Chris Abraham

Everyone likes to take shots at my GR2 34L—“Why are you carrying an end-of-days, international, one-bag travel rig just to go sit in a café?” Fair. It does look like I’m about to either board a flight or disappear into the mountains. But here’s the punchline: I don’t need it.

What I actually need fits into something much smaller—a Haley Flatpack that’s basically the physical manifestation of restraint. Inside it right now: a 2011 Lenovo ThinkPad X220 (no extended battery, because we’re not reckless), a charging brick, USB charger, cables, Kleenex, lip balm, and a titanium fork/knife/spoon set because apparently I prepare for both emails and soup.

And yes—it all fits. Barely. The X220 slides in like a climbing shoe or a ballet flat—snug, borderline unreasonable, but technically compliant. You have to negotiate with the zipper a bit. There’s a moment where you and the bag come to an understanding. Then it closes, and suddenly you’re carrying a full mobile office in something that looks like it shouldn’t even hold a sandwich.

There are extra zippered pockets doing quiet, heroic work—absorbing all the small life-support items that normally metastasize across larger bags.

Today I forgot my notebook, which is a personal failure and will likely haunt me for several hours. But the important thing is: it would fit. The system holds.

So yeah—mock the GR2 all you want. It’s my mothership. But this little Flatpack? This is the shuttlecraft. This is me proving I can go from overbuilt expedition mode to minimalist café operator with zero drama.

And for scale, that espresso cup in the photo isn’t even standard size. This whole setup is basically “slightly larger than coffee, significantly more useful.”

The reason “thug,” “gangster,” “king,” and “fascist” so often bounce off Trump is that those words are meant as moral indictments, but they arrive wearing jackboots, a crown, and a soundtrack. They do not paint him as helpless. They paint him as a man who can terrify enemies and impose outcomes. In a TV-soaked political culture, that reads less like disqualification than presidential virility.

American politics has a graveyard full of men who died from the opposite disease: looking weak. Adlai Stevenson was the elegant “egghead.” Michael Dukakis put on the tank helmet and looked like a substitute teacher on a field trip to the motor pool. John Kerry had medals, but got turned into a windsurfing, French-looking, flip-flopping rich guy who seemed to deliberate while Bush decided. Howard Dean did one crazed yell and suddenly looked like he could not govern a lunch line. George H. W. Bush spent years haunted by the phrase “wimp factor.” Jeb Bush got machine-gunned with “low energy.” Jimmy Carter got wrapped in malaise, hostage humiliation, and the feeling that history was happening to him rather than through him.

That is the point. In presidential politics, “dangerous” sits next to “strong,” but “hesitant,” “careful,” and “thoughtful” sit next to “weak.” Voters say they want virtue and stability, then respond to swagger, theatrical force, and the fantasy of command. Trump, elderly and absurd as he is, still benefits from being cast as the barbarian at the gate rather than the hall monitor in the doorway. A barbarian can be feared, hated, mocked, and despised, but he is still granted potency. The hall monitor gets ignored.

So when people call Trump a fascist or a gangster, they may think they are shrinking him. Often they are doing the opposite. They are giving him the Idiocracy treatment: turning him into President Camacho for people who think politics is not a moral test but a televised cage match. In that arena, the dangerous lunatic often outruns the guy who looks like he needs permission.

I can also make these even nastier and more Facebook-native.

Calling Trump a “thug,” “king,” “gangster,” or even “fascist” is supposed to be disqualifying, but in practice it often does the opposite. Those words are loaded with moral judgment, but they’re also saturated with imagery of power. They evoke dominance, control, fearlessness, someone who acts instead of hesitates. In a political culture that still rewards perceived strength, that framing can backfire.

The mistake is assuming that moral condemnation automatically translates into political damage. It doesn’t. Voters don’t process language like a theology exam. They respond to signals. And the signal embedded in those labels isn’t just “bad,” it’s “powerful and unconstrained.” For supporters, that can be attractive. For opponents, it can even feel intimidating. Either way, it reinforces the idea that he’s a force, not a figure who can be dismissed.

Historically, candidates struggle when they’re perceived as weak, indecisive, or outmatched. When the narrative becomes “he’s not up to it,” that sticks. When the narrative becomes “he’s dangerous because he’s too strong,” it’s a double-edged message. You’re warning about him, but you’re also amplifying the very traits that make him compelling to his base.

If the goal is persuasion rather than signaling, the strategy has to change. Language that inflates a candidate’s sense of power tends to consolidate their support, not erode it. What actually undermines a political figure is making them look small, ineffective, erratic, or unserious—someone who can’t deliver, can’t control outcomes, or can’t hold things together.

So the real question isn’t whether the label is morally accurate. It’s whether it works. And framing someone in terms that read as strength, even negative strength, often doesn’t do what people think it does.

Performative religion isn’t unique to strongmen. It shows up anywhere power and legitimacy intersect. Popes, archbishops, presidents, revolutionaries, party machines, campaign operatives, all of them are tempted to wrap themselves in moral language to stabilize power. American politicians do it constantly with churches, clergy, prayer breakfasts, gospel cadences, and selective scripture. The issue isn’t who does it. The issue is whether people can still tell the difference between faith and theater.

Even Karl Marx—and yes, Ludwig von Mises makes a similar point from the opposite side—recognized that capitalism isn’t some optional detour but the necessary engine that develops the productive forces socialism depends on. Marx’s own framework (historical materialism) treats capitalism as a stage you must pass through before anything like socialism or communism is even structurally possible. So if someone is stuck denouncing capitalism while living entirely inside it, they’re not resisting the process—they’re stalled within it. In that sense, capitalism isn’t a bug in the system; it’s the system doing exactly what Marx said it would do. Complaining about it without advancing beyond it just proves the point. davisvanguard.org/2026/04/c…