I reviewed the 1989 film, The Experts over at Aryan Skynet. I’m not sure this mediocre movie warranted having 1,300 words written about it, but hey that’s never stopped me before. The review can be found, here
1. The Waitresses – Christmas Wrapping
I used to always hear this song in department stores and never realized who sang it, though I recognized the singer’s voice as being similar to the girl who sang the “I Know What Boys Like” song, (which I hated and would instantly flee the dance floor when it would be played at mid 00’s hipster DJ nights.) Well, turns out it is the same singer and band, and I just couldn’t compute that a band that played a song I despised so much could have created one that is an absolute masterpiece. Christmas Wrapping is an amazing song, maybe the best Christmas song ever. Patty Donahue unfortunately died at a young age (only 40.) RIP
2. Taylor Swift – Last Christmas
I know I know, but seriously I prefer this version to the Wham! version. This song is just better with a female voice and preferably one that doesn’t morph it into some kind of excessive adlib R&B monstrosity with all kinds of extra eeee’s and aaaaaah’s (like what is commonly done to the national anthem when singers get unnecessarily creative.) Anyway, the first time I really began to appreciate this song was in 2012. I was in Las Vegas alone and miserable on Christmas that year in what I look back on as my favorite vacation of my life, and there was a band on Fremont St called “Candy and the Canes” which was playing this song in the Taylor Swift style. Now whenever I hear it, it takes me back.
3. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers – Christmas All Over Again
Admittedly, I have never been much of a Tom Petty fan. His songs typically remind me of a really horrible era in the early 90’s where kids in my class would randomly belt out lyrics to Free Fallin’ in phony southern accents. It was a dark time period. Christmas All Over Again on the other hand conjurs up an entirely different memory. In the winter of 1996, I was living on my own in Phoenix, coming into my (now long gone) prime as a young man. This song would play in a jam packed, Paradise Valley mall (now almost literally a shadow of its former self.) Melrose place reruns aired daily on the E! Channel, and most of the people in my family were still alive back then. What an exciting time it was. Also, RIP Tom Petty.
4. Captain Sensible – One Christmas Catalogue
Not much to say about this one. Another department store classic. I don’t have any personal anecdote that colors my perception of this song. It is just a really great song, and just has that “1980’s lost in thought on a drive in the middle of the night through the city” feel to it. If you know, then you know.
5. Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters – Mele Kalikimaka
Of course, this song always reminds me of the diving board scene in Christmas Vacation. That is reason to like it in and of itself. It’s also one of those songs where everyone butchers the lyrics and just mumbles something random at the “mele kalikimaka” part. What most people don’t realize though, is that this is a great tune to repeatedly sing when you want to annoy your girlfriend (perhaps second only to pretty much any song by Edd “Kookie” Byrnes.) I only say the main part correctly about 3% of the time, but she rolls her eyes, and pleads for me to stop (in an exasperated tone) no matter what kind of gibberish I try to pass off as the chorus.
Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism
For a long time, this site sported the tagline, “The Left Wing of the AltRight.” Not many people have noticed that several months ago,(around the time I wrote this article) I changed it to “The Left of the AltRight,” which signified a location change from the outer left ideological sphere of the AltRight, to the actual outside of it. This wasn’t due to any particular change of beliefs on my behalf, but rather the AltRight’s endless purges and the shrinking of the ideological sphere itself to a point where some of us suddenly found ourselves no longer within it. It has been reduced to mostly a club for a small group of relatively insufferable people who waste most of their time trashing and alienating their few public advocates.
It’s essentially become a bunch of snake handlers raving about sodomites and porn and women and “degeneracy.” Yeah if I wanted all that I’d just go downtown Friday night and listen to those annoying weirdos with megaphones that yell stuff all night and hand out those cheesy fake “million dollar bill” bible pamphlets. Imagine having those obnoxious busybodies as your neighbors, monitoring your interactions and peering in your window late at night. The “movement” as it is, is filled with such socially insufferable people who an ardent pro-white individual might even conclude that diversity and multiculturalism aren’t all that bad comparatively. It’s a group with strategy that seems limited to street fighting fantasies, reading old books and Little House on the Prairie LARPing.
This brings us to the case of Tara McCarthy, who (quite reasonably) is beginning to wonder whether it is worthwhile to publicly advocate for people who show nothing but disdain for her:
Here’s my unsolicited advice: Don’t bother, Tara. It’s not worth it. You’ll never appease these kinds of people and the only way forward is to become part of something that they would never want to be included in. The best way to get away from people you don’t want to be around is to set up shop somewhere they would never want to go. If you market your content to radical traditionalists and uptight sexual puritans that want “white sharia” (or a slightly milder version) and guys that don’t believe women should be involved in politics or speak in public without a male chaperone, then ultimately you can expect to clash with your audience as they inevitably begin to scrutinize you according to those same standards.
Better yet, just ditch “traditionalism” and avoid the confusion altogether. Then those annoying people can fight among themselves forever about what’s “trad,” and you can focus on creatively adapting to the future. Those traditions which you find aesthetically appealing or practically useful in a technologically advanced society can be retained, and those which are incompatible or no longer offer a significant adaptive advantage can be discarded.
The Golden One recent made a video coming to Tara’s defense, which she quickly touted on Twitter as validation. This was somewhat amusing though, because The Golden One’s rationale for supporting her is that he sees women like her essentially as “useful idiots” (though he does not use those words) toward dismantling the left’s narrative that the AltRight is nothing but bitter incel losers. He doesn’t truly *believe* women should be allowed or trusted to be involved in politics on any genuine level. He just sees it as temporarily useful for optics purposes. Once the march through the institutions has been completed, the law will be laid down and all women will be forced to remain barefoot and pregnant, and only their husbands will be allowed to do the talking.
Ramzpaul provided a much better and more authentic defense of women in the AltRight. He also indirectly addresses an issue that I find common in the AltRight, which is the frequent inadvertent signaling of their own lack of self-control. They seem incapable of mastering simple skills like multitasking and time management. According to them, you’re either a guy who sits home and jacks off to porn all day, or a married family man with six children. Does it not occur to them that most people are perfectly capable of being married, having children, working a full-time job and jacking off every few days? They take the same tact with just about everything. There’s nothing preventing a woman from working, taking care of her children and making youtube videos about politics or any other subject. Millions of women can and do manage their time just fine in this way.
A friend of mine and fellow blogger recently made a similar observation:
“I get the impression that a lot of trads have extremely addictive personalities, such that they’re incapable of moderation. ‘If you open up the door for just a little bit of muh degeneracy, how do you prevent yourself from sliding into a meth-fueled gay orgy?’ Gosh, I dunno, somehow I manage to avoid it. Using intelligence to determine that too much of behavior X might cause one problems in the long run is apparently out of the question for them. You have to have some sort of blanket prohibition passed down from on high.”
Anyway good luck with the AltRight, Tara. I think I’m about finished with trying to influence it though, so I shouldn’t comment on it much more, else I’m liable to end up some kind of permanent concern troll. I prefer to just quietly leave and do my own thing. I recognize that ship has sailed for good. AltRight is a basically Westboro Baptist and Return of Kings hybrid ideology now. You can be pro-white without being in the AltRight and having to entertain their pet add-on issues or be constantly weighed down by all their psychological baggage. There are a lot of creative paths toward securing a future, and there are allies to be found in unlikely places.
This article originally appeared in Force Fields, Feb, 19 2016
Much controversy has been generated by the recent development of micro apartments and tiny houses. These are smaller than normal living spaces, which in the case of micro apartments often means less than 300 sq ft. They have emerged as an option for environmentally conscious young professionals and students to live in parts of town where they would otherwise be unable to economically sustain themselves. The rent is just too damn high. A lot of people hate the idea of these micro flats.”How could anyone live like that?” some people wonder. “These new buildings are ruining property values!” real estate agents complain. If you have a family of 2 or require a lot of space for your hair dryer, I’m sure you’ve already concluded these little apartments are not for you. Not everyone needs or wants a lot of room though. Here are a few reasons why some of us(at least for a while) wouldn’t mind calling a micro apartment our home:
1. They’re Affordable
This is perhaps the most obvious selling point. In many thriving metropolitan cities, cost of living has long ago outpaced real wages. Places in the heart of San Francisco, Seattle and Portland are expensive and almost impossible to afford for many of the young single professionals work in the city. This tends to require people to make long commutes from far off suburbs or have to hunker down like turtles at the mercy of slumlords in nearby ghettos. That or they end up packed like sardines into an decent but “communal” apartment with bunch of random roommates of various quality and shadiness. Micro apartments allow you to sacrifice space for affordability, privacy and the chance to live in a small compartment in the best part of town.
2. Good for the Environment
No big surprise here. Micro apartment buildings are designed specifically to be energy efficient in all areas. From low-flow shower heads to compact fluorescent light bulbs, these were built for green living. The small area also requires less energy to heat, cool or light. There is so little to do in one of these apartments that unless you turn your room into a bitcoin mining outpost, it’s difficult to see how you could ever run up much of a utility bill. Also, the fact that you can live right where the action is(and likely close to work) means you’ll be using less gas and may not even need to drive an automobile at all.
3. Minimalist Lifestyle
One might think of the idea of being cramped in a tiny apartment as being a stressful thought in and of itself. Instead of falling victim to an anxiety induced cheek bite, chew on this for a second. when I look around at all the junk I’ve accumulated over the years cluttered about, it stressed me out. Life is one’s head is complicated and heavy enough without having a ton of crap in the physical world to weigh you down(and yes I realize that thoughts themselves are technically a physical manifestation, but you know what I mean.) I have fantasies about chucking all my material possessions and going back to basics. At one time I lived for 2 years in a small studio apartment armed with nothing but a $20 cot from Target to sleep on and a Super Nintendo for recreational activity. Those were simple yet carefree times. Micro apartments allow for this kind of minimalist lifestyle. Small spaces can be liberating after all.
4. The Views
Believe it or not, many of these micro apartments come equipped with breathtaking views. The units are often situated in modernist mini high-rise buildings. One of the rare features these units have is large windows. After all, if there’s not room to do anything else your apartment, at least you can gaze outside from the 7th floor and stare at the Cascades all day.
Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism
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.
It’s tempting to debate people. There’s always the hope that the person you’re engaging with can be either be persuaded, or if nothing else be revealed to have less persuasive arguments. Minds of the participants rarely get changed, but in many cases the debates are useful for reaching potentially open minded members of the audience. Sometimes clarifications are necessary. People need to be challenged on certain points and called out for inaccuracies, especially when it involves the misrepresentation of one’s views. Over the years though, I’ve learned it is mostly a waste of time. In fact, there is not enough time in the day respond to every claim you disagree with, distortion of your beliefs, or attack directed at you. It just isn’t worth it. Most people are just too dumb to process things, even when they are presented clear as day. I rarely respond to criticism and attacks for this reason (who cares? lol.) When I see people like Millennial Woes or Sargon of Akkad make their hour long rebuttal videos dealing with minor quibbles about this or that, I have to admire them for their patience. I could never do it. At the end of the day who is really left that is even persuadable? Think about the NFL for a second. As openly hostile and preach as it is toward white people, you’d think almost nobody who isn’t a masochist would continue to watch it. Ratings should be down like 80%, yet they’ve only decreased a few percentage points here and there. That may be a big enough deal to affect advertising revenue significantly, but it’s hardly an “awakening.” It’s pathetic really. That’s the reality of so called “boomergate.” No one cares. At a certain point you just have to move forward with what you’ve got, or more accurately…head for the hills with whoever else wants to get out.
There are already more than enough like-minded people that want to escape and form some kind of small nation somewhere together (such a place would probably only require a few thousand people at minimum, perhaps even less.) By all means, if you’ve got the time, determination and energy to try to convince millions of reality tv viewers and sportsball fans people to embrace your socially ostracizing political ideology, feel free to go for it. If you live in parts of Europe, you might still have a chance to salvage your country, if it isn’t too unrecognizably gone demographically. For the rest of us though, it’s worthwhile to start thinking more in terms of building tangible societies, creating the blueprints for the kinds of states you want to live in and actually working out the logistics. I’m not talking about “passivism” or “being the change you want to see.” I’m saying forget about arguing with people online and start collectively shopping for discount islands (and figuring out how you’re going to pay for them.)