KNAVES IN SHINING ARMANI
Some thoughts on a photospread in the October 2000 Gentleman's Quarterly
A gentleman never insults, except by intention. -- Oscar Wilde
by F. O'Flahertie
There is everything to be said for style and taste, but there is little to be said for GQ.
The October number of this monthly carried a tasteless, disgusting and gratuitously insulting
photoshoot promoting miscegenation in a calculated affront to Bob Jones University. For its
sexual correctness, self-imagined sassy "bravery" and, may I say again, lip-curling tastelessness,
this spread is the very nadir of Semitical Correctness. If the self-impressed clowns who
put this thing together were pigeons, they'd be the type that enjoys shitting on statues
just because it can. No respect equals not respectable. Not to mention ungentlemanly.
Depicting a Black male and a White female, the shoot displays the lusty combo in various
stages of undress and intimacy, ending with him on top of her in her dorm room. On each
page the BJU rule they are breaking, as taken from the 1975 handbook, is printed atop their
grinning, cavorting, flirting, commingling fleshes. It is clear that we, the readers, are
supposed to admire the bold, bad-girl naughtiness of the coed, who can't help but prefer the
colored savage to her paler classmates.
"Matriculating at Bob Jones U" by hotshot photographer Pamela Hanson covers eight pages, and
it is implied that it is shot at the university itself, though I doubt that's the case.
(Further inspection of the small type reveals that, indeed, it is not. The literal bottom
line is: Photographs not taken at Bob Jones University. Boris Kodjoe and Stacey
Elder are not students at Bob Jones University.) Two quick things give you the
impression that GQ is staffed by a bunch of monorchids. First, there's the pitiful
asterisk that: "This rule and the ones on the following pages are taken from the 1975 Bob
Jones University student handbook. After several requests, GQ was denied a more
current copy of the book, which is issued to students at the beginning of each school year."
Gee, I wonder why? The sad part is, the GQ editors probably do wonder...
Then there's Hanson's explanation of what they're up to: "Fashion stories rarely make
political statements. But because of what we were doing, everyone was completely into it.
It's a brave concept." There you have the incredible self-regard and blindness to decency
and general obtuseness and disrespect for others we've come to expect from the Jew-controlled
media. From her accompanying photograph, which might be titled "I am sassiness itself,"
Pamela, hair tight, sunglasses up, clutches her camera and stares impishly back at the
reader over her shoulder. Such a dauntless little sprite she is... What can you do but
shake your head? Such is the world we live in now. No doubt Hanson and the editors who
commissioned her really do believe they are doing a brave and noble thing. That's part of
a deeper problem I will address in a minute.
First, let's look at the rules these mismatched rebels are courageously upending:
1) No young man may walk with a girl on the campus unless both of them have a legitimate
reason for going in the same direction. We see them strolling with his arm around her
2) Students are asked to refrain from singing, playing and, as far as possible, from
'tuning in' on the radio or playing on the record player jazz, rock and roll, folk rock or
any other types of questionable music. Now, this is stiff, stilted stuff -- but that
doesn't mean it's wrong, nor that true rebellion consists in contravening its advice. But
the left has no imagination. It has killed the idea of dignity, and buried it next to its
brother privacy and called it liberation.
3) Then there's a page with no rule, just a picture of the two flirting in class. She with
one hand's loose fingers twirling her hair suggestively, while the other passes the Negro a
note, while her unshoed foot clutches at his pantcuff. In the background, an eyes-downcast
young Aryan-type, suited to be her mate, sits passively, while the front-row Black receives
her amorous charge. To complete the charade, the Black in these various pictures is
carrying or surrounded by textbooks including "Network Analysis," "Microeconomics" and
"Algebra." You know how many Black network engineers and microeconomicians are out there.
Yet we are to pretend the savage's intellectual distinction matches his sexual. Just like
all the cool people, the ones buying the overpriced clothes whose prices and specs are
detailed in the margins. As in, Jamal is looking smartly stylish in his $650 velvet-tufted
Scottish mooragon, perfectly setting off the blond locks of the coed he intends to
seduce and infect with gonorrhea tonight. Or, Julia breezes freshly about in her $350
Tommy Hilfiger denim jacket over her $145 Ralph Lauren turtleneck and $90 Ralph Lauren
skirt and her $90 suede boots by Clark England, ready for a night of study capped off with
an interracial rendezvous ($90 tetracycline by SmithKline Beecham), with Wyclef Jean's $16.99
Eclectic spinning in the background.
4) There is to be no interracial dating. Here she leans on the fender of an old-style car,
with her head on his chest.
5) Students who are partners in an interracial marriage will be expelled. Then we
see them back in her room, making out on her bed, with him between her legs. We see her
aquamarine phone, and her Jamiroquai, Wyclef Jean, Ratt and Offspring posters and Bob Jones
In every age there is an orthodoxy, it has been said. But it is also true that every
orthodoxy contains a safe and fake rebellion so that, as feminized as most are today, we
can all enjoy the thrill of danger with the reality of security, like a rollercoaster. In
the same way that, as Tarkington wrote, nothing could be safer than the Dixie Chicks
recording a song about wife-abuse, nothing could be safer than a photoshoot marketing the
hipness of miscegenation. The real bravery would be in posting the 1975 rules against
interracial involvement alongside a table depicting the differentials in bastardy, syphilis
and other social diseases between Blacks and Whites. That's a courage a silly woman like
Hanson could never conceive, let alone carry out. One group that does have the courage to
print up the facts about sex with Blacks is the National Alliance, which the ilk of these
"brave" GQ editors is quick to condemn as a hate group. Earlier this year members of the
alliance passed out information at a Texas campus calling attention to the fact that having
sex with a Black man can be dangerous to a White woman's health because even among Black
heterosexuals, the rate of HIV infection is fourteen (14) times higher than among Whites.
The literature distribution caused a ruckus on the campus, and reports were filed which
made a wavelet nationally. None cited the statistics cited in the literature; all said the
information was false. That's yet another example of what we at VNN mean when we refer to
the controlled media. The fact is the numbers were the government's own, taken from the
Centers for Disease Control, and that if anything, you can bet your life they were skewed
to make Blacks look less dangerous than they are, parallel to the way that the FBI
intentionally skews crime data to downplay the huge racial disparities.
There is no such thing as a rebellion against something; all rebellions are rebellions
for. The rebel without a cause is a head-case, a criminal, a delinquent, a misfit, a
trouble-maker. A serious rebellion occurs first in the minds of those capable of
envisioning a better way, whether the vision is realizable (a White country) or not
(the "scientific" utopia of the Marxists). The rebellion we need today has nothing to do
with oddities of person: tattoos or piercings, miscolored hair or rings in strange places,
strange diets or drug-takings or zoo sex. The true rebellion is hard to name, but it has
something to do with pursuit of and respect for tightness, rigor and excellence over
mediocrity; independence of mind, pursuit of the truth, refusal to worship the Golden
Calves of consumerism and austerity. Pursuit of the aristocratic is the only true
...A few thoughts on the magazine itself
GQ is an odd bird. The hot men's magazine of the moment is Maxim, which preaches
the consumerist sex-n-gadgets gospel to twenty- and thirtysomethings. GQ, with
pretensions to style and taste, is caught in between. Its writers and editorial mindset
are older, yet it's clearly trying to appeal to the 20-50 set; i.e., both Maxim's
crowd and its graduates. GQ is trying to span generations, and is close to falling
between two stools. Maxim, whatever you think of its aims, has a sure grasp: it is
sophomoric sans respite. Nevertheless, it is funny and well-edited and full of
interesting tidbits and pictures, no matter how ultimately silly. GQ makes some half-hearted
attempts to duplicate Maxim-type features -- silly lists, model shoots, generic wackiness --
but then also attempts to be Serious: mediocre fiction, dress advice and ostensibly
thoughtful articles. GQ seems to be written by fifty-year-olds with a less than
sure grasp of what will appeal to those twenty years younger, and trying to grab a clue
from what is hot at the moment. It would be better if it would stick to what its title
suggests it covers: advice for gentlemen. There is need for such a thing at this time.
But GQ doesn't so much offer advice on dressing as the same old ads for multicultural
and/or super-expensive clothes; the same ads you can find everywhere else. And then it
throws in a half-assed "funny" article after Maxim, and (in October) an article on
the search for a racist-survivalist out in Arizona, just to shiver the the Semitically
Correct reader. And then an article on the disappearance of Jewish waiters, and again from
an aged prof reflecting on the downside of affairs with your students. As I say, between
two stools. Juvenile plus mature equals...what? Senile-puerile, as much as anything.
It would be unfair to say GQ is a 45-year-old woman trying to dress fifteen, but
it's tempting. GQ is written for post-collegiate, career-entrenched Northeastern
liberals who are a bit older than they think. But whatever the market for watered down
Maxim-style sophomorics on the back of an aging prof's memories of student affairs
gone sour, it's surely got it covered.