(12) Chivalry vs. The Mexican Mafia

chivalry(An anecdote from my time in the prison. As I’m no longer employed there, I thought I’d re-post it):

Some of you know I’ve taken a job as a prison guard. The rules say I’m not supposed to talk about my experiences but with apologies to my pagan state, I think I will anyway:

I’ve often told people I can spot white trash from a distance. I don’t know their history but I’m convinced they all share the same ancestry. They’re low class but not in the dignified way of many poor southerners. They slaughter the English language, engage in all sorts of depravity, and worst of all, they’re the whites most prone to race mixing. It’s odd, but the majority are scrawny and have blond hair and blue eyes. Their skin is tanned and their faces squint up like weasels. If all that sounds imaginary, tell yourselves it’s their bastardized accents that mark them. The shame of it is their women are usually gorgeous. So, with demoralizing certitude, I knew when I saw our new co-worker, she was probably infatuated with a negro.

Why think so? She’s of the class I’ve described above, in her late twenties, and still single. She’s never mentioned having children so I assume she’s either aborted them or…well, she did tell me her favorite television show was “Orange is the New Black” (a prison drama focusing on two lesbians). I never believe women when they tell me they’re lesbians. My bet, and I’m more certain of this as I watch her with our co-workers and the inmates, is that she’s infatuated with a negro, probably the whole lot of them.

I’ll leave that dark trail of thought and get on with the story.

She tries to deal with the inmates as if she were a negress. She tries to battle it out with them, will to will. She takes her cue from the black female prison guards (there are many and only they seem to gain rank). “Why yoooo disrespetin’ me?!”

But there was one day she called me and asked to be relieved on the yard. She looked a little sheepish and said she just couldn’t take it out there anymore and needed a break.

“What happened?” I asked.

Apparently, when they’re around white men, these girls find it easier to let go of their defense-mechanisms – I mean their anti-feminine machismo learned from the black race. They sometimes revert back to being white.

She lapsed into such a state and told me what happened. She had walked by a group of Mexican inmates and one of them had whistled at her. That struck me as an uncharacteristically lady-like thing for her to worry about, but there it was. She indicated the “tall one” who, maybe owing to his unusual size (most Mestizos are around five feet, he was probably six), had gained some level of respect among his fellows. I had no doubt he was showing off for them.

I walked onto the yard with all the voices of the Alt. Right in my head. They were cursing chivalry and calling me a “White Knight”. And even as I walked out there, I knew whatever I did wouldn’t be appreciated. Still, by God, a white woman had been insulted and, well, I’m no ordinary Alt. Righter.

I knew El Alto was associated with a Mexican drug gang and I also knew most prison guards give that group a wide berth. The last of us who tried disciplining them was shot at while pumping gas the next day. The police never caught the shooter.

On the inside, the Mexicans are smart enough not to openly cause problems but they do break the rules when no one is looking. The guards usually look the other way, especially over something as petty as a lustful whistle.

Not today, hombres…

I walked into the group, took El Alto’s arm, spun him around, and handcuffed him, right in front of his amigos. Then I marched him inside a dorm, kicked everyone out of a shower room (making a big commotion) and strip searched him… a long, slow process.

“Why choo doin’ dis mayun?” he kept asking.

“You like whistling at ladies, eh? That makes me suspicious. Makes me think you might have something on you. I’m going to find it.”

I drew it out as long as possible, speaking loudly, knowing my voice would echo around the bathroom tiles and into the dorm. His macho air was obliterated for all to see – a serious punishment among those degenerates.

I found multiple articles about El Chapo, the cartel leader getting publicity down in Mexico, as well as other cartel paraphernalia. But technically, he didn’t have anything against the rules; I wasn’t really expecting him to. It was the search that did the damage.

Long story short, I’ve warned my parents (both law enforcement) and I’ve taken measures for my own safety. As for my fellow officer, she’s warmed up to me but like all the blacks in that prison (employed or doing time) likely thinks white men are sniveling panzies, terrified of all the strong, virile black men. That sort of brainwashing is why her kind choose to race mix.

It seems like violence really is all savages understand. But her? She belongs to a people who, at least at one point, saw true Love and recognized it for what it was. Can the feminist be rescued by kind acts of chivalry?

…ought we even try?

That, dear readers, is up to each of you to decide. As for me, my heart decided and I acted accordingly, without much thought.

Now I’ll have to live with it.

Posted in Best of Shotgun | 7 Comments

(11): A Few Optimistic Updates…

MS "E.R. Shanghai"

A good friend of mine, Mr. Kirk Forlatt, is always giving me advice and helpful encouragement. For example, he noted that I spend too much time looking for acceptance among an internet crowd of friends who, when push comes to shove, don’t have my back in the real world. He’s right about that, although to be fair, there’s not much online friends can do for each other. Encouragement and prayers are about it. But there’s something more to it, I think. I’ve written before about how my generation is on the cusp of the internet age and we’re having to forge our way through new social-media territory, including new ways of forming social hierarchies and the like. It irks me how Alternative Right persons claim to hate democracy and yet organize themselves according to who has the most popular podcast or who hosts the most popular web forums, regardless of the intellect or abilities of the hosts. Make fart noises? Draw a large crowd? You’re a king. At any rate, I needed the reminder to watch out for those tendencies in my own use of social media. I ought to focus more on writing and bettering myself intellectually, rather than climbing the popularity ladder. Thanks Mr. Forlatt…

He’s also provided a sympathetic ear to my struggles with existential meaninglessness. He told me that one of my posts on the subject moved him to tears. Well, there’s good news on that front. I think I’ve discovered my purpose in life. I think I’ve finally figured out what God made me to be.

I had to read Stephen King’s book on writing to figure it out. After reading King’s anecdotes about being a struggling young author, I realized his experiences were almost identical to mine. I’ve known I was supposed to be a writer from as early as the fourth grade, when the teacher asked us to write a story. The other students irked out a few paragraphs while I had a seven page masterpiece. My first ever story. When asked who wanted to read theirs out loud, my hand shot into the air. I waved it and waved it but the teacher ignored me. She didn’t want everyone to hear my incessant rambling about a monster that kidnapped me from my bedroom and tied me up on an airplane (or how I escaped by breaking a glass bottle and sawing through my ropes). I thought it was a masterpiece.

Something else writers, including King, struggled with – finding a day job. All career choices bored the prose out of King, but it was wash laundry or starve, so he washed laundry. It’s the same way with me; I’ve been doing jobs I hate while supporting myself and gathering anecdotes.

I’m not a good writer yet. I may never be a great one. I doubt I’ll ever be as successful as  King. I do know that if I’m going to support myself in the meantime, I’ll need a job that’s sufferable while also giving me life experience. Working in the prison gave me more life experience than I ever wanted – look for posts about it in the future – but it wasn’t sufferable.

Given my Naval experience though, I’ve discovered a new path forward. I’m returning to the sea. I’ll be a deckhand (hopefully even a security officer) on a cargo ship. Robert Lewis Stevenson and Joseph Conrad found their muse in the ocean. I think I can too. Plus the pay is outstanding and I’m sure to get plenty of life experience, traveling around the world. Hopefully I’ll have the time and energy to keep writing while I’m out there. I know my creative juices were pumping full blast whenever I’d deploy in the Navy.

So, wish me luck shipmates…I’ll probably be out to sea come February.

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(10): Why Not Me?


(**EDIT** I was riding out a caffeine high when I wrote this. Later, when thinking objectively about my writing, I realized there’s no way, even at my best, I could compete with the popular authors. God knows that’s evident to anyone who reads my material. Don’t judge me too harshly for what follows…)

I have a low opinion of myself as a writer and yet I’ve always tried to take St. Paul’s admonition – not to think more highly of ourselves than we ought – seriously. I mean, I’ve taken it to be an admonition to think of ourselves as objectively as possible, without pride or unwarranted humility. So despite my humility, I think can compete with many of the popular guys out there, at least pound for pound. Or, I ought to say, paragraph for paragraph.

I think I could keep up with Steven King, for example. His Dark Tower series was horrible. The more the narrative developed, the worse the writing became. He piqued with “Wizard and the Glass”, which was a book-long flashback constituting a stand-alone novel. The next best, in my view, was his “Wind Through the Keyhole”, which was another stand-alone departure from the series narrative and was written after the series was completed. The writing was so bad in the others, especially the final book, it was almost unreadable. Cormac McCarthy is another example. He’s lavished with praise and yet, I’ve just finished his popular novel “Blood Meridian” and couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Ten chapters in, I still didn’t care about the characters and his sentences were peppered with cliched similes.

