10 November 2013
07 November 2013
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.
06 November 2013
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.
05 November 2013
04 November 2013
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.
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.
03 November 2013
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)
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)
02 November 2013
A friend just remarked to me that when I drink, the scar on the side of my face turns red.
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
