A Small Problem


The gun-show culture greatly influenced my childhood. Filled with the militia mindset, we dreamed of taking up arms against a tyrannical state. The wilderness was our ally. Take to the woods to fight the government. Survival was a white-boy pastime, bringing to our minds the pioneering American spirit of freedom and rugged individualism.

I was attracted to literature that romanticized these ideals. I ran across Louis Lamour’s “Last of the Breed” about a mixed-breed fighter pilot, downed in Russia, who used his wilderness survival skills to keep one step ahead of the pursuing communists. These days, my Amazon queue would offer easy suggestions: “If you liked Last of the Breed, you might like…” but back then, all I had was the card catalogue or recommendations from others. So I searched out and waded through all sorts of literature with similar themes.

At some point I stumbled over a book called “1984”. A quick reading of the back told me it was about a guy who defied a tyrannical government. It literally made me sick. The ending chapters, when Winston was tortured and broken…well, at the very least, reading that from the gun-show perspective instilled in me a deep hatred of Big Brother. A deep hatred, and fear.

A few decades later and here we are. But it’s not “Big Brother” we’re facing. The asinine nature of our current tyrants presents me with a problem. I hate Satan and his regime, don’t get me wrong. No, my problem is…I was expecting and fearing “Big Brother”, but instead, find myself oppressed by trannys, squawking feminists, and garishly-dressed negros who can hardly speak the English language.

It’s like being stuck in an African jungle afraid of being attacked by a lion, but being attacked by an ostrich instead. Yes, it’s serious and my life is probably in danger, but it’s so hard to take seriously. It’s ridiculous.

…I need to take them seriously.

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Having Fun

For obvious reasons, I’ve recently quit using my real name on Facebook and started using this pseudonym. I hate not using my real name. Hiding doesn’t come naturally to me. Most of you know who I am anyway. But, bygones are bygones and moving forward, I’ll be “Aaron Dale”. Sounds like “Earendil” the evening star of the West. (I chose it shortly after reading a biography of Tolkien…give me a break).

Here I am, having fun – I have to call it “fun” else I’d have to call it “tragedy” – with a girl on Facebook. She claims to have an advanced degree in history. I’ll post more if / when the conversation continues…


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Updates and Corrections…

The Charlottesville rally has dominated the news for days now and the momentum doesn’t appear to be slowing. Unfortunately, many in the Alternative Right have gotten spooked by the media hype and are – to use the popular term – “cucking”. Surprise, surprise, it’s the people who didn’t attend the rally in the first place – those who prefer the safety of web anonymity and comfy arm chairs, to fighting negros and frothing-at-the-mouth white-haters – who are backing out.

Those of us who attended? Well, I was a bit hasty in my criticism (when I said the rally was predicated on a democratic mindset in an attempt to copy “civil rights” tactics)…while that’s still true, it’s taken me a few days to calm down and sort out what really happened at C-Ville. Something inside of me changed.

I was a Presbyterian when, earlier this year, I went to support a friend who was being tried for “racism” by a Presbyterian church court. After the grueling six-hour trial, I was no longer a Presbyterian. It was such an asinine process, unfair on so many levels, that it shook me out of the last of my rationalist pretensions.

In the same way, I was something of a pacifist when I went to Charlottesville. Not the stereotypical type of course – I’ve always believed in defensive violence. I suppose I mean that, when I went to Charlottesville, I was content to attend a rally here or there, write a “racist” blog or two, be a sunny part of the white nationalist social scene, and that sort of thing. “Lovely spring day nationalism”, we might call it.

But now…after Charlottesville? After seeing the sneering, vitriolic, and utter hatred of Satan writ large across the faces of hundreds of radical left-wing degenerates, as well as the highest levels of state authority – after seeing that? Something changed in me again. I had an intellectual distaste before – now I have a burning fury. A righteous hatred.

You take our monuments, re-write our history, rape our women, destroy the souls of our children? You want to take EVERYTHING from us?! You want it?! You want to poke the great white bear?!?!

…you’re sowing a storm and will reap the whirlwind. It will destroy everything. A storm’s coming, and all the demons in Hell: hear it and despair!



I forgot to mention a few things:

1) I made a statement in my blog on C-Ville that is dead wrong. I was in a hurry when I wrote that account and made an error. I claimed that *both* sides believe in “democracy”. That is utterly false. The only people who believe in voting and the democratic process are white grazers who are naive enough to believe the “system” will benefit them. The radical leftists only use democracy so far as it benefits their ends. Charlottesville was a perfect example of them illegally side-stepping democratic legalities (like freedom of speech and freedom of assembly) when such things aren’t beneficial. I’ve been reading CWNY long enough to have known better than to type what I did, but again, I was in a hurry and should have slowed down and thought it through.

2) For all the talk about that Dodge that slammed into the protestors, I should note that I happened by at the moment the police pulled the guy over. At the time, I was in my car, circling the blocks, looking for stragglers. I saw it drive by and thought to myself “…poor guy, he must have parked in the wrong place and had his car destroyed by the rioters.” It was only later I learned he was involved in the infamous hit and run. As I watched him drive by, I saw a number of officers, as well as undercover officials, casually pull behind him. They didn’t seem in a hurry. It certainly wasn’t a high speed chase. I thought, at the time, they were going to pull him over and tell him he wasn’t allowed to drive such a wrecked vehicle on the road – that it’d be a safety hazard. I thought they’d get him to an empty lot then call him a wrecker or something. That was the feel. It didn’t seem like they thought they were arresting a dangerous “terrorist”. This leads me to suspect the initial story that the police didn’t think the guy ran anyone down on purpose – but that he was fleeing to safety and accidentally wrecked. The media, however, will try and crucify him.

3) I haven’t forgotten about Big Dan pt. II…it’ll be up soon.

4) Donald Trump initially let us down, but in a more recent interview, took an unexpected stand in our favor. God bless him.

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Shotgun Goes to C-Ville…

By now, most people know the general narrative of this weekend’s “Unite the Right” rally. They’ve heard how a thousand or so angry white people were denied their free speech by a radically left-wing city council, only to have a federal judge rescind the city’s decision. They’ve heard how the police corralled the demonstrators in and waited for them to be surrounded by hundreds of scumbags. And, as we all know, the liberal powers then arbitrarily closed the event by declaring a “state of emergency”. They herded the white boys out of the park, forcing them through a narrow bottleneck, where they were conveniently exposed to the violence of the Satanists.

I don’t like being hemmed in. I spent most of my time circling the city blocks, watching the event from all sides, mingling with the Satanists, and hoping to be of service if one of them pulled out a rifle or something.

It was a bizarre scene. The League of the South and the Trad Workers were holding the line using improvised shields, helmets, and other riot gear. Bottles, smoke bombs, bricks, and all manner of debris was flying back and forth. It was hard to breathe because of all the pepper spray (from both sides). At one point, about 60 or so of the white boys who arrived late to the event, came marching in from the east, Confederate flags waving proudly. I watched as they approached; they had to somehow pass through the army of Satanists to reach the relative safety of the shield wall.

As they got closer and were noticed, throngs of the “counter-protestors” turned around and confronted them. Insults and profanities flew, then someone thew a brick into the Confederates. Then someone else grabbed at a flag. A melee erupted. This happened virtually right in front of me, so I threw anonymity to the wind and dove in swinging. I didn’t know any of the white boys, but they were my people and I couldn’t let them fight alone. It was a nasty fight. Confused. Reckless. I can still smell the stink of it. Fortunately, I had the advantage of surprise since I was approaching from the rear. I managed to do a bit of damage before I was swallowed in a pile of dread-locks and foul odor. I imagine it looked like one of those fights in the old cartoons, where all you see is a dust cloud with elbows and arms flying randomly. Then someone, I don’t know from which side, fired mace into the throng. I was dusted against the side of my face. This ended the brawl and I stumbled into the crowd.

I remember thinking that I hated this sort of violence. It was senseless. Maybe this is a bad trait, but even while I was fighting, I recall philosophizing about it all. I recall thinking that the only reason I was in this situation, a part from bad life decisions, was because I live in a world of “democrats” – that is, a world of people who formally disavow violence and prefer solving all their disagreements in the ballot box. Just imagine: in a sane world, we could easily deal with these people. It wouldn’t take an hour. But because everyone (on both sides) believes in “democracy”, then we’re stuck in this insane “limbo” where the right of one group to have their ideals heard in public must be violently opposed by another group.

And look – readers – there’s a lot of nay-saying in the Alt. Right about the C-ville rally. I understand we don’t need more cynical criticism. So I’d like to say that I sincerely believe a lot of good came from what we did. We got a lot of media attention. Maybe that lone white boy, enduring constant physical humiliation from the throngs of negros in his government school, saw strong white men fighting for their people, and was inspired? Maybe others will be emboldened by our actions and begin Googling “racist” websites? Maybe Jason Kessler (the event organizer) will win a lawsuit against the city and the Alt. Right will, subsequently, win a few millions that will help financially advance more pro-white causes.

…but the entire event was an event that was explicitly democratic. The “win votes” and “create a political block” ideal is the reigning paradigm of all Westerners. Moreover, these types of events are predicated on a “civil rights” activism mindset. Richard Spencer (for example), at an AMREN a few years back, outright said we need a white Gandhi, and Sam Dickson followed him up by suggesting we need a white Martin Luther King Jr. The fallacy here is thinking these “civil rights” tactics are objectively useful somehow.

In reality, the civil rights tactics only worked for the negros because the establishment (church, state, university, etc.) already desired that sort of social change. When a negro was arrested, it was: “…he a good boy, really. He din’ do nuthin’.”

But rest assured, when one of us are arrested, this will *not* be the case. No, the establishment want our blood. Those on our side clamoring for better “optics” pathologically deluded on this point. As if wearing suits and ties and putting away the swastikas and confederate battle flags, will win friends and influence people. No! The best “optics” for white people are grave clothes and coffins. Nothing short will impress the frothing-at-the-mouth satanists.

The really cynical note about all this is that even *if* these civil rights tactics work, we’re only building some sort of new pagan Rome. Rome *was* the god of the Romans. It was a benevolent god that allowed other minor deities into the pantheon, but the Roman state was the prime deity.

We don’t need democracy and civil rights tactics. All that will get us is more useless “non-lethal” brawls in crowded streets. Or, at best, it’ll get us a new Rome. What we need is a return to the fairy-tale vision of Christian Europe.

I want that or nothing.

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Big Dan vs. DMT: Part 1


~ And hey, if your wings are broken, borrow mine so yours can open too ~

If you’re a college student at Appalachian State, you’ve likely had the fortune of being insulted by Big Dan. His mere presence sends students running to their “safe-spaces”. He drives a Chevy that’s never had a muffler. You can hear it echoing around the hills before you see it. And when you see it, the first thing you notice is the confederate flag, mounted on the tailgate and waving defiantly at the crowd of upturned noses. Downtown Boone has a lot of upturned noses.

I’ve only known Dan for a few years. My parents bought a vacation home in the mountains not knowing they were purchasing it *and* intimacy with the neighbors, Dan being one of the more colorful. All well-meaning folk, but in typical mountain fashion, considered the goings on in our cabin highly important and checked in with a frequency for the long-suffering. We couldn’t step outside without seeing a half dozen hand-waving friends, stretched out on front porches all the way down the “holler”. And we were never without the benefit of someone’s fresh produce, eggs, or deer meat.

My parents sopped it up with typical flat-lander condescension, integrating seamlessly into the holler society; when they told a few prying ladies I was single, I was promptly invited to a house party. Jennifer was there, with long, sandy-brown hair, and the cutest mountain accent I’d ever heard. I might have fallen in love except for her tendency to prattle with her college buddies. I’ve never found lust for upward mobility attractive in females…

She was standing in a group with her boyfriend Brian, a bespectacled urbanite. He offered some derisive comment about the dirt path which was our main road through the cul-de-sac. His hipster-clad orbiters chuckled accordingly. They were all about my age so I ambled over. As a guest, I was obliged to join the conversation and asked what they were majoring in at the university. With a haughty air Brian launched into an explanation of the latest psycho-analytics at Appalachian State. He was involved in a clinical study to merge Eastern mysticism with pharmacology.

“We’re building on Strassman’s work with the psychedelic drug, DMT”, he said. “We’re convinced it has the ability to separate mind from body and, for a brief period, allows us to perceive different realities.”

In turn, I told them about my literary background with a focus in Southern classics. I joked that reading Gilmore Simms was also an out-of-body experience.

“Please,” chuckled Brian. “If it’s not Harry Potter, it’s not divine”.

Bored with my background and my humor, he returned to the DMT. Before he could say much, however, we all heard Dan’s truck pulling in.

“Oh!” Brian squealed… “Speaking of the divine, you all are going to love this! You’re about to meet a perfect case!”

“Leave him alone,” said Jennifer, grinning with knowing malice.

“But he’s so…quaint…” said Brian.

“He’s been in love with me since we were kids” Jennifer said. “It’s so embarrassing.”

“Didn’t he beat a pair of guys senseless?!” asked one of the orbiters.

“There were three of them” said Jennifer. “They were African Americans and one of them made a pass at me outside the grocery store. Dan was in the parking lot and heard them. They said Dan was a racist and attacked them unprovoked. I guess the magistrate didn’t think anyone, racist or not, would take three to one odds, but then again, he doesn’t know about Dan’s nickname…”

“Nickname?” asked one of the other orbiters.

Just then Jennifer’s dad yelled from the next room “…BIG DAN!”

“Hell yeah!” Dan yelled back, ducking through the door while giving the “yeah” two syllables.

“BIG DAN!” yelled some of the other men, raising their Coors in salute.

“Hell yeeeeeaaah!” he yelled back, clearly pleased by the ritual.

He was welcomed into the company with more happy shouts and more of the repeated answer. After making his rounds, patting old friends on the back, and exchanging rural pleasantries, he turned to our little group.

“Oh great, here he comes” said Jennifer, trying to avoid his gaze.

“Hey!” said Big Dan as he strolled up. “What ch’yall talkin’ ’bout?!”

He said it with a cheery grin – an expression I felt was common on his squared face. His slack-jawed friendliness bespoke a pure heart although I guessed these college kids would miss its virtue. They’d see poor Dan as an archetypical bumpkin.

“Oh Dan!” cried Brian, in mock excitement, “…we were talking about you. Jennifer was saying she wanted to hear about the angels!”

“Now is that right Jen?” asked Dan. “She usually don’t want to hear nothing I got to say about it” he grinned.

“Tell me!” she urged.

Always a happy topic for Dan, he told us about his mystical experiences in the corn field – explained how, after working a long day a few years back, he had seen a tall man walk up next to him.

“He said, Dan…like he knew me, see…everythin’s gonna be ok. You gotta believe me. The Lord is watchin’ you. He ’bout scared me half to death poppin’ up from th’other side of my truck like that. Then, he just walked out into the corn. I could see him walkin’ through and I’d swear his feet wont even touchin’ the ground. All the way to the other side, then he just flew. I don’t know how else to say it. He just flew up about twenty feet then disappeared. Dang’dest thing I ever seen. I been seein’ angels time ta time ever since.”

The little group was enjoying this.

“Well I don’t believe in angels” said Brian, “…but you know, some of our subjects have reported seeing intelligent beings as well. Not angels of course; our subjects are educated and have no need for those old myths, but their experiences using DMT are similar enough that my colleagues and I have to conclude they’re talking to…well…someone. If they all see the same beings, they can’t all be dreaming, can they? That has to mean they’re experiencing an objective reality beyond their subjective creations, yes?!”

“Now, take Dan here,” he continued…”…it’s likely Dan has an overactive pineal gland which causes him to have these spirit experiences.”

“I don’t know what that is” said Dan, “…but I’m seeing angels because it’s God’s will. He’s lookin’ after His lambs.”

“That’s cute”…said Brian under his breath. “You know, we’d love to have you drop by the clinic sometime. If you want to see angels, I can arrange it.”

“The ones I see aint no bad trip” said Dan, frowning. He took the angels seriously and I could tell Brian was treading on sensitive ground. “And you aint gunna be able to study no real angels in a science lab.”

“Oh please” Brian replied. “You’re just afraid.”

“Whoa, whoa. I aint afraid of nothing! I just don’t want to see angels unless the angels want to see me, if you know what I’m sayin’…and I don’t like drugs. I don’t even get drugs from my doctor, aint that right Clint?!”

Clint, Jennifer’s father, had ambled over to the group.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “Only drugs Big Dan needs are alcohol and sunshine.” Everyone laughed politely.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Brian continued, undaunted by the home-spun interruption. “I’ve even convinced Jennifer here, to participate in our study.”

Jennifer looked away from her father, shyly.

“You what?!” said Clint.

“Uh oh” said one of the orbiters.

The party broke up soon after. Jennifer’s friends were politely reminded of the time and soon both they and the other guests thinned out. Clint tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to stay. His house was right across from our cabin and he reasoned I could hang around a bit longer since I didn’t have far to go. He, Big Dan, and I sat on the front porch smoking cigars, watching the moon come up over the mountain, and sharing those humble anecdotes only southern men have a command of. Free from the pretensions of modernity, at one with life, satisfied with our place in it, and basking in the euphoria of the scene.

“…DMT can’t be better than crickets” said Big Dan.

I had to agree.


(Stay tuned for part II, where Big Dan’s angels are pitted against the best of modern degeneracy, and the mythic ‘rebel yell’ terrorizes the denizens of DMT land.)

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Shotgun vs. the Liquid Jew


I was told that if you’re sensitive to caffeine, stop using it for awhile, then take a high dose, it’s liable to give you a panic attack later in the evening. I didn’t believe it as I chugged one of the many brands of liquid jew on the market, but here it is, almost five in the morning and, I believe!

I was sitting on the back porch surfing my daily reading when, out of the corner of my eye I caught a slight movement that looked every bit like a seven-foot-tall “grey” alien, ambling menacingly outside my field of vision.

Whatever it was scared the (redacted) out of me.

The fear gave way to anger. No demon from Hell was going to treat *me* that way. I’m a son of Adam and holder of the sacred fire of the Occident! He shall not pass!!!

I burst out of the screened area onto the deck, shining my flashlight in all directions. A Netflix documentary popped into my mind. It was about this man who was “haunted” by aliens and saw them frequently, as well as mysterious little girls who’d peer at him from between his porch railings. I shined my light to the railings, expecting to see a little white girl with bulging, alien eyes.

“You are *NOT* welcome in my yard, you little minx!”

I didn’t see anything (lucky for the alien) but the dogs a field over were howling for all they were worth. I gathered my things, came back in, and am writing this post – where, I now realize (upon cooler reflection), this is all probably caused by that damned energy drink.

…the liquid Jew.

Not. Even. Once.

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Life on Lavender Hill


There’s an old saying, mostly heard in cartoons or radio dramas: “crime doesn’t pay.” Criminals always get caught, in the end. Justice always finds her man. Unfortunately, this isn’t always the case, especially if the crime is committed in a city where police are often over-worked and are forced to overlook certain crimes. Theft, for example, is often overlooked unless a significant amount of money – five-hundred or more dollars – is involved. Small break ins, even stolen cars, are often written off as losses, without much concern from law enforcement. The effort to find and prosecute the thieves costs far more money and man-power than the lost goods are worth.

But there is another way to look at crime. If you’ve ever struggled with suicidal thoughts, you may have wondered if it might not be better, instead of killing yourself, to try a desperate grab for a life-changing sum of money. This, certainly, would “pay”. Even if unsuccessful, it would temporarily stave off suicide at least long enough for the heist. And afterwards, either you’d be caught (in which case suicide can always be an option again) or you’d succeed, in which case…but, uh oh. Here we quickly run into another problem.

Supposing you’re successful and now have a substantial sum of money at your command. It was successfully laundered and re-inserted into your legitimate grasp. Even then, would the crime have “paid”?

Well. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Life, even in that scenario, would be just as meaningless. There are different ways to commit suicide after all. One man may prefer the rope or shotgun, another man may prefer a life-time of hedonistic, pointless, bliss. But both equally end a man’s life. In light of this, then, the crime – even if it’s successful – doesn’t “pay”. It only allows for a greater latitude of suicide options.

No…there’s only one context in which crime ever “pays”, and that’s if it’s done to hurt and weaken an enemy, while strengthening yourself. But this is a far cry from suicide. Even if it’s a deadly game and puts the criminal’s life in danger – it’s philosophically different from suicide. The suicidal criminal wants to end his life in a string of hedonistic pleasures, while the crusading criminal is acting on behalf of something (or someone) he loves.

There aren’t any of that type in the world, anymore though.

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The “Politically Correct” Test…

There’s an odd phenomenon among today’s work-a-day “conservative” masses – they consider themselves “politically incorrect”, while unconsciously holding the most radical left-wing social views. They are so badly educated they’ve become unable to critically analyze their own position and compare (or contrast) it to the “liberals” (who are the bad-guys in the pro-wrestling narrative that is American politics). These “white grazers” have the right emotional disposition towards liberals – a knee jerk hatred of them and their agenda to enforce social norms on the masses – but they don’t realize that their own acceptance of egalitarianism and multiculturalism, is the result of that same enforced enculturation. They’re “reconstructed” without realizing it.

I could rant about this, multiply anecdotes, or point to pop-cultural phenomena that exemplify my point (Gretchen Wilson’s country song “Politically Uncorrect”, with a video that is, well, very politically correct, for example)…but instead, I’d rather get to the business of aiding our bewitched brethren. I’ll offer a quick test – a quiz to help determine if the taker is politically correct or not.

So clear your desks, take out a clean sheet of paper, and get your #2 pencils ready, readers…it’s pop-quiz time here at Shotgun Barrel Straight:


True or False?

Question 1: It’s ok to swear, even around women and children, but we must never use racial slurs (like the “n-word”) or terms-of-bigotry towards those with lifestyle preferences we may disagree with.

Question 2: If your child picks up on your linguistic habits and repeats the “f-word” in front of your dinner guests, you’d laugh it off as cute. Kids will be kids, after all. But if your child calls one of your guests a “faggot”, you’d severely punish him. “Wrong F-Word, you little bigot!”

Question 3: Those pesky liberal historians are constantly trying to destroy the good image of our American founders. They clearly want to “re-write” history. But when it comes to the “Dark Ages”, or the American Civil War, or to WWII, we must trust everything these same historians teach.

Question 4: We must always use the preferred ethnic honorific when referring to our non-white brothers: African-American, Arab American, Latin-American, etc. Using any other terminology is not only impolite, but offensive.

Question 5: The old South was a multicultural utopia and the majority of the southern leaders were civil rights advocates; basically, the forerunners of Martin Luther King Jr. In light of this obvious historical fact, it is wrong for negros and other liberals to remove Confederate monuments and symbols.

Question 6: It is vitally important to use hip, upbeat, rock (or more preferably) hip-hop songs in Christian worship. Those old farts who protest, need to be relegated to the back pews, segregated into an earlier worship time, or simply die out. Some may need to be “educated” on the Biblical teaching of multiculturalism and racial harmony, because their objections to Christian Hip Hop may have sinister “racist” motivations.

For the following questions, answer with a number from 0 to 10, where 0 is outright disdain, dislike, or discomfort, and 10 is emphatic agreement or pleasure.

Question 7: How do you feel when Shotgun uses the word “negro” to describe black people?

Question 8: What about above, when Shotgun used the word “faggot”, even though it was in quotes and an obvious allusion to a hypothetical context?

Question 9: How relieved were you when Shotgun used the replacement phrase “n-word”, instead of the actual word?

Question 10: Let’s say, hypothetically, a small handful of those Muslims snuck into America and, without us realizing it, slowly took control of the banking industry, the news industry, all education facilities, and Hollywood. Then, they began working together to influence culture in such a way that we each began hating ourselves and our Christian religion. They begin selling our daughters into slavery and posting lewd pictures of them on the internet. In this hypothetical scenario, would you be willing to round them all up into, say, a political prison camp?

Hand in your papers when you’re done and I’ll grade them. Non-Whites get an automatic curve, of course.


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Traditionalist Conservatism Routed?

I’ve just read an article lamenting the “rout” of traditionalist conservatives. By that, the author means the ideological tradition of Russell Kirk, Robert Nisbet, Richard Weaver, and others, has been forcefully turned back by modernity. It needs to be regained, he says.

Turn off talk radio. Turn off the cable. Quit buying books from flashy Republican Party publicists. Take up the old traditionalist masters—Kirk, Nisbet, Weaver, and their philosophical school—and read. One day, their wisdom may revive American conservatism from the sterility and sloganeering of Conservatism, Inc.

Unlike the author I have a different opinion about why “paleo-conservatism” was routed. The Alt. Right, still in its fledgling stage, is making the same mistake.

The old paleos, with the possible exception of Weaver, erred by removing the heart of Conservatism. They naively thought heartless ideological trappings would carry on through time. Not surprisingly, they haven’t. What is this mysterious missing heart? It’s the poetic vision of old Europe. And you can’t have that poetic vision without loving the people who held it – white Europeans.

The paleos, to this day, believe they can ply the vision of Nisbet over any people and have it work just as well. As if blacks could adhere to Kirk’s 10 conservative principles and develop a glowing civilization in the heart of Africa. Modern acolytes want to abstract the actions and secularized attitudes of the old paleos and apply them in today’s “multicultural” Babylon. It doesn’t matter to them the “skin color” of those who apply these principles. It’s the principles themselves they’re infatuated with.

But the people? The poetic vision of Europe? They (and it) can rot. The sooner the better. They don’t care for the divine meteor that crashed into Europe, tossing the sand in all directions, crystalizing it as it fell – a catastrophe that resulted in the glass castle of Christendom. They see its shattered pieces and lament the missing architecture, but never once thought to pick up a piece and look through it. Never wondered what the world looks like through that prism. (This all sounds a little arcane, I know, but it’s a metaphor I hope to develop in the future).

They’ll try and build their own glass castle. But I don’t want just any glass castle. I want *that* one – the one that was lost!

The Alt. Right has erred similarly, but in the opposite direction. They’ve grown up generations removed from the paleos and only know defeat and derision from that camp. Dedicated to white Europeans, the Alt. Right has seen the paleos “sell out” time and time again, in the name of abstract ideals. They associate the treason with the ideals themselves – even the good ones. To return to our metaphor, the Alt. Right hates the architecture of the glass castle, as well as the original. They hate the architecture of it because of the wimpy cowardice of those who promote it – they hate the original because they’ve been taught to hate it all their lives, just like every government school kid. To state it plainly (if more plainly than most in the Alt. Right would be willing to state it), they hate Christendom as well as the best ideals spawned from Christendom.

Instead, they want to rescue a statistically significant DNA pattern, and they want to wrap it in neo-pagan, modernist, garb. Swastikas and the like. Some, despising Christendom, are nevertheless manly enough to maintain a quaint nostalgia for its past symbols. So they fly the confederate flag or speak fondly of white heroes. But they’re either entirely ignorant of the poetic vision that inspired those symbols and heroes, or they outright despise it.

The paleos abandoned Christendom but tried to keep the form and function of it – the Alt. Right tries to keep the denizens of Christendom, while abandoning its forms and functions. Neither love the old crystal castle of Europe. And neither love the God who created it.

The few of us who do love it find ourselves lonely in both camps.

For my part, I’ve tried to associate with the Alt. Right but found, quickly, that direct explanations and attempts at polemics do little good (and likely, cause more harm). These attempts are more likely to cause them to hate old Christendom even more, or worse, to think of it as quaint, overly-romantic, and not to be taken seriously. So, time and again I find myself back to the drawing board, wondering how it was that I was brought to love old Europe.

…and while a great deal of it has to do with my upbringing, and poetic outlook, it really has been the blog Cambria Will Not Yield and its being ever present in my thought and analysis. And he says it’s best to reach around the intellect and shoot for the heart when doing apologetics. It worked for me and the more I associate with the Alt. Right, the more I’m beginning to realize, it’s the only thing for them.

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A Sad Parable

This goes out to all the techno-pagans in the Alt. Right who are repulsed by the poetic vision of the men whose symbols, jargon, and memories they wrap themselves in on a daily basis:

Once upon a time, there was a young lad who was like all the other lads except his father was a police officer. He adored his father and wanted, more than anything, to follow in his footsteps.

And so it was, our lad devoted himself to training in all the various arts of police craft. Unfortunately, he was so devoted to his task, he was oblivious to goings ons in the rest of the world. There was a violent takeover in the Kingdom of Mayberry and the lad’s father disappeared along with all the other officers. The kingdom was re-named and the new owners drastically changed the every-day life of the citizens.

Nevertheless, our lad persevered and eventually, years later, became a police officer.


He wrapped himself in the same uniform his father had worn. He proudly shined his shoes and badge. He kept his firearm well oiled and always ready. Yes! He had made it!

One day, an old friend of the family pulled our lad aside and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself. “Your father would cry if he saw what you’ve become! You’re nothing like him!”

“…but, but..” the lad stammered. “I’m dressed exactly like him!”

“Yes”…the old man said. “That’s as may be, but it was the Kingdom of Mayberry your father loved. It was for its sake he did what he did. You’re a servant of Babylon, no matter what clothes you’re wearing.”

The lad parted from the old man, letting him off with a warning and admonition never to run afoul of the police again else he’d face serious consequences. Then he drove off in his armored cruiser, sad that his heroic career wasn’t given the same respect as it had received in his father’s day.

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