Wolf DeVoon

The Executive Branch text  (free pdf)  http://www.lulu.com/shop/wolf-devoon/the-executive-branch/ebook/product-23893023.html

The Executive Power  (video lecture)  https://vimeo.com/299712339

What is it with conservative talk radio hosts? -- such knuckleheads that they feel compelled to use a conjunction after the word freedom when they say liberty immediately after it, as if "freedom and liberty" were two separate constitutional objects, which neither of them was. The U.S. Constitution was a charter of power, and not a word of it was written by Alexander Hamilton, dipshits. He proposed monarchy and won little support, so he left the convention after a single week of attendance. The other delegates from New York said that they had no authority to discuss a national government, only to perhaps consider amendments to the Articles of Confederation, so they quit the secret Philadelphia assembly, too.

Where did you get the idea that the Constitution was an "inspired" work of legal or political thinking? It was the result of an endless, shameless, mean-spirited, selfish division among Large States and Small States and Free States and Slave States who fought each other for two months, refusing to agree on anything, except a monstrous claptrap that no one wanted to sign until Ben Franklin urged that this ugly baby was their only hope of salvation, a cobbled compromise among 13 bankrupt competitors who were taxing each other as if they were 13 foreign countries. The produce of agricultural New Jersey was compared to a keg tapped at both ends, taxed by Pennsylvania and New York. Those few who spoke of equality and liberty were kneecapped. Either slavery remained legal, or there would be no constitution of any kind. We have a Senate because Slave States and Small States demanded it, refusing to yield to democracy or a republic based on population. The Massachusetts crew in were corrupt politicians, angling for power. Elbridge Gerry was the father of "gerry-mandering," arguing that state legislators had to retain the privilege of feathering their own nests. The Rhode Island delegates were imbeciles, determined to block passage of anything. Counting slaves as 3/5 of a person for the purpose of apportioning representation in Congress was pure payola to entice the Slave States to ratify, doubling the number of seats they would hold in the lower house, a permanent lock on Federal legislation. Ending the importation of slaves was fine. They were breeding them like rabbits, didn't need to import any more, provided that the Crown Lands were stripped from Pennsylvania, who claimed the frontier Ohio Valley. Any new frontier states would be created in pairs, a new slave state for each free one.

Want to know the truth? -- the damn Constitution was a recipe for Civil War -- all the silly anonymous hoopla by Madison, Hamilton, and Jay notwithstanding. The Anti-Federalists in Massachusetts and New York made equally good arguments, and Patrick Henry of Virginia was foursquare against ratification. No one expected the new Constitution to survive more than a few decades, and Jefferson predicted another revolution in twenty years or so.

Don't even get me started on the Bill of Rights, which inverted the notion of enumerated, specific powers, opening the way to Hamilton's doctrine of "implied powers" and a measly rump of "preferred freedoms" that gave FDR a wink and a nod to regulate every aspect of commerce and use of private property. The only rights remaining are affirmative action in hiring and college admissions, NFL tantrums, throwing rocks at cops, ridiculing President Trump, humiliating Kavanaugh, and gay love as sacrosanct free expression.

Take a look at your wallet, chump. See what is says on your one dollar bill that used to be worth ten times more in purchasing power? It says Federal Reserve Note, an IOU with absolutely nada backing it. There's your "originalist" freedom and liberty, an explicit Article I power to coin money and determine the value thereof, no different than the power to levy trade tariffs, the Federal government's sole source of revenue at its inception and specific cause of the Civil War, wiping out five years of national income and 600,000 true believers in justice, led by officers and gentlemen who dispossessed and waged war on Indians.

Mark Levin a constitutional scholar? Hahahahahaha.

p.s. - a new video on The Executive Power 

I've recorded a series of video lectures to express my ideas about government, the rule of law in a free society, self defense, and aspects of family life. The material is presented as concisely as possible. It's an opportunity to meet me in an intimate setting and to consider whether it makes sense to explore my novels and nonfiction books.

I do not expect to do more video. This is it, a lifetime of creative thought.

More than once I have wondered whether my ideas will do more harm than good, if widely accepted. In the past, I answered that question by saying that the American Revolutionary War of Independence was perceived as painful by most people. Thomas Paine ridiculed and damned Philadelphia's wealthy Quakers who refused to fight, remained loyal to England, didn't contribute a farthing to advance liberty.

I would much prefer to devolve and dissolve the government incrementally, selling off its assets in reverse value, the worst junk first, leaving open the matter of military power to be considered in fine detail, although I would argue for immediate auction of overseas bases. The sensible ancap goal is defense of the United States, to be determined and provisioned by a consortium of commercial enterprises. The videos explain why.

https://vimeo.com/user66655576

Hi. Not to detract from everything else posted above, but - er - you realize that Christine Blasey Ford was reportedly involved in CIA recruiting at Stanford, right? Her father was CIA, and her brother allegedly worked at law firm Baker Hostetler and organized Fusion GPS. Another "big law" outfit, Perkins Coie, was the Deep State money laundering pipeline. In 2009, President Obama appointed Robert Bauer, chair of the firm's Political Law practice, to become his White House Counsel. Bauer returned to private practice with Perkins Coie in 2011. In 2015, Hillary Clinton named Marc Elias as general counsel to her campaign.

Hmm. Somebody explain it to me, what's a "Political Law" practice?

On 10/10/2018 at 5:41 PM, Michael Stuart Kelly said:

Someone who wants to silence you like that ... is trying to injure you from the shadows.

Could be, I guess. Google initially relegated by latest novel to Amazon's Mexican server, invisible as an English-language title. It's possible that I annoyed someone in government. My important stuff is uploaded at Vimeo https://vimeo.com/user66655576 and there are three more videos in the can, recently completed, which I will upload to Vimeo when I have wider bandwidth at a neighbor's house, perhaps tomorrow. Evil saboteurs can complain to Vimeo, if they wish.

Special thanks to William. It matters enormously to receive encouragement.

Good news.

Sorry, it was deleted by YouTube, a strike against my account for reasons I cannot comprehend.

https://youtu.be/s7awpJDLL9M

https://www.amazon.com/Eight-Ruthless-Novels-Wolf-DeVoon/dp/1725562448

https://youtu.be/HRGX2FiHOS0

I've completed a new novel, set in 1975, when the Cosa Nostra had an iron grip on the city of Milwaukee. It's embarrassing to ask anyone to read and review it, because it's a tragedy and ends badly for the hero and the brave brainy girl he marries.

'Partners' begins and ends in a hard Wisconsin winter, from the first few flakes of November to snowbound Christmas, a February blizzard, finally a freak March ice storm, an actual event that occurred in 1976 and paralyzed the city of Milwaukee for an entire week. After the ice storm melts, winter is over and the tale ends, four months of gun battles, love, and loss.

When the story opens, cold weather worries a lonely young man, reading Help Wanted ads at 3 a.m. in the Water Street Ham and Egger. His adventures take him to Mequon, Brady Street, the Port of Milwaukee, Shorewood, Oak Creek, Winneconne, Door County, and the Core.

https://www.amazon.com/Partners-Wolf-DeVoon/dp/1722608595

It is my fervent wish that no one reads Partners. It starts out innocently and immediately gets worse and worse and worse. The profound happiness of newlyweds freed from hardship and danger, alone together in a remote snowbound cabin is almost too much to bear, given their fate. Do not read this book. The ending is so intensely sad that I find myself unable to write in the future, as if I had crossed some terrible red line, a lifelong moral law against tragedy.

Partners completed, 68K, available on Amazon in a week or two. If you'd like a pdf for review, email wolfdevoon@gmail.com

8 hours ago, dldelancey said:

What to do?  As a parent of a young male dyslexic

All I can report are the books I loved, RLS Kidnapped and Treasure Island, C.S.Forester Hornblower series.

22 minutes ago, anthony said:

Huh, the game is still in play, I think. Just pointing out possible lingering ideas that you "sacrificed" anything, or you believe self sacrifice is 'noble'. One *pays* in some and many ways to gain a greater value, everything costs in virtue and energy. Like a Queen Sacrifice to win a chess game, that's no sacrifice.

Kind of you to reply. Not every kid is a winner in the game show of life. One of the defects in Miss Rand's work is the 12-0 jury nullification of Roark's felony.

On 6/27/2018 at 9:35 AM, anthony said:

Wolf, The measure of value vs. self-sacrifice is this, I believe:

Was it worth it? Is it worth it?

Too late now. As we say in the card game schaapskopf, what's laid is played.

Parenthetically, how embarrassing that writing involves crying. I'm working on 'Partners' deep in the third act. Going one paragraph at a time, I always finish each scene that I start (usually a page or two, sometimes more). As is my custom, each newly completed scene is saved, then exported to pdf for a critical read and to look at punctuation and line spacing.

What happens next, of course, is that I launch the pdf, sometimes backspace many pages to read a longer sequence. There's amazing warmth in certain scenes that I haven't seen in a long time. My whole heart burst into tears when Kyle and Karen did something that soared in celebration of thoughtful newlyweds and lasting love.

What a sap.

You know what else forces me into involuntary tears of compassion, every damn time? Mary Poppins. Two kids at a window, watching her descend by aid of an opened umbrella. "It's her! It's the person!" Jane exclaims to her younger brother Michael.

Terrible. I cried on the set of The Marionette. The crew worried that I had lost my mind, but the performances were wonderful. Happened more than once. Writing a novel is far worse than directing, because I'm staging it and performing it with the power of literary art. Sometimes I think that writing should be a licensed profession, stop me from putting my heart through the wringer like this. I dread the next chapter because Jimmy must die.

On 6/26/2018 at 2:40 PM, dldelancey said:

Avoiding alienation of potential readers really doesn't require all that much schmoozing or marketing. 

Oh, good. I have published a special book, just for you. I earn 2 cents per copy sold, planning a fun trip to Elko with the proceeds.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/wolf-devoon/authors-exist-to-please-and-flatter-readers/paperback/product-23701079.html

On 6/26/2018 at 9:01 PM, Wolf DeVoon said:

had you not insulted his mother

I'm slow, but I get there. Authors win readers by being pleasant, agreeing to bullshit, service with a smile, ever so grateful

58 minutes ago, KorbenDallas said:

Why not change it up a little and write a contemporary fiction book.

In the years remaining, I want to attempt work that seems personally important, such as it is.

6 hours ago, dldelancey said:

Not to beat a dead horse, but you could have had at least one young male reader had you not insulted his mother, the buyer of his books and the enforcer of daily reading time.  He enjoys at least 75% of his reading list.  Who knows.  You might have been part of the 75%.  Either way, at least one of your books would have ended up being read by a dude and then donated to a library.

Avoiding alienation of potential readers really doesn't require all that much schmoozing or marketing. 

Baffled. I'm sure you're right, but have no idea why.

9 hours ago, anthony said:

How can a child be a "duty"?

A dice roll. We try to narrow the odds by picking an Objectivist mate, or as Gordon Liddy said to me in explanation of his wife, "Good genes." But still, it's a dice roll, and kids have unusual characteristics, horizons of their own. Twenty years is a long time to be perfectly rational and perfectly wise every minute. Shit happens. I think I had 50 fights with school teachers and administrators, some public, some private. At least a dozen errors of judgment dealing with my daughter, several million mistakes dealing with my wife. The duty persists through thick and thin, loved or hated, admired or scoffed at. Parents use themselves up. New life is the purpose.

10 hours ago, anthony said:

All boils down to the invidious false dichotomy:  sacrifice others, or sacrifice yourself - sell out others, or sell out yourself -- encapsulated by: any individual life is to be a submissive *moral duty* to other lives. Nobody asks - Why?

Sorry to intrude, want to inject the notion of voluntarily chosen duty. Parent is a big one, a 20 year commitment, supersedes marriage and personal wellbeing. Cop, lawyer, Marine, tinker, tailor, spy -- most public service careers have a dimension of duty that's like a one way door involving classified or confidential knowledge.

Did I mention that I dislike taking chances? - a risk averse gambler, betting every sous.

Quote

I put the key in a deadbolt to unlock a frame house that Herman had rented and furnished for us, close enough to the bridges and streets that crisscrossed downtown and the East Side, quiet enough to elicit no notice at night. Our car was hidden behind the house at the end of a plowed driveway with wide swirls of rock salt, and there was a snow shovel to deal with a storm. I didn't think I'd have to use it. The weather forecast said that March would be cold and dry.

The house was warm and I helped Jim take off his coat and suit jacket, hung them in the front closet on sturdy wire hangers next to mine. Jim was sullen.

“What's wrong?”

“I need to use the can.”

“And?”

He seethed angrily. “Help me take my shoes off. And when I'm done, I need a new dressing on my shoulder. The little box in the trunk.”

“Okay, sit down.”

I knelt and pulled the shoelaces, removed his shoes and put them aside near the chair as if they were my own, considered whether this pair needed a shine, perhaps a quick buff. I went to the closet and put on my leather coat, enough to conceal my gun and keep myself warm during three trips to and from the car.

I put his suitcase in the master bedroom and opened the little box.

Joanne had lectured me about wound care, a final act of charity, wouldn't let me thank her or express any personal warmth in parting, for what we believed was the last time we would see each other. In an alternate universe, Joanne and I could have been happy together as friends and lovers.

The little box was packed with sealed pads, rolls of gauze, antiseptic spray, pain pills, antibiotic ointment, medical tape and scissors. There was a sterile suture kit in case he pulled a wound open. I doubted my ability to sew him up. What Jim needed was a doctor, and Herman gave me Butterfield's card because we both knew that Jim would need to be patched up again, sooner or later. The man had no common sense, pushed himself mercilessly.

He was sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette that was almost finished. Self-contained. Silent. Remote.

I cracked a smile and forced Jimmy to frown at me. “I have to get you out of that sling and nice white shirt and tie. Nurse Marshall wants to look at the hole in your shoulder.”

He got up and did everything himself. Horrible, painful contortions.

Love is patient and kind, right? It bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Pretty fucking hard to endure this, watching my partner suffer. I took his tie and placed it in a loose fold on the chair back.

It was impossible for Jimmy to get his shirt off without help, and I carefully avoided touching him when I pulled a little and slid the front panel away from his swollen bandaged shoulder. He had no business being dressed for business. It grieved me that this man would not rest and take it easy another month.

His shoulder was ghastly, flesh like a blue balloon that nothing should touch, wrapped and strapped. Those bandages had to come off. There was a drain to deal with, a hard tough ribbon of flexible rope that had been packed in the gaping hole that a bullet punched through the meat of Jim's left shoulder and shattered his collarbone — corrugated, useless, disconnected pieces of a bone that no longer existed, under skin and fascia that was sewn up and stretched, crimson and black. It had to be bathed with stinging antiseptic.

This was our new life together, impossible tasks and gritted teeth, caring for my partner intimately and clumsily. I wanted to cry for help, call the doctor and knock Jim out with anesthetic. Removing his stuck dressing and pulling out an inch of drain rope was torturing him. There was no way to do anything gently. I had been warned by Joanne to be positive and firm, hard hearted.

A Bible verse steadied my trembling hands. I have put life and death before you, the blessing and the curse.

Finally, it was done. I put a robe over his shoulders, whipped away his shirt and tie from the back of the armchair, helped him to sit down, and Jimmy eased himself in a relaxed slump, took a long deep breath that allowed him to move his left arm and crackle into a less hunched posture. It left him panting.

I went to the sink, got him a glass of water for pain pills.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully.

“You're supposed to eat when you take those,” I said politely and returned to the kitchenette to open the refrigerator and look in the cupboards. “The best I can do is a hot sandwich, chicken or tuna. Which would you like?”

“Doesn't matter. You pick.”

I whipped out a Teflon coated aluminum skillet and opened the chicken can, drained it, shook it into the pan with a pat of butter. It began to sizzle while the bag of rolls was opened and closed, the smell of bread a welcome relief, simple domestic chores that were life giving and pleasant. “I need to go shopping, get us some fresh meat and vegetables, some sharp cheese and better coffee. Hills Brothers is awful.” I filled the coffeemaker and started it, stirred the chicken.

Jim attempted to reach his cigarettes, couldn't do it. I went to help him, got his cigarette lit, quietly moved the table and lamp to his right side.

There was nothing to say, no questions to be asked or answered. I flattened the chicken into a pancake, let the butter pop and hiss to brown the edges, got coffee cups down from a cabinet, sliced and buttered the rolls. It was difficult to face death. Every meal seemed like our last supper, no rhyme or reason, just emptiness, a ritual to ward off evil spirits. Take and eat of this.

Jim had extinguished his cigarette and nodded thanks when I handed him a hot sandwich on a plate and a paper towel. I returned to the kitchen counter to pour coffee, put a cup on his side table where he could reach it, turned on his lamp for warmth and light. The little winter sun was dying, windows darkened. Somewhere there was a thermostat to check before I went out.

“Footstool?”

“Yeah... thank you.”

We ate in silence, drank our coffee.

 

*** ** ***

 

Apparently, I had gone stupid. I couldn't remember how to start the car. My key didn't fit the ignition. How was that possible? I tried again. It seemed tight and sticky. The car was cold, and my hands were cold.

Was it in park? Too dark to see.

Shit. I left my cigarette lighter somewhere. I opened the door and courtesy light shined on my feet. I rubbed my left eye with the heel of my hand. My brain wasn't working. I pushed the key a little more firmly and the engine cranked.

Let's see. I sat and shuddered in the cold car, had to rub my forehead, blow on my hands, get the gloves on. No, dumbshit, the other one goes on that hand. Somewhere there was an ice scraper. Damned if I could find it. I pawed around behind the bucket seats, got out and moved the seat back. I needed a flashlight. Was it in the glove compartment or the console? Seemed strange.

Okay, try the defroster, if I can figure it out again. I unbuttoned my coat to look for my Zippo, patted all my pockets. Phooey. Must have left it somewhere in the house, and I didn't want to go back in. No reason not to, but something in there bothered me. It was too quiet. I needed loud music.

A bar. That's what I needed, a good stiff drink.

Why am I carrying this piece of shit iron? — felt like torture on my hip. Did I have to kill someone tonight? I was tempted to get out and take it off my belt, but it was cold out there and the car was finally starting to warm up. Where in heck are my cigarettes? I found them in my shirt pocket, searched again for the lighter. Well, that's just silly. Left back pocket, sitting on it, never put it there. I felt like a poltergeist was loose, making everything as difficult as possible.

Great. I had to back out.

I threw my hat on the passenger seat and twisted to see a little strip of rear window that showed a fence and not much else. When I shifted in reverse, the snow lit up, made everything brilliant and confusing and alien.

I couldn't remember what it looked like when I pulled in the driveway. Two long berms of snow, a bowling alley. Maybe it didn't matter. The big car rolled back and got stuck cattywampus too close to the corner of the house, had to go forward, try again, made everything worse, right front wheel plowed deep in a snow bank. Come on, stupid, you can do better than this.

32 years old. Alone in the world.

 

Where the hell could I go? — not downtown, East Side, West Side, North.

 

I whipped around the interchange and headed for Waukesha, passed County Stadium and never felt more lonely, exiled from all the goofballs I liked, people my own age, jokes and smiles, music from the 60s, Hendrix and Tom Jones and Quicksilver. Warm houses with homemade pizza and beer, chicks with flashing eyes, bouncy gaiety, eager to get stoned, forget about whatever they did 9 to 5. Me too, scrubbed clean, grabbed the bong like a lifeline, didn't care how bad it made me cough, got laughed at.

It had been years ago. Everything was years ago.

The car drove itself to Piggly Wiggly and parked near the doors, because the grocery store would close soon.

Somebody else moved like a robot, did what was necessary. I was just along for the ride, impatient to be somewhere else, maybe Harry Kelson's or Flaming John Sullivan's, laughing and rolling on the floor, wrestling with chicks.

 

I couldn't go to the Knickerbocker, I might be gunned down.

 

The ring on my finger was on fire, an emotional weight that I couldn't carry, just like the heavy Smith & Wesson that gnawed my ribs and hip, made it hard to breathe, the bitter taste of cordite stuck in my craw.

Death all around me, inescapable death — theirs, mine, everyone.

The car slowed to the curb. I put it in park with the last of my strength, sat slumped at the wheel. Drinking wouldn't fix anything. I didn't want to see $100 bills, didn't want to touch my wallet, couldn't get on the freeway.

It mattered that I loved her, and I burst into tears, crushed by pain that I had never felt before, shook and slobbered, no longer a man.