No one but the dead or dying back in Jim’s little town 

In his piece this week, Homeless, James Howard Kunstler (or Uncle Jim as I like to think of him) shows that when he can dial back the spittle-flecked hatred of White people (Pus!  Alien bacteria!) he's capable of some mighty fine wordsmithin’:

 I had a fugitive thought the other evening walking through my beaten-down small town in the late fall chill. I imagined that instead of the blue tomb-like glow of television emanating from house to house that I could hear the sequential music of parlor pianos, and voices singing to them, and of healthy people coming and going from warm kitchens to fetch firewood, and of groups of people gathered around tables for a meal, and generally of buildings that were truly inhabited, not just storage containers for lives unspent. I grant you it was a fleeting nostalgic fantasy. But isn’t nostalgia just a state of being homesick?

You may recall that I dealt with Jim in my own piece “The Gilmore Girls Occupy Wall St.” (reprinted now in my new book, The Homo and the Negro), particularly his inability to write about Peak Oil, the Great Reset, the Dieoff and other Leftist masturbation rituals without spinning off, like John Cleese or John Belushi…
… into dark fantasies of fat “NASCAR people” [White, of course] squirming on the ground, screaming helplessly as their Rascal scooters run out of fuel, left – by Jim and his kind -- more in sorrow, than in anger – well, maybe a lot of self-righteous anger – to be eaten by the wolverine population which, in the absence of human civilization, will be expanding wonderfully, to the delight of surviving former members of the NPR listening audience.    Sort of a “Left Behind” saga for the New York Review of Books set.

I suggested there that Jim inadvertently reveals  the real Liberal Agenda, not so much the “world domination” or NWO fantasies of the Right as simply being able to move into and take over sweet little small towns once the horrible Others are dead, there to live the Simple Life, Fair Trade Coffee style.

In the passage above, though, Jim gives us some fine writing.  First off, we note how he evokes not just Fahrenheit 451, where Montag wanders around amidst the blue light shining from the silent houses of his neighbors, truly “storage containers for lives unspent;”  but also the short story “The Pedestrian,” a, as the cliché has it, “prescient sci/fi tale” of a man walking aimlessly in some future suburb and being disturbing enough to be arrested.

But the parlor piano riff!  First this suggests the doomed fantasy wanderings in a neverland of ice cream socials and band concerts at the gazebo taken by the protagonist of “A Stop at Willoughby,” the locus classicus of midcentury weltschmertz, distilling into twenty black and white minutes what it took Mad Men six seasons of color to evoke, if you can imagine this ad man got his job through manslaughter, desertion and identity theft.
It's not easy being as smart and sensitive as Jim Kunstler 

 But it also evokes Kurt Vonnegut’s post-industrial automation apocalypse, Player Piano, an especially apt reference since it takes place in Jim’s now even more beaten down Capital District.

Of course, the difference is that neither Bradbury nor Vonnegut were anti-White, perhaps mainly due to being White.  For a pro-White look at Bradbury, see 

Ray Bradbury, R.I.P. by John Morgan

And for Vonnegut, see this by Jim's Upstate Neighbor -- whom I'm sure he's never deigned to meet: 

The Regionalist: Vonnegut’s Cradle by Bill Kauffman - 01/21/09

As Kauffman notes [or would, if he had had Jim in his sights] Vonnegut is the anti-Jim: living in Manhattan, but not dissing the old small town. 

            In his last interview, with the leftist magazine In These Times, Vonnegut said,
 “[E]veryone needs an extended family. The great American disease is loneliness. We no longer have extended family. But I had one. . . . I was surrounded by relatives all of the time. You know, cousins, uncles and aunts. It was heaven. And that has since been dispersed.”

The passive voice here carries the hint of self-exculpation. Vonnegut chose to spend his adulthood in Cape Cod and then on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a celebrity in precincts quite alien to his native ground. His hero Tarkington, by contrast, had stayed in Indianapolis. One wonders—at least I wonder—if the marked inferiority of Vonnegut’s later work was due, in part, to his immurement in that gilt sepulcher of American fiction, that anti-Indianapolis, Manhattan.
 
As  I noted in the op. cit., Jim hates Manhattan too, but only wants to live elsewhere when the rednecks have been already wished into the cornfield.
Don't make Jim angry...
 
How to square this pre-Judaic utopia with his vein-poppingly strident Zionism [unlike Vonnegut, the U.S. invasion of Iraq,” writes Kauffman, quoting his son Mark, “broke his heart not because he gave a damn about Iraq but because he loved America.” His crest fell; didn’t anyone else believe those civics lessons? “It wasn’t until the Iraq War and the end of his life that he became sincerely gloomy.”] and his murderous loathing for the South [as recently as just last week] is a mystery of the double-tracked Judaic mind.  

Perhaps he imagines, like the fond Israelis, that the ‘natives’ will simply agree to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, “healthy people coming and going from warm kitchens to fetch firewood” as Jim says, then quietly withdrawing like the better class of manservant -- one things of the arrangements made the properly unobtrusive behavior of the servants in Against the Grain; Jim's homey hometown is as phony as Des Esseintes' undersea dining room --for the privilege of their benevolent rulership.  Sort of the way Jim expects the taxi to the airport, and the plane, to be on time and waiting for him, as he jets around the world denouncing the Oil Culture that has unfairly enriched the lifestyles of “the rednecks”. 

Unfair?  Well, his fellow Lefties make the same argument against, say, ueber-rich CEO’s demanding “shared sacrifice”:

Economist Rob Johnson, director of the Institute for New Economic Thinking and also a senior fellow at the Roosevelt Institute, shared his view of the Campaign to Fix the Debt in an email. As he memorably put it, "strip-mining is not leadership": 
“I believe that a convincing argument depends upon the demonstrated self-sacrifice of the leader offering a vision.”
The Obscenely Rich Men Bent on Shredding the Safety Net
 By Lynn Stuart Parramore

No Jim, moving to Schenectady isn’t enough; as I’ve said, you countrified yuppies can have whatever you want trucked in [more oil!].

Another interesting contrast with Jim: Morris Berman.

In Why America Failed: The Roots of Imperial Decline (Wiley, 2012),  Morris Berman insists that America has always been a “nation of hustlers” on the make; interestingly for an academic leftist, he has kind words for the cavalier culture of the South.  

He now lives in Mexico.   I guess while he thinks he's "outlived his country" he didn't want to live with soured old goodthinkers like Jim.

See the interview on Alternet here and especially the review at Second Vermont Republic here.  This would be in accord with the general European Right view of America as essentially a Judaic creation in the New World, destined to destroy White homelands. 

Whoops, just noticed this over at Amazon:
"Morris Berman noticed that it's not morning in America anymore. His message may wake up the millions who are oversleeping while the late-day storm clouds gather over this land." —James Howard Kunstler, author of The Long Emergency 
 Guess he didn’t read the chapter on the nobility of the South.  Or read the book, period, period?  Why pass up a chance to flog your own book at Amazon?  Talk about a nation of hustlers.

Unlike Jim, Vonnegut “was not a misanthrope, just a man who never lost his capacity for righteous outrage.”

Kauffman, writing of Vonegut, has the last word; he, unlike Jim, knew that:
You need village atheists—you just don’t want atheist villages.
But that’s what happens when the Gilmore Girls occupy Wall St.