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A Modest Proposal for Ending the United States
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I see that a man named Sessions, apparently Washington’s Attorney General, threatens to unleash the coercive powers of the federal government against the state of Colorado, his reason being that he does not like the state’s policy with regard to marijuana. This is most curious. Why he believes the policies of Colorado to be his concern is not clear. Equally mysterious is why he thinks the police of Colorado should arrest Coloradans for doing a thing that the people of the state have determined to be acceptable.

Mr. Session’s expansive view of his importance in the universe is seen again in his menacing of the state of California because he does noi approve its policy toward its immigrants. Common sense suggests that if he does not like California’s policies, he should live in another state. I am sure this would suit California well.

What justification does this feral busybody have for meddling in what is not his business? Mr. Sessions wraps himself in the Constitution and, thus emparchmented, asserts that the Supremacy Clause gives him the authority to overrule the states. Reasonable men may disagree on this matter. I assert that the states have no duty to observe the Constitution since the federals do not.

As one instance among many, the Constitution ordains that the country shall not go to war without a declaration from the Congress. In fact the federals make war constantly with neither a declaration nor any reference to the will of people, draining their substance for purposes which are not theirs. If the Constitution is not binding on the central government, it is not binding on the states.

In any event the federals do not represent the people of the country. How many of us in the various states want to spend trillions on distant wars at the command–for that is what it is–of Israel, the petroleum industry, and Empire? Yet we have no choice.

The question of states rights is today seen, or inculcated, as the fantasy of romantic conservatives remembering a world that never was. In truth, states rights are our only bulwark against tyranny. It is the amalgamation of undeserved powers in the hands of the federals that accounts for the country’s tribulations both within and without.

A great and wise man, a leading proponent of states rights, long ago foresaw this dismal prospect, saying, “The consolidation of the states into one vast empire, sure to be aggressive abroad and despotic at home, will be the certain precursor of ruin which has overwhelmed all that preceded it.”

Just so. Is this not what we see? When a single remote legislature controls a continent, then a small group wishing to dominate the whole need suborn only a few hundred members of its Congress and a few judges on its Supreme Court. By corrupting one city, they can impose any law they choose on all. That the people of many states find the law odious matters little as they can do nothing about it.

If however the people of each state made their own laws, the small group in New York would have to purchase fifty legislatures, each being under the scrutiny of the people of the state. The more local the government, the more responsive to the will of the governed. It would not be possible to establish a uniform despotism..

This despotism is what we now have, and it worsens. Today the federals dictate every aspect of our lives with no regard for those suffering the dictation. They determine what we may teach our children in the schools, what sexual practices must be preached to to those children, what religious observances are allowed us. If they decide that ten thousand Papua New Guineans in loincloths must settle upon our towns, then settle they must. They decide what statues we may have, how our world was created, who may use our bathrooms. They decide, these remote people who names we often do not know, of loyalties and faiths and beliefs many of us find distasteful, with whom we must make war.

How may we of the various states rid ourselves of such noxious influences from afar? By what right? Now I am just a countryman of no great learning in governance. Yet it seems to me that when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

I believe that the causes of separation have been sufficiently enumerated in the foregoing. The question is how to achieve the separation.

There is no prospect of escape by armed rebellion. The federals control the army, and history has shown that soldiers will as soon kill their fellow citizens as any other.

A more fruitful, if gradual, path to freedom is to ignore the strictures of intrusive federals, to engage in passive resistance. Washington does not have the manpower to enforce alien laws upon the entire nation. We see the beginnings of this laudable disentanglement in the seven states that have made legal the use of marijuana. Should these states remain resolute, and refuse to allow their police to be used as Quisling Pinkertons against their citizenry, they may well prevail. The avowed resistance of the government of California to the imposition of laws alien to it is perhaps as important as the battle of Yorktown. As goes California, so goes the nation.

In a country deeply at odds with itself the best course may be separation, first of laws, then of administration, and finally of sovereignty. It need not be an uneven fight. As Washington can withhold federal funds from the states, so can the states withhold taxes from the federals, as California has threatened.

America seems overlarge. Perhaps the parts should go their separate ways. If the federals had to pay for their own wars, there would be no wars. General Lee was right.

• Category: Ideology • Tags: Constitutional Theory, Secession, States Rights 
More of the Past?
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It is strange: Jews have been disliked everywhere and in all times. The dislike appears in odd places. I was astonished to find that my Nepalese trekking guides were intensely hostile to Jews. They said that Jews (actually Israelis in most cases I think, but the Nepalese do not seem to make the distinction) were loud, demanding, and always trying to force down the guides’ fees. Historically the hostility has often been powerful and, not infrequently, murderous. Jews have been expelled from country after country, excluded from polite society, subjected to quotas,and required to live in certain regions. Why?

How much anti-Jewish hostility is there today in America? A lot? A little? Is it negligible? Potentially explosive? It is hard to tell because disliking Jews is often a firing offense, and a controlled press makes discussion impossible. A clue can perhaps be found in the comments sections of political websites where, protected by anonymity, commenters are often bitterly anti-Jewish. But then, these comments may, or may not, be the work of a few cranks.

Today there appear news stories about growing hostility on campuses, that Jews are fleeing Paris because of increased or more openly expressed dislike, or that the German Right, never fond of Jews, gains strength.

Since the dislike has existed for at least two thousand years, there must be some enduring reason or reasons. What?

One I think is the Space Alien Effect. It is human nature to dislike people different from oneself. This fact runs against today’s cult of diversity, which accounts for the disastrous reality of American life, but a glance around the world reveals that diversity causes most of the planet’s troubles: Sunni and Shia, Jew and Muslim, Tutsi and Hutu, black, white and brown in America, Tamil and Sinhalese; Turks and Kurds; Turks and Armenians; Thais and Muslims, Germans and Jews. Protestants and Catholics in Ireland, on and on for a very long list of religious, ethnic, and racial differences. Diversity is nobody’s strength.

Diversity often disappears through assimilation. Today people named O’Toole and Libertini may be proud of their ancestry, but they think of themselves as American, not as Irish and Italian. So do others. Thus hostility to them, once intense, has vanished.

Jews do not assimilate. Yes, they speak the same language, wear the same clothes, and peck at smartphones like everyone else. Yet they think of themselves as Jews. So, therefore, does everyone else. While there is no legal or moral reason why they should not so think of themselves, there are consequences: Human nature is what it is, regardless of whether we think it should be.

Specifically, Jews are always Them. We are Us. We are aware that Feinstein is Jewish as we are not aware that O’Malley is Irish–because he isn’t. Difference alone doesn’t cause antagonism. but makes it much more likely.

Worse–and this has caused millions of deaths–Jews are often successful. It doesn’t matter whether the success arises from superior intelligence, greater drive, collusion, or the will of Yahweh. It happens. Thus the pattern repeated over and over and over down the ages. Jews prosper, become rich, gain power sometimes abused, and become arrogant. If Christians did this–Bill Gates, or the Robber Barons of the Gilded Age–they would be resented as individuals perhaps, not as an ethnicity. But Jews are Them. The surrounding population feels colonized–by Them, by Space Aliens, by internal foreigners–and deeply resents it. As noted, the reaction may take the form of ostracism, enforced quotas, confinement to the Pale of Settlement, expulsion from the country, ghastly pogroms, or Auschwitz.

Hitler’s complaints against the Jews were along usual lines, that Jews controlled German culture, finance, academia, and the media. These are also things said in America today today on the internet against Jews . Whether these criticisms are true, fair, justified, or make sense does not matter. What matters is that people feel, or can easily be made to feel, controlled, by Them. Making a list of powerful Jews is sufficient and, with the internet, easy.

The dislike is profoundly visceral, not rational, tapping into deep wells of instinct that make little sense–which doesn’t matter. This can be seen in the wild disproportion between offense given and reaction. How do you get rationally in Germany from growlings in beer halls, “There are too damn many Jews in everything,” to “We should kill all the Jews”?

Them, not Us. It makes little obvious sense to say that Jews are not Americans. Bob Dylan isn’t an American? Lauren Bacall? Yet this is clearly how anti-Jewish commenters on the web see it. Them, not Us. It is a matter of limbic tribalism, which does not map well onto legal principles.

The hostility is often to Jews more as a metaphysical category than as actual people. Many who loathe Jews have little contact with them. Ask, “What have Jews actually done to you? Hacked your bank account? Gypped you out of your house? Shot your dog?” and the answer will likely be, “Nothing.” Rachel Cohen, the dentist next door in Peoria, is not easily envisioned as trying to destroy America, impose communism, or wreck the currency. Thus, “some of my best friends…but….” While the Jews one actually knows probably are not bad people, or at most annoying, The Jews collectively are a sort of ominous barely visible miasma. (For the record, no American Jew has ever harmed me, and many have helped me in what I humorously call “my career.” Coupla girlfriends, too.)

Importantly, Jewish presence is seen as Jewish conspiracy. Four Jews on the Supreme Court? From two percent of the population? My God, they must be up to something. A conspiracy, doubtless. But a conspiracy to do what? A candidate theory, correct as it happens, is that Jews as a people do anything and everything they can to advance the fortunes of Israel. But on the Supreme Court…how? Other suggestions are a desire to destroy the white race (including themselves?), to bring America down (why?), to wreck the international monetary system (why?), or to impose a Zionist world empire. Most of these make between little and no sense, which doesn’t matter. Jews don’t actually have to sacrifice Christian children to die for it. They just have to be thought to do so.

It is interesting that these usually nonexistent Jewish conspiracies get enduring attention while other, demonstrably real, conspiracies do not arouse similar ire. For example, the Koch brothers, who are not Jewish, have funded and led a massive and disguised campaign to subvert American politics for the benefit of big business. The arms industry bribes, suborns, and finagles to get the government to buy hugely expensive weapons. The FBI was recently caught trying to prevent the election of Donald Trump. The Clintons are crooked as kite string in a ceiling fan. So why do Jewish conspiracies, sometimes real but, more usually, imagined, get attention on the web?

The Space Alien Effect. Jews are Them. We are Us. Both know it.

The importance of this tribalism should not be underestimated. I once walked down Main Street in Farmville, Virginia, a small town in the Southside, with a friend. He said–I forget how the subject came up–with some bitterness, “The Jews own everything on Main Street. Just like they do everywhere.” He pointed to Rose’s, a perfectly ordinary department store. It did nothing wrong or even interesting. But it was Jewish. That was enough.

Them, not Us. The Presbyterian owners of a store actually engaged in gouging would have been resented as individuals, not as a tribe. The Jews.

• Category: History, Ideology • Tags: Anti-Semitism, Israel Lobby, Jews 
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OK, so why is the country falling apart? Specifically, why are kids blowing each other away? America has become a source of wonder the world over with its Colulmbines and hundreds and hundreds of dead in Chicago and Baltimore and its burning cities and riots. Other advanced countries don’t do these things.

America didn’t either until recently. Why now? Something has changed, or some things. What? People under under forty have never seen the country when it was sane. Let me point out things that have changed, at risk of sounding like a boilerplate cadger: “By cracky, when I was a boy, we could amuse ourselves for hours with just a piece of string and a couple of sticks.” Let’s compare today with the Fifties and Sixties. I mean this as sociology, not nostalgisizing.

I think that a combination of social changes have led to tremendous stress on today’s kids that my generation did not suffer. To wit:

In my rural Virginia school, there was no racial tension. We were all white: teachers, students, parents.

The black kids went to their own school, Ralph Bunche. We had virtually no contact with each other. There was no hostility, just no contact. The academic gap didn’t exist in the absence of contact. Integration would prove cruel when it came. and the black kids sank to the bottom. The causes can be argued, but the fact cannot.

There was no black crime to speak of or, as far as I knew any black crime. Certainly blacks did not shoot each other, or anybody. Neither did we. The reasons I suspect were similar.

Divorce was extremely rare, so we all had parents. Whether it is better that unhappy couples stay together or that they divorce can be argued, but they then did stay together. It made a large difference in outcomes if one accepts the statistics. The welfare programs of the Great Society had not yet destroyed the black family, which I speculate accounted in part for low crime.

Drugs did not exist. These appeared only with the Sixties. A few of us had heard of marijuana. I read a clandestine copy of The Naked Lunch. That was it. We drank a lot of beer.

In the entire school I remember only one, moderately fat kid. Why? Because, I will guess, we were very physically active. The school had PE classes, football and basketball teams, and so on. In summer kids aboard Dahlgren spent their days at the base swimming pool or swimming in Machodoc “Creek”–it was perhaps three-quarters of a mile wide–bicycling, canoeing- playing tennis. The country kids chopped cord wood, lifted hay. There was ice skating for hours in winter. Gloria, my best girl, got up at four a.m. to help her father pull crab pots on the Potomac, Though feminine, she probably could have thrown a Volkswagen over a four-store building. Again, I offer this not as nostalgia but as biological fact with effects.

Physical fitness has. I suspect psychological consequences. For example, ADHD did not exist. Boys are competitive, physical animals full of wild energy and need–need–to work it off. Boredom and enforced inactivity are awful for them. Two or three hours daily of fast-break pick-up basketball did this. If you force boys to sit rigidly in school, with no recess or only physically limited play, they will be miserable. If you then force them to take Ritalin, an approximate amphetamine, they will be miserable with modified brain chemistry. I don’t think this is a good idea.

Sex and, I think, its psychological consequences were different then. We were aware of sex. I am not sure we were aware of anything else. But the culture was such that, first, young girls, middle school, say, were sexually (very) off limits. When barely pubescent girls are taken advantage of by boys of seventeen or of thirty-five, the emotional effects are devastating. By contrast, boys hoped desperately to be taken advantage of.

The de facto social theory was that girls should remain virgins until married. I think few really believed this, and certainly many girls did not. However the necessity of pretending, plus the fear of pregnancy in those pre-pill days, allowed girls to say “no.” if they chose. The Pill, backed up by abortion, would make girls into commodities. If Sally said no, Mary wouldn’t, and boys, churning hormone wads, would go with Mary. Thus girls lost control of the sexual economy and the respect that went with it. More stress.

Anorexia and bulimia did not exist. We didn’t know the words. Both look to me like a reaction to stress.

Uncertainty is a formidable source of stress. We had little uncertainty as to our futures in the sense that the young do today. We assumed, correctly, that jobs would be available for us. For kids who were not going on in school, there were jobs at Dahlgren, the local naval base, as secretaries or guards or maintenance personnel, federal jobs with benefits. More remotely, Detroit was paying what seemed to us astronomical wages. Those of us in the college track, which meant those whose parents were grads and those who had high SATs, knew we could work in whatever field we had chosen. Starbucks and living in our parents’ basements never crossed our minds.

Social mobility existed, and girls had not yet been taught they they were victims. Of my graduating class of sixty, two girls became physicists and my buddy Franklin, of non-college family an electronics engineer. Sherry a year behind me, a nuclear biologist. All, I think, of non-college families. There must have been others.

Extremely important, I think, was that the school was apolitical. We didn’t know that it was. School was where you learned algebra and geography, or at least learned at them. The teachers, both men and women, assumed this. The white kids were not endlessly told that they were reprehensible and the cause of the world’s problems. The boys were not told that masculinity was toxic. Hysteria over imaginary rape was well in the future. Little boys were not dragged from school by the police for drawing a soldier with a rifle. The idea of having police in a school would seem insane when it first appeared.

More speculatively: My wife Violeta recently commented that the young today seem about ten years younger than their age. There may be something go this. At least in the media and academic worlds, people in their mid-thirties remind me of the young of the Sixties, displaying what appear to be the same hormonal rebellion and sanctimony. It has also seeped into high school. There is the same anger, the same search for grievance, the same adolescent posturing.

I think feminism plays a large part in the collapse of society in general and specifically in pushing boys over the edge. In my school years boys were allowed to be boys. Neither sex was denigrated. Doing so would have occurred to nobody. Then came a prejudice against boys, powerful today

All of this affected society in its entirety, but especially white boys. They are constantly told that being white is shameful, that any masculine interest is pathological, that they are rapists in waiting. They are subjected to torturous boredom and inactivity, and drugged when they respond poorly. They go to schools that do not like them and that stack the deck against them. Many are fatherless. All have access to psychoactive drugs.

Add it up.

Diverser is Worser, and Now What?
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Gazing out over the chaos of America today, the racial and ethnic antagonism, the hostility over sex and faith and politics–I have never seen anything like it. The country is imploding. The main culprit is diversity–in the broad sense, not just the juxtaposition of races, but the mixing of ideas and philosophies with no dominant culture to maintain order. Current policies promoting this mess are insane.

We hate each other.

Countries are happiest when they have one national culture, or at least one dominant culture to which all must perforce conform. We see this in countries like Japan and Korea, homogeneous societies which, because homogeneous, have no race riots or religious wars. It was largely true in, for example, Sweden and France until they began admitting immigrants from incompatible cultures. Today, most of the news from such countries deals with the consequences.

Diversity, never a good idea. is in fact the cause of most of the world’s conflicts: Shia and Sunni, Jew and Arab, Hutu and Tutsi, Tamil and Sinhalese, Hindu and Muslim and, in America, black, white, and brown. Diversityis the cause of the dissolution of American society.

Until roughly the Sixties, America was homogeneous enough, overwhelmingly white, European, Anglophone, and Christian. This provided sufficient commonalty that people all regarded themselves as Americans. At the same time, there were many geographically separated subcultures which had little in common and didn’t like each other, or wouldn’t have if they had come into contact. Massachusetts, Montana, Alabama, West Virginia, and New York were different civilizations.

It worked because the different sections had little contact with each other. Life was intensely local. Roads were poor, limiting commerce. There was of course no internet. Telephone calls were expensive and there was no direct long-distance dialing. The federal government lacked the capacity to dictate to local communities. Radio meant local AM stations. Businesses were mostly owned locally with few chains run from remote corporate offices.

People consequently lived among others like themselves, who had the same values and ideas about how things should be done. In Virginia high school boys drove to school with shotguns in deer season so as to get to the woods when classes ended. It would have been unthinkable in Boston. In the Bible Belt the Ten Commandments might be on the wall in the courthouse, which everyone thought natural. Tidewater Virginia believed in gentility while West Virginia liked a wild and rough freedom. These wee not compatible yet there was no friction because pretty much everyone in these regions believed what everybody else did.

Then everything changed. Diversity began, not at first of people so much as of ideas. Reasons were several. Communications improved. Interstates appeared. The federal government gained in power and reach. The Supreme Court began making sweeping decisions on manners, morals and faith–that is, on culture and values–which it had not done before. Now Washington–New York, really–could enforce these decisions.

The result was unwanted cultural diversity. The Court decided in decision after decision that increasingly explicit pornography enjoyed protection as free speech, imposing an alien ideology on small towns in Kansas. This culminated in internet porn accessible to children of ten, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Obscene music poured out of New York as local stations were bought by Manhattan, from which rap came–unfit, in most regions, for a toilet wall. Towns could not defend themselves because of the doctrine of free speech and the massively increased power of the northeast. Television became national with similar trampling of local values of faith, propriety, and race.

Particularly invasive was the newly invented doctrine of separation of church and state. For at least a hundred and fifty years no one, neither court nor individual, had noticed that the Constitution forbade manger scenes on the town square at Christmas, or the singing of carols on public streets, or mention of the Bible in schools. It was yet more compelled cultural diversity.

Then came the compulsory mixing of disparate populations that we usually think of today as diversity. First came the racial integration of blacks and whites, cultures with virtually nothing in common. It worked as well as was widely expected. The two differed sharply in manners, morals, attitudes to education, dress, and acquiescence to law. The result was the disaster we see daily in the news.

The Latinos came. While they resembled whites much more than did blacks, they were racially distinct and differed in culture. Hostility arose among native whites. who liked their culture as it was.

The obvious soon became evident to those not ideologically resistant to it: In matters cultural, you can’t have it both ways. When you mix in schools populations whose values are contradictory–say, those who believe in clean language and those three quarters of whose discourse consists of “motherfucker,” one side has to give. You cannot require half of the studentry to follow a dress code while allowing the other half to wear pants almost around their ankles. Those who did not eat pork or did eat dogs coexisted uneasily with those who had opposing dietary ideas. Those who mutilated their children’s reproductive organs in one manner (Christians and Jews) and those who did it in another (Muslims) came into conflict.

The less well diversity worked, the more furiously its advocates sought to impose it. Feminists arose, hostile to men and powerful enough to impose themselves on society. They pushed women into the infantry, where they did not fit and did not belong: more ill-advised diversity. Homosexuality went from being quietly tolerated to being taught to children in grade school. though their parents abominated it.

Those inhabiting the extreme reaches of political correctness imagine a world as they think it should be and then try to move into it, dragging everyone else along. I think of the Beatles insipidly crooning “All You Need is Love” in eternal adolescent sanctimony. They of course hated those who disagreed with them. Obama, who transparently liked neither whites or America, imported many hundreds of thousands of immigrants who were almost impossible to assimilate. It was, I suspect, revenge for 1619.

It did not, of course, work. And so the papers carry endless stories of Islamophobia, dislike of Jews, attacks on Christianity, of misandry, looting of malls, burning of cities, White Nationalism, Black Lives Matter, calls for The Wall, novel policies regarding bathrooms, anger over Spanish on federal forms, affirmative action, perennial academic gaps, the demands of the various sexual curiosities, the Knockout Game, special privilege for this and that group, and a seething anger and despair over a country that many remember but no longer exists.

• Category: Ideology, Race/Ethnicity • Tags: Diversity, Multiculturalism 
The Noble Reporter in His Splendor
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Everything goes to hell. It warms a curmudgeon’s heart. I remember when, as God intended, reporters were bright and profane drunks with no respect for anything. This philosophical end-point was natural for men steeped daily in the lying, thieving, corruption, bribes, shysterism, misery, and unrelenting stupidity that are public life. Ashen-souled, cynical, with a wonderful acerbic sense of humor that would have dissolved a meat axe, they lacked illusions, about anything. If a reporter thought he saw glimmerings of human decency in a politician or a lawyer, he would have his eyes checked.

News weasels were rough-edged, often talented, splendid company and, usually, ugly. Mencken, who looked like a fire plug with leprosy, was the archetype, combing all of these wis;oyord in profusion, plus a monumental capacity for good whiskey.

Mencken, dog-butt ugly, frequently soused, politically incorrect as a lynching. Would be jailed today.
Mencken, dog-butt ugly, frequently soused, politically incorrect as a lynching. Would be jailed today.

By and large they were men of what might be called a robust character, of the sort associated with pit bulls, and sometimes were more combative than quieter people would like. You can’t be diplomatic or spiritual or contemplative or anything of that sort and get a story from someone who doesn’t want you to get it because he is thinking of jail time. It is especially in competition with a snapping pack of dyspeptic scriveners trying to get the same story first. When assembled in hordes, they resembled Mongol barbarians thundering across the steppes. See below.

Some, especially overseas, had odd pasts. There was my friend Paul Vogel of UPI Saigon who, the legend held had been in a catholic seminary somewhere but disappeared over the horizon on a motorcycle with a bottle of gin in one hand and somehow ended up in Hanoi teaching English before joining up with UPI. Most of this has to be apocryphal, such as driving a motorcycle with one hand, but probably no stranger than the truth, whatever that was. Paul spoke several dialects of Vietnamese so well that on the phone he was accepted as native. This is impossible, but I saw it. Anyway we spent afternoons in his apartment above UPI drinking bam de bam and swapping lies.

In Washington you found a more polished sort who were gentlemen or could be if needed–Mike Causey, Wes Pruden, Ralph Hallow– but savvy and smart and of the Pre-Princetonian era. It was only later that we got prissy delicates who probably drank designer water in fern bars instead of sour mash.

Anyway, what brought these reflections on was my stumbling across the following from a previous life. Think of them as being like the Qum Ran Scrolls or something from a cave wall in Lascaux:

The Washington Times, 1982

Bouncing across southern Lebanon is a convoy of 125 reporters, photographers, and TV crazies in 25 rented Subarus, the assembled war corespondents of the western world. Somehow I don’t think this is how Ernie Pyle did it. We look like a traffic jam in Tokyo. Photographers dangle acrobatically from windows. Three TV cameras protrude like poorly thought-out plumbing from the car ahead, intently filming a wrecked jeep. A Brazilian TV crew has crawled onto the roof of its car. Arabs stare, deeply puzzled. They have seen any number of armies roaring about, but nothing so quintessentially mad as this.

For six days I have been living in hotels on Israeli borders with this horde. It is like living in a cageful of histrionic tarantulas. Nowhere but in a war zone have I seen such bellicose, courageous, rude, egotistical, preposterously masculine, faintly reptilian rogues, all working hard at being Marlboro Men. A fellow with a codpiece concession could coin money. Heaven knows what the Arabs would think of that.

We pull into Nabatieh, a village. The Israeli escorts eye the anarchic bull-headed mob like snappish sheep dogs. They know that everybody here wants to escape and get his Subaru blown out from under him at the front. A war correspondent feels slighted by fate if he is not almost blown up every day or two. To a large degree, they believe they are the actors in this scene, the armies being mere props. They look forward to sitting in dark foreign bars in the manner of Hemingway at his most excessive and saying, “Yes, bit of a tiff in ’82, got my bloody Subaru shot out from under me, ought to bullet-proof the things….happens, you know.”

Some Palestinian prisoners are on display for us in a courtyard, so that we can see how beneficently the Israelis treat their captives. The journalists alight in a pack and race toward the alarmed prisoners. The TV guys jog along in pairs, one carrying the camera and the other with a suitcase full of batteries or something. Waving their microphones like the tendrils of some underwater beast, balancing cameras on high so see over those in front, they shout incomprehensible questions at the bewildered Palestinians.

The numerical superiority of the press and its lamentable assertiveness combine, as usual, to dominate the scene. One hundred twenty-five irritated reporters–“Hey, hey, outa the way, buddy, I got pictures to take. Hey you….” engulf and then digest a dozen Christian militiamen on a pair of armored personnel carriers. Nabatieh is now a Press Event. The public will never see this absurd performance, however. Every photographer will carefully frame out the other newsmen, giving the salable impression that he alone was out there in no man’s land.

Bored, I stand with some other reporters next to an Israeli jeep. A framed picture of Yasser Arafat is tied to the bumper. I grin, knowing a GI gag when I see one, but a camera crew begins jogging toward us with its suitcase. The TV types have detected A Visual in ol’ Arafat. The Israeli frantically snatches the picture away: If that goes on the satellite to 500 million viewers, right above the license plate of his jeep, he will have a central position before a firing squad.

The reporters are grousing about the TV clowns and how they don’t know what news is and how they’re always in the way. This is true. Of the major ethnic groups of the news racket, TV types are the most truly pestilential-comparatively. They carry more electronics than the space shuttle, all wired together with their microphones. They need absolute quiet, nobody else in the picture, a lot of time to set up and a long time to shoot. Reporters usually think TV people should be chained in their hotels during a war, and also between wars. This is wisdom.

Finally the Subaru Bureau remounts and heads home. For any other class of people, driving out of a small town would be done in comity and safety. But no. Everybody jumps in his car as if beginning a Grand Prix, backs fiercely into the crowd and spins the tires viciously trying to be first in the convoy. The idea is to be first to the telephones on reaching the hotel. For this they are perfectly willing to run down seven or eight colleagues and a few slow Arabs, and bash into an armored personnel carrier.

Again we bump across southern Lebanon, cameras protruding, Arabs puzzling, a Japanese used-car lot on the move.

• Category: Ideology • Tags: American Media 
Notes of a Poor Sinner
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Today I must ask the reader’s pardon. I do not usually write about the intimate details of my life. They would embarrass me and bore everyone else. But in this case I am obligated, as will shortly be apparent.

We have all heard of Twelve-Step Programs. Alcoholics Anonymous was the first and remains the best known. There are others, notably Narcotics Anonymous but also groups to help people control anger and even narcissism.

