Sticky: How to Access the Newest Posts on the Site

To access the latest posts on the site, please scroll pasts the first two sticky posts. 

The first post(s) on the site, including this one, are sticky. That means that they are always at the top of the page every time you come here. If you want to see the latest posts on the site, you have to scroll down past the sticky posts. So the newest posts on the site will always start where the sticky posts end.

For information on the new changes to the private Delphi Murders and Other Crimes Forums and how to join them, see here.

For information on how and why the site is going to a (partially) paid model, see here.


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Donald Trump: Dotard

Asked about Donald Trump, a former Wharton professor said,

Donald Trump was the dumbest goddam student I ever had.

A reporter recently noted:

Professor Kelley told me 100 times over three decades that ‘Donald Trump was the dumbest goddam student I ever had.’ I remember his emphasis and inflection — it went like this — “Donald Trump was the dumbest goddam student I ever had.’

Another biographer, Gwenda Blair, wrote in 2001 that Trump was admitted to Wharton on a special favor from a “friendly” admissions officer. Obviously he couldn’t have gotten in otherwise.

But let’s get real here for a second. Donald Trump can’t even read! I told you he was a pinhead. I suppose he has dyslexia. It is said that he reads at a 5th grade level. His aides make sure to give him briefs that are no longer than one page long. If longer than that, make sure to include charts, drafts, and drawings. Jesus. That sounds like the reading materials you might create for a child.

Let’s face it though. Trump’s illiteracy is exactly what his arrogantly ill-educated and aggressively ignorant deplorable base wanted, right? They hate technocrats and experts, people who read, weigh facts, and make proposals based on evidence, preferring low-brow, shoot-from-the-hip, unreflective living. Trump is their anti-intellectual hero, exactly what they voted for.

This is what happens when an entire political party disdains education, intellect, learning, scholarship, etc. We are on the road to Idiocracy. From Dan Quayle to George W Bush to Sarah Palin and now Trump. Heaven help us.

People who lived in New York during the Trump Era report in:

Nobody actually liked Donald Trump. Even then. He was obnoxious, if colorful. My (Old School Conservative, WWII vet) Jr. High teachers (I went to school in a fairly conservative area) cited Donald as evidence of crass 1980’s materialism and of how far this “younger generation” of 80’s yuppies had strayed from their generation’s principles of decency. Donald Trump was always a predictable turd.

I am/was a yuppie, and I and my yuppie NYC buddies all loathed Trump,not only because of his crassness but because we knew that he was a lying grifter and an unmeritorious opportunist.

If you want to know what Donald Trump is really like, ask New Yorkers. The suffered through him for decades. Nobody but nobody but nobody in New York likes that man!

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Sex Pistols US Tour 1978: The Last Rock and Roll Band on the Last Rock and Roll Tour

How is that these shows were played a full forty years ago?!

I’ve seen testimonies by people who were at these shows. They typically go like this: “My friends and I saw this concert. It was incredible. None of us were ever the same after that…” There are things called peak experiences in life. This must have been one of them.

Labeled wrong: “Anarchy in the UK,” Sex Pistols at The Great Southeast Music Hall, Atlanta, Georgia January 5, 1978.

Wow! That’s one of the most exhilarating performances I have ever seen. For the whole 37 minutes, they never stop cheering once. Too much man, too much!

Johnny Rotten is actually in top form; he’s better here than he was just starting out. It’s barely even rock and roll anymore. It’s shading off into pure performance art.

Notice the crowd is cheering wildly all the way through the song. I’ve been to more concerts than I can count, and you almost never see that at a show – a crowd roaring with raucous cheer from the beginning to the end of a song. Notice that the crowd doesn’t stop cheering when the song ends and they are already cheering before the song begins. I wish I could have seen one of those shows, but they only came to San Francisco. I knew some punks in LA who actually bought plane tickets to fly up to Frisco to see the Pistols.

The band deliberately booked shows at rowdy redneck dives in the South and Southwest. They were trying to book in the places where they would be hated the most and would provoke the strongest reaction. Johnny Rotten played his part. He would start out the shows in Texas by screaming, “You cowboys are a bunch of faggots!” After that it was on, of course.

The punks vastly outnumbered the cowboys at every concert. The punks were mostly happy, even overjoyed and good-natured at all of these shows. There was very little fighting or violence among them. Why should there have been. They  should have been happy. They got to see the Sex Pistols!

Sex Pistols at Cain’s Ballroom, Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1978.

People who went to this show said every punk from 90 miles around was at that show.

Check out the Jesus Freaks with the 1970’s long hair. I used to have hair exactly like that. We think it’s corny now, but women and girls went nuts over long hair like that. Mine was a head full of curls and females of all ages were always going into trances, saying, “I love your hair..” and rubbing their hands through it. Young, hyper-religious, often long-haired former hippie super-Christians were called “Jesus freaks” back then. Nobody really hated them, but we thought they were a bit of a drag. They were mostly male. There were not many Jesus freak chicks, thank God.

The Jesus freaks outside this show are insisting that the Pistols are from the Devil and they are playing the Devil’s music. This is interspersed with wild shots from the show. Looking at Rotten on stage, you can’t help but wonder if the Jesus freaks were right about this band.

“New York,” Sex Pistols at Randy’s Rodeo, San Antonio, Texas, January 10, 1978.

The problem with this San Antonio show was that a bunch of idiot cowboy rednecks showed up just to hate the band and cause trouble. The shit-kicking rednecks were booing, yelling, throwing stuff and trying to incite the band to violence all through the show. You can see at the end of this song that Sid Vicious hits one of the rednecks in the head with his guitar! The redneck deserved it as he was trying to start a fight with Sid. Be careful what you wish for, rednecks! Sid also hit another redneck with his guitar when the cowboy tried to climb on stage. Then a redneck threw a half bottle of beer that blew up on Sid’s bass! Sid picked up the broken bottle and slashed his chest with it!

That’s punk rock, dammit!

After that, the rednecks calmed down and backed off. Rednecks love to fight with dangerous people, but nobody wants to fight a crazy dangerous person.

“New York” by the Sex Pistols, from Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, 1978. 

This song “New York” is very misunderstood. It is usually parsed as the Sex Pistols attacking the New York Dolls because they hated the Dolls. Not so. The Dolls were a bit influence on the Pistols. You can draw a straight line from the Dolls to the Pistols, with the Heartbreakers bridging the gap. In fact, the song was about the Japanese tour where McLaren had the Dolls dress up in patent red leather outfits and perform under a Communist flag. The tour was a failure and many British punks at the time thought it was a sellout. The song is the Pistols attacking the Dolls for this sellout tour.

An imitation from New York
You’re made in Japan from cheese and chalk
You’re hippy tarts hero
‘Cause you put on a bad show,
you put on a bad show
Oh don’t it show

Still out on those pills
Oh do you remember
You think it’s swell playing Max’s Kansas
You’re looking bored and you’re acting flash
With nothing in your gut
You better keep yer mouth shut
You better keep yer mouth shut
In a rut

Still out on those pills
Do the sambo
Four years on you still look the same
I think about time
You changed your brain
You’re just a pile of shit
You’re coming to this
Ya poor little faggot
You’re sealed with a kiss
Kiss me

Think it’s swell playing in Japan
When everybody knows Japan is a dishpan
You’re just a pile of shit
You’re coming to this
You poor little faggot
You’re sealed with a kiss

Still out on those pills
Cheap thrills
Anadins Aspros anything
You’re condemned to eternal bullshit

You’re sealed with a kiss
Kiss me
A kiss a kiss
You’re sealed with a kiss
A looking for a kiss
You’re coming to this
I want to kiss
You do just about anything
Oh kiss this
Eh boy

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It Was 80 Years Ago, or It Was Yesterday

Somewhere over the Rainbow, from The Wizard of Oz (1939).

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high,
There’s a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue,
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow.
Why then, oh why can’t I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I?

How can you not love it? It’s only one of the greatest songs ever written in one of the greatest movies ever made? What more do you want?

Judy Garland looks like a very young girl in this movie, but she was a quite mature 16 year old girl when she shot the film. She sure is adorable, an immaculate example of that finest of all of God’s creations, the teenage girl.

This is a happy song, but it’s also sad. Sort of like life.

Sad because Judy later claimed to have been forced into various sex acts with Hollywood higher-ups during the shoot. So this was going on when she was recording this very song. When you think about that and listen to the song, it makes its dreams of escape all the more painful.

Sad because Judy Garland led such a sad life of heavy drinking and drug use, suicide attempts, mental hospitalizations, bitter divorces, and she finally stared into the abyss, took a handful of Seconals, and flung herself into the darkness, dead of a drug overdose.

Sad because only two months after this great ballad of wistful hope was recorded and this fairy tale classic movie was released, Britain declared war on Germany, and World War 2 began. Our longed-for dreams came crashing down in cataclysmic ruin. But isn’t that the way it always is?

Sad because everyone in this movie is now dead. But if you can suspend belief for just one moment and drift back into your very own once upon a time, you just know that that entire cast is waiting there over the rainbow, watching over all of us.

A little known fact:

This song was recorded twice for the movie – once in the first five minutes after Auntie Em tells her to find herself a place where she won’t get into trouble. She wanders off, talking to Toto a bit, then breaks out into song. This is the well known version.

However, originally there was another version in the movie. When Dorothy was imprisoned by the Wicked Witch of the West in her prison, with the hourglass of her life running out and her death drawing near. She then sings this song again, this time amidst real tears. She cries all the way through the songm unable to finish. Then she cries out, “I’m scared, Auntie Em!” She sees Auntie Em in the hourglass, only to be replaced by the Wicked Witch taunting her cruelly.

There is a third version of the song, an instrumental only version that plays over the ending credits.

The film is lost to time, history, the dust bin, and the cutting room floor, but the audio survived and is included in a 2 DVD version of the movie released in 1995. Might be nice to hear that.

Garland made this her signature song, performing again through her career, singing it on stage for the next 30 years.

Rip Judy Garland.

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Best Zombie Line Ever

George Romero’s classic Night of the Living Dead (1968), one of the greatest horror movies ever made.

One of the finest two minutes in modern cinema and one of the most terrifying horror movies ever made. God-damn that movie was scary!

Favorite line:

Reporter: Are they slow-moving, chief?

Chief McLellan: Yeah…They dead. They’re all messed up.

Believe it or not, those lines were not in the script. They were made up and ad-libbed right on the spot while shooting.

RIP to whoever that actor was who played the sheriff. He might still be around, but I doubt it. He’d be about 90 by now.

Update: The actor’s name is George Kosana. He was one of the original investors for the movie, and he also got a bit part. When he was not acting, he worked in a steel mill in Pennsylvania, a job that eventually killed him. He was 33 years old when he starred in this movie. He died only two years ago at age 81. He shot his last film, My Uncle John Is a Zombie!, in which he once again starred as Sheriff McLellan, the very year that he died.

P. S. George Romero is the Godhead. Let us all bow down before him for just one moment.

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He’s Dead, Jim

A little edification for your Monday.

You’re welcome.

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Masculinity and Gay Men: My, What a Tangled Web We Weave

Matt: I am not sure your assessment of homosexuals on the whole is accurate. Most gay guys are not insane ultra left cultural radicals, and most of them like to partner with guys they perceive of as masculine and to view themselves as masculine. To be fair, every gay guy I’ve ever met deviates from conventional masculinity in some way, even if only subtly. But they believe in it.

Blatantly effeminate gay guys complain constantly about being discriminated against by the “straight acting” gay guys whom they too desire. I wonder if the culturally leftist/radical gay guys are not similar to the stereotypical feminist, in that most of those they would desire as partners find them off-putting and unattractive, and they’re angry and frustrated about it.

Most gay men* are effeminate. I would estimate 70-75% of them are at least a little bit effeminate in a way that almost no straight men are. Most want a masc guy though. They hate masculinity, but they want to get fucked by a big mean Daddy bear.

Go on Queera, I mean Quora. They’re all Cultural Left types on there. Plus Gay Politics itself is Cultural Left to the extreme, and how many gays are not into gay politics? I know there are some, but how many? The ones on Quora hate masculinity and extoll effeminacy all the while denying that gay men are effeminate – the typical crazy talk of Gay Politics, almost nothing of which makes any sense at all.

Do most gay men see themselves as masculine? Very good question.

  • You realize that 75% of sissy boys in childhood grow up gay, right?
  • You realize that 7% of gay men identify as trans now, right?
  • You realize that a lot of gay men now identify as nonbinary, right?
  • You realize that 100% of genderqueer types and the 132 genders are homosexuals, right? There are no straight nonbinary people. No such thing.
  • You realize that gays have declared war on gender and have wanted to get rid of that concept from day one, right? I wonder why?
  • You realize they call themselves two-spirit people and the Third Sex, right? Gee I wonder what that means?

Yes, effeminate men do complain about discrimination and I have met gay men who told me, “I don’t like sissies,” and things like that.

However, you make a good point.

  • If they hate masculinity so much, why do they desire masculine partners (tops, basically)?
  • Why are there hordes of submissive sub gay men looking for a mean Daddy dom to put them in their place?
  • Why do so many gay men take pride in being straight-acting?. I have told a couple of gay guys recently, “Hey you’re pretty straight acting, you know that?” And they all thanked me when I said that.

*I don’t mind men who are biologically gay. However, any guy who is choosing to engage in that behavior as a lifestyle (and there are a lot), well, I just don’t approve. I can’t hate them because the Hate Databases in my head are full of more worthy opponents, but they sure are making a stupid decision. My attitude about men engaging in homosexuality by choice is, “What if everyone did that?” I had one friend who started doing that, and I kept associating with him for a bit, and then I got rid of him once and for all. If you want I can write a post on why a continuing friendship with that guy after he went full bisexual would have been a complete nightmare.

I don’t care that biologically gay men are effeminate. Maybe whatever caused the homosexuality is causing the effeminacy. Anyway, they enjoy acting this way. It seems to all be part of the Gay Syndrome.

However, other than that, I despise effeminate or even wimpy behavior in men. Of course I have been guilty of this a few times in my life, but those were mistakes I hope to have stopped doing. The very idea of me acting effeminate is awful and of me acting wimpy is disgusting, and anyone accusing me of effeminacy or even wimpiness just insulted me in a huge way. I live in the hood. Around here, you accuse a man of being gay or even acting gay and you might just get hit. People feel pretty strongly about that stuff around here.


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Filed under Cultural Marxists, Homosexuality, Left, Politics, Psychology, Sex

Masculinity As Performance Art

I think if gay men acted masculine, a lot more of us straight guys would like them, but on the other hand, it would be very hard to tell us from them, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. I think a lot of what we don’t like about gay men is the non-masculine behavior. I would think that a hypermasculine gay man, even around these parts, might even be accepted as long as he shut up about his sexual orientation. He’d be “one of the boys,” albeit with some weird sex stuff going on, but I think a lot might forgive him.

Masculinity in the US is mostly about performance art anyway. It’s about walking the walk and talking the talk. You do that and you’re masculine, pretty much. If you are not masculine in some other way(s), they will blow it off as long as you do the display properly. Anyway, most men who go through the trouble of acting overtly masculine usually think of themselves as masculine and try to act that way in quite a few other ways too.

And in a sense, if you think you’re masculine, you’re masculine. I said that to my father once and he got very angry. I had another friend who derided guys who were “trying to be men.” But the whole concept is stupid. If you’re trying to be a man/masculine, then you are a man/masculine. That’s because masculinity is performance and if you are attempting the performance, you are no doubt performing it.

That’s because any man who thinks he’s masculine is going to act masculine, de facto. No one thinks they are masculine and then acts unmasculine. I’ve known quite a few unmasculine straight guys (some of whom were notorious womanizers) and they openly admitted that they were not masculine men. It tended to cause problems with their girlfriends too, of course.

