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.

The genuine article

I can’t read on the internet anymore. The Manosphere. Arts and letters daily. MPC.com. Comments sections anywhere.

Arts and letters daily is highfalutin and dull. I fall asleep reading the excerpts on the front page. The contrived cleverness is a tranquilizer. The varnish of scholarship stings my eyes.

I imagine the male writers of those articles crossing their legs, wrapping silk scarves around their spindly necks and nursing a hot chocolate as they embark on a quivering, puckering exploration into the nature of the self, memory or the semiotics of cod pieces. An obsession with history can also be a form of amnesia.  

One thing is also another thing. Always a form of something else. Who would have thought. Not you, you simpleton. You’ve spent your whole mentally mundane life thinking a thing is the thing it is and not a form of another thing, you bare footed, tin shack dwelling yahoo.

Things are also the opposite of themselves. But only in specific circumstances, part of the time, when certain features are present. Maybe. For our deepest, most delicate thinkers, the only conclusions are ambiguously inconclusive. Read 2500 instantly forgettable, finely strained word wisps on the unreliable function of memory. Wander through a 5000 word fog on boredom which also reflexively examines how boring it is.

We’ve talked about boredom, but have we talked about being bored while reading articles on boredom?  These articles are MC Eschar paintings of a penis masturbating itself.

The setup is the same. We’ve beaten a topic into a putrid pulp. We’ve stripped the corpse clean and taken off into the desert, hooting and yelping. But our author has found one last thing in the abandoned carrion to examine.

Over the last fifty years, we’ve said all we can say about the cultural significance of footwear. And where a decent person would stop and become a welder, our writer blasts on ahead with a few thousand more words. What our shoes say about us. What our shoelaces say about us. Everything is always talking to the professional, useless talkers. It’s not enough for people to babbly continuously. Every inanimate object has something to say as well.

The writer will then make reference to Thoreau, W.H. Auden, Orwell and Jane Austin. They will shoehorn Orwell into any article on politics. Because every article on politics is an article on totalitarianism, and you can’t mention totalitarianism without discussing Orwell. Or Hannah Arendt.

More articles by adjunct reserve lecturers at two year tech schools in the virgin islands about totalitarian footwear featuring lengthy quotes from Orwell and Arendt. Every day another set of articles. Some of them will be about how knowledge is also a form of ignorance. Reading is a form of illiteracy.

Let’s make more noise about the value of silence. There’s so much information, how do we decide what’s important. There are so many articles about information overload, how do we choose among them. Time is short and death beckons; how do we select the hardest hitting, most informative, most entertaining pieces about things which are also other things?

I’ve read many articles on how many articles are circulating, but what I need help with is choosing the right article on choosing the best articles about the excess of articles.

The manosphere is an oldmanosphere. Creaking and groaning about misandry and circumcision as it offers tips on fucking and deserting young, impressionable women. They bluster about traditional values in one breath and then blather about shit that didn’t happen at an imagined orgy with 18 year olds in the next. Autistic alpha males discuss hypergamy as they rock uncontrollably in their computer chairs. Hypergamy is the word they use when they want to feel smart about calling women whores.

Then there are the men going their own way. MTGOW. There’s no such thing as men going their own way. The only way men may go on their own is to the grave, into eternal darkness and genetic annihilation. But until then they pretend they’ve escaped from the man mauling prison of western society into the jungles of southeast asia or some other third world hellhole where they can buy preteen girls for pennies.

There’s also the ass stomping, iron bending, isolated executive branch of the sphere, with its avalanche of articles on optimizing, maximizing, making more money, diversifying revenue streams, niche sites, consulting gigs and fitness and fashion advice.

It’s where you’ll read about the 10 things you need to do that worked for the person who wrote the article but will be useless for you. Where you can buy ebooks on writing profitable ebooks. It’s not a pyramid scheme, it’s revolutionary advice from an uncompromising artist. Get aimlessly pumped and motivated and fired up four billion times before you realize your life isn’t special and your identity as a wealthy internet sage will never materialize.

