There have been other times when substantial numbers of Americans were enamored of Marxism. During the Great Depression, some of them went to the Soviet Union. It often did not end up well for them. From Linh Dinh at unz.com:
This entire year, I’ve been a vagabond, but you, too, have been on a journey, away from just about everything you’ve known, into the vaguest of futures, and we’re just getting started. Steered by obscured hands, we’re whipped around blind bends, towards a reality we have no part in shaping.
Yesterday, my friend Chuck Orloski emailed me photos of Fiddler’s, a bar in Larksville, PA (pop. 4,400). They depict normal folks, men and women from roughly 30 to 65-years-old, sitting next to each other, each with a glass or bottle of beer. There’s a ketchup squeeze bottle as well, so at least hotdogs are served. With a bag of potato chips, it’s a fine meal.
The bartender is a pretty blonde in her early 20’s. Eye candies snare customers and get good tips. Older broads must work harder. In Philadelphia’s O’Jung’s, there’s a beer slinger in her 50’s, with short hair, false teeth, ample jugs and a fondness for jokes.
“What blinks and fucks all night?”
“I don’t know, Brigitte.”
She started to blink really fast.
As you leave, she’d yell something like, “Come back tomorrow! Free blowjobs!”
Chuck and I have sat in many bars like Fiddler’s. It’s where guys like Johnny the Hat or Johnny AC go after work to reward and gather themselves. It’s where they drop in after dinner to banter, brood, listen to all those old songs, again and again, or stare at balls and strikes. If they’re retired or just unemployed, they can show up minutes after breakfast. Of course, no one goes to faggoty concerts, operas or art galleries, but even ballgames have become way too expensive.