Last week, with no rancour at all, a moment of clarity fell upon me and I began my sabbatical from the Perfume Nationalist for the rest of the year.
If there was an inciting incident, it was Jack’s power to wound by second or third orders. It was he, the progenitor of the art-podcast scene, who railed with distaste against “tradcaths.” These mythical beings stand astride Jack’s motley crew of bugbears. As I am not a variety of oil or of transvestite, only this genteel pogrom was of any note to me. (Cernovich keeps saying that Democrats would genocide conservatives if they could. True. Jack would line up and machine-gun anyone who ever called him fat or mean. Except we’d have a place to go afterward.)
Surely because Jack, the Red Scare gals, and so many others partake of “group chats,” to which I have access in ways they do not grasp, anti-tradcath social contagion spread the way transgenderism does among teenage girls, one of which Jack still is. And lo did Anna Khachiyan launch her own broadside on (indeed) the Red Scare. As I then wrote:
Have we ever heard Anna sigh exasperatedly on this show? Well, she did, and her trigger was Catholics and “tradcaths.” (Quite the buzzword.)
We tune in to Red Scare to witness Twitter news hooks transmogrified into startlingly novel aperçus on eternal truths. We already have a podcaster who shit-talks Catholics – our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist, a monster who puts out a good show. Anna and Dasha are icons, not least of style, who put out a good show.
Listen to the last quarter-hour. Is this the closest Dasha has come to taking offence at her cohostess? Though actually Red Scare has long since become the Anna Khachiyan Show, with Dasha a sidekick. Anna could do to Dasha what our friend Jack does to one cohost, guest, friend, or sibling after another – shitcan her.
Dasha’s feelings are already hurt, it seems. She will nonetheless have God, who has always loved her and forever shall.
I cannot even see girls, yet, so help me God, I felt Dasha’s pain. I imagined having double espresso with her at a Toronto film shoot, and with great warmth offering her a gift of a Swarovski-crystal rosary, a beautiful feminine talisman. (I hope such a token would be compatible with her rite.)
I have substantially less than no link to Dasha. If I’m that worried about a lady – a celebrity – whom I do not remotely know, something is up. Or amiss.
Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist is indeed a monster. I have lots of time to put my postdoc in TPN studies on hold. Eternity, in one sense.