Monday, September 30, 2024
"Bellum vocat, Bellatores Montis Ursi — Duri manete."
Sunday, September 29, 2024
The Long Game - Why Europe, Britain, and America Keep Tripping on the Same Colonial Banana Peels
The Long Game - Why Europe, Britain, and America Keep Tripping on the Same Colonial Banana Peels
Let’s peel back the layers on this geopolitical onion and get to the core of what’s really going down. The COVID world hit like a freight train, but don’t kid yourself—everything was already in motion long before anyone knew the word "pandemic" wasn’t just a movie plot. What we’ve been living through for the past few years is just the latest in a centuries-old script, and trust me, it’s all about the resources. Europe has run the same tired playbook since it learned the fine art of colonization, and now, with the help of our globalist puppet-masters, the stakes are higher and the game is dirtier.
Europe’s Climate Crusade: The Green Mask of Control
When you hear Europe scream about climate change and push for more "regulations," understand this: it’s got nothing to do with saving polar bears and everything to do with one grim fact—they’re out of juice. Europe doesn’t have the oil, the coal, or the natural gas to sustain an economy for 700 million people. They’ve been siphoning off the world’s resources for centuries, whether by military force or financial coercion. Their industrial might was never theirs; it was looted from colonies stretching across Africa, Asia, and the Americas.
But now? That well’s running dry, and they need a new trick to keep their economies afloat. That’s where the whole climate-change pitch comes in—shift the narrative, redirect blame, and mask the real crisis: the EU is resource bankrupt.
From Colonies to Color Revolutions: Same Game, New Board
This playbook goes way back, folks. It started with European colonization and has evolved into something more insidious in the modern age: color revolutions. The Brits, masters of this game, figured out long ago that sending in an army is messy and expensive. But destabilizing a country through soft power? Cheap, efficient, and devastatingly effective.
They undermine governments by empowering dissidents, controlling media, and turning economic screws. And when the moment’s right? Bam! You’ve got yourself a shiny new revolution, and the resources flow back to the Western powers, who—like vampires—need fresh blood to keep themselves alive.
Ukraine: The Next Move in the Empire’s Endless Game
This brings us to the current stage: Ukraine. Let’s be real—this war isn’t about freedom or sovereignty. The West, especially Britain and America, doesn’t want it to end. Why would they? It’s all about draining Russia’s natural resources. Ukraine is just the battleground where this new phase of the Great Game is being played out.
Here’s the kicker: Europe needs Russia’s assets. The Brits, in particular, are salivating at the prospect of carving up Russia’s natural resource empire. The same old imperial hunger that fueled the British Empire for centuries hasn’t gone anywhere; it’s just been dressed up in new rhetoric. The EU wants Russian gas, oil, and minerals to keep the lights on in their post-colonial paradise. And let’s not forget the real debt holder pulling the strings: the Bank of England.
The British Empire’s Ghost: Trading Muskets for Money
The Brits didn’t give up on empire after they lost India—they just changed tactics. They went from maritime and industrial dominance to financial hegemony. The Bank of England has been the epicenter of this operation, and they’ve managed to keep the game going long after the Union Jack was lowered in far-flung colonies.
But now they’re in trouble. Real trouble. The Bank of England is on the hook for billions in Ukraine’s World Bank debt, and it’s not looking pretty. Ukraine has defaulted, and the bill is about to come due. But here’s the trick: just like in World War I, Britain is angling to get bailed out by the United States. They did it before, and they’ll try it again. Make no mistake: every time Britain overextends itself, it finds a way to drag America into the mess to clean it up.
The U.S. Civil War: Britain’s Botched Play for Empire
Now let’s dial it back for a moment and talk about the Civil War—no, scratch that—the War Between the States. Britain and France tried a color revolution on America long before they perfected the technique in the 20th century. The goal was simple: divide and conquer. The South, with its raw commodities, would become Europe’s permanent colony, providing cotton and tobacco for European markets. Meanwhile, the North would be isolated and weakened, strangled by tariffs and trade restrictions.
But Abraham Lincoln and the Union survived—barely. The Civil War was a failed color revolution, and it forced Britain to rethink its relationship with America. That’s when the Brits started cozying up to Washington, playing the long game to worm their way into the highest levels of American power.
Rise of the Puppet Masters: The Birth of Globalism
Fast forward to the 20th century, and the Brits finally got their claws in deep. Starting with Wilson and Hoover, globalists—mostly with British backing—took over the American government. They tried to pull us into globalist schemes like the League of Nations and, later, the United Nations. Britain, facing the decline of its empire, realized the only way to maintain power was through international financial institutions and alliances with the United States.
That’s how we ended up with World War I, which wasn’t just about defeating Germany—it was about saving Britain’s financial hide. London needed to win the war to repay its massive debts to American investors, and guess who bailed them out? That’s right—good ol' Uncle Sam.
Putin's Playbook: Dodging the West's Traps
And now here we are again. Putin sees the game. He’s watched the West run this playbook before—whether it was the Bolshevik Revolution or World War II—and he’s not biting. The West keeps poking Russia, hoping for an overreaction, hoping for a pretext to escalate into a larger war. But Putin? He’s playing 75D chess while the West is still fumbling around with checkers. He’s taking the punches—Kremlin drone strikes, the bombing of the Kerch Strait Bridge, Nord Stream sabotage—but refusing to escalate.
Why? Because he knows the longer this drags on, the more the financial noose tightens around the West. Russia can outlast the West’s proxy war tactics, and as long as Putin doesn’t give the globalists their “just war” narrative, the West’s position becomes more desperate.
Final Round: The Global Debt Trap Snaps Shut
In the end, it all comes back to money. Europe, Britain, and the U.S. are sinking deeper into debt and instability. Ukraine is just the latest pawn in a centuries-old chess match for control of global resources. But here’s the kicker: Putin isn’t playing by their rules. He’s seen their game and is refusing to let them draw him into a full-blown conflict. As the West tightens the screws, they’re actually tightening the noose around their own necks.
So while the media keeps pushing the war-for-freedom narrative, don’t be fooled. This is the same old colonial hustle, dressed up in modern rhetoric, and unless the West figures out a new game, they’ll end up collapsing under the weight of their own imperial overreach.
By Bear J. Sleeman, Part-Time Cowboy, Full-Time Sage, and Unrepentant Warfighter, somewhere between the whiskey trails of the Wild West and the shadowy peaks of the Alps in Japan.Woke Communism Reloaded—21st Century Marxism for Idiots Who Think They’re Free
Woke Communism Reloaded—21st Century Marxism for Idiots Who Think They’re Free
Today, as I was splitting cords of wood on Bear Mountain Ranch with Tucker Carlson tearing into the latest absurdities in the background, a thought sharpened in my mind, much like the ax in my hands. I stacked the logs under a crisp September sky, staring out at the Northern Alps, listening to Bear Creek roll in the distance. I walked over to my '84 Dodge RAM, grabbed my leather satchel, and pulled out my old, battle-worn notebook. Sitting beneath a 200-year-old chestnut tree, wind in my face, I began to write this down—a no-nonsense take on the festering rot that has infected every corner of Western civilization.