The odds are that you’ll get married, work a job and have a boss. You’ll make more money for someone else than you make for yourself. You’ll struggle and feel stressed at times but also you’ll have a family to love and protect. Every commercial on tv is about how stupid and incompetent you are but turn off the tv, raise your children and provide for your family. Worrying about how tv represents you is for blacks and women.

You’re not an international, self employed playboy. It’s okay. It doesn’t make you a failure, a sheep, a lemming, or part of a braying herd. Quit letting anti-social internet goons bully you into thinking your average life is inadequate. Wanting a wife and children is normal and healthy. There’s nothing wrong with working a socially necessary, unglamorous job. Find meaning and fulfillment in your family, community and religion.

What do I know, I’m nearly illiterate. When I tell people I write, they ask what I write about and I don’t know what to tell them. Then they ask what I like to read and I don’t have an answer for that either.

I’m a musician who doesn’t listen to music and a writer who doesn’t read. I lift weights but I hate fitness. I smoke weed but I hate potheads and pot culture.

People ask what I do with my free time and I evade the question like a well oiled politician.

A nation of licensed rental truck drivers

A drifting, disconnected white boomer sprayed bullets into a crowd in vegas. It was a post-ideological, absurdist massacre without pamphlets, manifestos or scriptural support. No one told him to kill. No one “radicalized” him. His life was radically individualistic and itinerant. But he used guns. So we need to pass laws against guns. And blame white men and their unhinged gun culture. Nothing could be more clear. It’s common sense and only a bible reading, gun toting bigot thinks otherwise.

We’re all sensibly living in quaking fear of white men and their twitchy trigger fingers and massive arsenals. We don’t go to movies or concerts. Or visit friends and relatives. We lock ourselves inside bullet proof bunkers and eat cans of beans in a state of terminal anxiety. Jimmy Kimmel cries and soaks his pants with piss thinking about the grim certainty of another shooting unless we do something right now, something sensible that we all agree on except for the NRA and its murder machine attendants. We just want to live a normal, fear free life again.

A scraggly, uzbecki interloper squashed cyclists in Manhattan with a deadly, common sense defying rental truck. He got out of his automatic assault vehicle and shouted allah ackbar and fired pellets and paint balls before an officer shot him in the stomach. Then he was taken to the hospital for surgery.

(Waiting for the black lives matter morons to protest the humane treatment of terrorists by the police. Why da black man git shot in da hed fo selling cigarettes wen da terrorist get a complimentary live saving surgery after driving ova pipo? Even da muslim get betta treatment den da black man.)

He left a note saying he killed in the name of isis, an Islamic death cult and global murder network. But let’s not rush to judgement. Don’t profile, stereotype or blame a group, religion or immigration policy for this random, naturally occurring act of carnage.

Don’t feel anger or give in to fear. This is a time for tweets, status updates and candlelit vigils. We won’t let this everyday atrocity change our way of life. Our values. We won’t politicize. There’s an increasing possibility of your skull cracking under a truck tire. But that’s the big city. Just one infinitesimal part of life in a blood drenched, hostility saturated, suspicion soaked, alienated multiculturalist paradise.

In the aftermath of another Islamic terrorist attack, liberals will gird their barren loins and defend their suicidal immigration policies. They’ll ask, do we want to live in a country that closes its doors to people from other cultures?   As if they’ve just tunneled to the core of the deepest, most difficult quandary and unearthed the ultimate chin scratching brain buster.

And after painful deliberation we’re supposed to say no. We won’t close our doors. No price in human life is too high. We want more cultural adulteration, more ethnic dilution, more disaffection and distrust. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, but what kills us is our greatest strength of all.

Let’s join the multiculturalists and think it through. Do we want to live in a country that closes its doors to people from other cultures? The answer is yes. A country is for some and not others, like everything worth preserving. What makes your house yours and not a hobo waystation is your right to shut and lock your doors and only let in who you want: friends, people you’ve vetted, people who aren’t likely to ram a railroad spike into your chest.

Not ever letting anyone into your home is niggardly and inhibitive. Letting everyone in is foolish and self-destructive. Erring on the side of caution without barricading yourself in your bathtub 24 hours a day is my policy. I’d almost call it common sense.

Look at a picture of Sayfullo Saipov. Say his name. Regardless of his capacity for religiously motivated, bone crunching bike path terror, who wants that here? What American sees a picture of that man and thinks, I wish half my neighborhood looked like that. For the sake of aesthetic consistency alone there’s good reason to shut our doors to Islamic uzbeckis.

What are uzbecki’s known to do well and why do we need them in America? Those are the questions I’d rather ponder. Our current attitude towards institutions, clubs and countries is that if there’s not enough of one kind of person, then there should be more. And if there’s too much of one kind of person, then there should be less, especially when it comes to majority white America, the most despicable and desirable place to live on earth.

There’s no consideration of merit, excellence or need. Why do we need Uzbecki’s in America? Because we don’t have them. That’s the argument. Because there are none, there must be some. The logic of the diversity imperative is watertight.

So let’s move to manhattan, get back on our bikes and invite a few more sullen steppe people into our country. We fear our natives and love our foreigners here. It’s the freshly fashioned American way.

Something to chew on

Reading cnn.com is like watching a school bus full of men buttfucking each other drive off a cliff in slow motion. It’s a nauseating and horrifying spectacle. When I read cnn and encounter the specious reasoning, mincing manners, the dull, leaden language, flatulent rhetoric and spiritless sermonizing of the artificially aggrieved, lisping, meaninglessly credentialed pack of dildos and butt plugs masquerading as reporters and editors, I brim with hate and my sack swells with indignation.

Mainstream journalism is a bloated corpse. A grotesque parody, a soul stunting, reality wrenching mockery of a profession. There’s no such thing as news, only the shrieks and yelps of the self castrating choir boys of a post human, imperialistic multiculturalism determined to destroy everything good, beautiful and true. There’s no objective perspective, no moderation in thought or expression, only the incantations of a queer cabal of nation wreckers and their zealous minions.

Cnn is breathlessly covering the Mueller investigation as if the rest of reality has been sucked into the void. They’re squinting to see their precious damning evidence in the bureaucratic bog of an investigation into a non-crime. The whole affair is a managerial wet dream, the ultimate revenge fantasy of boring, vindictive, busy body government lackeys and their media lickspittles. It’s an interminable search for proof that the American people didn’t reject Hillary Clinton and the globalist agenda of their own free will. They’ll do anything but accept responsibility for driving people away with their condescending coverage and freakish causes. It’s been almost a year since the election and they still refuse to accept the obvious.

They call themselves progressive but they’re stuck repeating the same senseless phrases and brazen lies as reality proves them wrong time and again. They glorify the individual and worship difference but they’re humorless, drab conformists in thought, speech and behavior. Their preferred lifestyle of atomized, rootless self creation, tech induced distraction and endless reinvention severs the social bonds that nurture and guide the development of personality. And their obsession with avoiding harm and enforcing fairness has a stultifying effect on expression and character.

The roots of their upstart tradition of subversion and disorder grew out of the enlightenment, which was at one point predicated on an appreciation of facts and scientific research. But the last thing a current year progressive wants to confront is a fact. They manipulate stats and surveys when it suits them, spew undigested chunks of reheated pseudo-science from their favorite children’s educational tv shows and dismiss genuine science and empirical inquiry as racist and sexist.

Cnn is mind numbingly biased against Trump, nationalism and whites who don’t hate themselves. Their front page is stocked with flyweight articles written by middling scolds and pretentious airheads offering their deep thoughts on how white men are responsible for all the world’s suffering. When a cnn editor writes a cream puff article chastising Trump, he sounds like a scorned teenage girl talking about the ex boyfriend she loathes for leaving her. These are grown, adult men who use the sarcastic and snarky language of spoiled, petulant valley girls. It’s embarrassing.

We live in a time when institutions, professions and individuals lumber and lurch about, undead, rotting and unaware they’re no longer relevant or necessary. In my more optimistic moments I can see the withering of mainstream media organs, the collapse of degenerate, predatory, pedophilic Hollywood, the defunding of the radical academic asylum complex and the excising of the parasitic, malignant, tumorous bureaucracy in Washington. And I begin to believe in a better future for us all.

Until then the circus rolls on.

Lamentations of the biblical variety

I work in a nice coffee shop. Downtown in a Midwestern metropolis, in an historic, renovated building. People come here to buy six dollar lattes with house made flavored syrups. Our milk comes from grass fed cows half an hour outside the city. We also have house made cashew milk for those who don’t want dairy.

I greet customers and guide them to a high quality drink and croissant. People are happy when they get here. They glow when they look at the pastry case. Their eyes sparkle when they watch me pour a rosetta on their lattes. They sit for hours on their laptops and schedule meetings to discuss numbers and charts or yoga and astrology.

The work is hard but it’s not spine snapping. I burn myself but the likelihood of being crushed, stabbed or shot is low. I’m on my feet all day but I’m not going to be buried in a mineshaft or get sucked into a giant fan or slide off an icy deck and fall into the frigid depths.

My job pays better than any other service industry job I’ve ever had. It pays better than my jobs in Washington DC, where you pay a thousand dollars a month to rent a crevice on the northeast side of the Potomac river. My job pays more than any other coffee shop job in the state. It’s still nothing.

I’m poor. My parents are middle class. Their parents were middle class. Their grandparents lived through the depression and clawed their way into the middle class. My genetic line in the 20th century was an upward arc of increasing wealth, comfort and security. And then I came along.

My parents can give me a hundred dollars every now and then. They can take me back into their home if I lose my job or get evicted. But they can’t help me buy a house or a car. They can’t get me out of debt. I owe thousands of dollars to doctors, hospitals and utility companies. I have multiple parking tickets and late fees haunting me like the ghost of a man I murdered in a distant past. I’m 31 and I drive a car I don’t own and live in a groaning nightmare of a house I rent from two people even less organized and competent than me.

My life isn’t mine. I’m a serf, a ragged peasant, an indentured servant. An irish immigrant. The rattling husk of my former self. A hunchback in a bell tower. I work in an upscale café where well-to-do types luxuriate in comfortable settings and enjoy fine coffee products. I’m pleasant and helpful, I make drinks and wash dishes. And then I return to my slave shack stained with cat piss and roach guts where I cook meatballs, pet my cat until I fall into a shallow sleep and wake up at ungodly hours and tremble in fear at my looming death.

My landlord and her revolving cast of ex husbands still haven’t fixed the furnace. It’s getting colder. I have a space heater raging at full power all day and night. The bedroom is warm, the living room is cool and the kitchen is frosty. The bathroom in the back of the house is uninhabitable. Only a navy seal could shit or shower in there. My ass aches from the blistering cold of the toilet seat.

I don’t ask for much. But for god’s sake give me a room temperature toilet, a place I can park my ass for a few minutes and forget my cares. A man wasn’t born to shiver while he shits.

Can’t get a phone loan

It’s now 40 degrees. Feels like 30. The heat in my house isn’t working. Some part of the furnace needs to be fixed. Landlord is getting another ex husband to fix it but for the next two days I’ll be without heat. Last night I slept in two sweaters, two pairs of socks and a hat. Woke up in the middle of the night with the ice cold, bony grip of death around my neck.

I’m going to burn furniture in my living room. There’s no relief. Bitter, spitting rain and chilling winds outside. Dead, frigid, stale air inside. I live in a vale of anguish, a tomb of strangled dreams. This place is haunted by a thousand ills. Poverty, depression, abuse, addiction, social disintegration and the cruelty of fate.

Trying to write more. Took me two days to get 130 words down. I work at five in the morning so I wake up even earlier to write. Half an hour to an hour. It’s not enough time. I could spend all day writing and it wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t be good enough. I rewrite and edit, smash my sentences into a pulp.

I live in an arctic outhouse. My phone dies when I send two texts so yesterday I went to the Verizon store to sell what’s left of my soul to Steve Jobs. Phone stores are sleek, bleak, inhuman places of sterile interfacing and byzantine contracts. Need to buy the phone and then the data plan. Sign your life away. Mortgage your new phone along with everything else you can’t afford.

Another monthly payment. Electric, gas, water, rent, car, food, health insurance and phone. I don’t eat enough but I still spend too much on food. I live in the cheapest home possible but I still spend too much on rent.

The phone store turned me down. My credit is so bad Apple doesn’t trust me with an installment plan. They said I could buy the phone at full price. I left with nothing after an hour of filling out forms. Saved some money. Who needs a new phone. The staff at Verizon was post apocalyptic. When I walked in every soy stuffed phone drone was staring at a screen. They do this all day long, sitting and staring, waiting to induct new members into their techno cult.

I don’t want to live this way. I don’t want it to be easier to disconnect from my surroundings and pretend I’m a wizard while my body and relationships deteriorate. I’ll just get a new MacBook instead.

The platitudes of Abraham Lincoln

You’re divisive, says the feckless retard losing the argument. Division is bad when you’re not anti-white or anti-American. Otherwise it’s an inescapable part of life, a mathematical function, a basic process, a primordial, cellular act.

There’s no unity without division; a collective can’t include everyone. Unless you’re a leftist, you don’t welcome violent criminals and inscrutable aliens into your country, your neighborhood or your home.

So what do the disingenuous liberal weasels and the spineless flatterers and fluffers in the grand old party mean when they say Trump is divisive? What is their idea of unity?

Subservience. Renunciation. Yes, I’ve been a bad internationalist. I’m a member of a particular group,  I belong to some and not others. I’m a reactionary, a racist, a divider. I deserve a good purging. 

Inbred elites want you to submit. Their unity means an ethnically mish-mashed, culturally discordant, religiously impoverished, artistically incompetent, ugly consumerist jumble of juvenile hedonists watching each other’s every move and monitoring each other’s every word.

They believe in bringing everyone together on the platform of hating the culture and history of whites and sneering at healthy heterosexuality. Unity means dissolving organic social bonds while flamboyantly posturing as an enlightened consumer of slave labor gadgets and ethnic cuisine.

The globalists brought out their rusted, obsolete weapons to fight back against the middle American resistance to elite engineered dysfunction. They revived the rotting carcass of John McCain to condemn Nationalism. When that failed to persuade a single person they called on lifelong fuckup George W. Bush to mouth pseudo-religious tripe about the blasphemy of racism and bigotry.

John McCain and George W. Bush, the defeated, shameful, septic vestiges of our fake conservative past, gave their final, impotent performances in service to a godless cabal of cosmopolitan managers, bankers and sodomites and secured their spot in a barbecue pit deep in the bowels of hell.

When John McCain ran for president, liberals hated him. When George W. Bush was the president, liberals hated him. But now that Trump is president, liberals wistfully commemorate the wisdom of a befuddled warmonger. Bush and McCain’s republican party isn’t opposition. They’re in fundamental agreement with elite liberals on the important points: open borders, free trade, less for whites and more for browns, more for them and less for us.

When Bush pushed for war, leftists called him a racist. Bush bombed brown people because he was a White Christian bigot. But now that Trump is president and the American people have rejected neocon imperialism, minority grievance and unlimited immigration, Bush is a measured man, a reasonable voice, a relic of a beautiful, bygone era when conservatives knew their proper role: advancing internationalist causes and losing to liberals.

The left looks back fondly on the days of Bush and McCain because those men took their savage beatings with quiet dignity. They wouldn’t fight for their culture and people but they worked for expansion and consolidation in government and business; they championed costly foreign conflicts, carried out socially disruptive economic policies and oversaw destabilizing population movements. The reverent guardians of sacred, ancient civilization always want more; more war, more territory, more immigration, more profit and more spending.

Conservatives cherish the failing and decrepit, repeating what doesn’t work as they destroy everything worth defending. They’re passive, blunted, ineffectual and repetitive. They’ll write foppish op-eds and essays while America burns and preen for their elitist friends as the middle class evaporates and the lower classes sink deeper into dysfunction.

The grand old republicans serve Israel, worship corporate power and eagerly join leftists mobs to thrash and banish anyone who says anything remotely approaching the truth about race, gender or immigration. They criticize nationalism because they have no allegiance to America. They love their bloodless idea of America and despise its people, history and heritage.

We were a unified America until Trump came along. Just one big happy family of homosexuals, blacks, illiterate invaders and racist whites until one man highlighted the otherwise unnoticed and irreconcilable differences among a mixed population undergoing rapid demographic transformation in the middle of technological disruption and economic upheaval.

Scattered notes on Hollywood

Harvey weinstein isn’t a white man. Harvey weinstein is a jew. This is a reminder to myself and the public.

When a jew wins a pulitzer or makes a scientific discovery, then he’s a jew. And everyone celebrates. The whole world shares the pride of jewish distinction. What piercing intellects they have, what keen insight into reality. Gentiles are lucky to share the earth with such a prodigious and talented tribe.

When a jew rapes a few actresses, then he’s a white man. A plain and simple white man, in the same broad category as your average anglo grocer. An apparently modest man with dark, barely constrained urges, like all white men. Nothing separates weinstein from white men in general, except his fame and power. Since all white men are shadowy rapists on the inside, if you gave your grocer five hundred million dollars and a production studio then he’d be groping actresses too.

So when it comes to the repulsive, illegal things he’s done, don’t think of Weinstein as anything other than a white man. You wouldn’t want to rouse the dark side of jewish supremacy; the most powerless, perennially dispossessed people of all time will be at your throat, threatening to ruin you while pleading for special protection.

What we call systems are recognizable patterns and organic hierarchies that emerge from group and individual behavior. When a sniveling liberal hisses about systemic racism, he imagines an invisible force pushing people to act the way they do, when the invisible force is just the liberal’s skewed interpretation of the behavior patterns of individuals and groups in competition with each other.

When blacks commit crime, the leftist blames a system of oppression. He’ll say white supremacy is the reason blacks shoot each other in the streets. But it’s the other way around. Blacks shooting each other in the streets is the reason there’s white supremacy.

It’s a confusion of cause and effect. Hatred doesn’t cause people to stereotype, people acting like annoying and destructive stereotypes cause hatred.

The behavior is what matters, while the perception is secondary, derivative. Liberals flip this order of importance. They think we don’t like certain people because we’ve been taught to see them as lesser, as underperforming, dysfunctional and dumb. The corruption lay in our vision and not in their disposition. The negro is nothing but potential until the white supremacist gaze turns him into an impulsive, violent lowlife.

Where some see a system, I find an aggregate of acts. These acts follow from decisions and decisions flow from character. Each of these elements reciprocally determines the other.  This is the etched-in-stone dynamic of human life.

You’re the system. The system is its people. Environments aren’t arbitrary containers, with some species stored here and others there in a random distribution. People produce their societies through their actions and beliefs. Their institutions, habits and customs are expressions of what they value and their history is the succession of the choices they’ve made. And underlying everything is biology, the common blood of a community tempered in time, evolving together.

Remember, you aren’t white unless you’re wrong, unless you’re responsible for the plight of the lesser races and genders. There’s no such thing as white male achievement, there’s only white male dominance. Achievement is good and dominance is bad.

White men don’t achieve. Blacks, Asians, women and jews do. Cripples, paraphilics and drifters, international trespassers, globe-squatters, ditch dwellers and landfill sifters succeed against the odds while White men use their unearned advantages to exploit, demean and harass vulnerable minorities.

Harvey weinstein isn’t just a jew, he’s a hollywood jew. A misshapen grab bag of deadly sins, an incarnation of disorder and excess, a cartoon, a two dimensional piece of propaganda come to life. He’s a Nazi fantasy in the flesh. He’s an example, the empirical basis of negative stereotypes.

His characteristics as a hollywood jew have been “whitewashed” so the nation can come together to meditate on and denounce white male sexual abuse. It’s our ritual response to any particular violation by a specific person that could implicate an incorrect group, a “protected” class of people. We shift the burden of responsibility onto a group we’re comfortable condemning.

Gun violence is a white male problem. Blacks don’t kill people with guns, neither do muslims or hispanics. Or gay men. How many gay men own guns? Straight white men shoot everyone. A hollywood jew doesn’t abuse actresses, it’s the white man in him. The white man in us all. That free floating entitlement, that amorphous advantage over everyone and everything. It reared its horrifically ugly head in Harvey weinstein, average white man, and it threatens to overtake all of society.

#Me too is an unwittingly apt hashtag slogan for this moment in feminism. Me too is something a child says. It’s something a child feels. Someone who lacks the courage to speak until they can safely say “me too” is not a mature, responsible agent and shouldn’t be taken seriously as an independent actor in society.

What others call blaming the victim, I call explaining what happened. When something bad happens to you, it’s worthwhile to understand how and why. If you’re interested in preventing more bad things from happening and more people from taking advantage of you, you should evaluate your behavior and adjust your expectations.

It doesn’t mean your victimizer doesn’t bear greater responsibility or that he shouldn’t be punished for his wrongdoing. It doesn’t mean you should endlessly reproach yourself. But knowing what’s likely to happen in a given circumstance gives you preventative power. Some might call it empowering.

There’s a difference between foolishness and evil, between imprudence and malice. The criminal is bad, while the victim of his crime is often unwise. Blaming the victim doesn’t also mean letting the victimizer off the hook. These aren’t mutually exclusive options. We can punish and condemn criminals and at the same time warn inept people against certain habits and tendencies that put them in a vulnerable place where they can be preyed upon.

The Me too movement will include an effusive, ever expanding range of narratives, from the perfectly recounted to the completely fabricated, from brutal, life shattering gang rapes to getting awkwardly asked out by an unattractive friend of a friend. It will mash together and muddle different and unrelated power dynamics, social structures and interactions in wildly divergent environments.

Me too will break down into tedious, hair splitting arguments between feminists over who’s the real victim, who’s a bigger victim and whether or not these stories trigger victims. How dare we even mention rape and abuse because it reopens old wounds. How dare we not mention these events because silence is consent. Every call for inclusion inevitably generates exclusion. The demand for unity inherently generates division. #Me too is just a short step away from #not you.

Society will forget about running the jews out of hollywood and burning california to the ground and instead bemoan the evils of men everywhere in general before turning their TV’s back on and going back to the movies. The result will be dilution, confusion, burn out and indifference. But for a few seconds a few more women will feel empowered as people cheer them on and encourage them to come out with their tales of victimization.

At some point, doing the right thing means making a difficult choice, putting yourself in danger, taking serious risks and actively opposing evil. You can’t passively wait for a better system or a different culture or profit from your debasement while remaining silent. If only the culture wasn’t so misogynist, then I’d have the courage to act. But courage is taking action when you don’t have the social support, when there’s no guarantee. It’s not waiting until the conditions are just right and the system is working for you and your success is assured.

Again, there’s no system, only choices. Men and women in hollywood carried out and covered up abuse, harassment and rape because they benefited from it, victimizers and victims alike. They could have made a different choice at any time, even if it would have cost them their livelihood. They preferred to make lucrative mistakes and reinforce rotten characters.

Opportunists when it meant looking the other way while the jew diddled the starlet and opportunists now when it means exposing and chiding every straying hand, vulgar tongue and wandering eye over the course of a grubbing, amoral career.

And then there’s the democratic party, the great champions of women’s rights. Hillary clinton is the perfect dc counterpart to hollywood corruption, an aspirational automaton, a power starved woman who tolerated the vile behavior of her pig husband to advance her career. Barack Obama and other big name democratic politicians were all too happy to take Weinstein’s rape stained money and use it to fund the campaigns they ran on a woman’s right to murder her unborn child and an el salvadorian’s right to squat in your backyard.

Passive americans give money to jewish rapists and pedophiles who then give that money to democratic politicians who undermine the culture, morality and economy of the nation. Be a good goy and watch these wonderful movies about what a repressive bigot you are, kill your children and give us what little money you make so we can replace you with fertile, low iq laborers and consumers.