Idle Thoughts On Misheard Lyrics

Everyone has his story on misheard lyrics that illustrates some biographical quirk. My three:

1. Boney M — “El Lute

I heard a bit of Disco as a kid in the late 1970s and El Lute was one of my favorite songs, even though I didn’t speak a word of English at the time. That campy Euro-Caribbean band would not cross my thoughts again until two decades later, when I came across their Greatest Hits in a music store. Now fluent in English at almost thirty years old, I bought the tape and took a trip down memory lane. When I got to El Lute, I played it again because the song’s lyrics captured my attention, with its story about the famed Spanish outlaw.

Eleuterio Sánchez is either a murderer as convicted, or an innocent man per his steadfast claim. Only he knows the truth. He was born in 1942 to a dirt-poor peasant family in northern Spain, remaining illiterate until adulthood. He learned to read, earned a law degree, and wrote two books while serving a thirty-year prison sentence.

Because they own the recording industry, the song is anti-Franco propaganda. Nevertheless, you might still have a brain, but you don’t have a heart if your pulse doesn’t quicken to that story. See Point No. 8, short excerpt here:

Do you believe that a race has its destiny? If so, then ours is to build and destroy, at turns… “The European soul craves more; it needs more. If necessary, it will upend and destroy the world to get that ‘more.’ It will even destroy itself.”

I don’t mind stealing communist propaganda toward my ends. After all, I’m just taking back what’s ours: they co-opted our talent, they hijacked our folklore, so like cultural Viet Cong, we salvage the usable parts of the enemy’s equipment. Like in this bit of fun with El Lute:

And he wanted a home
Just like you and like me
In a country where all would be free

“Free love” vs “date rape” is the dividing line between Baby Boomers and Generation X. The dividing line between the previous generations and Millennials is that the latter never had a country of their own.

Though he taught himself
To read and to write
It didn’t help El Lute

The modern pursuit of an education is like grabbing a dancing reflection on water. Ancient Greeks called the program of learning that was essential to carrying out the duties of a citizen “liberal arts.” (Latin: ars liberalis, “the mastery of practices fitting a free man”). John Milton wrote that the ultimate purpose of education…

“… is to repair the ruines of our first Parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the neerest by possessing our souls of true vertue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.” (1644)

At my university seminar, we poured feminist grievances over Beowulf. In a twisted way, that was still education because education is as much revealed-desire to know, as it is acquired knowledge.

This is analogous to elite military training. A bus full of Army Special Forces trainees on their first day, all of them hand-picked by their respective company commanders as cream of the crop, pulled over on the side of a road on its way to the selection school where ruthless weeding-out is done up-front. The bus driver was uncommunicative with the soldiers, who were growing restless with the delay. What they didn’t know, is that the driver is an instructor who evaluated his passengers on their behavior and the first round of people, complainers and such, was cut before they even arrived at the school.

To be taught, a man must be teachable. I had a few excellent professors but on balance, it was my frustration with the corrupted learning that constituted my education. The Alt-Right is similarly self-educated in that by discovering the Red Pill, we reclaimed the accumulated wealth of Western wisdom, the path to which for us was a labyrinth.

With the prize on his head
People still gave him bread
And they gave him a hand
For they knew he was right
And his fight was their fight

Lead, follow, or get out of the way. Or to put it differently: if you’re a guerrilla fighter, never harm your friendly civilians. If you’re a civilian, show your fighters some appreciation. At the very least, never rat them out.

On walls every place
They had put up the face of El Lute
And he robbed where he could
Just like once Robin Hood

Every nation has its populist myths. There are ballads of Pretty Boy Floyd begging a meal from struggling farmers in Oklahoma during the Great Depression, then leaving one thousand dollars on their dinner table under his napkin before disappearing.

El Lute’s story ends well for him, but what does that have to do with us?

And then freedom really came to his land
And also to El Lute
Now he walks in the light
Of a sunny new day

2. Pink Floyd — “Another Brick in the Wall, Part II”

A quick gloss over an autobiographical matter: during my almost-teenage years, my family and I spend several months in Austria. This was at the beginning of the 1980s, and we were part of a wave of Eastern European asylees en route to their ultimate destinations in the Western Hemisphere. We were put up in a lovely Gasthaus in an Alpine village, but also spent a total of about two weeks at refugee camp outside of Vienna, at a facility that for me is the touchstone of dignified state architecture.

It was built in 1900 as a training academy for Imperial artillery officers. After WWII, the occupying Soviet Army used it as barracks. In 1956, it served as shelter for Hungarians after their crushed uprising, and the center continued to process Soviet Block refugees through the end of the Cold War. You can guess what kinds of refugees came through there more recently. That building today:


One chilly morning, my dad took me into town outside the camp’s gates, to a breakfast diner. The small town was overwhelmed with foreigners, who were mostly from Communist countries that shared their borders with Austria. A man my dad’s age, a fellow-Pole, hears us talk and asks if he can join us, all tables being taken. Leaving the two adults to their conversation, I turned my attention to the busy scene inside the restaurant.

The jukebox comes on, playing a catchy, unfamiliar song that I correctly judged to be in English. When the song ends, a strangely behaving, possibly-drunk young man approaches the jukebox, drops coins into the slot and that same songs begins to play again. He shouts something in German to nobody in particular and guessing by his look, he was an East German refugee. This cycle repeats several times, with the song ending and the young man loudly announcing something as he puts it on again. I didn’t mind the repetition, as I was becoming captivated by the song’s bass line and the sneering intro vocals.

A twelve-year-old travels with wide-open eyes, absorbing every detail of a new country. This being Austria, I was fascinated with the Nazi lore I’ve grown up with behind the Iron Curtain, now being a guest near the epicenter of that legacy. The reason my thoughts went there is because the shouted line in the song, just before the refrain (in reality “Hey! teacher!”), had me convinced to be “Heil! Hitler!”

And that, my fellow AltRighters, is how I ended up right here with you.

3. Nirvana — “Smells Like Teen Spirit” 

Ten years later I’m a student, doing my brief stint as a waiter in a mid-Atlantic college town. The evening shift had ended. A wad of cash in my pocket, I was in the mood for loud music and a buzz, so I told a co-worker: “Let’s go to X.” He and I walked one door over to a pub/dance club and we grabbed a table.

With our white dress shirts, now comfortably unbuttoned at the neck, we were indubitably the only dudes in the place not wearing flannel. It was difficult to talk over the noise. Doesn’t matter: a peculiar new song came on, its opening power chords halting the conversation. Then the hello, hello, hello, hello as the shell is chambered, then boom! goes the payload:

With the lights out!
It’s less dangerous!
Here we are now! …

“… undertakers?” — asks my colleague, quizzically arching his eyebrow.



PA, whom is your article intended to address? Boomer men, like me, who are already reading your blog regularly? Is your objective to incite yet more hatred among younger White men who already hate Boomers? Do articles like yours, which seem to be increasing in popularity in WN circles, serve to awaken and unify Whites?

It’s intended to address anyone who wants to read it. That’s not a glib reply, it’s my attitude toward blogging. By the aggregate reader data available to me, 80% of this blog’s visitors are in the United States and by my hunch, readership overlaps with that of the blogs listed on my sidebar. In other words, a broad age-range of mostly Alt-Right aligned Whites worldwide.

It is not my intention to incite hatred toward anyone who is one of us. My parents are Boomers (technically late Silents, born during WWII and raised in a different country but as I discovered, these generational “horoscopes” know no borders). They are good people who raised me well, both are highly intelligent and have been anti-Communist all their lives. Upon arriving in the U.S., they recognized American liberalism as an extension of the same Communism they had left behind, except more insidious and more mind-enslaving.

One of my early-teenage educational moments was during the 1984 election campaign. I parroted something I must have heard at school: “Mondale is for the people and Reagan is for big business.” My dad told me that to decide whom to support in politics, you have to write out an honest list of each side’s pluses and minuses. We did that together, and from then on I understood the Democrats to be the party of centralized bureaucracy (socialism) and Republicans, prior to the neocon infiltration, as an imperfect champion of decentralization (liberty). We had Ronald Reagan’s portrait hanging in the kitchen of our first home in America. My parents supported Donald Trump from the moment he declared his candidacy.

Yet every generation has its faults. Highly-educated, faithful Roman Catholic, upper-middle-class Polish emigrants are not immune to adopting their host-country’s quirks. If there is one way to nail the Baby Boomers down as a generation, I’d put it as follows: they believe that the world begins and ends with them.

No GenX’er or Millennial in this universe will cry “Stop saying that about us!” when criticized on their collective shortcomings. Yet every Boomer-thread at Vox Popoli generates squeals of “NABALT” on behalf of an entire cohort. You can see how that invites scorn.

That characterization above, “Boomers believe that the world begins and ends with them,” applies to selfish retirees who don’t give one squirt of piss about their grandchildren. That’s a common accusation made by the younger generations; for starters, see the comments under the above-linked post. It also applies to Boomers who have sacrificed a lot for their kids and are loving, devoted grandparents. Boomers’ virtues (they are sociable and civic-minded, for one) as well as their aggregate faults, are a function of their inability or unwillingness to understand that the conditions of life today are not the same ones that they had inherited.

This isn’t an incitement to hatred. It’s a criticism. When I point out someone’s error, it’s up to him to consider the validity of my judgment and if deemed valid, to correct his behavior.

The Secular Horoscope

I am left to wonder whether Boomers have some irreparable genetic or character flaw that no other generation of White men has.

Rhetorical, I know, but there is something unique about every generation. In his autobiography’s opening chapter, Arthur Koestler mused about the “secular horoscope,” meaning that the era of one’s birth determines a person’s life-trajectory and fundamental worldview. Let’s see how each generation’s accident of birth has shaped them.

Baby Boomers

Boomers were imprinted with an optimism that never faded, in spite how much the world has changed since their youthful years. Their psychological substrate is a bright, sunny summer day in 1962. They always lived, and they will die, in that one year. In their eyes, the rest of us fall short of their esteem due to our failure to capitalize on the social and material cornucopia that they had been born into.

I can judge your generation as a whole. My judgment is that — as a whole — you are a selfish people who don’t give a damn about your posterity. But I can’t judge you as an individual Boomer man because I don’t know you. That’s your children’s and grandchildren’s prerogative. If you’re doing allright by them, you’re OK. Greginaurora commented about his Greatest Generation grandparents: 

I remember my grandparents. I spent a weekend with them once a month. Their house was small but their hearts were big. My own children wouldn’t understand that. Grandparents who helped raise them?

If “big heart” is something your grandkids will also one day say about you, then you have no reason to be upset with what I wrote because my critique of your generation does not apply to you personally in the one area over which you have full control: your own conduct.

The Baby Boomer generation in a snapshot:


Generation X

For us GenX’ers, it’s always about the lost paradise of 1985. For me, that year conjures up community parties in my White working-class neighborhood. Good-natured men organizing youth kickball games and lawn-cutting co-ops. When people dream about peace, that’s what they imagine. We saw it for a moment and it was gone.

As we reached legal drinking age, U.S. federal government murdered Vicki and Sammy Weaver and then incinerated 22 kids at Waco. Only one man did something about it. We are a failed generation, robbed of its future, and this is why we belatedly created the Alt-Right, and also the reason why we are better parents than our own parents were. We saw evil, we flinched, we never forgave ourselves for that.



For this kiked-out generation, it’s always 9/11/2001 and submission to the police-state that the shock-and-awe ushered in. They were kicked in the teeth by the anti-White system, brainwashed in school, and cut down to sub-equality with weaponized niggers and race-replacement immigrants. While Boomers cashed-in and GenX froze up, Millennials embraced Stockholm Syndrome.


UPDATE – Ikacer adds in the comments:

I’d say that Millennials are the generation of escapism. Stockholm Syndrome is just a subset of that. Our generation was presented with a world that was entirely a lie (and was apparent to us as such), but with no alternative leading to the truth. So as a generation we avoided reality. Many did this by embracing the lie, such as the Stockholm Syndrome group you mentioned. Others escaped into video gaming. Others obsessed over their childhood such as Harry Potter, and many live with their parents.

The strength of conviction of the Millennial progs is not because they truly believe, but is born of their desperate fear of reality. For Millennials, reality is too terrible to face.

Generation Zyklon

Face the sun, young blood. As I concluded in Shots of Wisdom, Part 7:

The Will To Live. Like trees that adjust their angle of growth to stay upright when soil underneath them shifts, so do we create homogeneous micro-habitats in own own lives. Sometimes I am in awe of ordinary people’s effortless securing of clean space, no matter the vector of the new assault. With open eyes you see it everywhere and the wellsprings of life therein. “Children should always be better-off than their parents,” hiss the blind through their perfect fake teeth. Yeah, but what if the very existence of those who follow is a victory dance in its own right?

This longest night is our trial. Some lose their minds and throw themselves into the abyss. Others trust the invisible laws that guide us toward the sun, with or without the forebrain’s consent. It’s not morning yet, whispers the boy who woke up from a nightmare.

For this generation’s sake, no Boomer, Xer, or Millennial should allow himself to become a burden and a drain on resources. In famines, old people voluntarily starve so that toddlers may eat. If you get old and sick, take pain killers. If you are diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, act fast while you still have your faculties… suicide is punished by an eternity in Hell, so rather than offing yourself, go out into the wilderness and when past the point-of-no-return, pray.

With the duality of good and evil, one has an amplifying effect on the other. Goodness and purity catch the merchant’s eye. Evil and corruption set off a holy war to right the wrongs. Today the best among us become better men and women. God’s gifts shouldn’t be taken for granted — that’s the multi-generational lesson we are being taught.

GenZ will be a generation of fighters. Our job is to help fix the world they inherited where we can, to support pro-White statesmen like Orbán and Trump, and to help our activists or at least get out of their way. The White kids and teenagers everywhere are who we live and die for.


An Ingrate’s Letter To His Boomer Parents

Hi Mom and Dad,

Yes, I did see your vacation pics from Italy, you look great. I clicked Like on a couple of them. Glad that you’re healthy and doing well. Something I wanted to ask you though.

Your grandson Robert, he’s a smart and good-looking boy. You won’t believe how tall he’s gotten! It’s been a while, with you in Florida but you should see him at hockey. He was a bit shy last time you saw him, but he’s fearless on ice. And Emma is starting to walk! Did you see the photos I emailed you?

I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to fly down this fall. Trying to keep ends together on the financial front. Maybe you could come visit us. I know it’s a little cramped here, hope you feel more comfortable next time.

So I’ll get back to my question. And this will make me sound like an ingrate. Here goes. Instead of spending what I estimate to have been $7,000 on your trip to Europe, has a thought crossed your mind to help us a little?

Yes, it’s been easier since we paid off Jennifer’s student loan. We’re now working on mine. But it would be great if our kids, your grandson and granddaughter, could live differently. You sold your house for a fortune. We’re underwater.

And I am doing well compared to others. You remember Brian from college, he’s still working as a waiter. I have a good job, but I have not seen a raise in five years. Robbie’s school costs us thousands of dollars. Hockey is expensive. Soccer would be more affordable, but that’s been taken over by Latinos. After bills, food, and my student loan, there is nothing left. We’re looking at home-schooling once Emma is of that age, which means that Jen will have to quit her job. At least we’ll break even on daycare.

But you know what makes it all so difficult? It’s the lack of any light at the end of this fucking tunnel (sorry about my language). Trump won, yet I can’t even go to a goddamned park without seeing Muslim families there. I’m not trying to be xenophobic, but I’ve never seen a single head-scarved woman around here until last year, and now they pop up everywhere.

Then I log off my email and see the news aggregator headlines. Every single one tells me “Die already, white people.” I don’t care if they say that to me, but it becomes personal when they direct it at Robbie and Emma. I know you don’t like racism. But your grandchildren don’t have a country. They don’t even have a home, properly understood. Everything feels so impermanent. I’ve started reading these blogs and sometimes I think I should … never mind.

You were always on my case about responsibility. Please believe me, I gave it my best shot time after time. And your lectures about my lack of trying, I always felt that they kind of missed the point because I’ve never been a quitter.

Sorry about my tone. Jen’s asleep and I’m buzzing a little. It’s been rough lately.




Image credit: Shutterstock


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.



The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades

mirr4I drew that in high school art class in 1987. In that same class, a kid at my table was talking about how he will drive a Lamborghini when he grows up because he is going to be rich like Donald Trump. “Who’s that?” we asked. The Vice President’s son was on a coke bender and a weird black guy was giggling in a Chicago bathhouse. Sammy Weaver was a nine-year-old boy. We had no idea of the coming nightfall or about any light at the end of it.