In all of these, one of the steps is to publicly acknowledge one’s culpability. This is psychologically necessary. Otherwise the tendency is overpowering to tell oneself that one wasn’t really all that guilty. (“I’m not an alcoholic. Sure, I get a snootful once in a while, but so does everybody….”) This is behind the requirement that at, for example, a meeting of Narconon one must begin by saying, “My name is Bob, and I am an addict.”

You probably have not heard of a group in Mexico, where I live, called “Infieles Anonimos,” which translates as “Unfaithfuls Anonymous.” Like other twelve-step programs, it requires a public confession. Bear with me. Please.

In the mid-Eighties my wife at the time was a harpsichord performance grad out of Bloomington, which if you know music schools will mean something to you. She of course knew many musicians who were often invited to our house. It was through her that I met a lovely young torch singer, whose name I will omit as there is no reason to embarrass her. We became involved. Although my wife and I did not have an open marriage, not formally certainly, I am pretty sure she knew. At any rate, she did not threaten divorce. Musicians tend to take a Bohemian approach to manners and morals, the classical ones more quietly than rock performers. I saw my new love sometimes at our house, sometimes at restaurants or gatherings of musicians around Washington.

Of course it couldn’t last.

Promo shot.
Promo shot.

Eventually she moved to the opposite coast to pursue a career in high-end restaurants and similar venues. She had her own eight-piece jazz band for years. I found reasons to fly to the coast frequently. Since I was a journalist, my wife saw nothing suspicious in this.

Enough. But I will always remember the first time I saw her. My wife was with several other people and someone called me into the room, and…there she was. She was beautiful. I don’t know whether there is really such a thing as love at first sight, but .…well, maybe there is. At first I thought she must be severely anorexic, as she weighed seven and a half pounds. To my certain knowledge many medical personnel were aware of this, yet they showed no concern, which which might seem extraordinary. In the long run it didn’t matter. With intensive dietary therapy, with which my wife helped, she put on weight.

Our relationship continued, seemingly settling in for the long haul. My wife, perhaps resigned, actually seemed to approve. Again, musicians are tolerant of such things. The focus of my attentions flourished. At age twelve, in addition to getting her scuba certification, she came home and announced that she wanted to be a jazz singer. I thought sure, kid. And maybe an astronaut. Her parents did not know that she was sneaking off to a low dive called Whitey’s (we later found that her father was known for attendance in low dives) to sing on open-mike nights. By all accounts she was terrible. She was also persistent.

Anyway, at seventeen and just out of high school she set off for California to be a jazz singer. This of course was insane, delusional, and revealed a lack of mature understanding of the possibilities of life. She had, all said, no sense of her own limitations.

It seems that her limitations had no sense of Emily Anne either (which, now that I think of it, is her name) as four years later she gigging all over San Francisco.

It is a curious contradiction of American life that a useless general gets paid a fortune for killing goatherds in places no one has ever heard of or wants to, but much of the country’s best musical talents tends bar in San Fran or drives taxis. (“Uber uber alles.”) This would embarrass a country that was capable of being embarrassed.

On my forays to the Left Coast we went with her boyfriend to sushi bars, some the kind with the sushi moving past on a moving thing like an automotive assembly plant and you have to grab it, and then we walked down a street loud with music. We’d go in, maybe grab a drink, and the bands would holler, “Hey, Emily, wanna sit in?” and it was all kind of family. I decided it really was better than a war in Afghanistan.

You might think that half a dozen bands playing in bars on Saturday in San Francisco must not be very good or you would have heard of them. In this you would be sorely deluded. There is much more talent in America than there is a national market for it. The big labels make more money having a few bands in a genre and hyping them so that everyone has heard of them than by having fifty equally good or better bands all competing with each other. The music industry in New York is not about talent, or music. It is about money.

(As this is a highly principled column, I would never post sordid commercial pitches, as by noting that some of her–their–other cuts can be found here. Actually they probably can’t. You can check and see.)

Emily didn’t have a driver’s license then and so waitressed and tended bar, which exposes you to a better crowd of people than most jobs. Add gigging three nights a week when she had the Emily Anne Band and she was a busy kid. By this time she had switched from jazz to…well, whatever the above is.

I guess that’s about all. I have met my obligation to Infieles Anonimos which was my point in this uplifting litany. Emily Anne did well, doing the stations of the musical cross such as American Idol and America’s Got Talent, which she regarded as combining the artistic brilliance of Facebook and the appeal of a moist skin disease. Having determined that gigging in the Bay Area was fun for a while but that jumping to national wasn’t going to happen, she said to hell with it and moved on to other things.

There you have my mea culpa. I won’t inflict this on you again. Unless I join Curmudgeonns Anonymous.

• Tags: Music 
Stark Madness and Inmiscibility
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Pop Quiz: Take out a sheet of paper. This will be fifty percent of your grade: Which of the above is the Norwegian? Which from Mr. Trump’s other category? With which would you rather have your children go to school?

Mr. Trump’s comment regarding his preference for immigrants from Norway instead of “shithole countries” such as Haiti engendered among the commentariat a great squealing. I cannot fathom this. Are they geographic virgins, and just don’t know anything of the world? Is it only the usual schadenfreudian gotcha pile-on? The if-A-then-B response to stimulus of a press corps with the freedom of thought I associate with a FORTRAN statement?

Shithole countries exist. Mr. Trump’s Haiti is one of them. Some other expression of more acceptable weaselhood might be employed: “hygienically-impaired conceivably preliterate ” or something.

If one takes “shithole” literally, Haiti is indeed excrementially challenged, I shamelessly steal this from John Derbyshire’s column on the Unz Review:

NPR: “A rainstorm on Good Friday last year filled the streets and alleys of one Port-au-Prince neighborhood with 3 feet of raw sewage.”

If unconvinced, try here.

However, Mr. Trump’s term is usually figurative, meaning something like filthy, backward, pitiable, poor, unspeakable, degraded, ignorant, and so on. This is Haiti.

I once spent a week in the slums of Cite Soleil, in Port au Prince with the US Army. It was godawful. Huts of corrugated iron, “streets” of packed dirt, actually paths maybe two feet wide between them, no sewerage, no electricity. No medical care or, so I was told, education. The impression was of an occupied garbage dump.

There were no guns, so the denizens went at each other with machetes, leading to missing limbs and exposed brains. Law enforcement did not exist. Witchcraft did. Haiti is voodoo territory.

One may sympathize with the inhabitants of such a Dantean sub-basement, and I did. One may imagine ways of helping such people, and I did, knowing that they had been tried without effect. Yet there is no point in whitewashing a disaster, in pretending that Haiti is not what it is.

One day beside one of the narrow street-side canals, ditches really, of filthy water I saw a dead man. He was of a rich mahogany color, clothed only in shorts, lying face down next to the ditch. Passers-by paid him no attention. Flies were beginning to gather.

Apparently he had been digging in the ditch–a pick lay nearby–and hit an electrical cable. The concussion seemed to have thrown him onto the bank. There was no sign that anyone was going to do anything about him.

No chance exists of integrating such people into the United States. It is insane to try. If you want to improve their lives, an impulse I commend, do it in Haiti. It won’t work, but you will have the satisfaction of having tried.

Those who have traveled little sometimes think that the world outside the developed countries is like Haiti. It is not. For all the talk about “Third World Hellholes” from bottle-blondes in New York, little of the “Third World,” whatever precisely that is, fits the description. (A phrase that includes Buenos Aires and Cite Soleil needs to be stood up against a wall and shot for fraud.)

Countries afflicted by poverty are not necessarily shitholes, and usually are not. If I inadvertently left my granddaughter of two years in a remote Vietnamese fishing village, I would be little concerned. Rather I would expect to find her a week later having become the queen of the village and being well cared for. The Vietnamese would not eat her.

It is a common pattern. Nepal is very poor. Yet in a remote Himalayan village above 12,000 feet, reachable only by days of hard walking or on tough little horses, you find civilized behavior. People are courteous, everyone is cared for, homes like rude American vacation cabins are clean and maintained, hygiene observed, children raised well. On the abandoned-granddaughter test, they would score an A. The only damage done would be that you would spend years trying to tell the tyke why she couldn’t have her own yak.

Another candidate for shithole status is Somalia, only barely a country. When I was there it had no signs of a government. Many people there lived in the wild in huts of thorn bush covered with cardboard or cloth. I once watched the absurd spectacle of a State Department official riding into the bush in a jeep, containing me, to negotiate road-building rights with puzzled nomads who didn’t own the rights but were happy to take payment. By comparison, Alice in Wonderland seems brutally realistic.

For whatever reason, the worst of the Trumpian apertures are in Africa. On racial grounds, the media ignore that cannibalism flourishes, that albinos are hunted down and killed for the magical powers attributed to their body parts. (Dead serious. LA Times: “In parts of Africa, people with albinism are hunted for their body parts. The latest victim: a 9-year-old boy.”)

Papua-New Guinea. One may wish to bring these gentlefolk the benefits of medicine, schooling, clothes. Good. Bring them anything, except to Idaho.
Papua-New Guinea. One may wish to bring these gentlefolk the benefits of medicine, schooling, clothes. Good. Bring them anything, except to Idaho.

Mr. Trump suggested that it would be wiser to admit migrants from Norway. He is of course exactly right. It is not clear why Norwegians would leave their ordered and civilized country for the social chaos, racial violence, and degraded culture of America, but never mind. Yet, however ill-advised, they would assimilate quickly. Norwegians speak English. They can count beyond ten. They only occasionally practice witchcraft or hunt albinos. Some authorities deny that they do these things at all.

How can anyone, unaided by the better grades of mushroom, expect people from such Trumpian–yes, hell holes–to fit into Iowa? They have nothing in common with Americans–not language, schooling, religion, morals, familiarity with civilization, European heritage or, it would seem, intelligence. Having imported them in the throes of the current fad for multiculturalism, the country will have them for all time. Splendid. Just splendid.

On Accommodating Reality
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Methinks that, for the good of the country, it is time that the “Alt-Right,” those bitterly hostile to our Latin-America population, stop and think. There is a difference between opposing further immigration, a good idea, and constantly attacking American citizens.

Many good reasons existed for preventing massive immigration from the south. But it happened. Some forty-five million legal Hispanics (whatever exactly the word means) are now in America, mostly citizens. They show no signs of leaving. They cannot be deported. Their children become citizens. It is unlikely that many of the (very vaguely) estimated twelve million illegals will be deported or chased out.

Given this reality, the question becomes, or should become, what to do to, for, with, or about these people? The future of the country very much depends on the answer.

A beginning would be not to turn them into another dysfunctional, hostile racial minority–which is exactly what the Alt-Right seems bent on doing. Blacks, thirteen percent of the population, appear irremediably angry, with obvious untoward consequences. If the Alt-Right can make another seventeen percent into internal enemies, it will be the end of anything recognizable as America.

Yet from the organs of the Alt-Right–VDare, Breitbart News, and so on–comes a drumbeat to the effect that Latin-Americans are stupid, filthy, lazy, criminal, and parasitic. Mr. Trump, hostile to Mexico and Mexicans, has called them “rapists,” which resonates in Latin America much as Hillary’s “deplorables” speech did in Middle America. We have hysterical books painting them as the end of civilization and human decency. (Ann Coulter’s ¡Adios, America! The Left’s Plan to Turn Our Country into a Third World Hellhole comes to mind.)

Yet from the Alt-Right comes no suggestion of practical policy toward the permanent Latin population. Hatred is not a policy.

What to do?

The choices available to the country, other than doing nothing, are to encourage, or to discourage, assimilation. For the good of the United States, assimilation seems much the better choice. Diversity is almost always a disaster, but, if you already have it, and it is not going to leave, the best hope is to assimilate it, to encourage the diverse to move into the middle class and stop being very diverse.

Can Latin Americans be assimilated? Maybe, maybe not. Walking around Los Angeles, San Antonio, Houston, or in Chicago, where relations seem entirely amicable, suggests “yes.” The “not” arises largely from the possibility that the combined influence of the Alt-Right and black racial animosity will drive young Latin men into the current anti-white insanity.

My own experience suggests that assimilation can be accomplished. In these matters I may have more experience than most of the Alt-Right. I have lived in Mexico for sixteen years. My wife is Mexican, we speak Spanish in the home, and we have toured the country from one end to the other. I have traveled extensively in all the countries of South America except Paraguay and Venezuela. Nowhere (with the exception perhaps of parts of Central America) have I seen the hellholes imagined–I might almost say “fervently desired”–by the Alt-Right. Lima, Buenos Aires, Santiago, Bogotá, Montevideo and many others are modern cities, with airlines, telecommunications, skyscrapers, and so on. Hellholes? I wonder whether Miss. Coulter has been in Latin America.

On the site of American Renaissance, which takes a very dim view of Latin-Americans, I have seen links to a pair of studies by the Pew Research Center. The first, from 2013, found that 89% of American-born Latins are proficient in English. astonishing as sunrise. The second found that succeeding generations are losing their identification as Hispanics, also hardly a surprise, and also that intermarriage is high. Is this not assimilation?

America’s various minorities are not identical. The Latins are Christian, speak a European language, do not drive airplanes into buildings or shoot up homosexual nightclubs, do not have Brown Lives Matter or the Knockout Game, do not mutilate their daughters or discourage them from going to university, do not engage in honor killings.

Consider a not-very-hypothetical Rosa born of illegal parents in Los Angeles, age nineteen, speaking unaccented California English, and pecking at her cell phone. She will not be seen as very Mexican by young Anglo men. Language is a powerful marker of difference. Rosa is also likely to be pretty, which will not hinder assimilation.

The second available policy toward Latins is to discourage assimilation. This won’t work for long (see Rosa, above). Such discouraging is the obvious if unacknowledged desire of the Alt-Right. The Anti-Latinos tend to frame their hostility in terms of objective traits real or imagined–Latins don’t learn English, do commit crimes, live on welfare, take American jobs. Yet one requires little reading to see that their real objection is racial.

In today’s climate of compulsory right-thought, wanting to maintain one’s race and culture is bad, very bad. Actually of course it is an age-old instinct and practiced by Japanese, Chinese, Jews, white nationalists, Latin Americans, and pretty much everybody else. It does not well survive assimilation.

The problem vis-a-vis the Alt-Right’s desire for racial purity is that Latins, who are not going to go away, cannot change their race. This means that no matter what they do, how many languages they learn, how many degrees they earn, or taxes they pay, the Alt-Right will loathe them. I wonder: Should this loathing be permitted to shape the future of the country?

Assimilation and racial purity being incompatible and diametrically opposed, we must choose. You can have one, or the other, but not both. To discourage assimilation, one needs to maximize bad relations between Latin and Anglo. This seems exactly what the Alt-Right is determined to do.

Racial hostility explains the profound ignorance of most of the Alt-Right of South America. Read their websites, their comments. They seem to have no curiosity as to where the immigrants come from, what manner of wights they be, or what they can do or have done. This is not the place for a disquisition on Latin American culture. Still, anyone of intellectual breadth must be aware of the rich and extensive body of music, literature, poetry, and cinema of southern lands. All of this can easily be found on the internet. One may wonder why the Alt-Right has not bothered. Ask who Carlos Monsivais was, or Octavio Paz. You will get get a blank stare.

More culpable are the leaders of the Alt-Right, highly intelligent and educated people, most of them talking heads of the DC-Manhattan bubble. They are not of limited mind and could afford to learn what they are talking about. They do not. They are misrepresenting peoples they have never met, civilizations they have never seen. They regard this a patriotism.

Finally, though perhaps in offense to literary continuity, it is interesting to look at the logic, if that is quite the word, of much of the Alt-Right’s cultivation of hostility. They say that “Mexicans take American jobs.” How? Does Pedro put a pistol to an American worker’s head and say, “Geeve me zee shoffel or I blow your brines out”? Or do American businessmen, to make more money, hire countless Pedros, knowing perfectly well that they are illegal? Do Mexicans attach wheels to American factories by dark of night and roll them to Tampico? Or do American corporations, to make more money, build factories in Mexico? Who is taking American jobs?

• Category: Ideology, Race/Ethnicity • Tags: Alt Right, Hispanics, Immigration 
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Some of the prototypes.  Though I am not a construction engineer, it seems to me that 2,000 miles of any of these is more of a job than their proponents are telling us.
Some of the prototypes. Though I am not a construction engineer, it seems to me that 2,000 miles of any of these is more of a job than their proponents are telling us.

With regard to Mr. Trump’s Border Wall, I am skeptical. Now, I freely concede that I am not an authority on Border Walls. In fact, I have never built a Border Wall. This may surprise readers. Yet it is true. So all that follows is in the nature of speculation. Be warned.

Still, though I may be horrifically wrong, and different numbers can be obtained by assuming different types of wall, I suggest that the following represent the kinds of questions that need to be answered. Further, it should be incumbent on those promoting the Wall to produce prices and times that make sense.

All right, Mr. Trump has eight prototypes, but they run to 30 feet high, made of concrete, and go six feet underground to prevent tunneling. According to rumor among the border authorities, some go considerably deeper, and some prototypes are made of other materials. Here we will assume a hypothetical concrete wall thirty feet high and six feet deep. In other words, thirty-six feet in vertical dimension.

Let us assume a thickness of six inches. Much less would be insecure, one supposes. We will ignore rebar. Actually, a glance at the photograph shows that, of whatever they be made, they are more than six inches thick, but we will ignore this.

The volume of concrete in the entire wall would thus be 2,000 miles x 5280 ft / mile x 36 ft x .5 ft, or 190,080,000 cubic feet.

Now, the wall presumably will have to be built in prefab sections at a remote factory or factories, and trucked to the Wall site on flatbed eighteen-wheelers. Donkeys would seem inadequate, helicopters excessive. Fabricating each section in situ with some sort of traveling factory, requiring the trucking in of phenomenal amounts of concrete (or metal or whatever the Wall was made of), would be crazy even by the standards of federal contracting.

To be carried on a standard semi rig, sections could be no more than 8.5 feet wide. Each section would measure 36 ft. x .5 ft. x 8.5 ft, or or 153 cubic feet. Since concrete weights 145 pounds per cubic foot, the section would weigh 22,185 lbs.

Given that a semi can carry only about 45,000 pounds, each truck could carry only two sections. With special permission, not unusual for outsize loads, a semi might carry a section 10 feet wide. Then a single section would weigh 36 ft x .5 x 10 ft x 145 or 26,100 lbs, but then only one could be carried as two would weigh 52,200 lbs, way over the max weight for a semi load. Some other sort of Wall would weigh something else, but you would need a lot of trucks.

Since I don’t know the weights of the prototypes, the foregoing calculations may be off. Show me how, and by how much for each prototype.

A mile being 5280 feet, each mile of wall would require 5280/8.5, sections, or 621. The entire wall would need 2000 miles x 621 sections per mile, or 1, 242,000 sections. That’s 621,000 truck loads.

Assume that the sections were manufactured exactly in the middle of the 2000 mile border. Each section would then have to be trucked an average of 500 miles to its place of installation. If built in California, an average of 1,000 miles. Buy trucking stocks. Of course more factories would mean fewer miles per section. So I figure Mr. Trump must be asking Congress for money for a bunch of factories. Otherwise I wouldn’t think he was serious.

Now, a concrete sail 30 feet high would presumably require a strong foundation to resist the enormous forces created by, say, a forty knot wind. In fact, a high, heavy wall presumably needs a strong foundation just not to collapse sideways in soft earth. Simply placing it in a six-foot ditch would not work. No?

Let us assume a foundation a foot wide on each side of the wall section and, as noted, six feet deep to force migrants to dig a seven-foot hole. Again, just a guess from one who seldom builds international walls. The required volume of concrete will thus be about 2000 miles x 5280 feet/mile x 6 ft x 2 ft, or 126,720,000 cubic feet.

All of this would have to be trucked to its place of use from its place of mixing, and quickly enough to prevent premature hardening. If some stretches of border are too distant or the terrain not adequate, roads will have to be constructed and concrete mixed nearer to the Wall.

Adding the volume for the wall proper to the volume for the foundation, we get 126,720,000 plus 190,080,000 cubic feet, or 316, 800,000 cubic feet. This will weigh x 145, or 22,968,000 tons, all of which will have to be carried to the site of installation. Buy more truck stocks.

What will the Trump Wall cost? Dunno, but would NBC lie? I find:

” White House officials have suggested that the entire wall project could cost between $8 and $12 billion. And, internal DHS assessments suggest the cost could be higher — as much as $21 billion.“

I can think of no greater authorities on heavy construction than a pack of ideological yoyos in the White House who have probably never seen a shovel. The New York Times says $70 billion, and $150 million a year to maintenance.

So, $8 to $70 billion. The government doesn’t know how much the Wall will cost within a factor of about 9, or else is lying. Both are consistent with federal practice. Note that federal projects typically involve very large overruns. Note also that in federal contracting a common tactic, which I saw often in my years covering the Pentagon, is to low-ball your bid and then, when the project is too far along to be cancelled, to discover that the cost will actually be, heh, rather more.

Over 2,000 miles, the $71 billion figure comes to $35,500,000 per mile, or $57,165 per section. The $21.7 billion figure gives $10,850,000 per mile, or $17,472 per section. At $8 billion, $4,000,000 per mile, or about $6,441 per section. Do you really think the government can buy a 36 by 8.5 by six inch reinforced concrete wall section, truck it a long distance, and erect it for…$6,441? Do you think that even the cheapest of the prototypes would cost so little?

How long will it take to complete this cement F-35? Wall, I mean. Wall. Press reports put time for completion at three years. That’s 660 miles per year. Uh...yeah.

Putting up 621 sections a month, or one mile a month, looks ambitions—over twenty a day. These are hugely heavy concrete slabs requiring a massive crane to set them in place, after which they would have to be tied to neighboring slabs in some manner and, presumably, a foundation poured.

Of course putting up 621 per month requires that the factories manufacture 621 per month. This is certainly not impossible, but will take rather more commitment than we see, which is almost none.

• Category: Ideology • Tags: Donald Trump, Immigration 
A Sociological Treatise
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Today we will ponder America, a country, even a civilization, that existed long ago where the United States is today, but bore little resemblance to it. It will be like studying cave drawings, or Sargon of Akkad. Pay attention. The is original source material of historical importance.

I was there, in America: Athens, Alabama, at age twelve.

Athens was small and Southern, drowsy in summer, kind of comfortable feeling, not much concerned with the outside world. It left the world alone and the world left it alone. In those days, people in a lot of places figured this was pretty workable.

Kids went barefoot. So help me. After about two weeks in spring your feet got tough and you could walk on anything, except maybe gravelly black asphalt that got hotter than the hinges. Parents let you do it. Today I guess it would be a hate crime, and you’d get an ambulance, three squad cars and Child Protective Services all honking and blowing and being important. We didn’t know we needed protecting. Maybe we didn’t.

It wasn’t like today. When your dog wanted to go out, she did, and went where she thought was a good idea, and nobody cared, and she came back when she thought that was a good idea, and everybody was content. She probably slept on your bed, too. Today it would be a health crisis with the ambulance and squad cars. We just didn’t know any better. I don’t remember anybody dying of dog poisoning.

Now, BB guns. We all had one, every kid that was eleven years old. Boy kids, anyway. Mostly they were Red Ryder, for four dollars, but I had a Daisy Eagle, that had a plastic telescopic sight, and was no end uptown. I was always aristocratic. Anyway, you could go into any little corner store and get a pack of BBs for a nickel.

In downtown Athens–there was about a block of it, around the square–there was the Limestone Drugstore. It’s still there, like them pyramids at Geezer. Kids came in like hoplites or cohorts or hordes, or anyway one of those things in history and leaned their BB guns near the door, with their baseball gloves too usually.

Nobody cared. We didn’t shoot each other with the BB guns because we just didn’t. It’s how things used to be. We didn’t need the po-leese to tell us not to do it because it wasn’t something we did. Shooting another kid was like gargling fishhooks or taking poison. You could do it, but probably wouldn’t.

Anyway the man that owned the Limestone was about eighty or a hundred years old and had frizzy red hair like a bottle brush and his name was Coochie. It’s what everyone called him anyway. He liked little boys–not like those Catholic preachers always in the newspapers–we didn’t do that either–but just liked kids. There was this big rack of comic books that nobody ever bought but you just took them to a table and read them till they fell into dust and drank cherry cokes and ate nickel pecan pies. I think Coochie used comic books as bait so he could talk to us. It was mighty fine.

We all had pocket knives, or mostly anyway. If you were rich you had a Buck knife. That was the best kind. We’d take them to school because they were in our pockets and it was hard to leave your pocket somewhere even if you thought of it. You could carve your initials on your desk when the teacher wasn’t looking.

Today if you had a knife in school you’d get the squad cars and ambulance and get handcuffed and have to listen to a psychologist lady until you wanted to kill someone. Probably her.

It was different then, back in America. We didn’t think of stabbing anybody. It would have seemed like a damn fool idea, like eating a peanut butter sandwich dipped in kerosene. It wasn’t how people were. I guess how people are is what they’re going to do, not what laws you have. You can tell a possum to sing church songs, but he won’t, because a possum just doesn’t have it in him. It’s not how he is.

When you shot a BB gun at something that needed shooting, like an insulator of a telephone pole, it was like a thing of beauty. You could see the BB sail away, all coppery and glinty against blue sky and it was like a poem or something. Maybe anyway. You could see it start to drop when the speed wore off and go sideways a little with the wind where there was any. You learned to calculate and you could hit just about anything.

Lots of things was different. Water fountains on the town square said White and Colored, White folks and black people didn’t mix at all. I thought it saved trouble for everybody but people from up North said it was wrong and I guess it was. Now the black folks up north are killing each other by hundreds, the papers say, and I’m not sure why that’s a good idea, but then blacks in places like Newark and Detroit have really good schools because Northerners really care about blacks and they mostly go to Harvard, so I guess it’s a lot better.

Another thing you could do with a BB gun was to get a twelve-gauge shotgun shell which you could do in several ways. You might steal it from your dad’s gun rack if he had one, or stick it inside a roll of toilet paper in a store and buy the toilet paper. But I don’t know anything about that. Anyway you could cut the shell off just in front of the powder and put the powder and primer on the end of the barrel of the BB gun. Pow! A spray of orange sparks would shoot into the air. It was real satisfying. It may not have been real smart.

Finally, manners, morals, and language as practiced in America. As boys, which is to say small barbarians in need, when alone together, of socialization, we insulted each other. “I’ll slap the far outa you, you no-count scandal.” I will slap the fire out of you, you scoundrel of no account. Or, “You ain’t got the sense God give a crabapple.” But, barefoot and tatterdemalion though we might be, or in fact certainly were, the elements of civilization had been impressed on us. We did not cuss or talk dirty in the presence of girls or women. We didn’t curse out teachers neither. I don’t rightly know what would have happened if someone had tried it. No one did. We weren’t that kind of people. It’s the kind of people you are that counts.At least, that’swhat I reckon. Even at twelve, I had that figured out.

• Category: History • Tags: Gun Control, Political Correctness 
Fred Reed
About Fred Reed

Fred, a keyboard mercenary with a disorganized past, has worked on staff for Army Times, The Washingtonian, Soldier of Fortune, Federal Computer Week, and The Washington Times.

He has been published in Playboy, Soldier of Fortune, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, Harper's, National Review, Signal, Air&Space, and suchlike. He has worked as a police writer, technology editor, military specialist, and authority on mercenary soldiers.

Personal Classics
Not What Tom Jefferson Had in Mind
Sounds Like A Low-Ranked American University To Me
Very Long, Will Bore Hell Out Of Most People, But I Felt Like Doing It
It's Not A Job. It's An Adventure.
Cloudy, With Possible Tidal Wave