I have a new, Official Theme Song.  Without further ado, I present you with:

Screamin’ Jay Hawkins: I Am The Cool

Distinguished Organ,

On the eve of this Great Offensive I take the opportunity to offer you my gratitude.  Your sacrifice has been great these many months, and the character of your service is without peer.  You have put yourself to the hazard in this great War on Boredom.  Without your tireless devotion to The Cause we would be lost.

We have met the Enemy a thousand times.  We will meet him again.  We will fight him in the streets.  We will fight him in the bars.  We will not rest until he is vanquished.

There are those who believe that we can never defeat such a foe.  This malaise lurks in the darkest corners of the hearts of men.  His weapons are insidious, his action slow and terrible.  However, it is here that he betrays himself – for he cannot bear to face us honorably.

We will not defeat him by overcoming him, but by the act of fighting itself.  Our conviction will see us through.

Our Cause is noble.  Our battle is just.  Our courage shall not waver.  We will look the Enemy in the eye.  He will know our name is Death.

Faithfully Yours,

Max

Germans are a serious lot.  They like their women blonde and their warfare scorching.  They want perfection in everything, and will invent the math to have it when necessary.

I am very serious about my drinking.  I have, over time, worked it down to an art form.  I cannot call it a science because the outcome is never certain.  However, with a lot of practice and a bit of old Kentucky Windage, I can make it look like one.

Drinking is about method.

Once upon a time, I don’t remember when, I read that during Oktoberfest some Germans kept track of their steins by putting a mark on the back of their hand with a marker.  The idea was elegant in its simplicity, and a Sharpie cost less than a Breath-a-lyzer.

When I turned 21, I put this method to its first serious test.  Using a jigger, a marker, and a magnum of Bombay Sapphire, I kept an exact toll of my consumption in shot-per-proof equivalent.

I woke the next morning with 21 marks on the back of my hand.  It looked like a bar code, except where the lines got a bit wobbly after the first dozen.  My voice was gone for several hours, and hoarse for a day after that.

I had a searing hangover, the kind only gin can inflict.

This was the start of something for me.  Bragging about one’s drinking exploits is one thing, but keeping record of them – for good and ill – is entirely different.

For every good night, and every impressive tally, came an uncounted number of bad nights.  My good nights all wore one common trait: the marks on the back of my hand.

Keeping track of my drinks, however excessive, allows me to pace it right.  No amount of tolerance can make up for proper pacing.  The Big man outweighs me by a significant margin, and we’ve been going shot for shot for more than a decade.

When I’m on, the booze will run out long before I do . . .

Old music tonight.  A tune that has been out of my rotation for at least five years.  It has been a rough week, but this song is not helping my mood.  If I’m smart, I’ll lock myself in my office tonight and eat sedatives until I wake up in a puddle of drool.

I know that won’t happen . . .

I don’t emote well.  When something bothers me, I suck it up and ignore it.  I bury things so deep that, after a while, even I have no idea why I’m angry.

I wear my feelings on my hands.  I express things in little outbursts of anger and frustration, spilling over the sides just enough to keep from overflowing.  Anger is the only emotion I know how to control.

I take it out on the heavy bag, or I take it out on the weights.  The callouses on my hands – and the scars on my knuckles – read like a geological core sample.

Both of my parents buried things.

My mother was long suffering.  She was the second youngest of six daughters.  Her father abandoned the family when she was young.  Her mother’s idea of discipline was so hard that her alcoholic common-law husband had to intercede.

Usually when he saw her reaching for the cast-iron pans.

My mother was a devout Christian.  It seemed that there was no limit to the amount of rage and sadness she could hide behind her teeth.  The worse things got, the more she projected compassion and kindness.

When the Church abandoned her, the cracks in her armor started showing.  She still smiles, but behind it she looks tired.  Two bad husbands and a life of unrewarded servitude have left their marks.

I can’t tell you what the old man looks like these days.  I haven’t spoken to him in 10 years.  I’m not optimistic.

Mom was his third marriage.

My father was raised in an orphanage.  He lost his mother before he turned 6, and was beaten for most of his childhood.  Relatively speaking, these are the “shiny, happy” parts of his youth that I can actually talk about . . .

Vietnam probably didn’t help.

You can measure my father’s emotional distance in astronomical units.  My drill instructor was sympathetic by comparison.

I’m don’t know why I’m sharing any of this.

Easier for me this way, I think.  No real emotional investment.  If I told this to someone that cared about me, it would open up a dialogue.  That would involve sharing.  I don’t deal with sympathy well, either.

I used to think I didn’t speak to my father because I didn’t want to.  I’m starting to believe that maybe it’s because I can’t . . . because going there would mean dealing with things I can’t control.

The other day I watched an interview with Joe Frazier.  His still harbors a grudge against Ali.  He still works the bag every day just to keep his head on straight.

To get the venom out.

Is that going to be me in my 60’s?  Bashing my hands arthritic just to make it through my day?

I don’t know how to feel about that.

I stood at the gas pump tonight, staring at my boots, listening to the machine tick its way through my bank account.  I leaned forward to spit, but the sudden pressure in my jaw veto’d.

I tried not to think about what it cost me to get four deeply rooted wisdom teeth pried from my head.

I tried not to think about the $80 I spent on eggs, vitamins and vegetable juice tonight.  I refused to look at the gas pump.

I’m not terribly attached to money.  I like having it only for knowing that my bills are paid.  I plan my life one plodding, swaggering, stumbling footprint after the next.  The money is spent before I get it.

I could tell you how I’ll spend $25k on an engine (inconel, titanium) before you can say “uncontrollable valve loft” . . .

The pump stopped.  I didn’t look.  I returned the handle, closed up my tank and climbed back in my car.  The spongy feeling hit me, the melatonin kicking in.  I watched every green light turn red, going in and out of focus.  Almost home, I thought.

I think of everything in hours.  How many hours does this bottle of whiskey cost me?  How many since my last drink?  How many hours for a whore at the Bunny Ranch?

Not to fuck her, maybe just smack her around with my belt.

How many hours until I’m back at work?  How many until the weekend?

I’m tired of waiting.  Tired of watching the clock.  The calender.  The phone.  Wait for the alarm.  Wait for the whistle.  Wait for the light.

I don’t want permission anymore.

]]> http://www.fkinonline.com/max-rude-notes/the-price-of-admission/feed/ 2 http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/2650/ http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/2650/#comments Wed, 20 Jan 2010 21:54:48 +0000 Max http://www.fkinonline.com/?p=2650

(First Published at The Spearhead)

Denise Romano v. The Seduction Community

Denise Romano is no friend of pick-up artists.  Ms. Romano has accused pick-up artists of being abusive to women.  She claims that Game represents a kind of Fraud, invalidating consent for women who have sex with pick-up artists.

Ms. Romano believes that Game, and pick-up artists, are morally culpable for coercing women into having sex.  She believes that Game is a kind of brainwashing, that it manipulates the will, therefore constituting sexual assault.

Denise Romano is just bitter . . .

Ms. Romano argues ad nauseum that Game is morally wrong.  She attacks the specific terms that pick-up artists use, claiming that they objectify women.  She thinks that some pick-up artists are rude, awful jackasses who use women for sex without consideration for that woman’s feelings.

On some accounts, she is right.

Ms. Romano makes a Kantian argument.  Intentionally or not, she evokes the Categorical Imperative.

In the First Formulation of the Categorical Imperative, Kant states:

“Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.”

The first formulation is based on the “golden rule”, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  A universalizable maxim is a moral duty.  A maxim must be logically consistent.  It is not logical to will that you can steal from others without allowing that they can steal from you.

So don’t convince attractive people to have sex with you unless you want them to do the same.

The Second Formulation is closer to Ms. Romano’s logic:

“Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end and never merely as a means to an end.”

This second formulation more specifically addresses Ms. Romano’s objection to Game and the Seduction Community.  Her real objection is that pick-up artists use women for sex without regard for their inherent moral value as persons (i.e. moral agents; people are capable of making moral choices, and therefore have moral worth).

If I were a Kantian, I would care.

The premise that seduction is inherently abusive assumes that people have a moral duty to one another.  Where does this moral duty come from?  Is there a divine law that we mustn’t break?  Does the power of Christ compel us?

No it doesn’t.

There is no such thing as moral obligation.  Morality is a social construct, an abstraction grown out of the human aversion to pain and death.  Right and wrong amount to personal injury and property damage.

How can this be?  If this were the case – if the world were, in fact, amoral – then life would be horrible!  We would all live in constant fear of pain and death.  The truth is, we do.  The world is a dangerous place.  It does not care about your pain.

Only you do.

Each of us recognizes the fact that such an existence – one of constant fear and danger – is miserable.  Each of us accepts, if only tacitly, a kind of great truce with our fellow man.  Thomas Hobbes calls it the Second Law of Nature:

” . . . that a man be willing, when others are so too, as far forth as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things; and be contented with so much liberty against other men as he would allow other men against himself.” – The Leviathan; Chapter XIV

There it is again, the Golden Rule.  The difference here is that Hobbes isn’t concerned with universalizable maxims.  Hobbes suggests that we shouldn’t run around bonking each other over the head and stealing one another’s shit because a world like that would be miserable.

That does not mean we are obligated in any way to treat other persons with regard for their moral agency.  It means we must treat them with regard for their ability to kill us and take our shit.

See the difference?

Society is not based on altruistic principles, but on self-interest.  Each of us are responsible for our own well-being.  We are not obliged to worry about the wants or needs of others, except when we choose to.

As far as Game is concerned, Consent is the extent of the Law.

Here is where Ms. Romano’s argument thickens.  She holds that Game is a kind of Fraud, therefore legally invalidating any Consent given.

Ms. Romano’s premise relies upon the fact that Game is a form of deception.  Pick-up artists will often use a variety of deceitful practices in order to seduce a woman.  They adopt persona cultivated to entice women, they use canned material that is often little more than phony stories, they may lie about their names or facts about their lives.

Pick-up artists lie their asses off.

The problem is that lying and Fraud are not the same thing.  People lie all the time, and are guilty of nothing more than bad taste.  Pick-up artists lie and are guilty of nothing more than being douche bags.

Women wear flattering clothing to hide their flaws.  They use make-up to conceal blemishes and padded bras to accentuate their breasts.  They tell men all kinds of things to attract them, and sometimes they lie.

Does any of this constitute Fraud?  No.

Fraud: A false representation of a matter of fact—whether by words or by conduct, by false or misleading allegations, or by concealment of what should have been disclosed—that deceives and is intended to deceive another so that the individual will act upon it to her or his legal injury.

Fraud must be proved by showing that the defendant’s actions involved five separate elements: (1) a false statement of a material fact, (2) knowledge on the part of the defendant that the statement is untrue, (3) intent on the part of the defendant to deceive the alleged victim, (4) justifiable reliance by the alleged victim on the statement, and (5) injury to the alleged victim as a result.

Elements 1-4 are clear; they outline the constituent parts of a lie.  Element 5 is where things get tricky.  In order for a lie to constitute Fraud, it must cause injury.  Specifically, the victim must be deprived of rights or property.  Furthermore, any lies must be false “statements of fact”.

Opinions and qualitative statements don’t count.

When a woman has sex with a pick-up artist, she is not buying a sales pitch or exchanging goods or services.  She is engaging in consensual sex.  Sex is straight-forward, what you see is what you get.  There is no false advertising once the clothes come off.

Buyers beware.

One sticking point here concerns STDs; a person who knowingly endangers another without making their partner aware of their condition beforehand obviates that person’s ability to make an informed decision.

. . . And if you’re having unprotected sex or being incautious with your body, shame on you.

In most cases, when someone goes home with a person they have just met, they do so at their own peril.  If bad sex or a smirch on your reputation is the worst that happens, count your blessings.  Consider the ramifications of your actions before you act, there is no RESET button.

Denise Romano’s argument is the argument of a bitter woman looking to obviate her own responsibility for having slept with someone she regrets.  I am not stating that this is actually the case.  I don’t care.

Game is just nerdy guys trying to get laid.  It isn’t magic.  It isn’t hypnosis.  It certainly isn’t sexual assault.  It’s just a game.

If women want to stand on equal footing with men then they have to accept the fact that, when they wake up next to a Gorgon, maybe they should have said No to that last shot of Jagermeister.

As for Denise Romano, maybe she should stop drinking the Kool-Aid.

My supervisor informed me that something I had spent a lot of time on had been wrecked.  The city workers who destroyed it were still there.  I slammed the door against the wall on my way out.  I was a block up when my boss told me, over the phone, don’t say anything to them . . .

I stood there, looking at the mess the guys had made.  Oh well, they said.  I didn’t say anything.  The supervisor wouldn’t have heard me over his chainsaw.

I went back to the shop.  My boss was still stewing about the incident.  One of my co-workers, who was born in Guyana, started laughing when he saw me.

“Awww, sheeeat boy . . . ya talk ta them?”

“No,” I said.  ”Wasn’t worth the bother.”

“Dey naw say nothin’?”

“Nope.”

“Dey must saw you comin’, man.  Dat ‘rude boy’ walk,” he flared his elbows and swaggered a few feet.  ”Dey be thinkin’ Fuck No, Man, sheeeat . . . “

I’m the only one at work that can understand anything he says.

I got the reference.

I didn’t respond.

I showered and sorted through a pile of clean clothes.  Now I’m sitting on the couch, trying to keep my eyes open . . .

I’m shopping for a dresser on Craigslist.  The throw-together cam-lock piece of fiberboard trash sitting in my bedroom lacks the strength to hold anything more than a few pairs of socks.  My t-shirts collapse the bottom.

Forget about throwing a loaded .45 in with the underwear.

I cannot believe the premium people are asking for their rat-fucked trash.  Hundreds here, hundreds there, for things I wouldn’t pay 50 dollars for.

I’ve noticed a trend since the economy took a dump.  Inflation has the cost of used goods wandering all over the place.  Once upon a time, if you gave the the year/make/model of an vehicle (especially GM) I could guess the price within $300.  Now guys are asking twice book value because one time they ran synthetic, and maybe they threw on a cat-back and an intake.

As the world gets desperate, people with no skill-sets are struggling to keep up.  They are fools to think that other people who are struggling for money are going to pay $200 for a particle board night stand, or $16.9k for a ‘01 SS Camaro.

Or $40k a year for you to sit and check your fucking e-mail all day.

We aren’t suffering from inflation . . . we are infected by it.  Like viral encephalitis.  The relative worthlessness of our currency is being compounded by the ignorance of the office worker crowd to the value of a dollar.

I am going to hang it up before my chin bounces off my chest one more time.  I can’t worry about “long term” right now.

All I care about are the six inches in front of my face.  If I can’t touch it, can’t do anything about it . . .

I don’t care.

You can tell a lot about a person by their drinking habits.

After a gluttonous holiday season, I have suddenly run out of whiskey.  Most of the time I am a monk.  I have to be.  I ration things for myself because I know that once I am moving I am at wide open throttle until the gas runs out.

I am a fiend.  If I have access to a liquor cabinet with more than just a lone bottle of booze in it, I will swim through it with the efficiency of military drill team.  I am sorting out the aftermath of my Christmas binge and I was reminded of some of my less flattering habits.  After running out of Maker’s, I was forced to take what I could get.

When faced with a stocked liquor cabinet, I cut through the ranks in a specific order:

1. Bourbon.

This is my go-to.  I will wash down bourbon with the kind of zeal that is usually preceded by someone chanting “Allahu Akbar!”  I start at the high end and work my way down the scale according to a) Proof and b) age/quality.

* The one exception is Woodford Reserve, which tastes too much like Scotch for me.

2. Rye.

It’s closer to bourbon, and better than Scotch.  I will drink top shelf Scotch over well brand rye, but it’s a tough call.

3. Scotch.

It’s still whisk(e)y.  As long as it doesn’t taste like pigeon shit or a forest fire, it’s better than beer.

4. Vodka.

I’ll tear through a magnum of Fleischmann’s like a hobo with a hangover.  Again, I’ll work my way down the Vodka scale according to quality and proof (which is easy, since age isn’t a factor), but basically it’s just ethanol.

Fuck you Goose people.

5. Rum.

I’ll drink Sailor Jerry’s over Fleischmann’s vodka, but Jerry’s is 90 proof.  Proof above all else.  That molasses sugar is a bitch of a hangover.

6. Gin.

I used to drink Bombay Sapphire like it was the Sacrament.  I miss it, sometimes.  Real martinis are made with gin.  All of you vodka martini drinkers are poseurs and faggots, and I have no sympathy for you when you crack up your C300 drunk.

7. Anything Over 70 Proof.

Face it, no one drinks to stay sober.

8. Beer, Wine, Sake.

At an average of 5% by volume, beer isn’t exactly the most efficient way to get loaded.  However, I can buy beer at 3 AM.  Most liquor stores close at 9 PM.  If I run out of whiskey at midnight, I’m not just going to give up . . .

9. Schnapps.

It’s stronger than beer . . . but Christ does that sugar make for a bad hangover.  I’ll drink it if I’m utterly desperate.

I’ve recently jumped onto the Mad Men bandwagon.  I don’t watch TV, so much as pass out drunk in front of it.  I haven’t parked my ass in front of the tube so eagerly since Deadwood.  The writing on Mad Men is brilliant.

I have to discover things in my own time.  Even if the recommendation is coming from a friend, unless they’re setting a shot of something in front of me, it takes me anywhere from 6 months to 10 years to pick up on a trend.

Watching Draper reminds me Patrick Bateman.  I won’t qualify that statement.  If you can’t recite American Psycho line for line, fuck off.

Watching this show is like looking into a time machine.  I was born from the generation born from this generation.  I remember the plastic clobbering sound the old rotary phone made hitting the hook.  Of course, my mother didn’t spend the day washing down speed and anti-anxiety pills with whiskey.

She had Jesus . . .

There are generation gaps – things that didn’t pass the generation between – but there are more that made it through.  The disposable nature of everything.  The emotional disconnects.

Just like mother used to make.