Admiral Cod On Tour: Arizona

Admiral Cod On Tour: Palm Springs

About A Boy

The boys in the photo (at left - h/t CH) look like me and my friends in suburban New York and Connecticut in the late '70s. We spent most of our free time outdoors. In fact, when I think back to my happiest moments, they invariably were outside, in forests and fields, creeks and lakes. Long days of bright sunshine. At weekends we would wear striped Adidas shoes--not Sambas or Gazelles, I forget the name of the model--windbreakers, polo shirts, and cruise around the neighborhood on our Schwinn Stingrays like a little biker gang. When we weren't hunting down big snapping turtles and crayfish in the creeks, we were fighting the other neighborhood boys.

The girls liked me and I liked them. They loved tousling my blond hair and daring me to kiss them and touch them. When I was around 7 or 8 I got into serious trouble with the school authorities who caught me kissing a cute little blonde girl, 'W,' after school one day. Her parents were not amused. I'll never forget the lecture I got from my father, who seemed very concerned. He was still in his three-piece Wall Street suit when he arrived home from work and sat me down in a darkened room for the talk. I like to think this incident didn't obstruct my pre-teen Game, but I'm not so sure.

It may sound odd to you, but there wasn't a time when I didn't think about sex. That I was precocious in this department would be an understatement. I became familiar with details of the female anatomy at a very young age, courtesy of various teenage babysitters, including a set of hot Italian/Jewish twins and a young Persian nanny whose wealthy parents in Iran sent her to live with us right before the revolution. I'll write more about her later.

Fucking With Feminists

I learned early on that some women are full of shit. And I'm not talking about my own family members.

When I as an undergraduate, two of my first lays during my first year were feminists. One was the cute, petite daughter of a well-known architect. She would lead candle-lit "Take Back The Night" marches through campus. She lobbied the administration to have the women's bathrooms re-labelled "womyn's bathrooms". She took a shine to me--even when (or because) I laughed at her--and would wait for me outside my door in the evenings after class so we could fuck. She was a total submissive in bed.

The other feminist chick was an attractive blonde with a messed-up family background. She was genuinely beautiful, but deliberately made herself mildly unattractive--messy hair, no make-up, hippy clothing e.g. Baja hoodies--and wore baggy, loose-fitting clothing as some sort of rebellion against beauty standards. One of our friends in common, knowing my Nationalist fogey views, set us up together as a sort of joke--but we clicked. We would go back to her room, smoke weed, listen to music by 10,000 Maniacs and Bjork, and then fuck on the huge hippy cushions in trendy ethnic fabrics that littered her flat. Her great dream was to get a degree in Women's Studies and move to NYC to work with abused women and the homeless. Funny thing is, the word got out among the other girls in her residence hall about our dalliances, and I soon found myself with some new admirers.

I used to--and to some extent still do--feel a bit sorry for these women, because they've been lied to and mislead,. But we all have to one extent or another, and we get over it and move on.

Merry Christmas 2015

The Brooks Brothers Shirt

As you know, I have been a Brooks Brothers customer since I was very young. I regularly peruse the company literature. I recently spotted this quote from Tom Davis, a Brooks Brothers salesman, on the famed Fiat chairman and style icon Gianni Agnelli, who only wore Brooks Brothers button-down shirts:

 "Mr. Agnelli loved clothing, and he was like a kid in a candy shop when I took him for a tour around the store...He wore three colors: white, beige, blue. Not stripe, never another color."

I found this quote very timely, as I have similarly limited my shirtings to just a few colours: white, beige, blue, and pink. No stripes, no patterns. Button-down and spread collar. Pinpoint and oxford cloth. That's it.

After completing an audit of my dress shirt collection, I removed all of the unconventional numbers. It may be difficult getting rid of certain items, especially the expensive ones, but it does make things easier in the long run. When you know what you like and what looks good, go with it.

A proper dress shirt is the foundation of the professional chap's wardrobe. Keep it simple, clean, and classic.

Save the flash for interesting ties, watches, and accessories, if you so choose.

Brogued, Bothered, & Besuited

The days flow in unceasing rhythm, and a new year beckons. It is important, as you know, to face the approaching Sturmwind appropriately clothed in classic finery. In this exclusive photo (at left), I am wearing a Corneliani suit in a lightweight chalk stripe pattern and a bespoke pair of Cleverley brogues in City black. Note the fine chisel toes on the shoes. At my request, the toecaps have been specially reinforced with aerospace-grade titanium, for when I kick against the Bolshevik menace. If you spot a tall, well-dressed gent patrolling the carriageways at dawn, do stop and say hello.

Saturday Night Cat Fight

Saturday night's alright for fighting, apparently, because I recently had two girls fight over me.

So the other night I went out with a girlfriend to a live music venue in Laguna Beach. We procured some cocktails and stood near the stage. The IOIs [Indicators of Interest] started coming in thick and fast, particularly from a group of hot thirtysomething blondes who were gyrating across the dance floor. Of course, my girlfriend noticed and immediately got into defense mode.

At one point one of the tiny blondes slid in between us and started grinding her tight little ass on my chopper. It was quite blatant. Having consumed several G&Ts by that point, I honestly didn't much care at first, but my lady companion did and words were exchanged.

I was oblivious to what was going down next to me, until another woman--who was there with her boyfriend and who kept smiling at me and rubbing my beard (which was also driving my companion crazy)--told me what was up. My girlfriend and the tiny blonde were in each other's face and threatening each other. I caught the words "fucking cunt" and "fuck off". It looked as if blows were about to be exchanged.

After I told her to calm down my lady finally just turned her back on her and the little blonde backed off, swearing and spitting. I turned around and yelled at her to fuck off, chill out, relax, and enjoy the music. She slinked away to the back of the bar with her friends. She was still glaring at us when we left at midnight.

 I think I handled the scene rather well and prevented what could have turned into major drama and possible crime scene and spilled blood on the dance floor. I didn't want to be a total scoundrel to the little blonde and her hot friends because, well, you never know. One has to leave one's options open.

My one regret was not getting the number of the woman who kept smiling at me and rubbing my bearded face. She was seriously sexy, with long light brown hair bleached at the ends and a rack to die for. Her boyfriend, strangely enough, was cool with it and kept trying to make nice with me.

 It's all about attitude and how you carry yourself.

The funny thing is, when I was yelling at the tiny blonde to fuck off and chill out--I had to raise my voice due to the loud music--she had what I think was an aroused look on her face and it seemed as if she was about to kiss me.

There's always next Saturday.

Swagger

Last night an old lady came up to me in the street, gave me a big smile, and said I have swagger. That's cool, because I was afraid it might be pimp-walk.

My disdain for the paparazzi began early. When I was 9 my parents hired a professional photographer for a family portrait somewhere in rural CT. I thought the whole thing was gay, and, befitting my stubborn, contemptuous nature, refused to smile for it. The photographer kept cajoling and teasing me to get me to smile, but I refused. I quickly came to hate that prick. He ended up taking a bunch of pictures in which I could only manage an awkward smirk. Needless to say, I ruined the day for everyone, they informed me. Certainly the incident contributed to the growing rift and estrangement between me and my relatives which persists to this day. Just because I didn’t want to look like a grinning little idiot. Mofos.

On Sexual Assault

As you have probably heard, my social calendar has been rather hectic lately. I was out late with friends over the weekend. The female behaviour I observed at both live music venues was a bit startling to say the least, at least to an old school fogey like moi. Saturday night I was assaulted--if that is the right word--twice by random young women. One fondled my beard, while the other one groped my chest. Have things really come to this? Maybe they have--but I'm certainly not pressing charges. See you next weekend.

Back Door Women

I went out with a girlfriend last Saturday night to one of my favourite cocktail establishments. Seated next to us at the bar were two attractive women, a blonde and a brunette with startling blue eyes, probably late 30s. Athletic, fit-looking, with aggressively large tits. Clearly alphas.

These kinds of women are quite common here in Orange County, and one learns to deal with them in the course of interacting with the local female population.

One of them–the brunette one seated facing me–kept checking me out and saying something to her friend, who turned around a few times to look at me. The look she gave me was penetrating and felt as if it were a challenge. To what, I've no idea.

After a while the two women left.

According to my girlfriend, the whole time we were there the two women had been talking about the new boyfriend one of them had and the sexual positions he made her adopt, including a few references to her ‘back door’.

I hadn’t heard anything. The revelation of the subject of their conversation initially surprised me, until I reminded myself that women are like this, only usually they’re more discreet about it.

1970s Luxury Air Travel

Flying Pan Am in its peak in the early 1970s was certainly a luxury. We had wide seats, and entire tables to ourselves. The stewardess uniforms were smart, and the food was good. Passengers actually dressed like adults. In some respects it was like an airborne cocktail party, and moving about and mixing with other passengers was encouraged. Much has been lost since then. I have learned that the 1970s "Pan Am Experience" can be had at Air Hollywood. I may pay a visit. Not quite the same thing, I'm sure.

Taki on Seduction

Over at The Spectator, the venerable Taki has posted a piece on how to seduce women. Modern young men certainly need the help. There's a lot of good material in the article. I encourage you to read it.

I've been reading Taki since I was a schoolboy in England in the 1980s. Somewhere I have books of his High Life columns, and his prison memoir Nothing To Declare was particularly helpful to me at a certain time in my life.

So, I read the article with considerable interest, expecting great insights. Alas, there are several key misses . Also, I noted some hints of white-knighting and blue pill thinking, which I find very shocking and disappointing in a chap of his calibre. Taki, a male feminist?! Say it isn't so!

As an aside, I wonder how much input his female relations had in the article. At times it reads as if he's writing for them, and not for the single men requiring some help in the seduction department.

These days chicks dig jerks over gentlemen. They may claim they want gentlemen, but their behaviour says otherwise. They consistently favour the cads, thugs, bad boys, and rogues over the nice guys. Nice guys indeed finish last. Most of the time they don't finish at all, if you get my meaning.

I almost choked on my morning tea when I read this line: "women, unlike us, have a conscience." Nonsense. Women are far crueler in their own way than men. Women also don't love in the same way that men do. Men suffer when they expect women to reciprocate affection with the same quality and intensity. It's men--not women--who are the romantic sex. We are doomed to love them.

In picking up women, wit and humour are indispensable. Self-deprecation, not so much. Women want confidence and cocky bad-boy charm.

Taki recommends that young men write poetry and love letters. I have to admit, this was a tactic I used as a schoolboy, before emails, the interwebz, and smartphones came along, and I still have the letters to prove it. The written word is indeed powerful, but we shouldn't give our young men the impression that going around quoting Shakespeare is going to moisten any panties. Keep in mind, too, a lot of American and English girls these days are barely literate.

Being direct with women in California works. It's amazing how effective "I want to f*ck, let's go somewhere else" can be here. Crude, I know. But the days of courting "ladies and well-brought up young women" are long over. Especially in the Anglosphere.

If "the way to success with the fairer sex cannot be taught," as Taki claims, then what is the point of an article such as his? It can be taught, and it can be learned. We should be teaching more of our young men the new realities of women, relationships, and sex. And this includes teaching them Game and the art of seduction--not the art of sucking-up.

Never Apologize

I enjoyed a somewhat controversial career at university, as you've probably heard.

One incident sticks out. It involved my views on the presence of Africans in England, namely, my instruction to a visiting African scholar to "go back to Africa." After all, I continued, why should Europeans tolerate the presence of Africans (and others) in our homelands, since Europeans had been kicked out of theirs? A perfectly sound position and one which was, as is my custom, intended to provoke.

It caused quite a storm, as you may imagine. I was not expelled. Instead, I was brought before a committee consisting of senior tutors, college academics, and university officials. I sat alone before them as they gave me a series of sanctimonious lectures and stern warnings. Curiously I was not asked to apologise; I wouldn't have done so if asked. I think I was also given some sort of minor punishment, the nature of which I've forgotten now.

A few days later I received in the post a letter on university letterhead confirming my official censure. I framed it and hung it on the wall, where it remained for the rest of the term.

Man to his girlfriend: The main reason I don't want to follow you into [high end department store in Newport Beach] is because over the years I've dated [and/or banged] several women there. This is an opportunity for all of us to avoid some public unpleasantness. Go ahead and shop. I'll stay outside and drink my tea. And check out the hotties.

Beard Report: Outstanding

As you may have heard, my beard has been turning heads in the street, literally. It's a most amusing spectacle. I wanted to share it with you. Of course it may be my height, build, and general all-around fogey awesomeness, but I suspect it's the beard that continues to attract the attention of strangers and passersby. Admirers include both females and males, which, as I've written before, I attribute to beard envy. It infuriates my ladyfriends when we're out. That, I have to admit, is a large part of the fun.

No Regrets

Source: Chelsea Farmers Club

I suspect I will have plenty of opportunities to use these amusing cards this holiday season. But I shall endeavour, as always, to resist the temptation.

Newspaper Tales

Newspapers at one time were a small, daily pleasure of life. Over a cup of tea and ham-and-cheese croissant in a cafe on Old Brompton Road, or in bed on a rainy Sunday, making one's way through the paper used to be so comforting. Sitting in front of a computer and browsing the interwebz in search of news isn't quite the same experience.

I used to be a daily reader of newspapers: Financial Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Times, Wall Street Journal. When I took the commuter train into Manhattan for my first Wall Street job after university in the mid 1990s there was a special technique for folding the paper into tiny squares, so as not to block your neighbour in the crowded seats.

And let's not forget, newspapers were once incredibly useful for lining the cages of incontinent budgerigars and for swatting campus Bolsheviks in the face. Today, sadly, budgerigars shit on clean floors and campus Bolsheviks go about unmolested. It's a frightening state of affairs.

The current order, of course, won't continue and is subject to change and decay like all things. Computers, iPhones and other modern gadgets won't last forever. At some point, as technology declines, newspapers will come back. When they do, we're just going to have to make sure that we own the printing presses.

Raising the Kaiser

As you know, in the last year I've been supplementing with strong daily dosages of magnesium (1500-2000 mg) and l-theanine (400 mg). Both of these promote workout recovery, relaxation, and deep sleep. Magnesium in particular is known for producing strong, vivid dreams.

Most of the dreams I've been experiencing involve surfing, spearfishing, and generally hanging around various exotic beaches and wilderness settings. Sometimes they feature family members whom I've neither seen nor spoken to (or even thought of) in years. Last week I dreamt I was witness to the bloody beginning of a race war. Rather exciting to say the least.

Last night I dreamt that I had a son. I first saw him as an infant and then as a toddler. He had reddish-blond hair and blond facial hair. As a teenager he was the spitting image of Kaiser Wilhelm II, King of Prussia and last German Emperor, and walked stiffly around in a formal dark suit. Outside in the town square a homeless female violinist stood on the cobblestones below our house and played Mozart in the pouring rain in the middle of the night.

What does it mean? It probably means I've been taking too much magnesium and l-theanine.