“…my shine wore off as time wore on…”

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Those readers that have followed this blog for any significant length of time will note that I constantly, relentlessly and unashamedly tout the importance of men living for themselves.

 

Placing their needs, interests (other than women) and wants (again, other than women) above all else.

 

The reason for this is twofold:

 

1} This is the straightest path to satisfaction and self-respect.

 

2} This is the healthiest path to acquiring female companionship.

 

Additionally, it’s why I am a serious proponent of ► being yourself ◄.

 

Since this is the surest path to becoming exceptional.

 

After all, a Truly self-actualized man cannot be accurately duplicated.

 

 

 

As a wise woman once brilliantly articulated to me:

 

“Women want the exception.

 

Men want the rule.”

 

 

 

Realize, “nice guys” aren’t rebuffed because they’re nice, per se. 

 

They’re rebuffed because they are commonplace.

 

A world of police, firefighters, government handouts and obsequious  men cause villains and cads to become exceptional, simply by default.

 

Men find it a Herculean task to attract a woman for so many reasons but the largest contributor is the basic fact that – due to television, internet and a massive population – being exceptional is more difficult than ever.

 

Why do you think so many famous “PUAs” move to other countries?

 

Being exceptional is exponentially easier if for no other reason than they’re foreign.

 

 

 

On that note, this feminine desire for the exceptional is also the reason so many women claim – and honestly so (to a point)  – that “PUA tactics would never work on [them]”.

 

Certainly, from the comfort of their current surroundings and plugged into an internet connection with an immeasurable plethora of exceptionality before them with just a tap of the screen, the stratagems discussed are laughable in their eyes. 

 

However, once they find themselves outside – awash in a sea of standard, cookie-cutter men (raised by single mothers, female teachers and girl day-care attendants) with all semblances of uniqueness stamped out of them, save almost parody-level “male interests” – the formerly ridiculous techniques transform into surprisingly efficacious behavior.

 

 

 

Be aware, Lemmy from Motörhead bedded 1200+ women.

 

Hardly a handsome fellow or even a “standard rock-star” as, in person, he was thoughtful, self-deprecating and generally reserved in his behavior (aside from substance abuse).

 

In fact, his band never even achieved any real degree of mainstream success.

 

 

 

The same with Peter Steele of Type O Negative. 

 

A towering figure at 6’8” whose band took nothing seriously except their music.

 

Who preferred wine and conversation to ostentatious parties (again, aside from substance abuse at the start).

 

 

 

Thus, we come full-circle.

 

Invest in yourself, your hobbies and your skills.

 

And think on this:

 

Three simple, minuscule  protons create the vast divide between lead and gold.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“Here beside the news of holy war and holy need…”

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If you spend any amount of time at all online you can’t miss the awfulness.

 

The negativity.

 

The terror, in ever sense of the word.

 

The overwhelming weight of modernity.

 

 

 

Now, I’m not going to tell you those things don’t exist.

 

They do.

 

In spades.

 

And I realize most of my readers are likely older men, like myself.

 

But allow me to put things in perspective.

 

Some of what’s below is new.

 

Some I’ve said previously, but it both bears repeating and cannot be overstated.

 

 

 

1} Life will always be hard. In fact, it never gets any easier. As my father once said, and I quoted in ► my first book ◄:

 

“Life goes on, son. Sometimes that’s the horror of it.”

 

However, understand that fact only sweetens the good moments. Though they become fewer, the scarcity makes them that much more precious. Learn to appreciate the sound of the wind in the trees. The sight of a bird in flight. The eager loyalty of dog. The contented purring of cat. Those things got men through the trenches of the Somme, the mud of Agincourt and innumerable other miseries. They’ll work for you, too.

 

 2} Find a woman with eyes in which you can see everything bright in the world. Make sure she has excellent maternal qualities; they translate to everything else. Find a gal with a laugh that rings like church bells at a wedding – full of hope, gaiety and promise. Be sure she’s cute but don’t worry about more attractiveness than that. It fades. The rest I mentioned doesn’t.

 

3} Have a few good, True, male friends. You’ll need them. Trust me. A woman is a wonderful thing to have, but ► she won’t carry you to the grave ◄. I understand, many of your male friends will come and go. Just try to hold onto the best ones.

 

4} Learn who you are. Then know who you are. Then ► be yourself ◄, no matter the cost. Because – although every one else is avoidable – you’ll never escape the man in the mirror. Make sure to do it in exactly that order. Anything else is a recipe for disaster that cannot possibly be quantified.

 

5} Take ► pride in all you do ◄, large or small. As a man, your name is attached to your wife, your children and everything you touch. Those deeds and people will outlive you. Remember that. (I behave as I do online for this exact reason. The internet is forever.) The paradox of life is nothing matters except everything.

 

On the off chance you believe what I’ve penned here to be nonsense, I remind you:

 

“When a foolish man hears of the Tao, he laughs out loud.”

 

 

 

God bless.

 

Stay strong.

 

I’m with you.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“Who’s coming with me to kick a hole in the sky?”

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I can’t tell you how perfect I find ► JD’s comment ◄ to be.

 

There’s a synchronicity in it that he couldn’t possibly know.

 

And, frankly, that didn’t hit me until this very moment (prompting this post).

 

 

 

See, my dad built a bar in the basement of our family home that he called ‘The Plaster Horse Saloon‘.

 

It was beautiful.

 

 

 

As you’d walk down the varnished, well-made wooden steps, there was an old carousel horse he’d fished from the trash and covered with a rough, beige plaster (he was an art teacher) on the overhang above.

 

(My father grew up poor and, long after he made a solid living, he continued trash-picking from roadsides if the items looked good enough. 

 

He never “dumpster-dove”, though).

 

 

 

The walls were covered in a dark blue burlap on the top half and alternating dark and lighter wood on the bottom half.

 

The bar was a fine, dark wood with black leather on the bottom half of the front of it.

 

I wish my words could do it justice.

 

 

 

Looking back on it, I miss it greatly.

 

My brother bought the house from him and will likely sell it soon.

 

So I’ll never see it again.

 

I’d supply photos to prove my tale but, sadly, I have none.

 

Lamentable, more because I’d like to have them rather than provide evidence, Truth be told.

 

 

 

I often wondered why he did it.

 

He never drank (besides a tiny glass of wine at dinner).

 

Perhaps one beer a summer, too.

 

And, honestly, he was never really a sociable person.

 

He wasn’t mean-spirited, by any means.

 

Don’t get the wrong idea.

 

But just not one for crowds.

 

He was one of nine children, so it makes sense when I think on it.

 

 

 

I’d finally asked him why he constructed it all.

 

The answer, to the best of my recollection, was:

 

“I found all this great wood and that horse.

 

So I used them.”

 

 

 

Decades later, I get it.

 

I suppose it’s the Portuguese in us.

 

We don’t watch TV.

 

I, myself, don’t really use the internet for anything other than a music provider/learning/teaching tool.

 

(Except for Twitter, which is a bit of vice I’m trying to curb.)

 

We both feel lazy if we don’t have some project going.

 

Lastly, we both just create to please ourselves.

 

Then hope to share the results with the ones we love.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

 

“After I count down three rounds…”

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This week’s work has already been posted.

 

But I realized, going through the archives a bit, that I never did my usual gratitude post for New Years.

 

So here it is.

 

 

 

Tremendous appreciation to those of you that purchased ‘The Holistic Guide to Suicide’ [currently working on a slightly revised edition].

 

Putting your hard-earned money – in these times most of all – is something I do not take lightly.

 

Not to forget, the simple wordless statement that you want to see more from me.

 

Thank you, all.

 

 

 

Also, many deep and sincere thanks to all of you that have commented so outstandingly.

 

Especially in the last month or two.

 

If I did not/don’t delve deep into your comment:

 

Understand that I think it’s spoken well enough on its own.

 

And I don’t need to be right.

 

I just need the Truth.

 

Regardless of who provides it.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“If I don’t deserve the credit, why do I deserve the blame?”

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I draw the hammer back like a wolf peels its lips to bare its fangs.

 

I keep my eye on the iron sights.

 

Just like the best pistoleers the U.S. Government has on its payroll taught me.

 

 

 

The revolver a friend loaned me feels comfortable in my hands.

 

(Even though I grew up in New Jersey, with a mother that hated guns and a father that loved her too much to argue with her.)

 

I breathe.

 

Slow and steady.

 

On my exhale, the weapon roars.

 

 

 

I let it howl for me.

 

All my rage in a compact .357 dimension.

 

The silhouette barely moves, as a round passes through its center like a sultry woman’s words in a man’s ear.

 

Powerfully yet almost imperceptibly.

 

 

 

Now, a lot of men throw lead downrange angry.

 

Thinking of the folks that hurt them or would, if given half a chance.

 

I’m not those men.

 

Not quite.

 

 

 

I’m not thinking of the fiancé that left me on Christmas Day for another man.

 

I’m not imagining the best friend I had that abandoned me when I needed him most.

 

I’m not pretending the target is the amalgamation of the officials that drummed me out of my career in disgrace and shame.

 

Instead—

 

The silhouette is a mirror.

 

 

 

I’m shooting at me.

 

The fat, old, broken man I’ve allowed myself to become.

 

The fuck-up that made more than a decade’s worth of bad decisions.

 

The fool that let women and the outside world determine his value. 

 

While bullet after bullet finds the paper reflection of the broken heart that brought me low.

 

 

 

After I finish the ammo a good friend generously gave me, I look at my work.

 

 

Thinking:

 

Not bad, old man.

 

Not bad.

 

 

 

Then I think on these tweets:

 

 

And what they, despite their humorous tone, reveal.

 

 

 

That, even with all my flaws, there’s something respectable – perhaps even a bit intimidating – left inside me.

 

Just waiting for aim to be taken.

 

And the trigger pulled.

 

 

 

Call it:

 

Six-gun salvation.

 

Who knows?

 

Maybe you need to realize your powder is still good, too.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω