Category Archives: Idiocracy

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.

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. 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.

How to Respond to Microaggressions

I come from a town where the locals can be a bit territorial.

In my mid-twenties, I went home and decided to finish college. Throughout this period, I moved around a lot between shared quarters of various kinds. At one point, I rented a backyard bungalow from a divorcee with two school-age kids.

Jenna was a petite blond in her early forties whose ex-husband was a schoolteacher. She took good care of herself. Apparently, it had occurred to her rather late that her sexual power was never fully realized, so she rebelled against this weak-chinned fellow to live the independent life of her dreams, in his house, on half his salary, with some strange renter sharing a bathroom with her poor kids—though I wasn’t around much, and it was only a two-month sublet anyway.

She devoted herself to jiu-jitsu, and would invite the whole staff of Brazilian instructors and other students over for wild parties. She had turned her living room into a salon, and whenever I got back from campus there’d be a gaggle of gibbering yentas all getting their hair and nails done. And she seemed to be dating quite a bit, with numerous types of guys. There was an uptight, white attorney who’d come for dinners after work in a suit. One of the Brazilians was definitely getting in there. Also, a high school classmate of mine who played bass for a local fixture rock-reggae band. And a couple of times I noticed a short-statured but muscular, intense looking black dude.

I was in very good shape back then. I had a weight set and a tower with dip handles and a pull-up bar, and in the afternoons I would lift in the backyard. It was springtime. One day while I was working out, I came through the back porch to the kitchen for some water. No one was home, so I had my shirt off. Just as I finished washing my glass and putting it on the dishrack, Jenna came in with this black fellow. Like me, he was shirtless, in basketball shorts. I was feeling friendly and self-satisfied. I greeted the two of them warmly and chatted with her a bit, but I could sense him sizing me up as competition.

When you’re from a place, you can just tell who’s local and who isn’t. Black people are no exception; in my town, I knew all of them, and he wasn’t one of the ones I knew. On the other hand, a part of me despises not just provincialism, but territoriality where no territory has really been earned. Out of both a cosmopolitan impulse and a certain penitence over my past, teenage life of petty robbery, I liked to be open and cordial to transplants, tourists, and students. One can learn a lot in this manner, without making any real compromises. So I extended my hand and introduced myself to this guy. He seemed a bit on edge, which was understandable. I assume it’s not pleasant to be brought home by a woman, only to encounter a shirtless, sweating bodybuilder when you arrive there. Immediately after learning the man’s name and telling him mine, I asked where he was from. He wasn’t from there, after all.

My question pushed him over the edge. He glared at me with intense hostility. “What do you mean, ‘where am I from?’” White people normally like to retreat when put in such a position. Whether they’re intimidated, or simply keeping their powder dry, the aggressor makes of it what he will. But not only was I not intimidated; I was in a good mood. And it would be incorrect to say that I wasn’t going to let my good mood be dampened, because I was in such a good mood that that would have been impossible. In other words, it was beyond my control. I felt great about myself. It just wasn’t a matter of what I was going to let or not let happen.

“What do I mean, ‘where are you from?’” I smiled calmly, but with a look indicating that I regarded the question as ridiculous.  “I guess I mean, where are you from?” I uttered this last part with slight but zesty sarcasm, making direct eye contact all the while. This whole thing was going to go my way. I could feel it.

“Yeah, what’s the problem?” Jenna asked him. “I don’t get it.” If he was mad before, now he was positively steaming. It was no longer a matter of whether I wanted to offend him, but of how far he wanted to take his own counter-productive bullshit. He was the houseguest of a loose woman, after all. Such encounters should be carefree. And although he was clearly in good shape, I did not look like anybody he wanted to fight.

I went back out and resumed my weight routine. Though I couldn’t make out the words, they were bickering in the kitchen—he in a strained, frustrated tone and she in a calmer, uncomprehending one. Frankly, I understood exactly what he objected to about my question. She, however, did not. He was trying to explain it to her, and having no success. By and by, the two of them came out back with a couple of beers. Her backyard was pretty big, so this wasn’t an imposition on my workout. She had a koi pond with a little bench. I was on my back in the grass, doing chest presses.

The two of them sat down. He was visibly perturbed. I stood up and started a set of curls. After what appeared to be some deliberation, he craned his neck my direction. “Hey Sam.” The use of my name signaled a painful concession to civilized mores. “How old are you man?” This was his attempt to shift gears from intimidation to condescension, but the fact that he was older than me only made things worse for him. Try as he might to tone it down, there was considerable edge in his voice. Not even bothering to turn my head his direction, I continued my set of curls. “It doesn’t make a difference and it’s none of your concern.” This was a devastating blow. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t something Jenna could hold against me. I hadn’t started anything with him and I didn’t need to reciprocate his softening up.

“You know, I don’t think you understand what it means when you say certain things to people.” He sounded more agitated this time. It was an impotent threat wrapped in an unsolicited lesson. “I don’t give a fuck what your issue is” I snapped back. “It’s your problem.” I got down and started a set of push ups. When I got back up, they were gone. Jenna later apologized profusely. She told me they’d argued more in the house, and she eventually kicked him out. It was a beautiful little triumph over the forces of arrogance and entitlement. Later that summer, I transferred to a university out of state, and I haven’t been back since.

Fascism is Vaginal

“technically, it’s a perversion”

“Fascism” is an epithet that gets thrown around a lot. But what distinguishes fascism from nationalism, conservatism, militarism, or machismo? The alt-right (today’s fascism) is a mirror image of the woke/SJW phenomenon. But while the SJW phenomenon has to do with resentment stemming inevitably from congenital or immutable misfortunes, the alt-right stems from missed decisions and waylaid opportunities—no one who is independently accomplished has any need for it except, perhaps, as a source of entertainment. In other words, while wokeness is a genuine envy and hatred of others, the alt-right is a sublimation of self-loathing.

First comes initiation, i.e., the red pill: the revelation of a hidden path, the maudlin solipsism of fallenness and unrequited nobility. The next step is manichaeism: a girt-round delusion of war against a preternatural enemy who is everywhere and nowhere, objectified onto some hapless persons, principally Jews. Then comes sadomasochism: the object of his passions now clearly defined, his mind’s vagina now fully Zionist-occupied, the fascist surreptitiously derives pleasure both from victimology, and from fantasies of omnipotence and revenge upon the adversary—a conduit for and projection of all manner of repressed dirtiness, who merits no moral restraint.

Hamstrung by spineless, prosaic scruples such as individual guilt and innocence, the uninitiated—“normies,” liberals, the bourgeoisie, etc.—cannot understand this. Like a clinical pervert or closet-case, the fascist thus inhabits a parallel world of titillation that dare not speak its name. His bad faith is endemic. This is why you hear so much talk about “optics” on the alt-right, whenever the movement periodically catches its fingers in the pearly gates of mainstream revulsion. Like the more flamboyant variety of homosexual, they’re convinced that everyone is latently like them, and can surreptitiously be “turned.”

Jonathan Bowden (an obscure but interesting autodidact involved with the British National Party, whose writings and recorded lectures gained a cult following with the advent of the alt-right) once made the astute observation that the hero of American movies and comics is often a vaguely fascistic sort—tycoon, cowboy, war vet, vigilante—whose energy is misdirected toward democratic aims, e.g., defending the victimized and the disadvantaged, upholding the abstract “rule of law,” etc. But this begs the question whether fascism really is what Bowden thought it was. If strength is an end in itself, then who needs the strong? If “life is an instinct for growth, for survival, for the accumulation of forces,” then indeed, Private Ryan is not worth saving. This is why fascist “heroism” and discipline always devolves into rank criminality; it’s always Kant on the streets and Nietzsche in the sheets.

One of the worst proto-alt-right cliches is that communism is at least as bad as Nazism. This just misses the point entirely. Such things are a matter of substance, not body count. Communism produces one of two types of leader: (1) inquisitors—pure sadists, e.g., Mao; or (2) gangsters, pure criminals, e.g., Stalin. Fascism, on the other hand, produces only one type of leader: the callow, vindictive bully. “My spirit will rise from the grave and the world will know that I was right.” Translation: “You’ll all be sorry when I’m dead!” You’ll never catch communists feeling sorry for themselves like this. Outwardly, they’re way more dishonest—but (not too) deep down, they know exactly what they’re doing.

Communism’s chief antagonist is the bourgeoisie: not so much a class of people as a mode of being, an amorphous set of predilections. Capitalism is a behavior. For example, in Homage to Catalonia, Orwell remarked about arriving in revolutionary Barcelona to learn that tipping had been banned in the hotels. Communism isn’t preoccupied with the enemy’s identity. Its aims do not depend on him. It is domineering in that way; it takes the initiative. In contrast, fascism’s chief antagonist is of course the Jews, and women. In fascist taxonomy, a communistic peasantry, or an inferior race, is just a puppet. But the fascist very viscerally senses that a woman has ideas of her own. This inconsistency exposes the whole basis of the fascist mind-state: the absolute most puerile sense of entitlement and vindictiveness.

