Category Archives: Idiocracy

Last of the Kike Wiggers

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I even like a song or two by One Republic

Okay, look: on this blog, I’ve been critical of the alt-right, and I stand by what I’ve said. In my salad days, I even visciously battered a couple of neo-Nazis, and that was back when “neo-Nazi” meant something. I certainly wouldn’t call myself a white nationalist. But…. But but but.

Today, no thinking person (a narrowing demographic, I’ll admit) needs to be told that organic social relations are under assault from the techno-feudal powers that be. White nationalism is a perfectly legitimate (if low grade and one-dimensional) reaction in these circumstances. So while I am not a white nationalist in the sense of subscribing to a party program, I wouldn’t disavow the label.

The most common argument from those on the far right who want to avoid that label is to deride the alt-right as inorganic (i.e., merely an internet phenomenon), its followers as largely mouth-breathing, autistic, and pathetic; and to argue that race is an inadequate criteria to judge people by, because it’s too inclusive, rather than local and pragmatic. Jack Donovan’s variation on this argument, in a 2017 essay entitled “Why I am not a White Nationalist,” is one of the most widely read that I’ve seen.

Why would anyone who might otherwise be associated with white nationalism want to distance himself from it? Having used Richard Spencer’s conferences to promote himself, Jack Donovan now has a pinky toe in the mainstream; there’s nothing mysterious about such a disavowal, whatever the rationale may be. But what about those who have less visibility, and less concern for the opinions of the multitude, with all its potential customers? In my case, as a not self-hating half-Hebrew, my criticisms have tended to focus on bad arguments from anti-semites. But that’s just me personally, and as I said, I wouldn’t disavow the WN label if it was hurled at me. So what about those whites who would, even as they sympathize with alt-right ideas? Clearly, all this demonstrates is the desire to remain neutral on a moving train. Civic nationalists and/or philosophical ultraconservatives who have misgivings about fascism or populism (even the Jewish ones) are nevertheless going to have to stop beating around the bush and acknowledge, sooner or later, that whiteness is an unavoidable distinguishing factor in their views and interests. It may not be the only one, but it’s not the smallest, and if saying so gets me labelled a white nationalist, then turning around and projecting that label on ol’ Neckbeard McJergens, like Donovan does, is bad faith (not to mention collusion with those doing the labelling.)

Look: I’m not a joiner. I readily acknowledge the pathos and hysteria inherent in online discourse. I’m well aware of how feckless and dysgenic white people have become; that they’ve always had distasteful peculiarities; that they’ve always been fighting each other anyway; that you can’t dominate the world forever, and that collectively, the Great Race is in many regards dropping trow voluntarily. I don’t deny the holocaust, or that slavery, colonialism and Jim Crow were cruel. In fact, if I were a baby boomer I’d probably have accepted the logic of all the liberal reforms that occurred over the second half of the 20th century, each of which appeared relatively benign at its inception. I don’t imagine there’ll be a political solution to the problems those changes precipitated—I see all the purity spiraling, and the barking without bite, and I’m well aware of the extent to which alt-right genealogical naval-gazing distracts from dire topics like technocracy and finance. In fact, as a broad category, “white people” is largely comprised of types I don’t like, or wouldn’t like. I dislike most people. But….. But but but. 

There are times when our choices narrow down to either/or, and that time is now. The issue isn’t necessarily political, or global. It’s a question of what mindset to confront the future with. White genocide can only be denied by the blind, even if that monicker sounds hysterical; the unconscionable results of sexual liberation follow from logic that appeared benign a generation ago, and still does to most people; and the assault on teleology cannot be effectively opposed by classical liberalism. White nationalism, on its own, may also be inadequate to oppose it, but to suggest that white nationalists are solely concerned with race is a straw man. In his essay, Donovan draws a distinction between white nationalism as the global, mostly online phenomenon he rejects, and the local, “tribal” networking and self-defense regimen he advocates. But it’s a distinction without a difference: white vigilantism and other symptoms of backlash in communities blighted by capitalism and forced multiculturalism, whether in Europe or the States, is white nationalism.

Mencius Moldbug’s 2007 essay on the subject (like Donovan’s, entitled “Why I am not a White Nationalist”) argues from the class-not-race angle (as if class and race are mutually exclusive considerations), and that white nationalism is inherently ineffective, due to its taboo radioactivity in the mainstream. At the risk of forfeiting all nuance and aloofness, this line of argument avoids the issue.

If someone could surveil my every move, they’d see me pick my nose, and sometimes eat cake at midnight, and hear me make declarations that my actions contradicted. Ultimately, we’re all pathetic creatures, and if the internet amplifies this, so be it. That’s how ideas are being circulated nowadays. Moldbug’s rarified contrarianism doesn’t wash in this environment, it’s a pose; yet living as locally and tribally as Jack Donovan advocates blurs the line between pragmatism and romanticism. As much as I admire the concept of the Wolves of Vinland, I’d be surprised if their collective solipsism doesn’t close in around its individual members and implode the group ethos within a generation. It’s scarcely more tenable in the grand scheme than it would be to form an ethnostate with a bunch of beta anons from 4Chan. Necessity, not principle, is the mother of that kind of invention, and at this point it’s all still just Instagram fodder and selfie-sticking the Kali Yuga.

But we can all see the writing on the wall. So if whiteness and white people per se don’t mean anything to you, then wait and see how you like it when there is no more whiteness to mean anything.

 

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An Introduction to Hermeticism

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Bapholment

Okay: I’m going to reveal something crazy deep that sounds counter-intuitive. Stay with me. Are you ready?

Hermeticism is bullshit. Conflating dichotomous elements, “seeking for what is lost”―it’s all a grandiose solution to a self-imposed problem. There is no God, but God is in you―just don’t trust your intuition, instead you need to conform, be guided, mentored, initiated, etc. There are no enemies, only opportunities―but replace “enemies” with “souls” or “persons” and you have the same statement. There is no innate morality, but we’re going to make the world a better place. Obsessing over what’s hidden while rejecting what’s revealed in the same sources. Elaborate riddles and intimations of great profundity masking empty smugness and rapacity.

It’s a cool-kids’ circle jerk.

“There is a substance that comes from your…..” wherever, the obvious implication (because Christianity “has been altered”) being that, once revealed, the esoteric is the only real insight in scripture. Various occultists might protest that Jim Carey is not the finest exponent of this thinking, but I don’t have to answer for his availability as an example. They do. As is well known, anybody who’s anybody in this country is a Mason, and that of course includes the Hollywood A-list. Undoubtedly, there is much in scripture that’s not readily apparent, but this self-centered pop-exegesis is at bottom profoundly literalistic and narrow, amounting to what is referred to in Judaism as making use of the Crown (as in Pirke Avot, “He who makes use of the Crown shall perish.”)

Christianity and Islam are at bottom no more universal than Judaism. They highlight boundaries in the world. All three place the believer at odds with corporeality, error, and deceit. Whereas all you need to know about Masonry is its emphasis on secrecy, and personal attainment.

May I humbly suggest the following sources instead?:

“There is no enchantment against Jacob; no divination against Israel.” (Numbers 23:23)

“Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the LORD, and depart from evil.” (Proverbs 3:7)

“Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.” (Mark 10:15)

“Do not be sure of yourself until the day of your death.” ―Pirke Avot

“Understand that for every rule which I have mentioned from the Quran, the Devil has one to match it, which he puts beside the proper rule to cause error.” ―Al-Ghazali

Reductio ad Iudaeoram, Pt. V

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The world’s foremost problem

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

In The Forest Passage (1951), Ernst Jünger (1895-1998) references Oedipus and the Sphinx to illustrate man’s intrinsic prostration before an essentially inner mystery—a fear to be overcome, just as the forest is at once a refuge, and a place of deep foreboding.

Jünger was a radical individualist, a believer in the ultimate prerogative of the rarified spirit—in some sense intensely Christian, yet also a Nietzschean relativist of sorts—and it occurred to me when reading him that Heidegger, in contrast, by asking “Why are there beings at all instead of nothing?” took man’s confrontation with the void in the exact opposite direction, i.e., outward. This suicidally literal-minded question is analogous to Nazism’s misspent intensity and titanic hubris.

Perhaps not incidentally, Heidegger was an enthusiastic party member, while Jünger openly disdained the NSDAP, resigning from his WWI veteran’s association when its Jewish members were expelled.

We’ve covered neofascism quite a bit here at Utter Contempt. It certainly has its virtues. It’s highly transgressive, for one. But is it off the plantation? Well, if you buy the kabuki theater that the Mueller investigation is anything other than a tour bus for Biff Tannen to throw his used-up associates under, that Vince McMahon’s sparing partner was in earnest with his Father Coughlin impersonation (only to slip on a banana peel and wind up co-opted by Jared from Subway), or that white nationalism is a real heavy counterweight to DARPA, the Syndicate and the Bank for International Settlements, then you may just be the type who’ll love Red Ice Radio‘s asinine slogan: “The future is the past.” If fascism was pseudo-reaction, then the alt-right is neo-pseudo-reaction. What a time to be alive, eh?

So I can’t quite take the same attitude toward the multifarious alt-right that Jünger once took to monolithic Nazism. In all fairness, anti-semitism as an online sinkhole for the half-educated predates the alt-right by about a decade. There’s just no pleasing some people without naming the Jew. Which makes it an airtight alibi for sundry charlatans and provocateurs. “You’re not a cop, are you? I mean—a Zionist?” There’s just something so goddamned apoplectically cult-like about the whole thing. Full-retard JQ-woke Asperger’s is to the redpill what farting in the bathtub is to Archimedes’ “Eureka!”

Every alt-right webzine has the obligatory post denouncing “Hollywood Nazis”, bad optics, people who see Jews in their sandwiches, but this is all just bad faith. There are no moderates among pamphleteers and carnival barkers. Of course it’s possible to be a little bit anti-semitic, but not when you’re podcasting about it. If you’re part of the problem, you’re part of the problem. Scapegoating ol’ Cletus McJergens just shows disdain for your intended audience. But then, we’re talking about a movement that distributes its redpills exclusively via the matrix.

For example, the following pile of garble from Chateau Heartiste:

Ted Colt notices,

“One needn’t look further than a Wikipedia article describing NeoConservative history to comprehend the connection between neocons & free trade

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neoconservatism

EVERY! FUCKING! TIME!

If your Alt-Right brand isn’t ‘anti-semitic’ then you’re not alt-right”

I prefer the more accurate term of art “countersemitic”. (The ADL, unsurprisingly, does not.) We are countering the malicious agenda of a hostile minority intent on drowning us in foreign invaders, trite consumerism, backbreaking debt, endless interventionist wars, and basically anything that destroys the historical and cultural bonds of the majority’s community, neighborhood, town, and nation.

Wow. Ted Colt, huh? “No further than Wikipedia,” indeed. (Isn’t that a Jew-run outfit?) “Branding,” while bitching about consumerism in the comments section of a PayPal-panhandler site.

By the way: what is semitism, or counter-semitism? Well, the proto-Semites were South Arabian nomads who settled among the people of the Levant and the fertile crescent some 10,000 years ago, bequeathing their language to the region. This resulted in the emergence of the world’s first alphabetic writing system and the inscription of the Hebrew Bible. Muhammad was a Semite, as was St. Paul, and Hedy Lamarr, and the Son of Sam. Far be it from me to suggest that the word is meaningless—obviously here it applies to the Jews. But even then, calling oneself anti-semitic is about as lucid as calling oneself anti-canine, or anti-bicycle. Replacing “anti-” with “counter-” only compounds the mouth-breathing.

So it tires me to argue with this middle-school caliber copy-pasta; to rattle off litanies of phenomena that are driving world events, other than a conspicuous handful of Jews being wealthy, disgusting, and politically active; to point out that the inception of modernity is not the moment the yid peddler shows up in the village, but the moment that Christian elites realize they were stupid to grant him a monopoly on usury; that the porno industry can only supply an extant demand, or that Zionists are obviously no more sinister than a great many foreign and domestic grifters milling around, raining bukake on the bloated, insensate pudding vagina we have for a system in this country, hoping the next queef out of Congress will blow their direction. Besides, wherever they may choose to wash their money, it’s generally got to be counted in greenbacks—and whose fault is that? All six of those Wise Men were goyim.

But who has time for such obscurities? What interests me is the provenance of this idea, this reductio ad iudeaoram. It has a long history, but let’s start with its underpinnings in the alt-right. If you’re familiar with Chateau Heartiste you know that his writing is incisive and stylish, but as a platform the blog itself is basically one big no-homo “Hot or Not” where beta-anons with anxious delusions of Clevon-like virility outsource their defective instincts to pseudo-ironic support group scientism. So it’s not surprising that the author’s JQ-woke Aspergers is cribbed (or contracted) without blinking from Kevin MacDonald, the evolutionary psychologist infamous for his thesis that Judaism is a “group evolutionary strategy” aimed at weakening Gentile host societies.

