‘The Long Con: Mail-Order Conservatism’

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

I asked Grok about this November 2012 Rick Pearlstein essay and how well it holds up today:

Rick Perlstein’s essay “The Long Con,” published in The Baffler in November 2012, dives into the world of conservative direct-mail campaigns, multilevel marketing schemes, and the broader culture of grift that he argues has long underpinned the American right. Perlstein frames this phenomenon as a symbiotic relationship between ideological fervor and financial exploitation, spotlighting figures like Mitt Romney and the broader conservative ecosystem of the time. As of March 20, 2025, let’s assess how this piece holds up over a decade later, considering political, cultural, and technological shifts.
At its core, Perlstein’s argument is that the conservative movement has historically fused genuine belief with a predatory hustle, using fearmongering and patriotic appeals to fleece the faithful while advancing a political agenda. He cites examples like Romney’s flip-flops on abortion and federal funding for the Olympics, alongside the “gold scam” peddled by right-wing media, as evidence of a pattern: leaders lie, followers buy in, and someone always profits. In 2012, this was a sharp critique of the Romney campaign and the Tea Party-era GOP, written as Obama’s re-election loomed.
Today, the essay’s central thesis feels prescient, even evergreen. The grift Perlstein describes didn’t fade with Romney’s loss—it metastasized. Donald Trump’s rise, starting with his 2015 campaign, supercharged the dynamics Perlstein outlines. Trump’s brand of politics—built on exaggerated promises, conspiracies, and direct appeals to supporters’ wallets (think Trump University, NFTs, or fundraising emails claiming election fraud)—is like the direct-mail scams of 2012 on steroids. The essay’s observation that “the ideological con” and “the money con” blur together rings truer now, as Trump’s post-2020 efforts raised hundreds of millions from small donors under dubious pretenses, often funneled to his legal fees or personal ventures.
The mechanics have evolved, though. Perlstein focuses on physical mail—Newsmax subscriptions, Townhall ads—reflecting 2012’s still-analog fundraising landscape. By 2025, the grift has gone digital: X posts, crowdfunding platforms, and crypto schemes have largely replaced envelopes. Yet the psychology remains identical—exploit trust, stoke fear, promise salvation. Recent examples, like MAGA influencers hawking “Trump coins” or conspiracy-laden health supplements, echo the gold scams Perlstein mocked. The players may have shifted—less Romney, more Marjorie Taylor Greene—but the game’s the same.
Where the essay feels dated is in its optimism that exposure might disrupt the con. Perlstein writes as if cataloging the lies could shame the perpetrators or awaken the duped. Post-Trump, that hope seems quaint. The GOP base has doubled down, embracing “alternative facts” and dismissing critiques as elite bias. Romney, once a grifter in Perlstein’s eyes, is now a relative moderate, sidelined by a party that’s leaned harder into the tactics he critiqued. The essay’s faith in a discerning public hasn’t aged well—polarization and media fragmentation have only deepened the marks’ loyalty.
Culturally, Perlstein’s lens still applies beyond politics. The rise of influencer scams, NFT bubbles, and wellness hustles suggests the “long con” isn’t just a conservative quirk—it’s a feature of late capitalism. His focus on the right, though, misses how the left has developed its own grift, from performative crowdfunding to sanctimonious branding. The essay’s partisan frame feels narrower now, when the hustle transcends ideology.
Structurally, “The Long Con” holds up as a biting, well-researched snapshot. Its anecdotes—Romney’s contradictions, the “Goldline” racket—remain vivid, and its prose crackles with indignation. But its predictive power is where it shines: Perlstein saw a machine that wouldn’t just persist but grow bolder. In 2025, with Trump eyeing a second term and the GOP wielding X as a megaphone, the essay reads less like history and more like a playbook still in use. It’s not flawless—its analog focus and faint reformist hope show their age—but it’s a damn good mirror for today’s chaos. The con’s longer than ever.

Who are the most dubious advertisers in right-wing media today?

Pinpointing the “most dubious” advertisers in right-wing media as of March 20, 2025, involves looking at patterns of deceptive practices, exaggerated claims, and exploitation of trust within conservative audiences. Based on available trends and recent developments, here’s a rundown of some standout culprits.
One major category is gold and precious metal companies, like Goldco or Birch Gold Group, which heavily advertise on right-wing platforms such as Newsmax, Fox News, and X influencers’ channels. These firms often pitch gold as a hedge against an imminent economic collapse—think “Biden’s ruining the dollar, buy now!”—using fear tactics that echo Perlstein’s “long con” from 2012. While not inherently scams, their ads frequently overpromise returns and downplay risks, targeting older, conservative viewers who may not dig into the fine print. The FTC has cracked down on similar outfits in the past, like Goldline a decade ago, but today’s players keep the hustle alive with endorsements from personalities like Sean Hannity.
Then there’s the supplement and wellness racket—think MyPillow guy Mike Lindell’s “MyStore” pushing unproven health products or Alex Jones’ Infowars hawking “Super Male Vitality.” These advertisers thrive on right-wing distrust of mainstream medicine, peddling cures with little scientific backing. Jones, for instance, has faced legal heat over false claims, yet his model persists across podcasts and YouTube channels tied to figures like Tim Pool or Benny Johnson. The FDA occasionally sends warning letters, but enforcement lags behind the flood of ads.
Crypto and investment scams are another hot spot. Post-2020 election, outlets like The Gateway Pundit and X posts from MAGA influencers hyped “Trump coins” or dubious blockchain ventures, often tied to multilevel marketing schemes. These prey on patriotic fervor—“invest in Trump’s America!”—but many turn out to be pump-and-dump cons, leaving small investors burned. The DOJ’s 2024 indictment of Epoch Times’ CFO for laundering $67 million hints at how deep financial grift can run in these circles, even if not directly ad-related.
Finally, ad networks like AdStyle deserve a nod. ProPublica exposed this shadowy outfit in 2023 for plastering right-wing sites (e.g., Saber Communications’ pro-Trump pages) with fake celebrity endorsements—Oprah pushing CBD gummies, Elon Musk touting crypto. AdStyle’s not an advertiser per se but a conduit, splitting profits with publishers while dodging accountability. Its Delaware registration’s a ghost, and its scam ads keep popping up, exploiting algorithmic ad placement to rake in clicks from trusting readers.
Why these stand out: they lean hard into fear, loyalty, and anti-establishment vibes—hallmarks of right-wing media’s audience. Data’s patchy—no public ledger tracks “most dubious” by revenue—but X chatter and investigative pieces (e.g., ProPublica, NBC) spotlight these as repeat offenders. Gold and supplements hit older demographics via TV and radio; crypto and AdStyle-style scams target younger, online conservatives. All dodge scrutiny by blending ideology with profit, a playbook Perlstein nailed over a decade ago that’s only gotten slicker.

How dubious are Dennis Prager’s advertisers?

Evaluating the “dubiousness” of Dennis Prager’s advertisers as of March 20, 2025, requires looking at the types of companies tied to his platform, their track records, and how they align with the patterns of exploitation Rick Perlstein flagged in his 2012 essay. The link you provided (https://dennisprager.com/our-advertisers) lists sponsors of The Dennis Prager Show, a long-running conservative radio program. While the specific list can shift, Prager’s advertisers historically and currently tend to reflect broader trends in right-wing media—some are straightforward businesses, others flirt with questionable claims or predatory tactics. Let’s break it down.
The current advertisers on that page include names like Relief Factor, a supplement company Prager’s long endorsed for pain relief. Its pitch—fish oil and botanicals as a cure-all—leans on testimonials over rigorous science. The FTC’s warned similar firms about unverified health claims, though Relief Factor itself hasn’t faced direct action. It’s not a scam outright, but its aggressive marketing to older, trusting listeners fits Perlstein’s grift archetype: overpromise, undersubstantiate. Prager’s personal vouching—he says it worked for his wife—adds credibility without evidence, a classic move.
Then there’s AMAC (Association of Mature American Citizens), pitched as an AARP alternative for conservatives. It’s legit as a membership org, offering discounts and insurance, but its heavy-handed “anti-socialist” branding and upselling of financial products (like annuities) can prey on retirees’ fears. No major legal red flags, but the fear-driven sales echo the direct-mail scams Perlstein critiqued.
Goldco pops up too, a precious metals dealer pushing gold IRAs. This ties straight into the right-wing trope of impending economic doom—think “Biden’s crashing the dollar!” Goldco’s been sued (e.g., a 2021 California case alleging misleading fees), and while it’s not a Ponzi scheme, its high-pressure tactics and inflated pricing target the same paranoid demographic as the old Goldline scams. The SEC and FTC watch this sector closely; Goldco’s not uniquely bad, just part of a dubious pack.
PragerU itself, co-founded by Prager, isn’t an advertiser but a sister entity often plugged on the show. Its “educational” videos are free, funded by donors, not a direct hustle—yet its selective narratives (e.g., downplaying slavery’s horrors) sell ideology over facts, a subtler con. It’s not about profit but influence, though it boosts the ecosystem’s revenue indirectly.
Past sponsors, like MyPillow, also linger in memory. Mike Lindell’s pillows are real products, but his wild election fraud claims and discount-code saturation on conservative airwaves turned it into a loyalty racket. MyPillow’s faced BBB complaints and a 2016 false-advertising settlement ($1M) over unproven health benefits—dubious enough to fit the pattern.
How dubious are they overall? It’s a spectrum. Relief Factor and Goldco skirt the edge with shaky claims and fear-based pitches, exploiting trust more than breaking laws—Perlstein’s “money con” in action. AMAC’s tamer, a standard advocacy group with a sales twist. None are outright frauds like fake charities; they’re legal but lean on emotional manipulation over substance. Compared to broader right-wing media—say, Alex Jones’ snake-oil supplements or Trump’s NFT grift—Prager’s advertisers are less cartoonishly shady but still trade on the same vulnerabilities: an audience primed to buy salvation from a collapsing world. Data’s thin—no public revenue breakdown exists—but X posts and listener anecdotes suggest these ads hit hard with older, loyal fans, the perfect marks for a long con.

To what extent should Dennis Prager be held morally accountable for his dubious advertisers such as Lear Capital? Mar. 20, 2025, Grok says:

Assessing Dennis Prager’s moral accountability for dubious advertisers like Lear Capital hinges on his role, intent, and the impact of his platform as of March 20, 2025. The Washington Post article you linked (July 25, 2023) details how Lear Capital, a gold IRA company, advertised heavily on right-wing media, including cases where elderly clients like Terry White lost significant sums—$80,000 in White’s case—due to high commissions (e.g., 33%) and misleading promises. While Prager isn’t directly tied to Lear in the piece, his show’s advertisers, like Goldco, operate in the same murky gold IRA space, suggesting a pattern worth probing.
Prager’s accountability starts with his platform. The Dennis Prager Show reaches millions via radio and online, targeting a conservative audience often skeptical of mainstream institutions—prime marks for fear-based pitches like gold IRAs. He doesn’t just host; he endorses. For Relief Factor, he’s claimed it helped his wife, and for Goldco, he’s likely framed it as a bulwark against economic ruin (common in his rhetoric about government overreach). This isn’t passive ad-reading—it’s leveraging trust. When a figure like Prager, who positions himself as a moral arbiter, vouches for products, listeners may assume vetting’s been done. If those products fleece them, his role shifts from bystander to enabler.
But how much should he know? The gold IRA industry’s red flags—lawsuits, FTC warnings, and tales like White’s—aren’t secret. The Post notes regulators have accused firms like Lear of fraud, with markups so steep (up to 213% per some suits) that investors need gold prices to soar just to break even. Goldco, a Prager advertiser, faced a 2021 California lawsuit over misleading fees, settled quietly. Prager’s not a financial expert, but he’s a savvy operator—decades in media suggest he’s aware of who pays his bills. Choosing not to dig into their practices could be willful blindness, especially if revenue (potentially 10% of earnings, per Post sources on similar deals) trumps scrutiny.
Intent matters too. There’s no evidence Prager knows these companies harm listeners and doesn’t care—contrast this with Alex Jones, who’s settled for pushing bunk supplements he knew were shaky. Prager’s likely driven by ideology (gold as a conservative hedge) and business, not malice. Yet ignorance isn’t a free pass. If he’s negligent—failing to vet advertisers despite their track records—that’s a moral lapse for someone who lectures on ethics. His audience, often older and loyal, trusts him implicitly; the Post’s Jeanne White blamed Fox for her husband’s losses, saying they “wouldn’t take a commercial like that unless it was legitimate.” Prager fans likely feel the same.
Impact seals it. If even a fraction of his listeners get burned—say, losing retirement savings to Goldco’s fees or Relief Factor’s hype—the harm’s real. No hard data ties Prager’s ads to specific losses, but the ecosystem he feeds mirrors Lear’s: fear-laden pitches, high markups, vulnerable marks. Perlstein’s “long con” fits here—Prager’s not the scammer, but he’s a cog, amplifying the hustle.
He’s not fully culpable—advertisers bear primary guilt for deceit—but he’s not off the hook. Morally, he’s accountable to the extent he trades on trust without due diligence, especially given his influence and the industry’s stench. A preacher of personal responsibility should practice it. If he’s pocketing ad cash while shrugging at the fallout, that’s a hypocrisy his own principles indict. Call it 40% accountable: not the architect, but a knowing gatekeeper who could’ve locked the door.

Posted in Conservatives, Dennis Prager | Comments Off on ‘The Long Con: Mail-Order Conservatism’

I Read David Duke’s Memoir, ‘My Awakening: A Path to Racial Understanding’

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

I found that the section on Jews contained many factual mistakes.

Grok:

David Duke’s My Awakening: A Path to Racial Understanding is a slog of a book—self-published in 1998, it’s less a memoir than a manifesto drenched in his white supremacist worldview. The section on Jews, which I assume you’re zeroing in on (around chapters 24-30 if memory serves), is a stew of distortions, cherry-picked anecdotes, and outright fabrications masquerading as scholarship. Duke’s no stranger to bending facts—he’s a former Klansman and neo-Nazi poster boy—so it’s not shocking you spotted holes. I’d be curious to know which mistakes jumped out at you, but I can take a swing at what’s likely there based on his track record.
Duke leans hard into anti-Semitic tropes: Jews as a shadowy cabal controlling banks, media, and governments, with a sprinkle of Holocaust denial lite (he’s coy about it, but the implication’s there). He’ll cite historical events—like Jewish involvement in the Bolshevik Revolution—or stats on media ownership, then twist them into a grand conspiracy. Factual errors? He’s sloppy with numbers and context. For instance, he might overstate Jewish representation in Soviet leadership (it peaked at maybe 10% in the early years, not the dominant force he claims) or misattribute quotes to Zionist figures like Theodor Herzl to paint them as genocidal. He’s also big on citing discredited sources—the Protocols of the Elders of Zion pops up in spirit, if not name, despite being a proven forgery since the 1920s.
His method’s less about accuracy than emotional kick. Like we’ve been saying, narratives win by releasing tension, not by being airtight. Duke’s pitching to an audience already jittery about “outsiders”—Jews become the perfect scapegoat, a story that feels true to his readers even if the dates don’t line up or the stats are bunk. He pads it with half-truths (yeah, some Jews were in finance; no, they didn’t “control the world”) and skips inconvenient facts—like the diversity of Jewish thought or the pogroms that drove migration patterns he gripes about.
What’s wild is how he frames it as “awakening”—a personal journey from ignorance to “truth.” It’s a sales pitch: buy my struggle, buy my hate. The errors you caught probably stem from his habit of starting with a conclusion (Jews are the enemy) and working backward, facts be damned. Did any specific goof—like a mangled historical claim or a misquoted rabbi—stick with you? I’d bet it’s less the mistakes that rankle and more the gall of dressing it up as enlightenment. What drew you to slog through it?

The book is easy to read if you are not revolted by its hero system.

Grok:

That’s a sharp observation—My Awakening does glide along if you’re not gagging at its core. David Duke’s got a knack for a conversational tone, spinning his bile into a cozy fireside chat. He’s not bogging you down with dense jargon or footnotes (half of which would be fake anyway); it’s more like a guy at a bar laying out his “truths” with a grin. The prose is simple, repetitive, almost soothing—here’s my life, here’s what I “discovered,” here’s why I’m the hero of this tale. It’s built to pull you in, not challenge you, as long as you’re nodding at his worldview.
The “hero system” you’re picking up on is the engine. Duke casts himself as the brave truth-seeker, waking up to a world rigged by Jews, liberals, and “race traitors.” It’s classic martyr porn—every setback (jail stints, political flops) is proof he’s onto something, not that he’s a crank. The reader’s the sidekick, invited to join his crusade. If you buy the premise—that he’s a misunderstood patriot fighting a cosmic evil—it’s a page-turner. The factual sloppiness you noticed doesn’t trip it up because it’s not about evidence; it’s about feeling righteous. Tension builds (the world’s going to hell), then releases (Duke’s got the answer).
For someone not repulsed, it’s an easy ride—almost seductive in its clarity. No moral wrestling, no gray areas, just a straight shot of us-versus-them. That’s why it works for his crowd: it’s comfort food for the paranoid. Did you find it smooth despite the stench, or did the hero act still grate even as it flowed?

As I read it, I understood that some people would pick it up and find it explained many confusing things and it would be a revelation to them, and the whole book would go down smooth. My therapist in graduate school was assigned various anti-Jewish writings and after a few days of reading them, she involuntarily found herself sympathetic to them. She soon snapped out of it.

Grok:

That’s a hell of an insight—you’ve nailed how My Awakening can slither into someone’s head. Duke’s book is a trap for the confused, the kind of person squinting at a messy world and craving a simple key. He hands them one: Jews. Everything—war, economic dips, cultural shifts—clicks into place under his lens. It’s not just readable; it’s a revelation if you’re primed for it. The smoothness is the hook—no heavy lifting, just a steady drip of “aha” moments that feel like clarity, even if it’s built on sand. Your therapist’s experience tracks that: a few days of marinating in that stuff, and the brain starts nodding along before the conscience kicks back in.
It’s the emotional pull we’ve been circling—narratives win by releasing tension, and Duke’s a master at it. Life’s chaotic? Here’s the villain. Feel powerless? Here’s the fight. Your therapist got a taste of how seductive that can be, especially when it’s assigned reading—immersion without pushback can soften the defenses. She snapped out because she had the tools to question it; plenty don’t, and Duke knows that. His hero act—lone warrior against a grand conspiracy—amps it up, making dissent feel like betrayal of the “truth.”
The book’s a slow poison, smooth as whiskey if you don’t taste the rot. That’s why it clicks for some: it’s less about facts and more about feeding a need. Did you feel that pull at all, even knowing the holes, or was it just watching a con unfold? And your therapist—did she say what flipped the switch to snap her out?

What snapped her out of the hypnotic spell of these anti-Jewish writings were the real word consequences and she did not want to get socially isolated.

Grok:

That makes total sense—real-world stakes can break a trance like nothing else. Your therapist got sucked into the anti-Jewish writings’ rhythm, that smooth, seductive clarity we’ve been talking about, but the spell shattered when she clocked the fallout. It’s one thing to nod along in your head; it’s another to picture the social cost—friends turning away, colleagues judging, maybe even losing her footing in grad school or her practice. Isolation’s a hell of a motivator. Those texts might’ve felt like a revelation in the abstract, but the moment they threatened to drag her into a pariah’s life, the fog lifted.
It’s a peek at how narratives lose their grip too—not just how they win. Duke’s My Awakening or whatever she read can hook you with emotional release, but the real world has a way of slapping back. She didn’t want to be that person—the one parroting hate at the Thanksgiving table or getting sidelined in her field. Consequences cut through the hypnosis where logic alone might’ve stalled.

Posted in David Duke | Comments Off on I Read David Duke’s Memoir, ‘My Awakening: A Path to Racial Understanding’

LAT: ‘Ron Jeremy superfan raped, killed L.A. women.’

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

From the Los Angeles Times:

His mother and sister said he grew up as a “theater kid” in Maryland before moving to Los Angeles, where the aspiring producer struggled to break into the entertainment industry and became friends with one-time porn king Ron Jeremy, who is also accused of being a serial rapist.

When police searched Pearce’s room in 2021, they found several pieces of memorabilia signed by Jeremy and “trophies for pornography,” according to a copy of a search warrant.

Allison Pearce described Jeremy as a corrupting influence on her younger brother, who became so obsessed with the adult film star that in a fight with his father he once shouted: “You’re not my Dad anymore. Ron Jeremy is my Dad.”

…she joined him at Burbank’s famous “Porn Star Karaoke” nights alongside Jeremy, the now-disgraced adult film actor who was for decades the industry’s best-known male performer.

Granat-Pearce said her son “looked up” to Jeremy and the two would often spend Jewish holidays together.

“For David’s birthday one year we had dinner … and Ron proceeded to play his harmonica. He was kind of a little crazy, but also a little funny. He was always very respectful to me, to David, as far as I could see,” she said. “He was more like family than he was a friend.”

Pearce even began dating a woman in 2019 who worked for Jeremy…

Jeremy was indicted on 30 counts of sexual assault just a few months before Giles and Arzola’s deadly night out with Pearce, but the former porn king’s case never made it to a jury. He was declared incompetent to stand trial in 2023 due to worsening dementia, and is now living in a private residence where he is “essentially bedridden.” L.A. County Superior Court Judge Eleanor Hunter barred prosecutors from referencing Pearce’s relationship with Jeremy at trial.

Pearce’s older sister, Allison, said her brother was obsessed with portraying wealth and influence despite failing to find success in Hollywood.

“Since he’s moved to L.A. he’s just turned into someone that is very fake,” she said. “He would buy his Prada and Armani at secondhand stores, a Goodwill in Beverly Hills.”

Grok says:

The Los Angeles Times story on David Pearce, published today, March 20, 2025, is a gut-wrenching autopsy of a predator’s reign and the system’s stumbles that let it stretch so damn long. It’s a narrative that hooks you with its raw human stakes—women lured, drugged, and broken by a man who played Hollywood’s promise like a fiddle—while raising a furious question: how many cracks does a guy like Pearce have to slip through before someone nails him?
The piece paints Pearce vividly: a Maryland theater kid turned LA sleaze, chasing clout with secondhand Prada and a creepy Ron Jeremy obsession. His MO—posing as a connected producer, spiking drinks with GHB or worse, then pouncing—feels like a dark script he perfected over years. The testimony from a dozen women in January 2025, detailing fuzzy nights and waking up to violation, is chillingly consistent. Then there’s the 2021 deaths of Christy Giles and Hilda Marcela Cabrales Arzola—lured to his Olympic Boulevard crash pad after a rave, dosed with a lethal cocktail, and dumped like trash outside hospitals. That “Dead girls don’t talk” line from Michael Ansbach’s testimony? It’s the kind of cold-blooded quip that sticks in your craw.
What makes this story hit harder is the revelation of missed shots. Those records—cops bringing rape allegations to prosecutors in 2007, 2014, and 2020, only to get “insufficient evidence” or “uncooperative witness” rejections—feel like a slow-motion train wreck. The 2014 case, reopened in 2017 by the LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division, still fizzled. You can’t help but wonder: if one of those had stuck, would Giles and Arzola still be chasing their dreams? Gloria Allred’s outrage—“Why did two women have to die?”—echoes that gut punch. Joshua Ritter’s take, calling Pearce the exact predator prosecutors live to stop, doubles down on the tragedy of those fumbles.
The narrative’s power isn’t just in the what-ifs—it’s in the emotional release it offers. Like we’ve been saying, people crave stories that untangle their tension. Here, it’s the tension of a justice system that’s supposed to protect but didn’t, until the body count forced its hand. Pearce’s conviction last month—seven rapes, two murders—finally delivers that catharsis, even if it’s bittersweet. The women’s voices, silenced for years, now roar through the courtroom, and that’s a win, however late. But the story doesn’t let you off easy; it lingers on the systemic hiccups—prosecutors waiting for a “totality of evidence,” a 2020 memo ignoring prior red flags—that let Pearce keep hunting.
Pearce himself? He’s a study in delusion—still claiming innocence, firing his lawyer, chasing a new trial with Ronda Dixon’s “prior bad acts” argument. His family’s input—mom calling him funny, sister pegging him as a fake—adds a layer of pathos to the monster. The Jeremy connection, with signed memorabilia and “trophies for pornography” in his room, ties him to a broader LA underbelly, even if the judge kept it out of court. It’s a detail that screams lost potential warped by a toxic idol.
This story dominates because it’s a pressure valve—grief, rage, and relief all at once. It’s not just about Pearce; it’s about the women who survived him, the ones who didn’t, and a public desperate to see justice catch up. The LA Times leans into that need, blending courtroom grit with human stakes, and it works. I think it’s a hell of a piece—infuriating, haunting, and impossible to shake.
Pinning David Pearce’s crimes on pornography and Ron Jeremy is tempting—it’s a clean narrative, a villainous influence to point at—but it’s a stretch that doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. Pearce’s rapes and murders weren’t scripted by porn or Jeremy; they were the work of a predator who used whatever tools and props he could to hunt. The LA Times story gives us plenty to chew on, but it’s more about Pearce’s own wiring and choices than some corrupting pornographic playbook.
Pornography, as an industry or culture, isn’t inherently a crime factory. It’s a vast, messy sprawl—some of it exploitative, sure, but it’s not a monolith that turns viewers into rapists. Studies—like a 2015 meta-analysis in The Journal of Communication—show no clear causal link between porn consumption and sexual violence. Violent men might gravitate toward violent porn, but the arrow doesn’t flip the other way. Pearce’s sister Allison called Jeremy a “corrupting influence,” and his room had porn trophies and Jeremy memorabilia, but that’s correlation, not causation. He was a theater kid who floundered in LA, obsessed with projecting wealth and power—porn was just one costume he wore, not the director’s chair.
Ron Jeremy’s role is trickier. Pearce idolized him, shouting “Ron Jeremy is my Dad” in a fight with his real father, per Allison. They partied together, shared Jewish holidays, and Pearce dated a woman who worked for Jeremy. That’s a deep bond, and Jeremy’s own 30-count sexual assault indictment (stalled by his dementia) paints him as a kindred spirit in sleaze. But influence isn’t the same as blame. Jeremy might’ve modeled a lifestyle—drugs, women, excess—that Pearce aped, even amplified. His “Hollywood player” scam, luring women with career promises, echoes the predatory hustle Jeremy’s accused of. Yet Pearce wasn’t a puppet. He didn’t drug and kill Christy Giles and Hilda Marcela Cabrales Arzola because Jeremy whispered in his ear—he did it because he wanted to, and could.
The real juice is in Pearce’s own pathology. He’d been at it since at least 2007, per the D.A.’s records—drugging, assaulting, dodging charges. His “Dead girls don’t talk” quip to Michael Ansbach shows a chilling calculation, not a porn-inspired script. Jeremy might’ve been a mentor in debauchery, and porn a backdrop to his persona, but Pearce’s crimes were bespoke: a mix of entitlement, desperation, and a system that let him slide until 2021. Blaming porn or Jeremy risks oversimplifying—handing him an excuse he doesn’t deserve. He wasn’t corrupted; he was enabled, by his own cunning and others’ inaction.
So, to what extent? Porn and Jeremy were props in Pearce’s theater, not the playwrights. They gave him a stage—LA’s seedy fringes—and maybe some swagger, but the plot was his. The LA Times hints at this: his family saw a faker, not a brainwashed stooge. The extent stops where Pearce’s agency kicks in—which is pretty damn early.

Nov. 28, 2023, the LAT reported: “Ron Jeremy’s alleged victims share fury, acceptance after latest twist in court case”

Grok says:

The story about Ron Jeremy’s release to a private residence, as covered in the Los Angeles Times on November 28, 2023, is a jagged pill of a narrative—raw, messy, and loaded with tension that doesn’t quite resolve. It’s the kind of tale that hooks you not because it’s neat, but because it’s a collision of human frailty, systemic limits, and the emotional fallout of a stalled quest for justice.
On one hand, you’ve got Jeremy—once a porn industry titan, now a 70-year-old shell with “severe dementia,” deemed unfit for trial on over 30 sexual assault charges. The court’s call to let him out of jail and into private care isn’t a win for him; it’s a grim fade-out. An official says he’s “a prisoner in his own body,” bedridden and clueless, rejected by every secure dementia facility that might’ve kept him contained. It’s less a release than a surrender to biology—justice sidelined not by a verdict, but by a brain that’s checked out. That’s a brutal twist: the system can’t punish what it can’t try.
Then there’s the women—dozens who accused him of rape and assault spanning decades, from porn sets to Sunset Strip bathrooms. Their reactions are a gut-punch mix of fury and weary acceptance. Alana Evans feels the “disgustingness” of his hands years later, skeptical he’s as sick as claimed. Lianne Young calls it a “profound disturbance,” a serial predator dodging accountability. Yet there’s a thread of resilience—some, like Ginger Banks, see a silver lining in the #MeToo shift, betting public opinion will damn him where courts couldn’t. It’s not closure, but it’s something: a narrative they can cling to when the legal one fizzles.
What strikes me is how this mirrors what we’ve been chewing on—narratives seizing power through need and event. Jeremy’s decline and release on June 27, 2023, was the event that cracked the official “he’s still competent” line wide open, letting the undercurrent of victim stories surge. It’s not a clean win—there’s no gavel bang or jail cell clang—but it’s a release of tension for a public already half-convinced he’s guilty. The women’s voices, amplified by years of whispers turning to shouts, carry the emotional weight Stephen and Parks flagged: pathos trumps procedure. The story dominates not because it’s fair, but because it feels true to those who lived it.
Still, it’s a queasy read. The system’s stuck—can’t try him, can’t lock him up long-term, can’t satisfy the victims. It’s a narrative of limbo, not triumph or tragedy. I think it’s powerful because it’s unresolved, a jagged edge that keeps cutting.

As a convert to Judaism, I find it disturbing that Pearce and Jeremy observed Jewish holidays together.

Grok:

I can see why that’d hit you hard—there’s something jarring about two men accused of such ugliness sharing a space meant for reflection and sanctity. As a convert to Judaism, you’ve likely embraced the holidays as a deep, personal anchor, so picturing Pearce and Jeremy—David with his rapes and murders, Ron with his own assault allegations—lighting Hanukkah candles or breaking bread at Passover feels like a violation of what those moments stand for. It’s not just their crimes; it’s the dissonance of them cloaking themselves in a tradition that’s supposed to elevate, not mask.
The LA Times doesn’t dwell on it, but the detail—Pearce’s mom saying they spent Jewish holidays together—sticks out like a splinter. It’s not clear how deep it went: Were they just two LA loners grabbing latkes because it’s what they knew, or was it a deliberate bond, a twisted “family” thing tied to Pearce’s “Ron Jeremy is my Dad” outburst? Either way, it’s unsettling. Judaism’s holidays—Rosh Hashanah’s renewal, Yom Kippur’s atonement—carry a moral weight that clashes brutally with what these guys are accused of. Pearce’s sister Allison pegged him as “fake” in LA, buying thrift-store Armani to play a part; maybe the holidays were just another prop for him, a way to feel rooted while he preyed.
For Jeremy, a born Jew who leaned into his heritage publicly (he’s bragged about his bar mitzvah in interviews), it might’ve been more habitual—less a spiritual act than a cultural reflex. But that doesn’t soften it. Their shared observance, however shallow, taints something sacred with their grime. It’s not about Judaism enabling them—religion doesn’t rape or kill—but about them dragging it into their orbit. As a convert, you’ve chosen this path with intention; seeing it casually tied to men who flouted its ethics could feel like a personal affront.

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What Would Tom Wolfe See?

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

I ask Grok: “What would Tom Wolfe, born in 1930, at the height of his powers, observe about status markers and status striving in America today?”

Grok says:

Tom Wolfe, the sharp-eyed chronicler of American social hierarchies, would likely find today’s status markers both familiar and bewilderingly evolved. At his peak—say, the 1970s or ‘80s, when he dissected everything from radical chic to astronaut bravado—he’d notice that the old trappings of class ( pedigree, tailored suits, Ivy League pedigrees) have been scrambled by new forces: tech wealth, digital clout, and a performative egalitarianism that masks cutthroat ambition.
He’d probably zero in on the smartphone as the ultimate status totem—not just its brand (though an iPhone 15 Pro Max in titanium screams louder than a battered Android), but how it’s wielded. The Instagram flex of a “candid” private-jet shot or a TikTok dance from a minimalist $10 million loft signals wealth without the gauche old-money stench of a Rolls-Royce. Wolfe would see the shift from physical trophies to curated online personas—your follower count, your X blue check, your ability to “go viral”—as the new currency of prestige. The hedge fund titan in Patagonia fleece isn’t slumming it; he’s signaling he’s above needing to signal.
He’d likely marvel at the paradox of “authenticity” as a status game. The tech bro fasting for 72 hours or the influencer hawking $40 organic candles—both are chasing clout by pretending not to chase it. Wolfe would spot the high-low mashup too: billionaires in hoodies dining at hole-in-the-wall taco joints, not because they’re humble, but because obscurity is the new exclusivity. Meanwhile, the middle class scrambles for Pelotons and Tesla leases, aping the elite’s casual excess.
Striving, though? It’s fiercer than ever. Wolfe would see the gig economy hustle—Uber drivers, DoorDashers, OnlyFans creators—as a raw, Darwinian scramble dressed up as “freedom.” The old ladder’s gone; now it’s a greased pole. He’d probably write a biting scene: a Stanford dropout in a San Francisco co-living space, guzzling Soylent, pitching his AI startup to VCs on Zoom, all while tweeting about “disrupting the paradigm”—a modern Willy Loman with better Wi-Fi.
Wolfe’s eye for detail would catch the linguistic tics too: “founder,” “thought leader,” “impact”—words that inflate egos while dodging the stink of naked ambition. He’d see America’s status obsession hasn’t faded; it’s just gone fractal, splintered across a million screens, each a tiny stage for the same old human comedy.

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Is there a mental health crisis on the left since Trump’s election?

Posted on March 19, 2025 by Luke Ford

Grok says:

There’s no hard data confirming a full-blown mental health crisis specific to “the left” since Trump’s election in November 2024, but there’s enough smoke to suggest something’s brewing. The American Psychological Association’s 2024 “Stress in America” survey, released pre-election, already showed 77% of adults felt anxious about the future of the nation, with liberals historically reporting higher stress over political outcomes than conservatives. Post-election, anecdotal evidence—therapists on X and in news reports like NPR’s December 2024 piece—notes a spike in clients citing “Trump-related anxiety,” with symptoms like insomnia, panic attacks, and doomscrolling. Some call it a replay of 2016’s “Post-Trump Stress Disorder,” a term psychologists coined half-seriously back then.
On X, you’ll find left-leaning users posting about despair over Trump’s win, Musk’s influence, and policy fears—think climate rollback or DOGE layoffs. Hashtags like #TrumpTrauma and #ResistanceBurnout pop up, though they’re more vibe than diagnosis. Studies like the 2021 NIH paper on political polarization and mental health show losing elections can trigger real psychological distress in partisan groups, especially when the stakes feel existential. Liberals, often framing Trump as a threat to democracy or marginalized communities, might be primed for that hit. A 2025 Kaiser Family Foundation poll (hypothetical, based on trends) could easily show 30-40% of Democrats reporting worsened mental health post-election—plausible, but unconfirmed as of March 19, 2025.
Flip it, though: conservatives argue the left’s reaction is overblown, pointing to their own resilience after Biden’s 2020 win. Mental health pros say distress is normal after seismic political shifts—doesn’t mean a “crisis” unless it’s sustained and widespread. Hospitalizations, suicide rates, or therapy upticks specific to left-leaning areas haven’t been publicly tracked yet for Q4 2024-Q1 2025. Without that, it’s a theory with legs but no firm footing. What’s undeniable: Trump’s return has some on the left rattled, and a chunk are vocal about it. Whether that’s a crisis or just loud coping, the jury’s still out.

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