That Moment You’re Out Of Battery. Oh. Great! I’ve Got Another One. Battery, That Is.

challenging tour with ebike.jpg

A pretty gruelling ride yesterday. It started with a train ride that took me and my electrified The Panzer to the badlands at the end of Wuppertal. (Btw, if you’ve never been to Wuppertal, you have to go. It’s worth it to go there and just take a ride on the Schwebebahn.) From there I planned to ride back the whole way to the Rhein and then D’dorf. I got started late after meeting with some folk and drinking a few. Since the sun is beyond it’s summer solstice, and it got away from me quicker than I expected, most of the ride was in the dark. And we’re not worst-riding (writing) about the dark on some paved roads. I was in the friggin woods most of the time. Thank goodness I’ve got some  pretty decent lighting on The Panzer. Btw, the panzer is a Riese&Müller Charger GX Touring (what a mouthful, eh). Now. The distance I travelled wasn’t the farthest I’ve been. It was only about sixty and half kilometres. The challenge last night was something else. Most of the first half of the ride required some pretty serious uphill trekking, including having to get off the bike and push it, albeit with electric motor assist. Seriously. There were these tree roots covering one pathway and I thought I’d have to put that damn bike on my back to get it up (and that’s what she said, eh). The darkness that quickly overcame me didn’t help matters. Anyhow. See elevation and speed profile of pic above. Moving my well endowed, well-over 200lbs a$$ up a hill–see 10km mark in pic above–pretty much wiped an entire bar from my battery. I even had to use the walk-assist of the motor to get up some of the hills. Keep in mind, five bars indicate a full juiced battery. By the time I hit 25km two bars were gone. On flat-land, I can average 15-20km (on tour-assist mode) per bar. And so. In the middle of some serious darkness on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere, and only one bar of battery left, I finally changed batteries at 45km. I was pretty tired at that point, too. I rode around 35-40km through dense woods and trails, up and down lots of steep hills–and it was f’n fun! But this middle-aged fellow was pooped at 30km. Would I do it again? Damn straight. But I’d prefer to do it when there’s… let there be light.

Rant and ride on.

-T

PS The speed profile is a bit whacky. I think the reason it has such a large blank space in it is because, while going down one hill, I exceeded normal bike speeds by whole bunch. Indeed. I clocked well over 60km/h on one down hill short trek. (Oh, it was light out, in Ronsdorf, when I did that.) Yea, baby.

Pseudo Review: RasPlex + Hifiberry And Some Serious Audio On The Cheap

 

rasplex hifiberry dacpluspro
That little green light is more than go-go, baby!

Can a non-audiophile still hear great audio? Can a music-lover of old music still get some jams through his/her head in these digital times without breaking the bank? Do those guys that spend all that money as “audiophiles” give you the creeps? Indeed. Money. Audio. How much you got?

Because I spend too much money on other expensive stuff, I’ve never really prioritised audio in my life–even though I love listening to music. I learned a long time ago that you don’t have to dish out huge sums of cash to hear good replicated music. That said, I can’t go more than a few days without listening to something that either soothes me, rocks me or moves me. A good drink and some Jazz while cooking is heaven. Am I wrong? And so. Unlike most young folk today, I can’t listen to music through headphones–whether in-ear or over-ear. If you see me out and about with Beckett, the killer pug, and I’ve always got earbuds stuck in my head–I’m listening to podcasts! The problem with headphones and earbuds is the feeling I get with so little space between my ears and what moves air. Headphones make music not only sound weird but feel weird, too. If that makes me old fashion, then get this. I have come to love today’s modern digital music consume-to-survive world. Even though I don’t buy much music anymore–and I can’t stand most all of the music made nowadays, I’m good. Reason? I have a digitised music library that contains everything I need. Whether it’s The Beatles (the greatest album ever is Abby Roads), Beethoven (9th!) or some esoteric Jazz, I’m good. Really good. Seriously. And that’s not all. For all practical purposes, dear worst-reader, I completely missed the CD revolution, too. I couldn’t afford the equipment back then. Since the 70s I have consumed music by borrowing, sharing or trading. In fact, till about fifteen years ago, I had never even owned a sound system with speakers. But I digress.

