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.

Fine.
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.

Dude.

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!

My greatest misogynistic post ever

 

I forsook anonymity a long time ago on this Goddamned blog.
Right off the bat I published my real name.
Then I started posting my likeness.
Tough-guy bullshit like this.

 

 

So Myspacian and malewhorish.

 

Basically I played my cards right off the bat.

 

I even rail against anonymity in my “Me” section.

 

The truth is, there is a great reward to be found in anonymity.

 

A lot of dudes in this blogosector choose names hybridized from fictional or historical figures (usually with a libertarian or Rand-ian bent) and go photoless and bio-less. Hey, I don’t care. More power to them.

 

Maybe I should have followed suit.

 

Phoenixism without a face. Only strange disembodied words and thoughts. Faceless. How cool. The general public, especially the femmes, wouldn’t know any better.

 

I could lie and say I was 23. The internet is a great tool for dishonesty. Whatever, this is who I am. I decided right off I would never be anything I wasn’t, to my own detriment.

 

Whatever the case.

 

I bring your here.

 

This is why I blog. We all gotta fucking say something, don’t we?
This is why I blogged about blogging as an artform.

 

Ridiculous.

 

There is this dude who blogs, he took his name from a couple of real-life literary figures and has chosen the anonymous path. And, in my opinion, created a great franchise, a great character.

 

His name is Hunter Huxley.

 

I don’t know much about him.
But I know he is a crude motherfucker. He puts me to shame. It’s great. It’s no holds barred disgust.

 

So yesterday, he posted an intriguing little ditty that sums up men’s basic sexual proclivities in all their raw form. We are men, and we like women. And sometimes, these women are your sisters, your cousins, your girlfriends, your moms (oh wait, that’s another post)….
Hey, the male testosterone drive is immense.

 

It has no morals and no compass.
We do what the fuck we want to do, or what we can get away with.

 

Unlike women who play the part and giggle when the discomfort arises, we just do it.

 

So Hunter brings up a subject which all guys can relate to.

 

You get intro’d to the girl’s father. And the obvious but unspoken sentiment is “I’m fucking your daughter, dude.”

 

And that knowledge instantly bequeaths upon the father the humbling wisdom. He has met his male usurper.

 

That’s what this is all about, you realize.
A man with a daughter relinquishes a part of his male soul.
It’s a given.

 

A man who has a son relinquishes also; but it can be reclaimed.

 

I read and I posted:

 

Yeah it’s the great unspoken charade.
I’m so glad I have a son.
Having a child can always chip away at a man’s armor. However with a son, as he gets older (assuming he’s a good kid/man), he will reinforce a man’s aging armor. A daughter will never strengthen her father’s armor. Having a daughter will forever present you with a vulnerability. All you can hope is that you’ve raised her well as judged by the type of man she chooses to have as a mate. Ultimately this strange man is the one you must come to trust.

 

And today I read.

 

And thought.

 

The concept of ARMOR.

 

What the hell is that?

 

What is this male ARMOR?
What is it we lose when we have children?

 

Possessions.

 

The most free of men are those without possessions.
Without fear of loss.

 

Evolution has brought us to the point of fear. We fear loss. Loss of all that is ours. It could very well be that in 500,000 B.C., we feared loss of food, loss of heat.

 

Loss of mate, loss of offspring? I doubt it.

 

Loss of offspring…that’s a modern trend.

 

What is ARMOR?

 

My definition of ARMOR does not involve metal or walls or shields.
Armor in the modern parental sense.
Armor.

 

As single men, we have very few, if any responsibilities.
We grow older, we marry, we have children, we have jobs…the armor grows thin.

 

Armor. It is that layer of existence which shields us from our primal nature. It is the modern exodus of elements which we morally imbue with a righteous qualities.

 

Armor.

 

It tells us to tie our shoes.
To tie a full-windsor.

 

The Armor serving no purpose other than a call to the primitive.

 

Armor is hundreds of generations calling us. Reminding us that in spite of everything, we only have one allegiance.

 

Mankind, hundreds of thousands of years ago, was ruthless and self-driven.

 

Mankind only concerned itself with breeding.
And eating.

 

And in such circumstances.
Daughters are a stain upon the folly that is mankind.

 

 

How a soccer player from Cameroon comes to perish (Part 3)

Preface: see this post for an explanation
____________________________________________________________

Entry date: 1/20/10

It was Monday morning and Mehann was late for work as usual. He sped down Sepulveda Boulevard in his 1987 Dodge Omni and as he neared Olympic he noticed with a touch of disgust that the light was rapidly switching modes, from green, to yellow…he floored it, but too late, for the light had turned angry red before he had even cleared the intersection. 

Entry date: 1/23/10

And in the instant between when the light turned red and his car crossed the pedestrian lane, Mehann saw it. “Fuck” he thought, but before even that word could be complete, he struck it: an adult, white Russian Wolfhound which had escaped its owner’s hands and fled into the middle of the busy street. Goddamned dog was humongous. It was the size of a horse, Meehan thought just before his small car’s grill indented itself in the dog’s large flanks.

Entry date: 1/31/10
Shocked and disconnected from reality, he steered the car abruptly into the curb lining the center median. He heard a muted pop and attempted to regain his senses as his car rested in the road. Cars honked as they swerved to avoid him and the prone dog which struggled to stay alive in the next lane where it had landed. He slowly looked over and saw the large white dog raise its head repeatedly and drop it back down to the ground as the effort became increasingly difficult for the injured animal. It’s hand legs pointed upwards and flailed unnaturally. For a moment, Mehann wished he had a pistol so he could put the animal out of its misery.
And in the large, grass-covered center median, stood a shrieking woman, a brunette with long tanned legs.

Blogging as art

 

Sheesh. If there is anyone who comes to common realizations later than most, it is I.

 

A lot of times I just don’t think shit through.
The most obvious fact can parade itself back and forth in front of my eyes a hundred times before I notice it. I get so wrapped up in stuff…

 

It wasn’t until earlier today that I thought of a blog as a personal belonging. When you talk to a blogger, you refer to their blog as “your blog.”

 

Your blog is your heart, worn on a sleeve. It is your creation. You made it from the raw tools of your creativity and imagination. And vision.

 

Hence, an art. Blogging. An art form.

 

Even though blogs generally adhere to several common formats and programs, there is an infinite amount of personalization and creative turbocharging available which we can use to decorate our blogs.

 

You can choose the color, the graphics, the fonts, the layout…ie, the palette, the easel, the brushes, the paints…the tools of the artist. Once you have created the visual presentation, you must fill it in. These are your words, the “composition.” This is where “talent” comes in. Anyone can hold the tools, but not anyone can manipulate them to create a medium that captures attention or speaks to others.

 

Blogging as the modern day art form.

 

Blogs evolve. I’ve watched as several blogs I read have undergone minor and major renovations. Themes are switched out, blog programs are changed, colors altered…a vast array of changes which can leave a blog almost unrecognizable from its previous incarnation.

 

When I started Phoenixism, my header image was a black and white sketched tree…in fact the theme, which I nabbed from Word Press’ many choices, was called “Lonely Tree.” I liked it but I didn’t feel it jived well with the theme of the blog. I don’t remember exactly what I replaced the tree with for it only lasted for a day or 2.

 

Still not satisfied, I began clicking through my many saved images for something, anything, that might capture Phoenixism’s spirit. That is when I found it.

 

It was an image that begged to be used. And coincidentally, it was a photograph I took myself just after I started this blog in late August, 2009. L.A. was hot and smoky at the time because of fires which were raging throughout Southern California. This made for a dramatic and spectacular orange sky, the perfect conditions for a blog photograph. I took a few shots early one morning from my balcony and chose one to accompany my post, Burnt L.A. offerings

 

 

The photograph was perfect for if your enlarge the area where the sun shimmered behind layers of atmospheric sooty smoke, you could actually imagine that its fiery and solar shape resembles a bird. The Phoenix.

 

That photo worked out so well…synchronicity again.