Category Archives: America

The New Meaning of Treason

“we need a reset”

During the 2019 Democratic primaries, presidential candidate Beto O’Rourke was pilloried by conservatives for remarking that the U.S. Constitution may be obsolete in the 21st century:

I think that’s the question of the moment: Does this still work? Can an empire like ours with military presence in over 170 countries around the globe, with trading relationships…and security arrangements in every continent, can it still be managed by the same principles that were set down 230-plus years ago?

Because genuflection to the Constitution is standard fare in electoral politics, this was taken as iconoclasm; but among eminent liberal jurists, who are eager to innovate in this area, O’Rourke’s sentiments are nothing new.

O’Rourke is quite right that the U.S. Constitution is insufficient to encompass America’s military and corporate entanglements around the globe. Where we disagree is in our preferences; I would take the Constitution over global corporatism. I also agree with eminent jurists like Cass Sunstein and Ruth Bader Ginsburg that the Constitution needs reform, but unlike the sweeping reform those jurists have called for, I would reform it in a single area: the law of treason.

Article III, §3 of the Constitution defines treason as “levying War against [the United States], or… adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort.” The landmark modern case is Cramer v. United States, which overturned a German immigrant’s treason conviction:

A citizen may favor the enemy and harbor sympathies disloyal to the United States, but so long as he commits no act of aid and comfort to the enemy there is no treason. Conversely, a citizen may take actions which aid and comfort the enemy, but if there is no adherence to the enemy, or there is no intent to betray, there is no treason.

In delineating what needs to be proved to obtain a treason conviction, the case says a bit more about what treason is not than what it is. In particular—unlike “aid and comfort”—the term enemy is not defined at all. This is what interests me, from a 21st century perspective. In 1945, the meaning of this term was taken by our Supreme Court as being self-evident. Today that is not the case. The U.S. transacts trillions of dollars in annual business with its worst adversaries. It hides behind risible theories of international law when it assassinates an enemy general, which it is careful to do on neutral territory. It has the world’s largest military budget, and no formal state enemies. It has troops in hundreds of countries, yet fights no official wars. Not even John Walker Lindh was accused of treason. Not even defection and leaking of official secrets to Iran by a U.S. Air Force officer was charged as treason. When the U.S. has no formal enemies, it is questionable whether the Constitution’s definition of treason has any practical application. That doesn’t mean there is no treason; on the contrary. But if we are to prosecute it, the term enemy must be defined.

Obviously, elites conspire with one another to violate the law and harm the citizenry. But a clever showing that they thought they were acting in the interest of the country would cast reasonable doubt on the intent requirement of a treason charge. And charging those crimes as treason runs the risk of defining mere lawbreaking as treason, unless the term enemy is given a clear legal definition.

Would a conspiracy involving foreign elites (including oligarchs, royalty, and heads of state) to surreptitiously take over the United States’ power centers, convert its resources, extensively invade its citizens’ privacy in bald-faced contravention of the 4th Amendment, and fundamentally alter its whole legal system in a manner not prescribed by the Constitution, amount to a legally cognizable enemy?

The question is well worth considering.

I am a liberal and so are you, Pt. I

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ever given yourself a stranger?

I am a liberal. You might find that surprising, considering I am a conspiracy theorist who dabbles in all kinds of so-called extremism on dark corners of the internet, my distaste increasing proportionally as I move inward along the political spectrum between Lysander Spooner and Julius Evola. But a liberal I am.

You are a liberal too. How do I know? Most earnest readers of this site will be radical conservatives at least, probably reactionary and quite possibly racist, at least by mainstream standards, with a pronounced attraction to unconventional ideas and convinced that the liberal worldview of the Council on Foreign Relations is implicit in nearly all the great crimes of our age. Even so, you are a liberal.

On this site I have regularly denounced global liberalism, liberal democracy, and relativism of various kinds—all of them (supposedly) liberal. I am not now rescinding or modifying these criticisms. Instead, I am clarifying terms. Liberalism has its departments, its factions and its tendencies, to be sure. But liberalism writ large is not just an idea or a system; it is an entire stage of human development, and what it becomes and where it goes is the whole locus of our era. Besides: the creature that passes for liberalism today is a species of totalitarianism. To oppose it by opposing liberalism misses the mark.

The liberal episteme is a mutation, a genie escaped from the bottle. Even if you could put it back, you cannot say it has worked no significant affect on your perception of reality. John of Kronstadt was a liberal, and so was Heidegger. Hitler was as liberal as Hamlet. You don’t have to agree with Hume about free will or with Mill about what are properly private as opposed to public affairs. You just have to have been born at a certain time.

I have repeatedly said on this site that the sole criteria of whether a person is truthful is whether or not the things he says are true. I cannot prove that e.g., Richard Spencer is “a fed,” or that Alex Jones is a method actor. But I can usually know within a fair degree of certainty when either man is lying, and when he is telling the truth.

Indeed, truth is the sole criteria of any inquiry. I submit that such a dictum is much easier spoken than lived, and that if you even attempt to live it, you are a rationalist, i.e., a proponent of the view that reason is the best navigator of reality and arbiter of human affairs. Granted, I am not a hard empiricist or utilitarian. Inasmuch as one believes that the evidence of his senses and experiences leads (however improbably) to certain metaphysical conclusions, to objective truth as a general proposition or even just to inductive reasons, one cannot be. But it is the requirement of evidence that makes us rationalists, and a rationalist is always a liberal.

Just what is a liberal? What is the core criteria of liberalism? The core criteria of liberalism is the belief in the need for free inquiry. Free inquiry, in turn, depends on belief in a universal, objective truth. What other reason could there possibly be for inquiry in the first place? Relativism is as shoddy a refuge from this as reaction, or organized religion. If Hitler is in hell, he’ll soon be having a threesome with Pope Francis and Michel Foucault.

There are, conversely, many strongly identified liberals who do not believe—at least not fully or sincerely—in free inquiry. This no more absolves them of liberalism than reaction or religion can. It only means that they are incredibly stupid and irrational. If this was 1937, and I told you that of the three prevailing world systems, the one that will come closest to imposing universal totalitarianism is liberal democracy, you’d think I was insane. Yet here we are. Churchill said that the fascists of the future would call themselves anti-fascists. This is less offensive than the panopticon calling itself the open society, but pointing it out is banal, and it is easy absolution. Denouncing liberalism as if it were merely a thesis in the hands of overweening courtesans and their coddled rabble won’t do. The question of liberalism is the question of the whole future of the human race. It is malleable yet, and I intend to have my say.

The Republic

Mencius Moldbug is having a bit of a moment lately. Or he was, until a moment ago. He kept popping up on YouTube this summer, very openly panhandling. After a riveting half-podcast the word-count smoke seemed to dissipate, and I remembered what a one-trick pony he is. He never gets to the point. He just leads you around by the nose.

What I liked about Moldbug was the very thorough way he diagnosed liberalism as a kind of mania, using primary sources. What I disliked about him was his dismissal—by turns high-handed and skittish—of conspiracy theories. Drug addiction isn’t treated by diagnosis alone. Sometimes you have to kill a drug dealer.

Moldbug’s most black-pilling feat by far is his critique of the American Revolution. Supposing he’s right that the founders were rabble-rousing charlatans, and that King George did nothing wrong. So what? You don’t have to tell me things are bad. But I’m armed to the teeth over here in America, I can own land, and can’t be prosecuted for what I write on Twitter. Contrast this with life under the British monarchy, where the government can literally murder your kid.

So I fail to see the need for this huge blackpill. Power is always diffuse, even under an absolute monarchy. Rome began as a republic, and degenerated into a monarchy. Like any system, the problem with America is not form, but function. Personnel is policy. In the last installment of his “Gentle Introduction,” Moldbug essentially says that a worthy alternative only needs to exist, and when America implodes, this alternative will fill the vacuum, because people will just roll over and accept it. Call me cuckoo for conspiracy puffs, but that’s exactly what Klaus Schwab thinks.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I think there’s a much simpler way. A republic and an aristocracy are basically the same thing. In The Republic, Socrates used the allegory of the ship’s captain to suggest that only the wise should participate in politics. But the unwise (both the shrewd and the misguidedly fervent) are fully capable of overthrowing the wise. Might I suggest an alternative criterion? Only those who have a real investment in the future have the right to decide the future course of state, and determining who they are is far easier than determining who is wise. Obviously, they are people with biological children, who have treated their investment (their kids) with the consideration and care it deserves, i.e., by maintaining a functional marriage to the other biological parent.

I know it’s a long-shot. Solutions to big problems always are. But if we could limit the franchise to couples married and cohabiting continuously at least ten years, with at least one biological child together, we could strike those whose interests are selfish, decadent and fleeting from the voter rolls without discriminating by race, sex, or property ownership. Narrow interest groups would still have their proxies, but the proxies would have as much in common with the rest of the electorate as they do with their separate identity groups.

Understand: I’m not saying every non-voter should effectively be a non-person. Every provision in the Bill of Rights would still apply to all citizens, but the criteria I’ve outlined would have to be met in order to participate in civic policymaking, i.e., to vote. Make that ironclad, and it wouldn’t take too many other reforms to make things real nice for normal, decent people. Normal, decent people are the only ones who have a shot at happiness anyway, because deviants will always be miserable.

That is a worthy alternative. If you will it, it is no dream.

Conspiracy Tales

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the new normal

The town where I grew up is a hotbed of effete radicalism and low-grade mental illness. I came back in my mid-twenties to finish community college. There’s this hipster coffee shop downtown where I used to do all my homework—I’ll call it Café Tangier. One day I noticed a girl there reading a Hebrew novel. Let’s call her Shirley. We hit it off. She was going to university and working in a mall kiosk with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend—all Israelis.

None of these three were bad people. However, they had a friend who was. We’ll call him Lior. Lior had a friend named Jake. They claimed to be working for some kind of IT start-up, but the two of them were always just down at the Tangier, scoping people out, or hanging around the various student co-ops around town: the Caesar Chavez Co-op, Food Not Bombs House, etc. They gave the impression of a couple of con-men with a traveling act, like there was an invisible mist between them that only the two of them could see.

A cell of would-be ecoterrorists had been uncovered—entrapped, really—at the Tangier by an undercover FBI agent about a year before. At the nearby anarchist co-op (which had a neat little bookstore I would occasionally peruse) there was a flyer on the corkboard denouncing the cafe’s owners for allegedly cooperating with the FBI from the get-go of the case, denouncing Tangier hipsters as sell-outs, and warning people to stay away from the place. But it was a hopping little place, lots of coeds, good music, good conversation.

There were other odd characters around the Tangier, too. One of them looked like Bruce Willis—cue-ball bald, mid-forties, in decent shape (but bedraggled in a way that wasn’t convincing) and constantly at the Tangier as if he had nothing else going on. He had this shady gregariousness about him. I’d watch him befriend impressionable looking loners and overhear him shit-test them by peppering them with the most astounding BS.

Anyway, this Lior and Jake—there was something off about them, too. They couldn’t have been younger than 27. Lior was Israeli, in the States (according to him) since adolescence. Jake was a regular American. Their back story kept changing, not in the sense of glaring inconsistencies, but in the sense that it seemed improvised. We used to go out with Shirley and her sister and the sister’s boyfriend, and these two weasels—this Lior and Jake—would hone in on the youngest, most vulnerable looking girls they could find at the bars. One night, Lior showed up at Shirley’s place with a girl who was obviously a high schooler, painfully shy, homely… The whole thing looked very bad.

Now, if you’re thinking I’m a POS for not intervening, what can I tell you? Degeneracy is a triage situation. It was a boisterous house party and I had my own concerns. If I’d walked in on him fucking her, that might’ve been different.

Anyway, I used to ride my bike around town a lot, and one day I started seeing these flyers all over, on lampposts and bus benches: “We are anarchists. We are everywhere.” There was additional text. All I remember was that it contained some threat of violence, but the grievance wasn’t too clear. This was odd, considering not only that the campus radicals and cat-lady activists around town never threatened anyone, but were always very impassioned and particular about whatever cause they were into. But this “We are anarchists” business just looked like a vacuous art project from some out-patient rehab.

One day I was on a foot path beneath a bridge when I got a flat tire. I used to do these road trips in the summer, by bicycle, from the coast up into the Sierras, and I was very proficient with all aspects of bike repair. So I knelt down to patch my tire. Once I had it patched and the glue was drying, I cast my gaze up the path. It ran along a river, but there was a park on the other side. Basically, I’m in the shadow under this bridge, looking up the path, with the river on the left side of my vision, and the park on the right. In the distance, I notice the Bruce Willis-looking guy from the Tangier. He had on a white t-shirt tucked into cargo pants, with this pair of absolutely autistic looking bus station urchins, half his age at most, straggling along behind him. He also had a stack of paper in one hand and a roll of packing tape in the other.

It was mid-morning on a weekday. The park was empty, but I was in the shadow of the bridge, so they couldn’t see me. I watched as this guy directed these two mouth breathers to post flyers on the park benches, and (with no one around to see him) his bearing was just unmistakably military. I went back later to the park, and just as I’d suspected, it was those dumb-fuck “We are anarchists” flyers, all over the playground and picnic tables. Less than a week later, there was a little kristallnacht along the main downtown drag. Someone smashed up the windows of about a dozen shops late one night and spray-painted a bunch of menacing slogans, “We are anarchists” among them. After that, the city council passed emergency regulations, applied for (and received) federal grants to blanket the downtown in surveillance cameras, and the FBI permanently stationed a squadron of some kind at the local police station.

A month or so later, Occupy Wall Street broke out. Hippy liberalville being what it is, a camp mushroomed up at that park where I’d gotten my flat tire. Meanwhile, Lior was the ringleader of a cadre that broke into and holed up in a vacant storefront across from the county courthouse. He ran their Facebook page, and throughout their “occupation” he was constantly on Facebook posting appeals for food and blankets and for people to join in—a rather odd commitment for someone who was supposedly working full-time at a start-up. His rather benign LARP-sesh was broken up after a week, and four of the participants—all lily upscale thrift-shop type college students—got hit with serious federal charges, including “terrorism” shit.

But Lior never faced any consequences.

I didn’t like the guy, nor respect him, but before that I’d have at least greeted him when we saw each other. But afterwards? No way. I stayed the fuck away from that dude from then on, and I never went back to Café Tangier.

Wear the Mask, Bigot

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“TRS retweeted”

I had an instructor in professional school, a black woman, who used to arbitrarily hand out low grades to smart white students. (No—not just to me.) She would always gerrymander the topic of race into her lectures, too. It was very annoying. Essentially, this person lived and breathed negritude. She had a software system in her brain that not only scanned constantly for certain signs, but could make totally unrelated signs fit the patterns her software was designed to uncover. This is the kind of thing I have always seen going on with the JQ on the alt-right:

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You’re more than welcome to take a look at the thread that Enoch here is retweeting from. You may notice a few things. First, Zach Goldberg does not have a blue checkmark. He’s not a public personality. For a private person, 12.9K followers is nothing to sneeze at, but his word is no more consequential than Enoch’s is at 14.3K. Second, where does Zach Goldberg “blame whites for the problem”? I don’t see it. Third—who is “everybody clapping”? The reactions to Goldberg’s thread seem to mostly be from Joe Rogan bro types. For them, the information presented is novel indeed. So what’s more likely? That Goldberg is appropriating white nationalist narratives because he’s a Jew who wants to co-opt pro-white audiences? But that would be Mike Enoch’s job. Zach Goldberg, on the other hand, is obviously just a derpy centrist who’s late to these insights.

When you commit yourself to narrow activism, you have to die on that hill, and there will be times that you have to make a lawyerly argument, to obfuscate, to filibuster and demagogue. It takes no great powers of perception to pick up on the fact that Mike Enoch is a master of this. But what this little example with the Zach Goldberg retweet reveals is that Enoch also has no problem concocting the purest, most blatant lies and putting them in front of his audience.

A couple weeks ago I was listening to an FTN podcast, and within the first ten minutes, one of the presenters, referring disdainfully to conspiracy theories about COVID-19, says, “If you can convince me that Bill Gates is Jewish, I’ll believe this conspiracy.”

Putting aside the fact that in the current year, of course Jewish plutocrats are involved in a ruling class conspiracy, FTN here encapsulates my whole problem with alt-right JQ memes. Bill Gates is fucking shady. COVID-19 is shady. The government’s whole response to it is shady. It’s obviously a huge psyop. Yet in the (apparent) absence of Jews ex machina, none of this interests FTN. Months after they happened, TRS podcasters are still disparaging the anti-lockdown protests (~45:10) in terms resembling those used by liberal pundits. NPI/Radix is likewise still treating COVID-conspiracy theory dismissively (~38:00). This isn’t just a difference of opinion about the numbers. It’s moral support for a plutocrat agenda from people who brand themselves as dissidents.

Here’s another example, this one from James Allsup: “Easily Falsifiable 5G Conspiracies are a Hamster Wheel for White People.” Well of course an “easily falsifiable” conspiracy theory is a trap—for anyone who falls for it. But that’s not what Allsup means. TRS has internalized MSM tactics, which (again) they have an obvious talent for. So the point of an article like this is not to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to 5G conspiracy theories. It’s to plant a suggestive seed in the minds of unwary followers that some (pretend) authority says you’re a moron if you’re giving consideration to any 5G conspiracy theories. Yet 5G is a critical tool of an incoming system of totalitarian control. You only have to look at the facts. Why would these self-styled dissidents want to discourage that?

They do the same thing with 9/11—not just to their audience, but to their colleagues. A few years ago on a podcast (~50:00), podcaster “The Mad Wop” starts in with a bit of trutherism. Promptly, and with a lot of pretentious sighs and awkward pauses, Enoch and McNabb start steering him away like a couple of boardwalk con-men, claiming there’s no hard evidence for dissenting theories, blaming Saudi Arabia and “bureaucratic incompetence.” McNabb then asks, supposing it was an inside job, “what does it get us” to promote 9/11 truth?

IDK, what does it get you to promote Goebbels and Himmler? TFOH.

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First they say al-Qaeda did it, then they say they’ve “always been skeptical” (~20:00) of the official narrative. Then they say the Jews did 9/11 at the same time (~20:00) they say the Jews “created the whole 9/11 truth movement.” None of this makes sense. Noticers aren’t supposed to not notice things. Professional noticers are not supposed to run a sideline in telling their audience, “Move along, nothing to see here.”

So what am I saying? Am I saying that TRS are feds or that you shouldn’t be listening to them? Look: when they’re right, they’re right—amen. When they’re entertaining, they’re entertaining—bravo. And when they’re lying, they’re lying. I frankly couldn’t care less about their identities, or their real motivations. I don’t really know who anybody is on the internet. The only barometer of honesty is whether the things you say are true. TRS says many true things, and they also have a propensity for obscurantism that’s very odd considering the boldness of their worldview in other areas.

There’s a name for this kind of thing. It’s called gatekeeping. Beyond that, I won’t speculate. I don’t have to.

Boatman’s Bluff

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spare me

The year after college I was an ambulance EMT. I started in July, and it wasn’t until September that I was assigned a steady shift with a partner. Before that I just bounced around between paramedics, snoozing, reading, and writing this blog on my cellphone between inventory and 911 calls.

My first code blue was an OD, on my first day of work. We arrived on scene before fire to find a supine fat kid unresponsive on a back driveway, with a gaggle of bleary-eyed teenagers who’d obviously waited too long to call, and were real quiet and vague about what happened to their friend.

I attached the EKG nodes and started bagging while my paramedic trainer pounded on his chest. No cardio activity. Fire arrived and they started banging on his chest in a rotation. Still no activity. Then someone offered to bag while I pumped, and I went to town so hard on this kid that I cracked his sternum. The snapping sound was horrific, but the moment it happened the heart monitor gave a beep and started going.

The thing about it was, everything happened in under ten minutes, and although he died later that day, when we dropped him in the ER the kid was still alive—unconscious and intubated, but alive. It wasn’t until November that year that I actually witnessed a death.

Now, I’m an omega, a contrarian loner who hates rules and rarely strikes up a lasting friendship. I’m also fairly tall and large-framed. My first paramedic partner, Tommy Gonzales, was a medic second lieutenant in the National Guard, the kind of beta-simp who joins the service to compensate. He looked like Eugene Levy—gaunt, about 5’6″, and very uptight, but highly intelligent, which necessitated bending the rules as often as they got in the way of logic. I respected him for that.

One night just about dusk as I was driving Tommy around the Sonic drive-thru, we got coded to a trailer park. Again, we got there before fire. Again, the patient was supine, this time on a shabby carpet. It was a double-wide with fake wood paneling and a bunch of taxidermied elk heads on the walls. The guy must’ve been in his mid-sixties. He was shirtless and barefoot in a pair of jeans that hadn’t been washed in a coon’s age, skinny-fat like alcoholics often are, and covered in a half-inch layer of wooly grey body hair that went all the way up his neck to an untrimmed beard. The place was strewn with empty pint bottles and crushed-up Coors cans.

The family was all assembled—son, daughter, daughter-in-law, adult grandkid. They said they’d found him the way he appeared, unresponsive, not breathing. They thought he’d choked on a turkey sandwich he’d been eating lying down, and that he must’ve rolled off the couch onto the floor. That was what it looked like. I had to shave him to place the EKG nodes, then Tommy and I started doing our thing.

It was a long night. The monitor gave just enough activity after a minute of CPR that we had to keep going even though the guy’s chances were very slim. Fire got on scene and Tommy started trying to intubate, but the laryngoscope kept bringing up turkey sandwich. The firefighters and I rotated doing CPR while Tommy smeared gob after gob of partly digested food like pâté onto the inner lining of a red haz bag. Eventually we got the guy tubed. His cardio kept flopping and starting back up with just enough activity for hope.

At one point I stood up to stretch my legs. Across the room, the family was piled around a card table in the corner, faces downcast, their arms draped around one another, watching their patriarch recede into eternity past indifferent, knee-jerk bureaucracy. Past us, on the other side. We were the boatmen.

Above the family on the wall was a framed and faded portrait of a proud and fearsome Marine with a flag half-draped across the background. That was the guy we were trying to save. The two of them couldn’t have looked more different. He wasn’t in his body anyway, yet he might not’ve been further away than that portrait. I felt this sudden sense of reverent foreboding in the pit of my stomach, that this man lying dead at my feet was witnessing his family’s despair from just out of reach of them.

After three hours, Tommy advised the family that things weren’t going to turn around. They nodded stoically. We called up to the hospital and signed the necessary forms. Then we packed up our equipment in haz bags and debriefed with the firefighters before leaving them to wait for the coroner.

That shift went long. We went back to base, cleaned up, and tried to get a nap, but the calls just kept coming. The 24-hour shift that had begun just before that code in the Sonic drive-thru turned into 35, 36, then 40, and topped out at 51.

At one point we dropped someone at the ER. It was about 9 in the morning. I was sitting in the driver’s seat of the ambulance waiting for Tommy to snag Graham crackers and juice boxes from inside at the nurse’s station, when all of a sudden I started sobbing maniacally, just huge choking sobs without any kind of buildup or anticipation whatsoever. It was so primal. There was no reflection, no social pressure (I was completely alone) and no reason to feel anything. I hadn’t known the guy, the Marine—I hadn’t known him. I’d run plenty of codes, seen lots of pitiable people in sorry states and felt bad for them, and I’d gone hours by then without it occurring to me that I’d been impacted at all. It was just a job, I was just exhausted, I just wanted to go home to my family, I just wanted a burrito. This is America—nobody has real feelings. I remember that I’ve had them, back when I was a kid, but I don’t even remember what real feelings feel like. It’s been six years since that 911 call and in all that time I haven’t experienced a comparably spontaneous and authentic emotion. And yet it happened, in spite of every social pressure militating against it.

It’s strange how things incubate in us when we thought they didn’t matter, or that we’d forgotten them. Sometimes when I discipline our kids, my wife gets on me and says, “This isn’t the army, you know!” On the one hand, when I hear this it sounds odd, because the army is the furthest thing from my memory and my motivations. On the other hand, my first reaction is to feel she’s being unreasonable, because life is rough, and it’s better they learn it first from their dad. But what she sees me doing that I can’t see myself is sublimating an experience that’s constantly with me in ways I’m almost never aware of. Sublimating the untold humiliations and death by a thousand cuts of being a king, and a piece of shit, all at the same time.

Unfollow, Pt. III

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

As I stood in the socially-distanced self-checkout of my nearby Idiocracy Costco, gazing vacantly across a field of eggplant-shaped cattle, the whole history of our species from the agricultural revolution flashed before me, and I understood all at once how the instinct for safety is strangling everything worthy that’s in us.

I don’t want to beat my sword into a ploughshare—that’s ridiculous. My sword is who I am. Yet here I am, smashed between a hammer and an anvil. I look at my youngest son and see the most unadulterated aggressive instincts. There’s no resentment or ulterior motive, just pure joy. He just wants to fight—to box and run and sword-fight and do archery—and the whole world is against him. Our world is predicated on neurosis and anti-social impulses. Every protected class of people is fundamentally self-loathing. Every feature of modern life conduces toward cowardice and resignation.

Lysander Spooner described the U.S. Constitution as a contract that binds no one. Ironically, that is now the U.S. government’s position as well. You probably don’t know my identity, and I don’t know yours, but (as you already know) a global shadow government knows both our identities, because its skynet backlogs our every word and keystroke—every purchase and fap sesh—in real time. No proposition could be more straightforward than that this proves you are not a man, a citizen, nor even a consumer (who at least in theory has choices) but a subject.

What does it mean to be a subject? It means you have no moral agency. The mandarins of a parallel society will decide right and wrong for you. A good illustration of this was in the news recently. An Omaha middle school employee named James Fairbanks sent letters to the local press confessing to the murder of a repeat child rapist who had gotten away with a couple slaps on the wrist and was out walking around. Somehow, Fairbanks became aware of him, and of some pretty clear evidence that he intended to continue kid-fucking, and decided to kill him instead.

He was charged with first degree murder. The district judge who ordered him held without bond declared that, “There is a reason we are a nation of laws and don’t take justice into our own hands.” Yes, exactly—so that children can be raped. That is the reason. According to his own daughter, the victim in this case raped lots of kids over a period of decades. Lots of people knew what he had done, and could reasonably know that he was never going to stop, yet none but Fairbanks took the highly intuitive step of greasing him. Why not? Because the system told them not to.

Milan Kundera said that “The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.” What’s this guy’s beef with power? Well, by power, he meant the Stasi, who were capable of a great deal less than the U.S. government, but at least knew how to read. As Jonathan Bowden once remarked, under liberalism, you talk like a Jamaican gangster, and books don’t have to be burned because 40% of the population can’t read them anyhow. We are to our forebears what a beagle is to a grey wolf. By the sum of a million little undecisions, we sign up for this degradation.

The coronavirus lockdowns—the destruction of livelihoods and total abrogation of civil liberties—put me in an extremely libertarian, even anarchist place. I wasn’t alone: a great deal of overlap began to manifest between the anarchist accounts I follow on social media, and the alt-right ones. And then something strange happened: the Minneapolis riots broke out, and (apparently for the sake of consistency) not a few of these alt-right people stuck around on the anarchist side, decrying supposed police heavy-handedness against African-Americans and lauding the riots as a “boogaloo,” with memes like “This is what ‘don’t tread on me’ looks like.”

This is an absolutely delusional take.

First of all, Metro PD is undoubtedly a part of “the system.” But so is the media, the Department of Justice, and every public official in Minnesota (and beyond) now calling for Derick Chauvin’s head. Yet (as always with these events) the rioters’ grievances are focused solely on municipal police—and on the average white person, whose “privileges” and “implicit attitudes” are presumed to be propping up the world like Atlas.

And this narrative persists when the same system—that just put 100 million people out of work and vilified them for protesting peacefully; that backlogs virtually all our private communications; that tells us not to “take justice into our own hands” and ice a child rapist—gives a mob the go-ahead to torch American cities. George Carlin once remarked that “The upper class keeps all of the money, pays none of the taxes. The middle class pays all of the taxes, does all of the work. The poor are there just to scare the shit out of the middle class.” Accordingly, as with every race riot since Rodney King, Minneapolis is 100% a media phenomenon. And if the system has direct access to your brain the way it does with these “protesters,” then you’re not against the system. You are the system.

The alt-right is the only sub-culture that clearly perceives the cynical ways that the deviant and the marginalized are pressed into service by the powers the be. What the alt-right cannot see is the way this draws their alienation into fruitless hostility with those groups. Orwell once said that “if you encourage totalitarian methods, the time may come when they will be used against you instead of for you.” That time is now. The minute corona hit stateside, the whole alt-right peanut gallery came down with a major case of hyperchondria, praising the Chinese and denigrating “conspiracy theories.”

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neoliberalism is statism

It’s very hard to believe (for example) that the TRS network can be so well-versed in Whitney Webb’s reporting on Israeli spyware (they never seem to cite her work, but it’s the sole basis of a lot of their podcasts) and not take seriously everything she’s been reporting about DARPA and big tech plotting to chip everybody like cattle. Deep-diving the “evolutionary psychology” of every lumpy kike they worked with in a call center is more interesting, I suppose. But when every problem looks Yiddish, it’s because you have a favorite gas.

This is actually analogous to certain alt-right criticisms of the alt-lite, e.g., Tommy Robinson:

The whole argument of all these sorts of anti-Islamists is, Muslims are scary, please don’t hurt us… All they’re doing is, they want to preserve their own nihilism, because Islam is a metaphysically objectivist system… Whereas these western nihilists just want to wallow in their own hedonism, that’s what they want to defend.

This kind of eggheaded take ignores the fact that alt-right thought leaders are as eager as the EDL to be kept creatures of a paternalistic state, so long as no one rocks the boat. I mean, what’s more “metaphysically objectivist” than a chimp-out? Forcing people into stadiums to do calisthenics hasn’t altered mass man’s basic mediocrity anywhere it’s been tried. The only difference between the alt-right (or 3P or whatever autistic label they’re giving themselves nowadays) and fully automated luxury space communism is that the former is racist. Well I don’t think that racism is all that wicked per se. But if you’d trade the Bill of Rights for Hugo Boss, what exactly is setting you apart from the homies?

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To see human liberty as an illusion is perverse. I’m reasonably certain that western powers are abetting the HK protests. But no one really believes this demagogue when he says he “has no idea what these protests are even about.” And what they’re definitely not about is biological determinism.

Whiteness is not the paramount threat to misplaced power. Liberty is. I’m not talking about capitalism or NAP or any libertarian dogma. I’m talking about the things that make the heart exult. I’m talking about the experiences we can only have—the sensations we can only feel—when we are free to decide our path. “All good things are wild and free,” as Thoreau put it.

Liberty is priceless. There’s no identity worth trading for it.

Unfollow, Pt. II

A homeowner fed up with a string of neighborhood burglaries kills a negro who may or may not have been minding his own business, and somehow it’s a mandatory “national conversation.” We’ve seen this show before. Cui bono?

That would be the oligarchs playing an underclass against tax cattle, to separate 60% (and declining) of the population from its most basic survival instincts. It’s MLK meets MK-ultra. But what I mean by this is not that “survival” requires fear of black people. On the contrary. Fear is what this country’s owners are pushing. It’s the instincts that conduce toward liberty and dignity that they’re scheming to deprive us of. They’re just using black people to do it:

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As discussed previously, last month Michiganders fed up with absolute government power stormed the statehouse in Lansing toting ARs. They didn’t really do anything, but State legislators boohooed on Twitter anyway, and the intelligentsia piled on. Over a week after the protest dissipated, the State Rep. pictured above, a Democrat who advocates citizen disarmament, strode into work with an armed (civilian) escort to protect her from “protesters bearing white supremacist symbols.”

The anti-lockdown protests at Lansing began on April 15. Protesters entered the capitol building on April 30. All told, this story was national news for three weeks. You would think that if just one of those protesters was “bearing white supremacist symbols,” the media would’ve found a way to have a field day with it well in advance of May 8, when this slander first surfaced in The Hill. Yet they didn’t. So where did it come from? The Hill attributes it to a local Michigan paper, which claims to have sourced it from video evidence posted by Rep. Anthony to her Facebook page—which contains no such video. And this smear surfaced just three days after a similar one fizzled. The moral of the story is that if you’re white, and armed, and opposed to absolute government power, you’re a Nazi—period. Human dignity is criminalized, starting in the media.

But that’s just the long-term angle. In the short-term, the point is to distract from these corona-powers that are instigating the protests, exactly as the killing of Trayvon Martin was employed to redirect almost immediately after the suppression of Occupy Wall Street (which had apparently outlived its usefulness.) Last week, when reporters asked the masked gunmen guarding that Dallas salon their names they replied, “Duncan Lemp.” See what I’m saying? To the criminal conspiracy that runs this country, Ahmaud Aubrey was a godsend.

However, that homeboy lay dead for over two months before he made the New York Times suggests that nationally, this isn’t news—it’s expertly timed propaganda. Maybe the DA’s initial decision not to indict the McMichaels was baksheesh between good ol’ boys, and maybe it wasn’t. But does similar partiality not go on where blacks are in charge? I don’t want to discount the possibility that the McMichaels are racists or belligerent people who unfairly targeted an innocent man. But how many innocent black victims of white firearms ownership would that make—this week, this month, this year? #JoggingWhileBlack is no more (and definitely much, much less) of a thing than jogging while white is, especially in major metro areas. So just talking about this kind of Bonfire of the Vanities media event with even a modicum of reverence inevitably concedes something to the suspicion it’s meant to cast upon white people who don’t outsource their safety to the government—i.e., “yes, we have impure thoughts, conversations need to be had, inquests need to be made.” Sorry, no. I am not setting foot in that confessional, whose purpose is to stymie the kind of dissent we just saw in Michigan.

The current controlled-libertarian talking point is that McMichael the elder is an ex-cop, so fuck him. I’m not a cop sycophant, but the McMichaels were private persons, acting in a private capacity. If they really did have him on video committing prior break-ins, then they didn’t go to Ahmaud Arbrey, he came to them. What’s more libertarian than protecting your own neighborhood? “But they called white privilege 911!” How’s that working out for them? You’ll notice it’s not a Citizens’ Counsel clamoring for capital charges here—it’s the intelligentsia. If we’re going to oppose overbearing police power, we ought to be consistent.

But the policy-making class doesn’t actually oppose police power. They are the police. The media, academia, the legal and STEM professions, have considerable power to determine what laws you live under. It’s a closed club, and only a modicum of the process takes place democratically. Essentially, this is the class that is sponsoring BLM, for whom BLM is making itself a rationale. If all they wanted was to hamstring the police in accordance with the Bill of Rights and the 14th Amendment, I’d be all for them, but what they want is citizen disarmament. They want to empower (with hate crimes statutes) the very prosecutors they’re denouncing. They want the government to have more and more power to control the lives of strangers. They aren’t anti-police. They are the fucking police.

If you have any idea how difficult it is for a homicide defendant to mount a successful self-defense case, I want you to go ahead and multiply it by this:

“People keep saying, ‘We need to have a conversation about race’,” Morrison told the Daily Telegraph. “This is the conversation. I want to see a cop shoot a white unarmed teenager in the back.” She added: “And I want to see a white man convicted for raping a black woman. Then when you ask me, ‘Is it over?’, I will say yes.”

This breathtaking vindictiveness was excreted by a Nobel-laureate—and it is bottomless, because there are plenty of examples of the things she’s talking about, from the Duke lacrosse incident to Daniel Shaver and Duncan Lemp. If white privilege is to not notice or care about strangers, black privilege is to openly, unashamedly, unappeasably wish them ill. Never mind the fact that per capita, more whites than blacks are shot by police every year in the United States, or that the ratio of black-to-white perpetrators of interracial rape is more than 1000:1. What’s interesting here is what Morrison inadvertently revealed about herself, which is that her highest conceivable aspiration is equality in hell. We see this with blacks who are millionaires, world class athletes, professors emeritus, senators and presidents. As Sartre once said of the Jewish cabinet minister, “he is at once an Excellency, and an untouchable.” Half-baked communism is their only will to power. And when Rep. Sarah Anthony votes to disarm those people who showed up to “protect” her, they’ll blame the white man for that, too.

(On to Part III…. here)

Unfollow, Pt. I

Today America, and the world, have never been less free. Yet, in a way, we’ve never been freer—this COVID lockdown is putting things right into perspective. For instance:

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“A queen practicing self-care.” Do we have monarchy in America? You know…. crowns? Coronas? According to Wikipedia:

The Mulford Act was a 1967 California bill that repealed a law allowing public carrying of loaded firearms. Named after Republican assemblyman Don Mulford, and signed into law by then governor Ronald Reagan, the bill was crafted in response to members of the Black Panther Party who were lawfully conducting armed patrols of Oakland neighborhoods, in what would later be termed copwatching. They garnered national attention after Black Panthers members, bearing arms, marched upon the California State Capitol to protest the bill.

Of course, that’s not what’s going on, above, in that screenshot from the Instagram of one Lenard Larry McKelvey (who is not only royal, but divine.) Rather—in case you’ve been living elsewhere in the solar system—this Michigan legislator is being escorted into the statehouse by armed men because she fears for her life from “armed protesters marauding through the state capitol demanding an end to the coronavirus lockdown.” Here is a snapshot of just a few of these rapscallions:

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Just how were they able to get away with it? Why, the color of their skin, of course:

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One way of testing this hypothesis (don’t tell Mehdi Hasan) would be to look at a control group, like (say) the one in Sacramento that same week. Same demands, same politics, same podunk demographic, but the Californians didn’t even get into the statehouse. They got zip ties from stormtroopers, while their counterparts in Michigan got a field trip.

How to explain this disparity? I’ll tell you how. Common sense gun reform:

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That picture is from the campaign website of Michigan State Rep. Sarah Anthony, the same Rep. Sarah Anthony being escorted by gunmen in the Instagram screenshot above. You see, not unlike assemblyman Don Mulford, Rep. Anthony supports common sense gun reform like they have in California. What would the Black Panthers make of this—from an African queen, no less? Well…. Perhaps they’d think the same thing the NRA thought of the Mulford Act. Playing superficial factions against one another is how the system creates psychological distance so you can go on supporting it. “NRA: Stand and Fight.” Unless you might have to fight the Black Panthers, and then—quick! Outsource that shit to the police, and the FBI, and the National Guard.

Fear is the ultimate slave master. That, and stupidity. For instance, a few weeks back, Gov. Greg Abbot issued an emergency quarantine order that shuttered Texas businesses. One Dallas salon owner, Shelley Luther, decided to defy Gov. Abbot’s order and keep food on the tables of her stylists’ families. She reopened, and before long, Texas authorities arrested her. Texans were outraged by this. Conservatives are mad about it. Ms. Luther and her attorney are mad about it. But do you know who they’re mad at? Not Gov. Abbott. No. They’re mad at some little metro court judge for enforcing the governor’s order:

That right there’s the Tuck. You can’t cuck the Tuck, unless it’s a Republican governor throwing you out of work and onto the dole. In that case, the Tuck will find someone else to blame. That’s how this scam works. If you were a witness at Deputy Tucker’s county jail lineup, he’d have you cover one eye.

My mother’s neighbor is a German who is quite elderly. Regarding coronavirus—the lockdown and the fear and the mass, compulsive rule following—he said, “This is how it began.” It put me in mind of a quote I’m fond of:

An assault on the inviolability, on the sacredness of the home, would have been impossible in old Iceland in the way it was carried out in 1933, among a million inhabitants of Berlin, as a purely administrative measure. A laudable exception deserves mention here, that of a young social democrat who shot down half a dozen so-called auxiliary policemen at the entrance of his apartment. He still partook of the substance of the old Germanic freedom, which his enemies only celebrated in theory…. Naturally, he did not get this from his party’s manifesto….

That’s Ernst Jünger in The Forest Passage. What does he mean by “the substance of the old Germanic freedom”? What is freedom? How does one find it? And what’s standing in the way?

On to Part II….

A shopping excursion

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this weimerican life

I keep having these dreams where I can’t get out of the room. Some grim dinner party or shabby hotel cafeteria where I’m exposed somehow to a whole room of faces I can’t quite make out. Where I’m stuck with someone from my past or present who wants something I can’t give, or knows something I’d rather they didn’t. Sometimes I’m able to escape, but then can’t seem to find my way out of the building—the trap just expands, until at some point I’m hit by the dread realization that no matter what they look like, each person I encounter is exactly the same on the inside.

Sometimes it’s a labyrinthine airport, incredibly futuristic, where I keep following bad directions or encountering incomprehensible bureaucratic obstacles requiring me to traipse back and forth between ticket counters and security checkpoints and terminals. I can never seem to make my flight, yet it’s always imminent, and panic builds until finally I wake up grinding my teeth and repeating incomprehensible nonsense to myself in a low whisper until well after I’ve had my coffee, like I got high the night before and it still hasn’t worn off.

Other times I’ve committed a crime of passion. As I begin to realize what I’ve done, my surroundings become dim, narrow, subterranean. Acquaintances and passersby all take on a uniform, alien quality. I feel I have to hide from them as I go about planning how to cover my tracks, but I can’t get out of public and they keep questioning me and I keep piling lie upon lie until I’m all out of lies and no longer believe myself.

Lana wanted to have a date—clothes shopping at the mall. It’s not how I would choose to spend a couple hours away from the kids, and she knows it. The clock slows; my blood congeals. I’d resist, but I’ve got to buy my next reprieve. We’re living on borrowed time, so why not live on a little more borrowed money?

On the way, we discuss what to buy. What the kids may like. Then a hopeful note underlying the subject of job prospects turns to debts, bills. Once that subject is wandered into, we fall silent. Her phone comes out of her purse. Like having to eat a failed attempt at some new recipe, I’ve ruined our afternoon, but still have to see it through.

The unspoken tension ratchets up as we near the mall. I fight traffic on the proximate boulevards and join a rotating queue of drivers, presumably all grimacing and overweight, as we circulate the packed rows of parking spaces, now stopping as some optimistic rube slams his breaks behind a pair of glowing tail lights, now proceeding again, now stopping, all in a row—trapped together, but unknown to one another. Some ham-faced slob in a ginormous pickup nearly backs into us as he jerkingly vacates a parking spot without looking over his disgusting shoulder. Honking, shouting, shaking his fist, he ejaculates his soul’s phonetically memorized plaque and drives off in a cloud of diesel exhaust. In my grey-green, calcified heart I blame Lana, realizing all this could’ve been avoided. She feels it, and lowers her face into the refuge of the pillar of blue light emanating from her stupid smartphone, which may be the only thing keeping us married.

The mall is filled with wretched refuse and flooded via loudspeaker with the vacant crooning of some new ethnically ambiguous slag of the month. Huge families of eggplant shaped Mexicans block our progress as they amble along at a snail’s pace, shoulder-to-shoulder across the width of the walkways, stuffing their faces as they go, from carafes of nachos, fries and mega-sized slushies all teetering precariously atop the canopies and cupholders of baby strollers occupied for some strange reason by five, six and seven-year olds. I nearly trip over a morbidly obese preteen in ankle shorts and a Nike shirt that reads, “Skilled in Every Position” when the family’s uppity little garden-gnome patriarch casts a threatening glance, holding up his cartoonishly oversized pant-waist with one hand like he’s somewhere on a prison yard.

Lana peruses the racks of a store. We stand in the massive checkout line with her items. A couple of shameless, mercenary orientals are in front, delaying everybody’s day to interminability, yapping scarcely comprehensible harangues at indifferent teenage cashiers in an attempt to find some grift in a system that permits no haggling otherwise.

Some ghastly, freckled, androgynous high-yellow in a denim vest and fedora is staring out of a wall-length advertisement with a quote emblazoned along his misshapen flank: “sometimes, you just gotta do you.” Somewhere in an oak-paneled office high in a glass tower some shrewd hypnotist wants you to think of these pontoon-lipped vacancies like a quotable Confucius or St. Matthew. It seems with each passing day that being white and remotely genteel in America is more and more like being a ruined old noble in a Chekhov play. We’re living through this long night, and we can’t bring ourselves to turn the lights out, but we’ve had too much time to ruminate and it isn’t getting us anywhere.

Lest you find all this bigoted—which it is—allow me the caveat that I consider these plague rats the real Americans. Their ready, unreflecting belief in magic, their vulgar fixation on commerce and utter abandonment of traditional scruples in the hubbub and banal, intermittent terror of this strange new land—as new to me today as it was to them last week—make them far worthier to be called Americans than all the brokeback whites longing for cowboy chivalry as they use their bottom incisors to greedily scrape the Dorito dust of this neurasthenic consumerist birdcage off the tips of their fat, diabetic fingers.

We pass the food court, the metastasis of sickening flesh in sweat pants with little cups of frozen sugar and cardboard palettes overflowing with cheap sauces. Then we make our way into another one of the undifferentiated neon storefronts so Lana can look for jeans. Somewhere over the rainbow, beyond every sales display and stack of merchandise lies the smoke-shrouded neo-Dickensian charnel house it all emanates from, the ant-farms and blood-sausage of Christmas present, and corrugated metal dwellings stacked along alleys strewn with plastic rubbish, flowing with human excrement, and interminable fields of shipping crates transiting ports. It’s only mid-July, but in my head I hear jingle bells. I start to wonder whether we’ll ever get away from this, whether we’ll ever be self-sufficient and free, or will we always just be employees and consumers and patients, avatars and reflections, bar-coded replicants, objects to whom all meaning in life is provided, administered, and presented like food to a capricious toddler. The wax paper burger wrapper wafting along the ground that fifteen hundred people just stepped over, the cigarette butts floating in the urinal, the fluorescent lights overhead, the LED screens in our palms, the model on the wall poster like a whore in a red-light district window, her snide smile doubtless masking every private misery, and the thousand hidden thoughts or inarticulate nagging doubts between hand-holding couples with lowered expectations, their acne, their cankles, their flat feet, fat asses, and venal cravings—the yawning gap between what you own and what you owe, and the sense of resignation to a trap so thorough we dream what it feeds us and conceptualize nature itself like a kind of unknowable death.

This is the cross. These are the nails.

“I’m so fat.” She’s in front of the mirror in the narrow corridor across from her changing room.

The worst part of marriage is the lying. Falling in love is this perfect kind of exposure that relieves you of everything you thought you needed to hide, and you reciprocate this to your lover and she accepts it with tender ecstacy and you’re free and she’s free and the world is light and song. But marriage builds lie upon lie, just in order to function. There are never enough sorries. There are never enough I love you’s.

“You look great, babe.” And she does.