Random Rules III


Memento mori.


Nine-Banded Update: Against Life, Against Death

This may be my last post for some time, as I really need to get the L.A. Rollins book ready for press and devote more energy to other Nine-Banded Books in the wings.

…Speaking of which, once The Myth of Natural Rights and Other Essays has topped the bestseller lists, the humble Hog’s editorial attention will turn primarily to Against Life, Against Death, a collection of writings on antinatalism and related ideas that’s currently slated for release in early 2009. Being just past the germinal phase, I can say that the book is shaping up nicely, with several contributors providing provocative chapter-essays on the personal and philosophical dimensions of Schopenhauer’s orphaned nostrum. In addition to being the first non-scholarly treatment of a subject that has too hastily been dismissed as nihilistic, counter-intuitive, reductionist, apocalyptic, hostile, misanthropic, and, perhaps most conveniently, as the sad product of depressive ideation, Against Life will present the moral case against procreation in engagingly human terms. If David Benatar’s important but academically-bound meta-ethical discursion provides a useful overview of the antinatalist position (and it does — read it), my hope is that our anthology will serve as an accessible yet philosophically undeceived  underview — a book that takes full account of the profound, and perhaps intractable, biases that lead decent and thoughtful people, often in this instance alone, to reify genetic interests in moral terms; a book that will not flinch before the implications of a strange and long-forbidden dialectic that pits eternal nothingness against the tempting language of parental agency, or against the ever-shifting formulations of some dismal short-sighted calculus.  If you believe the proposition that "no one should ever have children" to be preposterously untenable or simply mistaken, Against Life, Against Death, will beg you, earnestly and emphatically, to reconsider the stakes.

For more information, keep checking the soon-to-be redesigned Nine-Banded Books site.  And while you’re there, please consider ordering a copy of Bradley Smith’s  disarmingly poignant novella, The Man Who Saw His Own Liver.  Sales are slow, but the hipster clerks are slowly catching on

Memento mori.

Memento mori.

Memento mori.   

One Person With Proof

Bradley Smith’s latest experiment is premised on a deceptively simple question. These days, I’m told that Nazi gas chambers are passé, and that works like this, and this, and this, for all their meticulously phrased rational-empirical pretense, can be safely ignored or dismissed as the predictable fits of polished crankery one has to expect from misguided or ill-motivated brokers of such insidiously captious sophistry. Clearly, and despite every marrow-chilling detail I learned and believed as a child, there must be something flawed or even immoral about Bradley’s stake in such old business. Mustn’t there?  Surely, it would be gauche to take the bait. Better to leave the dirty work to these guys, who remind us that Bradley, the poor old fart, can’t even spell.

With due regret, I am compelled to note that the The Hoover Hog’s publishing imprint, Nine-Banded Books, has rather foolishly released Bradley Smith’s novel, The Man Who Saw His Own Liver, which may be purchased by bad people and poor spellers through Atomic Books, Quimby’s, Germ Books, and Amazon. Mae culpa.

Memento mori.    

Race-Baiting on the Brink of Apocalypse

As promised, here is another slightly revised and link-enhanced review-essay from the time-worn pages of the print incarnation of The Hoover Hog, which existed from 1996 to 1997. Touching as it does on the mid-nineties militia panic, it seems quaintly dated now. But we know how the pendulum swings. William Luther Pierce has been feeding the worms for half a decade now, but "The Fame of a Dead Man’s Deeds" remains good fodder for racist and anti-racist alike.     


The first thing I saw in the moonlight was the placard with its legend in large, block letters: "I defiled my race." Above the placard leered the horribly bloated, purplish face of a young woman, her eyes wide open and bulging, her mouth agape. Finally, I could make out the thin, vertical line of rope disappearing into the branches above. Apparently, the rope had slipped a bit or the branch to which it was tied had sagged, until the woman’s feet were resting on the pavement, giving the uncanny appearance of a corpse standing upright of its own volition.   

                                        — "Andrew Macdonald," The Turner Diaries

In 1973, an erudite melanophobic Frenchman named Jean Raspail authored a patently racist novel that read like high literature. It was called Camp of the Saints, and it was received with measured praise from some important people. People like Sydney Hook and Max Lerner and James Kilpatrick.

Envisioning the impending arrival of a vast fleet of Ganges refugees ("The Last Chance Armada") to the naked shores of Mother France, Raspail’s tale depicts the the chaos and implosive social declension that take root following the Armada’s media-celebrated "peaceful invasion" of precious Western soil. In structure and tone and pace, Camp of the Saints has a certain undeniable resonance. It stands as a high-minded requiem, a tragically-framed exaltation of a fragile and glittery blood-willed occidental world in collapse.

Fascinating how the limn devolves, in calculated Boschian reels, to evoke perfect and specifically prurient chords of lizard-brain revulsion.  Toward the dark-skinned "other." In one rhapsodically salacious sequence depicting a free-for-all orgy aboard one of the refugee freighters, the flood gates are let open. 

. . . everywhere, a mass of hands and mouths, of phalluses and rumps.  Young boys passed from hand to hand. Young girls, barely ripe, lying together cheek to thigh, asleep in a languid maze of arms and legs, and flowing hair, waking to the silent play of  arms, and legs, and flowing hair, waking to the silent play of eager lips. . . Everywhere, rivers of sperm, streaming over bodies, oozing between breasts, and buttocks, and thighs, and lips, and fingers. Bodies together, not in twos, but in threes, in fours, whole families of flesh gripped in gentle frenzies and subtle raptures. Men with women, men with men, men with children, children with each other, their slender fingers playing eternal games of carnal pleasure.

Which, apparently, is just what we might expect from a heaping boatload of malnourished sand-niggers who "never found sex to be a sin."  One can only wonder whether Monsieur Raspail jerked off between sentences.

And one can only speculate about a more acutely atavistic — yet comic — penchant for fecal metaphor.  The self-imagined messiah of the Indian masses is affectionately dubbed "the turd eater," and our French scribe dwells, presumably without ironic intent, on the "the horrible stench" emanating from the fleet due to the refugees’ resourceful practice of utilizing shit as fuel with which to cook their depleting rations of grain rice:

. . . the decks became weird workshops, where hands deft at molding this curious coal — children, for the most part, down on their haunches — took each new batch of turds, kneaded and shaped them, pressing out the liquid, and rolling them into little round briquettes, like the kind we used to burn in our stoves not very long ago. . . Other children, quick and clever, kept them supplied, eyes peeled for anyone, man or woman, poised in the humanoid fecal position. Zip! zip! there they were, hands flashing between two outspread thighs, grabbing the precious substance and trotting it off to the dung rollers while it was hot.

Yech.  The intent, I gather, might turn on making the foreigners seem, well, foreign.  When the enemy comes, he will smell like shit.  And he will be brown, like shit. Capisce?      

Anywise, this is one way of looking at things. But there are others.

In 1978, a paranoid Aspergery American writer named William Pierce authored a patently racist novel that read like downmarket smut.  It was called The Turner Diaries, and it was received with unequivocal condemnation among all the important people. At least those who deigned, invariably for transparently self-serving reasons, to notice it.

The Turner Diaries is clumsily written, preposterously plotted, and unremittingly psychotic in its  masturbatory portrayal of full-on violent caucasoid insurrection. Still I can’t help but like it, if for no other reason than it’s just about the meanest goddamn book ever written.

Following the passage of the ominous "Cohen Acts" of 1993, goes the story, the dreaded "equality police" set about large-scale confiscatory gun raids, thereby fomenting the formation of a covert paramilitary counteroffensive among a theretofore complacent aggregation of racially conscious white patriot-revolutionaries. Our hero and eponymous narrator is Earl Turner, a  nascent fanatic who, having seen the light, rises through the ranks of "The Organization," punctuating his ascent with schizophrenic flourishes of charmingly overwrought Hitleresque polemics.

Turner and his guerrilla compatriots start off small, blowing up central FBI headquarters in the nation’s Judaically compromised capitol.  But the pyrotechnics amp up in short order, with the destruction of ZOG-controlled media establishments and with federal targets being picked off like lice.  Chaos ensues, and although the moribund enemy-government vainly returns fire, the bloated Zionist machine is no match for our intrepid team of firebrand Nordic warriors who make haste in launching a full-scale paramilitary takeover of California.

The Golden State provides the setting for the infamous "Day of the Rope," when bands of suspected race traitors are duly rounded up, beaten up, and strung up, all as the niggers, kikes, and chinks are "deported," shot and hanged as whim and circumstance dictate. Having somehow secured a modest arsenal of nuke-weaponry, the genocidal pranksters proceed to mount their penultimate offensive against The System by, naturally, blowing New York and Israel off the map. And with central command disabled, our man Turner has but to seal his  martyrdom, Kamikaze-style, in an air raid over the Pentagon.  In a fiery warrior’s death, he secures a final tactical victory for The Organization, ensuring that future legions of race baitin’ Jew hatin,’ 14-word-recitin‘ milky white folk will inherit the  blood-ennobled task of instauration. So it is written.

Skip to the epilogue, where it is implausibly explained that, with a few minor and to-be-expected eruptions, the Organization continues apace and unabated in its racial conquests until the only impure nation remaining is China. To "stem the yellow tide," the industrious Aryan soldiers launch an all-out bio-chemo-nuclear attack over "16 million miles of the Earth’s Surface, from the Ural Mountains to the Pacific and from the Arctic Ocean to the Indian Ocean."  And thus our tale ends happily with THE ANNIHILATION OF THE ENTIRE NON-WHITE WORLD.

What fun.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the whole book was a hoax, concocted for the usual insipid reasons, à la Report From Iron Mountain or "Israel Cohen’s" fabled playbook, A Racial Program for the Twentieth Century. It’s all just so ridiculously lurid and contrived and gratuitous.

And stupid. For example. When Turner  looks into the prospect of recruiting Organization foot-soldiers from a none-too-promising throng of young "dropouts," he is disgusted to learn of the netherworldly existence of one "Kappy the Kike," a Jewish white slave merchant said to sell nubile runaway girls to "certain exclusive clubs in New York  where the wealthy go to satisfy strange and perverted appetites." But it gets better — I mean, um, worse — because a number of Kappy’s hapless teenyboppers, "it is rumored, are eventually sold to a Satanist club where they are dismembered in gruesome rituals."

And there’s that bit after the Cali-coup, when looting and social discord lead to drastic food shortages, and black  folk reflexively "lapse into cannibalism."  Or the part where a hyper-Semitic TV news anchor, after reporting on the Organization’s nuke attack on "his beloved New York City" shed’s the mask and falls into paroxysms of comicbook rage, chanting in Hebrew and pounding his chest. That’s right, pounding his chest.

I could go on.  About the sanguinary excesses attending the Day of the Rope, where the author dwells ever-lewdly on the curious punishments endured by (usually white and female) race-mixers.  About how Hitler is cryptically and admiringly called  "The Great One."  About further adventures in hair-trigger Negro savagery.  And so on. There’s never a dull moment, kids. But I think you get the point.  It reads like a bad joke.

Both Camp of the Saints and The Turner Diaries portray racial strife in decidedly apocalyptic terms, but whereas the former tome has fallen into relative obscurity, Pierce’s pseudononymously penned hate fantasy never strays far from the news cycle.  This is due in large measure to the occasional  right-wing terrorist who whose criminal actions are, in media-speak, "linked" to the novel or its ever-peculiar author. In the 80s, it was the "Brotherhood of the Order," or something. More recently, it was suggested the book "inspired" Timothy McVeigh in his call to infamy.

While the high-profile headlines surely account for part of the banked fascination, I suspect there may be something more at work. At a bookstore where I once worked, we made a point of carrying The Turner Diaries from time to time, usually when it was in the news for whatever reason. What struck me was that with scant exception, those who purchased the book were rather obviously creatures of  Chomsky-benumbed leftist pedigree. And they would always — always — make a point of emphasizing their cultivated disapproving stance toward the book’s unseemly content, usually couching their regrettable transaction with some fatuous "know thy enemy" explanation-excuse. Yes,  I see.  You’re writing a paper, then?  All in keeping with the research.

Curiouser, one notices that career anti-racists like Morris Dees and Ken Stern are conspicuously animated by Pierce and his little red book.  And a goodly chunk of mainstream reporting on the over-hyped militia movement gravitates lazily toward Earl Turner’s saga, lending the festivities a significance well beyond due. Displaying a keen awareness of the liberal meta-market, Lyle Stewart’s Barricade Books stole the punchline by announcing that fully half of Turner-derived profits would go to some obnoxious anti-gun group. What up wit dat?

It’s simple enough, really.  Just as The Turner Diaries plays into reactionary fantasies of race-warfaring insurgency, it also slakes the liberal need for demons. Whether through accident or ingenuity, Pierce’s tome neatly affirms the unacknowledged prejudices of those who wish desperately to believe that NRA constituents are closeted tiny-dicked frothing racist villains whose desire to bear arms may be read as a kind of transferred holocaust-lust. It feeds the needs of Nazi and Nazi-hunter alike.

Is The Turner Diaries a "blueprint for tyranny" as some have suggested?  Is it a "Bible of Hate" as FBI busybodies sanctimoniously advise? Is it scary or or dangerous or evil? Nah.  It is at base a silly book. A cartoon, really. But one thing seems sure: if The Turner Diaries did not exist, it would be necessary for liberals to invent it.                                     


Random Rules II

Irascible bus-hopping expat, Fred Reed, shares some thoughts on the latest American Renaissance conference, where he was a somewhat unlikely speaker.  His take on the Phil Rushton goblin sounds about right to me:

One of the speakers was Phil Rushton, of the University of Western Ontario,
    whose specialty is the study of racial differences in intelligence. Only among
    the ideologically befogged is the subject beyond the pale. The evidence for
    these differences would be voluminous if there weren’t so much of it.
    Further, measurements of intelligence are reproducible and highly correlated
    with success of both individuals and groups. The people who do these studies,
    as for example Rushton, are highly intelligent themselves and cautious in
    their conclusions.

It amuses me that such as Rushton are often regarded as right-wing racists,
    drone. They point out that Jews are intellectually superior to other whites,
    which is hardly a traditional right-wing view; and that East Asians are smarter
    than whites, also not normally regarded as a white racist idea. Look at the
    IQ hierarchy they find: Jews at the top, followed by, East Asians, whites,
    South American mestizos, American blacks, African blacks. Now compare the
    intellectual achievements of the groups. Kinda sorta fits, don’t it?
    But we can’t talk about this because (a) we wouldn’t like the
    results, and (b) because it takes an eighth-grade understanding of mathematics
    to grasp a standard deviation, which eliminates most of the population.

I still have trouble with eighth-grade math, but that didn’t stop me from sharing my thoughts on the subject of intractable race differences and Bell Curve bugaboos in a series of posts (here, here, and here) that more or less launched this here Hog thing.

More interesting is Fred’s take on the demographic composition of the conference attendees:

The audience was anything but homogeneous. Someone who had been to various
    such conventions said the crowd consisted of twenty percent Neo-Nazis and
    twenty percent Jews. Jews, yes; Neo-Nazis, perhaps. If the latter means people
    who want to exterminate this or that group, I encountered none. The closest
    anyone came was an overwrought dingaling who, in question and answer, denounced
    me as a race traitor for having married Violeta, my Mexican wife. I considered
    an appropriate but anatomically unorthodox repositioning of my microphone.
    However, the audience told him to sit down and shut up. Later a dozen people
    apologized for his behavior, and I met a fair number of men who had Chinese,
    Mexican, and Colombian wives. Race traitors all, I suppose.   

Two cheers for racialist gentility.

Elsewhere, the happily hetorodox Satanist cum Androphile polemicist, Jack Malebranche, channels Anton LaVey (channeling Ragnar Redbeard)  in "The Luxury of Empowerment," an undeceived meditation exposing the "epidemic confusion about the nature of power" while serving up a "pimp slap of cold, hard reality" to those who would seek safe refuge behind semantic soap bubbles. To wit:

"Empowerment" is a pathetic salve for low self-esteem, a comforting,
ego-inflating illusion dreamed up by those who have little or no power
but who covet a sense of vital importance. The illusion of "empowerment"  is prized by the powerless and humored by those who
wield real power. The illusion of "empowerment" is a
luxury, like cable television, air conditioning, imported gourmet
food, chemical anti-depressants, plastic surgery, the "civil
rights" lawsuit or anything else which is made possible only by the
extreme wealth and military might of modern industrialized nations.

Elsewhere yet, looks as though there’s a new antinatalist site on the grid.  It seems more targeted toward ever-impressionable young folk who might — naturally — contemplate breeding without having thought through the implications. Iterations being necessary, here’s the entire opening salvo, more or less:   

You are going to die. I’m not telling you this to depress you. It’s
just a simple fact…everybody dies. Everything living dies, period.
Always. And along the way, we suffer. Oh, not all the time, and not
equally. But suffering is part of what life is all about, and some
people suffer horribly. Disease. Accident. Starvation. Abuse. And then,
sooner or later, there comes death. To all of us. Always. Of course, we
all know this, right? Right.

Still, we try to ignore the facts, and there are many ways in which
we do this. Little games we play with ourselves and others. We invent
magical beings who tell us what to do, and who promise to protect
us. We imagine fairytale places to go to after we die, so it all won’t
seem so bad. Of course, these are lies, but lies invented with the best
of intentions; to make us less afraid. And then, there’s the biggest,
and most harmful lie of all. We have children, imagining that we
somehow live on through them…a kind of fake immortality. But make no
mistake; our children, each and every one of them, will suffer and die,
and no one will really live on at all. The only thing that lives on is
the fear, and the story…the lie.

With modern birth control methods, nobody needs to have children
anymore. The world is over-populated, but I’m not going to ask you to
save the world. I’m simply asking you to save a child; your child. A
child who is never brought into this world will never suffer, nor do
harm, nor die. An unborn child will never fear, or lose anyone close to
him. But, you might ask, doesn’t an unborn child also lose out on all
the good stuff life has to offer?

Close your eyes. Now, imagine a little boy or girl in your head;
any color or shape you choose. Now, open your eyes, and let the image
fade. Did your imagined child lose out on anything? Of course not…he or
she was an imaginary being, after all, and never existed even one
little bit. The same goes for an unborn child; it never misses out on
anything at all. However, a real child brought into the world can be
made to suffer in all the ways you can imagine, and probably many ways
you’d really rather not think about. Of course, any single child’s life
might turn out relatively well, though everyone suffers somewhat. But
are you really willing to take the chance that your child MIGHT be one
of those who suffers terribly through life? Even if you think that
chance is somewhat small? It’s a dice throw, after all. Why take the

Of course, many people will pressure you throughout your
childbearing years to ‘have kids’. That’s because of the pretend game I
mentioned before; and also, because they want your kids to work, and
pay taxes, and help to support them when they get old. If fact, until
very recently in history, most people had children for this exact
purpose, as many still do today. Oh, and in the past, lots of people
owned or worked on farms, and every child was an extra hand to help do
the chores. Children as farm tools…does that sound right to you? Well,
anybody who tells you to have children, so that your children can
contribute to the ‘future’, is basically saying the same thing. “Have a
kid! You owe us!” Does anybody else find that idea upsetting?

If you really feel a need to have a child, adopt. There are plenty
of already existing kids who need good homes. The world doesn’t need
any more of them. Or volunteer somewhere; there are lots of
organizations where you can help kids and adults get through life a
little bit easier. I’m just trying to get the point across that there
is absolutely NO need to have children, besides the obviously selfish
ones. And that’s another thing- don’t let people accuse YOU of being
selfish for refusing to breed. There is nothing more selfish than
breeding, especially considering what a child might go through. And of
course, no matter how good a particular child’s life is, in the end it
must die. In a very real way, to have a child is also to condemn that
child to death. Now, do you really want to do that?

Memento mori.

Bubble and Scrape

Been on the road and off the grid.  Semi-regular posting will resume as soon as I catch up on the non-required reading and tackle some long-procrastinated priorities.  For the moment, allow me to stray off topic and introduce you to the virtually unknown recordings of my good friend, Ugly Squab, whose self-styled brand of "Rest Stop Rock" once edged at the inconspicuous margins of a forgotten cassette mythos revolution.

Prone as I am to wallow in lugubrious lo-fi nostalgia, I will point out that I made up the words to "Toledo Birmingham" and "Eva Braun." I was living in a roach-infested studio apartment back then, sleeping on a painfully lumpy Murphy bed that took up most of my leased real estate. I was fat and poor and perpetually half-drunk. Just another shut-in, given to spiraling self-pity and pathetic crying spells.  I remember waking up one mid-afternoon and noticing I had developed a rather painful zit on my scrotum. Wincing, I popped it and sniffed the translucent product on my fingertips. Nothing.  Scrotum puss is odorless, I said aloud. To no one there. Not even the chair. I think I washed my hands.

Years later I landed a better job and moved into a garage apartment without the roaches. Then I quit eating meat and lost a ton of weight.  Then I rescued a sick little gray kitten from the pound and named him Boris. I would go to work and think about Boris and things seemed better. When I would come home, Boris would be there wanting to play fetch with plastic milk carton rings.  A perfect distraction. When Boris grew restless in his lonely days, the Ugly Squab let me adopt a sprightly little gray-and-white fucker from an unplanned litter.  I called him Jack. Jack the cat. Boris’s conspirator. 

Then, late one night on the patio of a local dive bar, I find myself on a good wave and I offer to buy the quiet one a drink. She says yes and we talk about nothing and everything.  I forget to get her number, but after a few awkward calls to mutual acquaintances, I am put in touch.  Turns out, she’s always up for Indian food.  Turns out, she’s gone to good schools, where she studied Heidegger and film theory.  She’s traveled the world, she has.  And she’s in love with Lillian Gish. She has beautiful black-brown eyes and a quietly striking Jewish countenance. That I cannot forget.  I tell her I feel sorry for Hitler.  I tell her my favorite film is Straw Dogs.  And the first time she comes over to meet Jack and Boris, I hand her an open beer (of cheap American vintage) and I make a nervous and ill-advised Rohypnol joke. I might have told her about the scrotum puss, too. I should remember, but I don’t. Yet somehow, she doesn’t seem to mind.  I make her laugh. And she pretends to enjoy the cumen-infused couscous and portobello sandwiches that I have prepared.  After the first bite, she tells me I am "fun guy," and as usual I’m slow to get the pun.  I don’t like puns. 

She must be crazy, my wife. My Eva Braun.  The only one who ever really knew me.  The one I love.  We have six cats now.  And Jack and Boris are doing fine.                     

Life is short. Beer is cheap.  Don’t have children.  Free Sylvia Stolz.

Long Live Ugly Squab.

Memento mori.