Postcards from the End of [the] America[n Empire]

As published at SubStack, 5/17/23:

I’ve improved my station in life, sort of. I’ve found a better place to write in Pakse. I type to you from inside Subinh Hotel. In a minute, the lovely waitress will bring out my $1.25 cup of cappuccino. Very affordable, though without a swan or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, in its entirety, on the froth.

I was perfectly happy writing in the heat outside Lankham Hotel, but lately, there have been so many flies, due to the just arrived monsoon. They don’t just land on you but crawl into the inside of your glass, of whatever you’re drinking. Loving equally beer, coffee and lemonade, a fly will sometimes dive right in, forcing you to fish his filthy ass out with a chopstick or spoon. If you’re really a Buddhist, you won’t even kill him. Of course, you’re expected to drink the rest. It’d be rude to complain.

Lovely waitress, I said, with the adjective describing her demeanor more than looks, though with the latter implied. Moment by moment, we grade and judge each other. Seeing me entering, this adorable waitress probably thought, There’s that ugly creep again.

Chekov, “Ivan Ivanych and Burkin were met in the house by a maidservant, a young woman so beautiful that they both stood still and looked at each other.” Two aging men, they stared at each other for confirmation of their decay and ugliness. She’s inserted into “Gooseberries” to contrast with three men way past their prime. The third is also filthy, for he hasn’t bathed in months. Beautiful, she represents the life draining out of them. Beauty is life.

Bitterly trying to recapture such life, old creeps bed young women or even children. The most voracious among them rule fools.

The current fuss over Bud Lite’s fake woman is amusing. With its fake leaders, intellectuals, journalists, doctors, professors and tough guys, etc., the US is the fakest country ever, so of course, cross dressing freaks like Bruce Jenner and Dylan Mulvaney are celebrated, but the pushback is a part of the comedy. It’s a misdirection.

Blue collared Canadians staged Freedom Convoy. American Joe Sixpacks rage at a silly sissy as they wait to vote for Trump. Nominally led by brazen idiots, both countries are in deep shit.

Jewjab genocide proceeds without fanfare. Daily, Steve Kirsch wonders why no one in power gets it. They got plenty, Steve, and they’re getting it. You’re the one not getting the obvious. Sustained mass killing on this scale isn’t due to incompetence. When will you admit it’s an unprecedented crime, Steve?

The transgender controversy is most interesting, though, if seen as the latest chapter in an ongoing war against reality. In this progressive, thus mostly Jewish-led, battle, both God and science are assailed. Against all evidence, we’re told all races are the same, and the differences between men and women are negligible. All babies are born as blank slates, with equal potentials, so even a retard is just differently abled.

As a boy, I desperately wanted to be an NBA point guard, I’m not kidding. I fancied myself the next Slick Watts. That didn’t happen not because I was born into a race not known for its height, musculature and athleticism, but because of my environment and upbringing. Had I been allowed to practice my crossover dribble, jump shot and lefthanded layup against meanassed niggas all day long, I would have been in the NBA Hall of Fame. Maybe it’s not too late.

With zero effort, I scored in the top 1% for math in my SAT. For the International Mathematical Olympiad, China has achieved the highest team score 23 times, followed by Russia (16), USA (8), Hungary (6), Romania (5), West Germany (2) and South Korea (2). Of gold medal winners, 1,295 have been male, with just 43 females. Strong American teams tend to be mostly Orientals, moreover.

Though any person’s intrinsic worth has nothing to do with his or her competence at anything, it’s also undeniable we’re not equal at anything. Sadly for most of us, this also includes looks. Though even the most beautiful will become ugly soon enough, it really sucks to be born ugly.

Thankfully, I’ve never had that trauma. I don’t just slam dunk at will over anyone, but look like a Greek god doing it. Eat that!

In 2021, I spent three months in South Africa. Though I never got beyond Cape Town, I started to learn, an appreciate, what makes South Africa special. At its best, South African culture has a distinctive boldness, humor and/or irony that extend even to its TV commercials.

In 2009, Nando’s, a chain known for its peri-peri chicken, had an advertisement with the fiery politician Julius Malema as a puppet, with President Jacob Zuma his master. Mocking Malema’s call for “change,” Nando’s has the puppet explaining that if you pay a hundred rande for a 33.95 meal at Nando’s, you’ll get 66.05 in change, so “that’s more change than you paid for the meal.” No American commercial can step on such huge toes.

 

 

As for lite beer, consider this 2014 commercial from Castle, the leading South African brand. People are shown instantly disappearing from unwelcome situations, into much cooler and sexier environments.

An ugly black woman come on to two stylish black men with a wink, air kiss and biting motion. A white couple is aghast at a dancing white fool in peach-colored shorts. A young, muscular black man finds himself in a tiny pool across a leering white creep with a paunch, gold chain and hairy back.

Zoomed out of there, the black guy finds himself flanked by two white babes. The white couple and stylish black guys are plopped into joyous parties with gorgeous people.

As with nearly all beer commercials, it’s stupid, if not crass, but this Castle ad doesn’t shy away from some awkward truths, from how most white guys can’t dance worth shit, to the high desirability of white women.

About this, Cynthia Connaway has the best commentary. After my 1/24/23 article about Pattaya, Thailand, where I joked about opening strip bars featuring American chicks, Connaway said there was no need for these valued commodities to go anywhere. If you have the goods, folks will flock to your door to get them, even if they have to roll you in flour:

Oh, they’re here in the Great State of Texas, all right! And their numbers are growing! They don’t have to fly all the way to Thailand to keep Top Ramen in the pantry! No, siree! Don’t ask me HOW these demanding, loud-mouthed, entitled, middle-aged, “tatted,” 300 lb., trailer-dwelling gringas manage to pull it off, but—boy-howdy—they somehow DO! Maybe it’s a combination of factors: Texas is a huge international gateway for—well—for whoever the hell FEELS LIKE coming to the U.S., (although I do marvel at just how many newcomers haven’t gotten the memo that the U.S. is a “has-been” empire; one they may want to steer clear of, lest they find themselves unable to cross the border in the opposite direction trying to GTFO if the SHTF here. Wouldn't THAT be ironic?) So, there's a potentially vast client base of sorts—albeit a largely destitute one posing “mucho peligro” health risks—but HEY!—Where there are solo, swingin’ ding-dongs, there’s a way...! ...Especially if Ms. Gringa ThunderLard of border dive town—say, Laredo—is facing yet another three weeks before Uncle Sam squats to “reload” her zero-balance SNAP & TANF debit cards. She’s LEARNED how to get CREATIVE in these hyperinflationary, economically-hopeless times when she has run out of gas—and places to hide—her “check-engine-light special” from El Repo Man, the fridge is down to expired mustard and fossilized, leftover Taco Bell, and she’s long since traded the toiletries and free bus vouchers the food bank gave her with her neighbor for a couple weak Vicodin tablets. (Took the edge off the afternoon her mobile phone service was cut off for non-payment, y’know...) Again, I don't know how she pulls it off—especially when you consider most of the female, Latina persuasion is feminine, attractive, and often even athletic (before they inevitably explode with diabetes in their late 20’s)—but ThunderLard draws a veritable stampede of “Sanchos” taking numbers to roll her in flour! And, believe you me, ol’ Gringa ThunderLard knows how to turn, “¡Sí, señor!” into a stocked fridge, phone service reconnection, or a car note payment, honey! Thailand? Nah! She's gotten GOOD at hawking her wares at Skeeter-Bob’s local pool hall, the truck stop motel, and the Home Depot parking lot. She’s even picked up some conversational Haitian Creole, French Congolese, and Somali... Win-win, right? Right here in the good, ol’ Yoo Ess of A...

In the has-been empire, there’s hope, then, even for sumo-sized gringas. With no overhead, they can welcome waves of wretched and unwashed ding dongs. God helps those who help themselves. With such a can-do attitude, they’ll have classic Wonder Bread, Spam and Coke in the cupboard. With no electricity, the fridge is useless.

Again, it’s way past my lunch time. After some more Beerlao, I’ll look at the menu, again. The illustrative photos are not too accurate, I’ve found out, but the chef is a conscientious young man. Even when he gives you something completely wrong, it’s done in the right way.

These days, attention and care have become so rare, be grateful whenever you can find them.

 

[Cape Town, 10/17/21] [Cape Town, 10/13/21] [Cape Town, 8/11/21]

Graham, "Heavenly Hellish Cape Town. I was mugged in Gardens on Wednesday. Luckily I only lost a bit of blood. Camera was retrieved by a good Samaritan."

Me, "Fuck, man. At least you got your camera back. Weird they didn't steal that."

Graham, "They did but I got it back. I'll write you a story, you can maybe include it in one of your columns."

Photo #3 is of Graham (beneath Red Bull sign) at The Kimberley Hotel Bar in Gardens. I also stayed in Gardens during my three months in Cape Town. Photo #4 is of me in Graham's car with a Tanzanian knife he kept for protection.

As published at SubStack, 1/23/22:





[Cape Town, 10/29/21]

It’s exactly 6:05AM as I type this. Sitting in my landlord’s gazebo in Windhoek, Namibia, I can hear crickets and, off and on, various birds communicating, with some just squawking, while others stringing together complicated, nearly Joycean sentences, with borderline bizarre syntaxes. Doves kvetch. The neighbor’s rooster has gone quiet.

This morning, I found yet another millipede in my living room. They tend to crawl in to escape a hard rain. When lying on the floor, a Vietnamese tendency, I must be careful to not roll over one. With their military grade carapace, they can’t just be squashed casually.

After slipping a piece of paper under this thin little guy, I took him outside to deposit him, most lovingly, on some black earth. I’m going to miss you! Cut the shit, he mumbled back. Brave, this one didn’t ball up.

Ponderous and pensive, millipedes tend to be intellectuals, it’s obvious, and with their tightly focused and patient mindset, lean towards arcane scholarship. Considering their coffee hued body, sand colored legs and copper tinted whiskers, they’re not bad looking either, so why aren’t millipedes more social? Has anyone ever seen several, or just two, millipedes together? Like us, they must have mostly, if not exclusively, virtual sex. It’s not too late to invest in millipede porn.

I’ve been in Sub-Saharan Africa for nearly six months. Leaving Albania, I arrived in South Africa on 8/4/21. After three months in magnificent and distinctive Cape Town, I took a bus to mellow Windhoek. At the border, a South African guard kept asking me, most obnoxiously, if I knew Bill Gates? Another said while holding up a bottle of Castle Beer he had dug from my bag, “What is this?” At their mercy, I couldn’t crack, “It’s a tusk from the elephant I killed yesterday.”

Tomorrow, I will get my visa extended. During this Covid madness, black Africa has been saner and calmer than everywhere else, so why not linger in Namibia? With Vietnam still closed, I can’t return anyway.

White progressives in the West keep braying that it’s unfair so few black Africans have been “vaccinated” against Covid, but most people here simply don’t trust such jabs. Previous vaccines from whites have maimed or killed too many of their children, so bug off, OK? Nearly each time I raised this issue in Cape Town or Windhoek, I got a hearty agreement that Covid “vaccines” are dangerous, with some even telling me about adverse reactions, including deaths, among their acquaintances. Black Africans also remember that the presidents of Burundi and Tanzania died mysteriously after mocking the Covid hysteria, with Pierre Nkurunziza even expelling the World Health Organization from his country.

Ignoring most Covid nonsense, black Africans go on with their lives. The lack of tourists has certainly hurt. Just as travelers were returning, the Omicron brouhaha chased them away. Many here believe South Africa was punished for refusing to buy more “vaccines,” though it couldn’t even use up those already bought.

Come on, Africans, get with the program! Be Jewjabbed like all these Jewjacked countries! Germany, Canada and Australia, for example, have doomsday stocks of immune wrecking clot shots to last for years! The Pi, Rho, Sigma, Tau, Upsilon, Phi, Chi, Psi and Omega variants are coming!

Pfizer stock has only gone up 42% since the start of this scamdemic! Poor Mr. Albert “remember the Holocaust” Bourla! Let’s all chip in, be crippled or die to jack up this man’s fortune! Jewish Sassoon ruined China with opium. Jewish Sacklers got millions addicted to OxyContin. Now, Jewish Bourla can outdo them by directly killing millions while laying waste to entire societies!

Meanwhile, Jewish Ron Unz still feigns indifference, “As many readers already know, I haven’t taken much interest in either the details of the Covid illness or the vaccines deployed against it.” The Jew jabs aren’t deployed against the “illness,” you race-baiting limited hangout hustler, but all of humanity! Turning the world upside down, the Covid “vaccines” have already killed hundreds of thousands, at least, while causing even more to lose their businesses or jobs, yet here’s a self-styled leading intellectual claiming to have almost no interest in them!

[Cape Town, 9/10/21]

With so few tourists, all the carved hippos, elephants and giraffes are arrayed in vain on Post Street Mall. One afternoon, I saw a group of rural Nama with their wooden animals, just walking in silence. It’s apparent they had come into the city for the day thinking they’d make a few bucks. At my guesthouse, there’s a white Namibian tour guide with his idle safari truck. I haven’t seen him smile once. When he said he wanted to emigrate, I asked, “Where to?” He couldn’t answer. Our trash bin is filled with cans of Tafel Lite he’s guzzled.

At least all the markets in Windhoek are well stocked, from Food Lover’s, Checkers, Shoprite, Ok Supermarkt to the mom and pops. There are no supply line problems here. Keep in mind that Namibia is mostly desert, with nearly everything imported. By contrast, many American supermarket shelves are empty! How can this be?

It’s all part of the plan, you see, to destroy the common man, while the Jewjuked American left stands by! Forced to close for weeks because they’re “nonessential,” thousands of small businesses have gone bankrupt, furthering the evisceration of Main Street. “Unvaccinated” truckers are prevented from crossing between the US and Canada, resulting in more empty shelves. Thousands of nurses, doctors, cops and firemen have been fired for being unjabbed, leading to breakdowns of essential services. Police departments have been defunded, so we have record levels of crimes, with those by blacks downplayed or even encouraged the Jewish media, leading to more racial tension, thus more division. Whites are stoked to rage at all blacks by writers like the Unz-supported Kersey, Sailer and Derbyshire, none of whom ever probes into the Jewish machination of black crime.

As of 1/23/22, the Covid theater of the absurd continues, though the UK and Ireland have just lifted most of their restrictions. Perhaps the pushback has gotten too intense, and they’ve murdered enough people for now. It’s likely they’re just giving us a breather before their next nasty surprise. It’s hard to believe that, after years of planning, they’re giving up their Great Reset. We must fight even harder. The totalitarianism in France, Germany and Austria have only hardened.

While in Cape Town, I emailed a writer I admired, with a request for a meeting, something I almost never do. Though he was extremely helpful during my stay there, we never had a few beers together. He couldn’t come out, he said, because he and his wife had agreed to not leave the house until Covid was over. Their two daughters, too, had been locked inside for over a year.

This, from a man who had hung out, for months on end, with some of the roughest characters in Cape Town, a city more violent than Kingston, San Salvador, Juarez or Baltimore. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. When I texted him that I almost got mugged by three youths on the edge of the Grand Parade, he wryly concluded I had been officially welcomed to Cape Town!

Agreeing, I shared with him a Vietnamese proverb, “Go out at night often enough, you’ll see ghosts,” which he thought perfect. So there you have it. Wandering around at night, noon, afternoon or before dawn, you may get hit by a sucker punch, car, ballistic missile or virus, none very likely, but you’re assured of being alive among many other live beings, all painfully gorgeous, even the ugliest, and all frightfully perfect, even godlike, and I’m not even talking about my newest friend, the millipede.

Granted, all that may not be enough for the most cantankerous, hypochondriac or misanthropic among you, but without it, you have no life at all. Stay in your cell, buddy.

Even in the depths of my sickness in Tirana, I had no regrets about being out and about. One bad month out of twelve was hardly a high tax. I must say, though, that Corona-chan delivered all right. On top of me, she hardly let me breathe for ten days. Engulfing, she sucked me right into the glove I never had, growing up.

When something is so bad, it’s almost good, because so memorable, so thank you, Corona-chan, for giving me the worst fuckin’ sex ever. Coming from me, that’s the ultimate compliment.

Don’t call me again, sweetie. I still have your number.

[Windhoek, 1/12/22]

As published at SubStack and OpEd News, 12/26/21:



When I told a friend in Lebanon I was headed to South Africa, she said, “Say hi to the lions, monkeys, elephants and giraffes from me when you hit the safari beat. Of course you’re gonna go on a safari!”

In Cape Town, the only fauna I saw was of hipsters, fat cats, foodies, hustlers, trash pickers, smartly uniformed schoolchildren and one opportunistic pimp. On the edge of Grand Parade, its main square, I almost got mugged by three youths. Though it was wild enough, my friend wanted real beasts, “Enjoy your local travels and just do be careful what kind of ‘friends’ you make out there in empty bars. Oh and also, I still wanna see a South African ‘safari’ article from you (if possible)—wanna see you compare elephants and giraffes to humans heh!”

Nearly five months later, I haven’t seen any African wildlife besides a handful of parakeets and two or three lizards, with one boasting a long, spiky orange tail and an orange head on a slim black body. During a ten-hour trip from the South African/Namibian border to Windhoek, I spotted no animals but domesticated horses, donkeys and goats.

Driven through Wyoming in 1976, I marveled at hundreds of pronghorns. Riding the Greyhound through the same state in 2013, I encountered none. There are still plenty left, I know, but their population has declined, as human infrastructure encroached. Taking buses and vans all over Laos, I didn’t see one elephant, in the Land of a Million Elephants. In Vietnam, tigers were so feared, people called them misters and worshipped them, in shrines and temples. They’re nearly all gone. All species have been threatened but us, until now.

For a neat parable of animal die-off, here’s a passage from Evelyn Waugh’s Remote People of 1934:

At Jinja [in Uganda] there is both hotel and golf links. The latter is, I believe, the only course in the world which posts a special rule that the player may remove his ball by hand from hippopotamus footprints. For there is a very old hippopotamus who inhabits this corner of the lake. Long before the dedication of the Ripon Falls it was his practice to take an evening stroll over that part of the bank which now constitutes the town of Jinja. He has remained set in his habit, despite railway lines and bungalows. At first, attempts were made to shoot him, but lately he has come to be regarded as a local mascot, and people returning late from bridge parties not infrequently see him lurching home down the main street. Now and then he varies his walk by a detour across the golf links and it is then that the local rule is brought into force.

As railway lines, bungalows, roads, shops and golf links sprung up all around him, the big fellow simply maintained his routines while enduring his many new neighbors. While clearly obnoxious, they did express goodwill, or humanity, if you will, by not puncturing his huge target of a head with plenty of lead.

Abundant wildlife is the persistent stereotype of Africa, even if most Africans themselves have no experience of it. Windhoek has 350,000 people, Cape Town half a million. It’s safe to say most of their inhabitants have never seen a lion, monkey, elephant or giraffe, for there’s not even a zoo in either city. The Groote Schuur Zoo, built in 1897 by Cecil Rhodes as a private menagerie, was shut down by the state in the late 1970’s. A Londoner, then, is much more likely than an African to see an African elephant, rhino or hippo, etc.

If a Londoner comes to Africa, he will also jumps the queue to experience African wildlife, for safaris are expensive. In Namibia, a seven-day one will set you back $1,600, with a 3-dayer costing $580. After a long, costly flight here from the US or Europe, most whites will splurge on a 12-day safari at $3,120.

There’s a South African fried chicken chain called Hungry Lion. I tried it in Rehoboth, Namibia. Cheaper than KFC, it’s not as tasty. Its logo is a smiling lion wearing a crown.

At Wernhil Park, Windhoek’s downtown shopping mall, there’s a sort of hopscotch court over an illustrated shape of Africa. See, there, two lions, an elephant, tribal masks, traditional pottery and cave painting figures, all that have disappeared from most people’s life here. “Jump Through Africa From Namibia to Egypt.”

Next to Nelson Mandela, Ninja and Yolandi of Die Antwoord have become the most famous South Africans. Few remember Bishop Tutu, and even fewer, F. W. de Klerk. In a post-literate world that’s getting dumber by the second, Coetzee, Gordimer and Breytenbach, etc., hardly exist.

Die Antwoord made its name through a video attack on Lady Gaga, “Fatty Boom Boom,” which is merely a South African endearment for a chubby baby, by the way. The video begins with a hazy, vaguely apocalyptic shot of the Johannesburg skyline. Everything is brown and gray, with a barren field and a forlorn, if not abandoned, building in the foreground. South Africa as a failing state is suggested.

Many more stereotypes follow. Played by a female impersonator, Lady Gaga is sitting in a beat-up tour van with two gangster types behind her. All the seats have leopard print covers. A toy lion dangles from the rearview mirror. On the outside are decals of the head of a rhino, elephant, lion and water buffalo.

As narrated by a cheerful driver, third-world street scenes roll by. Peddlers sell on sidewalks. All pedestrians are men, interestingly, so no women and children. Slowed down, their gaits and gazes towards the van somewhat alarm. Normally, pedestrians don’t even notice passing vehicles.

To not disappoint, wildlife promptly appears, “Over there, we have some naughty hyenas eating rubbish. These hyenas, they make such a big mess! Over there is a shop owner, chilling with his black panther. Nobody is going to steal nothing when he’s chilling with that black beauty. Nobody! Ah, ah, ah, let me tell you, it’s your lucky day! Over there is the king of the concrete jungle, the lion king!”

Masterfully edited and with a striking visual style, “Fatty Boom Boom” is also a hearty joke on African stereotypes. Notice, for example, how the lion is crowned as “king of the concrete jungle,” though it’s precisely concrete that has pushed him to the edge of extinction.

Later in the video, Lady Gaga has something up her snatch, so must make an emergency visit to a “DENTIST/GYNAECHOLOGIST.” Vagina dentata indeed, even with hilarious misspelling. The dentist/gyneachologist is played by veteran comedian Kagiso Lediga. Showing no expression, the black man probes the white woman, thus triggering the greatest white fear and outrage worldwide, though the cunt in question doesn’t even exist. This Lady Gaga is a man. When she squirted violently, her copious discharge jetted across the room to splatter an open-mawed lion on a calendar. Mouth open but still expressionless, the dentist/gyneachologist extracts an African king cricket from Lady Gaga. There are many kings in Africa.

This scene is a quotation and homage to “Black Gynecologist,” a 2008 painting by a fellow Capetonian, Anton Kannemeyer. Cape Town certainly has an asskicking culture. What it doesn’t have, again, is any wildlife to speak of, beyond Egyptian geese and hadeda ibises.

Before Watkin Tudor “Ninja” Jones and Yolandi Visser became Die Antwoord, they were Max Normal TV, a combo that had none of the Satanic themes or symbols that would infect them later. Musical success in the West has a moral price. Paradoxically, they’ve joined Lady Gaga and countless others.

Unlike South Africa, Namibia has no famous writers, artists or musicians. Among its few rappers are Sunny Boy, D-Jay and Ella ChinaMan, so the snazz and swag factors here aren’t quite developed. Namibian gospel, though, is very distinctive and rousing.

On Christmas Eve, I posted on my blog a Namibian Christmas song, “Tate Wetu” [“Our Father”], as performed by the Mascato Youth Choir of Swapkomund. As is typical, men and women stand apart. Accompanied by three xylophones, two bongos and maracas, as shaken by a radiant, smiling child, they sing in Oshiwambo, “We praise you Father because you have created us!” It’s impossible to not be moved by such a flowering of love, grace and gratitude.

Walking all over Windhoek, I haven’t heard rap once, and I didn’t either in Cape Town. At least in these two cities, hip hop fans don’t feel the need to impose their taste on the public, as in the US.

It’s telling that the fiercest hub for African rap is Kumerica, as Kumasi is called by its hiphopsters. As Kumericans, these Ghanaians can feel closer to the coolest place on earth, with its violent, misogynist music, sickest porn, cultivated misandry, unextinguishable racial rage and gender dysphoria not just normalized, but taught to small children, etc.

For decades, the US has led the world in destroying bodies, minds or souls. Along with napalm, Agent Orange, depleted uranium, white phosphorus and gangsta rap, etc., there are now Pfizer and Moderna “vaccines,” which, triumphantly, Uncle Sam can claim as his greatest weapons of mass destruction ever.

Long subjected to white malice disguised as charity, black Africans wisely reject these genocidal toxins, so they’ve suffered the fewest Covid-related deaths, by far. Free from idiotic restrictions and fear mongering bombardment, my neighbors are relaxed and friendly. They’re still safely snuggled in normality.

Before coming to Namibia, I had little idea what I would find. On the bus up, an old Boer with large hands and no front teeth warned me about Windhoek muggers, “They’ll rob the teeth from your mouth!” Since he didn’t open his any wider, I couldn’t tell if they had taken his molars also.

Namibians, it turns out, are very mellow, and they don’t even curse. I have not heard one profanity in two months, so I’ve curbed my Philly lexicon. As for safety, unless you’re out late at night, shitfaced and counting a thick wad of money under a street lamp, you should be OK.

As the world suffers through endless Covid convulsions, I keep finding myself in normality, so I am blessed. It’s astounding to witness so much tyranny and psychosis from afar. If the majority keep swallowing official lies, this madness won’t stop. The tide is turning, but will it be fast enough, and what other weapons, biological or otherwise, do our collective enemy have in store?

By now, it should be clear why we’re being destroyed. To make room for lions, hippos, giraffes and billionaires (with their slaves and sex slaves), billions of ordinary men, women and children must be culled.

To those at the top of the pyramid, nearly all of us are superfluous, unsightly and annoying, so we must exit cleanly, with consent even, so they can laugh even harder. Though war as universal hygiene might still come, it entails too many collateral damages, such as pulverized bridges, monuments and art objects, etc., and the mess it leaves behind! Too much to clean up. It’s better to just unclog cities, flush all that grinning and stupid humanity down the shit hole, and charge them for the privilege. Deception is delicious!

Often, I’m mocked for writing about “losers,” or for being a “loser” myself, but only true losers speak that way. To be smug is to cut oneself off from nearly all of life, thus to lose in the ugliest way.

Injected, the executed grin in gratitude, then curse those who won’t join them. Annihilated, they fancy themselves winners.

As published at Unz Review, TruthSeeker and LewRockwell, 12/7/21:





In Hanoi in 1998, poet Phan Huyen Thu gave me an anthology of the earliest Vietnamese prose, a book that’s now in a box in Moorestown, NJ, at my friend Ian Keenan’s house. Along with all my other books, which constitute my mental terrain, roughly, I won’t see it again. Life is loss, in installments.

Though I read every page with much interest, all its characters have disappeared, except a certain ghost that used to bother people at a Hanoi wet market. Meaning no harm, he was just frustrated, it’s clear, at not being seen and heard properly, like the rest of us, especially now.

In a 15th century account of just over 100 words, this ghost lives, then, an individual with sane, normal needs. Though fleshless, he’s social and keeps no distance, unlike too many of us, entombed, as we are, in a chimeric fear. Snap out of it, fools!

Granted, we had faded into nearly nothing even before this. By consensus, we had agreed to become mostly virtual. Still, handshakes were normal, hugs were OK and we routinely saw each other’s lips, teeth and tongue. Now, with our body’s last exposed orifices concealed, we move singly along, rubbing against nothing.

This regiment of self-erasure hasn’t been followed universally, however. Here and there, as in Sub-Saharan Africa and most of the Balkans until recently, people have maintained their ordinary tics and intercourses. During my 21 months of Covid-enforced wandering, I’ve been lucky to encounter life as it has always been, with people, almost unthinkingly, just being themselves, most gloriously. Let’s meet three.

In downtown Skopje, there’s Ramstone Mall, which bills itself as not just a center of shopping, but of friendship. Filled with anticipation, I barged in and wasn’t disappointed. In a wooden shack, there’s a white haired man drawing portraits under a sign, “ART STUDIO/ SAIGON / SABEDIN EJUPI.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but why is your studio called Saigon? I’m, uh, from Saigon.”

Showing not the least surprise at having such an unlikely visitor, 64-year-old Sabedin Ejupi explained that when he was 11, a chocolate company had a promotion. Each piece of chocolate came with a picture of a national capital. If you could collect the entire set, you’d win a prize.

Sabedin and his friends, then, bought way too many pieces of chocolate. With infinite patience, they gathered, you know, Washington, Paris, Moscow, Peking, Seoul and Cairo, etc., but no one ever came up with Saigon. With the Vietnam War raging, that elusive city was always in the news, like a daily taunt to these frustrated Macedonian boys.

Fate touched Sabedin, however, for he heard there was a place that sold these pictures. He went there and, sure enough, they had the extremely rare Saigon one! What a miraculous snatch!

Winning, Sabedin wasn’t just the envy of all his friends, he became Saigon, that unreachable, ghostlike city now reduced to just one tiny, inaccurate photo. It could have been anywhere, really. More Saigon than me, Sabedin was still Saigon half a century later, and he’ll die as Saigon, of course, without ever seeing his namesake.

My first morning in Cape Town, I walked nearly the length of Kloof onto Long. In any new city, each building is curious, each shop sign, each passerby. Near the corner of Wale, some grinning guy at a sandwich stand yelled at me, “Hey!”

I just had a long flight, I thought, with two layovers. I slept on the floor in Rome. I haven’t had breakfast. Just leave me alone, man. I don’t want your sandwich. Looking at him, I nodded and grinned, quickened my pace.

Each time after that, he would do the same, even when I was on the other side of the street, so I said, “You’ve got to stop yelling at me, man. I’m afraid to walk by you!”

Finally, I bought a cup of coffee from this dude. We talked. As I got to know him better, I realized he yelled at everybody, in the most cheerful way. Seeing a woman walking by, he might say while putting two fists to his chest, “Oh, I’m so happy!”

“You’re a total whore, man. You flirt with every woman!” I ribbed.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Hey, that’s a good attitude. I hate guys who always judge women. She’s this, she’s that, but then, look at you, man!”

“That’s right. Ha, ha!”

“Hey, you didn’t say hello to her!”

“Which one?”

“That one.” Studiously, we stared at this lithe woman in a tight, gray dress strolling away.

“I didn’t see her.”

“She’s offended.”

“I can’t say hello to her if I don’t see her.”

Twenty-seven-years-old, he had never been outside South Africa. Though white enough, he actually had a colored father, whom he had no memory of. His dad was abusive to his mom, so she moved away and raised two sons alone. She’s English.

Like most working people, he was not a reader, it’s clear, so his knowledge of the world was very limited. So what. Once, he asked me if the Portuguese language was native to Angola? Another time, if cheeseburgers were popular in the USA?

Like most South Africans, he’s fluent in Afrikaans and English, of course, but since he didn’t have a third language, like most South African blacks, he was trying to teach himself Xhosa. It’s not easy, he stated, for there were few resources online, but he was determined. Each language is a new, unsuspected universe. Plus, none is as rooted to that land as Xhosa. Going nowhere, he dug.

Already, I’m in Windhoek five weeks. I’ve just moved into my second apartment. It’s bigger, quieter yet cheaper. My landlord is an Indian who’s interesting to talk to.

Most of the streets in my neighborhood honor German composers, Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, Brahms, Schubert, Strauss, Mozart and Gluck. Hey, where are Mendelssohnstrasse and Schoenbergstrasse?! For such blatant antisemitism, Windhoek must be renamed Stevereichstadt, Bobdylanburg or, simply, Streisand.

Compared to Cape Town or, frankly, Columbus, Ohio, Windhoek is a bit dull, but this suits me fine, for I need rest. There are no cafes or restaurants near me, just an old woman across Beethoven who sells lunch, I suppose, from a single pot. I haven’t asked her to lift the lid.

Half a mile away, though, there’s Old Location, a bar and restaurant named after a black neighborhood that was cleared out by the South Africans, when they ruled Namibia.

Drinking a Hansa there one day, I met our final character for this article. Seeing Joana walk in, the barmaid tensed up, but served her anyway. A short, wild-eyed woman in her 60’s, Joana lost no time raving. Clearly unhappy with this earth, she started to rant about space exploration.

“So you’re a philosopher,” I said.

“And a politician!”

“Why do you want to go to space? There’s nothing there. I’d rather stay here.”

“But we must explore!”

Turning to the barmaid, I asked, “Do you want to go to space?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Joana snapped.

“No, I’m just saying. There’s nothing out there. Everything is here.”

“You’re right. It is horrible, but everything is here.”

Frowning slightly, the barmaid clearly didn’t want me to encourage Joana, but it was too late. I learnt she was an ex-teacher who lived with several relatives just down the street. “Come,” she said, “I want to show you how we live.”

Leaving my mug, I said to the unsmiling barmaid, “I’ll be right back.” Joana walked out with her beer.

In Vietnam or Naples, you can often see how strangers live by walking by their homes, or stare into their rooms from your upper floor window. In the USA, you can live next to a cannibal for several decades without knowing it.

Every so often, there’s a muffled scream, but it’s just his TV, obviously. “Please don’t stab me!” Geez, he really likes horror movies, you conclude.

Just like that, I met an articulate old man, cigarette smoking old woman, smiling young woman in curlers, pretty teenaged girl and a chubby boy, all related to Joana, and all living in houses without electricity or running water. Useless TVs, stoves and microwaves silently mock them.

The old man had been a laborer until disqualified by age. The woman in curlers was unemployed, though with an associate degree in tourism and hospitality. The teenaged girl was Joana’s granddaughter. After her mother had died, her father disappeared.

In Joana’s home, I noticed a bible in English, but also My Groot-Groot Storieboek in Afrikaans, with marked her as a Baster. Her lighter skin reinforced this conclusion. Of mixed Dutch and Bushmen ancestries, Basters are centered in Rehoboth, a town of just 29,000 people. It’s instructive how they cling to their bastard heritage. You are who you are.

With indignation, Joana showed me her just-received layoff letter:

We write this letter to inform you that your services have been terminated effective 1 November 2021. This has been necessitated by your continued absence from work.

This has costed the school a lot in terms of service delivery, if not reputation. It is paramount that your perennial illness can not be tolerated. The school through the Principal’s Office tried to consel you to clarify that your frequent unauthorized absence from duty is not encouraged in our work environment, but you did not take heed of this.

Despite the warnings and a fair chance to mend your ways, there has been no change […]

As the only one working in that extended family, Joana should not have tossed her job away, obviously, but I don’t know the forces that have shaped or deformed her down the decades, nor if I could have survived them any better. We slog along until we break down, go mad or drop dead.

Stumbling along, we often help each other, but suddenly, all basic human acts, from smiling to touching, or just being together, etc., are absurdly thwarted, if not outlawed. Even breathing freely has become illegal. Keep your mask on, over your nose!

Beyond madness, it’s evil. Only the most moronic or complicit can excuse this anti-life agenda. There are no missteps here. They’re squeezing the life out of us, step by step, deliberately.

A while back I suggested that, at the very least, each man should be left alone to be ordinary. Sneering, a supercilious reader countered that Jews must aspire for the sublime and, moreover, we should follow their example!

The divine, though, is already in every batted eyelash, grain of rice, smallest act of generosity or scuttling cockroach. Normality is our birthright. How dare they pervert that, and why do we go along?

As published at Unz Review and TruthSeeker, 12/2/21:





My last night in Cape Town was spent at 91 Loop Boutique Hostel. Paying $33, I had a rather large, if very spartan, room, with my own toilet. With six beds, it was clearly intended as a dorm space, but tourists were still scarce, thanks to Covid.

A filling breakfast was included, and it wasn’t just a buffet, but prepared to order. As is usual at any hostel, the clientele was mostly young. I noticed a Southeast Asian, a rare sight in Cape Town.

(During my three-month stay, I had met a Vietnamese-American and a Filipina, both under 30. As we chattered over coffee, they kept their masks on between sips. When I said I didn’t trust the Covid “vaccines,” the Vietnamese-American got even chillier. At least the Filipina smiled with her eyes. Neither understood why I’d stray outside Cape Town’s safest zones, or take a taxi van.)

The Southeast Asian at 91 Loop was a Filipino nurse working in Qatar, where he had spent six years. Before that, he was in Saudi Arabia. Eric had the confident, easy manner that comes with knowing you’re good looking. (God has blessed me in the opposite direction, however. If I was handsome, I’d be unbearable, even to myself.)

Applying for a job in Springfield, Missouri, Eric had just taken a test in Joburg. As everyone must know by now, American hospitals are constantly recruiting foreign nurses and doctors.

I had to warn Eric about leaving Qatar for Springfield, “You must know Filipinos in the States? Ask them about the situation there. Also, make sure you can save while working in the US. You don’t want to regret leaving Qatar.”

After twelve years abroad, Eric had stashed away enough to ponder opening a mini hotel back home, “In Bukidnon. I’m from the same province as Manny Pacquiao!”

“Your next president!”

“Ha, ha!”

Investing in tourism during a worsening Covid crisis is not exactly wise, but hey, he’ll figure it out soon enough. In any case, Eric hadn’t been home since Covid was launched. His last two vacations, he spent in Georgia and Armenia.

Overhearing our conversation, a young man at a nearby table introduced himself, “I’m sorry, but I hear you guys talking about jobs overseas?”

“He’s applying for a job in the US. Where are you from?”

“I’m South African, but I want to get out. It’s horrible here.” Thin, Dean had a worried face and defeated posture.

“Are you from Cape Town?”

“Just north of here. I just got cheated. That’s why I’m at this hostel. A guy rented me a room he didn’t own.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Just a month’s rent.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll look at another room today. It’s cheap enough. I hope it works out.”

“You can always move into a township!”

“Yeah, right.”

“And get killed!”

“Even if I don’t,” he frowned, “I can’t walk 50 yards to get water to do my laundry. I’m a white man.”

“I’m just kidding. So what do you do, man?”

“I work at a sporting club. I sit at the entrance and collect the money. I’m sort of the manager there,” he chuckled. “That’s one job where they still want a white man!”

“What do you mean?”

“The Africans, they steal.”

“Hmmm.”

“For just about every other job, a white man is at the bottom. There’s a thing here called Black Economic Empowerment.”

“Like Affirmative Action in the States.”

“Exactly, so white men are below blacks, women, gays, black women, everybody! I know a black woman who doesn’t even show up to work! She doesn’t have to, and her company doesn’t really care. They just hired her because she’s a black woman.”

There’s a cartoon by Anton Kannmeyer, a Capetonian artist. In a corporate office, a bald white man is interviewing a black woman. She has huge lips and fro. He’s a middle-aged Tintin. “I SEE BY YOUR RESUME THAT YOU’RE A BLACK WOMAN,” he says.

“It’s wrong, man. All racism is wrong.”

“I know, but that’s just how it is here. That’s why I want to get out. Do you have any suggestion?” Dean half grinned.

“Listen, when this Covid bullshit is over, you should consider going to Asia. You can teach English there. In East Asia,” I laughed, “being white is actually an asset.”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously. Have you traveled much?”

“Ten years ago, I went to the UK. I worked there for two years, saved some money, then came back.”

“How much did you save?”

“12,000 pounds.”

“That’s pretty good! You must have worked your ass off.”

“Yeah, but I also had fun. I had friends, I partied, I drank. Now, I’m making the same money I made ten years ago, but prices have gone way, way up. Twice as much! I’m 32-years-old. It’s horrible.”

As a teenager, Dean made the national baseball team, but was bumped to make room for a black. When his dad offered to buy some of the team’s equipment to get Dean reinstalled, he balked. He didn’t want any derision from his teammates.

In Cape Town, I met skilled or entrepreneurial whites who weren’t just doing well, but absolutely loved the Western Cape. A white couple drove me to a vineyard where whites, plus a few coloreds and blacks, enjoyed drinks and food at long tables, set outside amid a magnificent landscape.

Near Cape Town’s touristy waterfront, I chanced upon Un/Settled, an art installation by white South African Sydelle Willow Smith. Various whites are quoted at length with their photos.

Seen on his ocean-facing veranda, a clearly affluent Albie Sachs says, “You do not shed the aspects that constitute you as somebody with a history, with a culture, with a presence that is particular […] The next generation are picking up the remaining elements of white hegemony, with an assumed sense of superiority and white living conditions. There is no ‘one size fits all’ in relation to anything in South Africa. Everything is jumbled up and mixed up. When the shackles of overt racism fall the pinpricks of covert racism hurt unbearably.”

Chavi Alheit, “I just think white people, white South Africans are the luckiest nation, community, whatever you want to call it, in the world. For all intents and purposes we all should have been macheted a long time ago. And the fact that we are still living with comforts and advantages that we have, really goes to say a lot for the black population. We really should be thankful towards them. They have been very tolerant of us.”

Terry Oakley Smith, “I suppose the only glimmer of hope on the horizon is that we as whites only make up 8% of the population so we are becoming increasingly irrelevant.” Judging by her tasteful clothing and jewelry, it’s obvious Terry is no trash.

Sydelle Willow Smith also shows photos of whites at the horse races and in a desert swimming pool, to emphasize their privileges.

One woman, though, is depicted in a white frock, standing in the ocean with water reaching her lower abdomen, as if to purify her lower half. Unlike most others, only her first name is given. Deryn, “I have survived unspeakable brutal violence in this country and as a result I have given myself permission to leave. But I belong here. This is where my roots are. This is where my relationships are. This is where I am woven into. I am not woven in anywhere else. It’s actually just that simple.”

A guy like Dean would have something entirely different to say, but he’s not a part of this installation.

Although Capetonian whites on the lowest rungs are miserable enough, at least they still have indoor plumbing, unlike thousands of township blacks dwelling in wretched shacks. For them, toilets are just portable stalls lined up in rows. The luckiest among them must dress up smartly each day to serve whites in distant neighborhoods. A black barista in Green Point may appear stylish, but she might not have pot to piss in, back in Khayelitsha.

With a white friend, I visited Langa, South Africa's oldest black township. He had to go there to buy some (legal) pot. We drank beer with people and had a great time. When I told one woman I liked her "HARLEM" cap, she said it was in Germany, then volunteered that she loved Hitler.

"You don't just like Hitler?" I grinned.

"No, I love him!"

A man asked me, a foreigner clearly just visiting, if I had a job to give him.

Leaving, my friend said, "By evening, everyone in Langa will know that a white guy and a Chinese guy came by to drink beer!"

Capetonian whites, colored and blacks reach absolute equality when they end up sleeping on sidewalks, panhandling and digging through trash cans for food. When I mentioned these whites to a retired colored cop, he said, “If whites end up on the streets, they only have themselves to blame. They’ve had so many advantages.” During Apartheid, his family was evicted from thriving District Six, near downtown, to still barren Athlone. That bitterness lingers.

With Covid, Cape Town’s homeless population has exploded. An Iranian restauranter told me that with fewer tourists, there are fewer cops on the streets, so there’s more crime. She’s afraid to even walk around downtown. Travel complications have also prevented her from visiting Iran, which she used to do yearly.

Even with a much lower volume of business, the food at Persian Peacock was still excellent. “I’ll be sure to come back here,” I said to the lovely, smiling and soft-spoken lady, “should I return to Cape Town.”

The older you get, though, the less likely you’ll come back anywhere. Covid strictures only lower the odds considerably. A Canadian friend told me he’s resigned to possibly not seeing his wife again, as they’re stuck in different countries. How many relationships have been destroyed because of this engineered madness? Just be thankful you’re not death jabbed.

With a few hours before my bus to Namibia and Eric’s flight to Qatar, we went to Corner Bar in Sea Point. I had gone there three months earlier, on my first day in Cape Town.

Too airy to be a dive, Corner Bar is nevertheless a magnet for old drunks, artsy types, somber salt of the earth and the loudly garrulous. This time, I found myself sitting next to a boastful old Englishman.

A small gent in a green jacket and yellow shirt, the colors of the national rugby kit, he said he had been recruited to South Africa 53 years ago by Harry Oppenheimer himself, and was paid in gold. He was so brilliant, he had six college degrees. He said he had been to every country on earth but Australia, “because I’m not a convicted criminal.” He claimed to be obscenely rich, so he was just slumming, I suppose, sipping a $2 glass of red wine. His two sons had emigrated to the UK and lived near Newcastle. He rarely saw them or his grandkids.

He introduced me to a woman he said was Miss Israel 50 years ago. She turned out to be a rather interesting painter, but I can’t remember her name. I had a stressful several days and was guzzling. Self-taught, she paints girlish women besieged by dark forces. There are so many artists with at least a handful of genuine achievements, provocative and unique, but it doesn’t matter, they’re still invisible. Much of “art,” though, is pure garbage.

Out of breath, he showed me a piece of paper with BIC penned letters:

COFFEE
IS
LIKE MY WOMEN

* *

LARGE
STRONG
HOT
BLACK
VERY SWEET

Like every other man, grandpa lives within his own mythology. If younger, he would do his chest thumping online, which would also encourage any propensity for snark or nastiness. Unseen, they fling shit like cartoon apes. Born before the crassification of much of the world, grandpa is still a gentleman, fortunately. You take the fight out of a populace by destroying its character.

A month removed from Cape Town, I’m in Windhoek, Namibia. It’s much quieter here. Downtown, there isn’t much beyond a shopping mall, but that’s OK. Joining the loosely-masked crowd, I stroll often through its air-conditioned pleasantness. I get my grocery at Checkers and eat bacon cheeseburgers at Wimpy.

At one end of the mall, there are three very young professional photographers. They work next to the Covid jab room, with its large banner, "COVID-19 vaccines are safe and effective." Even with the Omicron brouhaha, this antechamber to the morgue is nearly always empty.

“Don’t go in there, man,” I said to a photographer. “They’re trying to kill you!”

“I know,” he laughed while giving me a fist bump.

With the fewest lockdowns, lowest Covid “vaccination” rates and no social distancing to speak of, black Africa has the fewest deaths, by far, from this orchestrated emergency. That’s why they’re punishing it now. Normal African life exposes as nonsense their extreme measures everywhere else.

Suddenly, the tourists are gone, and southern Africans are blocked from many countries. To not be shunned, Africans must be poisoned, they insist.

There are rumors South Africa might impose a new lockdown. This would trigger riots, certainly, for there are already too many South Africans barely eating. Lockdown induced economic hardship was a key factor in the Durban rioting this July.

I’ve mentioned a Serb who’s been living in Africa for 30 years. When I walked by his cap, T-shirt and CD stall yesterday, he shouted, “You’re still here?!”

“I’ll be here at least one more month.”

Holding up six fingers, he scrunched his face and cryptically said, “No, six more months!”

“What do you mean?”

“If they close the borders, you’ll be here six more months.”

“What?! Are you sure?”

“That’s what happened the last time. People were stuck here for six months. They ran out of money, lost their jobs, it was terrible. This morning, I talked to a Japanese guy. His embassy told him to leave immediately, so he’s flying out on Sunday. Ethiopian Airlines. You must get out now!”

“I’m OK here. I like it here. I’ll see you all the time then,” I smiled. They're tightening the Covid vice even more fiercely evrywhere else, no?

In late November, Philadelphia broke its all-time murder record. California is sicker than ever, Portland rests on Antifa tinder and Chicago is run by a racist moron. Mobs shoplift without fear. Showing no spontaneity, thus sign of a live mind, Biden can only fart unscripted. Shrieking Jim Crammer thinks soldiers should inject poison into all Americans. Jew jerked, Americans are stuck on black and white racial grievances, even as they’re maimed or murdered by Jewish “vaccines.”

Vietnam is closed. To enter a handful of reopened Asian countries, one must be vaccinated. Ditto for the European Union. Georgia and Bulgaria have introduced vaccine passports. Mexico remains open, so that’s an option, but it’s a long, costly flight away. My first meeting with Fred Reed will have to wait.

Suddenly a mall-rat at 58-years-old, I’m lucky to be in Windhoek, among those who won’t be forced into deforming their biology, chemistry or, simply, life.

Stay strong and true, Namibia and, of course, all of Sub-Saharan Africa.

Done, I’ll eat some boerewors and drink a Castle, then stroll leisurely down to the mall. It’s always good to be among your own.

Eric failed his test, by the way, so won’t be going to Springfield, Missouri, but it’s a secret blessing, I told him. Thinking it over, he agreed.

taken at The Locomotive Bar on 10/30/21, just before I left lovely Cape Town: