Posts Tagged ‘White’

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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 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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Detroit’s Destiny

Posted: March 25, 2012 in Variations on a Theme
Tags: ,
-please hit the title for a link to the article that was the catalyst for this entry-

Detroit’s Destiny

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I knew a handful of Detroit cops from my job at a bartender on the edge of Greektown.  On weekends, plainclothes guys put on their uniforms and worked the Downtown beat, protecting suburban Whites and from the natives. They’d get thirsty.  They’d duck into the bar for a coca-cola with a hefty shot of booze.  At closing, they’d return again for the pickings.  

The suburban Whitegirls went nuts for these  “true” cops.  I was attracted to them too, in my own curious way.  Every man, no matter how inarticulate, was a  book of harrowing and humorous stories.  Futhermore, being low on the totem-pole of life, they almost always had a goofy humility  that was best expressed on their off nights, without groupies or uniforms, when the hard-core drinking began at 2:30 am.   I’ve never had, even in my nightwatches on the Caribbean, such great story telling company. And rarely have I been regarded with less suspicion as I told my own  tales of dark, socially-retarded and lonely adventures.  

I could go toe-to-toe with them for awhile, and then the coppers outsdistanced me with a fireside ease.  Inevitably, I wanted to get on The Force.  I wanted “in”. I was about 32 years old when I passed the physical with White scorekeepers who’d been given the nod that I was okay.  There was a hiring freeze.  I had to repeat the obstacle course, the  dummy drag and the mile run again at 36. I had Black scorekeepers. In fact, I had Black female scorekeepers who were asleep at the stop-watch.  I failed.  I knew it was a blessing in disguise and continued tending bar until I landed at my proper station: teaching Special Ed at a Detroit high school.  

During my time as a teacher, Malice Green got stopped outside a crackhouse down the road. He resisted arrest.  He got a few whacks upside the head with a mag-light in the course of submission.  He died from a cocaine induced and/or trauma induced siezure.  The arresting officers got thrown to the dogs.  There was a show-trial.  I attended a semi-private fundraiser for the accused in an Irish saloon near the retired Cadillac Fleetwood plant.  And here’s the point: It was like walking into the very last heated and lamplit bunker at  Stalingrad.

Warriors in the shadows.  98% White cops.  Huddled together and sharing their fate.  I didn’t belong.  I was on the inside of the inner-circle, but only physically.  I had two beers then left.  A single cop, having a sixth sense for interlopers, followed me outside. He must’ve thought  that I was a gallows reporter from the mainstream press.   But I could never stoop that low.

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The  story “Never Thrown a Punch” inspired me to write about my meta-experience in the boxing demimonde.

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Boxing and Related Haunts

by

JJ Przybylski

You see what you want to see, sure.  But you also see what you’re fated to see.  All of which begs the question: why does one pug experience boxing as a Holy Innocent and another pug experience boxing as a bedevilled voyuer?

“Never Thrown A Punch” brings to mind my own story.  Unsatisfied with turf fights in Rustville, I had one under-the-lights fight in Hollywood, Florida.  The headliners were two golden-gloves champs.  The winner was a brutally handsome whitekid who soon went on to murder his girlfriend, escape from jail, and be recaptured on an airfield in the bush while the getaway plane was warming-up.

His dad was a golden-gloves champ too.  He’d masterminded the escape.  I remember being with them in the locker room, watching the dad cutting the tape on his son’s hands after the victory.  The pride.  The intimacy.  The raw beauty.

Later on, I saw the winner with his raven-haired girlfriend at the concession stand. Backlit by greasy lights and raked by shadows, they nursed a Pepsi-Cola.  They seemed too delicate with each other.  They seemed to be foretasting disaster instead of god-like victory.  What could be so  deeply spoiled, so internally malignant, that it couldn’t be cured by a conquest that pointed upwards to the US Olympic Trials?  Personally, I hated boxing but it was something that I had to do.  Fate dictated it, just as fate dictated that I  make a study of the reticent lovers whose story would unfold in the back-pages of the local papers.  They had an afterglow whose tarnish I  couldn’t put into words. Thus my quick eye preceded my sluggish talent.

Boxing packs a punch. I’ve had my bell rung inside the ring and I’ve had my bell rung outside the ring.  They’re phenomenon of different orders: physical and metaphysical. One disorients physically.  One orients metaphysically.  I wasn’t born to box even though my dad was an amateur with 60 fights. Rather, I was born to force myself into the boxing demimonde in order to behold stunning things  that taunted my art of explanation.  Again, this is how vocation precedes sluggish talent. It’s also how resonant moments that remain fresh-unto-death predicate many passing  bouts with oneself while slogging through life as a writer, a man-of-faith or anything else. Learning this truth was my real education.  It had little to do with learning hooks and upper-cuts.  It had little to do with testing  courage and taking my proper place amongst good sports.  It had quite a lot to do, however, with resisting the fraternal pull of hustlers of every color, stripe and counterfeit.

I had an “appointment” to be on the undercard that night in Florida. I’m 100% certain that I’d  trained for it since being handled by a priest, whereas I’d only trained  5 months with a punchdrunk Army vet for my debut in the ring. No sporting poet has written about the “touch” conferred by pedophiles in God’s perverted corner.  They restain your soul a darker shade of Fallen. They put a counter-spin on your spirit, too, that gives forbidden knowledge its own twist and aura. A writer of Nietzsche’s revolting vigor or Villon’s criminal mirth would be thankful for the jolt. That’s why I’ve always thought that it would be sissy-pink to go to a shrink.  Real men don’t do it.  And neither do their sons who have ambitions to be unreal writers who animate their material with inklings of heaven and hell.

In any case, I  had a multi-level appointment to be on the undercard that night in Hollywood, Florida.  I had  sparred with the Black champ at the Fort Lauderdale YMCA, on his off-days when he wasn’t training  at the legendary 5th Street Gym in Miami Beach.  I met the White champ, as I’ve mentioned,  in the locker room in the Hollywood arena. All in all, I had the inside track on a titanic battle between many worldly things.  A battle betwen the races, a battle between country-boy and city-kid, a battle between studs of the same weightclass, rank and fame pedaling circuit. And I had an inside-the-inside track on what I’d like to call a prescient spiritual vein. But it was probably just a low-grade psychic receptivity,  bequeathed by the diddling priest, to  auras that only appeared to be silver-gold halos.  Father-son love.  White knight and raven-haired damsel love.  Legendary lineal love.

Love of expert destruction, too.  Think  of the the higher-animal magnetism of  the renegade USN Seal who can almost, but not quite, match his personal code to the governing law. He passes before your eyes like a mere trouble-shooting mechanic on his way to a blast-furnace in Rustville.  You see what you want to see.  You see what you’re fated to see.  And, expounding upon the latter, you see what you can see by “virtue” of a  haunting familiarity. So I saw tragedy from the very start, in the germ of an otherwise winning character, before it festered and popped. The fatal clusterfuck became a time-released tale in the local papers. The crime-of-passion.  The jail-break. The recapture.  The tailoring to a just end.

To write the entire episode off as the foibles of low-lifes, the foul ecstacies of White Trash,  would be to miss the smart cut of father/son, the strained public poise of the lady in question, and the Shakespearean hint of the dynasty question gone mad. There is also the Shakespearean arc, lifted from The Fall of Man  and the Birth of Christ, of order ruptured and order restored. All of which I’ve come to realize after the event as a terribly sluggish writer.  A meatball talent and, in my dreams, the pride of Rustville.

I learned, through boxing, one  thing:  I have a third-eye with a “telling” speck of dirt in it.  This optic separates me from the Holy Innocent.  For better.  For worse.

I won my match, by the way, against a greaser from New York.  But that’s a menial story.

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