Written from memory, Pittsburgh, PA 4/3/24
The Land Lady and I drove down Holgate, across the I-5 overpass and she pointed at the park and ride, “That used to be packed always. Now, nobody that has a car takes mass transit. The homeless are on all the buses and trains.”
The week before Kelly had confided in me that as a retired truck driver, Portland traffic had never been as bad as it is now: the roads narrowed for bike lanes and the cars multiplied. This is with increasingly expensive gas as well.
The Land Lady and I go to a second hand store that sells clothing, household goods and jewelry. At the door are two armed security who wand us. Two more armed security patrol. I have never seen a retail outlet, let alone a second hand store, with more security than other staff. Five military age East Africans are buying a kitchen set. East Africans are common at buffets now, in Portland, where they were unknown a year ago. The last days of January, Swahili language signage went up at pharmacies. The first African sightings were first week of February.
At the bar, I was told I was evil for being “a white man” that we are all liars and cannot be trusted to hold any truth in our mind and that whatever supposed fact we commit to writing is pure deviltry. I decided to forgo the bar after that. Portland was turning against me.
The night before my first bout with O’Neal, I took the bus down to Kelly’s place where we drank whiskey and watched action movies. The bus was empty but for handicapped and homeless, many one in the same.
I passed out drunk on the couch and woke the next morning in time to get the bus out to the Land Lady’s house so I could sit with Mom while Dad was taken to his appointment. I offloaded and noticed that a young African was sitting with his back to the light pole, his back to Holgate, looking down 104th. This is classic watering hole ambush positioning favored by his poorly bred eastern cousins in Baltimore.
Does he follow me or engage me?
These ambushes work both ways. The bus patron with money or phone to board, viewed for blocks, minutes on his approach, may be judged and assessed as possible prey, may be begged for money or have his phone taken. The bus patron getting off is headed home, either with a cashed paycheck or ATM extraction or with something bought with this. He will be tired, distracted and headed home, to the treasure trove where he may be tracked, maybe robbed, maybe home invaded, maybe located for a burglary conducted the next time he goes out to work.
One step past: “Sir?”
Two steps: “Oh, Good Sir?”
Three steps: “My Good Sir?!” in British-sounding English, as his sneakers [they were red] scraped on the crumbling wet asphalt [meaning he was rising].
I cross the street left, pretending to have heard nothing, and a sigh escapes behind me as the feet scrape again and I hear him sitting back down on his narrow haunches, “A good day to you, Good Sir!”
The buses I see go bye are mostly empty. Signs on the buses are constantly advertising for 70k a year and a 7.5k bonus for new drivers… to drive who?
As I have seen across the nation, drive lanes are being reduced for bicycles that are in less and less use as homeless and immigrant thugs make that pastime more hazardous.
Bus expansion is ongoing and improving, as is trolley and light rail.
Signs with never before heard languages at major retail centers go up the week or month before the new language speakers arrive.
Local news stories daily speak of “improving” neighborhood demographics with “asylum seekers,” always military age men.
The Land Lady points out low income “native” housing where tribal girls of the area were being pimped out by ghetto gang bangers from other cities.
More ugly, boxy, made for it looks like 20 years, 120 unit buildings, going up in three, four, five and six building clusters are seen on the outskirts of Seattle, Portland, Salem, Hillsboro and every California city. Yet, armies of homeless who cannot afford apartment rent live in camps and increasingly scrap built shacks all down that three state coast.
Beast O’Neal, in from Hillsboro to box, notes that “It is nothing but Africans on the bus.”
The sequence of events seems to suggest that long planned, population replacement of indigenous USG subjects by people from the other side of the world who will arrive without automobiles, is in the initial uptick phase, perhaps 20% into fruition.
This provided food for thought as I took the train south out of Portland and, from there through Oregon, California, Nevada, Utah and Colorado saw new homeless camps, of postmodern nomads, people with cars, vans, trucks, tents, campers, children, wives, dogs, toys “in the yard” and clothes lines on the desert outskirts of suburban and urban centers. Drug addicts do not do laundry. They throw away the dirty clothes, wipe their ass with the socks and leave them in the gutter, and go to the shelter for more clothes.
Socially, the most ominous signs of USG subject replacement is a clean homeless camp.
Clothes lines next to parked cars in the wintry desert, that is a new sight from the train window, a sight that points to planned population replacement.
