I'm pretty sure when the scale of EV adoption brings down battery costs as you predict, another cost will rear its head as an offset: recycling.

There's just no way society is going to accept the dumping of these toxic chemicals in landfills as a long-term (or even short term) solution.

The cost of recycling, then, needs to be plugged in for Wright's Law to be meaningful in this case.

Sometimes, the things people write tell more about themselves than they do about the subject. This is the case here.

By her narrative, the author reveals that she has neither the training nor the mindset to be either a trader or an investor.

Until she acquires the necessary attributes, she should stick to being a wage slave and whining with envy about those who have succeeded in making money work for them instead of them working for money.

I myself have watched the recent drop in BTC with fascination, wondering if it might enter into a huge free-fall that would…


Capitalism failed to let me starve today. I am eating a salad as I write this. The basis of it is alfalfa sprouts I grew in my kitchen. It started with seeds many capitalists provided me through an amazing dance of synergy and cooperation.

Some of the highlights include farmers tilling fields using machinery they bought from those who specialize in manufacturing and distributing such things. The farmers paid for it using capital they either saved or borrowed or else gathered by inducing others to join them in putting their capital at risk in the hope of receiving returns abundant…

Vegas is how you imagine the world ending: inane frivolity alongside fear and suffering, each pretending not to notice the other.

In Vegas, money trawls its nets through humanity, leaving the skeletons it stripped. They wear layers of clothes they got out of dumpsters and, for the lucky, a child-sized mattress they tote around for getting through cold nights on the sidewalk. Vegas is a huckster’s vision of Heaven built around, through and atop a foundation of hell.

Trump has a tower here. Of course.

Freaks and normals are side-by-side. Freaks are appalled at the dishonesty they believe they live…

Leaving Pahrump

I’m about to leave tomorrow. That’s good and it’s bad. I’m a nomad, so the road is always welcome. 230-something miles tomorrow, not counting stopping off at Winco in Victorville to pick up some produce. Extra mile there, I suppose, and maybe a half hour’s time. I’ll try to leave as early as I can so I can get to the next park early in the afternoon when it’ll be warmest and easiest for setting up my RV.

But I’ll also be sad leaving. I like this place for some reason. There’s nothing much here to like, just…

Joe Arpaio photo credit: Gage Skidmore via photopin. License: creative commons

I see you pardoned your pal Joe Arapaio the other day. Well, of course you did. What are friends for, right?

Credit: Surreality Publishing, LLC

Not the Hillary, not the Donald, not the other terrorists. Money is what collapsed the USA.

There is a story about what happened; it claims to be fiction, but here’s the thing: when it’s about the future, how do you know? If the things it talks about don’t happen, it was fiction; if they do it was eerily prescient. Given what it talks about, you’ll hope it’s fiction … which is to say you’ll hope the fiction claim is fact. But couldn’t it just as well be the other way around?

The story seems highly unlikely right now, but, you…

Slippery Words

A few days ago I posted a response to a piece here on Medium, (see article ) thinking that what I said would be so self-evident readers would, upon reflection, go, “Aha, that is true, isn’t it!” Perhaps most did, but a significant number found my proposition so far at odds with their superior weltanschauung that they had to put fingers to keyboards and spew out the scornful admonishments they believed I richly deserved.

Well, I suppose I should have known better. In the first place, the piece was about politics, which is notorious for attracting more heat…

Merrill C. Davis, 2005

104 years ago. Wow. And there you still are, looking at me from the wall, that same, enigmatic sad-smile; happiness and regrets, one hand clasped on the other as if to hold together the unconnectable pieces you accumulated on your path through life.

You were like a mountain to me, growing up. You were approachable, but never quite knowable, and when you told us the story after Mom died about how you realized just a few days in what a colossal mistake you had made in marrying her, you seemed like a mountain again. Carrying that burden all your life…

Paul Davis

Nomadic writer, realist, voluntaryist, nudist, singer, drummer, harmonica and recorder player, composer, gadfly, runner, troublemaker, survivor so far.

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