A “formative” experience. In quotes because I was 23 and experienced. I didn’t get a girl I wanted after she and I messed around. I was an idiot because she was bad news. But young passion blinds, which is why boys off themselves over a piece of tail.

In my oneitis, I chatted up an older man I looked up to, my boss at work. Didn’t know what exactly to ask him, but it was the same question that nearly two decades later will have led ten million young men to google their way to Heartiste’s archives.

I didn’t expect the older man to solve my problem or to play Robin Williams to my Matt Damon, but… it would have lightened my load if he had at least said “That’s a damn good question.” A sympathetic pat on the back would have, maybe, made me forget the chick and pumped me up to charm the panties off another one.

Instead, his face took on a satisfied look as he said “Yeah, I married a good one.” That’s when I understood that there are no mentors. Nobody gives a shit about me, is what sunk in. It was a liberating epiphany because it forced me to accept two things: that I have to figure everything out for myself, and that I have to take what I want with nobody’s help.

I learned to walk on my own.

Boomers had severed every inter-generational link of accumulated wisdom and let GenXers and Millennials out into the world ignorant and deracinated. We’re fixing what’s broken.

Back to love: it’s incomprehensible to me, today, that someone can put a loaded gun to his temple and squeeze the trigger over a gash. It’s a matter of age. At 45’ish now, I can imagine having an affair with a lithe little college girl. It would be fun, laughs, rape-lust at first fuck. But having the kinds of feelings that would drive a man to reckon with his life? No way. There is someone I would die (and kill) for, and it’s not hypothetical-her.

I do feel love. It’s for a woman who is a beautiful mother. She believes that a boy needs his daddy and her every act, touch, and gesture follows that axiom.

A 23-year-old or a fifteen-year-old man today is somewhere else. Unlike me now, he’d kill himself over a fling. His prospects are also tougher than mine were. I didn’t have to work around obesity, Tinder, or zoophilia.

But he has the one thing that I didn’t: tradition.



Advice to a 15-Year-Old Man (by a CH reader)

This 25-point advice was posted as a series of comments by Vagina dominator at Chateau Heartise:

What do the pua manosphere and shitlords generally believe about women and how to live your life? If you wanted to redpill your 15 year old son (and perhaps give him nightmares) what would you tell him about women and getting laid? I have knocked out a quick list of Polonius-worthy points. You may agree, disagree, or like to add something.

1. It is men who are the romantics, not women, and men must guard against being taken in by their own romanticizing of the opposite sex. Be realistic about women. If someone farted in the lift, it is as likely to be a woman as a man. Don’t buy their bullshit.

2. Women are always looking for someone to look after them and pay their way, whether it is a man or, like nowadays, the State. Don’t be a sucker for women with your time and money. She wants to move house and needs to move some furniture? Let her call a fucking removalist. You have to play hockey.

3. Women despise men who are weak and allow women to push them around. But they certainly will use such men for attention and resources.

4. Women love strong and independent men who will master and control them and who have some social status (even if it is negative). They are attracted to such men whether they have resources or not.

5. Women are no more loyal or trustworthy than men. A lot of men are always looking for something hotter and tighter, if they could get it. A lot of women too are always looking for a better deal, whether it is a better “resources deal” or a better “man-deal”. Of course, for women too it is a question of “if she thinks she can get it”.

6. Attractive women can also have the clap or be looney, same as a heavily-tattooed woman that looks like a skank. You cannot “tell” just by looking at the package.

7. A man must control the women in his life or they will hinder, damage or even destroy him. Many men throughout human history have observed that women are often the great destroyers of a young man’s dreams. Don’t ever “give up” positive things in your life for a woman.

8. Society must control women. Women are not “civilizational”. Men build civilizations. Women only think of themselves. Women will always vote what *they believe* is good for themselves. They will never vote for what is good for civilization.

9. None of this can be discussed with women. They will simply say Not All Women Are Like That (meaning, “I am not like that” or “I do not like what I am hearing and will deny it even though I know it is true”)

10. None of this can be discussed with many men. It is a subject that can be discussed or raised only with care. A lot of men will find these views offensive. That is because they are pussywhipped, but do not say this to them. They may yet come around to reality.

11. There are many weak men in the world who think their best way to manage their relationships with women is to surrender and brown-nose and agree with everything they say and do. These “nu-men” are weak and scared and women know it. Remember, women hate, hate, hate weak men.

12. Some women can display reason and intelligence *when it suits them*. In the current arrangement of society, it rarely suits women to be reasonable, as complaining and claims of victimhood are for the most part much more profitable.

13. In your relationships with women, don’t ever panic or be forced into time-sensitive decisions. As a man, time is on your side. Remember, women age like milk. Men age like fine wine. And there are plenty of fish in the sea.

14. Relationships conducted at a distance never work. When you called on Saturday night and it sounded like a party and she said she was studying, well….look, I don’t want to break your heart, but you’re here, and the attentive and handsome young men are there. With her.

15. Never loan the bitch money or go pick up drugs for her or anything stupid like that. Her problems and her errands are hers, not yours.

16. Never move in with a girl. In many jurisdictions, after the passing of a certain amount of time, say 2 years, and if you “share bills” – like everyone fucking does in a share house – you may be considered by the courts to be in a de facto relationship (m*rried).

17. Single m*thers. Avoid. Like the plague. They have made bad decisions. They will make more.

18. There’s nothing quite like rawdogging except for
– pregn*ncy
– venereal diseases

19. Lots of women are bored and want to create drama in their life. These people always have “problems” of all kinds. They are always having pregn*ncies, abortions, miscarriages, fights with friends or f*mily, being evicted, having the car towed, trying to borrow money, arranging a drug deal, itching from vaginosis, having their house broken into, lost their purse, need help to get their essay in (want you to write it), are late for everything, often get drunk and hung over… Stay away from such people but in particular do not white knight for women of this kind. Women of this kind can spot a white knight from a mile away. Do not try to help them. Do not get involved in their life and dramas. Do not offer your opinions or advice. They will use this small involvement as a string to further drag you in and control you, hold onto you and drag you down with them. They may use pussy to drag you in. Careful, this whore will probably give you the clap.

20. Women lie. They lie all the time and they lie about everything, money, former boyfriends, how much they spent, where they have been, how much they drank, what time they got home, just the tip (sorry, no, that’s my lie), that they are on the pill, yeh, they remembered to take it, how many were in the train,…everything. You are advised to assume that they are liars until it is proven otherwise.

21. There’s an old sailor’s rhyme “If much make up by night, at morning sure fright.” You’ve been warned.

22. A lot of women like rough sex, or they like the guy to be demonstratively uh…”passionate” is I suppose how they see it. Take care with this. It is true that a lot of sex is about submission and dominance but there’s a range…and if she wakes up in the morning and decides she doesn’t really like you but she has bruises, well, you will be swimming in a lake of shit.

23. I know the Jews recommend it on every porn site and make it appear to be the ne plus ultra of sexuality and dominance but on the subject of anal “sex”, please bear in mind that it is exactly as disease spreading, unhygienic, and unhealthy as you would expect dipping your dick into human faeces to be. Think “I like this girl so much I am going to give her fistulas.” Does that make sense to you? Fuck the sicko Jews.

24. Who has she been with? Smackies? NIggers? Nigger smackies? Problem here is that it is no good to ask her because, as observed above, women always lie.

25. The Coolidge effect (regularly wanting newer pussy) exists. In a society where we constantly meet new people, where big cities, cars, and smart phones provide anonymity for brief and easy hookups, and where work takes us away from our families and the small daily joys of family life, we can easily overestimate the value of hole and find ourselves chasing it, living secret lives, in ways often too subtle to label stressing those around us and cheating ourselves of our daily equanimity. This is partly the result of the whole of modern society being hole-obsessed and wanting us too to be hole-obsessed. You are going to have to navigate this world as you get older. My advice is to just dial it down. Put yourself first. Don’t buy cheap shit (pussy) at a high price (a relaxed and happy frame of mind, friendships, your valuable time, control of the direction of our own life) where you find yourself blowing your load and wondering if it was even worth the bus fare. Anyway, I’m not telling you to be a saint. I’m just saying, think about this from time to time.

