My computer has been smacked with a virus.  I will be operational again soon.

I have a bad temper.  Anger has lead me to do awful things.  I am candid about my anger – and my compulsivity – but I am not flippant about them.  What was once “Boys will be boys” is now Felony behavior.  I have come away unscathed, but not uninformed.

Anger isn’t a raised pulse or a histrionic fit.  Anger is a gate-way drug to rage and hatred.  Anger is poisonous and intoxicating.  Anger is not an aphrodisiac.  When I read Roosh’s article about anger as a female turn-on, I understood exactly why he said it.

But I disagree with what he said. Read more

I try to hide by burying my head under a mountain of pillows.  Hide from the noise.  Hide from the dull gray light filtering through the blinds.  Then I realize that I desperately have to piss.  I swing my feet to the floor in irritation.  My dehydrated joints snap and grind in protest as I shuffle to the bathroom.

I make one more attempt at sleep, eeking out a precious half an hour, before more noise jolts me out of bed.  Persistent, aggravating noise.  My response borders on panic for a moment until silence is restored.  Fully awake now, I realize that I have been robbed once again of a full night’s sleep.

How I long for that drowsy pleasure.

As if by some limbic macro, I slap a pan on the stove and shovel espresso into the coffee maker.  I gain height slowly as I arch my back, my spine popping like pine boughs on a cold morning.  I bend one knee, then the other.  The stiffness in the left leg, where the therapist thumbed and prodded my irritated fascia, seems to have abated.  I choke down breakfast, tasting only coffee and hot sauce.

Time for CNN.  Outside noise.  Move with a purpose.

Every heterosexual male has a system for rating women.  More often than not, it is the Base 10 system, or some variation of it.  It is difficult to innovate over the Base 10 because it is simple and functional.  The existence of Hot-or-Not proves this.  Unfortunately, what Base 10 fails to capture are differences in taste.  One man’s 8 is another man’s 6, and vice versa. Read more

Humans do not want equality.  We strive at every turn to create order and structure.  Specialization.  Division of labor.  A vast network of people taking orders from someone higher up the food chain, separated by invisible layers of social abstraction.

The seduction community attempts to manipulate this system by analyzing the correlation between certain behaviors and a desired effect.  The method is crude, but the attempt to examine causal relationships in human behavior is valid.

Understanding the rules of any system increases the odds of working that system in your favor.  In essence, gaming the game.

Unfortunately, the average Player doesn’t stand a chance if their Game fails at the concept level.  Here are a few common fuck-ups Pick Up Artists make in their basic understanding of Game. Read more

I fell in love the moment I walked inside.  What a dive.

It was close confines.  The air was thick with cigarette smoke.  The bar was lit by the glow from a single string of Christmas lights.  The low ceiling was plastered with beer cans and black plastic.  An old coin-op bowling machine clogged up the entrance.  Punks and hardscrabble clogged the bar.

We wouldn’t have known the place was there if Hack’s old roommate hadn’t showed us where it was.  There was no sign outside, just a couple of people smoking and a neon in the window.

The Bar With No Name.

Puke and piss and beer made the floor adhesive.  The bartender was a chubby blonde.  She worked her massive tits for all they were worth.  She comped our first round.

Hack and I sat at the far end of the bar.  There was no door on the back room, and even from 3 feet away we couldn’t see what was inside.

Coke and dirty sex.

The jukebox was everything you would expect.  Tom Waits.  Social D.  Dropkick Murphys.  Cadence to Arms played every 15 minutes.  Fights broke out on the hour.

And no one cared.

It was fucking beautiful.  It was every cliche of a roughneck dive bar ever written, and we had stumbled right into the middle of it.  It didn’t matter if you were young or old, drunk, dumb, or dirt poor.  If you could stand the smell, you could get a drink.

The cops never came.  When heads needed smashing, Do what thou Wilt was the extent of the law.

No one cared about the clothes you wore, or what you drove.  It didn’t matter if you were ugly or angry or try-hard.  If you didn’t belong anywhere else, or refused to fit in, this was the place for you.

I miss that bar.

If you are a regular visitor to the site then you will notice some significant changes.  I have been playing around with different layouts and themes.  I settled on this one for its simplicity.

I intend to get a site header up at some point, but I am having technical issues with that at the moment.

The Nav bar is on the top right.  Some of the buttons have drop-downs, but the FKIN page and the Thought Cancer page are still separate pages.  The Thought Cancer section is where I compile the more popular bits, including stories in the on-going Saga of Saint Max, patron of the Blackened Liver.

If you go to the Thought Cancer Page, rather than clicking on the Category, it is much easier to navigate.

For my personal, day-to-day vignettes I have the Max category.

The Rude Notes are rants.

I am finally going to start working on the Reviews again.  I am honestly trying to create a sub-domain so that section can operate like its own mini-site.  It will make navigation much easier.

That is all.

I am sitting in a coffee shop, six miles into the day.  Despite some minor setbacks, it has been a decent training week.  Yesterday’s workout went a solid two hours, counting warm-up, core work, and cardio.  What was supposed to be a three on/one off schedule is working out more like four or five days at a clip.

I aborted my morning run today after three attempts.  I have bailed on a run maybe three or four times in my life.  My knee was swelling, and I didn’t want to risk an injury.  I loaded my laptop into my new SwissGear pack and headed out.

So here I sit, watching trim roll in and out of this coffee shop.

I compression wrapped my knee and put moleskin on my toes.  Today is not a day for character building.  This is active rest.  It’s 80 degrees out already.  On the bright side, my new Bellevilles are performing up to their reputation.

A middle-aged Irish couple just asked me about my tattoos.  My overshirt is draped over the back of my chair, and I’m down to a tank top.  They seemed genuinely interested in where I got them.

I usually don’t show them, but it’s fucking hot out.

It was worse with my ex.  If I have 20 hours or so on me, she has ten times that amount.  Hiding her tattoos means pants, a long sweater, and wearing her hair down.  God forbid she wear a low cut blouse with no sleeves.  Men stared.  Women sneered.

And little old ladies would coo at how beautiful her artwork was.

Funny how attitudes change with age.  People either grow a stick up their ass, or they pull it out.

The espresso is kicking in.  Time to hit the road.

Memorial Day weekend started off with a comedy of errors.  I should have been out of town by noon.  Seven and a half hours later my carotid artery was throbbing.  I sat impatiently in Alf’s truck, sweating from the neck and shifting in my seat.  I pointed us out of the gas station and headed for the highway.

The trip was a cluster fuck.  Wedged in Alf’s old Nissan with camping equipment, my bike, liquor, and more portable electronics than the Pakistani Air Force, we bombed over the Berkshires with me desperately attempting to reign the helm.  A broken sway bar and low tire pressure made going slow, and me irritable.

This was a bad fucking idea, I thought.

Read more

The last few days have been unremarkable.  My trip back from Boston turned into a disaster.  That disaster spread quickly to the rest of my life.

I don’t know why I leave home.  Every time I do, I return to  disaster.

Monday was Back day.  I lumped in my traps – technically a back muscle – with this workout.  Working on about two hours sleep, not continuous, I made the best of things.

Then I got hammered.  Happy Memorial Day indeed.

Tuesday I lumped out my usual leg workout.  I trained without over training, for once.

Today was a Push/Push workout.  Chest and Tris.  Didn’t have time for shoulder work.  Saving them for tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll wedge a lift, a run, and a ruck into one day.