Category Archives: FRED REED

Fred On Everything by Fred Reed

FRED REED: ‘Say, Mr., Can You Spare a Little Thorazine?’

America, Argument, Conspiracy, COVID-19, FRED REED, Government, Homeland Security, Intelligence, Logic, Reason

“Conspiracy theorists routinely evince this curious lack of interest in facts, data, corroboration. ” Oh, and “Buy Fred’s Books! Tutankhamen didn’t, and He’s Dead. Coincidence?”

BY FRED REED

To me fascinating is a curious fragmentation of thought, as if clusters of neurons were not communicating with others. For example, the hundred concentration camps of FEMA would require many personnel, towns to supply food, roads going to them, and so would be easily found. CTs neither say where these camps are, nor take a weekend and find one, nor show any interest in the question. Conspiracy theories say that the airliner, AA 77, that hit the Pentagon was actually a missile. In that case either AA77 landed safely in LA, its destination, easily checked with a few phone calls, or it never existed, as any travel agency would know. A newspaper reporter would think of these things. CTs don’t and become angry if others do.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I knew it would happen. It did. The anniversary of Nine-Eleven just passed and swarms of conspiracy loons have erupted forth to holler about inside jobs and Israeli demolitions squads and collusion thicker than mayonnaise on Mom’s picnic ham sandwiches and holographic projections and nanoparticles. (Wait. I think nanoparticles are what are in covid vaccines to alter your DNA and make you into a robot. Maybe it’s nanothermite that blows up buildings, or maybe nanotermites that gnaw them down, or something)  All swathed in darkling clouds of subclinical paranoia. There is something mildly wrong with these people. I figure they’ve been sniffing bad glue. The astute John Derbyshire has said that conspiracy theorism is a minor psychic condition like obsessive-compulsive disorder. Sounds about right.

You have to understand about conspiracy theories. They seem almost deliberately squirrelly, lacking substance and checkable specificity. For example, Nine-Eleven theory says that the buildings were demolished by an unspecified number of demolition experts of unspecified origin recruited by unspecified means to place an unspecified quantity of explosives of unspecified origin in an unspecified number of unspecified locations on an unspecified number of floors over an unspecified number of days, weeks, or months, these activities being hidden from notice by a massive workforce by unspecified means.

Is that clear, or what? It’s blank ignorance but it confers theoretic maneuvering room. When you know nothing, you can believe anything.

Conspiracy theorists are intriguing rather than harmful, only borderline nuts, usually able to dress themselves. Some are quite intelligence. Maybe to be truly twisted you need to start with enough string.  It may just be inner-directed anxiety disorder. They don’t care whether there is substance to their theories, ore even whether they really have a theory. Maybe it’s just the of the spirit of the thing.

But it’s exasperating to a former reporter. I listen to this balmy soup and think  ”Ye gods and little catfish, they don’t know anything about their own theory. Or demolitions. Or journalism.”

Curiously, the faithful show no interest in how the Towers were blown up, or whether  they could have been these being details. They are sure they were blown up, though. None of the foregoing unspecified can be evaluated since there really is no theory, just repeated assertion of conspiracy. A reporter cannot fact-check the story because there are no facts to check. Conspiracy theorists routinely evince this curious lack of interest in facts, data, corroboration. For example, they insist that explosions were heard—passive voice—when the buildings came down, but do not wonder why the many video recordings do not contain these explosions. If asked about this absence, some will say that the sounds were edited out. Israeli audio editors presumably.

If you want to blame the Towers  on Israel, come up with a story I can believe. For example, Arabic speaking Mossad agents talked a bunch of Saudis in a bar in Bangkok into doing it. This doesn’t involve lunacy or physical impossibility. It is a serviceable tale of universal applicability. Today we could substitute Russians, Chinese, Trump supporters or Iranians with no loss.

Conspiracy theorists everywhere sense the Hidden Hand, sense dark and malevolent forces invisible to most but detected by those in the know. Typically a government of corporate, and malevolent agents, lurk behind visible events and are often responsible for things that don’t even  exist. For example, FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, has a hundred concentration camps fully manned and ready to be filled with patriots when the country is taken over by whoever is going to take it over.

To me fascinating is a curious fragmentation of thought, as if clusters of neurons were not communicating with others. For example, the hundred concentration camps of FEMA would require many personnel, towns to supply food, roads going to them, and so would be easily found. CTs neither say where these camps are, nor take a weekend and find one, nor show any interest in the question. Similarly, conspiracy loons say that the airliner, AA 77, that hit the Pentagon was actually a missile. In that case either AA77 landed safely in LA, its destination, easily checked with a few phone calls, or it never existed, as any travel agency would know. A newspaper reporter would think of these things. CTs don’t and become angry if others do.

Here we encounter another characteristic of the genre: the multiplication of hypotheses. To protect the theory, they expand it. Explosions in New York were not recorded because the media were in on the plot. The FBI didn’t investigate because it was in on the plot. The white House didn’t…on and on. It doesn’t occur to them that the media don’t cover nonsensical theories because they are nonsensical. No, they are in on it. This intensifies the delicious satisfactions of seeing the Hidden Hand.

Oddly, CTs lack emotional response to horrendous crimes.  It is as if they both believe but simultaneously don’t.  If you, the reader, thought that the Israelis had murdered three thousand Americans, would you not be angry? Yet in reading volumes and in conversation with leading Israel-did-its, I have not heard an angry word at the Israelis doing it. I have been the object of fury for saying they didn’t.

Or, if an Air Force F-16 had killed a large number of people at the Pentagon with a missile, would you not want to investigate and bring the scoundrels to justice? It would be easy enough. For reasons obvious to anyone familiar with the Armed forces, such an attack would involve many people and leave major evidentiary trails. Yet the faithful do not think of this, evince no outrage, demand no investigation. Huh? Conspiracying seems a sort of psychic hobby, maybe, for people who really want to live in a comic book.

Conspiracy theorists seem politically conservative. Liberals have their own mental dislocations, inventing an imaginary world they would like to exist and then trying to move into it, resulting in policies unrelated to observable reality. But they don’t see strange shapes twisting at the verge of vision. The conservative’s is a darker view of life, more realistic and grimmer. I think of liberals as tweeters and conservative as woofers, but maybe that’s just me.

Conspiracy wackos also are overwhelmingly male. Someone once said that men, always wanting to slay dragons, wreck cars, or  conquer empires, are romantics pretending to be realists and that women are realists pretending to be romantics. Well, it fits.

Then there is the Blob Mind, the aggregation of hundreds, sometimes many hundreds, of people into agglomerations all of whose minds apparently are connected into one entity. Consider the Navy ships that decades ago were said to have shot down an airliner leaving New York. At least five hundred anarchic and voluble sailors would know of this and tell their families and everybody in every bar for fifty miles around. CTs say “the Navy” suppressed the truth, as if all military personnel had their minds connected by invisible wires and appropriate thought pumped in from some underground control room. In many conspiracies, “the media”, similarly wired, hide the truth. Do the owners of thousands of publications tell their section editors who tell their vast swarms not to cover a story which any of them would kill his grandmother to break—“Don’t cover the biggest story in fifty years”? These large groups all act as multicellular, unvolitional beings under remote control.

Covid spawns conspiracy theories like oyster spawn eggs, bathing the world in subtreatable paranoia. On the same website you can read that it doesn’t exist, being just the seasonal flue and that it is a plot to depopulate the earth; that the vaccines contains nanoparticles, microchips, and substances to reprogram your genome; that the government (I think) is hiding miracle cures such as hydroquinone (an antiplasmodial, vitamin D, zinc, and a worm poison; hospitals are lying about the number of deaths, some exaggerating and others minimizing them. How you depopulate the earth with a disease that doesn’t exist isn’t clear. They don’t ask, so it doesn’t matter. There seems to be a tacit gentlemen’s agreement, or honor among cracked pots, holding that I won’t criticize your theory if you won’t criticize mine, though they are mutually contradictory

Further, a CT mindset exists. A normal person might believe in one Conspiracy through limited investigation and interest, but people who believe in one Conspiracy almost always believe in several.

And now I must run, to find a hotel room downtown. The CIA is burrowing a tunnel under my house, coming from Roswell, and I don’t want to be here when the collapse comes.

Buy Fred’s Books! Tutankhamen didn’t, and He’s Dead. Coincidence?

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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 in 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.

FRED REED: Vendetta Over Alabama

America, Art, Crime, Culture, FRED REED, Kids, Music, Race, Relatives, The South

Fred remembers barefooted boyhood, Red Ryder BB guns, pocket knives; shooting water moccasins and making homemade ordnance; teachers who taught the Three Rs, history, the sciences; gin made the right way, the occasional paddle, but no crime, and dulcet Southern speech that flowed slow and sweet like Karo syrup

BY FRED REED

In the mid-1950s my family arrived in Athens, Alabama, I being eleven, my father a mathematician working at the Army Ballistic Missile Agency in nearby Huntsville. Athens was small, the county seat of Limestone County. The town square had the courthouse in the middle with the statue of a Confederate soldier and a Baptist church. The library was a frame building with many books and, at least in memory, a musty smell and there was Athens College, now grandiosely Athens University.

The age was politically fraught after Brown, though I didn’t know it. The South was then under siege, isolated, ingrown, defiant, idiosyncratic, tightly segregated, and determined to keep it that way. It was what it was and liked it–a land of guns, NASCAR, hot rods, dogs, and defined sexes. Dixie was the only pungent, culturally distinctive part of the country outside of New York City. An American Sicily, it shaped American music. Gospel, Southern blacks. Blues, Southern blacks. Cajun, Southern whites. Zydeco. Dixieland jazz, Southern blacks and whites. Bluegrass, Southern whites. Country, Southern whites. Rockabilly, Southern whites. Rock, Southern blacks and whites.

There was a regionalism, the attachment to the battle flag, a profound locality which amounted to “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” a residual, hopeless rebelliousness against the crushing power of the North.

The times were looser then, less hectored and watched. Rules were few because people knew how to behave without them. Athenians supervised their own lives and it seemed to work. The dog went out in the morning, visited such places as she thought fit and came back when it suited her. Nobody cared. It was what dogs did. We kids went barefoot, supporting the minor agony of the first week until our feet hardened to leather. In summer nothing seemed hurried. Barefoot and BB-gunned, we went forth on glowing green mornings to see what adventure offered.

Small boys carried pocket knives everywhere because no one could think of a reason why  not. There was no telling when you might need to sharpen a stick or put notches on a spool tank for traction. Teachers ignored pocket knives, though they waxed wroth over the passing of notes. BB guns were part of our anatomy, like an extra arm. There were two varieties. The plebeian Red Ryder, plain, dark brown, and functional, for four dollars, and the patrician Daisy Eagle, with plastic telescopic sight, for I think eight. Both were lever-action. They were an accepted part of society. Every corner store sold round cardboard tubes of a hundred BBs which we poured rattlingly into the barrel. Nobody thought twice about this. When you went into Limestone Drug, you left your BB gun in the corner. But more of that shortly.

In Athens in a minor valley there was the appropriately name Valley Gin Company. It was the kind of gin that took seeds out of cotton, not the kind making vodka unpalatable by the addition of juniper juice. It was of corrugated iron, run down like so much of the South, and abandoned except in cotton-picking time. There was much brush around and a creek ran through the valley, crossed by an iron foot bridge.

Here I came on the long afternoons of the Southland to lean over the bridge rail and shoot water moccasins. Actually I think they were harmless water snakes but water moccasins better caught the spirit.  There is such a thing as too much truth.

In the cool and shade of what is now another world, minnows sparkled in clear water and dragonflies flitted in metallic blues and greens. We knew them as “snake doctors,” though elsewhere they were “the devil’s darning needles,” or “mosquito hawks.” They were fast, agile, ferocious looking and I often tried to shoot them, but never with any luck.

The years with a BB gun would not be entirely without benefit. Discharging the shiny little balls against the sky, watching the coppery glint recede through the air, we developed an eye for windage and elevation, that lives later in Marine boot camp would make me the only recruit in a platoon of city kids who could shoot, and this avoided much punitive labor.

The South had not recovered from the Civil War and, along with a middle class like any other, there was poverty. A few kids had teeth blackened with decay and one that I remember had to have his entire dentition pulled. My friend Charlie Cox lived in a shack with a light bulb dangling on a wire. Athens was the county seat of Limestone County and so comparatively advanced but in nearby Ardmore County, if memory serves, instead of summer vacation kids got off at cotton chopping and cotton-picking time.

The Limestone Drugstore was on the town square, and still is, across the courthouse and the statue of the Confederate soldier. It had the usual things one has in a drug store but also several marble-topped round tables and accompanying chairs, a soda fountain with pimply soda jerk, and a large rack of comic books. The Limestone was not a Northern chain, impelled by cutthroat acquisitiveness from corporate in New Jersey, and so was relaxed. The owner, or so we thought he was, was an old man in his seventies we all knew as Coochie, with frizzy red hair. He liked little boys. Not lasciviously as would be suspected today. He just liked kids.

I think Coochie used the comic rack as bait. Probably in all its years the Limestone never sold a comic book, or tried to. We came in, a legion of eleven-year-olds, and piled our BB guns and fielder’s mitts in a corner. It wasn’t a rule, but have you tried to read Plastic Man while holding a BB gun, baseball glove, and cherry coke? We grabbed several comics, by now crumbling and settled in. We spent hours deep in Batman, Green Lantern, Superman. It probably improved our reading, but I don’t know. I can still name Superman’s girlfriends, Lois Lane, Linda Lee, and Lana Lang, as well as Jor-El and Lara, and three different colors of kryptonite. Don’t tell me we wasted our time.

Athens Elementary, where I went to sixth and seventh grades, was not yet integrated and so had none of the problems that would soon come. The teachers were college-educated women, these not yet being siphoned off into biochemistry. They believed their job was to teach the Three Rs, as did teachers all across America then, as well as history, the sciences, and so on. There were no discipline problems to amount to anything though the Board of Education, a substantial paddle, existed to ameliorate the aborning ardor of adolescence. I once fell afoul of this instrument. It didn’t come to much.

The South did not know what to do about the Negro. His dark face loomed over everything. Integration was coming, and people knew what it would do. It did. Segregation couldn’t last, but integration couldn’t work. This left few possibilities.

At the time, virtually no contact between races existed. The water fountains on the town square said White and Colored, the bathrooms in gas stations, Men, Women, and Colored. It the movie theater, known to us as the “pitcher show,” blacks sat in the lower right-hand seats. I barely remember seeing Negros and to this day I don’t know where the black school was. About this time Emmett Till was beaten to death by Klan wannabes in Mississippi. Most people were decent. Some weren’t.

Crime did not yet exist, though it does now. Children could roam wild until late on summer nights with no hazard. A favorite haunt was the Kreme Delight a soft ice cream stand in the style of, who would have thought it, the Fifties. On summer nights yellow neon buzzed and so did bugs attracted by them and children attracted by the ice cream, though we didn’t buzz. Kreme Delight is still there. We got spiral swirls of chocolate or vanilla and felt independent in the night though of course we weren’t. If Annette Funicello had appeared and asked for a double malt, she would have fit. Young studs in their late teens drove around in fitty-six Ford convertibles, hair slicked back in tidal waves, cigarette dangling from corner of mouth, approaching manhood, well aware of it, and maybe trying to hurry things a little. Hopped-up mills, bad-ass V-8s, idled potato potato potato maybe, not really hopped up but with a hole in the muffler but it was close enough. Nothing is better than driving around the gathering point with your best girl and a noisy motor and hoping you look like Elvis. With me it was Hojo’s in Fredericksburg, Virginia years later, but the principle doesn’t change. Or if it has, we’ve lost something.

The South had much on its conscience regarding the Negro. One day Northern cities would have sprawling, semiliterate, segregated ghettos where there would be thousands of blacks killed every year, poverty, drug addiction, phenomenal crime, but these were in the future. Now it is the North that does not know what to do. Some Southerners might say, let them choke on it.

Having no more orality than is good for a small boy, I figured out how to steal twelve-gauge shotgun shells from the country store near our house by putting them in the center of a roll of toilet paper and buying it. I do not know what disease the store’s owner thought might afflict my family. We then cut the shot charge from the shell with a Buck knife—as mentioned, small boys then routinely carried pocket knives with no ill effect, unless you were a twelve-gauge shell of course. We then put the powder charge on the end of a BB gun barrel , shot the primer, and–fwoosh!—a most satisfying spray of sparks erupted.

We were probably dangerous. At least I hope we were. We took bicycle spokes and pressed match heads into the cavity, followed by a piece of birdshot, and held a match under the ensemble. A satisfying snap! Followed. I think this an important chapter in the history of American ordnance. There was a way, too complex to explain here so it will be lost forever, to turn a clothes pin into a gun that will shoot a flaming kitchen match for at least three feet. Do not think that we misspent our time.

My family first lived in a big decaying house on Pryor Street, near the country store. I was for some time known, mostly in jest, as the “Dam Yank on the corner,” until I learned the soft Rococo accents that God meant us to use. People didn’t like Yankees. I guess I still don’t if it means morally pretentious New Englanders. Hitchhiking years later in the humid stillness of the Mississippi Delta, where speech flowed slow and sweet like Karo syrup dripping on busted China, I decided the language had reached its pinnacle of dignity and humility. But Alabama was close.

My parents were Cavalier Virginians from Southside and knew participles from gerunds. My mother once asked one of my friends whether he would like to lunch with us. With curtsey native to the state, he replied, “No, thank you, Ma’am. I has done et.” She was horrified. Other elocutions were, “You ain’t got the sense god give a crabapple,” and, “do that again and I’ll slap the far outa you.” Fire. Sometimes it was “slap the livin’ dogsnot,” but that is rude, so we will omit it here.

A high point of my young life, or at least a point, was the discovery of the science building of Athens College, where my father taught chemistry as a sideline. The building wasn’t locked. In the library of the college in the encyclopedia Britannica I found the formula for thermite, a fearsomely high-temperature incendiary. (If interested, powdered aluminum and iron oxide. It proved  effective for burning Tokyo should you ever need to do that.) Anyway, I found the materials in the science building. Perry James, son of the college president, and I put some in his mother’s prize frying pan, thinking if immune to high temperatures. The resulting hole caused…well, it caused.

Being something of a mad scientist, I made rockets that didn’t work with zinc, sulfur, and stolen potassium permanganate, invented the mnemonic prometanatel, for prophase, metaphase, anaphase, and telophase. This has not materially furthered my trajectory through life, but neither has it done harm. Free access to a science building has much to recommend it.

Athens was a monoculture and so at peace with itself. The kids had names like Jimmy-jack ‘Callister, Sally-Carol Jenkins, Johnny Loggins, or Billy-Joe Faulkner. There were exceptions, such as Sanders Dupree and my buddy Don Berzette, but these were few and, I think Protestant like us. Athens was in the Bible Belt and everyone took it seriously or at least went with the current.  The parts about fornication may have received less intense attention than others among teenagers but I don’t know because I wasn’t one. But I suspected. All were white. There is something to be said for this.

Ages later, on a mountain side in Peru while working as a journalist, I ran into a National-Guardplatoon from Athens. Did they know Don? I asked. Yep.

My family left Athens after a couple of years. Sputnik had gone into orbit and was saying beep beep humiliatingly. This couldn’t be tolerated. Desperate effort had gone into getting a Jupiter C rocket also into orbit. My family went to Redstone Arsenal to see a celebratory mockup. It was wickedly cold and a determined patriotic model in bikini stood grimly by the exhibit. Sputnik had the salutary effect of raising salaries for mathematicians and my father, a loyal son of the South, got a better deal at Dahlgren Naval Proving Ground, as it was then know, in rural Virginia. I have ever since thought well of the Russians.

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.

NEW COLUMN: Republican Strategy for Winning: Defend the Enemy’s Embryos

Abortion, Argument, Conservatism, Economy, FRED REED, IMMIGRATION, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim, Liberty, Republicans, Taxation

NEW COLUMN IS “Remember: Republicans Are An Arm Of The UniParty,” on WND.COM and The New American, alternatively called “Republican Strategy for Winning: Defend the Enemy’s Embryos” on The Unz Review.

To put it mildly, Republicans defending the enemy’s embryos is not a strategy for winning.

Also, since the UniParty = treason; our salvation lies in informal acts of secession—even if Victor Davis Hanson keeps mistakenly and appallingly calling this proposed political divorce a “succession”, as he condemns peaceful disunity (and piles on that tragic but great American hero, Joe McCarthy!)

I think it’s thematic. I think I brought all that together. If it’s more chaotic than thematic— you’ll tell me.

More here:

Remember: Republicans Are An Arm Of The UniParty” is on WND.COM, The New American, and The Unz Review.

FRED REED: Fairies, Poltergeists, Incubi & Libertad de la Prensa: The Delusion of Free Speech

China, Constitution, FRED REED, Free Speech, Government, Individual Rights, Private Property, Technology

How much does [Big Tech censorship] differ from censorship in, say, China? Answer: In China people know they are watched. There is nothing subtle about it. How many Americans are really aware of the foregoing?

BY FRED REED

When a government does not itself impose censorship people may think they have freedom of speech, or can be made to think they do, even though they don’t. In America, the government does not need to, uh, “redact.“ Private entities—credit card companies, social media, search engines and so on—do for government what it cannot do openly for itself: Prevent expression of inappropriate thought.

Many believe that the First Amendment guarantees this freedom, if they have heard of the First Amendment. But the Amendment does not apply to private companies. It doesn’t have to. The huge corporations, not just the social media but financial services and mainstream outlets, can censor, directly or indirectly, as they like. “As they like” invariably means “as the formal government,” of which they are in effect branches, like.

Herewith some examples. For quite a while this column was homeported at the Unz Review. The site has now been heavily censored. Recently I asked Ron Unz, the owner, what happened. His response:

Sure, Fred.  Basically, we were banned from Facebook (i.e. nothing
containing unz.com can appear there or even be sent in private
messages).  More importantly, all our pages were “deranked” from every
Google search, meaning they’re now absolutely at the bottom of all
search results…Not only was our rudimentary Facebook page eliminated, but all subsequent attempts to  post our articles to the world’s largest social network produced an error message describing the content as “abusive.” Our entire website had been banned.

The Review is not calculated to make friends with everybody, among other things being obsessively and, I would say imaginatively, hostile to Jews, but this is hardly uncommon, and the site has never advocated violence, implicitly or otherwise,  against anyone. The whole idea of freedom of the press was to protect expression of ideas regardless of who liked them.

Then there is American Renaissance, a white advocacy site that urges no crime, (again) explicitly or implicitly. Follow the link and see for yourself if so inclined. It talks about such things as black crime, unrestricted immigration, and argues that affirmative action lowers standards. You may not agree with all of its ideas—I don’t—or any of them. But they are mainstream ideas held by tens of millions and deal with political questions of large importance.

I asked Jared Taylor, the webmaster and a graduate of Yale in philosophy with additionally a diplôme in international relations from l’institut d’études politiques de Paris about censorship of the site and of himself. His response:

Dear Fred,

The list is long. This is what I recall:

Facebook: my personal account and the AmRen account were canceled.

Twitter: my personal account and AmRen account.

PayPal:  my personal account and AmRen account.

YouTube: Our video and podcast channels.

Amazon: Almost all of our books, both print and Kindle are banned. Also, we were unable to use special programs for non-profits because Amazon consults and abides by an SPLS list of “bad” non-profits.

Google: Almost always fails to include our pages in search results. Contrast with Duck Duck Go is striking.

Credit card processors: I don’t know how many — maybe eight or ten? — have refused to do business with us.

Email servers: Four or five but all the big ones, such as MailChimp and Constant Contact.

Advertising: Google ads, and every mainstream internet ad service.

Printshop: Our local printer of 20 years, Instyprints, decided what we were printing was intolerable…If you try to include an AmRen link in a tweet or Facebook post the recipient will get a nasty warning that AmRen could be a fraudulent or phishing site.”

This sort of thing is done to many. Question: How much does it differ from censorship in, say, China? Answer: In China people know they are watched. There is nothing subtle about it. How many Americans are really aware of the foregoing?

An argument of sorts could be made that with divisions as sharp as currently exist in America, nothing that might increase antagonism should be published. But this standard is not applied to, say, BLM. American censorship is purely partisan. Exactly as it is in China.

You may not like Donald Trump. I don’t. But when a few men at the top of the social media can censor a major politician with a huge following of almost half of the electorate and a former president, it is what the First Amendment intended to prevent. It is legal, though, because the companies are private. If Biden tried to do this by executive order, all hell would break loose.  In the past newspapers were as biased, but there might be five papers in a city, so you had contending biases. Now we have five national newspapers—Google, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and the Wikipedia—all thinking the same thing and all, I suspect, with CEOs socializing among themselves.

The major media also are tightly controlled, but rely on the principle that when people get used to something, they don’t notice it. Note that the media  allow nothing in favor of the Second Amendment or Trump, against abortion, Israel, sexual aberrations, or immigration, about black crime or racial intelligence. Coverage of the wars is so slight as to constitute censorship, especially of coverage that would make the carnage evident. Military industry and its gigantic cost are strikingly unpresent. The police are never allowed to present their side of events. You can be fired for using the wrong word or phonemes, even if it was fifteen years ago in a private email—and email is forever: You can never tell when it will surface to bite you. Think Synopticon.

Violeta likes to watch television series on Netflix from around the world from an interest in the general tenor of life overseas: South America, China, Japan, South Korea. (All have Spanish subtitles.) All the Chinese series, she reports, have disappeared. With Washington whumping up war fever against Beijing, presumably it thought undesirable that Americans see the Chinese as attractive people greatly more moral than Americans. Mommy knows best.

The granularity of censorship becomes ever finer. I am a minor hobbyist columnist of no importance with several thousand subscribers. For maybe twenty years I had an entry on the Wikipedia. (Fred Reed ) It is now gone. I had I’ll guess between twenty and thirty photos of me that appeared if you Googled on “Fred Reed” and clicked on images. Most are gone. I don’t suggest that the world yearns to look at me, but to point out that a largely unknown and unimportant columnist is thought worth censoring. My disappearance may have been accomplished algorithmically or by some woke 22-year-old twerp editing at the Wikipedia—I doubt that I rank high in the consciousness of Mark Zuckerberg–but it happened.

The Wikipedia, a major source for much of the population, is heavily censored regarding taboo topics. Search on “race and intelligence” or something similar. It is of great important to society, answering such questions as whether lower outcomes for a particular race are the result of discrimination or of lower ability. A great deal of careful scientific research has been done on this, including IQ, neurological, and so on.

When I made the suggested search, the first entry began with something like, “claims of different levels of intelligence have been used to promote hate, etc.,” and the second with the assertion that race has no biological meaning.”

Hitler’s Mein Kampf is a major historical document crucial to understanding the events of the last century. While fascinating to the educated, it would be intensely boring to the ignorant and those under thirty in America, given the dimming of the schools. It certainly isn’t inflammatory. I listened to all of it in an excellent translation from Audible.com without instigating a single pogrom.

The Audible version is now gone, and Amazon does not have it in any format.

Mein Kampf Audible Amazon has only a book of Hitler’s speeches: Amazon. You can bet it has been appropriately edited.

But, as Bush I said, the world hates us for our freedoms. Uh-huh. Sho’ nuff.

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

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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.