De Senium Britanniae

I eschewed my usual route to university on this day and so did not go to the usual metro station. That may have been the greatest displeasure of all, to consider losing the good graces of the Wraith of the Low Morning. Daily and as regular as the metro, and presumably some time between midnight and 6 AM, he, probably a young male with an IQ south of the 20th percentile, goes to that station and impresses his artistic genius upon the pristine laboratorial white of that one wall panel in every hue of the rainbow. The paint is often still wet to the touch as I stand admiring it at 9:25 AM. By the next day there is always a new inscription, the old hidden under a new coat of paint – the work of another person (again, probably a man) to whose annoyance the Wraith’s work is continually done. Not even God knows what is going on in the Wraith’s troubled head. Maybe his only taste of self-actualisation, whatever that means, is the testosterone high he gets as he imagines himself embroiled in some titanic battle of wits with the man who erases his work. Maybe he is a smoker and cannot stand the no-smoking warning. Maybe he fancies himself the next Banksy. Maybe he likes to see his work erased so he can do something new, but there seems little variation except changes in colour. Maybe he is an idiot savant, or perhaps a savant idiot. Now I try to envision his children. And then I stop.

Almost no normal person considers the metro carriage an appropriate place for social engagement apart from drunkards. It is a place where one, in effect, shuts oneself off from communication with the outside world for the twenty minutes or however long it takes to get to your stop. It is a place to stare into space dejectedly, read, pretend to read, plan essays, and scroll through faked shark-attack videos on your phone. Passengers thus tend to look on with horrified or puzzled expressions when someone starts to act out in a strange way.

On this particular afternoon the metro was just about empty, and there would have been little to comment on were it not for a tangerine-faced chav and her black friend, he with his trousers at half mast, stepping into the carriage about halfway into my journey, so I had the chance to observe them for the next few stops. It is more accurate, though, to say that I had no choice in the matter. At moments their voices seemed nearly indistinguishable in pitch and timbre despite his being male and a foot taller than she. It is generally the case that people who truly embody this archetype, the chav, have no self-awareness or indeed self-consciousness; this girl probably behaves like this in every situation that presents itself. They were having something that sounded vaguely like an argument at first. They threw themselves at each other in strange, stereotyped motions until eventually they just ran out of energy, as well as words, and started nondescriptly grunting in each other’s faces until they reached, and almost missed, their stop. Non-white chavs are a recently divergent subspecies who seem to have developed alongside the standard variety but were not nearly so common round these parts, I am sure, until this decade. Well, they have certainly integrated – just not into anything that is actually worth it.

The female embodied this archetype astonishingly well. All of the apparent default-setting fashion choices: the skin-tight leggings (and she will still be wearing those in her forties), the dyed tar-black hair, etc. Females, for obvious reasons, want to be physically appealing, but by the time the female chav has reached late adolescence she has often destroyed herself to the point where there is little to work with, and she may already have had two or three or twenty-three children. By her late twenties she could be a grandmother. Thus, by that time she usually settles into a pattern of bizarre peacock-like ostentation: brightly coloured trainers, preposterously large (plastic, typically) jewellery, etc, which is apparently not so much supposed to be attractive as it is – well, God knows.

Once off the metro there is much to see. On the way into school I damn near had a heart attack because I had forgotten to use my alcoholic hand sanitiser. I normally use it as soon as I am out of the station because the metro is a virtual pathologist’s lab, unguarded and constantly excreting new strains of the common cold virus among other things, especially in the cold months of the year. Winter here tends to render the sky a constant, thick, overcast grey interspersed with ten-hour (or longer) periods of black. Students from warmer climes seem fairly well adjusted here, though. I see them on my way in and out of the school; the Africans, the Han Chinese nouveau riche, and the beautiful dewy-eyed Koreans girls moving in packs about 20cm below my eye level and twittering incomprehensibly to one another. That sometimes puts me dimly in mind of an oddly psychologically distorting experience I had some months back, of the two Korean girls walking in front of me with their hands entwined at the Schoenbrunn Palace, both about my age. It is interesting to see Orientals as transfixed as they were by Occidental history. More than I was, frankly – since I take pleasure in almost no activities. They looked dazed, and, I thought, a little sad. It will be sadder yet to see the condition of Vienna and other European cities at the end of this century.

This is more than I can say for the Chinese students here. They were in British universities in great numbers, so I am told, as far back as the early 2000s, and their proficiency in English seems not to have improved any. Their mother country has a lot more to be hopeful about than we have at this point, but I do not think their parents are going to see much return on their investment when they go home.

Then there was my class. The classmates are a strange lot, which I like. Twelve persons in total; there used to be thirteen. All white, which is unsurprising given the subject matter. Eleven Britons and one non-Briton. Eight extraverts, three introverts, one schizoid personality. I determined that, crudely I admit, by checking who was and was not talking in the corridor before class. Of those not talking, only the foreign girl was not looking at her phone. I do not know which iteration of the iPhone everybody is on, but smartphone upgrades seem about the only tangible technological innovation in the Occident at this moment. Certainly it is the only innovation most people care about. Only two individuals with northern accents, which seems a recurring pattern, surprisingly. So far there have been none of the ubiquitous (and tedious) jousting matches people have about regional accents in England, such as hotly debating where to draw a line on a map dividing north from south. There were also two nose piercings, one exposed midriff (bearing in mind it was 5°C outside), a girl with teal hair, and a girl with rose-pink hair. Seven females and five males – all of the males seem to be in the lower two quartiles of height. I am 172cm tall (about 26th percentile for a male), but I was not the shortest among them. It is probably these people to whom I should feel the strongest cultural affinity; the SWPLs of Britain’s young middle class. Yet, you would not know it if you saw how I (do not) interact with them. Maybe I could deal with them as long as politics was off the table? This time someone was talking about trans awareness week in the corridor. Every week now seems to require a similar “awareness” from you. This is the girl who ended up in the basement at 6 PM one day because she could not find the exit of the building.

Not much to report about that class per se – at least nothing that I can remember.

Once it was over, I cogitated on some of these things as I made my way towards the library to wait for the second class of the day. By this time it was dark.

A small percentage of men and a smaller percentage of women engage with politics beyond trivia such as voting. Among these, reproductive concern is, as everywhere, in play. In general, women want to be protected and provided for and will cling to anything that offers that promise, such as feminism (or whatever else). Men want to climb the male reproductive success hierarchy and will gravitate towards that wherever they find it. Additionally, Jonathan Haidt’s neuropolitics is at work: neurological liberals and neurological conservatives. The extent to which reproductive concerns motivate a person is a matter of degree, I think; it depends on the individual’s temperament and, probably above all else, intelligence. But I am not quite sure where “trans awareness week” figures into all that. Maybe it should be obvious to me. Someone really ought to find a way to incorporate philosophical or mathematical concepts into the morphology of a language – something that would allow you to plug many explanatory factors into a cohesive multivariate structure (in the manner of a statistical analysis) without the endless repetitions, reframing, and blether that come when you attempt it in English. Ithkuil? We are the wrong species for such a project right now, however, and Mira est Lingua Latina sed mortua. I once joked about forcing everyone in the northern hemisphere to learn multiple European languages as well as Ithkuil, and perhaps I can make that my job if I someday ascend to posthuman godhood. But I doubt it.

Some appreciation for high culture is here. Not too far from the library I heard a Chopin nocturne being played a few weeks back. Stravinsky would have been more exciting, but it nevertheless felt noteworthy. It is a point of contrast to what many of my young compatriots have plugged into their ears as they sit in the library; the nu metal, and the indie, which ought to be called “post-indie” at this stage, every song being a pastiche of familiar indie clichés both lyrically and structurally, which seems rather self-defeating.

The old buildings here are so unkempt. Fungal spores cover the windowpanes. That makes a good half-arse of a metaphor for the landscape that surrounds me. What was once Britain’s industrial heartland, where valorous and beautiful men toiled sleeplessly in the mines, the shipyards, the fields, the factories, where the nation’s productive class reached its apogee, is now a shadow of a shadow of what it was. My brothers will leave for Australia at some point, I think. Although I do not blame them, I am not sure what solace they will find there either.

Back on the metro, and this time I made sure to scrub my hands with unusual vigour.

