Chris Abraham

With this much propaganda everywhere, it’s honestly hard to tell which propaganda is closest to reality.

Some of the people we constantly hear from really may be plants, or at least carefully curated voices. Anyone who watches international media long enough knows that a lot of “random” interviewees are selected, coached, or elevated because they say the right things for the narrative being pushed. That’s not paranoia. That’s how modern media works. But the deeper issue is class.

The Venezuelans we’re told to “listen to” are usually elite exiles: English-speaking, media-savvy, often wealthy, often living comfortably abroad. Their resentment is real, but it’s the resentment of people whose ceiling was crushed, not necessarily people who were living near the floor.

When people support systems like socialism or communism, it’s often not because they want luxury or upside. It’s because they want a floor: a floor on how poor they can get, a floor on how vulnerable they are, a floor on how unpredictable life becomes. Removing Maduro may raise the ceiling, but it also risks dropping the floor, and history suggests the first people to benefit from that are usually the already rich.

You see the same dynamic with Cuba. That society holds together because many people long ago accepted ubiquitous education and healthcare over consumer abundance. Literacy and medicine over a capitalist rat race. On a tropical island, a lot of people prefer stability, predictability, and some basic joy in daily life over chasing wealth with no guarantees.

None of this denies suffering. It questions whose suffering gets amplified.

So when someone says “listen to Venezuelans,” the real question isn’t whether Venezuelans are speaking. It’s which Venezuelans, filtered through which incentives, and for whose benefit.

Here’s the symmetry people don’t like to acknowledge.

Many liberals argued that even if Joe Biden were cognitively diminished, senile, or largely absent for stretches of his presidency, it didn’t meaningfully matter. Why? Because the presidency is not a solo act. It’s an institutional machine. A competent, experienced staff can still set policy, execute strategy, manage crises, and move legislation. The White House, they said, still functioned.

That argument is internally consistent. But it doesn’t stop being true when the name on the door changes.

If Donald Trump is a buffoon, a clown, impulsive, or morally unmoored, yet surrounded by a disciplined, ideologically motivated, and strategically effective team, then the same logic applies. Outcomes don’t vanish because you dislike the figurehead. Power doesn’t evaporate because you mock the man at the podium.

In both cases, the real question isn’t the president’s personality or neurological status. It’s the ecosystem: the advisors, the operators, the incentives, the institutional leverage, and the willingness to use it.

Reducing presidencies to “senile grandpa” or “orange clown” isn’t analysis. It’s coping. If you were willing to argue that Biden’s administration functioned despite Biden, you don’t get to pretend Trump’s administration can’t function despite Trump.

Either institutions and teams matter, or they don’t. You don’t get to switch the rule based on who you hate.

I’m economically right, culturally unsentimental, and institutionally serious. I don’t want to rule people or liberate them. I want systems that don’t lie, don’t rot, and don’t pretend incentives don’t exist.

I believe markets are real, scarcity is real, and incentives shape behavior whether we acknowledge them or not. I’m skeptical of redistribution framed as moral virtue rather than practical policy. Good intentions don’t override second-order effects, and pretending they do just pushes costs onto someone else later. Economic policy should work, not perform.

Socially, I’m not interested in moral crusades from either direction. I don’t want the state parenting adults, but I also don’t romanticize disorder or pure libertarian abstractions. Rules matter. Enforcement matters. Order is a prerequisite for liberty, not its opposite. When institutions refuse to enforce boundaries, they don’t become humane, they become arbitrary.

I reject nostalgia politics and culture-war cosplay. I don’t believe tradition is sacred just because it’s old, and I don’t believe novelty is virtuous just because it’s new.

I care about legitimacy that comes from competence, not symbolism. Governance by vibes corrodes trust, and compassion without limits turns into cruelty by diffusion.

I’m skeptical of empire, hostile to ideological universalism, and allergic to systems that lie about tradeoffs. I’m not trying to restore the past or save the world.

I’m trying to keep things from breaking while letting adults live like adults. If I had to name it, I’d call myself an institutional or civic realist: market-leaning, socially non-messianic, and focused on systems that actually function.

Tariffs aren’t a moral statement or a magic revenue machine. They’re a blunt economic tool in a trade system that’s never been truly free. Most countries impose higher tariffs and non-tariff barriers on U.S. exports than the U.S. imposes on theirs. When the U.S. raises tariffs, it’s usually not about “making money,” it’s about leverage. You restrict our access, we restrict yours, and eventually someone negotiates.

At the micro level, tariffs do raise prices. That’s Econ 101. If an imported good is hit with a tariff, much of that cost shows up in the domestic price. Consumers and firms bear it. The real question isn’t whether prices rise, it’s why so many prices were so low to begin with.