Richard Spencer gave an interview to Alex Jones recently. Asked to speak about his background, Spencer said that “I could’ve become a lawyer and made a lot of money,” but instead chose the hard road of thought-criminality. But Spencer is not a hermit, or a crust punk, or a starving artiste. He isn’t risking his freedom or even his safety. He’s a professional Twitterer and civil plaintiff. Clearly, he lives entirely off his parents, and lives well. The source of the anomie and banality he sees everywhere in modern democratic society is himself. Can you honestly think of anyone in the alt-right who isn’t like this?

Here is one of Spencer’s recent tweets:

The video Spencer tweeted is of Trump, bloviating at a rally about his China trade policies, and promising everybody better appliances. Of course, this is phenomenally low-brow. But is the washing machine itself really something to sneeze at? For someone who fetishizes knights, explorers, marble columns and cathedrals, Spencer doesn’t seem to have any comprehension of all the background accoutrements that enabled people to pursue those activities. This is the mentality of someone who doesn’t do his own laundry, if only in the proverbial sense that he doesn’t really do anything.

Here, on the other hand, is someone who does things:

Can Moses be an Englishman? It isn’t really for you or me to say. After all, we didn’t pass SAS selection. I can already hear the alt-right rejoinder that a million African migrants aren’t worth the trouble. Maybe not. But this isn’t about averages, it’s about what’s best and most noble in man. Isn’t that what fascism claims to be all about? For every million African migrants there may, indeed, be one future astrophysicist, or special ops major—but literally no one on the alt-right ever will be. That’s guaranteed.

Achtung Juden

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What ideology unites Antifa and 4Chan, manosphere he-thots and intersectional harpies, tradcaths and neopagans, wignats and hoteps, Dugin and Zizek, peacenik granolas and international arms dealers?

“Well it’s your own damn fault if you’re so hated!” By those clowns? Really? A man with no enemies is a man with no character, and these enemies are not sending their best. Like the Jersey City shooting earlier this month, last night’s machete attack on an ultra-orthodox Hanukkah party in upstate New York appears to have been carried out by a lumpen African-American under the influence of YouTube Wakanda theology.

Now, I’m half-Jewish, and basically a modern, secular person—I have about as much in common with Hasidic Jews as I do with the Denisovans. So it’s as strange to see people who are so different from me being attacked for what little we have in common, as it is startling to see how different the backgrounds of the perpetrators tend to be.

You may recall, for instance, last year’s events at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life synagogue. No, not the Purim party. I’m talking about the sabbath service where a lonely old wignat truck driver with an AR mistook the place for a range and did target practice on a dozen or so nursing home inmates in wheel chairs. Update: they didn’t survive. You may also recall the following April, when a homeschooled sperg male nurse took out a Federal Reserve banker at a shul in San Diego, wounding the rabbi in the process, along with an eight-year old girl who runs the porn industry. The perp there seems not to have had any imaginary friends, though he did have the next best thing, i.e., 8Chan anons.

Then there was the 2014 Kansas City JCC shooting, also perpetrated by a wignat, who killed a kid and two adults, all of them gingerbread-baking white Methodists in RealTree camo and ugly Christmas sweaters. At least the 2012 shooter in Toulouse (that’s France, for all you Victor Hugo fans) managed to hit actual members of the tribe, killing three toddlers and wounding five others at a synagogue daycare. Oh, and how about the 2009 DC Holocaust Museum shooting? That one took out a married black father of three, which is not as rare as a unicorn, but should probably require a permit or something. Then there was the Seattle JCC kindergarten shooting in 2006, and the El Al ticket counter shooting in LAX a year or so prior. Oh, and who could forget the 1999 JCC shooting in LA? A real classic, which took the lives of four children, a secretary, and the mailman.

Why do these things keep happening? I’m sure some anthropomorphic little Eric Cartman somewhere would love to fill me in. Yes, the Jews have their fair share of perverts, plutocrats, embezzlers and corrupt politicians. But these pogroms never seem to target those Jews—or any pervs, plutocrats, embezzlers, politicians, etc. So the question is not what the Jews have done to deserve these atrocities. Because if that was the question, they wouldn’t really be atrocities, would they? “Well they’re not, teehee.” Yeah, tell me more about elite pedophile rings there, guy who supports kindergarten shootings.

The reason these things keep happening is because Jews don’t prevent it. And so the real question is, what is to be done to prevent it?

I don’t intend the question as a “silence is violence” callout. Silence can be complicity in the unconscionable, but a lot of unconscionable shit goes on every day, and no one owes it to anyone else to think or feel anything. The solution, then, depends on the Jews. Do we want to live, or don’t we? It’s that simple.

I know that’s sounds trite. I only ask because lots of Jews don’t want to. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying that Hitler or Chemelnitsky is coming. Believe it or not—in spite of all these attacks—that’s not the problem. I’m also not talking about Jews who are estranged from their heritage, either. No. I’m talking about Jews who make fellow traveling with some form of anti-semitism a literal component of Judaism, and of yiddishkeit.

Sound far-fetched? These types are quite vocal, and they’re the tip of a huge psychological iceberg. On the left stand the anti-Zionists, who should be irrelevant—clammy, furtive little figures like Philip Weiss, Norman Finkelstein, Israel Shamir, and Gilad Atzmon, who make entire careers and identities out of shame, discomfort and denunciation of an identity they could easily just walk away from instead. Proof that mainstream liberal Judaism essentially fellow-travels with this pathology is the recent, wholesale renunciation of Zionism by Jewish Voice for Peace—whose board members include Tony Kushner, Noam Chomsky and Naomi Klein. (It was 1941 when Jabotinsky declared “all those who regard [peace with the Palestinians] as a condition sine qua non for Zionism may as well say ‘non’ and withdraw from Zionism.” Better 78 years late than never, I suppose.) Liberal Zionists like Jeremy Ben Ami and Peter Beinart are actually worse, because they’re pushing from within for the Zionist movement to reflect JVP’s attitudes. Of the Palestinian factions they imagine they’d like to conciliate, each one, including the internationally recognized PLO, has a completely undisavowed and remarkably recent history of deadly attacks on Israeli women, children and elderly. But then, no one in J-Street has to actually live with those consequences (unless J-Street is working with frummies from Monsey I don’t know about.)

As bad as all this is, there’s something far more patently offensive to the intellect about the left anti-Zionists’ mirror image on the right, among the burgeoning ranks of sycophantic, alt-right adjacent Jews desperately flailing to live down every absurd libel and stereotype as if it applied to them personally. (At least having no pride or self-esteem whatsoever suits leftists.) Tech entrepreneur Ron Unz, for example, runs the largest aggregator of anti-Jewish content on the web, where he publishes his own rambling, scarcely readable essays that reprise familial and childhood resentments at great length before eventually getting around to the ostensible topic, which is always how bad his own people are. Self-help charlatan Mike Cernovich similarly grovels for acceptance from Twitter Nazis. Classics professor Paul Gottfried pathetically fawns all over pseudoscientist Kevin MacDonald (and is shocked, shocked to find that liberal journalists associate him with alt-right leaders he actually associates with.) Eccentric inventor Henry Makow writes gushing blurbs for latter-day clerical fascist E. Michael Jones’s self-published screeds; and blog posts with titles like “Anti-Semitism is Legitimate Self Defense.” Would he like somebody to murder him, or what?

One looks for sanity in this febrile atmosphere of ADHD Twitter discourse, of anomie and atomization and dementia, and sees the Jewish civil society commentariat, the ADL, the Atlantic, etc., exuding precisely the fear and panic that the high school bully mentality of anti-semitism veritably lives to elicit. When has official Jewry in America ever prevented an attack on Jews here? When they aren’t pushing constitutionally dubious legislation that makes us look ugly and stupid, their solution to everything is “education”: more words, factoids, arguments, and admonishments against wrongthink; to explain ourselves for the umpteenth time to a balkanized and stupefied public irremediably leery of smug expertise.

In Russia, in 1911, Jabotinsky had a prescient sense of this:

Now they have raised a rumpus over ritual murder, and once again we have taken on the role of prisoners on trial: we press our hands to our hearts, with quivering fingers we leaf through old stacks of supporting documents that no one is interested in, and we swear right and left that we do not consume this drink, that never has a drop of it passed our lips, may the Lord smite me on the spot. . . How much longer will this go on? Tell me, my friends, are you not tired by now of this rigmarole? Isn’t it high time, in response to all of these accusations, rebukes, suspicions, smears, and denunciations—both present and future—to fold our arms over our chests and loudly, clearly, coldly, and calmly put forth the only argument which this public can understand: why don’t you all go to hell?

Who are we, to make excuses to them; who are they to interrogate us? What is the purpose of this mock trial over an entire people where the verdict is known in advance? Our habit of constantly and zealously answering to any rabble has already done us a lot of harm and will do much more. The situation that has been created as a result tragically confirms a well known saying: ‘Qui s’excuse s’accuse.’ We ourselves have acquainted our neighbors with the thought that for every embezzling Jew it is possible to drag the entire ancient people to answer. . . Every accusation causes among us such a commotion that people unwittingly think, ‘Why are they so afraid of everything? Apparently their conscience is not clear.’ Exactly because we are ready at every minute to stand at attention, there develops among others an inescapable view about us, as of some specific thievish tribe. We think that our constant readiness to undergo a search without hesitation and to turn out our pockets will eventually convince mankind of our nobility; look what gentlemen we are—we do not have anything to hide!

This is a terrible mistake. The real gentlemen are those who will not allow anyone for any reason to search their apartment, their pockets or their soul. Only a person under surveillance is ready for a search at every moment. This is the only one inevitable conclusion from our maniac reaction to every reproach—to accept responsibility as a people for every action of a Jew, and to make excuses in front of everybody including hell knows who. I consider this system to be false to its very root.

Old Jabotinsky could’ve saved Franz Kafka a lot of time and ink. But even the State of Israel cannot help us if this remains our mentality—not over there, where it can scarcely protect its own citizens from this kind of attack, and damn sure not here in America. Its leaders are busy fighting corruption charges, and casting belatedly and superfluously about for 1940s anti-semitism; it sends its condolences, as peremptory as any American politician’s. If the body count approaches a dozen, you may get an Israeli cabinet minister at your memorial service. Mazal tov.

So do you want to live, or don’t you? The state of our solidarity, of our situational awareness, of our rectal fortitude, is as sorry as it was in 1932. But though I may have as little in common with Jersey City frummies as I do with a Denisovan, though these things may happen thousands of miles away, every one of these attacks is an attack on my soul. Zionism is as much about spiritual exigencies as it is about practical ones. For over a thousand years, our ancestors were forbidden to own land, enter an honest trade, testify in court, ride a horse, or carry a weapon for self-defense. We were a “protected” class. A crime against us was a property crime. That is why the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was so important: not because it prevented any great proportion of the crimes committed against us by the Germans, but because it vindicated our dignity as human beings. The Israeli army exists as much to defend Israeli territory, lives, and infrastructure, as it does in order for you to know unequivocally that you are a free and equal human being.

I got into a debate not long ago with a couple of law school friends, about a Texas law requiring public contractors to sign a pledge not to boycott Israel. Though not Jewish, my friends are mainstream, pro-Israel conservatives. They defended the law, on the premise that a government contract is not a right; and I opposed it, on free speech grounds. In the course of our conversation, I ranted a bit about lobbyists, about Jewish pushiness and Israeli arrogance and how some principles (e.g., free speech) are higher than my ethnic affinities. I see now that this was a mistake—not because of the facts, but because of my motives. I wasn’t just defending free speech: I was obliquely defending Jews, by melodramatically trying to demonstrate that my loyalties are not conflicted. But my friends didn’t have any doubts about that.

So it doesn’t matter if this or that Jew is a bad person. Are you? Or are you worthy to hold your head up and live? Because if you aren’t, there’s always alt-right Twitter, or left anti-Zionism, or banging on the office doors of senators and police commissioners demanding indifferent protection. Just know that if you seek to validate and defend yourself in this manner, your work will never be done, because you will have handed all your power over to others, when they didn’t even ask for it. Almost no issue in public discourse needs to be about Jews in any fundamental way—not even, e.g., U.S. military aid to Israel, or the phenomenon of anti-semitic shootings. Rather, you need to fundamentally be about yourself, before you can be for others. And an attack on Jews is an attack on you.

So never denounce your own kind. Never second-guess a friend, or an enemy. Fold your arms over your chest, like Jabotinsky said. Be clear, cold, and calm. Don’t panic. Be stationary, be stoic. Exude utter contempt. That’s number one.

Number two is, be prepared to physically defend yourself, and your loved ones. Over the same weekend as the Monsey attack, a gunman stormed a church in rural Texas, and was immediately shot down by a parishioner before he was able to kill anyone else. QED: if Jews weren’t such soft targets, these attacks wouldn’t be happening.

It’s that simple.

 

 

Crocodile Logos

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the god pill is dispensed by social media, as soon as you hit the wall

“Ideas must be distinct before reason can act upon them; and no man ever had a distinct idea of the trinity. It is mere Abracadabra of the mountebanks calling themselves the priests of Jesus. If it could be understood it would not answer their purpose. Their security is in their faculty of shedding darkness, like the scuttlefish, thro’ the element in which they move, and making it impenetrable to the eye of a pursuing enemy, and there they will skulk.” —Thomas Jefferson, Letter to Francis Adrian Van der Kemp (1810)

“LOL, are you one of these coomers who wants to ban ‘hate speech’ but not porn?”

I don’t want to ban either. But when was the last time porn inspired a shooting? The social and psychological ill-effect of porn has been a lively topic of public discussion for nearly a decade—a discussion, not a debate, because the harms are proven. But until the alt-right got in on it, the issue was how to stop yourself, not about getting the government to do it for you.

I’m not sure porn is as bad as its most stringent detractors say it is—not because the effects aren’t real, but because choice still exists in the matter:

From a philosophical standpoint, pornography, like any other foul use of speech, has no socially redeeming value. But there is great value in having a government that lacks power in criminalizing people’s words, pictures, or thoughts, especially for the ill-defined goals of “community standards” imposed on other people. I’m not your parent, I’m not your priest.

As far as the “culture war”, this is the sort of thing you see pushed by Twitter conservatives, but there is no appetite for it in the real world. (Nothing is impossible for people who don’t have to do the fucking work.) Hard-core antipornites are a hashtag, not a voting block.

But meme magic is real: the above comment was stolen from a Reddit thread about a letter to AG Barr demanding he take action against porn, sent this week by four congressmen in the immediate wake of last weekend’s #BanPorn trending hashtag.

I have kids, okay? The oldest is nearly a teenager. My own formative years were substantially derailed by degeneracy, my own and that of others. So I’m hyper-aware of mass media social engineering, occult symbols—all that shit. And porn is clearly a tool of social engineering, I just don’t think that the harms are any worse than giving people who think like E. Michael Jones the power to ban it—and not just because he brazenly opposes the Bill of Rights in favor of Torquemada’s forceps. (He just told Alex Jones on a podcast interview that speech restrictions on social media are “antithetical to what we believe as Americans.” Presumably, he’s referring to the First Amendment. Yet he frequently, and with a straight face, calls for the reimposition of medieval Church doctrines which consigned Jews to second-class, “protected” status. I should think that would violate the First Amendment, too. Certainly it would be antithetical to what George Washington believed, about the Jews and religious liberty in general. It’s disappointing to have to take this stuff seriously, but as of this week we’re up to our third anti-semitic shooting in little over a year, and that’s just here in America.)

Jones’s thesis and most widely-quoted insight is that “Sexual liberation is a form of political control.” Truism like these can be oversimplified. Determining that you aren’t interested in having a say in what goes on between two consenting adults you don’t know is quite different than blackmailing a gay Senator. And if sexual liberation means the freedom to choose unwisely, it must also mean the freedom not to, which is a bit more than can be said for life under theocracy.

But to the considerable extent that sexual liberation is indeed a form of political control, so is sexual repression. When Jones bangs on about Wilhelm Reich and Theodore Adorno, what he flatly misunderstands is that those guys were not just condemning religion or the traditional family as such. They were also saying, basically, that those institutions contained a great deal of repressed sexual energy, and that fascism was those people’s way of having an orgy (sometimes literally.) Think about it: when the Iranian morality patrol drags an Instagram model by her hair to a police station, are they just repressing the sexual impulses of others, or are they sublimating their own? Are you sure you want people like that deputized?

Jones himself is quite a shill for the Ayatollahs. I realize that sounds jaundiced, but there’s really no better way to describe it: as the paid guest of a regime that has murdered hundreds of American servicemen, he travels to Iran—a country where Christians are consigned to the same second-class “protected” status Jones would like imposed upon Jews here—and appears on its state-run media to denounce the United States wholesale as morally corrupted by Jews. Well, there’s plenty wrong with the United States (and the Jews) but that’s no less aid and comfort than Tokyo Rose gave Hirohito.

Though of course there were various Jewish shrinks and impresarios (among many, many Gentiles) who helped to sell it, the mid-twentieth century was hardly the first time in world history that decadence has broken out. If you’re an acolyte of Jones, you’ll be amazed to discover that it has even happened occasionally without the aid of Jews. Nature is cyclical, not linear, and dark energies are going to get released one way or another. Hawthorne understood this very well. Not every behavior that reason shows to be perverse or destructive is amenable to our complete control, and the controls we do place on them should be as circumspect as possible, if only because easy assurance that we can subdue or eradicate the forces of nature is always a form of hubris, whether espoused by trans-humanists or theocrats.

Jones, for example, is fond of remarking that Islam upholds “the logos of the family.” But a lot of sub-rosa perversion goes on in Muslim countries, and Iran is no exception. Anyone who has had their brush with Muslim culture knows exactly what I’m talking about and how widespread it is. You can blame this all on the west (or the Jews), but everybody knows about the prophet’s pedophilic predilections. But even in modern America, traditional morality can actually disrupt the “logos of the family.” In 1989, in a case Hawthorne would’ve appreciated, the Supreme Court heard a challenge (Michael H. v. Gerald D.) to a California statute granting the presumption of paternity to the husband of the mother. A woman had cheated on her husband; they stayed together, but the biological father of the child she bore wanted visitation rights. Writing for the majority upholding the challenged law, Justice Scalia reasoned that it was supported by cultural norms and longstanding jurisprudence intended to protect the sanctity of marriage and the family. So in the name of protecting family, an infant child was denied, until the age of majority, the right to ever see or meet a biological parent who wanted to be in her life.

If you’re exceptionally miserable with a spouse, should you really have to prove—you, personally, to a judge—that one of you was beaten or cheated on in order to leave? Should you have to hazard pregnancy every time you shtup the missus? Multiply the you in this instance times a hundred million people and that’s how we got contraception and no-fault divorce. How monomaniacal do you have to be to believe that Jews are a necessary condition here? Miller and Roe came after Griswold, not before. But my point with these over-worn examples is that traditional sexual norms are not so cut-and-dry as the tradcath community wants to believe. It has to do with more than just full D-and-E abortions and story time drag queens with prolapsed rectums. And even if it didn’t, the alt-right argument that those things dramatically affect every man, woman and child from sea to shining sea is as obtuse and disconnected from reality as the libertarian argument that you should be okay with having a crack house next door, so long as it doesn’t violate the non-aggression principle. I mean, without too much effort on my part, my kids have never seen a drag queen, and no one in my life has ever had a late-term abortion. While those things are certainly sickening, and result from, and contribute to an aggregate deterioration in public morality, for the most part you still have to go online to feel affected by it.

And this helps illustrate a larger point: though you can pontificate and grandstand and merch-hawk on social media, the simple fact is that the scale of political community in America is so far beyond the traditional agora that resistance on a grand scale is illusory. Call it what you want, blame whomever you like, but that ship has sailed, and the way to find it is not through Congress or your ISP. “Seek not abroad, turn back into thyself, for in the inner man dwells the truth.” You’re online half the day, you don’t have three people you’d be willing to help move a couch, and you’re gonna stop a hundred million strangers from masturbating? Please. We live in times of anomie, depravity, and dissolution, but that isn’t stopping you from worshipping, getting in shape, getting an education, or starting a family. Spending time online in the alt-right, however, may be stopping you.

Don’t believe me? Well…. Porn is harmful, right? It’s addictive, it’s isolating, it detracts from real relationships, sets up unrealistic expectations, and exposes children to obscenity. It turns you into a hamster on a wheel chasing an ever more elusive hit of dopamine. Well guess what? So does social media, in the exact same way. It’s addictive, it’s isolating, it detracts from real relationships, sets up unrealistic expectations, and exposes children to predators and obscenity. It turns you into a hamster on a wheel chasing an ever more elusive hit of dopamine. The harm from porn addiction is a lot like the harm from simple overuse of the internet. And who’s on the internet more than the fucking alt-right? Sluts? Spammers? Grifters? Coomers? A man is known by the company he keeps. “But porn has never been more readily accessible!” That’s right—the problem is the computer, not just the content. The medium is the message. If all porn was removed from it tomorrow, the internet would be nearly as big a degeneracy agonist as it is now with all the anal sex. It destroys critical brain regions. It causes blindness (yes, even without porn.) It breaks up families. It renders higher cognitive functions reptilian, almost by design. The effects are observable.

So if you’re “rejecting degeneracy” or “revolting against the modern world” on Twitter and YT, you may have a problem. Twitter is awash in porn, yet E. Michael Jones posts there multiple times a day to over 17,000 followers. Do you think tradcath/alt-right content would even be on Twitter at all if it wasn’t helping the platform’s business model? “Well, the alt-right is using it to get a good message out.” Did you not read what I just wrote thirty seconds ago about addiction, social isolation, and fucking blindness? Or can’t you remember? No matter what anyone says, social media serves only two purposes: narcissistic aggression, and huckstering. Almost every internet personality with any kind of following is a frivolous grifter to some degree, and the mark they need in order to buy and sell is you.

Notice how Roosh didn’t need Christianity to become JQ-woke? He’d dialed that bit of vindictiveness in already—being a literal e-thot was no impediment, but eventually he hit the wall. Jesus is nothing but a last refuge for this kind of narcissist, and Roosh is no less narcissistic as a Christian. All he did was gauge the wind and stock next products, posing with a vacuous, far-off look of wannabe profundity all the time like some Insta slag having breakfast at the Four Seasons Wailea. Talk about idolatry—would anyone who has an ounce of shame and self-awareness be selfie-sticking a toll road to Damascus? And here we start to see how wonderfully convenient it must be to have recourse to so ready-made a vocation as castigating Jews at every turn. Incidentally, devout seersucker crusader Nick Fuentes is altogether a sly, deranged little Coco Puff packer on the order of Milo Yiannopolous. There is simply no reason to take any of these carnival barkers seriously. “Doctor” Jones is no exception, and in case you don’t believe me, he’s having a Christmas sale, and takes Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. I’m not saying the man shouldn’t make a living, but online marketing isn’t a real job no matter how much you love Jesus. Moral preening on social media is no less a sin of pride than physical preening, but at least Instagram whores have enough modesty not to press the Almighty into their service.

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In the Quran it is written that, when Judgment Day is concluded and the unfaithful are consigned to hell, they will cry out to Satan that he deceived them, and he will reply that, “I had no authority over you, but I called you, and you came.” Choose wisely, frens. Lolcowing Tinder screenshots of fat girls and single-moms is not anti-degeneracy, it requires degeneracy. It’s a chickenshit cope, and the only reason you don’t feel pathetic doing it is because it absolves you of having to face a real interaction—just like porn. “When men can hate without risk, their stupidity is easily convinced, the motives supply themselves.” (Think I can’t use Céline to mock the alt-right? Yeah, keep using Jesus to get retweets.)

St. Augustine wrote about finding his way to God by overcoming profligacy and waywardness. Without hedonism being available to him as an option, there would be no Confessions. There would be no Saint Augustine. Free will is perhaps the most important concept in teleological ethics and Abrahamic theology. Yet for over a millennium under Jewish, Christian and Islamic theocracies, people were for the most part not free to choose any number of things we take for granted today, including sexual profligacy. When people are not free to face their darker nature, they lose the capacity and the perspective to resist it. This is one reason why a millennium of theocracy has now given way to libertinism. And people who aren’t free to face their darker nature need a scapegoat, which the Jews provided to Europe for a thousand years. Yeah I know, they were very very naughty. But gentiles who were similarly naughty did not get scapegoated in this way, and Jews who weren’t did. And this scapegoat is exactly the role the Jews play in the alt-right/tradcath weltanschaung today. Collective responsibility is precisely what Roosh, EMJ and the rest of the alt-right believe in, and it is utterly “antithetical to what we believe as Americans.”

I know, I know: there are lots of wicked Jews on the loose nowadays, and they’re up to all manner of mischief. But the psychological mechanism underlying their importance to you and E. Michael Jones isn’t entirely connected to whether/to what extent this is true. According to the most recent Forbes list, 1/5 of the world’s billionaires are Jewish. (European Gentiles make up nearly 60%, so don’t talk to me about “overrepresentation.”) Does the alt-right focus only 1/5th of it’s animus on the Jews (or 60% on European Gentiles?) Hardly. The ready coherence of narratives like Jones’s would lose a great deal of force without this antagonist, both real and imaginary. For if the Jews are the enemies of all mankind, then mankind is not the enemy of itself, and believers can very cheaply be absolved of a great deal of introspection.

The Church (which in any case began from a schism among the Jews) has gotten a great deal of mileage out of this little loophole. Can it be a coincidence that the Church has seen its sharpest decline in public prestige and moral legitimacy only since the emancipation of the Jews? So thoroughly is the faith predicated on the negation of Judaism that any Jew’s conversion represents its ultimate legitimation. No penitent drunk or gap-toothed Papuan’s baptism could ever serve to vindicate Christianity like the chastened, exhausted collapse of a Hebrew before the smug mercy of his ancestors’ tormentors. Yet without recourse to project inner foreboding upon these recalcitrants—as if into a spittoon—St. Augustine’s advice to “seek not abroad” had finally to be taken, and we don’t much like when the abyss gazes back into us now, do we?

That is why Vatican II was so undermining to the Church. When Jones says “You can have unity in the Church, or good relations with the Jews, but not both,” he’s absolutely right—he just doesn’t understand why. “When men can hate without risk, their stupidity is easily convinced, the motives supply themselves.” And when they can’t, they might actually have to look in the mirror. But if that’s too much for you, you have an alternative in E. Michael Jones—a shrill mountebank whose pathetic career consists in conscripting Christ Jesus into the pride and vanity of moral grandstanding on social media, and hardly has greater social value than pornography. Like the alt-right more broadly, he’s a spiritual crutch for those who will always be stuck among the middling realms of wisdom and understanding. But if that’s really what those types need to keep from fondling themselves, they’re more than welcome to hate me. By my stripes be healed, frens. I don’t claim to speak for God, but at least I’m not asking for your money.

il y a une lumière

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mirror mirror, on the wall

>”For some, Notre Dame serves as a symbol of an idealized France that never really existed.
>”For some, the human brain, which is really just taco meat, serves as a symbol of an idealized, interconnected web of neural pathways.”
>”For some, geometry serves as a discriminatorily encoded reification of hierarchies of institutional dominance in a romanticized grid of space-time.”
>”For some, Botticelli’s Venus serves to unrealistically conflate womanhood with light and beauty, thus obscuring and denigrating cankles, acne, period blood, cockroaches, dead puppies, and choleric diarrhea flecked with wiry asshairs.”
>”For some, a cocker spaniel is a child, and a kindergartener is a melanoma.”
>”For some, belly buttons are assholes, midgets are space dolphins, and you can get pregnant in the poopy hole.”