The False Dichotomy of Establishment’s Right vs Left (M.M. Video)

The new Murdoch Murdoch video has its sublime moments, both heartbreaking (at the opioid valley) and uplifting (like when the boy and girl each give the Hero a keepsake for good luck). And a few hilarious ones. The off-hand words of wisdom are memorable:

HERO [to the girl who was tempted to become a showbiz whore]: “He would have exploited you.”

GIRL: “I see the way you look at those girls. Is that not what all men want?”

HERO: “There will always be whores. But you should not strive to be one.”

And later:

BOY: “I say, you’ve gotta live your life like a hawk. Always conquering, always invading. Always on the offensive.”

GIRL: “That’s not true. You have to be the dove. You have to always be kind, and courteous, and look out for the weak.”

SAGE: “Children, you must be a hawk when you’re amongst hawks. You must be a dove when you’re amongst doves. That, is the natural balance.”

And the last few minutes, starting at 28:20, the story does a fine job of presenting the false dichotomy of imperialism vs pacifism.

The story is a Hero’s Journey. Past that 28 minute mark, he finds the Oracles he’s been seeking for an answer that will “bring light back to the world,” or save Western civilization. The Oracles, as it turns out, are Happy Merchants and they tell him that he must choose between the establishment’s conservative and liberal ideologies:

Right Wing Choice
– Beguiling voice: “If you choose the Right, we offer you the greatest military man has ever seen. You will have the power to destroy all life on Earth.”

– Wrathful voice: “But you will always fight wars for nothing. Your children will die in ditches in lands far away for no more than a few coins to a handful of rich men.”

Left Wing Choice
– Beguiling voice: “If you choose the Left, you will be filled with compassion and love. You will see the world as a family and your people will crave peace.”

– Wrathful voice: “But you will always be dominated, destined to watch your women raped and your fathers’ graves desecrated. You will live only to serve stronger peoples.”

Right Wing Choice
– Beguiling voice: “If you choose the Right, your race will live on indefinitely. They will conquer the stars and multiply endlessly.”

– Wrathful voice: “But you will be no more than bacteria, for art and philosophy will leave your blood. You will be like a cancer that spreads, always feeding until nothing else but the cancer lives.”

Left Wing Choice
– Beguiling voice: “If you choose the Left, you will live in harmony with nature and the waters will be clear and clean. The various species will live on and the world will become a great forest again.”

– Wrathful voice: “But your race will mix with animals and you will become animals. You will stagnate on the mountaintops as you await the death of the sun.”

Watch to the end to learn what Hero chooses. Needless or needful to say, NSFW due to politics and iconography.


He’s Right About The Drummer

A shout-out to Peterike, who wrote this about the 1970s East Village band Blondie:

The secret weapon of Blondie, the band, has always been drummer Clem Burke. He’s terrific and doesn’t get enough credit when people have “best drummer” conversations. He’s really the perfect pop drummer.

See the video below. The guy defies the limits of human arm speed. And don’t miss Debbie Harry in good form. I’m awed by her vocals. She’s fresh and frisky in that 1979 performance.

Some of the great Rock drummers:

  • Neil Peart (Rush).
  • John Densmore (The Doors). He makes the mood on those epic-length “Riders on the Storm” and “The End.”
  • Nick Mason (Pink Floyd). The momentary percussion solos in “Hey, You” exemplify the improvisational jazzy feel.
  • Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters). An old friend of mine is a theoretical mathematician and a drummer. Last summer, he and I emptied a bottle of Jack while watching Foo Fighters’ videos on HD widescreen. Before the nectar kicked in, he made an impassioned case for Grohl’s greatness, illustrating his point with perfect air drumming to the songs while explicating the anatomy of the beat.

Atomic,” featured in a recent post, is my favorite Blondie song but the bright “Dreaming” is right behind it. Both songs have a transcendent moment. It’s not the bridge, which is traditionally when the song bends away from its verse-chorus structure. In both cases, it’s the chorus. In “Atomic,” she builds up to “Oh, your hair is beautiful.” In “Dreaming,” it’s the register-spike when she chants “Meet me! …” At that moment, the band’s drummer does something I’ve not seen before: he jumps up from his stool and headbangs while rapid-tempo drumming.

  • Clem Burke (Blondie).

Open thread

Modern Love

Gentlemen, words of wisdom on love in a time of poz, for those who seek their fortune?

Boomer: “Be confident and have a good job. Pretty girls will line up to marry you.”

Omniscient narrator: Thank you sir, that was helpful. 

GenX’er: “Things have changed. When I hit 20, there was no lack of pretty girls but they wanted to party more than I did. A decade later, it all derailed. Today, if a girl is under thirty and of less than porcine dimensions, her venereal options are limitless. Such power makes monsters of women. I hear that you have to be a criminal these days, to excite her dulled pistils. We weren’t willing to be criminals. Instead, in the twilight of our youth, we discovered Game.

Omniscient narrator: In 1990, cute girls were everywhere and obesity was rare. Mudsharking had just come on the scene but it hadn’t yet lowered the buying price of male companionship for marginal girls, so those girls still did their best to be attractive, maintaining dating market equilibrium. Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Millennial: “When’s the last time I even saw a pretty girl? They’re all sea slugs who think they’re vamps, with the worst qualities of both. Anyhow, young men have dropped out, so having a scintilla of confidence puts you ahead of the soy-boys because the starved females crave masculine edge. Hey, knock yourself out and game a slag.”

When you seek pessimism, you will always find it. I know that nation-wreckers have ruined the world. They will pay for it, I promise. You are stuck on Fembot Fallacy, a fantasy that nothing keeps any woman from thotting and whoring it up while calling the cops on you. You’re wrong. Something does hold her hand back from pressing on all those levers of power arrayed before her. That something is soul. Some women have it. 

You know, in the dark they wonder the same about you: “Why won’t he just cut my throat, burn down the house, and go out in glory? Don’t men like glory?” 

There are diamonds in the rough. If you find one that’s better than her girlfriends and if you practice Game — it’s been dropped on your lap for free — you will laugh about how natural it feels to inspire her to take pride in looking nice, in being a good mother, in embracing all those things that terrify your enemies.

Generation Zyklon: “I’m nine years old and I don’t know what any of that means. My dad says that we will know the truth. I will make my own fortune.”

This letter is sealed. Read it when you are a bit older:

“My heart bursts like a thousand sunrises when I look at you. Every generation has its part to play, you have yours. You might not know what it is until after you’ve fulfilled it. You will do fine because you fear God, therefore you’re not afraid of anything else. Two tips: Don’t take advice from someone whose experience had left him embittered; he doesn’t want you to win. In love — now more than ever before — a man must decide early what he want from life and take it.”


It’s not really work
It’s just the power to charm
I’m still standing in the wind
But I never wave bye bye
But I try, I try

Shots Of Wisdom, Part 9

Alternative Rock. Noted elsewhere: “I think the New Wave of the late seventies and early eighties was a direct backlash against disco and the integration of groups and music that you describe from the seventies and eighties…”

That New Wave backlash continued and evolved thru the late 1980s into Alternative Rock, such as early R.E.M. It then took a harder edge and ultimately branched into Grunge when the Seattle sound was discovered. Alternative Rock was as much a reaction against the implicitly-black and integrated pop music, as it was against heavy metal, which was a lower class taste.

There was snob-drift toward feyness in that alternative genre, until corrected by the aforementioned Seattle injection, which had proletarian roots. Early Grunge bands had no idea that they were creating a new sound. They thought that they were doing metal and punk.

Caliban. Frightened = peaceful


Calling Them Out. Before Trump, nation-wreckers were like a home invader who pretended to be a guest, and we meekly went along with it. Trump’s candidacy was a lunge for the robber’s gun. Presently, we’re wresting over that gun. Only one side will see the next sunrise.

Expatriation. Fred Reed was my red-piller on America’s imperial adventurism. I understand his self-exile in Mexico but not his ill will toward that, which he had left behind.

