As the DSA’s candidate for LA mayor against the entrenched Dem machine incumbent Karen Bass, we’re meant to believe that Nithya is the “further left” candidate, but in a sort of soft, fluffy, purple crayon kind of way. Nithya just wants to plant trees in public spaces, as she lamented in her concession speech after losing on election night to Spencer Pratt (later reversed by totally legitimate and unquestionably free and fair late mail in ballots that defied all statistical probability, but I digress). She’s a Master’s thesis buzzword machine: she wants fair and equitable housing, last-mile public transportation, harm reduction for vulnerable groups.

Raman is an in-crowd member of the larger worldwide project of leftism currently sweeping the globe. What makes the members of this movement “communists” aren’t so much their actual beliefs, which are still loose and undefined, but their status as naive academics without national origin or any governing experience whatsoever. Interestingly, Karen Bass is also an in-group member of this cohort, and has been a part of global leftism since training with Castro in the 1970s, but since she’s older, not an Ivy Leaguer, and has actual ties to the place to she governs, she’s less in-group DSA than Raman.

Like others in her cohort, Raman basically just arrived in the city she supposedly represents. In reality she doesn’t represent any locality, any culture, any creed. She is part of a global project of ideologues who are trained and indoctrinated by the “top” higher education institutions around the world. As such, she is loyal only to a small group of her classmates from Harvard, and their friends, and their friends’ friends, who see themselves as responsible stewards of the globe. This is why she has no depth in her eyes—she’s not talking to us, the people of LA. She’s talking to her elite lefty academic network, and the shallow gleam in her eyes is for them. She’s saying “look at how well I’m managing the commoner for his own good!” This is her practicum course, an extension of her Urban Planning Master’s.

She knows absolutely nothing about LA food, or whether street vendors are genuinely part of that culture (in reality, they aren’t, true LA natives know this). What Nithya wants is for all cities, all around the world, to be covered in street vendors offering whatever interchangeable meat-and-dough item supposedly defines that culture. The most important thing, however, is that such cities be overseen and managed by people like her, who aren’t connected to the city at all, but to each other.

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He's saying that going to war with Iran was his line in the sand. When that line was crossed he, much like a BPD art ho, made it his entire project to destroy Trump, or at the very least to destroy those who had used Trump to cross the line. He's saying that in a way that his retaliation against the line crossing gave him newfound purpose; a project for life.

I think he's also admitting something deeper here--that this is how Tucker thinks and operates. He has a few big bright lines. If you cross one of them, he is going to spend every waking second figuring out how to retaliate. This sort of vindictive passion is surely the key to his success. It's Michael Jordan-esque: he uses fury at those who've insulted him or hurt him as fuel. At some level you gotta respect it.

The deeper story is less about Iran and more that Tucker squarely blames Israel for taking his job away. Tucker loved that job. It's how he satisfied his massive, titanic ambition. Any compromise was worth it so he could hang on to that job. He's said as much in many of his recent interviews. Israel unfairly took that job away. And so Tucker made a deal with himself. I'm going to spend the rest of my life destroying the people who did that to me. And it gave him a project, a thing, in the absence of the job, that drove him to work day after day. And it is proof that if you go around messing with people's livelihoods, eventually you're going to mess with the wrong person. Similar also to Kanye.

It's funny, however, that he's also admitting how impotent he, as a person in the media, was to stopping the war. He says this like it's a new realization; that it didn't matter how many threats he made, the war happened anyway. And while I do think he has, in a way, gotten his revenge on Israel in terms of public perception, I think he's also admitting that our new media environment with so called "independent voices" going against regime sponsored ones, is turning out to be pretty much the same as the old one. Like in that one, right wing voices have big, lucrative audiences, but very little power. Meanwhile, the Dems are outwardly and totally abandoning Israel, and that will have far more serious consequences than Tucker could dream.

One thing we're doing at is celebrating dudes in the world we think are cool and embody the MAMA ethos. Guys who refuse to be slaves but have managed to become wildly successful anyway. Not paid political shills or audience-captured whiners, but those who actually manage to build and create in this broken world without fear or shame. In a word: free men.

There aren't many of these guys around, but Butterworth's Chef Bart Hutchins is one of them. When I was thinking of genuine cowboys, his face was the first that popped into my mind.

Here's Bart's 5 rules for life. A short mini profile of him is also on the site now.

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He’s using AI to weaponize damning data about rampant globalist manipulations and offering real remedies on the page. Here are two examples:

In one story, he shows how just before Trump took office the federal government exponentially increased payments to an organized array of supposedly religious immigration/asylum organizations like HIAS, Church World Service, Episcopal Migration Services. Each one is tied to a specific Christian or Jewish denomination, yet they’re all being injected with huge sums of federal funds since 2016 in the same grouped pattern.

In one particularly damning example, in 2024 The Ethiopian Community Development Council received $92 million from the federal government.

In a second and equally sinister story, Brian reveals that a creepy British NGO called 5Rights is spending millions of dollars to openly get Britain-style internet censorship and identity verification laws passed in the US. And it has been successful in doing so in many states include California where these laws are still on the books.

How such foreign influence is allowed by the feds is mind boggling. Even worse is that it’s all run by a terrifying NGO harridan Baroness Beeban Tania Kidron. You can’t make this stuff up.

The flight attendant stops halfway through the aisle. Her eyes bulge. Champagne slips over the lip of the flutes pinched in each hand. She stares, mouth agape, at the decorative mid calf socks of the man next to me in the aisle seat.

“Is that Elton John?” she gasps. A repeated face pattern stares out from the black background of his socks.

“No,” he says. “It’s Ruth Bader Ginsburg!”

He’s the president of an NGO, one you’ve heard of. Not exactly an NGO, a “Society.” He looks like a WASP. Wiry, tall, and ruddy, his crisp short sleeve button down and khaki shorts hang off his tanned limbs like stiff crepe paper. The RBG socks slip softly into lightly worn loafers. Gold rimmed glasses over lively brown eyes. Hair a layered, thick, healthy grey.

He waives off the champagne. I, fat and disheveled in ill fitting clothes, pour it down my throat. He heads a “society.” We live in a society. It’s him. It’s sure as fuck not me.

I’m flying to DCA from LAX. Being pulled into DC’s gravity, I can feel, I think we can all feel, an almost comic sense of impending doom; the goofy feeling that arises in your gut when you’re sitting in the living room waiting for a hurricane to hit. A great storm has gathered over this nation. And it has something to do with this guy. And probably China.

Another flight attendant appears, points to the socks, and says “She’s amazing…I just love her.” I fumble with the zipped up purse of free Chinese toiletries sitting on the console. Maybe there’s more champagne in it?

“We put these in the guest room,” the NGO head says.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

“They’re good for guests. They have little toothbrushes and stuff in them.”

He means that in one’s stately home, one must of course equip our spacious guest rooms with leftover toiletry kits from our first class flights.

“Oh right,” I agree. “because they’d just throw them away anyway.”

At this he begins a nod, then frowns, then looks contemplatively away.

“But you know, houses are too big these days,” he says, shuddering in the cold airplane air. “Our house is quite small. Small and simple. But it’s worked for us. It’s always worked for us.”

He unzips the large grey laundry bag and pulls out the comforter. He wraps it fully around his shoulders, tucking himself in.

The rest of Delta One Classic cabin is occupied by an Indian and/or Arab family led by a hugely fat dad with a classically handsome, pleasant face. A big grinner, but with real conspiratorial charm in the grin. A charismatic person is someone who figures out how to be honest in public. He seems genuinely concerned about the loud and disruptive behavior of his cohort. The oldest boy is about 10, and he screams and cries and flaps around for the entire flight every time he’s separated from his mother by more than a few feet. She is a small and very pretty woman, wearing some sort of Indian and/or Arab mumu, and also alternatively scowls and sobs the entire flight. But his theatrical attempts to help make everyone feel okay about it.

“Good day for some headphones,” my patrician seatmate chimes in, sure to indicate that this, like his guest room advice, is not a chauvinistic or obnoxious comment, but a helpful one. We engage in conversation. Tomorrow, he has a big meeting with someone in the administration, someone that you’ve heard of.

”I could wear these tomorrow,” he says, gesturing to the socks. “And I’d get kicked right out. So I’m wearing them today.”

“Ah yes, today is your day of protest.”

He nods again, then frowns again.

I ask about the nature of his work. He talks about producing propaganda campaigns that benefit the public, flying around giving speeches, that the key to all of it is measuring the benefits of his work, particularly if you can show it in dollars. “I’ve been a bureaucrat a long time,” he says, giving a little wink, “it’s all about proving that positive impact is also profitable.” And he does make a real impact. He says through his efforts he’s been able to drastically reform broken processes and procedures that make Americans’ lives difficult. He gives specific numbers, specific examples of him directly working to remedy problems I myself consider pressing. He’s improved the country. He’s improved my life. And I completely believe him. He not only wants to make the world better, he wants to prove that he did it. He is society. Men like him are why anything works at all.

But then he flips on CNN. It’s JD Vance putzing around awkwardly at Lindsey Graham’s funeral. His demeanor darkens. He proceeds to rawdog CNN for the next five and a half hours straight until we land, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as various evil figures appear on screen, as all caps tickers describe in great detail how these figures torture the needy. So much goodness to give, if only he knew where to put it.

In Alexandria, it’s blustery, hot, and the sky is almost purple. Foreboding winds. The weather app shows a red tornado warning. I love the smell of the swelling swamp and Alexandria is a beautiful little colonial swamp village, rows of pretty brick buildings lead up to the wide Potomac, the Capitol just visible in the distance. For the first time in months I have a couple hours to kill without my girls climbing on my head, so I walk towards the river in search of whiskey.

The Alexandrians are out, enjoying the balmy evening, ready to greet the incoming storm. One man sits at a table on the sidewalk reading the New Yorker under a No Kings sign in the window of his brick townhouse. Another plays guitar on his stoop. A black woman with a body like the Michelin man walks with two little girls, all three covered in clear plastic ponchos.

As she yanks them across the street, she gets a gust to the face. She looks around thoughtfully, tasting the air, and says, “This morning wind.”

“What’s morning wind?” one of her girls asks.

“The storm won’t come til morning.”

Moist rolls of dark green river slosh off the rocks and buoy the big geese. A man on a neon patch of fake turf does lunges shirtless. He’s ripped but with a little paunch, wouldn’t have that in LA. On a park bench, a beautiful brunette holding an umbrella cries and looks out over the water. I see a short pier leading to a floating wooden dock, swaying in the churn. On the dock is a tourist bar attached to a maritime historical institute. Open ‘til 10pm! Interesting. Billowing bunting flags adorn the metal ramp, still out from the Fourth, or maybe there all the time because this is after all American America for tourists. And yes, jutting out from the swaying empty bar is a full on replica of a Revolutionary War fighting ship.

A pudgy, freckled waitress greets me chipperly. “I was just about to close up cause there was a big wall of water coming, but as soon as I packed up, no!” She shakes her head. “I knew it would pass us.”

I laugh. It do be like that don’t it. E.B. White said “The weather is a great bluffer.”

“Let me go bring everything back out…huzzah!” the quirk chungus declares, side skipping into the galley. She comes back with four bottles of different limited edition bourbons. My kind of gal. I mix the heavy and direct Four Roses Small Batch Select with some water out of a big orange Gatorade jug and sip it out of one of those plastic cups that’s so clear and flimsy it seems to disintegrate in your hand. The humid wind smells like goose shit and algae. The water is brown now. Way out over its winding path I can see the Capitol in the fog.

I spend a few minutes breathing it in before anxious thoughts intrude, like they’re bouncing directly off the dome of the Capitol. Isn’t it about time I had a mentor? It’s too late you’re forty fucking years old. You fucked it, you scared them all away. But isn’t it about time someone helped me out? Why do I alone have to do everything? What do I do wrong? No one will tell you because you fucked it all. The bourbon isn’t sweet like I like it. No caramel. All barrel. An American whiskey should be sweet.

The freckled bartender skips over to educate me about the Revolutionary War ship bobbing in the tidal bores right along with us. Why, it’s the Tall Ship Providence! A replica of the legendary 12-gun sloop of the Continental Navy. The original Providence blew up and captured British ships from 1775-1779 before being scuttled by its crew to avoid British capture. It never lost a battle. She informs me that, sadly, the Tall Ship Providence has just suspended operations after many years of financial strain. It posted a $683,000 loss in 2024, and owes $768,000 in loans to its foundation members. It’s her last week on the job.

We’re alone on our stormy island discussing American maritime history when trudging up the metal pier comes a Muslim family in semi-full regalia. The woman wears a full-face burka with a sort of scrubs-like outfit and OC running shoes. The man is short, thin, and thickly bearded in jeans and a T-shirt. Their little boy bobbles around back and forth towards the water. The man catches my attention with a long gratuitous smile, letting me know he’s friendly, but he can’t help but let his eyes flicker to my cup of burning Satan. I smile back and tip my cup in a silent toast.

“Rain?” He asks, waiving at the sky. “Storm?”

“I’ve heard not ‘til tomorrow,” I say. “These are morning winds.”

“Yes, I thought the storm was here,” confirms the bartender, “But then, of course it wasn’t.”

The dock squeals like a pig. The Muslim family converses in Arabic at the top of their lungs, talking over the 90s rock blasting on the Sonos. I gulp the last of the bourbon and leave. “Stacey’s Mom” segues to “Semi-Charmed Life” as I walk down the plank back into Alexandria. A little orange sunset peaks out from behind the buildings. I think she was right about the morning winds. The air is becoming stiller. The water slows down. The wind feels warm and welcoming now. The storm probably won’t hit until tomorrow. But it is coming. On that we can all agree.

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This one really stuck with me, start with this:

The Walt Right

Stop Being Mean To Rakish Men

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a year ago · 65 likes · 17 comments · Walt Bismarck

This also an incredible one about coming off adderall:

The Walt Right

Leaving The Methnostate

Last month I made the decision to get off Adderall so I can be more effective, both in my personal life and as leader of The Tortuga Society…

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2 years ago · 107 likes · 22 comments · Walt Bismarck

This implicates by response (above) to Spencer Pratt’s recent 9 minute video describing what happened in his election loss (below):

Several people have asked me to address this question, and what I meant by my comments, so I expand in the video above. My position is basically that Spencer is being turned into the character from the Daniel Kaluuya character in the all-time great Black Mirror episode Fifteen Million Merits. He’s a slave who competes in a American Idol type competition, but it so fed up with him oppression that he threatens to slit his throat on stage. His protest is turned into its own media property, in which the regime capitalizes on his simulated and controlled voicing of grievances.

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And the next about spending a disappointing Fourth of July in supposedly “The Most Patriotic City in America.”

Please visit mamathemagazine.com and give us your email!'

Also, btw, experimenting with fun new video format. Let me know your thoughts!

1. I wrote a piece for Compact magazine about Citizen Vigilante and the rise of the Right Wing exploitation film. Includes list of these films, many of which produced by Dallas Sonnier.

   A non-exhaustive list of basedsploitation films would include Bone Tomahawk (2015), Brawl in Cell Block 99 (2017), Dragged Across Concrete (2018), Run. Hide. Fight. (2020), Sound of Freedom (2023), Nefarious (2023), and Muzzle (2023). Run. Hide. Fight. Infidels, a sequel to Run. Hide. Fight. coming this fall, will almost certainly make the list.

2. We had Dallas Sonnier himself on the podcast (see above) for an interview about his new film Run.Hide.Fight: Infidels.

Powerful trailer:

Many talk about RW art not being funded, but Dallas Sonnier is proof that it does, if it’s good enough.

Please subscribe to on Substack for podcasts, and everywhere else for the viral mega articles.

MAMA

MAMA Podcast 7: Dallas Sonnier

LIVE from Butterworth’s in DC ,the boys are joined by superproducer Dallas Sonnier for an interview about based movies, Citizen Vigilante, and his new film Run.Hide.Fight: Infidels. This coming off of Isaac’s piece in Compact about Dallas Sonnier, Citizen Vigilante, and the rise of Basedsploitation films…

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2 months ago · MAMA

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What’s happening in the LA Mayoral Primary Election 2026 is extremely difficult to wrap one’s mind around, which is why these sorts of shenanigans have been allowed to go on for so long. Here I’ve tried to as simply as possible explain in words why this election, and specifically this election, proves beyond reasonable doubt that cheating is occurring.

In a normal election, you have 2 candidates, R v. L. People cast votes. Proportionally, the votes of each candidate rise and fall in little chunks, but take an overall steady line due to the force of averages. One of the lines eventually tops out, and that candidate wins on election night.

In a mail in election, you have two candidates R v. L. In this instance, some mail ins (if allowed) may come in after election day. But still, due to the force of averages, their lines have little ups and downs, but maintain a steady upward trajectory both during and after the election until one wins.

Now it has become the norm that after the election i…

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• Wildly swinging prediction markets

• Independently created AI viral ads

• Public unions

• “The West Coast Mamdani”

• Ballot Harvesting and Mail In Ballot Shenanigans like the world has never seen

Also, check out this Carousel story from four long years ago breaking down the public unions and NGOs behind the Karen Bass machine. Freshly unpaywalled.

The Carousel

Who's Winning the LA Astroturf War?

This is a guest post from The Carousel about “Grassroots” propaganda in LA politics by attorney Michael Jensen…

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4 years ago · 13 likes · 2 comments · Michael Jensen