What makes me and Chadwick Moore such gripping viewing when we appear together isn’t new—it’s the mix of erudition, tenderness, sorrow, mischief and longing that produced all great gay literature. (That’s a feature of gay male literature, specifically—lesbians have nothing comparable to offer. They’re just bitter and mean. Dyke lit is hollow and unsatisfying.)
There’s no one writing at a high standard these days, and because natural wordsmiths and students of human nature like us can’t find homes in prestige media, we act it out instead on camera for the YouTube generation.
Ours is a sweet, genuine, mesmerising friendship—and because there are two of us, rather than just one lonely old queen bashing at a typewriter, we avoid the bitterness that creeps into the great gay novelists. We’re genuine with one another. We’re both messy, and broken, and at times jubilant and at times miserable—and we love each other no matter what.
Nothing the Left has to offer anywhere in media comes anything close. I feel sorry for them. They’ve cut themselves off not just from interesting ideas and good jokes, but from all the most compelling personalities. That’s why people find social justice and progressivism so cold: With all its terrifying rules, it can no longer speak to human realities, interpersonal complexity or the human condition.
So. I am determined to find someone to fund us to do this every week, and I am convinced that a show with the two of us just shooting the shit for an hour or two a week would quickly become a sensation.
I am furious to my core at what has been done to gay culture. It used to save people. Now it enslaves them. If you present people with the best that has been thought and written (as I think Matthew Arnold put it), they rise to the occasion. If you feed them slop, you turn them into pigs. And yet, as bad as gay culture is, it’s nothing compared to what has happened to Black America.
It breaks my heart to see black culture reduced to strippers yelling about dollar bills and designer shoes. Of course I love it in a trivial and ironic way. It’s hilarious and fun and preposterous and like all gay men I have a love affair with studied triviality. (Thanks, Oscar.) But the Worldstar tendency, in which ignorance and stupidity and self-destructive clownishness have become aspirational lifestyle choices—that’s truly evil.
And without slipping into conspiracy theory, I don’t think it’s (just) black Americans who have done this. I think it was forced upon them by people with money and power—people who are not black.
That’s why I can’t get too excited—though of course I appreciate the amusing political chicanery—about Ali getting Trump to intervene in the A$AP Rocky case. Because the President is just reimporting a manifestation of infantilizing, soporific dross that is keeping blacks where they are. What a tragedy. There is a word for the systematic enslavement of a people to their carnal desires. Satanic.
Even sadder than all this? The “black conservatives” who could set an example with bold thinking, inventive ideas and unashamed intellectual achievement are mostly just boring, opportunistic political hacks regurgitating other people’s talking points, or they are themselves pandering to the stupid, self-destructive nonsense by gesturing constantly toward hip hop culture.
Is there a black man left in pop culture or public life with anything truly interesting to say? The closest would be the laughable Ta-Nehisi Coates. I love Kanye West for all sorts of reasons—but what a world we live in where he’s the closest thing we can come up with to a black pop culture intellectual who isn’t consumed by Marxist grievance.
I have a black stepson, and I was thinking earlier today: If he asked me who his role models ought to be, what on earth would I tell him? The Sowell, Thomas generation is dying off. All that’s left is Marxist lesbians and race-baiters. This, by the way, is why I support some form of reparations—so long as it is laser-focused on undoing the carnage of hip hop culture through education.
Not because I believe anyone alive today truly deserves to atone for their forefathers’ sins. I don’t. But because the human tragedy of millions of Americans consigned to destitution, misery and damnation by the entertainment industry and by penury and neglect turns my stomach and compels me to say, do, try anything to rescue them from the consequences of decades of Left-wing abuse.
My whole family is black. I’ve seen what it’s done. For me, it is a moral imperative to build thousands of good schools and show every one of these children that they, too, can pursue a life of intellectual and spiritual enrichment if they choose to—or even, at least, be a doctor or a lawyer, regardless of the circumstances into which they were born. We should fix that before we even consider the needs of illegal Hispanic migrants pouring over the southern borders.
Despite all this, a shaft of light emerges from the gloom. Black churches in America are still happy, vibrant, hopeful places—even though many of them have been co-opted by Marxism, Islam, social justice, racial division and anti-Semitism. There is still life and soul and spirit and joy in them. Perhaps that’s a good place to start.
Milo Yiannopoulos is an award-winning investigative reporter and the New York Times-bestselling author of DANGEROUS.