But let’s not kid ourselves here: There is no saving America or the West. None. Any idiot with two brain cells left to rub together can see we’re in the final days of this tragic comedy. “No borders, no walls, no USA at all”—that’s not just a chant anymore; that’s your new reality. Nuclear war, civil war, and the greatest depression in history are all on the horizon. The dollar’s on its deathbed, and society is hanging by a thread. The West doesn’t need saving—it needs to crash and burn.
And you know what? I’m not in the crosshairs. I’m watching this slow-motion collapse from Bear Motherfucking Mountain in Japan. My ranch is fortified, and we’ve got everything we need to live free while the rest of you are getting sucked into the hellhole. Deer, salmon, 19 varieties of trout, cattle, horses, dirt bikes, trucks, tractors, crops, orchards, cider, whiskey, and mountains of firewood. We’ve got it all—and I don’t see a single soy-swilling, rainbow-flag-waving lunatic for miles.
But let’s get to the point: Woke communism is back, and it’s worse than ever. This isn’t your granddad’s gritty, cold-steel Soviet communism, the kind that made men sharpen their knives and stockpile ammo. No, this is the slick, woke version, wrapped in social justice nonsense and sold to you by Silicon Valley elites. They’ve traded the hammer and sickle for an iPhone and a Starbucks rewards card, and they’re shoving it down your throat.
You think communism’s dead? Think again. This isn’t a revolution led by the working class anymore—it’s a corporate takeover, led by billionaires preaching “equity” while flying their private jets. The working man isn’t storming the gates. The woke managerial class is—and they’ve already seized your institutions, your schools, and your damn boardrooms.
Here’s the kicker: ESG—Environmental, Social, Governance. That’s the code name for this corporate communism. You don’t scream “diversity” loud enough? You’re out. Fail to check the right woke boxes? You’re done. Wall Street, Silicon Valley—they’re all kneeling before this new communist fantasy, pretending it's the future of capitalism. It’s a joke. The only thing at stake here is the future of the Western world.
But don’t you dare call this a conspiracy. The evidence is clearer than the mountain air I’m breathing right now. We’re living under a new politburo—a faceless managerial class armed with algorithms, ESG scores, and armies of woke zombies fresh out of university, ready to enforce the new order. Think capitalism’s alive? It’s not. We’re staring down a corporate version of communism, and the only thing more dangerous than the old one is this shiny new model with a smile.
So, what do you do? Call it what it is: woke communism reloaded. This isn’t some joke about “woke capitalism.” This is Marxism 2.0, dressed up with corporate flair. And if you don’t see that by now, you’re already a lost cause. This isn’t a debate for polite dinner parties. This is war—a war for the soul of the West. And make no mistake, if we don’t fight back now, there won’t be anything left worth saving.
But here’s the cold, hard truth. America won’t save itself. The West is going down, and fast. I might be watching from Bear Mountain, where the rifles are loaded and the firewood is stacked high, but I’m still watching. And to the West? Good luck. You’re gonna need a hell of a lot more than that.
Your move.
Stay Hard!
By Bear J. Sleeman, Part-Time Cowboy, Full-Time Sage, Unrepentant Warfighter, and Logger, somewhere between the whiskey trails of the Wild West and the shadowy peaks of the Alps in Japan.
THIS IS IT! THE MOMENT WHEN YOU FINALLY REALIZE THE PREPPERS WERE RIGHT!
RUSSIA'S LAVROV: NASRALLAH DEATH WAS `POLITICAL ASSASSINATION'
NETANYAHU: NASRALLAH HIT WAS NECESSARY TO ACHIEVE THE GOALS WE SET
The middle East is on the edge of blowing sky high, and my bet is it is going to go global. —“October Surprise”
This is it—the moment the world has been waiting for, and dreading. World War III is right on schedule, unfolding exactly as predicted. Events in the Middle East have detonated in the last 24 hours, a cascade of chaos that no one saw coming, but everyone should have.
The assassination of Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, is our generation’s Archduke Franz Ferdinand moment—a geopolitical strike as pivotal, if not more, to the balance of power in the Middle East. What follows won’t be contained to the region. What Israel just did—the clinical, surgical elimination of Nasrallah—isn’t just a warning shot. It’s an invitation to global war.
Iran hasn’t responded yet. Not because they’re afraid. No, they’re holding back because they know what happens next. If they move against Israel with full force, they’ll wipe it off the map in hours, but they know Israel's nuclear reprisal will turn Tehran into ash. No one really knows what’s in Israel’s nuclear arsenal—not even their biggest ally, the U.S. And that’s the terrifying part.
There’s no transparency here, no treaties to regulate Israel. They operate in the shadows, a proxy attack dog for Washington’s dirty work. Everyone knows that when Israel strikes, it’s with America’s blessing, or at least their blind eye. What no one can be sure of is just how deep Israel’s nuclear capabilities run. Rumors suggest the IDF has developed tactical nukes—low-yield devices that can trigger localized EMP blasts, capable of frying the electronics of any major Middle Eastern capital without the messy fallout of a traditional nuke. The Iranians know this, which is why they’re hesitating. But their window to act is closing fast.
The Russians, of course, have been quietly backing Iran. Sergey Shoigu, the Russian Defense Minister, was in Tehran the moment the first Israeli strikes hit Lebanon. The timing was no coincidence. Arms deals, logistics, maybe even nuclear hardware—whatever Russia’s been supplying, it’s all been under the table. The Iranians could very well be operating under Moscow’s nuclear umbrella, ensuring they don’t take the bait and launch first. But for how long?
Hezbollah, meanwhile, is reeling. Nasrallah’s death was a decapitation strike of the highest order—one that the world has never seen with such precision. The IDF’s intelligence was flawless. This wasn’t just a lucky hit, this was a cold, calculated strike designed to cripple Hezbollah’s leadership in one fell swoop. But anyone who knows Hezbollah understands that they aren’t your typical military force. Their command structure is fluid, backed up by layers upon layers of Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) operatives from Iran. If one leader falls, another steps in without missing a beat. Nasrallah may be dead, but Hezbollah’s network, reinforced by the IRGC, is far from broken.
And now, the war drums are getting louder. Israel is massing troops at the Lebanese border, preparing for a ground invasion into Hezbollah territory. This is the flashpoint the world has been dreading. Hezbollah, which has so far held back its heaviest firepower, might finally unleash its stockpile of long-range missiles. The IDF has made it clear—if these weapons are launched, it will be all-out war, and Israel’s response will not be restrained by conventional means. Tactical nukes are on the table.
The next few hours will tell us everything we need to know. Hezbollah has just officially declared war, though the underground conflict has been simmering for decades. What’s shocking is how fast it’s escalated. Less than a week ago, Nasrallah was in his fortified bunker in Beirut, confident that his position was secure. Now, he’s dead, and Hezbollah is scrambling to hold the line.
Lebanon, meanwhile, is being set ablaze. Israeli jets have already begun enforcing a no-fly zone over the northern territories, encroaching dangerously close to Russian airspace over Syria. Lavrov has condemned Israel’s strikes as a blatant violation of Lebanese sovereignty, but that’s as far as Russia’s gone publicly. Behind the scenes, Moscow’s ready to make a move. If Israel keeps pushing, Putin may be forced to side with Iran, and the global lines between East and West will harden in blood.
The Iranians are furious. Hezbollah’s Shiite followers are flooding the streets, chanting for war, demanding vengeance. The assassination of their leader isn’t just a tactical blow; it’s a spiritual wound that cuts deep into the Shiite-Sunni divide. Iran must act, but how? Any direct strike on Israel could provoke the war they’ve been avoiding. But their hand is being forced by the weight of their own people, the IRGC commanders now pressing for action, and the new hardliner President of Iran, who sees an opportunity to cement his power.
In the meantime, U.S. forces are quietly mobilizing. CENTCOM is repositioning assets in the Gulf, bolstering Israel’s missile defenses, preparing for what they see as an inevitable confrontation. President Biden’s administration is playing the double game—virtue signaling peace while arming Israel to the teeth.
But no matter how it’s spun, there’s no stopping this. Russia’s missiles, Iran’s proxies, Israel’s nukes—it’s all in play now. Everyone is waiting for the next strike, the one that pushes us over the edge. And when it comes, the world will be watching in horror as the Middle East goes up in flames.
This is not just another war. This is the endgame. World War III has begun, and there’s no turning back now.
Welcome to the end.
Bear J. Sleeman going dark.........
Bear Mountain Dispatch: The Rainbow Trout, the Bear, and the Madness of Critical Race Theory
Bear Mountain Dispatch: The Rainbow Trout, the Bear, and the Madness of Critical Race Theory
There’s a rare serenity in waking up on Bear Mountain, where the fog hangs just long enough to soften the rugged peaks of the Northern Alps before the sun cracks through, casting gold across the valley. Today was one of those mornings—perfect for fishing. So I grabbed my rod, strapped on my boots, and trekked down to Bear Ravine, where the river runs clear, and the trout are fat, wild, and free—just like me.
I found my usual spot beneath the alder trees, their shadows dappling the water’s surface. The river hummed its timeless tune as I cast my line. Across the bank, a grizzly lumbered through the brush, as indifferent to me as I was to him. The bear and I, two souls untouched by the lunacy infecting the world. Out here, where the air still smells like pine and freedom, you get a glimpse of what the world once was—pure and uncorrupted by the self-destructive stupidity of modern society.
The tug came—swift and familiar. A rainbow trout hit the line, darting beneath the surface in a shimmering dance of survival. As I reeled it in, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. I landed it, admired its iridescent scales flashing in the sunlight, and set it free. Meanwhile, the bear, too busy munching berries, gave zero shits about me or my morning victory. Out here, everything’s as it should be.
Compare that to the clown show back in America and the West. As I climbed into my old ‘84 Dodge Ram—taking care not to flood the engine on the first crank while gently feathering the accelerator peddle—I turned on the radio and tuned into Alex Jones. Just as I hit the gravel road leading to the ranch, some caller was ranting about Critical Race Theory. That’s when it hit me: the chasm. Here I am, in a truck older than these wokelings, while their precious little heads are being filled with an intellectual septic tank called CRT.
Critical Race Theory. It’s a joke wrapped in a con, draped in pseudo-intellectualism, and topped off with a participation trophy. Cooked up by ivory tower parasites who've never worked a real job or done anything meaningful in their lives. It’s a wet dream for those who’ve never swung an axe or bled for their country. The West has lost its damn mind, sinking into a swamp of ideological absurdity while grizzlies up here in the mountains make more sense than any of those mouthpieces for cultural suicide.
And as America, the Commonwealth, and Europe crumble under the weight of their own self-imposed idiocy, I sit here on Bear Mountain, sipping black coffee from a steel flask, watching the world burn. Life up here is simple, grounded, and fiercely free—everything the West used to be before it was gutted by political correctness and Marxist madness.
Critical Race Theory. A "theory" so fragile it collapses under the weight of a toddler’s question. It’s become a sacred cow, a religious idol worshipped by the woke. Question it, and you’re labeled a "racist." In today’s linguistic gymnastics, that’s code for “you think for yourself.” CRT is the new God, the untouchable idol of a generation that lost faith in everything real and replaced it with the empty promises of Wokeism.
Meanwhile, the West is rotting from the head—Washington, London, Sydney, Toronto, Brussels—they’re all drunk on the same decaying Kool-Aid. And who’s really pulling the strings behind this global marionette show of idiocy? The usual suspects: WEF, WHO, UN, Banksters, Big Pharma, corporate whores, political degenerates, and useful idiots wearing rainbow blindfolds. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find the truth: China. China’s rise has the elites rattled. They know their time is up. They’re desperately clinging to the illusion of Western supremacy as it unravels before their eyes.
But you can’t bully China like you bullied Nicaragua. This isn’t 1982. The West can’t drone-strike its way out of this one, and no amount of gender-neutral bathrooms will save the day. So, they double down. Deny. Distract. Feed the masses the opiates of gender fluidity, climate hysteria, and neoliberal fantasies dressed up as progressive capitalism.
The West’s house of cards is collapsing, and they’re busy handing out rainbow-colored life jackets. The dirty little secret that no one wants to admit is this: capitalism based on infinite growth on a finite planet is suicide by slow suffocation. The elites know this. That’s why they’re hoarding wealth, buying bunkers, and planning their exits while the rest of us get left behind.
The media? Their job is to tell you everything’s fine. Keep consuming. Keep buying. Keep distracting yourself with the latest gadget while the planet burns, and the gap between the haves and the have-nots widens to an unbridgeable chasm. Soon enough, the Greenpeace kiddies will grow into full-blown terrorists, pissed off that their future got sold out to the highest bidder.
Wokeness is the final dagger between the ribs of Western civilization. It’s Neo-Marxism in drag, designed to gut everything that made the West strong—faith, family, masculinity, and honor. The elites don’t give a damn about the “oppressed”; they care about power, control, and keeping their yachts afloat while the rest of us drown.
Meanwhile, China is playing the long game. While the West is too busy canceling comedians and handing out participation trophies, Beijing is laying the groundwork for global domination. The pieces are moving, and the West is too busy arguing over gender pronouns to notice.
Here’s the hard truth, folks: you get the government you deserve. The West? It’s done. Stick a fork in it. It’s not a beacon of freedom or strength anymore; it’s a wheezing, senile old man muttering about equity while outsourcing its soul to China.
Out here on Bear Mountain, we’re ready. The ranch is fortified, stocked, and armed. We’ve got deer, trout, cattle, whiskey, and enough firepower to hold the line. No soy lattes, no rainbow flags, and certainly no CRT. Just mountains, rivers, and the quiet hum of freedom.
As I sit under this old chestnut tree, jotting down these thoughts, I feel nothing but gratitude. I got out. I escaped the asylum before the final collapse. The rest of the world can spiral into chaos—I’ll be here, splitting firewood, watching the sunset over the Alps, shredding chest-deep powder snow, rolling coal in my V8 diesel pickup truck, and living like a man should.
So here’s my parting gift: next time some soy-sipping, pronoun-preaching emasculated latent homosexual idiot starts talking about "diversity" and "equity," remember this—Wokeness is the final act of a civilization that forgot what made it great. It’s over.
And on Bear Mountain, we’re ready to break out the deckchairs, party hats, and popcorn and watch it all burn from a safe distance.
Stay Hard!
Saturday, September 28, 2024
"AMERIKA: BEYOND IDIOCRACY - President Kamala Camacho’s ‘Kamunism’ Set to Deliver Us Into 2024’s Dystopian Dumpster Fire"
“WELCOME TO KAMUNISTAN: President Kamala ‘Camacho’ Promises 2024 Will Be The Year America Out-Dumbs Idiocracy—Get Ready for Free Soy Lattes and Mandatory Feelings”
Let’s face it: Idiocracy was supposed to be satire, but here we are, 2024, and reality has taken a dark, sharp turn that makes the movie look like a cheerful bedtime story. The difference? In Idiocracy, the president was a loudmouthed buffoon who shot guns and yelled at plants. Today? We’ve got Kamala Harris, a walking embodiment of corporate grooming, anxiety-drenched confidence, and Big Pharma's finest mood stabilizers. And she’s likely your next president, whether you like it or not. And here’s the kicker: It’s already baked into the cake.
She knows it, too. You can see it in her eyes—like someone who was just handed the keys to a car hurtling off a cliff and told, “Don’t worry, you’ll probably land safely.” You don’t need a genius IQ or a crystal ball to see it—her body language tells you everything. Kamala’s resigned to her fate, holding that inevitable crown with all the assurance of a poker player who’s been told by the house that the deck is rigged in her favor.
But here’s the thing: World War III isn’t just a possibility; it’s a done deal. The elites have written the script, and the rest of us are extras in their apocalyptic play. Every move Kamala makes—hell, every move any of these puppets make—is simply a footnote in a plan that’s been in motion for decades. The monetary system? Toast. Pension funds? Running on fumes. Banks? Deader than disco. Commercial real estate is collapsing faster than Joe Biden's ability to finish a sentence. Ever notice gold’s been breaking records every day for seven months? That’s not an accident. Gold is the canary in the coal mine, screaming that the world is one spark away from the mother of all meltdowns and a Great Great Depression.
Meanwhile, Russia just updated its military doctrine to include first-strike nukes, even if some nobody country throws a rock their way. The stage is set, the actors are in place, and the world’s powder keg is already lit. Klaus Schwab, Mr. "You vill own nothing," has told you a thousand times, but no one’s listening. We’re on the cusp of a global digital catastrophe—a cyber meltdown that will make 1984 look like a Sunday picnic. And what follows? Smart cities, or as I like to call them, “digital gulags,” where every breath you take is monitored by algorithms, every move you make is logged in some data bank, and every shred of your freedom is a relic of a bygone era. Welcome to the Great Reset.
See, this whole train wreck is by design. The elites have been running zero-percent interest rates for years, ensuring the monetary system’s collapse, and now they need a global catastrophe to cover their tracks. Nothing says “we screwed up” like plunging the world into war. And here’s the brutal truth: the U.S. will keep sinking further into the abyss, all while Kamala Harris parades around with the confidence of someone who’s been promised the keys to the kingdom, even if it’s burning down.
Kamala doesn’t have Trump’s blank check with Israel, but she’s been handed a credit card with a high limit. Netanyahu knows the score. His escalatory tactics with Palestine hit turbo the moment Biden bowed out. They’re making their final plays before the house of cards collapses. Sure, Israel will get what it wants—no matter who’s in the White House—but with Kamala, the game’s a little more complicated, a few more strings attached. They’ll still pull America’s puppet strings, but the price of the show is going up.
And let’s not kid ourselves. Kamala’s not as dumb as she’s played herself up to be. Sure, there’s something off—maybe it’s Big Pharma’s antidepressants working overtime—but Eric Weinstein says she’s sharper than the image she projects, and I’m inclined to agree. She's not the mastermind, but she knows enough to survive the political meat grinder.
But, here’s the rub—Idiocracy was too soft. The real world is far grimmer. Kamala’s strutting around like she’s already crowned queen, Trump’s convinced he’s the messiah of 2024, and the rest of us? We’re stuck between the world’s dumbest tug-of-war. Both sides are playing the same game, and both think they’re the chosen one. The sad part? The game’s already rigged.
Here’s the million-dollar advice you won’t hear on CNN: Get off the grid. Now. WWIII isn’t a question of “if” but “when,” and the clock’s ticking. You’ve got a front-row seat to the end of Western civilization, and while Kamala and Trump square off in a political circus, the real fight—the one that’ll make or break the world—is already happening in the shadows.
The entire financial system is on life support, the war drums are beating louder, and when the dust settles, only the elites will be standing. They’ll usher in their “one-world Marxist government,” where you’ll “own nothing and be happy,” trapped in smart cities with digital IDs controlling your every move.
So, while the world burns, Kamala will smile, nod, and wave—oblivious, or maybe resigned, to the fact that she’s just the latest cog in a machine spiraling out of control. Meanwhile, the rest of us? We’re cannon fodder in the global elites’ dystopian fantasy.
Wake up. Get the hell out. Before the fangs sink in, and it’s too late.
Stay Hard!
Bear J. Sleeman Going dark..........
The Arnolfini Portrait—This 600-year-old painting is one of the most mysterious in history.
This 600-year-old painting is one of the most mysterious in history. That mirror in the back is just 3 inches wide — yet it reflects the entire room in immense detail.
The Arnolfini Portrait—sometimes referred to as The Arnolfini Wedding, The Arnolfini Marriage, or Portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini and His Wife—is one of the most enigmatic and studied paintings in art history. Created in 1434 by the Early Netherlandish painter Jan van Eyck, this masterpiece is packed with symbolism, mystery, and layers of meaning, making it a fascinating object for scholars and viewers alike.
It’s the Arnolfini Portrait by Jan van Eyck. This artwork, created in 1434, is renowned for its intricate details and use of symbolism. The convex mirror in the background not only reflects the entire room but also includes the artist himself, adding a layer of complexity and intrigue. The painting is celebrated for its advanced use of oil paint, which allowed for such fine detail and vibrant colors.
The painting is often referenced for its immaculate depiction of non-Euclidean geometry, referring to the image on the convex mirror. Assuming a spherical mirror, the distortion has been correctly portrayed, except for the leftmost part of the window frame, the near edge of the table, and the hem of the dress.
A spotless mirror was also an established symbol of Mary, referring to the Holy Virgin's Immaculate Conception and purity.[35] The mirror reflects two figures in the doorway, one of whom may be the painter himself. In Panofsky's controversial view, the figures are shown to prove that the two witnesses required to make a wedding legal were present, and Van Eyck's signature on the wall acts as some form of actual documentation of an event at which he was himself present.
Look closer at it and you'll realize nothing is as it seems…
Jan van Eyck's masterpiece is an ordinary portrait: Italian merchant Giovanni Arnolfini and his wife, Costanza.
ZOOM IN..
The small medallions set into the frame of the convex mirror at the back of the room show tiny scenes from the Passion of Christ and may represent God's promise of salvation for the figures reflected on the mirror's convex surface. Furthering the Memorial theory, all the scenes on the wife's side are of Christ's death and resurrection. Those on the husband's side concern Christ's life. The mirror itself may represent the eye of God observing the wedding vows.
ZOOM RIGHT IN... This 3-inch mirror reflects the entire room with uncanny precision, defying perspective and sparking centuries-long fascination.
Here is the full frame of Arnolfini 600-year-old Portrait.
Overview
The painting depicts a wealthy merchant, Giovanni di Nicolao di Arnolfini, and a woman who is believed to be his wife. They are standing in the bedroom of what appears to be their lavish home, holding hands in what has traditionally been interpreted as a gesture of marriage or a kind of vow. However, the precise meaning of the painting has been the subject of debate for centuries, with interpretations ranging from a straightforward depiction of a marriage contract to a more complex allegory of power, wealth, fertility, or even a memorial portrait.
Now, let's dive into some of the most intriguing aspects of the painting.
The Figures
Giovanni Arnolfini is portrayed as a wealthy and powerful man, dressed in a heavy fur coat, a symbol of his status and wealth. His elongated, serious face reflects the formal, solemn nature of the scene. His wife, who has traditionally been identified as Giovanna Cenami, stands next to him, appearing pregnant. However, this has been reinterpreted; she may not be pregnant but wearing the style of dress fashionable at the time, which included a full-bodied gown that gave the impression of pregnancy. Their poses—Arnolfini's raised right hand and the woman's slightly lowered left hand—suggest the formal exchange of vows or a blessing.
The Mystery of the Marriage
One of the main questions surrounding the painting is whether it depicts a marriage ceremony. Art historians have debated whether this is an actual wedding or some other formal agreement, possibly a betrothal or the documentation of a marriage contract. However, records show that Arnolfini’s wife, Giovanna Cenami, didn’t marry him until 1447, years after the painting was created. So, this leaves the identity of the woman in the portrait open to speculation.
The Convex Mirror
One of the most captivating features of the painting is the convex mirror on the back wall. The mirror reflects not only the couple but also two additional figures standing in the doorway—one of whom is likely the artist, Jan van Eyck, himself. Above the mirror, a Latin inscription reads "Johannes de eyck fuit hic" ("Jan van Eyck was here"), suggesting that the painter witnessed the scene or at least wanted to document his presence.
The mirror’s reflection has been interpreted in various ways, often suggesting that the couple’s union is being witnessed by others, possibly as a form of legal documentation. This detail is particularly striking because it demonstrates van Eyck’s mastery of optics and the way he was able to capture light and reflection in such a small but detailed element.
The Dog
At the couple's feet sits a small dog, often interpreted as a symbol of loyalty and fidelity. In medieval art, dogs were frequently included in marriage portraits to symbolize the virtues of marriage, particularly faithfulness. However, some interpretations suggest the dog could also symbolize lust, adding another layer of complexity to the painting.
The Chandelier
The ornate chandelier above the couple is another detail loaded with symbolism. It holds a single lit candle, even though it’s daytime outside (as seen through the window). The single flame has been interpreted as representing the all-seeing eye of God, acting as a witness to the marriage. Others have suggested it might represent the flame of life, a symbol of divine presence or even an omen of death.
The Bed
The grand, red-draped bed in the background has sparked much debate. In a marriage portrait, the bed often symbolizes fertility and the expectation of children. However, if this were a memorial painting (as some scholars have suggested), the bed might represent death, specifically the "deathbed." There’s also a curious image of Saint Margaret carved into the bedpost—she was the patron saint of childbirth, further adding to the possibility that the painting is related to the themes of fertility and family.
The Fruit
On the windowsill and the chest below it, you’ll notice a few oranges. In Northern Europe at the time, oranges were expensive and rare, making them symbols of wealth and status. Some art historians also interpret the fruit as a symbol of fertility or as a reference to the Garden of Eden, where fruit signifies both temptation and purity, adding a spiritual layer to the painting.
The Shoes
At the bottom of the painting, Giovanni’s shoes are cast aside, a detail that has led to various interpretations. One idea is that the removal of shoes might signify that this is holy ground—an indication of the sacred nature of the marriage ceremony. In medieval Christian marriages, standing barefoot could signify the sacredness of the union. His wife, however, wears shoes, possibly indicating her more grounded or domestic role.
The Carpet and Flooring
The beautifully detailed oriental carpet in the room is another marker of wealth. Carpets were extremely valuable in 15th-century Europe, and only the richest members of society could afford them. The wooden floor beneath it is also elaborately designed, underscoring the wealth and sophistication of the Arnolfini household.
The Hidden Religious Symbolism
In addition to the overt symbols of wealth and marriage, there are subtle Christian references embedded in the painting. The roundels surrounding the mirror, for example, depict scenes from the Passion of Christ, suggesting that the marriage—or the couple’s lives—are under divine guidance and protection. This mix of sacred and secular imagery is characteristic of Jan van Eyck’s work and reflects the deeply religious context of the time.
The Role of Van Eyck
Jan van Eyck was a pioneer of oil painting, and his ability to create texture, light, and reflection is astonishing in this work. His use of oil paints allowed him to create rich colors and fine details that were unmatched at the time. The painting itself is a marvel of technical skill—each texture, from the fur of Giovanni’s robe to the gleam of the chandelier, is meticulously rendered.
The inclusion of van Eyck’s signature on the wall suggests that the artist was not just a passive observer but an active participant in the event being recorded. Whether this was a marriage or a business arrangement, van Eyck wanted to immortalize his role in the process.
Different Interpretations
The Arnolfini Portrait has sparked a wide range of interpretations over the years:
- Marriage or Betrothal: The most common reading of the painting is that it depicts a marriage ceremony or a betrothal.
- Legal Contract: Some scholars suggest that the painting represents a legal agreement of some sort, not necessarily a marriage, but possibly a business deal or the acknowledgment of a dowry.
- Memorial Portrait: Others believe that the painting could be a posthumous memorial, with the wife having already passed away by the time it was painted. The candle’s single flame, for example, could signify the presence of a departed soul.
The Arnolfini Portrait is a masterpiece not only for its technical brilliance but for the layers of meaning and mystery embedded within it. Every detail, from the dog to the mirror to the oranges, contributes to a rich tapestry of symbolism that continues to be interpreted in new ways even today. Whether it’s a marriage, a legal agreement, or something more mysterious, the painting captures a moment in time that feels both intensely personal and universally significant. It’s no wonder this painting has remained a source of fascination for centuries.
According to an Art historian, one strong theory is that the wife died in childbirth. Watch: "The Long Disputed Meaning Of Van Eyck's Painting" (Waldemar Januszczak Documentary) Make sure you watch the end. This is in my top 30 docs.
Bear J. Sleeman
"Ronin (1998) – The Art of Tactical Chaos" - Directed by John Frankenheimer Reviewed by Bear J. Sleeman
"Ronin (1998) – The Art of Tactical Chaos" - Directed by John Frankenheimer Reviewed by Bear J. Sleeman
"Ronin (1998) – The Art of Tactical Chaos" - Directed by John Frankenheimer Reviewed by Bear J. Sleeman
Let
me take you back to a time when a man’s honor was carried in his fists,
his wits, and—if necessary—a cold, hard piece of steel. The year was
1998 when Ronin first graced the big screen, and I was there, front and
center, drinking it in like a cowboy gulping whiskey after a long cattle
drive. Fast forward 26 years later—because we live in a world where
classic films age like a good bottle of Suntory whiskey—and here I find
myself back in that same thrilling chase, watching Ronin again at the
art house cinema near Bear Mountain.
Now, Ronin hits differently
when you’ve been marinating in the wilderness of Japan for 17 years.
Megumi, whose love for Ronin is about as fierce as my love for a Bear
Mountain Premium Malts Draft Beer. Why? Well, here’s the kicker—My wife,
Megumi, is as Japanese as they come, and this film lights a fire in her
spirit that she has watched more than 50 times. Her ancestors—famous
veterinarians—used to tend to the horses of the real ronin, the
masterless samurai of legend. These fierce warriors even camped on her
parents’ ranch, and let me tell you, having that history in your blood
gives you a certain understanding of why the film hits like a katana to
the gut.
Sitting in that theater, with Megumi at my side—who can
recite the film line for line—we were hit with a wave of nostalgia that
could knock out a sumo wrestler.
For the uninitiated, a "Ronin"
is a samurai without a master, a soldier of fortune, drifting through
life with the same kind of disillusioned energy you’d find in a 70s
action movie hero—because let's face it, the 70s were the Wild West of
filmmaking. It’s no wonder Frankenheimer tapped into the spirit of the
wandering warriors with this masterpiece. When you live where the 47
Ronin once walked and slept, you start to see how that historical
reverence bled into the modern-day cinematic adaptation.
In
Ronin, Frankenheimer drops us into a post-Cold War espionage thriller
with the same measured tension you'd expect from a slow-burn samurai
duel. Think Book of Five Rings meets high-octane car chases that make
Fast and Furious look like bumper cars at a kid’s birthday party. And
what do you know? The film’s structure mimics the Ronin lifestyle—men
bound by a code, yet masterless, hired to retrieve a McGuffin briefcase.
The plot’s simplicity belies the razor-sharp complexity underneath,
just like the finest Japanese steel.
Now, we’re talking Robert De
Niro, Jean Reno, and a crew of gritty professionals, each with the kind
of nerves you’d expect from real-life warriors. It’s a film where the
characters speak with their eyes as much as their words. You see it
right from the opening scenes—De Niro spilling his coffee just to test a
man’s reflexes. It’s the kind of tension that harks back to the films
of 1940s noir, only this time it's wrapped in a package so brutal, it
makes you want to light a cigarette in the rain and wait for your next
assignment.
Megumi, my resident expert on all things Japanese,
loves how Ronin translates the concept of honor into the modern world.
Her ancestors, those same doctors who treated the legendary samurai's
horses, would have recognized the same values in these cinematic
mercenaries: loyalty, skill, and a quiet understanding of death's
inevitability. It’s not just an action film; it’s a modern
interpretation of bushido, the way of the warrior.
And let's not
ignore the obvious. The car chases—dear God, the car chases—are what
happens when you take samurai speed and precision and apply it to four
wheels. Frankenheimer didn’t play around with CGI nonsense; this was
raw, visceral, and real. These weren't men zipping around in toy
cars—they were warriors behind the wheel, pushing the limits of control,
like a Ronin wielding his katana in battle.
The beauty of Ronin
is that, much like the legendary samurai themselves, it stands outside
of time. It hasn’t aged because it was never beholden to the cheap
tricks of its era. The dialogue is rich but never bloated, the action
sequences lean but lethal. It’s a movie made for men who understand that
a great story is like a perfectly crafted sword—sharp, elegant, and
deadly in the right hands.
“Ronin” is a film that doesn’t just
slap you in the face with testosterone—it drags you down into the grimy
underbelly of espionage, throws you into a battered BMW going 120 mph
through the heart of Paris, and then dares you to blink. This isn’t your
Fast & Furious, nitrous-powered CGI circus of cars flying between
skyscrapers—this is the real deal. John Frankenheimer, the man behind
The Manchurian Candidate and Grand Prix, crafts a symphony of controlled
chaos that feels like a masterclass in the art of war disguised as a
‘90s action flick. This is what happens when you blend the raw brutality
of a samurai epic, the intellectual punch of Sun Tzu, and a Book of
Five Rings approach to street warfare—all wrapped in one explosive
package.
There are no punches pulled in Ronin, no softened edges
for the weak-hearted, no apologetic nods to the modern sensibilities of
today’s fragile audiences. The men in this film operate on a constant
edge, their nerves drawn tighter than a katana ready to strike. From the
first tense moments in that smoky French bar, De Niro, Reno, Skarsgård,
Bean—hell, the whole cast—ooze unease, their tension more palpable than
the espresso sitting untouched on the café table. It’s like watching
samurai masters before the final duel, sizing each other up, testing
their reflexes, and waiting for the slightest misstep to strike.
Frankenheimer’s
direction is both meticulous and chaotic, and it’s all deliberate.
Every car chase, every shootout, every moment of introspective calm—it’s
a careful build-up to that final crescendo of betrayal, gunfire, and
adrenaline. He doesn’t insult your intelligence with cheap tricks or
flimsy effects—these stunts are real, the cars are real, and the danger
feels real. When De Niro's character spills his coffee to test the
reflexes of his "colleague," you’re watching a seasoned warrior assess
his enemy before the duel. It’s a moment that sums up the entire
film—nothing is by accident, and everyone is waiting to make the kill.
This
movie doesn’t spoon-feed you exposition. It gives you the tools—a
battered briefcase, a team of mercenaries, Russian mobsters, and a few
nameless benefactors pulling strings behind the scenes—and it tells you
to figure it out. The "what’s in the box?" question hanging over the
film is less about the object itself and more about the chase—about the
discipline, betrayal, and trust. It’s the same damn thing you’d expect
from a Kurosawa film, but transplanted into the rain-soaked streets of
Nice. This is a ronin story through and through—mercenaries with no
masters, wandering a world where loyalty is bought and sold, and the
only truth that remains is in the cold steel of a weapon.
And
speaking of weapons, this film is a tactical dream. Guns roar with the
power of a battlefield cannon, explosions shake the screen with the
guttural realism of actual destruction, and the car chases—oh, those car
chases. Two of the most intense vehicular ballet sequences ever put to
film, shot with zero CGI, just raw, mechanical mayhem and over 300 stunt
drivers weaving through traffic like they’ve got a death wish. You feel
every skid, every swerve, every crash, like you're sitting shotgun next
to De Niro as he pulls off a high-speed maneuver that would make Mad
Max look like a Sunday drive.
Ronin operates in the shadows of
classic espionage thrillers, but with a brutal, unsentimental edge.
There’s no clear-cut good guys and bad guys—there’s just men trying to
survive in a world that’s out to screw them over. The dialogue, written
by the inimitable David Mamet (under a pseudonym—because even here,
nothing is what it seems), crackles with sharp wit and deadly precision.
Every word, every exchange is like a move in a chess game being played
at five dimensions, and you’re just trying to keep up with the
genius-level tactical plays unraveling before your eyes.
De Niro
and Reno are the rock-solid core of the film—two veterans of violence,
who’ve seen too much but know they’ve still got one last job left in
them. The camaraderie and the tension between them is like watching two
seasoned gunfighters squaring off at high noon—mutual respect, and the
knowledge that when the shit hits the fan, you better be damn sure you
can trust the guy next to you. And Skarsgård? The ice-cold, mercenary
brains of the operation, calculating every move like a predator waiting
for its prey to slip. These characters don’t need backstories—they are
their actions, their reflexes, their tactical decisions.
What
Ronin does so brilliantly is that it pulls off the nearly impossible
balancing act of being both smart and explosive. There’s a deep
meditative quality to the pacing—a slow burn as the tension mounts and
the players reveal themselves. But when the hammer drops, and it will
drop, the action explodes with a ferocity that’s unmatched.
Frankenheimer knows exactly how to pace his tension, dialing it back
just enough to give you time to breathe before ramping it up to
breakneck levels again.
At its core, Ronin is about the art of
war. It’s about strategy, about knowing your enemy, about the code of
honor that still exists even in a world of mercenaries and hired guns.
It’s a film that bleeds intelligence, wrapped up in the black leather
jacket of a hard-boiled action thriller. And in an age where mindless
CGI spectacle reigns supreme, Ronin stands as a reminder of what cinema
can be when you combine raw masculine energy with the art of tactical
storytelling.
Watching it again after all these years, with the
history of the Ronin coursing through my family’s veins, I can’t help
but think of the parallels between that time and now. Masterless
warriors roam the cinematic world, searching for purpose, while we sit
in our art house theaters, looking for a story that matters. Ronin
delivers that story—honor, duty, betrayal—all wrapped in a relentless,
high-octane package that you don’t forget, even after two and a half
decades.
So, as I sit here on Bear Mountain, with the ghost of
samurai warriors whispering on the wind, I can tell you this: Ronin is
more than a movie—it’s a damn masterclass in survival, strategy, and
style. And if you’ve got a shred of testosterone left in your body, you
owe it to yourself to watch it again. This film doesn’t just hold up—it
fucking stands tall. Just like the Ronin of old, it will leave its mark
on you.
If you’re looking for something sleek, cerebral, and
brutal, this is your film. If you’re looking for a reminder that action
movies don’t have to insult your intelligence, Ronin is your film. Hell,
if you’re just looking for the best damn car chases ever filmed, Ronin
is your film. It’s not just an action movie; it’s a fucking art form, a
cinematic meditation on violence, loyalty, and the honor among thieves.
To
the leftist limp-dicks, soyboys, and those who can’t handle a film
dripping in pure testosterone: Ronin isn’t for you. But for the rest of
us who still appreciate a good hard slap of reality, a solid kick in the
teeth, and a film that respects its audience, Ronin stands tall.
And by the way—what’s in the box? Hell, doesn’t matter. The real treasure is the journey.
by Bear J. Sleeman
RONIN | Official Trailer | MGM Studios
Bear Mountain Rancher Book Review: The Crusaders by Zoe Oldenbourg
Bear Mountain Rancher Book Review: The Crusaders by Zoe Oldenbourg
BEAR MOUNTAIN: THE ALPINE CRUCIBLE
Bear Mountain Rancher Book Review: The Crusaders by Zoe Oldenbourg
I’ve spent the last week tearing through The Crusaders
1965 by Zoe Oldenbourg. In between fixing fences, tossing lines into
Bear River for the elusive Steelhead, and avoiding the usual idiocies of
modern civilization, I felt compelled to write a review of this bloody
masterpiece because its relevance today is staring us right in the face.
And let's be real—comparing the West of the Crusades to the
emasculated, tail-tucking, woke dumpster fire that passes for the modern
world isn’t just necessary; it's a moral obligation. There was a time
when men didn’t apologize for strength, and we need that now more than
ever, as the West circles the drain into a third-world socialist
nightmare.
The Crusaders: A Brutal Reminder of What the West Used to Be
Oldenbourg doesn’t pull punches. She drags you through the mud, blood, and holy wars of the First Crusade, showing you what real grit looked like when men fought with the fire of Christ in their veins and swords in their hands. These weren’t the kind of guys who got bent out of shape over a mean tweet or worried about whether their enemies' feelings were hurt. No, they were hard men, carving out a world for Christendom with a righteous violence that today’s soy-swilling, Twitter-obsessed limp noodles couldn’t fathom.
And here's the kicker—Oldenbourg doesn't waste time pretending the Crusades were some kind of intellectual debate. It was war, baby, pure and simple. The Crusaders fought for survival, for God, and for their civilization, knowing full well that the barbarians at their gates weren’t going to be appeased by dialogue or diversity quotas.
The reality is that these knights didn’t negotiate with existential threats—they obliterated them. They had faith, they had guts, and they had a righteous understanding that you can't build civilization on "dialogue" or "equity." Nope. You build it on blood, sweat, and belief—things the West has forgotten as we politely hold the door open for the third-world hordes streaming in to burn down what's left of Christendom.
Modern Parallels: Where the Hell Did We Go Wrong?
Today’s West is in free fall. We’ve traded in knights for bureaucrats, faith for virtue signaling, and hard-earned honor for participation trophies. Look around. While Putin and Xi are drawing maps, the West is drawing up "safe spaces" and debating pronouns. Meanwhile, our cities are burning, inflation's skyrocketing, and the idea of leadership is a clown show. Biden’s handlers can barely wheel him out of the basement to read a teleprompter without him having an aneurysm.
Back in the days of the Crusaders, it wasn’t much different, except they had the guts to act. While modern leaders pander, the knights were defending the West with sword and shield, not worrying about offending someone’s fragile sensibilities. Oldenbourg captures this perfectly, showing how the Crusaders didn’t flinch in the face of savagery—they embraced it. They knew survival required it. Today’s leaders, by contrast, couldn’t lead a Cub Scout troop out of a paper bag.
God, Gold, Guts, Faith, Blood, and the Cost of Survival
Oldenbourg hammers home a point that resonates through history: The Crusades were a fight for survival—both physical and spiritual. They weren’t just securing land; they were securing the future of Christendom, of Western civilization. Today, the West has forgotten that survival requires sacrifice, and that sometimes, the only way forward is through force. Instead of honoring the knights who bled for us, we glorify diversity, victimhood, LGBTQ+P and emasculated weakness.
Here’s something to chew on: The Crusaders fought to protect their faith and their people. They were unapologetic in their righteousness, knowing that without the cross and the sword, the West would fall. And look where we are now. As Christianity fades in the West, so does its civilization. Oldenbourg makes this connection without explicitly saying it, but anyone with half a brain can see the parallels between the Crusaders’ fight against the Saracens and our modern battle against the globalist, Marxist, woke brigade tearing down every institution worth a damn.
Where The West Stands Now: Is There Hope?
As Oldenbourg immerses us in the blood-soaked sands of the Holy Land, the question arises: Can the West reclaim that same spirit, that willingness to fight for what matters? Or are we doomed to slide into the trash heap of history, a third-world cesspool where Western men are outnumbered and outgunned by the very forces our ancestors held back for centuries?
Let me tell you, Mother Russia and Japan might be the last bastions of any real civilizations left. Putin is no fool. He understands strength, power and The Art of War IQ9000 75D chess, as does Japan—standing firm with tradition, hierarchy, and a deep sense of national honor. Meanwhile, the West is too busy figuring out how to destroy itself from the inside. Is it any wonder that countries like Russia laugh at the West as they pathetically beg for their gas?
Oldenbourg’s Crusaders remind us of what it means to stand for something, to fight for it without apology. The modern West is ashamed of itself, having been poisoned by decades of Marxist leftist progressive guilt and moral relativism. We could use a few Crusaders today—men who know that the world isn’t saved through hashtags, pronouns, rainbow flags and feelings, but through faith, force, and focus.
As I tore through my pristine First Edition of The Crusaders (1966), with its beautiful deckle-edged pages and 620 total pages of gripping narrative, I was struck by moments that hit like a sucker punch to the gut—scenes and insights so profound they stopped me in my tracks. Oldenbourg didn’t just capture the brutality of the Crusades—she captured their soul, the beating heart of a West that once knew how to fight, bleed, and sacrifice for something greater than itself.
These weren’t just your run-of-the-mill historical recaps; they were nuggets of gold buried in the carnage. Several passages resonated particularly deeply, almost like finding hidden Easter eggs that spoke directly to today’s world, where we've traded strength and conviction for woke posturing and emasculated governance.
There were several passages that struck me as particularly relevant, almost like finding hidden Easter eggs that spoke directly to today’s world, where we've traded strength and conviction for woke posturing and emasculated governance. These moments were raw, honest, and dripping with meaning, and they deserve special attention. Let me pull out a few of the most gripping, so you can see what I mean.
The Siege of Jerusalem (1099):
When
Oldenbourg describes the Crusaders' siege of Jerusalem, it’s not just
the bloodbath that leaves an impression, though there’s plenty of that.
It’s how she captures the sheer weight of history, the sense that this
moment wasn’t just about territory—it was about reclaiming something
sacred.
“As they entered the Holy City, knee-deep in blood, the
Crusaders believed they were fulfilling God's will, not only for their
generation but for all those to come. Jerusalem was no longer a city, it
was a symbol—a test of faith and force. And only those who survived the
storm of violence understood what it meant to conquer both the world
and their own souls.”
This scene echoes through time, showing how
the battle for civilization isn’t just about brute strength but
spiritual survival. You can almost feel the same urgency today as we
watch the modern West’s collapse from within. The Crusaders were
fighting to preserve something sacred—are we?
Bohemond of Taranto's Strategic Genius:
Bohemond
of Taranto was a true warfighter. His tactics at the Siege of Antioch
in 1098, where he outmaneuvered the vastly superior Muslim forces, shows
Oldenbourg at her best when detailing battlefield strategy.
“Bohemond knew that to win this war, it wasn't just swords and shields that would conquer the enemy—it was outthinking them. He baited the Muslim forces, drawing them into a trap, and crushed them beneath the weight of their own miscalculations. In that moment, Antioch wasn’t just a military victory; it was proof that the West could still outwit the world’s most powerful empires.”
This resonates today when the West, crippled
by bureaucrats and liberal elites, has lost that sharp edge. Can the West
still think it's way out of the quagmire they’ve created?
Raymond of Toulouse’s Reluctant Leadership:
Oldenbourg
doesn’t let us forget that even within this holy war, human frailty and
ambition played a part. Raymond of Toulouse’s internal struggles
between ambition and faith stand out as a timeless reminder of how
complex leadership can be.
“He marched not out of pure faith, but
because he could not bear to be outdone. It was ambition wrapped in a
holy banner. Yet in his final moments, Raymond wondered if he had traded
his soul for glory. ‘Was this God’s war,’ he asked himself, ‘or was it
mine?’”
This one hits hard in today’s era of corrupt,
self-serving politicians who have no conviction beyond their own egos.
Raymond's moment of doubt rings out—a warning to leaders today who have
lost any real sense of purpose.
In short, Zoe Oldenbourg’s The Crusaders should be required reading for anyone who gives a damn about the future of the West. It’s not just a history lesson; it’s a brutal wake-up call. The Crusaders understood that strength, faith, and the willingness to fight were the bedrock of any civilization worth its salt. Without these, the West is doomed to become a historical footnote, overshadowed by cultures that are willing to fight for survival.
So, as you sit there reading this on your "smartphone", ask yourself: Are you willing to fight for your faith, your culture, and your civilization? Or will you stand by and watch as the modern-day barbarians tear down everything our ancestors bled for?
Bear J. Sleeman
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