31 October 2013
Lifting More
Feeling tired and sluggish? There is a solution. Lift. The first thing our men young and old should do is lift weights. Find a programme that works for you--and lift. And then lift some more. I can't stress the importance of weight-lifting enough. In the last few weeks I've seen a marked increase in young female colleagues touching my biceps and shoulders. They do it almost furtively in the midst of conversation--but I've noted the frequency. Apparently the word has got around--and this has been confirmed for me by colleagues--that I'm putting much more effort into my lifting routine. The right behaviour will yield results.
29 October 2013
Beta Male Butchery: The Bluest Pill Song Ever - The Gift (The Velvet Underground)
In honour of the late Lou Reed, whose musical productions I enjoyed, I present to you "The Gift" by The Velvet Underground, a sorry tale of a naiive male impaled on the shaft of his own hapless betatude. This song was very popular amongst my Punk-Prep circle in New York in the mid-1980s. I like to think it helped influence my views on the subject. The lyrics are as follows:
***
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...).
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."
She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno."
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah shit," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I--I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
***
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...).
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."
She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno."
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah shit," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I--I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
27 October 2013
26 October 2013
24 October 2013
Applied Living Systems
I'm going to be more direct than usual.
On another website I recently commented on an article explaining how one should react to civilisational decline. I think the real measure of a man is how he lives in such an age. Not how he survives, but how he lives. There are two kinds of people: the first, those who prefer to bitch and moan about the state of things, who are resigned to their position as passive victims of events; and the second, those who actually do something about it. At core are the questions: How does one survive the whirlwind? What is the best way to live under current circumstances? The following are just a few thoughts.
Love For Life
First principles first. Adopt the right attitude. Do you love life and accept your fate--or do you hate it? This is something you must ask yourself and answer honestly. Despair and nihilism are ugly qualities. So is chronic escapism. There are ways to avoid these all-too-common traps and soul-killers. Keep a sound perspective. Why worry about things you can't change? Deal with it. Beware of slave moralities that teach you to hate this life, that suck the pleasure out of everything, that drown your vigor, masculinity, and virility in a swamp of distraction. Remind yourself every day that you were born for this life, and embrace it. There is no other.
Coping
Some coping methods are better than others. For those who are alone and without family, there are alternatives. Stay engaged with life. There's a lot of beauty to be enjoyed and joy to be had. Face the sun. Take a walk outside. Travel. Start a business. Write a book. Be social. Network with like-minded folks. Be a resource for one another. Train and be prepared. As for myself, I work long hours. I go to the gym, lift weights, and swim. I take an interest in eating right and eating well. I read a lot. I have a few outside business projects that occupy my time, which I haven't yet written about here. Going back to nature definitely helps. I live a minute or two from the ocean. The restorative effects of a walk on the beach are not to be underestimated. An hours-long hike in the foothills and canyons above my home clears my mind and recharges my body. Spending time in the sun (for vitamin D) also helps a lot. What do you do?
Women, Game and the Manosphere
Accept that the old order is dead. Whereas finding lasting love was once taken for granted, today in the modern world it is increasingly rare occurrence, if it occurs at all. Fortunately there are other ways in which to interact with the opposite sex and to satisfy the demands of Eros. As you know, I have a strong attraction for the ladies, and, as a result, I have implemented a program of networking and dating. My busy dating schedule helps keep me grounded and connected to real life. I can be a rather detached, taciturn chap at times and I therefore need to reconnect with a warm female on a regular basis to help pull me out of myself. Being around women improves my mood.
In recent months I've taken an interest in the Game and Manosphere communities, in much the same way, I suppose, as a field biologist goes to the rain forest to study howler monkeys. There are a few key writers there for whom I have considerable respect, and who seem to get it. At their best these communities create applied systems of thought and behaviour for men to become who they are and to get what they need out of life. Because, as we all know, the present regime isn't cutting it. But suspicion remains that these communities are inhabited in large part by hollow-chested males who would prefer to remain behind the computer screen, who over-intellectualize the most basic existential concepts, who balk at actually getting out there and living. Ignore these people.
The System may have failed you. But don't fail yourself.
