Tuesday, July 17, 2018

‘Unx Yim’

The League of Cross-Chronological Orphans





On my last weekend in the Harm City vicinity, I paid a visit to the Redneck Riviera to see Megan, her daughter Niki, and Niki's daughter Emma. Since both of Emma’s grandfathers are deceased and her father is a junkie, alternately skulking 'round Baltimore drug dens and government institutions, I help fill a gap in the little girl’s life. I always recall that three kindest souls I ever knew were my grandfathers LaFond and Kern, and my great-grandfather Kern. Maybe it’s just a family tradition and not a general rule. But my urge to shed small kindnesses on small children is largely frustrated as I suspect my own grandchildren have been taught to fear me like a creature from deep impenetrable swamps of yore, running and hiding and adopting a rigid silence as my son reluctantly takes my hand with quaking voice and his wife offers an obligatory shoulder hug…

Emma and I are orphans of a sort, passing on either ends of a similar alienating trajectory as our parent society dissolves along its wavering internal lines.

My normal duty, other than play, is grocery shopping with Megan and Emma and carrying the groceries home through the gravel path in the woods while Emma dances along jerkily in her pink rubber shoes singing, “Oh no, lions and tigers and bears! Unx Yim, save me—me scared…” and then she smiles and turns on her heels, spinning and grinning at the tree tops where the turkey buzzards perch, shouting, “Go 'way bad birds!” her finger pointed stridently at the looming top branches. The entire thing is an ordeal for Megan as Emma wants this and that.

So as we sat on the Friday-nighted couch I said, “Emma, wouldn’t you like to go shopping with your own little cart and get anything that you want, no grownups telling you what to do?”

[They have tiny “customer in training” carts at this grocer.]

Megan groans, “That wallet better be fat, old man.”

Niki chimes in, “I’m curious as to what she’ll buy. It might be totally random.”

Confident that the cart could not hold more groceries than the $40 in my wallet and that Emma, having about the same effective IQ and language range as most of the grocery store employees I once managed, would impress us with her mature choices, I said, “Emma, whatever you can fit in that cart you can have.”

Emma curled up next to me as her grandmother got up, rested her head on my gut and recoiled, saying as she touched her ear, “You belly so big—and hard!” patting it so it sounded like a drum. Then she grabbed the hem of my shirt and lifted it and said, “Hairy, like beast!”

I then deepened my voice to a rumbles and made my eyes monster big and intoned, “And when the moon comes up the hair on my back sprouts like grass!”

That sent her scurrying with a playful scream towards the kitchen to begin a game of beast and zombie girl hide and seek.

At the courtesy counter, her tiny cart veered unsteadily yet unerringly towards the candy counter and Megan snarked, “ATM here we come.”

As we watched, Emma very responsibly shopped the rack, weighing the size and appeal of each item and eventually chose one package, a combination toy, candy pack and flavored drink.

On she marched, overwhelmed by the responsibility and potential decisions, without a gluttonous impulse to choose two of any one thing.

She chose a value pack of freezer pops from a seasonal bin display.

She headed down the candy and bread aisle and remarked, ‘Me smell bread,” and did not choose a single bag of candy, mentioning how “pretty like flowers” one bag was.

She then found the toy rack, with about 60 skus on it and examined the tray of rubber balls, chose one pink and one gold and then placed the balls other children had scattered about into the tray, wiping her hands off as if knocking off dust as she stood.

Veering into the meat aisle she picked out a bag of miniature “white ‘oughnuts,” and then a pack of chocolate peanut butter cookie bars, saying, “Yum.”

Rounding the next corner she spotted a jug of cheese balls as large as her body and limbs combined and seized that, “Help, Unx Yim, so big for me.”

A box of cereal and a juice drink with toy sipping cap completed the purchase and Emma strode meaningfully, with full shopping cart, to the register, and began dutifully heaving and stretching to place every item on the belt two feet above her head.

Bagging the order, which cost her Unx $22.19, Emma decided that since she had relied on my beast strength to place the jug of cheese balls in the cart and on the counter, that once it was in a bag she would drag it home, and she did, giving me a tour of the experience, narrated at each turn of our path:

“Trucks dangerous…”

“Swamp so scary…”

“Under trees so cool…”

“Sun so hot…”

“No me flowers,” as she points to a flower pot arrangement.

“No me flowers e-or,” as she points to a bed of red-petaled plants

“Dese me flowers, so sad,” as she stopped teary-eyed before the hydrangea bush where, a month ago, she had stopped to sniff every colorful ball, pointing to the burned brown remnants of the sun-singed flower clusters and explained, “the sun ruin dem, burn dem brown.”

Then, with a widening of her eyes, she sees her apartment door and says, “Me show mommy me grossies,” and we were soon inside, her proudly unpacking, folding up her dollar bills and stuffing them in her pink piggy bank and soon back on the couch with us, her in the middle on her mother’s lap and Megan and I on either side as she said, “Unx Yim, me love you. You my Grandpa. Be careful in West place.”

Those who walk evermore woodenly on the declining path sometimes learn the most from those just beginning the climb on the other side.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Friday, July 13, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 33

Here are your weekend links, a little early because I will be out and about this weekend.  Enjoy!



Reviews for your viewing convenience: The Last Kingdom, Paracas Skulls of Peru, MK Ultra, and an unnamed film on the life and death of Gordon Kahl.

Are you in the Baltimore area and looking to train?

He can ball but his tax planning is awful, especially for a rank materialist.

Censorship news: Are they messing with Kindle editions?

Keeping the residents of Baltimore safe, the epitome of public service.

Crime in Baltimore must remain unsolved.

The king who wins his crown with the sword slowly loses his power to the budget committee.

The LaFond version of the Dewey Decimal system.

Managing your own life in a decent way is more than most people accomplish, start with that.

Is your time machine working?  Here is how to fight cowboy and Indian style.

Going to lunch in Baltimore is like going on safari.

When both political parties, the media and experts of all kinds are in agreement in their hatred, I feel pretty good about things.

Nero the Pict tells us about living in Baltimore in the 1990s.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, July 12, 2018

Foreign Diplomacy

An alternate history of the Singapore Summit from the Checkered Demon




Joltin' Bolton sat at the conference table, his head tilting right, then left from the weight of his mustache, nine hours into talking to one of the most enigmatic problem-children the red, white and blues brothers had ever faced. These rice-heads, while taking time out from naming their babies after the sounds of falling cutlery, and starving, had whipped up the big banana. The A bomb. The radiatin' flesh-eatin' horror that "responsible governments" had been hectoring each other with since forever.

At Bolton's mention of the Libya model, Rocket Man had driven a Mont Blanc pen into his own thigh, screaming, "Rebar up my ass and a bullet to my head?" (in Korean). His entourage scuttled out, with him limping on their arms. Dennis Rodman got the door.

"John, you got an unfortunate way with words. You should only let that mustache grow and garble your delivery more," Trump told him.

"I don't know what's so bad about the Libya Model. He allowed everyone in to look, and got certified nuke-free," Bolton said.

"Yeah? And then the next thing Daffy knew, Jug Ears, Ms. Clinton and the French were strafing and bombing him with UN planes in support of the rebels. The rebels who sodomized him with rebar in a drainage ditch, then mercifully put one in his head. He knows the ones who want him wouldn't stop so quickly. His zombies would cook him on a spit and eat him."

