Interview with An Unmarried Man: a disaffected journey

Q. What ails you today? O Wise One. You seem down.

A. Yes, I’m down. It doesn’t happen often, enjoy it while you can. I pride myself on my even temper but even this fucked up life gets the better of me sometimes. Even me. This was a shitty day.

Q. Strong words.

A. Yeah well you know, it’s a difficult task trying to understand and accept the sheer force of idiocy’s winds which steer our so-called “culture.” I am surrounded by morons. Lazy, useless wastes of skin running this world, perpetuating their stupid and giving it new breath with fantastically endless reserves of more…stupid.

Q. Who?

A. Everyone, damnit. People, in their present upright, modern, High-Fructose ingesting incarnation are inherently incompetent. We fucking spin our wheels all day long because it is what we do so happily and proudly, and this wheel-spinning, we memorialize it, we structure it within broader structures of helplessness and soon, we’ve created a whole network of interdependent helplessness which somehow, through the wonders of mass society, attain the image of utility and relevance and importance. Man is incapable of running a structured environment. It’s not our nature. Instead, we label everything according to what we’ve grown to learn it is though childhood, and each ensuing generation upholds the previous generation’s lie until the day we find, generations down the line, we are honoring and respecting the hollow stupidity which our ancestors told us matters and bequeathed us the shaky foundation we were led to believe deserved to continue standing. Very few of us can see man’s creations clearly for the pathetic and impotent lies and delusions they are. That is who.

Q. Do you always feel like this? What’s so special about today?

A. I haven’t the slightest clue. I rushed around in the morning before leaving because I lost my work badge (which I later discovered was found laying on the ground and turned in) and it set the bitter tone for the rest of the day. Shit kept compounding all morning long. Layers upon layers of stupidity and impotence and mediocrity, growing upon the previous layers, exponentially increasing, a din of stupidity, and I could not take it any longer. There are people, let’s say I work with them, who are egregiously and decidedly NOT conscientious but are very lazy. But the way of the corporacracy is such that excellence and quality are no longer the key to recognition in our day. It’s all about quantity in our era of bottom line fixations and self-indulgent corporate bonuses; no one gives a crap about quality now. It’s bottom line, the lowest common denominator in America. It’s all about “numbers”…really, my numbers because ultimately they solely bolster my own chances for a bonus (which are all stratified at the every top of the chain). In times of economic pain, money still goes around, but it’s more confined to select groups. Rather than everyone taking an equal hit, the greedy still take large bites and since nothing is left…oh hell. I want my bonus, they scream. Hell with other departments or my subordinates, as long as we can mold a human force of button-pushing robots, and foment a culture in which people have no choice but to be eternally grateful that they have a job to begin with. And thus able to continue paying for all the stupid shit they bought during good times. This blows for those of us who have been in the work force long enough to remember when quality counted for something. Quality now is a stick-in-the-mud fuddy-duddy concept. In today’s cheapened socially-network societal malaise, quality of any sort has lost its luster.

Q. Ah, I see It’s work.

A. Yes, and no. At lunch, I thought I would escape it all. It was a sunny, balmy day here. I walked out the building and strolled down the street to do some shopping. Swarms of Hollywoodites basking their ivory pale-tude in the fresh sun, the sidewalks lined with the trendiest and hippest and most nauseating of daytime specimens. I passed over-priced restaurants charging upwards of $10 for simple shit that the foodies gathered in circles to share in the communal trough-like ceremony of eating and talking and living life in an artificially-elevated manner of pseudo existence. Everyone is fucking trendy and full of themselves and Hollywood is really intolerable. I felt so disaffected. I felt so distant from these hordes of ridiculous people and their overpriced and pretentious everything. Them and their gluttonous, consumerist, status-fixated quivers of tremulousness rattling down their underdeveloped bones because God forbid people actually do real work anymore besides pushing pencils and paper around. God, fuck em all. And on the way home, quite the opposite, my bus was crowded, East L.A. was crowded, it’s the weather, bunch of fat, shiny, ugly people. Whereas Hollywood is skinny, white and stylish, East L.A. is the polar opposite. Both are intolerable in their own right. It was one of those days I wanted nothing to do with anybody, with this ridiculous artifice of culture which is nothing but perpetuated helplessness behind the guise of social institutions. Our mass stupidity, like Godzilla, comes alive and roars to life, and it loops, a neverending awful loop which feeds itself, devours itself, like a snake, and the residue is this aimless bureaucracy we tell ourselves is important and which we desire to fulfill and around which we create industry and fields of expertise. To adorn this empty shell of existence with the facade of life. A fragile facade, but what other is there?

Generalizations about hourly motels

Hee hee I never stop, do I?
A new installment of The Generalization Chronicles

Hourly motels are overpriced even though they are the scummiest venues you would ever think of setting your ass in.
You’re paying for convenience and accessibility. They are like Goddamned 7-11’s.

They are a necessary sinful evil and provide a wonderful commercial option for many of the shadiest characters in our society. Sometimes that is even ourselves. Your level of shadiness is directly proportional to how many times you’ve frequented an hourly motel in the past year.

Even within the fringe, specialized culture of hourly motels, there is nevertheless a hierarchy ranging from the most squalid downtown caged tenement shithole to the semi-reputable faux Howard Johnson two-storied lodging, usually adjacent or close to restaurants, bars or other popular pick-up and one-night-stand venues.

They exist in various states of disrepair. But they are never nice. They are best described in shades of seedy. Very seedy, sorta seedy, less seedy… The “nicer” ones bother with ceilinged mirrors and cheap wafer thin complimentary soap bars in the shower (which is a necessity for those who use such hourly lodging due to the fact most people don’t generally leave home in the morning thinking they’ll need soap before they return).

Some of the worst hourly motels are filthy and wretchedly decorated. The sheets and mattresses ooze the dust cloud of human detritus/dander. This motel in L.A. had shower curtains lined with black mold. The sheets stunk…they were stale and gamey. This was the rare experience in which you actually felt dirtier after the shower. The price was cheap, I think it was like $20 an hour if I remember correctly.

$20 was on the low end of this genre of temporary, home away from home housing. Normal rates ranged up to $35 or 40 per hour. Some places even allow you to stay more than an hour. This is a rare prize, for many times, people using such motels are pressed for time.

Hourly motels are nervous affairs because if you’re in one, you’re usually up to no good and your life would be irrevocably tainted if anyone found out what was going on behind that closed door. You are jumpy. If people walk by outside, you tense up. Sometimes the neighboring unit slams the door and your heart leaps into your mouth.

Hourly motels are sin shelters for nothing good ever comes of them.
Evil motives enter and wicked exhaustion exits $20 or $30 or $35 later.

The rooms and the cheap flat carpet and drab drapes ooze the eternal fog of guilt that lives in these rooms. They are in the business of hiding a second life.

The room is always paid for up front, in cash. Usually handed nervously to the cashier through a bank-type slot at the bottom of a full-length glass partition. Stares are generally averted.

After the room is spent and the hour is up, a scurry to leave the evidence behind and rush back to the normal demands of reality fuel the inhabitants on.

If you extrapolate the average hourly motel rate over a prolonged stay, you’d be paying like $600 per day!
I’ve paid more, per hour capita, for an hourly motel than I paid for the Waldorf Astoria on my honeymoon. There is an odd irony in this observation that shall go unqualified. Leave well enough alone.

Most of the counter people are surly third-worlders or swarthy small business operators who man the counter at night and clean the rooms during the day. “Clean,” figuratively speaking. Maybe wipe the cum off the floors and wash the blankets in strong bleach to get the blood out. Hourly motel rooms are never truly clean. I once knew an older Basque dude who owned one such motel. He would come in and drink in my bar during the day and beat it back to his “store” every night before his customers started slithering in.

Many extramarital affairs find a specific motel which proves to be safe and discreet and the ongoing location of the illicit relationship. Understandably, the motel slowly acquires a sentimental aspect and the lowliest of all romantic stages comes to symbolize a magical spot in one’s memory. Long after the affair has dissipated, fond and sad memories of the affair are elicited each time one drives past the motel. Some motels have a peculiar scent which stays in your head long after. The rooms breathe the particular stench of hushed liaisons and random, unfolded fantasies rushed through the door to make room for the next in line, the next agitated occupant frightened that his actions will be revealed outside this door.

Hourly motels are a nexus point of human loathsomeness. They encapsulate the lowest and most depraved of our drives and surreptitious deeds and shelter them from the prying eyes of the nosy world.

Many times the utter unrepeatability of our actions behind closed hourly motel doors cannot be repeated. They are so shameful and humiliating that exposure would wreck lives. Hourly motels, like psychologists, contain secrets that shall never see the light of day.

Virgin eyes

Do you ever have those moments of abrupt clarity when you look at yourself in the mirror with fresh eyes?
This happened to me on Saturday.

I had completed my Day 2 work out earlier in the day. Day 2 is always the hardest. Deadlifts. Deadlifts are the most grueling and muscle-spewing lifts a man can do. They recruit every muscle group in the body and they are nothing but lovely agony. And yet, you persist. You plug through. And later in the day, or the day after, you feel great. Unmatched. There is a rush, mental, emotional and physical, which accompanies weight-lifting that most can’t understand.

So anyways, on Saturday evening, I was in the bathroom, changing into my “nightwear.” In the midst of it, the “flash of surreality” happened. That sliver, that fleeting moment of time, in which I saw myself through fresh eyes.

It’s as if you woke up from a 2 or 6 month coma and saw yourself anew.

I looked different!

If you lift weights daily long enough and you lazily lose grasp of how much you’ve grown. If your social circle is vestigial such as mine, no one ever tells you because they know you too well and they’d be embarrassed to point it out, plus they see you all the time! They don’t notice either. But there I stood, Hulk-like, in the bathroom, and suddenly I saw that my clavicles were inflated, large, and I began squeezing my fists in a vain attempt to make my forearms swell. The more I saw myself in the mirror, the more I realized that I had grown a lot. A lot. I saw myself for the first time.

Have you ever experienced that virginity of sight?

One day you look in the mirror and what you see is nothing you remember seeing before. Like an explorer climbing an unchartered mountain.

All the contours and curves, wrinkles, folds…are new.
I hear people talk about how they look in the mirror one day and realize they are old. Yes, it’s the same phenomena. One day, your perspective is jarred loose, and you see things clearly, if even for 20 seconds. It’s enough. To realize things have changed.

I’m old.
I’m dead.

Game is reactionary

I feel like an innocent bystander in this part of the blogosphere dealing with “Game,” and by extension, especially amongst the older crowd, “MRA.” A few years ago I had no idea what Game was or that there was even an organized series of lessons and teachings dealing with the “art of seduction.” My initial interest was socio-biological evolution. I’m not a scientist, but I take a great layman interest in the subject, as well as physics. Both are fields which I have zero training in. My knowledge is at best cursory and self-taught. Any opinions regarding these studies hide behind the ostensible facade of expertise on the internet and must be taken with a grain of salt. I’ll be the first to admit that my opinions are simply that. Perhaps my exposure is a little deeper than the average bear, but still, my notions concerning these subjects don’t have the stamp of learned approval that comes with years of study.

Back to my “bystander” metaphor. My interest in evolutionary psychology brought me to this blogrealm and my most amusing discovery of the “game” community. I was 40 by the time I unearthed this human gravesite and my demand for the archetypal “skills” of game were primarily behind me. Game, as a practice and diversion, is specifically within the realm of the normal young, breeding male who must contend with the mating playing field simultaneously populated by antagonistic and overly empowered modern and celebrity-ized women. Game, the equalizing agent which gives him more footing when going to war with women his age (and that’s what it is, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise), is a fantastic tool for the typical 20-year-old guy. Game for a man my age is tomfoolery.

If you’re a 46-year-old man who can’t handle or understand women and who finds he must resort to plasticized “cocky and funny” or “negging” bullshit routines, just give up. Forget women and start catching up on those AARP flyers because you’re closer to achieving those silver-haired dreams than to the attainment of the fresh pussy you desire. I see this problem with a lot of divorced guys who abruptly find themselves thrust into the frenzied dating scene after 20 or 30 years of marriage. Marriage acts to stunt social and mating growth. During the entire reign of his marriage, a man becomes complacent and loses touch with what works (and doesn’t), and the devolution which women have undergone during his wedded “downtime.”

I do not like the moniker of “game” for I feel it trivializes and cheapens a very important character development men have no choice but to embark on en masse if this civilization shall retain its grounding. It is not a game. Game is for 20-year-old men. It is a sub-category of a broader sense of masculinization men must travel their early to mid years. Game, as practiced and preached in this blogosector, is comical, delusional and farcical. I forgive them, it’s the provence of the young, they can get away with it. Youth is wasted on the young.

There is a larger level of personal evolution which game is a part of and I don’t think it has a label that I know of. However, all men should pay heed to their diminished and emasculated role in today’s female society. Their sons will prosper for it. Even their women will prosper. A strong manhood is vital for the sake of all.

I’d like to name this “re-masculinization.”
It is not magical. There is nothing elusively ethereal about it. It merely denotes a man’s ability to entertain awareness of the primal evolutionary forces at work through the infinite reaches of his ancestry which collude to shape his present thoughts and behavioral patterns. If a man can be comfortable with ascribing his instincts to timeless biological forces, he has taken the first step toward re-masculinization. Game is hollow in many respects because it is immaturely utilitarian. The end result is pussy and many guys don’t care about the why’s or the how’s. It’s all about gaming chicks and “coercing” them to hook up. Inherent to the success of such scripts is the exploitation of social evolution in order for these boys to meet their sexual ends. This is fine, and more power to them. But lacking the curiosity and knowledge of what they are doing, the practice is soulless and is not conducive to a man’s long-term growth and maturity.

Now there are many young chaps in this blogosector who do get it, but they are few and far between. You’re more likely to find the clownish and imbecilic brand of Jersey Shorish game with its adherents happily acting out while possessing very little, to no, self-awareness. If a fauxhawk, expensive t-shirt and aloof attitude are all it takes to fuck non-discerning bimbos, who the hell needs to develop studious and learned character? These boys are lazy and fucking it up for men who realize that their role in modern society is seriously challenged in its present incarnation. Game would be like a top flight international chef spending all his time refining and perfecting the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

My reservation about Game is not so much its buffoonery and ignorance, but its reliance on a limited paradigm and blind obedience to boundaries.

I was reminded of this while reading a blog post this morning on a wildly popular blog. I won’t link to it for I don’t wish to single anyone out since this is a phenomena that is widespread across all practitioners of game. Also, linking to this blog (which is an excellent source of discussion regarding evolutionary psychology and game) is an easily and transparently obvious attempt to rack up blog hits, which I will eschew in this case (as if I have a say in the matter). One of the side discussions springing from the post regards a woman’s sexual purity and its importance and relevance to a man’s decision to pursue her. Men in this portion of the blogosphere frequently argue and discuss a woman’s virginity as a prized indicator of her potential fitness as a wife as it portends her allegiance and faithfulness to you, as the father of her child (and the fact that her purity is also a valid indicator that you are the father). This is important to many men in the MRA/Game community; modern man fears being cuckolded (and rightly so).

This is what I mean by thinking beyond the barriers. Cuckolding is a Capitalistic, Westernized fancy that contained absolutely no relevance in prehistoric human society. Fatherhood, in such a society, had no monetary or individual rewards or character ramifications; the notion of “fatherhood” as a monetized role, an indicator of class or social level was not of great concern to primitive man, whose only mission was food and survival (in order to breed plentifully, of course). Mating was random and haphazard and tracked the closest fertile females within the male’s environment. Legacy, heirs, paternity, surnames, were concepts foreign to our prehistoric ancestors for a much larger chunk of evolution than the era encapsulating our modern, Christianized fixations with parenthood and generational legacies.

This is why I dislike the underlying philosophical framework of Game. It is self-limited to the cautious boundaries of modern, institutional thought. Game extrapolates a woman’s behavior from her modern incarnation and deduces some emptily symbolic expectations. In many ways, Game is reactionary. It celebrates the concept of civilized hierarchical consumerist social structure and though its adherents delight in quoting evolutionary psychology as its backbone, it really asks too much of men and women in the way of civilized behavior. We are primitive animals and we are trying on this civilized uniform and frankly, I don’t think we wear it well. Game seeks to foster unrealistic levels of artificial behavior in the face of evolutionary antiquity’s stronger pull. Game is highly moral and demands an unrealistically moral playing field. This is apparent in the expectations men reiterate over and over when it comes to what they expect from women. While simultaneously excusing, behind the guise of “primitive instinct,” that which is their own esteemed nature.

Conflicting motives

Conflicting goals suck.

Like tonight. A conflicting goal, conflicting measures, conflicting options.
Conflicting goals suck because they turn the clarity of black and white into infinite variations of gray. The decision is muddled because you can’t only consider two options. When there are conflicting remedies, you are screwed because you inevitably must choose the lesser of two evils which in turn means that you must consider a variety of other factors besides the main ones: A and B. If A and B do not conflict, you are free to make your choice based solely on the characteristics of A or B. If A and B are mutually exclusive, you’re gold. If A and B mesh and share outcomes, it’s time to start thinking and trusting in the precious interplay of intellect and instinct. It’s something like what I detailed the other day when I explained the process by which I attempted to essentially state in clearly polar terms the logical process by which I decide between two computers which offer a host of options but in chaotic and indirect and humanly indecipherable proportions. It’s like taking a little of This, a little of That, which incidentally don’t correspond cleanly, and standardizing them against the yardstick of common criteria in order to make an A and a B out of the previously indistinguishable tratis, thus allowing me clear-cut choice. Making them mutuallly exclusive.

Tonight was cold by L.A. standards. Damp and about 55ish. I was hungry, lazy, and out of milk. After I got home, I jumped in my car and drove to the ghetto market to pick up milk and other assorted refrigerated items. After that, I drove through a Del Taco where I was handed a piping hot brown paper bag etched in their signature logo. I bundled it tightly as I drove out of the parking lot for I hate cold food, especially cold fries and cold melted cheese. Also, I had a carton of milk which had been sitting in my car for a few minutes. Normally, on a cold night I might put the cold floor vent on and let it point at my milk if I didn’t plan on going home directly; or I might turn the vents on warm and point them at the food in order to keep it warm as possible on this cold night. But as I drove, it occurred to me I was faced with conflicting motives. I didn’t dare turn the heat up in order to keep the food warm because the milk had been out a while and I didn’t want to expose it to heat. On the other hand, I didn’t want to put the cold air vent on in order to keep the milk cool because I didn’t want my food getting cold. Conflicting motives. Favoring one option hampers the other. Which do you choose?

You must weigh many variables and allow your instinctual choice to be heard.
In my case, money is most important. Do I shortchange the money I spent on dinner or do I squander the money I spent on the milk’s shortened life span.

Many times at work I notice that interdepartmental and interdivisional motives, ostensibly neutered by the non-existent concept of “teamwork” which is so lovingly parroted by the rah-rah managers, still manifest themselves in such self-interested levels of raw competition and one-upsmanship that all motives prove to be unwilling partners. What is good for A is not always good for B in the work place. This necessitates that B places the well-being of the organization above all and sacrifices its aims to A, since utlimately, they both “win.”

Teamwork is dead in the corporate world. How can it thrive in a realm where conflicting motives are encouraged and self-interest is valued above all else?