Deb and I watched Tucker Carlson’s “The End of Men” last night. I’d have to say that it’s well done, albeit maybe not the team’s best work. It dwells a bit too long on balls tanning (which is a thing, apparently) and raw-egg chugging, but the episode makes its points.
(For the record, I don’t tan anything and I don’t do raw eggs. But in high school, when I was playing sports and trying to bulk up, twice a day I’d throw three raw eggs, 32 ounces of whole milk, vanilla and cane sugar into a blender, whip it up and drink that.)
And again, reaction from woke media is the best indication that “The End of Men” is on the right track.
The production spends a lot of time covering the disturbing decline in testosterone level and sperm count, along with the environmental causes — poisoning by many of the synthetic chemical compounds in our air, water, food and packaging, virtually everything we touch or consume. That’ll get the most attention, I predict, with people reflexively attacking the sources and trying to get substances banned.
If that’s your reaction, you’re a fool.
Let me say that again — if you look at the science and decide to go after Big Ag, Big Pharma, Big Tech and Big Government, you’re a fucking idiot. This stuff is everywhere. It’s a permanent part of our world. It’s not going away.
The only intellectually honest way to respond to the looming calamity — and this is why “bro science” is credible — is to act on a personal level, as families and as communities, to mitigate or even reverse the effects of the poisoning. That goes for cultural as well as chemical poison.
And that’s the take-away from “The End of Men.” Pay attention, you’ll see it. It’s worth your time.
Driving toward The Mountain today, first we stopped at Miller Hardware to look for a pick mattock. They were out of stock, but we had a great conversation with the clerk helping us. He delivered the day’s best line, too, responding to me complimenting the store on living up to the sign over the entrance, which reads, “The Friendliest Place in Yellville.”
“Nah,” he said, waving a hand in front of his face dismissively. “That’s an old sign.”
We dropped by Powell Feed & Milling and picked up a couple of (apple-flavored) deer blocks, the post office to grab our mail and the grocery for picnic fare. The woman behind the deli counter at Harps saw Deb coming, knew that she was after chicken salad and quickly made some up special.
We love it here.
Up on The Mountain, we loaded the deer blocks (and the now-well-stocked RTIC cooler) into the Ranger. We decided to run down to the bottom of the road first, where we were waved back to a neighbor’s place. We hung out and chewed the fat for over an hour, as neighbors will do.
There’s no such thing as a short conversation ’round here. These good people seem to like us. That’s important.
From there we ran up the summit trail, placed one of the blocks and had a lunch I can only describe as peaceful. We sat in silence, mostly, though we did discuss which trees would be best for hammocking. We picked out a spot for a fire ring, which we’ll build later this year, and a woodpile.
On the way back to Deb’s cousin’s place we dropped the second deer block in front of the other trailcam, near the homesite. We ended our visit with some good ol’ porch-sittin’.
Rolling back through Yellville at day’s end, Deb and I realized for the first time that this town, the county seat, doesn’t have a traffic light.
One year ago today, we wheeled out of South Dakota into Iowa. We kept the Missouri River to our right for the first part of the drive, then north of Omaha we turned east.
That memorable stretch of Interstate 80 was the worst road surface we’d seen in all our travels. It shook us and the bus something fierce.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.