Embracing "racism"

A weird thing happened on a recent afternoon walk in the section of my neighborhood that is half local industry, half residential:

I passed a black guy straddling his bike on the sidewalk. He was wearing a grey wife beater and had well-built arms and thick fingers. He did not seem to be in an anxious rush to get anywhere, but his eyes were still narrowed crossly, in what may have been his resting facial expression. As I walked past him, I explicitly thought something innocuous like, 'oh but he is a black guy, so whatever....'

Further down the street I passed a more handsome version of myself: a man with a nicer build and wearing nicer clothes. We did not make eye contact--he was zoned out listening to his earbuds—but for the first time in my life I did not feel animosity or jealousy or inadequate self-consciousness as I compared myself to this man's alleged money and objective good looks…instead I felt an inexplicable camaraderie, as a finer reflection of me.

Another man walked a few paces behind him. He was older, somewhere in his fifties, overweight, with thin, grey hair. Possibly on a lunch break, his baggy t-shirt was dusty and rumpled, his fingers and forearms covered in work dust. Although he was not listening to earbuds, we did not make eye contact, but I still knowingly studied his lips and face, and detected a faint, peaceful smile, at once familiar and comforting….with his wise, wistful eyes focused straight ahead, he seemed to be saying something to me, like, ‘I know how you feel…everything is going to be fine…’

But why?

I’ve seen—and worked—with thousands of fat, loud, white blue-collar men in my lifetime, known—and despised--thousands of white douchey yuppies in my lifetime. (I don’t mean to brag, but I am neither type.) What made this moment special was this unpredictable pleasant new feeling of being associated with these average strangers as a fellow average, straight, white man.

My neighborhood is mostly Muslims and Hispanics, with a light sprinkling of blacks and whites. 60 years ago, whites were the neighborhood’s only ethnic group, subdivided by various European nationalities; ‘American’ was the uniting common denominator among them. Today, whites are the undisputed minority, and trending towards extinction as childless yuppies and aging second-generation families that never fled for the suburbs make up the majority white population in my neighborhood. New white families, if they exist, are the smallest minority.

Muslims and Hispanics (and their large families) are not American. They may be American by an unfortunate technical, legal definition, but they identify first as Muslim and Hispanic. They are not culturally American, and can never be truly American, just as I can never be truly Lebanese or Ecuadorian. (Blacks may be American, but they are not white, and their differences in culture are just as noticeable as that of Hispanics and Muslims.)

It is in this context as a minority in my native land that I find a new appreciation for the undeniable primal comfort I feel when around people that resemble me, a comfort I took for granted when growing up in my racially homogenous town. I took for granted that my city—and my country—are the same as my hometown.

‘White Power’ is cringe, but it is not evil. It is normal for any racial or ethnic group to be proud of their ancestry and heritage. (So long as they do not destroy others for being other.) As I recognized myself for being ‘just another straight, white male’ I felt a humble pride, satisfied and grateful for the circumstances and fortunes of my ancestry, heritage, and (once great) nation.

Furthermore, seeing men that looked like me in my own neighborhood, and looked like what I would become (fat, old, mediocre) inspired me to reach this white standard of normal, a standard that for so long I felt guilty for having the privilege of attaining. Without realizing it, these normal white men set an example of hope for me, that I too could be satisfied, proud to be an average white man.

But just as quickly as I felt this swoon of average white male pride did I lose it when I spotted an emaciated douchebag with shoulder length pink and black hair, too old to be wearing a graphic tee of his favorite band, and too pale to be wearing cutoff jean shorts, with the undeveloped arms and legs of a middle school twerp and covered with ugly, alternating tribal and cursive tattoos. ‘Pathetic faggot’ I thought with explicit venom. 'What is he compensating for?' (He was probably Jewish.)

dead cats & dog shit mysteries

I have a serious problem: bags of trash appear like wrapped Christmas gifts to me.

Yes, these "gifts" are still full of disgusting trash (for now I can still distinguish between trash and treasure) but as I have previously explained, there is sometimes perfectly edible food inside these wrapped gifts. My curiosity always gets the best of me, and more than shamefully enjoying the fruits of my findings I want to know how correct my intuitions are.

For instance, males of all ages notice some sexy girls, but nobody besides me watches what the sexy girls drop into the public garbage can: a paper bag dripping with grease. (It was full of freshly baked cookies.)

Nobody sees what I see because nobody is looking where I'm looking, or paying attention where I am paying attention. They don't have their third eye open becasue they are afraid of what they will see. They are afraid of the truth.

Gross things happen when you dig through the trash. (It is the price one must pay for free food.) That is part of the fun. I think? (In the least it makes for a blog post.)

Like mistaking a transparent purple bag of dog shit for "raisins" was a funny lesson I only needed to learn once. (I wasn't in the mood for raisins that night.)

As true with all mysteries, the more it disturbs, the deeper it goes. (9/11, the resurrection, the fake and gay pandemic.) Mysteries are everywhere, and trash is just the mystery that shares the streets with us.

On Sunday, walking home from Mass on the busy street, I saw a reusable grocery bag on the street corner, beside a spilled over paper bag of dirty litter and empty cans of cat food.

Feeling lucky after the previous day's cookie find, I lightly tapped the reusable bag with my Allen Edmonds to see what my foot could tell me about its potential for holding freshly baked cookies, and immediately recoiled, shrieking audibly. (In New York, no one can hear you scream.) There was undeniably a furry body in that bag. 

Actaully, two bodies. Two dead bodies. Two dead cats. 

Regaining my masuline resolve and committing to my curiosity, I moved my face closer to the bag for a better look, but, as I was maskless, the wall of odor kept me from investigating the mystery thoroughly, and I could only confirm with my eyes that the fur's sheen was of a dirty cat-like texture and quality. (I did not need to pet them.)

Of course, stray cats are everywhere all the time. A couple of dead ones in a bag on the street, while sad and weird, is less mysterious than a couple of dead dogs on the street. Dogs have monetary value. Dogs can't disappear becasue they cannot take care of themselves like cats can. Besides, the cats were probably killed by a local kid testing the limits of his conscience in a new experiment with pleasure, numb from setting fires. 

'Ohhhh, I get it now,'  I said aloud, the ignored first clue only making sense after the dead cat discovery. I walked away. Dead cats are inedible. 

I'll never know the answers to these mysteries, but if I didn't have that initial curiousity, I'd never know what I don't know.

Israel/Palestine & America

In American political theatre, “liberals” are pro-Palestine and “conservatives” are pro-Israel.

It makes sense? “Liberals” care about “oppressed peoples” and (((neo)))conservatives…want…an ally in the middle east? Or want to protect…the only democracy in the middle east? Or something?

It only makes sense if we are lying to ourselves.

This conflict is so hammered into modern American partisan politics for a reason that probably has something to do with our Jewish controlled media that it has become misshapen beyond recognition.

Israel/Palestine has nothing to do with America. It never had anything to do with America. American Jews have influence in the American media and won't admit their allegiance to Israel over America. This is the only reason why this ongoing ancient and foreign conflict is a concern for Americans.

Americans that take pride in consuming news and choose sides in this conflict are foolish. Morally, neither Hamas or Israel can be supported, and thankfully we Americans do not have any duty to choose either one, nor do we have any stake in this ancient foreign conflict. Sure, it sucks when civilians in foreign countries die, but this is not our fight; there is enough to worry about on and within our own borders.

Though I hate the phrase ‘who cares?’ the Israel/Palestine conflict is a fitting scenario for its use; its answer reveals the only Americans who do: Jewish apostates and partisan morons.

In 40 years

Descent

I was not alive 40 years ago, but it seems that unless you were a Communist, everyone agreed that the unequivocal enemy of the United States was the Soviet Union. National cohesion meant that having a controversial opinion on this fact was wrong and heretical. Being patriotic was the norm. 

20 years later, a decade after the implosion of the Soviet Union, differences in opinion over the Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were common. Sure, 9/11 was a tragedy, but were Iraq and Afghanistan really to blame? And was their invasion and prolonged occupation necessary? A fair question posed from fair normies.

Today, 20 years after 9/11, Americans normies have completely lost the plot: the truth is controversial and your fellow citizens are your political enemies. National cohesion has been eroded. The unequivocal enemy of the United States is Communist China, yet normies will say that it is ‘racism’ and Donald Trump: the first, true “America First” president in 40 years.

Culture War

What happened to our national cohesion? (Mass immigration and diversity ideology.)

What is the result of “diversity”? (Discrimination. Segregation. Anti-white racism. Inevitable bloodshed. (No diverse nation has ever escaped this outcome.))

These trends flow from the hearts of the people, influenced by noticeable demographic changes: new immigrants want to benefit materially from America and keep allegiance to their homeland; meanwhile, American citizens have developed an ideology of self-hatred as penance for the "sins" of their ancestors, replacing a normal, national pride. In other words, normie America is being eaten away from the inside.

Changing course is not possible with policy, especially when politicians shill for other interests. American values can only be preserved through tradition, built upon society’s basic unit: the family. Furthermore, the battleground to defend the family begins with a grassroots effort at the local government like school districts and town boards.

Given this 40+ year trend towards today’s anarcho-tyranny, how will America look, and how will Americans behave toward one another in 40 years?

For the sake of future normies that all depends on the actions of patriotic Americans in the present.

Shamed by Love

"i eat food that i find on the street. certainly not everyday, and definitely not when anyone besides a good friend or a complete stranger catches me. (if you never knew i did this you can now consider us good friends.)"

--plermpt, June 2015

Six years(!) distances me from this vainglorious post, and yet the same obsessive habits guided by the same justifications inspire me on every nightly solitary walk home in current year.

To be completely fair, there was a 5.25 year gap between yesterday and today, but once precedents have been established--with null consequences--walking them back seems unnecessary:

"...these habits have never impaired my physical health, but at times i question their affect on my mental health: i now scrutinize every trash can that i pass, and physically investigate many more....it’s free to look, so i keep looking..."

Admittedly, "dumpster diving" is a demure term to describe this behavior. True dumpster diving demands professional planning; I am an obsessive opportunist. 

Regardless of what one chooses to call this undignified pasttime, I will always find it pleasurable, enjoyable, fulfilling and exciting, with nascent plans to stream these evening romps for any interested patrons. 

And with only the night's silence as my companion, I degrade myself with every opportunity that the street offers. Thrilled more at the potential to discover any uneaten morsels than the morsels themselves, I go so far as to feel up supple curbside garbage bags like a grabby teenager at makeout point. 

If no one is around to see me degrade myself, is it still shameful? Or: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

With Journey's Don't Stop Believin' keeping me special company last week, I hardly noticed the younger man keeping his distance behind me on my nightly venture. As focused as I was on the treasure in the cans I did not pay him any attention. From the corner of my eye he was as innocuous as my shadow. 

Assuming he'd turned onto another street, when the song ended I heard a meek voice refer to me as 'Sir.' (Me? Sir? I was low key flattered.)

"Sir? Sir?" he said. I turned to him as the ad played between songs on the playlist. 

We looked at one another, and he continued his pitch: "Sir, if you are hungry...." he stammered, "if you are hungry I will buy you a meal. Are you hungry?"

I looked at him blushing with embarassment, and feigning confidence, I responded smiling, " No...I'm not hungry...I'm...uh...OCD..."

He turned around and walked away from me, and I continued in the direction of home, the most fruitful stretch still awaiting me. Had I embarassed him? I had definitely embarassed myself.

My fun had eclipsed my shame, and this stranger took notice where I thought--hoped--I'd become invisible. Undeceived by the suit I was wearing, he expressed his love for neighbor with a selfless offer. I was not in need of the type of love he was offering, but the love reached me in a different way.

He will never know how--I was too caught off guard to even say 'God bless you.' But I mean it. God bless that man. God bless him for his courageous love. I am inspired to amend my life and to practice the same acts of courageous love.

Will I still be tempted to degrade myself? Everytime I walk home.

Will I give in to temptation? Probably

Will I go to battle with these urges? Now more than ever. 

In the past, temporary fun was once worth more than my dignity. Not anymore. 

Thanks to that brave kid, and to God reaching me through him.

types of homeless "privilege"

I stand in a ’The Plaza’ and tell smokers of all types and temperaments that they cannot smoke. I might wear a suit to work, but its only to look important.

Except for that one guy nobody talks back, gives me an attitude, or questions who I am and what I am doing in The Plaza. They nod respectfully and walk to the nearby corner.

This “power” has inspired my latent ego to emerge. Sometimes it is motivated by general bitterness, but usually it is motivated by my resentment for blatant blunt smokers that think they are entitled to special privileges of unearned respect because they are recently freed by the law to be degenerate in public.

As much as I enjoy imposing the will of The Plaza onto smokers, it is only enforced within reason. My physical safety is always more important than my personal ego. Looks and mannerisms are everything. A person accusing the wall of “stealing eyes” will not be told to stop smoking the butts that he found in the cracks of the sidewalk.

Therefore, in an act of reverse discrimination, I let Michael, an individual with multiple face tattoos wearing rotten shoes and a browned undershirt, smoke his butts unbothered. I did not even look through him. Like the police in BLM NYC, I do not get paid enough to respond to EDPs. After all, it is not my plaza.

But when Michael spoke to me, asking for a cup of coffee, his voice was timid, straightforward, lucid, and I was intrigued. (Being homeless is all about personality; sometimes street homeless are very demanding, rude, unfriendly, entitled. Yeah, they struggle, but if they are off-putting enough, I won’t want to help.) In Michael’s case, he had become so numb to having nothing, not even a family, that living as a transient in the streets was natural; no one cared if he lived or died addicted to k2 marijuana.

Schizophrenics number the few who have the privilege of getting exactly what they want: no help.

Not all street homeless have schizophrenic privilege; they do want something—mostly familial love—and the least we can do for them is a single good deed of getting them a one-way ticket to a warm bed for a night. (There is no worldly replacement for the love of a family.)

And until he opened his mouth, I gave Michael the privilege of smoking in the plaza undisturbed, before his personality privileged him to some of my rare generosity.

I'm not gay, but...

(mask mandate observation #3)

A youngish professional, leaving his office for the day, tore…sigh…his mask off upon exiting his office building and onto the street.

I watched him out of boredom, expecting a mere readjustment, or a temporary removal for a relaxing end-of-day cigarette.

When he stuffed his hand and mask into his pocket and left them there my bored stare became a lustful hypnosis, bordering on arousal for freedom: 

He was choosing to walk around outside without his mask!!!

I’m still straight because this reminded me of the thrill of watching a woman eager to sunbathe, removing her bathing suit cover-up to reveal a sexy two-piece.

Two takeaways:

1. an ordinary moment can instantly become a gay one.

2. we have become so socially distant that a mask under the chin is the equivalent of panties to the side.

Derek Bin Laden

Trying to live under a rock while simultaneously working in Times Square is like trying to fit a square peg into a circular hole. 

This is especially impossible when complete strangers see me dressed very sharply and seated at a lobby desk and think that it is my job to know when the results of some verdict will be made public. 

"Verdict?" I ask dumbly, feigning a childlike innocence. "For what?"

...

The shops of Times Square boarded themselves up, and preparing for a riot--in the name of George Floyd (without his consent)--were spared by Chauvin's unwilling sacrifice. Hoodlums smoked--and sold--their marijuana to tourists and fellow hoodlums peacefully without police interference, and only one pathetic march squeaked by, ironically escorted by the NYPD. For my personal environmental safety I was thankful for a GUILTY verdict. (Times Square feels dangerous on a good day.) For the sake of the future of this once great nation, this verdict was a tragedy, as was the death murder of George Floyd. (I have to preface everything with the obvious 'George Floyd didn't deserve to die like that...')

I was a newborn New Yorker when Osama bin Laden was allegedly killed in 2011 and recall waiting for hours on the steps of St. Peter's in the Financial District for a three second glimpse of Obama behind 6 inches of bullet proof glass as he waved through the window of the presidential limousine.

The celebrations for Osama's killing were unanimous and raucous throughout all of America. As a contrarian I disagreed with the celebrations, nobly believing that death is never worth celebrating, especially for the sake of vengeance. (I still believe this, but for reasons beyond non-conformity.)

Yet, just ten years away from the death of bin Laden--a death which (wrongfully) brought all Americans together--is the death of George Floyd/verdict of Derek Chauvin, an ordinary tragedy (for those unbiased individuals, wherever they are hiding) that divided America along fiery ideological lines: one side celebrating, the other side afraid to voice honest disagreement.

Where bin Laden was America's greatest enemy, Chauvin and Floyd were a couple of regular dumb Americans that met under tragic, dumb, ordinary circumstances. Other ordinary, dumb Americans should mourn this tragedy, and then move on. But instead battle lines are drawn (by the media and cynical politicians) and ordinary, dumb Americans believe their fellow Americans to be their enemies because of their race instead of that Asian country and its evil government that brought us the Coronavirus while trying to take over the world. Or that "religion of peace." edit: Or Zionist Jews.

In 2021 "justice" is mob vengeance, celebrated by Americans against a fellow American. 

I miss 9/11...I miss bin Laden...I miss the United States of America...

This is how it truly begins to end...

Mask Mandate Observations #2

On Long Island no one wore a mask outside. 

In New York, everyone wears a mask outside. 

Cities don't die like humans do, they die by changing. Look at Detroit, Istanbul, Rome. A city is less defined by its structures as it is by the people who inhabit those structures. 

The mask mandate is for pussies (excuse my language), and even the toughest New Yorkers are afraid enough of popular opinion--and the cold stares of strangers-- to comply with its hypocrisy. 

Badass vigilantes are supposed to wear masks, but it is gay and laughable to see Candidate Sliwa's Guardian Angels wearing mandated masks. Being tough is not wearing a mask! Exposing your likeness to the cold stares of strangers and staring right back is the new tough.

(Also, you're not 'tough' if you vocally shame the only person not wearing a mask on the subway; you're a bully with popular support.)

For a city in which everyone lives on top of (or inside of) everyone else and nobody knows their neighbors, anonymity and confidentiality are taken to an ironic and unprecedented extreme. Clueless city propaganda even urges riders against talking to others on the subway--an inclination we never had! What are we protecting again? Our health or our likeness?

(For this reason, I don't even want to be earn the title of "New Yorker" anymore. The term is more descriptive of a Bangladeshi civil servant who owns three houses in Queens, or a wasteful avocado-toast hipster yuppie who owns no property than it does a hardboiled mobster, old school Tammany Hall Dem or even fratboy banker (they've all left the city to work via zoom). I am a Long Islander. I like Billy Joel. I eat mollusks. I am white. My Italian grandparents fled the city in the 40s and never looked back, and I shall continue this tradition.)

Upon my return to the Pandemic State of New New York I have seen untold thousands. When I meet Pandemic New New Yorkers (~22 of which have become fixtures in my life to varying degrees) their faces are hidden. Of those 22, I have never seen the faces of 13 of them. (The remaining 9 I have seen only in pictures, or on zoom.)

Some people want to protect their precious lungs from breathing the air we all share, so they never remove their mask in public, preferring to breathe their own mask breath instead. 

This is as disgusting as sneezing in your own bowl of cereal. But if that is the choice one wants to make I will judge and condemn with a special levity, especially if I have grown in fondness with repeated interactions. 

It's All About Me

I am selfish, and the mask mandate is personal. Is it really asking too much to want to know what my friends look like?

When I introduce myself I yank the mask down past my chin to show my face, so as not to disappoint when they spy my face and find me more charming than handsome. (No one ever asks to see  my face.)

Sometimes I get the feeling that my new friends/acquaintances don't want me to know what they look like. On one such occasion during a lengthy and enjoyable conversation my area manager turned around to remove his mask and take a sip of his Monster energy drink. 

Another time, the girl at Mass pulled her mask away from her chin with just enough space to receive the eucharistic wafer, making the only chance of seeing entire face a disappointment.

Once I entered the Director of Operations office and her back was turned from me. She did not have her mask on, and feeling my presence behind her, put it on before turning to face me. Rote or safety or needlessly protecting entirety of her likeness from my semi-curious stare? (Some people look better with a mask on.)

My behavior is subtly impacted by theirs:

Walking into the lunchroom one shift I saw Adolfo masklessly eating his lunch and diverted my eyes without saying hello, like I'd walked in on him on using the toilet.

Other times I hold my gaze longer than necessary to catch a glimpse of a chin or a lip or a cheek, like I am a pubescent middle schooler sneaking a peak at a bent over girl. 

At Planned Parenthood one morning, I had an hour-and-a-half conversation with a girl my age. I was maskless--though my eyes were hidden behind sunglasses--and she was masked. At the 7 minute mark I gave my name and asked hers (she refused it); at the 23 minute mark I asked again and she easily reciprocated. At the 44 minute mark she ripped off her masked exclaiming 'I like talking to you! This is what I look like!' to which I responded by taking my sunglasses off to reveal my own teary eyes. 

Overcoming the oppressive mandate and without succumbing to nakedness we had achieved true intimacy.

The eyes may be windows to the soul, but New New Yorkers are missing all of the good (and necessary) stuff around the eyes. I felt like a hack wearing those sunglasses--if it wasn't so sunny I'd have taken them off.

Such cursory observations make "the mask" the longest and most widespread social experiment in human history, not a preventative measure against the spread of a flu with a 99% survival rate.

True Kinship

At heart, I've always been a beggar. 

I can recall, with a shameful fondness, begging my friends at our high school lunch table for their lunch scraps. (My friends had awesome lunches.) Because I'd grown up with them, I was comfortable shamelessly begging from them knowing that they liked me for my quirks, not despite them.

Annoyed, they rarely gave me what I begged for, intensifying my desires and leading me to entertaining all sorts of other evils later on in life. Without the bumpers of their stinginess to stop me, my gluttony, like my ego, became insatiable. 

(I don't blame them. (But I do digress.))

As I left shelter one beautiful afternoon in the present day, I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket and my pen fell out with it. 

A derelict man, too impoverished for a phone, sat on the curb in front of me. Unable to share his early Spring experience on Facebook or Insta, he was forced to enjoy the sunshine for what it was worth. Like the ancients before him, he was thereby attuned to the world, and upon seeing my pen touch the parking lot he croaked, pointing: "Hey your thing."

"Ah, thank you!" I responded with glee, bending over, cautious not to be too friendly as to inspire a conversation, the sunshine barely warming my soul to pity his. 

"Cigarette for 50 cents?" he asked, as I moved away from him and on to my life on the mainland while he remained fixed to that curb and transfixed by the sun. 

I wondered if this was an example of an ethical dilemma as I turned to take him up on his generously unsolicited offer. The day did indeed inspire a cigarette in me, and I was hoping he had menthols....then I'd realized that he was soliciting me for a cigarette, and not the other way around. 

Feeling a new kinship with my clientele, I continued to the bus, content in the knowledge that everything was in its right place; I was finally among my own kind.