WTHIGO (What He-Go)

The Ides of March 2025

In today’s episode of What The Hell Is Going On . . .

As we discussed in yesterday’s episode of What The Hell Is Going On . . .

I’m not to the point of not being able to keep up with the forensic financial audits of the U.S. Government.  I emotionally passed that point long ago — from 2008-2011.

Which is the exact timeline of my writing THE DAWN!

Part of looking back, for me, is the recovery of things I forgot, or wasn’t able, to take with me, on my way from Then to Today, from There to Here.  The experience can be trying, although oftentimes it’s a matter of what is being tried, and on whom.  Yesterday, I completed a lot of work on that work, whilst simultaneously working on my review of Chapter 27 of L’AUBE.

If you notice an abundance of the use of the word “work”, it’s for a very valid reason. 

Energy is defined as the ability to do work, a noun that, in turn, is the ability to exert a force causing displacement of an object.

I learned those definitions in my Gifted 2nd Grade class, and have, more or less, clung to it as the years have gone by.  And the lazy corrupt suck-ups of my nation did very little work while underpaying, and undermining, We the People to be their Beasts of Burden — carrying the heavy loads of technical prowess and experienced abilities — so that those traitors could plunder and launder, and plunder and launder, and plunder and launder.

The rinse cycle is gonna stink to high heaven!

That most malodorous scenario has been SOP in the tarnished Golden State for many decades.  Yes, California led the way for DOGE to do the demolition that’s coming the Patriot’s way!  The Force is with us to cause mucho displacement of the non-moving, non-working objects who stole our Moolah-Boolah!

Being blocked, creatively, can indeed induce depression:  emotional, physical, economic, perhaps spiritual.  What I experienced yesterday wasn’t Churchill’s black dog of depression. It was the brown dog of despondency.

I recalled all of those years that I, my husband, and my children were trying to keep our heads above water, financially, emotionally, morally, and psychologically, while I took on more and more unpaid work to overcome the bollocks-ing of life in the USA by the feckless Ruling Class.

I do not regret one moment of my devotion to home-schooling and home-churching.  I do, however, have a hard time forgetting the hours I spent — filling out paperwork in my attempts to bury those bloated Guvmint Bureaucrats.

The burden of proof was on me to prove that I — the mother of my children — was  capable, competent, above-board, and above-suspicion — to teach those children all of the lessons and truths that those foul fonctionnaires have trashed — with money made by decent, hard-working, God-fearing American citizens.

Maybe I’m not supposed to forget, or forgive those transgressions, at least not until the sewage sump-pump of corrupt cronyism funded by taxpayer $$$$$ —- the U.S. Department of Education — is officially moved (CRUNCH) into the trash-bin of history.

And, after having recently learned about the Churches in America that formed  the Underground Railroad of the Millennium for Human and Child Trafficking, I feel prouder than ever of those Sunday night Bible-reading sessions In-My-Home!

My emotions of outrage and sadness nonetheless kept getting in the way of my analytical and creative work.  I persistently forged on, at a much slower pace than is the norm for me.  After a couple of hours of doggedly determined work, I decided to take a break and watch/listen to an interview of Doge Director Elon Musk by Lawrence Kudlow.

Kudlow’s one of the good guys.  For many years, I’ve watched him and heeded his advice.  I still maintain that he hasn’t gotten over the sale of Land’s End to Sears, thereby finishing off the fantastic fabrication of the Square Rigger satchel.

The types of questions that Mr. Kudlow was asking of Elon told me that he, Larry, knows where these audits are going; and Elon probably knows that Larry knows.  And Larry knows that Elon knows that Larry knows.

It’s nice to know that the real experts know what We the People didn’t know.  But will soon find out!

Because when you know . . . you know!!!

Although I think I knew, or at least I intuitively perceived the vulgar mockery that had become our “free and fair” elections and the surreptitious public financing of pornographic programs and purposes.

My Dear Friend was a godsend to me, in oh so many ways, intended and unintended, to trigger my composing THE DAWN.  She was a highly placed U.S. Government official who, during the year 2006, spent time in D.C. for SES (Senior Executive Service) training.  One afternoon in the spring of 2006, she called my home phone number, to speak to Dear Husband who, at that time, was the Chief of CVO, Central Valley Operations, aka The Big Valley in California.

She’d thought that he’d already arrived home from work, having forgotten about the time difference between the East and West coasts.  Well, actually, she didn’t forget because she’d never acquired that dual-mental clocking of real-time that, to this day, as of this minute, I still automatically calculate in my mind, +3 East Coast, -3 West Coast.

Life in Newcastle, CA, by 2006, had become almost intolerable for me:

Home-schooling, home-churching, home-making, hound-keeping, and helping Dear Husband to deal with the egomaniacal insanity of the federal fonctionnaires who used him to spout the technical prowess he’d relayed to them in the Meetings, or, more accurately, the Pre-Meetings, that morphed into the lawyer-ed up Pre-Meeting of the Pre-Meeting to the-Meeting, which took place before the Final Meeting before his Congressional Testimony that I called The Inquisition.

All so that these Fonctionnaire Phonies wouldn’t get found out as the frauds they are.

I was in high dudgeon a lot of the time.  Mind, a dudgeon is the haft of a dagger.

But there My Dear Friend was, walking and wandering the streets of NW D.C., talking to me on her cell phone.  She was basically lost, in more ways than one.  I offered to help her find her way back to her hotel in Georgetown.

She walked and talked along this very tortured route, commenting that the streets in D.C. are nothing like the narrow streets in downtown Sacramento!

She then passed by an arch that she read to me:  The George Washington University.

“They put up one of those stupid arches?” I asked.

“Yeah.  So how do you know so much about this place?”

“I attended GWU, long ago.”

Thus began the unfolding of those years of my past to this former work associate.  Not that I hid that portion of my past life from people in my present life.  I simply found no use to disclose those tales from my times to newcomers in my life.  I did recall, with amazing specificity, the recipes from the restaurants I’d worked in (too many to count); and I re-produced them for my family.  The Rive Gauche is a hamburger on a Kaiser roll, topped with cream cheese seasoned with chives, and chopped walnuts.  Honey on top is optional, and I never opted for it!

I was completely unaware of this fictional groundwork being laid, the concrete foundation being poured for Camille the Parisienne devenue Waitress in Roussillon.  As Dear Husband quips, “Debra’s the last to know when she’s about to write a novel!”

I gotta say, though, that I’ve never forgotten my waitress attire, especially for the fancy Friday night shift at Mr. Henry’s on Washington Circle NW.  Only waiters worked that night, with the exception of one stellar waitress, so she would stand out and shine and attract even more customers for that next Friday night.

Yup, you got it.  I was the Friday soirée server.

Mr. Henry’s restaurant in Northwest DC is probably no longer there, but, to this day, I won’t wear my waitressing tuxedo:  black pants, black vest, black cummerbund and a fancy ruffled white blouse, with a black bow-tie.  A while back, I took note of a nouveau-riche brat at a State Dinner with the identical ensemble, called “edgy” and “sexy” by the Idiot-Media.

I laughed to Dear Daughter:  “That dumb bunny, who’s never worked manual labor a day, or night, in her life, is donning evening wear for waitressing!”

But I digress.  Or do I?

My Dear Friend found a use, found infinite use of the particulars of my past life.

Countless and unforgettable were the hours when we walked and talked in the Galleria Mall, and the open-air Fountains, at Roseville.  We exchanged observations, hoping, trying, striving to find a way out of the confusion of Life in California, after the year 2000.  It’s no wonder that I’d been engrossed in the year 1000 in Western Europe.

I, the non-Native, expressed abundant truths that she, the Native, couldn’t see, but I know that she wanted to perceive them.  I know that she fought hard to confront them, because I’d challenged her to face the realities from which she’d hidden, those unsettling facets of the real world that I, the novelist, comprehended so well that I created fiction from them.

My Dear Friend put my tales to use in her life.  We were united in unflinchingly facing the coming-of-age of our children, albeit from vastly different perspectives.  She’d been a career-woman, whereas I’d left The Office World to start new phases of my life.

Regarding those sharply divergent paths, she had too many regrets about hers; I had none about mine.

I was thus able to advise her during that spring of 2006 to not take the SES post for which she was undergoing what I saw as even further degradation of her personal self for highly political ends.  I stated rather bluntly the reasons for my viewpoint.  And she promptly followed my advice.

In fact, she followed my advice so quickly that I hadn’t known she’d done it!

The way that I found out about her hauling a— outta there was the hostility from the person who was most in line to benefit from using her as yet another rip-off act of an idealistic human being.  You’re know you’re over the target when you get the most flack!

Her decisive deed set into motion the falling of myriad dominoes in her personal domain.  The chips fell exactly the way that I’d thought they would, but My Dear Friend hadn’t even begun to reckon with the very predictable and very unpleasant consequences of her bold decision.

At that point, I was in for a penny, in for a pound, that two-volume novel entitled THE DAWN.

Mr. Musk is in for $4 billion a day, in for unknown trillions in this adventure called What He-Go.

Sometimes tough love has to be very tough.

In tomorrow’s episode of What The Hell Is Going On, I advise using tough love to the hilt!

I end this Ides of March essay with some dialogue in Chapter 16 that Colonel Arthur Carmichael presents to the Free French major, Roland Monfils, in Chapter 16 of THE DAWN/L’AUBE.

“Grant had an extra sense that detected the unknowns of warfare.  He was able to smell out the unexpected factors, the mysteries of combat, and he always awaited the unforeseen accidents in the fog of war, the things that can affect the outcome of the battle.  He even wrote that accident often decides the fate of battle.”

« Grant avait un sens supplémentaire qui lui permettait de detecter les inconnues de la guerre. Il était capable de flairer les facteurs inattendus, les mystères du combat, et il attendait toujours les accidents imprévus dans le brouillard de la guerre, les choses qui peuvent affecter l’issue de la bataille.  Il a même écrit que l’accident décide souvent du sort de la bataille. »