“You know you’ve made it when navel gazing about something new becomes your biggest problem. You know you’re ignoring the major problems in your life when navel gazing about something new becomes your biggest problem. Which one are you? I’ve obviously made it, you’re just delusional.”
— Trademark of a delusional man.
Red Pill has all been written, what now?
Great books for men
And now about Bill Burr
Which brings me to the dog walker, live.
Making Creative Decisions (paywall)
Red Pill has all been written, what now?
I can’t write anything else about sexual dynamics. Outside of some hyper niche issues that too few men experience for the rest of us to care about, it’s all been done, multiple times, and by more than I can remember. I know it’s rediscovering the wheel when someone posts their newest revelation and gets a flock of neurotic women chirping at him in it’s comment section frothing at the mouth; and all I can think about is the two last people that went through the same process; except I have nostalgia:
“Back in my day, when we had feminists angry at Roosh V’s article about rape, they used to throw drinks in his face at the bar. Nowadays women get mad and dox your sisters husband until he loses his job, and doing it from the comfort of their own home. That’s the problem with young kids these days, no drive to go outside and screech in anyone’s face anymore.”
Soon, I’ll release and you will get to read Praxeology volumes 3 and 4. A two part series of letters to the editor of field reports formed around a hodgepodge of guys in various situations you’ve read about in Frame or Dread. It’s the messy work of implementation. There’s no consistent arc, it’s 2 steps forward and 3 steps back and 1 step forward. I enjoyed writing it as much as readership will in reading.
That’s a lie, but I didn’t hate it when I was finished the manuscript, which is the next best thing. Writing, for me, is like my step father. I can’t stand the fucking guy but he taught me how to operate a Skidder and bought me a Super Nintendo so it’s complicated.
But in the pivot to fiction, I have a newfound love for writing. The Dog Walker (working title) has taught me a lot about writing, and answered the question The Rational Male asked years ago,
“Everything has been written, so what is next for the Red Pill? Where is the high art, the movies, the books, the comics and the comedians?”
Great books for men
I’ve had a few show me what male fiction looks like in this space. I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed Delicious Taco’s Finally, Some Good News and Edward Teach’s (of thelastpsychiatrist fame) Sadly, Porn. If you haven’t read either of them I’d recommend both. Taco’s Good News is an extra ordinary take on the sexually frustrated young single man archetype who finds his footing amidst the nuclear apocalypse, with a great thematic tie in with Ellen™.
Teach reads more like a psychiatrist with a drinking problem who decides to vent all the frustrations and self delusions people have while you watch him ruin the most interesting dinner party you’ve had in years; or someone in your social circle telling a racist joke that’s funny as hell, but everyone is also kind of defensive, just in case your colored friend gets offended. (He laughed, it’s OK)
He makes you read a chapter of cuck porn, just graphic enough to make you feel awkward about enjoying it, in case you thought his premise of ‘you don’t have a fetish until marketing agents plant the seed in your head.’
Then I was put onto The Expat by Hansen Shi, and Let me Try Again by Matthew Davis. I’m only a few chapters into each, and I’m not impressed yet. The latter is the done a million times story about a status conscious neurotic Jewish kid who’s girl left him for Kieffer Sutherland’s brother and so far finds a new girl who falls into his lap. It’s like the premise of Dream On, where Brian Ben Ben’s ex wife remarries the ‘greatest man in the world’ while endless streams of hot young women throw themselves at him in is New York apartment. I enjoyed Dream On so I’m going to continue and see where it goes. I’m not good at fiction so I hope to eat my words.
The Expat is a striver of an Asian man who works a nice job in San Francisco but is secretly one of the best Hackers in the world who says he has to hide in an ethnic enclave, but for what purpose? Mr. Robot or The Matrix or something else, who knows? The only thing that bothers me about both of them is how they have so many branded consumer choices peppered into the writing. While I know them all, I can’t help but think about people who wrote Victorian Era books and spend 40 pages discussing the place setting and fine China of the dinner party.
