Category Archives: Race

FRED REED: Life in the Short Run: Desperation Examined

Crime, Drug War, Education, Energy, Europe, FRED REED, IMMIGRATION, Multiculturalism, Race, Racism, Russia

…the problem isn’t … racism. For example, I have no racial aversion to the Japanese, whom in fact I quite admire. Yet if every time I passed a Japanese on the street, he punched me in the face, I would quickly come to detest the Japanese. Would this be racism?

BY FRED REED

America faces disaster in its relations with blacks. We don’t admit it. Those in power seek desperately to hide this. Governments, politicians, the media and academia insist that what is happening isn’t. But it is. Censoring expression is easier than preventing awareness, though, and awareness grows.

What is happening is both awful and of grim portent. Blacks kill each other in thousands annually in the cities. They murder dozens of whites and Asians monthly in unprovoked attacks. The killers are often groups of young blacks of both sexes. The Knockout Game flourishes. Coverage of this is either nonexistent or duplicitous. For example, The constant attacks on Asians,, not infrequently involving a strong black man punching out an aging Asian woman, are described as racism. They are, but the racism is of blacks, blacks commit all of the attacks on Asians.

In city after city, violent crime runs at appalling levels and grows: Philadelphia, St. Louis, New Orleans, New York, Baltimore, Chicago. The accounts never mention who the criminals are. Cameras do. Surveillance videos of black mobs ransacking stores in malls—of black shoplifters calmly sweeping merchandise from store shelves into bags—do not appear on CNN, but they traverse the internet.

This can´t go on forever. Anger grows among nonblacks, among targeted Asians and whites and Latinos, among businesses forced out of cities, but the anger too is censored (video) by the media. Journalists don’t write about crime as that would be racist, and read only each other, and so don’t know what, likely, is coming.

Crime is not the only component of the collapse. The maleducation of blacks is a parallel disaster. Here again society prefers censorship to amelioration. An example was the discovery that in Baltimore whole schools lacked a single student reading at the “proficient” level. Many other schools had only a few. It later turned out that many were in fact reading at the first-grade level and that administrators were hiding it. This is not news. It is catastrophe. Those kids will be angry and unemployable for the next half-century.

The failures of blacks are variously attributed to the lingering effects of slavery, to poverty, discrimination, racism, or genetics. It makes no practical difference. None of these can be changed in the short run, meaning at least the next decade. The short run is where we live.

It is worth knowing what the problem isn’t. It isn’t racism. For example, I have no racial aversion to the Japanese, whom in fact I quite admire. Yet if every time I passed a Japanese on the street, he punched me in the face, I would quickly come to detest the Japanese. Would this be racism? If mobs of Japanese turned cities into abattoirs, looted stores, and beat people of other races unconscious, would disliking them be racism?

Here we arrive at Fred’s First Law of Practical Sociology: It’s the behavior, stupid. The majority of Americans will accept members of races that are productive, Anglophone, agreeable, and not criminal. If your new dentist turns out to be a Chinese woman, do you reach for your gun?? Or think of more pressing things, like folding your laundry?

A few examples.  My wife, a Mexicana, has been perfectly accepted all across America. My son-in-law, a Salvadoran, has risen to semi diplomatic status in the Pentagon. The (then) young Vietnamese woman who came out of Saigon with me in that now-ancient evacuation married a young white fellow who retired some years ago as a bird colonel, She has experienced no opprobrium in the military. Sixty-some million Latinos have come to America. Given the magnitude of the influx, the lack of race riots and the like astonishes.  Asians such as Chinese and Indians prosper. While it is not quite true that they are all programmers at Google, it is importantly close to true. Few notice. Inattention is the highest form of acceptance.

Most races assimilate with little difficulty. A couple of years ago a friend got me an appointment with an ophthalmologist at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. This turned out to be Dr. Yassine Daoud, Lebanese, a former street urchin raised largely in a Palestinian refugee camp who, by a combination of brains, luck, and Harvard Med, ended up a star surgeon at Hopkins. On another occasion I saw an ophthalmologist at EDOW, Eye Doctors of Washington. She turned out to be Dr. Deepika Shah who, by a brown cast and her name, I placed from somewhere east of Suez. University of Virginia, med school at Penn, highly impressive resume, and pretty (look, I’m a guy. Deal with it.) The clinic’s insurance woman was named Martinez.  On the same trip at my bank the assistant manager and perhaps a teller were Mexican, perfect but slightly accented English. In Austin the eye doctor was Dr. Annie Chan, Chinese, and her clinic’s admin staff were Mexican women. A friend in Austin told me that it was common for Mexican girls to take two years of junior college and move into low-level office—i.e., white-collar—jobs.

This is a poor fit with nativist predictions that immigrants would not learn English, live twelve in a room on welfare, live by crime, spread bedbugs, and try to turn America into something called Aztlan, a mythical form of Mexico.

Is the current behavior of blacks inherent, perhaps genetic? It would seem not. In the Forties, when racism was real and virulent, illegitimacy, crime, illiteracy, and unemployment among blacks were much lower. New Yorkers of my acquaintance describe recently arrived Nigerians as courteous, honest, and self-supporting. When I was in high school in rural Virginia, back before the invention of fire, white kids went to King George High, blacks to Ralph Bunche, but there was no crime, shooting (unless you were a deer), or the horrendous illiteracy of today’s urban blacks. Walter Williams, the now-deceased black professor of economics and conservative columnist, at George Mason University, grew up in the housing projects of Philadelphia in the Thirties. He reported that there were the usual schoolyard fights, but no weapons, no attacks on teachers, and that kids could read. Anyone interested in the life of blacks in Mississippi in the Twenties might read Richard Wright’s Black Boy and Uncle Tom’s Children. There was no resemblance to today’s Chicago. There was horrendous racial discrimination.

Well and good. But what is or isn’t inherent matters not at all. We live in the short term and have to deal with what is.

While most races get along, blacks don’t. They assimilate too slowly to ward off whatever looms. A blowup is far from impossible. Note that it would be much worse for blacks than whites. Nonblacks are far more numerous. Food comes from distant farms owned by whites. Blacks depend on nonblacks perhaps much more than they realize. The cities would not recover for many years from a levantamiento, nor would race relations. We had better figure out how to prevent something we won’t like at all. Any of us.

The black center of gravity is the sprawling urban ghetto, a place where you can ride for long hours with the police, as I often have done, without seeing a white face. These places amount to a distributed foreign country. Rejection of the surrounding culture is intense, as evidenced by the adoption of unusual names like Latoya and Deewan. Little to no contact with the greater country exists. The social pathologies—illegitimacy, chaotic schools, drugs, welfare dependency, gangs, illiteracy—seem intractable. Whether they will remain so decades down the line is a question for the long term for people as yet unborn. Now is the short term. It is where we are.

The gravamen of the problem lies in the crime. It is this that swells the ranks of nativist groups and arouses growing anger in whites, Asians, Latinos. Without the lawlessness, various cures or palliatives might be tried. With the crime, growing anger among nonblacks leads to desire for harsh measures, long sentences, more police better armed and less restrained, segregation, anything to end the loss of civilization. What can be done about it? Most likely, nothing. Criminality is so out of control that a police solution would seem a war against blacks with burning of cities. Something akin to martial law would be needed even to make the attempt. Governments know this. They will do nothing.

Curiously, current policy in many jurisdictions is to eliminate bail so that serious criminals as well as shoplifters are released within hours of being apprehended. This increases a sense of impunity among black criminals that is much easier to grant than to take back.

It is worrisome that as the horror stories traverse the internet, videos of beatings, accounts of sharp increases in car jackings and lootings, non-whites who in the past would have said nothing become more openly angry. A friend in St. Louis, as decent a man as I have known, of liberal background, now says privately it is time for whites to begin shooting back. He loathes the nightly gunfire, the uncontrolled drag racing on public streets, the death of culture, the flight of the tax base.

We are winding a spring.

The solution? Nobody is even looking for one.  The politics of race consists entirely of warring groups calling each other names and pols trolling for votes with actual problems being innocent bystanders. Naming streets for Harriet Tubman and tearing down Confederate statues are feelgood measures for some that increase anger and division while doing nothing for or about blacks. Guns cannot be eliminated any time soon, the issue being at most a rallying cry of Bidenites against Deplorables. Throwing money offers little prospect.  Building Olympic gyms for inner-city schools will produce schools with Olympic gyms and unchanged pathologies. Increasing the salaries of teachers? Teachers with more money and unchanged pathologies.

Similarly, railing against drugs is political theater.  Drugs are too important a part of the American economy with too many pols on the take and too many banks wallowing in laundered money. Suggesting that black girls should marry before reproducing evokes shrieks of fury from feminists and the media, though rafts of studies have revealed that black kids with two parents do much better is school and engage in much less crime. And so on. In sum, anything that is politically possible won’t work, and anything that will work is politically impossible.

What now, Kemo Sabe?

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

Since everybody and his insane aunt in the attic is emoting over the sabotage of the Nordstream pipelines and who done it, I’ll throw in my thoughts, such as they are. The question is who benefits? The answer is the United States, which has been trying desperately to block Nordstream II for years. Why sabotage now? In Europe, heating, electricity, energy for factories, and fertilizer come from cheap Russian pipeline gas. All of the foregoing, including inflation, go up sharply without it. When things get cold and ugly come, say, January, European publics might start thinking, To hell with the Ukraine, we better drop sanctions on Russia and get our gas back. This would screw Washington’s war against Russia and end all hope of shutting down Nordstream II. Solution? Blow up all the pipelines, which has the added advantage of forcing Europe to buy expensive US gas. The Europeans, fragile things, won’t have the courage to say this.

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.

WATCH: Martha’s Vineyard Migrants Get Civil Rights Lawyers; January 6 Prisoners Dumped By GOP

Conservatism, Critique, Democracy, Democrats, Elections, Ilana Mercer, Individual Rights, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim, Populism, Propaganda, Race, Republicans, Terrorism, THE ELITES, The Establishment

WATCH THE NEW HARD TRUTH PODCAST: “Martha’s Vineyard Migrants Get Civil Rights Lawyers; January 6 Prisoners Dumped By GOP,” with David Vance and myself. 

Please Subscribe

In the latest Hard Truth, David and ilana highlight the out of control tyranny of the Democrats exemplified in Biden’s Philadelphia hate speech, 2nd September, in which he identified 80 million Trump voters as domestic terrorists. ilana highlights the supine response from the Establishment GOP which fails to confront Biden’s hate speech and in many ways colludes with it against MAGA. At a time when young white kids are being beaten to a pulp in the classroom by a core Democrat supporter base, GOP cucks wring their hands, look away, and whine about “gasoline prices and inflation.” The tragic irony is that the US is being turned into a place where criminal aliens are gifted with civil rights lawyers, as January 6th political prisoners are left to rot behind bars. And that’s a very hard truth indeed.

https://rumble.com/v1l00hh-marthas-vineyard-migrants-get-civil-rights-lawyers-january-6-prisoners-dump.html

NEW COLUMN: Mourning The Queen— But Did Elizabeth II Drop The Ball?

Africa, Britain, Colonialism, Communism, Constitution, Democracy, Etiquette, Nationalism, Nationhood, Race, Socialism

NEW COLUMN is “Mourning The Queen— But Did Elizabeth II Drop The Ball?” It is now on WND.COM and The Unz Review.

Excerpt:

It cannot be denied that Queen Elizabeth II of blessed memory partook in the decision to support the unchecked majority rule of the African National Congress (ANC) in South Africa, my homeland.

Like her Majesty at the time, most politicians and public intellectuals thought nothing of delivering South Africa into the hands of professed radical Marxist terrorists. Yet any one suggesting such folly to the wise Margaret Thatcher risked taking a hand-bagging.

The Iron Lady had ventured that grooming the ANC as South Africa’s government-in-waiting was tantamount to “living in cloud-cuckoo land.” (Into The Cannibal’s Post: Lessons for America from Post-Apartheid South Africa, p. 147.)

But what do you know? Queen Elizabeth did just that! Over Mrs. Thatcher’s objections, in 1987 the queen had bullied Prime Minister Thatcher to sanction South Africa.

And in 1979, noted British paleolibertarian Sean Gabb, the queen also muscled Mrs. Thatcher to go back on her election promise not to hand Rhodesia over to another bunch of white-hating black Marxists.

Most disquieting to decency: Although search engines are energetically scrubbing this fact from the Internet—the Queen had knighted Robert Mugabe. Mugabe was chief warlord of Zimbabwe, formerly Rhodesia (may that country rest in peace).   

To quote Into the Cannibal’s Pot, the book aforementioned:

“By the time the megalomaniac Robert Mugabe was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II (1994)—and given honorary doctorates from the Universities of Edinburgh (1984), Massachusetts (1986), and Michigan (1990)—he had already done his “best” work: slaughtering some 20,000 innocent Ndebele in Matabeleland (1983). Western conventional wisdom was no wiser. (And the United Nations responded invariably by … condemning Israel.)” P. 134.

Sidebar:

Mugabe was nothing if not consistent in his contempt for all life.

Question: What do you call a “person” who butchers and barbeques baby elephant?

Answer: A motherf–ker. Lowbrow Robert Mugabe, as Foreign Policy magazine had reported in 2015, “celebrated his 91st birthday followed by a lavish party with an exotic menu, reportedly including barbequed baby elephant.”

Is it any wonder Dr. Gabb took a different measure of her Majesty in 2012, dubbing her “Elizabeth the Useless“? Gabb’s “Sixty Years a Rubber Stamp” unfurls a list of her Majesty’s acts of constitutional omission, if not unconstitutional commission. …

…THE REST. NEW COLUMN, “Mourning The Queen— But Did Elizabeth II Drop The Ball?,” is now on WND.COM and The Unz Review.

* Screen picture via Daily Mail

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.

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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.