THE YELLOW BRICK ALLEY

by Robert Frenz

3 April 2000

I have always felt I have been fortunate in my life. Things could have been very much worse. When I was shot at, I could have been hit. When I crashed, the broken vertebrae might not have healed properly. When I had spinal meningitis, I could have remained paralyzed.

I loved learning and always welcomed the criticism when others pointed out my errors. While sitting in high school class, I noted that the teacher knew more than did we and that's why I never asked my classmates for direction or solutions to problems. I, having well-read grandparents, learned very early on that older people were the place to go in order to gather up great information. As I grew older, I realized that it was all perfectly logical. At that time, we simply didn't have the likes of a Jerry Rubin to tell us that our parents knew nothing and that you should never trust anyone over the age of 30. That was in the 1960s.

I sat in Don's Dinette doodling some algebra upon a napkin. An old man sauntered up the isle and stopped. "You like algebra," he queried, "would you like to learn some interesting things?" Of course I answered in the affirmative and so joined him in the walk to his apartment. (In those better times, no one worried about 'child molesters' or other assorted perverts. The men in our town made sure that this sort of person never lifted one dirty finger in anyone's direction. That was before scum, faggots and disease-spreaders had 'rights'.) Anyway, I returned again to this man's apartment where I learned incredible stuff which never appeared in any algebra book. I kept that knowledge to myself and became a sort of 'star' in the school – noted for being a 'math genius', which I definitely was not. I owed that ego-stroking adventure to Mr. Moore and the ability to keep my mouth shut about that which 'gave me an edge'.

I also learned another substantial thing: it pays to have loyal friends – people who care about what happens to you and are not afraid to come to your rescue if it were needed. To gain this envious position, one must be loyal himself. Today, the young apparently know this not and everyone is more than eager to 'rat' on his so-called friends. They have no idea of the power of camaraderie and loyalty. This, I suppose, is why a certain bolshevik promotes 'leaderless resistance', for there is no substance in them and they relish being unaccountable to anyone but themselves.

It was a very hot summer night and our little group decided to splash in the community wading pool long after dark. Off went the clothes and in went the nude bodies. In those better days, being naked in public was a misdemeanor, even though we assumed that no one was observing us. As things turned out, someone DID see us. It was a frustrated old harpy noted for peeking out her window when aroused by any noise. Gil, who was on probation at the time for a minor infraction involving window breakage, lit out without his clothes into the dark of the night. This was in response to the arrival of the friendly boys in blue who rounded us all up. Down at the station, so early in the morning, see the station master... An issue was made of the fact that there was an extra pile of clothes at the scene of this horrendous crime. "Whose clothes were they?", shouted Lt. Lange, "If someone doesn't tell soon, you'll all be locked up." After much yelling and threatening, we were taken singly into a room where the verbal threats continued. Dick, our handsome muscular blond pal known for his ability to attract girls, mentioned that it was obvious that someone using the pool during the day had left them unintentionally, of course. The banter continued and then we were told suddenly to "get out of here and go home!" Why, one might ask, would such a group of boys stick together all for the sole purpose of protecting another? It was just that way. We did it for Gil, our friend, whom we knew would do the same of any of us. Since those days, much of society has degenerated into a gaggle of sell-outs – anything for a little personal advantage. Today, we don't even have 'boys', much less men. We have 'its' devoid of anything praiseworthy. 'Its' can never hope to grow up to be men, or even grow up. This then, is the building material – if you can call it that – for all of those White Pride groups, and such.

It was about 2:00 AM and as I stopped, I heard the clack of the bolt about the same time that the muzzle end of a rifle was stuffed into my left ear. It was a security guard at Rockwell's "hate house on the hill" inquiring who I was and what I wanted. The next day, I talked with the fellow who held that rifle. He explained that he cared nothing for National Socialism and knew little about it anyway. After my prompt, he explained that he joined the 'storm troopers' because it promised 'action'. He wanted to be where the street fights were. That attitude, I am afraid, permeates the macho sector of the blight-wing.

Just survey the blight-wing. You'll find that one group is an odd batch of effete snobs while another claims they are 'true jews'. Some wear sheets and shout "Kill doze niggers!" every time they get together. I've previously mentioned the 'lone wolf' criminal and now there appears to be a growing attraction for nigger rock shouted with anti-Black lyrics – to take liberty with that term. Such behavior is not logically consistent but intelligence, logic and direction is not what the blight-wing is about. There remains that batch of historians, mainly amateurs, who babble endlessly about which document is more important than another, in regard to whether or not 6M people were killed with insecticide. Alas, there are only 6 angels on the head of my pin.

No group, or association, will ever make anyone more valuable than he is by himself. If a man is unreliable, then reliability does not increase with numbers. God cannot cure your ills nor make you a man. That's what you have a brain for and hopefully, it's attached to a spine.

William Pelley was able to get tens of thousands of people to march with him during his pro National Socialism days. Rockwell managed to get only a few hundred. Zündel – nary more than 20. The 'nazi' Karl Hand showed up in a group of one haranguing a crowd of seven or eight people which gathered around the monument at LaFayette Square in Buffalo NY. One might ask what the differences were.

Pelley was IN TUNE with the silent desires of much of America. Pelley lived in an age when a man's word was his bond – except for those in the jewish Roosevelt administration. Today's blight-wing simply does not strike a sympathetic cord with most of our White people. Far too many of them present an image hardly above that of a drunk or hold-up artist. The average nit of today is more interested in the latest stock quote, niggerball game and beer sale, than he is in being manly enough to even provide a sound family.

Until we can produce large numbers of substantial nails, there is little point in trying to erect a house even if we had a decent blueprint – which the blight-wing does not, and never did. Their only claim to anything is that of being a genuine public nuisance when they are not being merely criminal. Being a pain in the ass is not my idea of the way to win any battle for survival.

IF the goal of each faction of the blight-wing WAS the survival of the White race, then why is it that they cannot come together in a giant forum if only to discuss a plan of action for the future? I'll tell you. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. In fact, NOT ONE batch of blight-wingers has even the foggiest notion of what will happen to their 'organization' when they die. Furthermore, they simply do not care and all of the rhetoric about White this and White that is only the rant of a snake-oil salesman intent upon selling his wares and swelling the image he sees in the mirror. Buy my books – buy my videos – leave me in your will – subscribe to my journal – pray and send money.

If you want to run then you should at least be able to stand. Rockwell's "White man fight" did not imply street brawls. It meant "be a White man" and that is not achieved by acting like an insane banshee having a neurotic fit at some 'rock' noise orgy. It means having a conviction and not being afraid nor ashamed for having it. It means having a profound respect for women as the foundation of your race's future though your children, and not as something to play 'bury the weeny' with. It means making your word your bond and placing more value upon your community – your race – than you do upon yourself for without community, YOU ARE NOTHING! And no community is any better than its most miserable member.