You lost because “liberals” and “progressives” are only a small minority of the population and the media had you convinced you were an unstoppable majority.
In reality, you are nothing more than a tiny group of self-righteous and egocentric hypocrites, arrogantly belittling everyone who disagrees with you. You claim to support your buzzwords of “diversity” and “tolerance” and “acceptance” but the moment anyone questions your viewpoint, you disparage dissenters with vulgar labels. Racist! Bigot! Sexist! Homophobic! Islamophobic! Hateful! Nazi!
Those are the only words you know. You can’t use your big words. Colleges are passing out coloring books and having “cry-ins” for you! You are children. Toddlers. When you don’t get your way, you attack fellow citizens in the streets like animals. Throwing tantrums like infants.
And you wonder why the majority of the nation doesn’t respect you? Your juvenile reactions reinforce our justification to ignore everything you represent.
You keep screaming things like, “WE WON’T BE SILENCED!” We don’t need to silence you. You’re just starting to learn that we don’t need to listen.
Let’s do the math. 318 million people live in the United States. Only 60 million voted for Hillary Clinton. 60 million. That is a mere 18% of the country.
82% of your fellow Americans did not vote for Hillary Clinton. Think about that.
82% of the United States of America did not want Hillary Clinton to be president.
Only 18% of the country agrees with you. You are outnumbered more than 5 to 1. Despite what the media brainwashed you into believing, you aren’t even close to being a majority.
And you have no idea why.
Because the moment any mature adult tries to explain it to you, in a civilized manner, you cry, you weep, you “mourn”, you need healing, you need a “safe space”, you cover your ears and regurgitate your preprogrammed insults. Racist! Bigot! Sexist! Homophobic! Islamophobic! Hateful! Cisgendered White Power BASTARDS!
Why do you do that? You are still doing it now. You get on social media and tell everyone who didn’t vote for Hillary Clinton that we “Voted for hate” and “Support bigotry”. No. We don’t. That is why she lost. We are sick and tired of seeing celebrities and journalists trying to bully us into compliance. You honestly think that insulting us will compel us to obey you? When has that ever worked? When has mocking a group of people ever made them respect your opinion? Are you honestly that full of yourselves? You honestly think you are some kind of “holy warriors” and the other 82% of the country is filled with evil and xenophobic monsters? Really? You are that delusional? You know us. We are your friends and neighbors. We are your children and parents and coworkers. This is reality. This isn’t a dystopian fantasy novel. You are not “the chosen ones” battling the forces of darkness.
Why can’t you see the simple truth that being relentlessly condescending to 4/5ths of the country is the reason you lost? When will liberals learn that shaming people into conformity does not work? Crying that you are “offended” is not an adequate retort to vindicate your stance.
You have no idea how to engage in a genteel debate. You are incapable of participating in articulate discourse.
82% of your fellow Americans disagreed with you. 82% could see that Hillary was a deceptive nightmare.
The reason liberals find that so shocking is because you only listen to the media. They assured you that the coronation of Queen Hillary was inevitable. You never paid attention to reality. You believe blathering talkshow hosts. You trust celebrities on Twitter. You have faith in CNN polls. You get your news from Facebook feeds of people who agree with you. You remain sequestered on college campuses where you refuse to let anyone speak if they question your agenda. You think Saturday Night Live skits reflect the pulse of the nation.
Mainstream media is betraying you. Social media is feeding you what they want you to read. You never stop to consider, “Maybe if we mercilessly oppress and denigrate people with opposing views… they will never listen to us.”
Look at your beloved newscasters. Look at your braindead Hollywood actors. They are still pushing the same divisive rhetoric. They are still condescending to everyone that didn’t vote for their Queen. They learned nothing.
On 8 November 2016, you lost far more than an election. You lost the most powerful weapon you possessed – your veil of deception. We have to give you credit. Your dominance of the media worked. You had us convinced. We thought you were powerful. We thought Hillary was going to win. We thought traditional values were withering away and we believed you were changing the world. Changing it for the worse, but you were changing it. You tricked us. You succeeded. You hammered us and belittled us and silenced us at every turn and we truly thought you were winning. We thought you were taking over the nation. This election taught us, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were mistaken. In reality, there are very few of you. You represent a minuscule fraction of our society. The media gave you a loud mouthpiece to drown out all other voices, but there are far more of us than there are of you. We know that now. This election confirmed it. And we won’t forget it.
When you are done crying like babies, and finishing your coloring books, maybe you should wake up. Maybe you should try to make the world a better place by volunteering at a homeless shelter, instead of posting memes on Facebook. Maybe if you support women so much, you could assist at a rape crisis hotline, instead of retweeting Miley Cyrus. Maybe you should attempt to talk with people who disagree with you, instead of scorning them. Maybe you should try to find out why only 18% of the country thinks like you and your friends. Maybe you should accept the possibility that the other 82% of the nation knows something you don’t and we are nowhere near being as stupid as you presume us to be. Maybe those who have different opinions aren’t hateful, racist, sexist, xenophobic, redneck, bigots. Maybe you’re in the vast minority because you were wrong. And maybe the other 82% of your fellow Americans are not so deplorable after all.
Did it ever occur to you that maybe our true enemies are not one another, but rather, those who are constantly trying to divide us?
With Utmost Respect, Love & Unity,
The Flyover States
When having conversations about their lovelife, most people talk about what they want to gain from a relationship.
“I want someone who treats me like this…”
“I want someone with these interests…”
“I want someone who does this…”
“I want someone who does that…”
“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.”
I would never dare to be so conceited. Why would I presume I had a right to give orders to a girl I never met? Instead of reciting a litany of qualifications I demand others to possess, I’d rather tell you what I have to offer. Besides, you already know what I want in a girl. I don’t need to tell you, because all human beings want the same thing. Loyalty. Decorum. Fidelity. Passion. Devotion. Integrity. Dignity. Virtue. Chivalry matters. Always has. Always will. Rather than insisting others embody those values, I prefer to improve those traits in myself.
One trait I can’t improve are my looks. I own a mirror. I know what I look like. Scale of 1 to 10, I’m like a 2. Sure, I was about a 7 or an 8 back in Ohio, but I live in California now. Let’s be honest. 2. Maybe a 3 under good lighting. These big ol’ teeth of mine, I look like a cross between Jon Cryer and a rabbit. Plus, I’m about 5’7″ and 45 years old. That renders me additionally gross and creepy. Too short and too old. We all know only Tom Cruise gets a pass on those two faults.
Face it, once you pass 40, it’s over. You’ll be single forever. If I were a woman, I’d be two steps away from being Mrs. Deagle. I would just get started buying the cats.
Believe me, in my heart, I know full well that 40 is not old at all. One day, when I have reached 97 years upon this glorious earth, I shall look back on these good old days as a golden time of youth and vitality. Those of you who are fresh out of your precious teens have not yet gained the perspective to see that reaching your elder years is a blessing. For it is only those of us with weary souls and buoyant hearts who have always embraced the fleeting beauty which is life! To dance upon the world for as many days as we can hold. To remain humbled by childlike love and gratitude for our every breath – this is the measure of ones agelessness! This is… sorry. I uh, got a little carried away.
Where was I?
Ah, yes, uh, but my unattractive physical traits are minor compared to my veritable bevy of faults and countless reasons you should never go out with anyone like me. You should be forewarned, I’m an extraordinarily dull and boring guy. I never drink alcohol and have never been drunk in my entire life. Never done drugs. Never smoked a single joint. Never took one drag off a cigarette. Heck, I don’t even drink coffee. In our culture, my prudish purity is not admirable, it just make me an arrogant prick. Never fall in love with a guy who could potentially be a good influence on you. Last thing you need is to date Little Lord Fauntleroy incarnate.
I was never abused, or molested. I’ve never been incarcerated and I’m not some damaged “badboy” compelling you to help turn my life around. I can sincerely say I had a joyous childhood full of enchantment and wonder with beloved gradeschool friends whom I still talk with to this very day. I have never had a venereal disease. Never fathered children. Never had any emotional or behavioral disorders. Never required psychotropic drugs or support groups. I’ve never even cheated on a single girlfriend… Okay. Okay. There was that one time. But she was naked. And she was throwing herself at me. This petite little 18 year old blond who sang like Tori Amos and I just… That might be too much information. Let’s move on. I’ve never been overweight. I exercise regularly and eat healthy – My doctor calls me “the poster child” because I do everything right. Which probably means I’m going to keel over dead when I’m 48. Just long enough to disappoint you.
My passions are things you won’t enjoy at all. I’m an avid skateboarder and love riding pools in skateparks. Millions of kids watch my skate videos on YouTube, illustrating how juvenile I am. I spent my teens as an equestrian and my twenties as a hang glider pilot and a club kid in underground industrial nightclubs. You obviously aren’t the kind of girl who wants to skateboard, fly 6000′ above the earth in a kite, saddle horses, or go dancing to Nitzer Ebb and Front 242. You’ve never even heard of those bands. I have done geeky things like program websites at Walt Disney Studios for over 6 years. I grew up playing Dungeons & Dragons, collecting Star Wars toys, and swordfighting in the Society for Creative Anachronism. I love to write and have published 5 novels. Since you never heard of me, that proves these aren’t very good books. Since I’ve penned so many tales, that proves I’m a terribly selfish hermit. Sitting at home and writing a book no one will read is the most uninteresting way any grown man can spend a Saturday night. You’ll never find me watching football or playing videogames, because I’d rather be longboarding or bicycling. Speaking of riding, I didn’t own a car for over a decade and only rode my motorcycle everywhere. I’m Peter Pan. Never grew up. Very immature. Clearly not your type.
I am not aware of possessing any body piercings or tattoos. I don’t even like to rock a sexy shadow of Aragorn facial hair. Didn’t serve in the military. Didn’t graduate college. Never earned a six-figure salary. There is no reason for you to waste your time with someone like me when there are plenty of 6’2″ bearded, tattooed, alpha-males begging to father your children. You owe it to yourself to let them. Life is short. Don’t get involved with a boring nerd like me. Southern California is filled with dashing and successful men. I’m neither.
By the way, with the exception of office jobs and parochial school, I’ve dressed like this my whole life. Jeans and a tshirt. That will never change. I’ll never call myself a “goof” or claim to be “random” – genuinely goofy and random people never feel compelled to warn anyone about it. Luna Lovegood never did. Why should I? I’ve never used the word “party” as a verb and I’ve never used the phrase “at the end of the day” in any conversation of my life. I’m definitely not going to call myself “fun-loving” because – DUH! – who isn’t? Everyone is fun-loving. Stalin would have labeled himself “fun-loving”, but would you want to date him?
Going back to those office jobs, I can never hold one down. I’ve been laid off 6 times in my life. What kind of loser gets laid off 6 times? I get kicked to the curb so often, I just expect it at this point. Sooner or later, I’ll be out of a job and struggling to find work again. That the kind of guy you want? Being with the unemployed aspiring novelist when he is 20 years old is romantic. When he’s 50 years old, it’s pathetic. Don’t lower your standards down to the likes of me. You deserve better. Don’t you?
Speaking of lack of work, now that I’m reaching a time in my life when age discrimination begins to play a part in vastly reducing my employment options, I’m building a humble tiny house out in the desert, to save some money. In a few short years, I will basically be Obi Wan Kenobi. Not exactly your Mr. Right.
Sociologically, my views are very old-fashioned. I’m intelligent enough to recognize “political correctness” as nothing more than fascism parading as manners. I cherish obsolete values like God, family, patriotism, the Bill of Rights, free-market American capitalism, and keeping my word. Heck, I’m so traditional, if I were going to marry a girl, I would be morally obligated to ask her father for permission. Any man who fails to do that isn’t worthy of his betrothed. But women don’t concur with my antiquated virtues anymore nor would any respect me after exhibiting such obsolete ethics. I grew up in Ohio, where I was raised by a family of police officers and military personnel who would hunt with rifles. During 13 years of living in Hollywood, I learned West Coast girls passionately detest all those things! Cops? Military? Firearms? My very bloodline is abhorrent to the chicks of Los Angeles.
I do not fit in with the world. And on those rare occasions when a lady has caught my eye, I tend to get far too serious, far too quickly.
Most writers are blessed with wonderful delusions of grandeur and consequently, we think everything we write is better than most of our peers. However, even the most arrogant of writers still have one or two idols. The men and women we admire for their craft. The ones we look up to. The ones we have to admit are better than us and we wish we could one day get a glimpse of the plateau upon which their writing resides. For me, those idols are Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison.
For Harlan Ellison, that idolized writer was Cornell Woolrich.
Harlan Ellison once wrote a story about the night he met Cornell Woolrich.
Now, I have a confession to make – I never heard of Cornell Woolrich until I read the story Harlan wrote about meeting him. That made me feel a little ashamed – to know nothing about the idol of my idol. I need to go read some stories by Cornell Woolrich.
Harlan should be a lot more famous too.
People who love to read and who are into fantasy and science fiction and comic books have all heard of Harlan Ellison. Unfortunately, no one else has. After I met the man I began to excitedly tell people, “I met Harlan Ellison! He invited me to dinner with him!”
Only one of my friends congratulated me and said, “You did what!? That’s amazing! How did you meet him? You’re so lucky!”
Everyone else said, “Who?”
When you’re misanthropic to begin with, it doesn’t bode well for your love of humanity when no one has heard of one of the few people you admire.
Look, if you don’t know who Harlan is, do yourself a favor and go watch some of his videos. Then, pick up a copy of “The Essential Ellison” and read it.
So, how did I meet Harlan? The story goes like this…
In the Fall of 2013, I started a blog called “InkShard” as a way to try to promote myself as a writer and sell some books. Among the videos I was creating, I decided to do some book reviews of other authors.
One of the first books I reviewed was a huge 1500 page book of short stories from Harlan Ellison called “The Essential Ellison.”
After posting my review, I decided to promote it on a message forum on Harlan’s official website. I didn’t think much of it. I figured maybe some of his fans might check out my video and that would be the end of it.
Well, as it turns out, Harlan himself read my review and he loved it. The next day, he posted a reply asking me for a printed copy.
Let me again emphasize how important Harlan is to me. Growing up, I had two authors I admired. Ray Bradbury. Harlan Ellison. These men were gods. I read their books. I watched their interviews. I saw their movies. I was obsessed with their TV shows. Most of my predominant influences in storytelling all revolved around projects these two men created. Bradbury and Ellison had a command of language I could only dream of attaining. Their vocabulary, their poignant verisimilitude, far exceeded anything I ever accomplished. My most brilliant writing was a mere kindergarten story next to their majestic verse.
So, when Harlan responded personally to me, asking for a copy of my review, I nearly fell out of my chair. This was like being an aspiring astronaut and having Neil Armstrong say he wanted a copy of a book report you did on him.
The part that freaked me out the most was that he asked me to call him.
Call him!? On the telephone? Speak to him?
Funny thing was, Harlan didn’t give me his number. He just challenged me to find it. Said I was a smart guy and I’d figure it out.
He was right. I found it. But I didn’t call right away.
Let me reiterate, I’m an arrogant bastard. No one impresses me. No one makes me starstruck. I’ve worked on movies with big celebrities and been friends with TV stars. I don’t give a damn about that stuff. But as a writer, meeting someone who has contributed to inspiring my greatest passion, that was astonishing. You have to understand, even if I had a chance to meet the most famous of authors like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling, I wouldn’t care. As much as I love Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling simply hasn’t influenced me like Harlan has. I felt like I was 14 years old, calling a girl for the first time. Okay. Calm down. Relax. Play it cool. Don’t get all weird and fanboy on him. Just be normal. Casual. Act like you call Harlan all the time. Yeah. No big deal. Your idol wants to hear from you. That happens everyday. Right. Okay. Just chill out and don’t act bizarre. Keep it brief. Professional.
When I finally mustered the courage to cal, he didn’t answer. His wife Susan answered and took a message for me.
Later that afternoon, my phone rang. 5:20pm. January 14, 2014. The name on my caller ID said, “Harlan Ellison”.
When I answered the phone, he didn’t even say hello.
“Muss-Barnes. So what’s the story there? Were you married? What’s the deal?”
Honestly, it was a relief. By not even saying hello, all my nervousness went right out the window. Before I could stop to think, he had already pulled me into a conversation. I explained that my parents were not married and “Muss” was my mother’s name and “Barnes” was my father’s name. All through gradeschool and highschool, I was “Eric Muss” and I never liked the sound of that.
Harlan agreed. “Oh. Yeah. Not so good.”
So, I decided to add my father’s name and turn it into “Muss-Barnes” which Harlan agreed makes me sound like royalty.
Next thing I knew, Harlan was inviting me to his next book signing. I was stunned.
Harlan asked, “Do you know where Blastoff Comics is at?”
“Yeah! I’m literally 2 blocks away. I can walk there! It’s right at the end of my street.”
Needless to say, I was over the moon, as my grandmother used to say. A mere 4 days later, I arrived at Blastoff Comics where Harlan took one look at me and said, “Eric!” And shook my hand as if we had been friends for decades. I met a girl named Harley who worked at the shop and I won a contest they were having to name all graphic novels, books, and awards won by Harlan.
I even have video proof of the day, published by Blastoff Comics.
As the day dragged on, I was getting ready to leave. I actually had to get down to Orange County to go to the Girl’s Combi Contest at Vans Skatepark. For those who don’t know, I’m a lifelong skateboarder and a longtime supporter of women’s skateboarding. I’m proud to say that I know and skate with many of the girls who show up for the contest. Some of the greatest female skaters in the world. Girls like Julz Lynn and Sarah Thompson and Allysha Berdago and Lizzie Armanto. The Combi Contest is the single largest female skateboarding competition in the world and you have to be invited to attend. I couldn’t miss the contest.
Then, Harlan announced they were going out to dinner that evening, and I was welcome to accompany them.
I nearly passed out.
My favorite author just invited me out to dinner?
Guess I was going to miss the Combi Contest that year.
Later I would learn I’m not the only writer Harlan has done this kind of thing for. There are dozens of accounts of Harlan opening his home to people and treating writers with immense hospitality. Harlan has a reputation for his anger and vitriol but there is one simple thing that most people fail to understand: Only people who are filled with immense love and kindness can become so angry. Those who truly love their fellow man are the ones who become so exasperated with the stupidity of humanity. You see it in people like George Carlin and Harlan Ellison and if you look really closely, you see it in me too. People like Harlan are rife with rage because the glorious potential of what mankind could become is too often tainted by what humans choose to be. That is why a man like Harlan is such a warm and kind and giving soul to the good guys. Those in whom he recognizes a kinship. When he sees that you get it, that endears you to him. When you prove to be a mindless jackass, he has no patience for you.
That night was truly living a dream. Have you ever seen an interview with a beloved celebrity and they tell a tale of an entourage of people having dinner and as a fan, you just desperately wished you could be there? Celebrities seem to do that all the time. They go out to dinner and there are 20 people at the table and the night is filled with vibrant conversations and hilarious tales that can never be repeated.
That was me. After living in Hollywood for over a decade, I finally got to experience that kind of evening for the first time. I was finally in an entourage. Being surrounded by that kind of camaraderie and vitality is an experience that makes me insanely jealous of celebrities. I don’t care about mansions and fancy parties or expensive cars. Those things don’t remotely impress me. But an intimate dinner where intriguing people really interact and connect with one another, that is something I wish I could live once a week. Unfortunately, it looks like it will prove to be once-in-a-lifetime.
As I said earlier, Harlan made it very clear to me that night, there were yarns spun around that breaking of bread which I was not to repeat. Harlan made me look him dead in the eye and vow I would honor that request. Harlan and I are old school Cleveland boys. Midwest values. Downhome sensibility. We both understand that honorable men don’t need written contracts or even handshakes. You look someone square in the eye and make a promise and that’s enough. Word is bond. Therefore, regrettably, I can not tell you some of the more hilarious tales he told. I can say this – Harlan has lived one hell of an amazing life. No matter how big of an adventure your life may be, chances are good that Harlan has you beat.
Midway through our evening, there was a moment when Harlan explained why he invited me out to dinner. Again, I won’t repeat the whole story leading up to that moment, because I swore to not repeat the tales told at that table. But I will say that at one point, Harlan told me I was there, breaking bread with him, because I had earned it.
Great authors are not great because they have an incredible command of language. Great writers are great because they understand how to distill the essence of the human condition into simple terms and articulate universal truths with an eloquence the rest of us can never quite vocalize. One can not attain that kind of insight into the human spirit unless one has an innate gift of reading the human heart. I don’t know if Harlan could read my heart and see my need for acceptance, or if he simply knew all struggling writers yearn for that validation. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that his tiny act of kindness, his brief words of encouragement, meant everything to me. He never complimented my writing. He never said I was any good. What he said was far better. He said I understood his writing and that I had earned my place at his table. Few feelings on earth are better than being valued and acknowledged by those you admire. For the first time in my life, I felt like maybe I’m not crashing the party of life. Maybe someone invited me. Maybe I’m supposed to be here. Maybe somebody actually wanted me to show up.
I have attained so many dreams in my life. I have published numerous novels. I became a hang glider pilot. I moved to California. I worked for years at Walt Disney Studios. I’ve had a tragic lovelife, worthy of a Shakespeare play. That could have turned out better, but it was certainly interesting. I’m even building a small home on a vast amount of land, just like I always dreamed. But the one dream I never accomplished, the oldest dream of all, was to make a living as writer.
You know, I never feel like I’ve accomplished much of anything in my life. I’ve never really yearned for validation from the world. I have long since accepted that I am someone who will never be appreciated for anything I achieve. So when one of the only people I idolize actually praised my efforts, it meant the world to me.
As we left the restaurant that night, and everyone was walking back to their cars, Harlan put his arm around my shoulder and asked if he was what I expected him to be. I told him I never thought he would be any different, because I always had faith that he was truly being himself. That night just proved I was right.
He told me he’d invite me over his house sometime and I was over the moon at such an invitation. I couldn’t believe it. Really? My favorite author was going to have me over his house? I would be a guest at the Lost Aztec Temple of Mars? I couldn’t wait. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.
That wasn’t the only night I met Harlan. I have seen him twice since then – once at a science fiction convention and another at a Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society meeting where he was a guest speaker. In fact, on that night, he signed a copy of my novel, The Page of Wands, which I dedicated to him, and I donated it to the LASFS library. He also flipped my novel open to a random page and read a sentence out loud. I’ll never forget which sentence it was. Page 247.
“Madame Fabulous glared and telekinetically lifted Ellen Daniels and her cameraman off of the ground and stuffed them back into their newsvan amidst much screaming, flailing, and protesting.”
You know how terrifying it is for your favorite author to read part of your novel out loud to a room filled with 200 science fiction fans? I was mortified. But Harlan remarked that it was a “pretty good” sentence and he seemed pleased with it, although he noted the word “back” was redundant. Didn’t need it. Crap. He was right.
Harlan never did invite me over the house. I knew that would never happen after I saw him the second time and he admitted to a fan that he “lies a lot”. The moment he said that, I knew the invitation would never come.
I’m disappointed that I will never see the Lost Aztec Temple of Mars, but I can’t complain. Harlan owes me nothing. He already showed me far more kindness and courtesy than I ever dared to expect. Besides, I’ve dated plenty of girls in my life who said they loved me, then walked away. Harlan lying about having me visit the house is not a big deal. The lies of women are a lot more painful.
Speaking of heartbreaking ladies, I once deeply loved a girl who hated my InkShard blog. Still love her, actually. She called InkShard a waste of time and said I came across as arrogant and negative. Told me I was full of myself and I’d sell a lot more books and get a lot more dates if I was more humble.
I didn’t create InkShard to sell books. And I sure as hell didn’t create it to get dates. I made InkShard to share my opinions on writing. To explore the beauty of language. To offer angry rants on unfair aspects of creativity that all artists can feel a kinship with. I fully expect some people will think I’m a lame jackass and others will think I’m a right swell fella. I don’t have time, nor the inclination, to worry about which percentage of my audience will be the greater of the two. Whether I inspire endearment or estrangement, I can’t control how people will react.
The truth of the matter is, I don’t care if my blog and my videos never win me a single reader or it scares away all potential girlfriends. Because all thanks to InkShard, I already got to meet my idol. Harlan Ellison. The only living writer I truly admire. That girl who said InkShard was a waste of time was so wrong. InkShard allowed me to achieve a dream I never imagined would come true and therefore, of all the projects I have created in my life, InkShard is one of the greatest successes I have ever known.
Thank you so much, Harlan. From a fellow Cleveland kid to another, I thank you with all my heart. Even if we never meet again, I will forever be grateful for the kindness you have shown me when we did. Bless you, good sir. I know you’re an atheist, so I can’t say God bless, but I do wish you blessings by the grace of whatever decency and love exists in the world.