• 2021-02-25 01:43:58
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    Evil Exists

    hans, gas


    In the 9th grade, my best friend got sent to a remedial school. As the people he ran with became increasingly nasty, our paths gradually diverged, though not so gradually that I didn’t get involved in quite a bit of criminal activity. By the time we were 20, Max was regularly using meth and heroin. I left town around that time.

    For years I was a bourgeois mediocrity, and although I never used intravenous drugs, I did some things I deeply regret. Finally, at age 26, I came back to town, straightened out, and went back to college. Max was on parole and had a kid by a girl he’d met in court-mandated Narcotics Anonymous. He was working a steady job and living with mother and child, though not married. They had a disgusting apartment, disgusting domestic habits, disgusting tattoos, and were always hanging around the same old disgusting townies—bicycle thieves, graffiti aficionados, pot growers and the like—but I wanted to be supportive of Max’s recovery, and would periodically come around to visit.

    Like a lot of con-men, Max was always very slyly charismatic, a great reader of people, with that chameleon-like charm so inveterate of drug addicts. He was working nights at a big box store, and we had about two hours between my last class and his shift when we’d meet up and get coffee.

    In the course of this fraternization, it began to dawn on me that Max had absolutely no remorse for anything he’d ever done. All his misfortunes were caused by his father, his step-mother, his baby mama, the cops, etc. He was incapable of seeing himself in any of his failings. With congenital scumbags, this is actually a type of resilience. It was as if he was a dog mistakenly reincarnated as a man, or else had the moral compass of a manipulative toddler, with the world as his mommy. He was always on a “side hustle,” invariably greasy and exploitative. Whenever some mark or accomplice was not being cooperative, the human race had failed him again.

    Within a year, Max and I parted ways again. I saw through him, and he could sense it. The next I heard from him, he was back on the street. That was eight years ago. I’ve heard from him every few years since then. He’s been townie-homeless for most of that time, occasionally pimping, selling meth, doing crimes. Once, he stayed the night at his mother’s place, only to steal all her jewelry. He’s been living in the same town with his son all these years, and not seen him. He now blames the child’s mother for this, as if a small child should ever be brought near a gibbering stumble-bum.

    About a month ago, I heard from Max again. He’s out of prison (for a robbery) and in an expensive rehab in a rural area. He tells me that his plan is to get back to his true calling—graffiti, and rapping. (Max is a 35-year old white man.) He also plans to parley a new career move (as a personal trainer) into a high-class pimping operation. He has a taste for the kind of garish, ill-fitting apparel favored by negroes and other trash.

    Interestingly, Max tells me that he and his rehab mates are bussed every Sunday to a local evangelical church where there are “some fly-ass bitches,” mostly high school age, whom he plans to prey upon. He calls this “pimping,” “hustling,” etc.

    Now, a Socratic question: how many indiscretions involving young girls do you suppose Max would have to commit before being turned away from the church? Should he even be there in the first place? My sense is that Christianity would inform us that Max must not be turned away, and that if he was, it would have to be some kind of exceptional exigency arising from the commission of real, tangible harm—preventible, but not prevented. That the good shepherd is unwary of the wolf is not a matter of controversy. And if a parishioner of this evangelical church Max is attending were to merely intuit his evil, this would be woefully unchristian prejudice.

    All our moral training prevents us from taking evil seriously. Cultural touchstones rationalizing and glorifying criminality—meaning not the violation of statutes, per se, but transgression of the natural law itself—are ubiquitous. They live in our minds. When we don’t take them as morality tales, we take them as kitsch. The kitsch is more insidious. Trailer Park Boys, for example. We think that Trailer Park Boys is cute, that the protagonists are good at heart, modern-day Robin Hoods whom the system has simply failed. But Robin Hood never trafficked in drugs. He never robbed random, innocent people. Unlike Ricky, he wasn’t a deadbeat dad. And nothing in his story suggests that the system was to blame for his actions, to the extent that in a sense he had no free will. But that is what the viewer is expected to infer about Ricky and Julian.

    This is nothing but poison in a spoonful of jelly. People like the protagonists of Trailer Park Boys exist, they generally lack the kindheartedness imputed to them by the TV series, and when we encounter them in real life and they ask us menacingly for a cigarette or bus fare, we apologize to them. That such latent aggression should simply not be tolerated is a concept we cannot even grasp. And the idea of treating an old friend—even a scumbag like Max—with ridicule or utter coldness likewise feels wrong somehow. This is not just cowardly. It is not just enablement. It is the most bedrock norm in our civilization, and it has been for an awfully long time.

    The Christ story contains a great deal of uncanny profundity, and I suspect it’s a helluva lot older than 2,000 years. But Christianity—every denomination—is profoundly inconsistent in its application of ethical standards. Its one norm is blanket forbearance; its greatest sin is fury. Liberalism has taken this a step further and simply become explicitly pro-crime. But all these creeds are akin to Stockholm syndrome. They are the mother of every socially expedient falsehood, of cloying toleration which they conflate with peace and impartiality. First they stultify healthy emotional responses, next they accustom you to tolerate abuse. Judaism and Islam do the same, but then compensate their adherents a bit by instructing them to sublimate healthy emotional responses into various abusive subterfuges. None of this is godly.

    The major innovation of Abrahamic religion is the proposition that, whereas the gods are capricious, God is morally consistent. But that’s not really how it works, is it? And what Christianity—and Buddhism and stoicism and Taoism—are all telling us is that injustice is just fine. Suck it up. It’s all in your head.

    What kind of cosmic pimp is this?

    Maybe all men have free will, and maybe not all of us do. Maybe God has one eye, or three. Maybe he is a pillar of cloud, or a kebab on a skewer. I have no way of knowing. I do believe in God, and I believe in the universal natural law. I just don’t think those words mean what we’ve been convinced they mean. The unregenerate are not worthy of grace. Humaneness is not a cure-all. And when evil and stupidity are flagrant, mercy and forbearance are wicked. There should be no umpteenth chance for scumbags like Max.


    How to Kill Christ

    lord of the flies



    Stalin supposedly said, “Gratitude is for dogs.” I’ve always thought there was great truth in that, and have always felt dirty and guilty for thinking so. I mean, how can gratitude be for dogs when everybody knows that an ingrate is despicable? But gratitude and ingratitude are not opposites. It may be despicable to spurn kindness and generosity, but no true act of kindness or generosity is ever committed for the sake of receiving gratitude in return.

    So why be generous or kind? Out of a desire (it seems to me) to participate in another person’s happiness. And so the proper response to kindness or generosity is not to be grateful, but to be happy.

    The same is true of good fortune itself—a blessing, a windfall, a narrow escape. The point is to be glad; to change our ways, perhaps. But not to grovel and scrape. This is what I’ve come to realize about devotional worship. It’s all performative. What God would want us to take our time away from gladness, from self-improvement, from kindness and generosity, in order to lower ourselves to the dust? God didn’t make us dogs. He made us men. He’s fully capable of rebuking us. He doesn’t need us to preempt Him.

    For many years I tried to be a Jew. But I am not a Jew. I tried to be a Christian, but I am not a Christian either, not exactly. Next I thought I might be a pagan, but I’m also not entirely a pagan.

    From time to time readers and colleagues chide me for being “inconsistent,” for not being committed to an ideology, as if we must be simultaneously bound by everything we’ve ever said or done. As if we don’t wake up feeling one way and go to bed feeling another. It’s all so pretentious, so tiresome—this moral arrogance of faith and ideology. I cannot know what I cannot know, and I’d rather not be in a position of having to tolerate anybody telling me things that they don’t know either. The only criteria that interest me anymore are good and evil, reason and unreason, worth my time or not worth my time. If you’re trying to trap or denounce me with my words, you’re making me into your criterion. Will you then be consistent forevermore?


    I have never tried to make money from this blog. Not even a tip jar.

    The minute you make your ideas a commodity, they forfeit their power. This is especially true online, where every personality is beholden to a platform, and a public beyond. Granted, it would be more difficult for me to blog without WordPress, but even if I had a million readers, I’ve not made myself an avatar here. It’s just words on a pseudonymous webpage.

    This is why I’ve never vlogged or appeared on podcasts. Those media are more dynamic than the written word (more fleeting, more lost in the ether) and their dynamism comes at the cost of ever greater symbiosis with the medium. If this blog is taken down tomorrow, oh well. It’s just graffiti on a bathroom stall. It’s not my name. It’s not my image. It’s not a business or a brand. I’ve not forfeited that kind of energy to the internet.


    The so-called problem of consciousness is sometimes cited in support of theology. It refers to the fact that we don’t know where consciousness comes from. We may know all about neurology, brain chemistry and the like, but scientific inquiry cannot really show us the source of thought and emotion.

    In Matthew 18:18, Jesus says that whatever is bound on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever is loosed on earth will be loosed in heaven. We’re accustomed to thinking of heaven as the afterlife, and it may be. But Matthew 18:18 is much more readily comprehensible if we think of heaven as the metaphysical realm, co-terminus with the mundane, material one; a supra-temporal canopy of memory, perception, reputation, where every physical phenomenon has an emotional and conceptual analogue. This is the firmament to which we are “bound” by our choices, our triumphs, our joys, fears, and regrets.

    A good analogy for such a concept of Jesus’s kingdom is the internet. Your data, your social media avatar, your online reputation, the emanation of information this way and that, the abstracted interplay of thoughts and feelings. The ways they get lost; the ways they get found. A Jewish teaching that I particularly like is that everything—everything—is written by God in one great book. The reason why the internet—the world wide web—is a good analogy for metaphysics is because it is metaphysics: artificial metaphysics. That’s what AI, IoT, 5G and all this kind of shit is about. It’s about the power to see all, to record everything. It is an attempt at the total usurpation of all metaphysical power.

    It’s deicide.


    Thrift Shops for Spiritual Hipsters

    you can fit so many icons in this bad boy


    Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom

    Even at my most youthful, arrogant and anti-religious, I never really stopped believing this. Though the three Abrahamic faiths are too convoluted and implicated in mortal foibles for me to settle on any one of them, I’ve always been averse, not to paganism or magic per se, but to hubris, dark arts and left-hand ideologies. Particularly, in this connection, I’ve long felt that the argument (best summarized by Yeats) connecting Christianity directly to liberalism is quite shallow. And it is, except when it isn’t.

    I often encounter liberal friends and colleagues, and I’ve come to realize that what they have in common is that they hate themselves. The milieu has its alphas and its omegas, to be sure, and everyone consoles him or herself with rectitude to a greater or lesser degree—but at bottom, for whites at least (there are no non-white liberals) liberalism is a form of self-abnegation. 

    Meanwhile, there seems to be a resurgence of interest nowadays in Eastern Orthodoxy among right-wingers. I used to follow a lot of alt-Orthodox accounts on Twitter and Facebook. About a year ago I saw a post that ran roughly as follows:

    “Pray for me! My wife has apostatized and absconded with my step-daughter. I received a notification from a lawyer that she is filing for divorce. I miss my step-daughter terribly! I tried so hard to keep my wife in the fold, but she was not strong enough” etc., etc.

    I felt bad for the guy, of course. But something about this marriage sounded strange. I mean, first off: why do you only have a step-daughter? The Bible says be fruitful and multiply, bro. I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to stop fellating God long enough to accomplish this. God probably doesn’t even want to be fellated. Hymns, candles, etc…. It’s all very nice, but perhaps there’s just an understanding God wants us to attain and try to imbue our actions with. That seems to me to be the whole message of Christ.

    So I could see how the holy-rolling husband made himself a huge pain in the ass. But by itself, that’s probably not enough to repulse a wife. Rather, taking on a groveling aspect is not conducive to manhood. Like liberalism, it’s passive aggressive, a way of indulging self-loathing, of valorizing a weak chin. Obviously, hedonism wrecks people, and I’m not advocating it. I’m all for Christian continence, to a degree. But how TF are you allowing yourself social media (which is real poison) and not raw-dogging the wife? The only way that makes sense is if your religion is for show.

