11 April 2021

A Letter to the Editor From the Editor

 To Whom It May Concern, 

Well, first off, we might need to change the sign from Gone Fishin' Golfin' (&/or Playin' Music) to: 

Still Golfin' (&/or Playin' Music) 


But how 'bout this edition of The Masters? 

A Tradition Unlike Any Other
I'm not exactly sure why, though I think it probably had something to do w/ my recent return to the game, but I watched more of this year's Masters than I have in about 10 years time.
And actually it was exactly 10 years ago when I remember seeing Hideki Maysuyama crowned as the Amateur Champ, the year Schwartzel played probably the best nine of his life to win the Green Jacket.
But back to this year's edition - it was really something to watch.
Yes, it's true, this was the first time a Japanese golfer won one of golf's majors - let alone the greatest golf tournament on Earth - but it was even more than that somehow.
By all accounts, Hideki is just good people & I'm so happy for him.
It really was something...

Yes, it really was. 

P.S. It wasn't just all golfing & playing music, your semi-esteemed Editor has been working on formatting Da's novel & getting it ready for publication as well as getting back to our roots & working on some pieces on local history & lore. So stay tuned for that. 



09 April 2021

Perrin Lovett: The Demographic Desert: Third-world Cognition in Amerika

 Again, it’s Identity > Culture > Politics. That order. Leading the others, demographics is, as they say, “destiny.” One of the supremely important factors of that destiny, which helps foster culture and politics, is average intelligence. In the USSA and across much of the West, national average IQs are slipping if not collapsing.

Before we enter into the exciting base matter for today’s discussion, I’d once more like to plug the near-definitive At Our Wits’ End by Dutton and Woodley (2018). That book exposed the alarming rate of decline of approximately .4 IQ points per year in places like the UK and the USSA. The primacy of intelligence has been acknowledged more recently: National Intelligence Is More Important for Explaining Country Well-Being than Time Preference and Other Measured Non-Cognitive Traits, Kirkegaard, et al (2020). 

The dystopian trend in the USSA was most recently expounded upon at the BPEA Spring Conference, March 25, 2021, and a paper authored by Caroline Hoxby, Advanced Cognitive Skill Deserts in the U.S.: Their Likely Causes and Implications. Check out the map at that linked summary and see if you’re in a cognitive skill desert. 

In Advanced cognitive skill deserts in the U.S.: Their likely causes and implications, Caroline M. Hoxby of Stanford University maps county-level data from standardized tests to show which regions have higher percentages of adults and children with advanced skills and which areas have lower percentages. She compares data for adults, 12th graders, 8th graders, 5th graders, and 3rd graders and finds that regional patterns, evident among adults, only begin to emerge by 8th grade and are similar to adults by 12th grade.

I’ve noted more than once that children trapped in failed government schools, and that’s ninety percent of USian children, demonstrate, via systemic standardized tests, a decrease in mathematical ability proportionate to their tenure in the so-called schools. Proficiency scores fall from elementary school to middle school to high school. The schools literally dumb the kids down, in terms of cognitive application, to the level of the average USian adult. That is exactly what Hoxby found. That is exactly what the “schools” were designed to accomplish. It’s a feature, not a flaw.

Of course, math, while last in the acronym, is the first and foremost building block of the STEM idol everyone claims to adore these days. Without it, there is no science or engineering, no advanced modern systems or convenient technologies. These are the numerically centered of the advanced skills Hoxby is concerned with. She focused on the middle school years, finding these to be the time of greatest development potential for higher-order reasoning, logical expression, abstract thinking, and critical inspection. Few if any of those subjects are taught, embraced, or even tolerated in today’s failed government schools. No foundation is laid and the “age of opportunity” in middle school is wasted. 

Hoxby found that - surprise, surprise - larger, higher-tech cities which attract more capable adults also generally have better advanced-thinking scores among the children of those adults. There is also the inescapable pattern of more advanced thinking in the northern parts of the USSA compared with the relative dearth of advanced cognition in the south. 

Still, she remains optimistic, reasoning that as with a geographic desert the mental deserts only require watering, the right water being increased spending. That is noble and, to a small degree, plausible, but it misses the larger causative factor - changing demographics. To put this bluntly, as seen on the map, locations with higher intelligence tend to have populations with higher concentrations of Europeans (and Asians). Areas with higher numbers of other peoples tend to exhibit lower intelligence averages. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s science, though a kind of science seemingly unwelcome in places where STEM is promoted.

The schools themselves are only partly to blame. They, after all, are products of policy and politics. Their work, good or bad, is tolerated in accordance with the norms of the resident culture. All of it is determined by identity. And since 1965, formerly White Christian European America has changed markedly, morphing into the United States of Multiculturalism. The effect of this change on average intelligence is akin to adding paint thinner to paint - both become thinner, diluted. 

In a macro social sense, two things have happened and continue to happen that drive down the average IQ of the USSA. First, intelligent Americans do not reproduce. Native-born citizens of lower intelligence do have children. This is encouraged and in many cases subsidized. Those with higher IQs have few - and increasingly no - children. As the mentally challenged are rewarded, so the intelligent are in a way penalized. An entire society, economy, and the government have come to bear on them, driving them into faithless, work-obsessed, pleasure-obsessed, debt-enslaved, taxed, corporate hedonism that all but forbids the introduction to the world of new, young intelligent people. This domestic evisceration of the cognitive elite is bad enough. However, it is coupled with the second phenomenon, the nearly exclusive importation of lower-IQ foreigners. Paint + thinner = thinner paint. Import the third-world, become the third-world, IQs and all.

For fun, let’s see how this works out in reality. I picked Newton County, Georgia for no reason in particular. Per the 2019 Census estimates, Newton has a population of 111,744. The county’s demographic breakdown is as follows: Black, 47.7%; White, 43.9%; Hispanic, 6.1%; Mixed, 2.2%; Asian, 1.2%; Am. Indian, .5%; Pacific, .1%. These percentages add up to 101.7% … which confirms the government source. I am cognizant of the fact that the 2020 estimates, in advance of the full count, are available as per national percentage increases for Blacks and Hispanics. Newton is likely on the leading curve of those advances. However, I will, for now, ignore those changes and make a slight correction so as to accumulate a realistic 100% total population. Let’s call it 48% Black, 43% White, 7% Hispanic, and 2% Asian/Other. 

Now, we play the weighted average IQ game. I’m going to lump Blacks and Hispanics together (55%) at 87 IQ. Because I am not sure of exactly what kind of Asians are prevalent around Covington, I will lump them in with the Whites (45%). The trick is what IQ value to assign the Whites. I suspect they have drifted south of the old Northern European standardized score of 100, most likely assuming the new American White score of 95. I’ll run a simple average with both. I’ll also add in a third, “worst-case” scenario in keeping with the total domestic intelligence decline.

(.55)(87) + (.45)(100) = 92.85 [ouch]

(.55)(87) + (.45)(95) = 90.6 [oh, boy]

(.55)(87) + (.45)(93) = 89.7 [damn]

Ninety is the score no first-world nation wants to dip below as that is the cutoff below which there is no guarantee of continued societal stability. The average of the averages is 91.05. That’s terrible. All of these numbers are terrible. And, in this specific case, as with much of the rest of the country, they are falling steadily. 

Where do the children of Newton fall into this matrix? Let’s walk through the placements, shall we? We’ll specifically look at school-aged children, 5-18. The 2019 estimates alott 19.4% of the total population to that bracket or 21,678 individuals. I consulted the 2019 Georgia Department of Education [SIC] stats to confirm those figures and to assess the attendant identitarian breakdown. The Great Hoax has wreaked havoc on 2020-2021 enrollments in GDOE-tracked public schools as might be expected. Back in 2019, however, the enrollment was a fairly similar match: 19,579 students, or 90% of all children 5-18 years of age (the national average)(the remainder being privately schooled, homeschooled, or otherwise unaccounted for). 

Pursuant to my previous lumping-normalizing rules, I find the student body is 71% “Black” (13,885) and 29% “White” (5,694). These, by the way, are your future total Census demographics, if lumped and normalized. Taking the middle “95, White” average, we have: (.71)(87) + (.29)(95) = 89.32. It may not be the brightest future.

I’ve looked at more Newton government school performance records than I ever cared to. By and large, they are utter failures, falling somewhere above Detroit and below rural Mexico. Pick one and look at the scores and the trends - low and falling. And, as with most public schools, they fall along the lines of progressively decreasing performance as described by Hoxby. 

Newton is part of the vast southeastern intelligence desert. Their collective experience is demonstrative of the larger pattern and picture. More money, even radically more, will not solve this problem (see Detroit). Voting will not solve this problem (see the past 100 years). The problem is not political in nature. Tossing Dr. Seuss, Geo. Washington, and 2+2=4 out the door in favor of more social justice and equity will accomplish nothing. The issue is beyond cultural. It involves an identity changed, a demographic shift.

The new post-American USSA, to the extent and for the time it endures, will not be the end of the world. It will be, is already different. Relatively speaking, it’s parched - like a desert.

- Perrin Lovett

07 April 2021

Spring Break Runneth Over

 Well, I guess it's looking more like a 3-week break... 

Actually, not quite.

We're going to be running a piece from our CFF Feature Writer - Mr. Perrin Lovett - that'll likely trigger some. That'll hit tomorrow. 

And later - this weekend - a letter to the editor from the editor. 



28 March 2021

A Quick Check-in from your Semi-Esteemed Editor during TPC's Spring Break

 Hey folks! 

Well, we're about halfway through the break & the locals have been quite accommodating - no major snafus or full-on moron moments (still have a week to go, though...).

On a personal note, the sabbatical is going swimmingly - for the first time in over a year I started back on the RE textbook & have finally added another chapter (Almost a quarter of the way there after only 21 months! All good things & all, right?). 

No action yet on the walk-about or the vision quest.

Maybe next week. 

Hope it's lovely out there, 

- MB McCart 

21 March 2021

Recapping the Precinct Caucuses - Hope for the Home County? TPC: Gone Fishin'...

As per correspondence from correspondents, something interesting happened yesterday at the Newton Co. Lions Club on Conyers St. 

The NCRP (Newton Co. Republican Party), aka: The Newton GOP, had their resetting of the precincts that ultimately sets the stage for the county convention next month. 

I have to definitely tip my hat to the Georgia Republican Party. Even though many have tried to get them to change their most egalitarian ways, they've always refused to change how the grassroots organize (complete w/ The Public Call), and therefore we still have this vital safety valve when it comes to the election of the leadership of the Grand Old Party here in the Great State of Georgia at the voting precinct, county, congressional & state levels. 

For the record, the Georgia Dems did away w/ any semblance of this many, many years ago... 

As someone who's had direct, active involvement w/ partisan electoral politics dating back all the way to 2008 (Ron Paul, FTW!), I can tell you how impressive & important this is. 


Two years ago, almost to the very day, there was a contentious county convention in Newton Co. (just like every, single one as long as I've been a party watcher) that seemed to create a major rift. 

Some would go as far as to say that this rift is why we saw the results we saw last fall. 

Many, myself included, felt like perhaps the time had come to try something different. 

As crazy as it sounded, maybe - just maybe - trying to settle years-old scores & righting possibly erroneous perceived wrongs wasn't the way to go for the road ahead after all? 

Really, though...Kinda sounds like amateur hour, right?  

But seriously, something seems to have occurred here in the home county that gives this writer & apparently many others hope. 

Reportedly none of the loud actors/lightning rods (yourself most assuredly included) attended yesterday's forum. 

No, seemingly, not a single one. 

Supposedly, it was a really great experience. 

Lots of brand new folks & only, purportedly, the reasonable ones of the pre-existing factions were in attendance. 

Not sure if they all went into a full group rendition of Kum-Ba-Yah or anything, though. 

Regardless, it seems encouraging. 


Gone Fishin' 

It's that time again, friends. It's time for TPC's quarterly two week break. 

And not a moment too soon! 

For the next couple of weeks I'll be between classes & am planning on a sabbatical & a walk-about as well as a vision quest. 

I'll let you know how all that works out...

Yours Ever in Liberty, 


19 March 2021

MB's Word on the Street, Week of March 20: Talkin' Madam Coroner, Newton GOP; TPC's Spring Break Coming Soon...

 Hello there, Dear Readers. It is my sincere hope that this post finds you very well. 

Word on the Street... 

Says that Madam Coroner has had another incident, and quite possibly has invited a 4th lawsuit Newton County's way. 


Too bad the GA Coroner's Association/Training Council is apparently comprised by weak, easily swayed, scaredy cats...  

Newton GOP 

Well, folks, it's that time again. It's Convention Time! As some would say, it's time for those couple of fleas to fight for control of that proverbial mangy mutt. 

As friend of the program & political legend Mr. Fred Wheeler has always said -- "it's just good, cheap entertainment.

And at a minimum, it's usually definitely that. 

Another famous saying of Mr. Fred's: "you gotta have a program to know the players." 

So a little backstory. 

Just like a couple of years ago, the battle lines are drawn as such: 

A coalition of the former establishment folks; the Smith/Fleming/Team Kemp crew; the Song Alliance/TJ & Dalton; (maybe even ole Sammy Boy...?), et al 


The former outsiders/now establishment/Scott-Jay-&-the-Gang group along w/ a some of the #NewtonCounty12/NCLA/GA Liberty folks. 

The previous two groups don't get along very well. At all. 

But, there is another group, a group I've been writing about all the way since back in 2013, and that's the key piece of the puzzle in my estimation -- The In-Betweeners. The GDIs. The Adults in the Room, etc. 

Not that they've ever made any real headway in the last 8 years (local reflects national; national reflects local). 

Against better judgement, I'm thinking that maybe 2021 is the year Common Sense returns & we might finally get things figured out. 

Ideally, a unity slate. Of the 6 ExCom officials, two from each faction. A similar ratio w/ the County Committee. 

Supposedly there are a few folks actively trying to make this happen & I say this: 

"God Bless 'Em & They're Great Americans!" 

With the dynamics of the other side (Team Blue) in the Body Politic of Newton Co., a real opportunity exists if the cards are played correctly.

And for the record, I won't be there on Saturday. 

I'm officially unaffiliated.

Plus, I'm busy that day. 


Starting next week, TPC will be taking its quarterly 2-week break. Should have at least another piece or two before that happens. 

As Always Yours Ever in Love of the Home County, 


17 March 2021

The First Ten Chapters of Good Cop, Bad Cop: A Novel by Ellis Millsaps **FULL EDITION PRINT COPY COMING SUMMER OF 2021**



  Findo lifted his leg and peed on the metal pole of the chain-link fence - as close as he could get to 

a tree on the interstate. A semi roared by, the backdraft of which almost caused him to lose his balance. 

He finished and looked up at his master, awaiting instructions. 

His master was officer Kirk Landeau of the Clinton, Georgia Police Department.  Officer Landeau, a large, good-natured young man was, like the two officers in the car beside his “canine unit,” assigned to the department’s Drug Task Force.  Most of its officers were young because they aspired to work for the Piedmont Regional Drug Enforcement Unit – more status, power, glory.  At Piedmont everyone started out working undercover, and to work undercover and look like a user, being young was an asset.

Landeau wasn’t savvy enough to work undercover.  He’d probably have been a regular patrolman for the rest of his life but for his love of dogs.  He was so fond of the department’s drug-sniffing dog, Findo, that the officer assigned to the canine unit had gladly turned the dog over to Landeau then gone around chuckling to himself for days.  Except for Landeau, nobody wanted to ride around all day in a car that smelled like a kennel.

Landeau had gone through the required training at the school in Alabama and renamed the dog “Findo.”  The dog didn’t seem to notice the difference, and he loved Landeau, who talked to him and played with him a lot, but the name change brought his master much grief.

“Findo?” his co-workers would exclaim.  “That’s the stupidest name for a dog I ever heard.”

And Landeau would explain over and over, “It’s like Fido, see, except Findo is a finder, see, because he finds stuff, so his name is Findo.”

When Officer Landeau and Findo got back in the car, Justin Bledsoe stuck his head out the window of the other car.  “Hey Landeau, next time you and Findo need to go before you leave home.”

“It wasn’t me, it was just Findo,” Landeau said, then realized Justin was having fun with him.  Bledsoe was like that and sometimes his jokes were kind of mean, like the time back in high school when he’d put “Deep Heat” in Kirk’s jockstrap.

“Findo, what a dorky name,” Bledsoe said and rolled up his window.

At eight p.m. it was still over ninety degrees.  Bledsoe and Stevens were running the air conditioning but Landeau kept his windows down so Findo could stick his head out the window and sniff, something he loved to do.  A metal screen kept Findo in the back where the seat had been removed for his benefit, so that Landeau had to reach out his window to tousle Findo’s head.  “Yeah, you’re the best dog in the whole world, Findo.  When we get home I’m –“

The car beside them activated its light bar and slung sand that stung Landeau’s cheek and made Findo yelp.

“Are you alright boy?” Landeau got out of the car to examine his dog’s face.  He seemed to be okay.  “Its alright, Findo.  It was an accident boy.  You’ll be okay.”

He was kissing Findo’s forehead when Bledsoe came over the radio.  “Landeau, you working with us or pissing again?”

Landeau grabbed the mike.  “10-4, 219.  K-9 struck by debris.  216 on route.”  He put the car in gear and was about to activate his blue lights when he noticed a sliver of brown glass sticking in Findo’s ear.  He got out of the car to give his dog a more complete physical.

The Maxima had pulled over as soon as Stevens whooped his siren once.  Its driver sat perfectly still as Bledsoe approached.  He had both hands on top of the steering wheel when Bledsoe shined his flashlight in the window.  Nothing in the car but a leather briefcase.

“May I see your license and proof of insurance, sir?”

The driver, a clean-cut, middle-aged man wearing an Izod shirt and laundered khaki slacks, slowly and conspicuously took out his wallet and removed his license.  “This is a rental car,” he said.  “I can show you the rental agreement.  Insurance is provided through my American Express.”

Bledsoe was looking at the license trying not to grin.  “Let me see those if you don’t mind, Mr. McKay.”  He shined his flashlight on Ron McKay’s hand as McKay slowly opened the glove box, pausing to let the officer see there was nothing other than papers inside before he removed them.

Bledsoe took his time examining the papers.  Where was that idiot Landeau?  “Mr. McKay, the reason I stopped you is you were going sixty-seven in a fifty-five mile per hour zone.”

“I was slowing down, Officer.  I just passed the sign where it turned from sixty-five to fifty-five.  Don’t you get a reasonable distance to slow down?”

“I understand, sir.  I need to run your license and registration.  If everything checks out, we’ll give you a courtesy warning and you’ll be on your way in a few minutes.”

Ron McKay felt a little better, but he was still worried because his driving history was a checkered one.  Not to mention that he had a criminal record and a pound-and-a-half of cocaine in his trunk.

He watched in his rearview mirror as the first cop handed the driver cop his license and started talking to him.  The driver cop was holding his license and grinning, but McKay had little time to worry about that because the first cop was coming back.

“Where you headed tonight, Mr. McKay?”

“Headed home.”

“You traveling for business or pleasure?”


“Me and you both working on Saturday.  What kind of business you in?”

“I make pottery.”

“No kidding.  You selling some down this way?”


“My sister makes pottery.  Mind if I see a piece of yours?”

“I don’t have any with me.”  The cop was grinning at McKay as if they were old buddies and McKay tried to match his expression.  “Officer, do you think I could go ahead and get that warning?  I need to be getting on.”

“What’s your hurry?  You seem a little nervous.”

“Just tired of driving.”

“You know, Mr. McKay, we get a lot of drugs through here.  I see a man in a rental car, no luggage, tells me he’s been selling pottery but doesn’t have any, license says he lives in Towns County and he tells me he’s headed home from Augusta, but he’s headed due west when Towns County is due north, it makes me kind of suspicious.  You don’t mind if I bring a dog up here and just let him walk around your car, do you?  It’ll just take a minute.”

The cop’s demeanor was unchanged but what he was saying now made the smile seem sinister to McKay, who tried to put on his most serious face as he said, “Yes, I do mind.”

“Well now, that just makes me more suspicious.  Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle for me?  Please keep you hands where we can see them.”

Ron McKay was careful to make no sudden movements.  He tried to look like a businessman annoyed at being delayed, but his heart was pounding.  He concentrated on breathing slowly.  This must be some kind of set up.  The convertible he’d been following had been going the same speed he was.

He leaned back against the trunk of the Nissan to steady his shaking, his arms propped well out from his sides, watching the two cops in the car behind him in animated conversation.  They kept looking behind them and back at each other.

He’d managed to slow his heart rate when a second patrol car pulled in behind the first, producing another adrenaline rush.  A third cop got out of this car and was putting a dog on a leash.  Somebody had tipped them off.  He closed his eyes and said, “Oh, dear God,” preparing to face the inevitable.

The first cop with the flashlight got out of his car and walked up to McKay.  The other cop had emerged from the driver’s side when a yelping of dogs and a crashing in the undergrowth outside the chain-link fence drew their attention.  The first cop swung his light that way and caught in its beam a spectacular sight.  The biggest buck Ron McKay had ever seen was clearing the fence in full stride, posed like one of Santa’s reindeer against the sky, soaring in an arc that would land him on a beeline trajectory toward McKay and the cop with the light.  His hooves struck the mown turf with a soft thud.

A lot happened in the next few seconds.

“Shit!” said the cop with the light and dove behind his patrol car.  His partner stood transfixed. McKay hit the ground and rolled under the back of the rental car.  The buck crossed the emergency lane, thundering between the Nissan and the first patrol car and onto the interstate, followed by the drug dog with his leash trailing behind.  The third cop was inanely screaming, “Find doe!”

The buck managed to clear the median just ahead of an oncoming semi, but the dog didn’t.  It met the truck’s huge bumper with a noise that sickened Ron McKay in spite of his own plight, and emitted the smallest of whelps as it bounced and skidded a hundred feet across the pavement into the emergency lane.  The third cop was now running in the outside lane, howling.  Both the other cops were on their feet yelling at him to get out of the road.  The second cop ran after him.

McKay raised up to see what was happening and struck his head on the underside of the car.  His cry of “Fuck!” caused the first cop to wheel around and draw his gun, but he didn’t see McKay.

“God damn it,” the cop said in a loud whisper and dropped to a prone position with his nine millimeter clutched in both hands before him.

“Don’t shoot, I’m right here,” McKay said and waited for the cop to spot him before he moved.

“Lemme see your hands motherfucker!”

McKay held up his palms.  The flashlight beam struck him in the eyes.

“I want you to crawl out from under there, real slow.  Make a wrong move and I’ll shoot your ass in a heartbeat.”

When McKay was clear of the car, the cop patted him down, then cuffed his hands behind his back.  McKay was too scared to protest.  The cop had the crazy look in his eyes that McKay had seen in junkies overdue for a fix.  He was happy to see the other two cops walking back, one of them crying.

“I’m not letting you call an ambulance for a dog, Landeau; they’d have your badge.

Besides, if your dog’s not dead, he wishes he was.  You oughta let me shoot him.”

“No! We can’t shoot Findo.  He’ll be okay.  We just have to get him to the vet.  I’ll call an ambulance and we won’t tell them it’s a dog.”

“You’re not calling an ambulance, Landeau.”

“Oh, please Lieutenant Stevens.”  He started crying again.

“Okay, Landeau.  What if I help you put the dog in your car and you take him to the vet– if you can find one on a Saturday night.”

“I’ll call Dr. Ledford.  He’ll come.”

“Okay, get your poncho and we’ll slide him on that.”

Landeau snorted a long mucas-rattling sniffle and beamed.  “Thank you, Lieutenant.  I know we can save him.”  He was already trotting to his trunk.

“Stevens,” the first cop said, “how ‘bout y’all carry the dog by the dude’s car and see if he alerts.”

“Are you as stupid as Landeau?  The dog’s dead, dickhead.  It was hit by a transfer truck and knocked into Fulton County.  Get on the radio and have the county–no wait.”

Stevens came up to the first cop and whispered in his ear causing him to fish a cell phone out of the patrol car and walk out of McKay’s hearing.  Landeau came back with the poncho, bouncing anxiously from foot to foot.  “Come on Lieutenant.”

“Just a minute, Landeau.”  Stevens approached Ron McKay and used his cuffs to fasten the already manacled motorist to the bumper of his patrol car.  “You sure you don’t want to consent to us looking through your car and save yourself some time, sir?”

“I’ll wait till hell freezes over, Lieutenant Stevens, but I’m not letting you search my property without a warrant,” McKay said, looking up from the pavement on which he now sat, then on a hunch added, “You heard that didn’t you, Officer Landeau?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry about your dog, man.”