Why DC should not vote

April 19, 2010

Currently, DC does not have representation in the House or in the Senate. Residents of DC do get to vote for the President.

Democrats are constantly proposing bills that would allow DC to be represented in the House. In Presidential elections approximately 93% of DC voters vote Democratic. They would do so regardless of who the nominees were (for example, in 1984, only Minnesota and DC cast electoral votes for Mondale – Minnesota’s excuse was that Mondale was from Minnesota, DC had no excuse).

DC’s current license plates say "Taxation Without Representation." The theory is that DC does not have representatives, but it is taxed. This theory is wrong for three big reasons:

1) DC residents are over-represented, not under-represented. I, for example, write laws all day. According to this document, only elected representatives are supposed to be able to write laws, but we don’t really hold ourselves hostage to reactionary documents. We need to figure out ways to reduce DC’s representation, not increase it.

2) DC residents love being taxed. You can’t complain about taxation, when – by all demonstrable standards – you love taxes.

3) DC votes so consistently, generically Democratic, that the District wouldn’t really be "represented" – it would merely elect a person who would vote however Democratic Party leaders told him or her to vote.

Finally, the fact that DC has no representatives is a nice reminder that, ultimately, we are all subjects.


On the South

April 19, 2010

From Chronicles:

The current fad is to treat everything good that Southerners say about the Confederacy as part of a “Lost Cause Myth” that Southerners made up after the fact to rationalize their failure and their evilly motivated attempt to destroy the “greatest government on earth.” Robert E. Lee was not really a great general, Confederate soldiers were not really brave and out-numbered, the people really did not support the Confederacy, a distinct Southern culture was merely a pretense to defend slavery, etc., etc., etc. In the face of vast contradictory evidence, it is simply declared that everything Southerners said about themselves was a lie they made up and told after the fact. A catalog I picked up just a few days ago reported new books: The Myth of Jefferson Davis and The Myth of Bedford Forrest. You see, Southerners always make up flattering stories about themselves while Northerners just tell the true facts.

Southerners are intrinsically evil and Northerners intrinsically good. The South is not to be understood for itself, as it is and was, as something with its own life and identity. It exists only as the bad side of America. Casting us in the villain’s role is not in the least affected by the facts—that the South is now the only part of the country where a majority of black people say they feel at home, and that racial tension and hatred is more prevalent today in the big liberal states than in the South. It leads the Southerner to suspect that all the furor about imposed equality in the last half century is motivated by something less seemly than the pure thirst for justice.

It is a strange and not comfortable feeling to be the object of hatred of great numbers of people you have never met and to whom you have never done any harm. On the upside, it does give one some objective distance from the myth of unique American virtue, a false belief far more pervasive and destructive than admiration of the Lost Cause.


Review of “The Right Stuff” by Tom Wolfe

April 19, 2010

I’ve put off reading this book because I thought it would be a bit dated. It wasn’t. Tom Wolfe’s writing holds up well. Obviously, it’s about the first astronauts. Wolfe does a good job putting it in context of the Cold War and he subtlety makes just a little bit of fun of the whole process that the book has suffered as time has past. There are some great parts about the astronauts being put-off by chimpanzee pilots and great descriptions of ’60s America. But, for my money, it’s worth reading for the chapter on Chuck Yeager, alone. Here’s a snippet to wet your appetite:

Yea­ger didn’t go to Pan­cho’s and knock back a few be­cause two days lat­er the big test was com­ing up. Nor did he knock back a few be­cause it was the week­end. No, he knocked back a few be­cause night had come and he was a pi­lot at Muroc. In keep­ing with the mil­itary tra­di­tion of Fly­ing & Drink­ing, that was what you did, for no oth­er rea­son than that the sun had gone down. You went to Pan­cho’s and knocked back a few and lis­tened to the screen doors bang­ing and to oth­er avi­ators tor­tur­ing the pi­ano and the na­tion’s reper­toire of Fa­mil­iar Fa­vorites and to lone­some mouse-​turd strangers wan­der­ing in through the bang­ing doors and to Pan­cho clas­si­fy­ing the whole bunch of them as old bas­tards and mis­er­able peck­er­woods. That was what you did if you were a pi­lot at Muroc and the sun went down.

So about eleven Yea­ger got the idea that it would be a hell of a kick if he and Glen­nis sad­dled up a cou­ple of Pan­cho’s dude-​ranch hors­es and went for a romp, a lit­tle rat race, in the moon­light. This was in keep­ing with the mil­itary tra­di­tion of Fly­ing & Drink­ing and Drink­ing & Driv­ing, ex­cept that this was pre­his­toric Muroc and you rode hors­es. So Yea­ger and his wife set off on a lit­tle pro­fi­cien­cy run at full gal­lop through the desert in the moon­light amid the arthrit­ic sil­hou­ettes of the Joshua trees. Then they start rac­ing back to the cor­ral, with Yea­ger in the lead and head­ing for the gate­way. Giv­en the pre­vail­ing con­di­tions, it be­ing night­time, at Pan­cho’s, and his head be­ing filled with a black sand­storm of many bad­ly bawled songs and vul­can­ized oaths, he sees too late that the gate has been closed. Like many a hard-​driv­ing mid­night pi­lot be­fore him, he does not re­al­ize that he is not equal­ly gift­ed in the con­trol of all forms of lo­co­mo­tion. He and the horse hit the gate, and he goes fly­ing off and lands on his right side. His side hurts like hell.

The next day, Mon­day, his side still hurts like hell. It hurts ev­ery time he moves. It hurts ev­ery time he breathes deep. It hurts ev­ery time he moves his right arm. He knows that if he goes to a doc­tor at Muroc or says any­thing to any­body even re­mote­ly con­nect­ed with his su­pe­ri­ors, he will be scrubbed from the flight on Tues­day. They might even go so far as to put some oth­er mis­er­able peck­er­wood in his place. So he gets on his mo­tor­cy­cle, an old junker that Pan­cho had giv­en him, and rides over to see a doc­tor in the town of Rosa­mond, near where he lives. Ev­ery time the god­damned mo­tor­cy­cle hits a peb­ble in the road, his side hurts like a sono­fabitch. The doc­tor in Rosa­mond in­forms him he has two bro­ken ribs and he tapes them up and tells him that if he’ll just keep his right arm im­mo­bi­lized for a cou­ple of weeks and avoid any phys­ical ex­er­tion or sud­den move­ments, he should be all right.

Yea­ger gets up be­fore day­break on Tues­day morn­ing—which is sup­posed to be the day he tries to break the sound bar­ri­er—and his ribs still hurt like a sono­fabitch. He gets his wife to drive him over to the field, and he has to keep his right arm pinned down to his side to keep his ribs from hurt­ing so much. At dawn, on the day of a flight, you could hear the X-1 scream­ing long be­fore you got there. The fu­el for the X-1 was al­co­hol and liq­uid oxy­gen, oxy­gen con­vert­ed from a gas to a liq­uid by low­er­ing its tem­per­ature to 297 de­grees be­low ze­ro. And when the lox, as it was called, rolled out of the hoses and in­to the bel­ly of the X-1, it start­ed boil­ing off and the X-1 start­ed steam­ing and scream­ing like a teaket­tle. There’s quite a crowd on hand, by Muroc stan­dards… per­haps nine or ten souls. They’re still fu­el­ing the X-1 with the lox, and the beast is wail­ing.

The X-1 looked like a fat or­ange swal­low with white mark­ings. But it was re­al­ly just a length of pipe with four rock­et cham­bers in it. It had a tiny cock­pit and a nee­dle nose, two lit­tle straight blades (on­ly three and a half inch­es thick at the thick­est part) for wings, and a tail as­sem­bly set up high to avoid the “son­ic wash” from the wings. Even though his side was throb­bing and his right arm felt prac­ti­cal­ly use­less, Yea­ger fig­ured he could grit his teeth and get through the flight—ex­cept for one spe­cif­ic move he had to make. In the rock­et launch­es, the X-1, which held on­ly two and a half min­utes’ worth of fu­el, was car­ried up to twen­ty-​six thou­sand feet un­der­neath a B-29. At sev­en thou­sand feet, Yea­ger was to climb down a lad­der from the bomb bay of the B-29 to the open door­way of the X-1, hook up to the oxy­gen sys­tem and the ra­dio mi­cro­phone and ear­phones, and put his crash hel­met on and pre­pare for the launch, which would come at twen­ty-​five thou­sand feet. This hel­met was a home­made num­ber. There had nev­er been any such thing as a crash hel­met be­fore, ex­cept in stunt fly­ing. Through­out the war pi­lots had used the old skin-​tight leather hel­met-​and-​gog­gles. But the X-1 had a way of throw­ing the pi­lot around so vi­olent­ly that there was dan­ger of get­ting knocked out against the walls of the cock­pit. So Yea­ger had bought a big leather foot­ball hel­met—there were no plas­tic ones at the time—and he butchered it with a hunt­ing knife un­til he carved the right kind of holes in it, so that it would fit down over his reg­ular fly­ing hel­met and the ear­phones and the oxy­gen rig. Any­way, then his flight en­gi­neer, Jack Ri­dley, would climb down the lad­der, out in the breeze, and shove in­to place the cock­pit door, which had to be low­ered out of the bel­ly of the B-29 on a chain. Then Yea­ger had to push a han­dle to lock the door air­tight. Since the X-1’s cock­pit was minute, you had to push the han­dle with your right hand. It took quite a shove. There was no way you could move in­to po­si­tion to get enough lever­age with your left hand.

Out in the hangar Yea­ger makes a few test shoves on the sly, and the pain is so in­cred­ible he re­al­izes that there is no way a man with two bro­ken ribs is go­ing to get the door closed. It is time to con­fide in some­body, and the log­ical man is Jack Ri­dley. Ri­dley is not on­ly the flight en­gi­neer but a pi­lot him­self and a good old boy from Ok­la­homa to boot. He will un­der­stand about Fly­ing & Drink­ing and Drink­ing & Driv­ing through the god­damned Joshua trees. So Yea­ger takes Ri­dley off to the side in the tin hangar and says: Jack, I got me a lit­tle ol’ prob­lem here. Over at Pan­cho’s the oth­er night I sor­ta… dinged my god­damned ribs. Ri­dley says, Whattya mean…dinged ? Yea­ger says, Well, I guess you might say I damned near like to…broke a cou­pla the son­sabitch­es. Where­upon Yea­ger sketch­es out the prob­lem he fore­sees.

Not for noth­ing is Ri­dley the en­gi­neer on this project. He has an in­spi­ra­tion. He tells a jan­itor named Sam to cut him about nine nich­es off a broom han­dle. When no­body’s look­ing, he slips the broom­stick in­to the cock­pit of the X-1 and gives Yea­ger a lit­tle ad­vice and coun­sel.

So with that added bit of su­per­son­ic flight gear Yea­ger went aloft.


Travel

April 19, 2010

I’m supposed to go to Europe on Friday. This doesn’t sound good. I really hope my travel plans don’t get screwed.


Where HBD and SWPLs collide V

April 19, 2010

The houses in the neighborhood I live in consist mainly of row houses. My section of the neighborhood is roughly 2/3 white and 1/3 black. A few blocks east it’s 100% black and a few blocks west it’s 90+% white.

Within a week after moving to the neighborhood, one can tell immediately from the outside of a house – with almost 100% accuracy – whether the inhabitants of the house are black or white. (The only errors would be for houses that are inhabited by a mixed race couple, of which there are quite a few in the neighborhood. All these couple consist of a black man and a white woman. All their houses look like white person houses). For example, a house might be a black person’s if it has awnings, the garden is overgrown, the sidewalk is falling apart, it has no air conditioning, it has a chain-link fence, or it has no dog. These differences are especially apparent given that the white people are all SWPLs and they love taking care of their houses to the extreme.

Black people just don’t seem to take care of their houses in the way that white people do. I find this especially strange, since the houses in my neighborhood are so expensive. A well-maintained house in my immediate area easily sells for over $700,000. The value of a poorly maintained house can fall to as low as the mid $500,000s. Thus, by not doing basic maintenance and upkeep, one can throw away well over $100,000. It’s not like the blacks don’t have the money – after all, most of them drive around in really expensive cars (thus they’re spending their money on an asset that declines in value while forgoing spending on an asset that would appreciate in value if it was taken care of). Perhaps the car/house differences reflect genetic differences in time preferences.

Obsidian enjoys pointing out that most HBDers don’t live near blacks. I don’t understand this criticism – after all, we all pay for stupid education policies and higher levels of crime. As an HBDer who lives near lots of NAMs/Ice people/minorities, I would suggest that living in close proximity makes the HBDer more confident of HBDs conclusions. The differences are even more apparent when everyone is mashed together. Plus, you get regular reminders of how the worst blacks live. There are the makings of a reasonable critique from Obsidian, but The Asian of Reason gets closer. Living in proximity makes me more careful to speak in statistical terms as much as possible – HBDers should be careful not to paint with too broad a brush.


Bitch slap

April 19, 2010

Ferdinand bitch slaps Richard Hoste. It’s nice to see the HBD community policing itself. I too will probably stop reading Hoste.


Froude Society

April 16, 2010

Apparently, I’m only one book short of the Froude Society:

To join the Froude Society – actually, to become a deacon of the Froude Society – all you need to do is read three works of High Victorian political and historical criticism. I recommend this order: The Bow of Ulysses, by James Anthony Froude; Popular Government, by Henry Sumner Maine; and Latter-Day Pamphlets, by Thomas Carlyle. These books will change your life, or at least your mind.

Actually, if three books are all that is required, then I’m already in. You may now refer to me as Deacon Foseti.

It’s an honor and a privilege. Mr Moldbug’s post implies that C. Van Carter is a member. I get few readers and few commenters, but I am honored to say that C. Van Carter is among them. Apparently, the Froude Society has been developing for some time.

Mr Moldbug, however, is too humble. As I’ve said before, if I had read these works without introduction, I wouldn’t have gotten much out of them. It was only after a proper set up, from Mr Moldbug, that the works really opened up to me. Once they open up, they do change the world. Mr Moldbug says, "it is essential to read the Victorians before you read about the Victorians." This statement is only true to the extent that Mr Moldbug is not an honorary Victorian.


Immigration, blacks and SWPLs

April 16, 2010

From Steve Sailer:

In other words, St. Louis got stuck with lots of African-Americans, while richer cities like New York were pawning black Americans off on lower rent cities like St. Louis using Section 8 housing vouchers. That’s a big part underlying reason for elite immigration enthusiasm — a hope that immigrants will show up and make American blacks go away. In New York, it’s been working. The number of American-born blacks in NYC has been falling since 1979.

I think DC is following the same pattern, though it’s starting with a much larger population (relatively) of African-Americans.


Quote of the day

April 16, 2010

From Alt Right:

Democracy is a theory of government based on the notion that only a population’s sleaziest, most attention seeking, and easily bought individuals are the only ones fit for high office.


South Africa news

April 16, 2010

Here’s a round-up of recent news from South Africa.

To the extent that South Africa is a preview of our own future (which I think it is), I’d say that the future looks grim – very grim indeed.