Jerry

The Most Insidious Addiction No One Talks About

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I’ve never really been drawn to the usual list of vices. No thrill-seeking stunts, no dark alley temptations, nothing that comes with a warning label. But there’s one thing I’ve definitely wrestled with—something just as powerful, but a lot harder to spot.

Approval.

Not the kind where someone appreciates your work or thanks you for something—that’s fine. I mean the kind of approval you start needing like oxygen. The kind that starts calling the shots. That kind.

It starts small. Maybe you do something and someone says, “That was great.” You feel good. You want more of that. So next time, you do it a little differently, maybe not how you would’ve done it, but how you think they’d like it. Before long, you’re doing more of what you think people will clap for and less of what actually means something to you. You stop living from the inside out. You become a mirror—just reflecting back what you think other people want to see.

And here’s the trap: people’s approval feels like connection, but it’s not. Not really. It’s more like applause at a show you don’t even want to be in. You’re performing for a crowd that might not even be paying attention, and even if they are, it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like relief. Temporary relief from the fear that maybe you’re not enough unless someone says so.

The problem is, when you start outsourcing your self-worth, you can’t stop. Because the high never lasts. One compliment wears off and you go looking for the next one. A new face, a new room, a new platform. Chasing smiles like they’re currency. And all the while, you lose track of your own voice.

It took me a long time to realize this. And I still catch myself slipping into old habits. Writing something and wondering, “Will people like this?” before I even ask, “Do I?”

But I’m learning—slowly, messily—that the real freedom isn’t in getting everyone to approve of you. It’s in not needing them to. It’s in knowing who you are, what you value, and being okay with the fact that not everyone’s going to clap.

You can’t live a real life if you’re always auditioning.

So these days, I try to catch myself when I start reaching for that old fix. I take a breath. I remember what it felt like to be a kid drawing spaceships just because I liked drawing spaceships—not because anyone was watching. And I remind myself that I’m allowed to live like that again.

No audience. No applause. Just real life, unfolding on its own terms.

As the Red Hot Chili Peppers put it: “Choose not a life of imitation.”

You don’t have to become what the world expects. You just have to be who you already are.

Action is the Antidote to Anxiety

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There’s this weird thing I do when I’m anxious. I sit still and try to think my way out of it. Like maybe if I just analyze the hell out of whatever’s got me tied up in knots, I’ll eventually think the anxiety into submission.

Spoiler: it never works.

Anxiety, for me, is like being haunted by a ghost that only shows up when I stop moving. The moment I sit down to think, it drags a chair up beside me and starts whispering worst-case scenarios into my ear. It’s not even creative about it—just your standard issue fears dressed up in different costumes: failure, embarrassment, regret. The usual suspects, and sometimes they hit so hard they make me jump, like I’m startled.

Am I the only one that happens to?

However, something shifts when I get up and do something. And by something, I mean anything. Even if it’s just washing the dishes or walking outside. It’s like moving my body gives my brain a break from itself. And the ghost? It doesn’t seem to know how to keep up. It lingers for a bit, maybe tries one last whisper, then wanders off in search of someone who’s just sitting there thinking too hard.

I’ve come to realize that anxiety thrives in the abstract. It feeds on questions like “What if?” and “What does this mean?” and for me, especially, “What will they think?” But action lives in the concrete. When you’re actually doing something—editing a photo, sending the email, petting a cat—it’s harder for your mind to conjure all those imaginary disasters. It’s too busy dealing with the real world, right here, right now.

Don’t get me wrong—action doesn’t magically fix everything. It doesn’t guarantee a happy ending or make the risk go away. But it changes the texture of the moment. It cuts through the fog. It’s like flipping on the headlights during a stormy night drive—not because the road suddenly becomes safer, but because you can actually see where you’re going.

So now, when I feel that ghost creeping in, I try not to think my way out of it. I just move. I write the thing. I take the picture. I screw it up and learn something. Because no matter how badly it goes, it’s better than being stuck in my head with all the lights off.

And maybe that’s all action really is. Not the opposite of fear, but the light switch we reach for in the dark.

Revisiting the Future of the Past

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Written in 1984. First published in 2001. Fully updated for 2025.

“A prophetic, darkly funny journey through media addiction, AI manipulation, and spiritual decay, Wasting Away is a cult classic reborn for the 21st century. Breaking the fourth wall with reckless glee, author Jerry J. Davis narrates the creation—and re-creation—of a novel written at the dawn of the digital age and resurrected for a world that finally caught up to its warnings.”