Five Fun And Simple Songs

Who says that you always have to be serious?

1. The AC/DC Laundry Dude

Three cheers for the improvisational creativity of a rocker who doesn’t have a drummer on-hand. What I mean is, high-concept White genius takes us to the moon, the planets, and one day to the stars. Our middle-brow élan is why some of us leap into a Norwegian fjord in a wing suit. And our fun-loving low-brow ingenuity delivers this:

2. Cher and the Two Young Fellas

Namely, Beavis and Butthead. PS: leave Warrant alone! But in the end, Butthead scores and that’s what matters.

BUTTHEAD: “So like, um, Cher, heh heh, I hear you’re like, you know, into young dudes?” [strokes her thigh]
CHER: “Yeah well, you feelin’ lucky, Butthead?”

Always be closing, gentlemen.

3. “Home Is Wherever I’m With You”

Hipsters, or hippies:

‒ Jade?
‒ Alexander?
‒ Do you remember that day you fell outta my window?
‒ I sure do; you came jumping out after me.
‒ Well, you fell on the concrete, nearly broke your ass, and you were bleeding all over the place, and I rushed you out to the hospital, you remember that?
‒ Yes, I do.
‒ Well, there’s something I never told you about that night.
‒ What didn’t you tell me?
‒ Well, while you were sitting in the back seat smoking a cigarette you thought was gonna be your last, I was falling deep, deeply in love with you, and I never told you ’til just now!

The most Edenic video you’ve ever watched:

4. Do You Want To Feel Happy?

Watch the next video. It’s one thousand Italian rockers playing the Foo Fighters’ “Learn to Fly.”

I was hanging out with a couple of musician friends last night. The impassioned drummer (a fellow with stratospheric IQ) explained to us how Dave Grohl is a brilliant percussionist, as we chilled out over a bottle of Jack and watched two hours of the band’s videos.

“You know, Italy is a country where dreams cannot easily come true. But it’s a land of passion and creativity. So what we did here is just a huge, huge miracle.”

It’s times like these you learn to live again.

5. New England

Can a simple rhyme, in this case the children’s song “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” in a medley with “Coming Around Again,” hit one’s emotional cortex? Carly Simon’s live performance at Martha’s Vineyard does it for me.

“Scream a lullaby”

What a powerful line. In the 1986 original, the song was about the middle class ennui. The way it reads to us now, is “don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” But the nursery rhyme that starts at the 3:00 minute mark makes this a performance for the ages.

That part of the country… I went there with nothing, came back with something. My worst defeat and my biggest triumph. It’s better to reach and fall than to sit tight and never know what you can do, as your best three years come and go.

If you know New England, you can’t not enjoy that concert against its chilly north Atlantic evening.

OK, I got a little serious here at the end.

Open thread.

Jukebox Wars

Ace was a shitlord theorist even back in high school. In this story, “D.J.” is named after his former calling. Bobby struck gold and now lives idly for women and wine, both in moderation.

Ace: I drove to the Jersey shore with D.J. and Bobby this past weekend. Remember the dive last year that you called the “dinosaur bar,” which was full of old rednecks?

PA: Yeah. I drank Miller Lite from a plastic cup. But it was our oasis from the dindu noise they played at all the other bars.

Ace: Rock music on the jukebox was nice, but what sat wrong with me, when you and I were there, is that we had to settle for that dump to finally hear our sound. And then, remember how those two scrawny Cholos went up to the jukebox and put on Reggaeton? You and I wondered why the fuck we’re in a place that’s full of drunk tough guys and nobody does a damn thing about this blatantly disrespectful act.

PA: They were more drunk than tough. But yeah, you and I didn’t do anything either. “It’s not the time yet,” is what I said. Not my home turf, pick your battles, the bartender isn’t doing anything so why should I.

Ace: So on Saturday, D.J., Bobby, and I popped into that same “dinosaur bar” and the music was good, if a bit long in the tooth. Older acts like Guns N’ Roses. Then, a fat thirty-something woman waddles over to the jukebox.

PA: Oh shit. That’s trouble.

Ace: Oddly though, she put on some of those old-school crooner selections. Perry Como and the like. I don’t mind it, but it wasn’t the right vibe.

PA: Definitely could have been worse.

Ace: Superannuated is what it was. So Bobby says “I’ll put something on” and gets up from his chair. He puts on Lush.

PA: Heh, we all know your feelings about Alternative Rock.

Ace: Yeah, it’s the faggiest fucking crap. Well, the song starts, and my reaction was “this sucks, this sucks…” and then the intro halts and… “THIS ROCKS!” And I told Bobby that this is surprisingly good. He laughed and said “You know I wouldn’t do you wrong, brother.”

After that, things went downhill. Someone put on ten, or realistically, more like six songs of pure undiluted hardcore ghetto rap.

PA: Who did that!?

Ace: It was a normal looking, forty-something White gentleman. There were three blacks there, and they started monkeying it up. And then D.J. commences to bust my balls: “I told you people enjoy that music — see, even the bartendress is feelin’ the beat.”

PA: The bastard loves to kick you when you’re down.

Ace: But I said “This is war” and asked him to remind me what was that Death Metal band he once played to drive the schwoogs from his venue. He said it’s Meshuggah. I asked him to spell it for me, and I went over and put that on.

PA: Nice move. What did the blacks do?

Ace: It was funny, the life went out of them and they just kind of sat huddled together.

PA: I remember D.J.’s explanation about how those arrhythmic parts unsettle them, besides of course the insane growling vocals. Something about how every fifth beat is off, that fucks with their heads.

Ace: So then, one of them goes up to the jukebox.

PA: Bring it on, jukebox wars! Did they escalate?

Ace: Surprisingly, no. They put on black artists but nothing obnoxious. Michael Jackson, that kind of stuff.

PA: See, you show some firepower and the other side is willing to negotiate.


We’re a fractured nation. More accurately, a hodgepodge of nations elbowing at each other in contested public space. The stuff of wars. Back in America, kids rocked around the jukebox. Today, smart proprietors control all music, usually by streaming Pandora.


I had some thoughts about the cycles of popular music here.


It’s time for a coffee. I take mine with Meshuggah.

Model Minority


People who are getting red-pilled will cling to some types of blue pill.

Full red-pilling is not that you arrive at the right opinion regarding conspiracy theories, or at some other esoteric destination. Intelligent, wide-awake people can hold a range of opinions on 911 truth, on religion, or other subjects.

Rather, full red-pilling means that you reject the authority of the liberal system over your thoughts, over your moral orientation, over reality.

And people who haven’t gotten there yet continue to grant that legitimacy to liberalism. So when, for example, their eyes open on the subject of blacks, they will feel the need to compensate for this deviation from Narrative by doubling down on their praise for a comparatively high-functioning guest-race such as Asians.

They are afraid of severing too many connections with the liberal establishment.

Dispossession, Youth, Anger, Future

We have become adept at finding recreational areas that are free of diversity. For example, to have a good time at the beach around here, you avoid the lower-boardwalk area of Ocean City, Maryland. It’s not dangerous, there are just too many blacks and mestizos there with their obese families. (The latter are fewer than last year; maybe it’s the Trump effect). It’s buzzkill to share public space with even a small number of them, with the aggregate effect of their wet skins, shining like seals,’ clouding up a sunny day.

Bad money drives out the good, as goes Gresham’s law and this also applies to the economics of social capital. Unlike thirty years ago, the legendary boardwalk is not teeming with college girls in bikinis and American families making memories with their kids.

Those people exist, but they’re out of sight. The further north you go in Ocean City, the Whiter the boardwalk and the beaches become. Then, it gets even better as you drive up the Coastal Highway and along the small-town Delaware beaches, which have no boardwalks and where legal parking is a mystery to the unacquainted visitor, but which wink at you with their old-times, wholesome feel. Finally, you arrive at another major tourist destination, Rehoboth Beach. Owing to its prominence, you will see a bit of diversity there but nothing like in the lower areas of Ocean City.

We shouldn’t have to run like this. We built the O.C. boardwalk and it belongs to us. Squatters have to go back.

I recently traveled to the Durham-Raleigh “technology triangle” in central North Carolina and witnessed the apotheosis of the H-1B visa scam. Entire zip codes of upper-middle-class Northern transplant communities are Subcontinental colonies. You go to an all-American ice cream shop and Indian teenagers who speak perfect English work the counter.

I will as soon become Korean as they will become Americans. The difference between a fresh-off-the-boater and a U.S.-born foreigner is that the former looks at you befuddled, the latter arrogantly. They have to go back.

But it’s not about me. I got to be a boy in 1970s Poland and a teenager in 1980s America. You couldn’t ask for a better way to grow up because I had the opportunity to win or lose on my own merits, in a community of my people in places where we owned the outdoors.

It’s about the next generation, and they are growing up in a different reality.

Andrew Anglin writes:

The future belongs to the youth. And the youth belong to us.

From the time we started this website, we had no intention of appealing to a bunch of guys in their 40s and 50s who identified with White Nationalism. There were, at the time, plenty of websites already catering to existing racially-aware white people, and we had no interest in such a thing.

Our sole interest was to cater a message to young people. That is, people under 25, but with a specific focus on teenagers. Our goal was to hijack meme culture, and implant in it messages of anti-Semitism and white racial identity.

The purpose of material life is to pass your legacy to your people, your own children if you have them and your nation’s young as a whole. We’re one blood.

Young people, in case we forget in our middle age, don’t see life the same way we do. Their world is enticingly darker because they understand things only as far as their arm can reach. It has sharper edges but wider vistas, it makes sweeter promises, it hurts like fuck when things go wrong.

I once wrote about rockin’ it out as a way in which a teenage boy squares up to his angels and demons:

A teenager listens to popular music for self-idealization at the point in his life when he is wrestling with his social identity and sexual destiny, sometimes an exhilarating but more often a bewildering time. It’s not vanity; it’s a fumbling for light in the darkness. While the pop song’s rhythm and lyrics bring relief from thought when reflection is difficult, the mental image of the performer in the throes of pathos form an idol in the teen’s mind, giving shape to an avatar through which he approaches his aspirations and fears. And I contend that for this idol to bring catharsis, there has to be a visual element of physical performance tied to the song.

For young men today, it’s not just about “social identity and sexual destiny,” as solipsism is a peacetime luxury. GenZyklon lives and breathes bigger challenges.

For example, one of my all-time favorite bloggers is back from his three-year hiatus and he makes a point about the cohesion of ‘Rican gangs as contrasted with White teens’ atomization:

Meanwhile, the white boys in their late teens and early twenties are sitting home alone playing video games.  It’s quite tragic.

So there is a power vacuum in our society.  People are horribly lonely, and desperate to be part of something.  So if we manage to organize a group or an “urban tribe” in an area, others will quickly want to join.  We’ll get whites of both sexes out of their lonely solipsistic worlds and into a real community that gets stuff done and facilitates white family formation.

A community is the best recruiting tool, because modern white people are extremely deprived of community and sociability and gregariousness.

Welcome back, Mindweapon!

If there is one explicit shot of wisdom I’d drop here today, it’s that you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone — and then you value it so much more when you get it back, at least for a little while. An illustration: several days ago I got caught in a sudden downpour while riding a bike and got soaked to the last thread. Thankfully, I had my gym bag with fresh clothes and shoes in the car, and I changed into them. Driving home, I felt profound gratitude and humility, appreciating something as commonplace as dry clothing.

White dispossession is why we don’t take so many commonplace things for granted: a beach or a park with nothing but White faces, the sight of teenage boys shitlording about with no token colored killing their vibe.

And the stakes are sky-high. What the Left had done, they will not willingly undo. They will double-down to their demise before they admit that they had made a mistake in tearing the walls down. They will have to be overcome.

They are not hard to fight; the harder part will be overpowering our own reflexive pity for the other races and the residue of anti-racist indoctrination. Will you, will all of us, have the commitment to the future of our people to tell the others “No, you can’t be here. You have to go back.”

The future of nations is at stake.

Welcome to your exciting future, White teenager. No sarcasm: a corollary to valuing something you’ve lost is the fact that the depths of evil make the heights of good shine that much more brightly. When was the last time in Western history that White men with open eyes, across the world, had felt this spirit of brotherhood with one another? And in solidarity with all people who despise the globalist blender-shredding of nations.

You have your angels and demons. They are different than mine were. Is the WN Rapper your avatar?

White America!
We built this nation from scratch
White America!
And the Jews gave it to blacks
White America!
They put us in unpayable debt
But our children won’t be slaves
No, we’re taking it back

The Third Law Of Female Journalism

We are all familiar with Steve Sailer’s perspicacious First Law of Female Journalism, which he coined in 2009:

The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.

Researching the subject, I discovered that someone had already come up with a Second Law of Female Journalism:

The types of sexual relationships advocated for by female journalists tend to follow closely with the sort currently purchasable by their sexual market value.

I will now humbly submit the third law. It occurred to me while reading an article titled “Why these professors are warning against promoting the work of straight, white men,” which cites this bit of heavy breathing:

doing so also perpetuates what they call “white heteromasculinism,” which they defined as a “system of oppression” that benefits only those who are “white, male, able-bodied, economically privileged, heterosexual, and cisgendered.”

Ever notice how women’s genuine expressions of racial aversion, across different cultures and eras, usually diminish the object-class of scorn with words of ridicule and disgust, while feminists’ anti-racist language echoes Sylvia Plath’s ode to masculine heft?

Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

The Third Law of Female Journalism:

Hostile writing by women about White men as a category tends to be an expression of their yearning to be ravaged by one, compounded by their frustration over remaining unnoticed as an object of such desire.

Photos of Couples In Love

Did you notice a pattern in professional photos that show a man and woman in love? See if you know what I’m talking about in this example:


That’s a fine couple, may they make many huWhyte Babiez together. I believe the woman in that photo is Viivi Suominen, European pageant runner-up from Finland.

Question: What could have made that photo more true to romantic love?

Answer: Natural sexual polarity.

Explanation: She could have been directed by the photographer to look up adoringly at her man while he — calm and cocksure — looks at us through the camera’s eye.

Reverse-polarity is the norm in contemporary depictions of sexual intimacy. It’s an observation I made a while ago and to test it, I web-searched variations on relevant key words “couples photo,” “man woman love,” “woman adores man,” and similar. What did I find?

  • The woman triumphantly eye-fucking the camera (isn’t she supposed to be doing that to him?), the man lost in her labyrinths such as in this blood-curdling shot:


Squaaaaawk! cries the bird of prey. Or like in this distressing pic:


Other combinations included:

  • Both looking into the distance
  • Both looking at each other

But I did not find one single professional photo that showed a man looking at the camera, with her adoringly gazing up at him.

Do we live in a loveless time, or is it just the art directors?

As goes the eternal truth, the next generation can set things right.


Observations In New York City


A group of my friends and I just spent some time in New York City. We do this every year. Things we did during this visit:

1. Had a drink at the Trump Tower. The waitresses are indubitably hand-picked by the big boss, as are their tight little black dresses.

2. Walked a bridge. I’ve walked all three of the lower-Manhattan bridges many times. Avoid the iconic Brooklyn Bridge during the day on a weekend because it’s jammed with tourists. For the views, it’s best to walk it westward after dark. Williamsburg Bridge is shown above.

3. People-watched in East Village. Unlike here in Mordor, there are young, attractive girls everywhere — sad! More about that in a bit.



I picked the restaurant in East Village and it was a good choice. Our outdoor table was ideally positioned for watching the crowds go by.

“I’m eyeballing the girls with no regard for their boyfriends,” said one of my companions, and he continued, “I don’t feel the man-rule to respect these shitlibs. That’s right; look away, pussy. I’ll hit you so hard you’ll feel it in your safe space.” You’d think he was talking out of character if you knew him, with his omni-social personality. He gets along with everyone. But there are things he despises and we trespassed on that playground.

He later nods in the direction of a man walking by. “There is a woke White man.” About our age, bald-shaven head, in but not of that environment. I said, “Definitely a shitlord. Head and eyes level like a soldier scanning the terrain. How’d you pick up on it?” He replies, “It’s the look of utter disgust in his eyes.”


Manhattan is a reservation for young women, who are vacuumed up from big towns and small colleges. These girls have set out to defy nature’s judgment on the abuse of the female body. That’s a dangerous game, given the weaker vessel’s symbiosis with the spirit.

But first, they do what all women do when indulged with perfect safety and freedom from want: they strip off their clothes.

Village girls know how to show their bodies to maximum titillation. Saw a lovely one swaggering forth in a completely see-through mesh top, nothing underneath. The braless look is making a comeback after nearly fifty years. The two-piece negligee, with its loose frilly bottom, is ubiquitous. And since women never display anything by accident, this is certainly calculated: the camel-toe is how they wear jeans-shorts now. Lucius Somesuch describes these girls in verse:

My locks are coiffed to tres chic perfection,
My alabaster limbs with glitter flicker.
My glassy gaze gives strangers an erection,
My thoughts are distant, on liquor, twitter.

The evening now casts its long shadows. I point her out to my friends: “She looks unhappy.” A slender brunette with ache twisting her face. Maybe she woke up with shattered expectations. Then I put on my magic sunglasses and know exactly what is the matter: a Pietà in a long dress, in her arms she cradles her mortally wounded soul.


An overwhelming majority of the couples are White, but there was more mixing than I am used to seeing. Where I live, mudsharking is a low-tier phenomenon. Not so in Manhattan, but it’s not standard ‘sharking either; the common American negro is not a part of that world. The girls were dating self-consciously attired mystery-meat. Hard to tell sometimes if it’s a curry-kebab hybrid or a fancy variation on the Mulatto.

With Manhattan being a place where the next generation of the elite is groomed, are we looking at a larval-stage mischling overclass? I don’t know, you tell me. But here is what I think: no, for three reasons.

One: birth control, if those apparent couples are more than LJBF. Two: a ruling class is never seen by the ruled as legitimate unless it looks and sounds like the people it governs. This is why Communists in Eastern Europe, followed by the neoliberal Davos class in the West, ran their own countries without effective internal opposition. Consider recent U.S. presidents — Bill Clinton and George W. Bush were no less subversive of America in their time than Barack Obama was during his terms, but it took the half-blood alien prince’s presidency to finally wake Whites up.

Three: outbreeding depression. A mixed caste is not leadership-grade. Racially incoherent people are more likely to be homosexual or suffer from mental illness, along with a generational drop in IQ. A rootless class of people has no shared identity, no cohesion, no in-group loyalty. They’ll drift to cabana-boy dilettantism while a new identitarian elite rises with popular support.

Some of the White men had dusky girlfriends too. What’s the fucking point, gentlemen? It’s not worth it unless it’s yours. Admittedly though, there is a personal bias in my question; I accept that men have the freedom to forge their own destiny, even if it leads to their death. Women, not so — a woman is born with three choices: to be a wife, a nun, or a prostitute. The flaw of modernity is the fact that they try to be all three, to farcical effect.

Back to New York. So we’ve left the restaurant, we’re walking, and at a half-block’s distance I notice a blonde pixie and a dandyish, small-framed black male ostentatiously kissing each other amidst an epicene crowd outside of a nightlife venue, both interrupting their clothed coitus to observe its effect on others. As I get closer, I realize that it’s an Asian girl with dyed hair. Then, as we walk past them and I take another look, I am pretty sure, at this point, that the Asian chick… is not a chick.

Every historic flare-up of decadence is a one-off episode. Like past (and future) eras of experimentation in immorality, mixing has its moment. The people who miscegenate today are like Dante’s damned, thrashing in eternal irrelevance. When the energy behind a deviant trend is spent, those who had always been disgusted by the looting of grain stores reassert their will to live. And the roadside wrecks grow over with weeds until finally they dissolve into the earth.


Take care of it. It’s the only one you’ve got.