Category Archives: Culture

Black-And-Yellow Lives Matter: On Driving Your Local Liberal More Loco

Comedy & Humor, Conflict, Culture, Environmentalism & Animal Rights, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim

Context: Our mountain neighborhood is blessed with a unique layout. The lower-neighborhood stretch faces green embankments, angled at approximately 60 degrees. This lovely midsection is abutted each side by the road.

I like my incline to be natural, which means that now, the embankment is supposed to be blanketed with wild flowers. But not if the local, progressive, statist tyrant has his way, and he always does.

It has been decreed that a close shave of the neighborhood embankments be the rule, for fear of … as Basil Fawlty would screech, “Fa-Fa-Fa-fire.” That is ridiculous, because the grass is predominantly green, and, you know, … the asphalt. It acts as a firebreak.

But progressive statists are not good at loving a neighbor as thyself (one of the Ten Commandments), which means practicing the live-and-let-live motto. Neither are progressives environmentalists. When it comes down to brass tacks, they don’t much like the natural world.

But I do.

So mow we do. But we leave the lovely embankment dotted with little alien-like crop-circles of wild flowers and grasses. And, I had a signpost made to place alongside my wild flower crop-circles. It reads:

“HELP THE BEES POLLINATE
BLACK-AND-YELLOW LIVES MATTER”

In one fell-swoop, the local progressive vigilante is being taunted for his lack of brotherly bee love. Mocking the Black Lives Matter catechism is a heresy that drives this progressive prototype more loco than he already is.

 

 

FRED REED: Manners. Aplomb. Deboneurtude.

America, Culture, FRED REED, Gender, Journalism, Music

FRED REED on journalism when it was a trade dominated by tough, rough men, who hung out with bikers and bar-fighting Brunhildes

Let me tell you about aplomb. I don’t mean watery New-Age aplomb, suitable for a fern bar. I mean the real article, forty-weight, that you could lube a diesel with.

This was in the early eighties. I was still a staff writer on Soldier of Fortune magazine. This was years before Craig, the staff artist, killed himself riding drunk on his motorcycle somewhere outside Boulder. (He died, everyone said, as he would have wanted. Horribly.)

In those days Craig and I hung out for a while in the Berkeley Bar in a bad section of Denver. Craig was a big, baby-faced street fighter out of Chicago with a Special Forces past and a mean streak. He mostly drew skulls. He also like the Brandenburg concertos, and used to listen to them at his easel with headphones built into a World War II leather flying helmet.

The Berk was the home pit for the Sons of Silence, a bad biker club. If you haven’t been in dives like this, don’t start now. They swarm with huge bearded bozos with tattooed eyeballs and missing teeth and slow ominous grins and the IQ of a camshaft. You get the impression that they are evolving, but just not as fast as the rest of us. They’ll hurt you. Either they like you or you’re jelly. They don’t worry about consequences. They can’t remember them.

The Berk had Formica wood tables and smelled like a weight room. Rows of bottles waited patiently, but not for long, behind the counter and corpulent biker babes lolled about like stranded elephant seals. No one else did. When you have a biker clientele, you don’t have any other kind of clientele. Craig and I were guests. I had sold Bob Brown, the editor of Soldier of Fortune, on a story about the warm patriotic urges of the Sons, who didn’t have any. The Sons were charmed. They might get on the cover. They knew they would never get closer to significance.

It was cold enough to freeze the personals off an iron dog and dirty snow gleamed yellow under the streetlights. We showed up in Craig’s pickup truck, wearing our credentials: cammies, antisocial T-shirts (“Happiness Is A Confirmed Kill”) and jump boots. A Tribal Meeting followed, heap big pow wow, talk’em. Craig and I sat in a booth with Torque, the honcho, and a brain-fried guy called Lurch, and Mountain Jerry, who was a pretty Tarzan replica with long golden hair like Rapunzel and gold-flecked eyes that spoke of psychopathy and bone fractures. He sort of looked through you.

“We don’t like the press,” Torque said. So what? Nobody did. I didn’t. Torque had a face like a gorilla’s armpit. “You can do your story. SOF’s a righteous mag. Righteous.” I guess it was a recommendation. Like having Carlo Gambino say that you were a Really Good Person.
“We do what we can,” Craig said.

Lurch just stared at his beer with his mouth hanging open. He didn’t actually drool, probably because he couldn’t remember how. I figured he had smoked too much brass polish or sniffed some bad glue.

During this prayer meeting, Lurch had An Idea. You could tell it was bubbling up inside him. His jaw closed slightly and a crazed focus came into his eyes. He was going to say something, as soon as he figured out what. His head came up. Yes, an idea. He almost had it.  And then it left him. He collapsed with a soughing sound, like a punctured tire. Gone. A Real Idea, probably the unified field theory. And it got away. He stared sorrowfully at his beer. Eeyore of the Bikers.

We went back to the tribal thing.

Manners, though. This is about grace, elegance, and aplomb. Yeah.

Later we were boozing at the bar, doing what women call male bonding. It means talking to each other. I was chatting with Mountain Jerry. Craig was talking to some guy farther down the bar and drinking peppermint schnapps. Which was amazing on two counts. First, that the Berk had such an effeminate candy-ass yuppie-swine liqueur. Second, that Craig would drink it in a biker bar. It was grounds for execution.

Thing was, Craig was scary. He’d cripple you. You sensed he was ready to rock-and-roll, and you really didn’t want to rumble with him. Some guys you leave alone. The Sons could smell it. About then one of the biker babes got into it with the barmaid. I don’t know what the raison de guerre was. The challenger was a gas-station Brunhilde like a sack of potatoes, except potatoes have better skin. Shrieking ensued. Barmaids in motorcycle hangouts do not back down. You could tell this one wasn’t a Latin professor at Bryn Mawr. She screamed obscenities in a florid cloacal gush. The potato sack gave as good as she got.

The bikers ignored them and kept drinking. Jerry and I were discussing social encounters in rural bars in West Virginia, where we both came from. The chief instrument of intercourse in those regions was the pool cue. It was simple and direct and provided the hospitals with a brisk business.

Over Mountain Jerry’s shoulder I saw the challenger’s arm flash forward. She was throwing a bottle at the barmaid. Either her aim was bad or the barmaid ducked. Bottles shattered behind the bar and the mirror pretty much exploded. Slivers rained down on me, but missed my drink.
Mountain Jerry never flickered. He grinned his slow mean golden grin and said, “Git it on.” And kept on talking. He was amused.

The bar top glittered with glass fragments. The barmaid was about to leap over the bar to do battle with Spud Sack. Screaming continued. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Down the bar I saw Craig absently, without looking, pull a sizable sliver of glass from his schnapps without interrupting his sentence. He dipped a finger to see whether more shards awaited. No. All was well. He lifted the glass and drank.

That’s aplomb.

Read Fred’s Books! Or else. We know where you sleep.

******************************************

FRED REED describes himself as [previously] a “Washington police reporter, former Washington editor for Harper’s and staff writer for Soldier of Fortune magazine, Marine combat vet from Viet Nam, and former long-haul hitchhiker, part-time sociopath, who once lived in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac River from the Yankee Capital.”
His essays “on the collapse of America” Mr. Reed calls “wildly funny, sometimes wacky, always provocative.”
“Fred is the Hunter Thompson of the right,” seconds Thomas E. Ricks in Foreign Policy magazine. His  commentary is “well-written, pungent political incorrectness mixed with smart military commentary and libertarian impulses, topped off with a splash of Third World sunshine and tequila.”

FRED’S BOOKS ARE ON AMAZON, HERE

FRED’S ARTICLES ARCHIVE

Killer Kink

Hardboiled is back! (The exclamation point is to arouse wild enthusiasm int the reader, a boiling literary lust.) Gritty crime fiction by longtime police reporter for the Washington Times, who knows the police from nine years of riding with them. Guaranteed free of white wine and cheese, sensitivity, or social justice.

UPDATED II (7/11/022): NEW COLUMN: A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant

Culture, Ethics, Etiquette, Gender, Pop-Culture, Propaganda, Pseudoscience, Psychology & Pop-Psychology, Sex

bearded trans men chest-feeding: paternal or sexual?

NEW COLUMN is “A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant.”

An uncluttered mind is needed to see this issue clearly. Hence this short tract has so far appeared only on the inimitable Unz Review and The New American.  Read it now on ilanaMercer.com.

My analysis has come as a shock to our side. Let me put it to you thus: In the olden days, if a church elder had stumbled upon a flat-chested girlie-man fixing an infant to his man breasts; there would be a public flogging, if not excommunication. By which I mean not necessarily to condone these punishments in all instances (although I generally approve of public shaming)—but to point to the reaction of the unpropagandized mind to kinky perversion.

Excerpt:

… Is this man-woman, then, engaged in the “natural” act of breastfeeding, or is this something far more sinister like a sexual experience? Is this not tantamount to titillating oneself, using the baby to get-off?

Since the deviant described in the article and discussed in the podcast “Bearded Men Breast Feeding In Public: Paternal Or Kinky?” is not sustaining the infant – is not a successful breast-feeder, as the well is dry – and since, by self-admission, the person’s main project is his/her gender identity, I suggest this character is deriving unacknowledged sexual pleasure from fixing a child on to his secondary sexual organs.

The baby here is a prop. The breast feeding is near-sexual. And a society of deviants is sanctioning onanism with an infant: A grown man here is likely using an infant to pleasure himself. An infant has no agency, hence onanism. …

READ the rest on  The Unz Review and The New American. Read it now on ilanaMercer.com.

WATCH “Hard Truth,” “Bearded Men Breast Feeding In Public: Paternal Or Kinky?”

SUBSCRIBE here to support our truth telling and get notices of new “Hard Truth” content.

UPDATED (7/9/022): A reader at the Unz Review asserts that women too get aroused during legitimate breast-feeding. Ridiculous. Sick. If so, disgusting distaff says I!

All I remember is a motherly-baby cocoon, where my child would occasionally quit nursing voraciously—these gender-identity perverts forget that a child nurses to survive, sate hunger and grow—to smile, play with my hair, burp. Magic bonding time.

UPDATED II (7/11/022): 

What I remember of the breastfeeding experience is a mother-baby cocoon, with baby occasionally taking a break (these gender-appropriators forget that a baby nurses to survive, sate hunger, grow) to smile, play with my hair, burp. This is a much better formula for mother-child bonding than baby formula.

That is one of the sweetest descriptions of the mother & child bonding experience I’ve ever read. Nothing prurient at all. Just love. The hair part got me,writes Musil Protege Some people have soul.

A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant” (Updated version)

FRED REED: White Revivalist Movement Seems Dead On Arrival

China, Crime, Culture, Education, FRED REED, IMMIGRATION, Latin American, Race, Science, Technology

The Southwest to Latinos, the cities and culture to blacks, universities and laboratories to the Chinese, and a noticeable savor of curry in managerial ranks. This is America.

BY FRED REED

America’s racial circumstances, its lightning demographic transformation unimaginable a half century ago, runs apace, not just with Latinos filtering across the southern border, but with the federal government inexplicably importing people from Somalia and Afghanistan and, apparently, trying to intensify racial division. It is an astonishment of a high order, the best show in town. How, why, and whither?

A surprising number of people seem unfamiliar with the figures. America is about thirteen percent black, eighteen percent Latino, and something like six percent Asian, whatever that means. Over half of children eighteen and under are not white. Thus in an uncertain but small number of years, America will mostly not be white. This, like sunrise, is going to happen no matter what anyone thinks about it. Wow.

The southern border is largely open. Immigrants pour across the frontier, chiefly Central American, badly educated or actually illiterate, sometimes speaking only Indian languages. Mr. Trump once said that “Mexico is not sending its best.” This is true of all Latin American countries. Cardiac surgeons and systems programmers do not swim the Rio Bravo to pick oranges in Florida. While the influx of Mexicans has decreased with the improvement in the Mexican economy, the Central Americans arrive in droves. Along with them come Haitians, various Africans, and Afghans, groups even less qualified to become American. This seems likely to continue, at least during the administration of Biden.

So how does the racial map look? Latinos concentrated in the Southwest, where they seem certain to become the majority. In California they now outnumber whites. New Mexico, aptly named, seems poised to follow. These states were wrested from Mexico in the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848, so in a sense they are just returning to their origins. Some call it poetic justice. Be that as it may, it is happening, and the concentration in a few states gives Latinos power that they would not have if spread evenly across the country.

Blacks, following a different pattern, dominate America’s cities. Typically the downtown contains a sprawling, impoverished black ghetto, crime-ridden, hopeless, and dangerous, semiliterate, and very angry. Residents have little or no contact with the surrounding country. They exercise control either by electing the city government or just by numbers and intimidation. Philadelphia, Newark, Camden, Trenton, Washington, Richmond, Baltimore, Detroit, St. Louis, Chicago, Milwaukee, New Orleans, Cincinnati, Birmingham, Jackson, and so on. For practical purposes, these cities are not under control of national or state government. Whites dare not walk in them. Black women, seemingly more able than the men to engage in organized effort, are now mayors in Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, St. Louis.

Blacks exercise power out of proportion to their numbers in the population. The reasons are several. Blacks bloc vote. Their percentage of the vote in presidential elections is greater than the margin of victory. In the cities their high rates of crime drive out whites. Governments at all levels are afraid of blacks, who if crossed will riot, loot, and burn. Any attempt to crack down on crime would result in explosion, and everyone knows it, so law does not extend to these regions. In aggregate, these enclaves constitute a sort of distributed country within a country.

Further, blacks now control American culture and politics. This is manifest in the overwhelming presence of blacks in television, popular music, in the toppling of statues and renaming of buildings, military bases, and so on, in the search for systemic racism, the lowering of standards in almost everything, and insistence on racial quotas on boards of corporate directors and high-tech industry.

East Asians and, increasingly, Indians dominate America’s high-tech world. They are less conspicuous than blacks and Latinos, but the country grows rapidly more dependent on them. They make up around seventy percent of the very high-end high schools—Thomas Jefferson in Virginia, Brooklyn, Stuyvesant, Bronx. The pattern holds in the elite tech universities: CalTech, MIT, Harvard. Not only the students but the professors are heavily Asian.

Interestingly, India supplies a growing part of America’s brains. One telling example is that Indians are CEOs of IBM, Google, Twitter, Microsoft, Adobe, and Mastercard, among others.

As US Schools Prioritize Diversity Over Merit, China Is Becoming the World’s STEM Leader

“First, and most obvious, is the deplorable state of our K-12 math education system. Far too few American public-school children are prepared for careers in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM). This leaves us increasingly dependent on a constant inflow of foreign talent, especially from mainland China, Taiwan, South Korea, and India. In a 2015 survey conducted by the Council of Graduate Schools and the Graduate Record Examinations Board, about 55 percent of all participating graduate students in mathematics, computer sciences, and engineering at US schools were found to be foreign nationals.”

So:  The Southwest to Latinos, the cities and culture to blacks, universities and laboratories to the Chinese, and a noticeable savor of curry in managerial ranks. This is America.

Whites? In decline, both proportionately in the population and in dwindling numbers in science and engineering.  This is perhaps most conspicuous in the downgrading of mathematics in schools and universities as being racist.

There is among many whites opposition to what is sometimes called the browning of America. Various, often overlapping, groups with names like the Alt Right, White Nationalists, and Dissident Right. They express alarm over the colorizing of America. Large numbers of whites not formally involved with these groups strongly oppose immigration. Often they are supporters of Trump. Conservative romantics, they accept American founding myths vaguely related to reality and remember the security, amiability, and unity of the former America (which existed: I was there.) They see the country they knew fading, the poor academic performance of blacks and Latinos, crime high and rising, and point to race riots as evidence of decline. Oldsters among them remember a time when you could leave your bicycle anywhere and it would still be there when you came back.