Ok, that’s not entirely true. I do understand his ill-will. I don’t share it, its wellsprings are not in my nature, but I’m familiar with a type of Eastern European immigrant to the USA who loathes everything he had left behind. Those individuals’ feelings are real. In part, it’s the vagabond’s love of greener pastures, roots be damned. In part, it’s a product of the bitterness resulting from the defector’s youthful aspirations that were shot down by that, which had revealed itself to be a corrupt system. And in part, sadly, it’s retro-justification for his decision to leave, emigration entailing familial ties that get cut and the lingering regret.

I was thinking of a Ukrainian stripper in the United States. Someone asked her about her homeland. She twisted her face, explaining to us how horrible it is. The bridge that was burned: she wasn’t a whore there… and her daughter had a grandma.

Americans don’t have much experience with emigration, aside from the oddball expat here and there. In Eastern Europe, that’s a big devil and sometimes it produces a Joseph Conrad, but more commonly, people who buy SUVs they can’t afford.

Fred Reed is that, which hopefully for Westerners won’t become a thing: someone who runs abroad because for one reason or another, his homeland had failed him.

Hierarchy. Tell boys that there are three kinds of men: (1) ones nobody wants on his team — don’t be that guy; (2) ones others want on their team — everyone can reach that level of character; and (3), ones men want to lead them, a rare talent that you either have or you don’t.

“It’s Not About Race!” Best now to stop saying that — forever. It is about race. Human nature demands ownership of public space. Aliens have theirs but demand that ours be inclusive. There is also misplaced desire to assuage their fear of racism. Frightened = peaceful.

Witching Hour. What a bizarre way to order a society. Wishing to avoid the loud nagger-noise that will inevitably be played at local venues that have a DJ on weekends or a jukebox, a friend and I agreed on a brew pub that streams manager’s-choice Pandora. At some point that evening, I turned my attention toward a booth with the sole non-White patrons in the place, two black women who were arguing with the waiter.

I couldn’t hear their conversation over the loud music, which was a salubrious mix of classic Rock and contemporary alt-ambiance.

The aggressive one of the two was about thirty years old and looked like she had a college degree and a well-paying dead-weight job to go with it. Her bovine eyes muddied with malice as she berated the server and her face took on the soullessness of a sociopath: the compassionless look that black women project when the veneer of nice is scratched.

The waiter was also around thirty. A big blond dude, positively not a wimp. He marches past me on his way toward the kitchen. I draw his attention and ask him: “What the fuck is their problem?” He rolls his eyes and says something in frustration, and I offer: “They just want a free meal, right?” He spits out: “Oh, they’ve already gotten all kinds of free shit.”

The moment the waiter left them, the black women’s pantomime of righteous entitlement morphed into conspiratorial glee. The two hyenas were laughing. One of them catches me looking, and I keep staring. They drop their smirks and leave shortly after one final visit from the waiter. The guy then walks over to the bar, which is close to us and talks with a manager and another waiter. He is visibly shaken. Literally, his hands were shaking.

A bit later, he comes by with our check. After taking care of the payment (I left a yuuuge tip), my friend and I get up and as we do so, in jarring incongruence with the atmosphere at that pub, an unimaginably vile Rap song comes on. WTF, he and I look at each other, glad at that point to be walking toward the door.

“New shift manager?” He looks at his phone: “It’s just after midnight, seems a bit late for a shift change.”

Once we’re in the car, he said: “You forget, people around here don’t think like we do. Including that waiter. Millennials have Stockholm Syndrome, you blogged about that.” I laughed, “The manager probably heard my n-bomb when they were talking by the bar.”

Paranoia or witching hour? He said: “And the garbage that came on is his message to us.”


Part 8 picked up on the sounds of war.

“Maybe In One Hundred Years”

This 1982 ballad by the band Budka Suflera is considered to be the greatest Polish rock song. Its title “Jolka, Jolka” (Julie, Julie) recalls the speaker’s youthful affair and is based on real events. The themes in the song:

  • The wildness of youth, the fading of feeling with age
  • The bottle
  • Austerity
  • The downside of petit-bourgeois aspirations
  • A foreshadowing of Merkel’s 2015 migrant invasion (sort of)
  • The scale of centuries, glimpsed during a solar eclipse

My English translation is line-by-line with the original so you can sing along. It’s easy, the pronunciation is mostly phonetic.


Jolka, Jolka, pamiętasz lato ze snu / Julie, Julie, do you remember that dream-summer
Gdy pisałaś: “tak mi źle  / When you used to write: “I’m miserable
Urwij się choćby zaraz, coś ze mną zrób / Come now, do something with me
Nie zostawiaj tu samej, o nie”  / Don’t leave me here alone, oh no.”

Żebrząc wciąż o benzynę, gnałem przez noc  / Begging for gas money, I raced through the night
Silnik rzęził ostatkiem sił  / The engine groaned with its last bit of strength
Aby być znowu w Tobie, śmiać się i kląć  / To be in you again, to laugh and to swear
Wszystko było tak proste w te dni  / Everything was so simple those days

Dziecko spało za ścianą, czujne jak ptak / The child slept in the other room, alert like a bird
Niechaj Bóg wyprostuje mu sny!  / May God sweeten his dreams!
Powiedziałaś, że nigdy, że nigdy aż tak  / You told me that never, ever since
słodkie były, jak krew Twoje łzy  / Were your tears so sweet like blood

Emigrowałem z objęć Twych nad ranem  / I emigrated from your arms by dawn

Dzień mnie wyganiał, nocą znów wracałem  / The day drove me out, by night I came back
Dane nam było, słońca zaćmienie  / Destiny gave us the eclipse of the sun
Następne będzie, może za sto lat  / The next one will happen, maybe in one hundred years

Plażą szły zakonnice, a słońce w dół  / On the beach walked the nuns, the sun going down
Wciąż spadało nie mogąc spaść  / It kept falling, unable to fall
Mąż tam w świecie za funtem, odkładał funt  / Your husband abroad saved every last Pound
Na Toyotę przepiękną, aż strach  / For a Toyota so beautiful, it hurts

Mąż Twój wielbił porządek i pełne szkło  / Your husband loved order and a full glass
Narzeczoną miał kiedyś, jak sen  / He once had a fiancée like a dream
Z autobusem Arabów zdradziła go  / With a bus full of Arabs she betrayed him
Nigdy nie był już sobą, o nie  / He was never himself again, oh no


W wielkiej żyliśmy wannie i rzadko tak  / We lived in a big tub and so rarely
Wypełzaliśmy na suchy ląd  / Did we crawl onto dry land
Czarodziejka gorzałka tańczyła w nas  / The witch from the bottle danced in us
Meta była o dwa kroki stąd  / The finish-line was two steps away

Nie wiem ciągle dlaczego zaczęło się tak  / I still don’t know why it started that way
Czemu zgasło – też nie wie nikt  / Why it faded – no one knows either
Są wciąż różne koło mnie, nie budzę się sam  / There are many with me, I don’t wake up alone
Ale nic nie jest proste w te dni  / But nothing is simple these days


Lyrics: Marek Dutkiewicz; music: Romuald Lipko

Open thread.

“We Respect Luca Traini”

“Sweden is now looking to ban websites that list ethnicity of criminals after refusing to release descriptions of migrants who gang raped a schoolgirl. This is a government that needs to be overthrown immediately by any means necessary.” — comment on Gab [Story.]

“[89-year-old] Ursula Haverbeck is on the run after failing to start 2-year prison term for Holocaust denial. She puts many of us to shame with her steadfast resolve and bravery.” — comment on Gab [Story]

“The mother of Pamela Mastropietro, the 18-year-old Roman girl raped, murdered and chopped up by Nigerian drug dealers, chose to make a bold statement at her daughter’s funeral. She personally carried the bouquet sent by Luca Traini, the “White Rampage” shooter who became a hero to many Italians after gunning down Africans in the wake of Pamela’s death.” — comment on Gab [Story in Italian]

Hearsay has it, that Mr. Traini is respected among his fellow-inmates.


If Western elites wanted to entrap us into activism, they wouldn’t be emasculating us with political correctness and suppressing information, they’d be pumping us up for a fight. No. What they want us to do, is to quietly mix ourselves out of existence.

