Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

Erasing history

And “conversations” that…aren’t.

A few days ago, Kamala Harris, a.k.a. the background dancer who screwed her way to lead singer, was asked by Don Lemon if she supported Sanders’ plan to allow murderers and rapists to retain their voting rights while in prison. “I think we should have that conversation,” said the former “prosecutor.” When I saw the clip, I honestly didn’t mind the evasive nature of her answer. Politicians are evasive by nature; it comes with the job. What pissed me off was the idea that leftists ever engage in a “conversation.” When do leftists ever engage in “conversations”? They adopt a position (often a complete reversal of a previous one), and then they declare the old position to be “hate speech” and those who espouse it “hate criminals.” Where was the “conversation” on trannies in the girls’ bathroom? Where was the “conversation” on there being 1,745 genders instead of two? I don’t recall having those “conversations,” do you? One day, leftists decided that “this is the new truth,” and suddenly people like me get banned from social media for stating the scientific fact that a man can’t wish himself into being a biological woman.

Where was the “conversation” on immigration? I just remember going to bed one night when top Democrats were in favor of strong border control, and waking up the next morning to find that desiring strong border control makes you a Nazi.

If there was a “conversation,” I don’t remember it.

Affirmative action? Forced busing? Court ordered…no “conversation.” And if Democrats, who view voting rights for imprisoned murderers as a race issue (because of the disproportionately high number of blacks and Latinos who’d be affected), decide tomorrow to uniformly support that policy, overnight anyone who opposes it will immediately become Hitler.

Did any Western European leaders have a “conversation” with their constituents about flooding the continent with nonindigenous immigrants? When exactly was that referendum? At least with Brexit, there was a conversation, but has the popular consensus—the result of that conversation—been respected? Of course not.

Leftists don’t “converse.” They impose. And to do this, it often becomes necessary to erase history, ancient and recent. This is done not only to cow the current generation, but to brainwash the next. “Why, Notre Dame always had a minaret! Hell, the building was constructed by Muslims, who were always the majority in France! Just as England was always nonwhite.”

Future Europeans will learn little of old Christendom, but you can be damn sure they’ll know all about Auschwitz. In thirty years, every schoolkid in the West will know about the fifty Muslims killed in New Zealand in March 2019, and none will know of the hundreds of Christians killed in Sri Lanka a month later.

Controlling what we forget and what we remember, what we are encouraged to defile and what we are ordered to hold sacred (like Harlitz-Kern’s holy kazoo), is how you make sure there isn’t a conversation. Leftists understand this better than anyone.

If Stalin taught these bastards anything, it’s that the airbrush is mightier than the memory.

Oh, I think it’s safe to say that Stalin taught them pretty much everything they know. But while we’re talking about erasing history…no. Just…NO. Not just no—HELL NO.

The lawyers and CPAs who run Elvis Presley Enterprises have been threatening the city of Memphis for the past two years with plans to dismantle Graceland—the most hallowed redneck house in the world—and move it to another continent.

They mean this quite literally. They have offers on the table, they say, to bring in redneck historians and lovingly peel up the green shag carpet from the Jungle Room—where Elvis’ last two albums were recorded despite the rushing background noise of the waterfall that spurts out of one wall—and then move all the lacquered wood furniture in the shape of tree stumps to someplace like Dubai, where real estate entrepreneurs like to collect items of Americana and turn them into pop culture museums. It would be sort of like displaying objects from the Titanic if the Titanic had been intentionally sunk in Southampton harbor and then sold off for scrap.

Elvis was from Tupelo, Mississippi, 100 miles to the southeast of Graceland, but he would have been immersed in the African-American music that emerged from the Baptist churches and blues honky-tonks ranged up and down the Mississippi River between St. Louis and New Orleans. Dewey Phillips broadcast that music on Red, Hot and Blue, sometimes even highlighting actual church choirs, but in Memphis the blues and gospel music of black folk ran smack-dab up against all that clog dancing and fiddling that came down through the Appalachian Valley from Scotland, Ulster, and Cumberland. As all Elvis aficionados know, the King was criticized early in his career for singing like a black man, and the term “rock and roll” itself comes straight up out of the slave-based Delta rice fields.

Elvis may not have been black, but his musical DNA was as mixed-race as Alexander Hamilton. Memphis was the place where original black music met original white music. That’s what makes it American, that’s what makes Memphis the Santiago de Compostela of rock and roll, and that’s why you can move Graceland to Nairobi or Edinburgh but you’ll only be telling half the story. If Graceland moves, Graceland dies.

I’ve visited Graceland a couple of times myself—if you have even the slightest spark of affection in your heart for the King, I highly recommend it—and one of the most striking things about the place to me was that, from the backyard right up next to the house, you got an easy view right into the backyards of other houses in the neighborhood. I had always pictured it as being more secluded—at least tucked away behind some high hedges or some sort of privacy fence or something, in the manner of usually what comes to mind with other big fancy mansions.

But no, it was pretty much wide open out there; you could see laundry hanging out to dry on clotheslines all over the place, guys on lawn tractors, old ladies stooped over in their truck patch hacking at weeds, and such. Naturally, those neighbors could likewise see up into Elvis’s yard too. It was kinda cool to imagine the wild, outlandish goings-on Elvis’s neighbors had a bird’s eye view of over the years.

As Joe Bob says: Move Graceland, Graceland dies. Whatever law or ordinance the Memphis city council needs to pass to bring this ill-considered, near-criminal nonsense to a screeching halt, they oughta do it if you ask me. It’s an arrogant affront to history itself. While admittedly nothing like as significant or weighty as Notre Dame, Graceland’s legend is bigger than the present owners seem able to grasp. It doesn’t belong only to them.

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