I never realized how ahead of its time this story was—so much so that when I first wrote it, back in the mid-1980s, publishers didn’t understand what the hell I was talking about. It was too cyberpunk even for cyberpunk editors. Finally, in 2001, a very forward-thinking editor at Time-Warner understood the book and bought it. Unfortunately, the timing was terrible, as it was released just a week or so before 9/11.

They still carry the original version today, but they canceled the second book in the contract and closed the imprint.

With everything happening today, the world has become tech-savvy enough to understand this story, and the core problems I predicted are now coming to pass. It’s no longer science fiction; instead, because it was written so long ago, it’s more like an alternate timeline of the present day.

I’ve updated it without really updating it, so to speak. Channeling my inner Kurt Vonnegut, this book is now part journal, part novel, part reality, and part science fiction. I’ve reverted to the original title and restored the original ending. Some parts are so eerily ominous they even freak me out—especially my offhanded little prediction for the year 2026, which now looks as though it might actually come true.

It’s a novel that, I truly feel, is extremely relevant to the world we’re living in right now.

It went live today in ebook and paperback formats.

The Event Horizon is Upon Us

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In college, I majored in communications and wrote in a journalistic style, which I’ve reverted to lately in response to all the history-in-the-making articles I’ve been writing. For some reason, I thought documenting all this chaos was an important and worthwhile activity. Lately, I’ve realized I’m wasting my time.

My sister doesn’t think so, but… really, everyone is writing about this history-in-the-making right now. I’ve decided I need to stop writing about what’s in the headlines and concentrate on how I originally envisioned this series of articles: How is it affecting people I know? How is it affecting me?

Well, for one thing, since I am very near retirement, I am worried about how all this chaos is going to affect Medicare and my Social Security benefits. I can also tell you that all of this is making me seriously wish someone would strap Elon Musk—a person I used to admire—to one of his fucking rockets and send him on a one-way trip to Mars.

Here’s another way it’s affecting me. The woke movement, which I largely agree with, has made me somewhat ashamed to be a white American male. But now, thanks to the MAGA movement, I am even more ashamed to be an American.

We live on a single planet. We have no other. “America First” thinking is ignorant, stupid bullshit. It’s backward, idiotic, childish nonsense. “Earth First” is what we need to concentrate on.

Nations are imaginary. They exist only in our heads. The Earth, the climate, our resources—those are real. A tornado, a hurricane, a lightning strike, a landslide, a tidal wave—none of these things care about your nationality, your sexuality, your political affiliation, or your wealth. They don’t give a flying fuck, and they will kill you without even noticing.

Money, on the other hand, is imaginary—but it can also kill you. The difference is that money kills by motivating another human to do the killing. Because, oddly enough, of money.

Money kills because of money.

An imaginary thing.

Not something real, like heat stroke, drowning in water, or being consumed by fire.

Yet, it’s this imaginary thing that causes weapons of destruction to be manufactured and used. It’s this imaginary thing that causes systems of governance—designed to help people improve their lives—to instead make them worse off.

The systems become about money instead of people, and by extension, money becomes more important than the very real thing that enables us to live: the Earth.

The trouble is not MAGA. The trouble is not Donald Trump. The trouble is the money in politics. The trouble is medicine for profit. The trouble is money for money’s sake.

It subverts the system and breaks it.

But money in government is still not the root cause. The root cause is a system that forces corporations to grow without limitations.

More, more, more, more. Endlessly more. More than anyone will ever need, and then more still. Because of the demand for endless growth, corporations turn money into something like a black hole—consuming everything, sucking in resources that would otherwise be virtually limitless, depleting them mindlessly for the sake of more, more, more.

America in 2025 is the event horizon of this black hole.

And yet, America is an imaginary thing. It does not exist in nature. The same with corporations, political parties, and money.

It’s all in our heads. It’s a fever dream. And in 2025, the fever is out of control. If we don’t wake up soon, it’s going to end up killing us.

Trump Administration’s Murky Water Decisions

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In late January 2025, President Trump ordered the release of approximately 2.2 billion gallons of water from California’s Lake Kaweah and Lake Success reservoirs. The stated intent was to provide water resources to combat wildfires in Southern California. However, this well-intentioned move seemed to overlook a minor detail: the water from these reservoirs doesn’t naturally flow toward the fire-affected regions. Instead, it meandered into the Tulare Lake basin, far from the parched landscapes it was meant to hydrate. Local officials, caught off guard by this decision, scrambled to mitigate potential flooding in the San Joaquin Valley, highlighting a classic case of miscommunication between idiotic federal directives and on-ground realities.

Not stopping at reservoir management, the administration has also set its sights on redefining the “Waters of the United States” (WOTUS) under the Clean Water Act. This move aims to reduce federal oversight on certain wetlands and streams, granting states more autonomy. While proponents argue this reduces bureaucratic red tape, critics fear it could lead to increased pollution and degradation of vital water bodies. The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) assures that the revised definition will “follow the law, reduce red-tape, cut overall permitting costs, and lower the cost of doing business,” though environmentalists remain skeptical about the potential long-term impacts.

In response to these federal maneuvers, state and local governments are charting their own courses. California is considering bolstering its protections for wetlands, hoping to shield them from the diminished federal oversight. This proactive stance underscores the state’s commitment to preserving its natural resources, even as federal policies shift. Additionally, the sudden water releases have prompted local agencies to reevaluate their emergency response protocols, ensuring that future federal directives don’t inadvertently lead to local crises.

Internationally, these policy shifts have not gone unnoticed. The expedited approval of projects like Michigan’s Line 5 pipeline replacement, involving major Trump donors, has raised eyebrows. Environmentalists express concerns over potential ecological risks, while critics question the intertwining of political contributions and policy decisions. Such actions demonstrate to the rest of the world that the U.S. now openly rejects environmental protections in favor of economic and political interests, damaging its leadership role in global environmental initiatives.

The Trump administration’s recent water management decisions highlight the intricate balance between federal initiatives and local realities. While the intent behind policies like reservoir releases and regulatory rollbacks may be framed as efforts to streamline operations and respond to emergencies, the outcomes often reveal the complexities inherent in managing these natural resources. As states like California build up their own environmental protections and local agencies adapt to shifting federal directives, the importance of cohesive and informed policy-making becomes ever more evident. In this “fluid” landscape, the challenge lies in balancing national objectives with local needs, ensuring that the “currents” of change lead to sustainable and beneficial outcomes for all.

Galaxy Quest

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I just rewatched Galaxy Quest for the first time in many years, and something unexpected happened: I realized I might actually love it even more than Star Trek.

As someone who’s been devotedly watching Star Trek since it first aired back in the 1960s, that’s no small admission. Star Trek has been foundational—not just in shaping my taste in science fiction but in inspiring my sense of hope, curiosity, and wonder about humanity’s future. It’s an integral part of who I am, woven deeply into my memories.

But Galaxy Quest, viewed today through older eyes, resonates in a uniquely refreshing way. It’s funny, of course, but it’s also filled with genuine warmth, surprising depth, and an earnest affection for its source material. It’s not just a spoof; it’s a heartfelt tribute. Maybe it’s the meta-humor or the gentle way it pokes fun at fandom while simultaneously celebrating it, but the characters, performances, and the clever writing left me smiling more broadly and reflecting more deeply than I remembered.

And speaking of performances, Alan Rickman brings remarkable nuance to what could have been a simple comedic role. Rickman’s portrayal carries an underlying sincerity and gravitas, making every moment he’s on screen memorable and genuinely moving. I genuinely miss him—his talent, charisma, and ability to elevate any character he played were extraordinary, and his passing left a deep void in cinema.

Star Trek will always have my heart, but Galaxy Quest somehow manages to encapsulate everything I adore about Trek—the hopefulness, the teamwork, and the optimism—wrapped up in humor and sincerity. Perhaps it’s that self-aware charm that resonates differently now, decades after its release.

Galaxy Quest might just be my favorite Star Trek movie of all.

Never give up, never surrender, indeed.

The Rougarou

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When I’m writing fiction, which more often than not involves mythical creatures, I end up going down some rabbit holes that take me in unexpected directions. This is one of the more fascinating ones.

