Back when I was pouncing like a kitten from pickup book to pickup book, I remember reading a so-so tome by a British writer named Ed West called 'How To Pull Women'. It was average enough as a lesson - all fashion, dates etc, but had none of the blunt, implementable technology uncovered by evolutionary biology and Mystery.
Reading the Telegraph this evening, a cow before smooth tall grass, I greedily clicked on a link that called straight to my ape-ear - Muslim Immigration: the most radical change in European History. These kind of articles appeal to my so many different facets of my messy brain that I fall kneeward like a dishevelled gambler before each new mirage.
Like with gambling the act of reading these weary weary treatises collages such a diverse blot of emotions in me that, even if I feel broken, miserable, and defeated after all the grim projections, it is sufficient emotional value to keep me invested and reading more and more and more. Gambling gets you hooked with the bad as much as the good emotions. There is a pickup lesson in there, but we'll drawer it for now.
Anyway, this article was written by none other than Mr Ed West. Turns out he is not only a dogged, delectable conservative, tentacled close to my own heart, but a strange kind of Catholic. He edits the features section of the Catholic Herald newspaper. Is there something conservative about game?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Welfare State = Polygamy. Jobless 24 Year Old Impregnates 7 Women.
There is polygamy, and polygamy. Polygamy, in the past, had at least something going for it - the males were typically high status, could provide for their progeny, and because of the latter tended to have a good gene-set that might have conferred benefits on future generations. Since the triumph of female choice and the welfare state, the reverse is now true. Seduction, a time-intensive activity, is actually practised best by bums who dont do anything all day, and thus have time to chase the wild wood-nymphs through the forest. Men who work all day don't have the same time and energy for the chase. So seduction favours the jobless.
Because women don't care about the sources of male income - think Carmella Soprano or a Saudi Prince - they base their decisions on whether you are still petering around, well-fed enough, and above all are preselected by other women. Paradoxically, a good fitness indicator in the past was the degree of leisure time a man possessed. Men with a lot of free time had a lot going for them - allies, underlings, abundant resources, etc, so they did not have to put much into the bland work-act itself. Basically, wasting time is another example of the handicap principle - "that guy is so goddamn successful he can afford to do nothing with his time". The production of art - useless in itself - is another example of this.
Have I uncovered the key to the appeal to women of welfare bums??
Now we come to Keith McDonald, a 24 year old drunkard who used to drink 12 cans of lager a day. He claims to have slept with over 40 women, and first had sex at age 10.
You cannot find a bigger bum than Mr McDonald. On the first date with the woman he is going to marry (and produce baby no.8) he had no money, told her as much, she happily paid for the date, and rewarded his unearning power with sex. The British Beta Male (taxpayer), including the 7 men possibly on the genetic dung-heap because this magic monster decided to cave-hoard 7 girls (unless they are OK with sloppy seconds), yes, the poor British Beta Male funds his whole brood to the tune of £60,000 per year.
By the time all of the children are 16 the total bill to the taxpayer will be in excess of £1 million.
In the past this behavior was impossible. Society would scorn him as a bum, parents would beat him to a pulp, but most importantly, the women who rewarded him with sex would be severely shamed. No more. This is one reason I have a visceral hatred for Leftist political ideology - it combines a thumbs-up to shocking sexual irresponsibility while rewarding such irresponsibility with free money provided by everyone else.
What will this genetic mixing via leftist-enabled polygamy mean for future generations? Eventually the productive classes will be selected out and society will collapse. Simple.
The event itself is far too great, too distant, too remote from the multitude's capacity for comprehension even for the tidings of it to be thought of as having arrived as yet. - Nietzsche.
Because women don't care about the sources of male income - think Carmella Soprano or a Saudi Prince - they base their decisions on whether you are still petering around, well-fed enough, and above all are preselected by other women. Paradoxically, a good fitness indicator in the past was the degree of leisure time a man possessed. Men with a lot of free time had a lot going for them - allies, underlings, abundant resources, etc, so they did not have to put much into the bland work-act itself. Basically, wasting time is another example of the handicap principle - "that guy is so goddamn successful he can afford to do nothing with his time". The production of art - useless in itself - is another example of this.
Have I uncovered the key to the appeal to women of welfare bums??
Now we come to Keith McDonald, a 24 year old drunkard who used to drink 12 cans of lager a day. He claims to have slept with over 40 women, and first had sex at age 10.
You cannot find a bigger bum than Mr McDonald. On the first date with the woman he is going to marry (and produce baby no.8) he had no money, told her as much, she happily paid for the date, and rewarded his unearning power with sex. The British Beta Male (taxpayer), including the 7 men possibly on the genetic dung-heap because this magic monster decided to cave-hoard 7 girls (unless they are OK with sloppy seconds), yes, the poor British Beta Male funds his whole brood to the tune of £60,000 per year.
By the time all of the children are 16 the total bill to the taxpayer will be in excess of £1 million.
In the past this behavior was impossible. Society would scorn him as a bum, parents would beat him to a pulp, but most importantly, the women who rewarded him with sex would be severely shamed. No more. This is one reason I have a visceral hatred for Leftist political ideology - it combines a thumbs-up to shocking sexual irresponsibility while rewarding such irresponsibility with free money provided by everyone else.
What will this genetic mixing via leftist-enabled polygamy mean for future generations? Eventually the productive classes will be selected out and society will collapse. Simple.
The event itself is far too great, too distant, too remote from the multitude's capacity for comprehension even for the tidings of it to be thought of as having arrived as yet. - Nietzsche.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Female Dress: Why No Cat-Calls, Constant Approaches?
Lawrence Auster, a subtle traditionalist thinker, offers a good explanation of why, despite female dress roaring into ever more revealing spheres over the past few decades, what might be termed the 'rate of cat-calls' and approaches in general might have dropped. This dispute led me to dig around his archives. In the first link, Auster invents quite an ice-clear and fresh theory on approach anxiety:
"It seems to me there are at least two factors leading men not to express their attraction to women in public as they once did. One is of course feminism; the man is not supposed to approach the woman. Thus in no movie for the last 15 years has the man initiated the kiss; only the woman does. It's a mandated form of political correctness as rigid, and as untrue to reality, as the official denial of God in the Soviet Union. The other factor is the extremely revealing female dress, which is a more recent development. When a woman is already revealing to the whole world parts of her body that normally would only be seen by her husband or boyfriend, then, instead of triggering greater male interest, comments, and so on, it inhibits it. I'm not sure I can say exactly why this is so, but here's an attempt at an explanation. Women's excessively revealing dress destroys what we might call the "sexual public square." In older society, men could feel and express their attraction to women, such expressions had a relatively safe social meaning as well as a more dangerous sexual one, it didn't instantly mean, "I want to go to bed with you." But when a woman is dressed in such a revealing, whorish way as to suggest that she is prepared to go to bed instantly with any man she chooses, that in-between social space--the space between the situation of two people having nothing to do with each other, and the situation of two people going to bed together--is lost. The man is left with two options: either to tell the woman he wants her, or to affect not to notice her--the very self-emasculating behavior I described at the beginning of this entry."
Fascinating.
In western lands, men have chosen to skulk in the shadows, and pretend these nymphed fleshfeasts are mere ghosts or wraiths walking weirdly in the daylight. But in other regions - imagine a micro-skirted Venus wandering the streets of Tunis - men take Auster's first route, and tell the woman dressed for the bedroom that yes, he would like to take you there. And western women find this behavior strange. But it is only one of two logical options.
Roissy circles this point here.
"It seems to me there are at least two factors leading men not to express their attraction to women in public as they once did. One is of course feminism; the man is not supposed to approach the woman. Thus in no movie for the last 15 years has the man initiated the kiss; only the woman does. It's a mandated form of political correctness as rigid, and as untrue to reality, as the official denial of God in the Soviet Union. The other factor is the extremely revealing female dress, which is a more recent development. When a woman is already revealing to the whole world parts of her body that normally would only be seen by her husband or boyfriend, then, instead of triggering greater male interest, comments, and so on, it inhibits it. I'm not sure I can say exactly why this is so, but here's an attempt at an explanation. Women's excessively revealing dress destroys what we might call the "sexual public square." In older society, men could feel and express their attraction to women, such expressions had a relatively safe social meaning as well as a more dangerous sexual one, it didn't instantly mean, "I want to go to bed with you." But when a woman is dressed in such a revealing, whorish way as to suggest that she is prepared to go to bed instantly with any man she chooses, that in-between social space--the space between the situation of two people having nothing to do with each other, and the situation of two people going to bed together--is lost. The man is left with two options: either to tell the woman he wants her, or to affect not to notice her--the very self-emasculating behavior I described at the beginning of this entry."
Fascinating.
In western lands, men have chosen to skulk in the shadows, and pretend these nymphed fleshfeasts are mere ghosts or wraiths walking weirdly in the daylight. But in other regions - imagine a micro-skirted Venus wandering the streets of Tunis - men take Auster's first route, and tell the woman dressed for the bedroom that yes, he would like to take you there. And western women find this behavior strange. But it is only one of two logical options.
Roissy circles this point here.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Did the Female Orgasm Evolve as a Shit Test?
A shit test is when a woman tries to spade up your pack-place by clawing at some part of your social mask, by insulting you, being difficult, emotional etc, in order to see if you will do her a favor and unbury your real rank, whence she can invite your golden sceptre up or down with equal bliss. Think of women as Freud meets your insurance provider. Here's a more Latinized definition. Here's how to deal with the usual talkative ones.
Passing shit tests is very important, and on graduation your concubine will feel better about you - more enticed, more comforted - and you can continue round the great gyre up to the starry summit. But the problem is that shit test passing, like 'I love you's', can be easily faked for those with a well-watered g-factor or just a dumpster full of experience.
And by that diverse path we come to the female orgasm. This rotund rumble is something of a mystery to the spectacled classes, who are still confused about why our ladies, unlike the ladies of 99% of other species, demand such goalless ecstasy. Maybe our females are just more choosy and demanding than mountain goats or meercats. Cue northward eye-roll. Women... as they say. You know what I mean.
But this is not enough. One story is that it evolved to bind the couples together toward the raising of little darlings. In that sense, it is a corollary of 'love'. Love, a strange emotion that happens in realms of extreme attraction for women - Robert Pattinson, Jimi Hendrix, Obama, guys with game - can be engendered in the female by bliss, or just a consistent stream of photographable experiences rolling to pictures of kittens and babies... hmmm, I dunno. Anyway, love happens to a man when he views a picture of Bar Raefeli.
So the sexual act brings on, and reinforces love. It's possible, surely. Not being a scientist I'm not going to argue. But lets take our binoculars to another theory.
This is that the female orgasm evolved as a 'screening mechanism', basically a shit test. In the wild the Alpha males of many animals take a bit longer to reach the golden gate than the more subordinate ones. They are also more focused on the dismal deed itself than the trees and other creatures skulking around. Alternatively, in the course of the act, beta males keep looking around like demented hummingbirds, worried some burly usurper will catch them before their bumblebee clings to that precious petal. From Overcoming Bias:
The idea is that orgasm might be a way a woman’s body speaks to her brain, “telling herself” that she has been having sex with a suitable partner—that is, one who is not worried about being displaced by a competitor, who is self-confident and unhurried enough to be satisfying to her.
So a mans behaviour in sex is itself an indication of his status. Higher status men can afford to wait, even if it makes logical sense to explode as fast as possible. In that sense, it may be a reflection of the handicap principle.
Questions.
- Surely once she lets him in the gate, the game is over, and he has won, whether he arrives now or later? Or does the female purse release a poisonous spermicide if beta traits are uncovered just before climax?
- Does a female orgasm raise the odds of conception?
- Do low status human men ejaculate faster?
- Could this be one of the main unconscious reasons most men say their main goal in bed is to satisfy the woman? I have seen a poll on this.
Lessons.
In the course of the dark act:
- Don't be quiet. Be rambunctious and dominant.
- Don't frantically look around the room like you're getting away with something you shouldn't.
- Be slow and elegant.
- Devote proper time to foreplay.
Update.
Many commentators recommended the book Sperm Wars. I have not read it yet, but will.
Zdeno referred to a Richard Dawkins theory on the erection itself: "Dawkins once asked why men need to get erections - why not just have a real bone in their? You could be hard no matter how much you drank or how old you are and keep it up for hours. His theory is that an erection is a signal of fitness - strong circulatory system, proper hormone levels, low stress."
I guess every single segment of male-female interaction is a shit test.
Passing shit tests is very important, and on graduation your concubine will feel better about you - more enticed, more comforted - and you can continue round the great gyre up to the starry summit. But the problem is that shit test passing, like 'I love you's', can be easily faked for those with a well-watered g-factor or just a dumpster full of experience.
And by that diverse path we come to the female orgasm. This rotund rumble is something of a mystery to the spectacled classes, who are still confused about why our ladies, unlike the ladies of 99% of other species, demand such goalless ecstasy. Maybe our females are just more choosy and demanding than mountain goats or meercats. Cue northward eye-roll. Women... as they say. You know what I mean.
But this is not enough. One story is that it evolved to bind the couples together toward the raising of little darlings. In that sense, it is a corollary of 'love'. Love, a strange emotion that happens in realms of extreme attraction for women - Robert Pattinson, Jimi Hendrix, Obama, guys with game - can be engendered in the female by bliss, or just a consistent stream of photographable experiences rolling to pictures of kittens and babies... hmmm, I dunno. Anyway, love happens to a man when he views a picture of Bar Raefeli.
So the sexual act brings on, and reinforces love. It's possible, surely. Not being a scientist I'm not going to argue. But lets take our binoculars to another theory.
This is that the female orgasm evolved as a 'screening mechanism', basically a shit test. In the wild the Alpha males of many animals take a bit longer to reach the golden gate than the more subordinate ones. They are also more focused on the dismal deed itself than the trees and other creatures skulking around. Alternatively, in the course of the act, beta males keep looking around like demented hummingbirds, worried some burly usurper will catch them before their bumblebee clings to that precious petal. From Overcoming Bias:
The idea is that orgasm might be a way a woman’s body speaks to her brain, “telling herself” that she has been having sex with a suitable partner—that is, one who is not worried about being displaced by a competitor, who is self-confident and unhurried enough to be satisfying to her.
So a mans behaviour in sex is itself an indication of his status. Higher status men can afford to wait, even if it makes logical sense to explode as fast as possible. In that sense, it may be a reflection of the handicap principle.
Questions.
- Surely once she lets him in the gate, the game is over, and he has won, whether he arrives now or later? Or does the female purse release a poisonous spermicide if beta traits are uncovered just before climax?
- Does a female orgasm raise the odds of conception?
- Do low status human men ejaculate faster?
- Could this be one of the main unconscious reasons most men say their main goal in bed is to satisfy the woman? I have seen a poll on this.
Lessons.
In the course of the dark act:
- Don't be quiet. Be rambunctious and dominant.
- Don't frantically look around the room like you're getting away with something you shouldn't.
- Be slow and elegant.
- Devote proper time to foreplay.
Update.
Many commentators recommended the book Sperm Wars. I have not read it yet, but will.
Zdeno referred to a Richard Dawkins theory on the erection itself: "Dawkins once asked why men need to get erections - why not just have a real bone in their? You could be hard no matter how much you drank or how old you are and keep it up for hours. His theory is that an erection is a signal of fitness - strong circulatory system, proper hormone levels, low stress."
I guess every single segment of male-female interaction is a shit test.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Women Are More Selfish Than Men
The most difficult issue to confront for men who have burst out of the gray matrix of society, is to see, through Darwin's spyglass, the astonishingly selfish nature of women. It is one of those everyday phenomena - sirens against the city sky, the motorway hum canalling through the countryside - that is so large, so ever-present, and so unavoidable that it has long ago melted onto the far-back retina and cochlea, and fallen down the memory hole.
The whole menagerie of life would be quite unworkable in its current form if this truth sailed into more urgent focus. Like the mundane act of breathing, it must remain an unconscious habit, only then can society tick along like a time-bomb. But once the dark truth is loosed, it all gets much harder, like breathing with the frontal cortex. Go on, rationally breathe! Try it.
So the man who breaks out of the cocoon is much like a weary time-traveler off in the Black Forest circa AD794 wondering why everything is so... quiet...
Liz Jones can for the moment be our Galapagos. She is a Daily Mail writer extraordinaire, a Fafnir of the Feminine, who sits brooding over her treasure at the center of a vast and feudal network known as the Fashion Section. Her position has given her reign to opine not just on the world of fancy and fabrics, but of men and women, of bird and beast, and society, all through the prism of her own dread life.
And what a life it has been! Now 50, she has been editor of fashion magazine Marie Claire, where she bragged about being bitchier than Meryl Streep's character in 'The Devil Wears Prada', she has only had three boyfriends in her life, lost her virginity very late in life, seems a lifetime anorexic, and cannot take a step out the door without confirming one-hundred fold Steve Sailer's Law of Female Journalism: "The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking."
She currently nests as a 'YOU' columnist for the Mail, one of those astonishing titles the female species uses to mud-play in their own selfishness. Try and think of a male equivalent to 'because you're worth it'.
So I Aladdin-ambled through her archive, careful not to brush the most delicate treasures, my eagle-eye ever-watchful of the road behind as, graciously, I edged toward my precious lamp. Come, my friends, and glimpse the truth-goblets I have brought back from the depths!
------------------------------------------
We begin with the red flag already hinted at. But here she states it bluntly:
I didn't get my first boyfriend until my late 20s, and that relationship lasted only six months.
Beep. Beep. Beep. This kind of statement is a red flag enough to write her off as a long term prospect. My friends, when there is one red flag as big and boisterous as this, you know it clothes a horde of scrounging rats underneath. Where there is one, there are more. This is a law of the universe.
Ah but does this not make her special, you say? A virgin, possibly? An ice-perfect Rapunzel untainted by the raging romp around her? Worthy, you may say, of your hand and heart? No, no, no! Quite the opposite. This is a specimen of female to be watched for. There are the naturally chaste, there are the in-betweeners, there are the sluts, and there are the natural spinsters. Yes, there is such a thing as a natural spinster. Ninsters, I christen them, Christo et Ecclesiae Amen.
Traditionally viewed as selfish little creatures in folk tales and other caverns of wisdom, that stereotype is, like most stereotypes, pretty much true. As F. Roger Devlin said, 'Motherhood has always been the best remedy for female narcissism' Ninsters differ from Spinsters in one important respect - there is usually no discernable reason why they are spinsters, other than it is their natural state. Bluntly, ninsters are usually hot enough to have gotten a good man to commit to them during their reproductive years. But they didn't. More traditional spinsters would tend to be plain or below. Ninsters can be ferreted out by their strange life choices, extreme choosiness, irritability, dragon-scale narcissism, and status anxiety. In another article she explains "I had only ever had three boyfriends, two of whom hadn't even liked me that much."
So in the end, who was the stately chap who won our heroines heart, and (possibly) took her virtue? Surely some noble and dashing Prince, a Lancelot, a King among men who had proven himself on bended knee to our fair Ice-Queen?
Of course not. The only man who could melt her palace was a violent criminal thug. Additional proof, if ever you needed it, that women. want. assholes.
Especially higher status, more neurotic women. Ninsters love assholes, their hatred for nice guys is pure as fire.
So one night, with her and a friend in the car and our Prince at the wheel, an unfortunate cabby overtook them in the wrong fashion. With a thugs enthusiasm our dashing victor sped him down, wrenched him from his vehicle, and beat him until he lay unconscious on the road. Ms Jones and her friend, in the nature of women, did nothing, claiming they were 'too terrified' (aroused?). Of course, of course she stayed with him. That night she probably serviced him like never before.
Interestingly, on this metric alone (women loving men who beat them) Ms Jones seems to think we should return to the old Roman Law whereby women were treated as perpetual minors, and remove the moral choice from these girls altogether, so that society intervenes to overrule female emotion and stop them from sleeping with these men in the first place:
Should women be protected in the same way as children? I’d like to say yes. Many times, after the incident with the taxi driver, I wondered why on earth my boyfriend’s brother or his friends hadn’t warned me. Did I continue to see him after witnessing that assault? I’m ashamed to say I did.
To cap it all off, she ends with this gemstone tucked away like a teddy:
To be honest, I think he deserved a second chance, which I gave him (until he dumped me).
Please my friends, be gentlemen! I know a quiver of gaiety has just lurched your belly inwards, your smirk sly, but save the laughter (for now anyway), we are in serious country, and circling the wisdom-point. But before we fully uncover the life-gifts of this realm, we must detour into a marriage.
--------------------------------------
Marriage has always and everywhere been an event of special importance. It can happen for a variety of reasons, and usually works best when there is a value differential between the male and the female in favor of the former. A woman's value, in terms of pure genetics, peaks around age 20 or so, when she is most fertile. Some would argue it is at an even younger age. But there are special cases whereby a woman's mate-value is not overtly tied to her reproductive value. Liz Jones is one such case. Although she got married to a younger man when her own reproductive value approached zero - in her forties - she brought quite a good deal of non-reproductive value to the table, what is sometimes termed "survival" or "social" value.
She was famous. She was a serious, serious value "connector", having headed a world renowned fashion magazine, which could open a low door in the wall onto a cornicopia of opportunity for any man with game enough to penetrate her Death-Star bitch shield. She had a beautiful house in the wealthy Islington part of London. On her own, she was not valuable, but through her, a man could access a wealth of value unseen by the majority of mankind: beautiful fashion models, journalists at beck and call, publishing deals, and entry into the elite.
So for her husband - a penniless 26-year old who lived with his parents and had novelistic aspirations - she was very valuable. The value her husband - an Indian named Nirpal Dhaliwal ( she boasts of never having slept with a white man, proof, she thinks, of her super-dooper-mega-anti-racism) - the value he brought to the table was less clear. But it had to be something. We will see later in brute beauty the process by which she selects a mate, but in this case it might have had something to do with her strange desire to take care of helpless things, an exercise frequently lauded, but usually stemming from an egoistical desire to exercise power. So because of this value differential, the marriage was troubled from the start.
Nirpal was an asshole who constantly cheated on her (naturally), and looks like a genetic player, despite some seemingly beta blubbering. He is very much in the Artful Dodger school of seducers. Only assholes can penetrate a bitch shield as think as hers. Despite offering 'oral sex on demand' our heroine could not keep him from the soft arms of other ladies. She does not explain further, but it is not inconceivable that he only had access to these women through her.
And of course her own behavior - by the law of red flags - didn't help. On the few occasions when Nirpal deviated from his assholeness, she of course came to hate him even more:
I admit I was a nightmare to live with... I was used to looking after myself and got cross when he tried to do anything nice for me (I secretly upgraded the diamond earrings he bought me at Christmas).
You cannot be nice to women of her station, even for a second, she will punish you forever.
And, of course, I wrote a weekly column picking apart his every peccadillo, from the cabbagey smells he emits nightly to the fact he had put on four stone (my fault, obviously).... He has blamed, over and over again, his philandering on the fact that he felt emasculated by what I wrote in my column, and I can understand that...
I know so many women my age whose husbands, if they havent chased after young floozies who at least look up to them (the emails Daphne sent my husband made me want to throw up, so saccharine were they in their adoration), behave like extra giant children (mine would often call me Mummy? or My old Mum, much to my annoyance)... in retrospect, and of course I regret this every day, I should never have written about him, but I knew deep down he wouldnt stick around..."
Now some might say that the Mummy stuff is beta. But it's not, in the context it is well within the artful dodger archetype. He moved in with her and she let him write a novel while she earned for both of them. She rewarded him with blowjobs on demand and (presumably) access to her elite social circle of beautiful women. Nice.
After an astonishing four years married (seven years together) she announced in 2007 "I'm Finally, Finally Getting Divorced" (the quotes just above are from this article).
The divorce was inevitable for anyone with the slightest knowledge of male-female mating dynamics, but most people don't have access to our treasured knowledge, so we can dance while they burn. The marriage is a revealing insight into the mind of the Dark Feminine, and how with such astonishing grace these women reward "bad" behavior and punish "good".
She ends, without even a hint of cliche-acknowledgment, like this:
A week after I got back from Africa I rescued a six-year-old racehorse (she, due to ill-treatment, hates men too), and I am sure my family of five cats will grow more numerous.
--------------------------------------
But a marriage is a marriage is a marriage. It can only tell you so much. As students of the amorous arts, we prefer the moment well before, when initial intrigue is channeled, the process by which the fire-female makes her choice.
To wrest the highest secrets of this Dragon-Tyrant, so that we can discern a truth beneath and universal, she must leave behind her troupe of cats, and we must follow her on a Quest. Quests, and the challenges they pose, are good for plumbing deeper depths.
Close to Christmastide 2009 our steadfast matron, now 50 and with enough baggage to fill an Airbus flotilla, set herself an enviable challenge: she joined an exclusive dating agency in the hopes of "landing" a millionaire.
The process gives us a hawk-eye view of female nature, and how rapacious, immovable, and deluded it remains, even for ladies well off the round borders of the world. The agency she joined had a membership fee of $6,000, insuring only the "best of the best" pierced its cyber walls.
First we get to see Ms Jones' brute preferences. The man must be around her own age but 'boyish' in appearance. Nor can he be a 'banker', a criterion that, she is informed, instantly disqualifies a large chunk of the agencies male clientele. In the wild, as in humans, females are the choosers, their first order of business is to actively tune out about 99% of the male population. This applies even in the stratosphere. The beta majority must be uncovered fast, and then ignored for eternity.
Date I is with "M, who is 46, in wealth management, whatever that is, and a divorced father of two grown-up boys. He lives between London and Oxford." Now this must seem like a good deal for any woman, not least one with little or no reproductive value. But no. Women will always find a fault, so poor Mr M.
When he arrives I am disappointed: he looks ordinary, in a normal, brownish suit, clutching a briefcase. He has nice brown eyes, but is not quite tall enough for me.
They blather for a bit, he loses interest in her cold company, and departs.
Date II is even more revealing. Here she meets the CEO of a Bank, with degrees out his eardrums, divorced, no children and standing 6ft 2in. A worthy prospect for our maiden, surely? Of course not!
I know in less than five seconds that I will never fancy him.
Ah yes. She then proceeds to aggressively shit test based on her own neuroses (why do you not want a younger woman? yadayadayada). After they leave one another and proceed out into the snow, Ms Jones is standing cold outside, and finding it tough to hail a cab. Her date returns, asking if she needs help. She doesn't recognize him!!
Anyway, he then phones his driver to shepherd them to her hotel. Here our poor CEO fails another shit test.
He takes off his overcoat and buttons it around me, which I find presumptuous, as it ruins my outfit.
Understand, my pets, that for women of her station even the tiniest, most insignificant nice-guy white-knighting brings seething contempt. You might think you're just keeping her warm, but you're actually making her outfit incongruent. Got it? Okay, good.
In the car he makes a move for a kiss, but she rebuffs him, and doesn't explain why. This is an important question. She just rejected a man who was interested in her, the CEO of a bank, and did not explain why. Why is he not good enough for her? Why? She expends voluminous energy complaining about how there are no single, decent men in the world willing to date older women, yet she rejects every reasonable guy that comes across her path, and instead rewards the criminals and the philanderers. What more can men do????
As I am chauffered through the streets, alone yet again, I comfort myself with the realisation that I could, if I'd really wanted, have landed my very own Mr Big.
Wow. No words required. Just... Wow.
Date III, the finale, is a 'disaster'. The specimen here is 'in politics'. She (the agent) says he is 'charismatic and bright', which I take to mean ' hopelessly ugly'. He calls me, and I don't like his voice, which is on the soprano side. So once again she enters the interaction on a boat of female narcissism and pickiness.
They meet, and he is of course too short. "He is at the table, already sitting down. He stands up; there is little difference. Why are men so short these days?" He proceeds to qualify himself in response to her aggressive shit tests, and loses the set. This is confirmed at the end. "I offer to pay half, and he lets me, which makes me think: 'What a tight a***.'" Riiiight. Would the reaction be any different had he paid?
She then proceeds to blather about some lessons learned.
This is Liz Jones. Female Squared And Circe-Sweet. The feminine so gorged on its own ego that it has collapsed in on itself and become a raging mountain of darkest estrogen. The dark feminine. Shudder, my friends, just... shudder...
So I exit her cave, lamp well used, lessons learned. It has been a tough journey, and I have other treasures to distribute in a later post - brighter red flags, examples of Sailer's Law - but for now I must take in a hard breath, lie down, and gaze at the wheeling stars.
The whole menagerie of life would be quite unworkable in its current form if this truth sailed into more urgent focus. Like the mundane act of breathing, it must remain an unconscious habit, only then can society tick along like a time-bomb. But once the dark truth is loosed, it all gets much harder, like breathing with the frontal cortex. Go on, rationally breathe! Try it.
So the man who breaks out of the cocoon is much like a weary time-traveler off in the Black Forest circa AD794 wondering why everything is so... quiet...
Liz Jones can for the moment be our Galapagos. She is a Daily Mail writer extraordinaire, a Fafnir of the Feminine, who sits brooding over her treasure at the center of a vast and feudal network known as the Fashion Section. Her position has given her reign to opine not just on the world of fancy and fabrics, but of men and women, of bird and beast, and society, all through the prism of her own dread life.
And what a life it has been! Now 50, she has been editor of fashion magazine Marie Claire, where she bragged about being bitchier than Meryl Streep's character in 'The Devil Wears Prada', she has only had three boyfriends in her life, lost her virginity very late in life, seems a lifetime anorexic, and cannot take a step out the door without confirming one-hundred fold Steve Sailer's Law of Female Journalism: "The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking."
She currently nests as a 'YOU' columnist for the Mail, one of those astonishing titles the female species uses to mud-play in their own selfishness. Try and think of a male equivalent to 'because you're worth it'.
So I Aladdin-ambled through her archive, careful not to brush the most delicate treasures, my eagle-eye ever-watchful of the road behind as, graciously, I edged toward my precious lamp. Come, my friends, and glimpse the truth-goblets I have brought back from the depths!
------------------------------------------
We begin with the red flag already hinted at. But here she states it bluntly:
I didn't get my first boyfriend until my late 20s, and that relationship lasted only six months.
Beep. Beep. Beep. This kind of statement is a red flag enough to write her off as a long term prospect. My friends, when there is one red flag as big and boisterous as this, you know it clothes a horde of scrounging rats underneath. Where there is one, there are more. This is a law of the universe.
Ah but does this not make her special, you say? A virgin, possibly? An ice-perfect Rapunzel untainted by the raging romp around her? Worthy, you may say, of your hand and heart? No, no, no! Quite the opposite. This is a specimen of female to be watched for. There are the naturally chaste, there are the in-betweeners, there are the sluts, and there are the natural spinsters. Yes, there is such a thing as a natural spinster. Ninsters, I christen them, Christo et Ecclesiae Amen.
Traditionally viewed as selfish little creatures in folk tales and other caverns of wisdom, that stereotype is, like most stereotypes, pretty much true. As F. Roger Devlin said, 'Motherhood has always been the best remedy for female narcissism' Ninsters differ from Spinsters in one important respect - there is usually no discernable reason why they are spinsters, other than it is their natural state. Bluntly, ninsters are usually hot enough to have gotten a good man to commit to them during their reproductive years. But they didn't. More traditional spinsters would tend to be plain or below. Ninsters can be ferreted out by their strange life choices, extreme choosiness, irritability, dragon-scale narcissism, and status anxiety. In another article she explains "I had only ever had three boyfriends, two of whom hadn't even liked me that much."
So in the end, who was the stately chap who won our heroines heart, and (possibly) took her virtue? Surely some noble and dashing Prince, a Lancelot, a King among men who had proven himself on bended knee to our fair Ice-Queen?
Of course not. The only man who could melt her palace was a violent criminal thug. Additional proof, if ever you needed it, that women. want. assholes.
Especially higher status, more neurotic women. Ninsters love assholes, their hatred for nice guys is pure as fire.
So one night, with her and a friend in the car and our Prince at the wheel, an unfortunate cabby overtook them in the wrong fashion. With a thugs enthusiasm our dashing victor sped him down, wrenched him from his vehicle, and beat him until he lay unconscious on the road. Ms Jones and her friend, in the nature of women, did nothing, claiming they were 'too terrified' (aroused?). Of course, of course she stayed with him. That night she probably serviced him like never before.
Interestingly, on this metric alone (women loving men who beat them) Ms Jones seems to think we should return to the old Roman Law whereby women were treated as perpetual minors, and remove the moral choice from these girls altogether, so that society intervenes to overrule female emotion and stop them from sleeping with these men in the first place:
Should women be protected in the same way as children? I’d like to say yes. Many times, after the incident with the taxi driver, I wondered why on earth my boyfriend’s brother or his friends hadn’t warned me. Did I continue to see him after witnessing that assault? I’m ashamed to say I did.
To cap it all off, she ends with this gemstone tucked away like a teddy:
To be honest, I think he deserved a second chance, which I gave him (until he dumped me).
Please my friends, be gentlemen! I know a quiver of gaiety has just lurched your belly inwards, your smirk sly, but save the laughter (for now anyway), we are in serious country, and circling the wisdom-point. But before we fully uncover the life-gifts of this realm, we must detour into a marriage.
--------------------------------------
Marriage has always and everywhere been an event of special importance. It can happen for a variety of reasons, and usually works best when there is a value differential between the male and the female in favor of the former. A woman's value, in terms of pure genetics, peaks around age 20 or so, when she is most fertile. Some would argue it is at an even younger age. But there are special cases whereby a woman's mate-value is not overtly tied to her reproductive value. Liz Jones is one such case. Although she got married to a younger man when her own reproductive value approached zero - in her forties - she brought quite a good deal of non-reproductive value to the table, what is sometimes termed "survival" or "social" value.
She was famous. She was a serious, serious value "connector", having headed a world renowned fashion magazine, which could open a low door in the wall onto a cornicopia of opportunity for any man with game enough to penetrate her Death-Star bitch shield. She had a beautiful house in the wealthy Islington part of London. On her own, she was not valuable, but through her, a man could access a wealth of value unseen by the majority of mankind: beautiful fashion models, journalists at beck and call, publishing deals, and entry into the elite.
So for her husband - a penniless 26-year old who lived with his parents and had novelistic aspirations - she was very valuable. The value her husband - an Indian named Nirpal Dhaliwal ( she boasts of never having slept with a white man, proof, she thinks, of her super-dooper-mega-anti-racism) - the value he brought to the table was less clear. But it had to be something. We will see later in brute beauty the process by which she selects a mate, but in this case it might have had something to do with her strange desire to take care of helpless things, an exercise frequently lauded, but usually stemming from an egoistical desire to exercise power. So because of this value differential, the marriage was troubled from the start.
Nirpal was an asshole who constantly cheated on her (naturally), and looks like a genetic player, despite some seemingly beta blubbering. He is very much in the Artful Dodger school of seducers. Only assholes can penetrate a bitch shield as think as hers. Despite offering 'oral sex on demand' our heroine could not keep him from the soft arms of other ladies. She does not explain further, but it is not inconceivable that he only had access to these women through her.
And of course her own behavior - by the law of red flags - didn't help. On the few occasions when Nirpal deviated from his assholeness, she of course came to hate him even more:
I admit I was a nightmare to live with... I was used to looking after myself and got cross when he tried to do anything nice for me (I secretly upgraded the diamond earrings he bought me at Christmas).
You cannot be nice to women of her station, even for a second, she will punish you forever.
And, of course, I wrote a weekly column picking apart his every peccadillo, from the cabbagey smells he emits nightly to the fact he had put on four stone (my fault, obviously).... He has blamed, over and over again, his philandering on the fact that he felt emasculated by what I wrote in my column, and I can understand that...
I know so many women my age whose husbands, if they havent chased after young floozies who at least look up to them (the emails Daphne sent my husband made me want to throw up, so saccharine were they in their adoration), behave like extra giant children (mine would often call me Mummy? or My old Mum, much to my annoyance)... in retrospect, and of course I regret this every day, I should never have written about him, but I knew deep down he wouldnt stick around..."
Now some might say that the Mummy stuff is beta. But it's not, in the context it is well within the artful dodger archetype. He moved in with her and she let him write a novel while she earned for both of them. She rewarded him with blowjobs on demand and (presumably) access to her elite social circle of beautiful women. Nice.
After an astonishing four years married (seven years together) she announced in 2007 "I'm Finally, Finally Getting Divorced" (the quotes just above are from this article).
The divorce was inevitable for anyone with the slightest knowledge of male-female mating dynamics, but most people don't have access to our treasured knowledge, so we can dance while they burn. The marriage is a revealing insight into the mind of the Dark Feminine, and how with such astonishing grace these women reward "bad" behavior and punish "good".
She ends, without even a hint of cliche-acknowledgment, like this:
A week after I got back from Africa I rescued a six-year-old racehorse (she, due to ill-treatment, hates men too), and I am sure my family of five cats will grow more numerous.
--------------------------------------
But a marriage is a marriage is a marriage. It can only tell you so much. As students of the amorous arts, we prefer the moment well before, when initial intrigue is channeled, the process by which the fire-female makes her choice.
To wrest the highest secrets of this Dragon-Tyrant, so that we can discern a truth beneath and universal, she must leave behind her troupe of cats, and we must follow her on a Quest. Quests, and the challenges they pose, are good for plumbing deeper depths.
Close to Christmastide 2009 our steadfast matron, now 50 and with enough baggage to fill an Airbus flotilla, set herself an enviable challenge: she joined an exclusive dating agency in the hopes of "landing" a millionaire.
The process gives us a hawk-eye view of female nature, and how rapacious, immovable, and deluded it remains, even for ladies well off the round borders of the world. The agency she joined had a membership fee of $6,000, insuring only the "best of the best" pierced its cyber walls.
First we get to see Ms Jones' brute preferences. The man must be around her own age but 'boyish' in appearance. Nor can he be a 'banker', a criterion that, she is informed, instantly disqualifies a large chunk of the agencies male clientele. In the wild, as in humans, females are the choosers, their first order of business is to actively tune out about 99% of the male population. This applies even in the stratosphere. The beta majority must be uncovered fast, and then ignored for eternity.
Date I is with "M, who is 46, in wealth management, whatever that is, and a divorced father of two grown-up boys. He lives between London and Oxford." Now this must seem like a good deal for any woman, not least one with little or no reproductive value. But no. Women will always find a fault, so poor Mr M.
When he arrives I am disappointed: he looks ordinary, in a normal, brownish suit, clutching a briefcase. He has nice brown eyes, but is not quite tall enough for me.
They blather for a bit, he loses interest in her cold company, and departs.
Date II is even more revealing. Here she meets the CEO of a Bank, with degrees out his eardrums, divorced, no children and standing 6ft 2in. A worthy prospect for our maiden, surely? Of course not!
I know in less than five seconds that I will never fancy him.
Ah yes. She then proceeds to aggressively shit test based on her own neuroses (why do you not want a younger woman? yadayadayada). After they leave one another and proceed out into the snow, Ms Jones is standing cold outside, and finding it tough to hail a cab. Her date returns, asking if she needs help. She doesn't recognize him!!
Anyway, he then phones his driver to shepherd them to her hotel. Here our poor CEO fails another shit test.
He takes off his overcoat and buttons it around me, which I find presumptuous, as it ruins my outfit.
Understand, my pets, that for women of her station even the tiniest, most insignificant nice-guy white-knighting brings seething contempt. You might think you're just keeping her warm, but you're actually making her outfit incongruent. Got it? Okay, good.
In the car he makes a move for a kiss, but she rebuffs him, and doesn't explain why. This is an important question. She just rejected a man who was interested in her, the CEO of a bank, and did not explain why. Why is he not good enough for her? Why? She expends voluminous energy complaining about how there are no single, decent men in the world willing to date older women, yet she rejects every reasonable guy that comes across her path, and instead rewards the criminals and the philanderers. What more can men do????
As I am chauffered through the streets, alone yet again, I comfort myself with the realisation that I could, if I'd really wanted, have landed my very own Mr Big.
Wow. No words required. Just... Wow.
Date III, the finale, is a 'disaster'. The specimen here is 'in politics'. She (the agent) says he is 'charismatic and bright', which I take to mean ' hopelessly ugly'. He calls me, and I don't like his voice, which is on the soprano side. So once again she enters the interaction on a boat of female narcissism and pickiness.
They meet, and he is of course too short. "He is at the table, already sitting down. He stands up; there is little difference. Why are men so short these days?" He proceeds to qualify himself in response to her aggressive shit tests, and loses the set. This is confirmed at the end. "I offer to pay half, and he lets me, which makes me think: 'What a tight a***.'" Riiiight. Would the reaction be any different had he paid?
She then proceeds to blather about some lessons learned.
This is Liz Jones. Female Squared And Circe-Sweet. The feminine so gorged on its own ego that it has collapsed in on itself and become a raging mountain of darkest estrogen. The dark feminine. Shudder, my friends, just... shudder...
So I exit her cave, lamp well used, lessons learned. It has been a tough journey, and I have other treasures to distribute in a later post - brighter red flags, examples of Sailer's Law - but for now I must take in a hard breath, lie down, and gaze at the wheeling stars.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Long Defeat
Over-optimism is tragic and terrible. It serves little purpose. I watched The Secret recently, a rambling, bile-infested soup of hokey clownishness. It was so absurd I could not see how it ever arose from the forest floor, but this venom has infected the whole wide west. I frequently see morons on buses leafing through its bible-brown pages, and not just the usual unwashed onions - I see professionals, indeed everyone from top-hatted mandarins and speckled servants, breathing in this horrid gas.
I don’t care about this girly, leftist idea that it’s a hymn to greed (the idiot in that article somehow links it to David Cameron’s Conservative Party) It’s not smart enough to be a hymn to greed, that would require an ‘it is not from the benevolence of the butcher, baker etc’ sophistication.
The problem is bandy optimism. I am by nature a pessimist - everything tends toward disintegration in the end, and most things quite rapidly. Every little speck of your body will soon be hitching a ride down some earthworms gizzard, and no vision boards proclaiming ‘I will not die, I will not die’, next to a kitsch picture of some angelic fraud, will change that.
OK, for those who don’t know about The Secret – and I respect you for not knowing, just like I respected my Auntie Heatherleaf for not knowing who Britney Spears was, it is this: you think of something, ask to get the thing, believe you can get the thing, and then you get the thing. Like the underpants gnomes – 1. Collect underpants 2. ? 3. Profit! - it is not hard to uncover the causative chasm. The Secret of the universe:
- Ask for something.
- Believe you can get the thing.
- ?
- You have the thing!
And there you go. There is so much wrong with this idea that a thousand contradictions manifest at once in the brain; so many, indeed, that not one can pop through the door. Maybe that’s the real secret – it’s so absurd we don’t have time to correct each new absurdity.
Its popularity is confirmation of its stupidity. The bulk of the population is quite unintelligent, and it is no surprise they are seduced by this. The Secret is another reason not to believe in democracy.
An entire generation are unaware of their limitations. The Bell Curve proved that most people cannot become anything they want because they are not smart enough. But that realistic, pessimistic book lies in the gutter, while Rhonda Byrne sails around the world on a flotilla of western decadence.
I’ve seen some PUA chancers push these vision boards on their protégées, as if repeating the same thing over and over again, or looking at a thing forever, will give you it. Get fucking real. If a plan doesn’t pass the ? test, discard it!
Proper Christianity understood mans limitations, and glorified them. It recognized that a soft kingdom of happiness with everyone roped to their blind dreams was impossible. Today, it is all optimism optimism optimism. But we have decay decay decay. Life will only get worse, and this simple fact is a great consolation. As Tolkien said:
Actually, I am a Christian, and indeed a Roman Catholic, so that I do not expect 'history' to be anything but a 'long defeat' - though it contains (and in a legend may contain more clearly and movingly) some samples or glimpses of final victory
Life is a long defeat. Seduction is a long defeat. The west is decaying with optimism.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Art of Pickup
What is the art of pick-up? The art, for me, is in the meaningful encounter and the meaning to the encounter which the pick-up artist infuses through his art, meaning being so devoid from the everyday encounter which permeates and harrasses our day-to-day existence. And just as the meaning is in the encounter, the pick-up artist never dwells in the moment he has created, however fantastic it may be, but moves dutifully onto the next encounter, seeking the same meaning from nothing that he infused into the previous encounter, because his art lies in his finesse, and without his finesse his art is no more than the everyday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
