Is there anything more transfixing than the lurid, sadistic hubbub in this degenerating land of naked opportunism? If the disgraceful Bernie Sanders stands as proof of far-left futility and co-optation, the alternative right stands for outright rejection of the eyeless smile that is reigning, late-modern Americanism—which is kind of like Emerson devolved to Dr. Phil and Dale Carnegie applied to Curtis Lemay.
What recommends the alt-right is that its targets and detractors are rattled more by its truths than by its falsehoods. Like the fish who in David Foster Wallace’s retelling inquires of his companion, “What the hell is water?”, Americanism’s acolytes carry no party card that they’re aware of. So the alt-right is a genuine red-pill, an unflinching gaze into the post-American abyss. But by giving it its moment, Hillary (who feeds as voraciously on the exsanguinated phantom of flyover “fascism” as she does upon the stem cells forfending her convalescence) unwittingly plunged the knife in and twisted: naming is the origin of all particular things, and after summer must come autumn. But until the cognitive dissonance of WNs jockeying for publicity at the trough of common denominator discourse asserts itself, their Apostle to the Gentiles will always be Milo.
Richard Spencer has obviously been reading his James Howard Kunstler. If the Kali Yuga is inexorsable, why take such pains to subvert the uninspiring dominant paradigm when we could be digging cisterns? As noted here before, there is of course the possibility of managed opposition, witting or un-. That genuinely galvanizing subversion might emerge from the exertions of a grad-school activist peddling online “identity” as he eagerly bottom-feeds for awareness-raising coverage is no less conceivable than, say, a vindictive art school reject conquering half of Europe. Problem is, however potent a tool, however wide it opens epistemic horizons, other than bringing people together in spite of cultural differences what the internet excels at is keeping us all off the streets. Counter-intuitively, this is advantageous for the alt-right, at least in the short term, because the alienation of willing participants (i.e., device-symbiotic telecom consumers) expressed within the ostensibly manageable confines of interactive media platforms cannot simply be excised like Randy Weaver or selectively arraigned like the Ron Paul newsletters.
But while racism may be the Emmanuel Goldstein of the Trayvon administration—and race the great taboo of the past half-century—it doesn’t follow that race is always relevant, as Spencer tends to postulate. What do I care about FBI crime stats when the Percocet addict casing houses on my block is a peckerwood, and the sassy black lady posting black power memes to Facebook is a good neighbor? So the zeitgeist shift is welcome, until it goes full retard.
What is the alt-right really aiming at? At some point, changing the national conversation is just busywork, but an ethnostate is a tall order when the status quo is liveable and even luxe. When it no longer is, me clinging to my guns, religion and antipathy will not be a committee decision. Meanwhile, what good is subversion of the dominant paradigm if you remain a supplicant for corn pone? Better to buy a seed bank and an Alex Jones water filter while UPS is still delivering.
In any case, the initial burst of these phenomena always gives way to staleness, and power is always crepuscular. So assuming (for the near-term) that her handlers somehow prove incapable of outlawing thoughtcrime—a project you’d better believe is in R&D—at this point only an HRC administration can extend the shelf life of the alt-right’s liberatingly mischievous confrontation with late-modern Americanism. Because—if the God-Emperor frog memes are any indication—a President Trump will almost certainly disappoint. It’s enough to make you nostalgic for the Austrian corporal. The counter-revolution will not be internetized.