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Journey to Vapor Island

Having known artist Robert Stark for about two years (he is still the only person from the political edge-o-sphere that I have met in real life,) I was anxious to finally read his long awaited novel, Journey to Vapor Island. I was of course interested to see how he might creatively incorporate his many personal obsessions, social observations and utopian visions into the storyline. On these grounds, he certainly did not disappoint:

As they approach the Galleria, they drive under a giant pink neon archway which leads to a corridor lined with Roman columns and statues. Noam wonders what the location looks like at night and wants to further explore the architecture of the Galleria, but Harry explains that the entrance to the Erotic Emporium is VIP only.
Carlos jokes, “Noam, you’re still such a nerd. The only architecture I’ll be exploring is that of the male anatomy.”

Frequent listeners to his long running podcast will instantly recognize his favorite topics when they make cameo appearances in the book or manifest themselves as part of the underlying themes: architecture, city planning, neon, Alicia Silverstone, Pepe the frog, “Israeli-Aryanism,” blonde Jewish girls, aristocratic individualism, Leisure Suit Larry (I’m proud to say introduced him to this game,) Roger Blackstone, futurism, vaporwave, Sarah Michelle Gellar, new urbanism, etc.

Before I start this review, I just want to say that this book is not for anyone that is squeamish about sex, and that includes probably most people that make up the current crop of the “AltRight” (aka the SquareRight.) If you’re an uptight prude, NoFap weirdo, LARPy tradfag or just use the term “degeneracy” unironically, you will probably not enjoy this book. Then again, maybe you will pull a dark sense of humor out of your ass for a hot minute and enjoy it…but if you decide to read “Journey to Vapor Island” don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The sexual scenes in the book strike me as being akin to the “random battles” in old school Super Nintendo RPGs like Final Fantasy IV. It’s like when you’re walking across the overworld toward the next town, eager to see advance the story, and every few steps you take on the map, there is one of those annoying random battles. “Ugh, not another of these stupid Were-rats.” Even though the battles feel like tedious chores, they still serve a purpose as part of the journey, in terms of leveling up the characters and making you feel that much more accomplished when you finally reach the end of the game. So, though the sex scenes are sometimes graphic and painful to read through (they definitely don’t seem intended to be arousing,) at a certain point in the story you realize their significance as part of an overarching, satirical social commentary on contemporary society’s obsession with sex. Their presence is a reminder of how central sex is to people’s motivations, and the overall perception of status in society. Now, on to the review.

BIG SECRETS, HUGE SPOILERS AHEAD!

The story itself could probably best be described as a “not quite AltRight,” hypersexed and homoerotic (to put it mildly) adult variant of The Neverending Story. Journey to Vapor Island chronicles the misadventures of “Noam Metzembaum,” a precocious young Jewish man with a dirty mind and delusions of grandeur. Another central figure in the book (but one who never actually appears) is Roger Blackstone, a wealthy and controversial outsider political figure whose bold ideas and futuristic visions align with Noam’s. It would be easy to say that Blackstone represents a Trump-like figure, but it could just as easily be a Ross Perot or even Willy Wonka. Roger Blackstone is in the same vein as these types, but really his political theories and ideas bear very little to resemblance to Trump’s aside from the public’s hysterical perception of them being “fascist” and all the rest.

The “journey” begins with Noam as a socially inept yet intelligent student at a ghetto public school, where he is bullied and tormented by brutish minority students. He thinks so little of them, that he often refers to them in animalistic terms like “beasts.” When these minority thugs see Noam striking up a friendship with a nice black girl named Vanessa, they promptly beat him up.

Noam develops a crush on a wealthy blonde Jewish girl named Natalie Bloom while attending a bat mitzvah and convinces his mother to let him switch schools to attend the prestigious “Chadsworth Academy” (the book is peppered with these kinds of meme references) where Natalie is going to school. Noam’s mother is too poor to afford the tuition, but luckily he is able to obtain an academic scholarship. While at Chadsworth, Noam finds that the girls have no interest in him, and he once again finds himself being relentlessly humiliated and bullied, this time by the “Chads,” a group of handsome and stereotypical 80’s-style, Aryan looking jock assholes (although their dialogue often more closely resembles that of 90s wiggers.) Stark seems unaware (or doesn’t care) that this archetype is itself a bit of a Jewish film invention…stemming from ethnic insecurity and resentment. Revenge of the Nerds (by Jeff ((Buhai,)) The Legend of Billie Jean (produced by ((Rob Cohen,)) written by Mark ((Rosenthal)) and Lawrence ((Konner,)) Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Clueless (both directed by Amy ((Heckerling,)) Just One of the Guys (written by Dennis Feldman and directed by Lisa Gottlieb) and The Karate Kid (written by Robert Mark ((Kamen)) are all quintessential examples of this. I still maintain a nostalgic fondness for these films, but understanding writers’ and artists’ subconscious motivations and insecurities allows one to view their work with a cold eye and minimizes their capacity for emotional manipulation.

Noam’s humiliation by the Chads seems limitless, and he comes off as such a pathetic figure he seems irredeemable. While reading the first third of the book I often just wished Noam would just put himself out of his misery and off himself. One of the highlights of the Chadsworth portion though is the scene where they conduct a mock debate in class. Several students roleplay as candidates from various political parties, with Noam assuming the role of Roger Blackstone. What’s remarkable about this scene is the way the characters authentically argue each side. There is no straw-manning here. The participants state their case almost exactly the way they would in real life. It is impressive the way Stark manages this level of objectivity in crafting this scene.

Noam’s conflict with the Chads comes to a head (literally) when they defile the girl he is in love with at a party. Enraged, Noam actually murders and beheads several of the Chads. He then burns down the entire house. For me, this is where the book begins to get more interesting.

After a bizarre trial and a sympathetic judge (Noam had noticed a Blackstone bumper sticker on the judge’s car,) Noam only ends up being sentenced to about 15 years. The book devotes very little to the time Noam actually spends locked up. It is treated as a dreamlike, abstract blur (this time utilizing the familiar “pill” memes.)

After Noam is released, he discovers the world has changed dramatically. Roger Blackstone is now in charge and has since implemented many of his visions for society. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say the US has become a lot more retro-futuristic and sexually open minded. Much to Noam’s surprise, Noam also discovers that he himself has become viewed as a folk hero, with many people having been inspired by his manifesto. This is another part of the social commentary. Ahead of his time, Andy Warhol once remarked that even people like Charles Manson were considered “up there” in terms of celebrity status and stardom despite their fame arising from the perpetration of gruesome and heinous crimes. We now live in a world where spree shooters like Elliot Rodger have a substantial posthumous following and live on in memes. Twenty years after Columbine, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold have their fans. Some of the fandom phenomenon is just teenagers being edgy, but the darker part is that on some level there are a great deal of people that sympathize and identify with their struggles (even if most people wouldn’t go as far as to throw a violent public temper tantrum and murder people.)

In Noam’s case, he had unquestionably genuine grievances, as he was the victim of not just basic bullying but sexual assaults and torture. Whether or not his level of retaliation was justified though is up for debate. Of course, it doesn’t take long for Noam to continue his violent acts once released. He brutally attacks an old bully he recognizes from his ghetto high school and castrates a well-known Israeli pick up artist that goes by the name of “Moosh” (hmmm I wonder who could have been the inspiration for that character.)

In any case, the story continues with Noam traveling to “Vapor Island,” where a movie is being made about his manifesto and life. Constructed by Blackstone’s company, Vapor Inc, the island is a futuristic, fantasy city with an eclectic mix of architectural styles, from Greco-Roman to Art Deco to 80’s neon. The movie about Noam’s life is being directed by Ari Meschel, a greedy and sleazy director/producer cast from the same mold of Harvey Weinstein (Stark also claims he actually did have Weinstein in mind while writing this, even before the allegations recently came out.)

As Noam explores, Noam begins to notice that everything on the island isn’t quite what it appears to be. It was at this point in the book that I began to appreciate what a work of genius “Journey to Vapor Island” is. A cohesive, overarching narrative begins to emerge in what I had initially written off as a chaotic product of Stark’s often juvenile and depraved imagination. Many of the attractions and destinations on the island turn out to be large scale business ventures, which are based upon the tragic events in Noam’s life and ideas from his journal. The shameless, opportunistic, economic exploitation and commodification of horrific crimes and personal tragedies may seem absurd in this context, but they are all too familiar. How
many films have been made and books been written about The Manson Family or the Zodiac Killer? You can buy Charles Manson coffee mugs and Elliot Rodger t-shirts. Journey to Vapor Island is stacked with plot developments that at first glance seem totally unrealistic and off the wall, yet upon closer inspection are just slightly exaggerated caricatures of genuine phenomena that can be observed all around us, in the world we live in today. This is what the book gets at, the commercialization of everything pure (or impure for that matter.) Noam is disgusted by the commercial exploitation of his journal entries and actions as a young man, which he felt came from a private and genuine place in his heart.

In a bizarre turn of events at The Erotic Emporium (my favorite scene) Noam receives a map, which he follows and eventually finds his way to meet a bizarre ancient civilization of frogmen that are secretly living beneath the island. Weird, huh?

Noam gets wind of the fact that Meschel’s plans to twist the meaning of Noam’s manifesto and completely misrepresent Noam’s actions in order to substitute Meschel’s own narrative. Noam determines that he must prevent Meschel from making the movie. After one lengthy final humiliating femdom ordeal at the hands of Meschel’s sadistic teenage daughter, everything culminates in a climactic (albeit brief) battle between the frogmen and Meschel’s security forces. The island is essentially destroyed.

I won’t give away the ending, but ultimately Noam has to decide whether to stay in a state of fantasy or return to the “real” world. Noam is told that the longer he stays in “Vapor” the more difficult it will be for him to return and function in the world. He has no idea whether his life will be as pathetic and humiliating as it was before if he returns, or whether his experiences will have improved/altered it in some way. He decides to return, and we can only speculate as to what is in store for him.

I did not expect much from Journey to Vapor Island when I began reading it, but I will say this, it is not a misleading title. I definitely felt like I had completed a journey when reading this thing, and like a classic SNES rpg game, when I finally got through it, I didn’t want the adventure to end. Journey to Vapor Island is one of the most creative, imaginative, and depraved books I’ve ever read. It is a true contemporary classic that is plugged in to all the ills and frills which make up the surreal world young people are trying (and usually failing) to navigate their way around.

Journey to Vapor Island
By Robert Stark
340 pages

Looking a High Horse Rider in the Mouth

I hadn’t planned on writing anything about the Harvey Weinstein story, because: A. Tabloid celeb scandals and showbiz gossip don’t really interest me that much, and B. It’s obvious just by looking at Weinstein that he’s a rather archetype sleazy producer / pervitronic executive type (though admittedly weirder in his fetishes. I mean what kind of guy gets off on having a girl watch him masturbate.) The guy apparently must get turned on by seeing women sit there with confused looks on their faces, as he prevents them from leaving and insists they stay and watch him do things in his bathrobe or whatever:

“Look babe, don’t move. Don’t leave. Just sit there and watch me eat this croissandwich. Yeah that’s it, please don’t leave, or you’ll never work in this town again.”

Anyway, the guy is obviously the scum of the Earth. Still, typical of the times we live in, a lot of people can’t help but overreach. Some of these actresses need to get off their high horses. How convenient that twenty years later after they’ve become big stars and made their millions, these actresses come out of the woodwork to lecture everyone else that ever worked with Weinstein (or worse, they will blame “men” in general.) Many of these women, once aspiring young starlets seeking fame and fortune, were perfectly willing to put up with Weinstein’s sleaziness if it meant furthering their careers and getting breaks in the industry. Some of them accepted settlements and payoffs, which ultimately did nothing to prevent other young girls from being victimized. Now, suddenly they are shaming other actors and directors that have worked with Weinstein for continuing to work with him, associate with him or simply for not condemning him in strong enough terms. Perhaps these actors and directors simply saw it as a matter for the legal system and didn’t wish to become busybodies in everyone else’s affairs that didn’t concern them. I used to live in West Hollywood and have known tons of sleazy and sketchy guys over the years. At the end of the day, there isn’t a whole lot you can do except teach young people how not to be naive in these situations, and hope they notice the red flags and are smart enough to recognize these predators and call them out when they see them. You can warn girls a hundred times about how scuzzy some guy is, and some of them will still go along with his slimy program, either because there is something to be gained, or they trust their own intuition over your advice. If a producer attempts to engage in non-consensual acts with you, simply call your attorney and call the police. Anything less than that, and other people privy to the gossip are likely to assume whatever happened must not have been that big of a deal to you. Even if the cops ultimately won’t do anything due to lack of evidence, it sends a message to the perp that you mean business, and you’re not someone he wants to fuck with.

The “overreach” aspect in the Weinstein scandal is like what we see in other areas of public outrage overreach, like politics and free speech. It is not enough to simply disagree with someone’s political beliefs. You must disavow the person, condemn them and formally disassociate yourself with them, even if it is a member of your own family. You’re considered a “nazi” or “white supremacist,” even if you just support the right for controversial opinions to be expressed and debated non-violently. “So and so made this offensive statement or joke. Will you call on him to apologize? DO YOU DISAVOW?!”

I have a genuine respect for women like Ambra Battilana, and found myself rooting for her while I listened to the recording of her rejecting Weinstein’s crude advances and his attempts to manipulate her. She acted the way you wish every person would act in these scenarios. She stood firm and held her ground, willing to pay the price and absorb whatever negative impact it would on her career. Many of these other women though, are hypocrites…because they essentially took the “deal,” went along with it, kept quiet and are now complaining long after they have reaped the rewards. Now that it is good for their careers to speak out on the matter, they have become more vocal, self-righteous and sanctimonious than ever.

“It’s time for straight talk, Kim. It’s not my fault you posed for Harmon. It’s not my fault you posed for Larry in the nude. You did it. It’s your problem. It’s pretty late to act prissy and prim. All you kids make me sick! You act like little Miss Muffet, and down inside you’re dirty. Do you hear me? Dirty! You’re greedy and self centered and think you can get away with anything. You’re no better than the girl who sells herself to a man. You’re worse, because you’re a hypocrite. And now little Miss Muffet is in trouble, and she’s all outraged virtue. Well you listen and you listen well, you’re damaged merchandise and this is a fire sale. You walk outta here and your reputation won’t be worth fifteen cents. You’ll do as I tell you! Do you hear me? You’ll do as I tell you!” -Lawrence Aberwood ((Aberman,))

Scum of the Earth, 1963.

Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism

The Outer Limits of an Ideological Future

“See, it’s always the same. Clouseau is sitting there, in a chair, just like you, with his back to me. Then suddenly, my hands go round his throat, and I begin to squeeze. It’s wonderful. It’s marvelous. I’m squeezing. And the more I squeeze, the freer I feel. I’m in ecstasy. And then suddenly, suddenly my problem is solv-ved.” -Inspector Dreyfus

My old friend Millennial Woes has been cranking out a lot of thought provoking content as of late. One thing I like about his videos is that he tends to leave them somewhat open ended, often hinting at a conclusion but leaving it for the audience to ponder. One of his recent videos, titled “Signs of An Ideological Future” he talks about how we’re reaching (or have reached) a stage when many people are no longer interested in debating or even hearing from people that have views which don’t conform to their in-group orthodoxy opinions (even if the debate comes from someone within their own movement, and whose involvement in said movement predates their own by many years.) I’ll come back to this later. Near the end of the video, Woes floats the possibility that for those on the left that hate SJWs, there may be no alternative for them but to join the AltRight. A year or two ago I might have agreed with this likelihood but not now. I’m not sure what form they will take, but alternatives inevitably will emerge when push comes to shove. Why do I think this? Another of Millennial Woes videos offers a partial clue.

To put it mildly, there are too many crazy and retarded people in the AltRight itself. I’m not talking about people with “extreme beliefs” (or whatever.) I recognize the importance of desensitizing people to social taboos through trolling, irony and shock humor, and I operate on the principal that anything should be up for rational (small r) discussion. I addressed this before, defending Richard Spencer during the NPI “salutegate” uproar as well as the Milo controversy. What I’m talking about now though is the issue of personalities. There are substantial numbers of vocal groups in the AltRight that are outright lunatics and an even greater number that have such insufferable personalities that one wouldn’t want to get stuck hanging out with these jugheads alone for 5 minutes at a party, let alone live in an ethnostate with them and thousands of their cohorts, even if one might agree with them ideologically on 90% of issues.

Of course I’m not talking about the primary AltRight thought leaders like Spencer, Woes, and Greg Johnson (who are frequently attacked by the same socially abrasive mobs whenever they say something interesting) or other minor figures and writers. I’ll give some examples…

This happens to Richard Spencer almost weekly where he casually spouts an opinion that deviates from the traditional right wing dogma. Instances of this include his skepticism of the “holodomor,” his arguments against local ethnonationalism in favor of a European racial superstate, his support for universal health care and his having the audacity to express even the vaguest tolerance for transgendered individuals. In many cases these contrarian type statements are simply thought experiments, but according to ideological enforcers, no exploration of ideas is allowed, no creative thinking will be tolerated. You’re not permitted to question anything in the unwritten AltRight sacred mythological canon, no matter how many holes or inaccuracies you can demonstrate in it.

In another glowing example, Tara McCarthy took a break from promoting unfounded pizzagate conspiracy theories to make a video called “The Dark Side of the AltRight.” In this video she sensibly chronicles and denounces some of the recent incidents of random violence by a few kook members of the AltRight. Scores of morons in the comments pounced on her, attacking her for daring to suggest these acts of violence were dumb and counter-productive. Note that we’re not even talking about self-defense or some kind of perhaps inevitable political violence that could conceivably lead to a declared objective. These were instances of a lunatic killing other people in “his own movement” and another was just
some drunken idiot randomly stabbing an ordinary black guy on the street. There were other incidents and stories as well, but they featured more or less the same level of nuttiness. We all understand why the media amplifies these stories and downplays black on white crime, but at the end of the day it’s not unreasonable to demand mentally coherent conduct in public from members of a movement which purports to be fighting to preserve/restore civilization.

Yet another recent instance where hordes of unhinged AltRight people freaked out was when Beardson Beardly made what I thought was a very persuasive video in which he articulated the mildest criticisms of the ultra lame “white sharia” meme. I don’t even tend to agree with half of Beardson’s opinions, but I enjoy his vids because he has a fun going, down to Earth personality and more importantly he is able to think for himself. He’s someone you could get along with. Also he likes the Beach Boys and wore a Ween shirt in one of his videos, so you can’t really go wrong there. Anyway, later in the video Beardson takes issue with the people in the AltRight who were making fun of “Aids Skrillex” for working in a grocery store. Beardson makes an appeal to empathy and argues that they should prioritize directing their energy toward more big league opponents rather than harass some random kid who made a few anti-white comments at a shitty Trump rally. Incidentally I would have asked the question, “What’s wrong with working at a grocery store?” Especially the one he supposedly works at, which appears to be an awesome heath food / farmers market type of store. Even if it wasn’t though, who cares? I though the AltRight was supposed to be on the side of the working class. Why would they be shaming someone for working a perfectly respectable job? This hypocrisy reveals many of them to be no different from normie rat race republicans, equating someone’s worth in life with how much money they make. Anyway, commenters didn’t hesitate to pile on and trash Beardson for making this video. The significance of this is that Beardson is a far right, radical traditionalist and race realist. If the AltRight rank and file are willing to go berserk and shun someone like him over a minor disagreement, then it hardly seems worth it for people who have broader cultural disagreements to bother entertaining the idea of getting involved with the AltRight.

As Greg Johnson has pointed out, “bullying only works on psychologically weak people.” Intelligent, self-confident and capable individuals don’t care if you call them “beta males” or tell them they have “too much soy in their diet.” They don’t care about being called a “cuck” (a once clever insult which had a specific racial meaning that has since been ruined by misuse.) They don’t give a shit about being called a faggot or degenerate. They will just laugh it off and conclude you and your squad are a bunch of insecure halfwits. Ultimately though, they will dismiss you and move on.

At this point you might be thinking “Yes, but if these leftists or AltLite people hate SJWs enough they will come to the AltRight anyway. They’ll be forced to.” Don’t be so sure. If someone like me (who has been writing explicitly pro-white articles for several years) can deduce that the personalities that makeup the AltRight legions are so insufferable and illogical that one could actually find themselves preferring the company of the skeptic community or even actual SJWs…then what are the odds that normal people will take the Nestea Plunge into the AltRight and stay there? By normal, I don’t mean “normies” either, just intelligent open-minded people who may be willing to give identitarian ideas a fair consideration. Indeed, many writers and thinkers that have been pushed into the AltRight over the last few years as a result of excessive anti-white hatred and political correctness, have already come and gone, having grown weary of the toxic and loony atmosphere. They reached back into the medicine cabinet for another colored pill, the first one they could find…and checked out.

It’s become clearer and clearer over time, that when many in the AltRight talk about preserving “our people,” they’re certainly not talking about White people or Europeans. They’re talking about a teeny tiny subset of Whites that embrace radical traditionalism (which traditions though?,) “White Sharia,” arranged marriages, primitivism, Little House on the Prairie living, specific types of architecture, “nofap,” weird conspiracy theories, and a host of other things bundled in, which hundreds of millions of healthy and well-adjusted White people would want absolutely nothing to do with. Yet if one expresses a different preference on any of these issues, the AltRight mall security busybodies are out in full force to shake you down.

To be successful, these movements will require a unionization of many different types of White Europeans and even non-whites who display a willingness to contribute and prove they have a role to play in these societies. The choice though, won’t simply be limited to SJWs and AltRight. Whether it’s Nazbol, transhumanism, corporate monarchism, neoliberalism, communism, anarcho capitalism, LandBrand neoreaction, chic nihilism or whatever…there will be many different options for people to gravitate to, for those that decide not to lock themselves into what’s fast becoming the equivalent of an ideological padded room.

Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism

Cherry 2015 – If Loving A Fembot Is Artificial, I Don’t Want To Be Genuine

(this article originally appeared Nov 22, 2014 in Stepkid Magazine but has recently become relevant again)

One of the most prescient dystopian science fiction films of the 1980’s turned out to be the (direct to video?) 1987 movie, “Cherry 2000.”

The future depicted in Cherry 2000 is one where sexual encounters and relationships with real women have become complicated legal transactions requiring lawyers, and have been reduced to merely emotionless business arrangements. The women are typically aggressive, masculine, demanding and shrill. It leads to an environment where the rare romantic guy, who still longs for a traditional loving relationship, would actually find a courtship with a female android more emotionally fulfilling than one with a real live organic woman. It’s sort of a more sympathetic, less horrific spin on “The Stepford Wives” theme. In Stepford, the men killed their loving yet sassy wives in exchange for robot sex slaves who would do the dishes and clean the house without giving them any grief. They were portrayed unmistakably as as evil pricks. In contrast, the physically human women are the ones who display the robotic behavior in Cherry 2000, while the romantic men are forced to seek out the loving emulation of androids for any “meaningful” companionship. Of course the film sells out in the end, as the main character who sacrifices everything in a dangerous quest to replace his beloved, short circuited fembot (Cherry, played by Pamela Gidley) with the identical discontinued model, ultimately falls for the crass and bitchy, tomboyish tracker, “Edith”(Melanie Griffith) whom he’s hired to help locate the robot.

With the advent of “yes means yes” laws it doesn’t seem like it will be long before men will be required to get some type of verbally recorded or written consent to engage in sexual activity with a seemingly “turned on” girl, to shield themselves from litigation or criminal prosecution if she turns on them later. As if getting a girl pregnant or contracting an STD wasn’t enough to worry about, now we have bigger fish to fry. Indeed, there is already a phone app for sexual consent, called Good2Go.

Recent developments over the past two decades have lead me to conclude we’re headed towards Cherry 2000 style dating in America. Indeed, I’ve started to notice that the crudely annoying spambots on Tinder and Okcupid have been getting more sophisticated in their programming to the point where interacting with them can be more romantically stimulating than talking to actual chicks (which, if you’ve ever had an unfortunate exchange with one of these Tinderbots you would realize is more of a knock on the sorry state of the 21st century female conversational experience than it is one marveling in wonder at the advancements in artificial intelligence spam.)

Then there are video game characters. Back in a particularly isolated time period of my life in 2001 and 2002, when all I did was drink diet pepsi, eat microwave popcorn and play old Super Nintendo RPGs in my studio apartment, I would occasionally develop what I guess you could call “crushes” on some of the female sprites in the games (such as Rydia from Final Fantasy IV, Marle and Schala from Chrono Trigger, Paula from Earthbound, etc.) even to where I began to curiously research the technological possibilities of transferring human consciousness to a computer. I was thinking of course that if i could somehow hack a sprite that resembled me into the game’s ROM, that it might be possible to get something going. Yeah, it’s crazy but so what? Realized dreams are the work of madmen. I also saw Tron in the theater when I was a kid so perhaps it left a subconscious impression on me.

In any case, if that kind of emotion was possible to evoke in the days of 16 bit SNES pixelation, I can only imagine how real a romance could be in the context of modern video games which are now much more advanced in their elaborate overworlds, roleplays and simulations. Thousands if not millions of men and women find the virtual experience of video games more appealing than going outside and playing. It would be naive to think that organic human love would be any less vulnerable to competition from artificial intelligence than other components of our earthly existence.

Dust off your 1980’s JC Penney catalog and get your fembots on order, men! This scene is coming to a nightclub or campus near you.

Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism