Click to Subscribe

[Stream Mode] [Standard Mode]


Articles:   Skip:     Search
Flop The Zero Phone Had A Stroke
Crackpot Contact News
Yesterday, Flop the Zero Phone, after a mere year of faithful if retarded service, fell from the palsied hand of this old crumb. Held together by packaging tap, he is deaf, can make calls, that can be heard, but cannot hear himself.
By March 2nd, I should have a replacement. Until then, for my few dozen readers and training partners that keep touch by phone, I can only text.
I would like to take this time to remember Ron, a nice, clean homeless man, who walked two miles to get Kelly, Mike and Me a case of beer on Superbowl Sunday and was in the habit of protecting civilian women form the tweaker army here in Southeast Portland.
Thanks, Ron. Sorry you died alone.
Holgate, Portland, 2/20/24
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [link]
posted: February 20, 2024   reads: 2185   © 2024 James LaFond
James Anderson
Novelist, Poet, Historian, Rugby Player, Knucklehead, Broadsword Fencer, James Anderson
James has texted me that he has sent numerous emails to me for fiction and nonfiction to post on this site on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when i no longer schedule posts.
Unfortunately, until April 15, I will not be able to access my emails.
Also, my flip phone is not capable of communicating with this computer.
James and i are hoping to get together back east, somewhere between Mooncricket-Haunted Zamboula and Lich-Ruled Stygia to do some pulp fiction video discussions in Mid 2024, provided he is available between Raids on Pictland and Argos.
James, i am sorry, but the tribe I'm living with is as low tech as i am, their pet Wendigo.
Load the email box up with separate emails for each article, story, etc, and once Motherboard gets me back online, i' will schedule you for the Tuesday and Thursday slots.
Oh, Motherboard. the novel, whenever it runs, is mostly autobiographical, based on actual events and dreams from the wells of decrepitude. i set it in a post apocalyptic frame so it would seem more believable. The Motherboard and Tinman characters, and supporting cast, are real folks who i trust not to sue me for candor.
I don't know when Motherboard is scheduled to begin posting, but the linking tag is above.
James, maybe you could use the comment section here to post a link to your site.
Also, readers, by following the guest author tag above you will find live links to James' site.
I can now walk—just not uphill—and box. A soon as this bronchitis clears up, Beast O'Neal, Dog Soldier and i will be boxing.
02.07.24   James Andersen — James! Glad to hear your physical state is improving. Thank you for the profile and the update...stay warm up there.

For those interested my website is:

Jamesrandersen.com
name email
[blog]   [Guest Authors]  [The Author in Print]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [Motherboard]  [link]
posted: February 4, 2024   reads: 3020   © 2024 James Andersen
Jason's Book
The Master of the Esoteric Cafe Has Translated A German Language Infoteric Classic
Last year I read the first 27 pages of Jason's translation form the German of a book on Seriality.
He has emailed me the information for the print book.
There is a problem.
I am still techtarded and I have moved from the home of the Big Brained Nimbus who spent 3 hours on New Year's Day getting my email computer online.
Skype has also kicked me out, saying that I am not who I say I am.
Without a computer savvy person, i cannot prove that i am not a computer.
So, Jason, please use the comment section to place a link to your work, with a title and subtitle separate, as I don't think links work through our comment section and the reader will need search.
I will not be able to get back online to do anything other than post from my brain to the back of this site. I cannot email, skype, use links sent to Flop the Luddite Zero, until I get to the Brickmouse House and have Motherboard get me online, crica April 15.
02.05.24   Jason David Bulkeley — James: Here's a link to the introduction of my book. It's all about Paul Kammerer and the Law of Seriality, his 1919 landmark work on coincidence, which inspired Carl Jung's study on Synchronicity

"C:UsersOwnerOneDriveDocumentsLAWOFSERIESANDPAULKAMMERER.pdf"

And here's a link to the book cover

https://1drv.ms/b/s1drv.ms/b/s!AhohzddJrlWVg bkIaarOUAJ9DxsRmA?e=S4c4PD

And here's a link to the Amazon page for ordering the book:

https://a.co/d/98b8qHta.co/d/98b8qHt

Thanks!

Jason
name email
[blog]   [Book Reviews]  [Guest Authors]  [link]
posted: February 4, 2024   reads: 3020   © 2024 Jason David Bulkeley
Notes from the Abyss
On Dramatic Post-Covid Changes in America: 5/26/2022
As I have traveled eastward over this spring I have attempted to list the major changes in public life that occurred between January 2020 and May 2023.
These will be:
-1. New, never before seen conditions that are now common in American life.
-2. Exponential increases or decreases in conditions that were present before Covid19 changed our world and are now, 2, 3, 4 or more times more common than before or 1/3, ½ or ¼ less common. For these I will list a multiple from my observations. Decreases are very much less than increases, indicating a weighting of social pressure.
The area under observation included:
-1. The Pacific Northwest
-2. California Bay Area
-3. Chicago Area
-4. Pennsylvania
-5. Maryland
Categories
-1. Mobility
-2. Economy
-3. Society
Mobility
26 categories
-1. Amtrak: 25% less people take the train than in 2019
-2. Light rail: 25% less people take the light rail
-3. Local bus service has expanded and improved everywhere without an expansion of passengers, indicating that this service is intended for those who have yet to arrive in Murica.
-4. Cab service is at ¼ of previous
-5. Sedan service is at 1/3 of previous
-6. Bicyclists at ½ as common, despite ten fold expansion of bike lanes.
-7. Auto traffic is at pre covid levels, but congestion is twice as bad in cities as auto lanes have been replaced with bike lanes, making most four lane primary streets into single lane each way.
-8. e bikes are 10 times more common.
-9. free electric scooters are 1,000 times more common nationwide.
-10. scooter chairs and other disability means are twice as common.
-11. private buses and shuttles are twice as common.
-12. private train cars are 10 times as common.
-13. freight trains are 4 times as common and twice as long, making rail traffic 8 times heavier than pre plague times.
-14. pedestrians by race: Asian = same, latino = same, Caucasian = x2, African = 1/3
-15. gas prices x2
-16. car and truck prices x2
-17. rental car availability ¼
-18. train tickets +25%
-19. Bus fare +25%
-20. illegal dirt bikes and ATVs in urban areas x20
-21. illegally parked campers in urban areas x1,000, yes one thousand
-22. traffic stops down by ½
-23. road rage x4
-24. tractor trailers, box trucks, no change
-25. motor cycles down by 1/3
-26. train accidents x20
-27. car accidents x2
Economy
38 categories
-1. Businesses closed x4
-2. Businesses boarded up but open: NEW
-3. Businesses with reduced hours x100
-4. Reduced service x10
-5. Price increases across the board but less than double
-6. delivery instead of carry out x20
-7. male service instead of female x2
-8. female clerks instead of male in grocery stores x4
-9. wages + ¼
-10. help wanted signs x 20
-11. signing bonuses on help wanted signs: NEW
-12. out of stock x10
-13. retail security x 10
-14. armed security x 10
-15. medical police x 2
-16. medical waits x4
-17. medical costs x2
-18. remote medical appointments: NEW
-19. medicine prices x2
-20. medical shortages: antibiotics & blood thinners
-21. medical weed: NEW, everywhere, all kinds,
-22. weed rage: NEW
-23. public weed use x1,000
-24. public needle use x100
-25. public meth cooking: NEW
-26. public drinking x100
-27. drunken rage x 10
-28. vaping x4
-29. cigars x2
-30. cigarettes x2
-31. fiction sales [for me] x3
-32. fiction display space in brick and mortar x2
-33. combat arts training down by ½
-34. NFL is woke: NEW, a 180 degree turn
-35. MLB is woke: NEW
-36. Percentage of woke commercials increase x4 to all
-37. Female focus: sports x10, movies x 4, TV x2, commercials x2, news x2,
-38. shoplifting x 100
Society
52 categories
-1. comping x4
-2. hiking x 2
-3. public leisure, dining, etc. down by ¼
-4. visible police ½
-5. female police x4
-6. police of color x 2
-7. murder x 2
-8. carjackings x 10
-9. car theft x 20
-10. assault x 4
-11. battery x 2
-12. human trafficking in public x4
-13. prostitution x3
-14. tranny advocacy x10,000
-15. homosexual advocacy x 100
-16. racial politics x4
-17. political correctness x4 in more mundane spheres
-18. demands that you forgo HIPPA protection: NEW
-19. private military contractors on patrol x 10
-20. private police department buildings: NEW
-21. ‘Behavioral Health’ centers: NEW
-22. Rehab centers x2
-23. Online drug rehab and treatment: NEW
-24. Pregnant white women robbing black men: NEW
-25. Vacant houses x2
-26. homeless tents x4
-27. homeless without tents x2
-28. homeless shelters x 2
-29. homeless tiny houses: NEW
-30. rent up ¼
-31. fat people x4
-32. supper fat fucks x4
-33. middle easterners x3
-34. Latinos up ½
-35. Africans x4
-36. Asians up ¼
-37. Indians, Pakis and Sikhs x2
-38. wounded warrior signs x3
-39. pet welfare signs x10
-40. cat owners x 2
-41. increase in number of cats x 2
-42. increase in stray/lost cats x10
-43. dog parents x2
-44. stolen dogs x2
-45. Caucasian homeless in black ghettos x1,000
-46. public insanity x10
-47. urban gunfire x2
-48. flags at half mast: NEW, from the death of a president once every ten years to a quarter of all municipal flags being half mast in any given week in any given local.
-49. Home invasion x100
-50. public abduction x10
-51. mass shootings x10
-52. medical masking: NEW, with a ground floor of 5% [Caucasian] to 25% [Asian] of all Americans wearing masks outside depending on race and location. Currently 20% of blacks on Baltimore City buses wear masks, most Asians in all circumstances, with boomers and millenials among Caucasians masking at Asian levels.
Total number of significance changes
NEW Conditions
Mobility = 0
Economy = 8
Society = 8
Significant Increases
Mobility = 16 to include costs, means and activity
Economy = 25
Society = 42 increases in behaviors, mostly delusion, hedonistic or pathological
Significant Decreases
Mobility = 9, mostly in use
Economy = 1 decrease, in sporting participation
Society = 1, the only social activity that remains below pre covid levels is public participation in such leisure as dining out.
name email
[blog]   [link]
posted: February 2, 2024   reads: 3238   © 2023 James LaFond
‘Casting a Dart Into That All Seeing Eye’
Jeth Randolph Discusses Our Orphan Nations: 8/28/2023
[My comments to this friendly letter from the author of the 1-to-1 combat series are in brackets.
Thanks James,
great to hear from you and cheers for Cube, am just finishing LaMotta's autobiography and will need some good fiction haha.
[When I saw that Jeth bought Orphan Nation from the site e-store I sent a copy of Cube, since it is combat arts based fictions set in a future that returns to overt ownership of humans by companies, just as The Virginia Company, The Royal African Company and the East India Company, or ‘John Company’ as Burton, one of its officers, described it. LaMotta’s biography was kind of bleak, especially his remorse over beating the old jew with a pipe in the alley.]
Man, Orphan Nation is quite a read James. I perhaps made the mistake of binge reading it last night and it's almost overwhelming in places to take in the scale of it as well as the anger it induces. 
[The entire Plantation America project has kindled a smoldering determination in me, which does sometimes rise to actual anger in conversation with believers in the American Lie, who insist I swallow their delusion. I never get angry reading or writing, except when I am tasked by a reader with the sacred duty of Negro Worship. That is a good reason not to re-poen the Crackpot Mailbox. You see, reading and writing, even of horrible facts, soothes me somehow. Since I have joined the undead on December 11, 2017, I have only experienced anger a few times, mostly when young men of my race have threatened me for refusing to alter my brain chemistry according to their favorite method.]
It also triggered a google rabbit hole of reading (The other chapters will similarly do the same) on "Dr" Barnardo - what a fucking creep. 
[This man admitted in court to abducting and selling children over 80 times and was never convicted! He stands as strident testament to the FACT that Great Britain and Her devil spawn USG are Satanic devices for the devouring of our souls.]
In Grafting a new branch, you wrote:
“A lost friend is another wound in our procession into death.”
[I have not considered, until now—perhaps you found me stumbling upon the idea in 2021—that the millions of abducted children and youths torn from friends and often family, left behind orphans of a stranded kind. With 10,000 tykes a year sold off to a likely death and a nearly certain discontinuance of their blood, out of Great Britain alone, how many holes were left in the lives of those who escaped the sackmen? Recently, a friend of mine underwent a severer psychic break, based largely on the loss of a third of his friends over the past 3 years of Covid isolation paranoia. In an orphaned society, such as the Modern West, where family is mostly dead, the loss of even a single friend is a deep wound for many.]
I found this whole chapter to be spot on, I've been dealing with the loss of a best friend of many years earlier this year and this really hit home. 
[I never considered the effect of reading this series on Brits, naively assuming that you all would not be interest in the subject.]
The observation of later life friends being from combat training or online writing are also particularly true.
[For all of the fаggotry or the Sissy Western World, the extreme feminist emasculation of this degenerate global homosexual society has made of ritual combat arts an island of sanity. I am sad, and dead inside, now that I may no longer participate in competition or sparring. But, I got to live and to meet better men through these arts mostly because we live under the Satanic Quean. As well, as much as I hate technological living, this accursed internet, this web of satanic manipulation, has enabled me to meet in person as many internet friends as gym met men. As BITCH World waxes and then becomes Trannydom we do have friends and comrades met along the very monstrous pathways designed to bind us, bringing the maze of Minos to mind.]  
And here I wanted to thank you for helping me with my work this end and for doing so without any ask in return - thank you James.
[Thank you Jeth. It makes me sad that we will never shake hands.]
Here's to casting a dart into that all seeing eye my friend.
[I would like to report, that The Colonel, who I wintered with in the Cascades above Seattle, one of Satan’s favorite hives, has escaped the shadow of USG into a very remote wilderness valley in the high northern Rockies. If my health holds, I hope to visit him there. He was an officer in the same unit your Uncle served in, the Army Rangers. Hopefully he will not run into a grizzly cow wearing a Pentagon designed strap-on dildo…]
Warm regards,
Jeth
[My only remaining purpose on this wasted world is to cast said darts into that monstrous eye.]
Thanks James.
My author page is: 
My writing is over at:
The articles are a mix of free and paywalled to stop me from hanging myself with thought crime and also getting ripped off, usual story these days.
01.25.24   Jeth — Thank you James, and warm regards to The Colonel when you see him. Jeth
name email
[blog]   [Guest Authors]  [Plantation America]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [link]
posted: January 22, 2024   reads: 3822   © 2023 Jeth
Injury Recovery
Can The Crackpot, Fight, Train, Work or Walk?
Well, this cracker can write. The back and leg are up to 4-6 hours a day of sitting. The eye, not so much. In the middle of a bad eye episode right now, I write with my glasses on over the eye patch.
Since the June 5th, 2023 injury, which might have been a voodoo curse placed upon me by the crippled Haitian at Hamilton and Harford who I bought a bottle of water from on the 8th, I found myself by Friday the 9th at this floor:
Lifting capacity: 5th of whiskey, unable to lift a handle.
Hauling capacity: had to move cans of beer or botles of water by placing them in my lap and scooting across the floor, dragging my legs with arms.
Movement: crawling, monkey climbing stairs, scooting. Movement increased to walker, to crutches, to cane over three months.
Could not train, fight, write or work,not even writing.
Therapy Exercises:
Crunches were at 3 by September 1, 1 set.
Full flexibility was achieved at about that time. The fact I had 100% flexibility before injury was clutch in rehab.
I did hours a day of assisted leg motions while prone, moving my knees and hips with my arms. I still do these as warm ups.
Here are my last two days of activity:
I can now extend a gallon in my hand without spraining the lumbar.
I move 3 wheel barrows of fire wood a day and can push a full shopping cart, but have trouble turning and cannot pull more than a dresser drawer. I can split wood with an ax but not fell or saw, and cannot pull the cord on the gas generator. Without the woodstove, I would have died two weeks ago.
Training
Daily
2 hours prone, traction mobility and flexibility
30 minutes upright flexibility, leg strengthening and lumbar stacking
30 minutes seated shoulder mobility and stretches and lumbar traction
30 minutes of limping [this maxes out the leg is sometimes done with crutches, cane, walking stick or freestyle. Walking with a shopping cart in front is good therapy as I have a hard time keeping from falling forward over the right leg. I have no breaking or pivoting ability with that leg. I have maxed out the nerve meds and can’t push this any more.
Day 1
10 pound dumbell, one, all I have
6 sets of curls, lying with arm hanging over bed for 10 to 30 reps a set.
3 10 minute sets of pull overs for maybe 500 reps total
3 sets of seated tricep presses, 10 to 20 reps
2 sets of prone two handed tricep presses
2 10 minute sets of prone slow punches, like punching up off the floor while mounted, for about 300 dumbell punch presses
Day 2
4 sets of crunches: 40, 40, 30, 20 [yesterday, which was pushing it and had pushed the lumbar close to a sprain]
4 sets of knee raises, very careful, uncounted
2 sets of rocking leg raises, throwing the knees to face and feat over edge of bed
40 minutes of shadow boxing
I can box defensively southpaw and offensively from a left lead
I cannot do any weapon foot work, am unstable walking, cannot walk up and down stairs. A 5% grade is a challenge going up. There has been no improvement in the injury to the femoral nerve on the right, and the one on the left is showing symptoms. The left knee is in distress. Building the upper body is over loading the legs.
Can move with crutches in a light back back.
Am at high risk of back sprain and starting to work the obliques carefully.
Am interested in Doc Dread Xraying lumbar again. I think I have decompressed the spine on the right side.
I cannot do any standing yoga exercises, still, only three prone and one seated.
The nerve medicine has degraded my mental acuity by 30% and my eye hand coordination and timing, for kitchen tasks, by 50%. My blood pressure is so low that I can drink 2 pots of coffee and still go to sleep.
I sleep a lot, 9 to 12 hours.
The two biggest nerves in my body are pinched in the groin, one severely and also twisted and stretched. This injury is rare and usually caused during the course of hip replacement surgery. The abdominal surgeon told me that such groin pain in older men mimicking hernia symptoms is typically related to hip distress.
My goal now, is to drop 20 pounds in hopes of taking stress off the legs. At injury I was 154. In July I was 139. I am now 165. I have picked up what seems to be 11 pounds of fat, as the additional muscle in my upper body is offset by the loss of half the mass in the right leg. The problem is my inability to burn calories. When I leave here in a weak and no longer have access to weights and all this high protein free food, I plan on fasting 3 days a week and hitting the bags at the MMA gym twice a week to get down to 145.
When I hit Pittsburgh, Guru Rick plans on taking me to the Powerhouse Gym and seeing what weight machines I can use. Then, once I hit the Brickmouse House about April 10, I will have access to punching bags and light weights.
Thank you all so much for your concern.
I have been asked if I will fight again. The only thing I could do is box. I can spar. I’ll only fight if the challenger is crippled or if Mister Saffrano wants a hands of mud rematch.
James, Cedar Mountain, Washington
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [The Combat Space]  [link]
posted: January 21, 2024   reads: 3806   © 2024 James LaFond
Sexless Young Men & Neo-Puritans
Achilleas and the Crackpot Discuss the Sissy: 8/1/2023
[The reader for the Aryas Project expresses some concern that a subject of this email might launch a law suit. So, I am redacting the identity of that party.]
Mr. LaFond I am currently reading your "Sons of Aryas" book and I find it amazing so far. I will finish it by next week and I can't wait to write what I think about it. You have been an inspiration, through and through, be it your books or your martial arts journey.
I am sending you this email as I would like some "LaFondian" analysis on what I am about to tell you below. I've noticed that in our emasculated world (and I say world and not "the West" because I've studied in a University in London for five years and, let me tell you, the Asians and the Middle Easterns are even bigger sissies than the Anglo-Saxons), there is a huge amount of sexlessness in young men. Even though I was bullied as a child at school and my mother was adamant as not to join a boxing gym, the second I was eighteen and left home I immediately started kick-boxing and lifting weights. And even emasculated, romantic, naive me when I went to the UK (just because I lifted weights and new how to fight) was pulling serious tail. I was so naive back then that I even had women complimenting my prowess in front of other men or doing anything they could do to touch my arms. Back then I would instinctively think that I didn't need them as I was searching for real love... I was THAT naive back then! But I've realised that the vast majority of millennials are extremely sex starved and that brings me to this email.
First things first, I am an Orthodox Christian. Not because I was born into it (we never went to church as a family), neither through osmosis, but due to the fact that I believe that it's the Truth. But after getting that out of the way I just have to tell you that I've had enough with all of these Christian men. Especially the so called "Traditional ones". These men wouldn't know what fun and excitement was if it hit them on the face. Instead of them talking in simple terms, telling us that we are fallen, that we have intrusive thoughts, that we are all in this together, and that there is no such a thing as one size fits all when it comes to the Will and Providence of God, these neo-puritans want to mold you into what they are. Unfunny, cowardly, moralising. They are the ones talking down on people having sex, fighting and experimenting with life without realising that someone believes in God, and gets saved, not due to following "steps", like God is some sort of short-sited, spiteful, parole officer, but by acting according to his Will and living life through stages of maturity, learning, re-learning and un-learning what we know in the course of our lives until we reach the Truth. But by following their logic the only way this is possible is by getting to a point back in time when there were arranged marriages abound. You know... the same marriages that ended like a lot of non-arranged marriages. Beatings, lies, mistreatment of children by both parents etc. And by reading your book right now it dawned on me. These people aren't patriarchs, these people don't want to find a nurturing, child-protecting, loving wife, these people don't want to go back in time (in a place that never existed by the way) to be closer to God, these BITCHES want to feel SAFE! After all the history we know on how the world works for the past 4.000 years these people still believe in "SAFETY"!!! Is this the same safety Jesus Christ had? The same safety that put him on the Cross? If Jesus was walking the earth in this day and age challenging the authorities and the norms of our day like He did in His day these people would call him callous. Maybe even a vagabond as He never owned a house or had money. HA HA HA HA!!! And they have the audacity to pass this bitch mentality to younger, impressionable men?
Now, I will send you the website of these assholes so you can see for yourself. Apparently, these two grifters have been married for years. One of them [redacted] is married to a mixed-race woman with a shaved head... Now, I am no psychiatrist but that shit doesn't seem normal to me. Long story short these two assholes want to charge, sexless, impressionable, scared, boys 1.000 dollars so they can find them a [religious] wife! They will also interview the young man to see if "he is going to be a good fit"!!!!! We are talking about some meta-traditionalist stuff right there! The men that will go through with this will basically pay for a family experience! Is this where the world is headed? You will have to pay money so you could "go back" to "Traditionaland"? Is this a fever dream?
Apparently, that [redacted] guy, had written to a post of a young man asking him if he "should be punched in the face" (as a rite of passage into adulthood) to not do that. And I quote: "NO! You can die from that!". I wonder what the raping, bullying, thuggish Crusader of old would say to that statement! I would love to be in front of that conversation!
I know that this isn't even a rant. It's a literal tangent and I apologise. I just think that you are (probably) the only guy that will tell me if I am wrong in the things I've written, considering the fact that you are an expert on what constitutes the "Masculine" through the ages.
By the way, I don't know if you would want to make this post available online like you've done with the posts I've seen in your blog and books. These people are so weak that maybe even the mention of their name in a blogpost will constitute legal action on your person (as a lawyer in Greece I have to deal with pathetic sissies that can't handle derogatory comments on a daily basis). Also, people like the ones that are running the site, that I'll send you in the link below, have always LOADS of money to spend in frivolous lawsuits. They act like they are against the System but the System keeps them in business as long as they don't say anything out of pocket. As the System kept in business the Alt-Right for as long as it was needed, or any other grifter, through the ages, who by fighting the Monster ended up just helping it in the long run.
But please do give me an honest answer for all of the above as I am going crazy with all the shit I am seeing from the "Traditionalists".
The website is here: [redacted]
Thank you, Sir. That was a fun read. Since I am not a homosexual I am certain that I cannot be regarded as an authority on masculine culture in 2023 America. I will do my best.
Recently I had dinner with a young fighter who took me to get medical treatment. He is a Christian and said, “What do you think the government would do if Jesus came back tomorrow?”
I opined, “Assassination or character assassination combined with psychiatric incarceration.”
I have become sick to death of men, many of whom have promoted my work, going on and on about safety provided by proxy thugs, through proxy social management persons, elected by them. These same people go on and on about the “West African Man” being the unbeatable paragon of masculine virtue and that no paleface can stand before these gods of violence in combat. In America, where collective Anglo-Saxon masculinity has gone, is in negro worship.
I must have been delusional when I saw my black middleweight Chief, a groan man, get worked over by a 14 year old paleface in the ring in 2003 down at the Dundalk Martial Arts and Boxing Academy where I was head coach. Chief took it in stride and said, “Coach please don’t put him in with me when he’s grown up!”
When I was in the corner watching my man Incognegro get manhandled by some pale farm boy...I guess I was looking the wrong way.
Sir, the baseline requirement for any man not to be a sissy, not to pattern his behavior on women, to not pine for soft and fluffy things and well appointed safe spaces, to be able to protect him and his against aggression, is that he be A FIGHTER, A COMBATANT, A WARRIOR.
If you do not have that, put on that wedding dress and take to your knees, because you are functionally a woman.
Since the 1980s, American boys have been almost exclusively raised by women. Normally, only about 3 in 10 males of a non-warrior population can be expected to fight. Now, in a warrior society, like the Comanche or Spartans, all of them will fight. What we actually see in our cuckasian matriarchy is that less than 30% of males, from boyhood to maturity, are willing to fight. That is normal. Throughout the ancient, medieval and early modern world it was common for most of a host to run or surrender as soon as things went against them. This was called breaking. The history of Alexander’s battles, except for the Hydapsis, was that he broke a key unit at the center of the enemy line and that most of the rest of the horde broke and ran. He did this with a tiny fraction of his army: the Agrianians, Cretans, Foot Companions and Horse Companions—the hammer. Everybody else was the anvil, holding and waiting for the enemy to break and then rolling them up.
Long distance killing technology changes this gradually through the 1800s. Only a tiny portion of a modern military needs to be able to come chest to chest with the enemy and kill or be killed.
The need for this ethos is now back in the realm of private society, in the hands of the individual man, who chooses weather to be a woman [kneel, run, beg, appease, apologize, argue] or a man and stand. Participation by adult men in [full contact] combat arts peaked in the 1980s and has been falling ever since. It is now below 1% of American men, much lower than in early Modern, Medieval, Ancient or Primitive societies.
Sir, we live in a sissy society. That makes it your oyster so enjoy.
Now, the sexless man, often an incel, is rising, and has been rising more steeply since Covid. The lack of social skills that causes this has the following roots:
-Age grade education
-Female teachers
-Mothers having more influence than fathers
-Social isolation [including working from home]
-Social media and video gaming rather than neighborhood ball games and crime
-Lack of violent masculine pastimes
It is interesting that most men who do not find a mate in their late teens or early 20s remain attracted strictly to the teenage female form and have a hard time being attracted to women. I know 7 middle aged incels that fit this profile.
The arranged marriage thing is funny. The men who would settle for this would have been castrated and sold as eunuchs in ancient times.
I am obviously not nearly as socially compassionate as you are. I really do not care if other men have sex, if they get married, if they fight. Heck, the more sissies out there the better for us.
I do have a prediction. I see the future growth in the medical industrial complex to be psychiatric, that is to say satanic. As soon as a psychiatrist gets on this grift wagon of arranged marriages he and his associates will insist that laws be passed stipulating medical supervision of such services and the subjects they marry. The government is going to get into subsidized prostitutes, so why not wives? 200 to 300 years ago most wives were simply sold by parents or authorities as marital property. In the future, they won’t be sold, but they will be found for a fee and then have state medical rights and social service entitlements attached to them and their relationship with their partner, the partner thereby being ensnared in perpetual psychiatric care.
Circa 1717, Black Beard the Pirate, a certain Edward Teach, was business partner with the Governor’s of North Carolina and New York. Over his bloody career he bought, used and discarded 13 of 14 wives, the final one outliving him after being turned out to the crew. Governments already grant marriage licenses, which I have always regarded as satanic, as letting the devil into the marriage chamber. Expect government involvement in the pre-marital process to expand as it follows the trail blazing grifters into another fertile field of licensing and enforcement.
For anyone interested in arranged marriages, I suggest reading Njal’s Saga, a multi-generational orgy of marital homicide.
For a view of the early Christian Church, which our Hellenic friend here embodies, the best treatment, is Edward Gibbons The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chapter 15.
name email
[blog]   [Guest Authors]  [The Man Cave]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [link]
posted: January 19, 2024   reads: 3921   © 2023 James LaFond
‘Writing for Serenity'
Baltimore, 7/30/2023
June 25 2023
James,
The below was clipped from a post circa September 2015:
"Every day I have conversations with men who examine the same factors as I only to become enraged, irrational, sad, irritated.  There are only two things about my life that is uniformly different from the lives of these half dozen troubled fellows:
1. They do not fight.
2. They either do not write, or suffer from pretty severe writer’s block, meaning they are having a hard time using that serenity tool."
I support the fighting idea 100%, in a difficult time of my life, regular judo practice kept me sane, or at least under control.  For folks who can't fight due to injury or age, firearms require focus, practice, and provide a martial flavor.
I also have struggles with writing for personal purposes, although composing for work is not a problem.  Not sure why.
I suggest alternatives that require focus, but also develop skills. Sketching, drawing, various crafts, woodworking, gardening, all come highly recommended by their practioners. 
Thanks,
Don Quotays
Sir, lately, it being 9 weeks since I last walked, most of that time unable to sit and write or stand and write, I have felt deader than usual inside. People close to me—family, babes and brutes—who have oft sought my company for peace of mind, have a hard time talking with me without growing angry or sad for me. I was their quiet listener, calm voice and sympathetic mirror. Now, I shake when I talk, my voice tainted with constant severe pain. Hell, last week, my physical therapist, a woman with 30 years experience, had to hold back tears as she worked on me.
I spend most of my time alone and in the dark, scooting, shrimping and crab-like skittering around on the floor. For two hours a day I can now sit and write. Writing history is energy taxing but doable. Travel writing is not possible, an easy take that lack of travel has stalled. Fiction I am currently writing in my mind. I have written 7 key chapters for SPQR in my head, mostly as I suffer too much to read or sleep of exercise. This is how I wrote my first novel, Big Water Blood Song, at work or in transit, putting it on paper on my day off.
The walking and working and training and fighting that have normally provided the energy for writing, are gone for now, some, I think for good. The medical people think they can get me walking again, but that I have dug my last ditch, cut down my last tree and fought my last fight. The ruck sack will be too heavy even when I’m healed, so my 40 pounds of belongings must become 25 pounds of worldly possessions, mostly two laptops.
Even so, I am less upset by my condition than are numerous close relations. Writing has returned and has restored my peace of mind, the 6 weeks of absolute hatred for my body already receding to the back of the mind as I once again find a purpose.
I am concerned for those who “have struggles with writing for personal purposes.” Three of my friends, a novelist, comic author and esoteric philosopher, find themselves buffeted by meat-puppet life to the point of being unable to complete books that they have long had in process.
My best advice is to set lower completion parameters. If you outline a 700 page book you will get only 1 reward, delayed for years. If you take that outline and turn it into 10 72 page books, you will get ten rewards for each segment, each feeling as good as what you would get at the end of the big book. Additionally, you will get a great sense of release for that 11th act of creation, knitting all 7 parts into an omnibus.
No rewrites. Old academia and publishing houses and established writers simply encouraged the idea of rewrites as an exclusionary device to winnow out most of the literary herd in favor of the few authors that could be put in set type.
Just write, despite the many reason your teachers have posited for delaying the release of your spirit into writing.
Thank you, Sir helping me recall some of these axioms I lived by when healthy, in hopes that their return might help restore some of my writing health.
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [Guest Authors]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [link]
posted: January 17, 2024   reads: 3901   © 2023 James LaFond
Sample the Patriarchy
Musings on Misogyny: Baltimore, 5/12/2023
Last Sunday Nero the Pict and this hobo went to Erique’s to spar with stick, knife and fist. His charming wife and precocious daughter were in attendance. I had been sparring my way across the nation and these young fellows were out of tune. So I was kind enough to tune them up.
As they sat sweating between rounds and bemoaning the degradation of combat from working six days a week to the point that a geriatric care poster child ran a clinic on them, Erique’s darling daughter brought out bottles of water. His wife said, “James, I had her wear that shirt for you.”
It had a flowered box and above and below it read:
TRAMPLE The
PATRIARCHY
I grinned and said, “Thanks for the idea, Incognegro wants shirt ideas. He has bought these Japanese embroidery machines and has his kids running a sweat shop.”
The darling tyke was standing before me as Nero and Erique guzzled water, pointing at the bottle she had brought for me. Nero said, “Christ dude, the least you can do is pretend to need a break, standing over us like the shadow of pure evil.”
I smiled down at the little girl and said, “Thank you so much, drinking the tears of young men is thirsty work.”
[Groans and oaths to stab me in the knife sparring rose from the resting men.]
Turning to the Lady of the House, I said, “How about a Hennessy billboard add graphic, you know, the Brother with an Asian babe on one arm and a mixed babe on the other. It can be captioned, “SAMPLE the PATRIARCHY.”
The men laughed and her pretty face went aghast as she recovered, “Isn’t there enough of that going on?”
“I suppose there is, Doll. I’m pleased with my ladies.”
Her pretty eyes rolled as Erique interceded, “I guess I need another beating—taking one for the team!”
As the week wore on I was attended by a string of physicians in a quest to divine the nature of my groin distress:
-Doctor Obabe, a Tall, buxom, proper, Nigerian doctor with a giant diamond wedding ring gave me a right proper examination, noting, “I must be thorough, with your travels I don’t know when I will get to see you again!” She found two inguinal hernias and passed me along.
-Doctor, Eyetalian Plumpster, quite the pallid doll of grace, found two holes in my lower abdomen, confirming two inguinal hernias, and passed me along.
-Vampire Annie drew my blood for the labs, letting her long hair brush across my arm once. This was becoming a cross between a night club for geezers and veterinary medicine of the highest order.
-Little Asia Annie, greeted me with a smile at the next facility, pretty behind her white desk.
-Cat Scan Cougar, in her platinum hair, imaged my guts in her magnotronic tube.
-Urology, saw me admitted by a certain Sister Shine of some 45 years old, weighed, measured, pressurized and interviewed. She laughed a few times during the interview about junk disasters. The doctor on the card in the examination room was some bald Hindoo junk mechanic. This was ending on a bland note, I thought. Then the charming tech said, “She will be right in.”
‘Oh no… If this is a tranny urologist, I’ll, I’ll, get felt up by a tranny urologist!”
A light knock on the door admits a 30-year-old Candice Owens look alike with a rocking bikini body that could not be contained by those medical scrubs. Candice Curves then interviewed me in depth as to the athletic, sexual and medical history of My Junk. I thanked her for being so thorough.
She responded, “I appreciate your concise and direct narrative. Most people are all over the place. You can tell a story. Now, I have to get a chaparone, its required,” she said by way of apology.
In comes Sister Shine to stand by the door and watch my examination, three other hens clucking out in the medical round. Candice Curves is not the distant, tall and at arms length Doctor Obabe. No, she gets close to her work, squats down on her lovely haunches in front of me and her face right there. I was waiting for her to pull down my trunks and Sister Shine says, “Oh, YOU can pull them down now.”
I shrugged my shoulders, having obviously been looking forward to watching Candice Curves do it, and as I slid the shorts and jock down below my knees and Candice began checking for lumps and stuff, said to Sister Shine, “Thank you so much for protecting me!”
Her grin said, as she laughed, ‘I don’t know if I am ruining your day or making it, you terrible old dog.’
When the two ladies left me to dress I heard them and the three others engaged in racous laughter outside.
After I was discharged, Incognegro called as I waited on the bus stop, “James, I have a Four Kings shirt for you, with your man, Duran on it.”
I then gave him a rundown of the Sample the Patriarchy shirt, which I believe is an idea confirmed and improved by the Almighty Himself who saw fit to have me attended by the Junkyard Valkyries this week.
We decided that the patriarchs would be in a white wife beater and be based on us, the salt and pepper patriarchs: Crackerjack and Carjack versions respectively.
“James, I think I’d look good in your beard.”
“Bro, it’s a deal if you hang your dick from my image. I want to look like an Anaconda Malt Liquor model from the waist down.”
[Laughter, he while driving and I while waiting for a bus.]
I then recalled, “You know, most food icon images are no longer used. You might be able to grab a graphic for Hungry Jack, the redneck pancake and mashed potato icon and place the Land ‘o Lakes Butter Babe and Swiss Miss at his feet, as submissive slave girls, with Aunt Jemima and Blue Bonnet, in their traditional head gear, as his wives upon his brawny arms.
That’s right Girls—ladies too—Sample the Patriarchy!
name email
[blog]   [The Man Cave]  [link]
posted: January 12, 2024   reads: 4116   © 2023 James LaFond
Sleeping Under Heaven
Notes on Climate from Colorado to Jersey: 5/22/2023
“When I was a boy, I used to love rainbows, and they took that. Then, when I became a man, I liked Bud—now that’s gay too!”
-Big Ron, 5/17/2023
Over the weekend, down in the Tennessee hills, I slept in the boxing ring of the open gym with two sleeping bags, fully clothed, and did not sweat.
Last night, Dove from Portland, Oregon called and said it was a cool night.
Major Golden from Denver reminded me in a text that unusual rainfall in Colorado was keeping the normally brown hills green.
For two years now there has been no snow accumulation in Maryland or southeastern portions of Pennsylvania or Jersey. Yet, every night in Maryland, PA, Tennessee, Pennsylvania and now Jersey, in the dying days of May, sees me shivering if I neglect a jacket.
Will we have a hot summer night in The Mid Atlantic this year?
We did not last year, or the year before that.
The Groes seem to sense in their simian bones that something is not right: since May 7 to May 17, use of masks outside and on buses, in Baltimore city, tripled from 5% to 15%. I trust the instincts of those bred, born and trained to hate and hunt me.
Unusually high temps, unusually low temps, and precipitation above or below the median, with greater variations of temperature in the same day, week, month and season than normal has marked every location I have lived in over this past first, nearly half, of the year.
Last night, Mary Biscotti reminded me, “We’ve never waited this late in May to open the pool.”
Well, I’d say then that we need some plump eye candy this year. My ghostly person will be hiding from the sun.
Is this Solar Minimum the world just entered going to be a minor change like the cold snaps in the mid 1600s, around 1700 and in the mid 1700s and early 1800s, that served as an ebb-and-flow, people-moving pulse of the last Little Ice Age, now heralding another?
Or, might we be in a period like the late A.D. 1200s when volcanoes and storms set the stage for a plunge into a 500 year long minor ice age marked by dreadful internal downturns like the Maunder and Dalton Minimums?
I think that the best science-fiction writers now work for think tanks and ply their wizardry for government planners, rather than to dazzle our mind’s eye. We will not be given official warning. We will be lied to baldly and boldly from the flickering oracles of social declaration and moral regulation.
For most of us TV is real. So, for the minority, let us reverse the proclamations of the TV clergy.
There is one clue to look for, and it is not the 300 inches of snow in the Rockies this winter, an all time historical record. It would be a thing described in the lives of Utnapishtun, Noah and Decalon: Deluge.
From 1316 to 1321 [might be off a year here] it rained and did little else, beating down most grain crops, starving people and animals, and heralding the Black Death. An entire growing season that sees rain beating down grain in the northern hemisphere from Russia to Canada, this would be the thing to fear, a warning that a great and lasting shift is in the making.
Even if so, what kind of Ice Age might it bring:
-The Bronze Age Collapse circa 1300 to 800 B.C. [1]
-The Dark Ages, circa A.D 300 to 900. [2]
-The Little Ice Age, circa A.D. 1300 to 1820 [3]
Or something terrible like the Younger Dryas Event about 11,000 years ago or the great glaciation from 40,000 to 18,000 years ago?
The big ones seem to relate to solar impact or extra solar magnetic events.
The little ones seem to go for about 500 years and leave us 200 to 300 years to bask in the sun.
Whatever the case may be, I suspect that our nefarious Plutocrats know and will mislead us until the last possible moment. We are, after all, ultimately, their food.
I muse over these things as the sun of late spring sleeps and considers waking from a hangover to bronze some bikini bodies by this pool. By the time this posts, I’ll be, most likely, coughing up some remaining lung in the Pacific Northwest, wondering what factory made plague our masters have hatched to experiment on us for their immortality drugs and if I will have enough horse de-wormer and black market antibiotics to see the next summer dawn.
Here’s hoping for the best winter that might befall us.
Notes on Climate Social Change
-1. The Bronze Age empires were evil people farming schemes that were very fragile and featured less than 1% of people living lives we would regard as human.
-2. Rome was terribly rotten and in many respects the Dark Ages were an improvement for the human soul, bringing most of the faiths we now cling to into prominence.
-3. Despite the terrible plagues, abuses of lower class folk and life spans shorter and more miserable than antiquity and the Dark Ages for the poor, the Little Ice Age literally was the stage upon which Modernity was planted and throve.
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [Harm City to Chicongo]  [link]
posted: January 11, 2024   reads: 4118   © 2023 James LaFond
The Devil in Chicago
From Chicongo to Joliet, to Chicongo and Pittsburgh by Train: May 1-2, 2023
I woke at 4:30 AM and packed, having drank too much Kracken rum. We were to box in the morning, and Dan felt great. But I felt like, well, my 150 pounds had been colliding with his 220 pounds…
Coffee in the kitchen while Dan burned breakfast officiated over some good discussions on combat arts. Eventually, rescued from the befouled frying pan by Goodwife Angie on her way out the door to her job, we sat down to eat and speak over eggs and meat.
Soon, with a groan from me and a sigh, Dan said, “better get you to the train, Buddy,” and off we went.
I hiked up the interior of the rail platform where the baggage handler in the yellow rain coat assured me that I stand on the west side, as tracks graced both sides of the platform. The platform was whipped by wind, so that even though I cowered under the shelter and behind the pillar, I got wet.
The Lincoln Service 302 rolled up and a well groomed young Latino offloaded and told me he would check my ticket inside, which he never did. The cars are spacious, with open overhead storage little used, as the Karens, the Sistas, the Bruthas and the Muvas all take up both seats, one with their stuff, and one with their butts. There is not a single open double, so I sit down next to some woman’s stuff, a black woman, based on her fur lined parka. Some attractive young girls were alone and I did not want to affront them and seem like I was seeking nubile company. The Bruthas were man spreading and the trannies and homos were quaking that I might sit next to them.
I sat as the train pulled off and a light skinned black woman of 40 returned and told me I was in her seat. I obediently rose and sat next to the 18-year-old hoodrat doll across the aisle, who did not mind at all. Matron Karen Brown then broke out her computer and had a conference call with a hotel in Chicongo, berating the staff for the quality of her last stay and demanding that the Head of Housekeeping, who she named, meet her for an inspection of her room.
I am the last to offload from the train, taking my time, as I have from noon to 6:20 to wait in the crowded station.
A handful of shambling fatties stand and howl in dismay as overburdened shuttle carts pass them by and they sag over their canes. The pilots of these six-seat golf carts that tow baggage carts as the fatties and elders sag in the seats, are mostly tall, lean, young black men in red suits who stand as they drive and are very patient with their disgusting human baggage. The one ghost driver is a fat young man who slouches over his vehicle like his slovenly passengers.
The shambling emensity of many of the passengers of all races and their chortling is astounding. I was present for 2 loadings and two off loading at this station in 3 days. Like the Pittsburgh station, this is under construction. The normal waiting area near the 11 gates and 22 tracks is roped off. Passengers gather in the Great Hall and wait on wooden pews, and are then summoned in the Gilded Age echo chamber by hollering conductors, lined up and marched a ¼ of a mile?
There are not enough carts to support the ever expanding herd of entitled land whales. Many drop out and scream, “Red cap, red cap!” The conductors and red cap drivers are mostly very fit and seem a different species than most of the passengers, holding a physical resemblance in build only to the Amish men. The average land whale is 80 pounds overweight, like I was before Guru Rick fixed my diet. Only, none of these people have muscle under that blubber and waddle like seals or sea lions being herded across the Missouri Breaks. Then their are the fatties, 100 to 300 pounds overweight…
Except for the Amish, half of the people in the station are sick with coughing and sneezing and sniffling. I go up to the Lounge, a sprawling food court near the Ticket Bar.
The tables are all smeared with Chik Fillet juice, this possibly being the busiest Chik Fillet in Murkastan. I cleaned off my table with handi-wipes that goodwife Angie had packed me, in a little zipper bag that also contained: pepperoni, sausage sticks, pistachios, nut mix, fruit and nut mix and a book Dan had given me. The table clean, my right side against the wall where lateral light would not cause an eye seizure, I took off the patch, donned the bush hat and screen glasses and read: Penetration by Ingo Swann, a remote viewer and author of the Last Age. I was able to read 74 pages before the eye twitched, thanks to good spacing and simple font and close reading.
It was cold enough in this crowded building for jackets and coats and hat. A beautiful German woman with Latina hair was approached by three Jehovah Witness folk, upscale blacks, pretty women about 40 and a handsome man of 30.
One white trash beggar inhabited the place and demanding in low shrill tones food and money from various people, one black woman threatening him.
A black family to my middle left is feasting, and break into an argument that escalates to a bitch slapping of a teenager by a Mamma over the distribution of chicken nuggets favoring his little sister.
A Latino family is well behaved.
A middle class black family set the standard for decorum and discuss literature and Oprah.
Hundreds of people file in and out off commuter trains.
Janitors swoop down on abandoned tables and clean and sweep.
Two working class couples seek corner tables and huddle.
Three businessmen, one a skinny little homo who cringes every time I pass him to the trash can, and two large 30 year old land whales, once athletic, now bloated with recent distended weight gain.
Two tall, lean, ashen, black bums in big nylon coats, smelling of sour beer and cheap wine and smoked cigarette butts, beg for “Food for my children.” One asks me and I nod, “No.”
The mamma who smacked her nearly adult son answers, “Not today! You think I got money after feeding these greedy children of my own!”
The three business men give $5s. One Gen-X alpha male seeks out the more damaged looking and hunched of the two and presses a $20 into his hand.
The nerd homo businessman, actually an IT type I suppose, working on his computer furiously, simply squeals in fright, his unmanly peeps driving off the beggars whose eyes arch in fear as if they are afraid that his bitch juice will infect them and turn them into women.
The big man in the shirt and tweed who looks like he played foot ball, is panhandled a second time by the leaner bum and says in irritation, “I already gave!”
“Not to me, Sir.”
“You have to be kidding me!” the man exclaims as he digs in his pockets and cleans out the change, dumping it into the ashy palms.”
I am befriended by two people.
I leave and enter the great hall downstairs at 5.
An older black man, whose name escapes me, introduced himself in the Great Hall as a former mechanic who has, with his brother, begun a traditional pottery business in Indianapolis. He has strong hands and heavy knuckles, coppery skin and a kind demeanor. He sees me squaring away my pack in the corner and suggests that he should do the same with his luggage to make way “for the ladies” shambling, hobbling and whimpering all about like wounded rabbits. He is astonished that the 30 year old desk jockies are nowhere near as fit as we seniors.
Roberto, a Latino Jehovah Witness tries to draw me out, but I offer only my name. He is impecably groomed and very polite. They are back in the train stations with a new sales pitch: “We are not Christians. We used to be Christians. We read the Bible every day for God’s Word in order to apply His message to this world, where the government has failed us so much.”
Roberto has researched train disasters, overruns, takes the trains himself, as “a second generation JW.”
We are soon marched to the #30, as far as possible, on track 22. All of the 100 coach passengers are on the same car and seated in groups according to destination. 18 of us are bound for Pittsburgh overnight. My seat mate is a young, husky fellow with severe upper respiratory distress. We speak not a word. He does not know how the seats work, about the foot rest, the seating slip, etc. He watches me and follows my example.
It is cold and rainy in Toledo and Cleveland and Pittsburgh, where we arrive at 6:05, only 45 minutes over. Rick does not come to pick me up, his mother, Punky does.
“Hi honey, so glad you are here! If you haven’t guessed, because I know he’s too macho to discuss it, Ricky is sick again. Can you believe this weather. It is so cold, 35 degrees—I’m surprised its not snowing—so glad to see you Honey. Good God, you look like Santa Clause, but you’ve gotten thin in the face. I’ll feed you!”
Punky, another darling soul inhabiting this great soulless beast of no nation.
name email
[blog]   [Harm City to Chicongo]  [link]
posted: January 10, 2024   reads: 4111   © 2023 James LaFond
A Perfect Knucklehead Weekend
Training and Visiting With Electric: Joliet, Ill, April 29 to May 1 2023
Electric Dan picked this emaciated hoodrat up from the Union Station in Joliet as the sun sank in the blustery west. He kindly hoisted the 45 pound rucksack, that is to me an Atlas stone, up into the back hatch of his working pickup truck...with one hand.
“It’s been almost three years, Buddy, since we’ve gotten together,” he grins, as we sit in the cab and shake hands. He is excited as he pulls off, one of the better drivers that pilot this fearful old pedestrian around the motorized land whale warrens of Murica.
“I hope you don’t mind me talking your ear off. But, I’m into stuff that most people think is strange, and into other stuff that the people who are into that think is beyond the pale. Stick fighting, who does that? Role playing games? If you are into that you have no clue as to the ongoing war of extinction waged on us by the blacks on behalf of the Plutocrats, which you have actually documented more than anybody. White slavery—now that is a hard sell. People’s heads spin off their bodies when I tell them that you are ‘The world’s foremost authority on white slavery’—something that cannot exist! Boxing? The intersection of Christianity and heathenry and neopaganism? I used to teach Sunday school and now I’m a neo pagan. Masculinity, another of our taboo shared interests…”
We caught up on the Electric Dan Plan for family survival: he’s marrying off one daughter and marrying in another. The former power lifter, with big thick hands, is thrilled that his son, who won such a contest, has tested positive for freakishly high capacity muscle genetics. I am glad for my late met friend, if beaming some jealousy form my shallow end of the gene pool. Another Viking, another Nord, met far to the west of my urban anti-Eden. The People’s Banking Republic of Shill Illinois is doing what it can to screw Dan out of his earnings, his house, his trade. But he is forging on.
I apologized for taking so long to return, noting that we both need the training, but that travel has been so trying that I avoid it, selfishly hiding out in certain climes to maximize writing and minimizing training and connections. I hatch a plan and say, “Bro, I have girls on both coasts, one saying with tears welling in her eyes that she hopes I do not make her wait more than three months again, and the one on the phone back east—a well-broke saddle mare of some 30 years—warning me, that if I make her wait 9 months again that she’s trading me in for a newer model.”
[laughter]
“Good problem to have, my friend,” opines Dan.
“It takes four says by train now, with all the freight traffic, to get coast to coast. Mom is threatening to hire kidnappers to haul me back for the holidays… I just can’t handle sleeping sitting up for four days straight. So, would it be okay with you, if every time I crossed the country, since you’re a half hour from Chicongo by rail, that I spend the weekend with you?”
“Sure thing, Buddy. How about Friday arrival and Sunday departure, maybe Monday morning, depending on what works for you. We can train all day Saturday?”
“Deal,” and we shake on it.
We needed a plan for multiple training sessions on the same day.
Dan muses on, “You know, I told my Kali instructor you’d be here for training tomorrow and he’s welcome to join us. He said, ‘Cool,’ which probably means he won’t show. It is so weird. I had a martial arts background and had always been interested in stick and blade and your writing convinced me to seek out escrima instruction. Then, when I find a good functional system, certified with lineage, the instructors will never spar, and if they do, they stop it for instruction and never develop flow. I really wanted to get to the last Man Weekend but had surgery. And this year I have two weddings and the government is fucking with my money, so I have to pass. You don’t know how much it means that you are stopping to train.”
“What about Dexter, he spars with you?”
“He moved to Tennessee!”
“Oh, I think I might get iced in a machete duel, then if he shows up.”
“Dexter is so cool, so puts the fаggot feet to the flames. You know he’s Russian, was an Olympic athlete, only martial artist I know who has actually bought your books. There was this one big knife tournament put on by this knife guru who was going to compete in it, set up by him and his cronies so that he would win. It was here in Chicago. Dexter shows up out of the blue, by himself, and takes first place. There was not a shred of sportmanship on the part of the promoter, like they were going to have to pry the trophy from his cold dead hands! That’s Dexter!”
We sat up discussing ancient theology, neo-masculinity, history, martial arts, women, old friends, mostly gone, from our youth. Dan had stocked the fridge with my favorite light beer, Miler Lite in bottles and ordered in Meat Max Pizza.
Dan’s darling wife announced that she was fixing us dinner Saturday night and we arranged our training to be free and post-sweaty for the meal.
...
The coffee was great, fixed by Dan.
He moved his truck and van out of the driveway, me noting that his buxom Bride had vetoed my suggestion of a dump truck mound of gravel in the front yard to prevent automobile ramming home invasions.
There was one oil spot on the driveway, a perfect place for me to walk Dan into when he started getting to me. We put on the boxing gloves and sparred for 45 minutes under pregnant and angry skies.
The rain, our time keeper, kept us from fatigue and we retired for more coffee.
Dan is a small heavyweight with sick hand strength, quick with the hands and more active with his feet than one would expect.
At noon, the sky just over the house almost clear, we donned the fencing masks Dan had purchased, the black one he got for me being the best mask I ever wore. Gloved up, we went through his great arsenal of sticks:
-A Half hour quick sparring with half inch whip sticks. Some of these rounds were almost fights and we inflicted some marks.
-Top dog stick slow sparring.
-Double heavy stick slow sparring.
-Slow flow sparring with medium sticks.
-Flow sparring with light sticks.
-One quick round with light sticks which earned us some leg stripes.
The rain, our time keeper, drove us into the dugout again after about 80 minutes work, with some lightly bruised hands and forearms, a few marks and an enhanced tolerance for being tethered to Planet Faggοtron.
Watching training videos for stick and blade occupied the balance of the after noon. When we heard Angie cooking we went out at about 4 to get in some blade work:
-Hard rubber dagger duels.
-Hard rubber Bowie knife duels, my favorite sparing tool.
-Bowie and dagger duels.
-Cold Steel bendy black safety sticks [as blade] with buckler duels.
-Black stick duels in London Prize Ring fashion.
-Last Can of Beans duel with daggers, won by Dan.
-Last Dog on Earth duel over the ownership of Charlie, the black lab, with Bowie, won by yours truly. Charlie seemed to be happy with the outcome and Dan quipped to him, “Oh, sure Charlie, James is the best, until you have to go on the road with him without your nice soft bed! Then you’ll miss us!”
Angie fixed steak and salad and steak and salad! The steak was probably 2 pounds after she overcooked it at my request—the best meal of this year.
Beer, Kracken rum, beer, and Kracken rum, completed the day’s damage and we were off to bed. As I entered the guest room, I noted that Angie had not only washed my clothes, but folded them.
What a knucklehead, and what a wife.
Thank you.
name email
[blog]   [Harm City to Chicongo]  [link]
posted: January 9, 2024   reads: 4136   © 2023 James LaFond
‘I Appreciate You’
Emmeryville to Chicongo by Train: April 28-29, 2023
Priorities on Amtrak are:
-Sleepers
-Business
-Coach
In Coach:
-Families
-Couples
-Singles
Whether there is assigned seating, and eventually seats will be assigned and fixed in order to be able to give a seat slip to a passenger boarding down the line, a single person sitting alone, will be bumped to sit with another single person, so a couple can sit together. Traditionally, couples are vacationing, retired, middle class Boomers. Covid chased off most of these. Couples now tend to be parent and child 30%, Boomer Ken & Karen, 40%, Homos & Lesbos. Indeed, most couples under 40 are homos and lesbos. Thrice in two years I have been bumped to make way for spooning homos.
One passenger type that used to be rare, with one to a car [each car holding 70 to 100 [that last 30 on the lower level of handicapped coaches] but has doubled since Covid, to 3 per car, is the lone Grandma visiting her scattered brood or returning.
An Amish man helped Granny Karen on with her luggage, just ahead of Little Asia.
As the train chugged towards Sacramento the intercom came on:
“Hello, Amtrak Passengers, welcome aboard The California Zephyr. This is Curtis, your Cafe Attendant based in the bottom level of the sight seeing car just ahead of the coaches and behind the dining car. That’s right, this is Curtis! The Man! The Myth! The Legend! at your service with snacks, drinks, burgers, salads—Hebrew certified Hebrew national hot dogs, coffee, Coke, Coke, Coke products, and yes folks, no Pepsi. If you want Pepsi on Amtrak, I have Coke for you. You wan’t diet Pepsi, I have Diet Coke and Coke Zero. You want Sierra Mist, well look out the window as we head up into the Sierras, not at me, ‘cause I’m serving up Sprite!
[laughter]
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we also have adult beverages, including, beer, that’s right—ice cold beer! Now, some points of travel. Ladies and Gentlemen, you must wear shoes when moving about the train. Those coupling plates between cars will take those toes clean off! As well, although I might be a personal fan, like I was of the nude passenger in our outward journey from Chicago, who nearly put out my eyes with her copious charms, Amtrak is a family experience and we ask you to move about the train, fully clothed.”
[laughter]
“Speaking of family, if you haven’t managed to leave those little darlings with Grandma and Grandpa, sweet as they may be—they ain’t mine, but yours! That’s right, family passengers, any child under twelve must be accompanied by a parent or guardian at all times. That means wherever they do go, even to the bathrooms below, you go with them! Oh yes, no sending them to get your beer! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, this is Curtis, with your ice cold beer!”
I waited for Curtis to get his rush over before I got my coffee. I tipped him and he said, “I appreciate you.”
Throughout the 3 days and 2 nights Curtis would entertain us with news such, “Ya’ll, I know you might be hungry, but I’ hungray! Besides, I need my mental health break—its not easy being a myth and a legend. Heck being a man in this world is rough enough! So, come on down and get your snacks and drinks before I close up for lunch.”
A half hour later:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Curtis H. Tired, announcing that I am about to start my lunch break, and that I’m taking a full hour because of Dan and Ellen. That’s right, for every minute Dan and Ellen kept me with their revised orders and big bills from my lunch plate, I’m adding 5 minutes to my mental health break. Y’all can thank Dan and Ellen, walkin’ past you right now—now this is a family train so please, don’t throw them off! Oh, oh yes, if anybody else shows up with a fifty dollar bill to buy a muffin, I might suddenly be sold out of muffins, right Ellen?”
[laughter]
Curtis really lightened up the fact that his prices had increase to nearly $10 for every item. Coffee had gone up from $2.50 to $2.75. But beer went from $5 to $7.50, shots from $7.50 to $10.50. Food moved north like alcohol.
The big man who ran the dinning car, whose name I forget, weighed a good 400 pounds and even gave out doughnuts as he joked about us being lucky he didn’t eat them all. Dining car service is free for sleeper passengers. For coach, breakfast is a reasonable, and quality $20, dinner $45. There was the gregarious black attendant [the diner manger] his nice ghostly waitress, and hard working Latino cook. The crew liked each other and were good to we passengers.
The two Amish couples, young folks, one with a pregnant wife and one with an infant, somehow lost their money on the way back from Mexico. Passengers and crew pulled together donations to feed them, the coach attendant fixing them a family meal.
The usual crew of outcasts, coughing people and snoring men camped out by night in the viewing car. I went down to Curtis and held forth my $50, having given him the last of my $1s for coffee and grinned, “How about three beers, can you make that work?”
“I gotchyou brotherman!” said Curtis as he dished out a $10, 2 $5s and some $1s and I tipped him $3.
I fell asleep after my third beer and slept in the lounge car that second night, as something icky now occupied the seat next to me.
Three fаggots, a golden skinned homo, a viking tranny and a little homo, got onto the train together at Denver and were involved in a dispute with Boomer Joe and his neglected wife. Big fat Boomer Joe wanted comfort, not companionship, and spent his entire trip trying to arrange with Charlene, 4 seats back to back for he and his wife, so that he would not have to sit next to her.
She was a cute and still well shaped lady of mild manner who said, in a weepy tone of hurt resignation, “Anything so you don’t have to sit with your wife.” Joe always addressed her in dismissive and condescending tones that visibly hurt her.
Boomer Joe believed in seniority, the sitting passenger having pride of place. Tranny Jane, a towering pear-shaped manta-thing of 25 years, lisped, “There are seating lists for a reason! Systems must be respected!”
This critter sat with me, reluctantly, as Boomer Joe grabbed his pillow and his wife sulkily followed him on his quest for four seats outside of Denver in the gathering night, promising Charlene a tip if she made it happen. The Tranny opened up a sand-rattle bag of some dozen pharmacy bottles and took a cocktail of meds. I told him, “You can have the window seat. I’ll be in the viewing car,” and headed to the forecastle.
Earlier, headed to Denver, there had been interesting passengers: A married couple of 86 and 88 years from Chile, who spoke of the increasing crime there under communism, two retired business men going to the Glenwood springs health spa, one born in Germany in 1946. There were also two German tourists, a handsome married couple, discussing vacation spots with a Mormon CIA retire and his wife.
Now, we had a tall thin mentally retarded hiker, traveling on his SSI check and trying to make friends, who I callously ignored and these three fаggots. They came to the viewing car and sat with their backs to me talking like middle aged women, about all of their aches, and pains, social woes, social fears, insecurities and acceptance. These queers were imitating their mothers! Two were already “Cat Men,” lone Cat Parents!
For all of their fears of social ostracism, they spoke of how Denver, Chicago, Seattle and San Francisco made up an orbit of mass transit friendly, gay friendly, trans friendly destinations. It turns out that driving on all the tranny meds is hazardous and that mass transit is a must for tranny life. Yes, my motoring readers, this intransigent pedestrian is now duly paying for his sins against the automobile nation!
It was somehow more disturbing listening to these young single “males” whine and gossip like middle aged single mothers than living under the homos in Denver having their argument about who sucked more hundreds of cocks!
I returned to my seat and found that a tall, plump, red headed grandma of only 45 sat next to me and said with her lush voice, “Sorry I took your seat. You can have it anytime you want.”
I smiled at her and looked at her thighs and breasts and she smiled back, raising her eyebrows, assured of her seat. She had been escaping tranny seat mates. When the fags all came back and the Viking Tranny looked down at me in fear and lisped to his little homo buddy, “I suppose I’m sitting over there,” she touched my forearm with her soft hand thankfully.
On the long pull into Chicongo, when I strapped on my ruck, Granny Karen behind me thanked me for helping her get her bag down [that the Amish man had stowed], touching my forearm with her palm. The red headed woman, who spoke fluent Spanish and had a 20 year old son watching her house while she visited her daughter and infant grandchild, looked up at me and said, “I wish you well on your journey, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss,” managed this smitten lizard.
Mature women really don’t like young trannies and homos like they did in the past, with many women my age once upon a time fag hags. The Trannies seem to be fixing that.
Off loading at Chicago was a real herd event.
To be continued…
Herd Health Notes
-1. As with the train from Seattle to LA, half of all passengers coughed. At least one passenger in each car coughed constantly. One or two sneezed by the minute. About 10% blew their nose often. A third had the sniffles. Usually three passengers coughed by the minute. The same ratios of sick people held in stations. The Amish exhibit no sickness symptoms. The demographic of the constantly sick are Caucasian, educated, 2 to 1 female over male, with the partner traveling with them rarely symptomatic.
-2. Masking held at 5% on the train and 10% in the crowded station, that is half of California levels.
-3. Physically almost all non Amish passengers average 50 pounds overweight. So many are morbidly obese that there are not enough shuttle carts to shuffle them from station to train and train to station.
name email
[blog]   [Harm City to Chicongo]  [link]
posted: January 8, 2024   reads: 4228   © 2023 James LaFond
A Deluge, Just a Little One: 1/5/24
Opening The Winter He Mail Box This Once: 1/4/24
I recently spoke with my editor, publisher, caretaker, medical coordinator remote little bossy sister, Lynn.
Thanks to living this month with a big brained young yeti nimbus, this email machine works. I know that Lynn has been taking care of some crucial emails, like medical and donation stuff.
I asked her how many emails were there and she said she had saved 85 for me:
"I deleted and blocked solicitations, publishers, hookers, substandard female groupies, that homo who you gave the interview to in Portland—cleaned it up, What is left are real emails."
Last night, I read or deleted all 85 and earmarked 16 to answer and half of those for articles. When I was in Portland drinking with Beast O'Neal he did say in his Gaelic accent, "I do miss the deluge, that avalanche of content you used to post."
Well, my friend, after I rest this eye that is sizzling out of my ringing head, I will get on the back of the site where I have loaded the email cues, and write like I once did.
After that, after January 6, I am not checking emails again until I hit Pittsburgh on March 31.
I have two novels to complete this month, and am neck deep in Shrouds of Aryas. I will be annotating and summarizing The Song of Roland, as it is related to one of the novels and is the final portion of Shrouds.
The blizzard of bad ideas hits the fan on Friday.
Thank you all for even caring what I think let alone taking it seriously.
-James
name email
[blog]   [Guest Authors]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [link]
posted: January 4, 2024   reads: 4331   © 2024 James LaFond
"Yappie Metaphysics"
A Dialogue With Achilleas
Greetings Mr. LaFond!
Inbox
Wed, Oct 18, 2023, 1:27 AM
to me
How are you Mr. LaFond? Do you feel better? I was thinking about you the other day and wandering if you are back in full health?
[I have been classified as crippled by my health carrier. Metabolic health is perfect. Mechanical health ranges from 5% to 70% of pre injury status, the injury being June 5. I should know by April, how much disability is perminant. I am trying to get as thin as possible as my shoulders and left knee are beginning to fail from dragging the dead leg around. I am blessed with friends who i used to do heavy work for, being happy to have me cook, clean and do women's work for a place to sleep.]
I've seen the latest videos on the "InTheseGoingsDown" and as you've told me at our last conversation I'll leave a comment on the latest video!
[That man is a friend of 22 years and does good work.]
By the way, do you know when you'll publish the "Sons of Aryas" online? My friends wanted to buy the book to read my foreword...He he! I swear I didn't send it to them and told them to buy the book when it releases! Ha ha!
[I can't publish anything in print—I'm retarded. I have yet to edit Sons and put your forward in. The version on this site is what I wrote in 2020 that you reviewed. I am currently editing Beasts and writing Shrouds. When the edits are done, the new version will be placed in that ebook slot in the library and dispersed to those who bought the rough draft. I do not expect many more of my books to make it into print in my lifetime. The three people who have been assigned their publication are young and overrun by life duties. Currently, the version of Sons I have I cannot edit and am awaiting a clean document from my editor. The first book will thus be the last.]
All the best Mr. LaFond! Onwards and upwards!
Achilleas
[Thank you so much for uplifting my spirits when I was too hurt to write.]
...
[Message clipped] View entire message
James LaFond <jameslafond.com@gmail.com>
Wed, Jan 3, 9:48 PM (13 hours ago)
to Achilleas
The rough draft is on sale on the site.
I don't know if any of my work will see print again at this point.
I'm crippled, in the mountains writing novels that will never be read.
when I get Beasts and Sons proofed I'll send them and you can publish them.
Take care, young man.
j
Achilleas
12:20 AM (11 hours ago)
I'm sure that what you are going through is very tough but on the other hand I envy you. You are free. You don't have to bow down to "yappie metaphysics" as I call them. And I am sure that the people that help you out are actual men and not 21st century sissies. That's refreshing. Trust me. In my line of work estrogen is the prominent hormone...especially when it comes to my "men" colleagues. No wonder a lot of women in the West are turning lesbo. I'm sure that there are more women out there that embody manly values in an actualized fashion. You should look at these descendants of Herakles, Odysseus and Digenis Akritas I'm working with. They are walking around with ties and suits begging to become millionaires whilst working 10 hours a day and barely making ends meet, even though they've been working for twenty years.
You are free from having to deal with that. You can finally be a monastic. A lot of hero-kings actually did that in Byzantium as well. From the army, to kingship, to mount Athos. The Hero's journey if you will.
Breathe the fresh air of the mountains and write Mr. LaFond. I guarantee you that if these books can be put online people will read them.
I truly hope you'll become more functional. I'll pray for you. All the best.
You are a good man.
All the best Mr. LaFond!
James LaFond <jameslafond.com@gmail.com>
10:50 AM (37 minutes ago)
to Achilleas
will post as an article tomorrow,
Thank you so, Much, man.
as long as I can limp and write I
m good.
james

I would like to say something about our Aryas series reader, here, that he is of heroic spirit and declined to do his corporate and civic duty to aid and abet invaders of his country who are raping the native women. When bosses and government asked him to be a rapist apologist and enabler he declined and took a less profitable role in life.
It is interesting to me that so many readers, who have been far more successful than I in this world, who have attained a sustainable living and the ability to house, move and provide for their family, where I failed dreadfully, hold this old crumb in their hearts as an avatar of sorts. The world must be much crueler than it claims to be if those owning a home and a chariot in the village and town—and even a proud tower or two—see the vagabond adrift on the sea of fate, as having escaped!
Achilleas may publish in print or ebook, in his native language, any of my works he wishes. Additionally, I would like Achilleas to publish the fictions I am currently working on in English as paperbacks. If the answer is yes, young man, I will send what I am working on when complete. Incognegro has enough paperbacks to keep him busy for years and Lynn has the hardback rights to everything and a lifetime of editing and publishing already on her desk.
Thank you for your help and encouragement.
james
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [Guest Authors]  [The Man Cave]  [Guerilla Masculinity]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [link]
posted: January 4, 2024   reads: 4168   © 2024 James LaFond
Iron Age Raiding Party Stuff
Grendel Hall Muses at the Murkin Beast in its Feed Stall
The change in one generation
Inbox
Sun, Oct 8, 2023, 7:58 PM
to me
I never could stand this "old people fatalism", like "oh bu hu this is not my country anymore, this is not the country i grew up in", but the change within 20 years is really remarkable, without any moral avaluation.
Go back to 15th September 2001. America wants blood. Kill all rag heads. Bomb the middle east.
Now its 9th october 2023. Right wing america celebrated the Taliban taking over the afghan capitol Kabul, again, just two years earlier. Now Hamas, the archetypical "bad middle eastern guy in ski mask" enemy since multiple decades, is the new champion. And they cheer them on while they do Iron Age raiding party stuff like killing civilians, taking out a whole techno concert, making off with captives, hostages, burning down military outposts doing the allahu akbar takbir. And the most moderat grass roots position is "i don't give a shit", the others are cheering for Hamas.
And i suspect the blood gods in america are never really satisfied. There is always some next bloodbath that needs to be drunk in by the red god. And despite america killing huge amounts of people all around the world, it wasn't "real" like when the Taliban or Hamas does it. Compare these muslim fighters to the way america kills people. The muzzies don't even wear bodyarmor, have little to no military training, no chance, and then they scream out in celebration when they blow up a israeli tank with a DIY dronedrop. And then they dance around the damn thing, burning, like the Ewok village in star wars. And thats a more human reaction than compared to america, where a drone strike blows up a compound and the drone flies off. Its totally anti-climactic. Its even more psycho compared to the Hamas guys killing civilians. At least the hamas guys have to look at it. They are in a way confronted with their own deed. The drone pilots just flying off, thats psycho stuff.
Anyway i was thinking about "bloody bill" Anderson raiding federal troops and butchering the prisoners, like scalping, putting hacked off genitals in dead mouths, and so on. If the guys who were with Anderson had cameras back then would america remember the civil war differently, or not at all. In any way it just takes one generation and people just wanna see a new blood bath no matter who the combatants are.
James LaFond <jameslafond.com@gmail.com>
Wed, Jan 3, 9:51 PM (13 hours ago)
to [r]
Thanks [r]
I will expedite this.
Take care—just got back to email land.
peace

Sir, I always thought you had a disturbingly beautiful view of this odd world of America through your dark lens of Hindsite Europe.
Americans are a people without a race and without a nation. We are the janitors of the international police station.
Americans love technological oppression, are absolutely enthralled to, and in worship of, the war machine.
We are The War Pigs, glutting upon the haul had from slain nations.
Almost every American currently cheers death from above, which was the motto of my brother's airborne unit: the 82nd. Look at that, worship of a number, of a fraction of the death machine, as a divine bringer of death!
Americans do not cheer for Enkidu or Humbaba who he killed, but for the whore that seduced him, the chimera that terrorized him in dream, and the plague goddess that took him to the City of Dust.
Americans favor Delilah over Samson, Hera over Herakles.
Most Americans cannot get into Conan, as a hero, because he battles sorcerers and flying dooms from the outer dark.
Americans favor the arrow-slinging coward Paris over the spear-bringing maniac Achilles.
Americans do not cheer for Gilgamesh, but for the Bull of Heaven and for the Stone Men he shattered, for the sun he raced over 12 hours and for the scorpion people who guarded the underdark.
Americans side with the Host of Xerxes, whose arrows darkened the skies, not the Band of Leonidas who opposed them.
Americans sneer at Beowulf as a fool and cheer on the Dragon, honoring nothing more holy than winged death.
Americans could care less about Arthur. He is important only as a pawn of Merlin, the manipulator.
At the bar before the TV, liberal progressives and conservative regressives all cheer for Russian generals slain by robot plains, for rat sack buildings leveled by Judaic missiles and rat sack runnels flooded by pumps. Those few who don't worship instant rubble making, cheer for the murder of civilians on the other side.
All Americans are in love with Death from Above.
We do not love Achilles, but his shield, wrought by the craftsman god who shackled Prometheus to his rock.
The best selling fantasy books in America, from Anne McCaffry's dragon novels, to TSR's Dragonlance series, to numerous movies about good dragons and most of all in the Game of Thrones novels, reflects two things, I think, a deep memory that our kind were once enslaved by masters who flew chariots of the sky and the dim intuition that we, in America, are once again the slaves of the Masters of Scay, just as the Orks in Tolkien's Mordor were droolingly proud to be the slaves of the sky powers, only to be defeated by...eagles, as midgets sneak-thieves stole our hearts.
Death from Above, as a divine wind, is deep in Аrуаn myth and has resurfaced in the American mind with the massive industrial dominance of flying machines. Note that the tiny minority of Americans who cheered for the sack rats were thrilled by the paragliders with fans, which were predicted by Fan Man in a Riddick Bo Evander Holyfield fight in the 1990s.
We are a nation of slaves living under the most oppressive tax code in human history, who fancy ourselves free because we are fat, well-fed, and distracted, and who know deep in our collective souls, that our material prosperity has been won by war machines who go where once only God thundered, above the feast where we ravenously blundered.
Enjoy the soot show.
name email
[blog]   [Guest Authors]  [The Man Cave]  [A Well of Heroes]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [A Warrior Be]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [link]
posted: January 4, 2024   reads: 4125   © 2024 James LaFond
‘I’m Sorry’
San Jose to Reno By Bus & Train: April 27-28, 2023
As I write and the fog over Pittsburgh breaks to show the first sunlight I’ve seen since since Sunday, in Joiliet, and the first clear blue sky since Thursday in California, I am recalling events from eight days gone, from that distant sunny world I then left. It is Friday, May 5, and I scramble to remember last week’s train trip in the vivid detail that then so oppressed the traveler. I feel I must write today, before packing the ruck and driving across the Appalachians with my close friend, afraid I will forget. This is so very strange for a man who never even took a vacation and simply sought his neglected bed when he was a working man.
But, I suppose, that life is the same as then, and the slave within drives the working hand surer than any whip.
I was cold, standing in my ruck, as Big Neon gathered his desultory bedding and speed-slouched off in his bright sneakers.
This bus that pulled into the Diridon parking lot at Stop 3 in San Jose, was on time, at 4:31, darkly tinted and quite silent. A fit, young blond man steps off, regards me with bright blue eyes, like he could be the brother of the Nymph, and says, “Destination?”
“Emmeryville.”
“Name?” as he pulls out an old fashioned paper handbill.
“LaFond, James.”
“Thanks, James. I have fourteen getting off.”
He opened the side hatch, which lifted to reveal baggage as 13 folks ambled down, mostly Latino, and lined up besides the bus as he handed them their baggage. One man was left, a tall, rough looking, broad-faced Latino, with good American English, perhaps 60. To the blond driver in his neat blue shirt and black slack uniform he said, “Sir, please, I can’t see, I mean I’m blind and I need to get on Caltran.”
The driver looked at me, “Please wait here, sir.”
He took the man’s hand and walked him past Trash Bag Woman’s now violated sleeping area as she packed up, into the outer station and down the ramp to the tunnel. He jogged back quickly to where I was waiting next to the luggage hatch, “Sorry, sir. You may board,” took my ruck, tossed it in and locked up.
The bus was a new Volvo with strange seating configurations, feet rests out into the aisle and dark inside. Taking the second seat and hearing the airlocks and easy hum of the nearly silent motor sent me into the sleep that the cool, crazy night had denied. It was a good, twilight sleep, punctuated by stops in San Francisco, where various boomers and homos, Asians and Latinos offloaded.
The bus, when it stopped, rocked headlong, and bobbed us about, something to do with a unique suspension and the front design, said one old gear head passenger. On arriving at Emmeryville Union Station, the bus offloads under a concrete ceiling on the ground floor of a building that is next to the station, alongside the tracks, a mere sidewalk width to the west. The old gear head complimented the driver on the Volvo and his timely handling.
The driver responded, “This thru service is kind of an afterthought. I don’t even work for Amtrak, but an independent bus service. So I don’t know if the service will expand. It seems to be an effort to defray hotel expenses for all of those passengers who miss their train due to delays.”
It was 6 A.M. and the train station was opening. I noted that Pittsburgh was misspelled on my ticket and that I was leaving Chicago late on Monday and getting into “Pittsfield” way late, so went to the counter. State designations do not print out on tickets. Many Latinas and Sisters have creative ways of spelling place names. That, informed the clerk, is what had happened with my ticket in Portland. The new hire clerk of color had logged me to go to Pittsfield, Mass! I had my ticket redone, the price up by $7, getting me the last seat on thee #30 from Chicongo to Pittsburgh. Blacktinas in Jersey are the worst ticket counter clerks. Emmeryville, Oakland, Portland, Denver, Chicongo, Pittsburgh and Lancaster, PA and Baltimore, are the best places to buy tickets.
The train would board at 9 and leave at 9:10. I dozed in the lobby for an hour, bought a cup of coffee from the tall dish in her shorts and halter, wanting morning tips on this cold day, and dozed some more. Two older ladies, tiny women, noticed me from previous trips and were discussing something as they glanced at me. The homeless are so bad here that there is a combination on the bathroom. 2 ounces of nuts are $5, a coffee $5.
When it came time to board I beat the herd to the coach loading point. Emmeryville is one of the few stations where coach boards closest to the station and sleepers have to hoof it, though most of these land whales opt for a ride in the luggage carts. It is hard for me or anyone to hear the conductors issuing boarding directions as the many Karens chatter incessantly about right and wrong and their Kens gobble about the perfectly toasted bun, brazed burger or glazed doughnut.
First in line, I stepped back and let the land whales waddle forth. A fetching young Asian babe, 25, 5’ foot and 100 pounds with tattoos, trashy fishnet stockings and a standard American accent asked me, “Is this the coach to Chicago?” The other car was for people headed to Denver and near.
I had been scrupulously avoiding speaking with anyone on or near the trains, turned to her, and answered, “Yes,” then looked ahead.
Instead of saying thanks, she said, “I’m sorry,” in a sincere tone, I suppose, having seen a reticence in my face. This is ominous, more former reptilian Ham City facade peeling away with old age to reveal something sill human beneath. Could be inconvenient, even perilous, back East.
The two Amish men and I let her and the other lady board after the waddling eaters, which shocked her, and she needed to be reassured, which I did with a directing hand in open supination pointed at the two steel stairs. She had a nice ass for an Asian girl.
As I got to the top of the stairs and turned left, for we were not assigned seats, I saw that the first aisle seat was open, with lots of leg room and took it, placing me next to this babe, to her horror. I never looked at or spoke with her, which bothered her, and, soon after our tickets were checked, she I knew she would migrate to the viewing car, which she did.
Our coach attendant for the entire trip was Charlene, a tall, cute black babe from Chicongo. She called me, “My love,” and “handsome,” and flirted with her eyes. The conductor was a cute Latina of high pale cast who was very hospitable.
Assigned seats from Emmeryville don’t make much sense as most coach passengers are bound only for Reno in the late afternoon. Then the few who remain have 12 hours to spread out and sleep until “the General Herd” board at Salt Lake City before dawn, most of whom are only bound for Denver or points between. At Sacramento, when Charlene noted mys eat change she asked if everything was okay and I informed her, three seats back to the left from where Little Asia’s teddy bear remained, “I thought the young lady would feel more comfortable with a female seatmate.”
Charlene let loose a glossy grin, batted her eyes, smoothed her jacket so I could note the indentation of her still slight waist between ample hips and breast and, quipped, “Well, a man likes what he likes, don’t he?”
I grinned, “Indeed,” and she smiled her way back to the head of the coach.
I will address the cast of characters in full in the next segment.
New service trends on the trains, now trying to rebuild their tourist business after it was wrecked by Covid are listed below:
-Hand held ticket scanners are gone. Conductors use their phones to scan tickets now, meaning a smart phone is a necessity for employment, as it is in medical settings, where schedules are accessed via smart phone.
-Coach peasants are once again permitted in the dinning car, but relegated to the front, divided from the sleeper elite by the staff who cluster around the stairs down to the kitchen.
-The number of coach cars have been reduced, trains still only at 75% of pre-Covid capacity.
Prices and service parameters will be addressed in the next segment.
Notes
-Conductors [managers] and engineers [operators] change every 8 hours. The former are Caucasian and Latino, the engineers all Caucasian.
-Coach attendants, sleeper attendants, the cafe car attendant, and the dinning car attendant are on for the entire haul and tend to live in Chicago. The middle class black folk of Chicago who dominate the hospitality positions on Amtrak tend to polite service, hard work [1], clear slightly southern rural diction, darker skin than coastal blacks, big smiles and genuine personalities, being more flexible in the face of bad passenger behavior and tyrannical conductor misconduct [like the race based masking and seating of 2022] than their Caucasian counterparts.
-1. Each coach attendant cleaning 6 to 11 public restrooms twice a day.
name email
[blog]   [Harm City to Chicongo]  [link]
posted: January 4, 2024   reads: 4154   © 2023 James LaFond
Graphomania
Feeding the Relentless Writing Beast: January 2, 2024, Selek, Washington
“James, [government name redacted], the Arkham Reporter, mentioned that your output is inspirational, and was wondering if you had any tips that could help the less experienced writer. I told him that the one thing I remember you saying was that if you didn’t do something just because you didn’t feel good, you would have never done anything.”
-InTheseGoingsDown
Thanks to both of you for being curious. I was diagnosed as suffering from graphomania by Ann Sterzinger in 2014. I agree, I am driven by an inner madness to write. This maniac within holds the rest of my being hostage to serve his bitter purposes. We agree to serve him, mostly for fear of becoming him.
I have just checked my book master file and it seems I have written 274 books, though I am unsure, basically, because I can’t count reliably. I used to count my paycheck three times, and keep the total that repeated, and the book keeper smiled and said, “Here, Baby Cakes, I’ll do it once so you can follow along.”
From 1992 thru 2010, I wrote 9 books while working between 40 and 70 hours a week. If my employment exceeded 70 hours I wrote nothing. Most of this writing was done on my day off, as I typically had one day off a week for most of my life. The other 40% of that writing was done on vacation time and while off work due to injuries. I missed 11 months of work in the first 31 years of my working life, all between 1994 and 2003.
July 5 2010 I quit work, rewrote 4 of the above books, and wrote two huge novels between July 6 and December 23. That gave me the measure of how much economic scraping had deprived me of my mind, even as I had worked most of that time in an unthinking capacity. The grind alone, deprives us of most of the perspective that the writer requires.
Between July 2010 and December 2017 I wrote something like 120 books, with one day accounting for 26 chapters and aticles. I wrote the 97,000 word Thunder-boy in one month, the 32,000 Thunderbird in 3 days. This eventually resulted in me having disfiguring and almost lethal sleep seizure on December 13, 2017. When I cleaned up the scene of the mess two weeks later, it looked like a demon had tried to kill me. But mine were the only hand prints in the blood.
That 7 years of insane production were accomplished by working 24 hours a week across three nights, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I only slept on those 3 evenings, 3 to 4 hours, before going to work, and on Saturday night when I got drunk with Megan. I was living off of 25 dollars for food and booze a week, so drank cheap rum. Eventually, the rotation of coffee and rum resulted in me letting that demon in—or maybe out.
I have, since 2019, suffered from extreme eye pain. I accept this just like I accept the pain in my hands from boxing and stick boxing. Since then my annual book completions have ranged from a high of 37 in 2020, to a low of 9 in 2023.
The following are some suggestions for inducing graphomania.
Write every day.
Do not rewrite. That is bullshit taught to you to keep you from overcoming your teacher, who is your competitor.
Do not give this evil world your best hours. Write before you go to work.
Meditate on your next piece, on tomorrow’s writing, on your way home from, or ideally at, work.
Create the next document file when you get home from work, maybe even a quote or a memory cue.
When you wake, before heading to work, write that article or chapter.
A part-time writer with a full-time job should write 7 articles or chapters per week. I shoot for 15. My best month was 185. 40 has been my median for a year now as my body fails in the flickering shadows where the muses wail ever for more…
Don’t let one piece get over 2,000 words. If the scene needs more words or the article subject deserves more, than break it into 3 parts, not 2, but 3. You stumbled upon something important here. Now you have 3 posts or chapters over 1000 words, out of 1 idea. Reader attention falls off after 2,000 words, precisely when you start to get tired. Respect that.
Write hungry. You can eat when you’re on break at work.
Write thirsty. Save your coffee for proof reading and beer for celebrating.
After you write your piece, go shower, shave, get that cup of coffee, and come back and proof the piece.
Write when you are horny, not after you just got laid.
Save your day off for writing only one piece, but then reading the week’s work for a second proof. That day off should also be reserved for arranging text...which gets us to this.
I have accidentally erased two entire books, including Thunderbird, and had to rewrite them from memory.
Make a book or project folder.
Make a front matter and dust cover document for the book or collection. This is your creative reference that saves start up energy while you create—this is the stone muse that you set in place for your future writing self along that thread.
Write each chapter, scene, article separately as its own document.
Do not waste writing time arranging these chapters in one document. Save that for a third and final proof, when you proof each chapter, paste it into a fresh draft document, and complete your work.
This system permits you to do set up when you are tired, create when fresh, and manage, tweak and judge your work when the freshest.
In case you write on more than one topic.
Think like a producer, not like a server.
Here is how I learned that, by working in supermarkets as a grocer. The night clerk, the mini goon who unloads trucks, breaks down pallets and loads and fronts shelves and builds displays, is 5 to 20 times more productive than the day clerk. This is why.
We order a 70 case pallet of 24 packed Green Giant vegetables. It does not come from Pilsbury like that. The wholesaler has some other goon take green beans, peas and corn and build a pallet—if we are that lucky and we don’t get three 1/3rd pallets of cans underneath soaps, bag dog food and cake mix. Now, the green beans are 30 cases, peas 22 and corn 18. The day clerk only fills sold out items, which means he has to dig under the peas and corn to get the green beans, bust his ass for a single case. The night clerk pulls the pallet to the display, and builds the display in the order he gets to the item.
That is retail food Blitzkrieg, which was lighting warfare that was achieved by one means, by exploiting the path of least resistance. Do not beat your head against the wall on that article that needs citations. Write whatever the research is in on. Pick the low hanging fruit first. That will make you better at picking, which will increase your success picking higher on the narrative tree.
If you are writing a novel, and chapter 1 is giving you fits, write chapter 2. Then return to 1 armed with some hindsight.
Do certain types of writing in the maximum setting. In Portland and Pittsburgh, with TVs blaring all over the house, I write history, as the subject matter, the primary documents I work from, sucks my mind in.
Here, in Selek, at the base of Cedar Mountain, with the high winds blowing the monstrous fronds outside this pump room window, as the steel stanchion shriek up on the mountain, I write horror.
Speaking of which, extreme sleep deprivation helped me write, and even caused, a few horror novels and stories.
I write humor best when drunk, fiction best when lonely, verse best when in severe pain.
Map your own inner writing monkey, so you may best serve him when he mounts your back and cracks that weird whip.
Thank you, Damien and Mister Grey.
PS: 1/3/24
As a full time writer with bad eyes, my ideal writing situation is where I am now. I wake to write fiction, then do 2 hours physical activity to rest eyes and limber wrecked body. Then I write 2 more hours in the afternoon. That should net two fiction chapters.
Instead, yesterday, I wrote nonfiction, in part because I heard a young writer could use some help. But also, because I wrote a chapter in Nihil yesterday, a novel I must put away until the 28th while I finish SPQR and Slave. [1] I listened to Gibbon’s Decline and Fall while sleeping, to prep for writing of a fictional Rome that never fell.
The main site is booked out through mid July—so I’d be a creep for making you wait that long and my retarded ass still cannot figure out how to get to my email account. Lynn says she has blocked the hookers and publishers and deleted the stuff she takes care of and I still have 80 email to attend—real emails, not junk. That is the kind of stuff I take care of at night, while tired.
Notes
-1. SPQR can be written anywhere, requiring only loneliness. Slave must be written here, where I outlined and set it last year. Nihil is to be written on location in San Jose across three visits. I did the front matter in the first week of December, wrote only the prologue yesterday, that one chapter alone set on the train to the setting.
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [Crackpot Mailbox]  [Crackpot Periscope]  [Writing Spots]  [link]
posted: January 3, 2024   reads: 4059   © 2024 James LaFond
‘Entrainment’
Penetration by Ingo Swann: 5/6/2023
Special Edition
Updated
The Question of Extraterrestrial and Human Telepathy
2020 Swann-Ryder Productions, 267 pages
This review only covers the first 77 pages of the book.
I have ZERO interest in UFOs and nearly as little interest in remote viewing and other forms of ESP or psychic powers.
Electric Dan gave me this book, thought I would find something useful in it. Indicating his strong belief in the utility of this book for the dissident mind, Dan asked me to pass it along to someone who might hold an interest in this, who would actually read the book. I intend to meet that man this afternoon, Jason, Psychearch of the Esoteric Cafe.
I read the first section of Penetration on May 1 at the Chicago Union Station, amid mass mind control chaos, punctuated by public demonstrations of insanity. I reread this section last night, as I sat up medicated with an eye seizure so bad that I could not lay my head down.
Brief Outline
As a psychic remote viewer, Ingo was contacted by cryptic or plutocratic persons to conduct viewings. This involved meeting strange twins with flash cards directing him from public locations, to hidden blind folded transport locations, observation of his activities and an eventual ghosting by his contacts. I have had such experiences, minus the blind folding. Cryptic persons have offered to fly me out of the nation, and to illegally transport me to Canada and Mexico.
Here is what I find of interest, with Ingo Swann’s quotes followed by my notations.
“PENETRATION
(definitions of)
-5) To discover the inner meaning or contents of
-6) To pierce something with the eye or mind;
-7) Having the power of entering, piercing or pervading;
-8) The act of entering so that actual establishment of influence is accomplished.”
These higher definitions are reflected in:
-5) science [lower understanding]
-6) art [higher understanding]
-7) policing & crime, TV and movie narrative [mind management preparation]
-8) news media and social media [manipulation of the managed mind]
“...I join a very long list of those who have seen and experienced things they cannot prove happened.”
-page 1
“...it challenges those echelons of conventional credibility that lasciviously get off on deconstructing those unfortunates who experience what they can’t prove...thus suspending them in doubt.”
-page 2
“...the methodical suppression of Psi by high echelons such as represented by government, science, academia and media.”
-page 3
These latter four institutions are our social steerage cults.
Swann is concerned with the social mechanics of perceptual negation, which, in its crudest and most effective forms recently included media gaslighting, as reporters stood before burning buildings in 2020 and declared the causal protests “peaceful.” Gaslighting achieves mesmerism of the slavish and spiritually lower educated portion of humanity and afflicts incompletely-educated humans with anger, rage, alienation and reactionary delusion. Writing in the 1990s, Swann understood, before most dissident thinkers, that Western Civilization, or Modernity, is at its core a full-spectrum negation mechanism, a means of erasing identity from macro to micro: down from racial, social, familial identity as well as individual and even internal identity.
“I introduce two unusual terms: EARTHSIDE and SPACESIDE.”
-page 3
Such a view would not offend the ancients. See Ovid’s Metamorpheses. The modern mind has been stripped of external notions of divinity and must be able to imagine aliens in flying saucers using technology to explain what ancients accepted as beyond their ken, though Ovid and Homer do describe the gods as employing mechanical flying devices.
“...my personal unprovable experiences…”
-page 4
Swann has been barred from contact with most rational thinkers via the replacement of our social ethos, which was once based on religious scriptures and is now based in legalistic strictures.
A UFO sighting attested to by a Soviet general, demonstrates the lies by omission used by Our Modernity Stewards, such as the omission from Columbus’ accounts of the unexplained visual phenomena over the Atlantic in 1492.
“...that Earthsiders and Spacesiders didn’t seem to have much in common with the exception of telepathy...the development of telepathy is suppressed Earthside...over twenty publishers turned it down...”
-page 5
Julius Evola discusses this rare intersection of human and divine occurring in war at convergence points, indicated in the figures of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Enoch, Jakob, Moses, Joshua, Herakles and Samson. In Wolfe’s Litany of the Long Sun, he posits that among many divinities, to include artificially intelligent systems of social control and cosmic gods, that only one deity “The Outsider” dines to contact a psychic soul.
Note that all major publishers declined to publish Confessions of an Economic Hitman, pushing that author to migrate to Swann’s metaphysical fringe.
“...Psi research subjects (guinea pigs) are nonentities who are expected to exhibit Psi manifestations...the job of knowing, thinking, supposing belongs to the researchers...boredom is deadly in Psi research…”
-page 8
Swann points out here the basis for the Modern Managerial Society, that actionists are not to make decisions at any level. Actionist is not a word according to this program I type with, yet actor is, meaning to pretend, when actor once meant to do. This control frame he describes from the view of the frustrated emotive in a cold evidentiary sphere has been obliterated by the cultivation of entertainment-based learning in modernity.
Younger men who are active readers have asked me for the best guide to how power works in human society. That guide is, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon. However, all four young readers have been unable to tolerate this work as a read or a listen, due to the older and fuller use of the English language and the repetition of executive activity, all claiming to have been bored to tears by this most fascinating and insightful work, written with wit. This is an example of how our reduced language, of shorthand didactics replacing thought, and above all our cultivation as entertained and thus easily bored spectators, has barred most of us from concourse with our predecessors.
“...of that mighty river called ‘prevailing opinion’ which could damage even high reputations in the Washington maze.”
-page 14
This statement betrays USG accurately as a mesmerism collective charged with planting, nursing, triggering and steering herd instincts and delusions among the subjects of USG. For instance, the delusion that USG, which has soldiers in almost every nation on earth, is a beleaguered font of goodness under constant attack by the militant forces of evil and tyranny, held by roughly half of America, with the other half believing this global cocoon of goodness to be a noble end that has thus far failed to achieve the purity it is capable of. Both sides of this deluded bi-polar collective fail to see the obvious truth that all nation states through history have been predatory mechanisms.
“...most people notice very little...characteristics of good psychics is their fascination of observing everything they can, in detail. Powers of observing seem to act as a launch pad to higher forms of perception…”
-page 28
Swann’s recollections becoming strikingly vivid as he is manipulated by the people who recruit him with a promise of big pay and important and meaningful work. The following statement was in regard to two of his handlers who he called “the twins.”
“...”entrainment”… a word used to describe people who have been subjected to some mind-managing so that they begin to think, act, and even, I guess, look alike.”
-page 29
Swann was an observational genius. I shall leave it to those interested to pursue his work. I intend to give this book unfinished to Jason and hope in the future to use audio-books of Swann’s work.
What follow are some quotes I marked in my first reading:
“...if one talks about things people do not understand, then they lose interest.”
-page 30
Thus the genius of American Academia and Media, of lying by omission.
“...people tend to operate on feedback, they tend to forget about stuff that never achieves the feedback...most people forget (and avoid) whatever does not fit with consensus realities.”
-page 46
The genius of social media as a behavioral construct.
“...conspiracies erecting invisible prisons into which human abilities were incarcerated and destroyed.”
-page 53
The most concise summation of the managerial society.
“we explain what we do not understand THROUGH whatever we think we DO understand.”
-page 76
Thus any establishment of a false reality, such as only Africans were ever enslaved, serves to warp, twist, distort and cloak future realities, unto real time, in the minds of the entrained herd of subhuman ciphers who necessarily populate a democracy.
Thank you, Dan.
name email
[blog]   [Book Reviews]  [link]
posted: January 3, 2024   reads: 4051   © 2023 James LaFond
Crackpot Expenses 2023
How Is Your Reading Money Being Spent?: 12/12/23
The increasingly challenged electric hobo tracks his writing expenses for the ease of his kindly accountant. Posting this means he can get to it, since my dumb ass still can’t email it to him. Every morning when I open the computer, I go right to the writing log and enter the previous day’s expenses. This is embarrassing. So I am scheduling it to post for December 31, the day I leave for Washington.
January
Expenses:
Food: 124 + 14 + 51 + 42 = $231
February
Expenses
Food: 60 + 71 + 51 + 20 + 32 + 48 = $282
Train tickets: $169
Sedan fare: $40
March
Expenses
Food: 20 + 10 + 78 + 72 + 18 + 42 + 33 + 12 + 27 + 11 + 13 + 37 + 17 = $390
Winter
Expenses:
Travel: $209
Food: $903
Shelter: 0
Total = $1,112
March
Expenses [Food]: 22 + 50 + 31 + 27 +11 + 17 + 16 + 21 + 23 + 18 + 50 + 23 + 27 +11 = $347
Postage: $17, $10 = $27
Medicine: $29
=$403
April
Expenses [Food]: 27 + 35 + 21 + 13 + 65 + 15 + 7 + 10 + 5 + 15 + 40 + 10 + 40 + 45 + 20 + 5 + 5 + 40 + 40 + 15 + 15 + 10 + 3 + 10 + 40 + 22 + 50 = $613
Postage: $17
Writing supplies: desk, lamps = $95
Sedan: $45 + $50 = $90
Train: $150 + 7 = $157
Bus: $15
Hotel: $138 + 584 = $722
Medicine: $25 + 25 + 25 + 25 = $100
=$1,809
May
Expenses [Food]: $25, $7, $114, $45, $129, $21, $50, $41, 5, 55, 5, 15 =$512
Bus: $15, $5, $5, $5 = $30
Medicine: 5 = $5
=$547
Spring
Total = $2,759
Summer
Expenses
Train tickets: Jersey to Baltimore $112, 80: $192
Room rent: $200, $200, 200, 300, 200, 50, 400: $1550
Sedan: $50, 25, 50, 20, 20, 100, 20, 20, 20: $325
Bus: $20, $5, 5: $30
Food: $54, $70, $10, $50, $70, [living with women who cook is getting very expensive, a can of peas is now over $2] $35, $90, $20, $10, 30, 10, 7, 40, 140, 44, 100, 100, 80, 20, 50, 80, 240, 10, 20, 270: $1650 [Wow!, and I lost weight?]
Meds: $20, $22, 75, 29, 1, 30: $177
Summer expenses = 3,924, ouch, no wonder I’m broke
Autumn to December 29, minus 17 days of dearth
Note, since I only have $40 left with 17 days left in Portland, I will throw that $40 into food and add this depressing litany of expense up now. Moving more often is too expensive. The crackpot might be grounded.
Expenses through December 12
Train: $25 train to Jersey [wht a deal!], $218 two-train trip to Salt Lake City, a $91 two train trip to San Jose, $193 train trip to Portland, 141 round trip to San Jose, 34 one way to Seattle = $702
Bus: 4, 4, 5 = 13
Clothes: Lost my hovel and all winter clothes, including three coats in Portland: $200 budgeted to replace =1 coat, 1 hat, 4 shorts, 2 pair pants
Sedan: $100, [Baltimore] 40 [Portland] = 140
Food: $51, 100, 70, 60, 30, 30, 34, 50, 47, 27, 7, 20, 18, 75, 37, 30, 70, 6, 7, 10, 7, 10, 5, 48, 12, 13, 24, 28, 7, 60, 30, 27, 45, 5, 10, 20, 50, 5, 31, 5, 5, 10, 5, 10, 20, 10, 30, 25, 30, 17, 50, 70, 30, 10, 5… my last $40 goes here = $1588
Meds: 37, 19, 35 for cane and eye patches, 20 = 111
Hotel: 50, 280, Pittsburgh, 20, San Jose, 650, 200, Yakima 100, San Jose 360 = $1650
Rent: 140 [Portland], 160, 40, 80, 60 = 480
Postage: 17, 96, 17, 14, 17 = 151
Books; 7, 14, 15 [for Plantation America], 9, 15 [Aryas] = 60
Expensive season at $5,095, half my annual income in last quarter… not looking good. That’s what a crumbling cracker gets for banking at the dive bar ATM.
Totals
Winter: $1,112
Spring: $2,759
Summer: $3,924
Autumn: $5,095
2023 Expenses = $12,080!
I was lucky I had 3k in the bank to start the year, because that is more money then I make in a year by 2k. There will be no money for the dentist in January. I will not be able to arrange all of the travel I expected for the coming year. Additionally, since I am now worthless around the rural homestead, winter expenses are set to increase as I winter in Portland. So, I need to show some discipline and stop eating out.
This really puts the exclamation mark on that help that Mike T. Generous, Baruch and Miter Saffrono provided with the medical transport. Thank you all so much. I never thought that I would be able to make as much money writing as I spent this year.
I began this journey in June 2018 with an annual income of $2,400. I do feel kind of guilty that I probably won’t be able to buy any ammo for the next war. Sorry, Unk.
name email
[blog]   [Author's Notebook]  [link]
posted: December 31, 2023   reads: 3926   © 2023 James LaFond
Articles per page:   Skip: