Hiking Housecats Batman!
Last week, a couple bikers and compatriots-on-the-path complimented me on my hiking cat. They asked: How do you keep him with you? - and - What does he do when he meets dogs on the trail?
So, here's a brief "how-to" about hiking house-cats.
I've hiked with a cat for seven-and-a-half years. My first hiking cat, a fox-point Siamese named Gus, hiked for six years—through forest, desert, meadow, and trail—in both Arizona and Utah. I, briefly, hiked with a black-on-white kitten named Powell before he died of FIP. And now, Cecil O. Zonkey, a lynx-point Siamese, hikes with me. We have another cat in my household, an all-gray female named Aggie; she also hikes, (but is reluctant to cover much terrain).
The first step in determining if you can successfully hike with your house-cat is to quantify the amount of attached-to-you he has in him. A way to measure this (without going on a preliminary hike) is ask, does your cat:
I think indoor-only, neutered, males who have strongly imprinted on—and are possessive of—their owners, make the best hikers. Outdoor cats may follow you for a walk, but they are not only dis-inclined to leave "their territory" but will quickly rely on instinctual survival skills, rather than you, in a crisis (which means they will run far away when a dog shows up to your hiking party).
Once you've determined your house-cat has enough attached-to-you in him, you'll need to [1] obtain and compile some specialized hiking gear and [2] find a good location to take your first test-hike (which may mean scouting it out, without your cat, ahead of time). Obtain these items:
The reason you need a hiking staff is not about: balancing on uneven terrain, removing spiderwebs from your path, poking into hollows (for snakes) before your cat does, or having something to waive over your head if you need to appear larger to a predator (all valuable, sound, reasons to have a walking-staff between shoulder and head high). It's more about appearance. Walking with a staff signals: hiker. Your cat will associate your use of it with "hiking-time" and he will quickly learn that a hike—different from a rambling walk or stroll—is reasonably-paced, mostly trail-based, and that navigation is decided by you.
For your first house-cat hike, locate a place with as many of the following as possible:
Be attentive to what your cat hears or smells; pick him up and/or put him in the backpack if you: suspect another animal is close, get too near to dwellings or roads, or your cat begins to display a belligerent I-don't-want-to-walk-in-that-direction streak.
Occasionally use the 'clicker' or whistle to get, and maintain, his attention (not to get him to come to you) there may come a time when you lose sight of each other (more-so as trust builds) and then a loud, familiar, noise will tell him where to find you.
The flashlight may never be needed, but it's better to be prepared. At least once a hike: lay out the towel and teach him that when the towel is down and you're sitting he is not to explore beyond a comfortable distance (25 feet/8 meters or closer, depending on terrain and visibility). As with anything, the more hikes you take together, the more comfortable/familiar you will become with communicating with each other, and the more challenges you can attempt together.
The answers to the questions from the beginning of this article: He stays with me because he's been trained to follow me on the path. When dogs approach I pick him up.
Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. — Abraham Lincoln (President of America 1861-1865)
So, here's a brief "how-to" about hiking house-cats.
I've hiked with a cat for seven-and-a-half years. My first hiking cat, a fox-point Siamese named Gus, hiked for six years—through forest, desert, meadow, and trail—in both Arizona and Utah. I, briefly, hiked with a black-on-white kitten named Powell before he died of FIP. And now, Cecil O. Zonkey, a lynx-point Siamese, hikes with me. We have another cat in my household, an all-gray female named Aggie; she also hikes, (but is reluctant to cover much terrain).
The first step in determining if you can successfully hike with your house-cat is to quantify the amount of attached-to-you he has in him. A way to measure this (without going on a preliminary hike) is ask, does your cat:
- come when called?
- display interest in what you are doing, especially when it's something new?
- follow you when you walk around the house?
- enjoy human proximity (sleep at your feet / in your chair / your lap)?
I think indoor-only, neutered, males who have strongly imprinted on—and are possessive of—their owners, make the best hikers. Outdoor cats may follow you for a walk, but they are not only dis-inclined to leave "their territory" but will quickly rely on instinctual survival skills, rather than you, in a crisis (which means they will run far away when a dog shows up to your hiking party).
Once you've determined your house-cat has enough attached-to-you in him, you'll need to [1] obtain and compile some specialized hiking gear and [2] find a good location to take your first test-hike (which may mean scouting it out, without your cat, ahead of time). Obtain these items:
- pet backpack
- bottle of water
- small container of cat food
- hiking staff or walking stick
- brightly colored cat-collar
- large towel
- training "clicker" or whistle
- small flashlight
- optional safety items (map, compass, cellphone, first aid pack, etc.)
The reason you need a hiking staff is not about: balancing on uneven terrain, removing spiderwebs from your path, poking into hollows (for snakes) before your cat does, or having something to waive over your head if you need to appear larger to a predator (all valuable, sound, reasons to have a walking-staff between shoulder and head high). It's more about appearance. Walking with a staff signals: hiker. Your cat will associate your use of it with "hiking-time" and he will quickly learn that a hike—different from a rambling walk or stroll—is reasonably-paced, mostly trail-based, and that navigation is decided by you.
For your first house-cat hike, locate a place with as many of the following as possible:
- dirt or sand trails (cats will naturally stick to a trail, but gravel can hurt paws)
- mostly shady (or pick an overcast day)
- nothing man-made nearby (no cars, tents, campfire pits, etc.)
- no roads with vehicle-traffic within 200 meters (carry your pet in the pack until then)
- a low pedestrian-traffic area (the less other hikers and dogs the better)
- moderate temperature and weather (not raining, not too hot or cold)
- a long, clear, distance of visibility is best (to see other hikers coming)
Be attentive to what your cat hears or smells; pick him up and/or put him in the backpack if you: suspect another animal is close, get too near to dwellings or roads, or your cat begins to display a belligerent I-don't-want-to-walk-in-that-direction streak.
Occasionally use the 'clicker' or whistle to get, and maintain, his attention (not to get him to come to you) there may come a time when you lose sight of each other (more-so as trust builds) and then a loud, familiar, noise will tell him where to find you.
The flashlight may never be needed, but it's better to be prepared. At least once a hike: lay out the towel and teach him that when the towel is down and you're sitting he is not to explore beyond a comfortable distance (25 feet/8 meters or closer, depending on terrain and visibility). As with anything, the more hikes you take together, the more comfortable/familiar you will become with communicating with each other, and the more challenges you can attempt together.
The answers to the questions from the beginning of this article: He stays with me because he's been trained to follow me on the path. When dogs approach I pick him up.
Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. — Abraham Lincoln (President of America 1861-1865)
Kirby Archer: an infamous friend
Kirby Archer was introduced to me in 1999 when I assumed duties as the SAC of a small CID office, in a US military community in central Germany. He was a Military Police Sergeant attached-on-orders to my office to investigate drug crimes. He was an enthusiastic worker and expressed interest in applying for training as an apprentice CID special agent.
Over the months I associated with him off-duty—occasionally. Cops tend to befriend other cops. I knew his lovely, extremely young, pregnant wife. He commissioned a work of art from me (which sagged over his couch for years and when I offered to stabilize it firmly to the wall, he declined, stating that he liked it that way). He could be personable and even charismatic at times.
He had (maybe still has—even in prison?) a weird thing about food. First, he would never eat anything green. No green jello. No green icing on a birthday cake. No green beer on St. Patty's day. Second, there was no such thing as "leftovers" in his refrigerator. Anything not eaten was discarded. No Tupperware. He owned no plastic wrap. Barbecue's at his house meant everyone else took the uneaten food home.
He appeared overly protective of his wife. After an a abbreviated evening of live music and drinking, he was bounced out of a club for punching someone in the face. He claimed the guy fondled his wife's breast as they were elbowing through the crowd. I didn't see the frottage. His wife was far-more upset with his overreaction than the titty-graze.
When I learned Archer could speak Spanish, we subsequently discussed his '95 assignment, as security/interpreter at Guantanamo Bay during the Cuban detainee 'boat people' crisis. I recall some stories and his claim of making good friends there. I recall a picture of him posing in uniform in front of a fence and all the small, dirty, smiling faces mugging for the camera behind that fence. All the disheveled little boys seemed innocuous to their situation. Archer's smile in that photo was innocuous to his looming future with the 'shoe on the other foot'.
Soldiers perform their military mission regardless of their sexual-orientation every day, and Archer was no different. My first indication of his homosexuality was when he told me, in late 2000 or early 2001, that he'd changed his mind about applying to become an agent. His previous enthusiasm had vanished and the only explanation he provided was an unusually vague, "I just changed my mind." I learned, much later, that his attitude had changed after he learned about the extensive background investigation which would have to be "passed" before he would be able to become an Agent (homosexual behavior still results in a black X on Top Secret clearances, in the military).
In 2002: I retired, Archer was transferred from Germany to Oklahoma, and although we fell out of contact, I learned (from his ex-wife) he was divorcing her because he'd decided to live an outwardly homosexual lifestyle. He was still an active duty MP at that time.
I compiled the rest of this story from open-sources, pieced together from press clippings mailed to me by a friend of my mothers who lives in Florida and this web of internets. I've also made a few guesstimates about some of Archer's actions because, although he eventually confessed, there's not one clear rendition of this near-epic ready to be made-for-TV-saga. Since this extensive sequence of events has not been compiled anywhere else, anyone—including Archer himself—who wants to suggest corrections, please, feel free.
At some point between 2003 and 2005, I think Archer decided not to reenlist even though he'd attained the rank of Staff Sergeant (E6) and served at least ten years on Active duty. It's possible he failed to keep his off-duty homosexual behavior away from his chain-of-command and they administratively discharged him. (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)
He left his male lover, moved to Arkansas, and re-married a woman whom he dated in high school. Coincidentally, his second wife had the same name as his first: Michelle. Although both women birthed several boy-babies, the first was a small, dainty, Philippino and the second was a very-healthy Arkansan. I suspect, in regards to his affairs of the heart and groin, Archer was "moving with the winds" rather than making any real decisions.
Archer got a job at the local Wal-Mart and over the next few years worked his way up to Assistant Manager. He became enamored with some of the clerks and stock-boys who, obviously, took advantage of his willingness to provide them with alcohol and a place to imbibe it. Alcohol, and drugs, and 17-year-olds...oh my! Only this was Arkansas. Where it don't matter if those boys are a-wantin to stem the rose, they're not of age and that'd be Statutory Rape.
He learned, probably from the boys (but possibly from a local cop he'd have had plenty of time to befriend) about the local grand jury preparing to indite him. An arrest warrant was on the way. A plan had to be hatched. And Archer chose to flee (for he knew what awaited a gay ex-cop kiddie rapist).
He removed a microwave from off the shelf, filled it with the daily cash-receipts, put it back in its box, and pushed it out to his car when he went off shift. Good night to all and to all a good night. (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)
He turned right toward Florida instead of left toward Arkansan-Michelle and had $92K and a 1.2 cu ft Sanyo microwave to begin his new getaway life.
Archer arrived in southern Florida where a friend he'd renewed contact with now resided: a 20-year-old man named Zarabozo. Bozo was a little boy of about eight in 1995 when he was a Cuban detainee at Guantanamo Bay (I think I've seen a picture of him from then). Archer re-connected with Bozo. They spoke Spanish together. They stemmed the rose together. They fabricated getaway plans together.
Bozo was now a security guard. Bozo had a 9mm pistol. Bozo was infatuated with his childhood friend who was then and is still shit-packed-to-the-gills full of unbelievably tall tales.
And Archer. Ex-military. Ex-cop. Ex-husband (x3). Ex-WalMart assistant manager. Extremely poor decision-making-skill possessing felon-on-the-run (who knew he had it in him?..not me.) He was now (definitely) carrying a pistol.
Archer was just smart enough to realize that $92K would not last long (and not one neuron smarter). He decided he needed to get out of the country and thought if he could get to Cuba he wouldn't be extradited, his dwindling money would stretch for many years, and it was someplace he could fit-in because he spoke the language. He thought he and Bozo would live there happily ever after.
Archer hired a deep-sea fishing boat, the Joe Cool, and four crew for $4K cash and told them he needed transport to Bimini Island, Bermuda, where his girlfriend was waiting with his passport.
His actual plans were to hijack the boat and force them, at gunpoint, to take he and Bozo near the coast of Cuba where they'd disembark in the lifeboat and never be seen by American eyes until the statute of limitations expired on: four counts of kidnapping, one count of grand theft, multiple counts of sexual congress with a minor, several counts of flight to avoid prosecution, and one count of being abysmally stupid in a zone limited to simple dumb asses (which is—actually—only about ten years). If Archer had succeeded and was currently a resident of Cuba, instead of Pollack USP, he would have been the first person I knew with an Interpol warrant.
But. Almost to Bimini, Archer's "plan" shit the bed.
It probably unfolded OK at first, but then one of the three men being hijacked decided to call Archer's bluff, attempted to jump him and ended up leaking fluid out of a couple of new holes. With premeditated homicide on the table, Archer—at that point—had nothing additional to lose by shooting the screaming and pleading other three crew members. I'm certain he knew that and did it rapidly.
After all four were tossed overboard to be eaten by sharks, Archer and Bozo headed south toward Cuba. Several hours later (maybe they were unable to navigate) the deep sea fishing boat ran out of gas.
This is my first dunno—a boat that size, with enough gas to get to Bimini, would have enough to get near Cuba. Why it didn't is not something I can figure out. My best guesstimate is: it did have enough gas on board, but when the hijacking began the boat captain hit a cut-off switch to stop fuel from the second gas tank from reaching the engines. (New information: I learned from this book: the boat captain only put enough fuel on-board to get to Bimini, in order to travel much faster.)
Archer and Bozo got in the lifeboat and began to paddle.
The US Coastguard picked them up the next day—many miles from the empty boat, many miles from The Bahamas, many miles from Cuba, and many miles from Florida . . . but closer to federal penitentiary than the Bozo boys had planned. (Also learned from same book: the gulf-stream caused their life raft to float north...away from the Joe Cool and Cuba, faster than they could paddle. I find this hilarious. If you tried to make this shit up, it would read as an over-the-top farce.)
Almost a year of legal fumblings and Archer eventually plead guilty. I stopped tracking the case at that point, and don't know if Bozo was found guilty or not.
As is always the case with true stories, there are unknowns: Archer was found with only $2,200 on him in the life raft; where is the rest? — I suspect most of it was spent foolishly in the many months Archer was "on the lamb."
Why didn't they sink the fishing boat once it ran out of gas? — I would guess panic.
Why didn't Archer feed Bozo to the sharks (preventing him from confessing)? — maybe love or maybe even Archer had a line he wouldn't cross.
2023 Addendum: Archer's son, TJ (who was a toddler when I was stationed in Germany) is now an adult. He provided a YouTube interview-statement detailing the sexual and physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Archer (and others). Be forewarned! It's not easy to listen to this man's description of his parent(s) various forms of abuse. Near the end of the video, TJ describes his inability to feel emotions like anger and sadness. Which brought to mind the adage: Sociopaths are born; Psychopaths are created.
...the high crime rate of our society must be due to the pressures that modern conditions put on people, to which many cannot or will not adjust. — Theodore Kaczynski
Snaggletooth
This is a short non-fiction tale about an employee who I'll forever remember as 'snaggletooth'; a nickname I bestowed upon his short-bus-eligible ass.
"It just came out? The rest of your teeth are perfectly fine. Teeth don't just fall out. Did you get smacked in the mouth during a fight?" I asked. (Snaggletooth was a Military Police Investigator employed by me at the CID office, as an undercover drug officer. Although I knew of no "altercations," that just meant he or his supervisor decided not to tell the boss, not that a fight hadn't happened.)
"Nope. It fell out."
"Well you're lucky, the Army dentist will do it for free; for a civilian that'd be real expensive to fix."
"It's no big deal. I wasn't gonna fix it."
"What?"
"You think I should?"
"Yeah. I really think you should."
"I dunno, it's no big deal."
For the next seven months (until I fired him) he never fixed the front of his face. But...I'm getting ahead of myself. The next WTF happened a month later, when Snaggletooth's immediate supervisor, Staff Sergeant Snuffy, rushed into my office:
"Chief, Chief, you have got to hear this." He said as he came around my desk, picked up and dialed my phone, handed me the handset, and said. "Just listen."
The ring-tone was followed by Snaggletooth's voice: Hiya! You've reached Xxx Xxxx's Machine. I'm out arresting bad guys and can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.
So his supervisor had to explain to him what the word 'undercover' meant, and I get a story to tell.
But that was just Snaggletooth's first strike. Several months later SSG Snuffy comes rushing into my office (he seemed to always be in a state of mania).
"Chief, Chief, you have got to see this." He said as he placed a well-worn, 100-page spiral notebook in the center of my blotter. It didn't lay flat because it had been, obviously, folded in half so that it could fit into a pocket. "Before you open it, though, let me explain."
"Is this about...?"
"Snaggletooth. Yea." Snuffy's eyes looked concerned but his voice was holding a giggle back. I suspected this was a prank of some kind and decided to go with it. "For as long as Snaggle's been working for me, I've seen him writin and I just figured—well, everyone did—that it was a diary. I asked him about it a while ago, cause I was concerned he might be puttin classified stuff in there and then might go an leave it layin around for anyone to find. But, he said it wasn't about work. He told me he was just writin in the book to pass the time. The only thing was, nobody on the team had ever seen what he wrote. I asked. They all said he always closed the book when they got close. I found it layin on the table in the break area, today. He musta left it there when he wentta lunch."
He nodded and look-pointed at the notebook (signaling it was time to read what Snagglepuss had written). I opened it at about the middle. Both sides of the pages were filled top-to-bottom, margin-to-margin, with numbers. Handwritten in black ink.
. . . 5982, 5983, 5984, 5985, 5986, 5987, 5988, 5989, 5990, 5991, 5992, 5993, 5994, 5995, 5996, 5997, 5998, 5999, 6000, 6001, 6002, 6003, . . .
I looked at Snuffy to see if this was a prank on me. The concern was still there, the giggle was no longer around. I leafed through the book. About 3/4 of the book was full and the last page was half filled.
. . . 94841, 94842, 94843, 94844, 94845, 94846, 94847, 94848, 94849, 94850, 94851, 94852, 94853, 94854, 94855, 94856, 94857
The front page began with 1. The last page ended with 94,857. Every number was on a line. None that I could see were skipped. I thought about, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," from The Shining. I realized that I had an insane person working as an undercover drug officer.
I talked to Snaggle. He claimed, just like Snuffy said he would, that it was 'just something to pass the time'. I told him it was, in my opinion an abnormal way to pass the time. He asked what I would consider a normal way to pass the time. So...I noted that—since he liked to write—a normal way to pass the time, would be to sketch or write down anything that enters one's head, like a fiction story or maybe a real event that happened to him.
"I ain't got much talent for that kind of stuff, Chief." He replied.
So I suspended him from active case work and sent him to a psychiatrist. Snaggle told me his discussions with the therapist were, "...Mostly boring and a waste of time. He says my writing isn't abnormal, though..." His therapist sternly informed me I was wrong (I think he used inappropriate use of my authority and a bunch of other fluff-words) to have said Snaggle's "list-writing" was abnormal.
After about a month of Snaggle doing only paperwork, I discovered his car had handcuffs hanging from the rear-view-mirror, and an MP brassard in the rear deck. Strike three.
"Chief, I thought it was OK, since I'm on admin-duty, now."
"No Snag, it's not OK. But it will be next week. I'm sending you back to be a real time-y po-leece officer. You can carry those cuffs on yer belt and wear that brassard on yer shoulder and when you just want to pass the time, you can write down all the license plate numbers you see during your shift because that'll be a normal way for an MP who is not undercover to pass the time.
Our society tends to regard as a "sickness" any mode of thought or behavior that is inconvenient for the system, and this is plausible because when an individual doesn't fit into the system it causes pain to the individual as well as problems for the system. Thus the manipulation of an individual to adjust him to the system is seen as a "cure" for a "sickness" and therefore as good. — Theodore Kaczynski
"It just came out? The rest of your teeth are perfectly fine. Teeth don't just fall out. Did you get smacked in the mouth during a fight?" I asked. (Snaggletooth was a Military Police Investigator employed by me at the CID office, as an undercover drug officer. Although I knew of no "altercations," that just meant he or his supervisor decided not to tell the boss, not that a fight hadn't happened.)
"Nope. It fell out."
"Well you're lucky, the Army dentist will do it for free; for a civilian that'd be real expensive to fix."
"It's no big deal. I wasn't gonna fix it."
"What?"
"You think I should?"
"Yeah. I really think you should."
"I dunno, it's no big deal."
For the next seven months (until I fired him) he never fixed the front of his face. But...I'm getting ahead of myself. The next WTF happened a month later, when Snaggletooth's immediate supervisor, Staff Sergeant Snuffy, rushed into my office:
"Chief, Chief, you have got to hear this." He said as he came around my desk, picked up and dialed my phone, handed me the handset, and said. "Just listen."
The ring-tone was followed by Snaggletooth's voice: Hiya! You've reached Xxx Xxxx's Machine. I'm out arresting bad guys and can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.
So his supervisor had to explain to him what the word 'undercover' meant, and I get a story to tell.
But that was just Snaggletooth's first strike. Several months later SSG Snuffy comes rushing into my office (he seemed to always be in a state of mania).
"Chief, Chief, you have got to see this." He said as he placed a well-worn, 100-page spiral notebook in the center of my blotter. It didn't lay flat because it had been, obviously, folded in half so that it could fit into a pocket. "Before you open it, though, let me explain."
"Is this about...?"
"Snaggletooth. Yea." Snuffy's eyes looked concerned but his voice was holding a giggle back. I suspected this was a prank of some kind and decided to go with it. "For as long as Snaggle's been working for me, I've seen him writin and I just figured—well, everyone did—that it was a diary. I asked him about it a while ago, cause I was concerned he might be puttin classified stuff in there and then might go an leave it layin around for anyone to find. But, he said it wasn't about work. He told me he was just writin in the book to pass the time. The only thing was, nobody on the team had ever seen what he wrote. I asked. They all said he always closed the book when they got close. I found it layin on the table in the break area, today. He musta left it there when he wentta lunch."
He nodded and look-pointed at the notebook (signaling it was time to read what Snagglepuss had written). I opened it at about the middle. Both sides of the pages were filled top-to-bottom, margin-to-margin, with numbers. Handwritten in black ink.
. . . 5982, 5983, 5984, 5985, 5986, 5987, 5988, 5989, 5990, 5991, 5992, 5993, 5994, 5995, 5996, 5997, 5998, 5999, 6000, 6001, 6002, 6003, . . .
I looked at Snuffy to see if this was a prank on me. The concern was still there, the giggle was no longer around. I leafed through the book. About 3/4 of the book was full and the last page was half filled.
. . . 94841, 94842, 94843, 94844, 94845, 94846, 94847, 94848, 94849, 94850, 94851, 94852, 94853, 94854, 94855, 94856, 94857
The front page began with 1. The last page ended with 94,857. Every number was on a line. None that I could see were skipped. I thought about, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," from The Shining. I realized that I had an insane person working as an undercover drug officer.
I talked to Snaggle. He claimed, just like Snuffy said he would, that it was 'just something to pass the time'. I told him it was, in my opinion an abnormal way to pass the time. He asked what I would consider a normal way to pass the time. So...I noted that—since he liked to write—a normal way to pass the time, would be to sketch or write down anything that enters one's head, like a fiction story or maybe a real event that happened to him.
"I ain't got much talent for that kind of stuff, Chief." He replied.
So I suspended him from active case work and sent him to a psychiatrist. Snaggle told me his discussions with the therapist were, "...Mostly boring and a waste of time. He says my writing isn't abnormal, though..." His therapist sternly informed me I was wrong (I think he used inappropriate use of my authority and a bunch of other fluff-words) to have said Snaggle's "list-writing" was abnormal.
After about a month of Snaggle doing only paperwork, I discovered his car had handcuffs hanging from the rear-view-mirror, and an MP brassard in the rear deck. Strike three.
"Chief, I thought it was OK, since I'm on admin-duty, now."
"No Snag, it's not OK. But it will be next week. I'm sending you back to be a real time-y po-leece officer. You can carry those cuffs on yer belt and wear that brassard on yer shoulder and when you just want to pass the time, you can write down all the license plate numbers you see during your shift because that'll be a normal way for an MP who is not undercover to pass the time.
Our society tends to regard as a "sickness" any mode of thought or behavior that is inconvenient for the system, and this is plausible because when an individual doesn't fit into the system it causes pain to the individual as well as problems for the system. Thus the manipulation of an individual to adjust him to the system is seen as a "cure" for a "sickness" and therefore as good. — Theodore Kaczynski
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