US Neo-Nazi Party Member. Unattributed 2007
One of the problems in being a Nazi, Neo or otherwise, is that, evidently, you're driven to do things like this to yourself just to stand out. Witness this poor schmuck whose face doodlings are an almost exact match to those junior high notebook covers scrawled by underachievers everywhere.
There's been a lot of chatter around the blogosphere about all the hate speech spouted by La Palin, how it's riled up a group pundits have prissily labeled low-information voters. In thinking how this riling up gets accomplished and what it does to you and me, I ended up where everyone else does when it comes to hate speech: comparing the McCain ticket to Nazis. This is stupid, because McCain and Palin are not Nazis, not even secret ones, and rabble-rousing existed long before Nazis. Still, Nazis are where I landed.
Given my Nazi\hate speech fixation, I decided I needed more research. I've been surfing, and in my travels discovered this chunk of info, courtesy of Wikipedia:
In March 1959, Rockwell formed the World Union of Free Enterprise National Socialists, a name chosen to denote opposition to state ownership of property. In December of that year, the name would be changed to the American Nazi Party, and the headquarters moved to 928 North Randolph Street in Arlington, Virginia.
This refers to George Lincoln Rockwell, who started the American Nazi Party, and, as Wikipedia notes, was subsequently shot in the head by a member of the party.
On August 25, 1967, Rockwell was killed by gunshots while leaving the Econowash laundromat at the Dominion Hills Shopping Center in the 6000 block of Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia.[17]
The Dominion Hills Shopping Center still stands, and the spot where George Lincoln fell is thoughtfully marked with a freshly painted black swastika on some anniversaries of his death, depending on just how motivated the local Nazis happen to be. Lately, not so much.
I bring up these unriveting excerpts about the American Nazi Party, because George Lincoln Rockwell lived two houses down from my family in Arlington, Virgina in 1959. His arrival was unmarked except for the dented Bondo-body truck he parked at the curb, and the many boxes he lugged down to his basement apartment at the V's, who were looking to make some extra cash by taking in a tenant. Later, he dragged down a printing press and that's how my family got involved.
The V's were nice people, Armenian immigrants who had been in the US a good long while. Pete V. had already earned some admiring nods among our neighbors, after he'd threatened to brain a local wise-guy with a double-ended truck wrench. On this particular night, Mr. and Mrs. V. showed up at our house, looking troubled, wanting to see my father, who the neighbors all agreed was probably the smartest guy around. In times of turmoil, he was consulted on all sorts of matters. And so the V's came knocking.
My memory is that Pete brought some resiny-tasting Armenian liquor as a gift, but I imagine my mother just served coffee. Me, I was crouched at the top of the stairs in my jammies, curious about why the V's were visiting.
The problem was, Mr. V. explained, their new renter. After he had wrestled the printing press downstairs, Mrs. V. became curious about Mr. Rockwell. She had also discovered if she stood on a vent in the floor of the coat closet, she could hear every word coming from the basement. It seems on certain nights, Mr. Rockwell liked to have some guys over to discuss the coming race war, the far-sightedness of beloved Adolph, and the recruiting of more storm troopers.
She found out that they had been meeting at the Economat over on Wilson, before Rockwell rented her apartment. Now that he was in our little neighborhood, he liked it and thought his digs might be just the thing for the American Nazi Party Headquarters. Later, Mrs. V had gone outside and peered in her tenants truck, only to discover the cab was littered with shabby little pamphlets with swastikas on the covers. The V's dilemma was that they wanted him gone, but since he'd paid his rent, they didn't know how to toss him out. Pete mostly wanted to beat the crap out of him which, my father admitted, was tempting.
I don't remember what my father eventually came up with as a plan. His position was that nobody needed to put up with Nazis, especially not in their house. The V's hadn't bargained on his printing press, his meetings, or his storm troopers when they'd rented, so George Lincoln and his ilk could trundle right back to the Economat, and good riddance.
What I remember from that night was the V's great fear and anger, which puzzled me. The moochy-looking guy I'd seen didn't seem capable of stirring up big emotions like that. I knew Nazis were bad, but the man I'd seen didn't look anything like Nazis I saw on TV in old newsreels.
Lincoln was booted out of the V's that week without any protest, and our lives went on.
Eight years later, George Lincoln Rockwell was murdered just outside that Economat, where all his trouble-making first started.
You live by the laundromat, you die by the laundromat.
There's been a lot of chatter around the blogosphere about all the hate speech spouted by La Palin, how it's riled up a group pundits have prissily labeled low-information voters. In thinking how this riling up gets accomplished and what it does to you and me, I ended up where everyone else does when it comes to hate speech: comparing the McCain ticket to Nazis. This is stupid, because McCain and Palin are not Nazis, not even secret ones, and rabble-rousing existed long before Nazis. Still, Nazis are where I landed.
Given my Nazi\hate speech fixation, I decided I needed more research. I've been surfing, and in my travels discovered this chunk of info, courtesy of Wikipedia:
In March 1959, Rockwell formed the World Union of Free Enterprise National Socialists, a name chosen to denote opposition to state ownership of property. In December of that year, the name would be changed to the American Nazi Party, and the headquarters moved to 928 North Randolph Street in Arlington, Virginia.
This refers to George Lincoln Rockwell, who started the American Nazi Party, and, as Wikipedia notes, was subsequently shot in the head by a member of the party.
On August 25, 1967, Rockwell was killed by gunshots while leaving the Econowash laundromat at the Dominion Hills Shopping Center in the 6000 block of Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia.[17]
The Dominion Hills Shopping Center still stands, and the spot where George Lincoln fell is thoughtfully marked with a freshly painted black swastika on some anniversaries of his death, depending on just how motivated the local Nazis happen to be. Lately, not so much.
I bring up these unriveting excerpts about the American Nazi Party, because George Lincoln Rockwell lived two houses down from my family in Arlington, Virgina in 1959. His arrival was unmarked except for the dented Bondo-body truck he parked at the curb, and the many boxes he lugged down to his basement apartment at the V's, who were looking to make some extra cash by taking in a tenant. Later, he dragged down a printing press and that's how my family got involved.
The V's were nice people, Armenian immigrants who had been in the US a good long while. Pete V. had already earned some admiring nods among our neighbors, after he'd threatened to brain a local wise-guy with a double-ended truck wrench. On this particular night, Mr. and Mrs. V. showed up at our house, looking troubled, wanting to see my father, who the neighbors all agreed was probably the smartest guy around. In times of turmoil, he was consulted on all sorts of matters. And so the V's came knocking.
My memory is that Pete brought some resiny-tasting Armenian liquor as a gift, but I imagine my mother just served coffee. Me, I was crouched at the top of the stairs in my jammies, curious about why the V's were visiting.
The problem was, Mr. V. explained, their new renter. After he had wrestled the printing press downstairs, Mrs. V. became curious about Mr. Rockwell. She had also discovered if she stood on a vent in the floor of the coat closet, she could hear every word coming from the basement. It seems on certain nights, Mr. Rockwell liked to have some guys over to discuss the coming race war, the far-sightedness of beloved Adolph, and the recruiting of more storm troopers.
She found out that they had been meeting at the Economat over on Wilson, before Rockwell rented her apartment. Now that he was in our little neighborhood, he liked it and thought his digs might be just the thing for the American Nazi Party Headquarters. Later, Mrs. V had gone outside and peered in her tenants truck, only to discover the cab was littered with shabby little pamphlets with swastikas on the covers. The V's dilemma was that they wanted him gone, but since he'd paid his rent, they didn't know how to toss him out. Pete mostly wanted to beat the crap out of him which, my father admitted, was tempting.
I don't remember what my father eventually came up with as a plan. His position was that nobody needed to put up with Nazis, especially not in their house. The V's hadn't bargained on his printing press, his meetings, or his storm troopers when they'd rented, so George Lincoln and his ilk could trundle right back to the Economat, and good riddance.
What I remember from that night was the V's great fear and anger, which puzzled me. The moochy-looking guy I'd seen didn't seem capable of stirring up big emotions like that. I knew Nazis were bad, but the man I'd seen didn't look anything like Nazis I saw on TV in old newsreels.
Lincoln was booted out of the V's that week without any protest, and our lives went on.
Eight years later, George Lincoln Rockwell was murdered just outside that Economat, where all his trouble-making first started.
You live by the laundromat, you die by the laundromat.
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