This White Revivalist movement seems dead on arrival. For one thing, the Dissident Righters are in the impossible position of being against all people except whites and, not infrequently, express themselves as favoring only North European whites. This reduces them to political hobbyists, unable to compromise. Further, Latinos are simply not behaving badly enough to support a white racial consciousness. If there were going to be serious conflict between Anglos and Hispanics, California would be the place. Nobody seems interested. Asians? Few whites will be upset over Chinese programmers or Vietnamese wide-area engineers. Finally, white advocates seem to have no practical program beyond closing the border. Their other ideas, such as ending birthright citizenship, would have little effect or, like fantasies of dividing America into three racially pure countries, are impossible. Likewise, laws reinstating racial segregation or forbidding intermarriage have exactly zero chance of coming about. Likewise mass deportations of people who increasingly are citizens. Remember, they vote. For better or worse, the country seems destined to muddle along with what it has.

Whites of European origin, though still a majority, fade in influence. Blacks and Hispanics now have enough votes that neither Republicans nor Democrats can afford to trifle with them. While whites, Asians, and Latinos get along reasonably well, blacks get along with nobody. The attacks on Asians we hear about are all by blacks, who do not like Latinos, and who engage in the Knockout Game against whites. Black crime drives whites and middle-class blacks from the cities. Because the media downplay or conceal problems with blacks, many are unaware of the gravity of circumstances, of the illiteracy and hopelessness and fury in the big ghettos. They exist. Nothing is being done about them and probably nothing can be done.

If there comes a racial explosion in the United States, it will be between black and white. At present the media keep the lid on by concealing violence, and this may be the wisest course, though it is hard to see how it is any more than kicking the can down the road. The following links make depressing reading. Whatever one may think of the author, he seems to have the facts.

30 BLACK-ON-WHITE HOMICIDES, INCLUDING A MOTHER READING THE BIBLE TO HER BABY GIRL: Another Month In The Death Of White America (And Canada), by Kenn Gividen – The Unz Review

20 BLACK-ON-WHITE HOMICIDES: September 2021—Another Month In The Death Of White America (And Canada), by Kenn Gividen – The Unz Review

33 BLACK-ON-WHITE HOMICIDES, Including A Father And His Two Small Boys: December 2020—Another Month In The Death Of White America 33, by Kenn Gividen – The Unz Review

32 BLACK-ON-WHITE HOMICIDES, INCLUDING FIVE HOME INVASIONS: October 2021—Another Month In The Death Of White America, by Kenn Gividen – The Unz Review

Why is all of the foregoing not an accurate description of America today? Where leads the growing dependence on Asians for brainwork? The exodus of stores from cities because of crime? The very real enstupidation of the schools to hide the failings of minorities? The heavy-handed enforcement of centrally devised racial policies on people who don’t want them? Economic decline? You tell me.

https://fredoneverything.org/list/

Read Fred’s Books! Or else. We know where you sleep.

******************************************

FRED REED describes himself as [previously] a “Washington police reporter, former Washington editor for Harper’s and staff writer for Soldier of Fortune magazine, Marine combat vet from Viet Nam, and former long-haul hitchhiker, part-time sociopath, who once lived in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac River from the Yankee Capital.”
His essays “on the collapse of America” Mr. Reed calls “wildly funny, sometimes wacky, always provocative.”
“Fred is the Hunter Thompson of the right,” seconds Thomas E. Ricks in Foreign Policy magazine. His  commentary is “well-written, pungent political incorrectness mixed with smart military commentary and libertarian impulses, topped off with a splash of Third World sunshine and tequila.”

FRED’S BOOKS ARE ON AMAZON, HERE

FRED’S ARTICLES ARCHIVE

Killer Kink

Hardboiled is back! (The exclamation point is to arouse wild enthusiasm int the reader, a boiling literary lust.) Gritty crime fiction by longtime police reporter for the Washington Times, who knows the police from nine years of riding with them. Guaranteed free of white wine and cheese, sensitivity, or social justice.