Idle Thoughts On Pop Songs And The Seasons

strong men create good times
good times create weak men
weak men create bad times
bad times create strong men


June Carter, He Don’t Love Me Anymore. What’s alien in that c. 1955 video is the everyday on-air interaction between the good-natured host and his firecracker starlet guest, the young June Carter. If you imagine having a country of your own in which your public space — in this case television airwaves — belongs to you, you might envision something a bit like that exchange in which he introduces her and they pick on each other a bit.

America was a house with many rooms. One of those rooms was Appalachian hillbilly culture, perhaps one closest to my heart on account of the melodious regional accent. It’s no wonder that this is where Tom Wolfe looked for inspiration in creating the Charlotte Simmons character. And it’s no wonder that Johnny Cash fell in love with June. I once said:

[She] is a vision. Like just about every young woman, she has those little imperfections that modesty makes irresistible… That thing I said earlier about modest attire amplifying a cute girl’s attractiveness…

The decade, with its relaxed ways, was America’s summer. But every summer has its storm clouds. Vivian Liberto, first wife of then-drug addled Johnny Cash and mother of his four daughters, writes about a confrontation in which June said to her, “Vivian, he will be mine.” The rest of the story is Johnny and June growing old together. Do you believe in love?


Angelo Badalamenti, Laura Palmer’s Theme. It’s simple and reminiscent of Erik Satie’s compositions. A bright moment happens at 1:00, a key change. Brett Favre, in the twilight of his career, was asked about his favorite football memories. He said that it’s not the championships or the victories, it’s those times just having fun with the guys in the locker room or wherever. That answer rang true with me. And there is a flip side to that — you also remember those quiet moments alone.

One such inexplicably indelible moment for me was during Army training in San Antonio, Texas in the early 1990s. Our platoon slept in a large bay with two rows of bunk beds. Listening to a local radio station on my Walkman before drifting off to sleep after lights-out, I heard a song from the Twin Peaks soundtrack. It was “Falling” with Julee Cruise.

The early 1990s was a supernova burst of American creativity, all of it animated by the dream of a world that had flickered just out of reach and then disappeared forever. Autumn is elegiac and it is the one season I’d never give away.


George Michael, Praying for Time. It would be nice if the great song were written and performed by a godly man, but that’s not what happened. It was created by a faggot who got busted at an airport toilet stall. It’s a lesson in humility for everyone, but also in hope, when a man so flawed he makes you look clean teaches you something. “Listen without prejudice” means that it’s okay to judge after listening.

Whether you’re Georgios Panayiotou or someone less cursed, you have your cross to bear. He had his, homosexuality. I have mine, a light one. The pretty girl I used to know who was diagnosed with an awful illness at 21 had hers. Maybe you have yours.

Listen to the song’s despairing, nihilistic lyrics. Keep what works for you, discard what doesn’t. Whatever George Michael was thinking of when he wrote it in 1989, it speaks to me now.

It’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
Well, maybe we should all be praying for time

The girl I mentioned, she told me about the diagnosis that took place a few years earlier and I told her that we all have our cross to bear. After all of that, I met with her dad. He looked like a wreck. He said, “So you’re the ‘PA’ that she talked so much about.” It was a sad moment when I handed him her stuff. He signed a couple of forms where I told him I need his signature.


Johnny Cash, Children, Go Where I Send TheeWalk The Line (2005) lied about two things. One, the movie blamed Vivian for the failure of her and Johnny’s marriage. Two, it was silent on the greatest part of Johnny’s career, his Christian music. Yet the film had several good moments, the best one being when Johnny’s disgusted father Ray Cash says:

You’re sittin’ on a high horse, boy. I never had talent, I did the best I could with what I had. Can you say that? Mister big shot, mister pill poppin’ rock star. Who are you to judge, you ain’t got nothin’, big empty house, nothin’, children you don’t see, nothin’, big ol’ expensive tractor stuck in the mud, nothin’.

In the movie, that was Johnny’s rock bottom moment after which he changed his life. “Children, Go Where I Send Thee” is the best interpretation of the American Evangelical spirit in popular music. Johnny would have made a fine Marine Corps drill instructor calling cadence. It’s a fantastic performance, featuring an older June Carter and the other Carter family ladies, the Statler Brothers, and Carl Perkins. Under their captain’s command, they sing like victors.

A ‘Nam Flashback

No, not my PTSD. Before my time. But we still wore those steel-pot helmets in Army basic training in the late 1980s. The conflict over Vietnam is fading from memory, its echo in popular consciousness being Forrest Gump, which ventured to reconcile the hippie and the soldier.

Where are the Flower Children today? The 1979 musical Hair sets the ’60s revolution to sometimes pretty good songs. The revolution itself was a convergence of several vectors:

  • The ascendance of a Jewish elite
  • Frankfurt School’s cultural Marxism
  • Domestic intelligence programs
  • Soviet subversion (see Yuri Bezmenov on YouTube)
  • The unwillingness of young people to be drafted
  • The Pill and the consequent loosening of sexual morals
  • At-remove sentimentality about blacks
  • Prosperous nation’s urge to barter away its posterity’s birthright for a mess of fake virtue.

It was all those things, but the Sixties wouldn’t have happened if the visible part of its program weren’t presented to appeal to the virtues and vices of ordinary people. The scenes from Hair in the video below are a snapshot of the decade’s human side. In the film, Claude Bukowski is a conscripted farm boy who sneaks away from his Army training center to see his girlfriend. His civilian hippie friend George Berger puts on a uniform to cover for Claude in a headcount, only to get swept up in an unexpected deployment and ultimately to die in the war. There is a visually arresting scene of young soldiers, the hapless Berger among them, marching into the C-130s followed by a panorama of headstones at Arlington National Cemetery.

Then, massive peace protests in Washington, DC. They look wholesome by today’s standards because it’s all healthy American faces. The Confederate flag was still part of the big family. However liberated they were — and as the subsequent century will have shown, morbidly selfish — a generation rightfully did not want themselves and their friends fed to the war machine for no discernible reason.


Was there any point to 58,000 American men getting killed in a localized Asian conflict? If you asked one them, he’d probably tell you something disagreeable. For example, the wounded young sergeant in this CBS footage of an ambush might have offered a few words about serving your country. The firefight begins at 1:47:

Embedded CBS reporter:

… and the medic, having survived another rescue mission, brings back the wounded man. “Who is it? who is it?” — the question spreads down the line. “Oh Christ, it’s Hero, the sergeant who likes to walk point.”

Not feeling any pain while in shock, the wounded NCO answers a few of the reporter’s questions while awaiting medevac. His low-key gallantry is not unique to the better element of some past generation. There are videos from Iraq and Afghanistan with Millennials similar to him. My high school friend’s much younger brother served in both operations. He was a good-natured kid as an early-teen, and he’s a good-natured Devil Dog with stories now.

Imagine when that White warrior love of fight meets a leader that points to proper targets. For example, one can dream of a God Emperor who impossibly wins an election, then rips the civic mask off a transnational anti-White dictatorship, baits every snake and rat to expose itself, lights a fire under (((Pedowood’s))) ass, and then … makes fireworks over the swamp and orders brave Americans to take back their own country.

Eh, that’s crazy talk.


God Bless The USA


This marks the passing of one year since the Victory.

If tomorrow all the things were gone
I’d worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife

When your woman stands by you through better or worse, setbacks aren’t life-wreckers and that’s the spirit of Lee Greenwood’s first verse. A friend of mine suffered a permanent injury yet his wife adores him, putting to shame today’s wives for their attitude toward their able-bodied husbands. Solid character sustains you in a tough time. The good news is that American women are among the best in the world. For one, they stood by their men and voted for Donald Trump.

“[If] I were asked, now that I am drawing to the close of this work, in which I have spoken of so many important things done by the Americans, to what the singular prosperity and growing strength of that people ought mainly to be attributed, I should reply: To the superiority of their women.” — Alexis de Tocqueville (1831)

Of course I know about the problems with modern American women. Yes, many of them are damaged, but so are many of us. Everyone has been subjected to malign pressures and incentives. Yet all considered, American women have acquitted themselves fairly. It’s as though many of them don’t want to become what they’re encouraged to be. What I’m saying is, they lack nothing in raw beauty and mettle. Just know where to look, start having children young, and wear the pants.

All women need the guiding hand of patriarchy. They say that “White Sharia Rape Gangs” polls better than “Family Values” but before we get to where we are free to assert corporal dominion, follow the fundamentals of raising a girl in a hostile culture because when she turns fourteen, she will decide what kind of a girl she’s going to be.

I’d thank my lucky stars
To be living here today

I thank my lucky stars every day for President Trump, for the freedom to blog at one degree of anonymity, for the 2nd Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, and for the men who died, who gave those rights to me.

’cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can’t take that away

Well, they think they took that away. The American government has been in a territorial war against its people since 1954, a demographic war since 1965, a cultural war since President Reagan’s departure, a lock-down police state since 2001, and it has been openly genocidal of Whites since Obama’s reelection. The result: an engineered population replacement and decades of paying for “white privilege.” A White Nationalist rapper describes this privilege:

White America, we built this nation from scratch
White America, then 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.

But rather than calibrating when victory is in sight, they always make their fatal error: they get pig-arrogant. Instead of easing the RPMs on poz when things go their way, they push the throttle. And so now, the U.S. national anthem is considered racist.

As it should be, because we can play that game to its resolution. So along with the Star Spangled Banner, the American flag is racist. As is the bald eagle, the Iwo Jima photo, 4th of July fireworks, the cowboy, the covered wagon, “Don’t Tread On Me,” Mount Rushmore, and all of other examples of American iconography. Those things belong to a specific nation, therefore by definition they are exclusionary. The anthem and the flag would mean nothing if they weren’t “racist.”

Onward with further disentanglement of plain truth from the pretty lies that they insisted on pushing ahead with, while we were willing, to a point, to go with the Proposition Nation lie. One, blacks aren’t Americans. There is no spite in that statement. It’s an objective fact of ancestry, no less so than saying that Chechens aren’t Russians. Two, Jews aren’t Americans. “Let my people go!” – Moses. “Let my people in!” – some kike who didn’t get into a country club. Three, “nation of immigrants” is fiction.

From the lakes of Minnesota
To the hills of Tennessee
Across the plains of Texas
From sea to shining sea

This is a beautiful land. I’ve never been to Minnesota but I know the hills of Tennessee and the plains of Texas. I’ve made long drives in my twenties over the unforgettable landscapes, including a cross-continental one during the mid-1990s. My then-girlfriend’s family in a southwestern state invited us to visit. With our schedules, she only had enough time to fly there for a couple of days while I had more time at my disposal so I drove solo, timing my arrival at her parents’ house with her arrival by plane. I also worked in several days of back-roads sightseeing on the way.

Her father was a retired military officer and a Vietnam war vet. The real deal: combat kills, survivor of an ambush-massacre. She handed me the phone as we planned the trip. His tone was stern but he asked me for a favor. He described the location of a cemetery in a small town in Oklahoma where his parents and a friend who died in Vietnam are buried, asking if I could drive into that town and tell him what shape their graves are in. “Of course,” I told him. When I described my planned back-roads route, he named a town in Texas and said: “Fill up when you get there. You won’t see another gas station for the next 100 miles.”

After two days of driving alone, you start talking to yourself. After three days, you struggle with enunciating words to a convenience store attendant. I stopped in that Oklahoma town, bought three bouquets of flowers, followed my written directions to find the cemetery and locate the graves (this was before the internet), and found them. I laid the flowers, prayed “Eternal Rest” over each grave, and took some photos. Then I found a commercial area in town, where a one-hour photo store developed my film.

You don’t know the plains of Texas until the lonesome feeling hits you upon realizing that you have not seen a single car over the past hour of driving. It felt like freedom.

After the excitement of meeting my girlfriend’s family, the unpacking, unwinding, and dinner, her father motioned for me to follow him to the back deck. The two of us sat down with a cooler of Coronas between us and lit our cigarettes. The long, relaxed conversation I had with that man was one of my most satisfying. We talked about everything as the hours went by, watching the sun go down over the desert and the stars take over the sky.

And on with Greenwood’s song:

From Detroit down to Houston,
And New York to L.A

Detroit was a jewel. Americans had spend the past six decades in the strange position of being, nominally and numerically, the defining racial group of the United States while being effectively barred from living in her cities. Instead, they were dispersed throughout refugee camps known as suburbs, secure on that turf at least until the next inbound moving van spurs them to once again run after “good schools.” Who the fuck lives like this.

The imperative to clear the continent for the second time, the opportunity to decentralize and reanimate the spirit of localism that the Founding Fathers envisioned… America, the place where you dream big.

Well there’s pride in every American heart
And it’s time we stand and say…

Yes, it’s time.

That I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
And I won’t forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me

Americans’ generosity was turned against them. Human beings are thinking creatures, but we also have instincts, the purpose of which is to remind us that the serpent is subtle. Always trust your gut. It will infallibly tell your brain that the stranger’s whisper is in fact a hiss.


“God bless the USA” in the song’s refrain isn’t some empty phrase for the occasion like “jingle bells.” Those words mean something. Namely, that without God this isn’t a country; it’s the enforcement arm of global usury. What happened one year ago makes you wonder. I’ve seen a doubting man allow for the possibility that Donald Trump is guided by God’s hand so that the nation may return to Christ and in doing so, that we make America great again.

And I gladly stand up
Next to you and defend her still today
Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land
God bless the USA

Whom Does This Political Ad Help?

An outfit called the Latino Victory Fund created this … unsubtle political ad against Ed Gillespie, the GOP candidate in the 2017 Virginia governor race. Gillespie is not reputed to be farther to the right than an ordinary establishment Republican.

Civic nationalism is confirmed dead. Traditional American iconography has been conceded to Whites, beginning with the NFL’s racialization of the “Star Spangled Banner.” With this campaign ad, we have come closer to completing a circle — as originally codified by U.S. Congress in the Naturalization Act of 1790 and now confirmed in every way but de jure, America is a White nation.

Nationalism In Po-Dunk

Kid Rock’s “Po-Dunk” gives a middle finger to anti-American globalists. The video pays homage to Hank Williams, Jr. “Country Boys Can Survive” right away, with an opening scene featuring a man wearing a Bocephus t-shirt.

“Po-Dunk” is a message to a political class that has been tearing those people down for decades. That message is: Our consent is withdrawn. The video is not perfect, but it rides the rising wave of popular discontent. That’s elaborated on here:

It’s Alt Lite, not Alt Right. It’s populist, neither intellectual nor ideological. And while it’s ultimately insufficient, it nevertheless represents a tremendous step forward for Americans, because, unlike the Diversity Left, which hates America, and the Establishment Right, which cares about nothing except GDP and the well-being of the donor class, the Trump nationalists love America. — Vox Day

Where the 1981 video for “Country Boys Can Survive” postures defiantly from a position of competent self-reliance, this one revels literally and figuratively in mud.

Country music from the 1950s through the 1970s is the greatest of American music. Hank, Merle, George, Johnny, Waylon balanced license with dignity. But the past does not return. You have to push through the present — through Kid Rock’s potty-mouthed, mudsharking-at-the-edges, conspicuous nihilism — to make a future aligned with your higher aspirations

The video shines a light on our people in their nadir-hour. Naked women, tats galore, smoking while pregnant… those aren’t a matter of culture or aesthetic. They are a matter of self-respect. That said, Kid Rock knows the Alt-Right’s Point No. 12:

“Podunk don’t give one hillbilly fuck.” — Kid Rock


More importantly, the video does several very, very big things: it explicitly celebrates White natalism: “Got a baby in her belly and a baby on her hip / Little towheaded rascal peeing off the porch.” Also the Confederate flag, guns, rooted all-White communities, and in pointed defiance of neoliberalism, no immigrants. And good, dirty fun. How can the political slogan “diversity is our greatest strength” be taken seriously, when homogeneity looks like home sweet home?

(An aside on the featuring of blacks in the video: that ruins it for me. That’s because I’m farther along on the national right-ward drift than the target audience for the video is. Also, idealized relations between Whites and Blacks are part of American mythology and have a bit of basis in reality in some regional and historic contexts.)

Kid Rock’s people in rural Michigan are giving the middle finger to the conservatives who had stabbed them in the back, and to the liberals who want them blended out of existence. “Po-Dunk” follows the same angry current as that of Michigan’s other native son, Michael Moore, who featured those same people in his unintentionally pro-Trump campaign video. Did you forget about Moore’s “Biggest Fuck You in Human History”? I didn’t.

Yes, on November 8, you — Joe Blow, Steve Blow, Bob Blow, Billy Blow, Billy-Bob Blow, all the Blows — get to go and blow up the whole goddamned system because it’s your right. Trump’s election is going to be the biggest “Fuck You” ever recorded in human history and it will feel good. — Michael Moore


Kid Rock is tapping into that same “Fuck You.”

Everybody is feeling the hunger for a home. That’s what nationalism is all about.


The Moral Right To Say “No”

We have not exploited the countries from which these refugees are coming to Europe these days, we have not used their labour force and finally we have not invited them to Europe. We have a full moral right to say No.

From last week’s speech by Jarosław Kaczyński, chairman of Poland’s ruling Law and Justice party. Each nation’s circumstances are different. In Poland’s case, Kaczyński is absolutely right: there is no basis, in a liberal moral system, to hold Poland and several other European nations accountable for their past entanglements with third world peoples.

Does this mean that countries that did have colonies and had invited non-European labor into their homes are morally obligated to take in immigrants? Of course, not. That’s because the liberal moral system is not a legitimate guide for Western nations — it is alien and opportunistic rather than traditional and idealistic.

However, attention to the liberal moral system is indicated because its protean premises and logic are necessary, at the present, to validate any political act undertaken by a Western nation. Whites have always derived legitimacy of action from the alignment of their motives with universal morality; that, in my view, is innate to us and this is why we are seen as the only race that possesses moral agency.

Our universalist thinking predates Christianity, whose tenets, from a secular point of view, are aligned with our a-priori impulses. The modus operandi of Leftism was to subvert our relationship with Christian morality by keeping its language but replacing its spirit with their own unclean breath. The Cultural Marxist usurpation is not historically unique in that regard, except that has turned our own nature against us on an unprecedentedly self-destructive scale.

Kaczyński’s above-quoted words parry one Marxist argument (“Europe must take in refugees because racist debts”) with another (“Poland has no such debts”). His speech effectively rebuffs false-premise dialectic on its own terms.

Every mainstream populist leader in Europe understands that, at the moment, his public address is constrained by the captivity of the Western mind — the West’s voters and national institutions — to the false morality of Marxism. This is also why Viktor Orbán’s speeches include appeals to liberal values such as tolerance and female equality. To win, you play the game by its present rules, until your audience is ready for you to discard present rules.

A genuine Western moral system — as codified by Christian doctrine and in harmony with natural law — was never killed by Jewish Marxism, and never will be as long as we live. Our legitimate morality is submerged under impostor-morality. Listen to your own mute voice and hear your own thoughts:

Even the lowest bug fights to live.

Thou shalt not kill, another or yourself for illegitimate reasons. In other words, no nation is obligated to snuff out her own posterity. Yet this is being enthusiastically carried out, not only in the case of Western Europe’s post-war waves of immigration, but in an even more influential example — the United States and her blacks. From the standpoint of liberal morality, the case for absolute black equality is incontrovertible: slavery and segregation were sins to be atoned for, with damage to be ameliorated. So Americans did that… and created a low-grade beast that begs to be put down.

Language, no less so the moral language behind the hissing for White Genocide, is “words, words, words,” per Shakespeare. And so are any retorts on the political stage. But the soil from which the words spring — either as cultivated roses or as poison ivy — is real. It is time to eradicate (to pull up by the roots) the false morality of Marxism and let legitimate European morality again flourish so we affirm that our nations have the full moral right to say “No” to being replaced, and then to act in accordance with this imperative to live and not die.

To independence!


A Thought About Honor On Memorial Day

Let’s start with a reminder that with our own, we’re supposed to be human:



“You tell his mom ‘He died for us, for America,’ because a funeral for a 21 year old ain’t time for real talk.” — Ryan Landry

We know it’s bullshit. Vets in electric wheelchairs know it’s bullshit. But as Ryan reminds us, time and place, folks.

I was in the U.S. Army during Bill Clinton’s first term. My enlistment included three years on active duty, overseas service, and a tour with a combat arms unit. No opportunity for big heroics crossed my path but I served well and was honorably discharged. I believed in the mission.

Today, I encounter senior military officers on a semi-regular basis. Passing them in the crowd, that sort of thing. A few days ago, I saw a U.S. Navy Captain walking with a young Ensign. The young man was attentive to rank, arrow-straight and spoke respectfully to his astronomical-scale superior. The Captain looked every inch the officer. Streaks of grey in his closely-cropped hair, grim intelligence in his voice.

Both of those men had sworn this oath, on their sacred honor:

Oath of Commissioned Officers: I, [name], having been appointed an officer in the armed forces of the United States, as indicated above in the grade of [rank] do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservations or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter; So help me God.”

The junior men and the NCOs live in a micro-matters world of accountability. The barracks have to be clean, rifles accounted for, trucks inspected, buddies looked out for. On an ordinary day, a soldier can both do his job and keep his honor… if he looks straight ahead and not at what’s around him.

But what do American military officers think about “fighting them there” while they invade us here? What about going along the emasculation of their own cadets? The obedience to degenerates like Clinton, wastrels like Bush the Lesser, or aliens like Obama? The Constitution is not defended, one hundred million vultures ravage America.

What can one officer do? We all have our jobs. My hands are tied, his hands are tied. When a Navy Captain or an Army Colonel feels that his uniform burns his skin, that his handsome bearing as an officer and a gentleman is a mockery of his ideals, what is the honorable thing to do? (President Donald Trump’s task, in my estimation, is to throw chaos into the global ruling class consensus while securing government and military factions that can strike — calling up me and you if necessary — when the time is right. Let’s be ready to do our part.)

Memorial Day is a time to remember that those who died did their job. You and I go on about our hands being tied. They believed that they were fighting for their people, even if “their people” began and ended with the hemorrhaging PFC who never made it to his own 22nd birthday.