Archive for the ‘True Life Stories’ Category

greetings-from-detroit

The following is a speech that I gave at the New York Forum in February 2017

OUTLAW FRATERNITY

I might as well blab about outlaw fraternity. I know a thing or two about outlaw fraternity from running with the white boys in Detroit. Pre-crack epidemic thru post-crack epidemic. I ran in stride with Ferretti was who was an art school drop-out born into a long-line of Italian masons. I mean calloused bricklayers. I mean whiskey-drinkin’, chain smokin’ and knuckle-bustin’ bricklayers.

Every day, for 15 years, a dime-a-dance Alamo. One morning, at 3 a.m., Ferretti was leaving the Lafayette Coney Island downtown. A fleeing niggro pushed him out the door. A pursuing niggro pushed him onto the sidewalk and politely said, “Scuse me, pleeez, while I shoots this mu-tha-fuckuh!”

Bang. Bang. Bang. This was TNB with proper mammy-trained style. This was Detroit, full of folksy surprises, as we knew it. It added a comic tonic to being a Post-Industrial, Post-Modern and post-hope artist.

Not at all a White Separatist, Ferretti nevertheless had fine homing instincts. Which is to say that he arrived firstest with the mostest bullshit and got hired as resident manager and handy man at an old paint factory, across from Tiger Stadium, being converted into artists’ lofts. It became Ferretti’s fiefdom. It became his own friggin’ intentional community. It also became, like NASCAR and hockey, implicitly white. Of course there was a rollicking diversity of butch and femme lesbians, tersely academic and hysterically emoting homos, amateur chefs and bohos who more or less ate from a can. And, because this was Detroit, there were resident mechanics, really ham-fisted mechanics, turned fine-artists of sorts.

Meanwhile I lived downtown in a new high-rise showpiece thick with arrivista Blacks. A luxury fortress with gym, pool, video monitors and guards in the lobby. My apartment was a rent-reduced bone to the poor. I was the token white boy in the set-aside scheme. Coleman “Soulman” Young was Detroit’s mayor from 1974-94 and hecoleman-young politicked on the racial spoils platform. The majority of my New Money neighbors were quite conservative in their I-Gots-Mine stance. Well-nested, well-behaved and well-oiled into a daily pageant of Black grandeur with Louis the Hatter and wigged-out fashions. They were their own society. The palace where I counter-slummed was across the street from the dusty courthouse where Francis Yockey once labored as a legal intern. I might as well have walked in Spengler’s in footsteps outta dumb luck.

For employment I tended bar until 4 a.m. in Mexican Town. The owner left before midnight after making a show of latin bravado and barking like a bowel-legged Chihuahua. His wife had him on a leash. A matriarchal diva, with bullet-point tits and genuine Spaniards in her blood-line, she paid me to do her daughter’s homework. It was quicker, really more efficient, than tutoring the touchy virgin. I closed the joint alone like helpless crime-bait on a dark corner. I dialed the phone and caught a cab driven by professional dirt-bags who had, when they weren’t being robbed, a symbiotic relationship with drug-runners, street-walkers, blind-pig operators and you-name-it.

Later, I taught high school in the same spooky barrio between a derelict Cadillac plant and the infamous Michigan Central Station that you see in every pathetic documentary about “The Ruins of Detroit”. The neighborhood was my own personal theater of operations, quite apart from the art scene. I slipped into what Evola might call esoteric-aryan style.

Not exactly a coward, I’m sub-beta-scared until I have an edge. I speak Spanish and that was what I needed to roll through SW Detroit. I could play dumb while José and his turf-rats talked about me; I could speak their lingo and enter their nest as a quasi-simpatico guest. Unlike my artist bros with their blue-collar and hard-nosed ethic, their dumbfuck glamour inherited from soldierly dads, their simple goy honesty unto death, I got fancy with the lip. It was a worser infraction than living upscale. It was worser signaling than my bathroom with clean linens and pristine toilet seat that showed a weakness for fluffy-ass suburban girls. Pink ’n preppy and blind to raging nihilism in Detroit.

Bilingualism is trippy. On the streets, Spanish was a wind instrument to craft double-talking waft. More airy flute than steel hammer. I must say that finessing of crisis was regarded by my hard-core artist bros as feminine and fey. Still, like leaving Detroit, I recommend it. Furthermore Spanish was a means to put Taqiya, the Islamic Art of conning a foe, into the mouth of an honest-to-goodness Midwestern rube. I recommend that too.

So yo hablo Spanish. So I’ve gotten mileage out of it. So I still had to know, while prowling around Detroit like a CIA agent on a recruitment drive in Iraq, which roads were safe. I attended the precincts that I knew. When not working, I leisurely patrolled, really trolled, the Latin-Black-Kentuckian cut of SW Detroit at night in my scratchy Chrysler K-Car. A white bro from the artists’ fraternity and myself, disguised as beefy undercover cops in a crappy American-made heap, spent many hours on the go, drinking beer and whispering like sailors on midnight watch. Sharing fears, yes, like sailors in a floating foxhole.

Of course, we talked racial politics. But in the dead of night, glancing at thoroughly depressed homes and exploring thoroughly depressed avenues, we also whispered about thoroughly depressing shit: sexual politics, family politics and deep-dark personal woes. The nice thing about Detroit is that it’s conducive to a funereal intimacy between men. As long as you keep your hands to yourself, nobody is going to call you “a fag” for emoting in the haunt of a vast urban graveyard.

This particular bro, a resident at Ferretti’s art asylum, was a character with a backstory. The good thing is that he was an high-IQ German from a line of city burghers and more articulate than most. The bad thing is that his dad had two families. Simultaneously. It was a huge scandal, an irresistible 666 and Mark of the Beast on the White Nuclear Family, when the local media discovered that a County Judge had a wife and kids in Toledo and a wife and kids in Detroit. As if it were the French Foreign Legion, my bro ran away to join the Air Force. Both his dad’s nerve, and his own ability to excel as a slacker in the US Armed Forces, taught him chutzpah. But the ol’ man destroyed my pal’s ability to trust, even within the family circle, like a properly soft-hearted goyim with a cherry-vanilla blush. So, cruising through the shithole of Detroit, we yapped about male duty, male honor and, most of all, male form in the muck. He made serial resolutions, gut-clenched, which he serially trashed. A tragic guy He combined Nietzschean Willpower with the GI Bill to put himself through law-school, then got disbarred for forging a judge’s signature like a demoralized fob. He died at 45 years old in Cambodia, where he was was allegedly starting a ex-pat newsletter. Some say that he died in a brothel for sex-tourists. Others say that he faked or forged his death.

The point: you can share a tenor of intimacy with a sincere woman who’s just too fucked-over to sustain a bond. Even with herself! And the same thing can happen withmichigan-central-station worldly but ruined men. Here’s a truth: not every white in the slums of Detroit is a Negrophile or a missionary for Racial-Cultural harmony. Many are ruined souls who feel at home, internally and externally realized, in the devastation. They crystalize into sub-tribes. I learned to connect the dots and go from one enclave to the other for beer, dope or Thanksgiving dinner. As for Ferretti today? He’s a scrub artist and a has-been on the outside. On the inside, he’s a guarded Iman who rules a sub-strata of Detroit. He gives audience, if they’re lucky, to film crews, rock stars, hipster investors and, of course, entrée level artists, lunch-bucket talents, raw newbies who’re in a rush to be World Famous parvenus in the sinkhole of Detroit. If Detroit is the post-democratic future of the West, Ferretti is atop it now as a kingpin.

I must say that my fraternity of artists in Detroit, my racial kin who feared workaday suburban life more than atavistic killer Blacks, wasn’t too rational. Hendrik Van Loon, in his “Story of Mankind”, states that men who could read and write before the 12th Century were considered sissies. So it was with my tight fraternity of artist types in Detroit. This was fine with me, as long as every night was a initiation into the blue-collar mystic, which meant getting pig-drunk and smoking pot until words dissipated in the mist. But the lazy rhythms changed when cocaine was added to the mix along with Black drug-dealers with their momma’s boy machismo. Fatherless cons who were accustomed to diddling behind bars. They brought a “sexy” jailhouse bravado. “Suck mah fuckin’ dick. I make you mah punk.”

The fly hit the buttermilk. My dear white brothers forfeited their goyish charm, their poetic idiocy, their spirited blend of Mozart and Al Capone. Even Ferretti went native.

Drinking and toking until dawn wasn’t the same. With the introduction of gangstah hype a soft white sway on a raft afloat at the far-reaches of consciousness was wrecked. The shared lilt was sunk. I felt lost. So after getting pummeled in a brawl downtown, I did what I must. I said goodbye to the artist fold and joined a karate club. Previously, one karate club had been too hard and the other had been too soft and no karate club suited my poet’s touch. But after two black-eyes and seventeen stitches between them, I had enough prevaricating. I was done with likes and dislikes. I joined the nearest dojo I could find: a chintzy Tae Kwon Do club run by Iraqi brothers who were big-chiefs in Dearborn.

Maybe it was a storefront dump to launder money. I didn’t get along with my so-called Masters. I more or less bought a black-belt and hardly learned to fight. But I befriended some senior white guys who’d alternately bulled and finessed their way through hard-hard lives. Gravel garglers with tender smiles. Lovely elders who just assumed, by the look of my beat-up face, that I born to carry the flag. To carry the high urban-cowboy standard while riding the range, mythologically speaking, for the White Male brand.

It’s the kind faces of proven men, surviving fuck-ups who’d lathed themselves into pillars of male support, that’ve kept me going. Unsatisfied with my fighting skills, I left Tae Kwon Do and joined a street-fighters club run by an Army Airborne vet and his dirty-white mavericks. I loved it. I hated it. I entered, every day, pissing my pants and left like a newly minted stud. When my Chrysler K Car finally broke down outside an oil refinery, I traded junker and title to a nearby gas station for two Hershey Bars and a pack of gum. That was Ferretti’s take on post-Apocalypse barter in Detroit. In a last act of fraternal duty, he retrieved me in his Ford truck. It reeked of his girlfriend’s guard dogs. Made feral by the rocks and bottles thrown by crackhead neighbors and their aping kids. It was Ferretti’s job to give the urban junkyard dogs an annual bath. He was more than a good guy. “All in all”, as Hamlet said about his dad, “he was a man.”

Carless in Detroit, I looked for a new school of male grooming. Maybe, alpha-male grooming within very modest parameters. I could’ve just read Castiglione’s “Book of the Courtier”. But I don’t know anything until I get bruised and bounced. Even then, it takes time to spark the brain fat.

I found an Aikido Club on the Woodward Avenue bus-line. Past the Stone Burlesk, which I entered at 16 while skipping school. Lying about joining the army to a ticket-taker who didn’t care. The bus-line took me past the the derelicstone-burleskt mansions of industrialists and lumber barons, where crack was traded in adjacent open-air markets, and where antique dealers removed artifacts with crow-bars. The aikido club, located on the campus of Wayne State University, was also within walking distance to my luxury high-rise and that was a plus when I was bored with abstracting cat’s cradles from books. Purely theoretic knits. High status but low value thinkology in a city where passions ruled. In any case, I knew Wayne State and the seedy Cass Corridor from frequenting the bars with drop-outs and grads, and from going to art shows that featured heartfelt miasmas, in paint, that framed the picture of Detroit 

I’d heard mumbles about the outlaw aikido club here and there. An inside secret like a shift in the dope market or a job under-the-table. The club was tucked into a monumental old building built by twice-dead philanthropist crackers. Implicitly racist industrialists and contemporaries of Lindbergh, Ford and Coughlin. It was yesterday’s shrine: a mono-racial, inbred child of Versailles and the Parthenon with dominant WASP traits of measured utility. A civic temple for scholars. A stone masterpiece and a stone relic of the evil-racist days when Detroit was called “The Paris of the Midwest”. Not a recruiting lure for asian techies or African-American Studies chumps. Like a castle in a horror movie or a cliché manor in Detroit, the building was stately, neglected and crumbling.

When I arrived upstairs, gazing into the vast gymnasium with yesteryear’s high ceilings and low lighting, I dilated in a vacuum. Eyes and soul. The gym was a shipwrecked Atlantis of torn netting falling from the ceiling, stale wrestling mats pieced together on the floor, and pockets of endless shadows. Sunset light, purple and gold, beamed through filthy windows to color the hour. The last glint in the the bulwark of the ancients!

A timeless ambiance. As for animation, I saw measure, balance and precision. I saw, maybe the essence of aikido, order in circular motion and hard-drops to the mat. Clean pins. Arm-locks and wrist-locks with precisely applied, as opposed to wildly twisted, pain. I thought, who are these muted white left-overs? Who are these parallel and satellite white remainders doing a whispering art down the street from my crazy anarchist bros, painters and sculptors for whom personal expression increasingly meant aping ghetto bluster and, yes, lack of impulse control.

I studied the aikidoka. Their “work” was very impressive as far hidden societies go. Quietly synchronized and just what I needed for the turn of my eros, thumos and logos. But aikido seemed too much like the dance of the angels with its choreographed steps aikidoand flowing white gis. I loved it but it gave me hives. I left impressed in a typically worthless way, but returned second time to reconnoiter at night. I returned a third time to peep through a crack in the doors. Maybe I’ll join and maybe I won’t, I thunked as I drifted away. On the corner stairway, travelled by night school normies going to statistics or accounting class, I had a hiccup. Followed by a sob on the order of an upchuck after an epic drunk. I heaved, heaved and heaved. Purged, purged and purged. My soul was churning, doing dirty laundry, ridding me of toxins and bitter salts. By the pant and tears you’d have thought someone died. Someone did in a sense.

As my convulsions waned, my low-down nature and high creative spirit merged. I accepted, whether I liked it or not, my true need: artsty-fartsy handling with enough joint wrenching pain to penetrate my brain. Plus, there was the promise of learning about essential Jap culture with its Samurai imprint and austere but beautiful zen efficiency. For added plus, aikido held the promise of learning about a race-generated order that the dirty-rotten Nazis saw as compatible with Prussian self-command and social-command, and that true Roman Catholics still see as compatible with the germ of the Ghibelline Middle Ages. For a final plus, aikido promised whatever could be gained from conforming to a standard noble ideal in a hyper-individualist dystopia. So, yes, I cried.

Such is the cyclical history of my life. Told in terms of Spring and Fall of brotherhoods. Shakespeare says that, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” So, enough! I’ll end by saying that I’m right where I’m supposed to be at this moment: in the heart of this fraternity. An insider’s group of outsiders. In outlaw artists’ terms, we’re creative rogues with a half-tame, a half-wild and an altogether proven élan. In outlaw aikidoka’s terms, we’re a uniform corps, a small but stately officers’ corps, with a traditional sense of measure, balance and precision. It’s not bad.

Freely united as white men, we’ve got the fluid genius of unorthodox and orthodox captains in the field. The shared field of science, finance, tech, politics, animation, art and pointed fun. Here is the breadth of talent to keep our enemies off balance as we dictate the rhythm of battle, using informal and formal skills to, in Motor City poesy, drive, drive, drive the Art of War.

This piece originally appeared in Counter-Currents Publishing

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 Campaign Diary: Fort Trump in Philly

Well. Well. We now have a so-called Nazi president. During the campaign, I got two mad e-mails from a young Italian gigolo pal spanking me for being a Trump supporter. I soon confessed to working the phones at the local Trump Office. Then, when I got promoted, I further confessed to being Media Spokesman at Trump HQS in Philly. That’s right. By the time the election was over, I was Minister of Information at Trump’s fort and brain-trust in the heart of Hillary Country.

La-di-dah. In all, I denied 2 interviews and rudely nixed a third because I just friggin’ felt like it. Sorry! But I did 3 interviews that went very well because I controlled the pace and tenor of the bullshit. How did I get the prime appointment? 1) I was conversational and pleasant on the phone. 2) I showed no ambition to be in the spotlight. 3) The Field Generals in our office were too strained to talk. So I got the spokesman’s job in a flurry on Election Day. Like I said, La-di-dah.

I nixed an interview with a fake Irish kid from a fake Irish Newspaper. “I thought we were gonna gab like a real Irishmen. With rhythm and sway. But you keep forcing question after question.” He pleaded that he was in a hurry. My laughter said, “Not my problem, junior.” I finally told him that I was an unpaid volunteer and wouldn’t talk if it wasn’t fun. My freedom is your melt-down, kid. Then I let him die as a data-crunching robot that was masquerading, with red-hair and blue-eyes, as a lyrical Irishman. But there was nothing poetical about him because he’d sold his soul to Satan or Mammon or the Globalist Ink Machine.

My best interview was with a female reporter from a Black media conglomerate. Born in NYC, she had the sophistication of an African-American with doctors and maybe even publishers in her family. Cute. Lady-like. Learned and worldly. I spoke as a Trump Republican and as a working-class Whiteman. “The Democrats, which used to be the Party of Labor, are now the party of Identity Politics. Black identity. Feminist identity. Gay and transgendered identity. And now, immigrant identity with its Mexican, Syrian and Somali sub-groups. The White worker, whose interests used to be aligned with the Black worker, has been squeezed out of the Democratic Party. Thus, Trump as Republican. Thus, me as a Whiteman supporting Trump as a Republican.” The Black reporter was pleased to meet a Trump guy who explained himself without blubbering, “I’m not racist…” Meanwhile, because this was Philly, there were 3 death-wish niggers hovering and muttering “Fuck Trump.” And, because this was also Clinton Country, a saucy White mom from the ‘burbs stopped to get pictures of the dumb thugs giving the middle finger and grabbing their crotches in front of the Trump office. “My daughter will love this,” she giggled. Such was enemy maturity on the eve of Hillary’s great victory.

Later, about 10:30, I gave an interview with an upstart Swedish/American network. A highly polished operation run by scrappy mainstream-media rejects. Really, I was one of their infiltrators in the Trump Campaign. Talk about fun. In the interview, I looked both senile and ready to fuck, fight ‘n frolic until dawn. Like an old tug-boat captain who’d helped nuzzle the ship-of-dreams into port. I expressed myself well: lyrical, salty and drunk with victor’s generosity. We stood on the side walk where the pro-Hillary thugs had grabbed their crotches for the pro-Hillary mom. In front of the Trump office window through which curious Blacks were surprised to see an African-American law student working as our consiglieri. Our Chief Counsellor in legal and rainbow clusterfuck matters. Throughout the campaign, he repeatedly got the middle-finger. He repeatedly got called “Uncle Tom” and “Traitor.” To make sure their voices were heard, angry Blacks opened the office door and yelled, “Fuck Trump.” A campaign slogan, pithy and street-wise, inevitably co-opted by hipster Whites.

Our own Talented 10th and Thomas Sowell archetype was a fine guy. A man amongst boys, in KKK poesy. His grandparents were hard-core Reaganites. He came from the same racial estirpe, as the noble Castilians say, as the sovereign Black reporter. His best comment on his rote antagonists: “Maybe Trump will get them off the reservation.” In Trump terms, I can do business with such non-Whites. Honest business. Fair business. Mutually profitable business. I meet lots of coloreds, in Philly, who are my moral betters. I’m humbled. I learn from them. But I don’t “go native” in my own beloved country and adopt their lingo, customs, menus, music, gods and stratagems against white pawns in race chess.

In any case, I sent the Swedish/American network video, yesterday, to my young Gigolo pal who spanked me twice for being a clueless Trump supporter. Just to let him know. Just to let him know that it’s time, literally and figuratively, to get outta bed with the liberal floozies. Just to let him know where the juicier bang was crystalizing. Just to let him know where the virgin future was having her debut and, yes, revealing her dangerous but promising curves. What more can I say?

Enough with the sweet nothings of liberal shills. And enough with the cant of cuckservatives who bore everyone, including the most sovereign African-American patricians, with their “I’m not racist blah, blah, blah.” I took a stand at Fort Trump in Philly. I learned more than known about being hated. In the afterglow of victory, I’m keen to do business as a natural-born promoter of the White Brand. It’s not for everyone and neither is my Polish-Irish pitch. Too much Celtic sway and compressed Slavic angst. Too much haywire diversity in a single caucasian skull. Yet old folks in the far hills of Pennsylvania knew me, in a heartbeat, when I phoned from Trump HQS. They sensed their own genius loci in the waft of my voice. We gabbed like long-lost family. The point? Voter outreach was an appeal to Civic Nationalism for everyone at Fort Trump but myself. For me, voter outreach was a plunge into all but abandoned soul of the race. I nixed analytic argument. I spoke to the essence. It’s what floated Trump’s campaign from the start.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing.

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Trump. Samson Option. PsyOps Bullshit.

I’m in a coffee shop down the street from the Red Cross shelter where I slept for 5 weeks after the Great Rooming House Fire of 2011. One year later I got cancer of the brain. I mean cancer of the anus.

Further down the street is UPenn Dental. Because of the university, the area isn’t completely ghetto. It’s like Ecorse on the outskirts of Detroit but without the leftover hillbillies from the Industrial Age. Instead of snarly White Trash as a buffer, there are college brats from around the world.

My new dentist-in-training is Bangladeshi. My last three dental students were Korean. Before them, I had a Syrian with the ease of old patrician money. A cash prince! I must say, spitting digits like a social scientist, that through the course of anal cancer (a glitch at the seat of my intelligence) I had 7 doctors attend to squamous-cell-carcinoma and SOS surgery for a sliver of chemo-port stuck in my left heart-atrium. I later had 2 oral surgeons remove, with pliers, a mouthful of chemo-sautéd teeth. In all, I had 1 Caucasian Gentile Doctor.

Okay, I excluded a Brazilian doctor who was 95% White judging by her skin tone and NASA mentality at work. That’s because she filled the New World Order’s slot as a double-minority. First, as a so-called Hispanic. Second, as a female in the patriarchy or rape-culture or White Male dominated whatnot. I also had a token caucasian shrink after my run of disasters. Dr Terri Ann Varady. She got my file from the preceding alien psychiatrist who noted the particulars of my post-traumatic stress disorder: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. When therapy was over, Dr Varady politely affirmed every sick enormity but the last. “Even a broken clock,” I’d said to rebut hateful psychosis, “is right twice a day. Philly. Detroit. Miami. I’ve always been very sociable, here and there, at the Whiteman’s Alamo”.

Dr Varady sensed a fair response to the surroundings. On the race front, if nothing else, she agreed that I was well-adjusted to reality. That’s the backstory to last night’s move: I hit the Samson Option button on the keyboard. I hit the Whiteboy’s Samson Option button and joined Trump Team in Philly. I’m sick, sick, sick of being a loser in a lost country. Enough with the compound-interest pitch and Judeo-Christian charge! The rah-rah Holocaustianity! The cucklogical pep-talks! The whiney goals! I moved to hang my jock-strap with the leading alpha-narcissist and locker-room braggart. The winning bully-boy. The Golden Prick.

I wonder what Dr Varady, an agreeable Hungarian whose dad was a police sergeant and sausage maker in Trenton, would think. Who knows? As for myself, talking psychology in Freud’s terms, I’d say that the Super-Ego of America is a neurotic if not schizophrenic cluster-fuck. The Average Joe with the soul of a boy scout and a very good follower, is led to hate all shades of Radical Islam. Simultaneously, he’s led to love all immigrants without discrimination. No wonder he’s a sorry sort. No wonder in a moment of mental clarity, maybe miraculous mental clarity, I hit the Samson Option key and joined the Trump Campaign. Not an effectively bowed Joe, I stand to bomb the Temple and its money-changers. My own Old Testament and New Testament synthesis under duress. My own Judeo-Christian reconciliation in a pile of dung.

With a stroke of a keyboard, I launched a 20 megaton turd on the enemy’s HQS. My strategic aim: fight crap with crap. My personal aim as sonorous racist or racialist or Trumpeteer in Philly? Destroy the Deep State’s best competing bullshit. In other words, destroy the the Deep State’s best weaponized and twisted mytho-poetic line on the average Joe’s psyche. Unfortunately, the NWO brain trust knows their targetsteel-toilet better than Joe Whiteman knows himself. Rhetorically stroking his virility like a sly whore while mewing, “It’s Joe Whiteman’s j-o-b..… It’s his present life’s w-o-r-k and Christian afterlife’s w-o-r-k….It’s his physical/moral/spiritual jobberish to retool, rework and redeem damaged goods from Humanitarian Wars.” Such ticklish deviltry, according to a self-reformed French Lefty named Lucien Cerise, is colonial psy-ops turned upon the home population. (It’s always good, in the proximity of college girls, to name-drop a French intellectual.) Born to fear God, Joe Whiteman is aimed to obey whatever Higher Intelligence triangulates blood-bathes between Muslim sects. For oil. For Israel. For the future of the NWO and genetically engineered chimeras, trans-human creations, miscegenated blends of robots/humanoids/reptiles. The next stage of population replacement, by the way, after the terminally cross-led Whiteman is gone.

That’s the gist of it. Quite understated to show proper academic detachment in a high IQ and highly mimetic environment. Now I’m sipping French Roast coffee and typing an Urban Studies thesis: It’s a mercenary remove, a studied Clintonian calculus on the go, that separates the Ivy League brat at Penn from the poor Negro at Temple and the poor homesick hillbilly at Wayne State in Detroit. My best work. My entrée into the intelligentsia. As for the future of Hillary’s Micro-Managed Demos, why don’t the Mexican landscapers get it? They’ll be the first to be bred-out as remote control drones with Swiss optics and, for retro-mammalian warmth, transistors that channel schmaltzified Ranchero tunes. Too bad the fuzzy-wuzzy minorities hate the Whiteman more than the morally narcissistic and inanely trusty Whiteman loves, loves, loves himself. A blue-print for disaster. Thus, Samson Option.

And the White Woman? She’s been psy-opted to the nth degree. Bombed and fed with select bullshit. Perfumed and poisoned to her taste. She has, as a baseline, the same working vanity as the Whiteman but the wildcard is her bosom/heart/womb matrix. amanda-silberling-art-by-isabel-kim-in-collaboration-with-syra-ortiz-blanes-and-amanda-silberling-copyEasily lubed and mated to the NY/Tel Aviv/London axis. A pyscho-metricians gimme with, yes, a collegial network of slush-funds throughout the Deep State. Earlier today, I took a lazy stroll through University City to Penn’s Campus. Who hurries to the dentist? There were Voter Registration ladies on almost every corner. God bless ‘em but where were the cookies? Inside the campus proper, near a statue of Ben Franklin with a pink scarf, the militant harpies were at work. Marshaled by the White Woman’s Burden to civilize the world. You had to see it, to believe it. This generation’s useful idiots for the New World Order, international bankers and party-favor bureaucracy. The Social Justice Shillettas, over-stressed nerdlings, pushed Hillary’s contribution to the domestic psy-ops blitz. Worker’s of the World Unite? It’s passé. Women of the World Unite? Now that has real nation wrecking and home wrecking momentum. Capitalists, as the kiddies at Wharton know, must capitalize on it. 

Samson Option. Have you noticed that the pundits are scared that Trump won’t pre-concede a pre-programmed loss? “I’ll keep you in suspense” he says with a finger on a higher-echelon and more pricey doomsday button. Playing hard. Playing for keeps. Here’s a secret: If the criminal Negroes in Philly think you’re crazy, they leave you alone. I’m just saying. Finally, to confess a chronic blur as if you were my private shrink, I don’t know if I’m truly crazy or if craziness is just my journeyman Whiteboy’s loopy schtick. Necessary borders have been corrupted. Now, I look at myself as I look at Hamlet in distress over co-opted Denmark. A hostile yet smarmy takeover that the normal Dane didn’t mind as long as he got his wenches and mead. The point: I can’t tell if I’m truly nuts or just acting nuts for dramatic effect.

Still, in Hamlet’s words, When the wind is Southerly, I know a hawk from a hacksaw. Dr Varady affirmed that. She affirmed every previously diagnosed sickosis but the last: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. On the race issue, she noted, I’m well adjusted to reality.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing. It was republished at  Truth Is Justice. 

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Gordie Howitzer

LIFE IN THE HOCKEY IMPERIUM:
ST. JOSEPH, GORDIE HOWE AND THE BARBER’S PART

THE REAL IDEAL 

I had true modest heroes, well suited for a good life. Catholicism provided the fabric and measure. My elders were cut from the very cloth of St. Joseph. He was a family man and carpenter.  A Workaday Joe.  And, most of all, a servant to a higher authority that he didn’t question.

Such background saints mind their rank. They’re God’s jobbers from start to finish. In the family fold were such worthy Joes as Stan Jarzoski: a former US Army scout who landed on Omaha Beach and stalked behind Nazi lines until V-E Day. A strapping 6 footer, quiet as a prayer, he worked in the field of death even as he pushed a lawnmower. Then for every true light there was a stray shadow. Like my Uncle Art who was a closet homosexual, a self-taught painter of lurid scenes, and a butcher in my dad’s shop who only arrived drunk when sobriety was needed most during the holiday stampedes.

There you go: hero and drunkard balanced to turn the eternally unfinished wheel of parish life. But it’s too quaint. What about about the haloed giants, taller than church steeples, visible from afar? Gordie Howe was such a landmark Joe. He was a monumental model of Christian piety who, when the puck dropped, became a hunter-killer-thriller with tufts of otherworldly grace.

All the locals loved Gordie. He was the real ideal.

THE PAGAN-CATHOLIC HOCKEY CALENDAR  

In sportswriter’s terms, Howe had a dominant presence on the ice. In boy cosmologist’s terms, Howe had much, much more. He had numinous presence, a legendary presence, a muscular-mystical presence in the flatlands of SE Michigan where the sewage from the steel-mils seeped into the swamps of Lake Erie.

Howe’s fame was the same on the Canadian side of the shipping channel where my sober uncle owned a tug-boat company. Tugs are the St. Joe’s, the brawny and dutiful seconds, of the Great Lakes fleet. Furthermore, gulls are angels if you’re privy to the backwater animism and nature worship written into Roman Catholic legalese. Strange but true! As far as life goes, I had to start somewhere. I started in the cradle of Pagan-Catholic-Borderline stuff.

Tugs and gulls were hyper-real. So were whispers in the wind and specters on the water. So was my loneliness. Incubating as a baby-faced Joe in a crystal blaze of winter, I had a hunch. Uh-oh. I had a badly heated, angry adolescent hunch that my dear childhood heroes were letting their wives, priests and politicians do all the talking. Of course, that’s what real men-of-action do! But still. What about the reflective child, not the usual narcissist, who sees his face in mirrors of ice? It has a cold-cold attraction. And while every hoary Joe knows that cabin fever is bad, only a few very disturbed Joes know that cure in the open air, sparkling with light at the nadir of winter, can be worse.

Call it what you want. Psychological disturbance. Psychic disturbance. Maybe a fairy tale blend of both. But even as a minor rube with my balls shrinking in the cold, I had a big hairy hunch that my folks needed a hyper-voice to speak to the world and speak for themselves. It happened one day! Yes, it happened one ordinary day in the ordinary life of an ordinary Joe walking a fresh carpet of snow. I suddenly had a hunch, quite disturbing for a Child of Jesus, that my folks needed a borderline Wagner to chart the rolling mists, crackling ice-flows and razor-backed currents of the Detroit River in January. The site-specific haunt! The metallic Rhine Jr! The steel grey soul-scape for Gordie Howe’s hammer arms, Red Wing jersey and flashing skates.

It was too much. It was an aesthetically sound but morally iffy glimpse into the Sacred Heart of Time. The magnification of Creation’s core pulse, wherein avatars are beat into shape, was a-okay for a religious kid. But the exaggeration of my own creative impulse was as problematic as egomania in the Renaissance. Let me put this in proper Catholic terms. Every Pope with a scepter knows that heresy is a truth taken too far. And every altar boy at a pisser knows that if you shake it more than twice you’re playing with it. What I’m saying is that it was fine, within customary limits, to see Gordie Howe as seasonal hockey god. But it was very, very touchy to see him as was seasonal hockey god who was dormant in summer when there was an abundance of florid glee and birds ‘n bees in the bushy air. A cyclical Wotan! Yes, I saw Mr. Howe as a cyclical Wotan, with local accents, who appeared in the dead of winter when all was lost.

Very, very touchy. A synthesis of real poetic genius to retard the instant I put it in words! No wonder, in drunk’s terms, I didn’t know whether to shit or puke. Now, as a learned hick, I can defend my awful silence with Rilke’s line, “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror”. But as a kid I was dumbstruck by the timely synchronicity. I just didn’t have the lyrical spit for Howe’s redressed avatar’s fit into the Church-Hockey-Astropagan calendar. Staring into the heavy northern heavens, I only had the vision. It meant something.

TROPHY  EUGENICS AND THE BALD TRUTH

Yes, I had true modest heroes. Easily overlooked between the ends of NYC and LA. From the heights of a Shyster’s jet: an underwhelming land for an underwhelming people! A pale settlement for goyim! A static pool of yeoman nobodies with purely economic fluctuations between good debt and bad debt.

My country within a country. My cold and hearty people. Furthermore, my overlooked species of inbred White Country Folks with no more hyprid-vigor than a lean hillbilly iron worker crossed with a stout Irish-Catholic wench. That’s God’s Plan for agile defensemen and power forwards. Every rutting Joe knows. So does every dear girl in estrus. Only the town barber knows, as a comber of truths, that it’s also the non-Nazi secret of Trophy Eugenics in the Hockey Imperium.

Howe Holycard IIThe Hockey Imperium, for those on the inside, is a Medieval State of Mind that religiously rules from lower Michigan to upper Ontario. A subconscious Holy Roman Empire with shrines, banners, spires and festive tournaments. My mono-culture! Maybe evolved. Maybe devolved. Maybe timeless. Most certainly a custom-made Pucktopia of spirited sport in glove: city, state and regional jousts with trophy of virgins, if you’re lucky, in the bleachers. Like anything else in life, it’s all hooey until the moment of truth. My brother is testimony to that. He played goalie on a championship team that asserted authority, like deputized knights, all along the frontier. He renewed the dynasty. He upheld the realm and family standard. He verified the lore like a saintly enough Joe on a mission that was much, much larger than himself. True to his calling, he nailed it!

Too much Medieval chew on my bib? Too much gah-gah from the cradle of Dark Age élan? Just take the high moral arc on the Rainbow Express between NY and LA. Just look down on my homeland as a hotbed of neo-Klan and trigger-happy militia. A dysgenic fucktopia of pogromatic hicks! Papists, bible-thumpers and cross-bred racists! Then you can trash, even White Trash, my boy-to-man travelogue.

THE CRITICAL CRISIS 

 Now for the critical crisis. Not the usual crucible in the so called “Multi-Cult”. That’s marquee code for race mix-up. Preached by pulpiteers who’re born to rule: inbred intelligencia, sticky IQ fetishists and embedded reformers at a price.

God bless ‘em. The righteous fuckers have, at least, an ongoing class. A hip allegiance to their own rich stock. Furthermore, I’m not privy to Grand Design outside the Hockey Imperium built upon the remnants, lakes and ponds, of the Ice Age. I’m geo-teleptically limited. So I can’t be 100% sure that there’s no treasure at the end of Rainbow America’s overarching, messianic and tutti-fruity arc. I luv-luv-luv anyone who really believes that lore. But I have enough problems with my own Pagan-Catholic proof. Which, as my brother knows, is nailed in the living.

Trust me, I tried be the strong silent type. But at the first blush of crisis I saw fairy dust in the powdered snow and gold lamé gowns in the scavenging carp. Wagner was in the leaden grey clouds but something else was in the skirts of snow. A fluffy-fickle soulfulness! A girly-girly joy in the bosom of Winter’s Hag. All of Mother Nature colder than a witch’s tit yet, no heresy intended, “redeemed” by majestic-angelic kisses in flurries. Uh oh. This was a mated peek into the Sacred Heart of Time. Which is to say I was showered with a motherlode of bridal laundry, streaming white veils with silver stitches, at Zero Hour when all was lost. Thanks but no thanks for the glimpse into the cosmic wheel! There’s been a mistake! For one thing, I wasn’t ready for the executive poet’s vocation to see the Nature of Woman as more than pussy and, within that nascent study, to see any stout homegirl as more than an incubator of agile defensemen and power-forwards. I lacked this. I lacked that. I had no maturity, even, to fuck-up! And so I froze, painfully dumbfounded, in a swirl of laced sugars that you’d have to be a Mozart, a buck sissy, a real Olympian amongst all kinds of flakey flakes to master.

This wasn’t normal. It was miraculous at best and cruel at worst. I’d been given a very big job without blue-prints. With only a model failure, Uncle Art, to provide range in the werks that mocked my intestines. Mea-culpa. I’m so sorry. I’ve never recovered from the Pagan-Catholic-Poet’s epiphany. If only my critical crisis had rushed me to the threshold of Social Justice work. I coulda-woulda-shoulda been a slick New Age Joe bringing the Human Family to my hometown! And I’ll be the first to admit that there’s much to be said for going wide in the well-rounded world instead of going deep-deep-deep into your own cold interior.

No such luck. Instead, I was fated to receive the miracle heft of Virgin Mary flurries and war-cloud Valkyries that buried Uncle Art. No wonder he didn’t know, given a glimpse of super-beauty, whether to shit or go blind. Sure he was a homo. So what? You’d have to be a spiritually spent shrink, a techno-humanist-clinician connecting dots on a godless chart, to say that his critical crisis was “penis” as such. Please!

Uncle Art was called to be an artist. In curator’s terms, he was called to be a painter of local color. In cosmologist’s terms, he was called to be a wizard with a provincial palate. More than a craftsman and less than a saint, he was given to be a psychic medium. A wand smith. A wand smith with a tuft of wet XXX hairs at the far extreme of his brush with an eternally recurring canvas of pure virgin potential. That was the beginning and the end, the Alpha and Omega, of his sorry life.

It was too much.

SQUARING THE WHEEL 

Uncle Art heard the call deep inside the crotch of fate. He tilted like a half-hearted sport with a sorry thrust and guess what? He made his non-splash in the common pool and/or bum toilet. Put plainly, he died as both a failed Joe Normal and a failed artist.

Howe Family III copy

No guts, no glory. No raw heroic effort, no epic-operatic tragedy. That’s the cold-cold law of Pagan Nature that’s worked into Roman Catholic mythos. Furthermore, to release Uncle Art from the afterlife of burning slander, very few men manage to “Square the Wheel” of parish life. Very few men succeed as Regular Joes and Stellar Joes at once. Like Gordie Howe. He was a shy Canadian farmboy who, moved by destiny, got his start at Olympia Stadium in Detroit. He became a hockey god. He realized his towering 360 degree genius for pretty goals, borderline cheats and ugly brawling.

And Howe let his wife, an astute reader of small print in hockey contracts, do all the talking. Everyone loved Gordie. Everyone, in the milky white bosom of the Hockey Imperium, loved the Howe family. They nailed the evergreen dynamic.

                                                                              THE BARBER’S PART

I’ve tried to convey the spirit of my grooming along the shore where the smoke stacks padded the clouds. And where the local color faded under the dead-weight of winter. If you don’t get my hyper-drift? If you think that I’m mythologizing too much about cold-grey horizons downwind from Detroit? Then talk to a starving deer, a young buck, at the edge of an ice-pond at sunset. He’s knows the legendary chill of winter in the sticks. He’s a living symbol of the haunt.

The town barber, for his part, remains a shapeshifting constant. In backwater poesy, he’s a super-animated anchor whose job is to be as deep or shallow as the guy in his chair. In fair language, he’s a two-bit shrink who diagnoses heads within the limits of the hippocratic oath and frontier codes. In all cases, he’s tempered by seasoned knowledge. He knows that, like timeless masterpieces, one can hardly say what makes his fishy mono-culture whole. There a single congenital spiral in the lakes, rivers, swamps, and air. You’re born into it. Customer A says a soulful prayer to primordial shore gods after shooting a deer for venison steaks and trophy antlers. Customer B blushes with venal pride, exquisitely mean, after shooting a rogue squirrel with a .22 rifle, through a steel reinforced milk chute, who dared crawl down the rusty chain to raid his wife’s bird-feeder hanging from a lilac bush outside her kitchen window. And so it goes.

Inside the tinted door of Gino’s Barbershop, not at all transparent in the Liberal Democratic way, there’s a deeply seated commerce in individual styles within the local fold. Sharing a mirror, Gino puts every man’s prize pagan cowlick in place with a final dab, after all, of Christian Morality. And that’s that. See ya soon!

Gino has solved himself and more. He’s squared the Wheel of Parish Life in his own modest style. He’s a model man even as he ruptures the template and yaps like a diplomat’s mistress. Who cares? Go for it! Show us how! He’s been groomed through the generations since his great-grandpappy drew first-blood on a pink ear. Gino has aced the proofs! He has a barber’s license, an ex-Marine’s license, and a full-blooded Italian’s license to magnify touchy feelings like Paganini or Caruso gone North. Not bad work if you can get it! And the barber get’s it right.

Boy oh boy. Man oh man. As far as my life goes, from start to finish, I can’t say more. I just hope, with all the sincerity that a rambling Joe can muster, that I’ve nailed it.

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This piece first appeared in Counter Currents Publishing 

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BROTHERLY LOVE AND THE NAZI STYLE OF YOGA

Yesterday, I went to yoga class. The teacher was a prime thoroughbred.  Black hair with gray streaks. Thick eyebrows. Willowy limbs and upright spine. She conducted herself with a golden drop of arrogance. An English accent also set her apart.

 A  trophy babe!   I smiled inside.  I  immediately thought, I’ve got something to show you.  I’m a man with a difference myself!

I parked my yoga mat next to her.  Why not get close to the flame?  While taking tuition and attending the roster, she asked if anybody had an injury or medical condition that she should know about.  I  knelt, yes, knelt and whispered,  “I’m eight months out of cancer treatment and I had an operation last week to have a chemo-port removed.”  

 She was trained in poise.  Yet there was alarm in her eyes.  To spare a pity-party I quickly added, “And I have monster arthritis in my left hip.  So I go slow.”  I saw her thinking: who is this nut who moves seamlessly from the mortal threat of cancer to the nagging pain of arthritis?  I laughed. I thought to myself,  I’ll show you!   And so I went through the yoga class like a man on the job.  Really, I went through the yoga class like a laboring shudra laborer, a man of the well-digger’s caste, who gets paid to work through pain.   When it’s too low-down and nasty for everyone else, it’s just right for me!

Luckily, it was a restorative class.  Very slow but very precise and thorough.  This particular diva is a teacher of the Iyengar  style of yoga. Which I call “The Nazi Style of Yoga” because it’s  regimented, austere and  powerful. An über-mechanics built upon a Brahmin’s bloodline. Iyengar himself is a stern patriarch with a genius for engineering elite texts and teachers.  How this femme transformed his  dry-eyed yogametry became an ongoing  mystery to me. A female mystery that’s just as stupefying as the yoni or pussy or whatever you  call the thing tucked into a woman’s interior. So I spent the entire class marvelling at a total woman.  Juiced with celestial light! Juiced with  base irrigant!  Juiced with higher and lower currents of premium mojo.  Not bad work if you can get it and, believe me, few yoginis get it right.

I spent the entire class  studying her hard earned and softly rendered maturity.  She had a graduated female delicacy when came to explaining very tough stuff. This light touch is especially amazing if you come from the “get a bigger hammer” school of life.  It was lovely lesson  by a  woman whose career was years ahead of mine. We were peers in age only.  And though I could never imitate her as a man, I knew that she had something timely to teach me about the renewal of sex and intelligence.  I  wouldn’t call her a “potent” teacher.  But if I had the male-complement to her second bloom then I’d be a potent communicator and wordsmith.  An old but seminal medium. 

That’s what I learned, yesterday,  while nominally studying yoga.   

Well, I taught her something in return. Albeit at the  level of comic character with piss ‘n vinegar in his bloodlines.  I followed her directions.  I needed zero nursing.  I labored like born shudra laborer and the best in my calloused caste.  And I showed her that I also had something majestic: a low-down male meanness, a life-long knowledge of pain, and a base metaphysical duty to endure shitty-luck with devilish élan.  I flashed a serene mastery of my own brute humors. She had so much love in her eyes after the otherwise routine yoga class.  We were like brother and sister!   Maybe, twins apart

 

 

 

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love-beaker4
An inferior version of  The Pagan Fire was published in Metropolis.  The editor was a good-guy.  I rewrote it for him three times, but that wasn’t enough.  So after getting spanked by a female critic who goes to the University of Pennsylvania, an Ivy League School, I’ve rewritten and republished the piece here.  Hopefully, dear reader, it’s finally as coherent as it is crazy.  That, combined with truth, is the grail.
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 THE PAGAN FIRE 

                           

You see these kiddies who leap from sidewalk-square to sidewalk-square. Everyone knows the stakes: step on a crack and break your momma’s back. And then you see these homeless magi who conduct the cosmic clockwork from a park bench. The sunrise. The sunset. They’re also deeply staked. They know that all it would take for the world to end is one false move. Like crossing left-leg over right-leg, or breaking their daily pigeon feeding routine.

Its funny and not so funny. Personally, I have rarely flattered an artist or a comedian by calling him “crazy.” When you have mental illness in your blood-lines, you develop an insider’s concern.

Imagination is like fire. Only the controlled-burn serves a sane purpose.

Okay. Okay. I live in a rooming house in Philly. I’ve got stories of drifters who found their way back to “reality”, and drifters who succumbed to their haunt. It’s a place for men on the bubble. One could even say that it’s a place for men straddling worlds: the realm of Newtonian physics and the realm of pagan metaphysics. Let me break it down. You have the dominant daily realm of cause-and-effect that makes business and The Golden Rule the “working” mentality. Practical thinking! The Modern Way! Then there is the ancient realm of woof and warp, fickle-fates, and divine humors. That is the pre-Modern way. Even learned Philadelphians, men of science, appeal to the latter when buying lotto tickets, betting on horses or playing an inspired game of poker.

Well, I had a hunch the night before the roaring fire. It led me to YouTube videos of lions devouring wildebeest calves, and then hyenas massing-in-force to drive the lions from their kill. A lesson in merciless nature. I thought about it at yoga class in the morning. I know. I know. I was supposed to be dovetailing into an urbane Judeo-Christian idealist. Lions lying down with lambs from the Old Testament, the meek inheriting the earth from the New Testament, and All of Creation converted into Eden’s long lost twin. But I kept thinking that maybe Nietzsche was right. Maybe we’re not living in a Moral Universe and maybe love can’t rule the field. Maybe the dominant force is Will to Power. Which like fire, can serve or get out of control.

Too much heavy thinking. I was taking a post-yoga nap when the fire alarms rang. Do you ever tire of tech’s stimuli? Do you ever pull the covers over your electro-shocked head? When I finally left my bedroom, there was black smoke lacing the air. Ashen negligees streamed like ghosts in flight. I walked against the current. I went towards the source. I experienced a slow-motion rush as time swirled in a bubble. Meanwhile, the corridors and doorways pulsed as prime archtypical forms: passageway and threshold.

When I stepped into the ol’ cigarette puffers room at the aft end of the rooming house: flames dancing on the bed and blankets, and flames traveling atop the dirty clothes stuffed between bed and walls. Flames that weren’t scary because they were large. Rather, flames that were scary because they were liberated from any kind of man-serving purpose, accelerating with wild abandon, and hypnotically beautiful on their own fierce terms.

Well, this was it. This was the danger foretold by YouTube videos. I might as well have been looking into the jaws of a lion or hyena. There was no moral appeal. There was no petitioning for mercy. And though my physical life wasn’t in danger because I had ample time to flee, my metaphysical life was in danger along with my yoga-mat, my library and my altar that takes me back to the future of Paganism. Maybe a television is your centerpiece. I’ve constructed an altar using the Secrets of the Parthenon: Sacred Geometry, Divine Ratio and all that esoteric engineering that synchs the material and ideal stuff. My altar: a manifest table of visual harmonies that have, at least, therapeutic value. Music for the eyes and a plum composition to contemplate before facing the goddamned mirror. The Big Issue: is it me or the Modern World that’s nuts? Ha. Ha. Not so funny when flames are threatening a pal’s similar, but different, chapel: sports calendar, VFW magazines and beer bottle sentries atop a television with a tin-foil antenna. No mercy. No pity for any man’s stake.

And let me say this in deference to the ol’ Roman Catholic doctrine: the fire was pure appetite. Pure lust. Pure gluttony. Pure self-immolating fire, if you’ll excuse the redundancy.

I fought the fire and the fire won. My deputies were a buck-naked drunk who’d been warned against smoking in bed, and a 50 year old idiot savante with foggy eyeglasses, crumbs in his beard and pee-stains on his tennies. My fraternity. My clique of rooming house insiders. We beat the fire down twice but it continued to travel underneath the surface of things while smoke, the silent killer, poisoned the air. I left for a breather. I returned to get a blast of fire-extinguisher spray in the face. Perfect slap-stick comedy under extreme pressure. It took a cop to pull us away from the madness and, another silent killer, the tug of lost victory. Like gamblers, we wanted to stay. Keep trying. We almost had fortune in hand!

After a round of interrogations on the street, we landed in a Red Cross Shelter in West Philly for a month. They treated us well. I got post-traumatic counseling. The social worker suggested that I write about the burn. Well, okay. I’ve had trouble sleeping. When I turn to the right I’m an hero who contained the dragon until the firemen arrived. When I turn to the left I’m an infernal priest who merely molested the fire, beautiful as it was, with a promiscuous glee. Either way, I survived with questions intact: am I an abysmal loser or the master of my own tragic-comic fate?

I did good? I did bad? I’m on the bubble when it comes to defining reality. And I’m not talking about the Metaphysical vs Nominalist rub between theologians and scientists. Neither am I talking about the Heart vs Mind rub between artists. Or the Lucky vs Good rub between sport fans. I’m talking about the abnormal vs normal rub that blisters deep inside myself.

Happily, fate has put me in my place. I’m back in the rooming house where everything and nothing is understood. There’s a smokey mindcraft here, always on the verge of inflammation, and it feels like my home in the world.

Fire Crown

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 The article, “MANNING DOWN, The Mote in the Manosphere’s Eye” inspired me to write this entry.

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RANK DESIRE: APING ALPHAS IN DETROIT

I worked in the belly-of-the-beast for years.  A Detroit bar frequented by professional basketball and hockey players, Chaldean liquor store owners and slick street-fighters. On Sunday nights, the strippers arrived from Canada.   Cocaine, booze and pussy is a volatile mix.  There were excellent brawls.  Often, tribal affairs.  The White townies who followed the strippers in from Windsor had an especially  difficult time with the  shifty Middle Easterners.

The bouncers were an interesting study.  Most were excellent parodies of alphas.  The crew-chief was blond, brutally handsome, and pumped with steroids.  One night he made a show of throwing a skinny Albanian out the door.  Two minutes later, the punk returned with a pistol.

One shot in the air outside the bar to summon the gods of whiskey courage.  Then a second shot into the inside ceiling of the bar, to assert overall authority.  A pudgy bouncer, an aging hillbilly from Kentucky, knocked a waitress down and shielded her body.  Then there was a case of mistaken identity.  The Albanian recognized only the tuxedo shirt and cummerbund,  and put a gun-barrel into the flattened bouncer’s ear.

“You’re a dead man,” he said before a fellow greaser tugged him away. They fled into the night, past beat-cops who were still ogling girls on the corner.

The point?  The aging hillbilly, admittedly of an older generation, wasn’t so much an “alpha male” as a “natural man”.  He grew up without a dad.  He had four brothers, one of whom “liked weenies.”  He took custody of two plump daughters when his marriage disintegrated.  In spite of his protective nature, he wasn’t what Moderns would call a sensitive guy because of his coarse dislike for Blacks, Middle-Easterners, Mexicans and untested Whites outside his inner-circle. Yet within his inner-circle, he was very well-rounded.  Fatherly.  Brotherly.  Friendly.  This character stamp made him very old-school, which he also expressed in his dislike of weight-lifiting, steroids and martial-arts mania. Further safe-guarding hillbilly tradition, he was a great story-teller of gonzo adventures in dark alleys and enemy bars.  Of course, I loved his self-effacing charm while looking past him at  the preening bouncers who oversaw the beautifully shallow girls that dominate nightlife.   Believe me, I have nothing against a gorgeous woman with more style than brains.  It takes clear intuition. It’s her art.

I had second-tier status as a bartender.  I desperately wanted to run with the big-boys.  Once, on a field-trip with the heavyweights to “The Windsor Ballet”, the 6’5” bar owner bought me a lap-dance from the ugliest girl in the Canadian strip-joint.  Not long afterwards, disgusted with my rank, I tried throwing a cocaine primed whiteguy  out of the downtown Detroit bar all by myself.  The  cops who took me to the hospital, and had seen a lot of maw, were shocked into silence.  I’d routinely slipped them drinks.  And now I was their beat-up passenger, taking a funereal trip to Detroit Receiving  Hospital while mumbling sporting nonsense.

The old bouncer “got it.”  He soon came to my  aid as a beat-down beta.  He loved, if nothing else, my  ability to take punishment.  He recommended vitamin E for my scar. He gave me street-fighting lessons while confessing to his own acute fears in a scrap.  He was a marvellous guy.  Not so much an “alpha male” as a “natural man.”  I got courage from being near him and that leads to the point of this story:  there is ego-strength and there is love-strength. I got ego-strength from aping the alpha-bouncers and it gave me two black eyes, seventeen stitches and a night in Detroit Receiving next to bad niggahs, real alpha losers, handcuffed to gurnies.  I got love-strength from the old hillbilly and it’s given me something else.  In trucker’s terms, it’s given me an even  displacement that’s good for the long-haul.

Love-strength is is a graduation from ego-strength.  Speaking of which,  I recently  had a 40th class reunion.  It was lovely to see a small cadre of natural-men, balding Midwestern football and hockey captains, with their fat wives.  They’d transferred their glory to their sons.  But they still had understated power and, by definition, male glamour.

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-please hit the title for a link to the news that was the catalyst for this entry-

R.I.P. Michael Davis of the MC5

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The pale girl down the street was an MC5 groupie.  One grey day along the Detroit River, she began to tell stories.  She was instructed to pull off Sonic’s boots…

Groupies love fame.  They’re seduced by the specter of immortality.  And then the rock ‘n roll heroes slowly go to the grave. One by one the body degenerates and expires.  Maybe the radiant energy itself is immortal and transfers to the next Overnight Sensation.  Which is another way of saying that Fate is omnipresent and, in her personal favors, wildly fickle.

I remember the initial surge of the  MC5.  It can’t be understood without the suppressive weight of the Vietnam War and the draft.  Because I wasn’t quite 17 years old, I  got a fake ID to get into the Grande Ballroom.  The show was darkly fantastic with dangerous undertones. I loved how everything was sculpted from the local ore.  The show.  The music.  The mystique.

I’ve never seen anything better than the intro, with JC Crawford revving up the crowd to a revolutionary pitch before The 5 breaks into Ramblin’ Rose.  Wayne Kramer’s falsetto in front of the crashing-driving rhythm section was a mind-bender.  He sang  like a man with the devil squeezing his nuts.

But I never completely bought-in.  I  have a theory about the thin line that separates otherwise lumped and lumpen Whites. My dad owned a meat-market and I did as much backbreaking work as any assembly-line hack. But I had a personal investment in the business and no blind hatred for “The Man” in all of his racist, materialist and war-mongering manifestations.  Consequently my funk, anger and suicidal ecstacies were tempered by more than rank bourgeois manners.  I had a humble family estate to preserve.  I had a standard of beauty to preserve, too, although one really has to be low-born to consider a meat-market beautiful with its patterned displays,  fine-cuts and coiffed grannies in aprons.

In Detroit terms, that family business was like a Cadillac or an SS 396 Chevelle.  It was more than a means to eat, as a slick car was more than a means to travel.  Factory rats didn’t have such a wholly integrated life. Their sons knew.  Kids who were looking to supercede their dads and find work to love often started rock bands.  But that remains tricky to this very day, because there is often a contest to be the most raw and uncompromising talent.  I don’t think that  The 5 suffered from this affectation.  They weren’t acting wild. They were wild.  It’s their tragic glory.

The MC 5 groupie, by the way, was a nomadic child without a civic reputation to safeguard. Her parents were late migrating Southerners and, judging by her truant brothers, hucksters. One landed in Marquette Prison. My mother warned me against siring a love-child that would meld our families. The  groupie was an opaque kind of greaser-femme: awkward grace and black leather jacket.   She had the translucent complexion of X-rated royalty.  Small-breasted. Long-legged   Hawk-nosed.  She ended-up a stripper at Starvin’ Marvin’s down the street from my dad’s store.

The go-go bar was on Fort Street.  That’s the highway that leads from the Lake Erie swamplands, the duck hunters’ paradise, into the  core of Industrial Detroit.  It’s lined with working-class Whites of diverse shades.  How to explain?  I used to drink with a Detroit cop who joined the Flat Rock Police when he was laid-off.  He favored the ghetto over the sticks.  In fact, he absolutely hated working in the sticks. It was because, “When there was a domestic dispute, you ended having to fight Billy Bob and his brother Billy Joe, then their three drunk cousins too.”

There’s a tapering from rural to industrial bleakness as one travels north on Fort Street towards Detroit. The MC 5 used to practice  at the drummer’s house in the non-bucolic suburb of Lincoln Park. It’s true-blue-collar.  It’s a  hapless reservoir of laboring Whites.  It is, unlike Detroit and Ann Arbor, a cultural wasteland if hockey isn’t your #1 Thing.  So, local  kids with an artistic calling grew-up at an aching remove. Like the desolate hillbilly who only has the radio to connect him to Nashville.  This incubation remains good for the soul to this very day.  A bucking artist develops inner-torque.  Then one day he gets a guitar, a driver’s license and  a rusty ol’ Chevy.  The Great Avenging of his loneliness begins.

I never cared for The 5’s dissonances and White Panther buttons.  But I understood their collective fight as dirty Whiteboys competing in an alien world of IQ fetish, money-sharks and highly educated Machiavellians.  I  understood John Sinclair protecting the MC5  from others.  I understood John Sinclair protecting the MC5 from themselves, too.  They had a collective raw genius.  In which, as these things go, was the seed of their destruction.