Category Archives: Relationships

Ed Dutton On ‘What Kind of Women Have Abortions?’

Abortion, Crime, Ethics, Race, Relationships

The remarkable mind of Ed Dutton on “What Kind of Women Have Abortions?“:

Regarding the “Take ’em out of the gene pool” aspect of abortion: I’ve long commented that the incontrovertibly demented progressives should be encouraged to scrape out their wombs. Or, at least, left to their own devices, however sad. As have I mentioned two economists, John J. Donohue III and Steven D. Levitt, who’ve shown abortion to reduce crime in a statistically significant way, because of the cohort that has abortion.

BUT Ed Dutton’s round-up of this and other arguments is magnificent–and mind-shifting. For one thing, it’s like watching a machine gun fire — so easy to follow because not a word or a thought is superfluous. For another, one can humbly say that, no, I have not considered all these arguments. It’s not that one must necessarily agree—I am not a biological reductionist—but this is the meaning of genius. It makes one think:

FRED REED: Shere Khan: Another Kind of Woman

America, Asia, FRED REED, Gender, GUNS, Relationships

‘Those self-defense karate classes for women are worse than a joke because they …just piss the guy off. But five rounds to the center of mass will make almost anybody lose his erection.’


Years ago I went in winter annually to Denver to visit friends and get in a week or two of skiing on the Front Range. I was a tolerable blue-slope skier but no more. Sometimes on weekdays we went to the Loveland slopes, utterly empty of people, chill blue sky stretching forever, long, easy runs in the cold, absolute silence except for the hissing of the skis. You could almost believe the world was a good place.

One year we went in the evening to Boulder to visit Donna Duvall and Jim Graves, who had been editors at Soldier of Fortune magazine years before when I had been on staff. We were sitting around a big kitchen table and remembering the crazy times when the doorbell rang. In came Shere Khan, as we later called her. I forget who had invited her.

She was tall, maybe five-nine, slender, of a slightly olive complexion with high cheekbones and long, straight black hair. She was not conventionally pretty, but…attractive. She turned out to be quiet, though sociable enough, and had a direct, unwavering gaze that was not hostile, not challenging, but just…well, she was looking.

In the way of old friends of mottled pasts, the only kind anyone at SOF ever had, we remembered the strange places and stranger times and this adventure and that, and I chatted a bit with Shere Khan. She said that she might come through Washington so I gave her my address, more from courtesy than any expectation of her using it.

Many months later in my condo just outside of Washington in Virginia, there was a knock at the door. I opened. There was Shere Khan, in jeans, with a serious backpack and her son Cody, maybe twelve.  It took me a few seconds to remember who she was.

For a then-single guy having such a phantasm appear at the door is a positive thing, certainly in the case of Shere Khan. I invited them in. She said she wanted to stay a week or two in DC, the implicit question being could they do so at my place. They could. I put them in my second bedroom, also office, with a large mattress on the floor which they quickly inhabited. I sensed that if anything else was going to happen, it would be sometime when Cody, who seemed to be a nice kid, was asleep.

The days went by. Shere Khan turned out to be smart and good company. We went several times to the Café Asia across Wilson Boulevard from my place where the waitresses were Far Eastern types, Malays, Viets, suchlike, mostly studying computer security or wide-area networking. Asians are Asians. She mentioned almost having married Larry McCray, a blues singer I had never heard of. Sometimes she cooked, a relief from what bachelors eat.

Like many who come to DC, she wanted to go to the Smithsonian. I instructed her in Metro’s mysteries and she set off with Cody, saying, as she had before, that she wanted to see the Native American Museum, or whatever they called it. I wondered why so much interest in Indians, and then, dolt that I am, realized: She was one. Slightly brown, high cheekbones, straight black hair. As it turned out by anatomical evidence, probably pureblood.

Early on she said that she and Cody were on their way to hike the Appalachian Trail. That explained the backpack, which was not quite an expedition pack but wasn’t a bookbag either and had an experienced look. With long legs and no extra weight, she was built for the AT.

I knew somewhat of the AT because my friend Robin and I sometimes did week-long, 85-mile hauls. This was slow by trail standards, 12 miles a day. Serious trail guys, the ones who were doing the whole 2,000 miles at one swallow, tended to be built—well, like Shere Khan, and they just sailed along. Last time out, we had met Hungry Bear—the long-hauls like to take trail names—maybe twenty-five, 6’3, lean as an ax handle, and took long, long strides that made me think of an Ent going to war. Shere Khan might have kept up. Cody, not yet, but he had the right mother.

The time came for them to head out. The night before, she sat on the floor in the living room, making her pack. She knew what she was doing, everything squoze down, put in order of when it would be needed. Surprised, I noticed the butt of a pistol. It was a lady’s gun, maybe 25 caliber, seven shot. Long thin fingers might have had a hard time managing a full-size Sig or Glock. Firearms are very illegal on the AT. Why the gun, I asked. “You never know who you might run into,” she said, in the same tone she might use in wondering where she had put that spare pair of socks.

She had a point. Backpackers are decent people, but there could always be an exception. A strong man could have tied her into a bowknot. She just wasn’t designed to fend off men, especially if there were two of them.

When I went for my concealed-carry permit in Virginia, you had to take a two-night course in how to use a pistol at the NRA headquarters on Waples Mill Road. The instructress was a female FBI agent who told the women in the class, “Those self-defense karate classes for women are worse than a joke because they would just piss the guy off. But five rounds to the center of mass will make almost anybody lose his erection.”

I think Shere Khan had this figured out. Given that serious gaze, not humorless, not drab, just…serious, I thought she would use that gun. If anybody had wanted to rape her or, God help him, touch Cody, I think it would have been seven rounds in the gut, maybe drag the body out of sight in the undergrowth and, miles down the trail, throw the gun far into the woods on in impassable downslope. I don’t think it would have bothered her. There were some things you didn’t do, and she and Cody were two of them.

I never saw her again, but I got a letter thanking me for the hospitality, enclosed with a CD by Larry McRae. Which was damned good blues.

Fred will be on vacation at the beach for a couple of weeks, but will resume his scurrilous and seditious maunderings on his return.

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.”



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.

To Sir Sidney With Love: Lessons For The Educational Idiocracy

Britain, Celebrity, Education, Film, Human Accomplishment, Kids, Relationships

British, and so subtle,  To Sir, With Love (1967) was my favorite role played by Sidney Poitier, RIP. And what an object lesson it is for America’s disgraceful unionized teachers in the age of COVID.

Mr. Mark Thackeray, “an out-of-work engineer who turns to teaching in London’s tough East End,” loved his students, yet he disciplined them; taught them self-respect, a love of learning, a work ethic and a proportional sense of fun, not the degenerate sense of abandon that now infuses our progressive schools.

“Sir’s” lesson: Never give up on The Kids, but knock ’em into shape.

Teacher was to be addressed as “Sir” because the use of honorifics and proper names, not invented pronouns, is important in an ordered society. It denotes not only a healthy hierarchy and a respect for a figure of authority, but for each other. Thus Pegg is not “Babs” (we have to wonder what such a traditional educator would say of naming  a child North, or Londyn, a black name).

After transforming one class into responsible, self-respecting adults ready to face life; Thackeray is offered an engineering job—something better than working with London’s tough, truant East End kids. But following their poignant farewell to him; he is overwhelmed with love for the kids and a sense of his real vocation. He shreds the promotion, realizing the next intake needs him just as much as the first. He has found his calling.

Once there were teachers.

Lulu at her best:

Thoughts And Writings At Year’s End

America, Ilana Mercer, Kids, Relationships, The Zeitgeist

LAST WEEK’S COLUMN was a reality check on American “freedoms,” in the context of Julian Assange’s travails.

It appeared on WND,, Unz Review, and the column’s new home: The New American. It is now available on

I thank all my editors for being such a pleasure to work with–especially my new, young, conservative friends, Rebecca, Rob and John. If only you lived closer to this state, WA—an exquisite place (what a joy it is to run outdoors in its lush beauty), but chock-full of the coldest, most alienating people (BC, before Covid). No amount of one-sided friendly love and good-will wins these Yankees over (as though by osmosis, the immigrants, too, assume the Yankee mien and “manners”). “Friends” here are what I’ll term calendar friends. They’ll text you once a year, and if lucky; pencil you in. After the agonies of 2020/21, such shallowness is not for me.

Thoughts about the heroic Julian Assange led to a stream-of-consciousness titled “On Being a Man.” Before the pronoun deconstruction, which all principled writers will blithely ignore, “man” also meant mankind. In other words, “On Being A Man” simply means on being a mensch, and applies equally to men and women and all entities between. To the “On Being A Man” thoughts I will add this: Brave men can FIGHT. But a man who picks fights—and feuds—with real friends is never brave. To the contrary.

It’s uncharacteristic to my writing, but as I age and as the anguish around me increases–I’ll endeavor to share with greater regularity personal insights gleaned, in case I can be of help to my readers—the young, especially. They inhabit an atomized, lonely world, where interpersonal pain is compounded by digital escapism (instead of real communication) and the evil strictures of the COVID cartel (especially pronounced in WA).

Other posts that might be of interest:

I’m so happy to be hosting Fred Reed’s column, “the Hunter Thompson of the right,” on my Barely A Blog. The man is an icon, or should be. In today’s America, alas, Mencken would be marginalized.  Fred and I certainly are.

It is no coincidence that it took a wonderful Irishman to invite me, after 22 years of prodigious writing, to “show-up” in person for in-depth chats. It’s never been my inclination, but it was important to push through the pathological shyness. As Clyde Wilson, another wonderful man, has observed, unless you fit a certain mold, America has no place for you. Shrug.

So, please support David Vance and me, two independents, by Subscribing. An independent is someone who does not live in a think tank or a political party; doesn’t appear on Fox News, or work for Prager U, or have the material wherewithal to hold a conference. Nevertheless, our last chat is pushing 10k views. We plan on hosting guests.

With all my heart I wish you a healing 2022,