“For a government to do that to its own people is absolutely disgraceful”

English sailors describe their experience of having been experimental subjects in the atomic bomb tests that took place shortly after World War II. It was Top Secret information until the late 1990s. Those who were still alive could finally tell their wives why they weren’t able to have children or why their daughter died of birth defects.

In the video, they relate stunning descriptions of being in the nuclear blast zone. First the light, then the preternatural heat wave that burned you inside, then the air blast. Looking up (up, as in over their very heads) at a mushroom cloud was too much for some of them.

There was no reason whatsoever to expose your own sailors to radiation. The military did it because they could. Tolkien saw all of this coming. The two World Wars made men expendable in the eyes of their governments. It’s no wonder that the hippie movement had many takers.

The WWII generation lived one-foot in the 19th century, with its family farms and big open spaces and one foot in the 20th, with its mechanized modernity. They internalized a bad combination of the two worlds. Patriarchal detachment at home, undue faith in their governments in public capacity.

The story of the past one hundred years is man fumbling around with new technology. Suddenly, governments had the ability to mass-murder and the propaganda monopoly that displaced tradition in the shaping of public opinion. Yet, the development of instant news broadcasts made mass-slaughter counterproductive and the internet broke the power of centralized media.

The 99 Luftballons apocalypse never happened. We now find ourselves in another fear scenario, the engineered inflow of savages into White lands. Those migrations aren’t a force of nature like tides. They aren’t a historic misfortune like conquest. They are just another example of governments doing disgraceful things to their own people.

Advertisements

Songs I Liked At First Hearing

The best popular songs grow on you. Others dazzle you at first hearing. Sometimes your interest in them fizzles out fast. When they’re really good, you enjoy them in the long run too.

Irene Cara, Flashdance. The video has great shots of Pittsburgh. The actress, Jennifer Beals, is a fair Mulatta. You don’t think of her that way, though, when you watch the video, especially if you were seeing it in 1983. She’s not the girl you bring home, but she fits right in if it’s just her. Counterintuitively, when any “off-White” phenotype becomes common, it becomes alien.

U2, New Year’s Day. That song came on during a middle school dance. Hearing it then and there, it was literally the most mind-blowing sound I had ever heard. Early, intense U2 is as good as it gets. “Bad” might well be the most unknown perfect rock song.

R.E.M., You are the Everything. This one I got from my high school girlfriend in the late 1980s. She popped Green into her car’s stereo system as we, um, parked. I played it on YouTube not long ago, hearing it for the first time after thirty years.

The Cure, Plainsong. The song keeps you waiting for some twenty seconds, then rapture. A friend and I took a road trip to Florida by way of Atlanta to visit two of our associates. Got on the road in the evening (like, who doesn’t have the stamina to drive 900 miles overnight on no sleep at 20) and that song kicked off our voyage.

Gene Loves Jezebel. Gorgeous. Another friend played it in his car. Thirty years later, he and I emptied a bottle of Jack while watching Foo Fighters videos on a giant plasma screen. “Gorgeous” has an earnest, urgent melody that taps into your sense of unlimited possibilities.

Soul Asylum, Runaway Train. A very sad video. Even more so chilling now as a historic artifact, given the dark speculations around the monsters that run Western governments.

Melissa Etheridge, Similar Features. Her first three albums are excellent. This song has that paradoxically uplifting and tormented sound, similar to U2’s “Bad.”

R.E.M., Don’t Go Back to Rockville. (The song begins after twenty seconds). No idea of where I’m going in life at 22. Driving home from a closing shift at a restaurant, smoking a cigarette as the song played. It was a rough time. The guys I worked and drank with that year, no idea what they’re doing these days. I vaguely remember their names. Thanks to them I’d not change a single thing about 91/92.

The line Don’t go back to Rockville / Waste another year got my attention. Several days later I went to an Army recruiter (I was already a trained reservist) and enlisted for active duty.

I’ll stop on the early ’90s. Open thread.

At 17

Men have biographies, women have grandchildren. But show me a man who had willingly forgone fatherhood but not sex, and I will show you a man with something queer about him.

At seventeen, you figure out the general direction you want your life to take and you start to make choices with regards to the type of education, work, and interests that are best for you. At seventeen, you know whether you want to go to college, vocational training, into the military, entry-level work, self-employment, or to cut loose for a while and you take steps toward those goals. At seventeen, life opens before you an exciting vista of possibilities. You walk through one door, which means that you forgo others. That is how you become a man.

But what about one significant decision you will make in life… women, sex, having your own family — do you have a plan? In earlier comments, Mendo shines the light at the modern sexual market:

What that one Brit hooker said about some of her clients being good looking fellas: that the price of ass is so high and the quality so low that men would rather rent it than buy. He’s not far off in saying that. It was the “quality so low” line that stood out, which is what many of the comments on here mention -– the unkempt, sloven nature of women nowadays.

Does that describe the sex market once you get out of high school? A thirty-something commenter over at Chateau Heartiste convincingly presents himself as an urbane Alpha. Back in the day, guys like him scored top-shelf poon. He describes his recent sexual encounter. The comment has to be read in full to appreciate what awaits you in an environment where quality women are locked-in young and much of what’s left is… the Wall of Fat.

You may often see a “curvy” or overweight girl and think, “hmm, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.” I’ve learned the hard way that there’s nothing pleasant about the (full)figurative “pleasantly plump” girl.

Take one example. One target, looks cute enough, well manicured, but, with the carefully cropped face pics, I knew something was up(sized).

I meet her at her hotel room (foreign city, there on business, which I’d gathered from our texting, an easy fuck I surmised). She opens the door and sure enough, nice looking girl, perfect hair and makeup, but a spare tire around the waist, thick thighs, big arse, and (the saving grace of tonight’s shew, massive rack). Of course, she’s wearing all black, more flattering, you see.

We stroll through the mall connected to the hotel, eat dinner (naturally), drink a bottle of grape, and stroll a bit more. She invites me up; it’s an ultra modern hotel with sweeping views of the city lit up at night, the desert beyond. Lots of stainless steel. The place is a disaster, shoes everywheres.

At this point, I really didn’t care any more and grabbed her huge bum and threw her on the unmade bed. Then she tells me her mother is staying with her and will be back soon and we need to hurry.

Now I get to the point of the story: I pull her top off, slide the pants off, take the heels and throw them across the room. Once the reinforced bra straps have been let go, the large, majestic empire of tits crashes and collapses to a sagging defeat. The butt, buttressed by leggings (aka exterior girdle) is suddenly no longer firm and perky, but a big, jumbled mess.

She flips on her stomach, presumably to hide the belly from sight, and tells me to pound her. Pound her I do, but it’s not as perfumey fresh as when the evening started.

Not my worse lay, but not great either, in fact it had many pratfalls. One of my more louche moments.

Sorry I had to do that, gentlemen, but it’s important that those of you in the studio audience know exactly what you’re up against (a wall of fat, if you must know), should you spot a “thick” girl and think, “oh, I’m sure it’ll be fun, just like on TV.”

She came back a few weeks later, and, having no other options living in a literal and figurative desert, did it again.

So, if an Alpha gets THAT^^^ . . .

What I’m telling you, is this: If you’re 18 or thereabouts and you have a slim, pleasant girlfriend of your own racial and cultural background in high school and you respect her family, then put buns in her oven right away. You two have the best it’s going to get. Have a plan, marry her, secure your and her parents’ commitment to help you financially.

Or re-read the Wall of Fat anecdote. It’s said that women are best-off cashing in their commitment chips at a young age because they are at peak beauty. What is never pointed out is that young men are at peak access to pretty girls with unspoiled personality. You’ll be more attractive at 35 and possibly even at 50 than you are now but you’re not gonna be swooping high schools at that age. There are trade-offs in life: you can have a healthy start on building your family as you enter adulthood. Or gamble with fortunes as you put off your search and commitment to a quality woman in an environment that corrupts girls as they enter adulthood. Choose one door or the other.

The biggest trade-off: vigor in youth, wisdom in older age. Traditionally, “young dumb & full of cum” newlywed men had fathers, dad’s friends, uncles and grandfathers around for guidance, help and correction. One of the overarching things I press on the importance of, is geographically coherent community and extended family.

I really like this comment by MGE:

I thank God my parents had me when they were very young, 22 I believe. They both came from large midwest Catholic families where that was just the norm. They didn’t have much money, but made it work. No fancy wedding, no engagement ring, no honeymoon. Mom worked at a Piggly Wiggly while my dad finished his education. We lived in cockroach infested apartments in the rust belt. Instead of daycare I was cared for by extended family and occasionally less than savory baby sitters.

I got to enjoy my parents when they were young and full of life and optimism. I have great memories of the wild parties they would throw. As me and my siblings grew older, they kept a “hands off” approach, which is just what they were used to growing up. Instead of keeping a tight leash on me, they trusted the church, which I was deeply involved with, to shape my moral development.

Plumpjack offers a sound second opinion:

It seems to me that women are very amenable to having children when relatively young, 16-20, but that once they hit early 20s they begin to believe the propaganda. I.e., “oh grow up from your fantasy, little girl. NO woman should be dependent on a man for survival!”, and from that point forward become increasingly difficult to lock down… until they hit 35, at which point they are almost all either damaged beyond repair or too old to inspire a solid man to invest everything into her.

So it seems that it would behoove a young man to lock down his high school or college GF with extreme prejudice. But there’s a catch.

We’ll get to what the catch is in a moment. For now, keep in mind that how you got her is how you’ll keep her — by choosing a good one and staying in the driver’s seat in the relationship. Plumpjack gets to what the catch is:

Young guys don’t understand unleashed hypergamy and all of its hideous permutations and implications. Without sufficient field experience he may not be able to handle his wife as she ages. She may mature faster than he does. What if they have daughters? Will he be able to keep THEM under control? Will he have a strong enough pimp hand, if he’s only ever been with the love of his life?

Remember how you got her? It wasn’t by being a sap. It was through your charm and the fact that you have a backbone. It’s a common male mistake to think that now that the relationship is “official” you can put firmness and Game aside and let her rule the roost. You were her first, you taught her everything, she needs you to stay the boss.

He continues:

I believe that having field experience over and above that of his woman is a necessary component for creating a stable family, particularly in these complicated, dark times. Perhaps the ideal pairing is a guy in his mid- to late 20s, with a woman not much older than 21.

Field experience has its up-sides but you strike the iron when it’s hot. Pussy paradise with bright-smiling leggy vixens ripe for picking was an accident of history, a 1970s hiccup made by a baby boom, homogeneity, and prosperity. Free love had its run but it could never last because demand outpaces supply. Mystery Method of the 2000s was its last gasp — and that was before tats, storied sexual history, and obesity disfigured just about every young single woman you’ll meet. I work in an office right next to a bar district, I see nightlife as it crawls out on a Friday evening when I happen to leave work late. Ungainly thighs and baggy tits, all wrapped in tight fabric and attitude like a turd-tiara. That’s pussy for the above-average man after you get out of high school, boys.

Mankind always returns to virgin marriage as the norm, both men and women. That’s what we’re back to. Unless you wish to play your odds against the Wall of Fat.

Men have biographies, women have grandchildren. And no man’s biography is complete until he plants his seed. Do it now and you have your whole life to live with a wife who matured in your image and children who will grow faster than you expect and in whose eyes you can be the greatest man that ever lived long after you’re gone. At seventeen, you may or may not understand that there is no truer pride than having a son. You certainly aren’t imagining doing fun stuff with him when he’s 21 years old and a young father like you once were, all of this while you’re still strong and energetic. Trust your gut, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Your great-great-grandfather was a better man than most of us alive today. Your great-great-grandmother was a better woman than most women alive today. You and your girlfriend can light that fire anew. Plant your first seed now and don’t ever stop being fruitful according to the gifts with which you are blessed.

