 Greetings, melody lovers. Today, we will enjoy a bit of an extended Music Minute. Let’s call it the Musical Half-Hour Funtime Festival and Other Words. You’re in luck, as my original intention was to facilitate some form of socioeconomic comparison. Before that, I’d briefly thought about educating a chipmunk as to the workings of a carburetor (of course, instead of listening, the little joker kept crawling into the throttle valve!). Moving along! As for today’s musical links, Mr. Charles Munk and I are working with Ewetube, Yandex, and Goolag to create some sort of auto-translation service so one might read a “foreign” language in one’s native tongue with a degree of reliability. It’s amazing no one thought of this before. If we are successful, say on Ewetube, look for the feature within the little cogwheel symbol next to the “CC” on every video. We’re working hard for you, and Lil’ Chip is pulling overtime. About two months ago, I suggested Americans might benefit from a “Shaman.” The reception was rather positive though I note we are no closer now than we were then. Rather than someone proudly, defiantly proclaiming who we are and where we’re going, we were given the Lunsford treatment, a Clown approved, UTA-repped, and obviously pre-manufactured singing of diversionary lyrics about our problems. And only the problems, skewed narrative-right, and without any hint of a solution. However, in Russia, Yaroslav Yuryevich Dronov, aka, “Shaman,” is still doing what he does best - celebrating all things Russian. I’m going to dissect parts of a recent concert. First, here’s a recent AiF interview with the man. (Cog. Wheel.) Fifteen years of hard, organic work is not the same as instant, AI-propelled “success.” And a nation is a collection of similar people, not a collection of assorted heads-down basketcases. Also, here’s Shaman singing “Государственный гимн Российской Федерации,” the “State Anthem of the Russian Federation,” at another recent concert. Imagine the most popular of ‘Murican pop singers, whoever that is, singing “God Save the South” or the “Star Spangled Banner” for and with 70,000 enthusiastic young American teens and twenty-somethings. I had trouble with visualization too. Do we even have that many young Americans anymore? Now I’m going to focus on two parts and three songs from Shaman’s March 13, 2023 concert in Krasnogorsk, Greater Moscow. Russia’s got talent. (I tried to target the following parts using the “&t=” format, but something would not allow it. For reference, here’s the FULL CONCERT. Skip along as follows, please.) Around timestamp 23:29, he goes among the crowd for a few minutes letting random men, women, and children sing. That was pretty cool, but not as cool as the following consecutive trio of patriotic tunes. At 55:15 he launches “Встанем” (“Let’s Rise” or “Let’s Stand Up”). This is a song about communion with Russian men who fell defending the Fatherland. While Shaman sings, a dancer in military attire performs a physical interpretation. Select translated lyrics:
This is a huge part of the living Russian spirit. Under God’s Grace, they not only honor and remember their heroes and their past, but they actively incorporate their traditions into their modern existence. Immediately following “Встанем,” around 1:01:00 he proceeds into his new and very popular “Я русский” (I’m Russian”). I covered the meaning of those lyrics previously. In short, it is a defiant rallying cry for proud living people. Here one may truly contrast the uplifting celebratory nature of Shaman to the intentional down-in-the-dumps moaning of Lunsford. After the early 1990s, a host of “rich men” settled north of Tula. Rather than selling souls only to complain about “shit” Rubles and tax-based junk food, the Russians unceremoniously ejected the “rich men” from Russia. Now they’re ejecting them from Europe. After “Я русский” comes another rendition of the “Государственный гимн,” at 1:05:28. The English-translated beginning verses:
Here again, we see a common Russian theme: the melding of ancient tradition with the living present and the ardent determination to continue living into the future. Russia is scared in the genuine sense, the Orthodox Christian meaning of the word, and not the freemasonic m-m-muh first ‘mendment meaning. The Russians love Russia to the point of dying and killing to preserve her. Great glory, of the kind God intends for the nations He created and which we are assured will endure even in Heaven. Dignity for all time — not just the marginalized, mythologized past. A free patriarchy in place of an enlightened boarding house. The union is not just of political states, but of kindred people — a nation. The wisdom of the past is carried by the current generations. Pride, not in one’s own selfish interest, but in Russia’s ordained part of The Plan.
Americans, Southerners particularly, should and could have something like this. Will they? I think not, at least, not for the foreseeable future. This gets into postwar Remnant territory and is thus highly speculative. We still lack a few necessary things. But very refreshingly, we appear to be making slow headway. I am pleased to present this: Joyous Sidenote! I just learned that Padraig Martin’s group is planning to place a series of billboards along major Southern thoroughfares in high GAE military recruitment areas with this simple and 100% honest message: "Joining the US Armed Forces is the Gayest thing you can do!" One can look it up if one needs to. In brief: The GAE AF is the largest lgbtP employer in the world; it puts sodomites in leadership positions; it hosts fag queen story hours and fag shows at imperial military bases; it covers up regular sexual abuse atrocities committed by its wicked members against men, women, and children (and probably animals); it pays for tranny sex changes; it makes it a crime to refuse to date trannys; it flies sodomite “pride” flags at imperial embassies worldwide; it names naval vessels after child rapists; from the barracks to Congress, it openly practices satanism; it is the only military that ever dropped an atomic bomb on a church (and in general), and; like sodomy, it exudes hatred of God and His creation: it is the most destructive force on earth. God’s wrath is rightly crashing down upon it. Elsewhere, members of the (Ramzan) Kadyrov family are physically beating down those who blaspheme against Islam — the way our knights used to disabuse degenerates in the West. Christians today can at least speak the Truth to our wicked, blasphemous powers. Martin’s message is in line with what I mean by never serving the enemy. Furthermore, it’s a good rhetorical poke in the eye. GAE = gay, so stay away. We need much more, but at least we still have a little fight in us. And we always have that critical element that goes without saying. Still, Deo vindice.
