All Misty

I’d like to dedicate the following song to all the individuals involved in the elaborate set up I just survived.

I’m not worthy! How many well-meaning persons had their time wasted and how many were deliberate players?


By now you ought to realize that…

a. I’m mostly truthful except where necessary to protect the innocent.

b. I’m not bereft of resources especially when cornered by unscrupulous persons regardless of how many letters applied after the moniker. Even central Indian Psychiatrists. Bring it on, you fucking sadists. You think you invented your shit? Small potatoes is what you are.

c. My intentions are noble despite the idiocy of that notion in this day and age. In other words, I’m a fool. So? What of it? You are the ones who wasted all that time, money, resources, space, etc.

d. I am a generous person both with time and resources right up to the point where I am made a pawn in a stupid game with no noble winners evident.

e. I’m a hopeless romantic even if due to the aforementioned Math Problem the only man who can handle me is The Prince of Darkness himself and thus obeying such a man is the ultimate paradox for a Believer such as myself but at least it beats being baptised by charismatic Southern Evangelists. I have my priorities and don’t apologize for them.

f. I truly appreciate fine food especially when it’s my own recipes reasonably adapted using available ingredients—and how flattering was that? Wow. Truly honoured am I. By the way, you forgot the pine nuts.

g. You all still have no fucking idea what I have survived. That’s not an invitation for you to attempt to replicate it better only that I hope you understand that your expense reports are going to be unjustifiable if you do so.

h. I have a sense of humour even when I am the butt of the joke and everyone is in on it including me. I know. I know. I’m such a spoil sport. Deal with it.

i. I can fucking sing, you fucking bastards. Talk about a hostile audience. Cannibals! Or was that the whole point? Truly bored and jaded you must be. So sad. I guess we’ve established which one of us has the substance abuse problem. What will you do when you run out of hamburger for your grinder?

j. God exists and He ain’t you. I’ll take my chances with whatever the afterlife holds rather than be your parasitic host so, until you’re prepared to end my life, you lose. Score 1 for me.

k. I do indeed have at least two books in me that are not dastardly how-to manuals and so I had best write them soon before you pull a similar stunt and my luck runs out because God loves those who exercise their God-given talents even when they’ve been severely compromised.

As for what I learned?

1. I learned that I need to forgive those who I believe wronged me because some of them may well be innocent even if time will tell who is who.

For now, I’m got time.

2. Trump 2016!

A Date for a Chase or a Kill

Follow me at your Peril, or mine, I’m Easy that way. Or Honor your word for my Truth. I’ve got all day, or two, or three. Who knows? Do you? What Hubris. It would be a Shame if it’s just a gas, my ass, or yours.

The Treatment

There are two Bellagios, as far as I know. The Han took me to both of them. At the first, we drank fine vodka, which brought back memories of a nice Russian man.

I wish that I had loved him. He was so handsome, with a nice beach house, and fancy car equipped with a lovely vintage cell phone. He had such a charming and dashing air and was involved in a business I’ve always enjoyed, namely, importing and exporting, especially when I am the commodity being shipped.

I felt like such an idiot when I screwed up at a party he took me to and someone asked me which fabric swatch I preferred. Can I help what I like and don’t like? However, the Russian didn’t mind because he had been acclimated to much worse behavior from my predecessor. Public tantrums to be specific. That’s not my thing, but if that’s our thing, then have your people call my people and they can screech all through your lunch like hyenas.

Mostly, he imported Russian vodka and condoms. He wanted so much to treat me to the first but not to the second. However, since I did not love him, I just liked him a lot, I selected both options.

Silly me. There have been a fair number of Russian men in my life, even before I started using “Caprizchka”. I think I have a thing for them. Or maybe their thing has a thing for me. I’m never sure.

My Russian magician’s story appeared to have a very happy ending because the girl who he ended up with after me seemed to be perfect for him. I was so happy for them both especially after having known the woman who had preceded me, and who ruined every man she touched, or so it appeared.

She touched a lot of men. I don’t even know if she is still around. I’m afraid to even say her name. What a toxic person she was.

One of the men who she touched was my first Master. I should just leave this story at that because I have great sympathy for him today, particularly after my dealings with a woman one degree of separation from Carlos Castaneda. The two men had a lot in common and so did the two toxic women.

Besides, I am only now just starting to forgive him, my Master that is. It would seem that he had a harem far larger than he was capable of either managing or protecting, and this made other men very angry. Anger does not help these situations. Neither does one woman going around damaging men left and right like some sort of ghost in the machine. Naturally, she put me in her cross-hairs as well in terms of psychotic behavior. However, she was a fine seamstress and for people obsessed with costumes and pageantry, she was a fine asset. None for me, thanks.

I’d rather wear a dress made out of feedbag.

It would seem that the male victims of toxic women always seem to find me, and on a good day I can help them recover. On a bad day, they seem to assume that it is my fault that they have been hurt, even if it is a role I did not choose. Fortunately, I have more good days than bad days. If I didn’t hurt them in the first place however why do they expect me to pay for it? I assume that they believe that I must have had an easier life than they did. In the case of most women, that’s probably true.

Of course, regular readers of my blog know that for me sympathy is not an aphrodisiac. If tears are yours then I’m going to need something to cry about. It will take some doing. It’s a game I like to play with men who I like. First one to cry buys the drinks. They all expect that it is going to be me. If I really really like him however then I’ll choose the beverage around which the evening is to be centered. It might be a bit salty and perhaps even a little bit dirty.

Time for a little music:

Love that song. Reminds me of that run down Alligator Alley I had to do regularly in order to get my flower watered.

Flowers need to be watered and are grateful for the watering. One flower in particular.

My Russian magician (not really, but, there’s a funny story there as Los Angeles readers probably understand) treated me the way that he found that women liked to be treated. It was a good system. Lots of women like spa treatments. It’s a nice gift. Unfortunately, for me, that gift backfired. However, if Carlos Castaneda were there he would have said something like “the spa incident” meant that I was not in the right place at the right time. It was not because aforementioned ghost in the machine had poisoned the mud. It was all a misunderstanding.

Some people are like that. I believe the line goes like this:

“If I can’t have him then no one can!”

Imagine this woman plus psychotic screaming and you’ll perhaps get the right idea.

It was at Lake Como, not at Bellagio, but at a tiny restaurant near there where I had my first up-close-and-personal contact with a live Nazi. Yes I know that they don’t like to be called that, but, do you expect complete historical accuracy here? There was a civic sculpture within walking distance that had been horribly defaced but I could still make out some of the words, in… I forgot to count how many languages.

It commemorated The Holocaust. It was sobering to read some of the graffiti. ‘Wow,’ I thought. ‘I guess there really is a Neo Nazi movement in Europe. Christopher Hitchens was right!’

I got to meet Hitchens at Berkeley or should I say, “Cal”. He looked like he had had a whole lot to drink and had stopped wondering when the smart coeds were going to throw themselves at him. I think that was 2003 or 2003? I’m not sure.

If he hadn’t looked quite so much like he had just had a spa treatment I probably would have introduced myself to him. I’m not talking about an ordinary spa treatment here, I hope that my readers understand why I must be coy about the specifics.

The Han was what is known in Hong Kong as a “Rice Catholic.” He was mildly perturbed about the humiliations he had suffered in his life at the hands of Westerners and some other people more near to where he had been born. I’m kidding of course. He was so consumed by rage that it is a wonder his head didn’t blow off like a cannon. He found a way to blow off some steam however and I suppose I am the whistle.

In this particular case, that is the “rice” part, these Westerners were Irish Jesuits who ran the school he attended. They could have been any of a variety of extractions of Irish. They might even have been Scotch-Irish. (I know that this particular spelling offends some people and I’m sorry. The next Scotch is on me, OK?).

However, The Han’s resentment reached back a lot further in time than his own tumultuous life as he explained to me during our travels. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art he brought me to his ancestor’s scroll, and yes, I was impressed. In fact, the two of us got the full treatment. Access does my heart so much better than diamonds and pearls. I like to go deep. That’s just the kind of girl that I am.

It was some time later when he switched the resentment he had for Westerners to Jews; however, not such a radical switch that he let me keep my money!

Chinese peepo don’t wike it when Westners weep der mawney!

At Lake Como, The Han and I were having lunch indoors by the window and sipping frizzante. The Han explained to me that the reason that restaurants always seated us by a window was because we were such an attractive couple. We were “window-dressing.” It was a similar system used in China and Japan when it came to where employees were positioned within the buildings; except in business, it was a matter of honor for the aged rather than beauty. The Han had, among many other consultations, worked for an American automobile manufacturer. Some politicians too! It’s a little bit too close to a certain season for me to be more forthcoming about that last.

We were such an attractive couple that at every pharma junket we attended (usually by getting ourselves invited by another Chinese doctor), we would always win the raffle. We were delighted to be photographed accepting the prize. It was fun and with a beautiful portrait as a souvenir!

While having lunch at Lake Como, along came a very old man of German descent, handsome, tall, and erect. He saw the attractive couple in the window and I looked deep into his eyes, which were behind glasses that looked sort of like this (except cleaner, of course):

I will never forget that moment because the rage behind those glasses chilled me right down to the bone. What is with me and vampires? Why do they always find me?

I understand, old man, but, you see, California is a nice place where every extra woman gets a husband because they all have pure hearts free of artery-clogging saturated fats, with beautiful teeth white from lots of brushing, fresh breath, and no smoking.

Not the bad smoking I mean. Only the good smoking.

Don’t forget the spa treatment. You remembered! Flowers for me? Thanks!

Having had my own permaculture farm, I know what flowers look like. I also know what mud looks like. A lot of other liquids as well mixed in there, nice and rich.

If you’ve never had an extra special spa treatment like what I have experienced then you don’t know what you’re missing. That is probably just as well.

Somehow I made it out of that particular spa with a little mud of my own. Not a lot. I don’t need a lot. I don’t need what every other woman it would seem says that she needs. For me, having friends is all the wealth I need, but sometimes my friends need to be soothed and mere words aren’t enough. How can I be in more than one place at the same time?

Not so long before I posed for a series of beautiful photographs with The Han, I worked for a company which had a contract on the midrange computers which ran the digital machines one sees at bars in certain nice places. Most bartenders at those places do not understand why I prefer to buy my own drinks while perched at the bar engaging the other patrons. Neither do most Dicks. I have wasted a whole lot of men’s time in my life.

Why is everyone today always in such a hurry?


Monogamy Math Lesson

I started to write a comment to this piece, which I heartily recommend, but then realized that my comment might offend or be considered pornographic. So please, sit on a soft chair, with a blankie, cup of coffee, kitten, and a picture of Michelle Fields dressed in white in a silver frame on the mantelpiece, before you read this, so that you are not triggered.

Now read the linked piece. I’ll wait.

Men are wonderful creatures. It is unfortunate that there aren’t enough of them to go around. I understand that monogamy was supposed to address biology, that is, prevent women from simply throwing themselves at the hottest erectile I mean fractile I mean percentile, or whatchamacallit, like “Peter.” However, a series of great wars, the Sexual Revolution, Major Media, giving women free choice, and lack of chaperones, parents, older relatives, etc., who could—in the past—be steering young women appropriately, neutralized that marvelous empire-building plan.

Not to worry. Government is here to help.

It turns out that simply adding more women to a demographic does not provide guaranteed outcomes for the shyest men, even if these women are gorgeous strippers who can crawl on their bellies like a reptile.  What’s missing? Let me think. I can’t remember. What could it be? Wait. I got it. Why I never! The check? You expect me to pick up the check? You beast!

Young nice girls full of hormones are simply not that wise (unless they are forced to be mathematically inclined, at which point many turn pro, professional, celibate, welfare, baby momma, grifter, lesbian, politician, or bureaucrat despite everyone telling them how intelligent they are because that word would appear to loosen those chastity belts like WD 40 on the less mathematically inclined).


Sorry, no husband for you, precious. Care to play again? Don’t tell me you’re out of quarters! Poor Baby. Here’s a quarter. Now how about a blow job, Baby?

Say, did you know that monogamy is the greatest invention?

It is really great. It is too bad that you are uneducated, underprivileged, ignorant, and misfortunate. Let me explain it to you while you suck on this.

I wonder how many hookers wear discrete ear plugs. If so, I imagine that the whore ear plug index could determine a hot load of economic indicators.

Now where was I? Yes. Peter.

If Peter is a handsome fool, however, then, Peter needs an advisor to tell him how to keep from getting beat up in alley ways by men who are not so nice. This advice is unlikely to be found in a government pamphlet. Nowadays only bad men form fraternal associations, for that would be Patriarchal.  Women would hate that. The “extra” ones especially. I know. Math is hard. Monogamy is good! Extra women good!

Take a nice big sip of coffee or have a good cry into your blankie now. All better?