FS1

Your great-great-grandfather cleared the soil
Your great-grandfather worked the soil…

Your great-great-grandmother had 14 children
Your great-grandmother had almost as many…

As for you, my friend
What are you doing with your night?
Turn off your TV
Don’t stay all cooped up
Thankfully some things in life will never change
Line up your nicest clothes
Because tonight we’re going dancing.


 

The Fundamental Question

We’re a hodgepodge of nations that’s at each other’s throats over six gorillion differences, all of which fall on one or the other side of the political divide between nationalists and globalists. Those divisions run through families and between friends. Talking with liberals is a waste of time for two reasons.

One, appeals to higher values and self-interest are foreign language to libs. There is no communication because we live in different worlds, like black-square and white-square bishops on the chessboard: proximate but never connecting. Namely, the Right follows Truth, the Left follows Power.

Two, it’s bad Game to try to woo them back to sanity. All it does is stroke their ego, validating liberals’ schema that they have the power, ergo moral and intellectual high ground. It’s better to freeze them out and be curt even in nonpolitical contact to flip the abuse-supplication script that they’ve become too comfortable with over the past decades of cuckservatism.

But if someone who’s on the fence approaches you in good faith, know that our differences can be worked out as long as we agree on the fundamental question. Which is:

Do you believe that immigration to this country should be increased, or reversed?

There is no splitting the difference, no middle ground. The arrow of destiny can only go in one or the other direction.

Theirs:

dmvdzduw4aml7mr-jpg-large

or ours:

5b98fa3f7b00a


 

The Three Ways Of Relating to Diversity

You could also call it “The Stages of Racism,” but that’s a made-up word, an epithet for White.

“Celebrate.” First off, there is no celebrating of diversity, that would be unnatural. What there is, is status-signalling among people who aren’t personally affected by it. Morbid generosity on race is rooted in vanity. “Provincial” is a term of disparagement among striver-class Europeans. By celebrating diversity, these people, average-nobodies in almost every case, are posturing as cosmopolitans who move in international circles, or as adventurers who know how to earn the trust of exotic natives. But for diversity to confer such cred, it has to be novel. Not drab and depressing, as it’s long since become.

They also feel pity for the dark-skinned people. It’s a superior’s awkwardness when looking at a retarded person, and the relief as that discomfort is discharged when something nice is done for the pitiful creature.

This stage is where much of the so-called “cucked Europe” is right now. A critical mass of people who are older and affluent remains in thrall to the past sixty years of American anti-racism propaganda and have not yet had a sufficiently unnerving encounter with diversity.

There are also liars, shills, spinsters, diaspora Jews, and politicians. And the Communist mayorette of Madrid:

How can we despise a group of humans who are of such obvious value as these people, who have struggled so hard to reach countries where they can find a better quality of life? [illegal immigrants are] heroes in pursuit of their dreams.

Tolerate. Migrants arrive like a troop of baboons. “I’m not racist, but…” is the first step toward dismantling the Marxist fiction in one’s mind. You once humble-bragged about your contact with diversity, you are now embarrassed of the downmarket stench that’s associated with such contacts. The sight of an interracial couple ruins your mood, you find mixed-race children creepy. But you still accept diversity as an immutable social arrangement. Elephants raised in captivity are tethered by a thin rope that they could easily sever, but they don’t try to because they were bound by it from birth and thus conditioned to consider it unbreakable.

This stage is where you find most of the people who no longer believe in the ideology of inclusiveness but who have not yet internalized the notion that the forcible mixing of nations is a crime. They do not yet understand that racial integration is biological warfare against them. They do not yet understand that they don’t have to live like this.

In the next stage, they assert that right, at the very least on the level of their personal life until they are ready to support a social movement that will secure their free and dignified futue.

Hate. Overheard: “Why is there a nigger on the lacrosse team?” Seeing a single non-White where we want to relax, be ourselves, or push ourselves pisses you off.

When you visit a martial arts school or a little league baseball practice and you see non-Whites under instruction of White coaches there, you are witnessing a fatal compromise on a Männerbund structure for mentoring boys in the image of their elders. Diversity disrupts harmony. Blacks have their all-black inner-city boxing gyms. Whites have to price-out the diversity with sports like lacrosse and hockey.

You understand the evil of a take-everything, give-nothing dynamic represented by an alien enjoying the fruits of White social capital while wrecking his hosts’ vibe and aesthetic by just being there. You then take that one-off observation and scale it up to where abstract notions such as justice and natural rights of man, and the destiny of his nation comes into full view. Territoriality is a healthy instinct. Thwarting its expression, like with other natural human feelings, will bottle it up until something gives.

At this stage, it’s possible to see diversity as a mortal danger to everything you cherish, yet be cool as ice. It’s possible to deal with diversity where unavoidable and smile, be professional and cordial, yet know that their presence here is illegitimate and that separation is the only humane solution but it is not the only solution. Your eyes will show it, by the way.

So you disabuse yourself of any notion that your non-White friend is your friend. He is not. He is using you for access to White social capital and will turn on you on a dime in any kind of a racial snag. You shouldn’t bring him to any implicitly White event or space anyhow (don’t pollute), so what kind of a friendship is that anyway.

Except the Dalai Lama.

DalLam2.jpg

See It Before It’s Zapped (Murdoch Murdoch)

To confidently repeat what I once said about great art: we have Great Books for Men (a.k.a. traditional Western canon) and Murdoch Murdoch. They have Beyonce.

The newest episode is titled “Murdoch Murdoch AMA Absolute Waifu.” It’s live-panel format in which regular characters Dr. Murdoch (the GenX brains of the group), Murdoch (the Millennial protagonist) and Murdoch Chan (the virgin 14/88 dream girl) start out by reading questions from fan mail and segue into this episode’s theme — relations between men and women. They warn us right away that they’re ad-lib recording their conversation over drinks. They kick things off with viewer mail:

Murdoch: “OK, here is one for Murdoch Chan. Any advice on red-pilling normie girls? What was the biggest thing that convinced you?”

Murdoch Chan: “Be a shepherd to your woman, the sheep, okay. You mold it. But you don’t beat the sheep and expect it to love you and be devotional to you. You have to be sweet to it but stern like a father. That’s really it. Women like someone giving them the orders to do something.”

Murdoch: “Right. And there’s also, like, you don’t try it on a girl that’s already gone through a cock-carousel.”

Scene cuts to an older episode featuring a conversation between Murdoch Chan, Taylor Swift, and Lena Dunham:

SWIFT: “Eh, it’s no big deal, I just slept with him.”

MC: “Well, how long did you know him?”

SWIFT: “About eight days.”

MC: “A week? you slept with a guy that quick?”

DUNHAM: “I’m surprised you waited that long. This isn’t 1950s, Murdoch Chan. Girls are empowered now and that means we spread our legs when we want, where we want.”

MC: “But don’t you see, that giving it up so quick only hurts you in the end? The more partners a female has, the less likely it is that she will have a stable marriage.”

DUNHAM: “Marriage?!?”

MC: “And Taylor, don’t you want to have kids some day?”

SWIFT: “Life’s about having fun, Murdoch Chan. And kids just interrupt all that.”

MC: “Is pleasure all you care about? Has pleasure ever brought you happiness?”

SWIFT: “I didn’t know there was a difference.”

MC: “Even if you had all the pleasure that sex, riches and fame bring, you could still be unhappy.”

SWIFT: “Okay… what will make you happy?”

MC: “Um… being in love with a man whose aim is true, growing old together and having babies, dying on the battlefield for my race.”

Back to live panel:

Murdoch: “Like, I hate to say that fam, but…”

MC: “It’s more of a challenge [to red-pill a slut]…”

Murdoch: “I don’t think you can do it.”

MC: “Nah, well, ’cause at that point she’s a little bit far gone that she’ll say and agree with anything you say if you got something to give her back in return.”

Cut to continuing flashback dialogue among MC, Swift, and Dunham:

SWIFT: “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever figure out boys. I guess a man is only as good as his money.”

MC: “That’s not true. There are many virtues that are attractive about men besides money.”

DUNHAM: “Like a big black cock! *snort, chortle* am I right, Taylor?”

MC: “Like honor. Courage. Intelligence. Taking leadership when needed regardless of his social status.”

And that’s just five minutes into the 22-min. episode. It ends with a “Trad” twist on a Tom Petty song. Watch it before it’s censored by YouTube.

It Grew On Me

Last week I featured the 1969 hit “Kwiaty Ojczyste” (The Flowers of my Land) by Czeslaw Niemen and described that song as “trippy and jazzy, anachronistic and timeless.” That post also includes translated lyrics, which celebrate the beauty of flowers across Poland’s regions. Soaring vocals by female backup singers carry the song over the threshold of greatness.

The video above is a 2015 cover performance of that classic by young artist Natalia Przybysz. At first, I wasn’t sure how to take that performance but I had a feeling that it would grow on me… I played it again.

The cover follows the same structure as Niemen’s original: two verses, instrumental solo, repeat of second verse, choral outtro. Both versions include the “na na na” chorus at key moments, which then goes full-bloom in the outtro. The cover is well done, keeping the spirit of the original in a contemporary execution. I only wish the cover version outtro were as long as Niemen’s. It really is the heart of that song.

I was right, I couldn’t stop playing the above video several times over. “It grew on me” might be the best compliment that can be given to a musician. A lot of songs wow you at first hearing but then quickly play themselves out. This one is a better experience with each listen.

I also like her interpretation of those choral vocals. In Niemen’s version, his female backup singers do that part. Przybysz leads that chorus in her cover version, which makes sense because she has a female voice. The band’s male guitarists back her on it.

There are other videos of her covering “Flowers of my Land.” Those were performed at more humble settings — smaller stages, clubs. She’s severe and “feminist-looking” in the video at the top of this post, but in other performances she smiles and banters with the audience.

Also in 2015, she performs at a small stage in Lublin. Something the eye can’t ignore is the odd way in which her left hand hovers and moves around over her lower abdomen. Could be nothing, could be connected to her unwanted pregnancy of that same year.

She sports a casual look in track pants and a plain white t-shirt in that concert. Artsy Chick from this celebration of female beauty.

Not being familiar with Natalia Przybysz, I did a cursory web search. Her other songs are what you can call contemporary pop and she comes across as someone with feminist inclinations. You can see that in her appearance in the 2015 performances. She shows a softer edge three years later, in this 2018 performance at a club in Poznan. Friendly talk to the fans, longer hair.

Top search results bring up her revelation that she traveled abroad in 2015 to have an abortion. (She has two children and doesn’t rule out having a third one, as goes a magazine interview; it’s not clear if she’s married). Such a confession is big deal in Poland, where abortion is illegal and broadly condemned; another pop star’s career tanked after a similar revelation. As to what she had done, Przybysz said “I really didn’t want that child.”

I took that biographical tangent because I’m outside looking in, and the question of common national culture interests me. There is no lack of liberalism in Poland’s pop industry and like in any Western country, there is some amount of ideological polarization. By what I had checked out, Przybysz struck me as a Lillith Fair’esque artist.

Yet what compelled me to not outright ignore her is the fact that she puts so much heart into Niemen’s “Kwiaty Ojczyste.”

I found it remarkable that at least by superficial appearances, here is a Millennial pop singer whom you wouldn’t expect to be reverent of tradition, yet she pays such homage to a beloved classic, no less so that it’s an apolitical song that celebrates the beauty of her country.

Certain national memories unite people across ideological divides. Nation Wreckers seek to corrupt those bonds of common identity so that nothing holds a people together when mundane political disagreements divide them. You can’t build a globalist empire without breaking the natural and exclusionary bonds that connect people within nations. You can’t wreck a nation without (((exploiting))) the sinful but otherwise self-correcting impulses of its people, such female rebelliousness.

Music is sub rational, the performer and the listener transcend material reality when the song strikes their natural harmonic. For me, it’s in that long choral outtro in “Kwiaty Ojczyste,” both in Niemen’s original and Przybysz’ reinterpretation. In that meditative White Energy moment you wordlessly, in streams of something that merges with a higher reality, envision great possibilities in the name of eternal life.