Road To Anarchapulco: Day 4
If you don’t want at a taco stand on every street corner then you haven’t had the tacos at the Anarchapulco pool party.
It was like something out of a surreal dream. The type of party you’d see in a bizarre nonsensical action movie that needs an excuse to show beautiful women and blow the budget on well-dressed extras and fancy cocktails. It was the real deal and way out of my league. A swanky celebration of a successful conference and on a fitting day.
The cobalt hue shining up from the pool and tasteful latin dance beats had me feeling like I had somehow emulated my hero: the guy from the Dos Equis commercials, the most interesting man in the world.
“He once lived under the alias Satoshi Nakamoto.”
The three days leading up to now were a slow, tumultuous process for a large percentage of players that had never heard about the non-aggression principle, had any clue who Ron Paul was, and probably didn’t care if taxation was theft or not.
Every new introduction made (in the conference hall or poolside) was almost always proceeded by “Are you here for the anarchy or the crypto”?
Blockchain, ICO’s, and exchanges, are the techno geek linguistics that code writers and silicon-valley types use to continue their socially awkward march into the future and they’ve come here looking to cash in on something they understood technically but not philosophically until they sat in that air-conditioned room for three days.
I’d made some small gains on bitcoin. Not millions, but some.
Like everyone that will ever read this, my story is the same: a friend told me about Bitcoin when it was like $0.28 and I already knew what it was: An Illuminati conspiracy to institute a one world, centrally controlled currency designed to enslave us. So instead I bought gold and buried it the bank yard. It’s still there today and not worth the money it takes to hire a couple neighborhood kids to dig it up.
If you’re like most people, you eventually did buy some, but during that time period after the “Great Recession.”
If you needed to pay your rent and BTC had gone from $50-$1000 you were happy to cash it in knowing you had caught a lucky tailwind that would never come again.
Maybe after 2013, you always had a little bitcoin at your disposal because your cocaine dealer would only deliver if you supplied non-traceable encrypted funds.
Of course, there are no shortage of stories about small game hood rat dope dealers that suddenly disappear to live the life they grew up fantasying about while watching hip hop music videos on MTV.
These are stories we can all relate to; of a small-time underdog with the cards stacked against him.
Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. They have traded in their oversized DC skate shoes for Nike Hyper Adapts and their Pontiac Sunfire for a Bentley. And you’re still the junkie sucker, probably the guy that first told him about crypto that couldn’t get his shit together and couldn’t “HODL” (which is some typo turned acronym, turned rallying cry for block-chain enthusiasts).
The crypto community, at first glance is an awkward marriage. It’s Bill Gates looking dweeb with a wild drunken hillbilly for a wife. And yet it represents more than that – it is symbiosis. It’s the natural flow of individual humans who mutually benefit when left to serve each other.
The rise of value in crypto in 2017 has investors and tech startup companies kicking down the door of fringe politics and demanding to stay. Everyone has forgotten that Bitcoin was pronounced dead 5 years ago and has been famously argued as a failure of a free market monetary system. Bitcoin was “the libertarian dream,” “too good to be true.”
For anarchy advocates, crypto currencies provide an inspiring future; one that sees the collapse of central banking and the abolition of taxation, so we can all live in a free and voluntary society, defund foreign wars, and pursue our personal aspirations. As the saying goes… “Peace, Love and Anarchy.”
The problem is that many anarchy freaks, still operate in analog.
Myself for example, I’d be writing on a typewriter if my girlfriend didn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of me carrying it past the front desk, down the cobblestone pathway, and into our palapa on the beach.
Despite the lack computer savvy, they (anarchy freaks) are now inspired to join the ranks of the 21st century, no longer paranoid that some bureaucrat in the CIA is reading text messages and pursing through their dick pics; it is the same momentum required to abandon the idea that the telephone was powered by witchcraft.
They feel an overwhelming obligation and responsibility to capitalize on safe, unobstructed, globally accessible currencies so that they might better serve their people.
“It’s the responsibility of every Libertarian activist to make as much money as they can as fast as they can so to be of better use to society” – a quote paraphrased by an author I don’t remember.
Now, I’m the last guy you want to take advice from on this stuff. I got a lucky break, but I’d be lying if I said I knew why or how. So, I won’t go there.
I’m a storyteller, not any type of crypto adviser. Knowing myself, and my attraction to mass hysteria, I couldn’t allow myself take any chances on the crypto roulette wheel that day and especially not in my condition. I walked into the main conference hall, took a selfie with Jeffrey Tucker and walked out.
I spent the day observing the “cryptomania” from a distance. I had become a regular fixture at the lobby bar by the 4th day and learned more about the digital world and crypto than I had in the past decade right there. Sitting there, talking all that “nerd,” and a sipping a few mojitos gave me the confidence to open up one of the few digital formats that I am confident to use (email) where I noticed a receipt for a workshop I had no idea I had signed up for. It was some Change Media Bootcamp, and it was the next day.
Anarchism can be exhausting, especially when trying to track down the right conference room at a huge resort.
Of course, there were no signs, and no posted time for when this thing was supposed to start or even what it was. I had walked back and forth from tower 1 to tower 2 (which sit to the north and south of the main pyramid hotel) I’m pretty sure they’re about a kilometer apart.
The Pyramid Hotel was originally built in 1970 (or thereabouts) and I’m told its the place Howard Hughes died.
Recall the scene in “The Aviator,” when Leonardo DiCaprio, as the crazy old bastard Hughes, collects his urine in milk bottles? That scene was supposedly filmed in the exact room Hughes drew his last breath. Unfortunately, I have been unable to confirm this with the hotel staff.
When trying to find out which room it was exactly there was a lot of commotion. The hotel staff at the reception desk seemed awkward and were avoiding my questions. I had assumed that the old eccentrics death might be some kind of secret the bellboys didn’t want scaring off tourists, but when they brought me a glass jar filled with milk and pointed me to the bathroom I understood my inquiry was lost in translation.
I ran into Josh Sigurdson of World Alternative Media. He and I had a loose idea of who each other were and have some mutual friends north of 49.
He was one of the panelists in the workshop, and even he had no idea where it was or when it was set to begin.
When we finally found the room and and got started, I had no idea if we were starting on time or not because I still hadn’t seen any itinerary for the day.
Luke Rudkowski, the main host of the panel event explained “I’m glad you were all able to do the appropriate research and investigation necessary to get yourself here,” as if it were some kind of test. But knowing his propensity for the type of wildcat ambush style journalism that is synonymous with crazy dopamine junkies, I had to wonder what he actually got up to last night that prevented him posting a goddamn sign.
I felt the need to ask him the same type of hard hitting, in-your-face questions that he’s famous for asking politicians and leaving them in dumbstruck shock; like the time he asked Henry Kissinger about population control.
I thought I’d give him a little of his own medicine – so I did, “What time is lunch?” I asked. He had no idea.
The third guy on the panel was Dan Dicks. Luke had him and I do some weird new age staring into each others eyes and heavy breathing thing, which is intended to create intimacy. I’m sure it’s a good practice for people needing to get an authentic answer out of an interviewee, but even though Dan and I never broke eye contact, our eyes were rolling at the same time.
He was my partner for the day and we took an oath to support and protect each other for the rest of the day and moving forward after the conference. We were told to exchange emails to hold each other accountable in meeting our goals. So, Dan Dicks, if you ever read this, I apologize sincerely for walking out of the workshop halfway through; though I wasn’t far away, 20 paces south out of the Ocean 2 room and you could have found me working on my sunburn on a stool at the swim up bar…with a good looking blonde rubbing coconut oil on my back.
The type of sunburn that in a cold air-conditioned hotel room at night leaves you feeling like you’re still baking in the hot sun. I don’t feel bad about it though. Dan didn’t email me either, or maybe he did. I didn’t check.
Let me say that I like these guys a lot: Luke, Dan and Josh. I appreciate everything they do. They’ve done a lot of great work for Liberty, gotten themselves in some real hairy situations trying to show the very real and very dangerous face of the police state and government corruption.
Though, while very informative, my ambitions don’t require tips on what camera lens best penetrates smoke as you are attempting to capture someone burning the American flag, or how to get the perfect 360-degree camera angle when some commie lights a Proud Boy on fire, or how to use your tripod as a club in defense of police brutality.
At my age, in this economy, I need to limit my risk and exposure to dangerous situations. I didn’t exactly fit their target market for this thing.
Luke went around the room asking what the young aspiring and starry-eyed journalists what they wanted to accomplish. They wanted to build their brands, monetize their creations and learn the ins and outs of independent outlaw journalism and they took it very seriously.
When they asked me, my response was a simple combination of reality and bad comedy, “Man, I signed up for this by accident” …of course, I was met with the abhorrent glares of the other 20 or so participants.
By their account, I had just insulted their heroes.
If you plan on doing this Anarchapulco thing, you’ll need to remember one line of advice to survive the danger and chaos you’ll encounter: “Play it loose and give the Bastards Hell.”
Final dispatch from Anarchapulco
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