Tell ya the truth, I ain’t a fan of the Indian subcontinent. Even as a kid, I tolerated Sabu movies on TV only coz I knew a movie about real Injuns like Tonto was sure to follow.
The first TV commercial I remember seeing (circa 1955) showed a kid in the third world holding a begging bowl while flies crawled all over its face. That commercial is, in effect, still running some 67 years later. That tells you all you need to know about the effectiveness of charity, foreign aid and missionary work.
Then as a child of the sixties, I suffered (and I do mean suffered) through my generation’s pretentious flirtation with the sitar, Tiger Balm, yoga, karma and lentil curry.
Third World slop. All of it.
Age has not mellowed me. I lived in London for decades where I had more than enough “up close and personal” contact with the denizens of Hindustan to solidify my low opinion of them. So I am not prejudiced but postjudiced. I know the breed!
While you’ve been watching the Southern border, our ruling class has accelerated your replacement through a back door. Here’s a post I did about this latest invasion of our world.
While taking a break from rearranging my sock drawer and staring at the wall, I somehow stumbled across some vintage book covers and magazine ads. They seem to be from a pre-Jurassic world yet could not be more timely. I guess it’s true, “The more things change…”
It’s funny/tragic to see how straightforward and commonsensical things were “back then” and to see how much we have forgotten and can still learn from those who came before.
So grab a cup o’ Joe and stroll with me through this treasure trove of timeless advice for women.
The advice of yesteryear wasn’t just about being handy with your fists and shootin’ iron; though having a “classy chassis” and putting a tight grouping of six shots in an intruder’s torso is nothing to sneeze at. No, that advice was all about having a sound mind in a sound body.
Priceless wisdom then and even more so now and it holds double for men!
Read. Read. Read.
Read everything that’s not nailed down.
Read kitsch. Read classics.
Get off your phone.
Turn off your TV.
Men do make passes at girls who wear glasses!
Ladies, we need your feminine aspect, your wit, your wiles, your womanliness at its most natural and nurturing.
In the coming time of tribulation, we will need all of that plus we need you to be legally locked and loaded for bear!
The darkening of our screens and stagesand its part in the theft of our past and future
YOU FLY into London on a British Airways plane on which you are shown an animated film about safety. It stars a cartoon Black man with his cartoon White wife and their cartoon mixed-race child. You pass through immigration control and are poked and probed by Brown people wearing hijabs and turbans who jabber at you in an unintelligible version of the English language. Heading for the tube you pass a poster that shows a Black woman dressed in Elizabethan garb beckoning you to the Globe Theatre.
On the ride into town you see posters for the latest West End plays. There are productions of Shakespeare’s Richard II and Henry V starring Black women in the title roles. (The critics rave that these classic plays finally make sense.) There is also an Asian actor playing David Copperfield and Christmas pantos starring Blacks and Asians as Cinderella, Dick Whittington, and Snow White. Next to the entertainment ads are those for mortgages and mattresses all featuring Black men with White women. And, they are almost always blonde women.
You get home, put your feet up in front of the TV and notice that there are an unusually large number of Brown people on the streets of Victorian London as depicted in the BBC’s latest version of A Christmas Carol. And the villages of Midsomer are teeming with more people-of-color than your local benefits office. Even Doctor Who is suddenly a Black woman! You channel surf and are confronted by Black vikings, Black centurions, Black Tudors and an Asian King Arthur!
The news is read by a Brown person. The weather is given to you by a Brown person. Your favorite gardening program is presented by a Brown person. The Brown person presenting your favorite wildlife program explains without a trace of irony the danger of extinction faced by native fauna and flora due to the invasion of alien species.
In disgust, you turn off your TV and browse through the latest brochure from the National Trust. But something is odd — most of the people shown wandering around the stately homes of England are Brown. The mothers of the large, happy families in the photos wear Muslim or Hindu garb. The only White faces are those of blonde women holding hands with Black men and their mixed-race children.
Meanwhile, your teenage son is in his room playing a new computer game set in World War I. But, in this version of the Great War, the trenches look like a Saturday night in Brixton and the game’s logo is the face of a Black Tommy. You wonder if you have slipped into an alternate universe or are dreaming. But you aren’t dreaming. You are living through a waking nightmare. And I can tell you why.
I’ve been a professional actor for fifty years. I’m also a proud member of that most despised of all groups — old White men. I’m not a star or even a semi-name but you have probably seen and heard me many times. I know the world of advertising and show business. And I know how, why, and by whom our screens are being darkened, I am being denied work, and our past and future are being stolen from us.
The answer is BAME. It stands for “Black, Asian, or Mixed Ethnicity.” And that acronym is now an essential part of every media company’s ethos. When a “brand” is hiring actors for a commercial or a production company is hiring actors for a play, movie, or TV program, they proudly trumpet the fact that they prefer to see or will only see performers who are BAME. (Imagine what would happen if someone advertised with a preference for White actors and actresses.)
The Cultural Marxist octopus has many tentacles and has been at work in all the arts for many decades. As a child in 1950s America, I saw early attempts at “color-blind” casting. But, in the 1960s, the prominent New York theatrical producer Joseph Papp started pushing non-Whites big time in his Shakespearean productions in Central Park. (You will not be surprised to learn that Papp was a Jew.) I suffered through many productions of Romeo and Julietwith a Black Romeo and a White Juliet. Or a Black Macbeth and White Lady Macbeth. The audience “wasn’t supposed to notice” these racial absurdities and anyone who did was a “racist.” So, most people pretended not to notice — and they still do.
Oriental audiences are more forthright in their opinions. They want White heroes. Star Wars films that feature Black actors flop in China — a very important film market. So, the Star Wars producers avoid putting Black faces on the film posters. And, the latest Star Wars had to remove a “gay” kiss to make it acceptable to Orientals who want their heroes straight, too.
We Occidentals feel the same, even if most won’t admit it. We vote in private with our money. The producer of the mega-successful comic-book “cape hero” film franchise let slip at a convention that movies and action figures based on non-White characters don’t sell — worldwide. The sale of dolls, clothing and mugs, etc. is a major part of the profit stream for any film or animation. It is a racially revealing economic fact that Black Barbie and Ken dolls don’t sell — even to Black kids. “Gay” and trannie Barbies and Kens also gather dust on store shelves. White heterosexuality is the go-to choice for everyone.
But, shouting “commercial considerations be damned”, the Cultural Marxists have doubled down in Britain and are putting propaganda ahead of profit. The British Film Institute (BFI), which bestows crucial funding to film projects, fell into the tentacles of one Josh Berger, an American Jew with a long Hollywood history.
Under Berger’s malevolent influence the BFI has mandated higher levels of BAME. Any production that does not meet the set levels will be denied funding and thus any chance of distribution or awards. It will be dead. So, producers genuflect to globohomo and grind out the anti-White, anti-heterosexual, anti-Christian propaganda that pollutes our screens. Adding insult to injury, we are paying for this filth because the majority of the BFI’s money comes from the UK taxpayer!
The levels of “race and gender-blind” casting mandated include:
• At least one lead character must be non-White • 50-50 male-female ratio in entire cast • At least 20% of cast must be non-White • At least 10% must be LGBTQ • At least 7% disabled • A large proportion of plot lines and filming locations must be set among underrepresented groups.
With those parameters in mind, try writing a film that should by natural law, reason, and historical fact be set in a White, male world. How can you fit that many women, homos, lesbians, trannies, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Blacks, and crippled, cis-phobic, bi-curious Eskimos into a Lancaster bomber, a monastery, or the Alamo? And, I wonder if these same race and gender targets will apply if an all-Black film company sought funding for a movie set in a lesbian bathhouse in Somalia? Would the screenwriter have to find a way to squeeze White, Christian, hetero males into the steam room?
We aren’t being betrayed by the BFI alone. The British Academy of Film and Television Arts which bestows the prestigious BAFTA awards is equally on-board the globohomo express though it is (small comfort) privately funded. Still, if you want to win a BAFTA you must bow down to the Cultural Marxists who run that outfit.
And British Equity (the actors’ union) promotes and protects every race but White. It cares nothing for the race that only created theatre, film, television, radio, the Internet, and trade unions! It promotes and protects every sexual persuasion but heterosexuality. My union dues are currently paying for a campaign to ensure that “trans” actors get to audition for roles of any gender including those of the gender they claim to have left. Meanwhile, I can’t get an audition to play an old White guy because it’s being played by a Black female-to-male trannie!
The BBC admitted that its “race-blind” casting of period dramas is not historically accurate but feels it is important to do it in the interests of cultural cohesion. Well… if this BAME business is not part of an anti-White agenda but just a well-intentioned attempt to make us all race- and “gender”-blind then when do I get to play Martin Luther King or Winnie Mandela?
Meanwhile, for all their disingenuous calls for race-blindness, Black performers insist on race-based preferential treatment and love “acting Black” — especially in period dramas. Notice how Black actors in plays by Shaw, Ibsen, or Wilde will use a ghetto pose and vocal inflection to get a cheap laugh. They are Black to their bones and they know it and are happy to play the minstrel if it’s to their advantage.
At this point a few questions come to mind. If non-Whites were important personages in what we thought had been a White world then what the hell are they complaining about? If Blacks really “wuz kangz” as the Black Israelites proclaim (including kangz of England) then where was the discrimination? And, if Blacks were capable of achieving so much back-in-the-day, then what the heck happened? Did they simply forget how to be physicians, scientists, architects, engineers and, yes, kangz?
Remember those National Trust (NT) brochures full of photos of happy smiling Brown people? They are a staged hoax. The National Trust advertised on casting sites all over Britain for BAME models and actors to pose as visitors and staff at stately homes. But, in reality, if you visit NT properties you will see that with rare exception they are delightfully White in both staff and visitors.
Still this hasn’t stopped the NT management from pushing globohomo. They “out” and promote queer members of the families that owned the properties. And they suggest that bent Uncle Bertie was the best of the bunch. The NT even tried to force its volunteers to wear rainbow flags but most refused. Meanwhile, when I speak privately with older NT volunteers, I find they have fond memories of Enoch Powell and Oswald Mosley.
I have starred in many TV commercials for top brands that were broadcast worldwide. I assure you that it isn’t merely fashion or whim that matches so many Black men with White women. In a thirty second commercial every second counts and nothing appears on screen by chance. I have seen directors, clients and cameramen almost come to blows in arguments over the color of my shirt. How much more debate has gone into the color of the actor’s skin?
No, these racial pairings are not accidental but are blatant attempts to break down the resistance to race-mixing from all races. Listen to Black talk radio programs and you will hear Black women weep that Black men are encouraged to get blondes. In fact, Black nationalists (our mirror image and possible allies) believe that race-mixing is the ultimate sin. And we know what happens to Asian girls who race-mix. But, as with films, the Cultural Marxists don’t give a damn and plow on, sacrificing profits for propaganda.
Case in point: Gillette recently ran an anti-male ad campaign that suggested all men (especially White men) are sex-pests. White men were outraged. This campaign culminated in an ad in which a Black father showed his daughter who had “transitioned to male” how to shave. This time Black men were outraged. This PC campaign cost Gillette a record amount of profit. But its CEO said it was worth it to promote “diversity.”
Alongside the tribe that foments and feasts off our replacement lives an opportunistic parasite — the Black “race hustler.” The uber-obnoxious Whoopi Goldberg is a master of this scam. And, despite being as funny as a fire in an orphanage, Whoopi has made a fortune playing the fat, sassy soul-sista who is the repository of all wisdom. (Sort of an X-rated version of Mammy in Gone with the Wind or a potty-mouthed Aunt Jemima.)
You’ll notice that this smart, sassy maid stereotype is a staple of sitcoms. She is always the smartest person in the house she cleans. She’s certainly smarter than the doofus White dad who is the butt of all her jokes. (There is literally a genre of US sitcom called “Doofus Dad.”)
Believing her own bullshit, Goldberg has morphed into a political pundit. She holds forth daily on US TV on all manner of subjects while injecting the race card into all of them — no matter how misplaced. She gets away with this because Whites are afraid of challenging her lest they be called “racist.” Believe me, if you think Jews are good at squeezing the “Holocaust” into any discussion, you ain’t seen nuthin’ till you see Whoopi at work. (We have the Jewish director Mike Nichols to thank for Goldberg’s rise to fame.)
Another race-hustler is Bonnie Greer, a smug, American Negress based in the UK and a poor man’s Goldberg. Greer is a regular on BBC political chat programs where she is introduced as a “noted American playwright.” But I challenge anyone on either side of the pond to name a single Bonnie Greer play. In fact, in America she is entirely unknown. The woman is a fraud. And, like Whoopi, she benefits from Whites’ reticence to call her out.
The BBC loves wheeling her out because it allows them to tick certain boxes on their diversity chart. Foreigner. Female. Black. Greer’s many appearances allow her to shoe-horn the race card into every subject imaginable while demonstrating the stultifying banality of her opinions. But, I gotta give this sassy, soul-sista credit because with no talent (especially no playwriting talent) she has become the House Negro of the British middle class and (wait for it) — a board member of the British Museum!
Homosexuals are also useful idiots for their Cultural Marxist masters. They’ll do anything if it gives them the chance to snort poppers and wear frocks. Meanwhile, the lesbians happily play along because they get to wear the pants on stage in taxpayer-funded all-female Shakespearean productions. It is true that in Shakespeare’s day young men played the female roles. But, this was not transvestism by choice. It was necessary because women weren’t allowed on the Elizabethan stage. And there was no kissing or touching in the original productions.
Homosexual playwrights, directors, and designers rarely miss a chance to demean Whiteness and masculinity and to degrade females. In a recent London production of a play based on Patrick Hamilton’s brilliant WW2 novel The Slaves of Solitude, the queer director and adapter changed the American GI who was the play’s love interest into a Black soldier. This was impossible casting for all sorts of reasons. But it allowed the queers to indulge in their own fantasy of having a Black buck ravage the spinsterish English heroine.
There have been many other instances of plays and musicals being mangled by ludicrous race and “gender-bending” casting. Edward Albee, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, Noel Coward, and Rodgers and Hammerstein all forbade such changes. Some of those men were homosexual but they still recognized cultural vandalism when they saw it. Sadly, their estates are managed by their PC grandchildren determined to make their Grandpa’s back catalogue hipster-friendly. That sound you hear is of those disrespected gents turning in their graves.
Meanwhile, the hypocrisy of the Cultural Marxists and their apparatchiks in the arts is stunning. They live in the Whitest communities they can find and send their children to the Whitest schools. (The Clintons live in the Whitest zip code in America, and Jewish Bernie Sanders moved from multi-ethnic Brooklyn to Vermont — the Whitest state!) The only contact these hypocrites have with any non-White is with their Black maids. And, if she gets too sassy, they’ll fire her Black ass.
As employers these showbiz Marxists are anything but progressive. All the major film, TV, and commercial producers including the big streaming services film their projects in poor countries. South Africa and Eastern Europe are especially popular. They do this to bust the performer’s unions in the US and UK.
This anti-worker behavior is nothing new. In the 1930s, the Jewish movie moguls who ran Hollywood hired goon squads to bust up organizing meetings for the Screen Actors Guild. Meanwhile, British Equity is too busy creating new genders to act as a genuine trade union and fight the media giants.
These media “liberals” also go abroad to abuse and exploit the local actors and crews. The same producers and stars who cry on the awards shows about Trump and climate change and animal rights allow film extras to be treated like cattle — forced to stand in the cold and wet for many hours (sometimes all night) and given little or no food and very meagre wages.
I’ve had extras beg me for food while the loud-mouth lefty stars dined like Meghan Markle. And the film crews are forced to work round the clock which leads to unsafe conditions. I have seen actors and extras almost decapitated by machinery. I have walked off unsafe sets but most actors are afraid to stand up for themselves.
If I sound angry it’s because I am. And I’m proud of it. I’m also proud of my history, heritage, and culture and I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone degrade, destroy, or steal them. My anger is fueled by the blood of my ancestors that flows through my veins. And as long as that most precious blood flows through me, I shall do all I can to expose and resist the deliberate genocide of our people. A genocide that is being dramatized and broadcast. On prime time. And we are paying to watch the spectacle.
If you don’t believe me, just go to a movie or play. Turn on your radio or TV. Or, just open your eyes. It’s happening. It isn’t a sitcom or movie. It’s real. It’s deliberate. And we can stop it. But the entirely legal means of doing so are best discussed elsewhere. In the meantime — Hail Victory!
This article originally appeared in Heritage and Destiny a bi-monthly 24-page magazine, published in the UK, to reflect a cross section of 21st century racial-nationalist opinion. For a sample copy please send $10.00 to; H&D, 40 Birkett Drive, Preston, PR2 6HE, England, UK. For full subscription details check out heritageanddestiny.com
I love reading good books – especially good books set in New York. I’m guessing you do to or you wouldn’t be here. And, I’m guessing that, like me, you love discovering book stores built over basements bursting with used books and then hunting and coughing your way through the dusty stacks.
I even have a recurring dream of descending into an imagined basement in a Manhattan slum and finding the used book store of my dreams. (Literally of my dreams.) For years, I’ve been returning to this seemingly limitless catacomb.
The great joy of being a book hunter is stumbling over a new author, subject or world. Here are some of my most treasured discoveries –
Psychic Dictatorship in America
by Gerald B. Bryan (1940)
An insider’s exposé of The Mighty I Am. This spiritualist cult was popular in the 1930s and is still around. The money-mad Ballards gave birth to many imitators and set the template for the entire New Age movement complete with fairies, fruitcakes and frauds. On orders from the Ascended Masters, adherents murdered their pets. No foolin’.
Instantaneous Personal Magnetism
by Edmund Shaftesbury (1933)
Tips published by the International Magnetism Club based in Manchester, England. Chock full of lifesaving information on nerve tensing, magnetic foods, wet clothes, thin shoes and fidgets. Hey, these guys were from Manchester and that’s good enough for me. Betcha they were Masons, too.
Adventures with Vending Machines
by Ray Burkett (1967)
The “straight skinny” from one-who-knows on how to make millions stocking gumball machines in garages and paperback book racks in drug stores. With special chapters on, condom vending machines, pay toilets, the salted-in-the-shell peanut racket and the ever-fraught subject of vending in negro locations.
Analism Among the Poor
by Preston Harriman(1970)
Harriman’s oeuvre includes: Analism Among the Poor, Analism Among the Rich, Anal Girl, From Adultery to Analism and Oral Aunts. (Preston was either hungry for a change of pace, or had a very friendly aunt.) Sadly, I’ve found only the one work by Harriman but I live in hope. Still, I’m not sure I’d shake his hand at a book signing.
But what does all this have to do with Joe the Engineer, I hear you cry. This –
You know how it is – your moving down the used book aisle, head tilted sideways, giving yourself scoliosis, scanning the book spines when a title catches your interest. You never heard of the author. The cover and blurbs intrigue you. You read the first sentence and next thing you know the clerk is telling you the store is closing. You blow the mildew from your lungs, brush the cobwebs from your clothes and head up to the cashier clutching gold-in-print.
That’s how I found Joe the Engineer by Chuck Wachtel (1983). I stumbled over it in the used book basement of the original Sam Weller’s in Salt Lake City. I found Francine Prose, David Markson, Charles Portis, Sam Lypsyte and Tom Perrotta in similar basements around the world. (They haven’t written any “Brooklyn” books so I’m not featuring them on this blog. But, if you are a fan of dazzling prose, do yourself a favor and read them. Trust me. Just do it.)
Anyone who has read my memoir Boy Outa Brooklyn will know that my opinion of the neighboring Borough of Queens is not high. Since Wachtel’s book is set in that hellhole, it’s not a “Brooklyn” book. But, since I grew up surrounded by “Joe the Engineers” and might have been one myself, and since it validates everything I’ve written about Queens and since it is so damn good and since this is my blog and I can do whatever I wanna do – I’m gonna do you a favor by making it my Brooklyn Book # 5. (So there.)
Joe the Engineer is quite simply one of the truest and most moving novels of working-class life ever written. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
Joe is a Vietnam vet stuck in a dead-end job reading meters in Queens basements and living in Richmond Hill – the same dead-end Queens neighborhood where he grew up.
Joe is saddled with half-assed intelligence and half-assed dreams. And, Wachtel does a masterful job of capturing the mind of a person who isn’t fully conscious of the “how and why” of his miserable state but senses that something is wrong somewhere. The working class is full of such “canaries in a coal mine.” The media loves to mock them when they are inarticulate in their rage and confusion but I’ve always heard them loud and clear.
I’ve heard them because I am one of them. My antenna has always been finely attuned to pick up snide condescension from the elites. (That’s what cost Hillary Clinton the election. White workers ain’t dumb ya know.) So, I appreciated how “working-class Wachtel” applied his writer’s eye to our shared caste without snobbery or sentimentality.
I especially enjoyed listening to Joe’s thoughts as he read his customer’s lives while reading their basement meters. I saw him as a blue-collar Howard Carter mining the minutiae of ancient Egyptian life from hieroglyphs though in Joe’s case it is from ancient wall calendars and broken toys.
I found a 1983 radio interview with Wachtel – the year Joe was published. I was pleased but not surprised to learn that one of Chuck’s literary models was Hubert Selby Jr. whose Last Exit to Brooklyn is one of my Brooklyn Books. I was less pleased and surprised that Wachtel sounded prissy and academic. And when he blithely stated that America was a “mulatto” nation, my antenna started twitching. “Mulatto” is code for White genocide. It’s shorthand for “Death to Joe the Engineer.”
Happily, in 2020, “mulatto” is still not the norm in America and race-mixing is frowned upon by the vast majority of all races. (Don’t believe me? Listen to minority talk radio.) And, it was certainly not the rule fifty years ago despite Wachtel’s best wishes. However, due to the subversive work of those condescending elites (whom Wachtel chastised) and their fellow-travellers like, ironically, Chuck Wachtel himself, the Joe the Engineers of Richmond Hill and the world are being replaced.
Yes, the solidly White working-class Richmond Hill, Queens to which Joe returned after being used as cannon fodder in Viet Nam is now not open to his kind. For Richmond Hill, Queens is now known as Little India-Guyana-Trinidad and Tobago.
I eagerly sought out and read Wachtel’s other works which include poetry but, for me, Chuck is a one-hit-wonder. Still, as with those other liberal half-wits I’ve reviewed, Alfred Kazin and Pete Hamill, I’m gonna cut Chuck Wachtel some slack coz he wrote a beauty. Do yourself a favor – read it!
There seems to be a movie in the works but I fear they’ll kill the book with politically correct crap. Betcha the supermarket check out girl is Black or Muslim. And, probably cast with Chuck’s approval. Never mind – “I hereby pronounce Joe the Engineer an honorary Brooklyn Boy.”
I visit my hometown a year after 9/11 and find it dusty, deflated and more ascared than ever. Paranoia and para-military security guards are everywhere while humor and spunk are nowhere to be found. I search for New York but it is gone. It is gone because New Yorkers are gone. The city has been stolen from the great people who forged it into the greatest metropolis ever known. But, it isn’t planes flying into unloved skyscrapers that displaces those giants who created the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the Metropolitan Opera, Yankee Stadium, Coney Island, the Bronx Zoo, Wall Street, Broadway, the Brooklyn Bridge and Green-Wood Cemetery. No. Their city has been stolen from them by a Left-Right political pincer movement like the one that dumped my insane Aunt Rosa into Times Square.
Here is how that pincer worked – the Left flooded New York with Chinese and Hispanics who became permanent wards of the state and thus Democrat voters while the Right welcomed them as cheap labor. In the 1960s, the factory owners tried to pay their White union-workers coolie and peon wages. The Whites resisted, the factories closed and neighborhoods died. The imported Chinese and Hispanics poured into those formerly union factories that had reopened as sweatshops and they worked there for coolie and peon wages. Simple. Clever. Lethal. Just as predicted to me on the stoop.