Rage Against the Dying of the Light, Part I

You can observe a lot by just watching, as Yogi Berra said.  History is full of examples to learn from, if one were to attempt getting a revolutionary movement off the ground (and I, of course, advocate no such thing).  The Commies, for example, have much to teach us about organization, tactics, and above all, doctrine (“revolutionary theory,” they’d call it).  But, as models, they have one huge drawback: Tradition.  Communism in Russia and Asia rests on a thousand years of tradition; it seems to fit the peasant soul, such that they’re already practicing “naive communism” long before the Kommissars show up.

There is a revolutionary movement that managed to capture a large, advanced industrial nation, and it’s worth studying in detail.  Alas, this is the Internet, so the merest mention of this group brings out the lunatics.  So let’s call them the “Cat Fanciers.”  Ready?

I’m confident that the Ten (I think that’s what we’re up to now) Regular Readers follow me, but for drive-bys, I’m going to put this in all caps.  Please read it as many times as you need to, until you get it: THE DOCTRINE OF THE “CAT FANCIERS” DOESN’T MATTER.  AT ALL.

Let me repeat that: DOCTRINE DOESN’T MATTER.

The chief Cat Fancier himself didn’t worry about doctrine until very late in the game.  He started out, in fact, as a spy from military intelligence, assigned to dig up dirt on the group he ended up leading.  We’re only concerned with movement-building techniques here.  I have zero desire to discuss who did what during the War, or who should or shouldn’t have been sentenced to what at Nuremberg, and I sure as hell don’t want to discuss the details of the War itself.  If you want to cosplay as the commander of 5th Panzer, making little “vroom! vroom!” noises while steering your Tonka trucks around Mom’s basement as you recreate the Battle of Kursk, go nuts.  Just do it elsewhere, please.

In the early days, the Cat Fanciers had two major objectives.  The first — “destabilizing the ruling regime” — gets all the press, even though the Regime was doing an excellent job of that on its own.  Objective Two is the important one: Giving angry, disillusioned young men a sense of purpose.

Well into 1919, most Germans didn’t think they’d lost the War.  It wasn’t going so great at the Front at the time of the Armistice, but that — it seemed obvious at the time — was due to the chaos in the rear.  Most ex-soldiers, certainly including the head Cat Fancier, thought that the eventual peace would be equitable and honorable.  Had we known what was in store for us at Versailles, many if not most of them thought, we’d have kept fighting, Armistice be damned.  Better an end with horror than a horror without end.

That was the Cat Fanciers’ appeal.  While every mainstream party was tainted by appeasing the Allies, every other “fringe” party was explicitly for pie-in-the-sky stuff.  The “Right” (used only for convenience) wanted a clear impossibility (bringing back the Kaiser).  The Left wanted Communism, and while the Commies’ doctrines could be pretty appealing, they seemed to carry with them absorption by the Soviet Union.

Exaggerating just a little for effect, we can say that the Cat Fanciers, of all the parties, mainstream or fringe, wanted to move Germany forward, as Germany.  A vote for any of the mainstream parties was a vote for knuckling under — to the Allies, to the Vatican, to “International Finance Capital” (which, it’s important to note, meant Great Britain and especially America, i.e. the architects of Versailles, NOT you-know-who).  A vote for the fringe-Right meant throwing your vote away, as the Kaiser wasn’t coming back, and a vote for the Left, fringe or mainstream, meant reducing proud Germans to mere proletarians… whose bosses were in Moscow.

It was a powerful message.  Imagine the plight of millions of young men, who wasted the best years of their lives fighting for something that they now realize was a lie.  Worse, it was always a lie — Industrialists (again, and crucially: more America than you-know-who) cooked up the war, and got fat off it while poor boys got gassed at the Front.  And now, those same frauds are in politics, making noises about how we should let Washington, London, or Moscow tell us how to live.

So here’s this organization, led by one of our own, that promises all the camaraderie of the Front, and takes care of you in tough times.  The Cat Fanciers spent vast sums (proportional to their tiny budgets, anyway), helping out comrades in need.  Indeed the Kitten Patrol, their large, highly visible organization of street-brawling headbusters, would often put down-and-out guys on the payroll for a while, just so they could feed their families.  In a chaotic situation, where nobody knows where the next meal’s coming from (or even what the money’s worth from hour to hour), these guys take care of their own.

That’s why you need an organization.

Part II soon.

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What is to be Done?

Since we’re all just doing hypothetical, theoretical spitballin’ here, let’s open the floor.  Let’s say a hypothetical group, not us, were to stage a meetup, further to organizing Fight Club / Project Mayhem-style.  On D day at H hour, we’ll all go out in the streets wearing an all-white Pats baseball hat with an upside-down American flag pin on the brim* (such that people who live in Greater Boston etc. don’t accidentally start blabbing about Our Thing to unsuspecting fans).  We’ll loiter at the busiest shopping area within a ten block radius of our houses for an hour.  When you recognize one of your own, give him the “OK” sign.  (Be subtle-but-clear about it).  Then find a way to surreptitiously exchange contact info — maybe carry a business card that you can “accidentally” drop as you pass — then check back here for further instructions.

[Again, don’t actually do this.  This is just a thought experiment.  We all love Big Brother here].

It seems we’ve already hit an insurmountable problem.  Even if we assume that Rotten Chestnuts isn’t under surveillance by the Feds (and lately I’ve been noticing a floral delivery truck marked Flowers BIrene circling my block), we’ve just transmitted the key piece of information in the clear.  Even if we communicate in unbreakable cipher from here on out, at some point you have to transmit the instructions for picking up your secret decoder ring in plain text…

Once you get the code, though, the problems persist.  I assume any such group would be an “organization” only in the loosest sense, but even there, someone has to be Tyler Durden, keeping track of what all the Fight Clubs within Project Mayhem are doing.  Remember, the key to this whole (entirely hypothetical!!!) thing is that everything it does — everything — is 100% perfectly straight-up LEGAL.  (One of Tyler Durden’s top priorities would be to get some crack lawyers into the Club).  Tyler would need to be able to track activity, and enforce discipline if necessary.  In other words, there would need to be some loose group communication, if only to keep track of things.

And as the movement grew, the need for coordination would increase.  I’ve already suggested a way to keep in touch — a fake (or hell, even a real) discussion board.  I suggested a “pickup artist” community, as they’re already eyeballs deep in conspiratorial lingo, but anything sufficiently specialized and dorky will do.  A baseball site would probably do the trick (VORP! WHIP! BABIP!  It sounds like Batman fighting the Riddler back in the Sixties).  The idea is that you can communicate in all-but-plain text, piggybacking on their jargon.  Look for posts by “Hubert Q. Fakename” after 12/2/2018 (I assume it’d be easy to go back and fake time stamps, such that Hubert looks like a longtime poster?  Software people, please help).

Which raises another problem.  I assume that piggybacking on existing jargon would fool search algorithms (again, where my comp-sci brothers at?), but it’s still hosted on a commercial site, and people have to log in with IP addresses, user names, etc.  I know there are ways around this — TOR and whatnot — but a) I’m sure TOR itself was developed with some back doors, and b) more importantly, you need people tech savvy enough to use this kind of thing.  I’m not, and I doubt most kids are.  (Remember, the key word in any mass movement is “mass.”  Meaning you’re dealing with the dead center of the bell curve.  If most people are idiots, then what does that say about our membership roster?).  Everything would have to be 100% plausibly deniable, without your average poster realizing it.

[While I’m sure it’s possible to set up some kind of super-secure, ultra-encrypted server in a secret lair somewhere, that would be a big neon sign for the Feds.  Setting up a home server in her goddamn bathroom was actually the smartest part of Hillary Clinton’s whole caper — surely the Media-certified Smartest Woman in the World wouldn’t be so stupid as to do that, so nobody bothered to look.  She botched it, naturally, but the initial idea was pretty clever].

Last, and most important, are the face-to-face meetings.  Intimidation — completely legal intimidation — is the whole point, and that requires visibility.  The Left’s greatest advantage is that they can do this in the clear, under their own names — it’s not a crime to say “gosh, it sure would be a pity if someone doxxed you.” It’s not a crime to retweet it.  And that’s how they get you.  I’d suffer zero penalties, legal or social, if I did that openly, under my own name, as a Left-winger, targeting a right-winger.  It’s not a crime for us to do it, either, but we all know that we’d immediately put ourselves in the crosshairs of every liberal busybody in every government organization nationwide (which is to say, pretty much all of them).

This is why it’s critical to make the uniform — the ballcap or whatever it hypothetically is, theoretically — a fashion thing before making Fight Club’s existence known.  That’s also why it’s important to choose an obvious variant of something already popular.  Who knows, maybe that group of pissed-off young guys is just the local Pat fan club, and the team just lost?  What are you going to do, haul every Chad and Stacy from Local U down to the police station for a chat?  Get ready for a flood of phone calls from pissed off administrators, teachers, and parents!

And with that, you’re right back to the start — how do we even make ourselves known to each other (theoretically), without blowing OpSec all to hell in the first five minutes?

I have no answers.  I’m pulling all this straight out of my ass as I type (and it’s all a thought experiment anyway).  I’m sure it’s covered in Spycraft 101 at CIA school, but unless you’ve got the manuals (or, better yet, firsthand experience) I don’t think that’d do us much good.  Plus this is the Internet, where 1 in every 5 guys is a ninja paladin Green Beret who got kicked out of SEAL Team Six for being too badass; nobody would believe you anyway.  I know a few of you are comp-sci types, so you could probably knock together a solution for the middle stages, but the “getting to know you” part seems hopeless in the modern urban surveillance environment.





*Yes, you will probably look like a dork, especially if you’re past a certain age.  And yes, all-white anything makes your butt look big.  What’s more important, saving America or looking cool?
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Wearing the White Hat

The last post was fairly abstract about movement building.  Let me illustrate.

College football programs change their uniforms all the time.  They almost never change their logos and color scheme, no matter what pressure is put  on them.  This is because football is central to the college experience.  The teams themselves mostly lose money, as we noted yesterday, but they’re loss leaders – they  build the brand.1  This is also how ranked schools have creampuffs to mollywhop every opening weekend.  Yeah, Cupcake Tech gets paid to travel to Big State and get stomped, but have you ever wondered why the hell Cupcake Tech has a football team in the first place?  You can’t run an entire program from a single game’s paycheck.  Again, it’s all about the brand — Cupcake Tech gets stomped by Big State on national tv.

What, you thought the faculty decided that athletics is a central part of a well-rounded education?  Profs hate sports in general, and football in particular, with the heat of a thousand suns.2  All that toxic masculinity!  I promise you: Every fall, all the faculty loudmouths (that is to say, the entire faculty) at every college in America get together and go down to the college president’s office to complain about the football program.  And every fall, the president tells them to get bent, not because he’s a football fan — college presidents are eggheads, too — but because he’s the one guy on campus who sees the bottom line.  I’m not exaggerating too much when I say that without its annual stomping by Big State, Cupcake Tech would pretty much cease to exist.

No, really.  If “athletic success” can increase applications 30% in two years, simply being on tv with the big boys must do something.

“The primary form of mass media advertising by academic institutions in the United States is, arguably, through their athletic programs,” says Harvard Business School Assistant Professor of marketing Doug J. Chung.

That’s what I want everyone to keep in mind: The brand-building effect.  Let’s say you’re a parent who doesn’t want to send your snowflake off to Big State — you bought into the bullshit about “smaller class sizes” and whatnot (and it is mostly bullshit, but that’s a rant for another day).  Where do you start looking?  Well, there was that college on tv the other day… they had a cool logo, nice colors….

The specifics don’t matter.  At all.  Snowflake doesn’t know what she’s going to major in, or what she’ll do with that degree once she gets it.  Nor will the first three or four years on campus clarify it much (what, you thought “undeclared” was just for freshmen? HA!!).  But I promise you: Snowflake will have all the gear.  It’s an almost perfectly inverse relationship, in fact — the less you know why you’re in college in the first place, the crazier your devotion to the school mascot.  (Yeah, sure, it’s anecdotal, but I’ve got a lot of anecdotes).  Snowflake will be a Cupcake Tech Fightin’ Pastry until her dying day.  And since the student body nationwide is close to 60% female

Let’s apply that to Our Thing.  The very first step in building a successful movement is letting the world know your movement exists.  This seems obvious, but read the biography of any successful revolutionary — it’s littered with alphabet soup, the clunky acronyms of a zillion low-rent “movements” that never got out of somebody’s basement apartment for lack of publicity.  Here again, the specifics don’t matter.  At all.  The first, and most pressing goal, of a Direct Action Group — even before “getting a better name, for pete’s sake” — is to create the impression of ubiquity.  Turn wearing a white ballcap into a fashion statement.  This shouldn’t be all that hard to accomplish — see “undergraduates, female majority of,” above.  College girls are the most conformist creatures on God’s green earth, with high school girls running a close second.

Again, because it’s critical: The specifics don’t matter.  They don’t need to know — indeed, definitely should NOT know — that a white Pats ballcap (or whatever) means you’re part of #TheRealResistance (or whatever).  That comes later.  Your cadre should know…

… because that’s our white hat’s second critical function at the start: Signalling.  This is old-school spycraft, right out of the Fifties.  The eighteen fifites, which is why it is will be so effective in the modern high tech urban surveillance environment.  “Affects and effects” were standard communication techniques for secret agents.  How do you know who your contact is, since basic operational security means you’ve never seen him before?  Ahhh, he’s the chap with the red flower in his left lapel, holding yesterday’s copy of the Telegraph in his left hand, leaning against a lamp post at Euston Station between 12:30 and 12:45 (he’ll recognize you by your white hatband).  If the meet’s on, he’ll rapidly open and close his paper; if it’s off, he’ll pretend to drop his pocket watch.

So: Are you really in #TheRealResistance, or just some trend-surfing poseur?  Ahh, you have a shamrock pin on the left side of the brim.  You’re a Cell Leader Third Class in the local Organization.  Combine the two for extra fun — get the trend surfers wearing “pieces of flair” on their hats like that dork in Office Space.

You really just want to be able to recognize your fellow Fight Clubbers, but if these nimrods want to volunteer as camouflage, let them!  If your Basic College Girl has at least fifteen pieces of flair on her hat, you can stealth-transmit half of Atlas Shrugged.  

Obviously I’m being more than a little facetious — obviously — but “piggybacking” on a trend that you yourself started is incredibly effective.  Witness the lulz with the OK sign, which was openly a prank from day one.  It’s to the point now where undercover shitlords really could signal to each other that way.  It’s got plausible deniability out the wazoo, everything from “do I look like I follow internet memes?” to “seriously, that’s really a thing?” to “haha quit joking” to “I’m standing up to the Alt-Right — take back our hand gestures!”  But if the other guy flashes OK back at you, now you have much to discuss….

Alas, the plausible deniability requirement means Our Thing’s “uniform” really will have to be something common.  I take a backseat to no man in my disdain for poseurs, and while all modern fashion is stupid and it’s getting worse as we careen closer to real-life Idiocracy, creating a “look” from scratch is too risky — you’ll get “outed” before it turns into a trend.  It’d be easy enough to get bespoke gear made — the local screen printing shop can set you up with an all-white hat with any logo you choose — but it totally compromises operational security.  As does picking some minor league team’s gear — while nobody will find it suspicious if the New England Patriots suddenly have a lot more fans (particularly if they win another Super Bowl), a bunch of y’all running around Dallas wearing the hats of the worst team in the New Hampshire Co-Rec Softball Weekend Beer League’s weakest division might raise a few eyebrows, even at such an enstupidated institution as The Feeb.

In short: Start thinking like a dumb, mal-educated, hormonal college girl.  What would she wear, and why?  Use that, and once it gets good and popular….

THEN it’s time for the big reveal.  Or, you know, the microscopically small reveal, because you want to maintain plausible deniability at all times.  You want it juuuuuuust well-known enough that it’s slightly “risky” to be seen wearing one. Take a lesson from the so-called “EdgyCons” here.  Whatever you think of their message, guys like Jordan Peterson, Ben Shapiro, etc. make really nice livings at the very edges of “respectable” opinion.  A certain kind of person would find you slightly dangerous if you carried a copy of 12 Rules of Life around.  If they asked you, though, you could just as easily say “it’s a research project; I know he’s a horrible badthinker, I want to see just how bad it really is, to make sure nice sweet people like you who love Big Brother don’t get sucked in.”

Obviously you’ll get a lot more of a certain type of poseur with this tactic, and that’s ok.  For one, they’re a fertile recruiting ground, especially the ones who want to get in your face about it.  Goebbels bragged he could turn a Red (Communist) into a Brown (Nazi) in two weeks, because both Commies and Nazis are easily excitable losers who are already worked up about politics, so all you have to do is shift the emphasis a little bit (he only implied that last part).

For two, imagine the reaction of the kind of hysterical wanker who gets worked up by the OK sign, Pepe the Frog, and the rest.  If they start thinking that maybe, just maybe, an all-white Pats hat is the uniform of the Neo-Neo-Klan, then isn’t all Pats gear suspect?   Hell, isn’t all NFL gear suspect?  I mean, cardinals are well known as the most racist of birds, and that Jacksonville team could’ve picked an all-black jaguar for their logo, but picked the spotted one instead.  Clearly racist.  And don’t get me started about the “Packers” — packing Jews into concentration camps!!!3

Have some fun with it.  So long as it’s plausibly deniable and no none gets hurt, it’s good.  (Or, you know, don’t have fun with it, because all this is purely a thought experiment.  Totally hypothetical).


1 The teams that do money make tons of it, and hey, whaddaya know, Oregon — the undisputed world champ of wacky uniform changes — is third on the list.  They started changing their uniforms every week when Nike CEO Phil Knight got involved.  Hey, ya think Phil Knight — the guy who brought Air Jordans to the world — knows a thing or two about building a brand?

2 Yes yes, the “gender studies” people love softball, I’ll give you that.  And field hockey.  But since about 14 total persyns play those, they have no impact on campus life.

3. Again, obviously I’m kidding.  This is 100% satire.  I advocate nothing.  I love Big Brother (in fact, I’m required by my institution’s ethics board to notify you that this — all of it, this whole blog — is all a big experiment in the Department of Sociology.  I’m trying to see just how gullible and manipulable you suckers really are.  I’m With Her, all the way).


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Romanticizing College

The late, great David Stove once said,

There are scarcely any human beings who do not have some lunatic beliefs or other to which they attach great importance. People are mostly sane enough, of course, in the affairs of common life: the getting of food, shelter, and so on. But the moment they attempt any depth or generality of thought, they go mad almost infallibly. The vast majority, of course, adopt the local religious madness, as naturally as they adopt the local dress. But the more powerful minds will, equally infallibly, fall into the worship of some intelligent and dangerous lunatic, such as Plato, or Augustine, or Comte, or Hegel, or Marx.

By “scarcely any” he of course meant “none.”1  People get all hot and bothered about the word “transcendental,” I suspect, because lots of us think other people use it as secret code for J-E-S-U-S.2  But it isn’t.  The transcendental is just a “lunatic belief…to which [we] attach great importance.”  If you’re not sure what yours is, fill in the blank:

It’s just a _____.

Everyone has something to put in the blank such that, if someone said it to you, you’d sock them on the jaw.  Atheists are the most fun meta-example.  Tell an atheist that hey, it’s great that you’ve got 1001 irrefutable proofs that there’s no Invisible Sky Fairy, but in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter a bit — if all we are is dust in the wind, dude, then our illusions are actually more valuable, because otherwise Camus is right and philosophy’s only real problem is suicide.  You first, Cheeto-breath.  Atheism is just another teenage fad.  You’ll grow out of it, just like you grew out of being a goth and a metalhead and a skater and the seventeen other things you were sophomore year.

And so on.  Your teenage Libertarian — otherwise so calm and reasonable — will break down crying if you tell him that The Smiths are “just a band.”  Tell a Packers fan that football is “just a game” and watch what happens.  Tell the guy who’s doing twenty-to-life that those Air Jordans were “just sneakers.”  See what I mean?  We don’t want to believe that people can find transcendental meaning in a pair of sneakers, but 1200 homicides a year say otherwise.

The fastest route to transcendence, though — and by far the most consequential — is through politics.  A successful revolutionary movement is just a cult writ large, and revolutionaries damn well know it.  Why do you think Lenin created a cabinet-level Ministry of Education — complete with Enlightenment Commissar! — to proclaim that The Workers are the source of all that is good and vital in the world?  And he wasn’t a patch on Heinrich Himmler, whose neo-pagan fantasias would be awesomely kitsch if they weren’t so terrifying.  We can infer a general rule here:

A successful revolutionary movement must offer

  1. A transcendent goal, and
  2. Transcendent experience.

The first without the second is your basic New Year’s Resolution — you think about how great life would be if you were to drop 20 pounds, but since the future benefit is only a fantasy and hauling your sweaty, hungry ass up the stairmaster is reality, most New Year’s Resolutions don’t make it past January 4.  The second without the first is your basic rock concert — it’s fun to get drunk and high and half-naked with 20,000 of your new best friends, but it’s back to the office on Monday.

It doesn’t have to be explicit, and it sure as hell doesn’t need to make sense.  The clowns who shoot each other over sneakers almost certainly can’t articulate why that makes sense to them, any more than Packers fans can explain why they stand shirtless in subzero weather for three hours.  Indeed, the Left got where it is, I argue, simply by romanticizing college.

Betcha didn’t see that coming!

College sells itself as both 1 and 2.  The transcendent goal is, of course, “a good job,” which if you remember your own adolescence is entirely hypothetical at that point.  But it’s also the whole “going off to college” thing — going to school, getting the gear, giving your parents the “College Mom” bumper sticker at Christmas.  Why do you think NCAA football still exists?  As eggheads outside the ivory tower always point out, only a handful of programs make money.  Not to mention all that toxic masculinity!!!  Football is marketing — that’s it.  My old employer, Flyover State, made it the cornerstone of the campus experience, even though the team last won a bowl game in Nineteen Seventy Never.  A whole bunch of kids around there took it for granted that they’d go on to be Flyover State Fightin’ Deplorables when they graduated high school, just like Mom and Dad (and these days, often Grandma and Grandpa too).

Which is also the “transcendent experience” part.  I don’t know about you, but I started missing college by about the fourth time my alarm rang at zero-dark-thirty and I had to haul my suited, necktied ass down to the cubicle for another eight hours of the rat race.  By the end of my first month in The Real World, I’d forgotten all the shitty parts of college and could only recall the good times.  By the end of the second month, The Good Times had acquired their own capital letters.  Remember how great it was to be able to roll out of bed at 2:30 in the afternoon?  The endless nights of cheap beer and easy girls?  All the afternoons lazing around the frat house with Chugs and Dudester and Munchie, solving all the world’s problems over some cool tunes and righteous bud?  Me neither, but by the time I had to file my first income tax returns I could swear all of that stuff happened, like, all the time.

That’s how they get you.  Because, of course, the radical Leftist politics were always there, steady white noise, like your Mom’s heartbeat in the womb.  You may not remember anything specific — in fact, they’re counting on it — but you remember the gist of it.  Quick: What did you learn in English Lit 101, all those years ago?  “Uhhhh…. something something Shakespeare oppresses women.”  How about HIST 201, Colonial America?  “Errr….. Harriet Tubman?  No, wait, Crispus Attucks!  Also something something genocide of the noble Native Americans.  And slavery.”  How about MATH 101?  “Something something algebra is racist.  Also sexist.”

Any successful revolutionary movement must focus on the revolutionary experience.  Fights over whether we should all wear white Patriots hats  — or should we wear hats at all, or do they have to be Patriots hats, and does white make my butt look big? — are all fine and good, but without the experience, it’s just fashionista crap.

The point is meeting people — “male bonding,” if you must.  We can all prance around dressed like Tinkerbell, Queen of the Fairies, for all I care.  You build a movement by giving people an experience.  It doesn’t have to be the whole Leopard Lodge, Grand Poobah deal — shouldn’t be, for obvious OpSec reasons — but it has to be something more than just grousing on the Internet.  Wearing a hat — or a fez, or a Tinkerbell costume — is only a conversation starter, a wink and a nod, a way to let other people know you’re in the know.  It’s the same as wearing college logo gear to the grocery store.  “Oh, you’re a Fightin’ Deplorable, too?”

Being in #TheRealResistance is, by definition, a bonding experience.  The trick is to plausibly deniably let everyone know you’re in it.  It’s no Big Rivalry Game, but it’ll do.

1. though I suspect Stove, who was not without intellectual vanity, gave himself a pass.

2. Stove was one of them.

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One of the keys to understanding egghead psychology — insofar as it can be understood — is the concept of agency.  It means “the ability to meaningfully influence events.”  Brown people, obviously, don’t have it, as they’re forever getting colonized / exploited / murdered by cops as they’re holding their hands up to show that they’re harmless gentle giants walking back from their Advanced Calculus classes on their way to mentor gay disabled Cub Scouts.  But here’s the thing: White people don’t have it, either.  In fact, no one does.

Consider the British Raj.  This should be the paradigm case of eeeevil White people sticking it to noble, helpless brown people, and indeed, it sure looks that way on the surface.  There’s an entire academic discipline, Subaltern Studies, that exists only to dredge up new Subcontinental grievances.  But if you look a little closer….

How the hell did 200,000 White folks, max, hold down a native population in the hundreds of millions?  That question has baffled the History biz for decades.  Even those of us who resisted the compulsory enstupidation of K-thru-college education tend to wonder at it.  The answer — are you ready? — is so simple, so obvious, that it’s right there in our faces, and only loooong indoctrination, by the entire culture, could make us miss it:

The natives don’t think of themselves as The Natives.

It’s a category error.  If you’ve ever been to India… hell, if you’ve ever even looked at a map of India, you’ll notice that the place is huge.  It’s got hundreds, probably thousands, of distinct ethnic groups, each following their own customs and speaking their own language (India has, sez Wiki, “1635 rationalised mother tongues, 234 identifiable mother tongues and 22 major languages” as of 2001, the last official census data released).  The “official” language, Hindi, is spoken by less than half the country (and it’s Hindi-lite; the real thing is spoken by about 25%, which is probably somewhere close to the number of English speakers.  The problem with trying to learn a Subcontinental language, I’m told by people who’ve done it, is that everyone you meet wants to practice their English on you).

How do you convince an “Indian” from Bangalore to obey you, even to the point of fighting other “Indians” from Delhi?  Simple: Point out that Delhi is a thousand miles away, they speak a different language there, practice a different religion… It’s the same way you get a Frenchman to fight a Russian, or a Scotsman to fight an Englishman.  And that’s how the British did it.  It was really that easy — well into the 19th century, the “British” were just another political group, to be allied with, fought against, or ignored, as the situation dictated.

Race didn’t matter much until the Mutiny, and even there, the best explanation for “British” victory isn’t race, but politics.  The British thought of themselves as “The British,” all right — a small, easily identifiable minority, under real and constant threat — but “the natives” were what they always were: A loose collection of wildly different peoples.  The British had simple, straightforward war aims: The return to the status quo antebellum, which they could describe in exquisite detail.  They could also woo reluctant rebels back with detailed, implementable promises of reform.

The “natives,” on the other hand, had no grand plan.  How could they?  Once the British were gone from each region — a shockingly simple accomplishment — the local powers had to figure out, now what?  The seventeen zillion princely states still had longstanding beef with each other, Delhi was still a thousand miles away from Bangalore, and the “natives” were still just human beings, which meant that they immediately took advantage of the chaos to settle all their longstanding grudges with each other.  So long as the British held firm — and they were 10,000 miles from home, with no hope of reinforcements in under 6 months — and didn’t do something unforgivably stupid, the “natives” were hosed.

So it would seem that “the British,” at least, had “agency.”  But… did they?  Here’s where it gets interesting.  You can find named individuals, who did specific things that contributed to the Mutiny’s suppression — Hodson really did have Bahadur Shah’s sons killed after recapturing Delhi, and the archives probably have the name of the officer who had mutinous sepoys blown from cannon at Ferozepore.  Did Hodgson, then, and Left-tenant Smith (or whoever he was) have agency?

It sounds that way, but there’s fierce debate over the impact — if any — of any of those decisions.  The “bloody gate” still exists in Delhi; did it crush the last spirit of the rebellion, or inflame last desperate acts of resistance?  Ditto blowing from cannons — it’s a hideous way to die; if that’s what I’m in for, I’ll go down fighting, thankyaverramuch.  So Hodson fails the agency test.  He did what he did, but what difference, at that point, did it make?

As with everything Liberals say, details defeat them.  Just as no Liberal knows which specific regulations he wants back, to counter the horrible effects of “deregulation” of the ___ industry, so no professor would ever assign “agency” to a named individual, if for no other reason than it would let someone else get tenure by denying it.  No, really: I was a part-time prof at best, and I could easily construct an “argument” painting Hodson as a victim of systemic class prejudice in the Indian Army.

That’s the key.  I went into all that detail because I wanted you to see two things.  The first — how much effort eggheads make to escape the obvious, and how successful their efforts have been — I’ve written about a zillion times before.  The second is relevant here: In the crunch, nobody has “agency.”  The vast, panoramic sweep of History is just the interplay of impersonal forces, like “Racism” and “Capitalism;” when you get right down to it, individuals don’t matter.  At all.  And if individuals don’t matter, then they — the professors themselves — don’t matter.

Which is why they say the things they say and do the things they do.  Have you ever played CivilizationSim City, or a game like that?  Hell, ever played Monopoly?  It’s fun sometimes to do goofy, counter-intuitive things, and why not?  You don’t really get thrown in jail if you can’t pay the mortgage at St. James Place, any more than the residents of Sim City really get stomped when you unleash Godzilla on them.  Just to stick with a theme, anyone who’s old enough and nerdy enough remembers Civilization‘s “nuclear Gandhi.”  Who hasn’t ICBM’d that asshole a few times, just on general principles?

It’s all a game to these people, and since they’re in total control of their environment, it’ll be beyond Thunderdome in the outside world before they’re forced to confront Reality.

And that’s the attitude they’re teaching your kids.

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Reorganizing Myths

Every known human society has its organizing myth.  All those myths are about security — from other tribes, from nature, or from both.

As society gets bigger and more complex, so, too, do the organizing myths, to the point where we often forget they are myths.  Everyone knows, for example, that “representative democracies” like America are founded on “the consent of the governed,” which takes the form of a “social contract.”

When did you actually sign your social contract, Citizen?  Did you initial all the highlighted blanks?  Did you read all the fine print?

It’s no secret I think Leviathan is one of the finest things written in English.  It’s one of only two books of political philosophy you’ll ever need to read.  But…

…..it’s barmy for all that.  Hobbes bases his reasoning off a thought experiment: the war of all against all in the famous “state of nature.”  The “state of nature” doesn’t actually exist.  Hobbes knew the state of nature doesn’t exist, and at one point I’m pretty sure he comes right out and says “the state of nature doesn’t really exist” (the closest real-world example he could find were the Indians surrounding Plymouth Plantation).

But he rolls with it anyway.  We only form governments to escape the state of nature, he says, and the only reason we want to escape the state of nature is that life there is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”  And the reason for that is…. wait for it…. wait for it…. That all men are equal in the state of nature.

Seriously.  This man, who ends up constructing an eloquent logical argument for the most absolute monarch that could ever be, starts with the fundamental premise that all men are equal.

See why they don’t actually want you to read what the Dead White Guys actually said?

John Locke agreed, of course, and through him, via Montesquieu and the rest, we get to Thomas Jefferson and his “self-evident” truth that “all men are created equal,” and from there to the “consent of the governed” nonsense they made you memorize back when they required Civics in grade school.    We like the notion of “consent of the governed,” so we ignore the “all men are created equal” gunk it comes from.  We should’ve stuck with Hobbes’s much better, much more cynical, origin of government: “The power of the mighty hath no foundation, but in the opinion and belief of the people.”

There’s your “representative government,” all right, since nothing represents humanity better than the judgment that we’re all fools, throwing away our lives for some inbred weirdo in a funny hat.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  One reason the “state of nature” is such a compelling thought experiment, especially to us “conservatives,” is that we know men are really like that.  Put a group of guys in a state of dire scarcity — cf. any bar on a Friday night where the men outnumber the women — and you’ll see vicious, brutal, indeed Hobbesian competition.  However:

We aren’t in a state of dire scarcity.  None of us, I would venture to guess, has ever needed food and had no realistic possibility of getting some.  We may not have liked the options on offer — soup kitchens, panhandling, dumpster diving, Arby’s — but we knew that we were about 12 parsecs away from starving or resorting to cannibalism.  Unless you have actually been in the heat of battle, watching your comrades fall bleeding around you  — and few Americans have — you’ve never been certain there’s a pretty good chance you’re about to die, like, NOW.

“Scarcity” in the State-of-Nature sense is meaningless to us, and because it is, “social contract” arguments lose whatever force they once had.

What we need, then, is a new myth — a REorganizing myth, if you will.  I have no idea what this would actually be, but it’s time to think outside the box.  Perhaps literally. Our greatest external threat, the one that is 52,902 times more likely to do us in than exploding Arabs, car accidents, and the Designated Hitter combined, is…. caloric surplus.  We’re simply not built to handle an all-food, all the time environment.  It’s deadly, and all the worse because it sneaks up on you.  A government based on self-control — “we hold this truth to be self evident, push away from the table, fatso” — is a damn sight better than “all men are equal.”


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New Soviet Friends

Being moron Socialists themselves, academics shy away from studying the psychological effects of life under Communism.  They’re… interesting, to say the least.  Imagine what living in Victory Mansions must do to your sex life, for instance.  Since there’s no privacy — communal kitchens, communal bathrooms, three families to a room — people do what comes naturally, well, naturally.  Animals aren’t embarrassed, after all, so neither should you be.  Lose your counterrevolutionary bourgeois hangups, comrade, and just screw standing up in a stairwell like a good Bolshevik.

As with sex, so with everything else — eating, bathing, sleeping, everything.  And conversation, of course.  If every phone in Romania wasn’t bugged, it wasn’t for lack of trying by the Securitate.  And while the low-rent Securitate was reduced to ostentatiously following random people around as a terror tactic, the Stasi, with Teutonic efficiency, simply signed up one in every six East Germans as snitches.  And since the vast majority of Communist “free time” was spent standing in line, private life became all but impossible.

Hence the baffling, brass-balled brazenness which is the first thing you noticed upon meeting someone from behind the Iron Curtain.  Since we Westerners once valued our privacy — kids, ask your grandparents — we thought that escaped Commies would be furtive, mousy little creatures.  They weren’t.  They were the opposite, in fact, and it makes sense if you think about it for a minute:

In Soviet Russia, everyone’s on the take.  Everyone’s a potential snitch, and every nook and cranny is bugged anyway.  You have to take a dump in full public view, and only after haggling with Der Kommissar over how many squares of toilet paper are in this month’s ration, and that only after standing in line for six hours with 1,500 of your new best friends.  Under those conditions, shameless is the only way to live.  You don’t just lie — to everyone, all the time — you construct an elaborate, deliberately random web of lies, so that the NKVD has five or six different stories about you, and they all contradict each other, and since all the various lies and sub-lies and sub-sub-lies that make up the five or six different stories are all just about offering to bribe the store clerk for an extra swatch of asswipe anyway, it’s not worth hauling you into a dungeon for some rubber hose time.

And those were Europeans!  Asian Commies, who come from face/shame cultures, are much worse.  Everyone who has been around even first gen Chinese-Americans knows that they cheat.  Egregiously.  On everything.  Even when there’s no possible benefit to cheating; even when it’d be easier, safer, and smarter to play it straight.  They just can’t help themselves.  East Asians may have a higher average IQ than Caucasians, but approximately 99.3% of their available brainpower goes into figuring out ways to game the system.  How do you think the barely-even-Engrish speakers who staff every computer lab in America all aced their SAT verbals?

The point of all this isn’t just to bash Commies, fun though that is, and as much as this post will be exhibit A at my thoughtcrime show trial.  The point is: This is our future.  Not, I hasten to add, because we’ll be overrun by the Yellow Peril — see Cheating, consequences of endemic, above — but because we’re doing it to ourselves.  Facebook and Twitter are turning an entire generation into New Soviet Friends.

I worked in academia for years (thank you, Jesus, for early retirement).  I’ve met thousands of college kids — social media addicts all.  If you want to know what they’re like, read this and this.  It’s RS McCain’s beatdown, in his inimitably epic style, of one Julia Baugher, aka Julia Allison, aka one of the trailblazers of the “girl-talking-dirty-on-the-Internet” route to e-celebrity.  Mx. (or whatever) Allison (or whatever) was cute, DTF, and utterly shameless.  Combine those with the then-new platforms of Facebook (2004) and Twitter (2006), and you have, if not the first Internet famewhore, then certainly one of the most meteoric rises to Internet famewhoredom yet recorded.

McCain (and others) take this gal’s post-Wall lament as the well-earned wages of cock-carouseling — an object lesson for younger-hotter-tighter girls to hurry up and get a ring put on it, lest they end up like Julia Allison.

But that’s the thing.  While Julia Allison might be, as McCain declares, a Cluster B headcase, the younger-hotter-tighter generation aren’t.  This:

most likely narcissistic, with many symptoms of borderline, as well… she also shows some mood disorder symptoms, with the grandiosity of manic-phase bipolar followed by the crash of depression and failure

just IS your Basic College Girl, 2018 edition.  It’s not pathological if it’s completely normal, and this is what “social media” — aka “living your entire life in full public view at all times” — does to you.

Note the dates.  Yes, Julia Allison is a headcase, but only because she juuuust missed social media’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution.  She was born in 1981, which made her 23 at the dawn of Facebook and 25 at Twitter’s debut.  She’s a very late Gen Xer, and while the whole “generations” thing is overblown, she’s still part of an age cohort that saw a certain reticence about one’s personal life as both good and necessary.  So, yes, a Gen Xer doing the whole kiss-and-tell-everything routine is an exhibitionist.

BUT: People who were born in 1981 were just getting around to having their first kids, maybe, in 2006.  That generation, the one that is just now entering high school, is the first one to have grown completely up in a social media-saturated world.  The interstitial generation — kids born in the late 1990s; the kids that are in college now — were the kids of Gen Xers, full stop.  Even if they were early and vigorous adopters of social media, they were still born to parents who, like Julia Allison, had (or in her case, should have had) some fairly strong residual prejudice in favor of privacy.  Some of that should’ve rubbed off on their kids.

It didn’t.  McCain’s description of Julia Allison — the frenetic “dating,” the simultaneously fervent yet shallow affect (“we were in love! It just didn’t work out”), the mood swings, the grandiosity, the utter inability to self-reflect — could be pretty much every college girl I’ve met in the last decade.  And I have met a lot of college girls.  They live this way because they can’t live any other way.  If you admit to having made a bad decision, then all of your 3,598 Facebook friends and Twitter followers have also made that same bad decision.  If the outcome is your responsibility, then their outcomes are also their responsibility…. and we can’t be having that.

The glowing screen’s distancing effect makes it worse.  At least in the bad old days in the USSR, everyone knew someone who knew someone — a real person, Margya Homernovna of 742 Evergreen Prospekt — who really had been hauled away by the KGB.  You could cruise by her former apartment at Victory Mansions and see someone else living there; you could talk to her ex-neighbors and get blank stares: “Never heard of her.”  On social media, though, even your best “friends” are little more than video game characters.  “Julia Allison” isn’t a person, she’s a brand — a point she herself makes all the time, in an effort to sell her “personal branding advice” to prospective clients.

And that’s the last thing.  In a social media-dominated world, what exactly is wrong with being Julia Allison?  She herself might not like it much… or she might: Is “professional victim” not also part of her personal brand?  Who can say?  More to the point, Julia Allison is rich and famous.  She had her own tv show.  She still gets paid to jet around the country and talk about making zillions of dollars by using Twitter.  She has “dated” fitness gurus, tech startup wizards, DJs, doctors, congressmen, and John McCain’s son.  To a college girl, that’s winning, full stop.  And here’s proof: Julia Allison currently lays all her problems at the feet of social media and Sex and the City.  SATC is off the air, but Twitter’s still around.  If it’s so bad for you, why doesn’t she just… you know… stop?

To ask is to answer.  It has never occurred to her to stop — other than as a marketing move — because she can’t.  This is life in the Glorious Social(ist) Media Future.  And if you think Those Darn Kids Today are bad, just remember: Twitter was founded in 2006.  The real Young Pioneers are just starting high school.




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Movement Building 101

I am not a revolutionary.  I am not a counterintelligence agent (although that’s just what a COINTELPRO bastard would say, isn’t it?).  Unlike so, so many folks in Our Thing, I am not a 37th-level ninja paladin who got thrown out of the Green Berets for being too much of a badass.  I’m just a guy who reads History.  Meaning: all of this stuff is undoubtedly covered in Chapter 1 of some basic counterinsurgency manual somewhere, because it’s obvious.  Still, until such time as someone forwards me that manual, this will have to do.

Think of “direct action” — entirely legal, completely aboveboard direct action, I hasten to add — like a multiplayer video game.  I don’t play them myself, since I don’t feel the need to get called a “n00b fag” by some 12 year old in Singapore, but we all know the basics.  You need organization, communication, and mission.

Organization is the trickiest part in the real world.  Your Dungeons and Dragons-type role playing games work because everyone who starts the game already knows the rules.  The graphics have gotten a lot more sophisticated since then, but the basic setup hasn’t changed since Gauntlet.  You need a Warrior, a Wizard, a Valkyrie, and and Elf (and Elf, of course, needs food badly).  Each has his advantages and disadvantages, and they balance…

In the real world, of course, there’s no way of telling who’s what among a given batch of recruits, and you have to work with the material you have.  This is why armies have ranks.  More to the point, this is why the geniuses behind modern RPGs added ranks to their games.  You may not know who MurderDeathLord69 is in real life, but you know he’s a 39th-level paladin… and you know exactly what that is, because the objective standards are easily accessible.  It’s possible to game the game a little bit — maybe he racked up all those kills playing on the easiest difficulty setting or something — but not much.

Best of all, not only does a rank system indicate levels of relative competence, it’s ruthlessly self-regulating.  We’re guys; we compete.  Put a game, any game, in front of a group of guys and they’ll immediately start choking each other out.  Everyone with less kills than him is gunning for MurderDeathLord69’s ass just on general principles.  Our Thing’s Direct Action Group will need — in addition to a much better moniker — a rank system, the more elaborate the better.

It’s certainly possible to create this kind of thing from scratch.  The SS went from seven or eight clowns in skullcaps and lederhosen to de facto rulers of half of Europe in 20 years; the Bolsheviks were a recently formed splinter party when they took over the Russian Empire.  But it’s not necessary.  There’s a gamer-type group out there that has almost everything already in place: The “Pickup Artists.”  “Neomasculinity” appears to be a lot of things, not all of them entirely coherent, but tell me this isn’t a political goon squad* waiting to happen:

  • weightlifting and fitness
  • individual responsibility
  • hard work ethic
  • lifestyle optimization

etc.  Give them a rank system based on something other than “notch count” and you’re all but set…

….provided you have decent communication.  Roosh V, the dean of “neomasculinity,” famously had his “meetups” disrupted due to “safety concerns,” meaning that the cops would probably arrest his guys if they tried to defend themselves against Leftist provocation.  Which wouldn’t have happened if Roosh had had better operational security, but again, he’s not a KGB mastermind; he’s just a guy who wants to sell books about how to get laid.**  He tried being aboveboard about things, believing — with almost comic naivete —  that “free speech” really means “free speech.”  A Direct Action Group, obviously, wouldn’t make that mistake.

The best way to communicate is through obvious, but plausibly deniable, code.  I keep suggesting the white Patriots’ hat as an unofficial uniform, because it’s the best thing I could think of on short notice.  It would be easy to use hat pins as rank markers — a shamrock is a “cell leader 3rd class” or something.  The “Pickup Artist” forums already have the stuff in place for long-distance communication; you just have to come up with some esoteric lingo (the #1 PUA skill, far more advanced than stuff like “actually meeting girls”).  You could communicate in what passes for “clear” on a board like that — nobody would know that “I kiss-closed an HB8 with my sick DHV, brah” actually means “we’re boycotting the local Starbucks; look for the guy in the white hat with the shamrock pin.”

Speaking of boycotts, mission is the final frontier.  Video games have the mission built in, complete with victory conditions.  Movement-building needs short and long game; side quests within the main mission.  As Style B revolutionaries (see what I mean about the esoteric lingo?), we can put the long game almost entirely on the back burner: We know what “American” means, so we don’t have to come up with elaborate theoretical productions to justify “getting back to The Real America.”  We do have to have a long-range goal, of course, but that’s another post…

The short game is what counts, and this is where the nerdy nature of Our Thing is a yuuuuuge advantage.  Leftism is incredibly fragile, and its weakest where the Left has the most control.  Getting the one auto mechanic in a college town to develop mysterious supply problems whenever a professor’s car is in the shop would drive most of the eggheads to tears in short order.*** Remember, these are people who need to flee to their “safe spaces” whenever someone calls them by the wrong pronoun.  There are a million little things — completely legal things — that will drive them to screaming hysterics.  See e.g. “Manosphere” blogger Matt Forney inducing crying meltdowns in Millennial feminists just by retweeting their own abuse of him.

Break the Direct Action Thing into small cells.  I suggested the Fight Club model once, and that works — a few guys, decentralized, with full plausible deniability, each doing its own little Project Mayhem thing on targets of opportunity.  Such higher-level mission coordination as is needed can be done on the “Game” sites, disguised as MurderDeathLord69 talking to his World of Warcraft squad about hitting da club for a little pickup action.  So long as the Project Mayhem cells don’t overlap — and if everyone’s wearing his white Pats hat, with the proper pins, they shouldn’t — it’s all good.



*not an insult.  Any successful revolutionary movement depends on its street-level headbusters, and while I do not advocate actually “busting heads” in any but the most metaphorical sense, our Direct Action Group would function much like the “goon” used to back when hockey was fun: You know he can drop the gloves, but if he’s doing his job right, he never needs to.
** Poetic license.  It may not be obvious here, but I respect Roosh a good deal (though I have never met the man, or even interacted with him online).  I obviously don’t share a lot of his views, but he’s built one hell of a movement out of nothing.
***getting the mechanic on our side will be a snap; the “town/gown” split is very real, and trust me, the “townies” fucking hate the eggheads — almost as much as the eggheads hate them, for their NASCAR-watchin’, nuclear family-havin’ ways.
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Revolutionary Styles

There were two…styles, let’s call them, of revolutionary movement that captured large, modern(-ish) nations in the 20th century.  Since people can’t seem to read about this stuff without having their eyes blocked by visions of screaming guys with bad facial hair, let’s call them Style A and Style B,

Style A is your “intellectual” revolution.  It starts (and usually ends) in college classrooms.  It is preoccupied with doctrinal purity.  The further you get from the centers of power, of course, the greater this preoccupation becomes — Frank S. Meyer, who was a Style A revolutionary (and wrote a fascinating book about it), was told never to mess with “theory;” you’ll make a dozen errors in just the first page.  Doctrinal purity is a must for Style A revolutionaries, because their actions are justified by the doctrine, and the doctrine always comes from “Out There” — God, History, whatever.  It is imposed, top-down.

Style B is a “popular” revolution.  These have their “intellectuals,” of course, and you’re welcome to slog through their productions, but you don’t have to, because if you’re a Style B revolutionary, you already know everything you need to.  Style B comes from “In Here” — the racial soul or what have you.  It is organic; it grows bottom-up.

Successfully resisting a revolution, then, starts with recognizing which kind it is.  We Americans really blew it back in the Sixties.  Style A is, of course, a Communist revolution, and the Sixties radicals tried real hard to come off like Commies.  They talked like Commies, they acted like Commies, they were bright-but-directionless college kids who read Marx and Mao in between bong hits.  They loved issuing manifestos, and were obsessed with “revolutionary” violence in the name of Communism.

But they weren’t Commies.  These guys

were total poseurs, as you can tell just by looking at them — that’s Revolutionary Chic, brought to you by Mugatu’s “Derelicte” collection.  The Sixties, as everyone knows, were all about feeeelings, maaaan.  It’s no accident that the Weather Underground’s sole contribution to revolutionary theory was mandatory homosexual group sex, to, like, smash patriarchy or something.

This was a Style B revolution, first and always.  “Freaking out the squares” was the only point.  There were huge shakeups in the Communist world throughout the Fifties and Sixties; at one point, Communist China and the Soviet Union were on the brink of a nuclear exchange.  None of that bothered Weatherman types in the slightest.

To be fair, the Sixties radicals were victims of their own success.  If they hadn’t been just cosplay Commies, there was a whole post-victory support network to tap into.  By the late 1980s, when the “radicals” had been in total control of American culture for a generation, there was nearly a century’s worth of revolutionary experience out there.  The only excuse for not knowing how to set up a Five Year Plan, at that point, is that you don’t want to know.  It harshes one’s mellow, which is why all the Sixties “radicals” retreated to the faculty lounge as fast as their feet could carry them.*

The reason all this is important: We’re on the verge of a counter-revolution.  We could have endless debates on whether it feels more like 1960 or 1860, but nobody not living under a rock can deny that something huge and horrible is coming.  I’m not worried that Donald Trump will become a dictator; I’m worried that he won’t.

Trump mostly seems to regard the being President as a great way to troll his enemies, but when he actually does some Presidentin’ he does the kind of simple, obvious things that someone who actually likes the country he’s in charge of would do.  We’re so used to seeing Kenyan Marxist retards in the Oval Office that renegotiating NAFTA seems wild and revolutionary, instead of the plain common sense it would’ve been just 30 years ago.  Trump loves nothing more than cutting deals, but since Trump’s actually, you know, an American,  his deal-cutting tends to have nifty side benefits for America.

But that’s just Trump, the man.  There’s no “Trumpism.”  Revolutionary movements don’t have to have detailed ideologies, as we’ve seen, but they do need symbols, rallying points, everything I (and Tom Wolfe!) dismissively called “radical chic.”  Billy Ayers et al actually accomplished what they set out to do — destroying traditional America — and they did it with catchy tunes, righteous bud, back-alley quickies, and college.

We need some radical chic, and fast.



*Tom Hayden had a Porsche dealership, but the rest of them became professors (Barack Obama’s best bud Billy Ayers, of course, has his bloody fingerprints on half the grade school curricula in the United States).
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