106: EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM SUBSTACK.COM
IT'S GOTTEN A LITTLE OUT OF HAND FOR ME, SO I RECOMMEND CAUTION.
I RECENTLY FOUND THAT I HAD MORE THAN 30 SUBSCRIPTIONS! Scanning these takes hours a day, but full-time covid warriors have to read, and this source is uncensored.
A poorly kept secret is that you can get most of Substack’s content using free subscriptions. I put *** next to the authors that are required reading. If you briefly scan this post, don’t miss the excerpt from one of my favorite books at the very end.
This is the brilliant Antonio Garcia Martinez, the guy who was fired two weeks after being hired by Apple because a woke mob there claimed he was abusing women. Their only evidence was Chaos Monkeys, his best-selling book published five years earlier! I appended the sexy passage they hated at the end of this post so you can judge for yourself (don’t miss this or the book). Martinez recently went to Poland and Ukraine to study the situation, then reported back on the Joe Rogan show #1795. He is not an expert on Covid or the vax, so despite my respect for him, I gave him no stars here.
***Mercola.com daily posts from the website
Mercola was listed along with RFK Jr. as one of the two worst “disinformation sources” and “domestic terrorists” in America. His essays were free for decades but now disappear behind a paywall on Substack after 48 hours. He was threatened and made this compromise because he feared retribution. I copy and paste his “top stories” into word documents and sometimes reproduce them on my Substack. They are not copyrighted. He also has a podcast with all sorts of interesting ideas, but much of it is off-topic for me.
Since Mercola sells vitamins, I ignore everything else in his daily newsletter. However, I now buy all my vitamins from his company because I trust him. I take D, zinc, magnesium, and a few other supplements including Co Q.
Cell phone radiation is one of Mercola’s concerns. Despite reading several books, I have been unable to understand the science behind this well enough to make a firm judgment. But Mercola is so brilliant that I cannot write off his opinions about this. I do completely turn off my cell phone every night instead of sleeping near a live source of this radiation.
This is Alex Barensen, who has the best single blog here. He figured out what was happening in early 2020, and hasn’t quit for a moment. He is a brilliant writer and is backed by resources.
Maybe the smartest guy in this room. This is moderately high level, so you will have to see if you like it. Malone is the inventor of mRNA technology and was finally red-pilled after he nearly died from his second jab.
This guy is a billionaire who is utterly committed to the goals of preserving true science, the Constitution, and defeating the corporatists who want to rule the world.
This guy is a polymath genius with an eccentric writing style, and I am addicted to his posts. Unfortunately for me, he posts five times a day. He tracked the Canadian and American truckers closely, and when he has opinions, he does not hold back.
Anonymous physicians who are recent Substackers. A recent post was, “How Corruption Dictates the Practice of Medicine.” They also explained “The story behind Will Smith's recent Oscar performance for Pfizer.”
The World Health Organization is corrupt and making a power grab. James is the critical commentator here. We have less than a month to prevent some disasters.
Try this one out. You won’t be disappointed.
She is uncovering the corrupt World Health Organization. Here is a recent post: “We told the WHO we don’t want its pandemic treaty – now what?”
Social Credit Piloted in Italy: World Economic Forum's 'Agile Nations' in Action. Transparent citizens and private billionaires. In 2020, seven countries, in partnership with the WEF, signed an agreement to become “Agile Nations.” Italy is one of them. Other countries are Canada, Denmark, the UK, Japan, Singapore, and UAE.
From Germany. Here’s a sample:
Oh, and also, right now, as you read this newsletter, the fanatics in the New Normal German parliament are revising the Infection Protection Act to enable them to order the forced “vaccination” of the entire 60+ German population. They wanted to forcibly “vaccinate” everyone, but they couldn’t get a majority to approve that, so they tried for forced “vaccination” of just adults (i.e., everyone over the age of 17), but that didn’t fly either, so now they have settled on forcibly “vaccinating” the over-59s.
Excellent, academic with careful referencing. From a recent post:
The COVID death rate is higher after mass vaccinations.
There is a discernible reduction in the rate of COVID deaths in just 38 out of the 202 countries studied (19%). Therefore, in the vast majority of countries, both the rate and the number of COVID deaths after vaccination programs is higher than before.
I liked one of his posts so much that I copied it for my audience. It was titled, “The Corona Overreaction Has Been the Meanest Prank Ever.”
Dr. Jessica Rose is the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System (VAERS) expert. From her substack:
She discusses the fraud we’ve all experienced over the past few years in relation to the pandemic. The data shows negative efficacy regarding the COVID19 vaccine, meaning that it’s actually hurting you. If they can lie about issues surrounding COVID19 so easily, then what have they been lying about the whole time? She goes into the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System (VAERS) and how the adverse event and death reports related to COVID19 injections are off the chart. The FDA and CDC are not even looking at the data. She believes the vaccine is a segueway into introducing new injection platforms, normalizing injections, and digitizing the human. She agrees the goal of the Vaccine Passports is to install the Social Credit System. The WHO Pandemic Treaty will be the total loss of sovereignty for all countries and individuals. That’s the end.
Here’s a recent post title: “Panic in Trudeau’s Canada as Triple Vaccinated have a higher Covid Death-Rate than the Unvaccinated.”
This friend of mine produces a daily Drudge-like compilation of the news.
Sample post: “Moderna Knew Vaccinated People Will Never Acquire Proper Immunity After Breakthrough Infections.”
Military perspective. Sample post: “Military Whistleblowers: COVID Injections Causing 'Catastrophic Harm' to U.S. Military - Big Pharma Funded Terror Attacks Killing U.S. Soldiers - Ivermectin Known Curative Since April 2020”
A media figure and major contributor, but not so much on Substack. I copied and pasted one of her posts to my substack: I'm not "Brave";You're Just a P---y.
Covid from the medical perspective.
A major physician contributor but his Substack either only caters to paid subscribers or he doesn’t write much.
Academic covid material.
Covid and other news.
New world order and general news.
Political commentary. Sample:
Yesterday, I tested the claims made by journalists that the loss of Disneyworld’s special district status in Florida would be devastating to local taxpayers and leave the counties that are home to the giant theme park “staring at financial ruin.” In response, some commenters talked about the matters of principle that I hadn’t examined, like the inherent correctness or abusiveness of the power to tax. All of that is just fine, and is ultimately a worthwhile discussion, but here’s what I mean to say:
We live in such a degraded information environment that we can’t get to discussions of principle.
Knows everything about regulatory capture, the bribery of agencies to make corporations money.
Snowden is a superhero and his book Permanent Record is a must-read. He exposed the surveillance state to us. When he left his defense contractor job and ratted out his employers, he threw himself on a hand grenade to preserve free speech. For his efforts, he is stuck living in Russia. I supported him with a paid subscription but have not received any posts.
Trust me: try this one out.
Fred, like me, was called to this duty by his conscience. He writes beautifully about the Constitution and is a friend.
HERE IS THE BEST PART OF THIS POST. It is the passage from Chaos Monkeys that got Antonio Garcia Martinez thrown out of Apple. The rest of his bestseller is just as good.
“Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”
If you ever run across an online dating profile with the above as a tagline, be aware you’re in for one fucking life-changing date. I had found British Trader’s profile while searching for the keyword “sailing.” Thematic searches (e.g., “physics,” “PhD,” “beer”) were my way of finding some iota of common ground with which to structure an introductory message.
At the time, online dating sites distinguished themselves mostly by the demographics of their members. Craigslist was for escorts, fat chicks in Fremont, and serial killers. OkCupid was for penniless hipster chicks who lived in shared flats in the Mission. Match.com was for professional women busy with the time-honored tradition of husband shopping. Choose your audience, and write your ad copy. Mine was heavy on the sailing and outdoor adventuring. Zero mention of diaper changes and daycare drop-offs. Truth in advertising, more or less.
She had vaguely Slavic-looking cheekbones and feline eyes. Her Match profile photo featured her at the tiller of a boat, which instantly quintupled her attractiveness. Message led to dinner date. Dinner date led to an opera outing. One early Friday evening, dressed in her corporate finest, she appeared unannounced at the boatyard. My twenty-six-foot sloop Moksha was hauled out on land, and I was busily refitting it for serious offshore sailing. Covered in dust and grease, I welcomed her to my boat. She climbed up the precarious twelve-foot ladder to Moksha’s deck, which towered over the ground due to the boat’s deep keel.
Then, a romantic reversal.
The following weekend, a tall, rangy guy put his boat next to mine in the yard. A strapping and strutting South African, he walked over and we started talking boats. We got along famously, and continued our unending string of boat talk with beer and pizza at the local red-and-white-tablecloth Italian place.
He was, as fate would have it, British Trader’s ex-boyfriend, who had recently and unceremoniously dumped her. This business was serious. As I’d eventually learn from British Trader, they had tried having a child despite never marrying. Their inability to conceive had convinced British Trader she was barren.
He and I ended our boozing and bullshitting and got back to work on our respective boats. As I was painting the bottom, I looked over and saw some hot chick talking to my new South African friend. I saw only her jeans-clad ass. Given my as-yet noncomprehensive knowledge of her anatomy, I didn’t recognize her. Of course, it was British Trader, stopping by the yard to check randomly on my progress. Given there was only one large boatyard for serious refitting in the East Bay, meeting her recent beau wasn’t a completely improbable coincidence.
Weirded out by my bonding with her ex, she decided to end the budding romance. But then a week later she changed her mind. I had brunch with her and her female confidante. On my finest social behavior, I passed muster with her friend. The next invitation was dinner at her house. When I appeared on her doorstep with a bottle of wine and a smile, she opened the door conspicuously made up, perfumed, and in a fetching dress. The moment that door swung open, I knew I had her.
The contemporary honeymoon of a several-week fuck-fest, consummated at the start of a new romantic liaison, played itself out comme il faut. No surprises really, other than British Trader’s taste for being physically dominated in bed, a bit of a surprise given her alpha-female exterior. To a woman, every girlfriend of mine has been intelligent, ambitious, and independent. Until very recently, all were vastly more successful and wealthier than me. And yet, come the pressing hour of physical need, so unfolded the countless boudoir scenes recalling Fragonard’s Le Verrou: a ravished chambermaid, half resisting and half yielding, violently seized in the arms of her predatory lover, who slams shut the bolt on the bedroom door.
The backdrop to the tryst turned relationship was a modest bungalow fixer-upper that British Trader had bought, taking advantage of a corporate relocation package. She made Bob Vila of This Old House look like a fucking pussy. She had ripped out the ornate and custom built-in shelves and display case from one room and installed them in another. The flooring was down to the planking, to be redone in fresh hardwood (by her, with a nail gun and lots of patience). The only room that was even remotely livable was the kitchen (which featured beautiful hardwood counters that were regularly oiled). Her bed consisted of a cheap foam mattress about the width of an extra-jumbo-sized menstrual pad inside a room stripped to the wall studs. The floor was dusty with drywall powder from the demolition, and postcoitally, it was all I could do to balance myself precariously on the edge of the pad and off the drywall dust. Morning showers were in the one functioning bathroom, whose empty window frames were covered in plastic. A molded plastic shower in the corner and a lonely-looking white porcelain toilet were the only signs of civilization in what appeared to be the inside of a garden shed. The scene of conception was either the aforementioned foam pad, or the hardwood kitchen counter.
Two generations ago, her branch of the family, moneyed Jews in czarist Russia, had seen the revolutionary writing on the wall and had fled to the United Kingdom. Another branch moved to China and became an established trading family in Harbin. In Britain, the family made the unlikely transition to landed gentry, and ran a farm in Bedfordshire. A great-uncle was elevated to the peerage, and a second cousin shared the Nobel Prize with Alexander Fleming for penicillin.
When she was in her teens, her father decided to move the family to the United States, where they suffered a financial reversal she was unwilling to talk about. Suddenly not among the moneyed class, she hustled herself through the redbrick boondocks of the University of Vermont. Citibank internship led to Deutsche Bank job, and after a few years she was an equity derivatives trader at Deutsche, holding her own against the toff sharks of the City of London.
She had wild green eyes, with unnatural red spots in her irises when you pulled close, reminiscent of that Afghan girl from the National Geographic cover. Her personality was flinty and rough, and as leathery as her skin. She had spent years between various jobs backpacking around the rougher parts of the world. She was an imposing, broad-shouldered presence, six feet tall in bare feet, and towering over me in heels.
Most women in the Bay Area are soft and weak, cosseted and naive despite their claims of worldliness, and generally full of shit. They have their self-regarding entitlement feminism, and ceaselessly vaunt their independence, but the reality is, come the epidemic plague or foreign invasion, they’d become precisely the sort of useless baggage you’d trade for a box of shotgun shells or a jerry can of diesel.
British Trader, on the other hand, was the sort of woman who would end up a useful ally in that postapocalypse, doing whatever work—be it carpentry, animal husbandry, or a shotgun blast to someone’s back—required doing. Long story short, you wanted to tie your genetic wagon to the bucking horse of her bloodline. Which is why I was less nervous than I should have been on a random Saturday in July, when I showed up for a brunch appointment and found her uncharacteristically moody. She complained of feeling nauseated and slightly out of it.
With perhaps too much offhandedness, while grabbing the local newspaper off her couch, I suggested, “Well, perhaps do a pregnancy test.”
Like any male who’s played it fast and loose with the safe-sex rules, I’d had my fair share of scares. I was on season four of the show whereby tear-filled woman X shows up two weeks after the shag saying she had “missed her period” (sort of in the same way I’d say I “missed my bus”). Nothing had ever come of it, and after the third showing you just wanted to say, “Look, woman, unless you’ve got a screaming infant in your arms and it looks like me, we have nothing to talk about.”
She’d have both soon enough.
“Well, I did go to the doctor,” she replied instantly.
Things took on a rather portentous air for a casual Saturday-morning brunch.
“Ah . . . and?”
“I am pregnant.”
BAM! A human life.
Shit, I thought.
I could hear God laughing in his vaulted hangout. Life is what happens when you’re making other plans indeed. By her account, British Trader had broken into tears on hearing the news from her doctor, whom she had gone to see on some routine visit. Yeah, that old story. One look into her hard, green eyes, and I knew this kid was seeing the light of day. Due more to some residual Catholic guilt and Hispanic chivalry than true love for British Trader, I sublet my one-bedroom bohemian pad in the Mission, which had followed my hippie-chick household, and moved into her home turned construction site. I’d make a go of this domesticated parental life. If you jump into the abyss, jump headlong.