Kaczynski Vs Luigi Babe: a comparison
An intriguing idea, one I hadn’t ever thought of myself before. From the NYT, of all unlikely places.
The Unabomber’s Influence Is Deeper and More Dangerous Than We Know
I published a novel about the Unabomber this year, and during a book tour stop in Seattle, a high school teacher raised his hand and asked me what he could tell his students about Ted Kaczynski, because he was a hero to so many of them. The question stopped me cold, reminding me that Mr. Kaczynski’s influence is deeper and more widespread than most people realize.The same feeling of cold unease returned this week when I read news reports that Luigi Mangione, the suspect charged in the killing of UnitedHealthcare’s chief executive, Brian Thompson, had posted a favorable review of the Unabomber’s manifesto online. The similarities didn’t end there. The meticulous planning and use of symbolism in the crime reminded me of Mr. Kaczynski, who spent years choosing his targets, designing disguises (even gluing false soles to the bottoms of his shoes) and leaving messages for investigators. The words “deny,” “defend” and “depose” written on the bullet casings found by Mr. Thompson’s body were an eerie echo of the “FC” for Freedom Club that Mr. Kaczynski carved into his bombs. The fact that Mr. Mangione allegedly made his own gun and carried a copy of his own manifesto reinforced the similarities.
There is, of course, still much we don’t know about Mr. Mangione: a full picture of who he is, and what factors shaped him and motivated him. But the teacher’s suggestion that the Unabomber was a hero to some of his students pointed to a larger truth. To many young people living in a system of extreme economic disparity, in a world they believe is on the verge of ecological collapse, the Unabomber represents a dark, growing ideological desperation. To them, his ruthlessly intellectualized turn to violence can seem justified.
At some point before much more time has passed, Our Side will have to get over its girlish squeamishness regarding this purported “ruthlessly intellectualized turn to violence” being utterly unthinkable, amoral, and completely out of bounds, I’m afraid. That’s owing to one very simple reason which ought to be obvious: if we don’t rise to the challenge and match the Leftist enemy blow for blow and then some, then we must inevitably lose to them. And as all of us should know full well by now, losing to the Left means losing absolutely everything.
You definitely want to read all of this one, it’s quite good. Never thought I’d hear myself say that about a NYT article, but there you are. Strange days indeed, sure to get stranger still as time marches ever on.
Oh yeah, almost forgot: the “Luigi Babe” reference in the post title hails from my own voluminous memory archive—just another of my ceaseless attempts to amuse myself which constitute one of the primary reasons this h’yar blog exists in the first place. Hey, even if none of y’all get a laugh out of it, I do. As is said of the Hokey Pokey, that’s what it’s all about.
See, Luigi Babe (as he insisted everyone call him) was this irritatingly ubiquitious show promoter, self-styled raconteur, and all-around hipster douchebag back in my NYC days. He was unfailingly chatty, touchy-feely, faux friendly, cloying, and utterly oblivious as to how vanishingly few, if any, of his fellow scenesters actually liked him even just a little bit.
When I was host/DJ/barman of a popular weekly rockabilly night* at what was bona fide Downtown scene-maker Deb Parker’s arguably least-successful venture, Babyland, Luigi Babe would show up every Thursday night, to everyone else’s profound chagrin.
If I’m lying, I’m flying: the minute Luigi Babe made his Grande Entrance into Babyland (or anyplace else, really)—clad in his trademark vintage gabardine suit with matching fedora and ascot, an immaculately-drawn pencil-thin moustache adorning his upper lip, flourishing his affected cigarette-holder in one hand like a scepter, carrying himself as if he were the dashing reincarnation of Clark Gable and/or Errol Flynn, the fleshly exemplar of what people mean by the word smarm—you’d see ten or twenty other regulars get up from their booths and beat feet for the exit with alacrity, often as not abandoning a table-full of overly pricy cocktails untouched in the urgency of making good their post-haste escape. Jackets, handsome cardigan sweaters, gloves, purses, you name it, who cares? These were but material objects, no more; unlike the precious time lost enduring the dread Luigi Babe’s presence, they could be replaced.
No shit, the dust cloud those fleeing bar patrons left in their wake would’ve shamed even the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E Coyote. MEEP MEEP!
* Yclept the Chicken Shack, which moniker would go on to earn me a subtly cheeky nod from no less august a personage than the great Max Weinberg, at a Conan O’Brien show taping—yet another of those incredible stories I really gotta tell y’all sometime
- Entries