"Podunk Radical"
*******************
This was a "National
Alliance" meeting in a dumpy community center. And contrary to all the issues of
"Resistance" magazine, the subsidiary "white power music" publishing organ of
"The National Alliance" as chaired by deceased founder Dr. William Pierce in a
hushed cult of admiration, there were no proud, eager, submissive women around
here to listen to your foul mutterings about life.
As I looked from face-to-face, I wondered who among us "was an informant". A good deal of the people in here were not quite even "white", but "off-white" as if in search of a pureblood identity neither they or your half-Jewish scribe quite had. The dirty little secret about radical groups is that a great deal of the membership is either full of "the faint-hearted" or those who would turn around and sell information to the appropriate authorities for a cash reward or to get a lenient shave off a sentence, usually for something that was drug-related. Or you had the types, who were dismissed as "hobbyists" who picked up the literature "just to be outrageous" or "to feel bad-ass", or a bit more extreme you had yahoos who dressed up in "Stormtrooper" outfits and got involved in the SS cult because "they were loose screws in the first place" to whom "The Movement" pretty much gave a wide berth.
They didn't want them around, exactly-- but they were a market share that bought a lot of t-shirts, caps, flags, recorded speeches, and books out of what was essentially a mail-order house that pumped out some token literature, gathered "the natives" out here, just to feel remotely important. From our perspective, the level of ignorance "out there" was astounding. . . . . like trying to punch through a gray wall of slime.
It was like my brief stint working as an apprentice on an ice cream truck run where the clownish imagery only added to the grim vertigo, SS death-heads, or not, where we pulled up for adults to sell 'em something. There you had it, a picture of gas grills, kiddie pools, a truck sitting in the gravel through unwise financing schemes, and a woman in a pink swimsuit. Why, you might even have a simpleton with a Metallica tattoo on his shoulder who switched around back and forth like an escaped inmate from the Sykeston lock-up for the criminally-insane, cross-eyed and half-witted. He'd point at the "choco-pop" on the menu, take a flyer or whatever, as he mumbled and we left him to drift exactly as we found him.
It is said that irony and violence are the weapons of the oppressed. Well, this group didn't have either in particular, but stewed on like lumps of shit. You had "the leftists" who made vague, sophisticated pronouncements and blew bubbles through hoops to show "the ultimate transience" of the universe but that wasn't good enough for low-down, literal-minded sorts like us. Comically enough, you had the character who ran "Jew-Watch", a scuzzy little website that was almost pornographic in its obsession and single-mindedness that was grotesque as it was petty. He was actually one of the more "high-functioning" members at the meeting which "was kind of scary", come to think of it.
Of course, those "who got out" always could go around before civic groups with presentations sponsored by the manifestly more well-funded Anti-Defamation League and Southern Poverty Law Center warning about "the dangers of hate" like sanctimonious grifters. Or what was funnier was when you had a member who was put on the spot by the media and he did "his public act of contrition" by falling on his knees before the left and "admitting the error of his ways" like a hang-dog turn-coat.
But that's not the way life worked. . . . . those kind of all-sweeping conversions.
Anyone who was remotely aware of what "The National Alliance" stood for and was not doing it out of "a youthful fad" just to be "punk rock", was kidding themselves if they ever thought "they left it behind". Usually it was just "to pat themselves on the back" in self-congratulation on "how high-minded" and "sophisticated" they were with society's applause instead of what they really felt deep within to draw them to the movement in the first place.
As
they gave their all-encompassing presentations of "one-world", globalist
"diversity", it was akin to Ronald Reagan painting a picture before the
nation that all the evil in the world existed "out there" in this little Central
American country ran by the Sandistas and
"if we only held on to our seats,
folks"
and let the appropriate authorities and Lieutenant Colonel Oliver
North-connected underground organizations do their part, then "this menace"
could be wiped out from the hemisphere
"and the world would be made safe for freedom".
Of course, it was freedom. . . . . but with their exception.
What was taken away was the freedom to complain, the right to find fault, the ability to perceive that not all was well in this joyous Steven Spielberg/McDonaldland playpen that was putrid with "a social justice" movement that was more akin to a looting of our institutions as we were supposed to hang our heads and be "lectured at" as the quality of life "went from bad to worse". It was how everyone will be automatically "liberal" if in the social discourse of things, they're not exposed to any other point-of-view, what made most even dimly-perceptive folks grumble & stew.
Though it was no less silly when anti-war protestors dressed a man up in a giant penis costume and paraded down through San Francisco, shouting "George Bush is a dick!" while a 400 pound white man with dread-locks, mascara, and a tie-dye shirt gaped on with a wide-eyed, idiotic expression, his mouth shaped in an "oh" like the world's ugliest blow-up doll-- we do it "our own way" out here in "Red-State Missourah" and will tell the East and West coasts "to go to hell".
The most tragic part of
the movement was its absolute lack of humor or recognition for the foibles of
human behavior. There was a scandal in the ranks of upper management of
"Resistance Records" when one of them was found guilty of cocaine possession.
Another had taken a trip to Thailand and had committed "the ultimate crime"
of
sleeping with non-white women. A man needs an outlet, even in a twisted way,
when after an acrimonious split when Pierce died a faction went off and founded
its own splinter group and it turned out that the leader, who looked like a
mild-mannered adult Harry Potter, had a preference for young girls. . . . . the
under-13 set, and had been digitally posting little heads on nude, adult bodies
before he solicited sex from a 10 year-old and himself is now being molested in
a state prison, shunned by his former comrades-- like rats withdrawing backward
on their dirty, pink paws with rotten, snaggled teeth in approbation and
disgust.
Then there was an issue of Dr. William Pierce's Eastern-European mail-order brides. You found it a bit strange, because Hitler wasn't very fond of Slavs and it was the Nazis who invented sex dolls rather than sully Aryan dicks as they destroyed villages in the name of "Lebenstraum".
Remember, that this is not a Nazi movement. . . . . but a neo-Nazi movement which reaches for a holy pan-Aryanism across the globe and has learned from its past mistakes, if there even were past mistakes if you read history close enough instead of "the Jewish Hollywood lies".
-- "Hey, honey. Do you know
about
"The Jewish Hollywood Lies"?
If I had gotten involved in this movement, it was like Tom Sawyer "playing pirate". Yes, he was angry-- yes, he understood the literature and could verify it, even though it was largely strained through a very bitter, extreme filter-- but it was "all a game" to him.
There were Euro-fest rallies, which could be laughably passed off as "white pride" events because no one had any, where geeks could skip around to Bulgarian folk dances and have Scottish caber-throwing contests like something out of a bad Sony PlayStation commercial.
At one of these events-- a Mexican kid-- mixed, but non-white, popped up out of nowhere and was eagerly browsing through the booths of "White Power" music with swastika tattoos running up and down his arms. The porky security judged him "to be a risk" and escorted him off the grounds with the brisk overreaction of efficiency, though I wanted him to stay. I wanted to wrap my arm around his shoulder and welcome him to the club, "in on the joke". Because what was I? What were a great deal of us, but putrid humanity out here on picnic blankets-- white or not?
It was the same ethos when I went trolling through an Eastern European mail-order bride website in search of zany companionship, and settled on a 26 year-old lovely from Kazhakistan of all places in this festival global village grounds of tumble-down outhouses and simpleton's gnawin' on a bone in impoverished, war-torn lands of the patted Kalishnikov and black-bearded "strong man".
The Slavic-accented lady on the phone with a weeping, heavy voice bugged out her eyes at my dearth of employment and ultimate unsuitability.
"You have to support this woman, you know" she breathed.
"I'm a writer", I explained.
"I do not understand".
"I'm a cultural critic. On the internet".
"Maybe she'll like, as we say, 'big men'".
"I won't beat her. . . . ."
But perhaps the truth of all of this was laid bare on a night I was throwing hate literature out in peoples' yards in an outlying rural county. Out somewhere in the lost, crooked hills of exurbia, in poor scrubland where folks had never even seen a Jew in their life off in their tar-paper shacks, I found myself increasingly cut off from civilization with all the wrong turns I made. Not knowing what else to do, I made a U-Turn in the road. Off in the distance, a cop car began following me with flashing lights some distance up the path. It didn't even occur to me that he was after my car. In this misty, rainy night a blousy, red-faced cop came barreling toward my vehicle, hollering and unreasonable, big in the britches with his authority.
"You could have kihulled somebody!" he reckoned, lecturing me on the fundamentals of driving like I was an idiot. I tried to placate him softly, but his deputy perched next to him like an obsequious buzzard going "Sir, yes sir. You could have killed somebody". The existential question was in the air, their flawed assertion, which was clearly bullshit versus what I knew within myself to be true. These were the noble specimens of the white race for which I was supposed to be selflessly advocating? I was left holding a $275 traffic ticket. As the coup de grace, the cop busted out my taillight with his nightstick and left, the deputy hopping off after him.
So much for activism. So much for the "Aryan hero".
And the thing is, none of these organizations will pay a cent of your legal fees in case you get into trouble. We're "lone wolves" and we're completely on our own.
And with the tendency for organizations to fall apart due to infighting, because of lack of common human civility and overall childishness like a toddler who doesn't want to eat its vegetables as it rigidly separates all its food apart on its plate in obsessive fixation, it would lead me to conclude that the movement is "fucked".
Better take up crocheting instead. You'll meet more women.
"How to make an
American Quilt"
Stitched by your "Devil's Advocate"
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
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