January 18, 2015

The Yellow Peril

I apologize for activating comment authentication, but I can't keep the spammers out. It's like 1950 when a million Chinee crossed the Yalu River. I can only beat these commies back 20 comments at a time.

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January 13, 2015

What Is To Be Done

The title of this missive is disquietingly reminescent of Lenin's 1902 pamphlet of the same name, itself inspired by Chernyshevsky's 1863 social-utopian novel, again of the same title. Lenin's work, however, was an interrogatory, a philosophical pleading written almost two decades before the Revolution. The West is too far advanced in existential struggle against militant Islam for philosophical tracts exhorting the common man to overthrow his tormentors. We are all the common man now, and our tormentors arise not from our own one-percenters (lucky though they be), but from foreign nihilists aspiring to worldwide medieval bloodlust.

No, the wretched fact is, and remains, that the West has been at war with militant Islam, off and on, for 1,400 years. As has the Caucasus, the Subcontinent, and Saharan and sub-Saharan Africa. It was not until the defenestration of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the Great War, in fact, that Balkan peoples could sleep without a weapon by the bedside and a weather eye turned south. Indeed, 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered by the Turks in the very midst of that Great War. Fully half their population destroyed in a genocide many still refuse to name. Islamic aggression has surged and ebbed over the centuries as necessity dictated, but every opportunity for conquest has historically been exploited; it is a thirst that continues to this day.

The greater history of medieval to modern Europe is painted upon a canvas of Islamic aggression, interspersed by internicine quarrels, and ultimately two world wars. We can not put that away, therefore it must be dealt with, and in the larger context of Western civilization as a whole, including the Western Hemisphere. From The Crusades to Charles Martel at Tours in 732 to the Fall of Granada in 1492 to the Siege of Vienna in 1683 the West's interaction with militant Islam was all of a defensive nature. Islam was a savage interloper. A brutish scourge to be repelled.

A brief reflection on anti-semitism: a vile and ancient fault, it appears to have accompanied the arrival of diaspora Jews as they fled the Saracen blade. Just as Muslim rage erupts metronomically in Europe, so does anti-semitism. It is as if the superstitious Europeans have always cast a jaundiced eye upon Jewry as the cause of their Islamic problems. As if, perhaps, the Jews had brought ancient Near East rivalries to the heart of Europe itself. The clamoring Musselmen surely could not want to attack the Europeans for no good reason. They must loathe us because we harbor their ancient foes the Jews.

So much for the pop history lesson. That was mere table-setting, and uncontroversial stuff. Facts are not prejudiced, history is not a bigot. And I do have point, which I shall address directly, but first one more point: the "moderate" Muslim.

I for one have no doubt that the majority of Muslims are not allied to terror. They are as most humans have been since the beginning of time: hunkered souls trying to keep roof above head, food upon table. That has been man's lot forever, and it shall not change in our lifetimes. Having said that, the average Muslim must be assessing his/her situation, and prospects. I'm sure they generally despise radical Islamism, however what are their options? The vaunted saviors of the West are far beyond the horizon, no aid to kith and kin, and exhibit traits of fear, self-loathing, and impotence. In bin Laden's assessment they seek the strong horse, or at least do little to incite the strong horse. The Islamists, after all, are in their countries. In their provinces. In their neighborhoods. Who would assail that on a bet from a feckless and confused and self-doubting Western nation?

If ISIS is running your neighborhood you are likely a mute soul. Even if the Palestinian Authority runs your neighborhood, or Hamas, you are likely a mute soul. It's a tough slog from self-preservation to courage. We all cannot make that trip. Self-preservation is hard-wired into our DNA. Courage is a learned aspiration, ephemerally floated upon the air of a tribal fire. The pen might be mightier than the sword to essayists, but the scimitar always beats paper and scissors. There is no need to demand all of Islam to decry the Islamists, however it would be wise if they got out of the way.

Which brings us to the nub: What is to be done. No question mark adorns this phrase. What is to be done must be done. And there is no soft way to say this:

First we kill the clerics.

Western apologists insist that Islamic terrorism does not represent Islam. Yet all of the radicalized Muslims, be they "lone wolves" or ISIS or AQAP, were radicalized by some of the most powerful religious leaders in Islam. The imams preach the hate, run the madrassas, and foment violence on a daily basis. If terrorism is not a central tenet of Islam why do the most prominent imams preach it, while the other imams remain silent?

Islamic nations that observe sharia law have no real civic institutions. The clerics rule all, and the warrior caste are their enforcers. Rule of law, property rights, due process, and social behavior are all administered by the imams and ayatollahs. The mufti determine what is Islam, who are blasphemers and apostates, and what punishment is ordained. The clerics incite the warrior caste, creating shock troops that enforce prescribed behavior among the population, and wage terror against the rest of the world. The clerics are just as guilty of conspiracy to commit murder as Charles Manson, and this is why they must be confined or killed. They are the head of the serpent. This is neither cruel nor barbaric; it is merely the acknowledgement that crimes carry penalties, and punishment must be served to preserve the scales of justice.

As the imams are dispatched so must the shock troops be annihilated. They are immune to reason and rationale, and operate as Terminators. The West must also operate as Terminators to defeat them: large, vicious strikes, great destruction, and tactical retreat. No long-term boots on the ground, no nation-building, no prisoners. Special forces with air support without standing armies. Strike and leave, repeatedly. Destroy them all, one battalion at a time.

There are likely 50,000 to 100,000 active jihadists in the middle east. Although this appears to be a vast number, they are as susceptible to destruction as any other army. It took only five months for the Soviets to capture the entire 107,000 man Sixth Army at Stalingrad. The jihadis congregate for strength, which is also their weakness. Should the West truly have the resolve to destroy them, they are easily found. The sorrow of collateral damage is mitigated by the fact the jihadis are slaughtering the innocent anyway. Brute force will actually lessen the victim toll, in what one might consider collateral mercy.

There is no reason to believe the West will stiffen and respond to Islamic terror for any number of reasons: multiculturalism, cowardice, appeasement, denial. But What Is To Be Done must be done, otherwise Europe will become an enormous, radicalized Muslim ghetto a decade hence, and America will eventually suffer calamities far greater than 9/11. War is rotten business, and no one should exult in the obliteration of others, but war is already upon the West. It is in our neighborhoods, our stores, our military bases, our campuses. War is here, and without strategy and willpower there looms only defeat.

UPDATE: Not sure why comments aren't working. It may be due to earlier spam. I'm investigating.

UPDATE 2: Comments are fixed.

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May 18, 2014

In The White Room

Well, I was going to call it Behind the Green Door. Consider yourself lucky. My personal thoughts on Marilyn Chambers and pornography would probably cripple you.

Texas. Jim of Sunk New Dawn fame asked for my opinion on Texas politics, as I have been here nigh on 9 months.

Well, let's just take the Republican primary race for Lieutenant Governor as a microcosm of Texas politics. Never have I seen such disgusting negative advertising. These guys are going at each other hammer and tong, accusing each other of bankrupting businesses, stealing employee taxes, and general neck fucking. Baby rape appears to be the only topic off limits. So far. The other races seem to be on the up and up. Rick Perry is what he is. Not running. Looking at the Oval Office through hipster eyeglasses. Good luck. W is wonderful in that he is retired, and stays out of this game. That's a class act. Unlike the Hot Springs Kid. Bill Clinton has the uncanny ability to stick his dick wherever it does not belong, and expend his still rather formidable political capital where it harms me.

On a happier note my skeeter, my daughter Caroline, visited for 4 days. We visited the LBJ Ranch, hiked Enchanted Rock State Park, and spent a fantastic day at my friend Karl's Bar W Ranch. Karl gave her the real Cook's tour, including baby bison sightings, and the opportunity to play with his pet doe.

Life is good, sometimes. But there is that ever shifting line, beyond which there be monsters. I should not cross that line and perform my personal haka, but it happens from time to time.

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May 3, 2014

You May Fire When You Are Ready, Gridley

We live in queer times. When a man's personal thoughts, personally and privately uttered, are illegally recorded and cause him to lose his livelihood, we certainly live in queer times.

I will stand tall for the righteous and the brave. I will also stand tall for the odious and disgusting. That's the American way. It's what we stand for.

Progressives seek to stifle conversation. Originally public conversation, but now of the private sort.

Fuck them.

I'll speak my mind. Always. I have no desire to wade into the fetid waters of political correctness. The examples are legion. But like Dewey, I understand when the time has come.

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April 27, 2014

The Tortoise Catches the Hare

I really need to slow down, and accept with grace my advancing years. I've been clearing cedar brush in the mornings like a damned Nubian, and building fences and raised vegetable beds and repairing air conditioning units in the afternoons.

This isn't necessarily strenuous work (although it can be) but I've been very careless with my extremities. In the old days a glancing hammer blow to the hand would elicit an expletive, and little more. Now my hands don't recover so well. I have two puncture wounds on my right hand, a hammer bruise on my left hand, and my legs look like I'm auditioning for The Passion of the Christ. Slices, dices, abrasions, contusions. I was bleeding from four places like a sacrificial hog Friday. Most of this was avoidable. I seem to be impatient in my dotage. Not slowing down, taking care, watching that hammer strike. Impatience is man's worst enemy, and I am paying the price.

I probably should avoid mixing power tools and alcohol, too, but that would violate my Code. And you gotta have a Code, however imperfect.

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April 22, 2014

The Undead Walks Again

It turns out my domain suspension issue wasn't due to torrents of spam (which remain an issue, comments are suspended until I figure out a fix). I was unaware of this new ICANN protocol requiring verification when renewing one's domain. Lunar Pages has my Velociman email address, which they use for billing, but had sent the verification notice to an AT&T email address I haven't used for 7 years.

So, now that's fixed I suppose I should blog something.

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February 20, 2014

On The Road (Again)

Every post-progressive I've ever known (and by post-progressive, I mean the after-1945 crowd, not the original Marxist progressives who believed the fascist, racist Woodrow Wilson and Margaret Sanger and such were harbinging a new world order of clean humans who would successfully eliminate us of the contaminated negroes, and retards, and other lower orders by dent of abortion, euthanasia, and sterilization. I mean the post-progressives. The Liberals, the fellow-travellers. The accommodationists. The anti-anti-communists. The Beats, the beatniks, the hippies and Yippies, the unilateral disarmorers, the nuclear freezers, the Slavic slaves. I mean these people) seems to consider Jack Kerouac to be some saint, some lodestone, some Jesus. His Beat Generation begat the whole anti-establishment world that has polluted us for three generations.

That's bullshit. Most of these poseurs have never even read Kerouac. He is their God, yet they know not his Word.

Kerouac was not the bubbling volcanic eruption of a world-changing revolution. He was merely a post-war drunk, who understood he could not fit into the next world. He was Frederick Exley. The entire Beat Generation was merely a mockery of the Lost Generation. The writers and poseurs who lived the large life in Paris in the 20's, debasing themselves with liquor and whores whilst they wrote of the rot of Western Civilization. Kerouac wasn't commiserating. He was calling them out.

Yet he is the Godhead of Alternative Life. The Garden of Eden upon our post-progressive world has evolved.

Bullshit. Kerouac wasn't railing against the World, or his distaste for the Mad Men avatar of commercialism. He was railing against himself. He understood he did not fit in. He did not find a future in that hobgoblin world of American exceptionalism. But he always laid the blame upon himself. His friends and colleagues (the Ginsbergs, the Krassners, the Cassadys, the untalented scum) merely glommed upon him. Never have so many with so few talents argued against the capitalist West, while pocketing so many filthy coins. That alone is a tragedy worthy of a book.

Old Kerouac was first and foremost a drunkard and a rather lazy bastard. That is all, and I can relate to it. He was, to his last days, a devout Catholic, and a devotee of binge drinking. I can relate to that, too.

I think Kerouac enjoyed the attention lavished upon him until he died. I doubt he ever found it true. I ain't ever been idolized for tripe work, so I can't say.

Anyway, I wish the Left would find another Jesus. Their current one would no doubt spit upon them.

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February 13, 2014

Happy Valentine's Day, Sir

Tomorrow is the 30th anniversary of the Senator's demise by myocardial infarction. Ye olde heart attack, which I have experienced first hand, and don't wish upon anyone. It's always ironic and a bit forsakening when I see all the hearts on valentines this day of the year. Almost as if I were being mocked. But that certainly isn't true. That's just the dumb creditation of the wounded.

I believe over the years I have portrayed my father as a bit of an angrist. A mean fellow, wont to cruelty. This is not so. Beleaguered? Yes. Overwhelmed by five children? Possibly. He could be a bit of the curt asshole. But he was chewing a mighty cud. That's a lot of responsibility.

I actually remember most the great guffaws of laughter, the ability to find humor in the quotidian, the great driving desire that we learn, learn, learn. The expositions on the human condition. The bear hugs. The playing gorilla. He was a fucking fearsome gorilla. He was a great, awesome, larger than life father.

For a man with a 16 hour a day law practice and a 5 hour a day drinking habit he always found the time to be The Old Man. That is toil. I tried to be a better dad, in certain ways. Not sure I did, and I can't make that call anyway. We all fall short.

I miss the Senator. Wish I could give him some damned poetry tomorrow. I actually have something written. I'm going to read it aloud to the winds. If he's as almighty as he told me he was he'll hear it. That's good enough for me.

And that's the true irony: I see all these Valentine hearts, and they are wonderful. My dad had a heart almost big enough for the world, but far too big for him.

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February 12, 2014

The Naked Ape

As a fatalist I am rather remiss in my physician visits. I generally attend when I have no choice. This is bad habit, indeed, but I am a creature of bad habits.

I mention this because I had begun to exhibit a crupulescent growth upon the back of my hand. Said growth not reaching an escrescent state, and mercifully subsiding at times, but also ebbing and flowing upon a tidal force known only to itself. It had, terribly, become a Thing.

I treated this thing like any oddity: massive amounts of bandages and triple antibiotic creams. It would go away, I imported. It would wither and die I said, perforce.

I have the Sinew of Achilles, the Oomph of Ajax. I am the goddamighty offspring of Homer. Nothing happens to Me. My body is blessed. Sez I.

Well, until it ain't. This curse of Zeus would not go away. I finally went to the dermatologist, convinced I had some manner of basal cell carcinoma, or something. Wild Squamous Cells! A disease bolting from my hand to my armpit to my gizzards, like a John Carpenter nightmare. Nay! I Sez. My second Sez. I ain't going out that way.

It turned out to be a "wartish growth" according to my doc. She jammed several cc's of procaine in my hand and commenced to slice it off. Not just skin deep. Oh, Lordy no. She proceeded to dig deep, below the epidermis, below the subcutaneous stuff, down to the very magma of my body. And indeed I was rewarded with a tiny volcano. My wrist were Herculaneum.

Anyway, it's always good to have those squamousy things attended to. She also did me a huge and froze some dozen things offen my face. A few age spots, a bump, and several microscopic things she could only see with her jeweler's loupe. $220. Sidebar transaction. Screw Obamacare. The future is concierge services, and I shall look like Paul Newman again in a few days.

Also: stay out of the sun. Do not spend your youth lolling about in speedboats off the Georgia coast, succumbed to alcohol and maryjane. You're just going to end up enduring the woodburning kit down the road. And we all want to look like Paul Newman. Except the ladies. They want to look like Robert Redford.

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February 11, 2014

Dogs and Thieves

I don't put too much truck into a canine that likes me. Most seem to. But, then, we've bred them to the bit over the millennia, so my self-congratulation goes only so far.

Having said that, at least I know when I approach a dog if he is a good boy or a dangerous beast. A dog who don't like you will have the decency of advertising that fact. Therefore even a dangerous, mean dog is, in his own way, a good boy. If he doesn't like your sorry ass he will let you know he intends to bite your sorry ass. It might be your posture, it might be your odor, it might be the vibe you exude that translates into "shithead" to him. Fair enough.

We more advanced creatures eschew such courtesies. We are lesser, weaker beasts. We don't telegraph the goddam bite, and we often employ other beasts to do our biting for us.

We weren't bred to be the loyal pup. We were bred as survivors. Now, we can become good creatures, but it takes hard, hard work. Most of us have mastered that hard, hard work by fifth grade or so. Our parents, our teachers, our mentors have taught us, and we have mastered the hard, hard work of being a giver, a carer, a nurturer, a lover.

I reckon it takes a human twelve years to learn what a dog learns in six months.

Some of us never learn, of course. I find it easy to point the finger at politicians, but let us cast a wider, more appropriate net. Say, bureaucratic functioning entities. The bureaucratic functioning entity wags his tail, rubs agin you, slavers his love upon your leg. Insists, entreats, that you love him. And as you caress the dog's head you are impelled, as a person who unknowingly committed the hard, hard work, to rub that viper's nod.

It never ends well. When a politico or his minions begin the speaking in tongues of compassion, and sharing, and love, I reach for my wallet and knife. It ain't ordinate, and I find the spectacle of a human who can't even rise to the level of a bad dog risible. They intend to steal from you, of course. By any means available. Theft is the Bitcoin of the Realm of the kleptocracy formerly known as our government. The Federal Register is merely a compendium of the acting orders. Whatever the thief forgets is addressed by executive fiat.

A bitch will put her runt down. A compassionate human will put a fatally flawed dog down. It isn't fun, but it's compassionate. I cast a very jaundiced eye upon the greater DC area, and perceive crippled souls. Runt dogs. Sometimes it's time to do the humane thing, and let the healthy puppies live.

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