Braai (Elysium Edition)

Keep it Handsome

Discipline

Detachment Theory

It happened earlier tonight with a young hottie, who, despite her bitching, didn't mind giving it up to me. Huge load. Some of the ladies complain that I'm too detached. It's something I've heard before. What does it mean? Apparently, it means I'm cold, un-emotional, and somewhere else even when we're together. And, that I'm always thinking. WTF?! I'm still not certain if and how I would even fix this feature of my character if I wanted to.

If You Wanna (The Vaccines)

Fighting Mentality

"It never always gets worse.”

David Horton, quoted in The Fighter's Mind (2010)

Löns

la vénerie

Ain't Talkin' 'bout Love

Just Because

Political Killings

The so-called "JFK assassination" is one of the dullest episodes in US history. It completely fails to register with me. It's a non-event. Politicians get killed. So what? Big fucking deal.

Now, I don't turn down my long nose at political killings. I've no problem with them. I think more should take place under the proper circumstances. Violence, after all, works.

When I was growing up my parents had some good friends--old preppy Nantucket types--for whom the "JFK assassination" was the watershed moment in their lives. It was as if their existence began with that event. Its legacy for them was like the bottom of a swamp stirred by memories, constantly muddied with sentiment, self-righteous indignation, and revenge.

My mother--an über-WASP from an old colonial masonic settler family--absolutely loathed the Kennedys and all they supposedly stood for. And so did her family. Vehemently so. I still recall them denouncing the American circus in ferocious terms.

I agreed with them then, and still do today.

Ladies Before Gentlemen

Note: that typo annoys the hell out of me, too

Homeland Defence

Knockout Game? Let's play, niggers....

"Get the **** out of my way!!!"

When one is motoring behind a slow-moving Lamborghini, Ferrari, or Maserati, one invariably discovers that the driver turns out to be an older female. WTF? It brings into question whether these individuals, like old people in general, should even be granted motor car driving licences to begin with. Most irritating.

Silver Machine (Hawkwind)

Speaking English Can Kill You

Direct Action

“We are entering a time when acts must follow words.”

Dominique Venner (1935-2013)

le fleuret

Lift Big

Under The Yum Yum Tree (Official Trailer)

Squirrel Shooting Porn

Wilson Combat Classic

Germany

We've been dating less than a month. We've fucked a couple of dozen times or so, the furniture always taking a heavy beating. And already she's bought me a large birthday present. She just declared her devotion to me, verging (I'm afraid) on love. Too much too soon. Why do women do this? It's time to move on.

Whoring at Whole Foods

In an exclusive report, I'd like to reveal to you one of my favourite hunting grounds for meeting new ladies: Whole Foods Market (WF). I usually frequent the location near me in Laguna Beach (at left). Last year a new store opened in Newport Beach. I've spent considerable time since then prowling the aisles in search of new meat. And by new meat I don't refer only to chemical-free bacon or organic grass-fed ribeye steaks. If you're looking to meet young women, I strongly recommend this place. The following are some reasons I do so.

Hotties

The girls who shop there are likely to be hotter than average. Hot girls take care of themselves and eat healthy organic foods. They are into yoga, pilates, CrossFit, BuffyShot, and other esoteric hot chick practices. Hot girls are more likely to have high-paying jobs and therefore are more able and willing to pay more for good, well-prepared foods. The girls shopping there are also likely to be single. If you stop by after work, say, between 6:00pm and 8:00pm, you will observe the single career girls buying prepared meals to take home. For those interested in these demographics, hot MILFs and cougars are also known to patrol these waters. The latter are a bit more aggressive than their younger sisters. I've been approached and chatted up many times by interested females, so much so that it didn't take me long to connect the dots. WF is proving to be a prime hunting ground. Need I say more?

Hipsters

On the upside, you're not likely to have much competition. WF is often frequented by hipsters and beta males: skinny, nerdy, pale men wearing lumberjack clothing, chinos or cheap suits. Many of them appear startlingly young, almost effeminate. Others are chubby and well-fed in their Dockers. Often these beta-boys work at local corporations and show up in groups at lunch time to peruse the buffet stands. As a fogey stud disguised as a member of the professional classes, in undercover mode, you have an advantage. With competition like this, hunting WF is like shooting fish in a barrel. Go for it.

Connected to this is the fact that sub-hominid males of the lower humanoid species are unlikely to shop at WF, as few if any can afford it. The ghetto tones and chimpouts that would ordinarily result from their presence in, say, a sports bar or nightclub, are minimized here.

WF provides a civilised environment in which to hold a decent conversation and deploy your pussy-pleasing banter to your frozen heart's content.

Props

One of the advantages of WF is the presence of numerous interesting props. Use these items as an excuse around which to construct a conversation. The prepared food tables are a good place to start. Ask the ladies about the quality of, say, the roasted peppers or sautéed kale. The meat section is also a suitable area offering plenty of opportunities to discuss the differences between organic vs. grass fed. My favourite spot at the moment is the nut section, where one can talk about sprouted almonds. Careful, though: hippies and bolshevik-leaning chicks tend to gravitate towards this area.

Keep in mind, as a man shopping at WF you are perceived as part of an elite class. It is, after all, a place where White People Like To Shop. It demonstrates your financial ability and willingness to buy expensive food items and an interest in healthy-eating and nutrition. Hot girls like that. These reasons alone would suffice to make WF a prime pick-up environment for the aspiring stud. Take note.

la vénerie

The Minefield of Caddishness

Eton Rugby

Return Your Revolt Into Style

Gym Approach

I like Blonde and Totenkopf banner. 
This is how my Nationalist gym will look -- minus scrawniness.

I go to the gym to work out and lift. That's it. No surprises there. But I see way too many people standing around in the gym socializing with one another as if they were at a fucking cocktail reception.

And I observe far too many beta males trying to make small talk with the hotties. They rarely succeed. The gym, as you know, is the last place to pick up women. This is my position and has been for years.

However, a few weeks ago my conviction was put to the test.

As you know, I've been spending a lot of time in the gym recently. I work late, but manage to get in a session after hours.

I'm consistently one of the taller, bigger chaps there and invariably I'm surrounded by smaller guys lifting hard, huffing and puffing, doing their utmost to look bigger. Best of luck to them.

I don't claim to be a bodybuilder, but I'm big enough that I catch other guys checking out my routine. Creepy, to say the least. One of my chums, a competitive bodybuilder, has told me stories of guys following him around the gym as he completes his sets. WTF?!

Sometimes there are one or two women in the weight room, usually young blonde cuties or Asian girls already in fantastic shape. And then there's the token 57-year old blonde cougar with manjaw who seemingly can't keep her eyes off me. I don't want to go there.

The female I'm referring to was early thirtysomething, slim, and brunette. I was finishing a set of bicep curls. She walked in my direction and then stopped a few feet away, looking down at her iPod as if adjusting it. After a brief moment she looked up and took a step towards me. She gestured towards my chest and started talking. All I saw were her lips moving. I couldn't hear a thing she was saying because I was listening to Motörhead at maximum volume.

I admit, I was a little annoyed as I took out my earpieces. Now don't get me wrong. I'm no stranger to women approaching me. There was a time several years ago, before I married my first (hot) ex-wife, when all I had to do was walk into a bar or restaurant and some girl was all over me. And it still happens today.

This girl was pointing towards my chest and asking me about surfing, apparently using my surf t-shirt as a prop. As Girl Game goes, I thought, it was rather transparent. But I smiled, we chatted, and we agreed to meet outside afterwards.

The best thing about this encounter was that I could see the other guys in the room watching it unfold. In the beta crowd was a dark little guy with a vaguely Middle Eastern look wearing a "Penn" t-shirt.

As if we're supposed to be impressed by that shit.

Let me tell you, it's a glorious feeling indeed to be approached by a hot chick in front of a crowd of clueless beta males looking on. I could practically feel their jealous anger.

Reds Don't Surf !

Europe

Hiroshima Mon Amour (Ultravox)

Den Volkstod !

In Defence of Bankers

In response to the ugly anti-Bankerism that infects our society, I insist on having a word.

I recently crunched the numbers, ran the algorithms, consulted the spreadsheets, and the results are in.

For every one dishonest banker there are at least 1,000,000 foolish American consumers who are ignorant about money, who refuse to save, who do not invest, and who absolutely must spend their cash on every consumer gadget, frivolous toy, and 2,000-square foot home they can't afford.

Of course I'm not absolving banks of any responsibility. They made mistakes and took foolish risks in a market that is largely rigged. Even more blame should fall on Government, however, which, desperately hungry for votes both native and imported, pushed the banks to lend at increasingly reckless rates.

Greed, of course, is not confined only to bankers and government bureaucrats. It never was.

I know of one 20-year girl in Newport Beach who inherited several million dollars after both parents passed away. Within 3 years the little bitch was broke, having spent the dosh on trips to Hawaii and Europe, clothes, sports cars, drugs, monthly raves in Palm Springs, and who knows what else.

I personally know of ageing, unemployed hippies living in million-dollar homes in Laguna Beach, having inherited them decades ago, and who can barely scrape together enough money to pay property taxes because they're too busy doing drugs and not looking for a job.

Speaking of which, I've met numerous 50-70-year olds who have frittered away their lives waiting for their rich parents to die.

And don't get me started on the throngs of addicts and "disabled" out there, people who have simply dropped out and expect someone else to care for them.

I find this fucking pathetic.

Having lived in and out of this country, and having travelled extensively abroad, I've come to certain conclusions. You know what defines Americans? A pervasive, deep-rooted childishness and immaturity, from which comes the sense of entitlement and greed that got them where they are today.

When I hear American consumers express their hatred for the banks, I immediately think of the young women who make false accusations of rape against a man after a drunken night of seduction and sex.

Embarrassed, and feeling buyer's remorse, they have no other response.

High-Five

Solo (William Boyd)

The English novelist William Boyd, of whom I'm a fan, has written the latest book in the James Bond saga. It's received mixed reviews, and it's not hard to understand why. Boyd seems to have ascribed to the character some of the pantywaisted, pussified attitudes that so characterise modern Western man. The thing about Bond is that he is a cruel, racist, sexist, and slightly mad character--much, much darker (and therefore more compelling) in the books than in the popular films. Boyd's Bond, it appears, follows in the footsteps of Hollywood's version. What a pity. Still, I'll probably buy it. Here's an excerpt from a review:

 'Solo, set in 1969, begins promisingly enough, with plenty to satisfy Bond aficionados. By the end of chapter four, a suitably carnal Bond has already eyed up a beautiful woman in a catsuit that revealed "the full swell of her breasts" (and had a zip "that was crying out to be pulled down”), polished off a bottle of Chateau Batailley 1959 at the Dorchester and road-tested a Jensen Interceptor. He’s also had reason to use the lock pick he keeps hidden in his heel, meet Q, be briefed by a pipe-smoking M and told off by Miss Moneypenny. Oh yes, and he gets to say, "My name’s Bond, James Bond."

So far, so good. Boyd clearly enjoyed writing these early scenes, relishing their authenticity, and they are huge fun to read. He is also keen to establish the character of his 45-year old Bond: highly sexed (his eye is immediately drawn to the “small-nippled breasts” of a girl in a Chelsea café, for example) but with none of the misogyny or cruelty of Fleming’s creation. In one telling scene, when he breaks into the catsuited woman’s house (she’s called Bryce, don’t ask), he watches her undress and is excited but "made vaguely uneasy by this unsought-for act of voyeurism". Fleming would have had no such qualms. Ditto a later scene, when Bond seems more concerned about saving starving children than completing his operation.'

Uugh.

Homeland Defence

Maximum Tweed

A Scientific Treatise on the Impact of Implicit Cultural Theories on Dispositional Attribution as a Function of Yoga Pants

As you know, I have an extremely violent temper.

I recall it from my earliest days as a little boy and adolescent, when it was mostly invective.

But as I grew taller and fitter it was perceived as physical threat, which looking back it probably was. As a bigger chap with greater verbal dexterity, over the years, as you can imagine, I've landed myself into some trouble with the authorities because of it.

I prefer force and violence over polite debate. Violence, after all, works.

Why am I telling you this? In the last few months I've noticed a marked increase in the strength of my anger. Very fast, very hard. It's surprised even me.

But I note, with some amusement, that the violent reactions have almost perfectly coincided with my increased protein intake and weight-lifting regimen. The anger has grown in intensity just as my physique has grown in size.

My tolerance level is at zero.

Charvet Collars

Combat

"There is no man, let him be aware of it or not, who is not a combatant in this hot contest; no one who does not take an active part in the responsibility of the defeat or victory. The prisoner in his chains and the king on his throne, the poor and the rich, the healthy and the infirm, the wise and the ignorant, the captive and the free, the old man and the child, the civilized and the savage, share equally in the combat. Every word that is pronounced, is either inspired by God or by the world, and necessarily proclaims, implicitly or explicitly, but always clearly, the glory of the one or the triumph of the other. In this singular warfare we all fight through forced enlistment; here the system of substitutes or volunteers finds no place. In it is unknown the exception of sex or age; here no attention is paid to him who says, I am the son of a poor widow; nor to the mother of the paralytic, nor to the wife of the cripple. In this warfare all men born of woman are soldiers.

 And don’t tell me you don’t wish to fight; for the moment you tell me that, you are already fighting; nor that you don’t know which side to join, for while you are saying that, you have already joined a side; nor that you wish to remain neutral; for while you are thinking to be so, you are so no longer; nor that you want to be indifferent; for I will laugh at you, because on pronouncing that word you have chosen your party. Don’t tire yourself in seeking a place of security against the chances of war, for you tire yourself in vain; that war is extended as far as space, and prolonged through all time. In eternity alone, the country of the just, can you find rest, because there alone there is no combat. But do not imagine, however, that the gates of eternity shall be opened for you, unless you first show the wounds you bear; those gates are only opened for those who gloriously fought here the battles of the Lord, and were, like the Lord, crucified."

'Ensayo sobre el catolicismo, el liberalismo, y el socialismo considerados en sus principios fundamentales', Juan Donoso Cortés, Marqués de Valdegamas (1809-1853)

A friend just remarked to me that when I drink, the scar on the side of my face turns red.

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