Chomskyist?

Short answer? Yeah. Long answer? It’s complicated, but that’s never stopped me before.

Look, these four thinkers don’t exactly hold hands and sing the Internationale together. They’ve got different blueprints for tearing down capitalism and building something better. That doesn’t mean you can’t steal the best tools from each of them and sharpen your own.

Here’s how it breaks down:

Marx gives you the blueprint.

He’s the one who showed us that capitalism isn’t a glitch, it’s the whole fucking operating system. Class struggle. Alienation. Historical materialism. Without Marx, you’re just vibing in the ruins, not naming the enemy.

Lenin says “Great. Now do something.”

Marx diagnosed the disease. Lenin started the surgery. He understood that capitalism doesn’t die politely. You need pressure, structure, and a strategy. That’s the whole vanguard party thing: not perfect, but a reminder that wishful thinking doesn’t start revolutions. Power has to be seized, not begged for.

Kropotkin asks, “But what are you building?”

The anarchist in the mix who is the heart. He reminds you that the goal isn’t just a new boss in a red hat. It’s no boss. Mutual aid. Voluntary cooperation. No centralized state. No boot, no neck. A vision beyond power games.

Chomsky cuts through the bullshit.

The living dissident. He’s not storming palaces, but he’s tearing down lies. He’s a scalpel for empire, for propaganda, for power dressed in liberal clothing. Chomsky shows you how to spot the cage even when it’s painted blue.

So can you be all four?

Only if you’re okay with contradiction. With mess. With not having all the answers but refusing to settle for anyone else’s either. You take Marx’s critique, Lenin’s urgency, Kropotkin’s ideals, and Chomsky’s clarity, and you use them all to fight the system while knowing none of them alone are enough.

It’s not a clean ideology. It’s a war room.

Capitalism is adaptive, violent, and relentless. Fighting it means pulling from every angle: materialist analysis, revolutionary strategy, anarchist ethics, and relentless truth-telling. That’s not confusion, that’s firepower.

So yeah, I’m a Marxist/Leninist/Kropotkinist/Chomskyist. Call it a contradiction. I call it a strategy.

What I take from Marx, Lenin, Kropotkin, and Chomsky

American politics are broken. Not just crooked or corrupt, but structurally, irredeemably broken. Corporate power is propped up, sociopaths are rewarded, and it dangles just enough hope to keep people from revolting. Voting feels like choosing flavors of decay, while the wealthy buy policy and workers beg for crumbs.

Instead of looking to the ballot box ever four or two years for salvation, I’m looking to four thinkers: Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Peter Kropotkin, and Noam Chomsky. I’m not looking to them as prophets, but as strategists, builders, and demolition experts. Each of these people offer a different tool for ripping this thing apart and reimagining what politics could be. I’m not interested in dogma. I’m interested in results.

From Marx, I take the foundation that class struggle is everything. Marx didn’t give us a blueprint. He gave us a lens, a way to see power for what it is. Capitalism isn’t just unfair; it’s a system that demands exploitation to survive. You can’t vote away the class war. You have to understand that politics is economics in disguise, and that real change starts by confronting the structures that divide labor from power.

You want to change America? Then start by naming the enemy: capital.

From Lenin, I take the strategy that power doesn’t surrender, it gets taken.

Lenin knew that moments of chaos don’t organize themselves. He built a disciplined machine not to preserve power, but to capture and redirect it. I don’t want a vanguard party or a permanent state, but I do believe in planning, timing, and coordination. American politics love spectacle but fear movement. If we want to be more than angry individuals yelling online, we need to move with purpose. The system isn’t going to implode on its own. You either build power or beg from it.

From Kropotkin, I take the vision that mutual aid is not utopia but strategy.

This country is obsessed with bootstraps and billionaires. Kropotkin said fuck that. Cooperation is how we survive, and always has been. Fuck waiting for the state to save us. Let’s build networks, councils, co-ops, and clinics … parallel structures that meet people’s needs now, not after the revolution. Politics don’t just happen in voting booths. It happens in kitchens, strike lines, and occupied buildings. Real change starts when we stop asking permission and start taking care of each other.

From Chomsky I take the filter, meaning if an institution can’t justify its power then burn it down.

Chomsky taught me to look at power and say: “Prove you deserve to exist.” The state, the police, the military-industrial complex, corporate media … none of them pass that test. He also taught me to not waste time reinventing the wheel. If a structure is doing harm then dismantle it. If it’s helping people then democratize it. Reform what you must. Abolish what you can. Build what they fear.

American politics are a shell game designed to keep us chasing scraps while the ruling class counts profits. I’m done playing. If we want to change things then we have to stop trying to fix a broken system and start building a new one from the ground up.

The state won’t save us. The market won’t feed us. But we might if we finally get to work.

Reconciling Ozzy’s Legacy

Ozzy Osbourne was never meant to be a saint. He bit the head off a bat and dove, survived decades of drug abuse, tried to kill his wife (while under the influence of drugs), and still made his way into a global icon. Like many public figures though — especially from his generation — he carried contradictions. And lately, one of those contradictions has come under fire: his support for Zionism.

As someone who grew up worshipping Sabbath and Ozzy, I’ve been struggling to reconcile my love for his legacy with my politics. I’m anti-Zionist. I believe in the liberation of Palestine and the end of apartheid. And Ozzy’s apparent support for Israel during a time of intense suffering in Gaza felt like a gut punch.

But then came his farewell show: Back to the Beginning. A titanic goodbye organize by none other than Tom Morello: guitar god, anti-Zionist activist, and arguably one of the most politically consistent artists of our time. Morello curated the whole event, helped raise nearly $200 million for Parkinson’s and children’s hospitals, and sat side-by-side with Ozzy to send him off.

So what the hell do I do with that?

Do I cancel Ozzy? Do I cancel Morello for working with him? Do I cancel myself for loving them both?

No. I sit with the contradictions. Because real politics aren’t clean. They’re messy, emotional, and riddled with human inconsistency.

Ozzy supported Black Lives Matter. He stood up for the LGBTQ+. He raised a staggering amount of money for causes that matter. He was also, like many aging boomers, wildly out of his depth when it came to the geopolitics of Israel and Palestine. That doesn’t excuse it, but it does contextualize it, especially considering his declining health and the heavy medications he was on during his final years.

Morello’s participation doesn’t “excuse” Ozzy either, but it does suggest that celebrating someone’s musical legacy doesn’t always mean endorsing their politics. That nuance is lost in today’s discourse, which often demands total purity or total exile. But art, like people, is rarely so simple.

I can love “Mr. Crowley” and still rage against apartheid. I can blast “War Pigs” and say Ozzy got it wrong. And I can respect the farewell show while also wishing that one of the final statements of a metal god hadn’t included a blind spot so many in the West still carry.

Again, rest in power, Ozzy. And may the rest of us keep pushing — louder, harder, and more unapologetically — for a world where all people live free from occupation and oppression.

Free Palestine.

“How Are You Paying Today?”

I hate that everything in America is a transaction. Even pain. Even fear. Even health.

Walk into a doctor’s office. Maybe you’re anxious, maybe you’re hurting, and before anyone asks what’s wrong, the receptionist asks:

“How are you paying today?”

That question says everything about this country.

Not “What brings you in?”

Not “How can we help?”

Not “Are you okay?”

Just: How will you be affording your right to exist today?

We’ve turned care into commerce. Healing into a service. Suffering into an invoice.

Even if you have insurance, you’re still in the system; dodging surprise bills, guessing what’s “in-network,” gambling with deductibles. Coverage doesn’t mean care; it means you’ve bought a seat at the casino.

It’s dehumanizing. But that’s what America does. It reduces everything to a transaction. Your health, your education, your time, your grief. It’s all on the market. You’re not a person; you’re a customer. A credit score with a heartbeat.

And that’s the part that eats at me: you can do everything “right,” and still lose. You can work, contribute, obey, pay then get sick and be told, “Sorry, that’s not covered.”

This is a country that preaches freedom but puts a price tag on survival.

I’m tired of pretending it’s normal.

More people should be.

I’m Sick of Living in a Country With a Price Tag on Survival

There’s something deeply wrong with a society that puts a dollar sign on everything: air, water, healthcare, housing, even hope.

In America, you don’t get to live, you get to rent existence. And the rent keeps going up.

Need to drink water? Better hope your tap isn’t poisoned, privatized, or shut off because you’re behind on the bill. Need to see a doctor? Hope you can navigate the insurance labyrinth, dodge bankruptcy, and survive long enough to get an appointment three months from now.

This isn’t a functioning society. It’s a hostile marketplace cosplaying as civilization.

We slap “In God We Trust” on the currency, but worship profit above all. Billionaires hoard resources like dragons while kids ration insulin. Corporations dump chemicals into rivers while charging us for clean water. Politicians talk about “personal responsibility” while handing corporate welfare to their donors.

Everything is for sale … except dignity.

This system wasn’t built to help us. It was built to extract from us. Your labor, your time, your energy, your life. All monetized. The only thing “essential” in this economy is your ability to generate profit for someone else.

And when you stop being profitable? You’re disposable. That’s the cold logic of capitalism. It doesn’t care if you suffer. It needs you to.

But here’s the thing: people are waking up. The cracks are visible. The rage is growing. The question now isn’t “Is this sustainable?”, it’s “What the hell are we going to do about it?”

We can’t shop our way out of this. We can’t vote our way out of it alone. This is going to take organizing. Disruption. Solidarity. Mutual aid. Refusing to play their game by their rules.

Because survival should not be for sale.

And I, for one, am done pretending this is normal.

Covered, But Not Really: My Latest Battle with U.S. Healthcare

I have Medicare. That should mean something, right?

I told my psychiatrist I have Medicare. I’ve seen them before. We’ve talked. I’ve paid my copay. It’s all been fine … until now. Now I’m being told they “don’t take Wellcare.”

What is Wellcare? It’s a Medicare Advantage plan. And if you haven’t had the misfortune of dealing with one of these “advantage” plans, let me explain: they’re private insurance companies that slap a Medicare label on themselves so they can skim government money and give you less coverage in return.

So even though I’m on Medicare, I now owe the full amount for my last visit. And unless I want to cancel my next appointment — which I actually need — I’ll be paying the full amount for that one too. Because apparently “covered” doesn’t mean “covered.” It means “maybe, sometimes, depending on how many loopholes we can find.”

This is what healthcare in America looks like.

You can do everything right. You can make sure you’re insured. You can communicate. You can follow every rule. And still you get blindsided. You get billed. And you’re left scrambling to afford the care you already thought you paid for.

Meanwhile, insurance companies profit off confusion. They profit off denial. They profit off people like me being left in the dark until the invoice hits.

This isn’t just frustrating, it’s designed this way. They make it complicated on purpose. If you get screwed, it’s your fault for “not understanding the network.” If you ask for help, they hand you a phone number and a maze of menus. And if you give up? Great. They win. Less to pay out.

This is not a healthcare system. It’s a profit machine dressed up like one.

And right now, I’m just another cog getting crushed in it.

More Than an Album: What Ozzy Meant to Me

I know I listed my top ten albums, and with my last post being about Ozzy, you may be wondering “Why didn’t you list an Ozzy album?” I think Ozzy deserves another post of his own. My mom was never too strict with what I read. I could read virtually anything and she didn’t mind. She wasn’t really strict with what I listened to, either, but she was wary at times. She knew Ozzy’s reputation more than his music. Thankfully, she warmed up to him (and later to other musicians I listened to.)

One of my cousins gave me his copy of Ozzy’s No Rest for the Wicked. Like I said in my last post, I was a weird kid. I was obsessed with serial killers, Columbine, and the like. So when I heard “Bloodbath in Paradise” by Ozzy, there was an immediate connection. A song about Charles Manson and “the Family.” Someone was into the same stuff I was into? I found someone finally!

I had a friend make me a couple of mix tapes of Ozzy’s music and Marilyn Manson’s music: two artists who were no-no’s in my Southern Baptist home. They were both rebellion, bottled and distorted. They were both weirdos like me. I found people who understood me and accepted me for me.

Ozzy was the gateway. Not just into heavier music, but into embracing the strange and the dark instead of running from it. He didn’t glamorize evil, he mocked it, played with it, stared it in the eyes and laughed. For a kid growing up in a world full of fire-and-brimstone warnings, that was liberating. He was spooky but silly, demonic but theatrical, dangerous but oddly comforting.

And more than anything, Ozzy made it okay to be an outcast. He wasn’t some polished idol or untouchable god; he was a mess. He was raw and flawed and still somehow larger than life. That spoke to me more than anything.

I didn’t know it then, but those tapes, those lyrics, that chaos, it helped me survive. It helped me find a voice, even if I was just screaming it in my bedroom with headphones on. Ozzy was more than music. He was a lifeline.

So no, I didn’t list an Ozzy album in my top ten. He’s not just an album to me. He’s a whole era of my life.

And with his passing, it feels like the era’s closed. But the weird kid he helped carry through the dark? He’s still here. Still weird. Still grateful.

My Dedication to Ozzy Osbourne

Today is a sad day for the metal world and for me as a metal fan. I was hit with four messages on Facebook “Ozzy died.” It wasn’t surprising. What’s surprising is that he lived this long, but still it’s left a hole. There are three bands/musicians that turned me onto metal and those are Metallica, Pantera, and Ozzy Osbourne. Their music and Ozzy himself made me feel less like a misfit. I felt that I belonged somewhere.

My first concert ever was Ozzfest 2002. I begged and begged my mom to let me go with friend, my girlfriend at the time, and my girlfriend’s dad. We finally compromised when she said, “You can go, but you have to go to church first.”

Southern Baptist upbringing, remember?

I was blown away. All the bands, the entire metal community. I felt welcome. I felt like I had a place in the world. I felt at home. I got in the mosh pit without even thinking about it. I just felt the urge to truly experience my first ever concert by doing everything concerts have to offer … except the booze and the drugs because I was still a 15-year-old Southern Baptist boy.

When Ozzy finally took the stage that night, I was in awe. One of my metal heroes, the godfather of heavy metal. We connected that night. I didn’t want the night to end. Nothing else mattered in that moment. I felt like I was at peace with all the other people there. I had found my place in the world. As someone who was always “the weird kid” in school I felt like I finally belonged. No one was judging me. No one was making fun of me. We were all outcasts and misfits, but we were outcasts and misfits together and Ozzy had brought us together. I felt a community.

I’m sad that I never got to see Black Sabbath live, but I can say that I at least got to see Ozzy live which is sad for future metalheads because they don’t know what it’ll be like to not have the godfather of metal to be there for them when they feel the world is against them, but they’ll find their own place with another band at some point in time. I’m just happy I got to experience the original and nothing can take that away from me.

Rest in power, Ozzy. You’ll be missed.

Overthinking, Pandora’s Box, and the Mercy We Don’t Deserve

By someone who’s tired of dodging landmines in family group chats.

I posted a photo on Snapchat the other day—Bertrand Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy. I didn’t think much of it. Just one of those small, nerdy flexes you throw into the void. But then my aunt replied:

“I didn’t know there was such a thing, but I guess everything has some sort of philosophy.”

Okay, fair. Not everyone grew up reading Plato or spiraling into existential dread during sophomore year. I responded:

“Western civilization’s been overthinking everything for like 2,500 years. They had to write it down eventually. Even things like math and science have deep philosophical roots.”

Her response? “Some things are just overthought, and need to be left alone I think. Just my opinion.”

That’s when I felt it: that itch to argue. To start listing how “overthinking” gave us medicine, civil rights, space exploration, critical thinking, and the ability to ask whether the status quo even should be left alone.

But instead, I replied calmly:

“Sometimes overthinking is how we uncover the stuff hiding under the surface.”

She came back with:

“That could be really bad and in the long run not helpful. Kinda like Pandora’s box. But I understand some things need to be known.” I went full myth nerd:

“Yeah, opening Pandora’s box definitely unleashed chaos—but also hope was in there too. Can’t forget that part.”

Then came the turn I knew was coming:

“Yep, you are right on that. And mercy, which we don’t deserve.”

Ah. There it was. The theological twist. The Southern Baptist worldview shining through. Mercy as something we’re lucky to get, not something we’re entitled to. A cosmic handout, not a human right.

And that’s where I bit my tongue. Because yeah, I could’ve said that if mercy is real, it shouldn’t be conditional. Or that maybe people don’t deserve suffering either. Or maybe we do deserve mercy because we’re born into a broken system we didn’t ask for and spend our lives trying to make sense of it.

But I didn’t say any of that. I kept the peace. Not because I agreed, but because sometimes family isn’t where the fight lives.

Still, it stuck with me. The way generations talk past each other. The way questioning becomes “overthinking,” and curiosity becomes a threat to tradition. The way a simple book post turns into a theological minefield.

So here I am. Overthinking it, of course.

Just like the philosophers taught me to.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where hope still lives.

Waiting for the End

I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t sign up for this whole “life” thing. I just opened my eyes one day and the clock started ticking. Expectations piled on. Rules I never agreed to. A world I didn’t create.

By now, I’m 38. No spouse. No kids. I still live with my mom. That fact alone makes me feel like I’m not a “real adult,” even though I pay attention to the world, think deeply, and try to be a good person. But none of that matters, right? Not in a world where adulthood is measured by mortgages and marriage licenses.

I look around and feel alien. Tired. Like I missed a train everyone else caught, or maybe I was never invited to the station. People around me post pictures of weddings, kids, vacations, “success.” I sit with the weight of just surviving, and sometimes even that feels impossible.

The truth? I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to wake up. Days where I felt like checking out would be easier than dragging myself through one more empty cycle of eat-sleep-repeat. I’ve thought, “what’s the point?” more times than I can count.

I didn’t ask for life. But life was handed to me like a debt I didn’t incur, and now I’m supposed to be grateful just for enduring it.

Still… Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I told someone how I felt. And I wasn’t met with judgment. I wasn’t told to “cheer up” or “get over it.” I was just heard. And sometimes, that’s enough to get through another day. So maybe this blog isn’t a rallying cry or a solution. Maybe it’s just a flare shot into the dark for anyone else who feels this way. You’re not alone. You’re not a failure. And you don’t have to carry this on your own. I don’t know what comes next. I’m still here, and for now, that’s enough.