When folks dismissively assert, "Trump's deporting only [x] per day—this won’t resolve the crisis!" commentators correctly retort that such judgments are precipitous. "It's only been a week!" they say, "to extrapolate 4 years worth of action from a week is insane."
Yet this measured skepticism seldom extends from those same commentators to the opposing phenomenon. Here, I suspect, we witness one of the right's fatal weaknesses in action: a propensity for naively sanguine prognostication. What if this initial fervor—the deportation blitz, the performative urgency—is merely a pyrotechnic flash, leading only to more of the usual? Worse still: to infer that progressives, having dominated sociopolitical conflicts for over a century, have abruptly atrophied into impotence because of… a week's worth of inaction...? Is it possible that the left is dead and that America will be made into a new country? Sure. Am I willing to believe it after having learned from American history and seen this entity crush its enemies again and again and again because of a mere week of positive happenings? Assuredly not.
The lesson? Hubris thrives in short timeframes. Declaring victory—or defeat—within days is less analysis than melodrama.
Yet this measured skepticism seldom extends from those same commentators to the opposing phenomenon. Here, I suspect, we witness one of the right's fatal weaknesses in action: a propensity for naively sanguine prognostication. What if this initial fervor—the deportation blitz, the performative urgency—is merely a pyrotechnic flash, leading only to more of the usual? Worse still: to infer that progressives, having dominated sociopolitical conflicts for over a century, have abruptly atrophied into impotence because of… a week's worth of inaction...? Is it possible that the left is dead and that America will be made into a new country? Sure. Am I willing to believe it after having learned from American history and seen this entity crush its enemies again and again and again because of a mere week of positive happenings? Assuredly not.
The lesson? Hubris thrives in short timeframes. Declaring victory—or defeat—within days is less analysis than melodrama.
It's the end of January and we've received just under 13 feet of snow this season. Let's have another 13 feet these next few months!
Every time you complain about something, the owner of this Telegram channel, a jobless peasant who lives in the northwoods Midwestern hinterlands and sometimes pretends to do philosophy, loses respect for you. You best my trying to get that complaining habit under control, young feller.
Forwarded from Voter Apatia OSINT
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I'm at the grocery store. Anyone want a Yooper t shirt or hoodie?
1. No true Yoopers are winter-haters
2. All snowbird retirees are winter-haters
∴. No snowbirds retirees are true Yoopers
2. All snowbird retirees are winter-haters
∴. No snowbirds retirees are true Yoopers
Let me not to the marriage of the land
And winter’s bite speak false—true cold is not
A season’s whim that melts at summer’s hand,
Nor shifts when thawing streams dare warm a plot.
O no! It is an ever-fixèd mark,
That towers in tempests, crowned by starlit breath;
Each snowbank guards the pine, a steadfast ark,
Unmoved by time’s decay or fleeting death.
Love’s not the thaw that tourists’ brief gaze steals,
Nor noise of snowmobilers who scar the peace—
Their tracks, like vain boasts, frost’s slow art conceals,
While silent drifts outlast their ragged fleece.
If this be false, let doubters’ tongues grow numb:
I wrote no verse, and beauty’s reign’s undone.
And winter’s bite speak false—true cold is not
A season’s whim that melts at summer’s hand,
Nor shifts when thawing streams dare warm a plot.
O no! It is an ever-fixèd mark,
That towers in tempests, crowned by starlit breath;
Each snowbank guards the pine, a steadfast ark,
Unmoved by time’s decay or fleeting death.
Love’s not the thaw that tourists’ brief gaze steals,
Nor noise of snowmobilers who scar the peace—
Their tracks, like vain boasts, frost’s slow art conceals,
While silent drifts outlast their ragged fleece.
If this be false, let doubters’ tongues grow numb:
I wrote no verse, and beauty’s reign’s undone.