Back to the fundamentals with Gen Z

This caught my eye as also true in personal observation and on a larger scale:

My kids are waaaaaay better versions of me as far as I can tell. I look at every personality trait as a double edged sword–could be good, could be bad depending on how it’s honed. It’s always going to be a mix of both, but the point of parenting is to bend it toward the good.

Example: Older one is reserved, sensitive, empathetic, gentle, thoughtful, etc… He could’ve ended up as a shy kid who lacked confidence, but instead he’s a self composed, rock solid person of faith. He’s also a loyal and giving friend who is exceedingly polite and earnest.

He never gets in trouble. Teachers and coaches love him. After a long struggle to get him to be more forward in speaking up and asking question, he’s now a straight A student. And this is in the gifted program.

Younger kid is his polar opposite–brash, outgoing, confident, charming, competitive, very loving and kind, but not above holding a grudge and getting even with you if he feels wronged.

All those traits could spell trouble, but we’ve bent them the right way. His teachers love him, too, mostly for how he leads by example and always tries to help his classmates with anything they’re struggling with, even if it’s just having a bad day.

Honestly, he just charms everyone he meets, and it’s not some look-at-me-i’m-so-cute act. He genuinely likes people and his social skills are so good that he’ll just chat with you like an adult.

The young of our nations require adult guidance as they mature. Absent that guidance, girls become either thots or slugs. Boys became either douchebags or weaklings.

Recent generations relied on their communities and extended families to provide that guidance. And above all, they trusted the institutions of social democracy to raise their children toward their potential. And then community fell out from under us, extended families scattered with the winds. Above all, it became clear to us that our governments are the enemy. This is why we are returning to pre-industrial ways of raising our sons and daughters ourselves. Our multigenerational task is to rebuild communities, extended families, and social institutions that are once again exclusively ours.

“And I always know the name of the game”

Somebody had to take the “incel” slur by the horns. And no one is in a better position to do so than a Millennial, a generation that got the worst of it in every way. Andrew Anglin has a good article in which he ranks men’s seven options in the neoliberal sexual market, with the first one being the best. [Link]

  1. Marriage with children
  2. Celibacy
  3. Whore-mongering
  4. Lechery (Slut-hunting)
  5. Rape
  6. Being a boyfriend (i.e., human pet)
  7. Masturbation

The pick-up artist subculture of ten-fifteen years ago was analogous to the hippie movement of the late 1960s, in that both were a rebellion against a social order that was headed in a monstrous direction. The hippies of yesteryear were a reaction to prior generations’ war madness. The PUAs revolted against a social order that depended on men’s uninformed consent to feminist tyranny. What we’re seeing on the dissident Right today, and Anglin’s article is part of that phenomenon, is the turning away from libertine immorality on our terms.

Since it’s Friday and time for something just a little bit retro, enjoy this take on a working class couple’s story in a healthy world:

  1. Boy becomes man [has served in the military]
  2. Boy charms girl
  3. She’s not that kind of girl!
  4. Love, marriage, baby
  5. Life can be a grind
  6. The big fight
  7. The name of the game


Was Oliver Stone trying to tell us something? The ending scene in his early ’90s movie The Doors shows a strange male figure walking through Jim Morrison’s apartment moments after he had died in the bathtub. The scene:

The woman is his longtime girlfriend Pam Courson. You can attribute the apparition to poetic license, of course. Morrison’s shamanistic persona, which the movie brought out. Or maybe that was Stone’s depiction of Courson tripping. Just after that clip, the film’s epilogue says “Jim is said to have died of heart failure. He was 27.” Odd wording. On Morrison’s death:

Morrison joined Courson in Paris in March 1971, at an apartment he had rented on the rue Beautreillis…  In letters he described going for long walks through the city, alone. During this time, Morrison shaved his beard and lost some of the weight he had gained in the previous months. Morrison died on July 3, 1971 at age 27. In the official account of his death, he was found in a Paris apartment bathtub (at 17–19 rue Beautreillis, 4th arrondissement) by Courson. The official cause of death was listed as “heart failure”, although no autopsy was performed. [Infogalactic]

Courson died three years later. Wikipedia’s entry on Jim Morrison includes this:

His death was two years to the day after the death of the Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones, and approximately nine months after the deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin.

It’s been two decades since I listened to one of Morrison’s poems that was set to music. The Adagio in the above video is one. I also have two volumes of his poems, which I had read a very long time ago. What struck me about them is their “harmonious incoherence.” Words that are blasted all over the place by a disjointed mind yet held together by a talented poet. It’s all images. I can’t speak to the writing of mentally ill people, or heavy users of hallucinogenic drugs; maybe they all sound like that, minus the talent.

But it makes you wonder about any backstory involving Morrison and mind-control program he could have been subjected to. His father, Rear Admiral George Stephen Morrison, commanded US naval forces during the Tonkin Gulf Incident. So there is that connection to some kind of an inner circle. Anyway, browse through the link in Amon Ra’s comment:

Add to that Michael Jackson and Jimi Hendrix’s death and many others. Also, money is only one part of why they are “sacrificed.” Read through this website if you really want to know how truly depraved and controlled by “other” forces the music industry has become, and maybe always was. [Link]

Suburban_elk has started things off with an observation about Ricky Nelson:

Ricky Nelson died in a plane crash, along with so many others of his stripe.

Some poster at BBS was explaining that it wasn’t Courtney Love who had Kurt Cobain set up and killed; that that was mud in the water, a distraction. It was actually David Geffen, the jewish record exec to whom he was contracted, and to whom he was sort of managing to get the better of, despite said contract. And this: Apparently John Lennon, before he was killed, was in the same position vis a vis Geffen.

I don’t do internet research and can’t vouch for these “conspiracy facts” but it does seem suspicious. Both Lennon and Cobain were the voices of their generation (to use the hackneyed cliche) and they also happened to be in a contract dispute with the same guy?

And now what we know about how they like their symbolic sacrifices. How many of those rock-and-roll plane crash deaths, such as Ricky Nelson’s, were not accidents but rather sacrifices.

If you or someone you know is a promising young musician, it’s better to stick to the local scene.

The arc of life, young edition

See yourself perhaps many decades from now, a barely-breathing shell. One final flicker of animation in the physical medium of your mind before you pass to the next world. What will that last vision be for you? No one can say, but it might not necessarily be a replaying of the greatest parts of your life. Instead, it might simply be an ordinary moment when you were young and full of expectations.

For me, it might well be the those crazy years at twenty through twenty-two and the long drives I took, particularly the ones I endeavored upon alone. On one of those solo drives in 1991, I was traveling from Cincinnati, back home to the Baltimore-Washington region and I took eastbound State Route 32 through southern Ohio. I didn’t know what to expect when planning my drive home on the Rand McNally atlas, but I was pleasantly surprised to see the wide-open rural landscapes along the rolling foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

That’s my experience in Ohio, aside from much-later visits to the Cleveland area. On that drive in ’91, I stopped for a meal at a franchise restaurant in a town called Athens. Small-time money was a big deal at that age, when you’re a college dropout working low-wage jobs. You had to keep an eye on your wad of cash to be sure that there’s enough left for fuel. I looked up that location on Google Streetview a few years ago, it was there. No one working there now, if that place is still in business, has any reason to know who I am or how important that place is to me in nostalgia value for reasons that do not make any sense. I hope it’s still cool [White] American teenagers working there, like thirty years ago.

Anyway, that was a segue to a 2012 video that features a group of older kids and teens in Ohio covering Dream Theater’s “Pull Me Under,” one of the greatest obscure rock songs. They are talented, outstanding skill with their instruments. The video is well made too, explicating the anatomy of the song. The star of the show, going by the comments under the video, is the eleven-year-old vocalist Kala. One woman writes, and this is a top comment:

“I’m 31 years old and I want to be this girl when I grow up.”

I am in agreement as to Kala’s talent and awed by every musician performing in this studio setting eight years ago:

The arc of life, young edition. One can peak early in life, with regards to developing one’s talent. Sometimes that’s perfectly fine. Many good high school athletes move on to other things after they grow up. But this young lady knows that she has a gift. High school-aged three years ago, she performed the U.S. National Anthem at a baseball game in Cincinnati:

Commenters unanimously applaud the respect she shows for her own heritage:

“And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you sing the national anthem. No voice inflection, no tone changes, no high note on ‘free’. THANK YOU!”

“This was perfect. You gave the song the respect that it deserves. You didn’t try to show off yourself, You showed a love for your Flag and Country that was beautiful. I’m proud of you. Great job.”

“Thank you for singing it right! You didn’t add your own flare in there like all the dumb celebrities who sing it. You sung it right. Great job!”

Now in 2019, she’s a young adult and a captivating musician. She fronts a band called Saving Escape. That signature vocal quality and that showmanship she’s got as a kid in that first video is definitely there now. Excellent original music:

[Here is the studio version of the song.]

I don’t know this young woman or the band, I just discovered them because I was originally interested in covers of “Pull Me Under.” There is so much talent, and so much inexhaustible beauty wherever our people are, especially in the heartland. The protective instinct is powerful when mobilized by historic developments.

A Normal Country


Best kinds of comments under PeterSweden’s tweet are along the lines of “What a great example for the rest of us!” Exactly. The worst kinds of comments, and thankfully there were very few of those and I only saw them from European female posters: “I wish I could move to Poland.” Poland in the present moment is an example of a White Christian society that is free to be itself. This makes PeterSweden’s statement “feels like a normal country” mean more than it does on its face.

An anecdote from my most-recent visit there, which was three years ago. I was in the historic downtown of one of the smaller cities. My brother-in-law and I were at an outdoor table of a restaurant. Next to us were two men, maybe mid-twenties. They discussed something. One of them was passionate about the subject and the other was listening. For the first time ever in all of my visits to Poland, I felt that my SMV is behind the curve there. Age does its thing, of course, but that wasn’t it. Rather, after twenty years of my regular visits, I felt that… the young men there suddenly looked taller, better dressed, more intelligent, less awed by a shiny foreigner, more ready to give you that piercing look like they can make it hurt. They are healthy people who see the same global war on Whites that I do, encircling their country. The difference between me and them, is that I as a sort-of American represented a conquered people and they represented free men. What a difference that makes.

Poland had its 101st anniversary celebration of national independence today. I looked for a video from the Warsaw march to post today. I imagine that it will take a day or two for short, artistically edited, high-definition, narrated and subtitled videos to be uploaded to YouTube.

When searching in Polish by “marsz niepodległości 2019,” I mostly came across two- or three-hour-long reports from the march, or mainstream media discussion panels. Those aren’t blog-friendly format. I did watch YouTube Live from one of the news sources there during the march. A reporter among the participants in the march gave a street-level view. Being virtually embedded there as a viewer, from the vantage point of his cameraman, gave me a nice sense for what it was like in the march, among the participants. The turnout looked as massive as it’s been in recent years. The sky was overcast. It was cold, judging by people’s scarves and winter hats. Red-and-white flags everywhere like trees, the glow of familiar red flares all around.

The reporter raised my suspicion as to his motives. He approached people for short interviews. None of the people he walked up to were militant-looking or with aggressive banners. All were ordinary people, none carrying anything more than a Polish flag. He was evidently baiting them for “extremist” soundbites. No one that I saw took the bait. He asked a young couple, working class by appearance, what they thought about people who oppose their idea of Polish patriotism. The young man politely sidestepped that entire frame, simply saying that everyone marching today is a patriot, and that is a good thing.

The reporter then stopped to speak with a middle-aged couple that was standing among the spectators on the sidewalk. My translation of their short conversation:

REPORTER: How important is Independence Day to you?

WOMAN: [smiling] It’s the most important day after Christmas for us. That’s how I felt today.

REPORTER: It’s clearly very important to you. But I’d also say that this day is not very important in every home. To put that delicately.

MAN: I must say that having traveled all over the world, having seen all kinds of countries, having come across all kinds of different people and all kinds of situations, I am happy to have my own country. I am happy to be a Pole. It’s a reason to be proud.

“Normal country.” Ordinary people in a normal country aren’t going to be defensive or get in your face. Nor will they hem-and-haw like a normie-cuckservative who watches his words lest a non-lie slips out. What they will do, is patiently and politely tell you the simple truth because they are not ashamed of anything.

Meanwhile, when searching in English for “poland independence day 2019,” I got a lot of unedited, low resolution videos. Along with many foreign media films with alarmist headlines about the “far-right” and “nationalists.” But I did find a short, watchable video that gives a good snap-impression of today’s Independence Day march in Warsaw:

The formerly-Communist countries of Eastern Europe are in a better position than their western brothers to raise alarms — and to defy — the communism of our day. This is why the world, Poland’s well-wishers as well as those with malice toward that country, watches Poles celebrating their national holiday with such attention.

The communism of our day. You should look up the Pitesti Prison in Romania. Communist henchmen between 1949 and 1951 tortured Christians there. The prisoners were priests and nuns, seminary students, as well as Romanian patriots who refused to renounce Jesus Christ. The tortures were obscenely sacrilegious. True to the nature of the ultimate enemy, who mocks God. He mocks the beautiful and the true. That is what Satan does and that is what the men and women who serve Satan do.

All of the West is in a death-struggle against that Enemy. Satan’s mockery of human dignity on the “free” side of the Iron Curtain became blatant right after WWII, with the teaching of West Germans and Americans to be ashamed of who they are. The forcible desegregation of neighborhoods and schools has wasted so much. Such mountains of lies and hypocrisy now tower over us. Then the humiliation of Rotherham, the interracial agitprop in advertising, ads that groom children into homosexuality. The demon-transsexuals and their access to children. A mockery of the very God-granted human spirit.

This is why Poland is so unusual to Western observers. It is a normal country in which men are masculine and women are feminine. PeterSweden’s flattering comment about Poles should be as banal as an observation that the people there have two arms and two legs each. Yet it’s a startling observation because proper masculinity and femininity are under attack. Under these circumstances, Poland is paradoxically an extraordinary normal country. And so be it. It’s Poland’s task and honor to show that it’s normal to worship God and dream of a White Europe of brotherly nations. That Communism can’t be accommodated, as the countries of Eastern Europe have learned. That the works of the devil must be renounced in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

The Empire

I recently learned a lesson. Namely, that sometimes if things suck it’s best to wait them out. The story: I traveled to a fancy semi-urban part of Arlington, Virginia on a work assignment. I go there from time to time, so it’s familiar turf. To those unfamiliar with Mordor… Arlington is on the west side of Potomac river, across from Washington DC and it’s home to every which kind of military-industrial complex contractor. It’s a lovely area to visit on a crisp autumn day. Filter out the equatorial complexions along with the pudgy Asians, and all you see is White women in their late twenties to late thirties doing who-knows-what. Most of them work there but it’s not all wasted eggs, not all of them have a dog. You see fit young women in yoga pants walking their baby stroller, sometimes with two or more White children. They live in very expensive new condos that have miniature colonial-style courtyards.

Not my world. I was done by 5:00 PM and it was time to head back home, a considerable distance away. And here is where I fucked up. As I mentioned, it was five in the afternoon and it was getting dark. The rush hour hell was nowhere yet near its crescendo. I looked at my phone’s GPS and saw how long it would take me to get home. It didn’t look good. Haste makes waste, as goes the saying. I failed to heed it. Instead, I decided that I’d get on the road, suffer the traffic, and get home sooner rather than later.

Long story short, the GPS took me into The Pentagon’s employee parking lot to creatively trim a few estimated minutes from my travel time. In theory, it should have worked. In practice, it was a Charlie Foxtrot. A million drivers also following their GPS were now stuck in the same funnel that I was. It took me an hour to get through it; that is, to travel about two hundred meters. And then the GPS directed me to… forget it. I pulled away from the mess of the freeway on-ramp and went in the opposite direction of where everyone one else was standing still to go. I drove through several traffic lights. Then I pulled over along a pay-parking sidewalk. To describe the environs between The Pentagon and Crystal City, it is the mixed-use residential, retail, office nodule of the empire’s enforcement arm. It buzzes maniacally with young striver-class Whites.

(Empathy is a good thing to practice, so I appreciated the fact that I was like them twenty years ago. Granted, it was in Boston and it wasn’t so damn fake. But like them, I too was kick-starting my career. And like them, I clustered with my after-hours peer group with the unconscious goal of finding a wife).

Ambitious Whites and their imperial camp-followers — the brown immigrants who work in every service-sector job there. A lot of East Africans, mostly female. There is no White working class there. There is no White middle class there or any kind of a middle class, because high-earning singles in pricey studio apartments in those glassy new high rises are not the middle class. There are also the silver-haired executives who commute to a top-zip inner suburb. Awkwardly balding hipsters too, but I don’t know where they live.

I suddenly missed home, where there is none of that alienation and cool White American teenagers work in the local grocery store.

I parked the car. I prepaid for a long amount of time because I had no desire to get back on the road any time soon. The traffic was one big gridlock. I walked into the Whole Foods store, bought a few things to eat and a drink there, found a table in the crowded cafe area, and read the latest blog comments on my phone.

As I entered the store, the first thing that hit me was the loud thumping techno-like music that I rather liked. I waded through human voices. Camps of people around each table who made invisible walls around their group. I walked past gorilla-faced women in native-print dresses animatedly talking in a guttural language. And above all, groups of single, upwardly bound Whites in their twenties and thirties who owned that public space.

In the young, dislocated individual’s consciousness it is always now, there is no past and there is no future. Bezos Wonderland. There were Amazon go-go grocery pickup lockers, or whatever they’re called. You can pay with a phone app at the softly glowing self-service cash registers.

What I should have done, back at 5:00 PM, is to have left my car parked where it was, walked to one of the many excellent restaurants in the immediate area of where I was working that day, gotten dinner, and gotten back on the road at around seven o’clock when things were starting to settle down. Instead, I ended up sucked into a portal to a utopia that has to be waited out.

The Midwit Tough Guy

A remark in the comments, about an older man: “His generation, which is the boomers, will not reevaluate their position.” About that. My previous blog post was graciously linked by an unfamiliar to me 2A forum. Right off, a commenter there declares “Fake news. Photoshop.” So other forum participants post articles about this airlift of Africans to Germany and one posts a Twitter video to prove its authenticity. Elsewhere that same putatively conservative boomer dismisses someone as “an antisemite.”

I saw a lot of that in the Army, where we young GenX soldiers were subject to this subtle and not-so-subtle globalist indoctrination. Sayings that circulated: “I don’t care if you’re white, black, or purple…” and “I don’t care about skin color, I only care about green.” “Green,” depending on context, could mean your uniform or it could mean money. As in, “You’re a sap if you care about race. You should be a tough-minded realist like me and only care about money.” Nice values there, chief. How much for your daughter?

And of course, the indoctrination about females in our ranks. “You’re a pussy if you’re threatened by women in the military.” [Well, I’m not threatened, I even had relations with two of them. I just think that they are detrimental to unit cohesion and to the Army’s mission… was the reply in my mind to the latest “Army Times” op-ed]

The Midwit Tough Guy. Men without whom all of our civilization would have collapsed on day-one. Indispensable. You want them on your side.

But they shouldn’t propagate philosophy unless it’s legitimate Tradition and only in their humble spheres in life because for all of their other virtues, they aren’t cognizant of the possibility that they might be wrong. Average Intelligence + Excessive Confidence = …

Most prominently these days, it’s the conservative midwit Boomer tough-guy. When liberated from his ancestors’ fear of one true God, when disconnected from his folk prejudice… he will hate globalism but will defend to the death globalists’ prerogative to devour our world.

Looks like somebody is building an army


They are not airlifted into Europe to augment any labor shortages. They are not airlifted into Europe for humanitarian reasons. Those are absurdities that not even the enemy bothers to say anymore. It’s an army. The only question is, what kind of an army.

A. Recruits who will be taught discipline and trained in latest-technology NATO equipment in preparation for a war that is being planned to begin in central Europe.

B. Expendable footsoldiers tasked (to their delight) with terrorizing unarmed local populations in central Europe, backed by well trained and equipped UN/NATO personnel.

