Sunday, February 06, 2011

Where to Stay on Business? Anywhere but a Sheraton.

Caving in to craven racial politics in Charlotte, North Carolina, the Sheraton Hotel canceled its contract with the American Renaissance organization for its yearly convention, leaving speakers and attendees up a creek. Fortunately, some free speech partisans managed to hold a smaller conference, venue unnamed, now called the American Dark Ages Conference.

This kowtowing to special interests did not end with the canceling of the 2011 AmRen Conference. Oh, no!

In Minneapolis this April at the Sheraton Bloomington a conference called “White Privilege” will be held, run by a Left-wing professor from the University of Colorado named Abby Farber.

Guess “White Privilege” does not include free speech, or the right to rent a facility to discuss serious issues in a refined and intellectual manner.

I have stayed at Sheraton hotels many times; I will no longer stay at any Sheraton world-wide, nor will I recommend their facilities to business travelers I know.

Where to Stay on Business?

Anywhere but a Sheraton.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Why White Women Hate Themselves, and How We Might Change


Why White Women Hate Themselves, and How We Might Change

My first article at the new webzine, Faith and Heritage.

Enjoy!

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Thinking of Contributing to Certain Charities this Christmas Season?

Think twice, before you contribute to the people who have destroyed the productive ability of the "bread basket of the world."

Remember Rhodesia!

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Dogs See Things We Don't



It's been a while since I've written much of anything, here or elsewhere. Life has been piling on the challenges and I'd been doing the swan thing, looking all calm and graceful above the water (at least I hope so), but paddling like crazy underneath. Needless to say, stress has been the name of the game lately. So taking a good walk seemed like a good idea a few weeks go at the height of the hassle. I pulled on my walking shoes and headed out the door under the early morning overcast.

Now, some of you might know that I enjoy a good garage sale. I won't say as I go out every week and chase down all the bargains people put out there, but if there's a sale along one of my pathways I will usually drop by and poke around a bit. Might even buy something every once in a while. So when I saw the yard festooned with stuff I might be interested in about halfway through my walk I made a mental note to stop on by on the way home.

I've written several times in the past about the changes in our neighborhood. Fewer and fewer of us, more and more of them. It gets to feeling a mite lonely sometime. But this block was still majority White, and I'd waved to the young woman and her mother a few times as I strolled past. Nice folks, very pleasant. Had a dog, too, a sweet middle-aged Weimaraner with a smooth grey coat and intelligent eyes. She always trotted up to me and sniffed my hand, then rewarded me with a friendly lick or two before going back to her assigned spot in the yard. I like this dog. There should be more like her. Short coat, easy care, no jowl dribbles like the English Setter on the next block. Good dog.

So when I saw the sale in their yard, I thought it a nice time for a shop-and-chat. But when I finished the exercise portion of my walk and moseyed on back to the sale, I was surprised to see the dog held quite literally on a short leash, at attention next to the younger woman, her owner. In the yard, inspecting this that and the other were three Mexican gardeners, each wearing a safety vest with bright stripes. Now, I speak some Spanish and will verify that their conversation was limited to the virtues or price of some bit of kitchen equipment or tool. Nothing threatening about it. But try telling that to the dog, who strained at the leash and seem inclined to run at them and make them feel somewhat less than welcome.

I greeted the young lady, and we chatted briefly about the reason for the sale. It would seem they were moving out of state and were cleaning out the house, which was why the sale was as good as it was. I wandered up close to the dog, who seemed not to notice me, but still pulled on the leash towards the men. "It's the stripes on the vests," the girl said. "She doesn't like unusual things." Well, I was wearing my pink and purple jog suit, and if that isn't unusual I don't know what is. But the dog paid no attention to me.

So I poked around a bit and found a spurtle I could use. For the uninitiated, a spurtle is a spoon with a hole in it, great for stirring soups and oatmeal and the like. I'd been looking for one for a while, and the 25 cent price was right smack in the middle of my budget range. The gardeners bought a few small items and then proceeded to their truck, put the items in the back with the rakes and lawn mower, then drove off. I took out my quarter and gave it to the mom.

As we were chatting, the dog relaxed and curled up behind her owner, who said, "See! She's fine now. I guess she just doesn't like the stripes on those vests."

The mom laughed a low laugh, and said, "Honey, I just don't think the dog likes Mexicans."

I smiled and thought that might be true. The daughter tossed her beige blond hair and quite literally hissed at her mother. "Mama, there are some things you just don't shout out in public!" She looked carefully up and down the street.

Both I and her mom smiled the same tight little smile. Neither of us said a word, but I did look twice around me as I made my way home. Sometimes dogs see things we don't.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

1. A prophetic interview with Sir James Goldsmith in 1994 Pt1



This gentleman was correct about the future, one where the productive capacity of developed nations would be sold for a bowl of pottage, ah, cheap labor.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Sister Against Sister


"My sister's White," Jenna said. "You wouldn't recognize her." She squinted her almond eyes in a gesture that managed to be sad, angry, and derogatory at the same time. "She doesn't look anything like me."

The speaker herself looked like a train wreck in a DNA yard; almond eyes, coffee-colored skin, straight dark hair, and thick lips. Lord knows how many members of how many different races had taken a shine to each other in order to create this uneasy amalgam of racially distinct features. But I knew she didn't like the way she looked very much, because she was quite outspoken about letting you know. Still, when the topic of her sister came up, the wound that had wrapped itself around her identity opened afresh, and a harsh flow of partially coagulated bile poured out.

"She's White," she spit out again, as if it was a curse, or something to be jealous of, or some undecipherable combination of the two. "And she has blue eyes."

I couldn't speak for a moment, my own physical identity surging up in my awareness. Pale skin, blue eyes. That's me. The force of the child's hatred had hit me like a wall. Cringing only a little bit, I gathered my wits around me to respond.

"I have white skin and blue eyes, Jenna."

No response. A clouding of the face, perhaps, but no response.

One more try, I thought.

"Only a big sister would say that with such venom, Jenna."

The cloud thickened, and she spoke. In her voice, the tone of pure betrayal, the tone of pure envy merged.

"She's White!"