Bye Bye Love (The Cars)

la casquette Berteil

Bond on the Hemingway Hero

The Seychelles, where the story is set

"He looked hard and fit, and the faded blue jeans, military-cut shirt and wide leather belt suggested that he made a fetish of doing so--looking tough...Bond ran his eyes down the man from the sparse close-cropped black and grey hair, like iron filings sprinkled over the bullet head, to the tattooed eagle above a fouled anchor on the right forearm and then down to the naked leathery feet that stood nautically on the carpet. He thought: this man looks like a Hemingway hero. I'm not going to get on with him."

Ian Fleming, The Hildebrand Rarity (1960)

Manning Up

I was struck by this anonymous comment left at the Chateau the other day (20 Feb 4:42pm). It was in response to an article on the pussification of Western men. It pretty much says it all:

***

* Lift weights, particularly in a regimen centered around compound movements like squats, deads, and overhead pressing

* Eschew the steady-state cardio for HIIT or cardio that alternates from very slow and steady to sudden bursts of speed. Compare the physique of your average Marathoner to that of a world class sprinter or NFL skill position player for all the visual evidence you need.

* Low carb diets like Keto or Paleo; High-carb diets may increase cortisol levels, while the high-fat diets are correlated with higher cholesterol, a necessary precursor to test

* Eating foods like broccoli and other cruciferous veggies that are naturally anti-estrogenic; Eat nuts like almonds as well

* Avoid xenoestrogens

* Get more sleep, as it will reduce cortisol levels

* Fuck more and fuck often, including jerking off, as it raises serum test levels and lowers cortisol, while elevating dopamine levels

* Don’t listen to losers and rejects who tell you not to jerk off or bang because of the results of some poorly constructed Chinese study they all cite to

* Drink less beer and more hard liquor

* Utilize power poses as you carry yourself in public

* Keep the company of attractive women

* Get lap dances from strippers who are ovulating or enjoy the company of attractive females who are ovulating

* Shoot or even hold guns

* Watch Violent movies and TV shows

So, there you fuckers have it. A cheap and easy road map to increased test that doesn’t require spending money on supplements of dubious worth and well within the budget of most. Too lazy to source this stuff, but some of it is within the very archives of this blog, while the rest bears scrutiny from a cursory Google or Wikipedia search.

Now, get out there and eat some steak and eggs while watching 80s Arnold movies, head to the firing range for awhile, crush shit in the gym for a bit, and then hit the bars to charm beautiful, ovulating, facially attractive sorority girls and Eastern European girls with that waist-to-hip ratio of .7s.

Sid Vicious

après coup

Forsyth: Crikey, that was a dashed close thing, chums...I mean to say, it really got out of hand fast.

Selwyn: I say! It jumped up a notch, what?

Forsyth: With knobs on!

Toby: I biffed a bolshevik in the ol' ticker.

Forsyth: Well done old man. Toby slayed a chap. Did you use a what's-it?

Toby: I jolly well did! There were ponies, and a blighter alight, and I whacked a chap with a what's-it. 

Forsyth: Toby, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. You should find yourself a relative in South America. Go abroad for a while, because you're probably wanted for murder.

Fragments

A few years ago, shortly after my father died, my uncle in Connecticut sent me several large boxes of my things that were stored at his house. Among the packages were various childhood items--toy soldiers, plastic models, train sets, books, etc.--from when I was a very small boy. I had not seen most of these things for over 30 years.

I had been keeping much of it for the future, in the event I ever had children. But the prospect of fatherhood seems unlikely at this point. And anyway, as I get older, my desire for it diminishes. So over the last couple of years I've been getting rid of a lot of junk.

One of my girlfriends recently observed me throwing away some old toys. "Don't they hold any memories for you?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "I thought they would, but they don't."

It feels good to purge the past in this way. These days I'm inclined to travel light.

The future, as always, is conditional.

"If thou hast a woe, tell it not to the weakling, tell it to thy saddle-bow, and ride singing forth."

- King Alfred the Great, The Proverbs of Alfred

Divine Thing (Soup Dragons)

Fresh Specs: Aviator Sunglasses

Beware girls bearing gifts.

