Culturalism · Federal Government

Of Masks and Men

Perhaps the most amusing aspect to the coronavirus panic has been the complete chaos in messaging around masks, varying from the fiercest concerns to passive indifference, at least until a change occurs. The government refers to it as “science-based evolution,” but we know better. Now masks are being required to enter public places, as if things suddenly shifted in that direction.

What makes it so fascinating is how authorities adapt and weave to escape responsibility. You might recall that I pointed out back on February 11th how a suspicious number of Chinese were being spotted wearing safety masks in public in response to the Rona. The normal reaction was to claim it was due to their experience with SARS, or simply a sense of precaution.

In the United States, our Surgeon General actually made the following tweet on February 29th:

Adams’ rage can be explained by considering the projected supply shortage, yet at the same time American firms were shipping MILLIONS of masks to China to help with their response. Of course it only took about a month for our man Jerome to produce this video:

Oh so now masks are more effective, or per chance he just wanted to demonstrate his mad KonMari skills with cloth origami. Around the same time, the CDC updated their own guidelines in support of wearing masks, I suppose because production might have picked up by that point.

Now that all is well in the world, we can go out, only face masks have become a requirement at most stores, because science. The same science that had no evidence before, but now does, because the government decided it exists. Maybe the next advisory will recommend wearing Trojans over the tongue to prevent ingestion of particles from a TikTok celeb.

Do you still trust science?

Culturalism · Relations and Dating

Why Men Seek Love

Yesterday I stumbled across a very touching video by The Enlightened Kiwi, one of the few genuine MGTOW sources out there. As he recounted his experiences of loss and a collapsed marriage, it made me wonder why exactly we as men chase the conception of love with a woman. It is undeniably true that we are acculturated into the mindset from a young age, with true love in matrimony established as a milestone for “normal people” to reach, or otherwise face social distancing from polite society. At the same time, the results are frequently poor, filled by more heartache than sheer pleasure.

Perhaps the answer is that we have no choice. Biologically, psychologically, or socially, the drive for companionship (even if it is often confused with lust) frustrates the most dour skeptics of romance. Men regularly sacrifice their whole dignity for the chance to keep a woman, and even grumpy fellows who swear off marriage can be found softly hoping that an alternative, no matter how imperfect, exists.

Are most of us miserable melancholics, hoping to one day leave the anonymous meetings for good? Very possible is the correct answer. As Anna Snitkina described her interaction with the widowed Fyodor Dostoevsky before their marriage:

“So you think I can marry again?” he asked. “That someone might consent to become my wife? What kind of wife shall I choose then — an intelligent one or a kind one?”
“An intelligent one, of course.”
“Well, no… if I have the choice, I’ll pick a kind one, so that she’ll take pity on me and love me.”
While we were on the theme of marriage, he asked me why I didn’t marry myself. I answered that I had two suitors, both splendid people and that I respected them both very much but did not love them — and that I wanted to marry for love.
“For love, without fail,” he seconded me heartily. “Respect alone isn’t enough for a happy marriage!”

Those bold sections are particularly telling. Granted, Fyodor was struggling financially at this point in his life, but notice the emphasis on his need to be loved. He embodies the eternal struggle of men against a world that expects us to do things right, land on our feet, not show emotion, and be able to absorb the fiercest blows. And if for but a moment we lean on someone else, or admit to the pain stirring inside, the world will pounce like a pack of ravenous wolves.

Maybe that is why we want to be loved.

Culturalism · Relations and Dating

How a Man Becomes Eclipsed

Some months back I noted how Meghan Markle had brilliantly outperformed in the category of economic dating. She beat the manosphere’s fantastical “wall,” established herself in a secure financial position, and had a child with the doting Prince Harry. More than all that, she has continued to demonstrate her absolute dominance over the second-hand royal, to the point where he practically doesn’t exist.  

The most recent example of such supremacy comes in a report from the Daily Mail:

Hold on a second. Right here we have a fellow who is looks and status-wise in the top five percent worldwide. For years he was on lists of the most eligible bachelors, getting royally (lol) fawned over by millions of different women. And now, like any depressed suburban dad bod, he is forced to give up whole swaths of his identity to maintain the “happy wife.”

Sure, it could just be angry royal gossip, but her previous influence on the man suggests otherwise. The prevailing question would be what further concessions she might manage to extract in his desperate quest to “keep the peace,” and ensure that love spigot is unleashed at least once a month. Maybe a sex-change operation?

Harry should be a lesson to anyone engaged with a serious relationship, male or female. While some bad habits are worth kicking, giving up your whole personality and character simply to please a mate is recipe for the subservient life of an invisible creature. A total eclipse of the heart.


The Power of a Picture

I generally avoid commenting on these outrage stories because we never have adequate information until weeks or months later, at which point everyone has more or less cemented their version of what happened. Looking at the “chilling” video that social media has been circulating, it strikes me as a classic case of self-defense, only mitigated at this junction by public fury. What I’m more interested in is the way media outlets shape narratives using the wonderful tool of pictures.

Some of you will recall how in 2013 the press kept circulating the following picture of Trayvon Martin, making him appear like a little baby who was attacked by an older man:

In reality, a more accurate description of his personality was encompassed by the following images:

Now you might say, what difference does it make? Well, perhaps you failed to notice, but your brain did. The current case has a similar flair to it. Media outlets began by circulating the following picture:

Seems like a real nice guy, who was just victimized by evil people who were jealous of his running ability. A few days later, an even more gratuitously self-anointing picture was introduced:

Wow. He really looks like a perfect angel. Probably a gym teacher or school counselor. What could anyone possible have against him? But then, if we dig deep enough, this version comes out, from a previous arrest:

BIG difference. Again, there will be shilling and cucking about how it doesn’t matter, yet if you notice, the media didn’t trot out any happy, sympathetic pics of the McMichaels:

Are we not Willie Hortoning the McMichaels just to feel better about ourselves? And keep in mind, the flow of outrageous stories about black on black or black on white violence ceases to halt, but this is the only one that seems to matter.


Is Your Life “Cool” Enough?

When I was about seven years old, I remember thinking my soccer coach was “cool,” for no other reason than the black sunglasses he sported. This signaled sleekness and quiet confidence to my young mind, even if the farm of pimples on his face undercut its broader glory. He was the man.

As I got older, what passed as “cool” for teenagers and college students became having a social life, which usually meant spending the weekends knocked up on alcohol while trying to converse with gals over the din of loud ass party music. In contrast, the “anti-social losers” spent their time at home, perhaps with a few friends in tow, playing through some Call of Duty and wondering about how grand it would be to join those people.

Bizarrely enough, the latter group’s mode of recreation has suddenly become the norm, at least in some part due to the present pandemic restrictions. You cannot go out to the club or the bar, and most meetups have been canceled, so there’s little more left save to watch Netflix and cry over a jumbo bag of Tostitos. Sure, the likes of Tinder and Hinge are still around, but the elite feeling of wine tastings or happy hour are all but banished from the world of men. We have become all the same.

Much as this might seem like a new development due to coronavirus, I would argue it has been a trend for far longer. Nightlife’s steady slip towards oblivion was already in motion, and concerts require motivation to attend, something millennials are severely deficient in. Life before the invisible war wasn’t exactly glamorous and glitzy for the average goober; maybe some gym diaries, and weekend window shopping at the mall. Now mirrors and Amazon have moved the problem of appearing busy from our social network statuses to the wonderful laterbase. There is nothing to fear but boredom itself (and the mental health issues).

In the years ahead, our pathetic predilections may well serve the interests of an organized and docile social structure. WALL-E style protoplasmic Krang jellies are hardly the makers of civil unrest, or even spirited public discourse. So long as the streaming services function, and there’s enough Bai juice to wrestle down those cheesy Gordita Door (or Toilet) dashes, the atmosphere will be at peace.

We have all become the losers, and I feel fine.


Vulgarity Is Not Attractive

I occasionally run into someone who gushes over Chrissy Teigen, for reasons which escape me. While she is not totally unappealing, Eurasian genetics seem better manifested by the likes of Julia Nickson, or perhaps Kelsey Chow.

Personal preferences aside, what makes Teigen so repelling is her tendency to mouth off in disgusting and unbecoming ways, often over little things. For example, we have her outraged response to Trump’s opinion that the Coronavirus test is an unpleasant experience:

 “my vagina was ripped to my asshole giving birth to Luna. I had a vagasshole. fuck your swab pain.”

Imagine including your baby daughter in such a nasty and vulgar tweet, simply because you hate the president. Also consider that she is seen as a role model of sorts, with cooking products that deck the halls of your local Target.

Chrissy was not done, however. She went on with this:

 “they had to put a garbage bag at the end of the bed to collect my blood before stiching me up, where I then had to pee using a water bottle as a pain fountain for 3 months. so yeah. the swab, I bet it’s super rough.”

All of this in reaction to a person describing the experience of taking a medical test. Nowhere did Trump claim it is worse than having a child, but Chrissy’s neurotic brain just sees fire and shoots.

Last year, Teigen received passionate provider support from her husband John Legend (who is actually talented) when she implored women to use the following phrase more often:

“Fuck you.”

How empowering. I’m sure everyone who finds this sort of behavior from women is insecure and butthurt. So it goes.