Ramble On / Battle Cry


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I was signing in to Soundcloud from my phone to listen to The Christian McQueen Show (props to Christian and Dagonet, its funny as fuck and has great content). I pressed on the profile button, not thinking much of it, and up came this. My old music from the aftermath of my marriage. About a dozen tracks of mediocrity and/or down right bad beats, but all an expression of the pain, loss and loneliness of a blue-pill beta world being ripped from his hands and turned to ash.

Where has the time gone?

I was three years ago last week I crossed the Canadian border with $36 in my bank account, a shit-ton of debt from my ex, my drinking and my irresponsibility and no hope other than a familiar bed and familiar place. I moved my entire life in a single Dodge Stratus, having trimmed a lifelong partnership down to what I felt was the most important. Grasping to the things I felt that made me.

Three years is a long time.

Last week, I was adventuring in the wilds of British Columbia, my last week there. My instinct about this exchange being spot on. Soon after that post, I was notified I had two weeks left due to budget constraints. I don’t blame anyone, the bosses or the newbie or the culprit. When the anger past and I looked at it all clearly, this woman in a position of power had no idea what she was doing, or how it fucked me over. It wasn’t a conspiracy, it wasn’t a vendetta, it was something so much simpler. It was just selfishness. Selfish actions, narcissism and an utter lack of self-awareness. Everything that we know about the typical Western woman. Instead of showing me that she was worthy of her title, this woman showed me all she was no different than the leopard print legging, frayed UGG wearing zombies I see at Wal-Mart.

It did not deter me. When my adventure was over, I told my parents (my ride) that I walked on an ancient glacier, I climbed kilometers of forest, I flew in helicopters to the top of the world and drank pristine water. I did my job right and I did it well. And, when they brought me back to their house, my old house, I recouped for no more than an hour from my long flight. Soon after, I grabbed what packages I had ordered, my car and headed back out. By the end of the night, I had not gone to my own home, but to that of a girl, who happily greeted my return. I finally unlocked my own door at around noon the next day.

Since then, I’ve been on a spree of gear buying, organizing and planning. My room is no longer a pigsty of work, clothes and plain laziness, but a thought out collection. My fridge is full of the right food, not pizza boxes and pop as it was when I cleaned it out before leaving. Hooks and shelves. Roughneck tubs and tape labels. A rucksack being build up to tackle the great big world that lives outside the streets of a city.

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Three years ago, if I hadn’t put myself on a path to accept the harsh realities of women, and people in general, what happened to me would of destroyed me just as bad as the end of my marriage had. I had done right, worked hard, played on the team and done my part beyond what I was told it would be and, like the end of my marriage, it was the selfish needs of a woman and her missing self-awareness that ended a good thing way too soon. But, because of people like Christian and Dagonet, like Rollo, Dalrock and the long-departed Solomon II, and the countless others I’ve been inspired by, I was able to push myself to become a better me, and through that a better man.

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Walk the Line

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The veins begin to grow on my neck, blood pumping through every tube at high speed. My skin burns and your eyes widen. Everything comes to a slow crawl, there is nothing left inside but the fire of the animal. Go for the kill, it says. DO IT!

I twitch, no one sees. So close. GO! GO GO GO! But, I rest, time speeds up to normal. And there is her long, horse-like face, sans makeup, sans any redeeming quality. A person again, nothing more than a person. And her words.

Cunt, the human says as she turns away. Whorecunt.

My boss, out of nowhere, for no other reason to wave her non-existent dick in front of the new blood, insulted me. Told me I was awful for camera and that I should be doing lighting instead. With her new, nubile, inexperienced assistant at her side, she told me to “Get out of the way. Woymn are here!”

Could I have said something? Of course. I was within my right to. I could of lit the fire under her feet and let the whole place burn with my words. It could of cost me my job, this train of money into my account and work with this company, but it would of been justice on a woman who has made everyone’s life out here beyond difficult on top of our normal duties.

But I withheld. I eyed the boss of bosses talking to the moneylenders, trying to keep the chaos in check. I eyed the other camera head talking shop with one of the producers. I had no back up. I had no exit strategy. My fire would be put out quickly, the arsonist blamed and strung up, and wounds treated and pampered (more than she’s been already). The net benefit would be a second of personal satisfaction and six weeks of punishment, at best. Home and poor again, back to square one, at worst.

Status and respect do not go hand in hand. To those not in the tyrannical cross hairs of a mentally ill feminist, her title comes with all the respect I give to the others who’ve earned it. The others have recognized my hard work, my skills and my loyalty, and given the respect I deserve. She dismisses it all, because I have a penis, a penis that gets in the way of her political and mentally deformed ambitions that we all must suffer through.

Could I have said something? Only if I wanted to be like her and sabotage the job for personal gain.

I held my place, shut my mouth and walked away. Saving my words for another day. A day when the system is not at her back. A day when the line can be crossed, happily and with purpose.

Believe Beyond the Pattern

 

Its never strange how life goes. Not when you look at your past, or the past of others, and find the patterns of why the same things happen over and over.

Why can’t I find the right girl?
Why do I feel bad about myself?
Why can’t I get ripped?
What’s wrong with me?

Its because you aren’t changing. Your actions are the same. There may be different words, different people, different places, but you are still pussing out from talking to the hottie next to you. You’re still refusing to even do a set of push-ups every few days. You’re still not sleeping enough, drinking too much, trolling your ex’s Facebook.

Its all the same pattern.

Somewhere down that line that runs into all your past actions, there was something that said, “Do this and feel better.” You had a bad day, a break-up, some kind of trauma and you fixed it with fast food, drugs, alcohol, games, or any other of the millions of things we have now to avoid having to feel pain.

Want to break this pattern? Want to start, slowly, but surely, changing yourself and eventually get to your goals?

Start with your most treasured vice. The thing you go to anytime the world drops a bit of rain on your parade, and THROW IT AWAY.

End it. Kill it. Stop doing it with extreme prejudice. And replace it with something you want to improve: social skills, muscles, tech skills. Anything, anything, but what you used to do.

This is how we change. We recognize our faults, we eat our pride and we move beyond the destructive pattern we’ve held on to for comfort for years.

This is how we live.

 

If I Had A Heart (The Itch)

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This will never end
‘Cause I want more
More, give me more
Give me more
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You feel that itch. It can start on the skin, or just under, and it spreads. Arms, legs, hands, feet, fingers, nails; all up and all down until its consumed you. You’ve got to do something. You can’t just sit there, you’ve got to get up. Clean something, make something, do push ups, eat, drink, fuck. Something! The itch is overwhelming. Sitting at home, at your desk, listening to your girlfriend drone on and on with her friends at a “party”. God-fucking-dammit, you’ve got to disappear. Nothing feels right until you’re out in the real air, on a mission, to do ANYTHING, but what you were just doing.

I used to think there was something wrong with me. I would get bored easily of something, move on to something else of interest, get bored of that, move, move, move. I must be sick in the head, I must be lazy or unmotivated. I got told that this or that is out of place, that I must keep up with everyone else (“keep up” being used as a term for “same”), I can be so much more.

What is “more”? What is this goal I’m supposed to attain? The grand endgame of the life of a decently fit, white, western male…

This?

Or this?

Been there, done that.

None of that interests me.

You know why people get bored, sad and depressed when they get these things? Because they think life is over. Those who drilled themselves into deep, underground bunkers of forced lifestyles, no matter their clique, end up suffering under their own self-doubt and hatred. They hate their mortgage, their family, their legally bound fuck buddy they knocked up. They become mental cripples, complaining of the life they built for themselves, if only they did more before succumbing to weakness.

The itch is not a mental illness. Its not ADHD, ADD, bipolar disorder, anxiety, psychosis or white privilege. The itch is your natural male urge to go out and be. To build empires and to burn villages (or at least fuck some dude’s girlfriend). Its that ever-present, ever burning, ever enjoyable instinct that brought us from the death traps our evolutionary ancestors ran from and spread us across the planet to every corner, killing, eating and creating as we went.

Its not easy today, with the world so easy for us first-world folk. We live in the cultural empire of McDonalds, Starbucks and the ever-present wagging finger. I’ve climbed the stones of Death Valley, nearly been shot by idiots, seen the sunrise from the top of a mountain, sat with my feet dangling over some of the most dangerous rapids. Sometimes you need money, sometimes you just need to get off your ass. Either way, do it. Tell the voices in your head, or in your home, to fuck off while you go fulfill one of the oldest and most important urges in human history.

Make a name for yourself in your circle, or even better, try to make yourself a name in your town. Do something incredible, or infamous. Be part of a story. Be the reason for a story. Take the time to be remembered when you pass, or just be another faded name on your future kin’s family tree.

A Much Needed Rest

Its been almost two months since my last post. I just couldn’t think of anything to say, which in some cases is a good thing. Sometimes, you just need to break from things for a while, step back and readjust. See things from farther out.

Aside from side jobs here and there, the hiatus has been great. The career path is slowing being built, one brick at a time, making other things easier to deal with.  Like the fact I crossed my six month deadline from The Before and while my strength is up, the fat is still there. I didn’t hold to any workout for long. What got me stronger was working movies. Lifting heavy cases everyday, 5 days a week and eating fresh food during lunch had me looking better. It was afterwards. It was staying at home and not doing much, and the beer drinking, that got me back up to my starting weight six months ago. Things happen.

Speaking of, I am getting more work calls than ever. My name is finally spreading around and reputation increasing. The hours and the shit someone has to go through to finally get a bit higher than before can be depressing, but you just have to stay strong. Stay with it. Take every hit and get back up. If you’re going to quit, realize that means its over. You tried, you failed, you can’t go back. Not the way you’re thinking now. That was my problem when I first started years ago and when I returned in 2011. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t thinking ahead. There were so many things on my mind I felt totally overwhelmed and defeated. Now, after struggling, and a much needed rest, the world isn’t so heavy. My mind isn’t so fogged up with a million things that don’t matter. Focus and drive are in. Good things await.

Welcome to the Suck

Anthony: I just ran through incoming to get a dead fucking battery.
Troy: Welcome to the Suck.

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Everyday, from the day you were born to now, you’ve fought to stay alive. Right now, your body fights invaders and disease, your heart pumps over and over to push blood and keep you going. Your brain makes a million decisions on its own that make your body ready for whatever shit you’ll encounter, be it a tiger or an on-coming car. You’re alive today because you have fought for every minute of life.

Life’s a war and we are all warriors.

When you think on that, think about how you act in social situations. The time you let someone push you aside or the way that chick took your seat when you went to take a piss. Did you bow your head and let it pass? When your girl gets mad, did you “yes dear” your way out? Did she get what she wanted despite it being the absolute wrong decision? Did she test you and win?

It may be the way our society works today, but that’s not how to win a war.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Don’t think because you haven’t been a strong person means you can’t be one. Everyone can fight. Every man born has a God-given ability to rise. I started my current job in film with a fear of making mistakes. I felt small and useless among those who have worked in it much longer than I. I got angry at myself a lot. Yet, it did not take long for my natural ability and my vast confidence to come out. Now, my boss looks to me for answers and his boss compliments me on my way of thinking. What was indecision last month is purpose now. I walk into work, no matter the situation, knowing I can win.

Fearless at Exceed and Lead posted this gem last month, and it fits with how I currently run:

A man’s potential is unlimited, the reasoning goes. A man can reach any heights in life in any sphere of activity. But in order to defeat his opponents a man must first overcome himself, combat his own fears, his lack of confidence and laziness. The path upwards is one of continual battle with oneself. A man must force himself to rise sooner than the others and go to bed later. He must exclude from his life everything that prevents him from achieving his objective. He must subordinate the whole of his existence to the strictest regime. He must give up taking days off. He must use his time to the best possible advantage and fit in even more than was thought possible. A man aiming for a particular target can succeed only if he uses every minute of his life to the maximum advantage for carrying out his plan. A man should find four hours’ sleep quite sufficient, and the rest of his time can be used for concentrating on the achievement of his objective.

Work to improve. Work to survive. Work to live.

Work to win.

Amused Mastery and Queen Street Corner

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There’s a mess of men waiting down Queen Street. Saturday fight night celebrations. Bartenders scrambling between pitchers and dispensers and the screams of young ladies in the mode. The young waitresses snaking through fat bellies and high heels, drinks and food held high between the drunks and the tokers. The old men slapping each other’s backs and the young ones giving fist bumps or handshakes too complicated for their clothing.

I find the last stool left and hop up to the bar. The man behind the bar offer’s me a pint of Blue, drink of choice during cheap pint nights. I nod and look up to the screen. The Prelims are over. Two beat ugly chicks stand in the middle of the Octogon. Glad I missed that. To my left, a group of four of Niagara Falls finest common women chat up a storm with a giant plate of cheese drowned nachos before them, already half eaten. None of them particularly attractive, but cute enough, except for the obligatory fat friend with a string of melted marble hanging from the corner of her lips. Reminds me of bad porno.

The night could swing that way. Talking to what’s available, getting in to trouble with some psycho cunt like the last one I picked up from here. I could drink too much, lose sense, and go for what I can instead of what I want. Nodding to long, bitchy stories, hoping for a little pussy after taking their verbal beating. I could be the man at the end of the bar with the dog faced woman swinging her hands in anger at some slight long forgotten by the man hoping to sleep with her. I could be the stumbling man and the manjaw with spiked hair “female” slipping hands between legs in a booth, shot glasses scattered on the table. I could be the hipster puking in the bathroom, drink still in hand, alone holding his leaking pride.

I watch the fights instead. I drink a pint, I eat and I yell at the TV. Watching tough men with no killer instinct “fight”. The old man next to me agrees. We talk and laugh. We pick winners and end up right.

A tiny, strong-faced chick with a tad too much makeup, but an excellent body walks up directly between my senior friend and myself. High on the crowd or already drunk, she tries a smile at me. The old man, born years beyond the taint of modern femininity, offers up his food to the lucky lady. Her friend, a nerdy type, shy as a nun, grabs some as well. He offers his seat up. Another time, another way of manners.

Roy Nelson knocks out Chieck Kongo. Sonnen gets his ass beat. I order my last beer, the tiny chick basically laying in to me, drunk as fuck. No talking, just looks. She leeches off the old man while getting her attention from me. I slide out of my stool, making sure she feels my departure and go outside. I sit at the newly bought plastic patio chairs. The entertainment is about to begin.

It begins with a shouting match. A small group of guys close, but visibly on two sides. On the edges are the females of the pack, chatting fast, growing to screaming. In response, the rivals start to scream, barking like little dogs on the wrong side of a fence. The crowd grows. The bouncer shows up. I sip at my Blue, laughing. Someone swings, the women screech and yell in fear. Shocked faces from the others on the patio as the street fills up. The most exciting moment of their week is happening. The safety of their world is smashed for a few seconds as a war seems to descend on the corner. I smile at the nearest woman, “I love UFC nights.”

I go back inside to finish my last pint. “You’re back?” the bartender asks, since I paid my bill a while ago.

“I never left. I stay for the entertainment.” He laughs.

I sit again and beside me is the two girls from before. The whole of the old man’s food order before them. The tiny one is shitfaced, head on her arms, arms on the bar. The nerdy one is keeping her eye contact isolated. No one should look at her, her darting eyes say. I play with the change I have left in my hand. Enough for another drink for the ladies beside me, enough for a drink for me as well. I finish my beer and slide the glass to the edge and place the money beside it. Life is good. Life is getting much better. My gut tells me to pay it forward to the deserving and that would be the hard workers in front of me, not the parasites beside me.

I hop off the stool once again and tip my hat to the nerdy chick who quickly looks away. I smile, amused by everyone around me. This is how it works, I realize. This is how you should feel. Not neurotic. Not insecure. Not scared. Not fearful. Not worried about what you said or what you did to scare off a girl. Not caring that a fight is a foot away from you. Not caring about anything but your own relaxation and joy.

The common way to decribe this is feeling like a king. I’m no king. Kings are authority. I feel like an outlaw. As I’m breaking the rules of the world. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the smile on my face, the spring in my step and the steel blue looks I give to the ones I deem worthy of my time.