For decades, Americans have lived at effectively “China prices” while earning first-world wages. Walmart, the dollar menu, and ultra-cheap imports suppressed the cost of daily life even as wages stagnated. That’s why Americans didn’t feel poor for a long time. Real purchasing power was propped up by global labor arbitrage, subsidies, scale, and policy. That’s not a conspiracy. It’s standard macroeconomics.

China doesn’t just compete on efficiency. It subsidizes production, capital, energy, and logistics, tolerates labor and environmental conditions illegal in the U.S., and sells goods at prices domestic producers cannot match. That’s dumping, whether the label is applied or not. Cheap goods feel great, but they hollow out domestic manufacturing.

So tariffs force a tradeoff. Do we want permanently cheap imports and a consumption economy dependent on foreign production, or do we accept higher prices to rebuild domestic industry and jobs for people who aren’t knowledge workers? Without globalized low-cost manufacturing, a pair of running shoes wouldn’t be $40. Prices closer to $150–$250 would be normal, reflecting real labor, compliance, and supply-chain costs.

There’s no free lunch here. Tariffs cost consumers, but dependency costs resilience. The argument isn’t nostalgia or protectionism. It’s whether we want an economy optimized solely for cheap consumption or one that can still make things.

I promised my best friend and my little twin sister I’d be a lot less bombastic this year, so instead of big opinions, here’s a very PG, very G moment of quiet bliss.

I took a frozen young chicken that had been sitting in my freezer for six months, unwrapped it, set it on the trivet in my extra-wide 7.5L Instant Pot, added plain water up to the trivet, and cooked it for 70 minutes on Poultry with a natural release. No stock, no drama.

While that ran, I went to the store and bought a bag of plain white rice. Not jasmine, not brown. I’m from Hawaii. I rinsed it thoroughly, again and again, until the water ran clear, and cooked it in my new-to-me three-cup Toshiba fuzzy logic rice cooker. I used a Zojirushi for nearly 20 years, loved it, gave it up when I went carnivore, and decided this time to try something different. The Toshiba held its own.

I also grabbed a can of pinto beans, a can of mixed vegetables, butter, Crystal hot sauce, and later added pickled jalapeños. When the rice finished, I warmed it with the beans and vegetables, seasoned gently with cumin, cayenne, salt, and pepper. Once the chicken cooled, I pulled all the meat from the bones and mixed everything together with the broth.

If I did it again, I’d put the bones back in and pressure cook them another 90 minutes for extra stock. Next time.

What I ended up with was deeply comforting: mostly chicken, plenty of broth, and just enough rice and vegetables to support it. I portion about 30 ounces per serving. This morning, for breakfast, I added pickled jalapeños, a splash of brine, and a pinch of salt. No eggs, no ham, no rules. Just what felt right on a cold January morning.

It was exactly what I needed. Coffee next. Day begins.

Turned on WAMU/NPR this morning and every single segment is anti Trump. 100%. Amazing. One just came on now: “Trump sent Biden death penalty inmates to supermax.” NPR is Anti-Trump News. Makes sense but even bad press is good press as long as you spell his name right. I’ve listened to WAMU since 1993 and this is unprecedented (unpresidented).

°🥂⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*:･

A lot of people are still arguing about MAGA as if it’s a permanent identity or a unified ideology. That framing misses what actually made it function.

MAGA, at its peak, wasn’t a coherent movement. It was a temporary populist coalition built on overlapping grievances, not shared values. People aligned not because they agreed with each other, but because they shared enemies: political elites, cultural institutions, economic gatekeepers, and a sense of exclusion from decision-making. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” isn’t philosophy; it’s coalition math.

That’s why fixating on red hats or the slogan “Make America Great Again” leads people astray. Those symbols represent a loud minority, not the full alignment that made MAGA electorally viable. The most important participants were often the least visible: disaffected labor voters, civil libertarians, anti-war voters, small business owners, institutional skeptics, and even left-leaning voters alienated by Democratic leadership. Many never identified as “MAGA” at all.

Populist coalitions are inherently fragile. They work only as long as the alliance remains flexible and grievance-focused. The moment they harden into a fixed identity, purity test, or ideological project, they start shedding members. That’s what we’re seeing now.

The right is actively redefining itself, and not subtly. America First is not a rebrand of MAGA; it’s a narrower, explicitly right-wing, reactionary ideology. Figures like Nick Fuentes don’t represent continuity, they represent capture. When populism collapses into ethnonationalism or rigid identity politics, it stops being a coalition and becomes a faction.

This is also why both parties keep misreading voters. Democrats fight symbols instead of addressing grievances. Republicans mistake the loudest faction for the whole base. Meanwhile, the large middle keeps drifting, defecting, or disengaging.

MAGA wasn’t a permanent movement. It was a temporary alignment of interests. Confusing coalition dynamics with identity fandom is how people misunderstand what happened, and why it won’t repeat in the same form.