On another website I recently commented on an article explaining how one should react to civilisational decline. I think the real measure of a man is how he lives in such an age. Not how he survives, but how he lives. There are two kinds of people: the first, those who prefer to bitch and moan about the state of things, who are resigned to their position as passive victims of events; and the second, those who actually do something about it. At core are the questions: How does one survive the whirlwind? What is the best way to live under current circumstances? The following are just a few thoughts.
Love For Life
First principles first. Adopt the right attitude. Do you love life and accept your fate--or do you hate it? This is something you must ask yourself and answer honestly. Despair and nihilism are ugly qualities. So is chronic escapism. There are ways to avoid these all-too-common traps and soul-killers. Keep a sound perspective. Why worry about things you can't change? Deal with it. Beware of slave moralities that teach you to hate this life, that suck the pleasure out of everything, that drown your vigor, masculinity, and virility in a swamp of distraction. Remind yourself every day that you were born for this life, and embrace it. There is no other.
Coping
Some coping methods are better than others. For those who are alone and without family, there are alternatives. Stay engaged with life. There's a lot of beauty to be enjoyed and joy to be had. Face the sun. Take a walk outside. Travel. Start a business. Write a book. Be social. Network with like-minded folks. Be a resource for one another. Train and be prepared. As for myself, I work long hours. I go to the gym, lift weights, and swim. I take an interest in eating right and eating well. I read a lot. I have a few outside business projects that occupy my time, which I haven't yet written about here. Going back to nature definitely helps. I live a minute or two from the ocean. The restorative effects of a walk on the beach are not to be underestimated. An hours-long hike in the foothills and canyons above my home clears my mind and recharges my body. Spending time in the sun (for vitamin D) also helps a lot. What do you do?
Women, Game and the Manosphere
Accept that the old order is dead. Whereas finding lasting love was once taken for granted, today in the modern world it is increasingly rare occurrence, if it occurs at all. Fortunately there are other ways in which to interact with the opposite sex and to satisfy the demands of Eros. As you know, I have a strong attraction for the ladies, and, as a result, I have implemented a program of networking and dating. My busy dating schedule helps keep me grounded and connected to real life. I can be a rather detached, taciturn chap at times and I therefore need to reconnect with a warm female on a regular basis to help pull me out of myself. Being around women improves my mood.
In recent months I've taken an interest in the Game and Manosphere communities, in much the same way, I suppose, as a field biologist goes to the rain forest to study howler monkeys. There are a few key writers there for whom I have considerable respect, and who seem to get it. At their best these communities create applied systems of thought and behaviour for men to become who they are and to get what they need out of life. Because, as we all know, the present regime isn't cutting it. But suspicion remains that these communities are inhabited in large part by hollow-chested males who would prefer to remain behind the computer screen, who over-intellectualize the most basic existential concepts, who balk at actually getting out there and living. Ignore these people.
The System may have failed you. But don't fail yourself.
22 October 2013
Careless Memory
I'm getting careless. Or maybe just old.
I've been seeing this young filly for the last few weeks. A friend introduced us. She's cute. Works for a well-known surf wear company. Wild in bed, a loud moaner.
The problem is, I don't remember her name!
Fuck.
I'm sure she included it in early texts, but I've since deleted those. If I approached our friend, it would surely get back to her.
How do I solve this? I've decided to ask to see her driver's license, under the pretense of checking out her photo. I'm screwed if she refuses.
I'll let you know how it turns out.
I've been seeing this young filly for the last few weeks. A friend introduced us. She's cute. Works for a well-known surf wear company. Wild in bed, a loud moaner.
The problem is, I don't remember her name!
Fuck.
I'm sure she included it in early texts, but I've since deleted those. If I approached our friend, it would surely get back to her.
How do I solve this? I've decided to ask to see her driver's license, under the pretense of checking out her photo. I'm screwed if she refuses.
I'll let you know how it turns out.
20 October 2013
18 October 2013
Evening Observations
In recent months I have noticed that when I meet someone for drinks at a cocktail establishment after work, and the flat-screen televisual sets are showing American football, I am typically the only chap in the place who looks as if he actually played (or could play) the game. Pot-bellied betas and wispy-haired technicians predominate.