    I know the Orthodox response to this is probably that homeboy was doing it wrong, that the Bible indeed commands us to be fruitful, that Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount says not to make a parade out of piety, etc. But Christianity is nothing if not utterly sexless. And what’s a sacral procession? It’s literally a parade.

    Does the trinity make any sense at all? How about communion? You know, the blood wine and the flesh bread? Either that all makes zero fucking sense whatsoever, or you have to be way smarter than everyone to comprehend it, in which case you’re damn sure not receiving the kingdom like a little child. If God is logos, i.e., universal reason, then why am I being told that I must believe things that make no fucking sense?

    I’ve been reading the Old Testament my entire life, and the New for the last five years or so. My wife is nominally Orthodox. We have young children, and I’ve been looking to inculcate them in a tradition that emphatically teaches (among other, related things) that faggotry is a sickness. So I tried getting into Orthodoxy over the past few months, and what I’ve found is just as much idolatry as there is in Judaism. In particular, converts to Orthodoxy in modern America (usually about half the congregation) are invariably obsessed with authenticity. It’s hipsterism grown old, with the insufferable knit-picking about 80s movies and musical subgenera re-canned and transferred over to theology and apologetics.

    Jay Dyer is a perfect example of this. Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate and recommend his conspiracy lectures, and even some of his philosophy stuff. But he’s totally glib. Paul Krugman couldn’t be more smug. Dyer has found the thing, and can hold forth literally for hours about why he’s smarter than you. That’s what apologetics amounts to. And it has to be a facade, because (as with liberalism) the suggestion is always that downloading and then going through life insisting on some horribly circuitous reasoning is akin to having a woke third eye. In both cases, it’s purely performative.


    The Republic

    I’ve been profoundly black-pilled for as long as I can remember. The whole end-times shit show our lives have become makes America feel like a dead letter. If the bangs don’t kill you, the whimpers surely will.

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

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

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

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

    You may say I’m a dreamer, but I think there’s a much simpler way. A republic and an aristocracy are basically the same thing. Socrates used the allegory of the ship’s captain to suggest that only the wise should participate in politics. But who are the wise?

    I would start from a totally different criterion—an investment. Only those who have a real investment in the future have the right to decide the future course of state, and determining who they are is far easier than determining who is wise. Obviously, they are people with biological children, who have treated their investment (their kids) with the consideration and care it deserves, i.e., by maintaining a functional marriage to the other biological parent for some significant period of years.

    If we could limit the franchise to couples married and cohabiting continuously at least ten years, with at least one biological child together, we could strike >80% of undesirables—everyone whose interests are selfish, decadent and fleeting—from the voter rolls without discriminating by race or class. (Hell, we could strike most of the grasping boomers from the voter rolls this way, considering their divorce rate.) Races and other interest groups would still have their proxies, but the proxies would have as much in common with the rest of the voting pool as with their co-ethnics.

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

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


    Conspiracy Tales

    Screen Shot 2020-07-29 at 12.24.09 AM

    the new normal


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

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

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

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

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

    Now, if you’re thinking I’m a POS for not intervening, what can I tell you? Degeneracy is a triage situation. It was a boisterous house party and I had my own concerns.

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

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

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

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

    But Lior never faced any consequences.

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


    Wear the Mask, Bigot

    Screen Shot 2020-06-19 at 1.24.22 PM

    “TRS retweeted”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


    Unfollow, Pt. IV

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    under pressure


    I am not libertarian—at least, not philosophically. Yet, in an informal sense, all my political impulses are. Everyone’s are. Nobody wants to be told what to do.

    For men of the right, libertarianism is a way of salvaging liberalism—just leave me alone, don’t ask me to take a moral stance. This husk must be stripped away from the core impulse to mind one’s own business. Awhile back, I promised to attempt an amalgamation of alt-right ideas with libertarian ones, and I think I finally have it figured out. It all comes down to a difference in the way each side conceptualizes liberty.

    If there is Natural Law then there must be natural justice, and therefore natural rights as well as natural duties. In the classical dispensation, liberty depends on duty, and in the liberal dispensation, it depends on rights. But the two are interdependent, so this is really just a conceptual and semantic distinction.

    For example, I really don’t care whether adult strangers perform consensual homosexual acts in private. Nobody really cares about this unless they were hoping to have been invited. But just because we don’t care doesn’t make those acts natural in the teleological sense. We are “commanded” (constrained by nature) to legislate, yet by the inexorability of logic, a man-made law that encourages an offense against nature is arbitrary, and therefore unjust. That’s why we’ve gone from Lawrence v. Texas to children’s cartoons promoting transgenderism.

    The intolerance of this unnatural act itself became widely viewed as unnatural over the three or four generations since Lord Devlin wrote his tepid defense of the moral law. Arguments that it’s none of the public’s concern and slogans like “born this way” express the sensibility that the moral law itself is unnatural, arbitrary, contrived. But traditional legal expression of natural revulsion toward e.g. homosexuality only becomes unjust when it becomes a formality, i.e., when the enforcement is separated by so many degrees from the revulsion. This is true of any crime.

    So there is simply a point—of systemic complexity, population density, political power diffusion, technological development—beyond which there will be corruption in the name of the law. What this shows is that, if our rights derive from nature, then legislation by itself cannot secure them. Only the law’s consistency with nature can. In other words, a law consistent with nature merely gives expression, cogency, and formality to the Good. It can defend the Good, and mitigate evil, but it cannot manifest what already exists. Likewise, a hierarchical, authoritarian system cannot manifest natural duties, and becomes unjust when it mandates unnatural ones.

    So this is where we find commonality between the seemingly divergent paths of libertarianism and fascism: a teleological libertarianism would oppose arbitrary constraints, and promote natural ones, while a teleological fascism would promote natural duties, and oppose unnatural ones. A true third position would have to recognize natural rights as well as duties.

    But a system that would preserve liberty must also recognize human difference in a vertical sense. In the Genealogy, Nietzsche farsightedly observed that

    a legal system conceived as sovereign and universal, not as a means in the struggle of power complexes, but as a means against all struggles in general [where] each will must think of every other will as its equal, would be a principle hostile to life, a destroyer and dissolver of humanity, an assassination attempt on the future of humanity, a sign of exhaustion, a secret path to nothingness.

    In 2020, we are well on our way.

    I wish I was being hyperbolic, but (in the context of all that’s gone on so far this year) here is World Economic Forum Chairman Klaus Schwab at “The Great Reset” virtual event (~4:05) early last month:

    The COVID 19 crisis has shown us that our old systems are not fit anymore for the 21st century. It has laid bare the fundamental lack of social cohesion, fairness, inclusion, and equality. Now is the historical moment, the time not only to fight the real virus but to shape the system for the post-corona era. [T]o remain passive… would lead to the amplification of many of the trends we see today: polarization, nationalism, racism, and ultimately increased social unrest and conflicts. But we have another choice. We can build a new social contract. Particularly integrating the next generation, we can change our behavior to be in harmony with nature again, and we can make sure that the technologies of the 4th industrial revolution are best utilized to provide us with better lives. In short, we need a great reset.

    These people are as uninspiring as Eichmann—as persons, they are totally banal. Yet unlike Eichmann, their evil is supremely refined. As Bulgakov understood, and Christopher Lee reminded us, the devil is a gentleman. The road to hell is paved with good intentions because the “better lives” that the 4th industrial revolution is being “utilized to provide” are utterly soulless. The backers of the World Economic Forum are the plutocracy—they are the Injustice. What kind of “justice” could they possibly be aiming to impose? (And what, or who, is “the real virus”?)

    Of course, my whole argument here is begging the question, what is justice? But that is intuitive. Those who support it will do what must be done, and those who don’t will play philosopher, which is why the question was written into the mouth of Pontius Pilate, who “find[s] no fault in this man” yet acquiesces in his condemnation nonetheless. A legal system “where each will must think of every other will as its equal” must necessarily be complacent, dispassionate, and blind. 

    It is said that the devil is blind in one eye. This symbolizes self-absorption. Modern people (there are no modern men) tend to conceptualize faith as conviction without certitude, but that’s exactly backwards: faith is certitude without conviction. It is certitude without the need to first be convinced. Like vision itself, it is an internalized process that only needs the faintest external stimulus.

    Milan Kundera said “The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.” I started following the alt-right around 2013. Then in 2016, once “the movement” became a circus, it occurred to me that simply expressing those ideas, simply keeping the pilot light on for them, is so intrinsically threatening to systems of power that that’s all that was needed. There was this insider ribaldry that struck apprehension into journalist detractors (think Rachel Maddow deadpanning Colin Liddell’s “all out of onions”) but as soon as it turned into a mass appeal the whole thing went sour for me.

    I have a family and a career to worry about—nothing grandiose, but you know…. My kids gotta eat. There’s a limit to how much I can sell my soul, and in 2020 I’m starting to feel real impotent. There is a powerful argument for embracing the suck. The question is, what’s the safety valve? Well, the real threat to any absolute state is samizdat. Churchill’s “little mouse of thought… throw[ing] the mightiest potentates into a panic.”

    Today’s potentates are all narcissists, and narcissism is not a fire that can be fought with fire. But the good news is, their imperiousness deprives them of oxygen in spite of themselves. How are they gonna stage all their next products show trials when the resistance is happening in grottos and conventicles? When all it consists of is laughing at them behind their backs and saluting when they walk by? But you can’t have samizdat in ginormous glass houses like Twitter and YouTube. You can’t laugh at the one-eyed trouser snake when you’re bending over to take it. So the humble precincts of independent blogs and webzines must be the pilot light.

    Long may it flicker.


    Boatman’s Bluff

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    spare me


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


    Fuck You. Kill Me.


    After seeing pictures in the newspapers of corpses hanging from the blasted-out windows of Israeli busses and restaurants during the second intifada, I dropped out of college in the Bay Area, bought a one-way ticket to Israel, and joined the Israeli army. (Okay, okay—my dad bought it.)

    This was more narcissistic than noble: I wanted to be a great writer and knew that I needed life experience. Not only was the IDF the most dangerous and exotic experience I could get away with, it was authentic. I had blue collar friends, blue-haired friends, junkie friends, hip-hop friends, bugman scientist friends, crust-punk friends, semper fi friends and friends who grew pot in the mountains. But for me—a half-breed Hebrew rich kid—the IDF was the only real path to street cred. I wanted to be someone somebody wants to kill, and now I am again.

    Fifteen years later, I have an Aryan wife and three towhead kids in a majority-shitskin flyover city run by morally closeted zoophilic leftist replicants and their allies of pigmentation. Where once I had to venture halfway around the planet to within 30 meters of the Gaza frontier and wait until Fridays at 4 AM to hear a hundred and fifty muezzins frothing over loudspeakers for my Jewish blood as I laced my Brill steel-toes (RIP) and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, today I don’t have to wander outside the confines of my suburban American tract home to be inundated 24/7 by a propaganda machine that makes Der Stürmer look like the Sermon on the Mount—except this time, they’re calling for the blood of my Aryan children, with unqualified support from the most debauched ruling class in the history of the world.

    In a word, I’m doubly fucked. To the Jews, I am a gentile because my mother is not Jewish. To the ascendant savages H.P. Lovecraft tried to warn us about, I am a walking target no better than the plantation owners in Django Unchained. There is an online coalition of whites, meanwhile, who are able to fathom the tragicomic bottomlessness of this situation—a blood libel against babies, and Jesus—and hope to somehow take action. But they’re mostly clowns, and to them I’m a hated Zionist anyway.

    Well, fine. It’s out of my hands. I am deeply, resonantly alone, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    There are features of Jewish psychology that contribute to make Israel’s insecurity perpetual, and compel Zionism to devote its resources to endlessly accumulating power and keeping tabs on adverse opinion wherever it may assert itself, rather than cultivating truth, beauty and excellence for their own sakes among its people. This is tragic, and probably can’t be changed. Among my Jewish friends and family (including a number of fellow Anglo half-breeds I was with in the IDF) I’m the only one who sees this for what it is. But I am not your “fellow white.”

    Judaism imposes a lot of taboos on its adherents, and the alt-right helped me to see those and break free from them. (You can read my critique of Jewish psychology here.) I also had an experience with my wife’s religion (Christianity) a few years ago that opened me to its deeper meaning and helped dissolve those same taboos. But I cannot erase my affinities and will not pretend as though the commitments I once made to a foreign country mean nothing. I fully support the Israeli army. When Israeli soldiers face their enemies, I hope they win. I hope that anyone who tries to murder an innocent Jew is killed before he can succeed, and that every Israeli soldier now deployed makes it home safely. Of course I’m not happy about Israel’s thorough infiltration of United States institutions, and the Israeli deep state’s surrogates in the American ruling class—not just because they’re cramping my style, but because they’re trying to enslave me. But unlike numerous sub-rosa alt-kikes, I will not denounce my blood no matter how many bastards I’m related to. A bastard son of a bastard tribe—“darkness within darkness, the gateway to all understanding.”

    Awhile back, I got to talking with the Orthodox priest who baptized my eldest boy, about Mandelstam, and he remarked that “Mandelstam was profoundly Jewish, and also profoundly Christian.” Coming from a priest (in light of e.g., Galatians 3:28) that was very generous to yiddishkeit as something spiritual—a stiff-necked proclivity both for reverence and iconoclasm, which led Mandelstam to “the foot of the cross,” and to the Gulag.

    Maybe that description applies to me, too: I’m neither Christian, nor Jewish, but I’m as Jewish and as Christian as I’m ever going to be. My God is a half-Hebrew carpenter. And whenever you’re alone like He was on Cavalry, I’ll be your brother.




    Deconstructing Zionism, Pt. III

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    choose wisely


    (Part I here, Part II here)

    I just got finished watching the second installment of Mouthy Buddha’s Pedogate series. Almost as soon as I shared it on Twitter, my account was suspended. The video will surely soon be taken off YouTube, but it’s already up on BitChute. In case you think this stuff can’t shock you, what Buddha manages to uncover is novel, even for those of us who followed Pizzagate closely and had already heard of Jeffstein Eprey ten years ago.

    Buddha is a savvy videographer who is very good about sticking to facts and leaving viewers to their own conclusions. It’s a wise course, as the slightest hint of conjecture would only provide grist for the mill of powerful detractors. But the spectrum of inferences that can be drawn from this information by any reasonable person is exceedingly narrow. Essentially, there is a monstrous conspiracy at the highest levels of institutional life on this planet, and its insiders are able to get away with blood-curdling ritualistic crimes.

    One of the institutional settings that is rife with these horrors is Hollywood, and we all know who runs Hollywood. It was always obvious, moreover, that Jeffstein Eprey was an Israeli asset. It’s obvious as well that Israel has moles high in America’s most sensitive institutions, private and public. It would be very hard to imagine that these people have the interests of Americans in mind—it would be very hard to imagine that their purpose in the United States is benign whatsoever. (Believe me, I’ve tried.) And in general it’s obvious that Jews are vastly overrepresented among the most debauched ruling class in the history of the human race—Les Wexner, Ed Buck, the Pritzkers, the Bronfman heiresses of NXIVM sex cult fame, etc., etc., etc. These are some of the same people who backed Epstein, and who back organized Jewish communal life at every level. For example, Hollywood potentate Arnon Milchan, a “former” Mossad man, is a close associate and sponsor of Netanyahu. What are the chances that he (and Netanyahu) don’t know exactly what lies at the bottom of the murky depths Mouthy Buddha is plumbing in his videos? What are the chances he isn’t complicit in them?

    I know what the Jewish response to this may be: that spiritual darkness and realpolitik are not exclusive to Jews. Neither, in the grand scheme, is the proportion of Jews involved in any of this stuff very large. That’s correct. I’ve made these arguments myself and they certainly have their place. But a decent human being who uncovers institutional rot opposes or at least divests himself from it. Of course not every offshore bank account and weird coven in the Marin headlands is orchestrated by the Sanhedrin. But the rot we’re talking about here is at the heart of Jewish leadership, and thus at the heart of the Jewish community. Where is the condemnation, from any quarter of organized Jewry? There is none. It’s not even a controversy—you have to leave the reservation if you even want to acknowledge it.

    If you are Jewish, does this not give you pause? Do you seriously suppose that if you go around identifying as Jewish, you are not identifying with precisely these phenomena? Be serious. Human groups are qualitatively different. Jews may be a fractious bunch, but they are simply more beleaguered—and thus, more closely tied to their leadership—than, say, Russians or Americans. The scope of their group interests is proportionate to a heightened sense of threat. So, in the same way that (say) the overthrow of the Nicaraguan government by the United Fruit Company has something fundamental to do with what America is, worming into foreign halls of power has something fundamental to do with what Judaism is. This is reflected in the Bible (e.g., Joseph, Esther) and so much of subsequent Jewish history that it doesn’t need enumerating. Put simply, Jeffstein Eprey is not a new development.

    One windy winter night in Tel Aviv, well over a decade ago and about a year before I entered the Israeli army, I was befriended by a mysterious stranger, an IDF special forces veteran who was four or five years older than me, and vastly more worldly and self-confident. Like me, he was from an Anglophone country, half-Jewish on his father’s side, well-built, and phenotypically Aryan—aside from a pair of deep-set brown eyes. Over the course of a year, we spent weekends together, mostly in bars and nightclubs. I would later find out that he is the scion of an oligarchic dynasty in his country of origin, but I didn’t know it at the time—though I did notice that money was no object to him. He had a sports car, designer clothes, and an apartment in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Israel. In retrospect, some elements of his backstory didn’t add up, but he was in superb shape and it was more than plausible he’d had an elite designation in the IDF. At times (usually after a few drinks, but not too many) he would ask me oddly morbid “hypothetical” questions—things like, could I murder an innocent child if it was absolutely necessary to complete an undercover mission undetected? My answer to these questions was invariably no, and he would counter with forceful, well-considered arguments to the effect that there’s no point in even joining the army in the first place if I’m not willing to do whatever it takes for the country.

    Are you comfortable with this, ya’yahud? With supporting a cause for which such things must be done? Of which Jeffrey Epstein was an operative? I am not asking you to own these things personally. Rather, I’m asking you to think seriously about the cause you profess to believe in, just like my former friend—who was clearly sizing me up for recruitment into something other than just the IDF—was asking me to be serious about it.

    Of course, injustice may always be necessary to further power. I don’t say that the Jews belong nowhere, or that our national project ought to be dismantled or abandoned just because politics is a nasty business. The issue for me is whether power is being accumulated in pursuit of a vision, a higher ideal. A commonwealth should promote truth, beauty, excellence, justice, and vigor for their own sakes in its people. That is how a people becomes a “light unto the Nations.” But for Israel, there is no higher ideal than to outlive our persecutors—to exist and accumulate power in endless insecurity which we ascribe to some social disease or malevolent spirit and can never examine dispassionately.

    The problem is that Judaism is an unhappy culture that operates out of constant reaction to past slights, necessitating a clandestine orientation to the outside world that is by turns vindictive and pathetic. That is why Israel (with its vast technological talent) has become the Prussia of global liberalism—a spearhead, exempt from this system’s normative decorum (as all traditional pariahs are nowadays.) Zionism once promised a “new Jewish man” unencumbered by this messy psychology. It was a good idea while it lasted.

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