C. Something else.

The synthetic collapse of the Western world is happening in our lifetimes, right before our eyes. The 9/11 event was a Go signal. And so it strains credulity that there wouldn’t be a party in some kind of a position of power that isn’t operating in opposition to the horror-scenario that’s encapsulated in the above photo.

The armed forces of their respective nations will have their loyalty put to the test. European civilians will relearn guerilla warfare. Things really sort themselves out once hardware goes kinetic. History never ends.

Cabaret songs to the whistle of bullets

As mentioned earlier, I’ll be posting videos from the recent August 1 concerts in Poland’s capital commemorating the anniversary of the 1944 Warsaw Uprising [as distinct from the 1943 Jewish Ghetto uprising, to clarify a confusion that sometimes still comes up]. I’m doing this in anticipation of the city’s November 11th Independence Day march, which to foreign observers has grown to represent the aspirations of White nations worldwide of once again having their own countries and a future for their people.

Below are two performances from the 2018 concert of wartime songs. Both are in the playful style that was fashionable in the early 1940s. You can call it jazzy, or cabaret. It’s a treat to see the nonagenarian Home Army veterans in the audience singing along with all of today’s young people and children.

You don’t have to like the style of music [though it does grow on you] or understand the lyrics. It’s enough to get into the spirit with the audience to get a sense of what’s possible in every White country despite the present predicament throughout the West.

In the introduction, the emcee tells the audience about the rich cultural life that went on in insurgent-held parts of the city throughout the ’44 Uprising: radio and newspaper; theater and cabarets, even concerts that were performed by famous pre-war recording artists. Dances and poetry readings, all of it giving the fighters and the civilians an immense boost in morale.

“Zośka” (Sophie)

So what, that a bullet scratches you
So what, that blood gushes?
Assault-hymns we sing, our battle song
And when a comrade falls into the sleep of death
I shall wish him pleasant dreams
Perhaps tomorrow we’ll meet again, my friend

Sophie, hey doll, come on darlin’
We’re going into battle
To the whistle of the fired rounds
With a few lines of machine gun rattle
To the rhythm of this chorus!

The next song is also introduced by the event emcee who takes a minute to recognize the bravery of the field nurses in the Uprising:

… the downtown was cut off from the Old Town. Though despite the enemy’s advantage, the insurgents did not give up. One of the most spectacular operations was the capture of the telecommunications building. After several hours of combat, the building was ours. It was in our hands. Enemy’s losses: forty Germans killed, more than 120 taken prisoner. We held that building to the very end of the Uprising.

Right after that, the siege of the Old Town began. The insurgents had, literally, a hail of gunfire falling on them. Also, the air bombardment began. There was no way out. They had to evacuate through the sewer tunnels. That subterranean network of tunnels served the soldiers from the very start of the Uprising. There is where lines of communication were maintained among the fighting units. There, ammunition and food was transported. There, the civilian population was evacuated. Finally, there the wounded were transported to field hospitals.

However, on the field of battle or not far from it, the wounded were given first aid by the field nurses. Women who were among the bravest of the brave.

“Sanitariuszka Małgorzatka” (Combat medic Maggie)

The song is about a frivolous girl with whom the lightly wounded soldier falls in love. Alas, she loves another insurgent. The hapless Chaplinesque speaker thinks it’s because the other fellow has a better submachine gun.

Maggie before the Uprising:

Before the action she was a modest girl
She lived somewhere on Roses Avenue
She had a flat with a big bathtub
A Pinscher dog and platform shoes
A little pouty, a little frisky
Seen only at the fashionable nightclubs
She ran to the riverbank early mornings
To tan her top and her bottom

And during the excitement:

Lovely combat medic Maggie
On the front line to the last
A radiant smile she brings us
If you get shot she’ll will dress the wound
Sweeter than the rationed mead

It can be a surprise, how the same person is one way during a frivolous time and quite another way during a heroic time.

Also, notice how the ladies in the audience, aged ten to ninety-nine, are absolutely loving those songs. It’s a lie that women lust after the enemy if the enemy is stronger. They don’t understand honor the way men do, but they are drawn to male righteousness and repelled by cowardice. It can be as simple as that.