I grow BS

One of the greatest things about Don Draper is that he is rarely at a loss for words. He’s never flummoxed. Of course the fact he rarely speaks does’t hurt. Those who flap their gums too much are the same people most likely to step in it and spend their days making asses of themselves. When the time comes for him to step up, Don Draper always says the precisely correct thing in the specified measure with the intent of having maximum effect on the listener. There is nothing quite as amusing as his verbal slap downs of floundering subordinates. This clip is awesome because for once Draper gets dressed down. Here, by his father’s narcotic-induced ghost! Check it out.

How about that?

The 1960-style debonair “he man” exposed for the tool he has become by the raggedy ghost of his long struggling Depression-era father. Don Draper, Alpha stud, and idol of much of today’s manosphere, shown to be the egotistical pawn that he is when measured against the backdrop at this juncture in male human socio-evolution.

“What do you do? What you make? You grow bullshit!” taunts his father’s memory. In fact, the very dynamic which Draper’s father lays out sarcastically can be overlaid across the span of modern man’s turmoil. As modern men, our fathers and grandfathers, and male heirs before, can reasonably castigate us for the same reason Draper got his ass handed to him. Our hands’ are as soft as a woman’s and we all grow bullshit in the safety of our sterilized and dehumidified corporate pristine environments. Climate control saps our hunger and our strength, makes us weak. We push paper and toner by the ton and bytes by the million. We don’t make anything. We grow bullshit, is what we do. Draper’s father is our’s. Draper’s father issues ridicule we can scarcely envision.

Today’s man grows bullshit.

The most humiliating thing for a man of Draper’s constitution is that even though he is a man of strength as measured by the standards of emasculated 20th Century weakness (the show’s setting) of the modern techno-age, he still has no monuments of strength or accomplishment upon which to lean when compared with the generations which preceded during which man did make and grow things. Antiquity, when man used his hands and by doing so, distanced himself from the weak physical passivity of the female. Man’s fierce physical nature expressed itself in the manner it had been intended over millions of years of physical evolution. Man’s primal essence is to rigorously exert himself and build and construct a physical environment. Draper’s generations were the first that saw man begin to use his ass more than his hands as it wheeled from desk to phone, and back. Or as it sprawled across a car seat as he steered his immobile carcass over several miles.

Draper, a “superior” man in comparison to his father in most ways definable by modern culture, was nevertheless restrained by the awareness that his masculinity was a pale shadow of his father’s rough, hardened masculine edge. Modern man bows in silent reproach before the unearthed knowledge that even though he represents the strongest and most powerful of men, he is nevertheless a weakened male mortal in contrast with the generations of rugged male survival which preceded. Even Don Draper, with his chiseled face and expensive suits and large suburban house, was still impaled by the fact he was half the man those of his father’s generation were by virtue of their physical toil.

We have fashioned a new manliness in the modern age and it is not manliness at all. It is the expression of greed and materialistic fervor and socially conscious pretensions. The new manliness is weakly erected and man’s nature, his inner primal voice, knows this. Man grows bullshit now.

I grow bullshit.

I push paper, I print garbage, my garbage is then distorted and manipulated by other BS growers and made into their own BS. BS is transmogrified in the modern corporate environment. One person’s BS crop is assumed under the guise of someone else’s duties which involve taking your BS and transforming it into their own through a series of esoteric flow-charted manipulations which in turn are then seized by a higher up who then makes it his own BS. BS rises continually through the ascending ranks and spawns greater shares of profit as it climbs the hierarchy. The old saying that shit flows downhill has experienced a salmon upstream reversal because now all your BS is ultimately paraded by those higher than you for their own benefit.

No one makes anything except smoke. Men all have soft hands now.

Everyone looks for reasons why men and boys in today’s culture seem weak and beaten down. There is much to blame, but the thing I blame most for its elemental role in the loss of modern masculinity is technology. Technology has seen to it that men’s hands become soft. Technology has usurped man’s reason, his motivation. Man does not create, he merely supports the technomachinery which has whittled away at the manifestation of manhood for long. As man’s ability to create and toughen his hands loses traction, so does the ability of woman to fill man’s void become more necessary because the environment of non-creation and structural management befits the feminine persona. Therein lies the equality feminists have sought. It wasn’t equal pay or equal rights. That was a smokescreen. They strove for a technically fashioned world which neutered the masculine strengths of laborious creation into forgettable nuggets of archaic extinction.

I grow BS because I am a man and that is what men do.

Now.

Cheapened misfortunes

There are two general classes of human misfortune.

There is the tragic, life-altering misfortune which is so patently bad that it hardly necessitates words or deep elucidation. Most commonly, such events are simply observed with a simple “I’m sorry” and depending on your relationship with the stricken party, a hug or other physical gesture of commiseration. This misfortune comes in one flavor: terrible.

And there is the “lesser” type of misfortune which spans a wider range of instances of “bad luck.” These are those group of misfortunes which are responsible for minor or average annoyances and inconveniences. To be sure, none of us wish to experience even these misfortunes because they are simply a pain in the ass. Still, despite the faint taste of misfortune these events leave in their wake, the misfortune is short-lived and realistically remedied. Lives are not permanently or chronically altered as a result of these misfortunes, yet the typical human response to this misfortune in others tends to be overblown and exaggerated because the misfortune is not so “unspeakable” that people feel uncomfortable acknowledging it. This lower tier type of misfortune is less intimidating by nature of its relative insignificance so everyone is eager to jump into the ring and extend oodles of sympathy.

It’s this overblown expression of sympathy that people extend to victims of this minor misfortune that baffles me. I can’t relate to stuff like “Oh my GOD, I’m SO sorry about your flat tire!” I don’t understand this reaction. I’m the type of person who is preoccupied with solutions and reasons. My initial reaction would be, “Aw, that sucks. Did you run over something? Is the puncture in the sidewall, because if it is, you know you’ll probably need a new tire.” This is my inhumanly analytic reaction to misfortune. It’s difficult for me to conjure up displays of sympathy because any inkling of sympathy I might experience is otherwise overshadowed by my curiosity and clinical fixations with the cause and effect dynamics behind the misfortune under examination.

Misfortune, in all its carnations, has always elicited an unemotional laboratory-spawned response from me. It’s as if each instance of misfortune is an experiment waiting to be untangled and outlined in sequential chunks of scientific method. Perhaps it is a subconscious device I devised in order to avoid dealing with life’s cruelties. When bad things happen to those I know, I can’t turn an unknowing eye while I regurgitate a foul stream of vague and reflexive platitudes. It’s a given that we are sorry for other’s misfortunes, isn’t it? It’s a given that as emotional humans we can understand that your latest round of bad luck sucks…how does donning these plaintive wails of “I’m sorry” serve to get the point across which was inferred without loads of verbal BS to begin with? People are not stupid. It’s not logical to me and therefore I have great difficulty expressing such empty morsels of sympathy. I think most expressions of “I’m so sorry you are going through this” when concerning petty misfortunes are empty gestures designed for public spectacle. Witness the Facebookian proliferation of such nonsense. People are so vain as to assume the act of expressing self-righteous dismay with another’s bad luck makes them a better person or more honorable supplicant.

Sorry, but words don’t make the saint.

The Bling Ring through HBD-colored glasses

Good Lord, this is what it all comes down to now?

Privileged Children Acting Badly. We (speaking for myself) are idiots. We love this crap. We eat it up like slop, and contribute to the golden basket that turns sensationalist crap into shameless profit centers. Privileged children acting badly is so awesome because most of us, 1, were not privileged children, and if we were, 2, assuredly did not act badly.

One of the obligations of privilege in civilized society is maintaining the semblance of manners and…acting civilized. Perhaps a drunken or stoned snafu here and there, a fight, and mid-air meltdown requiring an immediate landing, but for the most part, no one gets hurt. Just stupid minor crap that means nothing once your moneyed caregiver forks over enough of the bank account to shut the matter up or to quell the paparazzi piranha feast. Once in a while, the privileged children just go off the deep end. Way off. And in the case of the “Bling Ring,” they absolutely lose touch with reality.

The ringleader, Rachel Lee, exerting her materialistic East Asian prowess, spawned this privileged crew which found its roots in Calabasas, California, an outlying exclusive suburb on the Western fringes of L.A. county where you can spy new Ferrari’s, Maserati’s and Lamborghini’s in dealerships near you. And if you want to slum, you will have no problem finding a plethora of BMW’s, Porsche’s or Lexus’. Calabasas is a fine fancy neighborhood where the pretentious and pretentious-striving display their glittery splendor. Rachel Lee, rundown, haggard, of pre-convict depressive appearance, was sentenced today to serve four years in the California State Prison system.

Lee, who has probably had better days than this photo, was named “Best Dressed” in her 2007 high school yearbook. She drove an Audi to school and was convicted of shoplifting from a Sephora store about 3 years ago. So very Asian of her. And not. What can we attribute her roughian habits to?

Her father was South Korean, her mother, North Korean. An odd conglomeration of mating parties. Koreans, as we know, offer the most exemplary work and educational ethics, but simultaneously, are the most excruciatingly materialistic ethnic American offshoot as well. Rachel Lee was no exception. She single-handedly molded and staffed her high shcool crime ring which ingeniously used publicly available photographs to case her celebrity victims. The bitch wanted it so badly, she started her own post-high school crime club. Some would be proud.

This shit reads like an HBD roster of ascending accomplishments and expectations.

Rachel Lee, the Asian mastermind, the brains and greed behind the local organization. Brains and greed which coalesce as such a unit of driven ambition never ends well. Parse the traits out and you either have a brain with no zeal, or a selfish bastard who can barely tie his shoes. Join the forces, however, and you have Rachel Lee. She wanted the finer things in Calabasian life.

Amusingly, Lee was expelled from Calabasas High School and was sent to Indian Hills, one of those slacker schools every school district must maintain. The ones where they send the pulp, the unfit, to serve out their remaining 4 years. Even illustrious and paradisiacal Calabasas has this kind of low level hell. This is where Rachel Lee was sent in defilement of her ethnic heritage.

Lee IQ: estimated, 125

While at bottom-dwelling Indian Hills, she met some other exclusive Indian Hills cast offs: Nick Prugo (who she probably fucked), Alexis Neiers, some pretty friend of Lee’s who liked getting wasted and lying, and Diana Tamayo, one of my people, for chrissakes. Tamayo was voted class President at Indian Hills (a dubious honor) and was an illegal immigrant. An illegal alien Who lived in Calabasas and drove a Lincoln Navigator. Fill in the blanks if you’d like…

This was her core group.

IQs: estimated, 110-125

The lower rung of this gutter society was staffed by the manual laborers, the ex-cons, the brown folk and the proles. These are the people Lee did not go to school with or live close to, except for one, possibly: Courtney Ames. Ames, in my opinion, is the missing link in this vast social cornucopia. She is the tie that bound Lee from her castaway Indian Hills position with the mainstream highfalutin society that those who managed to remain at Calabasas High School represented. But Ames also slummed. She worked a waitress gig which is where she met Lopez, the Hispanic low-leveled restaurant worker. She also dated Johnny Ajar, a prisoner’s name if I ever heard one, maybe because he was one! Ames was the link, the transmission route the killer virus traveled from Ape to Man.

IQs: estimated, 90-110

This operation subsisted on the brawn and balls of the Apes and the crazed materialistic Gusto of the Man.

In praise of marriage

Reports of my emotional death are greatly exaggerated.

I’m still alive, still feeling the same approximate emotions normal people are inclined to experience.

Behind this cynical bluster, there is hopeful man willing to let the silver lining cloud his bleak vision occasionally. I know this. There lives an emotional being in these bones who rouses when I find myself reacting intensely to some of the most sappy stories just because they are…nice. Just because they are human. We are human, are we not?

Our desires are the same, aren’t they? We wish for the essentials in this life which bring us succor and a gentle warmth that washes over our souls. Ultimately we realize the only worth of our life is that kinship we feel for others. Family, friends, spouses. Yes, even spouses. I make it a point to avoid trashing marriage here (not that I don’t). Marriage as a modern vessel has been polluted and manipulated into a sodden carcass of ulterior motives and materialistic machinations. In theory, a healthy marriage is wonderful, perhaps admirable, but the present structure of our modern society is centered around the destruction and trivialization of cultural factors which embody and sustain healthy marriages. Marriage as a concept has no value. Marriage as a human institution and outgrowth of human ego and frailty is a farce, however. In other words, as the character of mankind degenerates, marriage too follows suit. The health of marriage is a reflection of the health of the soul of man.

I’ve known several “successful” marriages, I’m sure we all do. It’s an established and accepted notion that such marriages were not erected through an uninterrupted chain of perfection. Far from it. The greatest marriages are survivors of the great tribulation. My parents are one such example. Successful marriages do not just materialize. They are not an accident or luck. They demand a sense of selfless devotion and relinquishment of the ego and avarice. They require a pliable character and endurance. I don’t think we possess these traits in our superficial techno-era. For a variety of reasons, we are vain, self-absorbed and easily bored people unwilling to entertain the tiniest delights of this delicate life. Everything must be grand and startling and the mundane trails of marriage do not greet the modern mind well.

So I thought of this because of a rather sappy story I read earlier about an Iowa couple in their 90s who died form injuries sustained in a car accident on Wednesday. They died, holding hands, in the hospital’s ICU ward yesterday.

They got married on May 26th, 1939.

On the day she graduated from high school, Norma Stock said yes to Gordon Yeager.

“They’re very old-fashioned. They believed in marriage til death do you part,” said the couple’s son, Dennis Yeager.

Dennis was the youngest of four children born to the couple. His sister, Donna, was first born.

“Staying together for 72 years is good, I’d say that’s exceptional,” said Donna.

The way the kids tell it, dad was the life of the party, while mom kept everything together.

“Anybody come over, she was the hostess with the mostess. She just seriously, the more she did, the more she smiled. Dad would be the center of attention, like, ‘Weee look at me,’ and mom was like ‘get him away from me!’ You know we even got a picture like that,” said Dennis.

Norma didn’t really want the distance, she hardly left Gordon’s side for 72 years.

“They just loved being together. Everybody argues once in awhile, but they still, he said ‘I have to stick around. I can’t go until she does because I have to stay here for her and she would say the same thing,” said Dennis.

It’s almost as if they knew.

“Last Wednesday they left home to go into town. Somehow there was an accident,” said Dennis.

At the intersection of Highway 30 and Jessup Avenue, just west of Marshalltown, State Troopers said Gordon pulled in front of an oncoming car.

“I rushed from Des Moines where I was working and saw them in the hospital,” said Dennis.

In the intensive care unit of Marshalltown’s hospital, nurses knew not to separate Gordon and Norma.

“They brought them in the same room in intensive care and put them together, and they were holding hands in intensive care and then, with the morphine and everything they were not really responsive,” said Dennis.

Gordon died at 3:38 p.m. holding hands with his wife, and the family they built surrounded them.

“It was really strange, they were holding hands, and dad stopped breathing but I couldn’t figure out what was going on because the heart monitor was still going, But we were like, ‘he isn’t breathing, how does he still have a heart beat?’ And she checked and everything and said that’s because they were holding hands and it’s going through them. Her heart was beating through him and picking it up,” said Dennis.

“They were still getting her heartbeat through him,” said Donna.

A bit much?
Perhaps.
But no.
Who can ever put constraints on the magic of human relationships spanning a period longer than most of us have been alive?

We live in a jaded, anti-romantic world of strict functionality. The blogosphere is filled with tirades against marriage and women and much of it is in fact reasonable, and this is the saddest thing. The fact that criticism of marriage, as it’s laid out in 2011, is reasonable and that it is difficult for a person contending with today’s social environment to experience the naive and unquestioning wonder of love and the expectation that such a spiritual connection is possible with anyone.

Our Spirit is nearly dead. The spark of life still persists but these are tough times and the tearful realities of the present snuff the spark. We desperately strive to overcome such a shameful goal as celebrating the concept of marriage because it has been cheapened so by the impetus of modern man and tales like Gordon and Norma’s dwindle into antiquity they only knew when they were young and in love.


Gordon and Norma Yeager

Remembering that ass

“TAKE A PICTURE, IT’LL LAST LONGER!”

Indeed. That’s exactly what I would have done if I had a camera in my car, and it was not so salaciously embarrassing to take pictures of hot female strangers from the creepy confines of one’s automobile.

I would have taken her picture and I would not be writing about it here because I would have kept that photo nice and private to enlist to my own private devices later on, and no one would ever know… Because it would be creepy and weird and I can recognize when I am guilty of such behavior, thus steering clear of it, which I guess makes me not weird or creepy, right?

So this girl was crossing at a traffic light as I drove home tonight. This was in Silver Lake, the land of small independent shops and bike lanes, SWPL to the max.

I first saw her walking along the street toward the corner and then turning left with the green pedestrian light. She crossed hotly in front of me. She was striking the minute I saw her from behind because she was blessed with that unusual and auspicious combination of slender and curvy. That’s not a frequent combination to be witnessed in females, even in the City of Angels herself, plasticville. For the most part, slender is usually another way of denoting “skinny” without being overly harsh. Well this chick was wearing jeans and heels which greatly highlighted her slender and curvy body, but it wasn’t until she began crossing in front of my car that I appreciated the full wonderful sizzling depth of her hotness. She was Asian with long curvy hair. I’d say she was about 25. Her jeans were very tight and she had a nice ass. It wasn’t mastodonly ghetto large. Not like some Mexican or Black female asses that verge on exaggeration because even though they are immense and shapely, they threaten to explode out the tight denim wrapping because they are so maxed out. On the other hand, she escaped that prototypical curse of the flat female Asian ass, or literally what appears to be an indented ass. Serious! Nope, this chick’s ass was just right and her face had that sufficiently Exotoasian look. I can’t really place her ethnicity with certainty. I’d say Filipina or Thai most likely. For all I know, she could very well have been Chinese or Japanese. She was striking because of this. She did what all pretty girls do when they walk the streets nowadays. She feigned cool disinterest with the environment (which is undoubtedly beneath the caliber of such a hottie as her) by getting lost in her Smartphone. Hot chicks always do this shit now. They don’t know how to ignore the world without a prop, so they punch away at a stupid screen. What did hot chicks do in the old days? Just stare ahead blankly? Yep, I believe so. It was once difficult to conduct your life while consciously displaying that arrogant, disinterested aloofness.

As the girl crossed in front of me, a beaner dude in a hoodie was walking in the opposite direction and he mumbled something at her which, judging by his flirtatious, grunting intonation, was hardly “Hi,how are you?” Another white hipster guy with horn-rimmed glasses turned as they passed. Another guy walking behind her couldn’t break his lustful leer. And there was me in my old car wondering how nice it would be to take a picture which would assuredly last longer.

The girl continued, unfazed, sheltered as she was from within the safe confines of her phone while the surrounding world slowly stopped in its tracks as it beheld her wonder.

Damned crazyass hot women!

Can you imagine the world stopping in its tracks every time you make an entrance? Take it from someone who lives his life among the perplexing invisibility of unremarkable anonymity, I can’t begin to fathom a world where every woman turns and looks at me, while yet others make rude comments about how they’d like to do things with me.

They say pretty women are friendlier than plain women because of all the positive feedback, which I suppose is true, but conversely, their kindness is usually very phony. Boring. Hot women with an dark edge are indeed a rarity.