I don’t know yet whether it’s really good ways of establishing the characters as materialist consumers striving for social acceptance, or the authors who haven’t done anything substantive with their lives, except enjoy a hipsters level of purchased social signal curation. I’ll figure it out in a few more chapters.
Which brings me to Bill Burr
When I lived in Montreal, Bill would come to the Met every year. He would tell jokes about punching muffins, solving race relations with lotion and respecting firearm laws, or roasting the audience for trying to get him to start drinking again. It was rough, crude and improvisational. A fun hour. A half year later I’d see the special on Netflix. Sure, I saw all the same jokes, but the fun wasn’t in sitting around and watching the special like some hot medium. At the venue it was more interactive. At the sofa it was more like watching for what changed and the creative decisions happening. A hot medium became cold.
He would skip one joke that I liked, but added 3 more I liked more. He refined a punchline here and changed the order there. I paid him twice to watch the same special, and I enjoyed that. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t watch him live anymore or that he’s gotten a family, gotten older and started working in Hollywood, but I haven’t enjoyed his last two specials. Either that or because he seems to have caught the intersectionality virus, AKA Bruce Springsteen disease.
But hey, of course she is angry, she’s a lesbian! She hates women just like me!
Which brings me to the dog walker, live.
“Dude, who was that trailer park bitch you brought home last night?”
It’s 630AM. My phones alarm is going off. The tune pinging away on my cell phone is from Air Mans stage in Megaman 2. Pleasant but with a sense of urgency. I love that game. I taste ashtray. It’s sticky and dry. My uniform is hanging off the bedroom door. Everything is ready, prepared the night before. I just put it on and walk. If I had to think and make decisions the morning would be chaos. My legs tingle, I should have taken my socks off last night. I need a coffee.
I walk out my door and see Mikes door is open. He was home after all,
“Dude, who was that trailer park bitch you brought home last night?” He shoves a coffee into my hands while he drinks his. He’s shaking his head like a disappointed father as he grabs the remote and turns on the TV. SportsNet hockey highlights.
“Sorry Mike, I thought you were sailing yesterday.”
“We were going to, they cancelled for some last minute maintenance. So who was that chick anyway. She sounded annoying as fuck.”
“Yeah, that was Sarah,”
“Wait, Webbers wife”
“Yeah, you know her?”
“Sara? Ha ha ha. No shit! I’d have done her too man, I fucking hate that guy he’s such a dweeb”
“I didn’t fuck her! I think she tried though.”
“Sure man. I’m going to tell everyone you did. Who do you think is going to believe you?” The caffeine isn’t working to mute the throbbing in my head. The tinnitus in my ears distracts me enough to stop blinking to the beat. I take a shower, shit, and a shave. I grab my uniform off the door and get dressed for work. My work jacket is in the coat closet. I open the door and reach inside. A small leather is beside it. I don’t recognize it.
“Mike! Hey, what is this?” Mike walks over and shrugs his shoulders. “Is this yours?” He looks at me for a beat, then bursts into laughter.
“Little small for me. Wait, is that Sarah’s coat? Oh man that’s good.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s a real knee slapper. This is so fucked.” We walk out the door and towards the base. I’m never going to hear the end of this. Mike can’t stop laughing. It’s only been a few minutes. My ears are is humming, my head is throbbing. My moral compass is spinning. Mike is laughing. I’ve already had enough.
“That’s not funny man. What the hell am I gonna do about that? I have to go work with him today. And I’m going to say what, hey man, had fun with your fiancé last night. Here she forgot this?”
“Just give it to Webber. What the fuck do you think he’s even gonna do? Like you said, you didn’t do anything, right?”
“Not if you have anything to say about it.”
“Oh, and I’m going to say about it” I’m dreading the next 8 hours.
Standing on the brow. I salute the ensign. Slide down the ladder. Grab a coffee. Walk into the control room. Check the morning traffic. Thank god, nothing urgent. I putter about in the mundane activities of a ship alongside. My mouth tastes like tobacco and a sticky burnt liquorice tar. A pipe sounds across the PA. The general call. It’s 10 already?
All hands. Stand easy.
Fish soup. Candus didn’t show. She hated fish. Jason wasn’t there either. I wonder if he even made it into work. No rumors about him getting charged. Probably sleeping it off in his rack. When he goes hard but has enough sense to not get charged he sleeps on the ship. Laz may yell at us for falling asleep, he won’t charge you for being lazy. Can’t be AWOL when you’re here. The chillers in the mess were ice cold which worked for a hangover. Webber never ate soup, it got in the way of kissing Laz’ ass. Webber had to work on the bridge that day and I hid away in the control room. I can’t bear to look at the guy. I can’t stand him, but I also pity him. Would he brag about this like watching her get railed two weeks prior?
Mike was probably on that tanker right now, telling everyone about me banging Webbers wife. Someone would be over there to drop off a message or something. They would tell him what they heard, and in an hour our entire ship would be talking about it. Word of my exploits will have been disseminated fleet wide by 4PM. Say what you will about the navy, it is efficient. I skip lunch. I want to sit in the top secret room and be left alone to print off classified emails and hand them to the captain and go the fuck home when.
My supervisor comes in, coffee in hand. Laz. He’s a tall Polish man sunken in cheeks and a pitted face and a clean haircut from the 50s. I think he’s gay, but you’d never know it to talk to him. He’s the saltiest man I have ever met. In his cigarette burned, gravelly voice and a smile from ear to ear, jerks his head up and asks,
“So you slept with Webbers Fiancé huh? Good man.”
“I really didn’t, PO.” Technically I could call him Laz, but I was hoping that calling him by his rank he wouldn’t broach the subject. It doesn’t phase him.
“Come on. What are people going to believe. That you brought her to your place at 3 in the fucking morning and nothing happened? No one is going to believe that — Hold on” the phone rings. “Petty officer Lazaroff.” Thank god, work. I get the hell out of there, ride the ladder down below decks. I set a record for how fast I took that ladder. I almost kiss the Halon tanks on my way down.
I feel like shit. I have barely slept and my mouth tastes like an ashtray still and the world didn’t have enough shitty burnt coffee to turn off the hum in my head and now my fucking boss is laughing at me for fucking my crewmates fiancé during his bachelor party and I didn’t even do it. But I haven’t seen Webber, so at least there is that. The PA turns on, another general call:
“Clear up decks return gear. All personnel are to …”
Thank god. Almost in the clear. I don’t know why I thought I was in the clear. We have another 3 years before one of us are posted. But I just felt if I could wait a few days it would all blow over. I almost made it. The whole day. I didn’t have to see Webber. I didn’t have to talk to Webber. I could just go home, lay down and then figure out what to do next, or just wait. I leave the Jr. Ranks mess and into our personal mess to find Jason. He’s staring at the mirror. There’s a strong blanket pattern on his face.
“Time to go home. I can’t believe you slept all day and no one came to get you.”
“I know man, thanks. I feel like death.” He perks up, “Oh, so you had a good night, eh?” At least something can beat his hangover.
“Not talking about it. Come on, we can walk to my place and I’ll drive you home from there.”
Jason puts on the clothes from last night. His uniform looks like he pulled it out of his wallet. He smells like sour tequila and cigarette ash. I move upwind. The smell and the memory is making me sick.
“Did you know Sara left her jacket at my place last night?”
“Oh dude! You should give it to Webber!” he starts laughing through his migraine. It reasserts control. I can see his eye twitching to the beat, just like mine. I grumble as I open up the hatch and step onto the quarterdeck. As I walk past the hanger I can see the brow. I stop.
A chill runs up my spine.
This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
I had gone the whole day.
The entire day.
And managed to not.
And now I’m here.
And right there.
Fucking Webber.
And he sees me.
Oh, and it’s so much worse.
Sara is there beside him.
She’s laughing and smiling.
And 4 older people beside him.
Is that his parents?
Are those her parents?
Now they are all staring at me.
And Jason is staring at me.
Creative Decisions
If you’ve been following my substack you know I’ve been wanting to rewrite