People talk about the notion of “droit du seigneur prima nocte first night” as myth; however, this blog provides some historical basis in realistic terms not nearly as bodice ripping as ladies’ pornographic fiction:


Not fun? You deserve a box of chocolates because you are a good person for reading that!

You are beautiful!

Prima Noctum is a horrible rapey notion to moderns, especially those afflicted with the vapors, that a Peter could be so cruel and heartless as to ignore a maiden’s protestations! However, on a hierarchical economic basis—that is, the recognition that economic classes exist—this custom recognizes that wealthy parents have the privilege of protecting their daughters better than poor parents do. I know. Shocking.

All Peters are Beautiful!

I realize that math is terribly traumatic and could cause fainting and tears; however, on a realistic basis, perhaps the Peters of the world could be incentivized to dole out some of their groupies to their loyal friends (if you’ve never kept a Harem, please do not assume that it is a cakewalk, unless of course you are a government agency, because, government is good and ensures all outcomes for all wee little children, and they all lived happily ever after). Perhaps Peter could plant a kiss on the aspiring princess’s forehead thanking her for her adoration, as he hands her off to his pal, with a tender, “protect this darling virgin for me, brother.”

I look forward to a world where uncomfortable challenges to the noble intentions of lovely young vixens could be eased onto the fainting couch. Perhaps in such a world, men would realize that negative propaganda about male sexuality originates from other men desirous of protecting their business franchises, castles, empires, and daughters from them.

Who Lives in Your Home?

Given all the noise lately about abortion, as a moral litmus test, I might as well further clarify my own views.

Inspired by: Camille Paglia: Feminists have abortion wrong, Trump and Hillary miscues highlight a frozen national debate

I like to start with the question, “Who owns a woman’s uterus?”

In some places, the “owner” is “The King”.

Given that I believe in the right to contract oneself to another, and the right of like-minded persons to develop fraternal associations, etc., such as to share responsibility for contracts, then there are nuances in terms of the various ways that I believe that “ownership” can be negotiated, or ought to be legal to negotiate. To say that only State-approved religions or the Atheist State itself has the right to dictate how such a negotiation may go is narrow-minded, in my view.

I believe that a human being ought to have the right to contract him or herself to another, such as what used to be known as “marriage” or indentured servitude.

However, in the absence of such a contract, a non-contracted uterus is private property, such that just because one might invite a friend over for dinner doesn’t mean that he or she is entitled to leave behind an agent to reside in one’s home for 18 years. To me, the anti-abortion crowd is saying that ‘if you don’t want a new entitled resident in your home then don’t ever invite a friend over for dinner.’

Who pays for the abortion or the maintenance of the child? Also highly politicized. I believe that at the least a society ought to be consistent. If one’s uterus belongs to “The King,” then “The King” ought to be in charge of feeding whatever issue or removing it perhaps prior to significant royal burden applying.

I do not hold that a parasitic life is “innocent” regardless of its “humanity” or lack thereof. When it comes to unconscious and amygdala activity, including that induced by hypnosis or brainwashing, then “human” hardly applies.

Moreover, any religious or other “morally” justified population policy that does not recognize that there may be a limit to the number of persons who can be sustained by a given environment, or to justify the invasion and taking over of resources or lands from “heathens” when those bounds are exceeded, is not a sustainable policy.

While most environments can manage a limited number of foreigners, imbeciles, and slaves, there is no environment that can manage an unlimited number of them. The same would apply to an excess of “leaders”.

One method of controlling reproduction was developed by the infamous Kellogg brothers. To summarize, the ingestion of plenty of fiber and otherwise inducing “regularity” by means of laxatives or enemas was supposed to reduce male masturbation; however, what it accomplishes instead is prostate stimulation through intestinal inflammation, particularly aggravated by the immune-suppressing qualities of the grain “flake” extrusion process.

I believe that a chronically inflamed prostate may well inspire male homosexuality in susceptible populations. Since that is not reproductive, then, sure, eating a lot of cornflakes may indeed slow population growth.

Another method of controlling reproduction is calorie and nutrient restriction such as promoted by vegetarianism and other supposedly longevity-enhancing regimens which operate under the principle that undereating produces fewer free radicals (whereas healthy food contains antioxidants which counteract them).  Longevity obsession, like narcissism, also tends to produce homosexuality, which, is non-reproductive, and further, vegetarianism may also result in intestinal and thereby prostate inflammation in those not equipped with either a rumen or a robustly diverse intestinal ecosystem. Or for that matter, with a severely nutritionally deficit diet one can eliminate ovulation, reduce sperm count, and eliminate the desire for sex altogether.

Vaccines themselves may also reduce fertility through excessive conditioned inflammation brought about by a premature onslaught of foreign proteins into the bloodstream of an insufficiently developed child. Where is the “moral outrage” here?

The development of the human self includes a stage commonly known as “The Terrible Twos” whereby the young human develops a sense of being distinct from the caregivers, most particularly, the mother. Prior to that point, that human is not all that human except in potential and appearance, not even having a distinct identity other than mere facial manerisms. The human infant is particularly helpless among animals such as to be parasitic. When such a parasite is a welcome addition to a family having plenty in the way of resources and potential for a fulfilling life, that is a different story than being born under torturous overcrowding, danger, and lack of hope.

Thus, vigorous pro-life rhetoric is a signal of privilege such that deficit of basic needs does not even consider in the adherent’s life view. In other cases it is a sense of entitlement to the labor and resources of others, which is a rationalization also adopted by otherwise pro-choice feminists desirous of enslaving sperm donors to their lifestyle maintenance, and that of their issue, as almost as an afterthought.

Degradation of masculinity is also a population control mechanism, ultimately, unless counteracted by forced reproduction and then slavery to that process such as by means of the welfare state.

Placing God in the sole position of demographic monitor denies the capacity for mathematics, sociology, and economics He engendered within us. Lacking that capacity however does not make us more human just like relying on it does not make us more reptilian, even if the former deficit more likely will result in devolution to reptilianism such that refusal to acknowledge these realities will result in either our extinction or lack of humanity.

Similarly the death penalty and assisted suicide address uncomfortable demographic realities. Whereas an undesirable, like a “scapegoat” can be driven out to the wilderness to suffer and die under the elements or by dehydration, if there is no more in the way of depopulated, unobservable “wilderness” in our surveillance society then we are either going to have to figure out how to manage it, or to Balkanize into our own theocratic nation-states.

Perhaps one day our own surveillance technology can be put into individual service such as to be able to detect whether our homes, uteruses, intestines, and bloodstreams contain unwanted strangers. However, pessimistically, I presume that instead that “The King” will profess a greater interest in terms of invasion, occupation, and eviction within our own bodies.

Joining the Circus

Inspired by: An Evening With the “Rape Me First, Kill Me Last” Crowd

And: Why It’s Folly To Design Your Own “Lifestyle”

When it comes to a young person joining the circus, I believe that the clichéd story line goes something like this:

In a quaint Midwestern rural town, a circus arrives and it is filled with exotic albeit highly damaged, rootless creatures. However they have an air about them, flair for the dramatic, showmanship, and a vague pathos.

A young man shows up and becomes so intrigued that he joins up such as to discover that he is an asset to such a company, because he is capable of rising to the occasion in terms of hard word, accountability, and responsibility. In exchange for his efforts, he gets to partake of some exotic experiences with persons who turn out to be empty, damaged, and with arrested development to perhaps include an alarming fixation on children.

In so many ways, I was that young man, and still am, largely due to the decisions of my parents, and their parents, and the worlds in which they lived. Specifically, I grew up in my own family circus, not to be confused with the comic strip of that name. I have no hometown or definitive culture to draw on but rather was born a chameleon and an “actress” on orders from my family. It therefore was an effort toward a state of stability that I took up with persons who made even less effort to appear “stable” than my family did.

As a woman, I have no business promoting myself as some sort of paragon of anything. Most of my life lessons came the hard way and at a great price. I therefore, take great efforts not to misrepresent myself in my writing or to appeal to children.

The circus fulfills two major purposes within a small community:

  • Provides diversion, entertainment, and even, perhaps an opportunity for education.
  • Draws off the unprotected children of a community such as to give them some sense of purpose not otherwise granted them.

However, the circus fails when it destroys its own host culture such as to become too large for either to support itself. Bringing in a third element, such as a hoard of savages, will probably serve to reduce all populations.

Michael Rupert, before he committed suicide, asserted that our masters would be engaged in the process of extreme population reduction. Meanwhile, it is also clear that many of these creatures are engaged in the process of extreme life extension for themselves because they believe themselves to be gods, when what they are is vampires.

One of the reasons that tobacco has made itself into a spiritual anchor for me is that I am aware that it is a modern, first stage, vampire repellent. For good measure, I also partake of plenty of garlic. At some point, perhaps, I’ll start wearing a cross, and carrying a wooden stake.

I am less concerned with the dangers of live circuses than I am with television, the Leftist echo chamber, and parades of damaged persons purporting to define sexuality for the most vulnerable populations.

It is unfortunate that so many longstanding cultural institutions on The Right are themselves so damaged and shaped by vampires of history that they don’t recognize their own contribution to the inflated Leftist circus. That said, protecting one’s own children ought to be one’s first priority.

I’m exempt from that responsibility. Rather, if I had a garden, I would be planting Peppermint, Licorice, Fennugreek, Black Cohosh, Pennyroyal, Tobacco, Wormwood, and Garlic, surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire.


Contempt for Shamers

An awful lot of Feminist and Leftist agendas in general start with guilt for one’s privilege, use of resources, and other robust acts of grabbing at life, happiness, freedom, and survival. Robust actions are the purview of the young-at-heart and physically sound. Being attractive also helps in that a smile tends to be contagious and promote good will. However, those with neither charm nor grace have guilt to use as weapon. Guilt, like any weapon, can be overused, such as to form a trend bubble.

I can imagine that when England tired of Puritan shaming tactics, a solution was devised. Sometimes the best solution for managing an unpleasant or disruptive population is to provide incentives for them to forge on elsewhere.

At other times, diplomacy might work, but only for just so long.

In polite conversations, one generally avoids the topics of religion, politics, sex, and money, thereby leaving the weather, television, consumerism, and sports as “safe subjects”. However, the Leftist guilt-mongers have thoroughly invaded all these “safe subjects” such that no subject today is “safe”. It would therefore be about time when discussion of the forbidden subjects be turned to sooner than later, since after all, one will be shamed regardless and therefore one might as well enjoy oneself.

It would seem to me that part of the rationale for avoiding the “undiplomatic” subjects would be because these things are the source of feminine power, and as such, cannot be mentioned lest those in power be offended.


I have spoken before that denial of the feminine sacred tends to magnify its psychological power such that by default, atheism, and monotheism result in the increased importance of the female archetypes of sacred: the young girl, the maternal woman, and the great grandmother a.k.a. Gaia or The Holy Spirit. The lack of maternal influence in so many peoples’ lives magnifies that spiritual loss such that any undeserving popular icon may be the idol of choice.

The Church’s decision to condemn polygamy and prostitution further amplifies female power over the social and psychological aspects of The Church and therefore effectively makes the female congregation members into sort of a lay clergy in terms of promoting guilt memes to preserve the status quo of entrenched power of demagogues and other parties of poor character.


Female enfranchisement has not helped the female or general human condition one iota. Females who participate in politics directly using the Chivalry card or other tools of power and guilt-mongering merely degrade the political process in general. Meanwhile, any male politician, regardless of character or effectiveness, can always harness the social and psychological power of women for his own corrupt ends.

I’ve stated it before that even knowing plenty of reasonable and rational civic-minded women doesn’t sway my belief that universal suffrage was never worth it. Rather, I would gladly surrender all of my “rights” if all women would do the same. Unfortunately, that last isn’t likely to happen barring a police state or outside invasion, either of which today is entirely possible. Personally, I am hoping for a military coup d’etat of masculinists who will ignore the protests of women that they either deserve a vote or are capable of shouldering civic responsibility, for their own good of course.

All politicians who promote political participation of women and their supposed self-determination effectively destroy the true powers of humanity in namely, motherhood, fatherhood, family, extended family, and community of persons with like-minds and invested objectives.


The sexual power of women, particularly young women, is the psychological fuel of economic and ideological engines. The power of domestic tranquility, largely in the less-than-capable hands of the females within the home, is of just as great a magnitude even if the effect is more diffused and slow-moving. Both The Left and The Right profit from the exploitation of this power, and it would seem to desire to monopolize the rules of expression of this power.

In addition to the power and money circulated as a result of sex, there is, of course, also the matter of eugenics and disgenics. How it could be reasoned that technologically promoting the survivability of poor and unhealthy women and their infants would benefit the human race demonstrates the power of guilt. Could this possibly have been God’s plan?


The economic power in the hands of women as both investors and consumers cannot be overstated. If it can be more easily pried from the hands of the more manipulable and less-mathematically-inclined the better. Therefore, the more economic and monetary power in the hands of women, the more likely such a society is to succumb to external forces.

Whereas although money cannot buy health and happiness, it surely helps. Therefore, even noticing that there are more women than men alive in the mature populations, who not only have their faculties but who exhibit all outward signs of consumerist robustness, it would seem offends those very beneficiaries of the purveyors of diplomatic conversational rules.

Rather than being concerned about this offense, I relish every opportunity to display my contempt. This, I understand, now constitutes “a Hate Crime”.

Tearing People Apart

Bernie Saunders and his supporters prefer the fog of marijuana.

Frank Davis

Quick Hitts carries a Bernie Sanders campaign ad in which he says he’s about “bringing people together.” Dave Hitt’s response:

A half a lifetime ago, I was part of an informal group of cigar smokers who regularly met at a brew pub, where we were welcomed by the management. There were about twenty of us. It would be hard to imagine a more diverse group. We were different races, had different educational backgrounds and were on different rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Our politics and religious beliefs were all over the place. We had different jobs and different interests. The only thing we all had in common was the love of fine cigars.

We’d meet at a large table, light up good cigars (often gifting some back and forth), and have some good drinks. Then we’d have a good meal, followed by another round of cigars.

Everything was good, but the…

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Respect For One’s Elders

It wasn’t until I returned to the U.S. from Venezuela in 2011 that socializing with people my own age and younger didn’t seem strange to me. Prior to that, with my husband nearly two decades older than I was, and most of my significant relationships in that ballpark, it was not unusual for me to be the youngest person in the room. I’ve spent a lot of time around older people and I hadn’t had a problem being around them until recently, living in a White middle class retirement community, somewhat by accident.

Generally, speaking, in both sorts of groups, my life experiences are beyond the realm of understanding and therefore a difficult subject for small talk.

My two sets of grandparents were part of the most privileged generation of grandparents ever with middle class success, savings, pensions, lofty leisure time, vacations, and extended lifespan. My parents on the other hand largely struggled until my mother completed her masters and delved into her career, at which point all the benefits of being a member of one of the most privileged and coddled workforces (the NEA) kicked in.

While growing up, I was expected to be deferential to all of my elders pro forma as well as a means of maintaining the image that we were middle class, even if I personally was a class below, as well as sort of a privileged intelligentsia. I was essentially the poor relation until I left and made something out of myself, but at the least I could be entertaining. Now I am merely expected to listen quietly while I get to be the beneficiary of stories which largely have no relevance to my life. Of course, I do, but, it’s not something I particularly enjoy. I certainly do not owe this class of people anything but pro forma respect and polite feigned interest doesn’t cost me anything.

It was fully expected by my family that I would not only make something of myself professionally but would marry professionally such as to make up for the slack in their efforts but yet allow them to take credit for my own accomplishments with their friends and relatives. After all I was “brilliant” with extraordinary test scores and most importantly attractive, never mind poorly raised and otherwise somewhat socially maladept until I became a teenager and started socializing with adults, but they weren’t the sort of adults my family had in mind.

Too many people were born the year that I was born such that there were not only fewer opportunities for everyone but Social Security has always been a sketchy possibility. Pensions have also gone extinct largely. However, I made my money and well enough to retire young. I just married the wrong person, not having much in common with the “middle class,” and therefore turning to an exotic who turned out to be a criminal, such that I am now the poor relation once again.

However it isn’t likely that I am going to change my stripes such as to attempt to meld in with a world with which I have so little in common such as to perhaps be mistaken for either a servant or a predator myself.

Returning to the U.S. after an effective 17 year absence, it would seem that today’s septuagenarians have not yet gotten the message that the future for someone like me could be bleak, and so insensitive comments are the norm. I certainly don’t expect charity but neither do I feel inclined to cater to them. They all have family about whom they brag—a safe subject for most. I don’t know what to say except for affirmations. It’s awkward.

My future is not only unknown but is at the mercy of a host of events now beyond my control. With any luck one or more of them will bear fruit at which point I will be in the uncomfortable position of having to make some difficult choices, whether positive (in my favor) or negative. I wish there was someone who I could trust, who had similar life experiences and values, who I could turn to for advice and comfort on these matters. But there is only God, and perhaps a few gentlemen circling around but so far as yet failing to inspire more than simple pleasantries from me. I wouldn’t accept an offer of protection and ownership from either of them even if another offer was forthcoming.

I must be a fool for turning down such an offer from a fool.

The population I am actually living among now is not ripe for romantic prospects and it’s not about the age difference, given my experiences, but rather my alienation from White middle class culture, and especially the culture of their generation that romantic rebels from my past effectively escaped, even if there are not many of them around left today.

The world killed them with envy, for the most part.

In terms of safe subjects in this crowd that I live among, there are none. Politics, religion, sex, and nutrition are more my speed in terms of conversational fodder. Otherwise, I would just assume excuse myself. When it comes to the stodgy health concerns of people who have lived their lives safely and middle-of-the-road, they’ve already sworn allegiance to their doctors and so I have a hard time listening to pharmacological and nutritional regimens which I disagree with. At the same time, perhaps I could feel a vindictive glee that they’re all diminishing the quality of their lives albeit extending them through chemistry and compliance, but I don’t. What would be the point? It’s sad and depressing. I don’t wish them ill, I just don’t want to have to socialize with them beyond mere pleasantries. I don’t mesh well with the statin generation.

Nowadays, life extension through any means necessary is the new religion particularly when one has great insurance. I guess that they’re neither in any hurry to either live life to the fullest or meet their makers. They’ll probably outlive me even if they forget their own names in the process, or worse fail to garner the concern they assume they deserve from their descendants.

Will they live to see the world that their kids and grandkids are going to inherit or is reality too difficult for them to grasp? I don’t believe that I owe these strangers I live among in retirement city anything nor do I expect any sort of return on my investment of time with them. However, I don’t turn down brief socialization for the sake of a diversion in my routine. Besides, perhaps I’ll one day figure out how to navigate this world.

The idea that I ought to celebrate the accomplishments of their female relatives as some sort of family virtue astounds me. It is as if they’re all in desperate need of validation of the virtue and success of this strategy. My own professional success and then abject failure at marriage doesn’t even spark a diversion in this narrative. I guess that they just find me either unlucky or insufficiently successful, or however Feminism adherents would rationalize my situation but are too polite to say anything.

There are still a few interesting personalities here and there. As usual, it is the smokers who hold my interest. These are the ones who refused to at the least have that habit beaten out of them through shaming, guilt, fear, conformity, or, most perniciously, female dominance in their marriages and relationships. There is also the obvious distinction in mental faculties. Smokers have more of them. It’s not even a contest.

I’m all tapped out for validations on vanilla, female dominance and feminism, Leftism, Socialism, mainstream media, mainstream medicine, and Healthism.

I can hardly wait for my home to sell so that I can get out of this place. It will have to be a tobacco friendly environment next even if it ends up being a floating or nomadic one. I  have not yet figured out where that is going to be.

Here is the sort of recipe that I’ve been working on that is certain to scare away the healthy-nanny compliant sort of man:

Cholesterol City Pasta (for two, even if it is just me plus leftovers)

4 strips high-quality bacon (pasture-raised, organic, heritage, low-sugar, etc.)

1 whole clove garlic, chopped.

1/4 stick butter

1/4 cup chicken broth

1 tablespoon powdered, high quality gelatin

A little white wine

2 cans smoked oysters in olive oil

Herbs and spices (whatever I feel like, but probably chili powder, fennel seeds, cumin, and nutmeg)

Generous amount of fresh grated Parmesan cheese

2 cup high quality Italian semolina pasta noodles, fusilli, for example, as desired

Arugula, washed and dried

Sea salt

Black pepper

High quality olive oil

Key lime juice


Cook the bacon, remove from pan, set aside until cool. Meanwhile, peel and chop garlic.

Reserve most of the bacon grease for something else.

Roast spices (except nutmeg) on low heat briefly on slightly greasy pan until aroma emanates.

Add butter and garlic, saute until golden.

Add nutmeg.

And broth and gelatin. Cover and simmer.

Meanwhile cook pasta a minute less than recommended, according to directions.

Crumble the bacon into a bowl.

Line a broad, flat bowl with arugula.

Open the cans of oysters.

Just before the pasta is done, splash a little wine in the sauce.

Drain the pasta, rinse well, and then toss in the pan with the sauce with oysters, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Cover and let simmer for about a minute.

Taste for doneness and then scoop onto arugula and sprinkle with bacon crumbs, a splash of lime juice, and grated cheese.