Category Archives: America

Reductio ad Iudaeoram: Conclusion


Comes in handy

(Part I here, Part II here, Part III here, Part IV here)

Back in the mid-aughts I was sitting around one weekend with a friend—also Jewish—smoking something stupid and watching one of the hundreds of conspiracy documentaries then mushrooming on the new-fangled YouTube. Up until that time, my conception of Jewish success was that it vaguely confirmed my belief in divine election. But due to events like 9/11, the NSA spying scandals and the 2007 financial crisis it was starting to become painfully clear that the height of success in America is something profoundly dark, and that one’s ethnic group being extra-specially implicated in it can be a very bad thing.

At one point during the documentary my friend turned to me and asked, “How are we supposed to cope with the fact that we come from a race of deceivers?”

What evolutionary biology considers success can be very dangerous from an Epicurean standpoint—and it’s true that a relatively high proportion of powerful assholes are Jews. I wouldn’t discourage anyone, Jew or Gentile, from shying away from this topic per se. But I don’t buy my friend’s supposition.

If—God forbid—a priest rapes an alter boy, do we say that this reflects on Catholicism fundamentally? On the contrary, we would assume such behavior goes against the tenets of Catholicism. Yet it happens with horrifying frequency. And what about a WASP senator who takes kickbacks from corporate fat-cats? Even the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan would have to concede indubitably that a nigger stick-up artist is not behaving the way his momma taught him to. Yet Jews can’t often manage comparable generosity with ourselves. So how can we expect better from anybody else?

Honor, from a diaspora Jewish perspective, is always a matter of living down yiddishkeit, of disproving some dirty stereotype. But what if it’s the baseline?

I live in a city that has a major crime problem. My neighborhood is full of feckless little cop-callers. No robbery committed here has ever been prevented or solved by the police, yet out of some forty households in the immediate vicinity, only myself and one other neighbor have ever had the gumption to confront people casing houses or breaking into vehicles. I’ve done so five times in the last three years, at tremendous risk to my legal and physical safety. In none of those cases was my household specifically being targeted, thank God.

Most recently I intervened to stop a couple of very large, menacing, tattooed boys from hot-wiring the truck of a neighbor who dislikes me intensely and actually tried to fuck me over badly on a separate occasion (we had an altercation over some noise he was making late at night, he hit me and then pressed charges saying I hit him—luckily a third neighbor witnessed the whole thing and testified in my defense.) In any case, I didn’t think before acting to prevent him being robbed. I ended up firing a warning shot out of split-second calculation that the gun itself was not sufficient deterrence. Not only did I stick my neck out physically, I committed a felony, and it was only by the grace of God that none of the several sets of security cameras various neighbors have invested in caught footage sufficient to positively identify me, because several of them called the cops (who showed up two hours later) to report a gunshot, and at least one provided the police with video footage.

The point is, every bit of what I did to defend my neighborhood was yiddishkeit—I acted 100% out of Judaism. What is Judaism, in this case? I was taught growing up that if you let your fellow be abused, you’re next. That if you accommodate a bully whatsoever, he owns you wholly. That if you cower behind third-party protection, you’re worthless. None of these notions are exclusive to Jewish identity as it was taught to me by male relatives, but all of them are crucial to it, even if many Jews eschew this outlook or oppose it. Yes, their outlook is also a species of Judaism, but no culture or creed is one-dimensional. In fact, at root Judaism is an heroic creed. This is not just apparent in the Bible, but is testified to by the activity of Jews in militaries and dangerous occupations all over the world. I personally have been in the Israeli army and worked in EMS in the states. So why is my attitude and behavior always seen as the exception, by Jew and Gentile alike?

Because a lie repeated enough times becomes self-fulfilling. “The Jews are particularists, Europeans are universalists.” I saw that for the umpteenth time the other day, on a comment thread—a variation of an old meme. Kevin MacDonald is fond of it, as are his many acolytes. But the suggestion that there’s nothing in the way of universal ethics in the Hebrew Bible or the Talmud—or that the regimes and cultures of European antiquity meet this standard as a rule, not an exception—is so willfully sub-literate it’s embarrassing to address. Besides, no one who calls himself a “white nationalist” has grounds to preach universality. No one really has grounds to preach universality. If you’re some great, ostentatious humanitarian, you probably have a trust fund, or are too ugly to mate with. Perhaps that explains why so many ugly people are such great humanitarians.

Take this Harvey Weinstein case, for example. Big progressive, big gun control freak. Control freak, period. So none of these rape allegations are the least bit surprising. Powerful men of every background do much worse than going after adult females without consent, and it goes without saying that not one percent of the commentators who’ve been animated by these revelations all week gave a rat’s ass last week when these were open secrets, because they all know that Hollywood stardom has got to be the most venal pursuit on the planet: play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Yet somehow, the yiddishkeit of the perp did not escape the attention of many who indulged in this cheap schadenfreude. A half-dozen gentile blue-blood dynasties have had the country over a barrel since reconstruction, but a yid striver who came from nothing is what gets the alt-right’s panties in a twist. Of course, who’s fucking who is always a hot topic for the involuntarily celibate, and the alt-right would be as livid about a handsome yid getting consensual pussy as they are about the fishmongeresque Harvey Weinstein taking coercive measures, so you can’t fault them for inconsistency. But as if the usual flock of low IQ/high JQ parakeets wasn’t enough, even the disgusting little leftist naval-gazers over at Tablet Magazine got in on the action—in the finest tradition of Jewish self-abnegation and with the originality of an Oscar Meyer wiener, citing their repulsive, overrated fellow naval-gazer Philip Roth as inspiration to project all their horrible little fetishistic inadequacies onto Judaism itself and the Jewish people as a whole.

Of course, you may assume at this point that I’m defending Harvey Weinstein. But the truth is, I want to submit myself for consideration, here and now, with no ambiguity, as one of Harvey Weinstein’s foremost victims. Not only did Harvey try to fuck me, he lied about it. That’s right: Harvey Weinstein has been trying to disarm me for well nigh a decade. And yet he went on the Howard Stern show a few years back and stated that he’d exec produced Inglorious Basterds because “I like the idea of Jews with guns.”

With landsmen like these, who needs Amalek?

But who is Harvey Weinstein, really? We know that he is amoral, but I would suggest that he is foremost a man who is living in fear.

This may seem counter-intuitive: Harvey Weinstein, living in fear? What fear? The man’s an oligarch. He hobnobbed with world leaders. Until last month he was perhaps the most powerful man in Hollywood. Clearly, he didn’t see his downfall coming, nor did he appreciate its magnitude initially. So what fear could he possibly have been living in?

First of all, as a powerful man, the fear of rivals and fear for his profits. That goes without saying. Second, and most obvious nowadays, the fear of his behavior being uncovered. This was true not just regarding the perversion, but in general, as a filmmaker who tried to put together a Weinstein biopic found out the hard way some years ago. Moreover, as an oligarch—someone who is complicit in the ongoing plunder of the country by the upper crust—he must’ve harbored some trepidation about regular people. That would certainly explain his fixation on the NRA, given that organization’s rank-and-file.

Significantly, in this connection, Weinstein—as a Jew, but also as a wealthy man and a libertine—was deeply fearful of Christianity, certainly (and of course out of all proportion to its reality) as a political force but also, more than likely, as a set of ethical propositions. (Alan Watts once remarked that no religion or ethical system is more fixated on sexual mores than Christianity). After all, Christianity has had a tremendous influence on what Jews feel they have to answer for, particularly in the modern era with regard to questions of citizenship and belonging. But fear of Christianity and fear of God are two different things, especially for a Jew, and if there was one fear that Harvey Weinstein undoubtedly lacked, it was the fear of God Almighty.

As a Hollywood honcho, he wouldn’t be the first: Jewish studio heads in 1930s tinsel town were so venal that they cooperated extensively with the Nazis—going so far as to violate a nationwide boycott organized by American Jews, Catholics and trade unionists—in order to preserve their access to the German movie market. In 2010, Weinstein somewhat continued this tradition by bankrolling and promoting the most unsympathetic portrayal of Israel to ever emerge from a mainstream media organ in the United States, going so far as to screen it at the UN General Assembly (a first for any Hollywood film), telling a reporter that Israelis needed to understand the Palestinian narrative in order that peace might come to the middle east. The missionary hubris of American poobahs accustomed to wielding persons like marionettes (and sexually assaulting them) seems to express itself occasionally in the questing for mideast peace. What is interesting in Weinstein’s case is that so pugilistic, in-your-face a yid could show more forbearant solicitude for his people’s mortal enemies than he ever has for American Christians who’ve never lain a hand on any Jew. What could be behind such self-abnegation?

The simple fact is, a man who doesn’t live in fear and love of the Almighty is going to live in fear and love of many other less worthy things. This is a huge problem for the Jewish people, and Harvey Weinstein’s just the berg of the ice-tip.

The late Edgar Bronfman was a Canadian liquor magnate who devoted his life to pro-Israel lobbying and Jewish philanthropy. His remains the name most strongly associated with Jewish philanthropy in the diaspora. In 2003, a wave of suicide bombings was hitting Israel. Where was Bronfman’s head at?

This is what he told reporters at the time:

If the Palestinian suicide bombers only went to the settlements and told the whole world [the settlers] were wrong, then the whole world would have had a case against Israel, and there would be a two-state solution by now. Instead, they sent [the bombers] into Israel proper, which is ghastly.

Killing Israeli settlers—not ghastly? Maybe I’m missing something. Let’s deconstruct this a bit. A major leader of diaspora Jewry takes it upon himself to advise Israel’s enemies which Jews to kill, because he wants to better enable them to turn the whole world (“making a case”) against Israel, so as to effect the “two-state solution” in the name of which Harvey Weinstein would screen anti-Israel propaganda at the UN a decade later?

Well, what is this two-state solution? Can Bronfman have seriously believed that sacrificing the advance-guard is the way to preserve the rear echelon? Perhaps I’ll let someone better qualified speak to the matter:

If Israel were to relinquish the West Bank, 80 per cent of its population and most of its industry would be within range of light artillery, mortars and even rifles positioned on the high ground of the Samarian and Judean ridges. These ridges cannot be effectively demilitarized or adequately inspected…. Those who claim that modern military technology has made obsolete the need for critical terrain are simply spouting ignorance. As weapons of war become more sophisticated these factors assume a greater and not a lesser importance…

Air defence radar situated on the [West Bank] affords the Israeli Air Force approximately 15 minutes’ warning time in the event of air attack. Without these installations, the IAF would only have about four minutes in which to scramble its fighters. [Furthermore,] no amount of electronic gadgetry could possibly substitute for control of in-place defences against guerrilla forces infiltrating across torturous borders. Between 1949 and 1967 the IDF devoted much of its resources against [such] infiltration. That these efforts were essentially not successful is clearly attested by the large number of Jews killed and wounded and property damage sustained during this period.

As I’ve argued here before: these are the expert analyses of disinterested military professionals, known to US policymakers since 1967. There’s an obvious inference to be made from them: that the moment Israel accepts a two-state solution, its viability, i.e., the lives of its people, becomes wholly dependent on feckless outside brokerage. How well has that worked out for other US collaborators? For the Jews? Consequently, Israel negotiates only in bad faith; it relinquishes territory only under immense outside pressure. As the Christian deity is purported to have told one Nicodemus: does an elder of Israel not know these things? Hello? Anybody? Bronfman? Bronfman? Because…. while clearly this schlub had the best of intentions, he really didn’t know these things—he, a man who devoted his life to Jewish causes. Ain’t that some shit? What could possibly explain it? I’m at a loss.

Perhaps we’ll glean better insight from an additional case study. Exhibit B is Atlantic assistant editor and former Israeli army MP, Jeffery Goldberg, inarguably the most actively, overtly pro-Israel major journalist at any mainstream American news outlet. Goldberg wrote a book about his experience as a young man in the Israeli army, and a friendship he developed there with a Palestinian who came under his supervision as part of his military police duties. It’s called Prisoners: A Muslim and a Jew Across the Middle East Divide. The tone-deafness of the title (equating a gaoler with his charge) is bad enough. But here’s a bit from the NY Times review:

Rafiq Hijazi [is] the Muslim of the book’s title. The story of their unusual and complicated friendship is at the core of Prisoners, weaving its way through the narrative like a serpentine question mark. It begins with their meeting in 1991 at Ketziot, the Israeli prison filled with thousands of Palestinians arrested during the first Intifada. Rafiq (Fatah-affiliated and deeply religious) was Goldberg’s ”favorite” prisoner. ”I wanted to make Rafiq my friend,” he says. ”I liked that he had the dispassion of an analytical academic in a place notable for its absence of thought. He also had an open-mindedness that to me was a clear sign of inner benevolence.” After their first conversation—separated by a fence—Goldberg had ”a feeling of connection. It was a strange and traitorous feeling, but it was also a true feeling, and it was accompanied by a satisfying frisson of danger and dissent.”

He could be describing an illicit love affair. Except, more than once, and increasingly so as their relationship is tested against the backdrop of violent political developments, it appears to be a case of unrequited love—Rafiq does not seem to be in need of their friendship. They continued to meet, over many years, in different places: at Rafiq’s parents’ home in Gaza, in Washington, where they both lived with their wives and where Rafiq was completing a Ph.D. in statistics, later in Abu Dhabi. There were also frequent long breaks between their meetings, especially after Rafiq—who, Goldberg tells us, had become a fundamentalist—announced that he would not demonstrate against suicide bombings or when he said that if he had to kill his friend, ”it wouldn’t be personal.”

Goldberg is invariably the one to make the next approach: ”I was raised to search out the familiar in the stranger, on the theory that we are all alike. I looked for the familiar in Rafiq, and found it.” The almost pathetic one-sidedness of this friendship, the need to be accepted, liked and understood not only by Rafiq but by other, less moderate political enemies (”I was fascinated by them”) would be almost moving if it didn’t point so obviously back to the old trauma of the rejection by the anti-Semitic bullies in that Long Island playground. Beneath the physical pain and the humiliation, there was always the perennial Jewish question: Why don’t they like me?

Of course, Rafiq doesn’t have this problem. Rafiq has a proper fear of God and a respect for his place in the natural order, as an Arab and a Muslim. His “analytic academic’s dispassion” is a tool, not a ball-and-chain.

But when the pillar of one’s identity has been an object of ruthless, near-universal execration for centuries at a stretch, it becomes an inherent shonda that results in an American Jew, who has the pride and the nerve to enlist in the IDF, nevertheless running home to author a faggoty paean to his would-be murderer. He wanted so badly to “become an Israeli”, but all he needed to do was starch his proverbial shirt a little and there’d have been no need to be anybody but who he is, free and clear, and comfortable. The lesson that Goldberg should’ve taken from Rafiq Hijazi is that it’s possible to confront an enemy dispassionately. For when we harbor a proper respect for God’s ultimate discretion, we don’t need to go chasing power like Harvey Weinstein, or acceptance, like Jeffrey Goldberg, or peace, like Edgar Bronfman—because we’ll know that, as much as possible, we already have it.




Reductio ad Iudaeoram, Pt. IV

Grounded by self-loathing

(Part I here, Part II here, Part III here, Part V here)

One upshot to the profusion of online Hitler sympathy this past decade is that it shows how brittle American liberal indoctrination really is, despite its insidiousness. Of course, it also shows that older habits tend to die harder.

To wit: every now and again some earnest little yid blogger pokes his head up on an alt-right podcast and tries to explain that we’re not all that bad—while agreeing that indeed, we are all that bad. Contrition itself is supposed to be a point in the Jews’ defense.

Now, if anyone’s experience tells them that Jews tend to be oily, pushy, loud, verbose, solipsistic, dissembling and cheap, well…. They can join the club: so does mine (although only the first five apply to me). But when we refer here to anti-semitism, what we mean is the full-retard pamphleteering variety:


There may be human types that experience tells us to be wary of, and so we are—end of story. Self-defense, after all, is a dish best served sparingly, and cold. But for the full-retard anti-ZOG pamphleteer, that isn’t enough. Instead, they feel compelled to go on and on uncovering and examining evidence, rationalizing their suspicions, promulgating their findings, convincing and re-convincing themselves.

A self-proclaimed wise man (we’ll discuss him here, momentarily) once said that a people that’s been persecuted for 2,000 years is doing something wrong. A certain Luke would beg to differ that being persecuted necessarily means you’re in the wrong, but he didn’t much like Jews, either. In any case, a people that beats those kinds of odds has also got to be doing something right.

So you might think it would be worthwhile for the Jews’ own sake to at least engage with our worst critics and try to learn something from them; that conceding part of their argument signals transparency and introspection that might be reciprocated. In certain isolated cases that may be correct. But such nuanced public hesitance to fully recognize an enemy as an enemy can only play as sycophancy and, as Jabotinsky once noted, a man who’s ever-willing to turn out his pockets and consent to a search is only liable to elicit suspicion and scorn. Indeed, when you reach out to full-retard anti-semites (lots of those abroad in the world nowadays) what you’re almost invariably going to find is that the burden of proof falls exclusively upon you. Your every overture is taken both as subterfuge and servility. Your every word short of utter self-abnegation amounts to proof of incorrigibility, no matter what you’ve conceded. There is literally nothing to prove to these types.