When 15 percent of responsible men no longer regard their government as legitimate, change happens. Absurdly, as Western governments’ good will comes into question, those governments double-down on acts of malice toward their own people.

They forget that when the Boy Scouts get gutted by court rulings, boys don’t quit scouting; instead, their communities create free, clandestine organizations.

The government of Sweden is illegitimate.

The government of Germany is illegitimate.

The government of France is illegitimate.

The government of Ireland is illegitimate.

The government of Canada is illegitimate.

The government of the United Kingdom is illegitimate.

The elements of the United States government that are sabotaging President Trump are illegitimate.

We don’t have to live like this.



Ulysses and the Sirens, 1909 (oil on canvas)

Andre Rieu is a Dutch violinist and conductor of an orchestra that performs classical music and traditional songs on their world tours. Aside from the music itself, two things are remarkable about Rieu’s work: his style of conducting, which is a study in Alpha, and the fact that all of his musicians and dancers are White. That’s no little thing, when globalists hate hate hate the idea that somewhere, somehow, European culture (high and low) thrives, reminding them that they need us, we don’t need them.

Scottish Bagpipes, Amazing Grace. Your balls will grow bigger and one manly tear will roll down your cheek when the bagpipes crescendo.

Johann Strauss, The Blue Danube. Do these people know about Ebba Åkerlund, an 11-year-old Swedish girl who was cut in half by a foreign terrorist? I ask, because Rieu pulls all stops on creating a fantasy of 19th century Mitteleuropa Hochkultur with the dancers, and it’s magnificent. Europeans are traditionally class-conscious, with the reciprocity of noblesse oblige and loyalty. But the striving class was taught to despise their own workers, rather than stand in one-blood solidarity against the usurpers.

Traditional Spanish, La Paloma. I love Mexicans… in Mexico. Another price of DieVersity: the loss of amity for people of other cultures. This passionate union of musicians and audience will make you forget your ill-will for just a few minutes.

Traditional German, Rosamunde. Someone wrote a comment on this blog two years ago: “Well, I hope that Europeans will continue valuable cultural traditions like Bavarian or Irish dancing. But dancing in the USA nowadays is Africanized and consists of twerking, and not much else.”

Another person replied: “Yes, the Africanization of popular culture is acute. High culture by its nature is better equipped to resist negrification, but attempts will be made nonetheless.” To make his point, he posted a video of Seattle Symphony Orchestra performing Baby Got Back. I objected:

That’s not Africanization. That’s a Mexican donkey show. It’s funny like a shit joke; even those laughing are a little embarrassed.

You can’t Africanize White culture just like you can’t “giraffe’ize” a bison because as soon as you let go, people revert to norm. Just like conversely, you can try Europeanize Blacks, but as soon as you let go, they start humping each other in hallways (see Camlost’s comment [about black-run schools] above).

Here is an example of a high-culture / low culture mix that works — an orchestra plays a Bavarian polka-style folk song. People light up with their natural vibes.

The example I posted was a video of Andre Rieu performing “Rosamunde” with Volksmusik singer Heino, also linked above.

James Bond theme, Victory. Good-girl rule: show leg or cleavage, never both. What I said about Rieu being a study in Alpha: he’s clearly at home among beautiful women.

Georges Bizet’s “Habanera” from Carmen. It’s the famous scene with the Gypsy seductress warning men that love knows no laws —  so beware! The touchstone for that performance is Maria Callas in 1962.

Richard Clayderman, Ballade Pour Adeline. The composer wrote that piece for his newborn daughter and truly, the melody grabs you. I dated a chick in high school who’s now a dead-ringer for the pianist in this video.

Maurice Ravel’s Bolero is an epic composition and an apt choice for a grand finale.


Blessed with more appreciation than talent for music, I admire anyone who can open his mouth, push out air and doing so emit preternatural sounds, which are nothing like speech. For example after 0:40, when Debbie Harry channels the Sirens from The Odyssey:

Oh, your hair is beautiful.

Play that part over and over because here, she rivals the world’s greatest pop band, ABBA: