Dinner For One

I met with one of my wealthy female clients recently. She lives in Newport Beach.

She was in a bit of a huff regarding her daughter, who a year ago married a senior executive from a well-known software company and just had a baby. The problem was that in shopping for a home, the couple discovered his credit score had plummeted.

This was due, it was discovered, to the behaviour of his trashy ex-wife, whom he had left and was totally bat-chit crazy, according to my client. Apparently at one point she had held a knife to his throat. The ex had been delinquent on formerly joint credit card payments for a few months and owed a small amount, which she refused to pay. Hence the hit to his credit.

He paid her a substantial court-ordered monthly sum for a five-bedroom house.

Both his ex-wife and the current wife [my client's daughter] were well-educated lawyers from schools such as Notre Dame and Northwestern.

What I found interesting was that both my client and her daughter blamed the son-in-law for the problems. Her daughter was distraught, she claimed, and like her blamed the husband. When I referenced the behaviour of modern American women, the effect of divorce laws on men, my client still wouldn't budge, refusing to believe it. It was all the fault of her "stupid" son-in-law for marrying the bitch in the first place and trying to be cooperative.

I find it amusing now that weak males keep inserting themselves into these situations.

Whiskey

Overheard:

Her:  I went to the doctor a few weeks ago. I'm clean, they didn't find anything. No STDs, no gonorrhea. HIV negative, too.

Him:  That's good, because I'm pretty promiscuous.

Crap

Jerk (Neurotic Outsiders)

Be Interesting

It's soirée season. And there's nothing more boring than hearing about someone's illness, political gripes, or children. These are fucking dull subjects. Avoid them.

I say this after having attended an exhausting round of Christmas parties during the last two weeks. There's another one tonight. I shall let you know how it turns out.

As you know, I came of age in a vastly different time and place--and it wasn't that long ago. When I was a young man I was expected to attend holiday parties. And I did.

Do you have a party trick? I do. In London at Christmas and New Year's Eve gatherings our well-connected neighbour-hostess required of her attendees some kind of party trick: a joke, magic trick, amusing anecdote, quotation, etc.

It was regarded as a gift, the least one could do in return for her generosity. For my part I chose to present the John Donne poem 'A Hymn to Christ, At the Author's Last Going Into Germany', my recitation of which rarely failed to amuse fellow guests. I had memorised the poem at school for reasons lost to me now. More on this later.

Not having a family to speak of, I'm unclear as to how modern people celebrate holiday family gatherings these days. But for you, I recommend being as interesting as possible. And, work on the art of having a conversation!

Win

Buckle Style

Shooting Kit

The Indispensable Sex

'After the next inevitable apocalypse, men will be desperately needed again! Oh, sure, there will be the odd gun-toting Amazonian survivalist gal, who can rustle game out of the bush and feed her flock, but most women and children will be expecting men to scrounge for food and water and to defend the home turf. Indeed, men are absolutely indispensable right now, invisible as it is to most feminists, who seem blind to the infrastructure that makes their own work lives possible. It is overwhelmingly men who do the dirty, dangerous work of building roads, pouring concrete, laying bricks, tarring roofs, hanging electric wires, excavating natural gas and sewage lines, cutting and clearing trees, and bulldozing the landscape for housing developments. It is men who heft and weld the giant steel beams that frame our office buildings, and it is men who do the hair-raising work of insetting and sealing the finely tempered plate-glass windows of skyscrapers 50 stories tall.'

Camille Paglia, It's a Man's World, and It Always Will Be, Time, 16 December 2013

Out of Africa Style

Northern Tresses

Fogey Methods of Self-Defence

Indoor Sporting Man

The indoor sport of banging hot married women was not the career choice I envisioned in my youth. But in the last several years or so it seems to have taken up a larger portion of my dating life. I'm not completely sure why.

I certainly attract my fair share of ladies. As you're aware, I'm tall, muscular, fit, and affable. I put myself out there on a consistent basis. I have an interesting background and know how to dress well and furnish a flat in good taste and classic style. And thanks to years of practice in the drawing rooms and wine bars of London, New York, and Greenwich, I know how to conduct a conversation in real-time without once resorting to a text message. Women like that.

When I say married women I don't mean flabby housewives addicted to The View. I mean attractive women in their 30s-50s who take care of themselves and who could appear on Buffyshot if they chose to do so. I have dozens of scandalous selfies in my inbox as testament. This is Southern California, after all.

The decline of the institution of marriage is another reason. It's opened up loads of opportunities for hot-blooded single chaps such as moi. More on this later.

My much-younger self would have been horrified--and maybe a little envious--by what I get up to today. But I don't give a fuck and haven't for many years.

Allow me to get personal with you for a moment. In my late teenage years in London, after some romantic exposure to young females, I sensed that mores had changed and that the traditional marriage-and-family set-up--mythologized by parents, media, and Church--was in radical decline.

Perhaps inspired by tales of the young Ian Fleming in his City-swinger bachelor days, I decided instead to live for myself only and to achieve a life of professional and financial success, sartorial splendour, frequent travel, and regular sex.

And--you don't need me to tell you--I've more or less accomplished my goal.

At what cost? I shall discuss this another time.

Still, some of the early hope remains, a remnant of another, very different person, for whom I still have a fondness. Although I harbour a dream of settling down one day with a young woman worthy of my commitment, assets, and sperm, in the meantime the ongoing denouement is proving rather fun.

Life is for those who seize it.

Sent from my iPhone

Quilted Jacket Style

Pendleton Plaid

I just noticed that I've met and spoken with my Mercedes Benz mechanic--a solid Austrian chap, family man, and business owner--more times in the last several years than I've met or spoken with my own family members.

But again, the same is true with a few other successful male relatives.

The breakdown of Euro- and Euro-American family and society is something I've experienced first-hand.

Dissolution reigns.

The poolside beckons.

Boerboel

When I lived in Namibia (South West Africa) many of my neighbours had such dogs patrolling their fenced compounds. These creatures were very aggressive--though, not towards me. What I was told is that they were trained to respond aggressively to the wood-smoke scent of Africans. As events progress in the US, these dogs will become more popular.

Noble Beings (Jünger)

'It suffices to say that among all the old and long since fleshless heads my eye caught sight of two new ones hoisted high on poles--the heads of the Prince and of Braquemart. From the iron pike-heads with their curving hooks they looked down upon the glow of the fires which were flaking away to ash. The young Prince's hair had turned white, yet I found in his features greater nobility and the lofty, sublime beauty to which only sorrow gives birth.

 At the sight I felt tears start to my eyes, but they were such tears as fill us with wonderful exultation together with their sorrow. On this pale mask from which the scalped flesh hung in ribbons and which looked on the fires from the elevation of the torturer's pike there played the shadow of a smile intensely sweet and joyful, and I knew that on this day the weaknesses had fallen from this noble man with each step of his martyrdom, like the rags of a king disguised in beggar's weeds. Then a shudder ran through my inmost heart, for I realized that he had been worthy of his forefathers, the tamers of monsters; he had slain the dragon fear in his own heart in his own breast. That I was certain of something which I had often doubted--there were still noble beings amongst us in whose hearts lived unshakeable knowledge of a lofty ordered life. And since a high example leads us in its train, I took an oath before this head that from that day forth I would rather fall with the free man than go in triumph among the slaves.'

Ernst Jünger, On the Marble Cliffs (1939)

Pétanque

Tweed & Beard

Some Notes on Yoga Pants

Oops, these aren't yoga pants--my bad

Now, like any other red-blooded chap, I appreciate yoga pants. A lot. They are easily one of the most glorious sartorial inventions in recent years. But naturally they look best on hotties only (at left).

On less svelte ladies they can similarly look attractive, but don't be deceived, as these garments have the ability to function as sausage casing for a fat arse just waiting for a chance to bust out all over the place. So beware.

But on fat girls yoga pants are patently unacceptable. There is no excuse. Ever.

This past weekend I spotted just such a specimen. I was sitting at an outdoor cafe, like a lizard in the sun, feeling good after a workout. A girlfriend soon joined me. Her blonde hair shone bright in the Southern California sun.

Not long after she sat down I spied over her right shoulder a fat girl settling down at a table with two of her friends, only one of whom was close to being fuckable .The fat warpig wore yoga pants, sunglasses, and lycra top.

They ordered. When the sandwich was placed in front of her the All-American fattie suddenly looked very serious, inspecting the food with a turned-up-nose finickiness as if she were about to start picking diamonds out of a pile of dogshit. And then she ate.

These sights disgust me, and they happen almost every day. Why I continue to subject myself to them, I don't know.

Jäger

Hunting wild Bolsheviks, no doubt

Dreamhome

Love is our resistance

Radioactivity (Kraftwerk)

Triumph Thunderbird

Hussar Style

Church of St. Nicholas (South Tyrol)

Church of St. Nicholas, South Tyrol