Permaslave Dave - my adventures with Rick Rule on the Casey Cruise. He hasn't written this post yet, but I'm sure he will.
Someone (who you'd never expect to be on the Casey mailing list) sent me a link to this:
The 2015 Money, Metals, & Mining Cruise
where, in January 2015, you can spend ten fabulous days on the six-star luxury liner The Crystal Serenity with Marc Faber, Doug Casey, Brien Lundin, Peter Schiff, and the man who PSDave calls "devilishly handsome", Rick Rule.
Now, you would never catch me aboard a boat full of Objectivist Libertarians: I'd be worried about whether their rational self-interest includes throwing me overboard and telling the authorities I'd skipped out in Venezuela to assist Nicolas Maduro in spreading socialist revolution.
Plus I love my brain cells too much.
But what of a man like PSDave, who calls Rick Rule "devilishly handsome"? For him, spending ten days in the Caribbean with his boy-crush would be irresistible, no? And for only $6,720-$18,040 plus port taxes?
I'm sure he'll be going.
So here, ten and a half months ahead of time, are a couple previews from PSDave's post about his 2015 Casey Cruise adventure, where he meets his hero:
Unbelievably, he and I had spent half the night talking feverishly, like teenage girls blathering on about their pop stars - Murray Rothbard, Leonard Peikoff, the Cato Institute, Rand Paul - even venturing into the science fiction of Robert A. Heinlein, who I was only half-surprised to find was his personal favourite.
But I was now beyond tired, and frankly only the gentle sparkle of his blue eyes had kept my mind from collapsing under such a weight of reason. That and the fresh scent of Le Beau Male (by Gaultier) that wafted from his strong, angular jaw. This night had been paradise, but one that exhausted.
I was spent; commenting on how late it was, I half-stifled a nearly-uncontrollable yawn and began to sit up. But this was not to be.
He placed his large, warm hand over my wrist and leaned in close towards me; his deep and strong voice transfixed as it issued forth.
"But I'm sure I haven't made the point clear enough. It's simple, you know; it's all really just about liberty."
I knew it was wrong to stay; but I could feel the feverish desire for more, swelling up inside me. This was the word I had been longing to hear his gentle lips pronounce. "Liberty?" I asked.
"Economic liberty," he murmured, his eyes fixing me with their masculine stare. "The only true kind of liberty. The foundation of all other liberties."
My heart fluttered; I knew he was making his move. He licked his lips; his brow furrowed, as he considered the best way to deliver the coup de grace.
His eyes lit up and he fixed me with his gaze. I knew then that he knew what to say: what could keep me there for the rest of the night, bound, fluttering like a moth in the glare of his shining light.
"What was it that rescued the Chilean economy from the ravages of inept socialist mismanagement?"
"Liberty?" I asked.
A kind and fatherly smile spread across his face. He knew he had won me. "Economic liberty. Let me tell you what Milton Friedman realized...."
Oh yes! This was it! If only he would be my Milton Friedman, then I? Oh! I would be his Chile! And I would have my socialist-inflicted ravages healed by his harsh and rigid Objectivism!
I leaned back, my hand absently caressing the leather upholstery of his chesterfield....
Obviously, the first day went well for PSDave.
But it seems it was not to last! This is from his recollection of day seven:
"You know what I told you," he said, looking down at me with those blue eyes, those eyes! - once the font of gentle fatherly love but now a source of accusation. Rejection, even. Or just exasperation? Oh, I could hope! -
"So I ask you again, Dave. What is the foremost right?" He was speaking in a measured tone, punctuating each syllable with his hard and vigourous rhythm. "The prime right from which all other rights issue?"
I looked down, afraid to meet his gaze with my own. I shuffled back from one bare knee to the other, trying to block out the soreness, the feel of raw skin on the rough carpet. I sighed. I knew. I had always known. "The right to property."
A second of silence. My heart stopped as the fear grew -
"Yes!" he boomed. "Property. The most basic right. The font of all other rights. The one you seem to have forgotten about entirely."
He was still speaking calmly, measuredly - and yet, now with a malicious undercurrent. Or was this just my fear again? He had never been this angry with me before. I glanced up: yes. His manly knuckles were indeed turning white as he squeezed the chain tightly. I suddenly became very aware of the collar around my neck, but knew not to try to loosen it in his presence, to look weak; this was not how I wanted it to go. Not today.
I knew that I had done wrong. Trinh the cabin-boy was a staunch communist - my god, his hero is Ho Chih Minh for Christ's sake! What was I thinking! - and yet? And yet? The temptation had been there, and I had indulged myself with his boyish, naive communism. I had succumbed. I had been weak. I was defiled.
I had failed my hero. I was dirty.
I was bruised and reddened from this assertive, pounding Objectivist barrage. I could not take any more thrusts of cold, hard reason: I was like melted butter resisting a mailed fist. I knew I had to mend my ways. I shuffled forward - my knees still sore, eyes still downcast. I knew how to make it right.
My god! However can PSDave get himself out of this sticky situation? This sticky, sticky situation?
This situation which is entirely innocent and does not have any overtones, subtexts or multiple entendres? None whatsoever? No, really?
You'll have to stay tuned for PSDave's review, next January!