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.