This Life

Gotta raise some hell, ‘fore they take you down
Gotta live this life
Gotta look this world in the eye
Gotta live this life until you die

No one said anything about life being easy unless they were trying to get something out of you. The merchants and indoctrinators and kings. They all want a piece of your minute wealth. They want to suck you dry until you are nothing, so they can move on to the next sucker.

The life you have is the only one. If you’re atheist or agnostic, its obvious. If you’re God fearing, like me, its still the only one. You’ve got one chance to tell God or whomever that “I did the best I could and never quit.” Most people can never have the courage. Most people are scared. Statues of cowardice pointing towards easy ways and easy lives, never experiencing, ever seeing the beauty of whats around them. I hate these cowards. I hate them all.

I started my old blog, HarmonicaFTW, under the banner of anarchy. I was angry and lonely and hurt. Over a year later, that little boy was right. Politics don’t matter. People don’t matter. You’re on your own.

And, if you take away all the illusions, you are. In the end, in our modern, information civilization, you’re alone. Totally. People are stuck within their own little worlds. Everyday, you’ll be ignored for a text message, a Facebook update, a tweet, or any number of things. Your politeness, or just even your want to connect with someone new, will be shut down because somebody’s old high school classmate decided to say hello. Not a word can be said that could break away the addicted from the social drug.

We who take the Red Pill are social pirates. The ones who sail outside the waters of normal discourse. When protests about rape, abortion or healthcare rear their head, we don’t care. We are pillaging the undefended leftovers of civilization’s great debates. Sailing between Left and Right, making our shore anything but the beaches of the “real” world. We have our own islands, full of truth, full of what is, unencumbered by the weights of the sheep and their sheppards.

Some of us, we try, we do what is needed, what is said, to make it, and we collapse and fail like roofs during tornadoes. When the winds pick up, our facades collapse and we crumble. It won’t work, comrades. You simply can’t fake what you think these women, these people want. You have to fight your way through every inch of bullshit, vaginal discharge and hamster thought. Its a war, never ending, for the soul of men. If it wasn’t for the power of our sex, we wouldn’t be attacked so and made to conform, or made to follow, or made to submit. If we were truly equal, feminism wouldn’t need to be. But we aren’t. Men make the world. Men are the world. We are power incarnate. Everything after that is an attempt to make you worry that’s a bad thing.

Tonight, I went in with a song in my heart, a smoke on my lips and the courage of a thousand lowly men cheering me on. A 9 sat beside me, her ugly ass mom talking to friends. She kept checking the exits, as if someone was to appear, or she wanted to leave. I opened after a few minutes, “Looking for the exit.” A statement, not a question. She smiles. Beautiful smile, and goes right to her phone. Not a peep, as her mother brags about flashing an AC/DC cover band.

This is our world. Upside down. We fight against gravity, hoping one in one thousand to fall into our waiting laps.

Its a fight. Its a war.

Its our life, and we can never quit, because its our life.

This life. War until we die.

Making sure our lives, to dust or to Heaven, mean something. That we can die happily, no matter what age. 26 or 96.

I’ve been across the US and Canada 4 times. I’ve fucked whores and been in love. I’ve lived in my dream state and been through Hell. I’ve lived. I could die right now, and despite my low notch count and my failures tonight, I’ll walk before the Gates and say, “I lived.”

Can you?

Fuck King Kong


A friend of mine who reads the blog introduced a fellow writer to my humble scribblings. Since my friend is a big fan of my style, the assumption was this guy would like it as well. Apparently not. Observe his response:

He has a blog about game? Are you serious? So – he’s been hurt and that justifies him being full of shit? I’m sorry, but Alpha v Beta male, how to pick up women, mysogyny? It’s all spoiled-little-boy, self-centred crap. Even from the little you’ve said about him it appears quite obvious that somewhere deep down you know that.

Oh, oh, oh. This is not the day to be doing this, hombre. Been up way too long. No. Day? Fuck it. Not the year.

Continued, after some lengthy talk:

On the other hand we have Jordan – a self-centred mysogynist, a sociopath who likes to blame others for all his woes. Across his path strolls [friend], they fit together like hand in glove ie. it suits him perfectly to indulge her honourable desire to be given attention by submitting to his very dishonourable desire to get laid.

My friend lives across the pond in Europe. She is happily married. She loves my writing as I love hers. We both write dark and gritty and real. We’ve known each other for a very long time and know the ins and outs of each other’s minds. You couldn’t ask for better friends. You also couldn’t as for worst logistics.

Enter, the white knight. A much older, well polished white knight who thinks my writings, not to mention my playful flirts with my long time friend, are somehow damaging her and her relationship with her man. That her love of my detailed indiscretions or my advice on women or my recent fiction will blow her mind back and turn her into a quivering victim of domestic abuse.

I will admit he’s accurate. I am self-centered. But what man who has any balls or any self-worth isn’t? Even the greatest father and husband in the world still pulls his wife aside during house parties and gets a blowjob while his guests play Jenga. You can’t be confident without being self-centered. Jesus was a self-centered prick like me. I blame The Ex for what happened to the marriage. I blame myself for not slamming my foot down more often. Making sure she knew who’s boss. But you’ve seen the pictures. I’m much better off. As is my food budget.

As for misogynist and sociopath. He’s way off base. I support a woman’s right to vote. Their constant mind changing and backstabbing is probably way the incumbency rate is at the low ass percentage it is. Otherwise, you’d have stoic party loyalists keeping everyone in at 100%.

Men, meet a full blown beta white knight. Men, meet a single man in his 60s messaging at married woman in her young 20s over a writer’s website.

Last known photograph

What does this guy write? Poems. What’s his topic? Domination.

C’mon! REALLY? I call bullshit.

Bullshit on that he really does it. Bullshit on his lifestyle. Bullshit on his attitude. Bullshit on him from soul to scalp.

This guy is 100%, Grade Z(ed), mama’s basement with poutine and gravy bowls piling up on his lap POSER.

I’m no freak in leather. I’m no whip carrying card member of the National Association for the Advancement of Kinky People. I don’t have paddles. I can’t fucking afford them.

I, like most of my brethren, like the power and know some of the upper hand moves. We know them because they work. We use them because these ladies turn into wild animals when we do.

Would I like a woman to do my bidding? Of course. What fellow mansophere blogger wouldn’t? But is that hate? Is it hate to believe in a woman’s deep inner desire to be ruled? Is it hate to prove it with every chick I come across who likes my direct game?

Its not hate. Its empowerment.


Because they choose. Like the feminists want. They choose to get down on their knees. They choose to give themselves to us. They choose to fall sway to us. Or they choose to dress up like lumberjacks or scary muffin top hookers and choose not to fall sway. Their brains tell them to or not to. Is it wrong or illegal to know someone that well? Fuck no. That’s what relationships are all about. Knowing that other person so well. That and fucking, but I digress.

This guy, seeing a pretty young thing in “distress” when an alpha comes by, beats his chest like King Kong and moves in for the save. Except that, like King Kong, when he gets to the tower and congratulates himself, he gets fucking shot down.

Observe, the response from my friend:

I am fully aware that a blog about ‘game’ or picking up woman could be seen as juvenile or un-PC – i have come across this before. He’s been called a masogynist and sexist and all the other words you described there. Do i think it’s behaviour from a cowardly little boy? No. We have literally grown up together. I have seen him go from a cowardly boy to a man with all the mistakes he’s made along the way, and become something confident. He’s proud of that confidence, and i am proud of it for him. This is a 13 year friendship, not somebody i picked up off the street last week. He’s helped me with things i’m not prepared to discuss, and i hope he’ll always be there. My friend. The one who saved me at a very difficult time in my life. One who i don’t think i could hold my head up as far as i do, without.




I love my girls, my friends and my friends of intimate knowledge, because they are loyal. They know me and I know them. Some I’ve known only a few years, some for over a decade. I am a king, THE king, because when push comes to shove, it won’t be just be strangers in the circle of on lookers. I’ll have Ghaddfi’s Amazons right there as well, rooting, not because I told them, but because they want to. And a man, 50 notches or just 6, couldn’t be prouder.

I’m Mighty Joe Young. I got the girl, I won the fight and I lived.

Fuck King Kong.

The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

The A Game

People are always afraid. They’ll tell you fear is a good thing, but that is a lie. A myth told by fearful leaders to fearful servants to do abnormal things for abnormal reasons. They say courage is busting through fear and accomplishing what you were told to do. Courage is stepping out the line of fire and letting the general take a bullet or two, not stepping in front of the man and taking one for the team. There is no team. There is no collective. There is just you and your decisions. No one around you can account for anything that you do and in a bind, they may just hold you to what you’ve done when it suits them.

Can you ever truly hold someone to a standard? No. Principles kill. Principles ruin lives and break good men down to a set of rules passed down from hypocritical father to addict son. A rapid escalation of dumb ideas until the culminate in the death of empire. There is an A that swirls around everyone. Deep down in the grey matter neurons and electrical sparks of the mind. It says do what helps you. Do what makes you happy. Do it for the gold. Grab her by the scruff of the neck and lead her back to the place where the deeds are done.

I read on Roosh’s board that some follow the path to the point of absurdity. They want cunt, they want to get in deep, but they’re so lost they’ll do whatever it takes to be further from themselves. Its not healthy to repress yourself. Its not human to mimic humanity. The herd is not natural. Its a product of civilization, and civilization has track record of being on the wrong side of history every time. Even time is a product of disassocation from the roots of what we are. We track every moment. We track it and wonder and hold dear each shakey click of the second hand until its sets us free from things we don’t want to do. Things we don’t want to share.

I could break in to the world of many, shatter dreams, shatter noses and push back these slaves until I take what is mine and vanish into the fog. I could rip apart psyches and relationships and bring down scores. I have the power, like you do, to sow seeds of havoc. Standing back and watching it all come down and laugh while it happens. The principles say we shouldn’t. The rules hold us together and keep the house of cards up. People rely on the cards to keep sane. One deck, two decks, seven, twenty-four. Building higher and higher.

I see the sea before me, as I did seven months ago, locked in my own apartment, caged and sedated. I feel the rocks under me. I smell the salt. I see the evergreen and watch the needles sway. I dip my hand in and sip at the liquid I’m told not to drink for fear, deep fear, of making myself sick. The taste is as told, but I drink and drink and drink. I piss out what I knew, back into the ocean, drops back into the source. I could do worse. I could do better. I could always dream and hold it all upon the altar, but I won’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t. It wouldn’t pass. It wouldn’t create or destory. It would just fake that stack of cards and bring another deck upon the fold.

We could all do that. Pass on to the naïve that their mimicing for trim is worth it. Playing cowboy in the 21st century jungle, but I doubt any of those peckerheads could have it in them to pull the trigger when the time came. Not on some cocksucker who rode the train until she wilted and wanted off, but on a true item. Fragrant with emotion and ready to pull you down with her if you can’t hold her up. There are too many reasons why we shouldn’t trust them. There are so many reasons to avoid them. But, we won’t, we shouldn’t. We reap pleasure and fufillment from them. We do what we need to do to survive.

There are no principles in this game. Just actions. Just our wholeness. Forget the puppies at our feet. Let them get kicked and figure out its better to drag her behind him that make her think she’s walking ahead, one dick at a time.

Thirteen Past Midnight’s Hollow

You don’t hold much in your hands. Usually, its nothing. Sometimes, its a drink, a fork with some food, a ball or a remote. Other times its a baby, or a woman, or a gun. Sometimes, what you have in your hands can change your entire life, and sometimes what you you have in your hands makes no difference to anyone at all.

It doesn’t take much to bring a man down. It takes a lot to bring him back up. Men are killing their families because of debt, of the economy, politics, failure and hurt. They walk from bedroom to bedroom, stabbing or shooting or asphyxiating their blood for no good goddamn reason. They are weak. They are washed out of the world.

Its way past the time normal people would be strolling the neighborhood. In one hand, a smoke, in the other, nothing. Not yet. The footfalls scrape against asphalt. I walk down the middle, looking left and right. I check out each car. Flashing red lights telling me to walk on, brother, walk on. At night, I feel like I own the town. There’s not a soul. A cat. A nest of coons. House after shiny home, cars lined up in driveways and garages, families tucked in deep. Doors locked and hearts at peace. Click, click of a old soul on the porch, lighting up. I walk on by, giving a silent nod though he can’t see me.

I wear the only pair of jeans I like. Ratty, tearing at some places, loose, used, historic. Sneakers on my feet. Cheap things. I think of being noticed. Then I remember none of these people think it’ll happen to them. A laser light of rage and anger sweeping into their eyes, burning the back of their skulls, just because it can. They’d second guess anyway. They’d wonder what was the right move. They’d take time, precious time, and work it out. They have things. Things to lose. Things to covet. Things to keep secret. I don’t. I’m not afraid. I don’t hide anymore.

I wear patches of pain upon a skin worn by a child. Ideas pass by and get stuck, damming up the river, creating choke points. I push and dig and obsesses over getting it done. I forget that water, nature, finds its way around everything. It created the mountains that tower over me. The riverbeds where the city gets its name. It created the trees I sit under. The fingers which fidgets with my pocketknife. The flow will go on, with or without my unwanted assistance. Its always been that way. It’ll always be that way.

There is nothing that can change the skin, the river or the eyes that prefer the dark to the light. That need to hunt and watch and climb above the back and forth of a life forced on everyone by uppers and betters and old dead men with old dead thoughts. We do what we have to do to survive. To live. To live beyond. I do this. I tap the items in my pocket hoping one night, something will come along. But I can wait. I have all the time in the world. There are more patches to sew on. More streets to walk.

Book Writing #1

I had collected all of Change (In the House of Flies) into one word document, including The Resurrection sub-series, and it topped out at 10 000 words. While the first three parts were usually written under duress or influence of alcohol, the Resurrection series was written with sober eyes and crisp memory. I read the differences. I read how my style did not change, but the detail of the women, the club and everything else added to the style. I thought about it for a while. I talked to Kay. I thought about a short story. I tweeted the number of words I had, around 13 000, after adding in some other posts from SFTD. Around the same time Willy Wonka asked me if I was writing a book, I had made the choice. This wasn’t going to be Roosh’s A Dead Bat in Paraguay (READ IT). No memoir, no travel story, no six months of waiting and having to shit 24/7. I was going to take my story, with little adventure and a ton of introspection and hurt and hate and Hell, and make it something people can relate to. A statement of my will, if not a young generation of men. Not a book that could change the world. That’s up to the readers, and I frankly look at anybody to be the voice of the people with much skepticism. This will be a book that makes me happy I wrote it and makes me happy that someone read it.

To write this, I have to pound away day after day, which is easy since I don’t have a job yet. On Monday, I got in around 5000 words. I know writers who can barely get in a paragraph some days. Putting meat on the skeleton this Change. Adding true detail. Pondering what fictional, yet related events I could add to keep the story true. Tuesday, less so due to family obligations and just not burning myself out. I have other interesting coming to the surface after years of suppression: music and exercise mostly. Downloaded a few DJ demo programs, gave it a few minutes of testing before returning to other things. I will have to get a job soon. My steady television work isn’t until near the end of summer, that’s if they end up hiring me. My bills will kill me before then, even when I’m spending little to nothing.

The most important things I can do right now is just plug away at it as much as I can, but not obsessing over every word or every moment. Just let it flow out. When I write of moments, I’m feeling the pain of the fights and the sense of loss. When I lose that. When I’m writing to fluff, I’ll have to stop. But, that’s a long time away. The last 5 months have been a hell of a ride.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 5

The first full day there was rest. Organization and rest. I repacked my bags so to make it easier for the long drives. Electronics here, clothes there, food there, and so on. It took me most of the day. I wrote, I read, I kept busy, but not too busy. It was relaxation after all. I had contacted Becky, a friend and former co-worker, and we set up a time to meet. I hadn’t seen her in three years. Her husband, Rick, was a good friend too, even our time working together was cut short by his unjustified firing. Such is the business of entertainment. She wanted to meet in West Hollywood. Left around eleven, missing the traffic from the Inland Empire streaming into LA.

I arrived early and had a smoke sitting on the edge of one of the flowerbeds, remembering all the times I had driven or walked to this place to pick up the Ex. She worked at the Best Buy. Sometimes I’d get mixed up and walk to it when I was supposed to be at the Bed, Bath and Beyond Store far down Sunset. I was fine with it. I liked walking. I began to miss Los Angeles.

It took them a while, but they arrived with their dog Debbie. I was surprised when both Becky and Rick both gave me hugs. I hadn’t known them that closely, or so I had thought. They looked excited, like I was a long lost friend. I felt close, like I felt with Adrian and Lana. I told them the story. I explained the money problems and even went into my changes from the two days previous. “I changed between ten pm and meeting a drunk girl,” I said, smiling. Becky smiled and slightly jolted in her seat. They knew me as timid and clingy. As a hard working kid, not as an adult. We talked for nearly two hours, grabbing drinks at Jamba Juice. They told me of their freelancing in television and film. Rick getting enough work for them to stay solvent. Becky pursuing writing and acting. They both had been part of the machine I was a cog in. When I got tired, when my kid brain had enough, I went to a new machine. They broke the cycle. I admired them greatly.

I was riding a high from the night at Area 51. I was riding high from being in the sun, the clear blue sky, the swagger in my walk and the confidence of my talk. I felt the third eye scan the world around me, judging, watching and targeting. I tingled all over, underneath, vibrations so slight I had to stop to feel them. Everything had gone right. Everything was good. What felt right was right and what felt wrong was wrong. There was no questioning. No choices. No debating. There was just what I wanted and that was it. I called my dad and told him I’d be staying in California, not coming back to Canada. I’d be staying with my uncle. I’d get work, pay off my debts and make my life, alone but not lonely, out West, as I always said I would. I was home and I was being told it was by the little motions of the universe. I imagined real cowboys, gunfights, world saving and honor and nations for years. Politics and history and morality. It was all bullshit. The West called me out to do this, to write, to have fun, to be big and be bigger. I called my mom that evening and I cried to her. I cried simple tears. Real tears. No anxiety. No shaking or fear or Hell. These were the tears of five months of suppression crashing down around me. The realization I’d spent half a year dealing with the end of my marriage. The midway of 2011. The peak of the hill is coming up. I was scared shitless of what I had done, but I was also supremely excited. Deep down, I felt as I feel right now, like the certainty my uncle and his family have of God’s will in their lives, I have the certainty my life will blossom here. That alone, with each step taken and without looking back, I can walk down the street, the pier or into a room and I am the motherfucking man. No bitch, no boy, no chav, no cunt… no one can tell me any different.

God likes playing tricks. He found me the perfect woman and made her fat, stubborn and impulsive. He made her barren. He made her annoying. He made her mine and then he made her leave. He made me cry. He made me timid. He made me question myself and bring me to edge a dozen times. He made a sure thing into a throwback. He taunted me with rabbits, pussy and the loving arms of family thousands of miles away. No more. No rules. No ways. No fear.

God’s not going to like what I have in store.

My sins are just the beginning…