As digital music took over by the mid 90s–along with the Internetwebs–I was still catching up on the CD revolution. Of course, at least two-thirds of the CDs I have, were all acquired pre-owned or traded. Like in the days with cassettes and albums, digital music was made for sharing. For those who consider sharing piracy, first: fuck you. Second: I still have most of the CDs I ripped in a box in my basement. I never once downloaded anything from Napster–even though I admire greatly what they were trying to do. (Note: I will never buy anything Metallica for what that $hitty band did to young people who just wanted to share music.) I did make a few downloads from BitTorrent, though. (Note: it was all part of research!) Anyhoo. I have a nice digital library of music that spans most of the 20th century. Oh, and I have two version of that library. One version is in FLAC and the other, to appease me wife’s demand for media singularity and simplicity, is iTunes compatible.

Let’s move on to the pseudo-review, shall we?

As you’ll note in the pic above, I am currently using two streaming devices for our home media. For amplification (and in order to avoid those awful sound bars, which my wife wanted after I got rid of our AVR krapp) I’m using a TEAC A-HO1 integrated amp and DAC. Here’s a review of it. I got it last year after selling my hundred pound multi-channel AVR system, 7 speakers, and one 700 watt subwoofer. I’m not even gonna worst-write how little money I got for all that krapp–which says a lot about the state of the audio equipment industry. But get this. I would have almost given it away. If I ever have to wire up five, six or seven speakers again and then try to configure an AVR for a room… I’m gonna shoot myself with your gun.

Amp and sound.

The TEAC is connected to some really, really cool Audioengine P4 speakers (not pictured). We have a fairly small living room and I’ve never once regretted having these “bookshelf” speakers–which are actually in bookshelves that surround my flatscreen TV. They are fantastic speakers and I got them on a über-great-deal from shopping on the Interwebnets. They move the air more than enough to make sound very, very enjoyable.

Streaming boxes.

For iTunes we have the AppleTV(3) connected via HDMI to the TV. The optical-out of the TV is connected to the optical-in of the TEAC. This works fine–except for the fact that one is locked into the Apple world. Which also means no high-end audio and/or limited access to my own higher-end audio files. The ATV can’t play FLAC files.

Also connected to the TV via HDMI is my RaspberryPi 2 Model B+, and connected to that is a Hifiberry DAC+Pro. This is a bit more complicated than the ATV. The HDMI of the RaspberryPi also delivers audio to the TV, and, as with the ATV, the TV converts audio signals to the TEAC’s optical-in. Again, for simplicity, I have chosen not to use the ATV’s optical out–which does produce better audio than the TV. That said, we want something more than any of these optical options, don’t we?

Analogue Audio Galore.

The Hifiberry is where the real magic happens. For less than a hundred Euros–the software, RasPlex, is free btw–the Raspberry Pi is a fantastic DAC. It actually converts and, where applicable, upscales audio and then delivers that as analog right and left stereo to the TEAC’s analog-in cinch ports. The Hifiberry DAC+ and “pro” designation means that it has the same type of chips used in high-end DACs. You can opt for a non “pro” version of the Hifiberry if you prefer to save a buck or three. But I couldn’t resist the gold cinch connectors! Nomatter.

Btw, I’ve had the RaspberryPi+Hifiberry for two years or so. I gave up on it when I first got it because I couldn’t get the drivers to work properly. Even though the HDMI of the Raspberry Pi spits out audio, it’s not half as good as what this thing spits out with the Hifiberry card attached. And so. The other day, while bored out of my early-retirement mind and while fiddling through a junk box of old gadgets, I decided to google whether or not they finally fixed the driver issue. Alas! They did. I re-installed the newest version of RasPlex on a 16GB micros SD card. I also had to fiddle with the config.txt file a bit. Then you have to tell RasPlex, using the UI, to route audio through the Hifiberry daughter card… Boom, baby! That little green light (pic above) lights up bright and shinny.

First test.

From a ripped blu-ray of Guardians of the Galaxy, the Raspberry Pi + Hifiberry streams from my Plex server via LAN crystal clear 1080p video including up (or is it down?) scaled DTS 5.1 audio to stereo and the TEAC releases what will make even an ageing grouch like me smile from ear to ear. Also. I’m really glad those boys at RasPlex got their software to the point that even I can set it up. Cool. Über cool.

Rant on.

-T

 

Lucky Castle Sunset vs 1979 Solar Eclipse And A Treehouse I Never Built

Glucksburg sunset August 2017
Glücksburg sunset over Denmark

Disclaimer. This post is somewhat NSFW. Good luck. §On account I’m so jealous that I couldn’t see the solar eclipse yesterday, here’s a pic I took two weeks ago while visiting the Ostsee. Sorry for the over-exposure. (That is over-exposure, right? I really know zilch about picture taking.) §I do recall seeing a solar eclipse in 1979, though. I even tried to catch its shadow on a paper plate but instead was distracted by a neighbourhood hottie. §She was riding around on her pink bike towing along her family poodle. Robyn was her name, I think. We were both in the same grade–eighth or ninth and since puberty barely shared a word with each other. She had really big hair and corresponding really big boobies. But not too big. Big boobs and hips. She was a show to watch/look at. I was terrified to talk to her. Indeed. §As the eclipse approached and everything began to darken Robyn stopped riding her bike, turned to me, and lost control. She stopped in the middle of a neighbours drive-way. Her dog ran away and within seconds was up the street and got hit by a speeding 1972 Impala. She dumped her bike in the driveway of Victor, the neighbourhood grouch. Victor proceeded to run over the bike while leaving his house, smashing it to pieces while singing “I’ve Gotta Be Me” as the celestial happening approached. §Robyn grabbed my hand and lead me off behind her house. We ran like a gazelle and a thick, beautiful cow. We even jumped over the fence guarding, surrounding her backyard. We went into the woods. §Only a few days before I had caught a whole bunch of frogs in the creek at that same place. A guy that lived in the houses on the other side of the woods told me that the frogs were gathering because they knew the eclipse was coming. If I didn’t do something they would all go crazy during the eclipse and annihilate each other in an orgy of self-destruction. So I gathered them up and put them in little containers. I would be doing them a favour, I thought. §Robyn pulled me behind a huge honey locust tree, the thorns of which I had removed recently because me and a friend wanted to build a tree-house in it. (Of course, if completed, we would have had the perfect view of Robyn’s bedroom window. But I digress.) §Robyn placed her mouth on mine and at the same time pulled my hand and held it over her left boob. I let her stick her tongue in my mouth and I focused on some tenderness, avoiding teeth–holding back my inexperienced tongue, feeling hers quiver and search. Under the veil of the woods and the disappearing act of the sun in the middle of the afternoon, I thought it was time to lose something. But I wasn’t ready to lose it. It just wasn’t possible under those circumstances. I realised it would take a life-time just to get underneath her shirt and bra. There are too many hindrances, I thought. Too many hindrances to this game. And. There was no place to lay down. There was nothing but old tree limbs, leaves, stumps, etc. Could we do it standing up? Of course not! Way too soon for that. Or? No. §First it’s time to finally learn the real purpose of a brassiere. It was a barrier, a guard-house, maybe even a trap–to the softness of a teat. A bra’s sole purpose is to hide and protect, to shield–it is not to support. But then she said, “if you can get underneath, go ‘head.” As I pushed on the metal support to get my fingers underneath, crickets started chirping–as they do at dusk. The birds stopped singing–as they do at night. And Freddy, a neighbours German Shepard, started barking. Freddy always barked at sunset. But it’s two-thirty in the afternoon. §We were let out of school early that day for the eclipse. I was doing my best to capture the sun and moon’s shadows on a paper plate that I was supposed to trace with a crayon and bring to school the next day. Primitive, elementary, but what the heck. #Americant was educating all of us to be geniuses now was it? Nomatter. Instead I was thinking about the paper-plate I stole while my mom wasn’t looking. Yes. I grew up in a household that counted the paper-plate supply. But I wasn’t going to get distracted by all that–the frogs were enough. §I was thinking about how Robyn was finding places on my face where she could make gentle smooches. She would circle my eyes with her lips and then move down the bridge of my nose. She whispered that she loved my flat nose and my big nostrils. She then touched her top lip to my bottom lip and grabbed the back of my head. She pulled me closer and closer and our skulls began to touch. She pulled back and then touched her bottom lip to my top lip, her top lip kissing the septum of my nose. She whispered, “how come you didn’t finish your tree-house?” Before I could answer I finally learned the method of the French Kiss. Placing the left side of my nose to the left side of her nose, my top lip gently met hers. Simultaneously we moved our lower lips lower to make room for the tip of our tongues. She moved her tongue more than I did. More experienced? I was focused on the electricity of her top lip. It felt similar to her under-boob. I had gotten the bra up above her nipple but was preoccupied with the milky flesh of her under-boob. I couldn’t find the gentlest part of my hand to caress it, though. The calluses of my palm must have scratched. Or it didn’t. She put her hand over mine and pulled my hand towards the whole of her boob. She crushed it as though massaging a very large itch. I squeezed with my finger tips, I could feel the weakness of the nail of my little finger gorging her boob. Then the first gasp came from her mouth, even while she tongued me. I could smell that she had milk and a banana recently, maybe even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before that. Then I noticed an urge in me. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Was it coming from the sun–or the moon? No. It must be coming from both as we could still hear Victor, the grouchy neighbour singing I Gotta Be Me in the back ground of what we were doing in the oddity of new darkness behind Robyn’s house, beyond her yard’s fence, in the woods. §I pulled my mouth away from her lips but caressed the side of her face with the hand that had just left her boob. I sunk down low and placed my face  on the roundness of her puffy areola. Immediately the areola recessed and her nipple grew ten fold (or the like). I fiddled with it with my tongue until I could coordinate with Robyn’s gasping. She placed gentle kisses on the top of my head, running her fingers through my hair. She then offered to help me finish the tree house–if I come and talk to her tomorrow. §Suddenly the darkness was gone. It all happened in the span of a life-time during two or three minutes. The crickets stopped chirping. The birds started singing. Freddy was again silent, probably snoring away his afternoon. Robyn pulled my head away, covered her beautiful, swollen left breast with the bra, pulled down her shirt and ran off. She repeated as she ran: finish the tree-house, finish the tree-house. I watched her milky cow leap over the fence of her backyard like a gazelle. I sat down at the base of the honey locust tree that had shielded these first moments of love from the sight of others. I then slowly pulled a thorn out of my ass. I realised that I completely wasted my time with those frogs. But I had something to talk to Robyn about–if next days come.

Thank you Robyn.

Rant on.

-T

Geblitzt Again And Again And Again Again

57 in a 50 km:h zone

So what’s my excuse this time? I’m 7 km/h above the 50 km/h speed limit. Go figure.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve been caught doing five to ten km/h above a speed limit and then get this stupid letter. Can’t they at least take better care to take my picture? I mean, this really is the stupidest $hit out there that a government can do. Unless, of course, one were to actually find out what that government does with what must be a quadrillion fines worth of twenty Euros a piece that it gets every year. On the other hand, I think I’d rather have all these stupid big-brother cameras on roads instead of all the neo-nazi sheriffs that used to pull me over when I still lived and drove incorrectly in my beloved and missed #americant. Yeah. Neo-nazi cops. Or am I the only one to remember that scene from Thelma & Louise where the cop stops them while they’re driving through the middle of nowhere desert?

Rant on.

-T

My Grandfather Served In WW2 On The Losing Side

“Growing up, I was surrounded by broken men ― men who came home from the war filled with shrapnel and guilt. Men who were misled into a losing ideology. …  And right now they’re resting in hell.” -Arnold Schwarzenegger

My grandfather was in the German Navy in WW2. I’ll never forget him telling me how much he hated Hitler. He also hated the Nazi flag. Once when on a ship crossing the baltic, he heard some of his comrades talking about Hitler. He said that they were making jokes about Hitler, laughing, etc. Two days later after reaching port, the men who were talking and laughing had disappeared. No one who served with them on that ship ever heard from them again. My grandfather never heard another sailor making those kinds of jokes again either.

My grandfather told me what it’s like to look up in the sky and watch American and British planes open their bomb-bay doors. The screeching sound of those bombs made you lose your orientation when trying to find cover, he said. What he meant to say was… you lose your mind. His English wasn’t perfect–but it was damn good. Luckily, he was outside of Bremen that day so he wasn’t in direct danger of getting hit. But he watched both the planes fly off beyond the horizon and the smoke and dust rise in the sky of Bremen.

My grandfather was captured by British soldiers as he was trying to defend his ship after the port where it was docked in Belgium was invaded in 1944. Two of his comrades were shot and died instantly, one fell into the water. As my grandfather reached for a concussion grenade, a British soldier pointed a gun at him and yelled… Don’t. My grandfather surrendered. He was taken to a prison camp in England where, because of his ability to speak English, was made a kind-of chief liaison officer.

My grandfather always expressed, with the deepest sincerity a defeated Prussian can, how grateful he was that the Americans not only freed him but also Germany from the horror of Hitler.

No hate. No Nazis.

Rant on.

-T

A Faustian Bargain Is Not A Pact

mephisto - brandauer

While listening to the news about my beloved and missed #americant, and, of course, news about #Trump, some talking-head started on about a Faustian Bargain. In the wake of Charlottesville, VA, isn’t it time to have something new to take your minds of the reality you’ve given yourself? Of course, I have to stop in my tracks. #Trump and neo-nazis are not about a Faustian Bargain.

Now. I’m obviously no über literary type. In fact, at last count (this morning) it’s been at least fifteen or so years since I read anything Goethe. (Yeah, kinda gave up on the German literature thing after the Germans, like the Americans, gave up on me. Fcuk ’em all, eh. But enough about worst-moi.)

Here’s two things to keep in mind:

  1. The Faustian Bargain is from Goethe’s Faust (part 1)
  2. The pact with the devil is from Dr. Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe

Now. I’m not familiar with the original story of Faustus, which is from German folklore and where Marlowe got his story two hundreds years before Goethe wrote his. Goethe’s version is different than both the original story and Marlowe’s–and that’s what always drew me to it. But, again, enough about worst-moi.

#Trump is not a Faustian Bargain. Nor is America’s electing #Trump a Faustian bargain. Reason? A Faustian Bargain is not a pact with the devil. In fact, from what I recall, in Goethe’s version of the story–which is the best of them all–Mephistopheles is actually the one who gives in to Faust because Faust won’t make a pact with him. Faust is simply above Mephistopheles both intellectually and morally–you know, the way it should be in an enlightened world. Without splitting too many hairs, what Mephistopheles actually ends up doing with Faust is more like a wager. In the end, even after ruining a really nice chick, Faust beats Mephistopheles.

Goethe’s Faust is a really, really smart guy. I guess, to some, Goethe is or would like to have been Faust. I mean. I’m sure Goethe was pretty ticked-off that he couldn’t get any of the fame that his English rival got. You know, Shakespeare (and the English language) did do a number on those who were interested in writing $hit down–and the German language never matched that. Wait. Let me get out of the way of that can of worms I just opened.

And while I’m off subject, Goethe is probably one of the last polymaths and he was certainly preoccupied with other things even while writing one of the greatest epic poems slash plays ever. Whereas Shakespeare was probably out there somewhere banging the women that weren’t allowed on stage in those whacky female characters he created or he was heisting text from Marlowe, Goethe was… well… polymathing. But, again, before I get too far off subject.

But here’s the thing…

America made a pact (art of the deal) with–and thereby sold its soul to–Mephistopheles long before #Trump. The most important thing to remember about the pact (art of the deal) was that it would last through generations. How many generations? Your guess is as good as worst-mine. But that’s neither here nor there at this point. The thing to remember is that it started when America, Americans (#americant) replaced God with money. A short time after that it elected a former actor and governor of the snowflake capital of the world, California, as president. Indeed. The snowflakeball of hell has a limitless mountain side to roll down.

Ronald Reagan, who was a huge fan of Mephisto–Mephistopheles’ nickname among certain privileged classes–was able to up the ante of America’s pact (art of the deal) with Mephistopheles. Reagan was able to do this because of how Americans fell for his chart plotting, thorough scape-goating of government and taxes, and the demonisation of communism. In return, Mephisto saw to it, following what Reagan had started, that the US would win the Cold War. For those who grew up worshipping the God-Dollar–i.e. the baby-boomer generation!–it was a time that can only be compared to Sodom & Gomorrah. And so. The winners of the Cold War, like evil, filthy, retarded pirates, took no prisoners. There was only pillaging, rape, a bit too much incest (hence those flag waving boys at recent Charlottesville, VA, debacle) and, of course, waaaaaaay too much… wet t-shirt heroism on the part of utterly stupid search for a husband females.

There’s only one problem now that Mephistopheles owns everything because of how Americans have sold out (to conservatives first, republicans second). Mephistopheles is bored. #Trump bores him to tears. The ignorance of Dubya Bush was much more entertaining. Even Barry-O and Hillary brought some light to Mephistopheles who was starting to regret outsmarting a country of rich nitwits. Indeed. Depravity can even bore the evil spirit.

So you see, dear worst-reader, there’s no reason to blame #Trump for your ills. He is but a cog in the wheel of the evil you’ve perpetrated to get you where you are. If you have enough money to consume-to-survive, then bend over for your Mephistopheles. If you don’t have enough money, you’ll bend over just the same as those who do. Which kind of equals things out for you, don’t you know. And in the end, while your blame game continues, while you twitter around the left and right side of your conjoined cock-pussy-brain, at least you can still buy candy corn. Halloween’s coming, baby.

Rant on.

-T

The Red Pill Or The Blue Pill? Either Way Your Inner Fascist Drank The Kool-Aid Milkshake Galore So Keep Smiling

fasces-rainbow

For posterity’s sake, and to deal with the humungous crowds of imbicile-lites out there, I feel compelled to post Umberto Eco’s fourteen point definition of Fascism. Seriously, people (imbeciles). It’s not that complicated. More worst-posts on fascism here and here. If you’ve never read this before, be warned. It might be just like looking into a mirror–or a telescope of your nation-state-hood. I’ve added some sub-bullets in a worst-attempt to show how each applies to #americant concurrently. Good luck, suckers. -T


Umberto Eco’s 14 signs of fascism along with worst-writer’s 2cents (the sub-bullets):

  • “The Cult of Tradition”, characterised by cultural syncretism, even at the risk of internal contradiction. When all truth has already been revealed by Tradition, no new learning can occur, only further interpretation and refinement.
    • The war on science, evolution and the fact there are–seriously there are–theme parks in the US about “creationism”.
  • “The Rejection of modernism”, which views the rationalistic development of Western culture since the Enlightenment as a descent into depravity. Eco distinguishes this from a rejection of superficial technological advancement, as many fascist regimes cite their industrial potency as proof of the vitality of their system.
    • There are those who want laws that allow Christian bakery owners to discriminate against gays and refuse baking them a wedding cake.
  • “The Cult of Action for Action’s Sake”, which dictates that action is of value in itself, and should be taken without intellectual reflection. This, says Eco, is connected with anti-intellectualism and irrationalism, and often manifests in attacks on modern culture and science.
    • Climate change denial and the industry behind that denial that denigrates the scientific community.
  • “Disagreement Is Treason” – Fascism devalues intellectual discourse and critical reasoning as barriers to action, as well as out of fear that such analysis will expose the contradictions embodied in a syncretistic faith.
    • The way the DOJ is threatening potential whistelblowers; the harsh sentencing of Chelsea Manning (thank goodness for Obama’s clemency!); pardon Edward Snowden.
  • “Fear of Difference”, which fascism seeks to exploit and exacerbate, often in the form of racism or an appeal against foreigners and immigrants.
    • Blacks, immigrants, the poor, LGBTQ, etc.
  • “Appeal to a Frustrated Middle Class”, fearing economic pressure from the demands and aspirations of lower social groups
    • Blacks, immigrants, the poor, LGBTQ, etc.
  • “Obsession with a Plot” and the hyping-up of an enemy threat. This often combines an appeal to xenophobia with a fear of disloyalty and sabotage from marginalised groups living within the society (such as the German elite’s ‘fear’ of the 1930s Jewish populace’s businesses and well-doings; see also anti-Semitism). Eco also cites Pat Robertson’s book The New World Order as a prominent example of a plot obsession.
    • Conspiracy theorists have gone mainstream with the election of #Trump (see Alex Jones–if you can stomach it).
  • Fascist societies rhetorically cast their enemies as “at the same time too strong and too weak.” On the one hand, fascists play up the power of certain disfavoured elites to encourage in their followers a sense of grievance and humiliation. On the other hand, fascist leaders point to the decadence of those elites as proof of their ultimate feebleness in the face of an overwhelming popular will.
  • “Pacifism is Trafficking with the Enemy” because “Life is Permanent Warfare” – there must always be an enemy to fight. Both fascist Germany under Hitler and Italy under Mussolini worked first to organise and clean up their respective countries and then build the war machines that they later intended to and did use, despite Germany being under restrictions of the Versailles treaty to NOT build a military force. This principle leads to a fundamental contradiction within fascism: the incompatibility of ultimate triumph with perpetual war.
    • Permanent warfare. Nuff said.
  • “Contempt for the Weak”, which is uncomfortably married to a chauvinistic popular elitism, in which every member of society is superior to outsiders by virtue of belonging to the in-group. Eco sees in these attitudes the root of a deep tension in the fundamentally hierarchical structure of fascist polities, as they encourage leaders to despise their underlings, up to the ultimate Leader who holds the whole country in contempt for having allowed him to overtake it by force.
    • Demonising the poor that make their way to America from South/Middle America to earn a dollar or two a day while picking a countries fcuking tomatoes and avocados, etc.
  • “Everybody is Educated to Become a Hero”, which leads to the embrace of a cult of death. As Eco observes, “[t]he Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.”
    • Shame #americant has ruined the word hero.
  • “Machismo”, which sublimates the difficult work of permanent war and heroism into the sexual sphere. Fascists thus hold “both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality.”
    • Pussy be grabbed, eh.
  • “Selective Populism” – The People, conceived monolithically, have a Common Will, distinct from and superior to the viewpoint of any individual. As no mass of people can ever be truly unanimous, the Leader holds himself out as the interpreter of the popular will (though truly he dictates it). Fascists use this concept to delegitimise democratic institutions they accuse of “no longer represent[ing] the Voice of the People.”
    • What used to be propaganda is now FAKE NEWS.
  • “Newspeak” – Fascism employs and promotes an impoverished vocabulary in order to limit critical reasoning.
    • Alt-right, alt-left, etc.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Definitions_of_fascism#Umberto_Eco