Pop Culture Never Dies

Putting aside the matter of whether or not I like today’s Top 40 sound — which skews heavily in favor of the right side of my pairings: feminine, glam, synth, etc. … — my question is: will it go on forever? Is today’s studio-centric hegemony a build-up to a hairpin turn toward performance-driven, sweaty musicianship — a playing out of history’s many earlier revolutions in mainstream sound — or … with apologies to Fukuyama, [is this] the end of music?

The above is a meditation on pop culture that segues into the adolescent’s phenomenon of psyche that you felt once too and maybe forgot.

Pop culture never dies — at least not as long as there is a medium of mass transmission. Back in the day, a friend’s mom told us that as you get older, you lose touch with popular culture until your own kids start following it, which is when you once again become interested in it.

Now, though, popular culture is fragmented. Naturally so, as Anglophone countries are a mess of alien cultures, which necessitates that the industry’s mass-distribution products cater to a watered-down lowest common denominator of sophistication and authenticity. People naturally coalesce around their own and gravitate to purer expressions of their temperament. And now, a new development makes the centralized entertainment industry less relevant and helps with niche-formation: the internet-driven dispersal of talent. One word: YouTubers.

There are several who are popular with White kids. The big names on that scene have hundreds of thousands of subscribers, millions of daily views, upper-bracket incomes from their channels. Collins Key is one such act. It’s two young California brothers, Collins and his younger bro Devan. Cool looking dudes, excellent positive energy, astounding creativity.

Their show is profanity-free and makes absolutely zero references to politics or culture-war stuff. What their act is, is hyper-energy slapstick, very often involving insanity with food. Representative episodes:

Devan’s wisdom teeth. If you or your friends have biological brothers, then you understand the bond. Beat each other up in childhood, have each other’s back for life. The younger brother Devan is under the influence of narcotics, having just come down off dental surgery. Funny as always, but you also see the fraternal bond.

Collins, who is recording this episode, gets on camera after the 11-minute mark… that’s when the yodeling starts. Now you’ve seen everything.


The messy twins telepathy challenge. (See the video below). The Merrell Twins are regular guests on Collins’ show. Pretty girls, and here they are mercilessly abused by Collins good and proper, and loving every moment of it. If I hadn’t mentioned it yet, the young man is a natural alpha and likable.

In that episode, the twin girls blurt out the name of their favorite band: Five Seconds Of Summer. Never heard of them, so I looked them up; “She Looks So Perfect” is one of their older songs. It’s from five years ago. It’s not a new style for a new generation; it sounds to me like classic Taylor Swift with its youthful energy and soft verse / hard chorus pattern that comes from grunge, which in turn is borrowed from 1980s alternative Rock.

The song’s video shows people having fun and, you know, stripping down to their underwear. I’m sure that’s a metaphor for being honest with each other, like those dreams everyone has about being naked. The aesthetic is California (mostly) blond. What’s not to like in seeing nothing but kin faces? The video does show diversity: age, body type, socioeconomic status — a full social ecosystem. What you ask — what about the you-know-what-I-mean Diversity? I know not of what you speak. All the diversity that needs be shown is right there in that music video.

Back to “The Messy Twins Telepathy Challenge.” It’ll put a huge smile on your face:

At 17

Men have biographies, women have grandchildren. But show me a man who had willingly forgone fatherhood but not sex, and I will show you a man with something queer about him.

At seventeen, you figure out the general direction you want your life to take and you start to make choices with regards to the type of education, work, and interests that are best for you. At seventeen, you know whether you want to go to college, vocational training, into the military, entry-level work, self-employment, or to cut loose for a while and you take steps toward those goals. At seventeen, life opens before you an exciting vista of possibilities. You walk through one door, which means that you forgo others. That is how you become a man.

But what about one significant decision you will make in life… women, sex, having your own family — do you have a plan? In earlier comments, Mendo shines the light at the modern sexual market:

What that one Brit hooker said about some of her clients being good looking fellas: that the price of ass is so high and the quality so low that men would rather rent it than buy. He’s not far off in saying that. It was the “quality so low” line that stood out, which is what many of the comments on here mention -– the unkempt, sloven nature of women nowadays.

Does that describe the sex market once you get out of high school? A thirty-something commenter over at Chateau Heartiste convincingly presents himself as an urbane Alpha. Back in the day, guys like him scored top-shelf poon. He describes his recent sexual encounter. The comment has to be read in full to appreciate what awaits you in an environment where quality women are locked-in young and much of what’s left is… the Wall of Fat.

You may often see a “curvy” or overweight girl and think, “hmm, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.” I’ve learned the hard way that there’s nothing pleasant about the (full)figurative “pleasantly plump” girl.

Take one example. One target, looks cute enough, well manicured, but, with the carefully cropped face pics, I knew something was up(sized).

I meet her at her hotel room (foreign city, there on business, which I’d gathered from our texting, an easy fuck I surmised). She opens the door and sure enough, nice looking girl, perfect hair and makeup, but a spare tire around the waist, thick thighs, big arse, and (the saving grace of tonight’s shew, massive rack). Of course, she’s wearing all black, more flattering, you see.

We stroll through the mall connected to the hotel, eat dinner (naturally), drink a bottle of grape, and stroll a bit more. She invites me up; it’s an ultra modern hotel with sweeping views of the city lit up at night, the desert beyond. Lots of stainless steel. The place is a disaster, shoes everywheres.

At this point, I really didn’t care any more and grabbed her huge bum and threw her on the unmade bed. Then she tells me her mother is staying with her and will be back soon and we need to hurry.

Now I get to the point of the story: I pull her top off, slide the pants off, take the heels and throw them across the room. Once the reinforced bra straps have been let go, the large, majestic empire of tits crashes and collapses to a sagging defeat. The butt, buttressed by leggings (aka exterior girdle) is suddenly no longer firm and perky, but a big, jumbled mess.

She flips on her stomach, presumably to hide the belly from sight, and tells me to pound her. Pound her I do, but it’s not as perfumey fresh as when the evening started.

Not my worse lay, but not great either, in fact it had many pratfalls. One of my more louche moments.

Sorry I had to do that, gentlemen, but it’s important that those of you in the studio audience know exactly what you’re up against (a wall of fat, if you must know), should you spot a “thick” girl and think, “oh, I’m sure it’ll be fun, just like on TV.”

She came back a few weeks later, and, having no other options living in a literal and figurative desert, did it again.

So, if an Alpha gets THAT^^^ . . .

What I’m telling you, is this: If you’re 18 or thereabouts and you have a slim, pleasant girlfriend of your own racial and cultural background in high school and you respect her family, then put buns in her oven right away. You two have the best it’s going to get. Have a plan, marry her, secure your and her parents’ commitment to help you financially.

Or re-read the Wall of Fat anecdote. It’s said that women are best-off cashing in their commitment chips at a young age because they are at peak beauty. What is never pointed out is that young men are at peak access to pretty girls with unspoiled personality. You’ll be more attractive at 35 and possibly even at 50 than you are now but you’re not gonna be swooping high schools at that age. There are trade-offs in life: you can have a healthy start on building your family as you enter adulthood. Or gamble with fortunes as you put off your search and commitment to a quality woman in an environment that corrupts girls as they enter adulthood. Choose one door or the other.

The biggest trade-off: vigor in youth, wisdom in older age. Traditionally, “young dumb & full of cum” newlywed men had fathers, dad’s friends, uncles and grandfathers around for guidance, help and correction. One of the overarching things I press on the importance of, is geographically coherent community and extended family.

I really like this comment by MGE:

I thank God my parents had me when they were very young, 22 I believe. They both came from large midwest Catholic families where that was just the norm. They didn’t have much money, but made it work. No fancy wedding, no engagement ring, no honeymoon. Mom worked at a Piggly Wiggly while my dad finished his education. We lived in cockroach infested apartments in the rust belt. Instead of daycare I was cared for by extended family and occasionally less than savory baby sitters.

I got to enjoy my parents when they were young and full of life and optimism. I have great memories of the wild parties they would throw. As me and my siblings grew older, they kept a “hands off” approach, which is just what they were used to growing up. Instead of keeping a tight leash on me, they trusted the church, which I was deeply involved with, to shape my moral development.

Plumpjack offers a sound second opinion:

It seems to me that women are very amenable to having children when relatively young, 16-20, but that once they hit early 20s they begin to believe the propaganda. I.e., “oh grow up from your fantasy, little girl. NO woman should be dependent on a man for survival!”, and from that point forward become increasingly difficult to lock down… until they hit 35, at which point they are almost all either damaged beyond repair or too old to inspire a solid man to invest everything into her.

So it seems that it would behoove a young man to lock down his high school or college GF with extreme prejudice. But there’s a catch.

We’ll get to what the catch is in a moment. For now, keep in mind that how you got her is how you’ll keep her — by choosing a good one and staying in the driver’s seat in the relationship. Plumpjack gets to what the catch is:

Young guys don’t understand unleashed hypergamy and all of its hideous permutations and implications. Without sufficient field experience he may not be able to handle his wife as she ages. She may mature faster than he does. What if they have daughters? Will he be able to keep THEM under control? Will he have a strong enough pimp hand, if he’s only ever been with the love of his life?

Remember how you got her? It wasn’t by being a sap. It was through your charm and the fact that you have a backbone. It’s a common male mistake to think that now that the relationship is “official” you can put firmness and Game aside and let her rule the roost. You were her first, you taught her everything, she needs you to stay the boss.

He continues:

I believe that having field experience over and above that of his woman is a necessary component for creating a stable family, particularly in these complicated, dark times. Perhaps the ideal pairing is a guy in his mid- to late 20s, with a woman not much older than 21.

Field experience has its up-sides but you strike the iron when it’s hot. Pussy paradise with bright-smiling leggy vixens ripe for picking was an accident of history, a 1970s hiccup made by a baby boom, homogeneity, and prosperity. Free love had its run but it could never last because demand outpaces supply. Mystery Method of the 2000s was its last gasp — and that was before tats, storied sexual history, and obesity disfigured just about every young single woman you’ll meet. I work in an office right next to a bar district, I see nightlife as it crawls out on a Friday evening when I happen to leave work late. Ungainly thighs and baggy tits, all wrapped in tight fabric and attitude like a turd-tiara. That’s pussy for the above-average man after you get out of high school, boys.

Mankind always returns to virgin marriage as the norm, both men and women. That’s what we’re back to. Unless you wish to play your odds against the Wall of Fat.

Men have biographies, women have grandchildren. And no man’s biography is complete until he plants his seed. Do it now and you have your whole life to live with a wife who matured in your image and children who will grow faster than you expect and in whose eyes you can be the greatest man that ever lived long after you’re gone. At seventeen, you may or may not understand that there is no truer pride than having a son. You certainly aren’t imagining doing fun stuff with him when he’s 21 years old and a young father like you once were, all of this while you’re still strong and energetic. Trust your gut, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Your great-great-grandfather was a better man than most of us alive today. Your great-great-grandmother was a better woman than most women alive today. You and your girlfriend can light that fire anew. Plant your first seed now and don’t ever stop being fruitful according to the gifts with which you are blessed.


Your great-great-grandfather cleared the soil
Your great-grandfather worked the soil…

Your great-great-grandmother had 14 children
Your great-grandmother had almost as many…

As for you, my friend
What are you doing with your night?
Turn off your TV
Don’t stay all cooped up
Thankfully some things in life will never change
Line up your nicest clothes
Because tonight we’re going dancing.


White Eagle

Warszawskie dzieci, pójdziemy w bój
(“Warsaw’s children, we go to fight”)


Today is the 74th anniversary of the outbreak of the Warsaw Uprising, which was organized by the Home Army (Armia Krajowa) resistance movement and which lasted from August 1st to October 2nd, 1944.

[UPDATE: This post is about the general Warsaw uprising in 1944, not the Warsaw ghetto uprising of 1943.]

Zero Hour is commemorated at 1700 hrs local time every August 1st with one-minute’s howl of air-raid sirens to mark the start of the insurrection.

There is nothing new under the sun and there already was a Generation Zyklon. No, they didn’t gas anyone, but they fought like warriors to take back their city. And they won — seven decades later, the city belongs to them. There is special lore about the kids who took part in the 1944 Warsaw Uprising. Boys as young as ten fought as riflemen, boys and girls served as nurses’ aides, barricade builders, and couriers who navigated through sewer tunnels.

Between its walls, a constant stream of citizens and freedom fighters made their perilous, just perilous, sprints. They ran across that street, they ran through that street, they ran under that street — all to defend this city. “The far side was several yards away,” recalled one young Polish woman named Greta. That mortality and that life was so important to her. In fact, she said, “The mortally dangerous sector of the street was soaked in the blood. It was the blood of messengers, liaison girls, and couriers.” — President Donald Trump (Warsaw, July 2017)

Through the duration of the war, Home Army (AK) conspirators knew each other only by pseudonyms so that in an event of capture and interrogation, real names wouldn’t be revealed. After the collapse of national defense forces in 1939 in which my grandfather was a lieutenant, he continued his commission in the AK. His gravestone at a veterans’ cemetery shows his rank and pseudonym. He and I talked briefly about the war in January 1997. That was the only time I saw him in my adulthood.

A haunting song by Natalia Sikora, called “White Eagle,” salutes the 11-year-old Wojtek Zaleski (ps. “White Eagle”), who distinguished himself in action in the 1944 Warsaw Uprising.

Orzeł Biały / White Eagle

Na ulicy w powstańczej Warszawie / On the streets of the Warsaw Uprising ’44
Sprzedawano blaszane Orzełki / Little tin eagles were sold
Zanim dziecko Virtuti dostanie / Before a child gets his Virtuti Militari
Niech Orzełkiem na czapce się cieszy / Let him enjoy the eagle on his cap

Nie chciał nikt żeby dzieci walczyły / Nobody wanted the children to fight
Nie chciał nikt by co dnia umierały / Nobody wanted them to die each day
Lecz powstrzymać ich nikt nie miał siły / But nobody could hold them back
Same sobie broń zdobyć umiały / They knew how to get weapons

Ile Orłów sprzedano zbyt tanio? / How many Eagles were sold too cheaply?
Ile Orłów sprzedano zbyt drogo… / How many Eagles were sold too dearly…
Cena prawdą umarłych zostanie… / Only the fallen know the price …
Żywi z bólu rozliczyć się mogą… / The living can settle out their sorrow …

Na powstańczej kronice zostały / The insurgency chronicles show
Zdjęcia chłopca co poległ na Ciepłej / Photos of a boy who fell on Ciepła Street
Jedenaście miał lat Orzeł Biały! / Eleven years old, was White Eagle
A nazywał się Wojtuś Zaleski / His name was Wojtek Zaleski

W Chrobrym dwa każdy Orła doceniał / On 2 Chrobry Street, all hailed the Eagle
Umiał przejść wszystkie linie niemieckie / He knew how to pass all the German lines
Wyprowadził bez strat z okrążenia / He led the “Grześ” group with no losses
Grupę ”Grzesia” – znał drogi bezpieczne / Past the encirclement — he knew the safe routes

[Refrain x2]

Potem poległ i Tygrys i Magik / Then Tiger and Magician [pseudonyms] fell
I tysiące z tych co nie walczyły / And thousands of those who did not fight
Umierały też dzieci Warszawy / Also died the children of Warsaw
Które Matki szaleńczo chroniły / Whom mothers fervently shielded

Orzeł Biały miał grób na Ceglanej / White Eagle had a grave on Ceglana Street
W bramie była Maryi figurka / Virgin Mary watched from the gate
Krzyż Virtuti przyznany zostanie / The Virtuti Cross will be awarded
Wszystkim Dzieciom z Naszego Podwórka / To all of the children from our courtyard

The back-story of Wojtek Zaleski:

Battle trail
Downtown North. The youngest soldier in the assault group of Master Sergeant “Grześ.” He served in the unit from the start of the Uprising and earned the admiration of the older soldiers when on August 2, 1944 he passed through German lines to the area of the heavily guarded Main Railway Station. After three hours of observation, he returned with a report on manpower, weapons and the organization of enemy units. On August 15, taking routes known only to him, he guided his platoon out of encirclement. For this action, his battalion commander Captain “Lech Grzybowski” nominated him for the Cross of Valor.

Place of death
He died in the area of the police barracks on Ciepła Street while carrying a report from MSgt “Grześ.” His body was pulled from the rubble under German fire. That action was immortalized by insurgents’ film crew [See link above for still images under “Zobacz Galerię” – PA]. The field burial of “White Eagle” took place in the courtyard at Ceglana Street 3.


A short tribute to the living veterans of the Uprising:

Modern Love

Gentlemen, words of wisdom on love in a time of poz, for those who seek their fortune?

Boomer: “Be confident and have a good job. Pretty girls will line up to marry you.”

Omniscient narrator: Thank you sir, that was helpful. 

GenX’er: “Things have changed. When I hit 20, there was no lack of pretty girls but they wanted to party more than I did. A decade later, it all derailed. Today, if a girl is under thirty and of less than porcine dimensions, her venereal options are limitless. Such power makes monsters of women. I hear that you have to be a criminal these days, to excite her dulled pistils. We weren’t willing to be criminals. Instead, in the twilight of our youth, we discovered Game.

Omniscient narrator: In 1990, cute girls were everywhere and obesity was rare. Mudsharking had just come on the scene but it hadn’t yet lowered the buying price of male companionship for marginal girls, so those girls still did their best to be attractive, maintaining dating market equilibrium. Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Millennial: “When’s the last time I even saw a pretty girl? They’re all sea slugs who think they’re vamps, with the worst qualities of both. Anyhow, young men have dropped out, so having a scintilla of confidence puts you ahead of the soy-boys because the starved females crave masculine edge. Hey, knock yourself out and game a slag.”

When you seek pessimism, you will always find it. I know that nation-wreckers have ruined the world. They will pay for it, I promise. You are stuck on Fembot Fallacy, a fantasy that nothing keeps any woman from thotting and whoring it up while calling the cops on you. You’re wrong. Something does hold her hand back from pressing on all those levers of power arrayed before her. That something is soul. Some women have it. 

You know, in the dark they wonder the same about you: “Why won’t he just cut my throat, burn down the house, and go out in glory? Don’t men like glory?” 

There are diamonds in the rough. If you find one that’s better than her girlfriends and if you practice Game — it’s been dropped on your lap for free — you will laugh about how natural it feels to inspire her to take pride in looking nice, in being a good mother, in embracing all those things that terrify your enemies.

Generation Zyklon: “I’m nine years old and I don’t know what any of that means. My dad says that we will know the truth. I will make my own fortune.”

This letter is sealed. Read it when you are a bit older:

“My heart bursts like a thousand sunrises when I look at you. Every generation has its part to play, you have yours. You might not know what it is until after you’ve fulfilled it. You will do fine because you fear God, therefore you’re not afraid of anything else. Two tips: Don’t take advice from someone whose experience had left him embittered; he doesn’t want you to win. In love — now more than ever before — a man must decide early what he want from life and take it.”


It’s not really work
It’s just the power to charm
I’m still standing in the wind
But I never wave bye bye
But I try, I try

An American Nationalist Visits Warsaw

Occidental Observer contributor Adam Komiaga attends this past November’s Independence Day rally in Warsaw and describes his experience.

The 60,000-strong march, known for its participants’ aggressively patriotic posture and its umbrella slogan “We Want God” was attended by nationalists from all over Europe. The author of the article stayed in an apartment with Swedes who, like him, flew to Warsaw to join the march. He makes a number of street-level observations, starting with an encounter with a belligerent Pole:

But we’re almost forehead to forehead now. I lock eyes, my deep-blue squared against his ice-blue. It gets tense.

Our group keeps moving around him though, and like white water flowing around a jutting stone in the river we slide around him on both sides. As I side-step him, I lower my eyes because eye-contact that lasts a millisecond too long usually leads to a fight. Anglos and other Western Europeans rarely experience this sort of thing. Growing up in the comfortable and loving leafy embrace of Suburbia makes you soft. But spend some time in Eastern Europe and you learn the rules about eye-contact etiquette quick enough.

The guy is a good writer. That description of the anatomy of eye contact was well done. You can relate to this in the United States. With our diversity and police-secured general order, most of our public space outside of non-White enclaves is no-man’s-land. When I pass a homie or a cholo, my posture and eyes communicate a message. I look at him, sort of through him. A blank fearless face. Mastery, not aggression. “No disrespect but it’ll cost you if you try something.” They always drop their eyes. Fights can result in organ damage or death (yours or his) so the point is neither to bait nor to submit, the latter serving to embolden them tomorrow, but to claim absolute dominion over your personal space and leave the question of public space ownership, at minimum, open for the time being.

The American visitor comments on various fights he saw break out:

… we participated in the massive, 60 thousand strong nationalist march through Warsaw. Just like the night before, there were sporadic fights breaking out all along the route among rival football clubs and rival nationalist organizations.

Poles against Poles. Whites against Whites.

There are different levels of identity. Right wing factions and football fans brawling, ethnic and national rivalry, on up to our ideal of racial solidarity against the mudworld. There is racial solidarity. It happens in emergencies, such as at the Superdome in 2005 when local Whites and stranded European tourists created a security perimeter in an arena full of blacks. Or Vienna in 1683. There are also long-standing friendships, such as between Poland and Hungary. The mere fact of Polish national holiday celebrants welcoming fellow-European nationalists and chanting Christian, pro-White and anti-Islamic slogans means a great deal. There is your racial solidarity.

(A long aside: Europeans are a war-race. But we temper our violence with Christian honor, which we extend to and expect of our fellow-Whites and which is why unlike savages, we develop codes such as the Geneva Convention, mercy with submission, distinction between combatant and civilian, and recognizing the enemy’s individual gallantry. Raping girls is not something we brag about. Waffen SS was the world’s most fearsome military corps but the reason naahzees have a radioactive reputation isn’t just post-war Jewish propaganda, though that is a big part of it. German Ostplan campaigns in WWII broke with civilized norms through their brutal behavior in Eastern Europe. Oskar Dirlewanger’s counterinsurgency units, as one example, are responsible for murdering up to 120,000 civilians in 200 villages throughout Belarus alone, his favorite method being to herd people into a barn, then setting the barn on fire.

Likewise, Allies’ barbarity toward German civilians in 1945 is a stain on our honor. My grandfather was a brilliant, severe-faced man of aristocratic Kresy tradition. He served as a lieutenant with First Polish Army under Soviet command and told me about his infantry unit entering a village in Pomerania. He saw a Russian soldier grappling with a German girl and ordered him to let her go. There were discipline problems on the front, with Russian soldiers disobeying Polish officers. My grandfather put a gun to the Russian’s head and the girl ran away. End aside.)

Men are small-group tribal. We’re supposed to be territorial and ready to fight. That’s freedom. That’s what keeps us sharp. It teaches us to be polite. It keeps women loyal. How many of us had spent our youth in middle class comfort, never having a redneck square up to us at a mall? Or if you’re a redneck, a locking of horns with a cocky frat dude or a loudmouth off-duty soldier from the local Army base. Racial solidarity entails collective effort in an emergency. “No more brother wars” doesn’t mean kumbaya.

Someone once commented ruefully that Europeans have culturally blended into an undifferentiated pop monoculture, so national distinctions are anachronistic. I disagree with that, countering with my own observation that if I’m talking with a Norwegian, it’s just two guys having a conversation. But if it’s five Norwegians and me, or five of my countrymen and him, the odd-man-out quickly notices that one is not like the others. If you are American but not a Southerner or a Mormon, get together with them and discover that culture is real.

An illustration of European diversity comes when the author got separated his from his Swedish companions and joined up with a Dutch group, observing a change in vibe:

I lost track of the Swedish Nationalists I had come with and ended up marching with the Dutch Identitarians instead. To be honest, it was a welcome change of pace. All of a sudden, I was around a different kind of European. They could crack jokes, include me in the conversation and seemed to actually want to practice some of that pan-European solidarity I had heard so much about.

Turning his attention to the landscape: Warsaw is an ugly city, he reports. Indeed, anybody who is not from there will enthusiastically agree with that sentiment. Not me, though. I’m a true Warszawiak, it seems, as either because of childhood nostalgia or for some other reason, I find the city to be quite lovely. My indelible feeling of home is Warsaw in any given December, where it’s dark at 4:00 PM and snow is falling, the smell of bus exhaust in the icy air bringing back memories. Perhaps Warsaw is meant to be grim, a reminder of history’s bloody relapses. That’s her burden still, as Europe heads into a war.

Yet, that’s the city where globalism is considered dead, the only city in the world where Christendom’s nationalists are free to march. That’s Warsaw’s terrible beauty:

The sky was overcast and it got dark quick, but the harsh red glare from the flares lit up everyone and everything with a kind of sepulchral glow. The smell of the burning chemicals washed over me and I breathed it all in, like the mystical smoke from some pagan witch ceremony or something. The flares seemed to have a powerful, almost reverent effect on everybody in the march.

The article segues to its most interesting part, a meditation on a new generation of Europeans. A seventeen-year-old Polish skinhead joins his group. He’s part of a disciplined paramilitary unit:

I saw them at the march the other day. They came in like a war-machine, ranked up in a Roman-style Testudo formation, with their banners wrapped all the way around the group like a shield wall. Black suns and Celtic crosses were flying proudly behind the first ranks — these guys were the real deal. Protecting the flanks of the column were black-clad young men with their faces totally covered in black ski masks. Turns out our young friend was one of them.

Older Poles would run up, yell out abuse and some even tried to start fights. But the Black Bloc just kept marching in perfect discipline. Even the soccer hooligans didn’t dare touch them.

As the American visitor learns, the teenager lives in Sweden where he goes to school as the sole White kid in his class, having been previously expelled from a majority-White private school. In the young man’s words:

“You know, before I was even a nationalist, I had problems at the private school. The Swedes are worse than the Arabs and Blacks. They would complain about me and report me all the time. Always behind my back, never to my face. Poles are naturally too nationalistic for them, I guess. I like it better in my new school.”

Turns out that the Arabs and Blacks respect him ever since he became a Neo-Nazi.

“Every time I do this…” he throws up the roman salute, “they fear me.”

The author gets to Nazi iconography, dispensing with dead history. Again, he has a way with graphic description:

Nazi imagery may not be good at convincing shy huWhytes to join the Identitarian cause, but its ability to strike fear into the hearts of non-Whites is second to none. To them, we’re all just a blend of Crusader-Nazi-White Devils who’ve gone soft. They stiffen with fear when they see that black spider on a field of red and white and see the gangs of young White hooligans that fly it.

As the age-heavy racial demographics shift in parts of Europe with the passing of Boomers (good riddance, anti-racist dead weight), it’s the White teenagers and kids who are inheriting their countries in their infested condition and who will have to reconquer Europe to have a chance to live in peace — to extend Western Civilization’s life, if you want to use such lofty words. Maybe they’ll wait for winter and cut off invaders’ heat. If they are merciful, they’ll let them go back to their ancestral shitholes but either way, nurseries will be reclaimed.

But [the young skinhead] is a good enough kid. Normal, sane and if I’m honest, he’s probably the future of the Post-First World. Generation “Zyklon” isn’t a meme. These kids are pissed. They are the first to feel what it is like to be in the White minority… and many of them don’t like it.

They will also have brothers and sisters, as White births are rebounding.


A Comment On GenZ

Anglo nations don’t have much experience with losing at home, American Southerners being a notable exception. Winning and winning and winning makes you morally soft and sets you up for guilt complexes. It makes you ashamed of your ugly, Pyrrhic victories such as the Boer War.

Losing fosters a sense of togetherness and paradoxically, pride. What doesn’t break your spirit or genocide you makes you more fanatical. Eastern European nations have a sense of righteous identity because they know both loss and victory. The Polish national anthem begins with “Poland has not perished yet so long as we live.” Hardly a cocky winning attitude. But boys (and girls) who listen to stories of national against-all-odds going down fighting myths stick together.

There is a reason why the American GenZyklon — White teenage boys and girls — is farther to the Right than probably any adult American generation in modern history — they are literally born losers; in other words, born as a dispossessed, despised minority on their own land. The young know who the enemy is.


Women Are Choosing

There is a youngish married woman who, contrary to all of her apolitical or Trump-supporting girlfriends, is an armchair social justice warrior who makes a daily habit of squirting anti-White posts on Facebook. Her friends roll their eyes when her name comes up and some have unfollowed her because they find her posts irritating.

She is an anachronism. On matters of identity, there is nothing left to debate. What’s left is signalling. In other words, informing your peers on where your loyalty belongs.

NFL’s Take a Knee campaign is a prominent example of such signalling. It was never a debate on “freedom of expression” — it is an affirmation of identity. White GenZ kids are getting red-pilled younger and younger as events pull them onto history’s stage.