One of the advantages of being a charming older chap is the greater frequency with which women give you gifts.

It wasn't always like this. In my younger days, still under the influence of romantic delusions, I was the one distributing tokens of affection to the girls I fancied. But somewhere along the line I came to my senses and the script, as it were, flipped.

With several women in my dating rotation, I anticipated the arrival of this past Saint Valentine's Day with some discomfiture. But I managed to get through the day by simply ignoring it. This is a strategy I use in many areas of life.

Still, one of my lady friends presented me with a pair of new Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, not unlike the pair in the photo (above). I find it complements my beard, close-cropped hair, and large physique.

I suppose at some point she will expect me to return the favour, in a manner of speaking--a not entirely unpleasant possibility.

Strapping Tweed

Beach Idler

I'm taking some time off today and heading to the beach. It's sunny and warm here, temperature in the low 80s. I've been informed that the rest of the country is experiencing serious winter storms. What can I say? Hang in there. And keep a stiff upper lip, and all that.

Hang Ten

Poolside

Word has reached me that I've been the subject of recent discussion in my family. None of whom, I should add, are particularly close to me. But I hear things from time to time, from the unlikeliest of sources. The concern is that I'm leading a life of a wastrel, that a tall, fit, successful chap like moi should be married with a family already. They should know that at my age it's unlikely to happen, at least along conventional lines.

When I describe myself as a black sheep, I mean it. I embrace it. It's been that way from the start. I spent years playing the game, living a multitude of little lies, and no doubt I've profited from it. But my heart and mind were never invested in it. As those closest to me have observed over the years, I don't care about the things other people seem to care about. I'm thoroughly alienated, utterly detached. And I suppose I've paid some sort of price for it, too.

As you know, in my mid-twenties I finally perceived clearly the lies I had been told about women, race, and life in general. I was encouraged in my new thinking by having lived, travelled, and been educated abroad for so long, which gives one a unique way of looking at things. And for that I am incredibly grateful. That was when I swallowed the 'Red Pill", as it is called now. I haven't looked back since.

***

It is not enough merely to react; one must have a way forward, too. There has to be a plan, an objective, providing hope and purpose, and, therefore, a reason to get up in the morning. So somewhere along the line I started formulating in my own mind a way of living for myself and myself only. As part of this process I looked at other men to see how they lived, eventually settling on three main categories into which most chaps can be placed. These are as follows:

(1) Trads. These are the men who opt for the traditional route of marriage, mortgage, and family. I think the vast majority of men fall into the this group. Many are called, some are not. Formerly a secure, conventional route, in recent decades married life has been rendered highly unsafe due to the distorted nature of modern females and the divorce industry. I'm encountering more men in my daily life who have gone down this road, only to end up broken and alone. For many if not most men in the US today, marriage and family life are an enormous risk, one that more men are increasingly choosing not to take. I was briefly married once and determined it's not for me. Been there, done that.

(2) Drop-Outs. A group populated by the broken males, the man-boys, the dank shut-ins in terry cloth robes stained with energy drinks and potato chips. A world of video games and porn. Addicts hooked on drugs, alcohol, and the interwebz. It is way of physically and socially disengaging from the world. Drop-outs avoid not only the challenge of living--but also the pleasure, beauty, and glory that are still to be attained. It is a death-in-life existence. To be avoided.

(3) Dissidents. These are the men who live an active life on their own terms. It is a method for engaging life, accepting fate--not hiding from it. The endgame should be to thrive, not just to live. It is recognition that life is a struggle and requires the mindset of a fighter. The key to the dissident is a "I don't give a fuck" attitude. This is the life of a corsair, a privateer, a rebel. Take all that one can from life, because after all one could die at any moment. Pick a fight. Face the sun.

***

As you know I had a unique, privileged upbringing, for which I'm very grateful. But the one constant criticism I received from family members was that I was selfish and self-absorbed. They made it seem as if I were destined for Hell. I took it seriously. I owned it. And I responded in a typically adolescent manner: "If I don't put myself first, who will?" Looking back I can see I had a point, and although I didn't quite realise it, in some ways I've been preparing myself all along for the dystopian reality that prevails today.

Of course, on a personal level, I've nothing to complain about. Quite the contrary in fact. I'm successful and comfortably well-off. I have an interesting past and plenty of memories to sustain me. I live in a nice house near the ocean. I take holidays in exotic locales. I'm surrounded by pretty women and have access to more sex than I know what to do with. Living well, they say, is the best revenge. I've made my choice and I'm sticking to it. You can find me poolside.

Shooting Party

Hallway Collection

Vested Tweed

Valentine de Saint-Point

Beau Vallon

Seychelles

Scrambled Eggs James Bond

SCRAMBLED EGGS JAMES BOND 

For four individualists: 12 fresh eggs, salt and pepper, 5-6oz. of fresh butter 

Break the eggs into a bowl. Beat thoroughly with a fork and season well. In a small copper (or heavy-bottomed saucepan) melt 4 oz. of the butter. When melted, pour in the eggs and cook over a very low heat, stirring continuously with a small egg whisk. While the eggs are slightly more moist than you would wish for eating, remove pan from heat, add rest of butter and continue whisking for half a minute, adding the while finely chopped chives or fine herbs. Serve on hot buttered toast in individual copper dishes (for appearance only) with pink champagne (Taittinger) and low music. 

 P.S. I think you sometimes add cream instead of the last piece of Butter. G.

Girl Management

Morning Tea: Silver Leaves

Most mornings I stop by the local coffee house, where, naturally, I order tea. The place is usually crowded. Businessmen in not-quite-right suits. Younger guys with product in their hair. Sour-looking career girls. And then there are the ubiquitous older men, long hair, t-shirts, and flip-flops, reading the LA Times or WSJ, multi-millionaires who retired at 55 and spend their day chilling out at the beach.

Mothers pop in with their children, spoiled young things with a taste for lattes. You have not seen soccer moms until you have seen Orange County soccer moms. They really are a cut above the rest. They often remain very fuckable in their yoga pants even in their 30s and 40s. Drinks in hand they all mount the Escalade and ferry the kids to school.

My brew of choice is an expertly calibrated blend of 62% pure white tea and 38% green Japanese sencha. White tea, I have found, has a more exquisite flavour. If black tea is a fortysomething cougar, and if green tea is a free-spirited hippy chick into yoga, then white tea is a delicate 16-year old girl, silken hair and dewy lips, blossoming into womanhood. I recommend it.

There is a gym nearby. It specializes in Pilates, which, so far as I can determine, is an elaborate stretching session for hotties in yoga pants, and for which the hotties themselves (or, more precisely, their husbands) probably dish out a considerable amount. For women like these, life is just one big photo opportunity.

Reds Don't Surf !

A Word on Beards and Hipsters

The evening chill descends on my beachfront neighbourhood like a tiresome guest at a cocktail party. I sit on my balcony and sip a glass of Argentine malbec, enjoying the sound of the pounding surf. An unsettling thought suddenly occurs to me. For all of my hostility towards the hipsters, I realize, I actually share quite a number of similarities with them.

These are, for the most part, merely superficial. Flannel shirts and denim? I've been wearing them for years, although mine are probably laundered more frequently. Horn-rimmed spectacles? Been there, done that, about to do it again. Short back-n-sides or clipped haircut? Ditto, and you can check it out for yourself on this blog. Beard? Yes, it's well-documented, recently, too.

Important differences exist. For one, I don't have any tattoos, although I'm not particularly hostile to the idea. The other thing is, where hipsters often try to look like woodsmen, I actually have the physique of a lumberjack. Most of the hipsters I've seen are small, wiry young fellows. It's not their fault, though; I applaud them for trying. And finally, as you know, I thoroughly loathe bow-ties.

This comparison, I believe, was subconsciously prompted by a recent article at The Atlantic on beards. The piece in question essentially labelled as 'racist' European-American men who sport facial hair, such as yours truly. Reviewing the history of beards in America, it is an amusing piece of research, and reading it one would be hard-pressed to determine if the author, Sean Trainor, is being entirely serious. I suspect he is.

Anti-beardism, I would argue, is simply the result of lesser-male jealousy. Beard envy, if you will. A beard practically roars masculinity. It is blatant testament to the inequality between the sexes, and, one might add, among the races. And if one combines it with height, weight-lifting and the right attitude, it's bound to alarm the smooth-cheeked mangina contingent. All of these combine to produce a powerful rebuke to the prevailing ideology of egalitarianism.

One might go further. Bearded hipsterdom itself in a way represents a reclamation of masculine style and masculine pastimes. It is a carving-out of a masculine space in an increasingly feminized world. I would add here that there is a deep undercurrent of European-American identity in this project, however strongly hipsters and others might deny it. Note the appropriation of their forefathers' clothing, the dedication to old-school grooming, the taking-up of antiquated crafts and vocations. One might go on.

All of this, of course, is too great a shock to the fogey system and merits no more than a few moments' worth of reflection.

I pour another glass of wine, pull my Barbour quilted jacket around myself, and glare into the darkness.

A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia (1992)

Clapton on Cordings

Tweed Flat Caps

Squash: A Different Perspective

Tattersall Tales

The exclusive photo (at port) depicts one of my Tattersall shirts in action. It is a fine number from W.H. Taylor. The Tattersall cloth is derived from the horse blankets used by Tattersall's horse market in London in the 18th century. I pair it with a Tweed jacket, denim or cord trousers, and brogues from Gaziano & Girling. However, I must report that I'm no longer able comfortably to fit into this shirt. Due to an intense weight-lifting regimen, my pecs, biceps, and shoulders have greatly increased in size. Also pictured is a Rolex Perpetual Datejust watch, a classic model first introduced by Rolex in 1945.

Tartan Tuesday

Mongol Invasions

Over the weekend I escorted one of my young lady friends on a shopping spree to South Coast Plaza, an upscale establishment specialising in mostly high-end luxury goods.

We were there ostensibly to find her a new handbag, although I was lured in by the Berluti, Rolex, and John Lobb stores, as you might expect.

The expedition, however, soon resulted in us standing around gawking at the throngs of pygmy Mongols swarming along the walkways. It was as if the Golden Horde itself had descended upon the place, driven into a frenzy by the sales.

When I was a young boy, growing up in New York and Connecticut, I used to imagine the battles that took place in the area in colonial times. These days, I admit to you, thanks to the mass infusion of temporary visitors to these shores, I increasingly find myself picturing the guerrilla race wars that certainly (I hope) will take place in this country in future. An inspiring thought to be sure.

"Good Lord," my girl later said to me as we walked out, "three-fourths of the people in there were Asian."

 "Indeed," I replied.

Under the British Hoof

'Even the American colonies gained little by their revolt in 1776. For twenty-five years after the Revolution they were in far worse condition as free states than they would have been as colonies. Their government was more expensive, more inefficient, more dishonest, and more tyrannical. It was only the gradual material progress of the country that saved them from starvation and collapse, and that material progress was due, not to the virtues of their new government, but to the lavishness of nature. Under the British hoof they would have got on just as well, and probably a great deal better.'

 - H.L. Mencken, A Mencken Chrestomathy (1949)

A Good-Looking Bastard

'He was an athletic-looking six foot, dressed in the sort of casually well-cut beige herringbone tweed that suggests Anderson & Sheppard. He wore a white silk shirt and a dark red polka-dot tie and the soft brown V-necked sweater looked like vicuña...a good-looking bastard who got all the women he wanted and probably lived on them--and lived well.

All he learned--from the clothes--was that the count was a much-travelled man--shirts from Charvet, ties from Tripler, Dior and Hardy Amies, shoes from Peal, and raw silk pyjamas from Hong Kong...a tough maquereau from the Ritz bar in Paris, the Palace at St Moritz, the Carlton at Cannes--good at backgammon, polo, water-skiing, but with the yellow streak of a man who lives on women.'

 - Bond on Count Lippe, in Ian Fleming's Thunderball (1961)