My name is David. And I’m a nice guy.

Deconstructing masculinity is fun. This practice is part and parcel of all internet PUA sectors.

For instance, Alpha, and the fixation with all that is Alpha, oozes out every blog and forum in the Mansphere. And there, alongside it, the corresponding discussion and compulsive dissection of its antithesis: the maligned nice guy.

Yes, the nice guy.

No one spells out what the nice guy is. No one explains his essence. Nevertheless, we have an innate instinct for this guy who can be found throughout every layer of society.

You can find him waiting in line at See’s Candy, or perhaps in the line outside the theater waiting for the 7:40 pm screening of Valentine’s Day (undoubtedly after handing his date a box of $25 chocolate, but before getting a peck on the cheek and a hurried “goodnight” before the door shuts on his crestfallen face).

Everyone dreads the nice guy; no one wants to be associated with him and men will do anything not to be him. In fact, so repulsed are they by the prospect of becoming him, that they act out in obnoxious opposition to the concept of “nice.” They put on the asshole mask. But it is worn like a self-conscious charade.

There nothing quite as repulsive as a man who has a good heart who tries to appear anything but. Who seeks to portray that which is the polar opposite of his own character.

It’s an incongruency that assaults our senses like a bad haircut.

I don’t believe it’s a question of “nice.”

Nice is a trite justification of a deeper personality issue that eludes recognition for some odd reason.

These men are not too “nice.”

They are bland.

Got that?

I came to this conclusion because amidst the ubiquitous and dire pronouncements of the ill-fated nature of the Nice Guy, it occurred to me that I have known several equally “Nice Gals.” Women who presented all the obsequious and pathetically unobtrusive qualities of the Nice Guy. I’ve known such people. They were not nice. They were bland.

Bland people possess qualities which mimic niceness.
Retiring. Inoffensive. Agreeable. Lacking strong opinions and/or viewpoints. Bleached senses of humor.

From the perspective of society, bland people don’t make much of a splash.

They don’t intrude upon other’s lives.

They are not the type of people to leave you with strong sensations in either extreme. And thus, because of this, you label them “nice” by the absence of the negative. But in the absence of positive, it’s hard to say what these “nice” people really are.

They lack influence. They leave your soul untouched.
They are bland.

Socially, historically…the role of the bland person has traditionally been fulfilled by women, and furthermore, expected of them.

The woman who succumbs to this mentality does not experience repercussions; it is latently expected of her, and in fact, many men, especially the traditional-minded, still expect such behavior of a woman. Besides, personality (or lack of it) does not generally detract from a woman’s desirability. In fact, boasting of a woman’s personality raises eyebrows and dooms the unseen girl to a hideous sight unseen.

But for a man.

Blandness connotes invisibility, and in the context of manhood, lack of vitality.

For maleness denotes aggression; the alpha archetype is not a shrinking violet. Manifested in our modern era, a man’s persona is boastful and raucous and fearlessly outspoken. With a tinge (or a wallop) of danger, of prison-bound behavior.

Decidedly un-bland.
Male vigor, with its raging, in-your-face, fury. The anti-bland.

And niceness. A positive trait of humility, thoughtfulness, respect and kindness, which has been truncated and distorted in the minds of many PUA’s and PUA’s-in-training. They have latched on to the word “nice” and reactively vilified the concept. They even structure their lives around the tenet of turning nice on its head in the blind pursuit of girls.

All because of bland.

See I wouldn’t care about the anti-nice “movement” if I didn’t view it as harmful and misguided.

Horny young men are endlessly impressionable. Tell them if they do “A” to get “P” (yes, as in), and I guarantee that you’ll need to dive behind a wall in order to avoid the hordes of guys as they cut a swath of destruction in their lemming rush to find “A.”

“Niceness” is nothing but an emotional decoy which has distracted a whole generation of PUA’s from the true essence of the personality shortcoming they fear.

Sharing the alienation

What is your favorite word?
Do you have one?
Do you even care? Do you resist such stupid and ridiculous exercises in time-waste management?

My favorite words rotate. They change.
They come and go, like fashions and underwear.

I was thinking. There is one word I’ve always loved through it all.


The sound is beautiful.

Ah yes.

Fills my heart with tender thoughts; sweet memories.

Look it up on

1. a turning away; estrangement
2. the state of being an outsider or the feeling of being isolated, as from society

Is alienation necessarily bad?

Hmm. I don’t bring work to my blog as a rule.
Though I spout all that “fuck privacy” bravado, I really don’t want to go job hunting just yet so I will strategically fail to mention where I work or names or other info which could possibly hand the discerning web reader all the necessary info to triangulate my clerical ass.

And in my immortal words, I won’t say anything I wouldn’t tell people to their face.
Alienation attacks in waves.

There are days I feel like I’m part of the sickening, madding crowd.
And there are days not.

Today, not.

Everyone was on my nerves today.

Chatterbox broads, unfriendly middle-aged women…the full gamut of misery-inducing fodder surrounding me for 8 elongated hours.

Alienation is really nothing other than not having anything in common.

Are you too smart? Too dumb? Too sensitive? Too insensitive?

Pin the tail on alienation, ha!
My alienation has always thrived on social shortcomings and inabilities.

Do people bother you?
Do you shun the human race?

Alienation makes me want to run away at lunch and leave everyone behind to eat their frozen lunches or spend five times the money on food they would have spent if they cooked themselves. Run, Forrest, Run!

Hollywood is not so bad for the alienation victim.
It’s actually therapeutic.
No matter how fucking alienated you feel, there will always be someone scarier and more isolated than you wandering these streets.

The “misery loves company” principle.

You think you got it bad?

Uh huh, check out that wretch walking down El Centro with flies buzzing his ass and last week’s Panda Express leftovers dangling off his scruffy beard.

We don’t have it so bad.

So I’ll climb into my little blog cubbyhole and talk shit for 395 words.

HBD: This ain’t your granddaddy’s racism anymore

I started Phoenixism in August.

Now I have no idea, absolutely none, how in the world I ended up inhabiting this peculiar blogosector that I do. I’ve bounced around and discovered various blog treats, some to my liking, some not, and that is the wonder of the blogosphere. There is so much to choose from and there is a little bit of something for everyone, regardless of just how whacked they may seem to you.

How in the fuck did I find these HBD people?

I’ve always been very interested in evolutionary psychology as it applies to gender differences (and similarities) and the effect our ancient adaptive lineage has had in molding us into the quirky social creatures we are today.

I am fascinated by the supposition that many of our most peculiar “tendencies” and behaviors in our modern incarnation can be traced back and explained by millions of years of evolution. At its basest level, evolution guides our physical and reflexive reactions; in creatures as sentient and astute (ha!) as us, evolutionary adaptations are a bit more sophisticated and intricate than, say, a dog’s salivation at the sight of food. Our adaptive mechanisms have worked their manipulating tendrils into the human behaviorial sphere.

Why your girlfriend acts like she does might very well be explained by factors which extend far beyond her present mood. Her behavior might have roots in her gender’s primitive role dating back thousands of generations.

I believe it is this curiosity of mine that somehow brought me to the middle of this sea of HBDers. Somewhere along the line I must have Googled the right phrase…

The HBD blogosector includes countless members.
One such blog, Half-Sigma, posted a brief definition, a primer on the nuts and bolts of HBD for those who are wondering…

Human biodiversity is an acknowledgment that humans differ from each other in various ways because of our different genotypes. Differences include, but are not limited to, physical appearance, athletic ability, personality, and cognitive abilities.

One especially significant genetic difference between humans is whether or not they have one X and one Y chromosome or two X chromosomes. In addition to looking different, humans with two X chromosomes have different behavioral and cognitive predispositions than humans with one Y and one X chromosome.

Even when humans are of the same race and sex, they can have vastly different cognitive and behavioral predispositions. This is also part of HBD.

Fair enough.
The definition fairly summarizes what HBD is.
In a sterile and clinical fashion.
Which of course, I agree with.

As people are generally wont to do, however, they can’t merely accept something at face value. They must expand on facts, they must internalize and opine and manipulate knowledge to suit their needs and aims and views.

So whereas many may calmly accept the tenets of HBD, the most vocal partisans are those who choose HBD for it suits their ulterior motives fed by a modernist strain of techno-racism. Those who trump HBD the loudest in the blogosphere are not those who feel only a vague acceptance of HBD science; they are those who maintain that HBD lends us knowledge and insight into the machinery of racial hierarchies as related to intelligence, physical acumen and moral shortcomings.

Yes, it all can be quantified and enumerated by the “science” of HBD.

HBD is not solely the provenance of the WASP hatester.
This isn’t 1955, and it sure as hell isn’t Mississippi.
HBD is smart and sophisticated and has elevated racism to the intellectual plane.

Recognizing that racism, per se, doesn’t quite fulfill the typical HBD spiritual Joneses, somewhere along the way followers farted out another useful acronym: “NAM.”

This is not Bubba in a white sheet setting fire to crosses any more. These people are intelligent and sharp.

NAM is a “non-Asian minority.” Realizing that absolute racism just doesn’t cut it anymore and would blacklist (so to speak) many bona fide minorities (of the model type), they tweaked the “minority” label a bit to include only the non-model minorities. You know, the dark ones and the ones who always get in trouble and steal the white women.

With the new NAM delineation, now the Japanese and Indians are able to join the white folk as they ebulliently embrace their newfound elite status amongst the ranks of the intellectual elite.

Nothing to see here, move on…

So I read the HBDsphere occasionally, even post once in a while. I find some intriguing reading.

It’s fun to watch the HBD herd tread that ambiguous land of Oz between “racially aware” and “downright racist.” The racism is obvious but managed elegantly in a most opaque manner.

Once in a while they come very close to resembling 1955’s Bubba but they skillfully manage to avoid that pitfall.

And there are times they slip up and post ridiculous thinly-veiled items like this post which appeared in Inductivist yesterday.

Titled “Approval of interracial dating is almost universal among the young,” the post highlights a Pew survey which revealed that nearly all (statistically-speaking) Millennials (18-29 year olds) accept interracial dating and marriage.

Not really noteworthy in my mind, but it’s quite apparent that for an HBDer to post such an item in his blog can only hint at a vague hint of disapproval. Ah yes, Bubba Rising!

The Inductivist blogger, Ron Guhname, keeps it clean. He does not editorialize. At all.

But posting such an item on an HBD blog is akin to planting a big fat racial honey pot squarely in the middle of enemy territory. And the commenters are left to freely do the blogger’s dirty work.

Mind you, these comments are in response to a neutrally stated news item quoting a study showing 20-somethings resoundingly accepting of interracial dating.

And for the remaining few percent, impose it on them with section 8 housing to make sure technologically amplified panmixia reigns supreme everywhere for everyone.

Stark evidence of just how bad things have gotten in America.

My first wife was Hispanic, and getting married to her was one of my life’s biggest mistakes. Men and women have a tough enough time just getting past the Mars vs. Venus stuff, without adding cultural differences to the mix. You’re better off marrying someone of your own socio-economic class and a compatible ethnicity.

Do I have a beef?
Uhm, not a big one.

I’ll continue reading HBD blogs because once they leave the racism behind, they frequently have very interesting observations. And as I said, I have a very clinical, non-personal and non-ulterior interest in the subject of evolutionary psychology.

I do accept that real racial differences exist. What do we do with this information? Unlike HBDers, I don’t have the urge to use this knowledge to solidify preconceived notions and stereotypes.

In this respect, most HBDers are anti-individualists; instead, they choose to condemn racial groups in their entirey instead of gauging talents and skills on an individual basis. Which is actually a very nerdy and socio phobic manner of reducing human interactions to numbers and ratios.

Most dismaying about the Inductivist reaction is the sense of retro-racism. The discomfort and open enmity to intermixing of the races. This suggests a glaring refutation of scientific principles of any sort and the rehashing of old emotional and hateful attitudes which were decidedly unscientific.

Popcorn is always better the second time around!

Amidst great familial fanfare and some novice indulgence in shots of liquor, I celebrated my 21st birthday in November, 1985.

It took me a couple of months to get up to speed with this drinking bit, but by the Spring of 1986 I was well on my way to an epic streak of Weekend Warrior-ism. Barely a weekend went by that I wasn’t spending Saturday and/or Sunday mornings nursing myself out of another spectacular and mind-numbing hangover.

Bad enough, right? Not very unusual for a young man in his early 20s.

Nope, you see what killed me was my weekend schedule.
I worked in the mailroom at the Bank of America from 1983 through 1988. My shift?

Why 7 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Saturday and Sunday.


From 1983-1985 it was all good.
Every Saturday and Sunday morning I would sleepily jump in the shower and make the trek to work, a job which gave me money that was difficult to spend by virtue of the fact that I was stuck under fluorescent lights while most guys my age were actually enjoying their weekends…what a concept.

I wasn’t bitter about it because I didn’t know any better.
Until I turned 21.

And whereas most normal people, faced with the balancing act, the fork in the Partying road, which consisted of 2 options, 1) get blasted, crash about 2:30 in the morning, sleep 3 or 4 hours, trudge to work, 2) stay home, go to sleep early, wake up at 6 in the morning to get ready for work, would most likely choose option 2.

Ah, see, I wasn’t typical. Or normal.
I chose option 1 over and over.

In the span of time between 1986 and 1988, I estimate that I dragged myself to work in varying states of hungover at least 75% of the time.

Feeling and looking like absolute shit. My job consisted of sorting mail and punching a 10-key pad in order to transfer a bar code to the envelopes. Mindless shit job filler and I learned to complete my tasks with one eye open (while the other was actively passed out while I fumbled through the day).

And my stomach always on edge. Many times it was all I could do to traverse the entire day without wretching. By the time the day was over at 3:30 I usually felt better and by the time I got home I might have a small greasy snack or soda.

Not that I couldn’t have greasy and salty snacks at work. We had vending machines that sold every sort of crappy-assed, processed junk food you could ask for.

Funny thing is I happened to work with my good buddy, Mark. My drinking buddy, the same dude who I hung out with the nights we should have been home, sleeping.

Each morning at work, we were both jacked up. I don’t know how we managed. What a pair we must have looked as we wandered in to work with matching slumping shuffles and 5 o’clock shadows.

We started hanging out with another guy who worked in the mailroom. His name was Joe and he was about 4 or 5 years younger than us. We introduced him to alcohol. The first time he drank he vomited all over the parking lot of his apartment complex. That’s how we brought him home to his mother, and she always loved us for that.

So it was us three ruffians, working in the Bank of America mailroom every weekend, bloated and baggy drunks seeking this strange anonymity in this most obscure of weekend jobs.

One Sunday it was the same old story. I don’t remember where or what I did the previous Saturday, but let’s just say it involved alcohol. Lots of it.

I spent the entire Sunday mired in alcohol toxicity agony, barely doing my job in a manner which could be construed as productive. Being the weekend shift, we had minimal supervision. I could look like I did, smell like I did, work like I did…no one would know any better. Our supervisor was some flunky who was our age as well. Chris. He didn’t give a flying fuck.

This Sunday was grueling. Like they all were. For lunch I couldn’t eat much, so I bought a microwave popcorn from the vending machine and ate the whole bag.

Finally 3:30 rolled around and I still felt like crap. Usually by this point I was starting to experience the first signs of post-hangover recovery…not today. I felt just as bad as I did at 7 in the morning.

We all walked to our cars. Joe accompanied me since he didn’t have a car and our routine was that I would give him a lift to the bus stop, or sometimes, a lift all the way home.

Joe lived in Pasadena, on Summit and Mountain, a really scary part of Pasadena people don’t talk about. People think of Pasadena, they think of Cal Tech, the Rose Parade, the Rose Bowl…they don’t think of the area of Summit or Lake or Mountain. Rough and crime-ridden, prostitutes, gangs…a slice of South Central here in the San Gabriel Valley. I would give him a ride home and then double back and drive back to my home in Montebello.

Made for a long, hungover day.

This particular Sunday we walked to our cars and I was not feeling good at all.

I reached my car and Joe stood at the passenger door so I could unlock it for him.

The second I opened the driver’s side door, the odor slammed me in the face. During these times, my car smelled like a brewery most of the time. An acrid and sun-baked alcoholic stench from the previous night. Spilled booze, speckles of exhaled booze which had ingrained themselves in the fabric of the car, whatever, it was always something and my car always smelled like a distillery.

The smell that greeted me was Jack Daniels, I believe. That Oaky, earthy, fiery scent. Which might make me salivate most of the time. A sharp smell which could conjure images of a Good Time.

But today, the smell immediately made me gag. It was as if the odor of Jack had mysteriously solidified, become a long sinewy finger which laughingly stuck itself deep into my mouth, into my throat, triggering the gag reflex.

And gag I did.
And it all came out. The entire bag of popcorn could not contain itself any longer!

I vomited loudly and violently, all over the parking lot and I could hear the guys making exclamations of disgust and running from the scene. Joe ran and told someone, “I’m not driving with him.”

When the dust settled, everyone had pulled a Starsky & Hutch dive into their car and hauled ass right outta there.

Including Joe.
It was a relief, I could drive straight home. No long detours to his Pasadena hood.

I was feeling much better.
Before going home, I stopped at der Wienerschnitzel and bought 3 Kraut dogs and a large order of fries. Yum!