"Okay, boss. I hadn't thought the whole thing through."

Trump was pacing, in a flyweight tropic suit and one-off shoes that managed to click quietly. "Just fade back a bit. Let Mike take the lead for now, and we can groom him some. Did you notice his eyes? The service guys say he's stoned. Probably pot."

"Really?"  Bolton was incredulous.

"Yeah, his father never told him drugs are an exit on the highway to success."

*****

Kim stood in his Commander's tunic and skivvies, bare footed on the cold tile as two doctors hovered around the hole in his thigh: swabbing, poking, muttering apologies. "I must dial back with the reactions. Like Dennis says, chill. Trump frightens me though. He really doesn't care, and he doesn't baffle himself with drink, tobacco or anything! He is his own dragon and I am not."

All patched and in freshly pressed trousers and shod, Kim stood with Dennis and rolled a Spinner 2 vaping battery in his fingers, eyeing the light through the 500mg cartridge of Somalian Taxi Ride screwed into it. "So this is the shit?" Kim asked.

"Oh yeah, brother. New Sativa vape," Rodman replied. 

Kim took a hit. Four count and stop. The light went out. He exhaled as pressure built in his temples. His vision scrambled a tad, then things settled. "Very nice Dennis. Many more of these."

The next morning Kim and his party entered the conference area, and Trump jumped up and took his hand, directing him to his seat like a butler. Bolton faded as Sec State moved in. Trump faded back, asking, music?

(c) 2018 The Checkered Demon



Tuesday, July 10, 2018

‘My Flowers’

Three Hours with a Nearly Three-Year-Old Girl


June 9, 2018, a day of sun and storm, the Sparrows Point waterfront lush from two months of almost daily rain.
Emma will be three soon.

Her head comes up just past my knee and her brass-colored hair is piled high after Mommy brushed it.

Her eyes are big and expressive, her mouth small and pensive and her energy such that it makes this old man feel like mortals speed up every time I crack the lid on my coffin.

Her shirt is pink, with white lettering reading HERSEY PERSEY.

Her shorts are pink with white trim.

Her shoes are those hideous knit rubber-banded things that Velcro on—pink of course.

Adventurers do not always dot every i and cross every t, so one might forgive our adventurette for putting her shoes on the wrong feet and having to stop, snarling to get them each to their proper foot.

One grandfather is in Heaven, the other in Hell and daddy has found a new drug—made in a former Soviet Republic—guaranteed to cure him of his addictions to opiates, cocaine, Suboxone, Ambien, lithium, Xanax and at least one other reality buffer I surely cannot spell either.

So Unx Yim is on deck as HERSEY PERSEY bodyguard.

Off to the steamship playground with Mommy and Mum Mum, for teenagers have destroyed the apartment playground.

The steel wire and plastic playground, set in a quarter acre of wood chips outlined by railroad ties, is quite a workout for Unx Yim and Emma is determined to master it, despite lacking the reach and strength for some parts of the design made for 8-year-old bodies. I hold her when necessary, offer a hand when she asks, stand close enough to grab her when she waves me off to conquer the next step and otherwise behave like the crusty castle Steward for a young princess.

A 4-year-old boy, well knit and athletic in his soccer uniform, shows up with an escort, a man who does not appear related by blood, other than the Irish look of both. The man is nearly 30 with easily $20K in ink on his wiry frame and a $500 smart phone to which he is wedded like Saruman to his palantir, hypnotized but polite as we say hello. For an hour more Emma and I play, the man ignoring the boy who keeps looking jealously at Emma and me. I hear from snatches of conversation that a parent will be coming to pick him up. All I hear is “your…ther” whether mother or father I do not know. The man is kind to the boy in his dismissive way as he peers ever deeper into his phone…

Emma takes a break and dances on the adjacent field with Mum Mum, who is teaching her dance steps and songs. In the meantime, as Mommy makes her grocery list on the bench, I did pull ups and pushups and stretches on the bars. Unable to get the attention of his chaperone, the boy sees that I am not occupied with Emma and leaps at the chance to show off, selecting all of the portions of the ship-themed monkey bar and catwalk maze that Emma had difficulty with and tearing across the course, spending one of every three steps or handholds looking at me, to make certain someone was witness to his ability to navigate the uncaring world.

His hair was bronze in the sun and I waved goodbye to him when we pulled off.

We go to the auto supply store and the supermarket and then stop by the snowball stand for a treat. Emma was utterly horrified at my “a broccoli snowball, yuk!” which I did not bother explaining to her was diet spearmint and found out the next morning that Emma was right after a sense, as the snowball acted on me as if I had eaten a blender full of broccoli.

Back at the apartment Emma wants to explore the near world, around the corner and out of sight of Mum Mum on the porch. We start out with some ‘ombie tag, with Emma as the ‘ombie, which gives me a chance to work on my pivots and triangle steps. I am informed the that she will have a “Hallaween birfday” and that I will be the werewolf and must keep the gampires away from her cake. Looking at my Duke Nukem sleeveless shirt from some 20 years ago, she points in disapproval at his faded image and wags her finger imperiously, “No Wankenstein!”

She then takes a drink of juice back at Mum Mum Base Camp and points to the chokecherry tree which she wishes to investigate. The chokecherries on the ground have been gotten to by birds and she wants me to hold her up so she can inspect unplucked versions. The resulting sprig and berry sample must be taken back to Mum Mum.

What follows is a mania of gathering. Where my sons spent their toddling years gathering weapon materials and reinventing the knife, spear and club and hunting and herding bugs and yard critters, Emma is all about the plants, off on a quest for berries and flowers.

The little flowers down the way are described by color as she walks around on the stained four-by-fours that line the flower bed.

A neatly trimmed hedge earns her attention until a mosquito lands on her wrist and the hedge is declared a “gampire bush,” and we beat a hasty retreat.

Another chokecherry tree is almost too high for her to reach, but I grab her by the hips and she manages to grab a sample sprig and berry.

A cat lounges on a small hammock in a window and she stops and wonders at its golden eyes.

A third chokecherry tree is too high. Across the lot where the buzzards nest in the nighted treetops, the mulberries at the woods’ edge are too wet and stain her hands and arm and knee and she requests an airlift over the intervening puddle to civilization—the land of flowers and concrete paths.

She begins her toddling run, part hop, part stride, part dance step, part questioning foot, her hands waggling up around her shoulders and ears in an ecstasy of rediscovery. Within a few yards she finds, stops, points and says, “My flowers,” as she stands beneath a raised flower bed, which is home to a deep-green leafed hydrangea about a yard wide, round and festooned with balls of opening buds, white, frost, pink, yellow and purple. Emma holds out her hand and takes mine so she can use it as a pull assist to step up on the two-foot bed. She then waves away my hand and does her balance-beam walk all around the woodchip flowerbed.

Having satisfied herself that she can come and go as she pleases, she stepped gingerly down into the bed and approached the bush which hulked before her like I would stand before an SUV and stalked closer, obviously conscious that she was visiting a living thing and pointed at the flowers, “See, Yim, it okay to sniff—no bees to sting,” and leaned forward delicately and sniffed first one flower ball, then another, and another until they had all been scented. Satisfied after some minutes, she looked coyly over her shoulder at me, smiled, “Booiful, no pick—my flowers.”

She then held out her hand and I took it, stepping around the planter housing with her as she leaped two feet down into a squat, and with a curled lip of determination ran for the porch to deliver the news that the flowers smell nice, a somewhat dead thing following her, wondering if he would ever share such a moment with the world again.



(c) 2018 James LaFond

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 32

Here are some weekend links, everyone!

James' best work is on the early history of North America, Plantation America, this week writing on the ethnic affinity between Indians in the hills of the Eastern United States and early European settlers.  He appeared on the Myth of the 20th Century podcast to discuss the topic.  He is developing both non-fiction and fiction books on this topic.  Here he describes how he evaluates and uses primary and secondary sources

Amazon platform hostility: James' suppressed books now number FOUR.  Four books that CreateSpace fears to print.  As more of James' books get banned, the best way to support him is by becoming a Patron.

How to spar with a heavy stick for mobility and conditioning.

Social media sucks.

Tony's childhood world was simple, stick with your gang and beware of the Skirt Man.

James has a gander at the Tartan Tornado, a man question from John Paul Barber, a follow up question on the safety jab for - or against - the lefty fighter.

James has consistently advised people NOT to participate in these street demonstrations-cum-melees.  Stay away.

Movie review of Badass, the race reversed fictionalization of Epic Beard Guy's story.

On Independence Day, Jeremy Bentham signed off from the LaFondiverse one last time, and I won't say I didn't shed a tear.

The Harm City Diarist will soon become the itinerant and pseudonymous journalist.

Nero the Pict describes the means by which he preserved his soul, particularly, the luck of important friendships.

The Baltimore Boyz are giving James a proper final home season for the Murderbowl.

Movie review:  Unconquered  offers plenty of hints at the once unremarkable and now completely obscured truth.


Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Friday, July 6, 2018

Memorial for Lost Molecules

by the Checkered Demon

When my Son graduated from high school, I saw him as weakened and he was. As a latchkey kid, he'd fallen in with a few tweakers in the California apartment block he and his Mother lived in. They'd buffer the speed with beer, and the alcohol snagged him. He became his Grandfather's grandson, lost in the jug at 18. He lived there until 27.

I'd told him he could use a hitch in the military and he'd laughed. It was in fact laughable, since he would never have passed the physicals. I'd hated the military myself, so why would I advise my own Son to take that route? I'd seen how many fuck-ups they've sorted out maybe? Me for one. Well, maybe I wasn't sorted totally out, but It DID at least set me off in that direction. It was, I think, that I would rather have seen him honorably dead somewhere in Arlington than where he was then.

Many a parent's boy or girl lie out there, or as debris in foreign soil, or as molecules no one ever could find. There really are heroes in the seaweeds and the mountains and deserts, in the air that we breathe. Mostly they live in the minds of those who bred them, or loved them and those who were there when the bitch-God of war took them.

The last Monday in May we honor them, or maybe mock their naïveté for being stupid and dying for the man, man. The mockers are always the ones who've profited the most from their loss. No one can ever convince me Democracy is pretty. It slaughters the brave and abets the lame in return. We obsess over cow farts when cows don't fart. We don't educate all children, because criminals are easier to manage than revolutionaries. Our situation isn't pretty, but still we fight for it. Obviously there's some sort of madness afoot.

So on Monday I'll raise a glass to them all, and have another with my amputee friend who claims he sometime wishes the medics weren't so good. We owe them our thoughts.



Note from Lynn:  My apologies to CD and to readers for the tardiness of this post, it's entirely my fault.  The sentiment is every bit as valid today as it was a few weeks ago, I hope you enjoyed the piece as much as I did.

(c) 2018  The Checkered Demon

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Monster to Boss

The Heroic Visons of J.R.R. Tolkien and Robert E. Howard by James LaFond

Most people are nothing more than propaganda clay.
-Gina C.

The drive to extinguish heroism from what remains of human culture, in its washed-out mongrelized form is an actual obsession with the media and academia, the two mind control strands which serve the power elite. As a counter to this we might consider the strands of heroism and which strand is most unacceptable to the Leviathan Polity and which strand is relatively abundant, in order to deduce the fear of the collective beast that dines upon our scattered souls.

Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien were the two greatest fantasy writers of the 20th century, Edgar Rice Boroughs being the third. I place Boroughs third, despite his superior output, due to his relative reluctance to paint human superstructures as evil. He was a nationalist, who did what he could to place the villain as an aberrant or even alien force. Tolkien painted the picture of power itself as a morally corruptible force. Howard, likewise, depicts virtually every ruler, prince, lord and priest as a monster in the making, with civilization itself sketched as the very womb of evil. So, despite their very different approaches to heroism Howard and Tolkien paint political power with a black brush.

The Hero King


The quintessential Tolkien hero is Aragorn, the scion of the returning blood line, a hero who spends all of his time slaughtering the nameless minions of his evil counterpart, a hero never able to lay hold of the Dark Lord, unassailable in Mordor, a man who is nothing but a piece on the chessboard of strife, not the player. It is significant that Aragorn never even has a showdown with the Lord of the Nazgul, rather he is slain by a girl, and that the Dark Lord himself may only be defeated by a hairy-footed child. In medieval terms, Aragorn is a knight who never slays his evil equal—he is a living symbol of a restoration, a moral beacon, not a direct actionist in the fight against his evil opposite.

Today, the Lord of the Rings franchise in print, video and gaming outsells the combined works of Howard by billions of dollars. Furthermore, the chief pastime of young men, video gaming, is dominated by the convention of the “Boss,” the idea that many levels of the combat ladder [a frustrated effigy for the social ladder, so inaccessible to the honorable actionist] must be ascended until finally a showdown with the boss villain is the reward for learning the game. A video game is essentially a restorative Lord of the Rings, where Aragorn finally gets to fight the Dark Lord.

The Usurper


Of all of the Howard characters, Conan is the quintessential king, a more brutally crafted figure than his literary predecessor Kull, also a barbarian hero king come to the throne of a preeminent state via the violence of his own bloody hands. Most of the Conan adventures are set before his kingship, with only three treating with the barbarian monarch’s trouble holding his heroically gotten throne. Where Aragorn is the benighted heir of a right upheld by the hands of others, Conan is a pure heroic force who has carved his own place in life and must hold on in like fashion, with nothing but the loyalty to him imbued by his own heroism and good deeds to buoy his continued claim. This is well illustrated in The Hour of the Dragon, the only Conan novel.

Rather than a collectively toxic right, Conan has might. The other striking aspect of the Conan series in terms of heroism, is it is a return to ancient epic poetry, hero sagas of figures such as Gilgamesh, Enkidu, Achilles, Odysseus, Herakles and Beowulf who all go directly for the throat of evil by accessing the chief villain and puppet master directly. This is only reflected in modern and postmodern media by the Lone Wolf hero, such as Clint Eastwood’s Man with No Name and the various very popular adventure films starring his more muscular heirs to the movie throne.

For the above reasons I prefer man against machine stories and movies for boys, and am against video games and suggest that table top gaming follow the direct actionist in the Howard tradition, rather than the compromised heroes of Tolkien. I prefer the Tolkien mythos in many ways, but in terms of media for modeling the inner mind of men, Howard’s hero—which is to say the traditional Aryan hero—who confronts evil directly rater than through its proxy minions, is an entire level above the slavish king of Tolkien’s mind’s eye.

Note from Lynn:  James asked for a picture of a CEO and an evil wizard to illustrate this piece, but this was the best I could come up with, an evil CEO and President Frothy Latte:



(c) 2018 James LaFond

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 31

Welcome to weekend links!  2018 is half over, always remember that you will die.

Wing Chun and boxing, a coach's perspective.

Coaching the asymmetrical guard, knife fighting for boxers.

Failure to worship will be punished.

Tony Cox and James have a similar approach to love.

Coming soon, My Younger Self, Nero the Pict's oral memoir.  Kids in Cumberland were like adults in Baltimore.

The "slippery slope" of sexual deviancy ends in mandatory participation.

The terse talk of the non-turgid.

Analyzing identity politics in the founding documents.

Some corporate algorithm has targeted James.  Three books have now been banned.  Meanwhile, my twitter account got caught up in a minor purge, so if you follow me there, my new account is @lock328.



Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Friday, June 29, 2018

‘To Build the Boldest Bridges’

James LaFond's Impressions of The Forest Passage by Ernst Junger: Pages 67-97

“It is not inconceivable that the lawlessly maintained files [of the medical establishment] will then furnish the documents needed to intern, castrate, or liquidate.”
-The Forest Passage, 69:1

68
-The higher form
-Self-healing over doctors

69
-Evil of institutional medicine
-Charlatans, faith healers, miracles

70
-Weakness of the technician
-Overpopulation

71
-Rights, freedoms, individuals, authority
-German collective guilt

72
-Social liquidation
-Rebels
-Criminal authority

73
-Old Germanic freedom
-Home defense oaths

74
-Clearly against national socialism
-Freedom as hardship

75
-War for freedom
-Fourth generation warfare

76
-Modern mass war favors guerilla operations

77
-Freedom as struggle

78
-The armed individual
-The Forest Passage of the rebel is a negotiation of the tension between freedom and necessity

79
-The danger of empty routine
-Military reduction in form
-War crimes as vengeance

80
-Duty and crime are compatible
-Validity

81
-Law, custom and dominion

82
-Persecution: moral, religious, political
-Midpoint of the nihilistic process

83
-Rationalism to mechanism
-Propaganda as a subspecies of technology, replaces morality [values are supplanted by consumption of aggression and submission cues fed to the collective, death of organic society]

84
-Infamy, judgement and non-participation

85
-Criminal as secret hero
-Anarcho-tyranny prediction

86
-Internal morality in the face of amoral modernity
-Fear of freedom

87
-Will of the zeitgeist
-Property and catastrophe

88
-Disenfranchisement, incarceration, dispossession
-Mechanism of erasing the human identity
-Destruction through division

89
-Existential property
-The souls of potent men and women
-Consumption and wealth

90
-Orwell
-Dispossession & fictional utopias
-Property as a slavery ideal
-Intersection of dispossession and slavery ideal = slavery

91
-The sovereign person
-The plight of Cortez in the night

92
-Regimes & dynasties
-Man’s being

93
-Enfeebled modern spirit
-Immortality

94
-Temporal anxiety
-The word

95
-Contacts with being & language
-Man’s nature

96
-Violence
-Suffering
-Poetry
-Power

97
-Best summary ever written would make a nice header for a manifesto for human autonomy

Conclusion


Ernst Junger, soldier, officer, memoirist, novelist and philosopher experienced the passage of already tyrannical nations into a human erasing globalist system, promising heaven on one hand and dispensing hell with the other. His war experience and intellect permitted him to resist the pull of time into what was to him a politicized ship of fools plowing through a never-to-be-plumbed sea. He offers to the conscious reader the opposite option of the temporal ship, being the transcendent journey, traditionally understood by men of many races who guided their juniors, from the time before history and civilization and decreasingly into the shadows of modernity, as a journey through a forest, where the wayfarer is beset by darkness, doubt, beasts, thickets, rock and water, largely out of contact with the guidance of heaven. These two metaphors for navigating life as either a passenger on a ship which has sailed or a wanderer in a world which assails come to life starkly in the words of the old soldier.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Thursday, June 28, 2018

‘The Zero Meridian’

James LaFond's Impressions of The Forest Passage by Ernst Junger: Pages 31-67

“Everything can become an object of fear.”
-The Forest Passage, 30:2

Junger continues to drive deeper into the question of modernity through metaphor.

31
-Fear is a man’s partner in his inner dialogue

32
-Dissenter rises above the animal
-God spark asleep within man

33
-Q
-Suffering slave millions
-Q
-Cry to heaven

34
-Exterior social illusion
-Myth
-Q
-Mighty fictions of the times

35
-Select minority prefer danger to servitude
-Time versus transcendence [Evola’s sacred tension]

36
-Individual wiser than organizations
-Reciprocity of collective antagonism

37
-Forest as the transcendent journey
-Ship as the journey confined within Time
-Banishment random in civilization

38
-Ancient banishment
-Modern banishment

39
-Reconnecting with myth [stepping out of Time]
-The Raft of the Medusa
-Modern military forms

40
-Fully autarchic powers: USA & USSR
-Soviet dilemma: Russia in the Forest, Soviet in the Ship [in and out of Time]
-Masks of power

41
-Demonic and zoological fears of humanity
-Meaning and desirability of freedom
-Politics as a fool’s errand

42
-Under the wire
-Freedom and Time
-Q

43
-Individual = sufferer, knower, judge
-Utopia = termite mound, an expression of hive instinct
-Military systems as the lightning that heralds the storm

44
-The middle way
-From nationalism to globalism

45
-Joining or resisting the wolf pack
-Third element of human quality

46
-Catastrophe as freedom
-Forest in the myth of Gilgamesh

47
-Heroes & forests
-Waste place quests
-Fate and man

48
-Destiny, devaluation, music in man’s inner quest
-The uncanny secret

49
-Beyond the powers of Time [In Time]
-A Gnostic notion of the world
-The eternal shape-changing fears which shackle man

50
-Womb of being
-Dreamtime of high cultures

51
-Fear of death
-Gilgamesh & Psalm 90
-Sacrificing Truth
-Time’s defeat
-Theogony

52
-Christ as Herculean-Dionysian fusion
-Community, unity of earth and sun powers
-Socrates and the Stoics

53
-Victories must be ever re-won
-Daimonion as forest
-Modern education systems dedicated to cultivating fear as social control mechanism

54
-Solitary souls, islands of truth
-Modern man as mere zoological being

55
-Rejection of liberalism
-Church as museum
-Church as state

56
-Zoological political arrangements as deserts
-Doubt, pain, nihilism

57
-Dialogue between man and vid
-Machines as the witnesses of Time

58
-Loneliness, quality, consciousness

59
-Political prison diaries as messages in a bottle
-Churches as besieged refuges

60
-Creative forces as a wake
-Churches as organs of tyranny

61
-Science emerging as religion of zoological man
-Higher worlds and inner erosion

62
-Theologians
-Wasted city zones [predicts suburban soul blight]
-Illusory utopian states

63
-Profile of nihilistic priest as social traitor

64
-Novelist as breakwater against social lies
-The faith negation of the “zero meridian”

65
-Science makes of modern folk a wasteland race dumb to the truth
-The old freedom

66
-Against the argument with evil
-Spiritual currents

67
-Self-examination

(c) 2018 James LaFond

‘Within These Hypnotic Spheres’

James LaFond's Impressions of The Forest Passage by Ernst Junger: Pages 1-30

“Our reader will have learned from personal experience that the nature of questions themselves has changed.”

-The Forest Passage 2:1

In The Forest Passage, a gift from fellow writer S.L. James, I have found what I believe to be one of the most important books written by a man of the Age of Nations for the guidance of the Post National Man. Many wise whispers are incisively lurking in within these 97 slim pages. I have annotated them as follows, this is the first of three parts:

1
-Awareness of the distinct questions of our time
-Lost masculinity of a waning age

2
-Advent of questioning systems
-Counterfeiting of will via demos
-Society of interrogator

3
-Adjusting to perpetual social change
-Reflection as antidote
-Mystery of participation in a choiceless world

4
-Quote for Barbarism vs Civilization
-Illusion of freedom

5
-Corruption equals failure of subtlety
-We are human residue polluting an inhuman system

6
-Dangers of consummation
-Dissenters as living trophies
-1984

7
-Values of dissent
-Confirmation of power
-Terror, fear, hate, threat
-Discourages non-participation in choiceless system

8
-Democracy as thorny thicket
-Dissenter as criminal monster

9
-Voting “no” as an intersecting fiction

10
-Q
-Predicts Vietnam, postmodern angst
-Human residue as spiritual gold
-Q

11
-Termite state
-Constant threat condition
12
-Fractional autonomy
-Power demands allegiance
-Power survives on breaches of allegiance

13
-Advising young men on “swimming with leviathan”

14
-To fall or transform?

15
-Social tension a necessity
-Necessity versus freedom

16
-Dissent preserves notions of justice in an age of violence

17
-A concentration of being
-Police growth correlates to growth of minority power

18
-The forest passage = invisible resistance

19
-Trivial stature associated with enormous power

20
-The worker as It
-Art & worship supplant will & passion
21
-Automatism verses nomos & ethos
-Desperate state: living under weaponized laws

22
-Modernity dedicated to erasure of free will

23
-Reconception of freedom
-Gaps in the armor of leviathan [Tolkien, the dragon?]
24
-Cycle of freedom & tyranny
-Tolkienesque metaphors expand:
-Worker as orc
-Unknown soldier as wraith
-Forest rebel as ranger [dissenter]
-Price of domestication

25
-Oppose automatism
-Defy fatalism
-Q
-Three great powers

26
-Authorship = independence
-The technical collective [Poe’s Pit]
-Modernity as labyrinth

27
-Fear
-Fog
-Synchronicity of individual insecurity and collective security
-Sinking of the titanic, watermark of...

28
-Metaphors
-Man the primal tree in the forest
-Modernity the passage of leviathan
-Cycles of cosmic anxiety

29
-Flee, hide or suicide to escape from the base?
-News as the automatized perfection of FEAR

30
-Cold War predicts War on Terror, both phony instruments of fear saturation
-Fear more powerful than danger 

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Twerps, Goons and Meatshields - Crackpot Podcast Ep 37

Welcome to Episode 37 of the Crackpot Podcast!

James and Lynn discuss Twerps, Goons and Meatshields, your complete guide to beating people with sticks.  The book is meant for combat athletes looking to expand their repertoire of brutality.  If you find reading instructions to be tedious, never fear, there are many videos to help you achieve your skills of violence:

Modern Agonistics Video Page

Lancaster Agonistics YouTube Channel

Lynn Lockhart Channel Training Videos

The Crackpot Podcast features the foremost pioneer of the sport of stickfighting, James LaFond, and sleep deprived motherslave, Lynn Lockhart, who doesn't understand why Windows stopped supporting Movie Maker Live, and spent Sunday trying to figure out how to use ShotCut, or VideoPad, or what, just to make a slideshow that no one will actually watch.

Audio:



YouTube:



0:01:30 Four Ruthless Whores (Daughters of Moros in Darkly) and the fate of public parks in suburbia
0:05:00 Barney in the ghetto, a very special episode
0:07:20 James left the house without a blade??? Crackhead in pursuit, improvised weapon is called for
0:11:07 How to get home if you are being followed
0:18:05 How normal writers write, publish and sell books
0:19:30 What is a twerp? What is a goon? What is a meatshield?
0:24:50 How is a muscular man like a car tire?
0:28:30 Stereotypes are true
0:30:05 Myth 20 Hell's Angels
0:32:20 Modern Agonistics
0:37:45 Is physiognomy real?
0:44:10 Israel Flood
0:54:58 What makes a good wrestler?
1:03:35 Neanderbol and other fiction projects

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, June 23, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 30

Big Ron's adventures continue, though setting up a podcast has been tough!

A look at the early conditions of Maryland's social development.

Sean's is planning a pretty serious Man Weekend. If you are interested, follow the link and inquire with him.

Inquiries from SS Sam, on Plantation America and the Sunset Saga.  Also see the tag here at the blogspot for the Sunset Saga.

Running the numbers on Plantation America compared with modern day incarceration rates.  Don't worry, Kim K. is on the case!

In boxing news, Roberto Duran Jr. has made his debut!

A law & order ostracism & revenge movie review.

Curling may have some whimsical charm but I have to agree with James here.

A video from an interesting dissident.

It's almost Murderbowl halftime, how are we doing?

Bringing up daughters is rather terrifying.

The invisible yet incredibly vivid world of Cotton and Increase Mather.


Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Friday, June 22, 2018

Shelters for the Self by James LaFond and Scott Cole

The Captured Diary of Petty Officer Second Class Koyama


I am very proud to announce the first book to be published under the Crackpot label.  When James and I started podcasting on a lark in June of 2017, "The Crackpot Podcast" was the first name he suggested, it made me laugh and we ran with it.  A few months ago he suggested we start a new publishing account together, so that I could further encroach on his work and handle cover design, pricing, uploading, and other administrative duties.  This was after I insisted on editing every new book before its release, starting with Masculine Axis.

James attracts contributors, just by being the friendly and accessible writing machine that he is.  Shelters for the Self drew out Scott Cole, a veteran who lived in Japan.  Scott was able to identify the battle described by Koyama in his diary, the taking of Biak by American forces, that began in May of 1944.  Scott created a timeline to correspond to diary entries, and added cultural and language context as well.  The operator of the Twitter account known as Wrath of Gnon was also moved to contribute.  He currently resides in Japan and was able to give additional translation advice and performed detective work on the diarist, providing other readers with valuable information that might lead to the discovery of Koyama's descendants or other relatives.  I must thank Tony Cox for volunteering his excellent proofreading services.

It has been a great privilege to work with James, and the community that he has built, on this project, and I hope for many more to come.

Lynn

*****

The diary of Petty Officer Second Class Koyama was a spoil of war, passed from the hands of an American veteran of World War II into the possession of his heirs, forgotten and found again. It is published here as an artifact of the Pacific theater, memory of which slips away in favor of events in Europe, and in hopes of a connection between the descendants of men made enemies.

Available in paperback and in Kindle edition.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Man Gearing by James LaFond

Building an Unapologetic, Masculine Mindset in an Effeminate World

The author contends that the current sissy age is a domesticating construct devoted to your emasculation. Although these views are put forth by a man generally believed to be “insane” and at best a maniac, a crank who claims to commune with the ghost of an ancient Scythian Khan, you might want to consider that your forefathers sold you out for a cozy life and reject their degenerate aspirations in favor of a warrior’s view of this limp-wristed world.

Available in paperback, coming soon in Kindle edition.

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Not Much of a Protest

Artistic Negation in the News


Manny Soprano, our Senior Correspondent from New Jersey, has filed the following report:

There wasn’t much of a protest this week. It seems the City has agreed to move the Statue 200 feet in newly built park. My bet is the thing goes into storage and never comes out.



More on the story here.

(c) 2018 James LaFond


Monday, June 18, 2018

‘The Pulse of Life’

James LaFond's Impressions of A Moment by Robert E. Howard
Reading from page 81 of A Word from the Outer Dark


Four verses of four lines each are the time it took for Robert E. Howard to reverse his negative exposure lens and bring to bear his sharpest tool in the exposition of heroism among horror and savagery, which was his stock-in-trade. There is something deeply horrific about Howard’s settings, something that does not square with his lack of graphic gore and his reticence towards the minutia of killing.

It is this, his deep appreciation for beauty which is imbedded in many dark corners of his prose but which forms the entirety of A Moment, the first verse of which is quoted below:

Let me forget all men a space,
All dole and death and dearth;
Let me clutch the world in my hungry arms—
The paramour of the earth.

This passion for natural beauty shines languidly through the brutal masculine mechanics of his barbarian characters, the sullied souls of his civilized villains, the inhumane gulfs that shadow his fictional worlds, and the bones of the dying civilizations bleaching under the eye of his dark sun, mostly in the persons of his female characters, who are never mere sidekicks, love interests or possessions, but rather as miniature—often innocent—little worlds like flowers under the cruel feet of men.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Calling Uncle Fred

On Wading in Our Reduction


I called Uncle Fred just now, a few minutes ago.

“Hey Uncle Fred. This is Jimmy. You’re the closest thing to a father I have so I thought I’d wish you a happy Father’s Day.”

“Why thank you, Jimmy, that means a lot. I’m glad you feel that way.”

His voice breaks as I try to make the next bit hurt as little as possible, without a prayer of success. “I’m so sorry that we lost Aunt Patsy.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. It doesn’t make any sense. She was such a sweetheart. I could have never found another woman that good.”

“Is Joann or Cathy there with you?”

“Yes, they’re here. Jimmy, Patsy was the best person I knew and she’s gone and it don’t make no sense.”

“I hope you have a real good day, Uncle Fred.”

“Thank you, Jimmy—that means a lot.”

“I hope to see you before the year is out, sir.”

“That would be nice—I love you buddy…”

“I love you too. Take care.”

Patsy was the most intelligent women I have met who majored in English. She qualified for a university scholarship but the Dean told her that she’d never be able to find work in her field—that people didn’t care what women thought. I remember her telling me that she did enough so that she could work as a teacher and teach her own children, as, with Uncle Fred’s coaching job, they would be travelling a lot. Patsy gave me numerous writing tips when she found out what I was up to. She had eagerly offered to proofread my work when I was in desperate need for that kind of help. But she was such a sweetheart I couldn’t, with clear conscience, let her get caught up in the current of my dark inquires or darker fantasies.

Fred and Patsy raised a son and four daughters, who all have families across the nation. We were to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary this July 5.

Fred was the strongest man I knew of his generation. The smartest woman and the strongest man I knew had held a bond for longer than I shall hopefully live—for I don’t want to do well enough to end up in his current place.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Friday, June 15, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 29

Happy Father's Day! I hope you are all being feted with the finest steaks, beers, whiskey, etc.

When you work in a zoo, the salient question is which side of the glass are you on?

Coaching question from Baruch, bare knuckle punching positions.

A coffee shop in my panhandler infested hometown used to use a fishbowl - full of water! - as a tip jar, this was 20 years ago.

James' and Sean's last stick fight.

Drinking and writing and thinking, proceed with caution and be nice to your editor.

The fight of 2019 is set up, the first LPR bout in over a century?

Open carry vs. the Police.

The crimes of these Baltimore cops are truly staggering.  They were LITERALLY, yes literally, a street gang with all the privileges of the badge, and the crimes and corruption surely exceed what has been disclosed here.

If I knew how to sew I would design a line of tactical clothing for women.

Mushy stuff on Facebook is the absolute worst!  Keep that in your texts and email where it's between you, your loved one and the NSA.

Nathan Bedford Forest was an interesting man but that last idea is awful.

James reviews mid-century horror from Fritz Leiber.

The Suburban Crime Surfer still rides the bus.


Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

‘Against the Sunset’

James LaFond's Impressions of Autumn by Robert E. Howard
Reading from A Word from the Outer Dark, page 79


“Now is the lyre of Homer flecked with rust,” begins the first verse of three in this circadian poem. Reading such brief, atmospheric works shot with reflection and shaded in reds, grays and midnight shadows, one finds—or this reader fancies—the doom-gurgling fountain of Howard’s most striking fantasies set in worlds so dark that his black-maned, dark-hearted and bloody-handed heroes might seem a comet of virtue against the worlds that bore them.

Like Homer, Howard places avian life in the position of intermediaries, messengers from beyond man’s understanding, offering a perspective that renders poets forever envious of the gods. Autumn serves as a curtain for the living stages set by the most powerful fantasist of the 20th century, invoking an inner season that seems to have ever been his time of mind. And, as usual, his starkly chosen words whisper of things then and now taboo.

The sere1 leaves fall on a forgotten lute,
And autumn’s arms enfold a dying race.

Diction Note
1. Sere: being dried and withered

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Sunday, June 10, 2018

‘Slave of the Greater Freedom’

The Adventurer and Shadow of Dreams by Robert E. Howard
James LaFond's impressions, reading from pages 72-6 of a Word from the Outer Dark


The Adventurer

This dream of oceans of deep water and burning sands is had on a hammock, swaying with the rhythm of an ever-dawning world of wonder, peril and plunder. Bordering on a juvenile yearning for the pirate’s storied life, the dreaming author—so obviously entranced as he composes this splicing of epic heroic style and pastoral idyll, writes as if Hesiod dreamed Homer’s dread dreams and somehow burnished them in his starry mind’s eye.

These four verses of eleven or more lines are mused from a swaying perspective—this reader thinks—as a compositional aid, a means of self-entrancement by the author. The style is not purely idyllic or heroic and is infected with treasure lust but slimly, the focus forever returning to deeper, broader horizons in Howard’s elemental style, in which the wind, the fabric of dreams, the broad deep, the mountains gone and the moon blinking tomorrow always supersede the humanly frail, beckoning the reader to become a writer, and so to become an adventurer of the mind at least.

In a dream-killing world, an aspiring fiction writer might acquire a copy of A Word from the Outer Dark and read The Adventurer and other like verses as a means of literal liberation.


Shadow of Dreams

This lesser star of 39 over-laden lines, limps remorselessly towards Death’s door like a bauble hung whore unable to remember all her paramours of yore. The dull drive of over-saturated imagery associated with oriental adventures and strange lands is perhaps Howard’s worst work and perhaps he would agree. The first lines are the best:

Stay not from me, that veil of dreams that gives
Strange seas and skies and lands and curious fire,
Dragons and crimson moons and white desire…

This reader would prefer to think that this was Howard’s first attempt at his signature style of dark poetic fantasy, and is content to quite like the first few lines for their own sake.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 28

Cool off with a frosty beverage and your weekend links:



Wellread Ed provides an education along with lifesaving medical treatment.

Starting last week, James and readers have been discussing strategies for finding a mate, with plenty of good comments:
-First, why you want to be the heathen husband.
-Who exactly are these Christian girls, and why don't their own men aren't getting the job done.

Death row deathmatch in Jersey.

James is home from a visit to Manny and Mary Soprano.

Develop your honor, and find the strengths of your mature identity, then build your organization.

Petroleum is the thin black line separating humanity from the return of explicit mass enslavement.

Tony's violence interview: domestic violence, police, aluminum baseball bat.  James' views on dealing with such men.  Don't fall in love over the internet, fellas.

My country is supposed to be the most violent, but we are way behind Sweden on grenade and IED attacks.

Training the stick jab.

crackhead and a hostage.

Boxing: Saturday night, Tyson Fury returns to the ring, James provides some analysis.  James reviews bare knuckle fights.

Baltimore is an open and unrelenting pit of rancid digestive fluids into which humans must be flung to appease Baal.

Video analysis with Baruch, a brainy former gangbanger and animal update.

Law and order demystified.



Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Open Ended Aggression with Dennis Dale - Crackpot Ep 36

For Episode 36 of the Crackpot Podcast, we welcome Dennis Dale, a citizen journalist in Portland and prime example of the LaFond demographic.  Our wide ranging discussion covers popular culture, managing aggression, prison gangs and more.  Be sure to check out Dennis' blog.

The Crackpot Podcast features reluctant political commentator James LaFond and Wendy Darling to the LaFondiverse, Lynn Lockhart.

Audio:



YouTube:






0:00:40  James' appearance with Dennis and Luke Ford
0:05:00  Dealing with passive aggressiveness and PC culture
0:11:20  Dennis' interview with KMG, Dennis is a citizen journalist, arrested for his craft
0:15:35  James has never been arrested, the talk for working class white kids compared to others
0:20:25  The culture of American blacks in Baltimore
0:23:35  Changes in Baltimore since the riot
0:32:15  "White trash"
0:33:35  Changes in LA racial dynamics
0:46:58  Hidden costs of demographic changes
0:48:40  Portland developments
0:52:20  Baltimore schools
0:53:35  Ethnic cleansing of urban areas, moving criminal elements into suburbs
0:56:15  West Coast one-party rule
0:57:50  Homeless in Portland
1:00:20  Mr. Mohammed
1:08:40  Learn the laws of self defense
1:15:00  Dennis experiencing diversity in Portland
1:18:30  James' silent terror urban defense instructions
1:22:44  The LaFond demographic
1:34:10  The white guy menace, Aryan Brotherhood, Great White Defendant,
1:39:48  Black Criminal Mastermind, The Wire, black James Bond, Drugs Inc.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, June 2, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 27

Good morning, time for weekend links:

These couples have the highest rates of domestic violence.

'Women is always a situation.'  How Big C learned about Braxton-Hicks contractions.

The evolution of slavery to its current form in America.

Even an edgy foreign filmmaker can't admit to being an appreciative reader of James LaFond, never mind a middle class striver.

Police reveal themselves in their shouted commands.

Policing in Baltimore is innovative!

Prepping for a Brazil style truck strike.

Summer is coming, remember to stay hydrated.

Civilized segregation?  The Old Gods are also called the Gods of the Copybook Headings, from my favorite dead poet, Rudyard Kipling.

A good discussion on pistol shooting posture, don't miss the comments.

Why do people go to bars?  I guess watching the proceedings would be entertaining.

Every man in your organization must be a warrior.

The female police officer is a human sacrifice.

The bugpeople have come to Baltimore.

Another MC story, very disturbing.

Here is part 4 of a series from the Teutonic Fist, giving a different perspective on Europe's migrant crisis.

When daycare is better than parents, your society is just about done.

Be the heathen anchor of your Christian family.



Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

‘Gallantry’

On Confederate Hill with Nero the Pict

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

My good friend Nero the Pict and I had three hours to find Confederate Hill in Loudon Park, between Wilkens and Frederick Avenues, in West Baltimore, before meeting Erique for training.

At the front gate of the park are buried about a regiment's worth of Maryland Union soldiery, right on the main drag where the descendants of those they fought to free sell dope and murder at cut-rate prices.

Further back in the cemetery, beneath centuries old oaks, which the grounds keepers allow to fall prey to parasitic vines, are buried a battalion-strength of Maryland Confederates, 650 in number.



Five large monuments grace the hill overlooking an abandoned, bronze-doored mausoleum, buried in the opposite hillside, a gracefully haunted hilltop, tastefully away from the Yankee road and so much more appropriate to the Lost Cause these men fought for.



A relation of John Wilkes Booth's lies there in the sun.

A number of unknown soldiers rest there, somewhat accounted for among the ranks of others, from Alabama, Georgia, Maryland, mostly men who died of starvation and illness imprisoned at Point Lookout between October 1864 and February 1865.



Among them was a member of a Maryland Artillery unit who won the Confederacy’s highest honor, and survived the war into honored old age.

A man who commanded cavalry in a Maryland raid has a monument dedicated to his gallantry in the soft shade of the massive oak.

Next to him, beneath the monument to an unnamed CSA general reminiscent of Robert E. Lee, the wife of this grey rider has her own better preserved and touchingly inscribed monument, proclaiming her a woman of grace.

Among them is a monument to a youth who was slaughtered by federal troops in the paleface Baltimore Riot.

Most striking to me was that this hill for the remembrance of those we hate because they were better than we are has retained the solitude of a time earlier than theirs, under the shade of a tree that three men could barely circle with hands joined, a tree such as their slave ancestors felled by the millions to make this land ripe for the twin tyrannies that would deprive them of prosperity, march them off to war, kill them and then replace them.

The irony is that they fought to preserve their own poverty at the hands of a slave race and their masters and those who defeated them ultimately fought to ensure that their descendants would be driven from their hometown by the savage scions of those they freed.

Seeing the many battle flags and remembrance cards left by an organization dedicated to preserving their memory, and measuring the grace of their shaded place next to the ranked white rows of union boys whose headstones face one of the most blighted boulevards of their ravaged hometown, one wonders if it’s better to fight for the cause bought and lost or the one won and sold?

Perhaps it is only of importance that these men remind us that there was once a time when men were credited for loyalty and courage rather than having the luck of being owned by the winning machine.

1865 marked the end of the gross, government-mandated ownership of humans and the advent of its refined evolution, a world where one is reduced to a debt cipher and must either be lied to that his people were either the only slaves, or never slaves, so that the debtor might not be haunted by the fact that he lives under the same exact threats as his shackled and branded ancestor, most likely a doomed youth who was put to murdering the world’s largest living things so that his grandchildren might be replaced by a people better designed to thrive in a barren world bereft of their shade.

At least the bones of these 650 men and a few of their women lie beneath a shaded patch of our stone memories, lingering still and stoic in a world dedicated to the collective pursuit of social amnesia.



(c) 2018 James LaFond, photos courtesy of Nero the Pict

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 26

How to develop a reputation for excellent service in your ER.

"You guys don't like your mothers very much," Dante and his biker pals.

James is absolutely correct, Nikki, please don't waste your brain on college.  Your coursework should be focused on marketable skills, expand your mind on your own time, for free.

Law and order and women's MMA under the rule of LaFond the First.

Suzanna has made good use of her temper to stay alive and true to herself.

The gruesome killing of a Baltimore County cop this week illustrates the crime wave expanding from Baltimore City.

James returns to Flushing Cemetery, see here for an account of his first visit, with pictures.

Stare down or pity from a biker?  Reading a look from a hard man in the ER.  (Maybe he looked at your name tag to try to figure out if he should have recognized you?)

Dr. Slickens, Enquire, helps us understand the nuance of making hoochie music videos in the OR.

Is Luther headed for your state?  Be on the lookout!

Don't bring a knife to a knife fight.

'The economy screams for ever more consumers.'

The future of Plantation America.

Someone has to sand bowling balls, and for a while, it was Nero the Pict!



Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Why Worry? Preternatural Musings

For Predator and Prey, Life Goes On


I sat against a tree trunk half way down to the canyon floor on a forty degree slope. I try to make time these days to just sit and watch. Breathe air and observe. There's a lot to see, and while you're moving you're it. Many eyes watch you as you move out, but forget you once you settle. Once the movement stops. Things crank back up slowly, and birds go back to calling out for careless love, 'cause it's Spring again.

The hawks wheel in orbits along the ridges, close to their nests, scanning with those terrible eyes, the infrared capability showing the urine trails left around the nests of their prey. Rodents never grasped the importance of clean latrines, so hawks eat them. Sometimes the difference between continued life and being a snack for a young hawk pivots on an obscure point that only Humans have noticed. Those who study such things, and not other things.

It's hard to know what to study, what with what we call everything just hovering out there some place on our vaunted inter-web source of all things knowable. Too many choices to make it an easy thing. Something that calls for contemplation on your own. A winnowing of the trite, and a trip to an entity operating within truth.

Two red hawks come barreling down the slope about three-four feet off the ground, maybe a five foot wingspan, the tips twitching for trim. This same pair have taken runs at my chickens. Maybe twenty feet separate them. They flare out into the canyon floor, breaking left and right, settling into two trees perhaps 150 yards apart. The waiting. The watching. A sudden dramatic move, and then the wait. They could have been two A-10 Warthogs piloted by likely lads from Kansas, bouncing enemies in someone else's land, but there could be no waiting in that case. Appear, destroy, vanish. We hate to wait when we kill for grins nowadays, in these wars, hunting monsters abroad.

So I wait, not for enlightenment. Too blind for that. I wait because the world waits, probably to see when our annoying asses finally nuke ourselves out of the equation. I can see life emerging as it always has, by random. The chaos of nature. There is no plan but chance to the nonsentient, and the mother mouse whose child is devoured by a hawk doesn't light a candle to a saint. Life goes on and will, with you or without you. So why worry?

How free it must be as a mouse on a hillside, no clue that a hawk will ever devour you. We can't do that. We all know we're done for, and we fear the knowing and spin hopes. It can't have been all for nothing, but available evidence says it most likely was. Whether or not you recycled or loved the less fortunate. Despite your concern and humanity, they only value your gold fillings.

So the fence is up: four strands of barbed wire with stiffeners, corner timbers in concrete and strung with T-posts, tuned up tight with a 4x4, a Mexican and a White Boy. Took a week of work in wind gusting around 40, same as the temperature. The barbs glitter in the sun and the deer are already leaving patches of winter fur on it. According to lore, my neighbors will become good.



(c) 2018 The Checkered Demon

Monday, May 21, 2018

Pugilists with Pencils - Crackpot Podcast Ep 35

For episode 35 of the Crackpot Podcast, we bring you a discussion on boxing, shanking with pencils, prison fights, and the barbershop with special guest John Paul Barber, who also provides some thought provoking quotes from noted intellectual Floyd Mayweather and cultural observations by Tyson Fury, you'll want to listen to the end.  This episode also includes a bit more profanity than usual, in case you are into that.

The Crackpot Podcast features battle scribe James LaFond (see the comments) and sleep deprived motherslave Lynn Lockhart, who has a noticed an alarming commonality among her online friends (stabbing others with pencils).

Boxing books by James LaFond:

The Broken Dance
Being a Bad Man in a Worse World
The Punishing Art
American Fist
The Greatest Boxer


Audio:




YouTube:




0:00:35  Introducing John Paul Barber
0:01:50  Rockhold v Romero fight
0:06:30  Gervonta Davis
0:07:30  Boxing overseas and in the US
0:11:40  Mayweather and Mexican boxing fans
0:12:15  Nicknames in boxing
0:14:25  Any boxing in prison?
0:16:40  What is this game, smear the queer?
0:19:40  Historical boxing rules, unlimited rounds, bare knuckle, LPR
0:23:55  American Indians in prison (link on Lumbees)
0:32:00  How did James and John Paul get interested in boxing?
0:39:47  JPB remembers fights he was in
0:49:50  The time JPB was robbed at knife point
0:53:05  The mudshark is the entry point for black on white crime, including pizza delivery
0:56:40  JPB is a good boy now, he don't do nuffin, unless you panhandle at the barbershop
0:58:42  James vs a panhandler, with an assist from a Frazetta babe
1:02:08  What is it like to be a barber?
1:10:55  How is prison like college?
1:13:15  Notable quotes from boxers, read by JPB in his inimitable Appalachian inflection



(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 25

Hey, look, it's weekend links!


Biker stories continue, with an unforgettable encounter in the hospital.  Don't miss James' appearance with the Myth of the 20th Century on Hell's Angels.  Lumbee bikers liked to play pool and shoot pool. When your big brother ruins your dating life.  When your dating life ruins your life.  Why bikers are pack animals.  Here is a funny one with a happy ending.  How cops dealwith bikers.

No one said being an ass-kicking surgeon was going to be easy, or cheap.

A perspective on Russian military capabilities by Jeremy Bentham.

All television is filth.

Jacob comments on Crackpot Ep 34 and James responds, on the perils of reading translated texts.

The Ghetto Grocer traces the evolution and future of retail food.

Advice for older brothers.

I wasn't going to link this but it got a bunch of comments.

There is a line from white slavery in Plantation America and the cultural devaluation of the white working class in the present day.

How to train with a meat hook for home defense.

A man seeks training for his urban commute, for fun, survival and profit!

Big Ron is always on an adventure.


Buy James' books through Amazonpdf books through his main website, become a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart