Ghostwriting my memoirs

It’s cold. The wind is a rusty blade sawing into my flesh, cutting down to the bone. I’m wearing socks, underwear, boots, two shirts, a sweatshirt and a coat and it’s as if I’m naked. As if I’m not wearing skin, as if I’m exposed raw meat, my whole body a wound and the wind is made of salt. It doesn’t snow anymore but winter will punish you. It will smother the earth with  darkness and stab your heart with shards of ice.

Sleep is uncertain, aloof. It holds and caresses me half the time and then it tosses me back into the desert of consciousness before I’m ready. At 2 in the morning, sometimes earlier. My circadian rhythm is in an odd meter, an experimental bar not meant for a man. Sometimes I wake up at midnight, already 4 hours deep into my sleep. Why am I awake? What impish neuron fired the waking signal? What grumbling organ upset my anxious body?

Some nights I sleep nine hours. Others I sleep 4. I’m two different people depending on how much I sleep. When I get 8 hours of sleep I enjoy being alive and I like other people. Food tastes good and I look forward to going places. Lifting weights is fun and I welcome challenges.

When I don’t sleep the day is torture. I carry a stone tablet around my neck. Everything is mud and I’m sinking. My vision becomes tinted, my brain spoils and rots. I smell the stale air in my head. I hate my dull thoughts but I’m too tired to outrun or quiet them. They’re a droning, undead commentary on a plodding, aimless episode of my life.

People taunt me. A smile is a cruel insult. Why are people happy when they’re stalked by suffering? Because even when they’re awake, they’re unconscious, like all the other animals, like mechanical dolls, like everything but me. Consciousness is isolation. I think, therefore I’m alone.

Other people keep us from disintegrating. Without them I can feel myself losing molecules.

Everyday is work. It’s waking up in a cold, dark cave and listening to the rain drip from the ceiling while everyone else is dreaming. I wake up miles away from another soul. I work and then come home and my cat is waiting. It helps to pet her but she’ll never understand me. She needs me for food and warmth but I need human recognition.

All the neurotic fears about my health, my body and my diet. Counting calories, balancing macronutrients, worrying about losing muscle mass and strength. Researching supplements and worrying about declining testosterone levels. My habits revolve around my comfort but my relationships are weak; I’ve done nothing to preserve them. Close friends are a glimmer of a faded past. They’re holograms. It hurts to think of them and how distant they are now.

My tendency is to drift along until I’m stranded at sea.  Staying in touch doesn’t get easier by default. There’s no structure holding people in place. Your whole life they throw people in your way until one day no one’s around. You took those easy connections for granted when they felt natural and automatic. At least if you weren’t a nerd or a mutant. Then I don’t know what to tell you, it’s always been hard.

Loneliness will kill me faster than a bad diet. Solitude makes the longest life not worth living. All the fish oil pills in the world can’t replace belonging to others. And if I write everyday, if I workout and read and have a sculpted body, what good will it do me if I’m lacking love, if I’m a part of nothing?

I sometimes wonder, in moments that stretch themselves out to eternity, if the choices I’ve made and the person I’ve become fit together into a consistent picture, if they tell a coherent story. And then I wonder if following my impulses at every turn was worth it. I write in fragments because I can’t recollect who I’ve been.

Need to edit but there’s no time. Nothing is what it could be, so I’ll let this stand as incomplete, as permanently in need of reworking.

Looking for cake in all the wrong places

In 2012, a gay Colorado couple wanted a gay wedding cake for their gay wedding. This was 5 years ago, deep in the abysmal depths of a dark age of ignorance and religious repression. Unbelievers were flayed and flogged, heretics were roasted in rotisseries and homosexual couples couldn’t use state power to force ministers to desecrate their faiths. At least in Colorado and other benighted states.

Charlie Craig and David Mullins, an indomitable pair of poofs, couldn’t get married in Colorado, but Massachusetts, a state on the leaking dicktip of progress, was happy to wed them. So the duo planned to get married in Massachusetts and then return to Colorado to celebrate.

Since those dismal days, gay marriage has become legal everywhere in the US. A gay couple can now sashay into the bible beating heart of rural Alabama and get married with the full backing of the federal government. If a rebellious yokel in Arkansas refuses to officiate a gay wedding, then he’ll be greeted at his door by tanks and troops who have a few things to teach him about tolerance.

But going back to the medieval period of 2012, Craig and Mullins went to Masterpiece bakery in Lakewood, Colorado, owned by practicing Christian Jack Phillips. They asked for a cake to celebrate a wedding they couldn’t have in their own state and Phillips turned them down. Unbelievable though it may sound, he cited his faith as the reason for why he couldn’t serve them.

Because the bible is full of gay hating verses, some Christian bakers believe gay marriage is wrong. Though most of us are content to live and let gays marry, a few scattered bigots need the strong arm of the state to persuade them otherwise. Jack Phillips couldn’t stop Craig and Mullins from getting married, but he could unconscionably object to selling a wedding cake.

The gay brave underdogs got married and bought a cake elsewhere, but they weren’t done with Phillips; they had a score to settle. Equality isn’t just the opportunity to do what everyone else does, it’s the power to punish and humiliate anyone who disagrees with you. Those who talk of level playing fields dream of burying the privileged.

The couple sued Phillips and brought the weight of the state down on the tiny private bakery, and the ensuing case was settled in their favor. It was framed as a battle between anti -discrimination laws and religious freedom. In America, the freedom to hold religious beliefs ends at the scowling face of a petty homosexual. You are free to believe whatever you want as long you don’t make minorities feel bad by living up to your faith.

You may worship your backwards, gay bashing god in private, in secret, under the cover of night. But your beliefs will not excuse your private business from bending over and serving everyone, regardless of lifestyle, race, nationality or communicable disease. If a semi sentient life form can hobble or crawl through the door of your establishment, then you must enter into a transactional relationship with it.

When a monolithic corporation with a stranglehold on the market fired an employee for sincerely explaining why most women don’t want tech jobs, leftists cynically defended corporate power. After all, Google is a private company and they can do whatever they want, they can hire and fire at their discretion, they have the right to suppress the truth. But when a bakery in a city with countless other bakeries stands up for its principles against the farce of gay marriage, then we need government regulation, the state must steamroll over private opponents of publicly recognized perversion.

Colorado commanded the Christian bakery to sell cakes for gay weddings. Not only did the state force Phillips to use his art to support a twisted facsimile of a strictly defined, revered institution, it also ordered him to change his company policy and provide his employees with Huxlian style indoctrination into the proper methods of accommodating homosexual patrons.

Dim, shuffling bureaucrats handing out gay tolerance report cards is a second-rate version of the everyday menace Hannah Arendt called the banality of evil. Our current system gives unseen administrators the power to impose reeducation programs on dissident heterosexuals and penalize individuals who resist the demands of aggrandized minorities.

Philips had to file quarterly reports on how he was going about making himself, his employees and his cakes as gay friendly as possible. The state stopped just short of locking Phillips in stocks and sodomizing him on the town square.

It’s worth remembering that Philips didn’t outright deny the gay couple service. He didn’t watch them skip into his store and snarl at them to get out. He offered to sell them any other baked good but he couldn’t help them with their wedding cake. There’s no account of Philips belittling or threatening the couple. He politely and respectfully declined to perform a single service that would undermine a tenet of his religion.

Making a wedding cake is an expressive act, closer to the performance of an artist than the provisioning of a basic resource. A wedding cake is a symbolic object, it means more than a sugar bomb at the end of a buffet. Philips didn’t withhold scones or muffins from Craig and Mullins because he thought they deserved to go hungry.

There are plenty of inclusive bakeries in Lakewood, Colorado, and gay marriage is legal in all fifty states. Craig and Mullins say the case isn’t about a cake, and they’re right; it’s about the gay obsession with domination and submission, it’s an example of the gaydomasochistic desire to degrade, torment and mortify. Craig and Mullins want to have their cake and shame a Christian too, as well as suck up the attention of a sympathetic press and the support of corrupt civil rights groups and portions of the public.

(See Pleasureman’s lucid take on gay motives here

What is left for a gay couple to do after getting married? They can’t have children. Rather than spending the rest of their lives wistfully recalling their gloryhole days, they look forward to avenging trivial insults. They have no legacy beyond their legal assaults and no sense of proportion in their response to rejection. No offense is minor enough to forget.

Gays are inwardly broken; they’re products of abuse and neglect. They vent their self hatred on the healthy and stifle their own inner confusion and discontent with shallow enthusiasm, hedonism, disinhibition and pageantry. The slightest disagreement with how they live sends them down a dark path of suicidal loathing and hysterical accusations. People are compelled to exaggerate their approval of gay dysfunction and pretend they aren’t disgusted by homo sex habits.

Philips fought back against Colorado and now the Supreme court is reviewing the case. The struggle between anti-discrimination laws and religious freedom has reached the highest court in the land and come to national attention. In defense of a theatrical, attention seeking victim class, leftists are once again warping the meaning of religion, attacking traditional attitudes and redefining words to suit their deranged agenda.

Religious freedom is just a flimsy cover for an endless index of horrific offenses and sins against the modern cult of progressive, overheated emotional reason: racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, islamophobia, hatred, bigotry, philiaphobia and phobophilia.

Gay rights activists and concerned members of the public are confronting the sordid possible consequences of a ruling in support of Philips. Will shops be able to hang up signs that say they won’t serve gays? What’s the next step for empowered hatred? Separate water fountains for blacks? Such fevered imaginings sound like classic slippery slope arguments.

Liberals are quick to mock conservatives for worrying about the next institutional degradation that will follow from gay marriage. No one will want to marry their dog, that’s just a slippery slope fallacy. But when a baker denies a gay couple their cake, our skeptical fallacy busters slip right into fearmongering, hand wringing rhetoric. Where will the discrimination end?

The possibility of a hateful sign doesn’t seem relevant to the case, but while we’re indulging in fantasies, I have a few interesting hypotheticals of my own. What if a muslim baker withholds his cakes from gays? Whose side do we take when the gays put pressure on the muslim businesses?  Which phobia is worse, islamophobia or homophobia?

Who is the bigger bigot, a gay hating muslim or a muslim hating gay? Can a gay baker refuse to sell a cake to a westboro baptist? What if a bright, blonde Nazi couple goose steps into a jewish bakery and asks for a 7 layer swastika cake? I suspect that in each of those scenarios, liberals and leftists would suddenly start loving freedom and tell the gays, baptists and Nazis to leave the poor bakers alone and find another place to get their pastries.

One way or another, expensive, interminable lawsuits will be necessary to sort through the confusion. Identity politics thrives on an expansive, cumbersome legal apparatus and reinforces the grudges of a fractured, litigious population. People without historical or cultural common ground will resort to hijacking impersonal mechanisms of power to control the behavior and beliefs  of their neighbors.

Discrimination is another word like diversity, only instead of everyone mindlessly praising it, everyone robotically condemns it. Diversity is unnatural and destructive but we should want more of it; discrimination is natural and normal but we should eradicate it. Discrimination is a foundational mental process and we’re constantly doing it unconsciously, but it’s also terrible and wrong. We won’t have a just society until no one notices anything about anyone or has any preference for or against certain types of people.

Soon you will be allowed to distance yourself from someone only after you spend years peeling back the layers of skin color, religion, gender, nationality, economic class, political party, sexual orientation and group affiliation and plunge into the quivering innards of their real, individual identity.

There are people who won’t be satisfied until every last organic attachment and evolved bias is torn up and replaced with a synthetic evaluation program that determines worth on the basis of merit. Don’t worry about what merit means either, that’s for our technocratic transumanists to define and enforce.

The narcissistic dullards of our tattered patchwork society turn local disagreements into national controversies. Private conflicts become public spectacles and legal quagmires. Everyone distrusts and disparages power until they can use it to soothe their resentments. Our autistic insistence on rights belies our lack of reason and decency. A chaotic mass society holds itself together with rules, regulations, rights and procedures. The ties that bind us are paper thin.

Haven in a brainless world

I live in a city, but not a sanctuary city. My state’s general assembly passed a law in 2011 that forbids any town or city from preventing immigration officers from deporting illegal immigrants. I live in the Midwest, also known as the breadbasket of bigotry, a place you sneer at and spit on as you fly thousands of feet above it on your way to a coastal oasis of culture and learning. No one chooses to live in this repressive wasteland except for racists and renegade Mexicans.

Our white, Christian majority perversely wanted to protect itself, so it hatefully passed a law against harboring criminal aliens in its own home.  Here in American’s Hateland, there’s no sanctuary for squatting mestizos. At least where the law is concerned.

The trouble with the law is that its power lies in its enforcement. Otherwise it’s no more than a few blotches of ink, the shaky scribbling of impotent dribblers. There are laws determining who can live in this country and how they can become citizens, but mere words on a page won’t stop pedro from packing his entire extended family in a studio apartment if he knows the people around him are happy to watch their town turn into a barrio.

I live in a state sitting 1700 miles from Mexico, full of white Christians with  representatives who pass laws against sheltering trespassers. Here we punish businesses for hiring illegals and force cities to comply with immigration officials. But we still have 64,000 cast offs from mexico and around 93,000 illegal aliens total.

My state is so white, hateful and exclusive that it has only attracted about one hundred thousand uneducated, unskilled dirt people from the world’s sweltering mudruts. Even when we try to be inhospitable we’re still an inviting, comfortable place to ply a taco trade. For many of our misfortunately born mexicans, life in a foreign country surrounded by people who don’t want you here and don’t speak your language is still better than weekly bouts of caustic diarrhea under the broiling Yucatan sun.

There are now 14 states with declining illegal immigration. I’d venture a guess that they’re all states at least trying to enforce existing immigration laws. Where the threat of deportation is greater, there will be fewer illegals. Not that it will stop all of them, just as laws against murder only reduce the frequency of intentional eviscerations. And then there are states like California and cities like San Francisco, which can’t stretch its butthole wide enough to accommodate every aids patient, junky, hobo and migrant clamoring for an unlubed entry.

San Francisco is a reeking petri dish of all the worst elements of modern society. It’s a steaming bathhouse of pampered elitists, tech goons, corporate glad-handers, derelicts, homos and hoodwinkers. A feculent potpourri of transhumanist strivers, sham ceo’s, cultists and grime caked itinerants. San Francisco is a keg of backwash, a throbbing hive of vice and pretension. The cost of living is so high you either have to be satanically wealthy or shiftless to live there.

Its streets are overflowing with hepatitic needles and comatose vagrants. There are puddles of piss and rolling stench clouds from free range bowel movements. The city is a 47 mile mosiac of mutli million dollar homes, tent cities and shanty towns. It’s an ongoing affront to decency and balance, a monument to globalist arrogance and minority dysfunction, a model for the endgame of transnational corporate rule.

But why can’t these tech geniuses solve our social problems? They’ve changed the world with their ideas. Because they’ve mostly made the world worse. They’re not a solution to anything, they’re part of the problem. They should be flung into the ocean along with the errant urinators and rectal thermometers so normal humans can repopulate the area.

San Francisco is a sanctuary city, but for whom exactly is it a sanctuary? Certainly not Kathryn Steinle, a young white woman shot in the back by an illegal two years ago. Jose Zarate had already been deported five times, but he found sweet sanctuary in San Francisco, a city so compassionate it would rather cradle filthy alien criminals than protect actual american citizens.

This is justice in the current year: leniency and excuses for the discolored scum of the earth and death to whitey. Equality is defending foreign murderers and shrugging at the preventable deaths of pretty white women. This ugly unfolding of events began with the flouting of federal law. First, a San Francisco sheriff refused to give up Zarate for deportation. Because, remember, this is a sanctuary city.

Then Zarate, with nothing better to do, like learn the language of the foreign country he continually violated, found a gun that was stolen from a car by another miscreant. Because he’s a slow witted, careless pest, Zarate sat on a chair and played with the stolen weapon for twenty minutes. His defense claimed he didn’t know it was a gun. He likely mistook it for a gardening tool.

Finally, he accidentally fired the gun and when he saw that he’d hit someone, he ran away, leaving an innocent women to die in the arms of her father. Such solidarity is just one of the many benefits of multiculturalism. You can be sure that when a bullet pierces your brain on a boardwalk, our swelling, alien tongued criminal ranks will rush to help you rather than avert their eyes and silently celebrate.

A jury made up of multiple immigrants convicted Zarate on lesser gun charges and now he’s due for another deportation. It takes the senseless death of our own citizen to pry an illegal alien from San Francisco’s cold, gay hands. Now a sanctuary city mourns the loss of its most tenacious, illiterate landscaper. Though if past behavior predicts the future, it’s a sure bet Zarate will soon be back for another uninvited guest appearance in America. Maybe the seventh time will be the charm.

Naturally, leftists care more about the reaction to the murder than the murder itself. Every time a goat fucking outcast drives a truck into a crowd or slashes his way through a thicket of pedestrians, progressives lunge into action and denounce the hatred of their fellow Americans.

Anyone who coddles violent fugitives and condemns the healthy and natural reaction to hostile intrusion and internal subversion should also be deported. They should live in the slums, tunnels and junkyards of their favorite foreign countries and leave civilization to people with the intelligence and heart to maintain it.

Here’s a middle American message for the deviants, quislings and posers knee deep in hobo excrement on our nation’s coasts: keep flying over us, we don’t want you or your beloved criminals here. May you experience the joys of diversity like a piece of shrapnel in your spine.

Some days are like that

Another week has passed. I’ve been sleeping over 8 hours a night. It’s  a subtle change. I’m not exploding with energy, but I’m less irritable. There’s not as much mist in my head.

Still there’s an aimlessness, an indifference. I’m complacent and cold. My clarity doesn’t drive me to do anything different. Sleepless or rested, my life is the same. I still wake up at 4 in the morning and construct a café, then serve and serve and serve until I go home at one in the afternoon. And then my day is done.

Nothing holds my attention. Or rather I should say my attention holds nothing. I scroll through an endless stream of words until the day turns inside out and I can sleep again.

The December sun isn’t filtered by the atmosphere. There’s no density in the air and the light is irradiating, like the frozen flash of an atom bomb. It’s been beautiful the last few days. But I don’t feel beauty anymore. I think and feel in two dimensions. Yesterday I took a picture of the sunset because I knew I wouldn’t remember it. I never take pictures.

When I went home last weekend I looked at photos of my dad when he was my age. He looked almost identical to how I look now. He was young and is now old. I’m young and will soon be old. We don’t become; life leaves us behind. Having children gives you a chance to see yourself as young again in a living form rather than an image.

We’re not individuals. We’re copies, repetitions in a series. Links in a great chain. And yet everything today is pushing us to break this chain. We’re never free enough; there’s always a root to hack away, another bond to sever. Liberation is free floating isolation in space among the asteroids. 

The calm clarity of my current mood is choking me. I can’t say what I want to say about time, identity, aging and death because they’re obscure subjects. And if I’m not certain that what I’m saying is clear then I can’t say it. Political polemic is more fun because insulting people comes easily.

The myth of direct experience, the illusion of immediacy. I wanted to merge with the faded beauty of the evening sky but my thoughts were in the way. I’m always between myself and what I want to be. My present is a playback of what I missed, overlaid with commentary. I can see the splicing of scenes, the fraying of the reel. To live is to edit, to see is to censor.

Even impressions are retroactive, composed of minute longings for what has passed. We appear in the lag of streaming sunlight. We’re flickering memories of ourselves, genetic reprints or photons on celluloid.

Before I was tired because I couldn’t sleep. But there’s a fatigue deeper than the deepest sleep. We live too long; we’re not made for life or death. I’m homesick for somewhere I’ve never been.

We’re all just people, man

Diversity is a vacuum of thought. It’s not an idea and it has no inherent worth. But we must praise it, celebrate it, and violently reorder our lives to serve it.

We might as well grunt and scratch ourselves instead of speaking because what we say about diversity is no more than apish flea picking and grooming. It’s animalistic signaling of tribal membership and submission. Whatever the context, when you praise diversity, what you’re saying is please don’t beat me. I’m a good monkey.

It’s a verbal tic, a form of Tourette’s, a spasm in speech. We don’t think, we protect ourselves from thinking. We punish honest inquiry as if a few questions about the value of population churn could cause race riots and mass hangings.

Diversity has no tradition or history. It fell out of the sky in the 90’s and became an ideological anchor. No one bothers to find out where it came from or why it’s so important, but that doesn’t stop anyone from cramming it into every single statement they make about who they are and what they believe.

Everyone must rabidly commit themselves to diversity, regardless of what makes them happy. Every institution must become more diverse, regardless of its history, function or design. Our recent preference for novelty seeking numbs us to our deeper need for similarity, stability and agreement. A healthy, integrated self is dependent on social continuity and cohesion, but we’ve not only lost sight of this, we actively campaign against it.

Diversity has become, in the span of about 25 years, an absolute value. It’s as if western civilization had achieved nothing until 1964. As if life in any era before 1995 was a suffocating nightmare of uniformity, a hopeless, homogenized grind without laughter, joy, beauty and brilliance. But everything is getting better now that we’re shoehorning ill fitting flotsam into every institutional nook and cranny.

Don’t mind the crime, terrorism and ethnic tension. Forget the withering of trust, the draining of social capital, decline of civic participation, the falling wages and the explosion of mental illness. The rise of addiction, passivity, sterility, the scamming, listless hedonism, the plague of cynicism, boredom and despair. The greed, consolidation of wealth, rapid degradation of the environment and cultural adulteration. These are mere externalities, paltry sacrifices in service to our new god.

I can’t stress enough that the way we talk about diversity is stupefying. Something about the word makes people prattle like Miss America contestants binging on valium. Grown men turn into into high school bimbos gabbing to their girlfriends on the phone after school. They say things like diversity is who we are.

It’s beneath refutation; it’s the drooling, incontinent admission of a glass- eyed, self-satisfied simpleton, but it passes for a philosophy, it counts as a contribution to our national discourse.

They’ll also mumble about how diversity gives us more ideas and then we can decide on the best ones, as if anything creative ever happened by throwing together a bunch of unintegrated, distrustful strangers and then letting them babble all over each other. A ditzy interest in colorful clothes and spicy food won’t bridge the cultural and historical gaps between people with vastly different experiences and traditions. Fetishes born of weak social attachments only intensify misunderstanding and alienation.

Then there’s the number crunching, emotionally mutilated approach. Socially desiccated nerds love to argue for the marginal economic benefits of diversity, immigration and bloating populations. A few piddling technological or scientific advances are all the compensation they need for their displacement and anomie. A fractional increase in the GDP and the funneling of a few extra pennies into the gullets of corporate billionaires more than make up for the loss of a shared way of life.

We’re all equal, but we must also be diverse. Because we’re all exactly the same inside, we need to include people with different perspectives. Division is bad but diversity is good. You must be diverse without being divisive. Separation is always wrong unless everyone agrees to it. If something wants to be a part of you then you have to accept it.

There will come a day when the borders of our bodies become obsolete. We’ll shame our fascist immune systems for rejecting undocumented pathogens. Every virus deserves a chance to thrive. Bacterial lives matter. And if our bigoted bodies happen to break down from an onslaught of illness, then it’s only because we weren’t loving and tolerant enough.

White Saturday

Post thanksgiving Saturday morning. For the first time in two years I’m not alone on a holiday. Last year I wandered the desolate streets of northeast dc and cataloged my regrets and misgivings. I took pictures of stray pigeons pecking at crumbs on street corners and had a meal at a Chinese restaurant. I could have reached out to people but I held back. Solitude was my default setting.

One of my strongest temptations is dwelling on sadness, isolation and emptiness. An awareness of transience and futility is always with me, a baseline of my consciousness. To live is to lose, no matter how powerful or fortunate you may be.

Sensitivity to the vanity of existence can lead upward or downward. It can take you down a dark path of denial or towards the truth. We are meant for more than mining the earth; our deep dissatisfaction with mortality is the seed of transcendence.

But if we don’t transform our disappointment with life into devotion to a higher power and service to others, we risk losing our souls to terrestrial trivialities and diabolical perversions. Life offers itself as both the cause and cure of our ills. It threatens and injures us, it tantalizes and torments. And when we’re on the brink of giving up, it provides our fearful, ignorant selves with enough delusions and distractions to prolong our suffering.

I know my heart is corrupt; I’m not a naturally good person. Our current society didn’t make me this way. Our culture didn’t twist my spirit into a selfish welter of destructive drives. No future state of engineered excellence will guarantee angelic conduct or heavenly harmony among the masses. Progress falls short of perfection. You can be a politically free man but a slave to your passions.

We want what we can’t have and it’s not capitalism’s fault. We want what’s bad for us regardless of who’s in power or what’s on the news. It’s not just the current hyper neoliberal mutation of a rapacious economic system turning us into amoral atoms of consumption. And kids today aren’t inarticulate, mumbling relativists because they read Derrida and Foucault when they turned 21.

Cultural Marxism and the Frankfurt school are corrupting influences. But they only work on the essentially corruptible. You can expel the parasitic, sophistical jew from your society but that still leaves the jew within. You have a supernatural, tireless ability to cheat god and deceive yourself. Keep this in mind as you war against the depraved cabal of murderers and child molesters at the helm of the world.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t follow current events or that we don’t need to know what’s happening or understand where we came from. But we should also be capable of stepping outside of time and finding our place in eternity. Not everything that happens now is worthy of our attention. Much of it is needlessly upsetting. A window into the world is also black tar on the soul.

A compulsive preoccupation with the present annihilates history and mutilates our reverence for the past. We should look back with love on the sacrifices of our ancestors and set our sights on a future far beyond our materialistic fantasies.

Let’s not pin all of our hopes on a collection of votes. There will never be a just society free from violence and hate. Politics is often the pursuit of revenge, and the humiliation of our enemies, while fun, can also turn into a stifling obsession.

People treat love like a worn out whore; ready and available for everyone, equally at all times and all places, always good to go. But it’s rather a precious resource, finite, easily lost, misdirected and changeable.

They lecture us on loving difference, celebrating diversity, opening our arms to the alien and the distant. We must embrace the unknown, drop our distinction between insider and outsider and override our core instincts. Disgust and hostility are to be reserved for the similar, the familiar, for the known and the traditional. They’re programming us to be feckless, self loathing and defenseless, confused about our priorities and deaf to our real calling.

Loving what’s close is a task, a project, while loving what’s far away is a pose, a fashionable article, an affectation with destructive potential. It demands no effort upfront but it will rob you of a recognizable future.

I love my family more than wild Africans, feral chechens, melon picking mexicans, scheming jews and inscrutable orientals. I love what my people have achieved, their perseverance, intelligence and strength, their health, humor, morals, beauty and religion.

Cultivating love for organic social bonds is more difficult and much more important than listlessly signaling your flaccid acceptance of drowning under a tidal wave of miscellaneous savages from every stinking pit on the desecrated earth.

It’s funny because it’s true

This story doesn’t matter. But I want to talk about it anyway.

Indians are the most ungrateful whiners in the world. Their standard of living in America is stratospherically higher than it is in the overpopulated, gang raping, septic tank of a country that spawned them. And they make more money on average than white Americans.

But the privilege of raiding the academic infrastructure of a functioning foreign country isn’t enough. Nor are the comforts, the human rights, the opportunity, or the streets that aren’t rivers of shit. They won’t be satisfied until they blast diarrhea all over our low culture and cartoon tv tradition. The fun of a caricature and the vitality of bawdy, offensive humor are lost on them. This is because Indians are barely human mutants.

The Simpsons has entertained America for decades. Only an Indian could fail to find it funny. Only a dour, unappreciative, autistic street shitter would bemoan a trivial aspect of life in a country that affords him unparalleled access to wealth and status.

Why are these charmless, alienating nerds so fixated on representations, cartoons and comic books ? When you make more money and are better educated than the average person in a country you’ll never fit into or be able to call home, why are you crying about two dimensional characters in tv shows?

Imagine being a white Christian in the dung hut of an indian in india. Your gracious hosts give you food and a seat on their comfiest couch, but your primary concern is the lack of positive white Christian symbols and characters in the house. What’s with all these elephants? Where are the crosses? Indian television doesn’t have many white people. Such an attitude would strike everyone as distasteful, self-centered and thankless.

The idea of a model minority is oppressive because it correctly assumes that Indians and Chinese are more successful than blacks and Mexicans. It’s a burden to consistently outperform other groups and also receive recognition for it. But it’s a myth that only accounts for Chinese and indian Asians. There are also lesser Asian boat people that wash up on America’s shores with lower IQ’s and weaker family structures. They work in nail salons and message parlors and make less than white Americans.

When a Cambodian makes a meager living, it’s because America is a racist country. When an Indian becomes a doctor and a millionaire, it’s also because of racism. A group sinking beneath the white average is a problem that whites should fix, but a group rising higher than whites is also a problem.

Or rather, it’s okay for a group to do better than whites, but it’s not okay for whites to notice. Or it’s okay for whites to notice, but not if it prevents them from condemning themselves. It’s wrong for whites to notice the superior educational attainments and wealth of an imported minority if it makes  whites feel good about themselves for building a society that shelters and empowers the grubby ingrates of the world.

The high achievements of some are meaningless as long as a single Laotian has to scrape by cleaning cuticles in a poorly ventilated salon. To suggest that there are certain behaviors and beliefs conducive to success in a complex, technologically advanced society is racist. Chinese and Indian families that raise their children in stable, rule governed homes aren’t models. There’s no lesson in their rise to the top, nothing to praise or copy that wouldn’t also affirm white supremacy.

Why are the Chinese and Indians successful and why are the Vietnamese struggling? The answer is the same in both cases: racism. Intelligence, aptitude, upbringing, culture, history and tradition are mystifying excuses for white domination. There’s no organic, non racist reason why some Asians are doing better than others. All we can say for sure is that the higher and lower order Asians should all band together to more efficiently pillage the remaining wealth and knowledge of the western world.

High achieving minorities are of questionable value to their host societies. They tend to repay the kindness of the majority with impertinence, suspicion and contempt, and they degrade a native environment with ugliness, overcrowding and pollution. They drain trust, sap social capital and shred cultural cohesion. Chinese and Indians have a narrow, ant-like industriousness and an inhuman, calculating intellect; they’re cold, ruthless manipulators, cheaters, scammers and swindlers.

These people make a mockery of a meritocracy. We don’t need more soulless, disloyal strivers in this country;  we’ve reached max capacity on materialistic foreigners who cheat on tests, huddle in reeking, ethnic enclaves and sneer at the majority population. We have enough greasy shysters, shifty middlemen, neurotic, masturbating comedians and goony computer janitors to drag our dying economy into the next century.

Every single character on the Simpsons is a cruelly insensitive but hilarious stereotype. Groundskeeper Willie is an angry, inept scottsman who wears kilts and plays bagpipes. Homer is an oafish white man who gorges on donuts and neglects his children. Marge is a bland, nagging housewife.

Lisa is a priggish feminist. Professor Frink is an impractical egghead, Cletus is a slack jawed yokel. Barney is a blundering drunk, Moe is an ugly, seedy tavern owner, and Chief Wiggum is a dim-witted policeman who looks and sounds like a pig.

Mr. Burns is a heartless corporate overlord. Smithers is a sycophantic, closeted assistant. Krusty is a sleazy, shekel clutching clown. Crowds turn into rioting mobs at the slightest provocation. People steal, cheat, taunt and mistreat each other with idiotic abandon in almost every scene. No one looks good on this show. Fat white men, scots, housewives, white trash, police, gilded era tycoons and closeted gays have so far got the joke or had the good grace to ignore how a ridiculous caricature made them feel.

But an elite college educated indian comes to American, watches an iconic cartoon and then nurses a girlish grudge for his entire adult life. No one seethes with petty, twig dicked resentment like a physically weak, unattractive, sexually unsuccessful Asian man.

All the education and money they leech from America won’t make them normal or attractive. Rather than accept their condition as unintentionally amusing and annoying bug people on the outside of a majority society looking in, they rage against the titanic injustice of having to repeat a catchphrase of a cartoon character every now and then.

Enduring such relentless, spirit breaking abuse, how did they manage to cut corners and finagle their way through hostile institutions in an inhospitable country to earn degrees and then get jobs or become acclaimed comedians? Let’s get a few scholars of racism to find out for us.

I’m going to go to India, get into their best high school, go to one of their top universities and then become a comedian who tells jokes about how the people there are close minded rubes for not liking me. The central theme of my act would be that a people with deeply entrenched customs living in the same place for hundreds or thousands of years should all go on soul searing, deconstructive quests to rid themselves of their aversion to me. Doesn’t that sound funny?

For our transnational corporations, an excluded minority is an untapped market. The drive to diversify a population coincides with a sleepless pursuit of profits. So we find ourselves in the current year with an economy working for the common good of capitalist barons, delocalized managers and tribal malcontents.

It won’t be enough to let the eastern bug people become our friendly neighborhood programmers and physicians. Allowing an Asian swarm to sweep through our universities like locusts ravaging a field of crops is insufficiently self effacing to meet the demands of our modern suicidal ethic. If the price of indian esteem is a handicapped sense of humor, then we should be willing to never laugh again.

This is what happens when nothing happens

Gray, rainy days comfort me. Their sadness mirrors mine.

A beautiful day forces you to live up to its beauty. To be worthy of its happiness.

Rainy days ask nothing of you. They let you fall into yourself and forget. Like a drawn out shower on a winter evening. Time doesn’t pass.

4 in the afternoon is the same as 10 in the morning. All the hours of the day are draped in the same grey veil.

You want to get away from the world and sleep. Not because you want to die but because you want to live your life unconsciously. Part of you is always dark. And that part wants to swallow everything else.

Went to work today. It rained. I was inside and watched people come in with wet coats and pants. We talked about how they were wet and those of us who’d been working in the cafe were dry. I made lattes.

Some guy  was setting up a video shoot and I don’t know why. He’s a regular who’d been talking about it for weeks but I never pay attention to things like that. He pointed blazing lights at us. As if we needed more attention and exposure. Everyone already  watches you. Normally, we work in soft lighting that doesn’t draw attention to minor physical flaws, small stains or bits of coffee grounds.

But today all the things you don’t see were highlighted. Grime, dirt, discoloration, herky-jerky movements. I saw myself in one of the cameras and I looked like a corpse who’d been living in a sewer.

It was busy, the lights made me anxious and I worried about serving people poorly made drinks and ruining their day. But no one else thought about it. Later tonight I’ll think about it again.

It rained all day and I thought about writing after work. About Louis ck asking women to watch him masturbate. I was going to write about how he’d confused his private life with his role as a performer. Because his act is an hour of people watching him masturbate. When louis is on stage, people want to see that. When he’s back stage, not so much…

Louis can pack Madison square garden with tens of thousands of people who want to watch him masturbate. They relate and laugh. Not to the man who haltingly asks women if they’d like him to pull on his penis in the green room.

They relate to the act of masturbating on stage for an hour to an admiring audience. The contemporary narcissist isn’t just a sculpted Instagram model,  he’s also a chronically masturbating slob in sweatpants.

All these powerful men making women watch them masturbate, abusing their power, taking advantage, groping, pinching, suggesting, winking and nudging from the crack in the slightly open door of their hotel room where they stand wearing only a loosely tied towel over their penises.

Power is another worn out word that airheads repeat to give weight to their statements. They think of power as the product of a system. An invisible machines gives it out in unequal portions. People are powerful because of their positions in society.

The sacred cause of progressives is correcting this imbalance of power through radical reform of the system. But to reform the system they need to take the power positions for themselves. Progressives are so devoted to this cause that they haven’t noticed it makes no sense and will never work.

Power isn’t just what’s given to you by someone or something else. It’s also who you are, it’s what you give to the world. It’s what you express as yourself, positively, in deciding, in willing and acting.

There’s the power that comes from how other people see you. But there’s a greater power that comes from deciding who you are and then acting in harmony with your chosen character.

Men like Harvey Weinstein and Louis Ck have a power that’s weakly rooted, unstable and dependent on the whims of others.They have a circumstantial power over others. They can make women watch them masturbate. But they can’t make themselves not make women watch them masturbate.

Other people pay for your lack of self control. Always remember this. The system is less important than what you do. Louis still could have been a famous comedian, but he also could have not made those women watch him masturbate. He lacked power when he needed it. So did Weinstein and many others.

You can’t blame louis for wanting to do stupid, harmful things. But you can blame him for doing stupid, harmful things. Actions are more reliable guides to character than the dim dreams rumbling in the basement of a man’s mind. What we do means more than what we want.

Men take power in society. They climb to the top of the hierarchy where they can satisfy their desires. They live where they want and buy anything. Nothing is out of reach.

But they still don’t have power over themselves. Nothing in our culture can give them that. When it comes to making themselves work for money rather than sift through sacks of chicken guts in a dumpster behind a restaurant, some men exercise tremendous power. They can will themselves to write comedy specials and make blockbuster movies but they can’t stop themselves from pulling their dicks out at the wrong time in front of the wrong people.

All the power in the world and their dicks still dominate them.  They have adoring fans, a fawning media, more money than they’ll ever need but they’re still internally weak and defeated.

There are many manifestations of power that we don’t see. It’s not just wealth, fame, talent, charisma, good looks or an interesting personality. It’s not just physical strength or the ability to inflict pain, the intelligence to manipulate or what you can get away with because of your place in a social structure. There are other forms.

There’s the power of decency. The power of restraint, of modesty, deference and respect. Of faith, fidelity, dignity and sacrifice. What about the power of a man who stays true to his wife. What about the man who puts his family before his raging lusts, who does his job without demanding special treatment or preying on people beneath him. Or the man who gives his life in service to something greater than himself.

Are men like this not powerful? Or are we trying to paint an ugly picture of power and masculinity, to define masculine power narrowly and negatively so as to discredit it? If male power were nothing more than a swollen, sweaty executive tugging on his flagging penis in front of interns, then we’d be justified in denouncing and combating it. Better give that power to samoan paraplegics and transgender Mongolians, who we can be sure wouldn’t abuse it.

You don’t want what you want. You jerk off all day to the arousing images swirling around you like a vortex. So many women. You’re so close to having it you can feel it. There are endless ads and shows, programs, friends and strangers on the street telling you to do it, to give in and get it. You want it and so does everyone else.

At 55 you’re no different from who you were when you were 20. You’re cracked and chafed from years of rubbing yourself raw. You made money and a name for yourself but you’re still a compulsive  masturbator, limping towards old age, pleading with women to watch you wring a few drops of stale jizz from your weathered nutsack.

Your desires are working against you. They’ve been against you your entire life. Give them up. You’ll never be satisfied and you’ll make other people miserable as well. You may be irreparably damaged, internally damned; the least you can do is not ruin other people’s lives. If your non-abjectly masturbating self is a lie, it’s better to live the lie.

The beauty of a young woman should inspire you to have children with her. That’s the meaning of feminine beauty. It’s powerful but also fleeting. It doesn’t last forever in a particular woman but it’s also not that rare. Many women are attractive when they’re young.

You don’t evolve or transcend by trying to have sex with hundreds or thousands of women. You piss your time away, risk your physical and emotional health and make people around you sad. It’s broken behavior, not a display of power. When you see women solely as sex objects, they’re all the same. What makes a woman special is the life she shares with you, her history entwined with yours. Not her tits or ass. A woman is special because she sacrifices for you and you do the same for her.

Women are not sex toys or independent, strong individuals. They are parts of a larger social fabric. Sexual waywardness and crass objectification tear this fabric apart. Women are mothers, daughters and sisters, they’re members of families. The disintegration of social ties leaves behind a wasteland of predation.

Nothing is more spiritually corrosive and socially retarding than sexual obsession. It’s the downfall of supposedly powerful men. Let them be a lesson. No success or wealth is worth losing your soul to lust.

Unneeded things

There’s a gift shop downtown. They put out a sign on the sidewalk that says end white heteropatriarchy. 

Yes, let’s end it. I want to watch the blubbering owners of a trinket shop build a better society. A more supportive social order that encourages its cripples, freaks, parasites, layabouts and mental patients.

This shop is the vanity project of a rich, listless housewife. No one needs feminist keychains and broad city pins and yoga themed coffee mugs. The only people who can afford this gaudy garbage are other rich, listless housewives.

Upper class women in America are so oppressed they have to open bauble huts on fashionable downtown streets in major cities. They scrawl in chalk their desperate cry for justice: end white heteropatriarchy. 

When a glorified mall kiosk mouths revolutionary slogans, the revolution is over. Mainstream society has adopted the language of angry, academic afro american lesbians and bitter, Marxist german jews. It was always self soothing gibberish but now it’s widespread and adulterated. Commonplace and acceptable. Decorum.

It’s toothless and gummy babbling from the comfortably aggrieved. The arthritic grasping of a senile movement. There was a time when talking about the heteropatriarchy meant you were part of an elite group of radicals. You were on the vanguard of a critical, progressive wave of dangerous thinkers and activists.

Now the arcane analysis of the white power structure is embroidered on a 50 dollar throw pillow. The empowerment of women and minorities is a glittering chunk of cheap metal hanging from a stretched out earlobe. Buy and resist. Look good and revolt. Add to the bloat of critical thinking conformists. The bravest progressives resist domination when there are no negative consequences.

White, heterosexual society has so successfully integrated progressive ideology that a niche craft store can scrawl a scornful message on its A-frame in the middle of a busy street and no one cares. It’s business as usual. There’s no retaliation, no outcry. No protests or boycotts. Instead we have stories on the suffocating racism of a black in the air force writing the word nigger on a chalkboard.

When a black hurls watermelons at his own house in a hate crime hoax we still lash whites for their latent racism. When a jew threatens to bomb a synagogue it’s another opportunity to gravely condemn anti-Semitism. But when a knick knack shack calls for the overthrow of a white social order, it’s routine self expression, it’s another day on main street in anytown, usa.

I want to see the society that women, gays and blacks build. They can work with vagrants, southeast asians, pygmies and headhunters. I want a worldwide coalition of African blacks, native americans, criminals, offenders, anarchists, muslims, eskimos, druids, lepers and outcasts. Every marginal, injured group on the planet cooperating to create a superior society free from the oppressive powers that hobble and harangue them.

This exulted order will work perfectly without the efforts of law abiding, productive and creative whites with healthy reproductive instincts. There will be paved roads, clean sewer systems, heat and electricity. Law, medicine and advanced technology. Efficient transportation and communication networks. Spiritual and moral progress. A written history, monumental works of art, tradition, academic institutions and scholarly standards.

The bongo players, pansexuals and non identifying, genderless slabs of soy will come together to build shipyards and airports. Conceive an experimental method of investigation. Achieve lasting influence in architecture and political science. Draft constitutions. Create instruments that measure and record a subatomic reality. They will do all of this without hatred or greed, without lust or envy. Without oppressing anyone. As soon as we end the white heteropatriarchy.

As soon as we stop preferring to procreate with attractive members of the opposite sex, a better world will emerge. When we forget about focusing our talents on securing resources for our offspring, we will be free and happy. If we follow the commands of our twitching groins, look for psychic stability in momentary pleasures and worship our chaotic impulses, then we’ll win lasting peace.

There will be civic minded corporations and fair business practices. Ethical treatment of animals. An exacting but fair moral standard of judging people by their behavior and not their identity or background. Robust institutions and safe, enduring communities. Trade and diplomacy. A universal code of conduct, a universal language.

Beethoven was black. So were Jesus and Shakespeare. You didn’t know that. All the great inventors and creators and builders were queer black muslims. Your white supremacist education has convinced you that the fathers of our modern world were white. They weren’t. Straight whites are responsible for domination and hatred but they take credit for all the civilizational contributions of desert nomads, mud-men and river-people.

Learn more about the other side of history from our accredited, radical gift shop scholars. And buy a ring or two while you’re here.

It’s paining men

Saturday morning. I have to be up early for work but I’m up even earlier. I wake up to write because I turn into a barnacle clinging to my couch after work, waiting for the sun to sink beneath the horizon so I can slip back to sleep.

My job saps me. The blur of transactions, the whir of thank you’s and what can we get for yous. People say they’re introverts or extroverts. Or introverted extroverts. Meaningless classifications for our rattling shells formerly known as personalities. Whatever you  call yourself, there are only so many pleasantries you can exchange in a day.

When I leave work I go home and sit in a musty recliner in a darkened room with my pants unbuttoned. My cat has been doing god knows what all day and wants affection. She sits on my lap and I shove her off. Domestic violence makes sense. You work all day, grinding your patience to the bone and then you come home and dependent  animals needle your eardrums with their plaintive whines.

No wonder men beat their wives, children and pets. Men with hard lots, grimy and dangerous jobs, working long, irregular hours in ice and fire. They come home and there’s more service, more requests and demands, toddlers tugging at your shit specked overalls. A house full of cats meowing, children crying and women nagging.

No wonder men slink off into dank bars and drink until their faces are fuzzy and the cold kernels in their chests warm up. We ask why people drink, why they smoke or inject or snort and swallow mood altering substances. Because our nerves are shattered. We need to sand and smooth the jagged edges of our awareness. If it’s not heroin then it’s 4 hours of the gauzy glow of tv.

The jutting pain of knowing you’ll work and die without understanding why. An unconscious rumbling, an abyss yawning beneath you. And yet our mundane suffering prepares us for salvation. Work drains us but without it we’d have no excuse for our misery.

A selfish life without obligations is its own hell. I’d rather work for others than obsess over my fantasies. I’ll try not to beat anyone.