Locking Down Boom of Life, Motion and Humanity

As published at SubStack, 1/6/23:

[Cape Town, South Africa on 8/16/21]

Born in Bombay, Kipling spent most of his childhood in England. At age 17, he returned to India, where he would live until he was 24.

In 1888, just a year before leaving India for good, Kipling wrote about being deprived of his heritage. Uprooted from their civilization, Englishmen were “all backwoodsmen and barbarians together.”

Kipling evokes London, “At Home they, the other men, our equals, have at their disposal all that Town can supply—the roar of the streets, the lights, the music, the pleasant places, the millions of their own kind, and a wilderness full of pretty, fresh-coloured Englishwomen, theatres and restaurants. It is their right. They accept it as such, and even affect to look upon it with contempt.”

Kipling was also surrounded by millions, but not of his own kind, thus most of the women in his “wilderness” weren’t English. In India, the prey Kipling craved were extremely hard to come by.

As for “the roar of the streets,” India certainly didn’t lack that. Hell, I’m still recovering from just one month in Bengaluru and Chennai, but India’s population has been multiplied by 18 since Kipling’s days, and Rudyard didn’t spend five hours each day dodging tuk-tuks on a Delhi belly stuffed with greasy samosas. A calf I had just petted butted me. Enough of your sentimental bullshit! Thirsty, Kipling didn’t down Kingfishers in bars resembling rec rooms in insane asylums.

Kipling, “Calcutta holds out false hopes of some return. The dense smoke hangs low, in the chill of the morning, over an ocean of roofs, and, as the city wakes, there goes up to the smoke a deep, full-throated boom of life and motion and humanity. For this reason does he who sees Calcutta for the first time hang joyously out of the ticca-ghari and sniff the smoke, and turn his face toward the tumult, saying: “This is, at last, some portion of my heritage returned to me. This is a City. There is life here, and there should be all manner of pleasant things for the having, across the river and under the smoke.”

Instead of “the lost heritage of London,” an English newcomer is thrilled to discover one that’s not just greater, but truer, for “at last, some portion of my heritage returned to me,” but it is illusory. It’s not his.

What London and Calcutta had in common, though, was that boom of life, motion and humanity so starved from American society, even before recent lockdowns and the final nails in Main Street’s pine coffin.

Though loneliness is impossible to quantify, it shows up in alcohol, drug, pill and porn addictions, hours staring at the TV or internet, suicide rates and general deterioration of civility.

Good natured humor has been replaced by snarkiness and flippancy, with desocialized men sucker punching strangers on the streets or online. Mirroring their foreign policies, Americans hit and run, their homemade burqas swishing into the darkness. Muslims did it!

Despite all that, there are at least 1,193 sane and civil Americans left, for that’s the exact number of subscribers to my SubStack! Of these, three have allowed me to share with y’all how they’re coping with our atrocious New Normal and Great Reset.

On 3/19/22, I quoted from Troy, who confided he had enlisted to fight in Afghanistan to escape his isolation, despair and an aimless life punctuated by mind wringing bouts of boozing. Those six months overseas turned out to be the best of his life, though crowds of booing Afghans who gave Troy and his fellow grunts thumbs down made it clear they weren’t liberators. Troy was just grateful he didn’t have to shoot anyone. Enlistment over, Troy was back to his rut.

Before joining the Army at age 31, Troy worked in factories, warehouses and restaurants, “whatever bought the beer.” Discharged, he ended up in Colorado as a wrench turner in oilfields, but only lasted a couple of weeks. “I drank my way out. The other guys were loaded on medical pot, amphetamine and steroids.”

Nearly all the blue-collar Americans I've known drank too much and were also on drugs. It’s not just the steady and total exertion needed to perform mind numbingly repetitive tasks that drives men half mad. There’s also not much to look forward to after the day’s done. OK, so you have happy hour that can stretch to last call, or another evening on the couch staring at commercials intermittently broken up by laugh tracks or a bouncing ball. Special evenings may entail inserting half the week’s earning into neon colored garter or boobs squished together.

Troy doesn’t just drink but read, so I asked him about his favorite authors. Troy:

Early on it was Orwell, Huxley, Vonnegut, some science fiction, whatever I came across. In the army, I read most of Cormac McCarthy's stuff. Since then, Michel Houellebecq has been a favorite. The Elementary Particles was profound for me. Donald Ray Pollock from Ohio is a close-to-home favorite. I'm a big fan of short stories, Ron Rash from North Carolina comes to mind. There's Jim Goad, who I really credit with jumpstarting my inquiries. 

At present my big four are Postcards, The Saker, Andrei Martyanov and Larry Johnson. James Howard Kunstler can entertain and inform as well. You all keep me going, Linh! It's truly appreciated.

Kunstler started me thinking about how badly laid-out space destroys not just the life of the community, but each man’s psychology. While living in a Denys Lasdun’s Brutalist building in Norwich, England, I read Kunstler’s Cities in Mind. I had already spent two years in the medieval section of a small Italian town, so knew folks hadn’t always had to endure some pompous architect or city planner’s nightmare. In Norwich, my door opened into a concrete hallway half sunken in the ground.

Plopped down onto Michiana, Troy speaks of his space, with its “rural, rustbelt despair”:

I'm just a typical Midwestern head case who by grace of circumstance ended up with a few extra brain cells in combination with a lot of space and free time. I've met some pretty perceptive addicts out there. Unfortunately, some of them haven't made it.

I remember watching the history of Rock and Roll documentary on PBS in the late 90’s. I was a stoner Doors fan, but when they got to this scrawny guy standing in front of a cornfield to the opening chords of The Stooges 1969, something changed. I remember Iggy saying something like, “I used to go out into the corn and create my own games. I think it was the space, the freedom of where I was, that gave me an ability to dream, concentrate and imagine...”

That resonated, along with the desire to simply “escape” it all. I'm not sure about the concentration part, but that kind of wide open innocence coupled with some intelligence can create anxieties and confusions in adolescent young men. Substances, for better or worse, often fill that space. 

A lot of space beckons one to journey outward, thus Route 66, cutting right through the Midwest, has become an international icon of American freedom and mobility, with endless space to explore. From Bangkok to Beirut, that highway sign appears. In Johannesburg, there’s a Route 66 Video Arcade.

You need cash, though, to hit that road, and at the end of Route 66, there’s not so much boom of life, motion and humanity, but a kitschy boardwalk with chintzy souvenirs, and hundreds of homeless sprawled on the beach, even in daylight. Feel free to join them.

In San Francisco, Oakland, San Jose, Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Los Angeles and San Diego, etc., California is where the American Dream goes to get doped up then die, and it’s only by default. The ocean prevents these desperate dreamers from drifting further.

Just before this Christmas, Troy told me he had moved into a men’s shelter, so I asked if this, too, was an escape from unbearable isolation? Sure was, Troy said, and it worked, for he felt “as balanced” as he had been in a while.

Troy, “It’s definitely getting hairy here in the States. Everything seems to be slowing down and falling apart in subtle ways. I feel like a ghost among zombies, even among my closest friends and family. Still, I’d rather be aware of the situation as opposed to stuck in front of the TV, as are many of the guys.”

Troy’s dad tested positive for Covid after four “vaccination” shots. After “a lifetime of robust health,” he suffered a minor stroke last year after his second jab.

There’s nothing Troy can do, “I've been through the stages of grief over this and know better than to say shit anymore, the dissonance is such. Love him regardless, he’s actually extremely intelligent but refuses to question anything that National Public Radio (damn them) reports.”

Out in Cleveland, 65-year-old Elizabeth Hayes doesn’t even have a bar to run to, not that she can dash much, for it hurts just to stand long enough to wash a few dishes.

Elizabeth:

There used to be a bar up the street. Well, it’s still there, but closed. Years ago it was a quite popular place—bands on the weekends and pretty good food for lunch and dinner. Judy, who’d been living with preschool Gracie at the time above the bar in an efficiency, had turned the back patio into a beautiful garden/playzone for Gracie, and customers could sit out there. That’s where Gracie charmed a couple into taking her on when Judy got too sick to care for her. Last I heard they were sending her to a private girl's school that costs $40,000 a year. Not bad for a crack baby who'd been born in a Florida prison.

When the owner died a couple bought it and spent a year renovating. It was named the most improved establishment in Cleveland's local paper. Within a few years the new owners drove it into the ground. Shortly after its opening, the guy, an ex-felon, beat the shit out of his girlfriend or wife or whatever in front of customers. He banned people at the drop of a hat. He couldn't keep a cook so no more food. No more bands. The hours were cut drastically. I'd go by there on a weekend evening and there would be maybe two cars. Then for some months there was a sign outside that the property was for sale, including a Sunday liquor permit. Then signs that it would be sold at auction. Apparently nothing came of it as it was open for maybe a month more and then came a “closed for vacation” sign. That was a month or two ago. I'll bet that motherfucker beat the shit out of his partner again and she vacationed in intensive care. Really a spectacular job of fucking up a business.

Any city dweller should have at least three or four bars within walking distance, not just one, whose closure means the end of her social life.

Long divorced, Elizabeth has also been disowned by her woke daughter. The final trigger was Elizabeth’s refusal to pay for Leah’s graduate studies in art therapy. On a Philadelphia sidewalk, I once met an earnest young man who said he wanted to be a “life coach,” though he had had only the most minimal of work and life experiences. A society’s sickness can be measured by its proliferation of jivey theparists, who are themselves, most often, mentally ill.

Elizabeth:

My daughter Leah once told me she’d decided she’s culturally Jewish because it appeals to her to be part of an oppressed group. I laughed; her father’s extended family owns a Savings and Loan. Leah has not talked to me in four years. Naturally, I think of her daily with mixed feelings, outraged by what a little shit she grew up to be and missing her deeply at the same time. For all I know, she could have three kids by now. She could be dead; I don’t check the obits and doubt her father would alert me, but essentially, she’s dead to me now. My mind is haunted by many dead people.

Troy feels like a ghost among zombies. Elizabeth’s mind is swarmed by the dead. Nominally ruled by a child-groping zombie who farts, snarls and shakes hands with thin air, America lurches towards a grave already filled with millions of its victims.

Elizabeth told me about a recent CounterPunch article, “The Kremlin Goes Neocon.” In it, Eric Draitser speaks of Putin’s “isolation,” “irrationality” and “the possibility of his insanity,” on and on, to conclude that this “King Lear, as mad as the vexed sea, his finger on the nuclear button, muttering launch codes to himself,” has learnt his lessons from Karl Rove, Dick Cheney and George Bush! “You can almost hear Putin’s words in that degenerate Texas twang.”

So a sideswipe at Texas on top of this cartoonish demonization of the hugely popular Russian leader, a statesman who’s dwarfing all other world leaders. Can this, ah, be coming from another Jewish warmonger, and one with Ukrainian roots, just like Victoria Nudelman? “Oh come on, you’re so anti-Semitic!” you howl. Meanwhile at Unz Review, Jewish Ron Unz continues to defend genocidal Jewjabs. They sure know when to close ranks.

Conforming wholesale, “progressives” march along, so they’re pro Big Pharma and censorship, with all questioning of Jewjabs deemed “misinformation.” So sanctimonous, they’re the true holocaust deniers.

Elizabeth:

All the people I know here in Cleveland who think they’re radical leftists think just like Democrats. They worshipped Greta Thunberg until she said it was a mistake for Germany to turn off their nuclear power. They get a reverential tone whenever talking about anyone who isn’t white. Black Lives Matter was a righteous protest and January 6th was an attempted coup. It’s an atrocity that Kyle Rittenhouse wasn’t found guilty. I know exactly what they’re going to think next just by looking at the headlines of Common Dreams.

Troy speaks of stocking up on “rice, beans, canned goods and pasta,” for “a can of cold corned beef hash can be a delicacy on cold winter days.” Going into survival mode, he’s just hoping to ride this out.

Elizabeth:

I don’t know how people are feeding themselves because they won’t take the fast food/grocery store/cashier jobs. The places where such work is done have all cut their hours, and often they close much earlier, unannounced, when the employees don’t show up.

I’m very alone but not really lonely. When I was a child and first watched that old black-and-white Frankenstein movie, I remember thinking of the hermit, “I could live like that.” I don’t have a lot of hope for the future—old age has been cruel to those I’m related
to, I wouldn’t go near a doctor these days, and dire poverty (or worse) looks more than likely – but I’m not really depressed, not like those bipolar depressions I used to have. Suicide is all the rage these days, and I’ve always had disdain for the next trendy thing.

Elizabeth’s disdain for suicide because it’s trendy may sound like some goofy joke, except she attempted it decades ago. I urge everyone to read her “Why I Jumped off the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge.” That’s as brave and beautiful a confessional piece of writing as any I’ve encountered.

Whether personal or societial, collapse is often boring and tedious, with destitution or even degradation increasing in small, or manageable, if you will, increments.

From Tacoma, James writes to tell me he has been turned down from yet another job. Like millions of Americans, he’s paying dearly for refusing to be Jewjabbed:

The shut downs caused me to fall into debt. Recovery is difficult when the Governor mandated teachers to become vaccinated. I lost my high school job and my part time college admissions job. Then Biden mandated vaccines which caused me to lose my computer repair job. The state requires me to repay my Covid unemployment when I refused to work at a redneck-run warehouse.

If James didn’t have multiple skills, he would be living in his car, if not under a bridge.

What’s wrong with “rednecks,” you may ask? Nothing, if you’re the great Joe Bageant, who was a self-identified redneck. As a black man, though, James has a different perspective:

When I was a kid my godmother said when she saw an emergency outside she would tell the 911 operator that a black man was roughing up a white woman outside. She said that otherwise, as they lived in a black neighborhood, the police would either never show up or show up hours later.  Her method apparently worked because the police would then arrive within minutes.

And:

As the economy slips and there aren’t enough blacks around to scapegoat, then the whites will go “anarchy” as my godmother’s sister related to me from her memories of the 1930's Great Depression. It wasn’t till a few years ago that I finally realized that blacks are here to keep the white workers scared and quiet.

As always, race complicates matters, so any unified response against this well orchestrated assault against us all is difficult, especially in the West, with its dubious and often incoherent multiculturalism.

By contrast, consider the beginning of the Thai national anthem:

Thailand unites the flesh and blood of Thais.
The land of Thailand belongs to the Thais.
Long has been our independence,
Because we have been united forever.

Just in case you think James is some rabid racist, he and his wife get along fine with their white and Vietnamese neighbors.

Interestingly, James also uses “zombies,” like Troy, to describe people he encounters:

I almost got into an accident with a mixed youth who cut me off. Amazing! Your own kind will be the ones to get you killed. I saw a six car accident on the freeway coming home. After the accident the zombies proceeded to drive like Mad Max once again.

Like “zombies,” “Mad Max” is trending on the internet. Discounting fools, everyone can see what’s coming. Day by day, most of us can clearly feel ourselves increasingly squeezed, if not suffocated.

It’s remarkable how the most natural acts, breathing, touching, standing outside or just walking down the street, etc., have been circumscribed, while the most outrageously unnatural violation, that of being injected with a bioweapon, has been mandated, even for infants.

Covid deaths were pumped up by miscounting and, even more criminally, mistreatment in hospitals, so as to frighten everyone into accepting multiple Jewjabs. Millions, then, have been duped into paying for their own suicides.

On 1/2/23, the Rasmussen Reports revealed that its “national telephone and online survey finds that 49% of American Adults believe it is likely that side effects of COVID-19 vaccines have caused a significant number of unexplained deaths, including 28% who think it’s Very Likely.”

It’s encouraging that half of Americans are calling bullshit on the “safe and effective” injections still being pushed by Rochelle Walensky, Rachel Levine and, of course, Albert Bourla, who has made billions from his premeditated murder of millions, and counting.

When this genocide finally stops, will any of these Josef Mengeles x10, plus all the lying politicians, doctors and journalists who have been their accomplices, ever be held accountable?

With depopulation as its agenda, our ruling cabal has many more sick surprises to unleash. This war has just begun.

 

[Windhoek, Namibia on 3/17/22]

[Chennai, India on 12/25/22]

[Busan, South Korea on 5/22/20]

[Belgrade, Serbia on 9/16/20]

[Vung Tau, Vietnam on 9/5/22]

Disunited Locked Down Porn Kings

As published at SubStack, 2/14/22:

In 1950, only 9% of American homes had a TV. By 1963, 93.1% did. Rigid, they stared.

In Vietnam, the percentage of houses with TV had to be much less. Born in November of 1963 in Saigon, my first memory of television dates to perhaps April of 1968. More audio than visual, it’s a strain of music to accompany scenes of exhumed corpses from the Tet Offensive. Communists had executed them in Hue, with many still alive when buried in shallow graves.

Until I left Vietnam in 1975, television wasn’t a big part of my life. There were only two stations in Saigon, a Vietnamese and an American one, with both broadcasting only parts of each day. All TV sets were black and white, and tiny. If there was, say, a soccer match on, a house with a TV might attract neighbors, standing outside to watch through a window. Most popular were the folk operas.

Not chained to a TV inside, I spent my time, when not in school, on sidewalks all over, and also at the zoo, since I could access it for free through a backdoor at my grandfather’s house. I fed sugarcane to elephants and waited for a python to devour a duck. With the historical museum inside this zoo, I got to look at +2,000-year-old bronze drums and stone statues from the vanquished Champas. I went to swimming pools and was enrolled in a judo class. Its most basic skill is how to fall, even violently, without hurting yourself. Brainwashed by Hollywood, some Americans may be surprised that Vietnamese also entertained themselves, like everybody else everywhere, by playing sports and going to movies, the beach or the stadium, etc.

Attending kick boxing matches with my father was particularly enjoyable. The Viet guys nearly always got their asses booted to hell by the damn Thais, but they were generally better than Laos. Nobody is equal at anything. Most boring were the English rules bouts inserted into the program. They were outright unnatural, an affront against God and man. Just kick that motherfucker! Knee his kidney! Life goes on even during a war, of course.

You wouldn’t know it from Apocalypse Now, though. Inspired by a 1899 novel about the Congo to depict South Vietnam in the 1960’s, its megalomaniac director declared, “My film is not about Vietnam, it is Vietnam.” You might as well make a movie about Indiana based on a Mishima novel. In a review, I have pointed out how written Vietnamese, thus sign of civilization, only appeared for a few seconds in Coppola’s flick.

The Deer Hunter or Rambo is similarly bizarre to any Vietnamese, but hey, these movies have shaped not just the American worldview, but identity, so they will be defended by many Americans on artistic and psychological grounds. As allegories, they feel not just legitimate, but necessary to American mental health.

An American archetype, Rambo must break laws to inject justice into a rotten system, and like a superhero, he succeeds against all odds. Ultimately, though, Rambo reinforces the American culture of constant war. With just enough Rambo in them, millions of Americans have been inspired to kill and be killed in countries they couldn’t find on a map, though many just happened to be near Israel!

Though scrupulous writers exist to bring you closer to the truth, they’re increasingly unread. Visiting Vietnam in 1950, Norman Lewis reports, “In Indo-China the social life of a small town remained remarkably untroubled. The Chinese always ran a gambling saloon. It was quite normal for friends to finish a convivial evening in a fumerie where they might smoke two or three pipes of opium together. The town could well also possess a cinema—even a little theatre staging oriental ballets of great charm and interest.”

Even many who read anything do so most sloppily, with music and/or the TV in the background, while sitting on the toilet perhaps. Literacy has been wedded to shit, but it’s fine, for all knowledge has been uploaded onto YouTube. There, you can learn all about Rasputin, the Phoenicians or Tanzania, etc., in under five minutes. So passé, reading is for boring dead people.

Settled in Tacoma in July of 1975, television became decisive in Americanizing me. Through it, I became familiar, in mere months, with the NBA, NFL, MLB and professional wrestling. I also absorbed American psychology and mannerisms through Shirley Temple movies, Leave it to Beaver, the Brady Bunch, Gilligan’s Island and Happy Days, etc. The last was notable for having an Oriental, Arnold. A little later, a yellow couple appeared in a Calgon commercial, with its “ancient Chinese secret” for making laundry so white.

In Northern Virginia during 1979-1982, I watched Saturday Night Live and Second City Television, but by then, my TV exposure had become much less. With Washington nearby, I went to the National Gallery to look at VanGogh, Monet, Degas, Vermeer, Hopper, Goya and the lone DaVinci in North America, etc. It was my first exposure to great paintings. I probed Old Town Alexandria and Georgetown a bit. I was still too young to sit in a bar. With my first car, a used Mustang II, I drove to Baltimore to watch baseball at Memorial Stadium. Working at McDonald’s, I had some cash in my pocket. My world was opening up, then my car was stolen! This turned out to be a hidden blessing.

After Northern Virginia, I went to Philadelphia for college, but before we leave metropolitan DC, I want to mention Howard Stern, for he first gained national attention at WWDC in 1981. At my high school, kids started to talk about “Howard,” just as later, people would simply say “Rush.”

On 1/13/82, an airplane taking off from National Airport crashed onto the 14th Street Bridge, just two miles from the runway. Only four passengers and a flight attendant could be rescued from the icy Potomac, with much of this drama on live TV. Seventy-eight people died. The very next morning, Stern called Air Florida on air to ask about the price of a one-way ticket from National Airport to the 14th Street Bridge. Many kids at my school thought it was brilliant.

After moving to New York’s WNBC in 1982, Stern had a skit, “Virgin Mary Kong,” where she runs from potential rapists in a Jerusalem bar. In his #1 bestselling book, Private Parts, Stern remembers, “Again, it was God that got me in trouble […] At the end of the bit the Virgin Mother was impregnated by some dude who pushed her up against the wall of a singles bar. Anyway, I thought it was a great skit.”

With Stern, then Jerry Springer from 1991 on, American culture definitely shifted, so that abusive speech and people being publicly humiliated became normal. Before this, the goofy Gong Show was as rude as it got. By the 1990’s, Fear Factor had contestants eating 13 inches of horse rectum, drinking rat smoothies or be encased in a glass coffin filled with cow intestines. One filmed episode of people gulping donkey semen mixed with urine was not aired.

It's no surprise, then, that after horrific images emerged of Iraqi men being sexually humiliated at Abu Ghraib, Rush Limbaugh could dismiss it as no worse than a college prank:

Exactly. Exactly my point! This is no different than what happens at the Skull and Bones initiation and we're going to ruin people's lives over it and we're going to hamper our military effort, and then we are going to really hammer them because they had a good time. You know, these people are being fired at every day. I'm talking about people having a good time, these people, you ever heard of emotional release? You ever heard of need to blow some steam off?

The only lives ruined, according to “Rush,” were those of the American torturers, and not their Iraqi victims. It didn’t matter what Iraqis, or the rest of the world, thought of all this, just as who gives a shit how Vietnamese feel about films that turn them into monsters, but who are the actual monsters? Who  allowed themselves to become this way?

As an adult, I spent 30 years in Philly, 4 ½ years in Europe, 5 years in Asia and, now, seven months in Africa and counting. Except for three months through all this time, I had no car, so had to walk or take public transportation, which means I had to measure each environment with my body, one stride at a time, or be with other bodies, to go anywhere. I have foregone the luxury of being encased by myself in a moving steel box.

I took trains and buses across the USA, so got to know, over and over again, how vast is the country. I slept on buses and at bus stations. I didn’t watch movies about places, I walked through them. In Boston, though, I met a young woman, Katie, who said she didn’t even want to go inside, ever. Much more hardcore than me, Katie refused to be mediated in any way, not even by a wall. To know you’re in Boston, you must be exposed at all time to Boston weather, birds, insects, noises, smells, pedestrians and vagrants.

Katie thought Thoreau was one giant pussy for tucking himself into a toasty cabin, complete with plush quilts and thrown pillows, probably, plus having his mommy cook and do the laundry for him. Why didn’t Henry check himself into the Four Seasons? A few years later, Katie did consent to have a roof over her head in New Mexico, to not freeze her ass off.

[Boston, 12/16/11]

Carless, I have also watched very little television as an adult. Even more crucially, I more or less stopped listening to recorded music when I was about 23. Music should be occasioned, and not habitual or compulsive, which doesn’t just make it banal, but disruptive to all other activities. A symphony used to be a tremendous event, heard perhaps once, to be remembered with the help of a score, at most. To hear any great singer once was a grand privilege, and that’s it, those few minutes. The voice’s gone.

So far, I’ve recounted my avoidance of television, the car and recorded music. All three are escapist tools that allow you to transcend bodily limitations. With TV and canned tunes, you’re instantly transported somewhere else, a magical operation. Nothing, though, beats the internet for removing you from the here and now. With it, you can be nearly everywhere in rapid succession, for as long as you want. For a small fee, you can indulge your visual lust endlessly.

Though you can’t touch or be touched by anything, you’re still experiencing one hell of a lot, so your life is richer than ever, sort of, with so much on your screen, as you touch yourself, while hardly knowing where you are. Though alienated from your own room, house, hometown, state and country, you’ve already visited so many other places, even the most obscure and inaccessible, so you know, for example, that there’s only one bar, Albatross, in Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, and its hours are from 11AM to 11PM, each day but Sunday.

More impressively, you’ve seen, so vividly, so many more pussies than Casanova, tens of thousands already, compared to his pitiful 132, though you’re not just an incel, but a bonafide virgin. Who’s richer?

From 9% of households with a TV in the wealthiest country in 1950, we now have 6.6 billion smart phones for 7.9 billion people on earth, a number that’s hard to believe. Nearly everyone, then, is walking around with a miraculous television, one that can transport them anywhere, at will. Not only that, they can use this device to broadcast themselves, so everyone has a public voice, sort of, if only to 100 followers on Twitter or FaceBook.

Commenting at political websites, people can also fancy themselves a difference maker or dissident. Some maintain blogs or publish articles, though usually with fewer readers than spectators at a high school basketball game. Here, I’m also describing myself. Canceled as an author, I’m writing for maybe 600 people, whom I deeply appreciate, don’t get me wrong, but it’s still a tiny coterie, akin to, say, The Badminton Association For Left Handed Albinos in Glasgow, Montana.

Just as the internet gives us virtual experiences, it also grants us an illusion of power, as compared to its real, brutal exercise. Online, our rulers also have a much greater voice, so their narratives always drown ours. That’s how the Covid scam was sustained for two years, against all logics.

Worse, the internet worked against us, by enabling our rulers to impose lockdowns in the first place, for they knew we could be pacified in solitary confinement, as long as we had plenty of their Satanic or vapid music, idiotic movies and virtual sex, with niches for all perversions. As for friends, we had long been conditioned to prefer clean, glancing companionship in pixels. Frustrated, we could go online to vent in echo chambers, with different political factions canceling each other out.

Robbed of normality, we had to resort to tiny screens even more, with hardly anyone protesting for nearly two years. Our rulers were also satisfied that only a few balked at being death jabbed, repeatedly, to exit this abuse.

Despite some glitches, their project went swimmingly well. Some lackeys will be dislodged from office, but there are many more duplicates. Untouched, the masterminds of this catastrophe have already planned our next nasty surprise.

[Cape Town, 10/12/21]

Mashed Potato and Another War for Israel

As published at Veterans Today, Unz Review and TruthSeeker, 6/19/19:







Done with my article on walking, I rewarded myself by heading to the local Popeyes. Yes, there’s one in District 6, within walking distance of my mosquito netting. Though any Saigon lunch beyond two bucks will cause me infinite, enduring pain, florid self-recrimination and post-traumatic stress disorder, I manned up and handed the young, angelic cashier $3.50 [82,000 đồng], then patiently and humbly waited for this ethereal, merciful being to somehow yield to my disgusting, pitiful self two pieces of fried chicken, plus a jivey biscuit that was vaguely coated with something distantly related to honey, a Coke and, what I so shamelessly craved, some mashed potato!!!

I manhandled that mash alright, dove headfirst right into it, to make up for all those mashless months. Just give me that mash! Give it up!

In my Tri-Cities Postcard, I quoted a Vietnam vet, Pablo, “When I came home, my father asked me about Vietnam, and I said, ‘It has become a part of me!’ Every place you go becomes a part of you, so Vietnam has become a part of me. It’s inside me!”

Very true, so Tacoma, Salem, San Jose, Northern Virginia, Philadelphia, Certaldo, Norwich and Leipzig, etc., are my ingredients, to be stirred up as a craving for a certain dish, and it’s always something very simple, such as mashed potato, which I was introduced to at elementary school cafeterias in Tacoma, Washington. Even at age 55, I distinctly remember mispronouncing it as “smashed potato,” to my classmates’ amusement.

My first two months in Tacoma, I lived in a house owned by an American colonel and his Vietnamese war bride, who was actually half British, half Chinese. Her dad had been my English tutor back in Saigon. My father, brother and future stepmother were also in this home.

A native of Montana, the colonel was a thin, wiry man who usually wore a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. He was twice his wife’s age, and Annette was so young, he enrolled her in Lincoln High School. She was petite, pretty and often looked bemused. This marriage didn’t last. Annette ended up with a Vietnamese man.

During my stint in the colonel’s house, I often saw him eating canned baked beans or canned chili con carne. Trying both, I found the chili OK, but the baked beans, I thought preposterous. In Philadelphia, however, I always had baked beans in my cupboard.

In 2015, I visited my friend, Daniel Kane, in Hove, England, just down the beach from Brighton. (Daniel is the author of All Poets Welcome: The Lower East Side Poetry Scene in the 1960s.) Daniel told me about a guest who stayed in his house, alone, for a weekend. When Daniel came back, he found his trash bin filled with cans of baked beans, and nothing else, “So the guy ate nothing but baked beans for the entire weekend! Can you imagine that?! It’s, like, he gave up on life!”

The guy’s a Brit, and that’s his comfort food, obviously. Towards the end of his life, Duchamp ate nothing but spaghetti with pats of butter. Even if that’s not entirely true, I like the thought.

In Philadelphia during the late 80’s, I had a chemist friend from Thailand, Somchai, who ate a Wawa Italian hoagie for just about every meal, and this was no bizarre self-punishment or performance art. As a Philadelphian, Somchai just loved Wawa Italian hoagies.

Marty told me that, after an evening of drinking at the Friendly Lounge, all he wanted was a roast pork sandwich from Pat’s, three blocks away, so he had had hundreds of them. Still working as a plumber and electrician at 75, Marty deserved a $10 sandwich at the end of the night. He started his working life dressing corpses.

Relating these tepid nonstories, I’m suggesting that it really doesn’t take much to make a man content. As long as he’s free from immediate danger, pain, strife, stress or hunger, even a can of Budweiser or Miller, basically the worst beers in the world, will make him happy. All too often, though, a poor, simple man can’t be left unmolested to enjoy his falafel.

This morning, I emailed Chuck Orloski, “It sure looks like the Jews will get the world embroiled in another war. I’m still hoping it won’t happen... If only life could be as simple as enjoying a Coney or Chinese food on Main.”

Chuck answered, “I miss you, & Keystone Restaurant & the Chinese Restaurant on Main are regular stops, mighty fine. Am very afraid for what ZUS has planned for Iran.”

For just $5.25, you can get a lunch special at New Foliage, and though its hot and sour soup, egg roll and sweet and sour pork will probably be spat at by any New York Times food critic, it’s mighty fine to sit in there, like Chuck said, and stuff your face with so much homey comfort. Done, you can mosey down to the Lounge on Jackson, and knock down a few with some of the finest folks anywhere.

Since we’re in the endless war era, another war for Israel is on the horizon, but hardly anyone seems alarmed, least of all Americans, for they’ve come to see themselves, quite casually and indifferently, as only asskicking agents of war, and never its victims. Conditioned by Hollywood, many Americans also find mass violence exciting, so as another bloodbath looms, some joke that they’re getting out the popcorn to enjoy the fireworks.

Not even two decades ago, an American war still needed elaborately concocted justifications, but now, any throw away lie will do, for hardly anyone is paying attention, preoccupied as he is with selfies, duck faces and hazy, indeterminate genitalia, and where to gently tuck them without incurring wrath and censure.

So let me get this straight: As the Japanese Prime Minister was visiting Iran, two Japanese tankers were supposedly attacked by Iran. This is like sending your son out to scratch up your buddy’s SUV while he’s inside your living room, drinking a friendly six pack with your sorry ass.

Discounting Muslims, Japanese have the absolutely lowest opinion of Israel, with one poll showing 55% negative, and only 3% positive, so is someone sending a message here?

Getting out the popcorn, we want to see explosions and hear reports of mass casualties, for the thought of so many people being blown up can’t help but cheer us up, for we’re not in harm’s way, and since these people are so evil, as our televisions relentlessly tell us, they fully deserve this destruction. Plus, this war will give us another viewing option, for just a baseball game each night can get a bit tedious.

Above, I named Jews as the instigators of war against Iran, which made some readers cringe, I’m sure, for you’re only supposed to point a finger at Israel or Zionists, at most, and never say anything negative against Jews, though it’s fine to accuse, say, whites, Russians or just men, as a sex, of numerous sins. Thanks to the gaseous Holocaust’s swarming shadow, the worst ism ever is anti-Semitism, so a Jew’s feeling is much more inviolable than, say, a Muslim body.

In 1941, Charles Lindbergh opposed the Jewish push to get the United States into World War II, and for this, he was “attacked on all sides—Administration, pressure groups, and Jews, as now openly a Nazi, following Nazi doctrine,” as noted by his wife, Anne, so she concluded, “I say that I would prefer to see this country at war than shaken by violent anti-Semitism. (Because it seems to me that the kind of person the human being is turned into when the instinct of Jew-baiting is let loose is worse than the kind of person he becomes on the battlefield.)” She identified and was concerned with the agents of war, not its many more victims.

So even millions of deaths, hundreds of cities pulverized and dozens of nations dragged through hell are preferable to Jews being scrutinized and held accountable. Again, Anne may just get her wish.

Lindbergh’s key point was that the United States and whites in general should look out for their own interests, not Jewish ones. Jews, however, will insist that Jewish values are universal, and what’s good for Jews is perfect for humanity.

Jews’ hatred of Persians has only been festering for two millennia and a half, ever since a Persian vizier Haman informed Persian king Xerxes, “There is a certain people dispersed among the peoples in all the provinces of your kingdom who keep themselves separate. Their customs are different from those of all other people, and they do not obey the king’s laws; it is not in the king’s best interest to tolerate them. If it pleases the king, let a decree be issued to destroy them [...]” (Esther 3). Though the Jewish concubine, Esther, got Xerxes to impale Haman and his ten sons, on top of allowing his Jewish subjects to annihilate all their enemies, Jews won’t let this thwarted and amply revenged threat be forgotten. (Germany, then, can count on several more thousand years of Jewish hatred.)

On March 31, 2019, the Jerusalem Post asked the American Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo, “Today being Purim, a celebration, Jews worldwide and here in Jerusalem are talking about the fact that Esther 2,500 years ago saved the Jewish people with God’s help from Haman. And now, 2,500 years later, there’s a new Haman here in the Middle East who wants to eradicate the Jewish people like just like Haman did: the state of Iran. Could it be that President Trump right now has been sort of raised for such a time as this, just like Queen Esther, to help save the Jewish people from the Iranian menace?”

Pompeo answered that it was quite possible that Trump is the new Esther. Though without the curves, he’s indeed a Jewish whore.

Genocide is at the heart of the Jewish consciousness, you see, but it’s usually done on their behalf, as recounted in Exodus 12:12, “On that same night I will pass through Egypt and strike down every firstborn of both people and animals, and I will bring judgment on all the gods of Egypt.” Exodus 23:23, “My angel will go ahead of you and bring you into the land of the Amorites, Hittites, Perizzites, Canaanites, Hivites and Jebusites, and I will wipe them out.” Deuteronomy 20:17, “Completely destroy them—the Hittites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites—as the Lord your God has commanded you.”

In our era, Syria, Lebanon, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Iraq and Iran have been in the Jewish crosshairs, and much of the world has gone along with this genocidal plan, because to cross Jews is much worse than to have oceans of blood on your hands.

Masters of inversion, Jews accuse everyone else of a racial hatred they epitomize, but it’s all fine, for their genocidal Yahweh has assured their ancestors, “This very day I will begin to put the terror and fear of you on all the nations under heaven. They will hear reports of you and will tremble and be in anguish because of you.”