16 October 2013
Pistolero: Spearfishing in Mexico
Our destination was a small town about half-way down the Baja peninsula on the Sea of Cortez. I'd been there before. My companions included several older gentlemen, a few of them friends of my late father, from Los Angeles, New York, and London. Although the trip was a standard affair with saltwater rod and reel from a boat, I took a day to go spearfishing with a group of Italian spearos who were staying in town.
Blue Water Hunting
The Italians--tanned, slim, muscular, shaven-headed--were a friendly lot whose political and cultural sympathies probably coincided with mine. Four of us hired a boat and guide to take us out. A few miles out we stopped at a shark buoy. The captain threw out some chum to attract the fish. Our quarry included dorado (mahi-mahi), tuna, sea bass, sailfish, and marlin. We jumped in, suspended in the blue, in 300 ft. of water. After a few minutes the dorado appeared, darting about us like crazed little freight trains. Our team shot four; I nailed one. This is not my favourite type of spearfishing, because you just sort of hang there in the water, waiting for the prey to appear. It's a very passive way of fishing.
 |
| Mexican reef inhabitants |
Next on our itinerary were the Baja reefs. This is what I'm used to. Stalking, hunting, and nailing the little motherfuckers. We could actually see the bottom--and the fish. May I be direct with you? I hate SCUBA diving. I dislike the restrictions imposed by a wetsuit, weightbelt, and tank. This is why I do not SCUBA dive. It's unnatural. I'm used to using a pair of board shorts, skin-diving fins, and a Hawaiian sling in the Bahamas. That's it. In Baja we dove around the reefs, encountering 15-25' ft deep spots, and nailing prime targets. I shot trigger fish, parrot fish, and small groupers. And more. This was more like it. This was Baja spearfishing at its best. The meat made superb ceviche, which we had prepared for us in one of the restaurants in town.
There's something about skin-diving that I could explain to you, but until you've experienced it you wouldn't understand.
14 October 2013
Ride the Cycle
The ladies can be so amusing.If you run a group of women--as I do--you'll notice certain patterns in their interactions with you. For instance, around the same time every month I receive a flurry of texts from my casual girlfriends suggesting we get together. Some of the messages are pretty innocuous--"care to meet for a drink?", "I'm going to be in your area tonight", "what are you doing after work?", etc.--but others are much more explicit. You'd have to see it to believe it.
Being the generous, agreeable chap that I am, I typically agree to meet these ladies--and then spend the next few days banging the shit out of them. It took me a while to figure out what was going on, until I did some online research and realised their seemingly random texts to me at roughly the same time every month are probably a function of where they are in their cycle. In other words, when they are ovulating they have a greater interest in sex. Which is where I come in.
Not that I'm complaining. Although it can be exhausting work, I welcome the female company and the opportunity for a good cardio workout. Recently I've taken to planning our dates during lunch time or in the afternoon at the weekend. I like to keep my evenings free for other things, such as reading, lifting, getting drunk, and other important activities. A man should set his priorities and plan accordingly.
At my age I should be settled with wife and children like most of my friends, but I'm increasingly glad I'm not. This is too much fun.
12 October 2013
Strategic Recriminations
Don't think I didn't notice you today, ol' chap. I saw you and your lady walk by. I was sitting there: big, tall, broad chest, bulging biceps, clipped hair, beard, Persol sunglasses. You couldn't miss me. I know you saw me. I know for a fact your cute little lady did, as she turned back to smile at me flirtatiously after you both had passed. In due course I'll have her. It's only a matter of time. Count on it, you fucking parvenu piece of shit.
11 October 2013
06 October 2013
05 October 2013
Connections
We both lay back in bed, holding hands, panting, lathered in sweat. The plantation ceiling fan whirled in the afternoon heat. After a few moments she turned on her side to face me and put her leg over mine. She smiled at me, her blue eyes glistening and happy. I was spent. I had just cum deep inside her for the second time. As for my cock, it was flopped over my muscular thigh like an overgrown Nile crocodile sunning itself on a river bank and getting ready for a long snooze.She continued stroking and petting me, leaning in for kisses and nibbles, seemingly determined to get the action started again. I knew where this was going. WTF? I was worn out. I decided to deflect her course by suddenly getting serious.
I said: "Recent studies show that women whose male partners ejaculate inside of them during sex are less prone to depression and other mental disorders. It has something to do with the chemicals in semen. You'll thank me later." (Hell, I'll thank me later, I thought).
"Really?," she replied. "Well, did you know that women who swallow are less likely to develop breast cancer?"
"Fascinating. You should have nothing to worry about then. I love science."
"And sex, don't forget," she added, snuggling close to me.
I later thought about this some more. The modern project, as you know, is devoted to the isolation of man in every sphere of existence. It is a process of separation and atomisation. The tools of the modern age--such as birth control and feminism--are mechanisms by which the natural flow or exchange between men and women is prevented. They are barriers erected to keep us apart and isolated, holding us back from fulfilling our identity as men and women, as social beings. Modernity has rendered man a lone target. Several years ago I wrote the following:
"As society in the modern West becomes more totalitarian, it will be even harder to make meaningful human connections and live a worthwhile life of the spirit. The trends of the age are against it. Modernity rejects the duality of existence: good/evil, right/wrong, male/female, black/white, etc. The egalitarian impulse seeks to eliminate difference, particularism, diversity. In short, it is at war with human nature, with Man himself. The goal of the modern project is the destruction of every form of tradition and community known to Western man. The ties that bind a man to God, a man to a woman, a man to his family, a man to his people, a man to his neighbour -- all of these must be destroyed. Total war has been declared on nature in her every manifestation. In the end there can be no shelter, no refuge, and we will lie exposed and alone beneath the searching lights."
This is still my position. When I think of the condition of man in the modern age I picture in my mind's eye a patient on an operating table awaiting the surgeon's scalpel, clueless, alone, and afraid. Under such conditions, and without natural affections and attachments, bereft of higher purpose, men become something less than human, something more akin to cattle waiting for the stainless-steel slaughter machine. If some of us are to have a purpose, it shall be to dismantle this machine and eradicate the peoploids that gave it life in the first place. But that's a discussion for another day.
As you know, I'm a lone wolf at heart. I make no apologies for it. But I'm neither a hermit nor a misanthrope. Life is good. And I genuinely enjoy meeting people, as you'll soon find out. Connection is key. I'm the first to admit that as I get older and look back I realise some of the happiest moments of my life have been those spent with a beautiful woman in intimate setting. Make no mistake: men and women are made for each other; we need each other, literally, not just on a social and emotional level, but also in the most fundamental biological sense. It should go without saying, but first principles bear repeating. In the present age connection is the greatest form of rebellion. Love is our resistance. Through the crossfire, our rebel hearts long for each other.
04 October 2013
Hat Trick Confession
I need to get this off my broad, well-sculpted chest.More than a year-and-a-half ago, in January 2012, I banged three (3) girls on the same day.
One of them was my hot blonde girlfriend at the time, easily a 9.5.
The other two were steady FWBs. One of them, married.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I laughed about it then. And I still do now.
Moving on.
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Lift More
A writer on another forum recently asked if building muscle attracted women.
Are you joking? What a dumb-fuck.
Are you joking? What a dumb-fuck.
Of course it does--if you like women (in bars, clubs, restaurants) touching your well-developed biceps, shoulders, and chest and asking how much you lift. Which I do.
This kind of approach leads to all sorts of situations. It's up to you to take advantage of it.
This kind of approach leads to all sorts of situations. It's up to you to take advantage of it.
Lift--and then lift some more.
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
01 October 2013
Seek Order in Disorder
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| ...and find opportunity in chaos |
Get ready. However it plays out, you would do well to have a plan. The action is certain to be local. Focus on your circle of influence, that which you can control. Network with like-minded people. And be sure to keep a list of useful information collected on your field research trips. Keep note of the location and movement of adversaries in your community. As you know, the past few decades have been a period of gradually intensifying hatreds and humiliations imposed on our civilisation. The impending instability represents a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get our own back. Be prepared--and be prepared to act swiftly and decisively. Be bold and take what is yours. The age of the warlord approaches. It's like 1913 all over again.
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Scattered
"Everything might scatter. You might be right. I suppose it’s something we can’t easily get away from. People need to feel they belong. To a nation, to a race. Otherwise, who knows what might happen? This civilisation of ours, perhaps it’ll just collapse. And everything scatter, as you put it."
Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans (2000)
Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans (2000)
