Trans-Tribalism or: Why Traditionalists Should Stop Worrying and Embrace the Queer Revolution

I like conservatives. Not all conservatives. Not the bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran kind or the endangered white male victim kind. But the Traditionalist kind. The Old Right, Paleolibertarian, fuck-you-mind-your-own-damn-business kind. I like people like Bill Kaufman, Wendell Berry, Ron Paul and H.L. Mencken. I admire the prose and courage of Yukio Mishima. I appreciate the insight of Martin Heidegger. I think Oswald Spengler's ideas are at least as prophetic as those of Gramsci and Marx. I even think Alain de Benoist has a few good ideas (and about 67 bad ones). Justin Raimondo used to be one of my favorite writers before he mysteriously vanished up Donald Trump's orange asshole. And I consider antifa-hate-thing Troy Southgate to be a personal friend of mine.

This isn't to say that I consider myself to be a conservative. Not by a long shot. I'm a queer Yippie anarchist who's madly in love with the Frankfurt School, still reactively defends the legacy of the Cuban Revolution and supports reparations, albeit voluntary ones. I've been called an SJW so many times, I mistake it for my initials. But I also have a lot in common with the more anti-establishment fringes of the right. I love guns, hate the government and despise Joe Biden almost as much as I do Hillary Clinton. I genuinely believe that an ideal society should be centered around agrarian village life and that the millionaires in Manhattan and Bel Air are so divorced from reality that they don't even realize that they're already living in hell. I even got my start sharpening my literary teeth as an online provocateur on the boards of the isolationist antiwar.com. (Scott Horton won't publish me because he has a bug up his ass about Gonzo journalism but my dear friend Angela Keaton will probably die trying to convince him otherwise, god bless her soul.) But in spite of all this common ground, most Traditional Conservatives don't like me. Most Traditional Conservatives don't like me because they are repulsed by my fluid gender identity.

The general opinion of many of the few fabulous conservatives on trannies like me is that we're some kind of perverted aberration of decadent western values. The painfully ironic thing is that this couldn't be farther from the truth. With the recent revival of pre-Christian ideals on the Traditional Right their remains no more logical reason for these folks not to embrace the burgeoning Queer Revolution. The whole concept of two biologically exclusive genders is the product of puritanical Judeo-Christianity and malignant metropolitan modernity. Long story short, it is the gender binary that is the perverted aberration of decadent western values.

Nearly all ancient pre-Christian civilizations from the Amazon to the Danube recognized the existence of third genders, people who in today's world would be labeled transgender. Many pagan deities from Odin to Dionysus exhibited gender bending attributes and in the ancient world many people like me were not only accepted but revered members of our tribes, often serving as shaman or medicine women. To this day, the tribal communities least affected and most resistant to modern "progress" retain space for people outside of the gender binary, from the Muxe of Zapotec Oaxaca to the Hijra of rural india.

In this light, the rise of "new" gender identities outside of the binary should be seen in a similar light to the rise of the Neopagan Movement. We are people struggling to honor our spirits beyond the limited opportunities of the modern scientific establishment that holds so little respect for the sacred. We are trying to return to the roots of a more spiritual society. I could give you reams of scientific studies showing that gender identities like my own originate in the womb. But labels and numbers will always fail to capture the transcendent peace I find expressing my androgyny through ritual and community. Being transgender, whether you identify as genderqueer, non-binary, two-spirit or genderfluid, is a profoundly spiritual experience. It is something deeply sacred that is ingrained in our very souls. Something that centuries of modern tyranny failed to suppress. We are not the product of late-capitalist decadence. We are a rejection of its shallow materialistic values. We have been given a choice and we have chosen our souls over our bodies. Something tells me that Jung would be proud.

In this new era of climate catastrophe and technological isolation, as empires crash and burn like wayward zeppelins, young people across the spiritually depleted expanse of the First World are looking inward for salvation. With the uncanny connectivity of modernties great suicide machine known as the internet, a new era of tribal awareness is upon us. People have grown weary of the empty commercialism and savage ultraviolence of progress. We want something new. We want something old. We want to belong. The age of ethnic class division has reached a fever pitch in this twilight of suburbs and towers. The new tribes will not be built upon the petty distinctions of biology but by the metaphysical power of the soul that truly connects us. To those on the right who I admire but still make the mistake to disparage my tribe, I am here to say, I am with you. We are all on the same side of history. Lets make it together.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Human Behavior by Bjork
*  Roots Bloody Roots by Sepultura
*  (Nothing But) Flowers by Talking Heads
*  The Suburbs by Father John Misty
*  Life On Mars by David Bowie
*  The Glorious Land by PJ Harvey
*  Call From the Grave by Bathory
*  Staralfur by Sigur Ros

We Are All Julian Assange!: An Anarchist Soliloquy

These are the days, dearest motherfuckers. These are those days. These days. These days of rage. These do or die days. These all or nothing days. These days with the ice caps melting and the seas rising to drown their wayward children. These days with the empire collapsing all around us in heaps of flames like the glowing red spires of a thousand Notre Damme's. Days of hysteria and blindness. Days of gnashing teeth and talking heads decapitated from the reality they pontificate upon. Days of drones strikes and indefinite detention. The end of days for the worlds most abominable superpower, exit stage right. But the actors in this epic tragedy are revolting. Swing low, sweet cherry, Helter Skelter is coming down with a fight. Nero's finale is rapidly becoming a concerto. In days like these, truth has become a precious commodity. The kind of glimmering prize that even the better angels of our nature are tempted to horde. But sadly sometimes even horded prizes can be taken for granite. Washed away in the rapids of filth that can only be called "truth" in parentheses.

It's not easy to tell eight billion people that they are damned to a hell of their own creation. Pacifists have been crucified for far less. An entire estate once devoted to just such a task has collapsed beneath the weight of its responsibility. A whole new estate had to be created on the fringes to take their place. Unlike the Fourth, we dreary partisans of the Fifth Estate are not charming birds performing behind the gilded cage of a faberge news desk. We are not the beautiful people. We are the freaks, the weirdos, the hackers, the leakers, the bloggers, the trolls, the 300 pound kids in Belorussian babushka's basements pounding our stubby little fingers black and blue against our machines. We are the heard unseen. We are the fissures in the crumbling iceberg. The embers in the belfry. And this week we are all Julian Assange.

Seven long years buried alive in the catacombs of a South American embassy. Or was it eight? So hard to tell with no sunlight. Shanghaid on trumped up charges for the crime of exposing the horrific realities of America's rapidly collapsing forever wars. Seven long years of playing claustrophobic games of cat and mouse with the closing walls. Tempting fate to jump first from the brink of our burgeoning insanity. We told the truth. We showed it to them in stark black and white. We showed them the bodies. First the men, their guilt unverified, irrelevant. Then the women. Then the children. Fed, charred, writhing and screaming to the tomahawk fangs of a great green machine, it's vital organs laughing and cheering, basking in the thick black smoke of their state sanctioned cruelty. We showed them the digital kraken in the Utah desert. We showed them the tentacles connecting our police state to every flickering screen in this country and beyond, keeping tabs on the indentured citizenry of a world that can only be called "free" in parentheses. They just shrugged.

We told you the truth! We told you everything! We carried the freedom the press dropped on Golgotha like a soiled cross. We carried it on our brittle shoulders with no help from Christ. We sacrificed our freedom, our health, our very sanity. We gave it all to you on a silver platter like the severed head of John the Baptist and your thanks for this sacrifice is cruel indifference, total radio silence while the cameras of the Fouled Estate capture our final journey between prison cells. Skin bleached by shadows. Long beard, tangled and grey like the smoke from a drone strike. Head still held high, screaming obscenities to the heavens with the crumpled proverbs of Gore Vidal clenched in our shackled fists. Still speaking truth to no one like an Old Testament prophet warning a joyfully oblivious Gomorrah of the flames that await it if it consents to such barbarism. And it consents, with a shrug. It always consents. The truth is a second rate high at best to a population of permanent children weaned on fentanyl and war porn.

Today we are all Julian Assange because if they can crucify Julian Assange they can crucify any one of us. Like Julian, we are not simply guilty of being journalists. We are guilty of being members of the Fifth and final Estate. We are guilty of being truth tellers, untethered to the multinational life-support-system of big business and bigger government. We are guilty of colluding with one another across their manufactured borders dividing us into left and right. We are guilty of spitting out the poison of the propaganda that once passed for journalism in this country. We are guilty of betraying their shallow patriotism in the name of truth. We are guilty as charged and we are aggressively unapologetic for our crimes.

We are all Julian Assange. We are all Chelsea Manning. We are all Reality Winner. We are all Edward Snowden, Glen Greenwald, Ross Ulbricht, Cody Wilson, Jeremy Scahill, Peter Van Buren and Laura Poitras. We are the charred, writhing, screaming corpses of the earth. We are the children you left home alone while you went out starting fires in the Middle East and we found the loaded .45 you keep under the bed. We are the Fifth fucking Estate. We are pissed off and we are not going away. When you crucify one of us, you crucify all of us. I hope you brought a lot of nails. We will make things ugly for you and that's a promise I aim to keep. You want a war? You got one. Bring your guns, hell, bring your goddamn atom bombs. I will outfox them all with my blog. My keyboard is one weapon of mass destruction you don't have to fabricate. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.



Your's in Lucifer, Pan, Loki & Christ- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
*  Helter Skelter by the Beatles
*  Heads Gonna Roll by Jenny Lewis
*  Awful by Hole
*  Pretty by Girlpool
*  Float On by Modest Mouse
*  Don't be so Hard on Yourself by Alex Lahey
*  The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton by the Mountain Goats
*  Karma Police by Radiohead

The Strange Success of Russiagate

It was the popcorn fart heard round the world. After two years of the vilest Russophobic hysteria seen since McCarthy was hauled off to a laughing academy in a straight-jacket, Robert Mueller, patron saint of butt-hurt Dems and indefinite Muslim detention, came to a conclusion on Russiagate only stunning to those of us who don't live outside the bulletproof walls of stone blind denial. After 37 indictments for totally unrelated Beltway scumbaggery. After $26 million of the taxpayers pilfered dollars flushed down the fucking toilet. After five hundred thousand hours of unhinged sore losers like Rachel Maddow giving Alex Jones a run for his money screaming their bloody heads off about one grassy knoll after another. The results of the great Russian Inquisition of 2019 are bupkis, notta, zero, no collusion whatsoever between one Donald J. Trump and the Putin regime. You could have heard a pin-head drop at MSDNC.

It was like the last scene of the Sopranos. Ivanka is struggling to park the Jag. Melania and Baron are popping onion rings. Putin heads for the bathroom with his hand shoved deep in his Members Only jacket. Journey swells on the jukebox. The bells on the door jangle. Donny's big orange face looks up it's "Don't stop!....". Lights out. And the pumped up kiddos in the #Resistance are smacking the side of the Sony until Robert Mueller's name appears on the credits. There all screaming high-holy what-the-fucks while skeptical cunts like me struggle to hold back our hysteric laughter long enough to say I told you so. Long story short; No collusion, you imbeciles! A sexually aggressive cartoon character became president because you insisted on cutting corners for a bomb dropping Wall Street battle ax who the Rustbelt casualties in purple America couldn't stomach voting for. You lose. You blew it. There are no boogeymen with long Slavic names to blame. You suck. Game over.

Naturally, the faithful in snowflake country are taking the news a little hard. Some of them are still holding out hope for a secret Easter egg of collusion buried somewhere deep in the fully unredacted Mueller Report and who knows, they could get lucky. There might be some shred of humiliating evidence lost in that massive unholy Finnegan's Wake of labyrinthine documentation. Some whimsical anecdote from a Ukrainian goat herder about a meeting between Trump and Stalin at a Burger King ten miles outside of Donetsk. Lord knows the Truthers managed to milk the 9/11 Commission Report for a few fleeting boners. And if the public never gets their hands on it, both sides of Congress will be able to spin this thing into more converging narratives than the New Testament. We will have the Adam Schiff Book of Mueller, the Devin Nunes Book of Mueller, the Dianne Feinstein Book of Mueller, each more bullshit than the last.

But the truly woke members of the Resistance have already begun to accept the harsh reality that if an old school neocon gumshoe like Mueller couldn't justify his pitiful career of framing immigrant children for terror plots with a climactic slam dunk then there was never really any 'there' there to begin with. Mueller is one of the assholes who legitimized the Iraq War with nothing but a few crumbs of yellow cake and a C+ term paper. If even a steel-haired master inquisitor like him couldn't scrounge up enough dirt to save face for such a pointless publicity stunt then the litter box is officially empty. No one wants to go down in history as a foot note next to Ken Starr. These well intentioned dupes who invested so much of their hopes and dreams of saving America from the Orange Menace into this aimless witch hunt are finally awakening to the nightmare that their crusaders for truth in the Fourth Estate and the deep state have mislead them down the rabbit hole into becoming the new Truthers. They're looking up at their dorm room walls as we speak, to a manic collage of crumpled receipts, torn magazine adds and scribbled Post-it notes tied together with thumbtacks and red yarn and asking themselves, "What in god's green dick have I become?"

With any luck these shell-shocked man-children will never trust another mainstream journalist or federal agent ever again and I take comfort in that. But does that mean that Russiagate was a total bust? Well, that really all depends on how you look at it. If the point was to vindicate the Democrats for losing the White House to a confirmed lunatic then the answer is a pretty resounding yes. However, if you're one of this countries talking heads on loan from the Military Industrial Complex, you have a long career and a grossly increased stream of income to look forward to. That's because the most lasting result of our latest Red Scare has been pushing both parties to embrace the most dangerously Russophobic foreign policy positions that we've seen since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even the once ostensibly detente friendly Donald Trump has eviscerated the INF Treaty, threatened World War Three over Kremlin aid to the embattled Maduro regime in Caracas and completely forgotten Julian Assange's name as he's being hauled off to Florence Supermax for the next thousand years.

And perhaps this was the point all along. Not to impeach a president who has turned the world's foremost sinking superpower into a laughing stalk. But to insure that a geostrategic wildcard with possible financial ties to sanctioned Russian oligarchs stayed the course and kept the new Cold War the deep state has invested so much time and money into running. If the latter is indeed the case then I'd say that Russiagate has been a resounding success. Congrats, boys. Once again, you've made the world a far more dangerous and prosperous place. The Dulles brothers would be so proud.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Surrender by Cheap Trick
*  Insomniac by Echobelly
*  Don't Stop Believin by Journey
*  Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
*  I'm the Man by Joe Jackson
*  Hate To Say I Told You So by the Hives
*  Back In the USSR by the Beatles
*  Don't Look Back In Anger by Oasis
*  Better by Regina Spektor

Fuck the Border

Well, he finally got what he wanted, dearest motherfuckers. That vile crusted jizz rag we call a president has finally managed to manufacture an actual crisis at the border. After months of saber rattling conspiracy theories about secret jihadists and child actors, after years of demonizing people escaping the shitholes that Uncle Sam dug himself in the killing fields of the Northern Triangle, the grand swarms have finally arrived, too great in number for even the Donald's enemies on the fake news to ignore. Naturally, Trump is playing up this tragedy as vindication for all his racist wolf-crying but the sick reality is that it's likely largely the result of it. A self-fulfilling doomsday prophecy for the MAGA era.

As Trump and his Mexican counterparts have turned the southern border into a fucking war zone, refugees see the last window closing on their hopes to escape the despotic and corrupt regimes that American taxpayers continue to prop up. If not now than never. So they pool their feeble savings into massive caravans and weather the storm troopers on the American DMZ with their gas and their guns. And the talking heads on my TV set have the nerve to question whether or not these people qualify as refugees. What sane mob of mothers would risk such merciless abuse for their own children unless they literally feared for their lives? So they brave that perilous invisible line drawn in the sand by the crusaders of Manifest Destiny in the razor slim hope that maybe, just maybe, they can escape the hordes of badged barbarians who hunt them down in the desert like animals.

The result of their desperate predicament is prisons packed with children orphaned by our runaway police state. Caged. Traumatized. Violated. Abused in every way imaginable. There exists no moral excuse for torturing children like this. Zero. This is state sanctioned child abuse on an industrial level. The Pope must be green with envy. Thousands of these nameless kids rot in cages like the carcasses of chewed up animals at a war torn zoo. Filthy. Degraded. Dehumanized. Never to be reunited with their mothers, many of whom are undoubtedly getting gang-raped as we speak in our gulag archipelago of privatized black holes. Trump's solution to this sickening display of human depravity is naturally more human depravity. More guards. More guns. More walls. More barbed wire. Beautiful barbed wire. Beautiful dungeons stuffed with the poorest people in the Western Hemisphere. Beautiful roaming gangs of ill-trained, well payed and role crazy kidnappers cruising elementary schools and cancer wards for a fresh crop of brown prey.

In a nutshell, more beautiful infrastructure to manufacture the illusion that a border is anything but an invisible and largely arbitrary line in the desert drawn to police human beings like cattle and sell deadly toys to their ranchers. Borders are a concept defined by statism, colonialism and the violence these things thrive on. The only means of policing these commons is by violating the basic civil right of voluntary movement. There is no humane way to do this. Any do-gooder progressive poseur who tells you otherwise is either a liar or an imbecile. Either way, they only serve to justify the existence of the fascist police state, as does the very notion of the border itself. People have the right to protect their private property as they see fit but no one owns the desert. No one owns the Rio Grande. And no one has the right to police those peaceful nomads who choose to make a living across a landscape that has hosted their ancestral tribes since the white man was still fucking his siblings back in rat plagued Europe.

There is only one solution to the turmoil at the border which represents the basic values of the voluntaryism that gives all forms of anti-statism meaning and that is the wholesale disintegration of that border as a practice and a concept. I'm all for tribalism, it's only natural. But any tribe who requires a child abusing police state doesn't deserve to exist. We can all do better than this.

Fuck the border, dearest motherfuckers. And that's a quote you can chisel into my grave stone. Cowards who betray children should fucking suffer and that includes that vile, malignant scumbag in the Oval Office. Forget impeachment. sow me a noose. Nuremberg is missing an orange pinata. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few thousand prison breaks to plan.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



P.S. To any censorious spook, public or private, who lacks the capacity to grasp my sense of humor, I live at 138 Katherine Drive in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. Just try and hold-off the drone strike until after 11:30 PM. I don't like to miss Rick & Morty. Thanks.



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Zombie by the Cranberries
*  White Minority by Black Flag
*  Panic by the Smiths
*  Lynch the Landlord by Dead Kennedy's
*  Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones
*  All Over Now by the Cranberries
*  First In the Gang to Die by Morrissey
*  Landslide by Beirut