Now I’m not arrogant. I think I can compete paragraph for paragraph, but I readily admit these guys are better authors than I am. The fact I suffered through the prose of “Dark Tower” is testimony enough of King’s ability to maintain readers’ interest.

Here’s an analogy: there are doubtless hundreds of young girls more pretty and talented than Taylor Swift, and yet Swift has the right combination of voice, charisma, and a loving personality that her fans respond to. Comparatively, I have no delusion I can match Steven King as an author. I don’t have an intuitive grasp of pacing, or how to structure a plot. And I don’t understand the average American. I’m too different. There’s an arsenal of tools the author needs that King has and I don’t.

One of my weaknesses, as I see it, is a lack of patience. Maybe it’s my financial situation, but I can’t squeeze out the passion that hours of creative output and tedious editing require. It’s too much work for too little gain. Cynicism is my kryptonite.

Nevertheless, I’ve promised you all – my readers, God, and whomever else – that after 100 posts and 100 read books, I’ll write a novel. I’ve been numbering my posts to keep track. With this, the 10th post, I’m 90 away from having to tackle my sizeable project. I’ve been steadily reading as well: Graham Greene, Cormac McCarthy, a few books on writing (“Robert Frost On Writing”, etc.), and so on.

I’m sure I’ll be able to string together a few hundred pages of narrative, but who will care? Maybe my struggles with existential meaninglessness fuel my cynicism? Who the Hell really cares what a conservative white guy daydreams about, anyway? Unless the narrative is packed with action sequences, zombies, vulgar sex and violence, and all sorts of trendy, social-justice-depravity, who will read it?

Furthermore, I’ve been rejected by modern society all of my life. Rejected from every group of peers as an outcast, as weird, as unattractive. I’m the epitome of “uncool”; how can I expect success with a novel?

Well, for all that, there’s a small part of me that thinks I can tickle the ears of the Evangelical community in America. Who speaks for them? Frank Peretti? Ted Dekker?

Why not me?

Posted in General | 7 Comments

(8) What Am I?


My readers know how the full moon affects me. At least, you’ve all heard me write about it numerous times. I can feel it coming on before the moon even rises and the mania (because that’s what it feels like) lasts until the moon wanes. Whether you believe me, think I’m delusional, or think I might be on to something is neither here nor there. Whatever the case, I write odd things when the moon’s full, so, for this month’s episode, I ask the question, what am I?

That I don’t know the answer to this is the single problem of my entire life. There’s a gaping, widening, hole in the center of my being that affects everything. Just imagine: how to interact with others if you don’t know your place in society? Even in our supposedly classless, egalitarian utopia, social status looms over every encounter. It certainly wreaks havoc with romantic relationships. Family reunions are a nightmare – all the cousins have settled into life with varying degrees of success, while I, the man-with-the-gaping-hole-in-the-chest, is carried down the life-stream helpless and dashed on every rock.

Without a purpose or sense of self, there’s nothing but crass hedonism. One manufactured high to the next. Each attempt to wile away the meaningless hours becomes more and more difficult.

As a side note, I recall a preacher’s sermon once. He says there’ll be work in Heaven. I hope to God he’s right because a life of coasting from one meaningless pleasure to the next is insufferable. I couldn’t imagine doing it for eternity. Better to ask God if He might dump us in the mindless cesspit of Hell, where men lose their personhood and consciousness amid an endless, unrelated, stream of experiences.

Remember the old Soviet method of torture? They’d make their prisoners move rocks from one place to the other then back again, with no purpose. It wears a man down and breaks the soul. My soul, for example, has been worn to the point of apathy about all things but the next meaningless pleasure to wile away the next meaningless hour.

I guess that’s not totally true, though. There’s still enough of me left to put this issue into words and pray to God to fill the gaping void in my chest. If He can’t do it, who can? With apologies to the Nietzschians reading this, a man simply cannot fill that void on his own. And I gather the vast majority of men are casually ushered by life into their place without self-reflection.

Is it too much of a damned miracle for God to answer this one prayer? To tell me this one thing? What’s it to Him? It would cost Him nothing – a flick of His finger to send a lounging angel down tonight with a five minute dream. To me, it would change everything. Let God but give me that one firm place to stand and I’d move the world – or, at least, all foreseeable barriers – to grow up and into eternity.

If you’re reading this and you don’t suffer from the gaping hole of identitylessness, and think I’m weak or silly or made to be despised, I wont say a word to contradict you. Nor will I wish on you the same maddening self-consciousness.

…I’ll probably bum a smoke off of you, though.

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(7) Do You Even LARP Bro?!


Andy Nowicki, ever the controversialist, is one of the few Alt.Right personalities with the courage to analyze and critique trends. In a recent Facebook post, he exclaimed how underenthused he was with repetitive Alt. Right lingo. A based claim, tbqh fam. Anyone who says otherwise is LARPing, right lads? See? I can do it too. It’s that last one – the “LARPing” – I’ll discuss in this post, mostly because I’m often accused of it.

An old codger, for example, attacked me out of the blue on Twitter for no apparent reason, then uncharitably blocked me after my friend and I made every effort to answer his questions with honest and forthright civility. Later, with Christian virtue and patience, I tried to patch things up with the guy only to have him accuse me of “LARPing” because I’m in the habit of standing up for women who’ve been publicly insulted. LARPing as an old Southerner enamored with gone-with-the-wind social mores, apparently.

LARPing, for the uninitiated, stands for “Live Action Role Playing”, a pastime of fantasy enthusiasts who take to vacant lots with foam weapons and make believe powers. They fight each other according to an agreed upon set of rules; when an appendage is hit with a foam weapon, that unfortunate has lost his arm and must continue the game with it behind his back. This was popularized during the “nerd” phase of American pop-cultural obsession through various documentaries and appearances in sitcoms and even a popular comedy “Role Models” starring Paul Rudd. Consequently, this spawned a series of LARP memes, where hopeless dorks, nerds, and social outcasts are said to live out their fantasies in ostentatious games of pretend, because, let’s face it, they’ll never amount to anything in actual society.

Ever the connoisseurs of memeology, Alternative Right pundits acquired the idea and began applying it to those unfortunates who live out their internalized ideals of ethics and social mores, but whom, it’s suggested, are really normal people unable to hack it in the real world. Some, for example, claim to be pagans and dress in old Norse garb. They’re not actually pagans though; they’re dressing up to fulfill fantasy desires – they’re “LARPing.”

This terminology has been helpful in Alt. Right commentary, as far as it goes, but I’m worried it’s being used as a way to force conformity with contemporary social mores. The Alt. Right, after all (and as I’ve noted elsewhere), is built on government school norms and habits. Swearing, profanity, talk of all sorts of gritty sexual practices, and all manner of filth, are the norm for a typical Alt. Righter. They’d feel at home in a gas station bathroom stall, seeing their ideals splayed on the walls with all the pluck and wit they could desire, even down to the swastikas and racial epithets. They’ve learned these social mores in government school and I’m afraid they simply don’t realize these patterns of action have been imposed on us, especially in the South, through force of arms.

It’s true, I was also government schooled. That’s why I can recognize the social mores when I see them. But by the grace of God, help from a group of friends, and a lot of hard work, I’ve rejected those mores. Also, reading George Orwell while hiding in the library from the feral packs of negros I was forced into contact with, I witnessed tyranny so awful that my…well, my soul rebelled against it. After Winston Smith had his face put in the rat cage, I swore, then and there, I’d never allow any man or group of men to impose their will over me; damn the consequences. Call it a stubborn streak made of iron, but from that point on, I refused, EVER, to allow society to dictate to me how I was to act, dress, and live.

But if not the fallen, decrepit, government schooled world, then who? After all, and despite what the Reformed pastors will tell us, we don’t perform a series of rational calculations every single time before acting. Rather, we act according to an accepted pattern of social mores and norms. If we don’t learn them from government school, or if we’ve rejected those, where do we turn?

I turned to the older mores of my Southern ancestors. Fortunately for me, there was still enough of them lingering around for me to soak them up naturally, along side my government indoctrination. These old mores were passed to us from the old Europeans and are all that’s left of the code of chivalry.

Call me a “LARPer” for holding to these mores if you will – I think you’ll find that, when push comes to shove, I’m not playing around about them. I really mean it: you will not swear and talk of disgusting sexual things when there’s a lady present and I have the means to stop it. And by God, Satan will not walk slickly through the modern tulips without stepping on at least one fit-to-be-tied southern sandspur. Mark my word on that. (For those raised in the government schools, when a Southern man gives his word on something, that has a deep and profound mark of truth).

I “LARP”…but as a government schooled, average American. I do this to get by in the world. But at night, when I’m home and the pressures of clandestine conformity fall away, by the God I serve, I’m a southern man, with all the chivalry inherent to the class.

…for the southerners reading this, make sure it’s not the other way around for you: A government schooled kid who LARPs occasionally as a southerner, with all sorts of head knowledge about a battle here, a fight there, an inflection yonder…

Posted in Defending Dixie | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

(6) Shotgun Forsakes the Assembly


I haven’t been a regular church goer for well over a decade. This started out innocently enough – I was in the Navy and often had to work Sundays. Also, being on the introverted side, I’d wait until I could visit home to attend where I felt comfortable. When I had a conversion experience and became a Calvinist, I stopped going all together. I didn’t want awkward clashes and theological debate with the low-church Arminians I grew up with. I experimented with a few churches in Washington D.C., but owing to my constant moving and deployments, never became a member. Over time I became so cynical with organized religion I’ve stopped looking and am steadfastly (if not proudly) unchurched.

I used to think I was doing both the church and myself a favor by not attending. If I went, I’d either be excommunicated for my “radical” political views, which would cause all sorts of drama in the congregation, or I’d have to sit there, Sunday after Sunday, listening to government-sanitized garbage without speaking up. That would slowly kill my soul, so it wasn’t an option either. Only lately have I begun thinking that the church, itself, at least, the bureaucratic and rationalized institution we know and love today, is illegitimate. Call this a switch from being a pragmatic unchurchian to a principled one, if you will.

I’m comfortable with this as far as my salvation goes, but there are three things that haunt me about it.

1. Tell the average Christian you’re unchurched and they reply with the same, reflexive, argument: The author of Hebrews said not to forsake the assembling together of yourselves! And this is true. It is in the Bible and an unchurchian has to deal with it. Ask them to point you to the nearest church and it’ll be their own. “That one, of course!”

There’s a lot of theological baggage there. If one isn’t baptized into the Presbyterian church, or the Baptist church, or the church of Christ, or even a Roman Catholic parish, is one not in the true church? Debates rage to this day whether Reformed churches ought to accept Catholic baptisms. But this is the main problem. We don’t come to God through church membership. Church membership is a result of our being in union with God (through Christ). This, some theologians refer to as the “universal church.” I began thinking, as a Kinist, we ought to simply have the universal church, made up of all those who love Christ, and beyond that, live tribally, without all the confusion of federated Enlightenment-inspired bureaucracy. Tribes have elders, don’t they? And what, exactly, is the difference between “church” and “state”, when the “church” is all those who love Christ? In the case of a Christian nation, the same body of people would have to be both the church *and* the state; what’s the difference? In this case, the church *is* our state, and it’s arranged tribally – in my view. There’s a lot here to work through, and I’m no theologian, but it’s a basic outline.

So when do those who actually love Christ tend to congregate? Well, they congregate at all sorts of places – plays, operas, orchestra performances. And when we’re all together in one room, listening to one of Haydn’s orchestras, for example, aren’t we communing with God?

2. Communion and the sacraments are another fear I have about being unchurched. Once, when I was forward deployed, I got my hands on grape juice and crackers (they weren’t even unleavened). I had never missed a communion to that point and didn’t intend on letting circumstances stop my religious practice. There’s probably all sorts of theological issues with serving myself – I had no authority, the bread and wine were all wrong, and who knows what else. Since then, I’ve stopped all together. I haven’t taken communion in years and I feel terrible about it.

Whatever someone might say about it theologically, I still retain an almost superstitious attitude towards communion and not taking it lays heavy on me; I’m not at all sure what to do about it. I’m not honoring Christ in one of the ways He specifically said He wants to be honored…and they don’t serve the meal at an opera.

3. I suppose the last big item I’m concerned about is the missing out on the culture and traditions that come with being part of an American church. I grew up with these and everyone I care about is mired in them. What if, God forbid, I get married and have a family one day? What would it look like, raising children without church?

I list this one last because I’m sure it will be challenging, but not impossible. I imagine unchurched Christian children will be as spiritually dominate over their peers as the homeschooled children are intellectually dominate over government schooled children.

What do you think, readers? Am I hell-bound?

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(5) On Poverty…


In Graham Greene’s “The Power and the Glory” the fugitive priest gives mass in an impoverished Mexican village. Trying to ease their pain, he teaches that God makes them suffer so Heavenly rewards will be all the sweeter. We might call this the “Hellraiser” view of poverty – a grotesque horror movie where demons torture the damned to teach that true pleasure only comes after immense suffering. Or, that the greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure? I don’t know for sure, I can’t stand watching those movies. It seems arbitrary to me, though. Don’t we have enough trouble in life as it is, without having to be Mexicans (or tortured in Hell) to appreciate the treasures of Heaven?

I’ve never experienced poverty until recently. Whatever its mysterious, esoteric virtues, for me at least, it’s brought depressing clarity. For example: when you don’t know where your next meal is going to come from, charges of white “genocide” seem a lot less important. Oh, we might get away with defining biased news coverage, anti-white affirmative action, and the occasional murder of distant strangers, as “genocide” without trivializing the word, but what does all that matter to a guy who’s hungry? The majority of white people hate me anyway. They don’t want me on their plantation and I certainly don’t want to be their slave.

“Ah HA!” My enemies think they have me here. “You publicly advocated for slavery and now the sandal-wearing Christ-of-the-rainbow-flag is rubbing your nose in your own filth. You want slavery? Well, now you have to be a slave!”

To that: I’ve long conceded that owing to my mediocre intelligence, looks, and abilities, I’d be most suited to cleaning the stables of old Europe. Give me the life of a serf or peasant in merry old England! I’d bow, nod, and offer deference with more humility than any of the fortunate born at the time. And I’d do it proudly: proud of my humility, if that makes sense. So, no, dear enemies, I’m not at all averse to servitude nor too proud to slop pigs. But doing it in service to Satan? Work on a plantation where infants are slaughtered daily? Where the worst sort of sexual perversion is being taught to children through forced indoctrination?

Most of my enemies are also atheists, so here they think they have me again: “We can see how you’d view America this way, but isn’t it funny how you pray and pray and God simply refuses to deliver you from it? Ha! Curse Him and die!”

Die, I might, but curse Him? Never.

God knows I’m not smart enough to grasp whatever meaning lies in gross poverty. And I don’t know why He ignores all my prayers about it. But I can’t ever reject Him in favor of the sniveling effeminacy of pop-Atheism.

I have a final depressing point of clarity that may shed light on the mystery?

Americans define themselves by what they do in life. This isn’t unique. Vocational names crossed the Atlantic with our ancestors: Smith, Miller, Thatcher, and so on. I don’t know if it’s the case with everyone who’s in poverty, but for me, I’m spiraling into an identity crisis. What am I?

Cue the Aristotelian notion of place and the importance of society for defining one’s character and purpose, and for giving meaning to life. A seed planted in good soil grows a healthy plant.

…and I’m still on the shelf.

Posted in General | 2 Comments

(4) A Maned Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing


“Little girl! Little girl! There’s no running in here!”

Dr. Joel McDurmon, now the esteemed apologist-in-chief at the once conservative American Vision organization, chased a toddler through the quiet hallway. I was at a Presbyterian church in Georgia for a worldview super conference and, being an introvert, had snuck to a quiet corridor just in time to see the pursuit. Grinning, I glanced up from my computer. He grabbed her, gave me one of those “whaddayagunnado” looks, and carried the hapless creature back to the conference. That was my first memory of McDurmon. I was young then, only newly awakened to intellectual Christianity, and he was a superstar as far as I was concerned. He was young and cool and vigorously carrying on the Reconstruction and Presuppositionalist agenda.

I live-blogged from that event, the posts are still up at American Vision (as far as I know). To Dr. DeMar’s credit, he published them, despite how terribly they were written. He and McDurmon were far kinder to me than I deserved. Years later when I had my infamous 15 minutes of fame, I wrote them and told them about the controversy. I advised them to remove the posts quickly as demonic individuals were tying me to the organization. They steadfastly refused to take them down. Damn the liberal press.

I recall all this to let my readers know how highly I regarded American Vision and how hurtful it is now, to see them fall. Every other article the good Dr. McDurmon posts, lately, has to do with the make-believe sin of “racism” and how white society is oppressing the poor negros.Christian Reconstructionism, in retrospect, has always been akin to a rationalist cult. This is all too clear to those of us once affiliated with it and who are now forced to watch it slide into the cesspool of irrelevancy from the sidelines.

One of my friends is writing a critique of his latest “Racism in the Libertarian World”, so I wont say anything in depth about it. Nevertheless, McDurmon presents such a glaringly dishonest argument therein, that I have to address it:

I’ll preface my criticism by noting that “Marxism” is a scary word for the older conservatives haunting American Vision’s doner pool. Rightly so. Thanks to the internet, McDurmon’s social justice warrior styled antics lead his readers to accuse him of “Cultural Marxism”. Well, he can’t have that. He doesn’t want to be tarred with a pejorative. So what does he do? He argues that “Cultural Marxism” is an “oxymoron” and dismisses it out of hand. Gary North, says McDurmon, wrote an article demonstrating that it’s an oxymoron, and that settles it, apparently.


In response, readers, please imagine what would happen if a maned wolf burst into your sheep pen and began chowing down. You run to get help by shouting “there’s a wolf at the sheep!” but a smart guy in town replies that you don’t really have a wolf problem.

“You see…” he lectures… “The maned wolf isn’t really a wolf at all and so it’s just plain silly of you to cry wolf.” Meanwhile, the sheep are slaughtered…

The next night you find a King Cobra in your living room. The same man lectures you that you don’t really have a cobra problem because, technically, the King Cobra isn’t an actual cobra. “You’re being silly again” he says, with a dose of condescension.

McDurmon tries pulling the same move with “cultural marxism.” Gary North has written a few books on Marxism, after all, and having thus established himself as an authority, he’s able to say (with confidence) that true Marxism has a very narrow definition. Because “cultural Marxism” doesn’t fit this narrow definition, it’s not real Marxism. Making this point, McDurmon then dismisses it all together.

…well, a snake by any other name is still a snake, Dr. McDurmon, and I don’t want it in my living room!

Granting that cultural Marxism isn’t a legitimate form of Marxism – a contentious point given how Marxists can’t even agree among themselves what Marxism is – it doesn’t mean that the animal we call “cultural Marxism” isn’t still a threat. But McDurmon knows he’s promoting views typical of cultural Marxists, and he knows his readers are afraid (rightly so) of the “Marxist” label, so he knows he has to make these intellectually dishonest moves to escape it.

He ought to be ashamed. What happened to the once courageous organization that refused to bow to pop-whim by removing articles written by a nationally-accused “racist”? They’ve lost their saltiness and let the maned wolves in among the sheep.

…they’ve let the cobra into the living room.

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(3) Our Man In Carolina


I don’t care a damn about men who are loyal to the people who pay them, to organizations…I don’t think even my country means all that much. There are many countries in our blood, aren’t there, but only one person. Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries? ~ Graham Greene

At first sight, we might be tempted to dismiss Graham Greene’s anti-nationalist themes in “Our Man in Havana,” but I think they deserve a second look. After all, the novel is set during the Cold War and the West was newly embarked on propositional nationality. There is something inherently difficult in loving the acronyms and abbreviations, isn’t there? All the U.S.S.R.s, U.S.A.s, and the U.N.E.S.C.O.s. It’s even more difficult to do when one’s personal health and freedom are at stake. Take away the nation, replace it with a propositional ideal, then ask men to sacrifice for it? Far better Greene’s suggestion: love and loyalty to one’s own at the expense of the bumbling propositionalists.

This sort of family loyalty might be the step needed to return to clannish feudalism and real nations, but that will only happen once everyone has the same awakening as Greene’s characters; once the West rejects Enlightenment models of the rational state. In the meantime, might anything be said for patriotism?

Our man in Carolina might have something to say.

We’ve got one heck of a hurricane barrelling down on us, and this, only a few short weeks after the worst flooding we’ve ever experienced. Our ground is still saturated and with the hurricane, everyone is concerned the floods might return, only much worse this time. The potential damage is frightening.

Whenever disaster looms, I notice a rising sense of community, at least here in the South. We’ve been lucky to only experience this with natural disasters (in my lifetime), but I imagine it’s the same with war. Our bond with each other is never felt more strongly than when threatened by an outside force. If there is anything noble in patriotism, it’s in this feeling of community-under-threat. And while I don’t have all the ethics of it worked out, I wouldn’t be able to knowingly exacerbate the threat just to benefit myself financially.

It goes without saying, however, this feeling of loyalty to a community is much different than feelings of loyalty to a propositional abstraction, especially one as demonic as the United States government. I hope the eye of Matthew skirts up the coast and hovers over DC for a few days.

…so maybe our man in Carolina isn’t too different from our man in Havana after all?

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(2): CWNY’ing My Library


That type of apologetics, also championed by F. J. Sheed and Arnold Lunn, must be kept on a small shelf in the church basement. When given too prominent a place, such over-intellectualizing of Christianity can send the potential convert into a downward spiral, ending in the Slough of Despair. ~ CWNY

Seeing my library in the above condition is like seeing a loved one stretched out on an operating table, with his body jacked up and legs splayed in the wrong directions. Yet, there it is (sixty or so percent of it) and there it’s remained for the better part of a year. I feel intellectually naked without it purposefully arranged. It’s the unfortunate result of a move and my life has been too crazy to get the books back into order.

Another reason it’s difficult to begin re-shelving is that when I built it the first time, I was in the passionate throes of Presbyterian zealotry and to be a good Presbyterian means being a good rationalist. And to be a good rationalist, one must be a good philosopher. And to be a good philosopher, one must excel at categorization; and I was among the best. I recall Jefferson writing about the different ways to organize a library, some order alphabetically, others by subject – the latter seemed best suited to my passions. I developed topic-specific shelves which soon grew into topic-specific cases. But given the sea change in my intellectual affections, re-organizing it all seems like a monumental challenge.

Look at the picture. There’s a set of stairs behind the large walnut bookshelf. My dad made that one for my twenty-ninth birthday (if I recall). It’s my largest case, the most sturdy, and given its origins, it’ll be a family antique eventually. I consider it my most important so in the old days, when I was enthralled with analytical philosophy, it held all the important works of theology, analytics, semiotics, metaphysics, and epistemology. Theology, itself, has to be divided into further categories, corresponding roughly to the major areas of systematics. I had an entire shelf devoted to Ecclesiology and Eschatology, for example. And the apologetics…well, you all know my early fascination with that. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life passionately contending with the unbelievers as a Van Tillian presuppositionalist. I need two whole shelves for my Van Tillian literature alone. That leads to theonomy and Christian Reconstruction – two camps known for their ludicrous output of material. Stop here to consider why, after moving all these, I was willing to hear out my friends who argue for e-books.

The question I have now: where will I find enough bottom shelves to stick all of it? I tried reading from Robert Stern’s book on narrow-scope transcendental arguments in externalist theories of warrant, and couldn’t get through a chapter. Just this evening, I was pouring through material on the Norman Shepherd controversy (from the 1970’s) at Westminster Theological Seminary, and had to throw down the book in earnest (as it were) for lack of concern. Who, other than theologians whos jobs depend on it, care whether the Apostle Paul meant to emphasize union-with-Christ more than justification-by-Faith? Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s important and has big meaning for Reformed dogmatics, but at the end of the day, who in the hell really cares? I suppose I used to, but I simply can’t stomach it anymore. So – to the bottom shelf with the lot of it.

But what goes on the walnut case now?

I’ve been reading Cambria Will Not Yield for the better part of eight years and early on, when I discovered how much it resonated with me, I began purchasing some of the books he’d mention. I developed my “Cambria” shelf. That’s grown quite large over the years, their growing number reflecting their growing importance. They’re the prime candidates to fill the old space. They’ll take up the top half and all my Southern agrarian literary theory – books by Tate, Lytle, Walker Percy, Tom Wolfe, Clyde Wilson, Cleanth Brooks, and so on and on, will fill up the bottom.

To save my conscience as well as my aching back, I’m getting rid of the pop-garbage altogether (the Kings and Clancys); I only read them on the odd occasion I want a taste of pop-writing. The American audience wont read anything, after all, unless it’s written in the fast-paced, shallow style of Steven King, so I like to brush up on it from time to time. I can get those books for free online anyway (I didn’t say that out loud, did I)? Use the F-word in your novel, you deserve to have it pirated.

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