Now I’m no fancy-pants evolutionary psychologist, but if by “group evolutionary strategy” we mean anything that involves, you know, not being legally handicapped and regularly massacred for twenty centuries at a stretch everywhere from Malaga to Mosul, then the suggestion that Judaism is a “group evolutionary strategy” is ridiculous on its face. There’s also the obvious, practical question of the scope of Judaism’s (or, if you insist, Zionism’s) aggression. Christianity’s was world wide, and wore itself out (though the Pope still claims to speak for one and all); Islam has now taken up the torch anew. Liberal humanism and communism, also universal faiths, have plenty of blood on their hands; but where was MacDonald’s element of inter-ethnic subversion in Red China, the English Civil War, or Renaissance Florence? It’s ridiculous.

Instead, what you might take from MacDonald’s work is that inter-ethnic enmity is a two-way street—especially if you’ve been fire-hosed your entire life with the liberal narrative of perennial white guilt. But his thesis is the exact inverse of that, so the street is still one-way:

With his thousand-year-old mercantile dexterity he is far superior to the still helpless, and above all boundlessly honest, Aryans…. While he seems to overflow with ‘enlightenment,’ ‘progress,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘humanity,’ etc., he himself practices the severest segregation of his race…. His ultimate goal in this stage is the victory of ‘democracy’…. It is most compatible with his requirements; for it excludes the personality and puts in its place the majority characterized by stupidity, incompetence, and last but not least, cowardice….

….und so weiter. (I guess a plurality’s better than a full majority. As for boundless honesty, that point can probably best be disputed by the Plains Indians. Or Thucydides, or Chaucer, or Shakespeare, or Dale Carnegie. Was PT Barnum of Hebrew descent, or just the bearded lady?)

The full-retard anti-semite will usually balk at being associated with Hitler, calling it a libel although he agrees with der führer entirely. But I didn’t just quote Mein Kampf in order to associate Kevin MacDonald with the Austrian corporal—there’d be no need for that. Rather, I’m quoting Hitler in order to provide the smidgeon of contrast necessary for pointing out how incredibly innovative and thoughtful a theory like MacDonald’s would be, in spite of every flaw—if it was original. But it isn’t. On the contrary, it’s the best attested theory of history in all of history. If you stumbled upon it as if upon a revelation, and felt your scattered erudition suddenly bundle itself tightly into a faggot (or fasces, if you prefer) of clarity and purpose, then you may as well be holding a bouquet of balloons there, luftmensch. Rather than the defensive weapon those who brandish it mistake it for, anti-semitism is a stick they carry around in their ass. Obviously culture is predicative of behavior, and Judaism is inflected with a snide aloofness and a victimology that are eminently distasteful. But if you find all this more sinister than it is pathetic, you’re not working with a full pack of crayons. I’m happy to hear out any conspiracy theory, but if your smoking gun is evolutionary psychology, then we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves.

But so far, we’ve only covered the sincere aspects of fulltard JQ-awakening. Meanwhile, the utility of this shibboleth is not lost on up-and-coming merch-pimps and aspiring alt-media gadflies (not to mention PayPal panhandlers like ol’ Chateau.) Getting slapped on an ADL hate list is now marketable martyrdom, such that cookie-cutter manifestos and Hitlerian little memoirs of awakening are regularly produced by figures as varied as Roosh V and Squatting Slav. The former, a self-styled manosphere pick-up artist, writes prolifically at a seventh-grade reading level about his sexual encounters on the road in impoverished countries. Undoubtedly by mawwing the requisite JQ-dribblings, he was able to secure a time slot to hustle his fetid self-publishings one year at Richard Spencer’s NPI conference (a controlled-op termite’s nest if ever there was one), despite being a patently non-white immigrant with a beady-eyed sociopath countenance. Such is the mental caliber of the alt-right. Squatting Slav, meanwhile, hawks T-shirts on a satirical pan-Slavic FB meme-page that can claim the minor feat of having united a few hundred-thousand former-Yugoslav followers, not only despite their own intractable enmities but in spite of the admin’s unabashed Serb-posting. Apparently unaware (or unashamed) of the arming of the Serbs by Israel during the 1990s, and of the singularly barbaric WWII massacres perpetrated against his people by and with the support of the Nazis, even Mr. Squat could not get past the apparent need to clear the air by regurgitating the MacDonald-redux of their theories into a handful of v-log tutorials. Because you can’t understand stupid, repetitive jokes about rakia and pickled tomatoes without JQ-awakening.

Then there’s wall-eyed, man-jawed Lana Lokteff of Red Ice Radio (a real prefrontal butter churn of primo alt-content) whose antipathy to all things yiddish is such that she is able to read rootless cosmopolism into the Hasmonean revolt against the Seleucids, recounting it as an instance of Jewish meddling in the sovereign prerogatives of Gentiles (ROFL.) With logic like this being pervasive on the alt-right, one is entitled to ask whether anti-semitism is the punchbowl, or the turd—which brings us back to Chateau Heartiste, in an essay defending kid-fucking:

Say what you will about Roy Moore, at least his girls agreed to date him (even if they retconned a discomfort 40 years later). The Synagogue of Seediness doesn’t bother with the formality of mutual agreement, they just passive-aggressively jam tongues down throats “to rehearse our lines”.

Of course, Chateau absolutely condones those tactics (that’s what his whole blog is about) unless the perp is tribal—the latter reference being to Al Franken, who at least targeted grown women. But if Chateau really believes that his hypothetical 14-year old daughter is qualified to give Roy Moore consent, then you’ve really got to commend his intra-Gentile solidarity.

But this is all just grist for the infotainment landfill. Anyone who hopes to escape the Tower of Babel the oligarchs have planned for us is going to have to grow up. Just look at the Charlottesville dumpster fire of mouth-breathing self-abusers and agents provocateurs that cemented the alt-right as a webcast-only phenomenon, with Richard Spencer condemning violence in therapeutic lilt as cops and revelers died of tidbit-nipply passive aggression gotten out of hand, and his associates went to jail. Even if he’s a fed (or a lizard person or an ancient alien) so what? You may not consider him your personal führer (who really consciously has leaders nowadays, anyway?) but the fact is, Spencer’s as alt-right as it gets (he’s as white-nationalist as it gets, too, if you insist on the distinction) and the sum total of his activity is to expose himself and a half-dozen sycophants to jeering and tomato throwing at huge cost to municipal resources. He’s nothing more than Milo with street-cred. Pure clownworld.

No—whatever you think the problem is, it doesn’t have a political solution. As Jünger puts it in The Forest Passage:

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….

In this analogy, how many people on the alt-right (or Antifa, or any such full-retard ideologues) are the “so-called auxiliary policemen” (“celebrating in theory”) and how many are the young social democrat? To ask the question is to answer it.

Ultimately, what the alt-right specializes in is mystifying the unlettered with cherry-picked Nietzsche and Evola, heedless of what the former actually said about anti-semitism and what the latter actually said about nationalism. It’s high-octane full-retard.

Never go full retard.

Don’t trust this Charlatan

 

“Stay with me here for a minute. I’m going to tell you something that sounds crazy….” Wow-just-wow. This is how they keep you in the Matrix, alt-reichateers, superfluously reveling in the soy-laden tears these kinds of non-events always provoke.

Scott Adams is an admitted hypnosis aficionado who has books and speaking engagements to sell. He knows that Kanye West is a typically impressionable, egomaniacal boogie with a huge Twatter following, who will retweet the living shit out of any smarty-pants cracka who tosses his salad a little; and that the pyramid-scheme caliber of people who follow him will be the first to fall for this shit-tier faux-esoteric slight of hand. If Kanye West is “bringing you the golden age”—on Twitter, “altering reality” and “helping people break out of their mental prisons,” then not only are we dealing with prisons within prisons within prisons, but we’re well past the Golden Age. We missed it, we have to get off at the next stop and walk back a few miles, and what we’ll be looking for is Mad Max Does Johannesburg, where the wife and kiddo get crucified by we-wuz-kangs and the protagonist gets gang raped.

In Defense of Bowe Bergdahl

Thanksgiving turkey

(See also: “In Defense of the Westboro Baptist Church” and “American Diaper“)

“Experiences of inner emptiness, loneliness, and inauthenticity are by no means unreal or, for that matter, devoid of social content; nor do they arise from exclusively ‘middle- and upper-class living conditions.’ They arise from the warlike conditions that pervade American society.” (Christopher Lasch, American historian, 1932-1994)

For at least the duration of this week, Bowe Bergdahl will remain the most hated man in red-state America. So far, the loudest voices denouncing him are the supporters of a sitting American president who, as a draft-eligible youth during Vietnam, received four deferments and a (probably) bogus medical disqualification from military service while other, less privileged young men went to war in his stead. Most of Bergdahl’s detractors will have never served in any military or, if they did, will never have deployed to a combat zone.

An acerbic remark about the President’s draft dodging was in the news two weeks ago. It was made by an admiral’s son who graduated at the bottom of his class at West Point; who, once in theater in Southeast Asia, was promptly captured and sang, like Bergdahl, for enemy propaganda. This admiral’s son was eventually released home and a (probably) false narrative of heroism was promulgated as he rose to a seat in the US Senate, while hundreds of his fellow POWs were left behind—a disgrace he has been at the forefront of covering up for decades. Like the President, the Senator sends US servicemen to die for sordid reasons that will never be clarified to the American public. But most of Bergdahl’s detractors won’t get too animated about that.

From what can be gathered on his Wikipedia page, Bowe Bergdahl is an omega-male eccentric: homeschooled, vaguely artistic, brought up in a splinter sect church but with a fetish for Buddhism and delusions of sauntering off into the wide Mohammedan vistas of Central Asia like some kind of Great Game cartographer.

Here is what he emailed home shortly before being captured:

The future is too good to waste on lies…. In the US army you are cut down for being honest, but if you are a conceited brown nosing shit bag you will be allowed to do what ever you want, and you will be handed your higher rank… I am ashamed to be an american…. The US army is the biggest joke the world has to laugh at. It is the army of liars, backstabbers, fools, and bullies…. We don’t even care when we hear each other talk about running [Afghan] children down in the dirt streets with our armored trucks…. I am sorry for everything. The horror that is america is disgusting.

Jaundiced, subliterate vomitus. Still, it contains little in the way of outright falsehood. But if a narcissist is someone who conceptualizes himself as the star of his own movie (“The future is too good to waste”) then the character Bergdahl is playing is Rambo with a lisp, and the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Here is what his father wrote back:

OBEY YOUR CONSCIENCE!

Dear Bowe, In matters of life and death, and especially at war, it is never safe to ignore ones’ conscience. Ethics demands obedience to our conscience. It is best to also have a systematic oral defense of what our conscience demands. Stand with like minded men when possible. Dad.

¡Conscience!

Conscience? That’s the last thing you need in the army. Bergdahl the Elder (a typical exponent of the kind of hippy-confederate pretense to self-reliance so common in the late-American cycle) is essentially advising junior not to reimburse gangsters he willfully borrowed money from. Bowe’s wrong about the Ugly American, too: what’s peculiarly disgusting about Americanness is not compulsive rule-following or callous disregard for human life (those things are universal.) Rather, it’s the coquettish insistence on enjoying complicity and rebellion simultaneous.

When I was in the Israeli army I got butt-hurt about something and went AWOL for a week. I rode into Jerusalem and left my bag and rifle in a locker at a youth hostel, but I didn’t want to be there either, so I went for a jog.

It was late. It was dark. After running four or five miles, I realized that the Dome of the Rock was peering at me from an angle it never had before. I emerged out of darkness into a well-lit intersection. Packs of male teenagers were roughhousing on street corners. Cabs and delivery drivers with unfamiliar license plates were stalled up and down the curb. The smelly runoff from dumpsters and shawarma-joint mop buckets mingled in the gutters. Waddling matrons in hijabs were taking advantage of the evening reprieve from the summer heat to do their grocery shopping at vendors’ stalls. The storefronts were lit up in neon Arabic.

I had wandered, unarmed and alone, into Palestine (well, Baba Zahara, technically within Israeli jurisdiction, but still a Hamas hotbed.) A callow, bourgeois existentialist, I didn’t know who I really was, and when I did, the conviction was fleeting. But if the people on that street had noticed me—or, if I hadn’t gotten out of there swiftly in the direction from which I’d come—they’d have known perfectly well who I was, and things would have turned out very, very bad for me.

Of course, war pervades the middle east, but “war-like conditions” pervade America. What does that mean? Deception is the essence of war, but what is the essence of America? You can see it in Times Square, in a Hollywood picture, a philanthropic campaign or public apology. What characters are more quintessentially American than the huckster, the shill, the confidence man, the philandering or money grubbing preacher, the motivational charlatan, the tycoon?

The first white men who settled this continent came in search of freedom: cash crops, real estate, Montezuma’s coffers. Slaves. The freedom of finder’s keepers. The freedom to fuck, suck, eat and shit. Freedom isn’t free—it has to be strong-armed, unfortunately. If she didn’t have all that oil, we wouldn’t have needed to invade ‘er. True, many of the Indians were no better to each other; and subsequent waves of immigrants escaping to these shores came largely for prosaic reasons, if not sordid ones. What savior, what savant, what Dostoevsky Idiot can rightly demand any redress of grievances now? For example, today the curtain is being peeled back on the world of American pederasty. Bravo. But the father of American pederasty was Horatio Alger.

In summarizing the film American Beauty, a once verbally-unchastened Louis CK put it aptly:

Kevin Spacey playing the man… he’s fantasizing about fucking a cheerleader in high school, and the way they represent this, in this gay movie, this fucking bunch of cum through a projector—according to this movie, when you fantasize about a cheerleader, you lie on your back and rose petals fall all over your body. Instead of her hot, sweaty ass, and the confused look on her face as you cum in her stupid eye…. No, it’s Kevin Spacey with a sweet look on his face, and flower petals, and jazzy music.

[And at the end of the movie, the ex-Marine] is the one who’s really gay. ‘None of us are gay, it’s actually the one hetero guy, he’s the gay one.’ No one else is gay, Kevin Spacey’s not gay. He’s straight as an arrow, he lifts weights, listens to Zeppelin, drives a Firebird—and thinks about fucking rose petals. And then when he actually sees her tits he almost vomits…. He finally sees the 18 year old tits and says, what have I been doing all this time? I forgot I like men….

If the makers of American Beauty (such as Clinton confidante Harvey Weinstein, the film’s exec-producer) can glorify pederasty and drug-dealing, but can’t forgive an ex-Marine, it’s because “it belongs to human nature to hate whom we have injured.” But the consignment of combat veterans to poverty, derangement and indifference is an effect, not the cause of injury. The Bergdahl case illustrates this in ways we might not like to know.

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Love wins

The last American to be tried and executed for dissertation, during WWII, was found guilty of escaping from danger (near the front lines), back into safety (in a liberated area of France.) Bowe Bergdahl, on the other hand, spurned safety and traipsed off into incredible danger. To treat this extraordinary incident strictly as a commentary on the stupidity or moral turpitude of Bergdahl himself is to miss its significance entirely; rather, it’s an indication of how suffocatingly padded, litigious, infantilized and delusional American life has become. A system that automizes, “utilizes,” and pathologizes people, and measures them by “metrics,” can offer young men for fodder, but cannot let them be men. On the far-flung rugged terrain of Afghanistan this vaginized baby-sitter regime only trebles its emphasis on procedure and safety and unthinking.

But how would a green recruit know that in advance? Not only is Hollywood not gonna tell him, no one in his community will, either: scarcely 1% of Americans have or ever will serve in the US military, and if they aren’t keeping their mouths shut about it, they’re probably blowing smoke (bravely, I might add.) But if Bowe Bergdahl did just eight hours of guard duty, he did 8000% more than most any of the rest of us. Sure, he got people killed and injured looking for him; everyone else is content to let others be injured and killed in our place. Bergdahl’s crime is not being a bigger piece of shit than most other Americans, it’s being exactly as big a piece of shit, with the added feature of bad timing.

That most of his colleagues in the combat arms represent a greater or lesser exception to this goes without saying. So certainly there is a characteristically American kind of honor—there has to be, it provides fodder for the other penguins to shove into the water. But Sun Tzu was wrong when he said the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. In America, our enemies are one another, they’re everywhere, and the supreme art of war is to get them to fight your battles for you. To obfuscate, intimidate or disconcert and get something for nothing while the mark blames himself. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I secretly wanted it. I didn’t fight hard enough. I saved my objections for the staircase. I had no choice. I’ll find a way to compensate. At least I wasn’t the only one. Conscience is freedom’s truest enemy.

The grasping protagonist of Borges’ The Immortal is a legionnaire who says “I barely glimpsed the face of Mars [and] that privation grieved me, and was perhaps why I threw myself into the quest, through vagrant and terrible deserts, for the City of the Immortals.” How much flailing braggadocio is likewise expended by American men who will never feel truly tested, vindicated or individuated? That weaselly energy has got to profit somebody in this land of second chances, where Jesus is Lord, insurance is mandatory and Budweiser urges you to drive responsibly. Where once we came fleeing persecution or poverty, today, with nowhere else to go, we try (and fail) to escape from ourselves. Profligacy, obesity, overdoses, dropouts, car crashes, rap sheets, rejection, one-night stands, bullying and being bullied, chicken-shittery of every variety. That’s not who I really am. But its perpetrators are the soldiers of the real America, where around the Thanksgiving table and in mommy’s waiting embrace, all is validated, all is tolerated, and all is forgiven. So why not Bowe Bergdahl? In the words of Al Pacino’s Tony Montana in Scarface, “You need people like me so you can point your fucking fingers.”

Peak Degeneracy

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Spot the non-manjaw

It seems there will never be a time when some half-wit somewhere isn’t being taken in by the Semitic prime mover theory of history, but as I’ve argued here before, the movement alt-right is effectively undead, having shot its exuberant wad in the aftermath of the 2016 presidential election, when it momentarily entered the glorious street-fray against the genderfluid and semantically-woke handicapped.

Occasionally I see debate on alt-right forums about whether or not Richard Spencer is some kind of shill. The respective positions taken are generally as follows:

(1) Spencer is indeed a deep-cover spook provocateur; or

(2) Spencer is espousing his ideas sincerely.

I want to suggest a third possibility: that Spencer is both a shill, and sincere.

Of course, “shill” is imprecise. Obviously he’s getting his money from somewhere, and being afforded media coverage for some reasons. We can always go deep rabbit hole about this if we want to: is the alt-right a puppet show, or an idea whose time has come? But those possibilities aren’t mutually exclusive. In any case, the question just brings us back to first principles, i.e., what are we really talking about when we talk about the alt-right?

Well, to a large degree we’re talking about explicit white identity, which is a flimsy basis for mutual commitment and self-sacrifice outside of prison, or other such dire circumstances. To the extent that circumstances are dire, I certainly support it, such as I am able being an unwelcome half-breed loner outlier. But class, status, personality and philosophical differences will always be impediments to this kind of unity. Shared fear and loathing are far more powerful unifiers than anything really affirmative. So who do white nationalists consider their greatest enemy? You might want to review Borat for clues.

A quick thought experiment: if we could remove the Jewish Question from alt-right consideration, leaving every other alt-right premise intact, would the movement remain fundamentally unchanged?

Of course not. The JQ is a street-cred litmus test. But when xenophobia (which is healthy, evolutionary, and should require no laborious rationale or social approval) starts coming packaged with demonologic rationalization, then we’re either looking at a reaction against a violent cultural hegemony, or we’re looking at negative transference. More likely both. It doesn’t take any great genius to see that the alt-right is basically American Roadshow trying to pass for Mad Men, with motorcycle goggles and leather-bound classics just for decoration. “Unite the Right” leaders speaking out in the wake of Charlottesville were correct: only a controlled media bent on eliminating any dissent that can’t be cöopted could possibly treat them as a serious menace. They just aren’t serious people, and neither is their message: the cataclysm is immanent, the sensual negro is at the gate, the Jew is making me so dirty. Which may all be true, but it only resonates for the same reason 50 Shades appealed to so many capricious women.

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“He’s gotta be strong/and he’s gotta be fast/and he’s gotta be fresh from the fi-ight”

The Help

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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 (latter) 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? The media Jews say 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

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“You guys feel like going for frozen yogurt?”

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.

Don’t get me wrong—Richard 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. But while I’m all for realism (and vigilantism) in the face of swarthy Idiocracy, the alt-right ain’t it:

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“? I know, I know: he’s talking about membership in his own group. But this is a group that wants to impose the same separation, involuntarily, on society at large. The pompousness here is far worse than the crudeness. It may be half-joking, but it can never be more than half-serious.

Still, to its credit, until just before the election the alt-right was the last bastion of real, uncöopted social satire left in this country. 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 brick-and-mortar media is an obsolete investment being defended with increasing shamelessness:

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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:

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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.

A lot of NPI and Radix Journal materials were deliciously subversive circa pre-Trump, when the point was to express these ideas, not just expand the audience for them. 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 and purity spiraling about activist strategies and doctrinal purity) is rife on Counter-Currents, Radix, TRS, Red Ice and Occidental. This click-hungry humorlessness has diffused throughout the alt-right punchbowl as the imperative to justify itself to outsiders eclipses insider ribaldry.

But who expects humor from fascists? Fascism is always a sign of rigor mortis. what portends the Kali Yuga is not Jews or loose women, it is you, my alt-right friends—e.g., the inexorable pull that novelty and the allure of power exert upon the human psyche, which is why Evola’s advice was to ride the tiger, not stick your head in its mouth. (But how many alt-right personalities have really read all the authors they like to block-quote on social media?) How sad to be peddling an ethos of order, hierarchy and opposition to commercial vulgarity in the 10 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 grandeur-deluded 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 unselfconscious.

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”?

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“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. 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

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Bro I wish

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

I.

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.

II.

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….

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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.

III.

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

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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.