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 Author’s note: Today, we take a break from the usual fun. Rather than indulge in the groping, vaping, lying antics of well-endowed congressional clowns, the hilarious hijinks of fake “joggers” running over real bicyclists, or the need for a revival of the Dan White Gun Club, we instead enjoy a bit of story-telling from a bygone era. Some might suspect it is tinged with an aura of the pseudo-autobiographical. The boy gradually became aware of three things. First of all, while staring off at someone’s porch lights, and then maybe while glancing up and around, he noticed that dusk had fallen and was even then giving way to full nighttime. Never one to wear a watch, if such a confining thing could be avoided, he had no precise way of knowing the time. At the moment, “kind of dark,” “a little late,” or “around supper time” worked well enough in his head. Further considering the latter description, he was a little hungry. It had been a busy day, or, rather, a busy afternoon that almost without warning fell into the evening. But a dedicated working man, even one only eight or so years old, couldn’t be a clock-watcher. And again, he was sans chronometer. Whether he’d been hired or volunteered for this particular job he just couldn’t remember in the far distant future. The school, one of those delightful Southern academies that magically sprung up during the Sixties, had at times need for fundraising. For something or another. His teacher or the assistant principal had surely explained it. Or was it the Cub Scouts? It couldn’t have been his Little League team, given the time of the year. Forced to look back, as through a dark haze, nearly half a century, he decided— Forty years. It was about forty years earlier. Forty sounded better than fifty, and as sure as his hair was slowly graying, it was closer to the numeric truth. He decided it had to be the school and for generic academic purposes. But what kind of solicitation had him out that night? Chocolate bars certainly come to mind given questions of that nature. That, he thought, was the wrong answer. Also incorrect was the little catalog of Christmas ornaments he could almost picture. In a pinch of creative logic, he firmly decided it had been the list of magazine subscriptions. People read back then and there was seemingly a circular publication for every taste, whim, or fancy. In fact, his list, another kind of catalog, was organized according to the particular interests of the prospective readers. Those were further divided into three master classes: men, women, and children. It was all coming back to him. Each publication had a number or code along with its price. He was assigned a sheet whereby his customers selected their chosen work or works and provided their names and addresses. He could not recall how financial matters were handled, assuming a clearing house billed as needed and, as it concerned him then, after the fact. He was not a born salesman. Where, he had wondered, would one look to find literary patrons? As with many such concerns, he consulted an authority: “Dad, where do I find people to sign up?” “Why don’t you just walk around the neighborhood?” his father suggested. “Knock on doors. There are enough people around here to fill up that sheet.” It was sound advice. University Estates was a large settlement, plenty large enough for his purposes. And it was full of good, decent, literate people — many of whom he knew. It was laid out in three sections, the old, the middle, and the new. Likely sometime in the Fifties, people had begun building in the older parts. Those were located near the eastern edge of the campus. They flowed in a roundabout, up-and-down fashion to the middle section which had probably come along during the Sixties. Both of them hosted a variety of nice houses on acre-ish lots. Most impressively, the old and middle sections both had paved streets. The asphalt ended and gave way to dirt and gravel at the two approaches to the new section, his neck of the woods. There, beginning, he supposed, in the Seventies, the houses and the yards became larger and further apart. It was at that end of the area that the Estates name earned its keep, with each lot being a minimum of five acres. Owing to something, his parents had built their house at the then extreme eastern end of the last road. His was, for a time, literally the last house. As such, it bordered on, and he considered his backyard to include thousands of acres of University forest and agricultural test field land. In those days, like any civilized man, he was accustomed to entering and exiting the house by the back door. A turn to his right, or walking straight ahead, meant entering his vast playground, hunting fields, and imaginary worlds. Of course, that afternoon, he’d turned to the left and walked down the driveway and then up the road leading to the other houses, and eventually, to the college and town. He knew all the routes by heart, having walked and biked them many times, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone. America was then safer, saner, and more civilized, and no one had yet thought of ten thousand phantom dangers to keep children inside and under constant surveillance. Somehow, against all odds and all the concerns of the professional hand-wringers, he (and virtually all the other children) had survived that blissful nightmare of freedom. That day, for whatever reason, he’d left his mildly customized Huffy where it rested under the carport, and set forth on foot. Many steps were needed going there and back again. His future self, afflicted with many cares, could not place what kind of afternoon it was. A Saturday would have been ideal. Therefore, he concluded it must have been a weekday, and thus, the end of a school day. Regardless, on he had walked. Naturally, he immediately took a shortcut and his first stop was at the Wilson’s house next door. A path down through his own garden field, across a railroad tie bridge over a small creek, and up through the Wilson garden led him to their backdoor (where he generally entered, with or without a knock). Then it was on to other homes all across the newer portion. If he had a plan, it was to keep to the newer and middle parts. He knew the more populated older areas would probably get covered by Sam and Ashley, two boys a year or three ahead of him in school. Part of his memory suggested he had seen one of them at the first crossing where the streets were paved. “You going towards town?” “No, I figured you guys were handling that.” “Good call, kid. Got many yet?” “Seven, eight, nine … the next one is number ten!” “Good job. Getting a little late. See you around.” He couldn’t recall whether it was Sam or Ashley. It was probably Ashley. He was a relaxed lankier youth with a semi-bookish appearance. Sam, while of similar demeanor, was built more like a football player. Both were solid ordinary Mississippi boys of a kind the world would benefit from, then and later, if they were of greater numbers. Or was it Sam? He couldn’t quite recall. Nor, interestingly enough, could he later remember exactly what anyone had ordered. Beyond the Wilsons, he couldn’t even picture any of the many other faces he encountered — with two pretty exceptions. Regardless of his other plans, he purposely steered himself to the houses of both Amy and Edie, two high school girls. As luck had it, they’d both been home! Their ordering was immaterial and he might have even forgotten to mention his magazines. But a hug —that kind of little brother “hello!” hug, maybe with a lingering squeeze— he’d certainly offered that. They’d reciprocated with that wonderful soft, sweet-smelling, sparkly generosity only Mississippi girls can properly muster. The world desperately needs more Mississippi girls. “We can walk to the pond another time. It’s getting a little late.” “Or we could do it now! You’re my favorite cheer—, uh, flag girl, you know.” “I know. And it’s getting late.” “I like your sweater. And your jeans.” He left unsaid his appreciation of their fit. “Thanks. You’re cute.” “You smell like flowers—” “Okay, Shortstuff. Mom said something about your magazines.” “Magazines?” He was remembering something… The door-to-door! Of course. Not long after taking his reluctant leave of Edie (“Ee-dee”, for Edith), he’d turned back out of the middle section and set foot down a meandering dirt drive that ultimately looped back to his road. The shadows grew longer, as did the intervals between houses. After hastily leaving one abode and pausing at the lawn edge of another, he gradually became aware of three things. It was dark. It was considerably cooler. And that dog had followed him. It was a larger breed. A moment earlier, it stood somewhat menacingly between him and the last doorbell. It uttered a low growl, probably a dog’s way of saying, “Nobody’s home. Take your magazines and beat it.” He did, slowly, politely retreating to the lane and the crunch of gravel under his boots. He might have walked off whistling innocently. The beast now inched towards him. A new tactic leaped into his brain. Crouching down, he did what any man does when confronted with a strange canine. He called it to come closer. And with its ears half-cocked but without any snarls, it responded. His hand was extended for inspection. A sniffing earned a petting that turned into him having to sit on the road and scratch a shaggy coat from head to tail. Suddenly, his new friend heard something and darted off. Relieved and gladdened by the encounter, and being almost saddened by the departure, it was about that time he really first observed the darkness. And the creeping chill of mid-fall air. He’d prepared for the weather in advance. Like the fashionable Edie, he was wearing jeans atop his cowboy boots. Over his long-sleeve t-shirt, with or without a polo collar, he was wearing his favorite vest, the beige one with the orange pocket and edge markings. Imagining he could almost see his breath, he calculated the temperature to be somewhere in the upper fifties. He also roughly calculated the time. That last house was the very last one, and he soon trotted off towards home. Perhaps only half an hour later, he was at the table over something hot. Time progressed as it did. The long years since, many of them, were spent on another kind of odyssey, one not dissimilar to the early quests of wandering Thorongil. He and the great king had experiences and realizations of differing sorts. That thought was driven home, perhaps for the final time, as he walked out of the customs office. Pyotr from the forum was waiting for him in the public area of the concourse. “We meet, at last, my digital friend!” the man exclaimed happily. “Welcome to civilization! As I mentioned on the phone, we are eagerly awaited back at the office. A special party, now with a special guest. You’ll get a sneak peek of how everything works. Elsewhere, your room is waiting before the apartment lease is signed. All is ready. But tell me, how was the long route through Istanbul?” “It was the long route, for certain. Before we get into all that, I was wondering if I might grab a magazine and take a short walk. And, Lord, this is like going back in time! Started at one MSU, only to come, as if back home, to another. Hello, my new old friend.” Through the doors to the taxi stand, a breeze hit his face, and he noticed three things. It was dark. It was cooler. And that dog— No, the dog was only a memory, the cloudy, rosy reflection of a once-upon-a-time little peddler. We are reminded once again of the words of that great philosopher, Meatloaf: “It was long ago, and it was far away, and it was so much better than it is today.” Then again, as ever, things change.  The morons, a sizable demographic plurality in our continent-spanning Sodom and Gomorrah, are sporting masks again. I’m not sure what to make of this other than a substantial portion of the population consists of faithless heathen idiots. People who believe in nothing tend to be frightened of everything and will fall for almost anything. No matter how obviously fake. They have plenty of chances to indulge their craven stupidity because, as Daira Dugina wrote in Eschatological Optimism, “...the given world which we presently take to be pure reality, is illusory: it is an illusion that is about to dissipate and end.” As the esteemed Professor Clyde Wilson noted the other day, we are surrounded by a sea of hoaxes and fakery: fake holidays, fake entertainment, fake leaders, and fake virtues. Paradoxically, much of the more serious illusory nonsense can and does affect us materially as well as spiritually. One wouldn’t think it possible, but it is. Today, we’re going to take a look at a living example of something ridiculously fraudulent that is about to have deadly serious ramifications for a number of people. Back in early 2022, on one or more episodes of the Prepper Post News, I urged my mostly Western audience to pick a city, town, or area in Ukraine that most closely resembled where they lived. People, places, and happenstance are not so different, and one may learn a lot about one’s own condition or potential plight based on what happens with and to someone else somewhere else. I have no idea whether anyone undertook the experiment other than me. The town I picked is doing rather well today. It was liberated and annexed and is in the process of being rebuilt. This leads me to think I may have picked the wrong place. Regardless of my possible comparative geostrategic foibles, at the end of last week, the world got a stark reminder of the evil nature and extreme gravity of our illusory world. The military conflict between NATO and Russia, as displayed in Ukraine, is a horrific nightmare for the Ukrainian people. The nation’s population from the end of the Soviet era had already fallen by several million before last February. Since then, it has been essentially cut in half. More than ten million people fled to other countries. Millions more joined the Russian Federation. Almost half a million Ukrainian men have been killed in combat. Of the million or so additional wounded casualties, many of them are “sanitary losses,” as they are called, meaning they’re maimed for life and unfit to return to battle. Proof exists that Kiev is relying on old men of seventy and rumor suggests they’re calling up boys of sixteen or seventeen. In DC, London, and Brussels, a general panic has set in over where to find additional cannon fodder. Loose plans involved men from Poland, the Baltic States, other parts of Europe, and, in a rather unlikely scenario (as of just yet), the US. However, needing bodies now, the Clowns have resorted to a new low of desperation. Ukraine is drafting women. Read that article from RT. Think about the implications. Notice what’s obviously wrong in the included photograph.  Ukraine to close borders for ‘mobilized women' via RT, 8 Sep, 2023 All Ukrainian women with medical backgrounds and education are involuntarily enlisted now. They are needed in an effort to triage some of the 1,000 or so male casualties sustained every day. That paints a poor enough scene, but it’s only the beginning. A possible general mobilization of women for combat duty is expected in the near future. Read that article (translation most likely required) and watch the recruiting videos. Before all is said and killed, we’ll probably start to see videos of these women delimbed, decapitated, and truncated. The Werewestern MSM doesn’t show the existing videos of men being slaughtered and I never link to them out of a sense of decency. But they’re out there. And they’re nauseating. The saddest part of all of this is how unnecessary it is. As the Clowns are locked into America and unable to invade, divide, and destroy Russia (or China), they appear intent on the spiteful genocide of the Ukrainian people. That’s what’s happening. Wipe out the sexually mature and functioning men AND women of any nation, and that nation’s future is erased or greatly diminished. Our real enemies, our fake, gay, stupid, sociopathic rulers, are among the most wicked and degenerate people who have ever lived. One wonders when or if anybody in America or the other hostage host countries has any ability to oppose these demons or even acknowledge they exist. They won’t be content with butchering Ukrainian women. Last May, I wrote a column that raised the specter of the Clowns drafting American women into service against Russia. In 2019, I wrote another column about a court case that set the stage for the unthinkably dyscivilizational and dysgenic, National Coalition for Men, et al. v. [Imperial] Selective System Service, et al., Slip Op., 4:16-cv-03362, Civ. Action H-16-3362 (So. Dist. Texas, Feb. 22, 2019). Opined a GAE judge:
ERA all the way! Baby, you’ve come a long way (towards oblivion). Gurl power! And so forth.
Being one to notice things a little earlier than most, I noticed this budding development no later than 2016. Then, I examined the support of most of the warmongering lunatic GOP presidential candidates for killing our girls. (Off-topic reminder: If you don’t support “conservatives”, then the “liberals” will win!) I suppose it was easier to entertain the false, illusory concept of equality during times of relative peace. I hope during the opening phases of World War Three the outlook has changed a little. In fact, I hope the US collapses and dissolves before any more American men or women can be killed for global satantry. If not, then we’re in for a lot of “ifs”. If the GAE goes all-in for a hot war with Russia, China, Iran, North Korea, Africa, Europe, and/or America, then it will lose. If they go all the way, then they can’t rely on the dwindling power of the existing imperial military. If called on, the US simply doesn’t have enough young men fit for service. If they institute a draft, then it will probably or possibly include ‘Murica gals. However, no ifs about it, our rulers hate us and will happily sacrifice both sexes even if they know they lose in the end. Again, how anyone can support or tolerate these slimy little rats is as big a mystery as why dullards are once again wearing useless scraps of fabric over their fat, sullen faces. Ladies, young ladies, just know this not-so-happy picture is a future possibility for you. It’s still remote; I give it a 10-20% chance of happening. Then again, I would have given roughly the same odds to females in Kiev and Lviv this time last year. This edition was almost a polemic short work of fiction. I was going to title it The Anger Games. That header and the one I chose today pay a form of homage to The Hunger Games novel by Suzanne Collins. In that surprisingly interesting work, young Katniss Everdeen, a District 12 girl, volunteers for the violent titular games to spare her little sister from certain misery and death. In my hypothetical story, the protagonist was going to be someone’s uncle. He never even got a name. But he was to be a hero. Faced with his government’s drafting of his niece for some absurd war of aggression, he volunteered in her place. None of this was ever jotted down, but in my mind, he was so eager to fight his real enemies that he commenced the combat activities immediately at a ceremony held at the local military recruiting center. “Private Frag reporting for duty,” he would have heartily exclaimed before opening fire (thus fragging the assembled bastards). He would have hoped that the incident would spark a resistance. We’ll never know, though the concept is something to think about. Woman was God’s masterpiece of Creation. A woman “full of Grace” gave physical birth to our Lord, Jesus Christ. As such, it’s unnaturally natural for the devil’s slaves to hate women as they plainly do. To them I caution: Leave our girls alone. Deo vindice et hostibus semper mortem!  Some time ago, I postulated that three events would herald the dissolution of the GAE and the former US as a cohesive nation-state: economic collapse, a substantial overseas military defeat, and a catastrophic civil war. I speculated all three would probably happen roughly at the same time. I was right. While at times it may not exactly look like it, all three of these things are currently in progress. In a moment, I want to get into some good general advice —as dangerous a thing as that is— that may help someone in America at some point. But first, a glance at the three combined factors may be in order. The economic situation, like a slow-rolling and unstoppable permanent depression, has been in the works for years. The real economy in the GAE and much of the West has been destroyed, as has been the very concept of money. What we’re left with is a façade and I’m not really sure what keeps it standing. Sooner or later, even that will fall. The GAE-NATO war on Russia looks like a major foreign defeat and it is. But that front is only one part of the larger global conflict. In many ways, our economic woes and brewing, bubbling civil discontent are also smaller fronts in the greater conflict. There are many fronts and many sides. Yet for clarity, this new world war (that’s what it is) essentially boils down to Christians and their allies versus satanists and their dupes (and captives). Americans, we, and much of the Western population count as captives. We’re on the wrong side of this one. And while most of us are not directly responsible for the evil our leaders perpetrate here and abroad, we’re still affected by it. We must never accept, tolerate, or join with it, or else we literally take the side of the devil against God and His ordained order. On a more geopolitical level, the conflict is between the Sovereign Nations, led by Russia and China, against the usurious, homosexulaized, “rules-based”, globalism of Clown World, as led by the USSA and the UK. The military operation and/or “war” in Ukraine is the centerpiece and the most observable aspect of the struggle. Even as it is nowhere near as serious as it could be, it is still beyond the scope of anything any modern American or Western military planner has ever experienced. Ukrainian killed-in-action casualties already approach half a million. Another million or so Ukrainians have been wounded, many of them being permanently maimed. The Russians are averaging one-tenth of those loss levels. While a 10:1 ratio is virtually unheard of, the math dictates that Russians are still suffering greatly. Other active, semi-active, and/or potential fronts simmer in east and southeast Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and elsewhere. Why the widespread nature? Because after seventy-five years of heavy-handed GAE domination, the rest of the world is sick and tired of being used, abused, robbed, and murdered. They have found inspiration in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, and Russia, and they’re breaking free. The GAE previously had two things that allowed it to run the world’s business: the feared might of the GAE military and the systemic dominance of the US Petrodollar. The former has been shown a hollowed-out, inept paper tiger; the latter has essentially disappeared over the past several years. The largest front in our new world war is not on any battlefield. It is economic in nature. The mass financialization that crippled then killed the US domestic economy also wreaked havoc on the rest of the world. Now, however, the mechanisms that allowed the lop-sided relationships are gone. Backing a dying currency with someone else’s oil was always a stupid idea doomed to fail. And it has failed. Other nations are already trading in their own or other, non-dollar currencies. The monopoly of SWIFT has been replaced with a multi-polar exchange of currencies, largely facilitated by the MIR-CIPS makeshift system devised by Russia and China. Next year in Kazan, the full, regular replacement will be rolled out. The Sovereign Nations and all those not directly controlled by Washington, London, and the EU are eager to join. Last fall the total value of the BRICS+ economies surpassed that of the G7. This year the gulf will widen. Ultimately, and even now, this is all good for the majority of humanity. But it all means the loss of power, control, and prestige that the Clowns live on the way vampires depend on blood. They know the game is over and they are extremely angry. And desperate. The most dangerous element for us going forward is the fact they are now trapped here among us. Our necks may end up being the only ones their fangs can reach. The worst part of all of this is how unnecessary it is. There are relatively few of our demonic oppressors and we know who and where they are. We could be free of them forever in a short afternoon. But as Americans and some Europeans are the only people on earth still frightened of these rats and still reluctantly subservient to them, that rosy scenario is unlikely for a while longer. In the meanwhile, look for the turmoil to grow from the already unpleasant into the indescribable and the unimaginable. There’s no way to exactly predict what will go down or when. Therefore, for discussion’s sake today, I’m opting for one of many possibilities. I’m going to use it now as a frame of reference for preparations and precautions everyone should take regardless. Let’s discuss full-blown conventional warfare between the GAE and Russia. Yay? Too much is riding on Ukraine and the Clowns know they’re going to lose. We’re right up against a decision to go all in, cut bait and retreat, or, possibly, keep the conflict going, as-is, by any means necessary. The next few months to a year should provide some indication of which path is selected. [I just tired from rewriting what I have written out multiple times before.* I could keep on going, but to ease my suffering, I’m shifting straight into a list of to-do items, probably without much explanation.]
There’s more and you should actively pursue it. That’s the key to survival: being proactive and maintaining an optimal degree of adaptability. Perhaps half the population is unwilling or incapable of even considering the foregoing. Doing nothing is an option and many will take it. In a very harsh but simple light, the default setting for the rest of this decade may be becoming a casualty. If that sounds unpleasant, then do what you can to shift the odds in your favor. The good news is that the good guys will win, many people will survive, and they will together rebuild society(s). You can be part of that. Deo vindice. *Author’s note: We’re going to have to have a little more fiction and/or something else in the near future. This piece was originally published on Sept. 6, 2023 at Perrin Lovett.
 There are few things more intellectually agreeable than a well-reasoned treatise that forces one to continually think, that offers both reassurance and challenge. If such a work is both inspiring and captivating, then it becomes an even finer rarity. So it is with today’s subject, a proper exposition of the good, the true, and the beautiful:  Dugina, Daria “Platonova”, Eschatological Optimism. Tucson, Arizona: PRAV Publishing, 2023. The book is the posthumously collected essays and lectures of the brilliant Daria (also to some, Darya) Dugina, as masterfully edited by John Stachelski and fluidly translated into English by Jafe Arnold. This review and all page citations are based on the Kindle edition; for reference, I use the pagination rather than positioning provided by my Kindle reader. One may and should order a copy either from PRAV or from Amazon. Eschatological Optimism is extraordinarily well-structured. Given topics that some might otherwise present with a stuffy, stilted, or disjointed complexity, the innately smooth format instead flows verbally and mentally like a gentle stream. This is a credit to the skills of the editor and, for the English-reading audience, the translator. Yet there is something more remarkable at work, which speaks to the prowess of the author and which is highlighted and magnified by the fact the posited chronicle is a compendium of smaller annals. One encounters a series of repetitions of the title theme and related matters. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, for example, is mentioned in multiple places. Yet at no time does the recurrence become stale. Rather, the litany has a reinforcing cumulative effect. As such, the presumed editorial joining and rejoining of various matters exposes a deliberate composition to engender delight, awe, and perhaps even envy. This phenomenon speaks most highly of the mind behind the assembled words, of an intellect active, engaged, and engaging. A concentrated will and organization obviously guided all of Dugina’s script, understanding, and reflection. The book will be of great interest to Orthodox Christians, Russians, and Neoplatonic thinkers. It will also be of great interest to all other Christians, non-Russian nationals, Aristotelians, and anyone else who enjoys exercising his brain. Along with the thoughtful rendering of its nominal philosophy, Eschatological Optimism allows for subtly divergent, if parallel consideration of the component parts or conclusions of the stated theory by the reader. Pouring through the pages, a wonderful idea of complementary synthesis builds in the mind, a congruency. Commodious space is provided for individual intellectual maneuvering; though one need not precisely follow every attestation or predication of the text, one should, in my estimation, be able to reach a pleasingly similar denouement. Your reviewer is, for the sake of disclosure, an eschatological optimist. All Christians should be as well, for we know and trust that even as our plodding way may be rough, our ultimate destination and salvation are assured. For almost every interested party, there is something to be learned from Dugina’s book. She forced me to remember things forgotten, consider things in new ways, and to consider entirely new concepts. She has opened a wide and well-lit door. She did so, admittedly, from a distinctly and naturally Russian perspective and the very different (from the “ordinary”) outlook of the philosopher. Regardless of disposition, all of the types of readers I just noted should feel or foster towards each other a kind of camaraderie and respect as each approaches that door. It leads to something and somewhere rewarding. “Eschatology,” of course, concerns the final end of the world, and for Christians, the Second Coming. “Optimism” is a favorable perspective. Together, as Dugina explains on page 34, the combined terminology is “rather dangerous and complex.” It’s also rather positive, informative, and even enchanting. Two approaches to the philosophy are delineated along with the defined assertion that the eschatological optimist, while accepting that terminal change in the world is imminent, nonetheless soldiers on by consciously and purposely living. On page 54, Dugina provides perhaps a clearer and more actionable definition:
A dialectical Christian may or may not hone in on the illusory aspect. For my part, I hope he does, wrestling with the notion of being in but not of the illusion. If I failed to mention there is great thrill and fun in the reading, then know that there is. The wallop is far-ranging, as one will find numerous examples from history, theology, and literature. For instance, like the author, I still ponder the questioned optimistic potential of Edgar Allen Poe. Was the raven’s perch of choice supposed to suggest to us something of deeper ancient character?! In many ways, Eschatological Optimism is a grand refresher for those who previously studied Plato (and other classical philosophers). If one is not well-acquainted with Greek thought, then it is a marvelous introduction. Platonism is well-explicated across the course of some twenty-five centuries and from various points of view and understanding. The reader will be reminded of the linkage and harmony across socio-theological realms regarding ontology, hierarchy, and more. Dugina covers many subtopics very well, a list too multitudinous to recount here. I touch only upon a few of many interesting points. Apophatic theology, intricately bound to Orthodox tradition and general Christian thought, lies at the heart of eschatological optimism. As opposed to, or rather, in addition to, direct cataphatic orientation towards God, the apophatic is a path to comprehension (of the ultimately incomprehensible) via negation or indirect appreciation — trusting that which cannot be seen clearly in this world. It is reasoned yet mystical faith, not “blind” as it is guided by a form of structured logic. Beyond Eastern Orthodoxy, the apophatic has been part of Catholic doctrine since the Thirteenth Century, as embraced and expressed by Saint Thomas Aquinas, who was deeply influenced by Areopagitic thought. The root of (apophatic) Christian Platonism — see page 301 — comes from the fusion of Greek philosophy with Christian Patristic tradition forged by Dionysius the Areopagite. That coalescence of religious and Platonic thought is expounded thoroughly and even poetically. Given the current state of the corporeal world, the same as it ever was, some of Dugina’s attention turns to the unpleasant aspects of human existence since the expulsion from Eden. She writes, correctly, on page 67, “Evil is easy to find and easy to see.” Much energy and time would be saved if materialists would acknowledge this truth and cease wasting their efforts attempting to explain evil as merely “bad” and if they would limit their tangible reactions to what are primarily spiritual concerns, even those, especially those that intrude into our illusory “real” world. War is presented as a necessary righteous rebellion against the false order of the world, a conflict of what is “below” against God and His order above. In and around that context, and among other timely, cogent observations, Dugina correctly calls out the sad misunderstanding by the postmodern West of nature, life, love, war, and peace. Set against the great spiritual conflict that envelops all of us whether we understand it or not, Dugina delivers a call to resistance the likes of which is rarely if ever heard today, a call made so clearly, passionately, and appropriately. From page 102:
That passage alone should cement the value of Dugina’s book, her theories, and her bold place among the champions of Christian civilization. She goes on to call for cultivating the warrior within. This is the clarion call for our times. A fascinating discourse occurs concerning the differences between the legitimate feminine principles (of Russia) and the faltering postmodern feminist attitudes of the West. There is such a thing as “Christian Feminism” and I leave to the reader the joys of exploring its place in sane sociosexual relations. In my estimated summary, men and women were literally made for each other, separate but equal, and utterly compatible. In this, not a minor front in our war, we must reclaim the joy that satan and his minions have stolen or attempted to pilfer. The various fractures of the natural hierarchy between God and man, between man and man, and between man’s sociopolitical entities and himself are examined in keen detail. Ultimately, what Dugina calls for is a return to or continuation of the grand traditions of our past, to the turning of backs to the disorder of the postmodern world. By doing so, she bravely imagines — and I think she is correct, we can (re)ignite the optimist’s spirit. And we may do so in a way both intelligible to us and pleasing to God. Elsewhere, others have commented at length about the combining of the noble pagan Greek thought, as exemplified by Plato, and the just doctrine of Christianity. Dugina’s detailed look into the life and times of Emperor Julian the Apostate, along with the “Justinian” reaction thereto and thereagainst, and our ensuing history, provides a spectacular example of what works, what does not work, what mystifies, and what may or must happen in order to maintain clarity of thinking (the Platonic way) without sacrificing any of the absolute Truth of Christianity. Emperor Julian is presented under “Political Platonism.” On page 277, Dugina quotes W. R. Inge regarding the emperor being “a conservative when there was nothing left to preserve.” There is something familiar in those words for today’s Westerner, particularly for today’s American. Those of us in the West have suffered tremendous damage from the faux Enlightenment, which Dugina proportionally dismisses, including libertine calls for nebulous openness and false freedom. As she notes, true light comes only from Jesus Christ. In it, and only in it do we find genuine comfort and cause for optimism. Herein, I have painted very broadly and just enough to cover the bare corners. Needless to say, I highly recommend Eschatological Optimism. The reader will be delighted, astounded, and … saddened. Reading through, roughly articulating a mental outline for this review, I resolved to omit any painful mention of Daria Dugina’s tragic and untimely death. That resolve dissipated upon reading the Afterword written by Daria’s mother, Natalia Melentyeva. Noting the broken character of our world, Mrs. Melentyeva spoke of Daria’s courage and spirit, of the kind of mental and spiritual effort necessary to restore our civilization. She candidly answered the terrible question I feared to broach on page 364:
Despite the wicked endeavors of mankind’s truest, darkest enemies, Daria Dugina is (is, not was), as her mother wrote, “the ever-rising star of Russian thought.” A beautiful, optimistic star to help steer our course. Да благословит и сохранит тебя Господь, Платонова. This piece was originally published at Perrin Lovett on August 31, 2023.
 No, it is not. A great friend and force of Reckonin’ emailed me a Faulkner quote recently about those few magical days that come along in August with a cool hint of the approaching autumn. I replied to her that while I used to relish those days, sadly, these days, I just drift right through them unaware. I may have missed them again, though it’s hard to tell. The pleasant-looking (in a light, at an angle) suburban small town where I exist is caught in a slew of 100-degree-ish days and concurrent warm, sticky nights. Hello, it’s another excuse for a column. Quality will improve tomorrow, maybe in two months or thirty degrees. Etc. I drafted two full alternatives to this ramble, but I simply could not pull the trigger on either of them. The first was a socioeconomic assessment of the lyrics of “Rich Men North of Richmond.” The second was a follow-up fictional report from your CSA Ambassador to Russia. The latter dealt with the subject matter of the former, set against the 2023 BRICS+ meeting in Johannesburg. I had not previously (seriously) contemplated the possibility of a preemptive ticket-taking plant, though I am unsurprised by it. The meeting in SA is, of course, very real. It’s of great importance to those out in the free world and of great consternation to the “rich men.” My news feed has a hiccup! I swear I saw a rehashing of a rerun about Donald Trump being indicted for something or another. At the gym, I imagined that one of the CIA-installed morons on the TeeVee was again stupidly saying, “If we don’t do something, we’re going to LOSE OUR RePubLiC!!!” [Note: If one cannot find a remote control, then a curl bar works just fine to silence the blathering nonsense.] Langley’s lackey wasn’t entirely wrong about needing to do something. As such, I have a crazy idea. I need to think through it some more and refine it for publication. In brief detail, I figure what we need is what I call an “election.” Hear me out. Just the basics. What I envision is dredging the country and finding a couple of the lowest, dumbest, wickedest heathens in this strange, nation-shaped kind of place between Mexico and Canada. Then we let the great unwashed vote for one of them to lead our dead country. After that, regardless of what the hoi polloi decide, we let a computer and a mailbox pick whichever rodent is best suited to serve as head puppet for the “rich men.” Crazy, I know. But just think about it. Had we tried something like this before, we might not be where we are today. The near-mathematical certainty of an alternative that I foresee, as expressed quasi-mathematically, looks something like: (The Rwandan Genocide x The Yugoslav Civil War)^The Partition of India. I heard something called “Covid” was making the rounds at airports and college campuses. It appears to be some sort of religious icon or possibly a demi-god. It has potential voters donning festive face coverings, gibbering about what I take for a Jonestown kind of poison, and/or stepping and fetching like a bunch of slaves without a future. I have never heard of anything like this before, yet I suppose this “Covid” might be the robot’s choice for a political savior. We’ll keep an eager eye on it, that’s for sure. On a related note, where the hell is Marvin? Something wrong with the AI? Thought he’d be heard by now. Watch. The. Skies. In sci-fi, fantasy geopolitical news, Brandon the AI, Voldemort Zelenski, and some of the “rich men” have a plan to ship 10 aging F-16s to the former Ukraine. Maybe it was 60 of them. Or 600. Kiev (pronounced, with a lisp, “kEEEEEEEEy-Vsp”) has five pilots qualified to fly them. Or they will be qualified after they qualify. How would that work? Well, it’s technical. It’s some “Ghost of kEEEEEEy-Vsp” wizardry that I suppose would see each pilot operating multiple targets planes at once. When asked for commentary on the matter, one V. Putin muttered something about 30,000 SAMs and then laughed until he walked off, beat up a pack of wolves, ate some glass, roared, killed a few men by staring at them, and looked ten trillion times more presidential than this “Covid,” whatever the hell it is again. Anything substantive? I am reading a few books, per my usual bad habit. One is by an author I like, but which isn’t necessarily his best work. In fact, I think it was his first novel. All things being equal, it’s equal. I’m inching towards the midpoint of just-released, posthumous Eschatological Optimism by the late, lovely, and thoughtful Daria “Platonova” Dugina. I told another friend I planned to review it in some capacity. This is not the review, perhaps just a preview. It’s a most interesting read, especially for an Aristotlenova. I suspect I am an Optimist of the kind she describes, though my views and reasoning are a little different than those she defined. All of these ideas, however, play well in the head. I’ll save my favorite quote, so far, for another time. Instead, I’ll close with a cursory look at the topic of the second section, “The Feminine Principle.” While differentiating between what passes for feminism in the dying West and what the ladies live in Russia, Dugina lands on the fascinating concept of Christian Feminism. To give one an idea of the magnitude of the difference, she earlier addresses the fact women are not allowed on Palestine’s Holy Mount by writing, “There is something right about this.” It’s not a statement or principle that professors at Barnard would approve. Thus, there is something right about it. What she discusses, in higher apophatic terms, sounds to me like what I have also heard in more common words from the sweet lips of other Russian women, and younger women in the city at that. We’ll credit the amazing Eli from Russia’s EweTube channel with a video interview or three with some attractive Moscovites. Almost all of them claim to be “feminists”, and then proceed to expound upon the virtues of womanly femininity (of which their personal appearances and demeanor extol anyway without words) while also expressing a love affair appreciation for masculine men. Dugina explains the plain phenomenon, which will surely confound the Western feminist, by saying Russian (feminist) women saved the Russian Patriarchy(!) when it threatened to fall upon hard times. She mentions a dislike of inter-sex warring and the existence of communication and harmony between Russian men and women. In other words, they approach life and love in an honest, rational, and traditional way. None of this pleases the “rich men.” And before they destroyed America, we used to have a similar practical view of romance, life, and just being. Maybe after the next hoax, any of you still standing could try to revert to those better ways. That is a wrap for this week. Deo vindice!   THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA Ministry of Foreign Affairs Office of the Ambassador to the Russian Federation Sixty-First Floor, Imperia Tower 12 Presnenskaya Naberezhnaya Moscow, Russia 123112 August 16, 2023 REPORT to the American People Hon. Perrin Lovett, Acting Ambassador My Dearest Fellow Americans: Мы - живая история нашего собственного будущего! That, of course, is Russian for “We are the living history of our own future!” Though we pause to remember the additional 611,895 heritage Americans who departed us last year without replacement, let 1859 lie where she may. Our time is now. It is with the greatest pride and pleasure that I report to you from the energized heart of the civilized world. Greetings. Specifically, it has been my high honor and enlightened entertainment to represent you this week at the Army-2023 International Weapons Show and Forum at the impressive Patriot Congress and Exhibition Center and Alabino-Kubinka military facilities. I offer many thanks to the RUS-MOD and Rosoboronexport for hosting this grand event. And I thank you for heeding my previous calls for resource modernization and alliance building. Your forward-thinking and perseverance will be well rewarded. [I have sent an encoded diplomatic communiqué to the appropriate government offices and officials.] First, my only regret is that I was not joined by any liaison from the CSA-MOD, perhaps because such does not exist. Regardless, were they real and had they attended, they would have enjoyed an almost unbelievable experience. In all honesty, I have a second regret. For some reason, my courteous hosts assessed my dozen or so hours behind the yoke of a Cessna 172 some 25 years ago as insufficient experience necessary to pilot the awe-inspiring SU-57. While they all agreed my takeoffs and landings from PDK and adjacent travels about Hotlanta (fo-o-fo, ah, yeah!) did count as combat flight experience, it was driven home to me — a painful realization — I am unqualified for command of such an exotic bird. While I drowned my sorrows in a deep mug of Nevskoe Imperial, I instead watched as a professional performed aerial acrobatics to beat the band. I am utterly in love with these people, but they are a tad on the insane side. A double sonic boom-generating low buzz almost caused me to spill my lager! However, the following show more than compensated for my shock. In addition to being very fast, the “Felon” is well-equipped for its operational mission. We watched a reportedly live demonstration from a neighboring country of an air-launched KH-38 attack, allegedly against ZATO forces in Lviv. In addition to being very fast and very deadly, she’s also very graceful and beautifully agile. She can stand still, vertically. And, yes, she can both “walk” and “waltz”. Before they gave me beer, I was allowed to drive a brand new T-14 a short distance over an obstacle course. This was followed by firing the automated 125 mm smoothbore at a test target I designated “Yankee Small Hat”. Humoring my aloof giddiness and enthusiastic tipsiness, they guided me through one amazing demonstration after another. [His Excellency, the Council, the Senate, and the MOD-GS will pay special attention to my report on the S-300-36D6, Pantsir-S1E, S-400+, 3M22, KH-47, 9K720, and associated systems.] The hyperventilation generated by these toys aside, I was primarily assigned to inspect various ISR, EW, and tactical battlefield radar systems. [The short video attached to my BIG REPORT is of me actively peering inside a sealed hanger via the use of a 1L111M Fara-VR platform. Through the disturbing clarity, please note the green crosshair markers, indicative of real-time fire control and targeting ability. The longer video is degraded live footage from Mariupol, 2022, and a real demonstration of those combat capabilities.] [The “Guinea Hunt” file is a degraded audio/visual/EM record compilation of the 7/2023 interaction between next-gen microwave EW based, I believe, off a SU-27 against a hapless F(You)-35; imagine that scenario all the way to the unforgiving sea.] Not that we have an enemy to fight, per se, but if we did, then we would be ready. Our future, well-planned by all of you, is secure. Throughout my days and nights (and the show is still in progress as I report) here, I made multiple friends from some of the sixty-plus nations represented. “Zone B” is the future, the wide world of growth, peace, and prosperity; Americans of the CSA are wise to join the march deep into the 21st Century. Traveller, barbeque, TikTok pickin’, demographic stability, industrial-agricultural integration, modern weapons, and a stable currency will see our grandchildren’s future guaranteed. Regarding the subject of money, it is my pleasure to meet later this week with executives of the CBR, Gosbank, and their Chinese counterparts to establish the direct linkage between our currency and the rising permanent replacement of the MIR-SIPs gold-petro-Ruble. Again, this development is only possible because you, all of you, have been proactive rather than watching statues fall while electing Judas Party women, foreigners, and blowhard morons. And again, your efforts will pay off. Because of our dynamic, living (not collapsing and dying - 611K, RIP) demographics, our armaments, and our industrial financial capabilities, I will, this very fall, venture to China for the third annual BRI-BRF conference and planning session. While we remain adamantly committed to debt-free, unentangled progress and cooperation, Dixie can and will have the finest air, road, rail, port, and socio-industrial infrastructure in the Western Hemisphere. I estimate that by the end of this decade, your healthy family of ten will be able to transit our great land, border to border, should you desire, within a matter of ground-based hours, all for less than the price of a single airline ticket from Charlotte, CSA to NYC, GAE. The sky really is the limit, though we will soon push the terrestrial envelope on electrified steel tracks. For driving fanatics, I will soon release the full plan for both GAZ and KAMAZ factories within the Southland, with information on possible Hongqi developments to follow. For now, think high-paying jobs and a better-than-Corolla ride at essentially half the price. Soon, my wise, stalwart friends. Alas, I must return to my pleasant duties. As always, I leave you with the reminder that, Бог - наш защитник! ~ Deo vindice! Your dedicated servant, Perrin Lovett “Ambassador” *”Ambassador’s” Note: Some of the foregoing, of course, is fictional. For instance, no one maintains an office on the 61st floor of a 60-story building. Also, we know darn well they’d let me fly her. Right? They would, right? Eh… This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on August 15, 2023.
 What’s genius got to do with it?! What did Tina Turner have in common with Boston’s Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge? That’s right! Sensing the impending final chapter of American history approaching, the late, talented, and wise Turner removed herself to Switzerland, settling comfortably in a magnificent chateau just down the lake shore from a school most Americans may not have heard of. And one will literally drive over the engineering legacy of that same school as one heads north on I-93, passing TD’s new Garden, perhaps lamenting the loss of the old Garden, and slowly realizing the Red Tavern up in Methuen has been closed for twenty years. Hello. It’s another book review. Today we briefly examine School For GENIUS: The Story Of The ETH - The Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, from 1855 to the Present, Front Street Press, (2005/6). ETH, short for the Allemand “Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule,” is that famed engineering school in Zurich with which some might not be familiar. It’s also sometimes referred to simply as “the Poly.” It is Switzerland's and Europe’s preeminent technical school and consistently ranks as one of the world’s top ten universities. I purchased School for Genius for two very special, personal reasons. First, I am giving the book as a gift to a most important person who may choose to study at ETH in the near future. Second, it is yet another fine work authored by my dear friend, my brother, and our champion of the West, the late, great Thomas G. Moore. That last point alone should sell this review to my readers. As many know, Tom and I first met at a school. Many might not know that Tom held three advanced degrees from two European universities. The man understood academia. He knew Europe. Previously, I was vaguely aware of ETH, and he and I had discussed the book and his resident process of researching and writing it. Reading it was nonetheless eye-opening. As usual, Tom did something utterly fantastic with ETH. He crafted an authoritative history, apology, and exposition that flows and reads like one of his thrilling fictional narratives. It’s not quite like reading an Erik Larson book; one need not constantly remind oneself that Albert Einstein and Carl Jung were real men and not novel characters, but it’s somewhat close. The book opens with words of knowledgeable praise from Hon. Faith Whittlesey, a two-term former US Ambassador to Switzerland. Tom begins with a bit of history and culture, wherein he compares the ancient and functional idea of Swiss “diversity” with the doomed and deadly buzzword of late American fame. He then moves into the school’s genesis as it was founded based on the established principles of Paris’s École Polytechnique (another school someone might consider). The rise of ETH coincided with, was governed by, and helped steer the rise of the industrial revolution and the modern world. Tom beautifully covers how a decent and intelligent people bridged the transition from a rural agrarian culture to an advanced industrialized society while maintaining the best elements of both. Repeated emphasis is given to the stubborn independence and decentralization that has marked the Swiss people and their Cantons for centuries. He also delves as deeply into the copious scientific and academic contributions and achievements the school and its score-plus Nobel laureates have given the world as 270 pages will allow. Here I will stop and highly recommend School For Genius. If not for my two privy circumstances, I might not have ever developed an interest in the subject matter. It is, I suppose, a niche study. Yet, if you or someone you know has an interest in educational history, engineering, math, Tom Moore prose, or the continuation of civilization, then do consider adding the book to your reading list. As for gifted young American students who might contemplate ETH as their future alma mater, Tom perhaps outdoes even his own general curiosity and kindness. He dedicates a short section towards the end of the book to just those American kids who might follow Mrs. Turner toward Zurich. The requisite standards are high. Therefore, so too should be the intellectual caliber of the potential scholar. If one is qualified, and one decides to pursue this select excellence, then the process is doable. At Tom’s original press time, the annual cost of attending ETH was approximately $950. This year, it is closer to $1,500. That figure applies to all students, domestic and international. Compare that price to the tuition at MIT. Compare Zurich to Boston, and the CH to the US. ETH is oftentimes referred to as the “MIT of Europe.” That moniker might be reversed. For general education buffs, Appendix II provides a cursory examination of the general Swiss school system. As one might guess, compared to what passes for schooling in the US, the CH’s approach is, in a word, “better.” In a self-propagating system of merit and advancement, ETH does its part to keep the cycle spinning much like CERN’s ETH-affiliated Large Hadron Collider. The adventuresome American pupil might further assist this grand process. Learn much more in Moore’s School For Genius. A special note: Based on my outstanding experience, I also highly recommend Booketeria of San Antonio, Texas as a used bookstore of great worth. If you order School For Genius or any other preowned book from Amazon, do look for them as a source. At their website, they maintain an independent catalog of titles. For the ridiculously low price I paid for my copy, what was delivered bordered on the unbelievable. My mint condition book arrived early and double wrapped like a Christmas present. I sincerely thank these good people for their extreme dedication to quality and service. Up there in Heaven, I once again thank you, mon frère. Really miss you. Deo vindice! This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on August 9, 2023.
 August is again upon us, and that means the great majority of American children will soon march back to their child sacrifice and slave training camps, aka “schools”. Well, like so many little victims in this strange, nation-shaped kind of place, the kids in the suburban small town where I exist started last month. “School” in July. If their parents were capable of thinking above the first or second logical order, then they might know that almost all of their “schools” are now majority vibrant. If they knew, then I suppose they’d be proud. I’d ask, “Who, really, cares?” But, of course, I do. Somewhat. A little, and less every year. The only future for education in fading America is homeschooling. Thus I was greatly encouraged by Katie O’Neal’s latest article on homeschooling and by the great comments left by Joe Putnam and Dr. Clyde Wilson. Dr. Wilson knows a thing or two thousand about education, and Katie and Joe have direct, personal experience with homeschooling. My best plausible contribution might be my role as an amateur psychometrist and whistle-blower. Another strong suit (or hindrance) might be my concentration on the right tail of the old intelligence distribution bell curve. Regardless, I’ve decided today to present a rerun of a 2021 column with a few minor editions. That old column was itself a follow-up to another one that dealt with related demographic issues. A fun fact for Newton County, GA: a few more years have done the opposite of improving those demographics. Make Them InvulnerableLast week’s column struck a nerve with me, a depressing if predictable nerve. Compared to those at the top, the people at the bottom of a double Hollingworth gap are not just relatively retarded. They are, in a relative sense, profoundly retarded. It’s akin to the mental difference between a person of ordinary intelligence and a house cat. This week, happily, I’m addressing those of us on the far right tail of the curve. I never liked school - from kindergarten through graduate school. I especially detested my short-lived experience with the “enrichment” program in middle school. I only lasted a few days or maybe weeks before I absolutely refused to participate. The pitiful government school I attended was bad enough. The special program was worse. At the time, someone should have foreseen the incompatibility. Just before I was subjected to that particular draining make-work project, a relevant paper was published: Wendy Roedell, Vulnerabilities of Highly Gifted Children, Roeper Review, Vol. 6, No. 3 (1984)(read it HERE). Roedell briefly outlined the difference between “gifted” and “extraordinarily gifted,” ever cognizant of the semi-subjective assessment and application of both labels. Her work is good, great even, and thus, it has been roundly ignored, especially her overly-optimistic conclusion: “As information about the needs of highly gifted children becomes more widespread, and society’s expectations become more closely attuned to the realities of gifted development, the degree of vulnerability of these children will diminish.” If only. The ensuing period of nearly forty years has seen many things. America has degenerated into a ridiculously stupid third-world cesspool. The schools - almost all public and most private - have dropped even the pretense of former Western educational standards. And, while the existence of the UHIQ is reluctantly acknowledged, society has adopted an almost universal bias against the cognitive elite. This is the phenomenon Tom Ironsides observed in THE SUBSTITUTE when he occasionally encountered a languishing child of true intelligence in the wild. It is the same treatment he received from a system blindly obsessed with meaningless credentials. Sadly, the experience is not limited to fiction. Consider The Genius Famine by Edward Dutton and Charlton for the negative effects of this bias on society. One of Charles Murray’s four simple truths in Real Education was that the future of society is dependent on how well high-IQ children are educated. As a country and a nation, the USSA and America have failed; hence, our future looks like war, fracture, and a diminished quality of life. More recently, thought criminal on the lam, Gonzalo Lira, had this to say about our “schools”:
That was part of a list of reasons to evacuate out of the West before it's too late. In general, some European schools, and especially colleges are in better shape than others. European education is vastly preferable to what passes for the same thing in the USSA. Still, he’s not wrong. At the higher levels, on both sides of the Atlantic, hard science and engineering departments are, by and large, still holdouts against the rot, even if their host schools have already succumbed. Once a child is effectively homeschooled, he and his parents should think long and hard about college. Aside from exceptions to the horrible new rule, there are outside alternatives for learning at that level. No child deserves to be trapped in a failed modern K-12 Amerikan school. While some do much better than others, exceptional children are failed in exceptional fashion. Most of those children above 140-145 WAIS (or SB) are utterly tortured. Especially boys. In many cases, programs allegedly there to help, in fact, hinder. As I’ve written previously, the only way to assist a truly intelligent child is for his parents to point him in what they think is the right direction and then step aside and see how far he can go. This isn’t necessarily easy. The parents may not know the correct direction. They may have communication difficulties with their son. And, as is usually the case, they may be plagued with a desire to control that which is not ultimately controllable. Homeschooling is really the only option. Back in 1984, Roedell saw the need to remove the bright child from the doldrums of the standard classroom: “Highly gifted children experience increased vulnerability when they spend large portions of their time in inappropriate educational settings. The more a gifted child’s abilities differ from the norm, the more inappropriate becomes the educational program offered in the regular classroom.” She nailed the problems with “enrichment” programs:
The cat comparison is hyperbole, but it is accurate.
That was my experience in both the special program, specifically, and the schools in general. There was a reason why I independently reached the same conclusion about my subject program as the professional and why I reached it faster with less information. Then, and worse today, the problem is compounded by a number of factors. First, the schools are geared towards low-achievers; ultra and very high-ability students are seen as nonconforming nuisances. The programs, all of them, are designed to indoctrinate rather than to educate. The people who plan and organize curriculum, general and advanced, have ulterior motives. The “gifted and talented” courses are most appropriate for the “all-rounders”, and, these days, best suit the needs and proclivities of female students. That is of no service to the young minds with the most to offer an ailing country and culture. Additionally, the instructors in charge of even the special programs, in most cases, simply cannot communicate at the appropriate mental level with the most advanced students in their care. The average school teacher in the USSA has an IQ of 110. A child forced to endure such low-level foolishness will endure. He may very well continue to perform well, grade-wise, into college or even graduate school. But by being denied a real start, he will always be behind his potential. And he will come to resent or even hate the system and those who operate it and those to whom it primarily caters. There is the danger he might take up the digital pen. In the end, he will become adrift in a society that denigrates intelligence - more to its detriment than to that of the high-IQ pariahs. Chris Langan, a genius if ever there was one, was brutally punished in the USSA for his high intelligence. Wang Huning was allowed to maximize his intellectual potential from an early age in China. One man’s nation rises while the other’s collapses. The sane alternative is relatively simple even in the absence of something controlling like the CPC. Don’t expect smart children to succeed and do not “help” them. Rather, let them succeed. Give them the necessary tools and encouragement and then let them build. What is rightly seen as vulnerability, if properly channeled, can become great strength, beneficial both to the children and to the greater society. A system designed by and for 90 IQ simpletons cannot and will not help. This is up to us. They are our children, after all. Make them invulnerable. It is my reasoned suspicion that the foregoing approach will work for children of all ability levels. It will at least work better than the one-size-fits-none ways of the “schools”. By my count, this is education article number 439. And while it may not yet be time for me to fully put down my baton, I sense the time has arrived to lay off some of my education scribbling. At least in English. (Друзья мои, продолжайте делать то, что работает! Если я могу вам помочь, мы поговорим.) In any event, I look forward to more genuine wisdom about what really works from Katie, Joe, and any and all of you who know. Onwards. Deo vindice! PS: I dedicate this song to Gonzalo Lira. Go, boy! Good luck, and maybe make for Russia. PPS: Regarding all the building excitement about choosing ‘Murica’s next national dinosaur, I just cannot get excited. Allosaurus or Triceratops, you say? Friends, I truly don’t think these critters exist anymore if they ever did. This piece was posted at Perrin Lovett on Aug. 2, 2023.
 Words. Boy, did I have some for you. I scripted this article out with an intro which I decided to scrap for reasons. Those sharp literary blades are still in the hopper if needed. Instead, today I give you the following musical comparison, which should essentially make most of my original points in a less rhetorically-taxing fashion. It’s music, so it should be fun. Rather, I hope the first tune depresses and/or enrages you. The second is very upbeat and uplifting. It is my high hope that something causes the all-too-real message of the first to give way to the joy and empowerment of the second. Let’s get this underway, shall we? The first song is an English translation of a French-Canadian ditty that someone forwarded to me. To the extent possible, please enjoy “Dégénérations” as performed by David Mathewes:
This tune is wonderfully melodious yet very depressing. It’s depressing because what it describes is real and true. This is the short story of the collapse of generations and a people. Our people. Almost the entirety of post-modern life is dedicated to whittling us down from large, happy families to sitting alone in boxes. All of it is and was a malicious set of lies, a purposeful plan to reduce us to nothing. And even today, if one listens, the liars and fools repeat the mantras of ease, freedom, and pleasure, all of which end up looking like misery, slavery, and death. Deep in the lyrics, the subject young man is encouraged to “fight the temptation to commit armed robbery” as he grapples with his hopeless existence. Given the mass gravity of the situation, and given that it is the product of a war against our people, I suggest that the temptation might rightly drift towards a more lethal crime. I also suggest if well-directed, yielding to such temptation might be more of a necessity than a crime. As aside to our wicked enemies: When, if ever, it comes, know that you earned it. Just as the enemy keeps pouring gasoline on our raging national inferno, so too do so many of us still pretend we’re living in a bygone era where the lies still appear at least somewhat plausible. I have my year and you likely have yours. If any Americans want to step out of 1982, 1859, or 1054 and enter the current year with an eye for survival, then we have to do a little better in recapturing our lapsed spirit and sense of identity. Other societies not so dissimilar from our own offer glimpses of what that might look like. Scott Ritter visited Russia this year and came home telling and bragging about the palpable presence of the Russian identity. Russia is still run by and for Russians. Therefore, the whole of Russian culture acts as a perpetual promotion of the Russian nation. Our road is harder, as America is run by and for satanists who actively hate, suppress, and exterminate the American nation. Our fight will be ours largely alone. Still, we may find fun in the fighting, especially if we dare do things like regain the lost popular culture. Here comes the fun song! Until the other day, I had never heard of Russian pop-rock singer Yaroslav Dronov by his given name. I had heard, very briefly here and there, of his extremely popular stage persona, Shaman. Heretofore, I had stupidly written him off as the Russian Justin Bieber. He’s not and I made a mistake. Correcting my mistake has proven somewhat pleasant and a little addictive. Please watch this recent live performance of Shaman’s “I Am RUSSIAN” and/or read the translated English lyrics below:
Musical tastes, of course, vary. I suspect for many that tune is one of the rare, catchy types that do not require an exact understanding of the words. It’s also somewhat of a testament to the lingering multi-lingual effects of all that is the Indo-European philologic tradition, because one can if one tries, detect certain similarities (e.g., “я русский”, sung “J’ah” or “Ya” “Rooskie” comes almost cleanly across the mind as what it is, “I’m Russian”). When the words are understood, they are powerful! The song is a short defense and celebration of what it means to be a proud living Russian. To a lesser contemporary extent, it is also a hard slap right in the face to the anti-Russian forces of Clown World. “[t]o spite the whole world” means to spite those who would enslave and destroy Russia. Notice anything about the video? Specifically about the crowd? That’s what young Russia looks like. That is the demographic composition of about 90% of the whole Federation, and closer to 99% of the population west of the Urals in the “European” Republics and Oblasts. Compare that, if one dares, to wherever one lives in the former United States. Then, keep the comparison going. American boys and girls, at an alarming rate, don’t even know whether they’re boys or girls. Many of their idiot elders won’t tell them for fear of being called bad names. I doubt anyone in Shaman’s audience has that problem. Young Americans are told to hate their people, their history, and themselves. Young Americans are told their country was founded on the (fake) “sins” of racism, slavery, and White supremacy. Young Americans, a vanishing breed, are told to be homosexual deviants, to never have children, and to kill any children that do come along. Young Americans are essentially enslaved, early in life, to various classes of people, large and small, weak and powerful, who hate them. Young Americans will be saddled with onerous usurious fake debt before taking on more fake usurious debt. They will work for less than Depression-era wages. They will not own homes. They will not get married, or have children. Young Russians like the ones in the video are born into an ancient culture still willing and able to violently defend itself. They will emerge into that culture free and clear to navigate. They will find plentiful jobs in the booming west of the country, and free land in the booming east. They will marry each other and produce future generations. Russian governments, industries, and institutions are run, again, by and for Russians. They promote the existence of their people. Russian women work to build families. Russian men kill to defend it all. Russia, uber alles, to spite the whole world if necessary. The one scenario is worth singing about. Americans once had something like that. Something worth loving, living in, preserving, and defending. Political and physical control of that great space between Mexico and Canada has been lost (past tense) by Americans. The question now is whether enough of them want to preserve some remnant of what was lost. For my part, I think that’d be a fine idea, and about the only one worth entertaining. How about we do it? Let’s spite the whole world - especially our weak, demented, lecherous little overlords. Third song! I’ll close out with a micro music minute. Think you know Rick Astley? Here’s his “Never Gonna Give You Up” as covered on a Casio electronic piano by Russia’s outstanding and lovely Gamazda (Alexandra Kuznetsova), pronounced: “Gah-Maz-Dah!”: Deo Vindice! This piece was originally published at Perrin Lovett on July 26, 2023.
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