In the comments section of our last installment I got into a dust-up with a pair of them. Their M.O. is to harp all the time on yids and yiddishkeit as an unparalleled pox, devote a whopping proportion of their blogs (or whatever materials) to the complicity of Jews in systems of power, and when you point out that this is myopic, they howl that you’re mischaracterizing their views, because of course there are other factors in play—and they never denied it.

Again, you may presume that openness to debate with these types is healthy, that you share alt-right or far-left concerns about the complicity of Jews in systems of power you oppose, but that’s never how anti-semites see you, and the only effective way to deal with ridicule and execration is to ignore it or give it right back. Full-retard anti-semitism (right or left) is not about opposing systems of power per se; rather, it is the vocation of finding fault with yidden. It’s a manichaean template that confers total absolution from shame, and earnestness is poison when you’re dealing with a shameless interlocutor. As soon as you give him the time of day, you’re taking on all the shame in the equation.

Take, for example, the following aside (~29:00-30:00) from alt-right agitator Mike Enoch on an episode of The Daily Shoah podcast. He’s talking about the HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm:

We had this conversation today where we were talking about Larry David, that fucking stupid show where he runs around being Jewish…. and someone [some fellow anti-semite] was like, ‘Oh no, but it’s hilarious because he’s so Jewish [that] he’s fucking over even other Jews.‘ And I’m like, yeah, but at some point I just want to be done with this Jewish psychological shit, I don’t want to be sucked into this world of the Jewish fucking inner turmoil, I just want to be done with it.

Um…. excuse me? You guys are the ones with a three-times weekly podcast called The Daily Shoah (“shoah”=Hebrew for holocaust) that’s going on its 200th episode at 2+ hours apiece, and in every single one, you discuss Jews at length. No schtick fatigue? I get that plutocrats and media mandarins are disproportionately Jewish, that such power ought to be accessible to satire, and I admire the alt-right’s irreverence, but…. You “want to be done“? The fuck outta here. What would you even do with yourselves at that point?

Someone who claims to have caught a whiff of sulfuric old Beelzebub is liable to be reminded that whoever smelt it dealt it. Yet the self-flagellating little yid blogger guest on the podcast ends up agreeing with Enoch about yiddishkeit in showbiz: “Right, this is 2% of the population, why is this the thing that’s being constantly put in front of us?” I don’t know, why are there so goddamned many steers in Texas? In the words of the great Marshall McLuhan: if you’re seeing it, it’s for you. Someone got you straightjacketed to a theater seat? Lots of options what to watch nowadays. Last I checked, HBO is premium cable. So I’ve heard a lot of anti-semitic tropes in my day, but as these things go, “wanting to be done with the Jewish inner turmoil” that’s “sucking me in” is revealingly bizarre.

Speaking of Jewish inner turmoil, in our last couple installments we learned, via blogger Henry Makow (a deeply conflicted Jew) about the global Satanic bankers’ conspiracy. We conceded that in all likelihood such a thing exists (more or less) and asked: who in the hell would be in favor of it? Well, we happen to know of a handful of eminently likely candidates. As it happens, one of the more prominent is a Jew: Henry Kissinger.

Like any essential characteristic, Jewishness is utterly intractable—once deposited, it cannot be withdrawn. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it. So what was ol’ Heinrich’s take?

Ambivalence would be a generous way to describe it. The denigrating comments about the Jews that Kissenger has let slip over the years, particularly the ones on the Nixon tapes, are well known. There’s no question that on a number of occasions he leveraged his position in the Nixon administration to help Israel, but he had to be sneaky about it, and in any case, for the most part he disliked the Israelis intensely. They made yiddishkeit conspicuous—they just didn’t share his abashedness. Kissinger, on the other hand, was a Jew maneuvering in the WASP power structure of a WASP society, and he felt the need to live his yiddishkeit down. In fact, he was so conspicuous with these efforts that in 1976 he was actually excommunicated by the supreme rabbinic body in the United States.

What kind of miserable creature evinces no pride—evinces shame—in his own essential characteristics? As his Nixon administration colleague John Ehrlichman (the son of a German-Jewish convert to Christian Scientism) put it, “For Kissinger, being Jewish was a vulnerability as he saw it, and he was not fond of being vulnerable.” Evidently, Kissinger was after power, immense power, and he got it, at the cost of some self-abnegation. It is the position of this blog that compromise on fundamentals is never worthwhile, but no one can deny that Henry Kissinger has been living quite well this past half-century.

Indeed, other Jewish-descended Americans in comparable positions of power have abnegated their heritage to a much higher degree. President Reagan’s half-Jewish defense secretary, Caspar Weinberger—who identified conspicuously as an Episcopalian—was widely regarded as hostile to Israel, and turned out to be instrumental in brokering a deal that crippled Israeli defense aerospace independence (although his Jewish deputy Dov Zakheim played a role in this as well). Nixon’s defense secretary, James R. Schlesinger, a Jewish-born convert to Lutheranism, went so far as to oppose Nixon’s re-supply of Israel during the 1973 War, the moment of greatest mortal danger to the Jewish state as a whole in all of its history. It can be argued that Jewishness represents a conflict of interest that necessitates these kinds of exculpatory gestures on the part of American Jews, but revulsion for one’s own kind is never a healthy sign.



Reductio ad Iudaeoram, Pt. III

We are all Palestinians

(Part I here, Part II here; Part IV here, Part V here)

Almost all Palestinians who fink on other Palestinians to the Israeli security services do so in a limited manner under some form of duress. At worst, they do it for money. Mosab Hassan Yousef, on the other hand, is the only Palestinian to have betrayed his people wholesale, and voluntarily. This is typical: most peoples can count their historic traitors on one hand. After all, betraying us won’t make you one of them. It only nullifies you.

Essential human qualities—those that come from before—are intractable. Others define them for us. The best we can do is to live out the verdict with dignity. Do Jews tend to manage this very well? I’d laugh, but there’s a stabbing pain in my ribcage.

In our previous installment, we were introduced to one Henry Makow, a Jew who, though he isn’t exactly an apostate, feels anything but warm and fuzzy about his heritage. Mr. Makow runs a conspiracy webzine where he alleges that, because (1) prominent Jews and Jewish interests are complicit in a global Satanic bankers’ conspiracy, (2) conspicuous Jewish opposition to that conspiracy would conciliate anti-semitism. Leaving aside certain matters of detail, I’ll readily concede the first of his two contentions. What about the second one?

Well, we know for a fact that there is indeed conspicuous Jewish opposition to the planetary managerial class. There are Jews who denounce the powers that be, in part or in whole. There are Jewish conspiracy theorists of Makow’s ilk. There are even Jews who beat their breasts conspicuously, denounce Zionism wholesale and condemn Jewishness and Judaism in all its forms but the most prophetical, pusillanimous and pacifistic.

Does any of this ameliorate anti-semitism? Of course not. Anti-semitism is the conviction that Jewishness itself is immutable and fundamentally odious. From that perspective, Jewish opposition to any or all of the powers that be, and even to Zionism, is taken as strategic retreat, controlled opposition or ethnic obfuscation; a Jew’s every word short of utter self-abnegation equals dissembling, or proof of incorrigibility—for chrissakes, that’s Internet 101.

For a good illustration of this logic, I’ve dug up an article from an alt-right blog called Aryan Skynet, entitled “Global Rat-Perch: Jewish Misdirection in the Work of Michel Chossudovsky.”

Chossudovsky is an academic and the editor of an anti-war, anti-neoliberal web journal called Global Research. The authors of the article first commend Chossudovsky for his anti-war reporting, but they take him to task for his analysis of Israeli involvement in Western imperialism, which they feel is overly lax toward Israel:

Chossudovsky acknowledges the existence of Israel’s nuclear arsenal and its collusion with the U.S.; but, for him, “Tel Aviv is not a prime mover” for intervention against Iran and “does not have a separate and distinct military agenda” from that of the Pentagon. Israel, for Chossudovsky, is only “part of a military alliance” – practically a pawn – that might “be used by Washington to justify, in the eyes of world opinion, a military intervention of the U.S. and NATO with a view to ‘defending Israel’, rather than attacking Iran.”

“Israel cannot launch a war against Iran without Washington’s consent. Hence the importance,” Chossudovsky avers, “of the so-called ‘Green Light’ legislation in the U.S. Congress sponsored by the Republican party under House Resolution 1553, which explicitly supports an Israeli attack on Iran.”

“In practice,” he continues, “the proposed legislation was a ‘green light’ to the White House and the Pentagon rather than to Israel” and “constitutes a rubber stamp to a U.S.-sponsored war on Iran which uses Israel as a…. pretext.”

Of course, if that ever happens, the gentlemen at Aryan Skynet will immediately cease scoffing at the possibility and promptly develop amnesia. But it’s perfectly plausible that the US inner-elite has long term plans involving the removal of the present Iranian regime, that their reasons are different from Israel’s, and that Israel is the junior—and more malleable—party to the partnership. If so, then it’s obvious that Iranian aggression toward Israel will be the most likely pretext for US action. But that’s not what Chossudovsky is alleging.

The authors are correct that Chossudovsky ignores manifest Israeli interests when it comes to Iran—that’s because he doesn’t even credit the Israelis with having their own interests. When a leftist yid doesn’t recognize Jewish power, it’s because he’s not terribly interested in Jewish power. Instead, he’s mired in moralism and victimology:

The real culprits, Chossudovsky alleges, are the “Anglo-American oil giants.”

“The U.S.-led war in the broader Middle East Central Asian region consists in gaining control over more than sixty percent of the world’s reserves of oil and natural gas.” The best the professor can produce in the way of evidence for his claim is a Clinton-era National Security Statement citing the strategic interest of the U.S. in ensuring the security of Middle East oil reserves.

Well, that’s not bad evidence, and if it’s all Chossudovsky cites, it doesn’t mean there’s no additional evidence of long-term US geostrategic designs on the Eurasian landmass and its natural resources, designs to which Israeli concerns would obviously be subordinate. But if the authors of this critique can’t recognize Gentile powers and the interests of those parties, it’s because they, too are mired in moralism and victimology:

Dr. James Petras and Muhammad Idrees Ahmad have already lain this lamestream liberal canard to rest. “Through its all-out campaign in the U.S. Congress and Administration,” Petras observes in his book The Power of Israel in the United States, “the U.S.-Jewish-Israeli lobby has created a warlike climate which now goes counter to the interests of all the world’s major oil companies including BP, the UK-based gas company, SASOL (South Africa), Royal Dutch Shell, Total of France, and others.” Chossudovsky is not unaware of the work of Dr. Petras; he is simply engaging in racial and ideological obfuscation.

The oil companies—victims of ethnic obfuscation! I guess that’s one industry not controlled by yids.

Clearly, the authors mistake the mere existence of a counter-argument for a refutation. But if they can detect a dearth of evidence behind Chossudovsky’s claims, why can’t they extend the same incredulity to Petras? Anti-semitism is a deeply cultural legacy. Is a scholar of Catholic background less subject to such biases than the Jew, Chossudovsky? His blood be upon us and upon our children….

Anybody? Bueller?

As for the putatively authoritative role of the U.S. Congress that Chossudovsky cites as evidence of Israel’s lack of agency in America’s foreign policy agenda, that is only a sickening joke in consideration of the fact that those in the know have for decades acknowledged that Israel’s U.S. lobby, AIPAC, grips the House and Senate.

Lemme get this straight: a whore can’t have more than one regular customer? But Chossudovsky doesn’t say Congress is authoritative, he says they gave a rubber stamp.

In any case, Israel’s total GDP was $318.7 billion last year; ExxonMobile’s net worth is $486.4 billion. If the latter’s exertions in lobbying Congress (or those of the aerospace defense industry, or any of the myriad interests behind American imperialism) are less conspicuous than Israel’s, maybe it’s because no intrepid scholars specialize in publishing salacious broadsides characterizing them as the one sinister key to understanding global politics. But speaking of “lack of agency,” if the US enjoys effective veto power over Israel’s most sensitive defense priorities, and Congress is not authoritative, then Israeli lobbying efforts in Congress indicate a rather desperate negotiating position, and the difference between US leverage over Israel (on the one hand) and Israeli influence on the US (on the other) is the difference between a nutsack and a pubic hair.

Reductio ad iudaeoram. It’s the unifying principle of the alt-right; at the street level of the Bush-era anti-war movement it was every part of the iceberg but the tip.

Certainly Aryan Skynet and Colin Kaepernick and George Lopez and Linda Sarsour and whoever keeps authoring all the “We need to talk about white males” clickbait are each aroused by some inchoate sense of life’s unfairness they were never warned about, and want to feel that there are readily identifiable culprits behind it. But if you’re eager to flatter your own intelligence with these monocausal analyses, and can’t tell the difference between necessary and sufficient conditions, then no matter how eviscerating your psychoanalytic template may be (the work of Kevin MacDonald doesn’t entirely qualify, but we’ll get to that….), the party misdirecting you is not the obscure likes of a Michel Chossudovsky—it is you. Myopic, autonomic obscurantism: this is the danger of anti-semitism. If you think the JQ is the rug that really ties the room together, you’re easily impressed.

All this brings us to an obvious question we neglected earlier: who in the hell would be in favor of a Satanic bankers’ conspiracy, and what is their relationship to the Jews?


Reductio ad Iudaeoram, Pt. II

Gaydar hyperdrive

(Part I here, Part III here, Part IV here, Part V here)

I would like to be wealthy, and in better shape. I certainly wouldn’t want to be homeless, or obese.

There are many things that I would like to be, and many things that I would not like to be, but to the extent that there’s anything essential in a human being, something that precedes him, what I want more than anything is to be exactly what I am. I would never want to not be what I am, or to be something else, because that would be a sign of illness.

I want to acquaint you, if you aren’t already familiar, with one Henry Makow, the proprietor of a ranty-ravey webzine concerned with exposing the Illuminati conspiracy, particularly its Jewish elements (Mr. Makow is a deeply conflicted Jew). Here is Mr. Makow’s take on anti-semitism:

Well, you cannot be a Christian if you’re involved in a Satanic conspiracy, but we know what Makow means by “Christian”: he means Gentiles. WASPs, to be precise, and probably also some descendants of traditionally Catholic ethnic groups. Once involved in a Satanic conspiracy, these people lose their essential (or vestigial) Christianity. The same cannot be said of Jewishness, of course, because Jews are a race. But if no one accuses Makow of being anti-WASP when he condemns the Rockefellers, it’s because Makow doesn’t conclude that the prominence of WASPs in this conspiracy implicates all WASPs—nor does he seem to view anyone but Jews as having a need to redeem their national reputation by opposing this conspiracy, even though he has said that the vast majority of Jews aren’t involved in it. Is Makow at least correct in assuming that opposition to it on the part of Jews would mitigate anti-semitism? Of course he isn’t.

Perhaps another exhibit will illustrate why not.

Mosab Hassan Yousef is the son of a high-level Hamas operative, one who spent decades in Israeli prisons. He spent decades in Israeli prisons because his son ratted him out. You see, Mosab Hassan Yousef is known for defecting to Israel as an informant, and later immigrating to the United States, converting to Christianity, and authoring a tell-all about his experience, which he has promoted on various television shows.

To give you a very precise idea of where Mr. Yousef stands when it comes to the Israeli-Arab conflict, here he is speaking before the UN Human Rights Council as they deliberate about one of their monthly or weekly resolutions condemning Israel:

Now, as a Zionist, I badly want to relish what Mr. Yousef is telling the committee—but I can’t.

It isn’t that what he says is not true—most of it is, and the part that is true constitutes a neglected message that needs to be heard loud and clear: the PLO is indeed a retrograde kleptocracy, thuggish even in comparison with Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. But it is not “the greatest enemy of the Palestinian people,” that’s ridiculous. The greatest enemy of the Palestinian people is Israel, and Mosab Hassan Yousef may be right in every single one of his criticisms of Islam, the Arabs, and the various Palestinian factions. But when all is said and done, this is a man who betrayed his people, his family, his faith, and helped their mortal national adversaries imprison his own father. And now he lets himself be used as a marionette, because there’s no other kind of existence left for him but that of a stool pigeon.

As a Zionist, am I pleased that Yousef helped the Israeli authorities prevent attacks on Jews? Of course I am. I am very pleased by it, I’m even grateful to him. Yet when I look at Mosab Hassan Yousef, I can only feel total revulsion, because what I see is a faggot—and not just because of his textbook gayface. The simple fact is, Mosab Hassan Yousef is a worm, a complete betrayer, the type for whom Dante reserved the lowest circle of hell. We’re not talking about simple political betrayal, either—he’s not a North Korean who defected to the South. This guy betrayed his own blood, not just his family or his people but himself, his heritage, and everything that’s essential about him. As a Zionist, I can absolutely relate to a Palestinian irredentist who’s willing to bleed me bleach-white in the name of his worthy God and his lost homeland. I can respect that, even if I can’t tolerate it. But as much as I want to like him, a Mosab Hassan Yousef is intolerable to my soul.




Reductio ad Iudaeoram, Pt. I

Valerie Plame

Jewed for life

(Part II here, Part III here, Part IV here, Part V here)

“What have the Jews not done to prove that they do not stick together?” (Menachem Begin)

This week witnessed media coverage of author and former CIA agent Valerie Plame, who provoked some controversy when she tweeted an article from Unz Review titled, “America’s Jews are Driving America’s Wars.” Plame subsequently apologized and resigned in disgrace from a spook-tank called Ploughshares Fund.

Uncouth though she may have been, what’s interesting about this little kerfuffle is that Plame did nothing more than express the establishment position. Of course it can be a matter of degrees, but to assert in a major publication or on a university campus that Israel and her US supporters exercise critical, undue influence on US mideast policy has been uncontroversial for quite some time. I even recall an episode of The Simpsons making a joke to this effect as long ago as the late 1990s. (If I ever find the clip, I’ll hyperlink it.)

If, on the other hand, you really want to know who is running this country, how, and what for, it can be done with surprising ease. So too can Israeli meddling in US domestic affairs be explained with simple common sense: i.e., in order to mitigate overbearing US meddling in their affairs, the Israelis are leveraging the inertia of the American system just like other foreign actors, they just require more brainpower, man-hours and connections to accomplish what others can get done less conspicuously.

Somehow this escapes people, even just as a possibility—the tendency to think in terms of stark moral dichotomies is deeply ingrained. For example: in my hometown, I am known as a Zionist. My father’s family is Jewish, and as a youth I served in the Israeli army. High school classmates and family friends all thought that this was highly eccentric, and in a way I suppose it was. Well, after spending almost four years in Israel, I returned to the US for a year, at a time when Israel was making more headlines than usual, and I was often asked by otherwise very thoughtful people what compelling interest America could possibly have in sticking its neck out for Israel.

Think about the extent of training that impels people to interpret events in this manner. You have to assume at least some of the following: that the US power elite acts (1) altruistically, not just incidentally or as a pretext but in a fundamentally altruistic way; (2) that it acts as a unified whole; (3) that to the extent it can ascertain and arrive at consensus regarding its interests, it acts against them; (4) that except under extraordinary circumstances, the interests of the power elite approximate the interests of the citizenry; and (5) that the involvement of non-Jews in contravening those interests is incidental—as if the interests of American Jews differ significantly from those of the general public, and as though US Jews would tend on the whole to understand this well. Yet we know that their divorce, apostasy and exogamous marriage rates track well over 50%—not to mention childlessness and homosexuality—and poll data shows them expressing ambivalence (at best) about Israel and Zionism, and supporting Palestinian aspirations to statehood by margins of around 60%. So this idea that, due to Jewish pressure, an otherwise cohesive and sober American elite is sticking its neck out for Judaism with no corresponding ROI is pedestrian wisdom masquerading as radical, taboo and esoteric.

In any case, US aid to Israel accounts for about 0.7% of the overall US defense budget ($5 billion versus $640 billion annually). Zionism has as little to do with America’s wars as Lutheranism. The question is, why would that be so counter-intuitive for so well-informed an insider as Valerie Plame? She may only be a lackey, but she’s got to know a thing or two about how the system works.

According to her Twitter profile, “Valerie is a wife, mother of twins, author, anti-nuclear activist, and a former covert CIA ops officer.” In other words, she’s a legally blond soccer mom in the big city. Clearly none of her covert assignments can possibly have involved risking her life. What her CIA career likely involved instead were diplomatic intrigues and make-work analyses. But while nothing a CIA agent (former or otherwise) says can be taken at face value, it does seem as though Plame was very deliberate in tweeting the article. For one thing, she didn’t have to, and there was personal cost involved. In tweeting her subsequent mea culpa she pled ignorance of the article’s contents:

I skimmed this piece, zeroed in on the neocon criticism, and shared it without seeing and considering the rest. I missed gross undercurrents to this article & didn’t do my homework on the platform this piece came from.

This is not only implausible, but irrelevant. I mean, “undercurrents”? The headline reads “America’s Jews are Driving America’s Wars.” In the same Twitter thread, Plame tweeted that, “in the past, I have also carelessly retweeted articles from this same site”—clearly she’s well aware of “the platform this piece came from.” Clearly, Plame wants to believe that America’s Jews are behind America’s wars. The question is, why?

Certainly Plame is no innocent lamb when it comes to America’s toxic impact in the world. You don’t even have to be a covert intel operative to know that Congress just proposed a $640 billion defense budget for 2018, a $37 billion increase over the Trump administration’s $603 billion request for the same year and a $57.3 billion increase over the Obama administration’s $582.7 billion defense budget for the prior year. America’s Jews are driving this?

If so, it hardly makes sense that Valerie Plame would condemn them for it, because she can hardly regard the US as anything but a force for good in spite of its all worts. To consider other possibilities would be to confess venality. Ms. Plame, after all, is a product and lifelong servant of the system, and it’s axiomatic that machiavellianism tends to fly under cover of sanctimony. So if resources are placed at the disposal of bad ideas on the basis of bad intelligence, it cannot be because the system itself is oriented toward evil ends—on the contrary, it can only be because some malevolent, alien element has corrupted the otherwise well-intended administration of this exceptional polity. There ought to be a law, a committee, a spirited public debate! But if that doesn’t change anything, then it’s the omelet itself and not this or that aspect of the egg-breaking that would have to be condemned, or condoned—and who’s got the decisiveness for that?

Much more convenient—and well-precedented—to blame the Jews wholesale. But Valerie Plame—neé Plamevotski—is kinda, sorta…. Jewish. What makes Jews denounce their own kind like this? It’s kind of a running phenomenon. Stay tuned for our next installment…..




The Face of Evil


Turning and turning in the loosening, uh…. gyre


In college I took two semesters of honors Western Civ from an excellent and charismatic instructor who identified very strongly as a Catholic, but also as a dyed-in-the-wool and fairly doctrinaire progressive—not just egalitarian, internationalist, and socialist (which are consistent with Church teaching), but pro-abortion and pro-gay/trans (which aren’t).

On the last day of the second semester, an odd thing happened. By way of farewell, our instructor said some heartfelt words to the class, then recited WB Yeats’ “The Second Coming.” After he got done, he said, “This class is about the power of an idea whose time has come.”

Now, there’s no way to read “The Second Coming” as anything but cold-blooded reactionary, and stubbornly anti-Christian—so why should this man have given pride of place to a poem that goes directly against the twin prongs of his episteme? Was I missing something? I made a mental note. I happened to agree with Yeats, but I liked my professor so much that for years, the thought simply never occurred to me: everything Yeats regarded as evil, my professor thinks is good—so good that with full, shameless cognizance, he felt it not only appropriate but sage to press old William Butler’s prosecutorial brief, kicking and screaming, into the service of a criminal defense.


My wife is Russian Orthodox Christian—irreligious, but wants our youngest son baptized. For her, the sacrament is a tradition that harkens to her ancestral past. But when we went to the nearest Russian Orthodox church for Sunday services, it was the future that confronted us. None other than a dredlocked and tattooed negro cantor was struggling to chant through the liturgy, in English, with the vituperative cadence of rap music. He regarded us, smirking through those swivel eyes capable of registering only suspicion, incomprehension and conceit, as if to say this tradition belongs to him as much as anyone—and of course, he’s right. His woman, also dredlocked, was standing in the front with a gaggle of frog-faced spawn, all dressed in the rastafarian frocks and flip-flops of those batshit nigger separatist cults that never really want to separate.

Clearly pleased with this painfully awkward specimen, the priest introduced him to us after services. By his adopted, pseudo-African name, of course. For (I suppose) he has his reward.

The Help


House nigga 4 lyfe

The argument that black celebrities can’t possibly have grounds to complain about being black in America—because they’re rich—is a sophomoric bit of conservative boilerplate. But then, the absurd protocol that black perspectives be treated as more valid because black experience is somehow realer than others is equally tiresome. The morning headlines all insist on some variation of “Ice Cube schooled Bill Maher about white privilege,” but I wonder (not really) if it occurs to Mr. Cube that he was giving Maher moral cover by going on Real Time and calling him out.

Of course I’m not talking about a morality that I personally concur with; taboos against words can only elicit my sympathy for the sentiment that’s being repressed (naughty, naughty). So for example, I wouldn’t get too worked up if an Ice Cube were to rap, “You can’t be the Nigga 4 Life crew/with a white Jew telling you what to do.” In fact, Ice Cube did rap these lyrics, shortly after NWA broke up.

Now, ‘Jew’ and ‘white’ are clearly meant in the pejorative there, and it wasn’t the first or last time Ice Cube rapped anti-white, anti-Jewish or anti-Asian invective—which is not only excused but lauded in the NPR article linked above. So you can recapitulate the bollocks dogma that the N-word is more hateful because the black experience in America is uniquely unfair—in a way that’s totally unfathomable to non-blacks. But who I am is presumably as important to me as Ice Cube’s identity is to him, and I would be well within the electric fence of conventional cant to take umbrage, I just wouldn’t get anywhere because black resentment is more useful and (above all) malleable to elites than the white or Korean or even the Jewish varieties. After all, if you unreflectingly give people enough power that they can obligate you to respond to little trigger phrases like a marionette, then you’re a silly cunt and a weakling. Clearly, Ice Cube—a public image gangster who’s actually a pot bellied, noodle-armed little man in his late forties who lives in a gated community—sees things differently, and that’s his business. But by calling out Maher he’s reinforcing the entertainment industry pecking order he referenced in that song we just quoted from back in the 1990s.

This is not a spurious complaint, by the way. If I wanted to go all Irv Rubin and start calling in bomb threats to Farrakhan, I’d still have to admit the man’s got a perfectly valid point about Jews in the media. The fact is, a black actor or entertainer can only ever be a commodity in Hollywood, whereas a white Jewish comedian can conceivably reach a level—like Jon Stewart, Jerry Seinfeld, or Bill Maher—where he becomes an institution, an arbiter as opposed to a mere influencer of tastes and discourse, and a near-equal to real decision makers, who’re all Jews.

So Ice Cube can stroll into Real Time studios affecting as hard an image as he wants. The more indignant the better because, again, he was being used by Maher for moral cover. Public figures as powerful as US Senators have been taken down for saying nigger; obviously Maher has powerful protection. Again, the morning headlines all say Ice Cube “schooled” him, but if it matters to Ice Cube on any level what comes out of horse’s ass Bill Maher’s mouth then he’s a silly shit. “Please Missa Jewman, please don’t be using that o-ffensive language when you be referring to us black folk. We sho’ would be grateful. Nigga 4 Life crew, ya heard!?! You just been schooled.” This is why, according to the oligarchs and their marionettes, uttering nigger is what passes for unacceptable injustice in a world of actual slavery.

To say that Ice Cube is a hypocrite for taking offense at Maher’s salty language after making a career glorifying drugs and pea-brained street violence would be another bit of sophomoric conservative boilerplate. I think it’s true, but so what? Hearst/Viacom/Zuckerberg say that one thing’s more offensive than another, and who am I to argue? It’s not my country, I don’t make the rules. I just wonder, with all the bloviating we tend to hear about irrational white wariness of blackness from all these three-named, Jew-approved horse’s ass black intellectuals (Marc Lamont Hill, Michael Eric Dyson, Ta Nehisi Coats, who can even tell the difference?) will it make black performers who bank on mean-mugging “jack-yo’-shit” yippity-yap—or their shithead street acolytes—feel any better to know there are whites who don’t take their bravado or their hurt feelings seriously? I won’t hold my breath waiting for an answer.

Jumping the Great Whitegeist: the Alt-Right Viewed from the Right


“You guys feel like going for frozen yogurt?”

“The goyim know?” Bitch, please. Naming is the origin of all particular things, the medium is the message, and—as yours truly predicted—the alt-right is looking a little overcooked nowadays. Yes, thought trends have a life of their own, but brands are destined for tombstones.

The simple fact is, the alt-right is slave morality, and sooner or later, everyone gets tired of listening to bitching and moaning. Other than that, what does the alt-right offer its prospective constituency? Shits and giggles. Circle jerking. Bupkis. The conviction that bloviating is tantamount to action is a peculiar, late-20th century misapprehension, precisely the plush-doll American dream that Occupy Bernie and the alt-right both thought they were rejecting. Onward! The affairs of strangers must be meddled in. I’m all for realism (and vigilantism) in the face of swarthy Idiocracy, but…. an “ethnostate”? How very postmodern. Will there be spandex cycling shorts and fair-trade organic light roast for all us “conquerors and crusaders”? And how, exactly, does getting arrested and bricks thrown at you by Antifa harm (how does it not help) the plutocracy, the MSM, SPLC, “und so weiter”? I know, I know, Never doubt that a small, full-retard vanguard can change the world, and I wish you the best of luck. Come at me personally with that febrile Jewology you like to horrify nursing home yentas with on the Forward comments section and I’ll give your plebeian ass a Greco-Roman colonoscopy like I was Meyer Lansky. But hey, Richard Spencer says it’ll help you get your ideas out, right?

Don’t get me wrong—Spencer’s incisive, he’s got pluck, and neofascism is an overdue rejoinder to the empiricist hubris, intellectual courtesanship and mercenary behaviorism of TED Talk America. The Aryan race is indeed on the ropes, and I quite agree that this is a catastrophe. It’s just that (1) I don’t pick who gets a Darwin award, and (2) as a political program, the alt-right jumps the shark. To wit,

I asked [Spencer] whether I, as someone who is half-Chinese but had a classical Western education, would fit within his group… “I’m a generous guy,” he told me. “If you truly identify with our people, I would not have any problem with that.” But there were genetic deal breakers. “A full-blooded African, no matter how wonderful he might be—I’m not sure that would really work.” (Graeme Wood, Atlantic Monthly, June 2017)

How’s that for “freedom of association“? The pompousness here is far worse than the bigotry. It may be half-joking, but it can never be more than half-serious.

But to its credit, until just before the election the alt-right was the last bastion of real, uncöopted social satire. I mean, what’s less relevant today than SNL? Lately the dominant, left-liberal paradigm begets only humorless ideological directives and “validation” of skin-crawling peccadillos. Like aging pop-stars, Saudi oil-wells and boomer entitlements, the legacy media is an obsolete investment being defended with increasing shamelessness:


Even its Silicon Valley supersessionist heirs (whom you’d think would display more independence of thought, Lord knows they’ve got the requisite leverage) cling to its mid-20th century CFR ideological commitments, such that criminal syndicates that reject the premise get more leeway than political opponents who accept it:


Under the spreading chestnut tree….

Speaking of Vice, myriad popular online outlets affect a cutting-edge veneer these days, but a good general rule is that the more lurid and higher-budget the content, the more wholly owned are its producers by the planetary managerial class. The biggest backers of Vice, for instance, are BofA, Disney, George Soros and Rupert Murdoch. This brackish scene deserves the vilest ridicule, the most acerbic satirization, but there’d be no funding for that, for the same reason nobody ever invades Switzerland. The powerless don’t leverage power, it leverages them, and all the penny-ante social media antics in the world won’t get the alt-right’s fingers unstuck from the pearly gates of the Big Time.

Which is too bad, because some of the most incisive, iconoclastic shit I’ve read or heard in my life was spoken at NPI conferences or published on Radix Journal circa pre-Trump. When the point was to express these ideas (not just expand the audience for them), they were exhilarating. Now that the antiseptic media klieg lights have warmed the alt-right’s obligingly exposed butt cheeks, the fact can’t be concealed that vindictive, half-witted, pathos-laden language (not to mention dry, committee-meeting type knit-picking about activist strategies and doctrinal purity) is rife on Counter-Currents, Radix, TRS, Red Ice and Occidental, and this click-hungry humorlessness has diffused throughout the alt-right punchbowl as the imperative to justify itself to outsiders eclipses insider ribaldry. So what portends the Kali Yuga is not Jews or loose women, it is you, i.e., the inexorable pull that novelty and power exert upon the human psyche, which is why Evola’s advice was to ride the tiger, not stick your head in its mouth.

How sad to be peddling an ethos of order, hierarchy and opposition to commercial vulgarity in the .25 cents’ admission Imagination Land of new media, only to get mere first world pushback as they traffic in ideologies that really punished thought-crime. Now that they’ve had their fifteen minutes, the little D-list leadership will spend the rest of their lives panhandling like a one-hit wonder performing at an Indian casino, “Remember me? Just ten grand more to meet our goals this season.” Even Milo was writing interesting columns as recently as 2015, before the Twitter ban and his election year transition to full-time attention-whoring. Spencer’s criticisms of him are apt, and blissfully un-self-conscious.

So the problem with the 2016 NPI conference wasn’t the menace or poor taste of the coy sieg heiling, it was the quivering bunghole that compliments the kind of toast Spencer delivered. I mean, “Children of the Sun”? That’s what the Times was calling a Nuremberg rally? Sounds more like a Maya Angelou quote over a stock photo. Children of the fucking sun, why not “God’s Chosen People”? Take it from a tribesman, with that approach you’re going to be doing an awful lot of becoming, without ever being much of anything.


“Hail Trump! Hail our People! Hail victory!”

The fact that the bourgeois American WASP is an over-socialized, emotionally sterile cardboard cutout who masochistically enjoyed deferring this past seventy years to comparatively dysfunctional cultures that have a little more cut-loose panache than his own is as little discussed on the alt-right as Germany’s no-go zones are on MSNBC—though Spencer has acknowledged it, calling it “the white problem.” But to suppose Trump will arrest these developments significantly is pitifully gullible optimism. As Spencer told some pie-faced yenta at Rolling Stone, “I think we’ve leveraged ourselves in an incredible way, but at some point we need to cross the Rubicon and have a footprint.” Translation: OMG, this might even lead to an internship. In a duck costume. At a mall kiosk. For (in the words of the great Marshall McLuhan) when you gaze long into the Facebook, the Facebook gazes also into you.

Crypto-fascist, Crypto-Jew


Bro I wish

Part II of a series in progress….. Part I here, Part III forthcoming


When I was eighteen, I beat up a white power skinhead. My late-adolescent self-seeking had taken a schlocky, Daniel Deronda kind of turn, so any opportunity to defend Jewish honor I felt I had to take, no matter how contrived. I guess I fancied myself a little like the Jewboy Schwartz in Porky’s. 

Anyway, as I was standing with a gaggle of crust punks one weekday afternoon on a downtown corner across from the bus station, a sinewy little guy with a shorn pate and narrow mustache strolled up in boots, braces, beater and bomber, drew one of my punker compadres aside and transacted a drug deal inconspicuously. Then he started back on his way—that is, until I shoved him, hard, from behind. On that day I decided I would simply refuse to accept that neo-Nazis should make themselves visible.

He turned around to face me, breathing through his open mouth, his incisors streaked a scummy, bacterial yellow. He had grimy pores and crusted-over scabs, his fingers were nicotine stained and filthy under the nails. There were little SS lighting bolt runes tattooed on one side of his neck, an iron cross on the other.

I stepped forward and poked him in the chest. Fear flashed momentarily across his eyes but he steadied his gaze, grinning as he reached into his beater and flipped out a brass swastika on a long, thin chain around his neck. That was when I hauled off.

I managed to land a solid several thumps upside his noggin as he flailed, until suddenly he surged into me at chest level, Hail Mary-like—head down, forearms up blocking. He managed to back me up a few steps, grabbing me by the shirt collar as he poked his little radish head up to bite me, square on the nose. The shock of this lent him the further momentum to bare down and take me tumbling to the pavement, back first. I almost rolled him but he bore down hard again, straddling my chest as he tried to strangle me. He overplayed his hand, though: as he wound back to clock me point blank, I availed myself of the empty space between my sternum and his groin, gripped him square in the nether region with one hand and up under an armpit with the other, then pulled him sideways into my chest and flipped him square on his back.

I mounted, I grounded, I pounded. Quite often the toughness of recidivist scumbags has more to do with the capacity to absorb a beating than to mete one out. He struggled, quivering with desperate futility, like a live fish held down for gutting.

Then suddenly I heard a crisp “snap!” I thought the sound was his nose breaking, which it was. Although I didn’t feel the pain immediately, it would also turn out to be the distal metacarpals on my mean right shattering in several places each. The pain settled in a second later, as I looked down and noticed that my opponent, though conscious, had given up, and was bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth.

Just then, someone yelled “cops!”

I looked up to see two peace officers, a man and a woman, sprinting towards us down the sidewalk some fifty yards off. I hopped up, bolted and rounded the nearest corner. Within two blocks I’d completely lost my pursuers and cut through the parking lot of a gated condo complex to a corner hamburger shack on the other side that had a pay phone booth in its back parking lot, out of view of the street. My dad was just getting off work and I called him for a ride.


Awhile after that, once my broken hand had mended, I saw a member of the same local clique of white power skinheads strolling past me on the same downtown block. He was wearing a trucker hat on which he’d stenciled an iconic punk-rock anti-fascist symbol….


Only $12.99 on Angry, Young & Poor LMFAO

….only in his rendition, the stick figure was trashing a Star of David, not a swastika. I was so shocked by this meager display of literacy that I doubted what I had seen until he was well out of sight, but twenty minutes later he came back in the opposite direction with a slice of pizza in one hand.

As he passed by I snorted, ‘Nice hat.’ He turned to see who’d paid him the compliment and I mean-mugged him like I intended to do him harm. He froze, gazing back indecisively, whereupon I decked him in the face with my skateboard, an act I hadn’t planned nor even anticipated from myself. His pizza slice went flying as he dropped, hard, straight back. As soon as he hit the pavement he began seizing violently. I found out later that I had actually cracked his eye socket.

If you go out of your way to seriously insult strangers, you should probably be better prepared for a backlash than this guy was. But then, if you set out to harm everyone who says stuff you don’t like, you’d better know your limits a little better than I knew mine. I’d been reading a lot about the Irgun and Murder, Inc., but imitating them didn’t feel so good. I had beaten people with fists before, but this was the first time I used a weapon. In an instant I had become a more brutal creature than I realized I was, or ever had been. Frozen in shock, staring down at my victim, I experienced the disembodying sensation of a strong compassionate impulse concurrent with the realization that I had now forfeited my right to feel it. When I reemerged into linear time I heard shouting, and glanced up just soon enough to outrun bus station security.

I was less than six months out of high school then, and while I was heavily into pot and earning C grades at the local community college on my Jew-doctor daddy’s dime, my best friend Max (a goy, if you must know, and a profoundly goyische one, at that) was getting heavily into meth. He used to flop at a mutual friend’s apartment, where a female roommate was dating one of the skinheads, who also happened to be meth retailers. They would party there too, and crash on weekend nights. Word got back to me from Max that the White Power crew was looking for me and that their leader, a hardened ex-con by the nom de guerre of ‘Panther,’ had vowed to handle me personally. I didn’t know what Panther looked like, but he sounded fearsome.


At that time I was also running a moderately lucrative sideline in pot (re-upping weekly by the quarter-pound), and one of my occasional customers was a six-and-a-half foot homeless high-yellow, also an ex-con, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Lawrence Fishburne—pockmarks and all—and went by a nom de guerre of his own, ‘The Reverend.’

In some visceral, sub-conscious nether region I understood perfectly well how predatory blacks can be, but at that age the psychic patina of racial pathos and Pavlovian guilt-inculcation at the hands nearly two decades’ worth of Hollywood movies and civics lessons prevented me from metabolizing this information to the full benefit of my survival instincts. If defending Jewish honor was a legacy passion project, evasion of actual danger was a work in progress.

Perhaps intentionally, The Reverend dressed a lot like Morpheus from The Matrix, in a ratty trench coat over an unwashed hoodie, with greasy cargo pants and army boots. His hustle was fortune telling for racially solicitous post-pinko granolas at a card table he used to set up in front of a health food store on the downtown strip, with a purple velvet table cloth where he’d lay out crystals for sale. Obsequious in characteristically downtrodden-black fashion, with that opportunistic malice lurking plainly underneath, The Reverend used to call me ‘Young Buck,’ and I showed my appreciation for his backhanded flattery by over-weighing his twomp sacks by a half-gram. Sometimes I’d smoke a joint with him just to be friendly. I was listening to a lot of rap music at that age.

One day as I was making my rounds on the downtown strip, I passed by The Reverend’s tarot table when he hailed me. I was carrying a bag of fruits and vegetables I’d just purchased from the health food store. He asked if I had any bud for sale, and slid a twenty spot onto the table. I snapped up the bill, slid my backpack down one arm and fished out a half-eighth (about half a gram more than I normally charged twenty for). But The Reverend gave a pensive, dissatisfied grimace and deadpanned, ‘Now why you tryin’ ta short me, homie?’ My balls dropped a bit as it dawned on me exactly what The Reverend took me for—ironically, this Morpheus-lookalike kind of redpilled me that day. As I returned the weed to my backpack and tossed his twenty-spot back onto the table I told him, “Go fuck your mother you shitty fuckin’ nigger.” It was the first (and second to last) time in my life I availed myself of that epithet in the second person.

Well that must not’ve made The Reverend’s day, because no sooner had I made my way half a block up from where he sat than I heard someone murmur, “The fuck you say to me?” and when I looked back over my shoulder, there was The Reverend in hot pursuit. I turned, snarling to face him and he stopped about three feet shy of me.

The Reverend was fairly big. He probably could have fucked me up; he probably could have fucked me. A crowd gathered ’round as we stared each other down, but this didn’t register immediately. All that was going through my head was that fight-or-flight electric slow-mo, and while (relative to his size) I might not have had the ablest fight in me, there was no flight. On that day—in spite of the stifling, kumbaya college-town atmosphere and the gaping hipsters and granolas gathered ’round to spectate—I simply refused to accept that I owed a predatory hustler anything but flagrant contempt.

The Reverend looked around at the assembled throng and decided to go for a half-measure: kicking around the back of my shins in big circular motions, trying to trip me. I jumped, took a step back, and grabbed an apple out of the grocery bag I had dangling from my wrist. My side-hand curve went ‘thwap!’ upside The Reverend’s head and dropped to the sidewalk broken open, dripping juice; then I hurled another, and another, each one landing with a ‘thwap!’ as we danced around in circles like a folk jig, him still trying to trip me, until I was out of apples.

Realizing, I suppose, that this spectacle was liable to cost him business, after a minute or so The Reverend stopped, hung his head sullenly, and skulked back to his tarot table to pack up his things. As I moved on up the strip, the atmosphere around me seemed to inflate with a laden tingling of shame. Had anyone heard me say nigger? Would word get around? Would I now be labelled a racist?

In just a few short months, The Reverend had made himself such a figure in town that at one point, about a month prior, he officiated a well-attended, interactive ‘white privilege’ self-flagellation demo organized by some intrepid sociology students at the university campus. It even got written up in the local weekly. But after our confrontation I never saw him in town again.

But the day of our confrontation, as I tender-hoofed my way up the strip and away from the scene, the strangest thing happened. A lousy, shirtless, sunburned little man with a shorn pate, wearing blue jeans, combat boots and braces came straggling along behind me. When he caught up he blurted out, breathless, ‘Are you having trouble with that nigger?’ Unsure of his intentions and leery of being judged by any proximate third-parties who might’ve seen what just happened, I replied ‘Hey man, that’s some pretty strong language right there.’ But when I glanced over I noticed that he was covered from torso to neck in Nazi tattoos. This dude intended to lend me moral support on the grounds of white solidarity. ‘Man, I hate that fuckin’ nigger. Just out here preyin’ on dumb fucks in this town. You don’t have to take that shit.’

‘I don’t know if you wanna take my part, bro. I’m Jewish.’

‘Well…..’ He paused. ‘I don’t have anything against Jews. I just have a problem with certain Zionists.’ I was taken aback, not at the note of acceptance but at the vocabulary, and not because it was impressive, but because it existed at all.

‘Name’s Panther.’ He extended a hand and we shook. Panther was small enough I could’ve picked him up and tossed him in a trash compactor. ‘Stay out of trouble, brother. Just look at me’—he was pretty haggard—‘it ain’t worth it.’ And off he went into the evening.

Disinteresting Times


Did somebody say download speeds of up to 35.46 gigabits per second?

Modernity is the subordination of principles to processes, and if man is subordinate to technology, this inversion would signify a negation of life by the very means once intended to serve at its disposal.

Life, however, is anxiety-inducing, and faced with it plainly we tend more and more to retreat instead into life-negating distractions, which represent more and more of the benefit we now derive from technology, and cannot be separated from whatever ideas, however lofty, that the latest hi-tech media transmit.

A video I saw posted to LinkedIn recently featured a body language expert advising that one should never look at their smartphone while waiting for a job interview, because it induces wary, diminutive body language. Obviously, when we absorb ourselves in our smartphones, we almost invariably peer down into them. But it is possible to get an uncanny sense of how ridiculously small this frame is (in contrast with the world as we view it normally), simply by correcting our posture and holding up our arm to position the phone within the normal, eye-level field of vision.

The other day I’m out with a friend, when he tells me he needs to pay a cell phone bill, so we duck into a T-Mobile store. While he’s busy with the clerk, I stroll around the place, when it strikes me (I’m probably not the first to say so) how much these outlets are arranged like art galleries: the displays mounted mid-floor on spray-painted white particleboard pillars, or sequenced along the bleach-white walls in the foreground of splashy, backlit stock imagery. Next to each phone display is an informational placard. To get the interactive experience you need assistance from an initiate flunky with a lanyard and a thumb drive—just enough reverence to discourage overthinking is all that’s needed. Trying to contemplate in such an environment is as taxingly awkward as trying to maintain focus on a smartphone from a normal, upright position.

As we’re leaving, I remarked to my friend that, just for the hardware, the margin on a lease must be fairly wide, considering how low the resale value of a smartphone is. But my friend informs me that, to lower cost, every time you go in for an upgrade, the retailer more or less sells your old phone back to the OEM, who does a little light refurbishing and then punts these devices in bulk into a developing market—a euphemism for a country where the buildings are still tattered from the last civil war or the peasantry have all been displaced and reduced to hawkers and bricklayers, if they aren’t combing through garbage for a living.

Think about that: every impression of these industries that the public is imbued with is one of buoyancy, bedazzlement and pure intelligence. Meanwhile, these companies are balancing the books with third world fire sales.

I work in IT sales. Not anybody’s dream job, but what can you do? (Ask me about our tower desktops with Windows 7, LMFAO). Among the concepts they beat us over the head with to peddle is virtualization, you can’t sell servers anymore without VM Ware. Again, the impression they want you to convey to customers is one of buoyancy, bedazzlement and pure intelligence. But somewhere over the rainbow there’s still a fucking server bank and, eventually, the amount of energy it takes for those sleeker, more powerful machines to direct traffic is going to exceed what it takes to run all the bulkier devices they’re replacing today, because we’ve mistaken data for value at the intersection of sloth and hubris.

If man is an intrinsically technological creature, then technology is the factor that enables us to cage animals. If you’re caged, you’re an animal, and a cage is any advantage some shrewd, unscrupulous creature has—some limp-dick sneak fuck who (without money) would be eaten in open combat or humiliated in reproductive competition, and knows it. Basically: usurers, upper-management Johns and peeping Tom data miners. The cage is technology. Your data trail. The toilet paper stuck under your shoe. That’s our rulers’ source of power; Mark Zuckerberg is a virtual used toilet paper magnate. If (as they say) you were to pull the cork out of his asshole, you could bury him in a matchbox; not because he’s dishonest (though that’s also the case), but because he’s figured out the simplest way to facilitate everybody else believing our own bullshit.

And we get the micro-managers we deserve: behold the Gothic architecture of medieval Europe, and it’s hard to gainsay T.S. Eliot’s estimation of the 13th century as the apex of civilization. What are we missing about those people when we ascribe primitivity to them? Something, I assure you. When in the intervening centuries were the structures they built surpassed for exquisiteness? Hell, the largest solid, unreinforced dome on this planet is still the Pantheon of Rome, completed in 128 AD. Technologically, this edifice remains unimproved upon in 2017.

Kurzweil, Zuckerberg, Musk…. they keep telling, not asking us how we’re going to live in the future. Who’d have thought a few autists with Excel spreadsheets for brains would exceed the imaginations of Hieronymus Bosch and every dystopian fiction author, ever, while the rest of us were partying in college? RFID implants and neural lace make precogs look like deus ex machina. Symbiosis with the internet sounds about as appealing as being strapped down like the protagonist in the closing scene of A Clockwork Orange, and that’s exactly what these control freaks want, because the minute they bet money on their predictions those predictions become a motive in themselves, if they weren’t all smoke to begin with. Tech oligarchs are the ultimate totalitarians, and they’re sold to us as luminaries! In a civilization whose denizens possessed a shadow of a survival instinct they’d be fed to orcas at SeaWorld on national television.

Yet—again—the technologies they mean to imprison us with are so…. crude. Internet traffic runs through transoceanic cables the way the telegraph did at the close of the horse and buggy era. When 5G comes online it will require a massive new infrastructure that can be traced, ultimately, to a surge protector in a wall outlet. And when these batty, syphilitic billionaires and virginal, glorified sysadmins tell us about the singularity, they’re talking about an autonomic simulacrum of the übermensch, what VR masturbation is to hot, sticky sex. We’re moving backwards, not forwards. Wireless signaling, photography, the combustion engine, conventional aircraft, even rocketry—none of these is fundamentally different today than they were at their inception, they’re just spiffier. Granted, there are still theoretical game changers: anti-gravity, fusion, quantum, nanotech, AI, genetic engineering. But do any of these developments portend spiritual or intellectual advancement? Of course not—on the contrary. Mankind is the only known species capable of true (i.e., premeditated) cruelty, and we can’t even eradicate the mosquito without taking ourselves out with it. Measured in terms of the ratio of arithmetical figuring to grandiosity of outcome, the capacity to immolate half the solar system remains our greatest technological achievement—our greatest achievement, period, if the technological inclination is our foremost distinction as creatures.

Maybe it isn’t, though. Maybe premeditation and inspiration are two different things. The Elon Musks of the world keep assuring us technologies x, y and z are inevitable and we may as well make the best of it. Sounds kind of rapey, doesn’t it? Either way, craftmanship isn’t what it used to be—at least Patrick Bateman used his hands.