On the “friends’ wives” thing, that might’ve been a particularly LA thing. Even before the whole ‘70s thing, which was bigger there than anywhere the LA elite was kind of cutting edge in that regards. But then that’s an elite thing in general (the LA elite/literati is also where LSD first got big, back in the '50s).

The “swinging lifestyle” started among Army Air Force pilots in 1940s Southern California, and is still overrepresented in areas that were near major airbases. (This also has to do with the historical association of airline pilots - who were mostly Air Force-trained - with nonmonogamy, though I’m sure spending a lot of nights away from home and a lot of days around young single stewardesses selected for their attractive charm didn’t hurt.)

I mean but maybe that’s all just a frontier thing in general - California outside of the Bay Area was largely lightly settled frontier until the 1950s, more cognate to the modern Pacific Northwest than modern California.

LA used to be the whitest, most anglophone, most native-born city in America, did you know that? East LA (which is unincorporated county land) was Mexican yes, but in the same sense it had been since LA was part of Mexico. It wasn’t until the immigration wave of the ‘70s-‘80s - in living memory - that things changed, and movies like White Men Can’t Jump, Falling Down, and American History X were made by people who lived through the transition. Snow Crash is a projection of early ‘90s SoCal into the future, and the specter of the Raft is a reflection of that Asian boat people refugee/Mexican overland wave.

(Steve Sailer can mostly be accounted for by the fact he grew up in the Valley back before this)

And that’s a wild frontier thing - sexual morality not so constricting. I see some of you - looking at you, bloodandhedonism - sniffing about mainstreaming of the sexualization of children well let me say the modern day has *nothing* on the ‘70s, when the California Experiment first started taking over the culture.

Roman Polanski - not just his personal life, his 1968 Romeo & Juliet was very upfront about the fact that the leads were young teenagers who were sexual beings who, upon getting married, got naked and sensual with each other in bed.

Pop-Freudianism, the notion that obviously we totally wanted to bang, particularly our family members, and repressing this was a major source of pain in the world, which was always biggest on the coasts.

Yeah, Woody Allen (the things the Farrow family’s said about him would make a good movie. Maybe two.)

Hell, the career of Brooke Shields - nude photo spreads in a Playboy publication at ten, starring role as a child prostitute in Pretty Baby at 12, at 14 introducing Calvin Klein and designer jeans in general with ads the conceit of which was her sitting with her legs splayed and double-entendreing that she wasn’t wearing underwear, same age as she starred as a topless girl going through an incestuous sexual awakening in The Blue Lagoon (as I’ve mentioned, with Flowers In The Attic, “incestuous sexual awakening” had the same prominence in contemporary YA pulp romance as “supernatural boyfriend” did in the Twilight era).

Like, it was not in fact clear at the time that the Sexual Revolution wasn’t going to go all the way from acceptance of premarital to extramarital to homosexual to intergenerational sex. NAMBLA has the same legend of stab-in-the-back betrayal by incrementalist gay activists that transgender activists do.

It wasn’t until the ‘80s that a backlash backfooted things. For one the “satanic ritual abuse” thing, which was reactionary witch-hunting to the point that they were literally hunting witches, mating the fears about the twin declines of Christianity and parenthood as structural forces. The Moral Majority and the appearance of evangelicals in cultural politics and anti-pornography coalitions with second-wave radfems. After obscenity laws fell under the Warren Court, it wasn’t until 1982’s New York v. Ferber - which if you read the decision is pure handwaving - that it was established that it was even constitutional to criminalize child pornography and not allow “redeeming artistic value” as a defense. (It wasn’t until 1990’s Osborne v. Ohio that it was established that criminalizing mere possession was acceptable). And then AIDS siezed upon to co-opt sex education (which, you know, the Christianists weren’t wrong, was originally introduced as a means to inculcate students with sex-positivity) to teach youngsters that sex was deadly as a convenient idiom to reassert that sex was wrong.

All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.

The ‘70s

I write most of my stuff with an imagined audience of historians, academic or hobbyist, decades to centuries off.

speaking of “drugstore-available erotica” - that’s been kind of a trip - it’s like condoms were almost edgy, they sell those in public?, *ooh*, the clerk knows what you’re going to do with those

and then growing up and realizing how many of the staples are masturbation aids - “romance” novels, “personal” massagers, “hand” lotion, “men’s” magazines

the disclaimability does serve a purpose, I guess. until webcams were a thing, I would never have guessed about “hair"brushes

“Custer’s Last Fight”, Budweiser promotional decoration, while 2 guys played Big Buck World and their cute female friend talked about how hot the safari guide girls were, Club 21, Portland, OR

apropos of nothing in particular:

people going “oh no, Joss Whedon claims to be a feminist but he wrote Cordelia out of Angel when Charisma Carpenter got pregnant, that’s unfair”

dude Joss Whedon is a writer of dynamic single-camera action-drama, the practical alternative was to write episodes to be performed by her stunt double uncredited and intercut with close-ups, it’s not like that’s fair

monetizeyourcat:

the “american” identity (i.e. white southerners whose “heritage” is primarily with white southernness) is “scots-irish” which is a sort of grabbag for everyone in the british isles in 1800 who was neither (a) english nor (b) catholic. romantic scots nationalist nostalgia was a huge part of the ideology of the antebellum south. unless you’re talking about pennsylvania dutch, germans didn’t even arrive until after the völkerfrühling and they settled way more heavily out west than back east, in large part because there was already an established white american identity hostile towards them - a distinction the ascendancy of the white petit bourgeoisie post civil war made largely irrelevant

this is american history 101 how can you not know this and call yourself some kind of hardcore realist

I was around and paying attention when “Scots-Irish” as a self-conscious identity was really being pushed in the ’90s, when you live through these things it’s always funny watching people read them as an “always known”.

It mostly came out of the publication of Albion’s Seed in 1989, and represented an effort to ennoble “hillbilly” as an innocent, even victimized, yet politically conscious and inherently right-individualist prototype of American whiteness. (After all, “Dixie” southernness was both tainted and increasingly worn out as generic whiteness, and New England “Puritan” or Scando-Midwesternness were both unusably leftist.) The whole thing’s easy to read as part of the post-Cold War intraconservative civil war over what to do next, as a volley on the Buchananite/paleocon side that wanted to pivot back to inward-looking Americanism.

I was kind of on the edges of Institutional Libertarianism back in the day. Entered the free-market.net prize drawing daily, finally won once in college (the months on either side won like $40 in e-gold, I got a copy of L. Neil Smith’s “Pallas”, a CD of atrocious folk music, and a steady stream of solicitations from Jews for the Protection of Firearms Ownership)

Anyway when I moved to LA and tried to become a screenwriter I knew I’d have to do some networking and I figured I might as well go to this conference put on by the Institute for Humane Studies - the institutional libertarian talent-development arm, basically - on “Culture & Liberty”, down at Chapman University, a right-affiliated college down in the OC.

For one, you imagine “libertarian conference” you might envision a sausage fest, but the attendance was like 2/3 female and smoking hot. A lot of Eastern Europeans, either from the Russian Jewish expat anti-communist tradition or the scions of the new bandit-industrial class from the post-Soviet states who were flown in.

Every day we’d go through a few sessions, I think we watched some movie by a Chinese borderline-dissident, also a watch and Q&A with the director of Waco: Rules of Engagement (which was firmly in the “yeah, I can see that” camp of conspiracy theories, in which disparate parts of the government are all independently trying to advance their institutional interest, fucking up, and then trying to cover their ass).

Every night we had a mixer where they basically just left us in a ballroom with a few cases of beer.

On the last day we basically had the whole session to turn out some sort of cultural product, proud to say I clearly had the best, a story I’d been turning over in my head for a while, “How Yusuf and Hassan Saved 9/11”. It was a little gimmicky, but that’s kind of my thing and I’m still proud of it.

Another year and that branch of the program had been shuttered I think, but someone put together a successor program and specifically invited me to a 2-day movie-making conference at UCLA. We went through sessions on development, financing, pitches, alternative channels - to give you the sense of how “Hollywood” and “conservative” interact, they praised the Left Behind films for using church networks to get the word out and make a nice neat profit on a pretty low production and marketing budget, “and that stuff is completely unwatchable — I tried”.

Notably, no one thought to mention Tyler Perry as a model for extra-Hollywood strategies drawing on church structures, though looking at the attendees I don’t think many of us had ties to the black church. There was a black speaker who’d been a writer on the parachurchy Saved by an Angel. Surprisingly/unsurprisingly she was a dedicated New Ager and I kind of wondered what she got out of it, but listening to her word choice, her rhythms, it was like oh my god, this is where Tess came from, dead on. (I’m still a little curious why the Angel of Death was done ambiguously gay in that ‘90s way, shoulda asked).

There was a night reception, of course, this time there was champagne.

Was at a table talking about what we’ve been doing, I mentioned that I lived in Echo Park and the neighborhood council (which was the potemkin government set up as part of LA’s anti-valley secession charter reform, basically as a way to keep local activist types away from real business) had recently had a complete slate turnover from nice white NIMBY types to latino, which involved honest-to-god sound trucks on the streets with messages in Spanish. That intrigued me and I traced it back to the head who was a guy who was affiliated with Gil Cedillo’s East LA Latino Caucus machine (which was moving in on with Waxman’s westside machine for control of the LA Democrats, that’s how Villaraigosa ended up mayor and then fucked it up so bad that mighty whitey swept them back out with Garcetti). And anyway I looked through council minutes and stuff and realized the guy leading this had also been the guy brought in to clean up when down in the little cities southeast of LA proper (which are *hilariously* corrupt) some of the Cedillo machine’s men  had gone too far and brought on a backlash, and went down to interview some guys but didn’t have an outlet for the product. This was around the time of James O’Keefe’s ACORN thing and a kid who’d clearly been inspired was pumping me about how I HAD to put this together for Brietbart’s Big Politics site, it would be huge.

And everyone at the table just went around sharing the outrages of those liberals and I was wondering who was going to be the first to admit we had clearly heard this all first from Steve Sailer. (no one)

Anyway second day we came up with movie ideas and advanced them through a few competitive rounds, my idea which made it to the final selection was about hot-rodding moonshiners and the founding of NASCAR. Because ‘Merica. I think as it got workshopped I ended up overlaying a Romeo & Juliet romance plot on it, basically as a way to justify having a singular protagonist. The real producers’ advice for pitching was basically to be more obsequious and present it in a way that a real producer could see a way to fuck it up in their own idiom, which is basically the kind of reason why I’m not in LA anymore.

I think out of it I got an offer to come work with the production office for the guys doing the Atlas Shrugged films but dear god did I know better.

Yeah, you know what, why not post this. Even at the time it was goofy and kumbaya, but that was necessary to make the form work, and matching modern ritualized forms to incongruous content is my speciality.

*  *  *

The sun rose over the Iraqi desert, and in a small concrete house the young boy Yusuf and his younger brother Hassan woke up with hearts full of joy. Tomorrow was 9/11, the day when Osama bin Laden flies around the world in his magic jetliner bringing death to the infidels, and they couldn’t wait.

They washed their glowing faces, and quivering with energy sat down to breakfast to the sound of a grainy radio speaker.

“The Americans have captured Osama bin Laden,” announced the voice, “and are holding him at an undisclosed location.” The boys’ spirits fell, and the color drained from their faces.

Just then, a light truck rumbled past the house, in the direction of the American prison down the road. And another truck, and then an APC. And a heavier truck, and a helicopter overhead, and another, and another truck, on and on, a rumble that would have been the loudest thing the boys had ever heard, had they not lived in a land largely occupied in the manufacture of explosions.

“Do you think…?” asked Yusuf.

“It must be!” replied Hassan.

“Then we must rescue him!” insisted Yusuf. “Without Osama, there is no 9/11.”

“But how? The prison is heavily fortified and strongly defended, and we are but two young boys,” Hassan questioned.

But Yusuf was a clever child, and he quickly thought of a plan. Hassan and Yusuf headed off down the road towards the checkpoint in front of the prison, where the prison commander stood with several of his men.

The commander hailed them, and commanded them to stop. “You boys should turn back and return to your home. This is not a place for you, this is a place where we hold our enemies, yours and mine,” said the prison commander.

“Our enemies? Who are our enemies?” inquired Yusuf.

“Oh,” said a private, “they taught us this in basic training. Our enemies wear the uniforms of a foreign power.”

“No,” said a sergeant, correcting the private, “Our real enemies wear no uniforms but carry guns that can kill a man with a single shot.”

“No,” said a lieutenant, correcting the sergeant, “Our real enemies have abandoned their uniforms and their guns, so they look like any other man on the street.”

“Actually,” said the commander, “our enemies include all these men. So when we find any men like this, we seize them and throw them in jail. They may not be the enemy, but we must be cautious. Do not worry, we will release them when we think it is safe.”

“But,” asked Hassan, “you are all wearing uniforms of a foreign power. How am I to know *you* are not the enemy?”

And the commander paused a moment to think, and he saw the truth in Hassan’s words. So he ordered his men to remove their helmets, and their jackets, and so forth, until they stood in their undershirts.

“There,” said the commander, “now you know we are not the enemy.”

“But,” asked Yusuf, “you are all carrying guns that could kill me with a single shot. How am I to know *you* are not the enemy?”

And the commander paused a moment to think, and he saw the truth in Yusuf’s words. So he ordered his men to unsling their guns, and their grenades, and so forth, and lay them in a pile on the ground.

“There,” said the commander, “now you know we are not the enemy.”

“But,” asked Hassan, “you have shed your uniforms and your guns, and now you look like any other men on the street. How am I to know *you* are not the enemy?”

And the commander paused a moment to think, and he saw the truth in Hassan’s words. So he ordered his men to seize themselves and throw themselves into cells, handing Yusuf his keyring so as to lock them in.

“There,” said the commander, “we may not be the enemy, but you must be cautious. Do not worry, you can release us when you think it is safe.”

So Yusuf and Hassan locked all the American soldiers in their cells, took the keyring and freed Osama, and the three fled into the desert.

“Hooray!” exclaimed Yusuf. “We were afraid we wouldn’t be able to rescue you and there’d never be another 9/11.”

“Oh boys,” chided Osama, “9/11 isn’t about me!”

The boys were taken aback. What did he mean?

“But without you, who would fly your airplane? Who would bring death to the infidels?” asked Hassan.

The tall sheikh chuckled. “Boys, boys, 9/11 isn’t about airplanes, or bringing death to the infidels. No, it’s about the spirit of 9/11 - blind allegiance to your own side, no matter what they do. Every time an insurgent beheads an innocent man, that’s the spirit of 9/11. And every time the Americans torture in the name of freedom, *that’s* the spirit of 9/11.”

“And… every time a Palestinian martyr detonates a bomb in a crowded restaurant?” offered Yusuf.

Osama smiled and nodded.

“And every time the Zionist Enemy responds by firing missiles at an apartment building full of families!” interjected Hassan, catching on.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Osama. “Now you’ve got it. And as long as we keep that spirit alive in all our hearts, there’ll always be another 9/11, no matter what happens to me.”

The boys beamed. But then a frown crossed young Hassan’s face.

“But… does this mean you won’t be bringing death to the infidels?” he inquired.

“Well, I never said that,” responded Osama with a sly grin.

And he winked his eye and he tugged on his beard, and on the horizon his airplane appeared.
It glowed with a light that shone at all angles, pulled through the air by a team of eight camels.

It alit on the road as the boys stood in wonder, with a screeching of tires and hoofclops like thunder.
A ladder came down, the color of cream, and Osama climbed up and called to his team:

al-Adel, al-Libbi, al-Masri, al-Zawahiri! Abu Hafiza, Zubaydah, Sheikh Mohammed, al-Zarqawi!
To the enemy near! To the enemy far! We’ll cut off their heads and explode all their cars!

As the plane rose skywards on its mission of killing, you could hear on the wind his voice, Allah willing.
“For enemies to create, and enmity prolong, remember these words: my side, right or wrong.”

Now that I’m thinking of Touched by An Angel, Monique (“Devil Monica”) and Vampire Willow would be a pretty good pairing for a game of Would You Rather.

Battlefield Earth’s ridiculousness gets contextualized in terms of John Travolta’s Scientology blinding him to the terribleness, but you know maybe the star of Broken Arrow and Face/Off and, I guess, Pulp Fiction just realized that he was well-suited to camp action.

neoreactionaries going on about the baleful influence of moralizing women under the sway of prominent, charismatic, hypocritical gay men, as some sort of pathology particular to secular white liberalism

it’s like, I take it you’re not very familiar with the black church

(and proposing as antidote to this dynamic… Catholicism, ha ha ha ha hooooooooly shit)

bmichael:

I cracked the code, guys. I did it.

• Sun-drenched western landscapes.
• Quirky ensemble cast where the supporting parts almost overshadow the lead.
• Doofy sidekicks draw attention away from how adolescent the lead is.
• Which:
• A whiney guy with high-waisted pants and glasses — people think this is a distinctive fashion statement.
• (It isn’t.)
• Said guy wears down his friend-neighbor through the course of the film.
• By the end: implication is they’re gonna do it.
• Received pretty well at first, then not so much.
• Out of place, weird dancing for no reason.

Her is a high-concept Napoleon Dynamite: success stories about the triumph of the adolescent male will over the friendzone with a b-story about how high-waisted pants are flattering on some weirdos.

not sold, but not wrong

A story seemingly stolen from the pages of a crime thriller, but far less comprehensible. 

…huh.

Realizing that Megatokyo was still going and looked the same as ever – well, while I hadn’t thought about it, knowing Piro it didn’t surprise me. Realizing User Friendly was still going and looked the same as ever – well, guy built his following with a strong first-mover advantage back in ‘97, why not.

But Okashina Okashi? Seriously?

The foolish man thinks he’ll live forever
if he stays away from war,
but old age shows him no mercy
though the spears spare him.
…
Cattle die, kinsmen die,
one day you die yourself;
I know one thing that never dies —
the dead man’s reputation.

For a town full of Subarus and light pickup 4x4s from back before the vanity SUV era, Portland can *not* fucking handle an inch of snow.

On the subject of which I’ve been looking for a pickup truck, an old Toyota 4x4 from the 22r/22re era. I’ve got a ‘68 motorcycle and it would be a great compliment - enclosed where the bike’s exposed, reliable where the bike’s moody (those trucks are what technicals are made from, and while the bike’s engine is indestructible, the electrical system is gremlinbait), plenty of cargo capacity (say, enough to haul the bike back home when it dies).

So I’ve been checking Craigslist and whatnot but all the listings are these hillbilly Frankenstein abominations out in Hillsboro or NE 132nd, lifted two feet, sprung to hell, truck bed chopped off. “Crawlers”. I don’t even recognize half the words they’re boasting about.

I guess that’s the redneck equivalent of tossing a muffler, spoiler, and Type R sticker on your Civic, but fuck, I just want a truck.

Well this brings two things to mind. First, that’s literally something Jesus said. Whether that’s divine imperative, good advice for the subaltern to turn material losses into PR victories, or snark passed down deadpan is up for interpretation.

Second, I knew Neil’s girlfriend back when she was one of Brandon Bird’s muses, so every now and then I see his Facebook threads, and he’s just as much a snotty point-winning ponce with people he knows as he is with strangers on the internet.

Which — I’m kind of a point-winning ponce so ok, but it undermines his pose of moral authority. Also, to really pull that off you have to be clever and charming, but he’s just well-known.