A Little Peace On The Side

     [The following first appeared at the old, much lamented Eternity Road site on September 12, 2006. I’m reposting it as a memory refresher, for everything discussed below still pertains to political discourse and the Left’s tactics today.
     The Left’s approach to hammering its lunacies into the public mind has been highly consistent. It’s had remarkable success, especially at inducing decent persons to self-censor. Yet all its tactics are founded on lies and vilification. We must challenge them on everything they say, especially their absurd notions about “social justice.” Nonsense has no place in serious discourse. – FWP]

* * *

     In its attacks on the Right, the Left frequently employs the notion of "code words:" phrases of innocent appearance that conceal sinister intentions. For instance, we have this from two prominent Embarrassments-at-large to the United States Congress:

     Politicians know this trick well. In 1994, Rep. Charles Rangel, D-N.Y., likened tax cuts to racial epithets, saying, "It's not 'spic' or 'nigger' anymore. They just say, 'Let's cut taxes.'" Later that year, Rep. Major Owens, D-N.Y., used similar language to describe the Republicans' Contract With America: "These are people who are practicing genocide with a smile; they're worse than Hitler." [statements made during the debate over the Contract With America]

     Ann Coulter, the great conservative provocateuse, characterized such rhetoric thus:

     When arguments are premised on lies, there is no foundation for debate. You end up conceding to half the lies simply to focus on the lies of Holocaust-denial proportions. Kind and well meaning people find themselves afraid to talk about politics. Any sentient person has to be concerned that he might innocently make an argument or employ a turn of phrase that will be discerned by the liberal cult as a "code word" evincing a genocidal tendency....

     Vast areas of public policy debate are treated as indistinguishable from using the N-word (aka: the worst offense against mankind....The spirit of the First Amendment has been effectively repealed for conservative speech by a censorious, accusatory mob. Truth cannot prevail because whole categories of thought are deemed thought crimes. [From Slander: Liberal Lies About The American Right]

     This use of the "code word" notion as a sword is generally understood among persons of conservative and libertarian inclinations, but less attention goes to the Left's use of code words as a shield: a screen of attractive but irrelevant concepts deployed to prevent critical examination of something they favor.

     Consider the following, found at the head of this Web site:

     Finding peace in this world we live in seems like a daunting task. We watch as our own government is unmasked to reveal it's naked aggression, it's use of torture in the name of freedom and it's unholy alliance with corporate power and right wing religious extremists. Where are they taking our nation and and do we as a people even care anymore about peace, social justice and truth?

     Ignore the strange grammar and punctuation if you can. Ponder rather the implications of the statement, whose maker is undoubtedly in favor of "peace, social justice, and truth"...by her own interpretation, anyway. Read the most recent half-dozen of her posts and try to determine for yourself what her definitions of those things would be.

     They surely sound good, though, don't they?

     "Peace" by the norms of the liberals usually means surrender to socialist and communist insurrections, which they call "reform movements." "Social justice" by their lights means the erection of ever-larger transfer programs and laws that offer preferential treatment to their favored mascot-groups. "Truth" to a liberal...well, an Eternity Road reader is more than capable of judging for himself. But the terms themselves carry so pretty an aura that virtually no one is willing to compel their elucidation. So liberals get to hide their true intentions behind them: spinelessness before the march of totalitarians and thugs worldwide; exploding government spending and the ceaseless proliferation of laws that infringe upon freedom of speech, association, commerce, and the rights of private property; and the negation of objective standards by which statements of fact might be deemed pertinent to an issue and subjected to critical evaluation.

     Nobel Laureate Friedrich Hayek was especially harsh about the pseudo-concept of "social justice." Justice, he pointed out, refers to two things:

• A state of affairs in which each individual has that which is his by right;
• A process invoked to investigate situations alleged to be unjust and to correct them as necessary.

     The two meanings are tied together inextricably. A justice process cannot function to any advantage unless one can determine the just state of affairs toward which it must strive. But to determine that endpoint, one must concede that it once existed in reality, or that it would have existed except for an injustice that prevented it. This is impossible except by defining the rights of Man and specifying them for the particular persons in the controversy at hand. Thus, it is inherently an individualist premise; it cannot be "socialized" except by destroying the objective basis for the very thing it seeks to protect.

     Of course, socializing everything in sight is what the Left is all about. In liberals' ideal world, every imaginable human action is either compulsory or forbidden. There would nominally be "laws," but there would be administrators and commissions -- staffed wholly by liberals, of course -- with unreviewable plenipotentiary power to interpret those laws. Elections and legislatures would become meaningless; infinite power would rest in the hands of persons whose decisions could not be challenged, and who could be removed from their thrones only by death. That's the precondition for all "progress" by these "progressives'" lights.

     But for anyone to perform that analysis aloud must be prevented. It would give the game away in a rather final manner. So rather than campaign for infinite power for liberal mandarins, they prattle about "social justice," and hope that no one notices the opposition between the first word and the second.

     The thickness of the miasma that steams from such rhetoric -- accusations of "code word" employment by persons on the Right; deployment of "code word" defenses to avert critical analysis of the notions of persons on the Left -- makes it all but impossible to find a route back to wholesome, constructive discourse. Worse, calling a liberal on it is a glove hurled in his face. The fundamentally decent ones mostly lack the insight to see what their rhetoric really means. The indecent ones cannot abide the imputation that their favorite tactic is a tip to their dishonesty. Which suggests that the Era of Code Words is likely to hang around for a long time to come.

Small Lives

     [A short story for you this evening. Not everyone aspires to greatness. Quite a lot of us have no ambitions of that magnitude. But think about the children of a family of great wealth and power. Think about the pressures that might be put on them. Not all of them will respond the way their greatly accomplished and admired relatives would like. – FWP]

* * *

     Jack’s playing was as blazing as ever. The Black Grape crowd was mesmerized by the guitarist’s endless fresh improvisations. Rolf had backed him for three years, yet he was as impressed by the skills of Onyx’s star guitarist as he’d been at their first encounter. He strove to concentrate on his own role: keeping a steady, solid foundation with his Schecter six-string bass against which Jack could spin jazz-rock arabesques from his dazzling white Gibson Les Paul.
     Hal, at Rolf’s left, strove with equal effort to maintain the percussive thunder that undergirded the jam. It was just as invisible as Rolf’s bass, and just as vital to the support of Jack’s virtuosity.
     It was the trio’s two hundredth performance for a paying crowd, and it was special. They were locked together as tightly as if they were a single instrument. The crowd seemed to sense it just as sharply as Rolf did.
     The jam had been going on for nearly twenty minutes when Jack played the agreed-upon phrase that signaled the wind-down and the conclusion. Twelve bars more, and it ended to a thunder of applause. Onyx’s star stepped to the mike, said “we’ll be back in a little while,” unslung his guitar and set it down. Rolf and Hal did likewise. The three stepped off the dais with Jack in the lead.
     Hal ambled off to the men’s room, whether to relieve himself, have a smoke, or whatever. Rolf merely took a seat at the far corner of the bar and asked the bartender for a tap beer. He was sipping quietly mere moments later as the crowd converged on the guitarist for autographs, questions about appearance dates, or whatever.
     Bet there’s lots of whatever tonight. There were three girls up front who couldn’t tear their eyes from him. Two of them had wet spots in their jeans. Ten to one he doesn’t go home alone.
     “You look lonely.”
     The observation came from directly behind him. He set down his beer and half-turned to confront a tall, very pretty blonde who looked to be some years older than he. She wore a subtly probing look that was not at all invasive or threatening. Reflexively, he looked her up and down.
     A dress and heels? Here?
     “Good evening, Miss.” He extended a hand, and she shook it.
     “So far, anyway,” she said. She took the stool next to his and waved to the bartender. “White wine, please.” Presently the barman set a glass before her. She raised it to Rolf. “Skoal.”
     He grinned and hoisted his stein in reply. “Salud.” They clinked and sipped.
     “Sarah,” she said.
     “Rolf,” he replied.
     “Why no crowd of fans around you, Rolf?”
     He shrugged. “Sideman.” He nodded toward Jack and his cluster of admirers. “The star does the shining. Hal and I just bask in the glow.”
     It elicited a chuckle. “You’re all right with that?”
     “I couldn’t do what I do if I weren’t.”
     His phrasing seemed to pique her. “A man who knows his subjunctives!” She clapped perfunctorily.
     “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. Try the veal.”
     A second chuckle. “Yeah, right. So what do you do when you’re not backing up Mister Wonderful?”
     It was his turn to take particular note of her words. He looked her over a second time, more carefully.
     She carried herself with a relaxed, unaffected poise that seemed completely natural. It gave her a presence that went beyond mere good looks. Other women he’d known who shared her beauty and self-command had been more focused on their own images than on anything around them. Her attention was entirely on him.
     He took a moment to collect his thoughts.
     “Well,” he said, “not much of importance. I work in the lumber mill in Laurelton five days a week. I do yard cleanups on weekends for extra cash. Friday and Saturday nights I do this, if we can get a gig.”
     “Sounds…regular,” she said.
     He nodded. “Unexciting, but quiet.”
     “Like it that way?”
     “I do. It’s the life of a regular guy in a regular little New York backwater. Uncomplicated, undemanding. Pays the bills with a little left over. I can go on doing it as long I don’t slice off a finger or tick off my bosses. Maybe I’ll make supervisor someday and watch other guys slice off their fingers.”
     Her gaze flickered over to where Jack was entertaining his fans.
     “Like him?”
     He shrugged. “He’s okay. Pretty good guitarist.”
     “But you don’t pal around.”
     “Nah. There’s always a hubbub around him. I prefer the quiet.”
     Her smile quirked. “And yet,” she said, “you’re a rock musician who plays in noisy nightclubs and bars.”
     “I guess that’s how I fill my hubbub quota.” He finished his beer, rose, stretched, and reseated himself. “What about you? On your way to fortune and glory?”
     The smile vanished. “No, I’m sort of hiding from them.”
     It was curious enough to elicit a reciprocal probe. He wondered if it would be welcomed.
     Only one way to find out.
     “Are you—were you a performer too?”
     He could feel her gathering her courage.
     “No,” she said at last. “I’m a Forslund.”

#      Throughout Onyx’s second set, Rolf felt compelled to split his attention between his bass and Sarah. She remained at the bar despite it putting her sideways to the dais. Her eyes remained upon him, not in a demanding way, but simply companion to companion. She seemed to have linked herself to him in some way that extended beyond their half-hour of conversation.
     He fancied he could feel the link. Its weight was simple and comfortable, like a handclasp.
     I like it.
     He forced himself not to think beyond the moment. He was there to play, not to preen or strut.
     Or fantasize.
     The duel in his head made a forty-five minute set seem three hours long.
     The crowd was just as appreciative as earlier. When they put down their instruments for the night, the swarm that followed Jack was as large and ardent as before. Rolf slipped through the crowd gracefully and beelined for the corner of the bar, where Sarah had remained.
     “Doing all right?” he said.
     She nodded. “Just enjoying the music. I’m glad you came back this way.”
     He smiled. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
     “Say, why a six-string bass?”
     “Well,” he said, “the extra range is nice, and Schecter makes a good one. But in my case it’s more that I started out as a guitarist. I tune the Schecter to a standard guitar tuning and play a sort of combined bass and rhythm guitar. Jack suggested it. He says it gives him a lot to work with. Besides, it fills in our sound.”
     “Do you and…Hal, you said?” He nodded. “Do you two always do what Jack wants?”
     He shrugged. “I guess. It keeps the tensions down. Besides, he’s the draw. No one comes to hear Hal and me.”
     “I have a lot of trouble with that.”
     “Hm? What part?”
     “Doing what I’m told.”
     That pricked his curiosity. He peered at her.
     Forslunds mostly tell other people what to do.
     “You never said what you do for a living,” he said.
     “I work at Albrecht’s.”
     “Doing what?”
     “Selling women’s clothes.”
     “Does it suit you?”
     “It’s fine.” Her smile twitched. “I run the department. Anyway, the Forslund Trust is the majority shareholder in the company.”
     He wondered at her offhanded consent a position in a service industry.
     Her family’s wealth would allow her to do whatever she pleases.
     “What were you thinking just now?” she said.
     “Hm? Oh, just that you must enjoy it.”
     “I do,” she said. “It’s not a big deal, but I’m good at it, and it lets me live on my own instead of at Forslund Manor. Besides, I don’t get a lot of petty little orders from people with brassy titles.”
     Without thinking, he murmured “Or other people named Forslund.”
     Her eyes flared wide.
     “What?” he said. “Did I offend you?”
     “No,” she said, and looked a little away. “It’s just…I didn’t expect you to be so sharp.”
     He tried to lighten the tone. “Never underestimate a sideman. We could be just pretending while we await our moment to strike.”
     She looked him full in the eyes, her expression utterly serious. For a moment he became afraid.
     “Sarah…”
     “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s a long story, and it would probably bore you.”
     For a moment they sat in silence. He reflected on the strangeness of the encounter.
     A Forslund in a working-class bar. A beautiful woman worth a ton of money, all alone…except for me.
     Why me?
     “Rolf?”
     He turned to find Hal standing behind him.
     “Hm?”
     “Gleason wants us out. Jack told me to get our stuff into the van,” Hal said.
     “What, Jack doesn’t plan to be involved?” Rolf said. “Has he suddenly lost the use of his hands?”
     The drummer shrugged and indicated the guitarist with a nod. At the other side of the tap room, Jack was flirting aggressively with two very attractive brunettes. Each of the girls had an arm around the other, They looked enough like one another to be sisters, and neither seemed to be trying to edge out the other.
     He's in for an interesting night.
     “Moment please, Hal.” He turned to Sarah. “Sarah, this is Onyx’s drummer Hal Fraser. Hal, this is Sarah Forslund.”
     Hal’s eyes went wide. Sarah extended a hand with perfect aplomb. Hal took it hesitantly.
     “Pleased to meet you, Miss Forslund. Apologies for interrupting your chat. Rolf, we’d better get busy. Gleason wants us out of here before midnight.”
     “Sarah,” Rolf said, “would you like to continue this conversation?” She nodded. “Then please wait here while I engage in a little manual labor. It shouldn’t take long.”
     “You’re coming back?” she said.
     “Yeah. Wasn’t that sort of implied?”
     She nodded. “Okay.”
     He slid off his stool and ambled toward the dais.
#      Rolf shoved the last of the amplifiers into the van, closed and locked the twin doors, and wiped the dust from his hands. “Good gig, as always.”
     “Number two hundred,” Hal said.
     “Well, goodnight guys. See you tomorrow night for number two-oh-one.” Rolf started back toward the Black Grape.
     Jack looked at him curiously. “You’re not going back with Hal?”
     Rolf shook his head. “I’ll beg a ride from Sarah.”
     The guitarist looked at him levelly. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
     “She told me.”
     “So…then what if she says no?”
     “Onteora Taxi is still in business, isn’t it?”
     “Geez.” Jack shook his head in disbelief. “I thought I was doing well.” He glanced behind him at the brunettes who awaited his attentions.
     “You are,” Rolf said. “Have fun.” He returned to the bar. #      Rolf found Sarah where he’d left her.
     “Sorry, I didn’t think it would take that long,” he said. He remounted his stool. “Where were we?”
     She merely looked at him. Her expression was opaque, unreadable.
     “Sarah? Everything okay?”
     “What…” She paused and visibly gathered her forces. “Rolf, what do you want out of life?”
     He gaped.
     “Rolf?”
     “Yeah, I’m all right, just…give me a minute.”
     It’s not a question I spend a lot of time on.
     “Well,” he said after a few moments, “essentially, just to live it. Quietly. Peacefully. I want to be able to meet my bills and save a little. I want to keep getting better at what I do. But I don’t have any grand ambitions. I love music, but there are plenty of opportunities to enjoy that.” He waved at the dais, now cleared of Onyx’s trappings. “I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, but it’s bound to end pretty soon. Jack’s good, but he’s not Marquee quality. When it’s over, I’ll just…live.”
     “You’ll keep playing, won’t you?”
     “Well, yeah. Probably not the bass, though. If I’m with people I love who want to hear me play, I’ll play for them. Otherwise, I’ll play for myself.”
     She locked eyes with him again. “Would you play for me?”
     He held back the reflexive assent and studied her face.
     Of course I would, but…what else? What’s she really asking about?
     “Sarah,” he said deliberately, “what do you want out of life?”
     She closed her eyes and drew an audible breath. He waited.
     “I want,” she said at last, “what you want. What you already have. A quiet life. A small life. Inconspicuous. Unimportant to anyone but those who I love and who love me.”
     “That would…satisfy you?”
     She nodded.
     “From what you’ve told me,” he said, “it seems like you already have all of that.”
     “I do,” she said. “Except for one thing.”
     He closed his eyes and strove to slow his heart.
     “Sarah,” he said, “I will play for you whenever you ask.”
     She gazed at him for a long moment. Presently she nodded, stepped off her stool, and held out a hand.
     “Come home with me,” she said. ==<O>==

     Copyright © 2024 Francis W. Porretto. All rights reserved worldwide.

Nostrum Assassination Time

     Good morning, Gentle Reader. Welcome to a bright new Monday. I’m sure it will be filled with all the things that have made Mondays beloved throughout the world. And now that we’re past that blasphemy, what do you think of the title?

     In truth, I never disliked Mondays. But that’s because I enjoyed my work. Many people can’t say that. For them, work is something to be minimized, something to get away from as early and for as long as possible. Yea verily, even today, when you can make a living from commenting at X/Twitter.

     But that’s a depressing subject, and not germane to what’s on my mind just now. So let’s have three centered asterisks and proceed thence to the main event.

* * *

     There are innumerable bits of pseudo-wisdom in circulation these days. Most of them are pitched in short, punchy phrases. That makes them easy to remember. It also makes them context-free, and therefore easy to refute.

     But in truth, a lot of those bits of pseudo-wisdom can be handy. Given the appropriate circumstances, a bland saying that encapsulates a common sentiment can be enough to pull you off the mat and get you back into the fight. Try this one: “As long as you have your health…”

     For a man who’s down on his luck, who’s suffered reverses and disappointments that have drained him of zeal, that can actually be good over-the-counter soul medicine. “Hey! You’re young and healthy. You’ve got will and skills. Stop moping and get back in there!” That can do the trick for some. But I wouldn’t prescribe it for a soldier under siege who’s low on ammo and at imminent risk of being overrun. “Hey, as long as you have your health…” -- ? Naah.

     How about this hoary old saying: “Practice makes perfect.” Does it? Suppose you’re practicing the wrong thing? A piano student has to practice his fingerings, but he has to practice the right ones, and practice them correctly. More, once he switches from the piano to a stringed instrument, those well-practiced fingerings become useless at best. Context is everything there.

     Or try this one: “As long as you’re happy.”

     Is there anything more fleeting than happiness, or more elusive? Can we even pin it down and stop its squirming long enough to say exactly what it is? Even Aristotle couldn’t do it. All he could say on the subject is that Happiness is what we seek as an end in itself and for no other reason.

     I’d bet that most people aren’t even aware of when they’re happy. When it’s upon them, that’s that. They don’t have a consciousness of happiness as a specific state of mind. Rather, they have a consciousness of unhappiness, whether from pain, or failure, or frustration, or what have you. They know that state of being as a specific one, regardless of the reason for it.

* * *

     I forget where I encountered it, but in some work of fiction the viewpoint character observes to himself that No maxim is meaningful without qualification. Nostrums require context to be judged useful or useless. Otherwise they just hang there, suggesting something that can be constructive in the right circumstances, but useless in others and destructive in still others.

     Realizations of this sort have helped me to kill an old, pernicious habit: giving advice. I’ve become too conscious of the limits of my knowledge, especially my knowledge of other people’s lives and circumstances. Others’ lives are quite as complex as my own, and sometimes far more so, and I will never, ever know them to any great depth. So these days I sympathize and shut up.

     Just an early-Monday-morning thought from an old man who’s tired of commenting on politics and has nothing fresh to say about fiction. And there it is again! Monday, the tormentor that never relents! Will we never be rid of it?

     Back later or tomorrow, I hope. After this Monday crap is over, anyway.

Martial Spirit And The Martial Virtues

     Just this morning I encountered this:

The United States has been at war 233 of its 250 years. That's 93% of its entire existences

In its 250 years it has invaded or bombed 70 countries that's more than 35% of the whole world.

There is no greater threat to world peace than the United States

— The Resonance (@Partisan_12) March 28, 2026

     …to which my friend Tom Kratman replied:

This idiotic meme pops up regularly among the insuperably ignorant, and incarnate idiotic.

Short version: No, in order to get this result you must count as war things more properly categorized as law enforcement and count as years any year in which any violent action, to include…

— Tom Kratman (@TKratman) March 28, 2026

     Take care not to miss this portion of the latter:

     That said, yes, we are warlike, [with] more martial spirit than, most likely, the rest of the planet combined. So tremble in your boots.

     From a practical standpoint, there’s value to be had in having the rest of Mankind fear us. Oderint dum metuant, as the Roman military class liked to say. If we must be hated, let those who hate us remember our martial spirit, and the extraordinary military power that looms within it. But it’s worth a few moments to linger over what tempers that spirit: the martial virtues, completely and properly understood.

* * *

     All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle…. All real men like to fight. – General George S. Patton

     Let’s skip over the “No true Scotsman” objections and ask instead whether there’s any truth to Patton’s characterization. Are “real Americans” that pro-combat? Do we really court war because we love to fight? Do we – or our politicians or generals – court war at all?

     Perhaps some professional soldiers like to fight. It validates their choice of career, at least when they win. But that eagerness to go to war isn’t uniform among the uniformed. Even among the eager ones, it’s tempered by an awareness of the costs of war.

     Sayings about why men willingly go to war are many. One of the more frequently encountered sentiments, at least among those who write about warfare, is that when the bullets are flying, you don’t fight for your country, or your cause, but for “your buddies:” the men next to you, armed as you are, endangered as you are endangered, and who fear as you fear. You recognize them as fragile human beings whose lives could end at any instant. And whether consciously or not, you hope they see you the same way.

     In the wars of the Nightmare Century, most of those who went to war did so under compulsion. Today that’s less often the case. Yet even in full awareness of the potential price, innumerable thousands still sign up. I’m friends with a young woman who did so less than a year ago, and who’s already overseas, serving in a “hot zone.”

     In his movie Jack Reacher, Tom Cruise playing the title character sums up the motivations involved:

     There are four types of people who join the military. For some, it's a family trade. Others are patriots, eager to serve. Next, you have those who just need a job. Then there's the kind who want a legal means of killing other people.

     In recent decades, owing to the end of conscription, the first two motivations greatly outnumber the third and fourth. But that doesn’t imply that those men actually hope to go into combat, as General Patton would have us believe.

* * *

     The first of the great martial virtues is this one:

Strike the necessary blow, but no other.

     Contemporary American forces excel at this. They practice remarkable restraint in the use of force. They’re scrupulous about not targeting noncombatants. They’re merciful in victory; an enemy who surrenders need not fear that he’ll be killed “as a lesson to others.” While American standards aren’t observed worldwide, they are nonetheless admired by the militaries of all nations.

     The second great virtue is conditioned by the first one:

Strike decisively.

     No farting around! Determine what you must do for a swift victory and do it without hesitation or encumbrance. No firing rounds into the air. No bombing because you like explosions. Locate the enemy force, close with it, and defeat it so thoroughly that it and its political masters know and admit that they’ve been defeated.

     Much of the agony of the Vietnam War arose from “farting around.” Military theorists of the era regarded that conflict as an opportunity to test their notions, most prominent among them the idea of “sending signals with force.” Communication with the enemy during wartime is mandatory, but it’s the job of diplomats and statesmen, not of soldiers whose lives are on the line. What fraction of America’s 56,000 Vietnam War dead would have lived had the “signals” nonsense been dismissed and our field commanders ordered to strike decisively?

     Third and last among the great martial virtues is this one:

Do not shy back from what’s necessary.

     This third virtue enfolds the other two. If war is necessary, go to war. If an objective must be taken, then pay the necessary price to take it. If a blow must be struck, strike it with all necessary force, speed, and resolve. That is courage; less is cowardice – and cowardice always costs more lives than courage.

     A head of state may be wrong about whether his nation must go to war. A strategist may be wrong about whether his chosen strategy fits the contest. A field commander may be wrong about whether a particular objective must be taken. Such things can seldom be known with certainty ahead of time. That’s why we must close ranks behind them, for to deny them our sincere support would endanger our nation and our men at arms. Yes, even should the aftermath prove our involvement misguided.

     That’s another of the lessons of Vietnam. Had our politicians marshaled their courage, ignored the carping from the Left and the media, and ordered our commanders to fight the war as it needed to be fought, the Viet Cong would have been eliminated and South Vietnam would have remained free of Communist dominance. Perhaps we should not have allowed ourselves to become involved in the first place. Opinions about that remain mixed. But once we were involved, our forces should have been allowed to fight the war to a decisive victory.

     All other martial virtues – strategic wisdom; tactical daring; courage in the trenches; magnanimity in victory and realism in defeat – are derived from the great virtues above.

* * *

     It all sounds so easy when an armchair blatherer like myself discourses on it. But if great virtue were easy, it wouldn’t be rare. That’s as close to tautology as a proposition can come.

     A nation’s military exists to support the decisions of its government with force. To be effective, it must embody the martial virtues. Ours does. Because it does, even those nations that have had to surrender to us know that we can be trusted – that there will be no looting, no deliberate infliction of humiliation, no destruction for destruction’s sake, no interval for American forces to “rape, pillage, and burn.” What other nation could say the same?

     May God bless our fighting men and these United States of America.

Once In A Great While…

     …an entertainer does something that’s worth celebrating:

     Stand-up comedian Mark Normand believes in making fun of everyone, equally.
     When asked about his latest Netflix special, Normand said he wanted to be "inclusive," meaning he wanted to make fun of people from all walks of life.

     And he meant it, Gentle Reader. He included a joke about Muslims in his plan for a recent cable comedy special. One of the “platforms” on which his special is to appear was upset:

     "They go, 'Yeah, we got some bad news there. We reviewed the special again. We'd like to take out the Muslim joke.'"
     Normand explained that staff told him that the last time "a comic did a Muslim joke," they got bomb and death threats. But the 42-year-old said he refused to take it out.

     They argued back and forth. Normand broke the deadlock with a bargain:

     "OK. I don't love it, but OK. I will take it off on one condition," he recalled saying. Normand then said he told those on the call that he would only approve the social media plan if they admitted Muslims are dangerous.
     "I want you to admit on this call that they're a dangerous people. And they were like, 'What? No. What, are you crazy?' And I'm like, 'You got to admit it, or I'm keeping it, or I'm posting it.'"

     The resistance continued. The executives were apparently terrified of allowing the joke… and equally terrified of admitting why they were terrified. Could it possibly get any better?

     Normand won the throw-down:

     "You can say, 'Hey, I love this group.' But then you don't live near them. You know, we're all talk. We're all signaling. We're all virtuous, but you don't actually act that way."
     "So they admitted it," Normand said to his surprise; and while he did reveal he was "half joking" when he made his request, the comedian had a good time getting "a group of HR homos" to say, "All right, they're dangerous. We'll see you later," before hanging up the phone.

     How could anyone not be put in mind of this famous passage from Atlas Shrugged:

     "Mr. Rearden," he had said once, "if you feel you'd like to hand out more of the Metal to friends of yours—I mean, in bigger hauls—it could be arranged, you know. Why don't we apply for a special permission on the ground of essential need? I've got a few friends in Washington. Your friends are pretty important people, big businessmen, so it wouldn't be difficult to get away with the essential need dodge. Of course, there would be a few expenses. For things in Washington, You know how it is, things always occasion expenses."
     "What things?"
     "You understand what I mean."
     "No," Rearden had said, "I don't. Why don't you explain it to me?"
     The boy had looked at him uncertainly, weighed it in his mind, then come out with: "It's bad psychology."
     "What is?"
     "You know, Mr. Rearden, it's not necessary to use such words as that."
     "As what?"
     "Words are relative. They're only symbols. If we don't use ugly symbols, we won't have any ugliness. Why do you want me to say things one way, when I've already said them another?"
     "Which way do I want you to say them?"
     "Why do you want me to?"
     "For the same reason that you don't."

     Rand’s focus was primarily economic. She, who wrote at a time when the U.S. was still overwhelmingly European and Christian, would not have foreseen the tensions of today. But her novel’s various conflicts over production and trade are as applicable to today’s racial and creedal tensions as they were to the proto-fascist conditions of the postwar years.

     You cannot dispel a terror by refusing to speak of it.

A Political Fantasy For A Sunny Spring Morning

     [As I’m rather tired today, have a bit of whimsy that I posted at the old Eternity Road site on October 8, 2011. The ideas in it still tickle me – FWP]

* * *

     As one who writes frequently on political topics, I am of course given to the occasional bout of daydreaming, as in: If Fran Porretto were given the privilege of completely rewriting the American political system, how would it look?

     Most such daydreams should not be published at a family-friendly website, as they involve far too much rope and far too many lampposts. But now and then, an idea spools itself out that might...just...work...

     Much of our current trouble stems from the severe diminution of the sense of responsibility, at every level of our political structure. It's gotten worse as Washington has sucked all power and authority upward, out of the states and lesser political units, thus increasing the distance between the supposedly sovereign citizen and those who make the laws and dispose of his tax money. Representative governance, where the representatives and executives are chosen by popular vote, cannot be completely shorn of that tendency. However, it can be mitigated by reinforcing those aspects of the system that conserve responsibility and removing or weakening those aspects that reduce responsibility.

FWP's New Order Of The Ages:

     Start from the Constitution of the United States, as it stands, but with the following revisions:

     Have the Electoral College choose the president and vice-president directly, without reference to anyone's nominees. That process gave us six genuinely great chief executives in a row. It would also put a stake through the heart of the political parties, which have deserved to die for a long time now.

     Have each state legislature choose the state's Electoral College delegates, without regard to any popular vote or other criterion but the legislators' own judgment. That puts the state legislators on the spot, directly responsible for the quality of the men who assume the powers of the presidency, and gives those who choose the legislators themselves increased incentive to choose them wisely and watch them closely.

     Along with this reversion of power to the state legislatures, let's have them elect our federal legislators as well. Perhaps Congress could serve as the Electoral College; I can't see why it wouldn't, since the power to determine the president in the event of a deadlocked election rests with Congress anyway.

     But who should elect the states' legislators? Why, the counties' legislatures, of course! ("Boroughs" in Alaska; "parishes" in Louisiana.) Each county should send assemblymen to its state's assembly in proportion to the county's population, plus one state senator per county. As with the choice of electors, there should be no dependency on a popular vote or other expression of "popular sentiment."

     As for who should elect the county legislators, at this point we're close enough to the citizenry that popular elections become thinkable. America is a land of 3143 counties, which works out to about 100,000 persons per county on average. Of those 100,000, perhaps 30,000 will be qualified to vote; we'll get to the qualifications in a moment. The combinatorics of a population of that size suggest that a voter will be no more than three or four "handshakes" from direct acquaintance with a candidate. Thus, voters can be reasonably expected to learn enough about those who seek seats in the county legislature to make informed choices among them, and to be responsible for the consequences. If we blow it, we'll have no one to blame but ourselves.

     Now, the qualifications for voting for the county legislature:

1. Each voter shall be 21 years of age or older;
2. He shall have performed a minimum of two years' active service in the county police, or the state militia, or any branch of the nation's armed forces;
3. He shall reside in and own real property within the county;
4. He must not be currently incarcerated for a felony or misdemeanor.

     (Though I doubt there are any, feminist harridans in the audience should read all uses of "he" as "he or she." I have too much regard for the English language to pollute my prose with the "politically correct" but grammatically execrable forms they prefer.)

     Qualification #1 ensures a minimum degree of maturity. Qualification #2 ensures that the voter has demonstrated his concern for the commonweal by direct service to its defenses. Qualification #3 gives the voter an enduring stake in how the county is governed. Qualification #4 prevents those who have an interest in violating the law from having any opportunity to suborn it. And (hopefully) needless to say, no one shall be permitted to stand for election to the county legislature who is not also qualified to vote for it.

     But of course, along with these entirely sensible restrictions on the power of the franchise, there must be correlated restrictions on the power of the legislatures, to wit:

1. All occupants of public offices, without exception, shall be subject to recall. A majority vote of the lower house of the legislature responsible for the election of an official shall constitute a nonprejudicial removal of that official from his office. (Nonprejudicial means he may contend for that office in the future, if he chooses to do so.) In the case of county legislators, a majority vote of the county's enfranchised residents shall constitute a recall of the county legislator at issue.
2. No legislature may impose taxes on any political unit except the ones directly below it. Thus, Congress may tax the state governments, and no one else; the state governments may tax the county governments, and no one else; and the county governments may directly tax the citizenry.
3. Laws, Acts, and Bills of Appropriation shall be proposed in the lower house of a legislature only. The upper house may ratify them or vote them down, but it shall possess no power to amend them.
4. Either house of a legislature, by a two-thirds majority, may repeal any Law, Act, or Bill of Appropriation previously passed by that legislature, with no requirement for concurrence by the other house.
5. No legislature shall be permitted to delegate lawmaking or regulatory power to any other body, whether elected or appointed; all laws and regulations binding on anyone shall be debated and voted on by the appropriate legislature in open session, in all their particulars.
6. There shall be harsh statutory penalties, written explicitly into the Constitution of the United States and the subsidiary charters of the states and counties, for legislators and executives who propose, vote, or act to violate the explicit terms of the Constitution or any subsidiary charter to which they have sworn fidelity.
7. A Bill of Particulars, filed by a member of the legislature responsible for the election of an official, if approved by a majority vote of the lower house of that legislature, shall impeach the official so accused and compel him to stand trial before the upper house of that legislature. A two-thirds majority of the upper house shall be sufficient for removal from office; a three-fourths majority shall be required for the imposition of the relevant criminal penalties. No person removed from office under this procedure shall henceforth be eligible for any office of public trust, at any level.

     Now you're looking at real federalism. Let's have some opinions!

Regaining Peace

     Have a little something to pin your outrage meter:

This young black girl attacked, then k*IIed a McDonald's employee over the employee accidentally putting onions on her burger.

A person lost their lives because this savage animal couldn’t communicate that she didn’t want onions on a burger. pic.twitter.com/HacaG4whp0

— Liberacrat™️ (@ViralVideos) March 23, 2026

     Murder over onions! We’ve reached a new nadir in social relations. I’ve no idea of the race of the victim, but does that really matter?

     It’s not possible for anyone to concoct a defense of such behavior. But of course, the ever-vociferous defenders of black savagery will try to defend it anyway. Probably with something about “the N-word.”

     The apologists for “chimping out” behavior have a slightly easier time:

This is absolute hell on earth.

- No social decorum
- Loud
- Violent
- No respect for authority
- Incompatible with civilized society

I completely understand segregation now and why Americans didn’t want it to end.

Someone should run on it. It would have my vote.

You? pic.twitter.com/wTSzuWpdQs

— Amiri King (@AmiriKing) March 24, 2026

     “It’s just high spirits.” “They were celebrating.” “Nobody got hurt.” And of course, “It’s racist to criticize it.” But what if the crowd of revelers were White and the critic were black? Then we would be told this:

“Black women CANNOT BE RACIST to white women…are you kidding me?”

Ummmm….anyone wanna tell her? pic.twitter.com/p04FVdWtK5

— Ashley (TeamTrump47) (@TeamTrump47) March 23, 2026

     I have acquaintances who struggle over these things. They’re desperate to believe that it’s not a racial difference. The racial correlation must be explained away. But how? The usual fallback is “culture:”

We can't even have nice hotels anymore.

Shalonda and Shakeesha assault a police officer after he tries to break up a hotel squabble between 7 or 8 reprobates.

How do we fix this violent culture? pic.twitter.com/pS282rgTZ6

— Shane (@shane7777ssss) March 23, 2026

     He who asks “But aren’t we all immersed in the same culture?” will usually be dismissed with the usual denunciation (“Racist!”). That’s just the way it goes, these days.

     Smart Whites are done with trying to civilize the uncivil. We’re also done with excuses like “systemic racism” and “the legacy of slavery.” Now all we hope for is peace.

* * *

     How do American Whites get peace when our environment is permeated by savages? I suppose we could exterminate them, but that’s a distasteful prospect. All that rotting flesh… no, there must be an alternative.

     Time was, the prescription was segregation. They have their part of town and we have ours; they have their businesses and we have ours; they have their institutions and accommodations, and we have ours. It worked reasonably well. Yes, there were still occasional violent incidents and spells of “acting up.” But judged by the standard of peace, it was preferable to what we endure today.

     Legally, bringing it back would be next to impossible. Practically, the degree of interpenetration of the races makes it a challenge. Yet it’s already happening. New, all-White enclaves are being formed, often by older Whites and usually in less populated areas. Many of them, though not all, are also all-Christian.

     When blacks attempt to move into such an enclave, they soon find that it’s not possible. No one will sell or rent to them. Cries of “racism!” change nothing, for the residents are all private persons who cannot be compelled to sell. No cooperative complex or homeowners’ association was ever more stringent in its admissions policy.

     There are problems, of course. Municipal police, regulators, and zoning boards are hostile to such communities. Ambitious politicians use them as whipping boys when “on the stump.” They’re sometimes targeted by black racial activists. Yet they remain attractive for what they offer: peace and public order.

     Niven and Pournelle’s Oath of Fealty offered a vision of such a community, albeit without racial segregation. While their depiction had many virtues, a single-race arcology of that sort would undoubtedly be targeted for abortion while in its planning stage. It would need too many approvals from too many local and regional authorities.

     And as I write this, I find myself looking toward the sky. Toward Luna and beyond.

* * *

     Please don’t think too harshly of me, Gentle Reader. I’m old. The old are more desirous of peace than the young. I sense that many other older Whites feel the same as do I. It’s very hard for us to get peace in any quantity, these days.

     To any younger readers: please imagine a state of society in which older Whites who’ve “made their piles” elect to relocate to some airless planetoid rather than endure the Sturm und Drang of our ever more violent and disorderly Earthside environment. Think about what it would signify that we would rather render ourselves inaccessible to you – and you inaccessible to us, of course – than remain exposed to race-based crime and chaos. Are you really so sure that “solidarity” with “our black brothers” is worth losing touch with us? Think of how hard it is to find a babysitter these days. (Never mind what they charge.)

     That’s all. I’m tapped out for the present. Do have a nice day.