluded, it’s large, it has woods, it has pasture, it has a big ol’ shop building, and it even has a huge sand berm which will be a fine rifle backstop. Sonny’s BBQ is five minutes away, as is Cracker Barrel. Tractor Supply is close. The nearest neighbor is a guy who built a gun ROOM in his garage. Not a safe. A room with a thick steel door. Think he’ll complain about me shooting? I don’t.

The sellers kept giving me stuff. Today they gave us the rockers on the front porch. The house has a huge collection of porches. There’s a front porch with a gazebo on one end. There’s a back porch. The shop has a porch. The pool has a patio, which is sort of a porch. Rockers are a necessity. I’m not sure what rockers cost, but today at Cracker Barrel, I saw they were charging between one and two hundred bucks for one.

My only serious whine right now is that my dad doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He truly hates Miami and can’t wait to move, and he likes Ocala and the house, but he’s not excited about it. He doesn’t have that Charlie-getting-the-keys-to-the-chocolate-factory feeling I have. So I pester my friends via text.

Two years ago he thought Miami was just fine. What happened? God happened. That’s all I can tell you. My dad has changed. He complains about the people. He complains about the traffic. He sounds just like me, only without the joy over the impending move.

It seems like he has slipped a notch over the last week or two. That’s the way these things work. I’m glad we finally got the house bought, because it might have been a very strange process further down the line. I don’t know what his capabilities will be in six months. I’m certainly glad he has been able to participate in the house hunt and get involved with decisions. I wanted a place where he would be happy.

I’m fairly sure I can get us out of here in three weeks. I don’t know how often I’ll have to come back. “Never” would be my choice.

I can’t figure out why the sellers are so nice. I could sell the machinery they sold me for twice what I paid, and they didn’t expect me to pay as much as I did. They came down a lot on the price of the house. The appraiser felt it was underpriced already. Maybe they’re just tired and ready to move.

I hope I got a good deal, but I was not trying to gouge anyone. I just wanted a fair price. Maybe I did better than that. There is no way to be sure.

Next time I go up I’ll try to take pictures and post them.

I’m beat. Time for pizza. I’m so tired I’m willing to eat Papa John’s.

I look forward to blogging from one of the many porches.

Written on August 2

Closing is Near

I can’t post this entry tonight, but I wanted to write it anyway, while the details were fresh in my mind. What is the Christian life without testimony? A great product with no advertising. Tonight I will advertise.

I’m in Ocala, at a hotel. It’s more like a motel, but “hotel” sounds nicer. Day after tomorrow, my dad is closing on the new house. We have a walk-through tomorrow. I’m not posting this tonight, because it’s a bad idea to go on the Internet and tell people you’re not home.

I drove us up from Miami today. Not the most pleasant trip. It took quite a while to get my dad ready to leave. He has traveled hundreds of thousands or millions of miles, and he used to have it down to a science, but he complains that he has forgotten it all. We had to get all his stuff packed, and there was some resistance to my suggestions, so I worked with him to get it done his way. For some reason, he didn’t pack last night, so it took us around 45 minutes to get him into the car.

Once we were on the road, he wanted to stop for lunch about 3 1/2 hours after breakfast, and he had to make two other stops, so we didn’t make record time. I have to drive everywhere now, except for little trips he makes in Miami, so today I had to drive us the entire way, while coping with whatever problems he had.

Along the way, I texted some friends to let them know I was on the road. One family I know moved to Orlando a couple of years ago, and another couple moved to Kissimmee a few weeks back. I also emailed Leah, the new sister God gave me several years ago. She lives in Pensacola. Leah texted back and said she and her husband Scott were helping a family move from Pensacola to Sarasota. They would be going through Ocala. She said we should try to meet.

I texted her a little later, during our lunch trip to Cracker Barrel. She and her party were at a Cracker Barrel, too. Funny.

After a while, we coordinated again, and it turned out she would arrive in Ocala about 15 minutes after we did. We made it to the hotel and checked in, and 15 minutes later, I met Leah and Scott in the parking lot. How crazy is that?

We decided to go have food. I was a little concerned that my dad would dominate the conversation and keep it off of God, because he does that. To my surprise, he didn’t want to go. He wanted to go for a walk, which is something he can do safely here. We took off for Bob Evans!

Leah and Scott were helping her friends Eddie and Nora move. Eddie is a missionary. He felt God was telling him to move to Sarasota, which is apparently a fairly Godless area. Not a surprise, given the large number of arty people who live there. He and Nora decided to sell their house and go, and suddenly, over the last few weeks, things fell together quickly, and they were free to go. Their old house sold fast. Here’s something weird: their son and daughter, who look to be about ten and eight, were all for the move. Kids always hate moving, but before their parents were sold on the idea, the kids thought it was the right thing to do.

We sat down and ordered, and while the waitress was fussing over us (same waitress I had last time I went to this Bob Evans), I said I was going to do something for someone, and they thanked me, and I said if God was giving me a house, I could do this for them. Guess what the waitress said? “Amen.” Like it was normal for Christians to come in and talk about God with the wait staff. Because it probably is. I love this place.

We had a great talk, and we shared testimony. We caught up. It was wonderful. And the kids were so well-behaved, I didn’t know what to think. Miami kids scream in restaurants, and they get up and run between the tables.

Here’s part of the testimony I gave. I have a young friend named Travis. We get together for prayer. He studies at the University of Miami, which is close to my dad’s house. Travis knows Leah. Travis is not in the greatest financial shape. I told Leah and the group I had been praying the other day about the problems I would have getting my dad’s house in order for renting after the move, and that God had given me the answer: hire Travis to house-sit. He could let contractors in and make sure no one steals. He would have a little extra income, plus free rent, and I would be released to get the move done.

I said I wanted to take a picture of the group, just to mess with Travis. I was going to text it to him. I got up and took the picture. As I sat down, I said it was going to freak Travis out, and before I could sit down completely or send the text, the phone rang. It was Travis, asking how the trip was going. Of course, I had to send him Leah’s regards. Travis has been watching things come together supernaturally all through my efforts to move, so of course, he was bowled over. I let him know I could guarantee him a place through the month of September, so in addition to the shock of hearing about Leah, he got some very, very good news which took a weight off his back.

Scott and Leah and the crew said their goodbyes at my hotel, and they took off. They’ll be coming back through tomorrow, so maybe we’ll get together again!

I went to my room, and I saw I had forgotten my sleep mask. I need this thing. Hotel rooms are full of big LED’s that burn all night. I got hooked on masks because my rude Miami neighbors have bright security lights under their eaves. I went to CVS (I know the way to CVS!), but they were out of masks. Went to Walgreen’s, and the lady who worked there could not have been nicer. She knew the aisle and shelf where I would find a mask. I got to the aisle and found the masks. They usually cost $9. They were marked down to 99 cents. I bought two! You can’t beat that. Nothing else I saw there had the giant orange sale tag. It’s like they knew I was coming.

It has been a good day. Wouldn’t you agree? By the way, my friend who lives in Orlando called me back and said he was coming to help me on the day of the move, and he means it. It will be great to see the family. I’ll never get his kids out of the pool, though. That’s a given. They may move in.

I suspect more strange things will happen tomorrow. I certainly hope so.

I wonder how wrong we’ve been about God. Just how good IS he? How much should we dare believe?

I forgot to buy dental floss. I wonder if it will be on sale when I find it tomorrow.

I would wish you a great night, but you can’t see what I’m typing tonight, so I guess I’ll just say this: happy trails.

The End is Near!

I can’t put all my business on the World Wide Web, but I can say that the day of reckoning is nearly here. My dad is about to close on a farm in northern Florida. Very shortly, my well-deserved captivity in Miami will come to an end.

The other day a friend asked if “the reality of the move” was sinking in. She was talking about my dad, but it made me think. I have not fully absorbed it, myself.

Physical captivity ends quickly. When they release a man from prison, it takes less than a day to put him on the street. The passage through the prison gate takes an instant. The time it takes for him to feel free inside is longer.

It sounds dramatic, comparing a move between a reasonably affluent American city and a pleasant rural home to being released from prison, and of course, I am not suggesting my time here has been anything like what prisoners go through. I’m just talking about the principle. I felt trapped in this place. It seemed like all my efforts to break free were hindered or cut off. I felt (feel) claustrophobic. I look forward to seeing the horizon once in a while. I look forward to getting away from these rude, coarse people.

In a text message yesterday, I referred to the new place as “the farm,” as if I already owned it. I crossed a little threshold there. I don’t have to call it “the house we’re buying” or “the place we made an offer on.” It’s “the farm” now.

What will I do up there? I only have one friend in the whole county. I’ll be fine. These days, I only have one friend in Dade County. It won’t be much different. I have friends in Orlando and Kissimmee, and I know they’ll visit. Once I start attending a church, I’ll make friends. I don’t need a lot of people to be happy. I tend to pick up parasites and abusers, and a small crowd is easier to vet.

For the first month, I’ll be busy settling in, and I’ll also be taking care of problems in Dade County. I know I’ll have to come back here several times. I was dreading it, but then I thought about it, and I realized it’s much better to visit this place than to live here. When I visit Marion County, I leave an unpleasant place, relax in a nice place, and drive back to an unpleasant place for a long stay. When I visit Miami, it will be a photographic negative of that experience. The pain of Miami will be fleeting, and when I leave, it will be for longer and longer periods, soon to become permanent.

I wish I didn’t have to come back. It would be fine with me if this county sank into the earth. But I can cope with visiting. The pain will be mingled with triumph.

Moving is like settling down into a bath that kills ticks, fleas, lice, and leeches. One by one, I will feel the little mouths and claws let go, and the slime of their presence will be washed away.

We live surrounded by spirits. Miami is a cesspool of demon worship, so I believe things are worse here. The county is full of Hispanics and Haitians who actively pursue demons and pledge their lives to them. It makes me wonder…will I feel better up north simply because I’m no longer living in a demonic hub? I’ll bet I do. I’ll bet things go better up there, simply because Satan has fewer personnel available to torment me, and because God has more people to fight them.

The money for the house will have to be wired. Most people buy homes with loans, so they don’t go through what I’m going through. I have to take a sizeable part of a person’s net worth and send it off in what amounts to a bank-to-bank email. There are all sorts of ways for that to go wrong.

While I was suffering with my continuing legal education [sic], I learned a lot about the ways criminals steal money in cyberspace. Here’s one of the smarter ways: a wire recipient sends you his banking info. A crook intercepts it, substitutes his own info, and sends it on to you. You use it, and your money ends up in Botswana.

When I first received wiring instructions, everyone kept telling me to call the escrow people and read the information back to them. The realtor told me. The escrow people told me. I didn’t know why until I found out about the substitution scam. I guess there are horror stories.

I will be a very happy guy when I get confirmation that the money has been received. I confirmed the information twice and printed out a hardcopy just to be sure. I figure it will be hard for people in Botswana to hack a piece of paper in the USA.

I suppose this will all seem real when I walk onto the land and see the movers carrying boxes in. I may start the tractor and zoom around the yard in circles to celebrate. Is it legal to drink and drive a tractor? We may well find out. I’m entitled. Noah knocked back a few when he got his new property.

That didn’t work out too well, though. Maybe I’ll just have a root beer.

A few days back, I realized I had the same mindset about heaven. I know that’s where I’m headed, but it’s still hard to believe it with my whole heart. Some day I’ll wake up in a place where everything is right. It will be a place where the arrogant, fatuous, transparently false slogans of Apple and Google could be applied without snickering: everything just works, and those who live there are not evil. It’s real. Northern Florida is real, and heaven is real. It’s going to happen.

Hope it won’t be long before I’m blogging via laptop from the north pasture.

John Deere Gear and Lukewarm Decaf

It’s raining, so that means I don’t have to install my dad’s pool pump today. Some people might claim it’s possible to install a pool pump on a rainy day, especially in a shed with a roof. Those people are clearly fools. I am goofing off on the Internet, digesting Egg McMuffins (or as they are called in Miami, “A. Mack Moofings”), and hoping the chicas at McDonald’s gave me decaf instead of the real thing.

I’m still very excited about being a near-tractor-owner. I’m even excited about working on them. My current shop is so jammed, working on anything large is like cleaning the Augean stables (Look how my classical education is paying off), but with the room I’ll have in Marion County, I’ll be able to walk around a tractor without stepping over anything.

My grandmother had a funny expression for small rooms. She said they were “too small to whip a kitten,” and by “whip,” I believe she meant “swing.” As in “too small to swing a cat.” I’m going to have cat-swinging room.

I probably won’t get to work on them a lot. They’re both in good condition, and they’re quality machines. I could always buy a $750 1965 Massey-Ferguson just to have a patient.

I’ve done what every responsible tractor owner does. I went online and ordered a John Deere T-shirt. I also looked at Kubota shirts. They only have a couple of designs that aren’t way too orange or full of heinous polyester. They need to fix that. John Deere has too many green shirts (I don’t wear green), but at least they have cotton.

Someone told me I was not allowed to wear a John Deere hat. Because the garden tractor is small, I’m limited to ball caps. I don’t care. I’ll tell people it’s a big tractor. I’m going to take a fuzzy photo of it, and I’ll hire a midget to sit in the seat to make it look bigger. Either that, or I’ll get the mother of my 3-year-old godson to let me put a fake beard on him.

I found one Kubota shirt that wasn’t too bad. It’s black, with “Kubota” written on the front in Japanese characters. At least it’s SUPPOSED to say “Kubota.” In reality, it may say “Sucker” or even just “Shirt.”

I need to find me a tractor umbrella. The last thing I want is to fry in the sun while running my machines. I wish there were some way to grow grass indoors. Actual grass, I mean.

Time to go look out the window and thank God for the rain.

The Past Never Completely Dies

The day gets weirder and weirder.

God granted my tractor wishes, and then I realized I had to think about insurance. I didn’t know how to do it. Are tractors vehicles? Do you need vehicle insurance? I wondered. Based on my Googling, I decided they were probably items covered by homeowner’s insurance.

I already had a couple of quotes, but I decided to get some more. I tried to get online quotes, and I got the runaround. I finally called a company. I started talking to an agent.

We started talking about the fact that I was moving from Miami to northern Florida. Gradually, he let me know that he and his wife had lived here. His opinion of Miami was about like mine. He hated it. They left after Hurricane Andrew.

He talked about the horrible schools his wife had attended in Miami. Ghetto nightmares where white kids were not safe. He didn’t mention the racist violence; that’s all me. He said she went to Miami Edison for high school, and Horace Mann for junior high. Those are the wretched schools I would have had to attend, had my mother not battled my dad to get him to send me to private school.

He started talking about her elementary school. Sure enough, it was Miami Shores Elementary. My old school. I told him so. I said I probably went to school with his wife. He asked me what year I was born, and I told him. Same year as the wife. He told me her last name! “Elaina!”, I said. I didn’t know her well, but I knew who she was. Too funny.

The school had seven grades and a thousand students, so I pretty much had to know her. It comes out to around 140 students per grade.

When we got done with the call, I told him to tell his wife I congratulated her on surviving Edison, and I congratulated them both on escaping Miami.

It would be funny if I got insurance through him.

It was an interesting experience, but I was also a bit disturbed. I don’t like remembering the old days. I want to feel disconnected from them. I want them to not exist. Actually, moving to Marion County has its disturbing side, because the worst parts of my childhood took place in Tampa, which is more like Marion County than Miami. Tampa and Marion County smell similar. The plants are similar. Some of the home construction is similar. There were a lot of Marion County homes I refused to consider because they reminded me of those times.

It’s way better than Miami. No doubt about that. And I don’t think I’ll be running into anyone from my past there, except for one law school friend who lives in the area. She’s okay, though, and when I think of the darker times of my past, law school is not what I think of. I had a great time in law school.

Hey, here’s another small world item: Reince Priebus just got canned. A guy from my original college class was president for 8 miserable years, while another guy from that class (Stephanopoulos) covered him for NBC, and then a guy from my law school was chief of staff for the next president.

I wondered how Reince got the job. I don’t mean to pick on anyone, and I don’t really know him, but he seemed very unremarkable when we were in law school together. He was a mover and shaker in student government, but I always thought those people were silly. Student government, I thought, was for people who didn’t have the talent to make it without crass, aggressive self-promotion, and I thought it was undignified for adults to run for student offices. When he made it big, my impression was that he was in way over his head. It may be that I was right. In an office like chief of staff, you want a Rumsfeld or a Cheney. Someone sharp and strong. Reince always looked worried and unsure.

Time to unwind. I may go nuts and have an entire beer.

Tractors!

I’m a tractor owner! In fact, I own TWO tractors! I’m the happiest man alive. I feel like my wife just had twins.

I’m exaggerating. I don’t own tractors yet, but I have a deal in place. The seller of the house I’m moving to made me an insane offer on his tractors, plus a bush hog and golf cart, and I just found out he has been made aware of my acceptance. He’s going to get the papers ready.

“Why are you buying tractors if you don’t own the house?” Good question. Without boring you with details, there are good financial reasons for me to buy them instead of letting my dad do it.

This is incredible. In February, I was on my knees thanking God for the opportunity to move one county north and sit on 2 little acres. I’d have pretty much the same bad weather we have here, and the people would be about 30% as annoying. The traffic would be much more bearable, but it would not be as light as it is in northern Florida. Here it is July, and I’m on the verge of closing on a bigger property three hundred miles away. With tractors. Tractors, baby. Not riding mowers. Don’t tell me God isn’t good.

What next? Maybe a Sofia Vergara clone will descend from the sky and tell me she needs a good Christian husband to pray with.

Here’s a bad photo of the new babies.

When I get up there, I’m going to fire them up and ride them in circles. Just so I can say I’ve been out on my tractor all day.

The golf cart is not as cool as a tractor, but it’s still pretty neat. I guess I’ll wear it out. I’ll put a rifle rack on it and patrol the grounds. I would be tempted to put a Confederate flag on it, just to annoy snowflakes who might see it on Google Earth, except I gave up my stars and bars some years before it became mandatory.

Dang. Now I need tractor insurance. I didn’t think of that.

Okay, now I’m a tractor insurance expert. Apparently, you can cram tractors into your homeowner’s policy. Hope that information is correct.

It appears that my vehicle insurance will cost almost a third less up north. Won’t that be nice? Not as low as I had hoped. I guess just being in the same state with Miami has an effect. A Miami idiot might run into you while driving between Miami and New York.

Things are generally cheaper in northern Florida. Down here, you pay extra for the immense privilege of being in Miami. It’s like having a cover charge in hell.

In other news, I managed to fix the problems with my dad’s boat with very little effort. Thank God. With boats, you never know whether jobs will take five minutes or five hours. Here’s hoping no more bad things happen before we move.

If it weren’t so late, I’d go outside and install his new pool pump. I figure it’s a twenty-minute job, so I assume it will take three hours. Ever the optimist.

That’s all I got. But it’s enough.

Out of my Way, You Pillars of Salt

Today is a better day than most. I am waiting for a mechanic to give me a report on the farm machinery I intend to buy. For a hundred bucks, a trained diesel mechanic is looking at a farm tractor, a garden tractor, and a gas-powered golf cart for me. If God smiles on me, soon I will receive his report, and I will be cleared for takeoff.

It’s wonderful to know that when I move, I won’t have to begin my northern Florida experience with a month of tractor-shopping. Buying vehicles is like dating. It’s full of pitfalls and the potential for bitter regret. If I get the machines the mechanic is looking at, I’ll be covering all the bases at once, and I’ll be getting a very good price.

I still have a lot to do here. My dad has rental properties, and one is vacant right now. Yesterday I toured it with the realtor who looks after our properties. It was very depressing. The tenants were slobs, even by tenant standards. They painted the dining room walls a dark rust color, in semi-gloss instead of flat. They painted other areas a sickly baby blue, and of course, they got paint on the white popcorn ceiling. They destroyed the vertical blinds. They were told to patch all of their nail and screw holes when the left, so they jammed spackling compound into them, but they didn’t sand them.

Here’s one of their more impressive stunts: they drove a doorknob through a wall and left a patch you wouldn’t believe. Someone slammed the door and drove the doorstop through it, and after that, I guess they figured it was okay to use the wall as a doorstop.

I knew the place needed new kitchen cabinets, but now it looks like it will need to have the bathrooms done. A contractor had the gall to submit a $30,000+ estimate. Dude. It’s a rental. Granite is for people who take care of things. It’s not for tenants.

I would sell it right now, as is, but then I would have to think about capital gains tax. To avoid paying, I have to have a new rental property in mind, and I have to buy it within a few months. Tall order.

Never buy residential rentals. You have to be out of your mind to get into it. Residential tenants have the same respect for your property that convicts have for prisons. They expect homes to be perfect when they move in, and then they live like animals. Commercial tenants are completely different. They expect nothing except walls, and they don’t ask for much. More often than not, they make improvements which they leave behind. And you can evict them FAST. Try that with a home. Even a squatter who came in through a window can hold you off for months.

Here’s another fun item on my list. My dad’s pool pump died. Couldn’t it wait another year? Guess not. I had one delivered, and now I have to install it. In the hottest weather of the year. That will be a joy.

It gets better. The starboard battery bank on my dad’s boat is dead. Somehow, we discharged it so much it laughs at the battery charger. I have to try to charge it with the port engine, using jumper cables. Won’t that be fun? If I don’t get on it today or tomorrow, the boat could sink because the bilge pumps won’t run.

Guess I should make that my top priority. I’ve gotten used to the lovely emerald shade the pool has turned.

On the up side, the mechanic just called, and he thinks the machinery is worth twice what the seller is asking, so there’s some good news. There are a couple of hydraulic leaks, but they’re easy fixes, and the bush hog has a deck tear I should be able to weld up. Hooray for me.

Time to head for the boat, to erase all the good I did with my morning shower. Pray I get it running, and that I can resist the urge to scuttle it.

You Can’t Have too Many Diesels

Every day I start my prayers with two things. I ask God to do whatever can be done to bring him success in me and in everything I own, and I ask him to separate me from people and spirits that are against him and put me in his presence and the presence of his people. I want God himself to have success. I want him to have a return on his huge investment in me. If you look at the Bible, this is what he has been trying to get all along. He creates people and tells them exactly what to do in order to succeed, and we listen to loser spirits instead. God is a parent who wants his kids to take his helpful advice so he can make their lives work out, so I ask him to help me cooperate.

This is another way of asking him to put his kingdom and his righteousness first in my life. Jesus told us God would take care of our external needs if we put his desires first. It sure seems to work. I can give examples of the ways God is making my life easier.

I was concerned that my dad would not have enough ready cash to buy a house while managing his business. Looks like that’s not going to be an issue. One way and another, money shook loose. I doubt I’ll have to lend him a cent.

I was concerned that my dad might flip out when I started throwing out his awful furniture. He doesn’t even mention it. He walks into rooms where his stuff used to be, and he acts like nothing happened. That’s a good thing, because it’s stupid to move furniture which is worth absolutely nothing. The cost of the move is a total loss.

The seller of the property has some farm machinery I’ll need. He was talking to the realtor about selling it to me, but he took a long time to give me a price. Today, I got the number. It’s excellent. For $11K, he’ll sell me a Kubota tractor with loader, several implements including a bush hog, an E-Z-GO gas-powered cart with a dump bed, and a top-of-the-line John Deere diesel tractor/mower with a cart. That’s so low, I’m embarrassed to counter. I think a reasonable price would be more like $17K. As long as this stuff checks out, I should give him what he wants. He has done a ton of stuff to get the place into shape, free of charge.

This may not be the perfect machinery for my needs, but it will keep me going for a long time, and I’ll be able to get my money out of it if I upgrade.

I’ll need a nitrous system for that cart. I’ll just put that on my list.

I can’t get used to being blessed. It is a strange way of life. When I was living on a kibbutz, there was a death camp survivor who worked in the dining hall. Every time he ended a shift, someone had to go behind him and look for food he had hidden. He would take loaves of bread and hide them in various locations. He couldn’t help it. He had been starved in the past. I feel a little bit like that. So many things have gone wrong in my life; things that had every reason to go right. Now things seem to go right regardless of what I do. How can that be?

I’m getting insurance quotes for the property. They’re asking me whether we’ll have livestock. What kind of livestock? Will we be raising them for profit? Those are nice questions to get, when you’re used to little lots in suburbs.

Here’s my plan for the “farm”: I plan to raise nothing. If I need a couple of steers to cut the property tax, I’ll get them, but the land is for me, not for animals. I want to be able to walk outside without having my neighbors in my face.

In a very short time, we’ll close on the property, and then two weeks later, we get possession. After that, I don’t care what happens to me. Whatever life brings, I will go lie on my face in the grass and feel like the richest person alive.

More developments as they occur.

Actor Turns Son into Pedophile Bait

Christians who can’t tell when the tide is coming in are going to be drowned.

Yesterday I saw another sign of the incoming tide. Actor Liev Schreiber turned his son into pedophile bait, and people are praising him for it. One commenter’s fatuous response: “This is what good parenting looks like.”

There was a comic book convention. These events are always sexually pressurized. Female comic characters have gotten more provocative, and confused girls like to dress up to look like them. This is called “cosplay,” which means “costume play.” Schreiber’s son, who is 8 years old, decided to dress up as a slutty female character named Harley Quinn. He showed up with his dad in a blonde wig, lipstick, and sequined hot pants.

Homosexuals and liberals have gone nuts praising Schreiber, but the images of Schreiber and his son are so disgusting, even some on the left are upset. They’re not upset because the boy has been dressed like a woman. They’re upset because he has been dressed up like a tramp. So they have some limited understanding of the evil they are witnessing.

I am appalled by Schreiber’s lack of insight. Forget the issue of whether it’s right to confuse the sexes. Doesn’t he realize men all over the world are now using his son’s photos for sexual purposes? For a homosexual pedophile, the boy is a feast for the eyes.

My dad’s law partner had two sons. In 1995, the youngest one was kidnapped by a Cuban alien farmhand, raped, taken back to his parent’s house to be released, taken back to the farmhand’s trailer after the farmhand saw police cars, shot in the back as he tried to escape, cut in manageable pieces, and buried in concrete. I am not even a little amused by what Schreiber did to his son.

We live in an age in which perverts roam our malls and theme parks; a time in which taking your eyes off your son for thirty seconds may result in his rape and murder. What kind of father would allow sexually provocative photos of his son to be made public?

For a long time, God has been teaching me about the concept of fatherlessness. As a race, human beings are fatherless. We cut God off. We threw out his wisdom and knowledge, which are our success and protection. One generation is supposed to teach the next so every generation doesn’t have to start over with nothing. Satan and the spirits that are against us don’t die; they keep their knowledge. People who practice Satanic religions don’t lose their knowledge; they preserve it. Our forebears threw our accumulated treasure away, so now when a person wants to know about God, he ends up in the hands of a fool like Joel Osteen or Pope Francis. It’s as if he’s playing in the Super Bowl and his coach is Richard Simmons.

A father is supposed to teach and protect. He is supposed to be on your side against everyone else. If you don’t have a strong father who is for you, you will end up with a collection of false fathers who are against you, or who help you so badly they might as well be against you.

Schreiber’s boy is in trouble. The dark forces of the universe are aligned against him, and his father is helping them. Who is he supposed to turn to?

I am not a pedophile, so I can only guess, but after Schreiber’s ridiculous blunder, I would expect his son to become a prize for perverts. If they can’t get him, at least he’ll give them ideas on dressing up boys who look like him. Later this week, the dark web will probably fill up with erotic fiction dedicated to him.

If the world lasts another 20 years, take a look at Schreiber’s son and see what has become of him. I prayed for him today, but he has free will, and he is enveloped by evil. If he listens to dad, don’t be surprised if he turns out to be another Hollywood casualty.

Imagine an actor trying to pull something like this even ten years ago. We were a mess in 2007, but this would have been too much. Look how fast we’re sinking.

Those who hate us as well as our God are no longer hiding in the shadows. Fear is leaving them; when the lights go dim, the roaches come out. They know this is their world now.

In 2017, the shadows are for us, not them. Our hiding places are going to get smaller and smaller in the coming years. You’re going to need supernatural help to survive. You need to know how to pray and bless and curse effectively. If you don’t do anything to prepare, don’t say no one warned you. The Bible says God laughs at the calamities of those who don’t listen to him. He sat by and did nothing while the Babylonians castrated the princes of the Jews.

I hope Liev Schreiber has a big budget for security. He is waving meat at hungry dogs.

All Particle Board is Vanity

Today is a day filled with potential, unlike the whole of my mostly-spent life.

Yesterday I made great progress with the impending move north. I got my dad new sheets. I threw out and gave away a lot of clothing. I got the mold out of my dad’s linen closet. Today I’m planning to throw out furniture.

At some point in the 1980’s, my dad bought some really terrible furniture. He and my mother were divorced, and he had a girlfriend. He bought art and furniture for his house, and he helped the girlfriend open an art gallery, which I never saw. In fact, I’m not sure what the woman’s name is. My mother was never allowed to spend on the kind of home she wanted, but my dad spent quite a bit during the girlfriend era.

My sister’s dog soaked a good deal of the furniture, so it (the furniture) vanished over two decades ago. I think my dad’s sawdust dressers and headboard, however, are vestiges of his spate of spending freely.

I hate sawdust furniture. You know the stuff I’m talking about. It’s made from sawdust and glue, molded into the shape of boards. It has very thin veneer (or plastic with phony wood grain) on the surface. Put a couple of drinks down on it, and the surface comes off.

Sawdust furniture is probably twice as heavy as wooden furniture. It’s weak. It has no real joints. Little crumbs of sawdust fall out of it. Terrible.

My feeling about furniture is that intelligent people buy real wooden stuff, used. It’s made much better than new furniture, and it either holds its value or appreciates. You might buy a desk for five hundred bucks and then sell it for a thousand ten years later, if you choose wisely. When you buy sawdust, you’re buying the Depends of furniture. Use it once and throw it away. If you manage to sell it at all, you’ll take a beating worse than the last two Ronda Rousey got.

My bedroom furniture isn’t too bad, so after we move, I’ll put it in my dad’s bedroom. I’ll get by with banker’s boxes until I find something suitable. My dad’s sawdust items have to go.

There is nothing like throwing out things you’ve hated for years. When you finally get the power of trash designation, it’s like growing wings. My dad has a piece of art his sister created. It’s a black frame containing a black figure on white paper. The figure is a stylized representation of a girl. It’s depressing to look at. Creepy. I yearn for the day I can discard it.

A long time ago, my dad financed a souvenir shop for my sister. Nothing much sold. My parents ended up with some terrible Bybee pottery. It’s primitive pottery from Kentucky. It’s so bad, it appears they don’t even know what a potter’s wheel is. I’m not sure, but I think they form vases and bowls by hand, which is ridiculous. It’s very lumpy and crude. You can tell they just slopped it together in order to make a buck. To Goodwill it will go, unless it has some “accidents” between the house and car.

I got some tips from a caregiver’s forum. Goodwill will accept textiles no matter what shape they’re in. They can sell the unwearable things for recycling. They provide blank receipts, so when you donate, let your conscience be your guide. I’ve thrown out a lot of things I thought were too damaged to donate. Now I know better, although I will probably continue throwing textiles out when it’s convenient.

I’m not sure what to do with cigar boxes and humidors. They can be useful, but they are paraphernalia taken from a sinful, demonic practice. If I have them in my house or garage, will they give spirits a footbold?

I guess the humidors should go. They’re nice boxes, but they’re made for a specific purpose. They’re lined with cedar, and they’re constructed for high humidity. If you don’t store cigars in them, they dry out, and they may deform or split. I spent $400 for the one I used. I don’t know how I’ll feel about dumping it. Is it moral to sell it or give it away? It’s a lot like giving away a bong. When Abraham left his dad, the idol-maker, I doubt he sold whatever idols he had.

I believe I’ll give the humidors away and keep the cigar boxes for shop items. If I feel bad about keeping them, they can be thrown out later.

I threw out my dad’s personalized envelopes. He had them made for his law practice. Now he doesn’t practice, and the address has changed. It was jarring, realizing how useless they had become. We paid his bar dues for the upcoming year, just to avoid making him feel bad, but he is finished with law.

That’s what’s happening today.

I’m astonished at the way God has changed my life. I have a great deal of energy now. I’m exercising regularly. I’m not as lazy as I was two months ago. I have more self-control. I accomplish more, in less time. In short, curses are being peeled off of me and replaced with blessings. This is what being blessed is like. Life is supposed to be this way. No, it’s supposed to be better than this. I’m just experiencing the beginnings of it. I’m a greenhorn.

If you focus on God’s kingdom, and you work at confessing and taking responsibility, things start to move. It’s too bad preachers don’t teach this, but almost all of them are ignorant, and many don’t care at all about other people. They just want your money, so they say whatever will move you to give it to them. Most of the people on Christian TV should be horsewhipped.

I never listen to preachers any more. I have no use for them at all. I plan to join a church up north, but I don’t plan to drink the Kool-Aid. I’ll sit in the back and smile, and if people say stupid things, instead of getting in their faces, I’ll say, “Maybe that’s right.” I want to be helpful, but I’m nobody’s horse. I’m not going to try to carry anyone on my back.

Now I’ll sign off and count the minutes until I can throw out that furniture. Pray for my success.

Unless Motel Reservations Count

I am now so close to the closing on the new house, I have had to make a motel reservation. I won’t say the name of the motel, but I wish I could, because I would recommend all of you stay there when traveling in Florida. It’s the cleanest, most well-kept motel in the universe, as far as I know. It doesn’t have rugs! Hardwood (or convincing fake hardwood) all the way. Kiss your allergies goodbye in this place.

The pillows are so nice, I meant to remove the case on one and check the brand. How often can you say that about a motel? And the rooms run about $65 per night.

I still do not have my books packed. I was busy all day with my dad’s affairs, and I will be busy most or all of tomorrow.

I learned something that may be of use to you, if you care for someone who is slipping. You can make them pay you.

Heartless! Right? Well, not really. You may be dealing with someone who needs to have his or her assets reduced for various reasons. Estate tax is one reason. Medicaid eligibility is another. I have been advised to start charging my dad. I don’t know if I like that. I don’t want him telling me the customer is always right.

Here’s something weird. I have a list of people I pray for every day. I’m on the list. I keep praying God will help us not to be borrowers and beggars. I ask him to make us givers and lenders. It looks like he’s listening, because there’s a good chance I may have to lend my dad money so he can buy the new house. How about that! We have a ton of things going on right now, and cash is tied up in this and that, so it may be smarter for him to borrow from me than to spend his own cash.

I should foreclose on him, just to needle him.

Anyway, I thought it was remarkable.

Once your parents hit a certain age, you have to be careful about giving them things and paying for things. Everything they have has the potential to cause aggravation when they die. Besides, your worthless relations are likely to try to take everything you gave your parents.

When my dad’s mother died, my aunts and uncles literally pulled a U-Haul up to her apartment and cleaned it out. I got a crystal angel my dad gave her, and my sister got a porcelain horse.

I’ve learned a whole lot about taxes and estates and so on. You have to have a will, you have to have a power of attorney, you should have a living will, and then on top of all that, you have to think about avoiding probate. A will may not be enough, if you have a sleazoid relative who feels like suing. You may want to have real estate put into a trust so it goes from mom or dad straight to you, just like a joint bank account. My dad’s desire is to give me the house he’s buying. It would be a bummer if he passed away and I got thrown out after caring for him there in his declining years.

Here’s something ridiculous: in the state of Florida, you have to protect your parents’ wills personally. You have to preserve an original will if you want to get anything, and you can’t record it at the courthouse like a power of attorney or a deed.

What if your dad is worth a billion dollars? You could end up a situation where all you have to secure that money is four sheets of flammable paper. But a copy of the will is admissible, right? Yes. If you can find a disinterested witness who can confirm its contents. So you have to find a reliable person, show him the original will, make him learn it, and then hope he outlives your parents.

The answer, of course, is to put the will in a safe deposit box and hope the bank doesn’t burn down. But what if you have to change banks? Every time you get in the car with the will, you risk a very expensive accident.

I’m no estate attorney, but it seems like a smart person would keep copies of the will and have his best friends look at the original, just in case.

I’m not obsessing on my dad’s passing. He’s doing fine. But dealing with his assets and helping him buy a house and sell other properties has brought financial matters to the forefront of my attention. Joining a caregiver’s forum accentuated them even more. There are horror stories out there.

My grandfather died with a very bad will, and it screwed up the whole family. There are hard feelings. Some relatives have behaved badly. Belongings that should have gone to other people magically turned up in their homes. My aunt sued my cousins over an insurance policy. It may seem crass to get into the particulars of estate planning, but if you don’t, a loved one’s death may be the match that burns the family down.

I rarely hear from my relatives. They have holiday dinners without my dad and me. No invitations. I can understand why my sister isn’t invited. It would be like dumping a bag of angry snakes on everyone. But I haven’t done anyone wrong.

Too bad. I miss them. I miss Kentucky. But I can’t unburn what poor planning burned.

Soon I will be living in a place where people hang American flags on their houses and end emails with “Have a Blessed Day.” I will be able to shoot rifles from my front porch. I will be five minutes from Cracker Barrel. I’ll have a yard big enough to require a motor vehicle to tour it. Whatever struggles I have to go through in the next month or two will be well worth it. I’ll get us moved. I’ll get the financial stuff in order. Tiny price to pay.

I look forward to sharing photos of my first northern-Florida front yard pistol targets. Stay tuned.