Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Rare Publicly Accessible Internal NF E-Mail


First off, I wish to apologize unreservedly for the crappy quality of this week's Radio Free Northwest, and most especially to the people who attempted to call the Skype number and were unable to get through. 

I won't even bother to offer specific excuses this time. This is getting beyond embarrassing, and entering the realm of a sick joke. I will not attempt any more of these call-in shows until such time as we can have some guarantee that the tech end of things will work, and we will be able to produce a listenable product.  

There is a larger reason for this repeated fail on our part, and also for certain other aspects of our wee little operation which are becoming noticeable, if not quite as overtly embarrassing. That reason is something I have been complaining about for years---the shocking lack of professionalization on our part.
 At the risk of sounding conceited and melodramatic, an immense portion of the responsibility, if not the entire responsibility, for saving the White race and Western civilization from extinction has been place on the shoulders of a man who in two weeks' time will turn 64 years of age. 

A man whose technical knowledge of IT pretty much stopped with Windows 98, Second Edition, and whose brain seems to have hardened its arteries and become new-tech-resistant in some way. A man who is dealing with a number of increasingly annoying medical issues which distract him from full concentration on the task at hand. A man who is compelled to spend most of his time doing secretarial work and running errands, rather than the content creation he is best at. A writer who has written nothing for three years now, except RFN scripts and long screeds such as this one, saying things I frankly shouldn't have to say.

 Ideally, I should be like a NASCAR driver roaring lap after lap around the track at Talladega or wherever, occasionally pulling over into the pit and yelling "change the tires and fill her up!" to a loyal, skilled, and utterly dedicated pit crew that keeps me functioning at top performance level. Yeah, well, a lot of things that should be, ain't.

Let me dream a bit here. Let me share with you my vision as to how all of this should be going at this point in the Party's development. Just one part of that vast vision, the part where we can actually do a call-in podcast without it turning into a balls-up. 

I see in my mind's eye a building or secure place, containing actual rooms full of glorious space where the Northwest Front can actually exist as a functioning entity. A place that is as legally and physically secure as it's possible for anything associated with White Nationalism to be in this day and age.  

I see tables. I see chairs. I see filing cabinets. I see new computers and IT gear and every conceivable kind of equipment necessary to produce podcasts, YouTubes, web sites, graphics. I see persona management software so we can carry out coordinated offensives on social media, I see video cameras; an actual internet radio studio with real-time streaming capacity so our own "racist Rush Limbaugh show" can become real. I see our own servers.
 And in my vision, I see the bodies. Actual, physical human beings who live right here in the Homeland itself, not hiding behind computers in Tulsa and Nashville and Dayton and San Diego. 

Younger men than I. Okay, maybe not kids, but at least 20 years younger than myself, men with plenty of tread left on the tire. Men with the skill sets needed, from Photoshop to video editing to hardware repair to software trouble-shooting, to keep an internet media center running. Men who know how to operate and maintain all that glorious new state-of-the-art hardware and software and equipment, purchased for the Northwest Front from the contributions of thousands of White people who have finally awakened to the fact that "all this" is goddamned serious and a matter of life and death.

 Anyway, you know all those appeals I make in the organizational letters and the bi-annual fund appeals? Well, this vision is just part of what I'd like to achieve.  

I won't ask you again to help me. I've asked before, and to the eternal glory of God and our cosmic legacy, a few of you have, to the best of your ability. Enough of you to keep me alive and battling on. 

But mostly what I get is exquisitely tactful and commiserating woods, beneath which I hear the sound of doors softly closing in my face. Well, it is what it is. Either we will change who and what we are, or we will perish from the earth.
  End rave.


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