My downcast immobile zombie subway pose and the hideous chicks

After I got home tonight, I heated up some leftover pork loin and canned spicy Mexican-brand beans. I brought the platter to my desktop computer desk (that’s right) and began eating dinner while catching up on my temporarily discarded cyberlife, which inevitably takes a tumble every work day of the week. The first thing I saw was a post on my Facebook wall which brought everything clearly into focus…

It all fell into place now. It surely explained the disappointment of the 2 ugly chicks earlier on the Red Line train I took home.

I’m a downcast-eyed person.

This is most glaringly obvious on public transportation where you are frequently lingering in an enclosed, static environment in close proximity to others for long periods of time. There is basically no opportunity to do anything but look at other people. Too much so. Too many people, too many faces, too many voices, too many feet. It’s unbearable to me. I hate over-stimulation and there is nothing that public transportation can offer except over-stimulation. I avoid this, my coping mechanism, shall we say, is by having downcast eyes. I hardly look up if I can help it. This is not an ingratiating public habit, but so what. I don’t care and I’m certainly not trying to make friends. If my eyes are not in that “ignore your ass” downcast state, I am probably staring blankly at the high event horizon where I’m likely to escape human eyes. I have commuted over an hour on public transportation without looking more than 3 people in the eye. I don’t look at people, I sense them. I hear them, I watch their bothersome shapes slither in and out of my peripheral vision. I can’t look at too many people without feeling overwhelmed.

I boarded the Red Line this evening and found some empty seats in front of couple of White women (my peripheral vision) but I never got a clear look at them. I could tell they were blonde and White, and by their discussion, very White. As I settled into my immobile zombie subway state, one of them said “bingo” which I naturally took personally as a sign of flattery though she may have been talking about anything else but me in the world. Whatever it takes to make me happy, I will gladly believe. They were talking about single men, yada fucking yada. I zoned and stared at the curved plastic partition in front of me, a great pose for avoiding people’s faces and noses and eyes. For 15 minutes we careened from stop to stop and I knew there were two blondes behind me and my curiosity was frankly piqued. They said bingo when I sat down! I resisted the temptation to turn around and look, but that would be an affront to my downcast subway pose and the greatest hypocrisy of my life. So I merely sat there, perpetuating my downcastness while their chattering faded into my distant interest.

As the 7th Street exit approached, the girls began rustling. They got up and stood in front of me, one of them gripping a pole near my face which is always provocative (to me) when done by a woman. That was the short one. Her friend was tall and spindly. I refuse to tilt my head. I watched, with my eyes only, as she neared the doors before they slid open. She was terrifying. Zero make-up, ratty hair, a very natural White woman with blemishes and bad skin. Perhaps about my age. One of the less prouder moments of WASP portrayal. When I see women like this, I second guess my proclamation that women shouldn’t wear so much make-up. This woman is the type that actually makes me question whether all women should be legally obligated to wear makeup. And thus a determination of public presentation to be decided by a panel of male judges. And as the doors slid open, out followed her short friend, the one who had gripped the pole not far from me. Eww. Not an improvement. Her face was a tad more “becoming” in the loosest, haggardly sense. I will give her this much: she had great tits, but once again, the cosmetic case might have done wonders for her and me; or a bottle of Jack Daniels for me. The short one wore a t-shirt with the Union Jack. Disappointed that my rear neighbors were best left unseen, along with the glimmering promise of “bingo” rattling in my ears, the train departed and I forgot about them.

Until I came home and read the post on my Facebook wall.

The Who, at the Staples Center. Aha. The 7th Street/Metro exit is popular for Staples visitors, it is not more than a couple of city blocks away. The ladies were going to see The Who.

I bring my eyes down again because nothing is really ever worth seeing.

Our modern struggle to be resilient

So after almost 48 years of doing my best to understand people, of trying to weigh their benefits and faults in between all their teeming annoyances and pleasures, I think I’ve finally unearthed the human characteristic I value in them most. It took me many years of pensive examination, of trial and error, of experimentation and denial, for me to tease out the singular trait I esteem above all others. I’ve scrutinized those I respect as well as those I despise. I’ve ruminated at length into the sleepy night as I uneasily pondered the ill offerings of my fellow man. I’ve sat on lonely boulders looking over the precipice of steep cliffs from the foot of raging orange sunsets and wondered about that which I respect in others.

The realization can only dawn after a certain level of personal maturity is attained. When immaturity still cloaks your melodramatic notions, your sincerest nature is subdued by egotistical notions of “good vs bad” and “right vs wrong.” You lack the capability to realize that which your nature dictates. For much of your life, much of your exploration, you find a type of person appealing when you’re young, yet the same person might be entirely distasteful to you later in life. Sadly, most people don’t experience this awakening, and at the very least, are not aware of it. You are only privy to it if you are open to it, meaning that you are mindful of it. Only in such a way, because of your lucidity, can you embrace and utilize the notion for your own growth and awareness. If you are ignorant to it, you may assimilate the knowledge subconsciously, but this only infers that you may make counter-productive or irrelevant choices in the future because knowledge of your awakening is the necessary precursor and “roadmap” to personal growth.

Perhaps the realization dawns on you in your simplest slumber. You learn it; the revelation settles, for you are now ready to embrace it. You learn what you value most in others.

I discovered that I cherish resilience most in others. I value and admire it. Yes, I admire instances of breathtaking resilience I’ve witnessed in others.

Resilience is rarer than we might think. It is a fleeting jewel of human nature. Resilience has been knocked down a peg or two in our modern age. Resilience is a sense of strength and undeterred personal purpose. Resilience is the ability to, in the most mundane analogous sense, to resume your form after taking a psychic blow. Psychic blows can, and frequently do, emerge from the cold structure of our physical world. Furthermore, emotional assaults can cripple us and leave us writhing on the ground. Resilience cannot be learned. You cannot summon it from nothing after indulging in a series of overpriced “workshops” involving a lot of blabbing and bullshit fluff. Resilience is a birthright and it may be present in degrees. But the penultimate form of resilience, the type we think of, is rare.

Resilience is having an “emotional jaw” that lets you battle in the ring when lesser mortals would have tumbled to the floor. I treasure resilience because I believe that the younger generations, mine included, have less resilience than the older generations who lived through a degree of suffering and hardship we have insulated away with the wonders of technology. How can resilience sprout from a race of people who, as they exist now, boast of laziness, gluttony and vanity as vehicles of excellence?

Resilience is a result of hardiness of spirit and strength of soul. It is persistence, it is not muscle. Resilience is a byproduct of an enduring sense of self that can only bloom in the arid hinterlands of personal trials and tribulations. Resilience is a gentle callousing that envelopes and motivates your comprehension of purpose.

Technology, as it progresses incrementally, soothes the trials while playing the role of buffer against the harsh rigors of our reality. The edge is gone courtesy of science and technology and now we are left with a soft, amorphous civilization that has lost possession of that historical sense of resilience earned in painful days past.

You can see visible examples of resilience in your daily life. You will witness as some people, confronted with sudden and uncomfortable stimuli, appear to “recoil” for a moment or two. Some people take longer to come out of their recoil state than others. The duration of your recoil state correlates to resilience. Do you flinch, do you remain unduly fixated on the unpleasant trigger, or do you march forward?

If this is what it means to be “Alpha,” I’ll gladly remain “other” : masculine lethargy

I work in a large global conglomerate and see lots of what might be defined as “Alpha men” (according to 2013 parlance).

Most of them are upper management men who dress and groom themselves impeccably, and as such, have access to, and unabashedly flaunt their ability, to procure the highest rung of females.

Most of these guys are young (20s, seeping into the early 30s) and they do their hair up just as trends dictate, and they wear all the right clothes which are also dictated by popular perceptions, which ultimately, for men, is dictated by women. Didn’t you hear the news….? What women want is what men manifest as “Alpha.”

I don’t care what “makes” an Alpha an Alpha any more. There are so many opinions batted about now that arguing your opinion of what makes a man “Alpha” is akin to throwing your piss into the wind of the din of popular opinion. It gets drowned out and swallowed by the morass of scrambled public opinion. I have my strong opinion of what makes a man Alpha, but for the sake of this thought, I will defer to the popular conception of Alpha.

Firstly, men tend to define Alpha as that which they personally identify with. I think many young men who discuss such matters tend to think of themselves as the epitome of Alpha and thus transcribe their motives and ambitions within the framework of an Alpha context. Generally, Alphas are presumed to be, in a direct definition: leaders, masculine, virile, and thus, indirectly, popular with women, wealthy, physically and socially powerful, and vain. I call these traits “indirect” because many times, while not being explicitly stated in the aforementioned definitions but nevertheless understood to portray an Alpha male by behavioral, everyday traits. So it is with this dimwitted concept of Alpha in mind that I will proudly and confidently proclaim that today’s Alpha man is weak, helpless, pathetic and stupid.

The problem is not Men, it is this technologically advanced culture of environmental insulation and the masculine lethargy it spawns. Men no longer need to kill or defend to earn mating privileges; 21st Century man is measured by his hair product and over-priced shoes. He is judged by the material comforts he ultimately can provide to his mate, and as technology advances, the conspicuous creature comforts which slowly become blatantly inhuman.

Our demands become refined and primal and disconnected.

We live our days inside climate-controlled hovels. At night, we escape to be in other high-energy hovels, but always, we escape discomfort in noise and dehumanizing distraction. For women, this syncs with their nature. The female seeks comfort above all, and Man is trained to provide this at the risk of garnishment of pussy, or even, life. Today, there is little risk. In fact, there is no Man to be found who can provide what women can’t get on their own, so their demands have become skewed and male nature has also distorted in response.

Remember that the strongest and most persistent complementary union in the history of this planet is the male/female dichotomy.

One does not change in the absence of the other. If the female becomes stronger, the male must become weaker. Once upon a time, the male was stronger. Physical strength and agility perpetuated survival. Now, politics and social manipulation rule human ascendancy. We end up with an effeminate black President, the penultimate expression of a female society that wants expresses the quivery desire for the best of both worlds.

We are witnessing a gradual devolution of man. As he is incrementally weakened behind his desk and computer, the remaining gladiators are athletes and military. The military masculinity weakly remains, but now male athleticism has been dealt a strong blow.

Manti Te’o, the hottest Samoan news item in recent years, is the latest failure of he-man masculinity to take a tumble.

Personally, I believe Manti was fooled by a female impostor. I’ve known of women, very unattractive but image-conscious, who fell eagerly to online men for long periods of time because they foisted their entire faith on an illusion. This is what Manti did. The stud athlete who could have any chick he wanted but who succumbed to a weak illusion.

Because men today have become a weak illusion of Man. If football players are falling to fiction, what can be said of the so-called everyday “man” of our generation beyond his computer screen and number-crunching careerism?

But if they call themselves Alpha, who am I to argue?

An explanation of my hypoanthropism, and while I’m it, a bold “fuck you” to your sweet slavery

I don’t hate people. I hate situations. I hate confluences.

People are not worth my hate. In fact, I am tormented by a resounding indifference (and disinterest) to most people. I am not a misanthrope. I am a hypoanthrope. I feel very little emotion for people, I feel almost no kinship with their plight and their stupid ambitions and yearnings. I have nothing to do with most people and I prefer it that way. I used to construe this as a sort of “hate by absence” but it is not hate. It is apathy.

When I say I hate something, it is assuredly not a person. It is not you, it is not him, it is not her. It is IT.

I hate it.

I hate fate, I hate the way reality unfolds because I can do nothing about it, I cannot deter it. I’m awed in the face of helplessness. I lose control, I feel fury. And what does hate come from other than fury?

I hate that I cannot control things, mostly, myself.

I hate the Ego.

It’s apparent. Everything I write is ego-bashing.

I hate the Ego because it is what separates and alienates us from nature. Nature is bliss, it is GOD, it is where we find equilibrium.

Ego is the particularly human trait that destroys all in its path. Ego is an elixir of our modern, complacent age. Ego is why we’ve shrouded our existence in artifice. It’s why we have “Game” and it’s why we have mortgages and credentials, it’s why this world is nothing but utter vain human bullshit and it’s why a class of obscenely wealthy people have a stranglehold over our liberty.

Ego is simply put. I thought of the penultimate definition:

Ego is our self-perpetuated need to impress ourselves.

This is all that the Ego is. It is slavery. Indentured servitude.

Recognizing as such the perilous implosive qualities of the Ego, I expect that I would be rendered immune to its call. For the most part, I am immune. I pride myself on my spectacularly atypical urban lifestyle and dis-motivational traits as contrasted with most of the materialistic madmen (and women) I work with and share the road with on a daily basis. My commute is infused with madness and a sense of thoughtless rushing. My timbre of life is self-imposed; it is spartan and subject to ridicule. There is nothing modern society can entice me with other than some super high speed data lines.

Yet, in spite of this, I find myself ensnared to my petty Ego urges once in a while. And it’s inevitable that when I act from these same Egotistical motives, I am surely bound to be shamed and humiliated. I should know better. I should never live this life solely to feed my superficial cravings. If I don’t step back and examine my motives, I am sure to make a mistake. Mistakes are humbling.

There are moments I witness helplessly as I act entirely from an Egotistical perspective and I feel and look like absolute shit for it afterwards.

Impressing myself impresses no one.

Cultivate her fear, not her love. Resist society’s muting of masculine danger.


**”Breaking Bad” spoilers**


Alrightie, listen up young men.


I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Acceptance of the secret will require that you adjust your attitude in a tremendously threatening direction that will leave you feeling very vulnerable. In order to truly integrate what I am about to tell you requires that you put all your faith in my words while disregarding what those closest to you preach, as well as the indoctrination that has been your sole emotional subsistence for the initial period of your young life.


Firstly, I am not a big fan of Hollywood’s media culture. I abhor most of the garbage they steadily jam down our throats in increasingly shameless measures of repugnance. However, believe it or not, there are actually some truths, some important ones, to be gleaned from the mass hypnosis product the global media conglomerates purvey.


The wisdom I wish to impart is simply this: while it is nice to have your girlfriend or wife love you, this is not the most important ingredient in the pursuit of keeping her and exciting her. Women are historically skilled at the cold practice of turning their backs on love. Women, who prattle about love the most, are the people who find it easiest to disregard it in the magical pursuit of “other things.” Love is great for you, the man, but it is mainly an adornment, it is a shiny object that you use to decorate this mess that is a relationship to remind yourself how good it is. Love in itself won’t keep your woman around. What will keep her around is the sense of immediate, brimming danger you present. You must be scary, and even if you are not, you should at least portray the image of subdued volatility. You must seem as if you have a lava layer of danger lurking in your veins, a danger that is ready to subsume her essence if she is not careful. You must frighten your woman if you want to pique her interest and prolong her infatuation with your presence in her life.


This is not to say you must be a thug or a criminal. It doesn’t matter what you are. If you play it smart, you will cultivate a sense of danger that precedes your entrance. You must scare the hell out of a woman if you want to keep her. Forget all that garbage about being a kind and generous man. About being a peaceful man. It’s great to be such, but these serene traits must be offset by a streak of demon coursing through your veins that has no regard for etiquette or rules, and least of all, manners. Women respond to fear and this is aptly demonstrated in much of the mass entertainment offerings if you keep your eyes open. Hollywood, though riddled with gays and effeminate and overly-groomed mild-mannered moneymen, still manages to portray the edgy masculine image that engulfs women like an out-of-control magnetic charge.


I bring you a couple of cinematic instances illustrating dangerous men whose erratic and threatening behavior mysteriously acts as a female beacon even the though the woman’s logic sensors tell her to run. But she can’t. The man’s danger tickles her subservient female monkey soul. Reason has nothing to do with making a woman stay. You must use the cloaked but obvious threat of danger wisely to accomplish this.


The first scene I present here is from the 2010 feature, Winter’s Bone, starring Jennifer Lawrence in an early role in which she plays Ree, the daughter of a Missouri meth-cooking mystery man by the name of Jessup. In the first leg of her personal journey/search, she visits her uncle, Teardrop, and his wife, Victoria, where she pleads them for info on Jessup’s whereabouts. Given Jessup’s questionable and shady dealings, not many are willing to contribute, least of all, Teardrop, Jessup’s meth-addicted, demonic brother. He asks Ree to quit the search hinting at many unknown dangers she may encounter. Victoria steps in and pleads with him on Ree’s behalf and Teardrop tells her to “shut up.” She presses further, prompting him to stand up angrily and threatening, “I said shut up already once with my mouth.” This shuts Victoria up.



The threat here, one of physical violence, is explicit, and in fact, probably has many precedents in the couple’s history. Fear of pain, of physical abuse, is the most carnal and villainous in a man’s arsenal. The danger Teardrop represents here is ofthe overt kind, and not many “civilized” men have a taste for such behavior.


My next Hollywood example is a scene from the Season 5 premier episode of “Breaking Bad,” also coincidentally involving the creation and marketing of methamphetamine. The first 4 seasons have seen the transformation of Walter White, a mild-mannered high school chemistry teacher, into a callous hardcore meth kingpin. Each episode illustrates the emerging ruthlessness of a man who only a few years previously was explaining covalent bonds to classes of disinterested teenagers. Walter’s transformation has been most dramatic when viewed from within the dynamic between he and his wife, Skyler. As the full implications of his drug ties becomes more apparent to Skyler, the more forgiving and intrigued she appears, and after a short period of separation, she is more than willing to jump back in bed with her husband despite the fact his meth underworld ties endanger her and their son, Walter, Jr. The titillation oozes from her wide, blue eyes. In this scene, Walter, coming off the assassination of a competing meth dealer, confronts Skyler in their bedroom. He urges her to speak after a short silent treatment. Walter tells her he is OK now. Skyler replies, “I am relieved Walt. But I’m scared.”


Walter asks, “Scared of what?”


With a glint of impressed adoration in her eyes, she answers, “You.”


She doesn’t leave him, she doesn’t lecture him. She doesn’t think twice. She just exits the room quietly, and he knows he has her.



Young men, please note. You must be dangerous. Your girl must experience some fear of you. This is not to say you must deal meth, beat her up, or kill competitors. The modern, technological world leaves you little room to erect a sense of danger. The danger you expose must be implicit in the mundane routines of boring, everyday life. Don’t back down, don’t take shit, don’t apologize or temper your ruthless nature with all the modern PC niceties. You must fight back with a poison tongue and use the worst, demeaning language.


You are a male victim of the 21st Century. Molded to fear your own nature, made to experience shame for your urges and rude, wanton thoughts, beaten down by the prim and proper unrealistic and unfair demands of a womanized social culture, you have no breathing space. You are stuck between the narrow tunnel of oppressive behavioral expectations, and the rushing river of strict institutionalized consequences ready to punish unruly masculinity. You have forgotten how to be mean, and worse, never learned to express meanness as a tool of sexual dominance.


Men must take back modern society’s muting of masculine fearlessness instead of cowering from it. Learn something from those Hollywood sleazeballs!