In the vast tapestry of global folklore, few creatures are as enigmatic and regionally celebrated as the Rougarou—a werewolf-like entity prowling the shadows of Louisiana’s bayous. Rooted deeply in Cajun legends, the Rougarou (also spelled “Loup-garou,” from the French “loup” meaning wolf and “garou” meaning man who transforms into an animal) is said to be a cursed individual, doomed to transform into a wolf-like beast under specific conditions.​

The tale of the Rougarou is a fascinating blend of French folklore and the rich cultural tapestry of Louisiana. French settlers brought with them stories of the Loup-garou, which intermingled with Native American and African narratives, birthing the unique legend of the Rougarou. Traditionally, the transformation is believed to be a punishment for those who break Lent or engage in other sinful behaviors. The cursed individual becomes a creature with a human body and the head of a wolf or dog, prowling the swamps and fields at night, instilling fear in the hearts of those who cross its path.​

The Rougarou’s curse is not eternal. According to legend, the afflicted person remains under the spell for 101 days. During this period, the curse can be transferred if the Rougarou draws another’s blood, thereby passing on the affliction. At the end of the 101 days, if the curse is not transferred, the individual returns to human form, often with little memory of their nocturnal escapades.​

Beyond its role as a spine-chilling bedtime story, the Rougarou serves as a moral compass within Cajun communities. The legend reinforces adherence to religious practices and societal norms, with the threat of transformation acting as a deterrent against moral transgressions. Moreover, the Rougarou embodies the rich oral tradition of Louisiana’s folklore, preserving the cultural heritage and shared beliefs of the region.​

In contemporary times, the Rougarou has transcended folklore, embedding itself into the cultural and commercial fabric of Louisiana. Festivals celebrating the creature draw crowds eager to experience the mystique and revelry associated with the legend. Merchandise ranging from costumes to crafts showcases the Rougarou’s iconic imagery, reflecting its enduring appeal. Additionally, the creature has found its way into popular media, featuring in books, television shows, and local attractions, ensuring that the legend continues to thrive in the modern imagination.​

(It is surprising to me to learn that it’s been featured numerous times in Supernatural, which I used to watch religiously with my younger daughter, but I have no memory of this.)

There is a legend that, during one particularly foggy night, a local fisherman named Boudreaux stumbled upon a Rougarou caught in one of his traps. Terrified yet curious, Boudreaux mustered the courage to ask, “Rougarou, why you been messin’ with my traps?” To his surprise, the Rougarou replied, “I was just trying to catch me some dinner, same as you!” From that day on, Boudreaux always left an extra fish by his traps, just in case his furry friend got hungry again.​

I think this friendship would make a great story. Maybe one of my next books will be called “No Such Thing as Rougarou.”

A definite possibility.​

Law and Disorder: The Trump Administration’s Latest Adventures in Governance

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The Trump administration continues to show an uncanny ability to turn basic governance into a constitutional crisis, and the latest developments show they have no intention of slowing down.

One of the more creative stunts recently involved the arrest of Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian activist and permanent U.S. resident who made the critical error of thinking that free speech was still a thing. Federal immigration authorities, ever vigilant for threats to the nation, decided that his involvement in pro-Palestinian protests warranted detention. Allegations of Hamas ties were thrown around, because of course they were. His lawyers, who apparently still believe in things like due process, have been scrambling to challenge the claim. Meanwhile, the message has been made crystal clear: protest at your own peril.

The administration has also been showing its innovative side in dismantling the Department of Education. Why invest in education when you can just get rid of it altogether? By shutting down key offices and terminating half the workforce, including the pesky civil rights divisions, they’ve ensured that the government’s ability to enforce educational equity is, well, no longer a thing. States are now scrambling to figure out how to pick up the pieces, but hey, if kids wanted a fair education, they should’ve been born rich.

And let’s not forget disaster relief, because who doesn’t love a good hostage situation? The administration has been threatening to withhold crucial funds from states and cities that don’t toe the line politically. Emergency management, it turns out, is just another tool for control. Nothing says ‘efficient government’ like telling a hurricane-ravaged town to reconsider its voting habits before getting assistance.

Of course, these policies aren’t just affecting Americans. Globally, the administration’s antics continue to alienate allies and embolden adversaries. Between trade wars, immigration crackdowns, and general diplomatic chaos, the U.S. has been making quite the impression on the world stage. And by impression, I mean other countries are actively reconsidering their reliance on the U.S. for, well, anything.

Meanwhile, state and local governments are treating the administration’s overreach like an out-of-control wildfire—scrambling to contain the damage before it spreads further. Lawsuits are flying left and right, with California and a coalition of states taking legal action against the Department of Education’s demolition project. Sanctuary cities, refusing to be bullied into acting as federal immigration enforcement, are also suing in response to threats of funding cuts. And in places like San Antonio, local leaders are actually doing the unthinkable—trying to help displaced federal workers who were unceremoniously cast aside.

So, while the administration continues its quest to redefine governance as a chaotic, litigation-filled spectacle, the rest of the country is left picking up the pieces. The good news? There’s still some pushback. The bad news? There’s a lot of mess to clean up.

But hey, at least it’s never boring.

This Weekend’s Practice Run with my Flying Camera

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I don’t like calling it a “drone” because that’s not what it is. It’s a quadcopter camera. The word “drone,” to me, puts it in the category of a weapon currently used in warfare, and I am 100% not into that.

To me, it’s a tense exercise because it’s a really nice camera and it’s expensive, and one wrong glitch at the wrong time can make it go poof and go away. I can’t say that about any of my other cameras, which are strapped to me at all times. This one just floats around and flits to and fro like a dragonfly.

I bought it for work, but as yet haven’t done anything professional with it, as first I need to get a professional drone license. Yes, I need a professional license to fly it if I want to make money with it. Right now I only have a recreational license, so everything I’m doing is for practice and “fun.”

Like these rather boring photos I took of our local botanical center this weekend…

Two things I learned with this: late afternoon is not a good time to take aerial architectural photos, nor is this the right time of year. It’d be better in spring with everything green.
Peek-a-boo! Looking down through the glass skylight.

One of the things I eventually want to do is start using this flying camera for taking real estate pictures as a side gig, which is why I’m taking pictures of buildings. Here are a few from last year, when I first got this camera.

Figge Museum, Davenport Iowa
KONE Centre building, Moline Illinois (this is actually the first picture I took with this camera).
Cabins you can rent at a local park.
Downtown Davenport riverfront.

One of the most nerve-wracking things for me to do is fly the camera over water, but this weekend I applied the “Fear is the mind killer” mantra from Dune and sent the buzzing little busybody out over the Mississippi River, and took a photo of the center of our local Centennial Bridge from the middle. Despite the cold, my palms were sweating the whole time it was out there, and I didn’t even get a great photo because I was in too much of a hurry to get it back over dry land.

The view was better from the sunward side anyway…

Again, this would be a lot nicer in the Spring. 🫤

I think my favorite images I’ve captured with this flying camera are of ruins. Not ancient ones, but the more recent urban decay variety.

And then there’s scenic sky shots, which this camera seems to excel at, but only when there are a lot of clouds.

This one is, I think, a winner. I’ve used it as a banner image on websites.

Anyway, that is what I was up to this weekend. That, and working on the latest novel. Here’s a sneak peek at the cover:

No release date is set, yet, but it should be out before the end of this year. Like I keep saying after every new book, “This one is probably my last.”

The Paradox of Wanting to Be Alone (and Feeling Like I Shouldn’t)

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Sometimes you are your own best company.
Sometimes you are your own best company.

Lately, I’ve been feeling antisocial. I don’t exactly know why. Maybe it’s the general state of the world—this endless barrage of bad news and noise. Maybe it’s just one of those moods that creeps in unannounced. But whatever the reason, I find myself withdrawing, and then almost immediately, I start questioning it.

Shouldn’t I be more engaged? Shouldn’t I be reaching out, staying connected, being a part of things?

It’s a strange contradiction, isn’t it? The mind always seems to whisper two things at once: You should be with people. You should be alone. And whichever one I choose, the other lingers in the background, second-guessing me.

But here’s something to consider—who is this “I” that both craves solitude and thinks it should be social? It’s as if I’m split into two selves: one that feels the pull of isolation, and another that stands back, observing, questioning, making judgments. And the real struggle comes from believing that one of them must be right and the other must be wrong.

In reality, there’s no rule that says I must be social, just as there’s none that says I must be alone. Both are natural states. Sometimes we withdraw, sometimes we engage. Sometimes we are like the moon, hidden in shadow; other times, we reflect light back into the world.

The important thing is not to force myself into socializing out of guilt or obligation. Can I just sit with this feeling instead? Can I let it be, without trying to fix it? Because maybe solitude is exactly what I need right now. And when the time is right, I’ll gravitate toward people again—not because I should, but because I want to.

So, for now, I’ll be as I am, without forcing anything. And if I do rejoin the world, I’ll do it the way a musician rejoins the orchestra—not because he has to, but because he feels the rhythm calling him back.