Books for Everyone!

January 2022

You Don’t Know Me

This past December, I felt the need to buy some new makeup. I’d performed a series of significant makeup purges during the past six or seven years, prompted by my infuriating and insulting discoveries regarding various cosmetics companies. I’d enthusiastically purchased those expensive products, unaware that those capitalist businesses wished to cancel everything that I believe in and hold dear — after they’d made fortunes off of feigning to cherish my nation and its Constitution.

I believe in not merely believing in the doctrines of fair play and honest trading. I believe in living them. Those corporate CEOs evidently didn’t, and probably still don’t.

I’d already winnowed out quite a few purchases from one high-end brand, whose name shall not be mentioned. This American business-founder had found huge financial success, starting in the early 1990s, by sucking off of the middle-class white woman’s professional need to look office-appropriate. By the U.S. presidential campaign of 2008, this entrepreneur got exposed as the hypocrite that she is, and probably had been, all along the way to her gravy-train. I’d no idea that this CEO was opulently inhabiting the Hamptons while profiting from the advocacy of Empowerment for Women and hobnobbing with All the Leftist Snobs.

I still own the best of that company’s cosmetics, manufactured during its hey-day — all of 3 years — prior to 2012!

The consummate hypocrisy of that American businesswoman is something I still cannot forget, along with her “connections” that helped her to pump up the company’s stock value, then cash out to a multi-national for bookoo bucks. In record time, the quality of the merchandise went steadily and swiftly downhill, like a runaway train that had run away from its own loyal customer base. That dedicated and committed adult female target market had made the brand enormously prosperous, but then got left in the dust at corporate-buy-out time.

The cosmetics train of the beauty world can be a bullet train, speeding on the investment hopes of the entrepreneur for a lucrative sell-off at the globalist depot. Or the iron glamour horse can run right off the track, auguring into quick bankruptcy. Sometimes, though, the freight locomotive chugs steadily along, hewing to a course of commerce that keeps the business profitable, but not booming and Hollyweird-bound. The little women are the target audience of that company, and they remain the prime target audience.

Makeup is a very personal matter, and it matters very much to me, personally, that the corporate image-makers hold at least some respect for the customers they claim to want to beautify. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yes; but, of late, ugliness has become a universally recognized condition, specialized in by the Corporate Pig.

There’s considerable ugliness, straight to the core, of any beauty products produced in, and specifically marketed to — a blood-soaked regime based in Beijing.

I therefore purchase cosmetics and skin-care merchandise that is not made in Communist China. Like Sherlock Holmes of the maquillage cosmos, I meticulously scan the websites, the labels, and any and all background information regarding any company hawking its wares to the unwary woman.

Once the package arrives, Dear Husband hauls out his magnifying glass to further inspect the tiny tiny print that might sneakily and squeamishly state: PRC. Thus far, I’ve been almost 100% successful in my search for, not the Holy Grail of foundation or mascara but — the Holy Grail of non-slave-labor foundation, eye shadows, blushes, brushes, lipsticks, lotions, and creams — Made in Italy, Made in France, Made in Germany, Made in England.

Finding high-quality cosmetics Made In the USA has been an arduous quest, but I have, upon happy occasions, prevailed in the hunt. I would have ended my search for domestically manufactured powder eyeshadows years ago — were I not the type of person that I am. Because I automatically reject anything being shoved at me, I refused to consider the contemplation of the in-my-face, non-stop, ubiquitous, digitally-loud raving and pushing of a makeup brand by a uniquely innovative beauty blogger, one who more-or-less invented the commercialized Beauty Blog in America.

This gal is a true entrepreneur, but her aesthetic tastes are almost diametrically opposed to mine. Her insistent exhortation of ColourPop prompted my immediate and instinctive response to anything or anyone being shoved at me:


I dismissed out-of-hand, or out-of-brush, these eye-shadows that, more often than not on her website, appeared in garish, sparkly, glittery, or weird shades. None of her carefully-posted swatches could entice me to even look up this company online.

Until one rainy day in mid-December of 2021.

I spotted the name of this brand on a Made in the USA list, that compilation on which scores of companies, in the USA and everywhere else outside of the USA, are thronging to be. The income for generating those patriotically-primed sites must be sizable. I do believe, however, that financial fad has seen its high water mark. I highly doubt that few items pitched on those USA-lists by globalist selling platforms, and by companies peddling Chinesium, are actually Made in The USA.

ColourPop is the real deal, not a counterfeit steal. The company website states it is:

Redefining luxury beauty by creating high quality products at affordable prices. We pride ourselves on being cruelty-free, wallet-friendly, and keeping our customers at the center of our world. Made in the USA, we imagine, innovate, test, and manufacture all under one roof.

My first purchase was a palette called Quartz. I tend to be a rock-type, fascinated and enthralled by geology, so the label caught my eye. Confidentially, for the past few years, I’ve gone in search of a dupe-replacement for a 7-pan Grays & Cool-Taupes Palette, which I’d purchased in 2007, from the beauty-brand whose name shall not be mentioned. By 2017, the pigmentation had finally poofed out of the powders, and I tossed it out.

I took a chance on Quartz, and it paid off!

Given the incredibly low price of the palette, I’d expected a minuscule pan for each shade. Each round pan is big. The color payoff of these saturated earth-toned shadows is phenomenal!

And they’re wonderfully blend-able. No fall-out either, that powdery debris on the orbital eye area that can create a clean-up to rival that of an EPA brown site. There’s not much money going into the packaging, but, at this price, and for this superb quality, I can live without the luxury of the designer case, mirror, and “freebie” applicator.

Of course, I later returned to ColourPop for more palettes, thereby earning 5 freebie palettes (end-of-the-year sale/liquidation). I wanted only 3 giveaways, but, at each step along the online-purchase route, the pop-up reminder kept reminding me there were 2 more gifts that I was due! By the time that I finally pulled the trigger on this purchase, I wanted to email-shout:


Which brings me to the title of this essay: You don’t know me.

The online vendor, of anything, really does not know the customer, and I am more than content with that arrangement. Whenever I speed-finger my way through the maze of the jungle-selling platform, the ghoulish algorithms have already selected, and determined, for me Choices — “suggested”, or even more ghastly, “recommended” by my previous purchases. The most insulting of all is: Inspired by You!

I’ve yet to want to buy one of their “picks” that I somehow inspired, all of which consist of inventory that the hoarder-owned website needs to unload.

A few other retail sales sites perform the same type of nosy-neighbor picks — JUST FOR ME!

Do those marketers really believe they are convincing me, or anyone, of their friendly, personal touch? Does any sane and sensible individual enjoy the creepy sensation that their online acquisitions, whether personal or professional, are forming part of a snooper’s database? Does anyone with half a brain think his purchases sum up who he is?

Only a gluttonous capitalist pig can arrive at such a profane appraisal of the human being. Only those soulless money-grubbers who bow to Chi-Comm swine can reduce the miraculous, one-and-only creation of Divinity to a garbage-gut creature whose materialistic appetite can not be satiated, except with more and more and more worthless crap from container ships yet to be unloaded off the shores of a blessed nation where karma is inevitably catching up with the Enemy Within.

Human life, any life, is cheap and replaceable for Chairman Xi and his corrupt crew of collectivist blood-stained despots. Life in this land of liberties — liberties that are God-given and God-ordained — that life does not have a price. The human unit is not listed on the stock market. Men and women in America cannot be bartered and bought and sold, like Uyghur slaves who must do the bidding of the amoral people who have proved only that they are the ones who have a price, a very cheap price, on their own totalitarian heads. It is they who are addicted to mammon and power and the blood tax.

Those satanic forces are inexorably accruing more and more costs to the human souls in lands that once gave birth to civilizations of arts and culture. Those militarized zones currently consummate only death. They are cesspools, spewing human squalor, degradation, destruction, and real global pollution.

Only this patriotic and savvy woman, little tho she be in the eyes of BigPig, would devise a simple, economic and lovely storage unit for these marvelous USA-Made eye shadows — directly from, which, I might add, are also Made In The USA. There’s reaching out in the right direction, from both ends of the economic transaction!

Whenever I see the sterile slogan, We’re Reaching Out, I cut off those grabby fingers by swiftly exiting the odious octopus.

Here’s a clue and a reality check for Mr. Computation of The Corporation: You don’t know me.

The digital stores know less about me than I know about them. I’d like to keep it that way. Peeping Toms and Voyeur Vickis are going to end up hanging themselves in their retailing nooses of intrusiveness. The crass selling off of personal info is nothing compared to generating wholesaling predilections to spawn more clicks and traffic.

The streaming of life that floated so many electronic boats during the Commie-generated virus plandemic of 2020/2021 . . . — that revenue stream is currently changing course. Yet the corporate dog continues to chase its tail. The private individual in the USA intends to remain private, and an individual. And make her own decisions, in the intimate domain of her home.

During the next few months, I’ll be compiling my own playlists from newly purchased CDs. I don’t need satellite radio or streaming services to fill me in on what hot new releases, or selected golden oldies, or Famous So-and-So’s Favorites — I might like to hear, those Deals I Don’t Want to Miss.

For decades now, I’ve been rolling with the flow, quite well, on my lonesome. I’ve got my Dragonfly USB-DAC, paired up, and programmed for superior sound, to my KLH super-ears. During the past few months, I’ve been gliding swimmingly on my extraordinary currents of creativity, largely because I conducted my own symphonic research project. I unearthed the lives of musicians whose names and talents had been non-existent to me — due to the historic fact that their artistic brilliance had been woefully dimmed behind the Iron Curtain.

Any pianist who brought tears to the eyes of Van Cliburn at a recital in 1958 in the Soviet Union, he is a wonder for me to discover all by myself, at my own discretion, on my terms, as my heart wishes.

The peerless Arthur Rubenstein said of this Russian virtuoso, Sviatoslav Richter:

“It really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Then, at some point, I noticed my eyes growing moist: tears began rolling down my cheeks.”

I dare the experts and the analysts, the statisticians, the marketing geniuses and the demographic demons to create an App, a streaming service, or a cash-cow algorithm that comprehends how to eclipse the excellence of sublime aesthetic experience.

You don’t know me. You don’t know anyone. You may not even know yourself.