Last month, I visited Los Angeles to attend the West Coast premiere of The Red Pill. While I’d technically first visited L.A. two years ago, it was on a layover to Tokyo and I didn’t get farther than the airport. Throughout the whole trip, I was left with a feeling of cultural vertigo that I hadn’t experienced since my days of living in the Philippines. While L.A. is generally thought of as the epicenter of American culture (due to it being the headquarters of the movie and music industries), there’s nothing that’s actually American about the place. Mass immigration and consumer culture have transformed it into a featureless, claustrophobic hellscape, and if the globalist project isn’t turned back, the rest of the West will follow in its footsteps.
Anyone who thinks that Latin American immigration is a good idea because it’ll bring more taco trucks to your neighborhood should spend some time in the barrios of California. Los Angeles has been swamped with so many Mexicans and other Latinos that the city reminded me more of Manila than any American city I’ve visited. The third-world comparison is made even worse by L.A.’s maze-like sprawl of dirty, ramshackle buildings and lack of anything resembling urban planning. Moreover, since California’s Latinos are overwhelmingly culled from the helot classes, they lack even a semblance of upper-class culture, so being around them makes you feel like Wikus in District 9.
While no corner of the U.S. has remained untouched by White demographic replacement schemes, no city has deteriorated to the degree L.A. has. Despite their differences, White and Black Americans have a shared history, and run-down ghettos in Chicago and other cities feel distinctly American, dysfunctional as they may be. For that matter, because the eastern United States was settled earlier, it possesses a more concrete culture that is better able to weather demographic and cultural shocks. There are New Yorkers whose lineage stretches back to the 17th century and the original Dutch colonists of New Netherland, while Mayflower families are so entrenched in New England that they’re called “Boston Brahmins,” compared to the highest caste in India.
There’s nothing American about L.A.’s neighborhoods of swarthy gangbangers and illiterate mestizo single mothers. Riding the L.A. Metro made me feel like I was in a foreign country, albeit one where everyone with an IQ above 110 had been sent to the gulag. Even public transportation announcers speak in Spanish, and while heading back from Santa Monica (a wealthy suburb with beaches), I found MS-13 (an El Salvadorian illegal alien gang) tags inside the train. Hell, when I visited Donald Trump’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, it had been defaced with a sticker from the “Chicano Nation: Aztlan.” It’s a disconcerting feeling, being on your nation’s soil yet being treated like a foreigner from a distant land.
That’s where the second major aspect of globalization comes into play: strict class stratification. In Los Angeles, the beautiful people have their corner of town and the hoi polloi have theirs, and rarely do the twain meet. When I visited the city, I opted not to rent a car, because L.A. has a robust metro system (on paper) and I was sick of having to drive everywhere. After 2+ hours of a meandering train ride east to Watts (yes, that Watts), north to downtown, and finally west to Hollywood to where I was staying, I was gritting my teeth and dreaming of nuclear apocalypse.