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Trailer for William S. Burroughs Documentary

Human faces tentative flicker in and out of focus. We waded into the warm mud-water. Hair and ape flesh off in screaming strips. Stood naked human bodies covered with phosphorescent green jelly. Soft tentative flesh cut with ape wounds. Peeling other genitals. Fingers and tongues rubbing off the jelly-cover. Body melting pleasure-sounds in the warm mud. Till the sun went and a blue wind of silence touched human faces and hair. When we came out of the mud we had names…

…Larval people whispering flesh. Eyes ejaculated spine mud. Black gum in member. Old junky coughing limestone in the obsidian morning: the sale mirror to red sky. Manipulated spasms puppets vestigial meat. Pulsing pink shell. Red pagodas and crystal accounts. Wet dream eyes hanging in lust of dead flesh patios. Boy chrysalis in streets of postcard. Eating birds patrol black lichen. Catatonic sports sear lungs of dream clay. Lust of mud bubble coal gas the insect street. Flesh ejaculation. Penis in the broken mirror rocks of Marwan. Serving the crystal dawn photo of sex. On the Brass and Copper Street…

An evil old character with sugary eyes that stuck to you…They were ripe for the plucking forgot way back yonder in the corn hole—Lost in little scraps of delight and burning scrolls…The man opposite me didn’t look like much—A thin gray man in a long coat that flickered like old film…in these times when practically anybody is subject to wander in from the desert with a quit claim deed and snatch a girl’s snatch right out from under her assets…When the boy peeled off the dry goods he gives off a slow stink like a thawing mummy…Crab men peer out of abandoned quarries and shag heaps some sort of vestigial eye growing cheek bone and a look about them as if they could take root and grow on anybody…

William S. Burroughs, The Soft Machine, 1963.

William S. Burroughs is one of those authors that people either love or hate, but that’s the objective, the purpose of his work – to be a human lightning rod of gesticulating and mercurial passion. Like yours truly, in other words.

Always wanted to see a good movie about this maniac, who has always been one of my favorite writers.

I gave out Naked Lunch to a few of my friends, and they would bring it back warily with shaking hands convinced that I was obviously gay. Well, Burroughs’ writing is full of gay sex, but that’s not a reason to read it. The sex is boring and repetitive anyway, but the descriptions of it like all his writing are often beautiful. Gay sex scenes usually disgust me, and I end up throwing the book at the wall. This often breaks the spine and pages fall out, but it’s just as well. That book deserved that wall for the audacious travesty of daring to put that awfulness in there. But Burroughs, that I can read.

Anyway, 90% of the people who read Burroughs aren’t gay. Burroughs is so much more than a gay writer. For a while there, he may well have been the greatest writer in America.

I read almost all of his writing. Most people thought I was a freak for liking the guy in the first place. But Burroughs is not only a Beat but the original avant-garde writer and the forerunner to punk rock. More than that: Burroughs actually was a punk, decades before his team. He’s been loved by hipsters, artists, and cutting edge freaks and psychos for decades. He’s very much worth reading.

His writing is a lot of things, but it’s often also beautiful, which is strange given its often ugly subject matter. But to find beauty in the awfulness of life, the sublime amidst the squalor, is one of the purposes of life.

Viewed one way, half of life is glorious and the other half is sad. Half of life wonderful and the other half is horrible. And that’s if you are lucky. I have counseling clients who are sad. I tell them that sadness is a natural part of life and that half of life is sadness, even if the other half is radiant happiness.

“When you feel sad,” I tell them. “Say to yourself, ‘Thank God for that feeling! Sit back somewhere alone and just immerse yourself in the sadness of life. Don’t kill yourself or do anything drastic. Just be part of the reality of life’s essential sadness.”

If half of life is sad (and that’s being generous – Jack Kerouac often said that that Buddhists said, ‘All of life is sadness’ – and in way he was correct), then it only makes sense to make yourself aware of that fact and even bask or immerse yourself in it if you dare. If you do that, you may find that there is even an a transcendent beauty in sadness, something the great artists and mystics have taken about forever. Ever seen a great sad movie that moved you to tears. It was awful and beautiful at the same time, right?

Burroughs led a very interesting life. He lived in Mexico City for a while with some other Beats. One night he was playing “William Tell” at a drunken party with his wife Joan (yes he was married for a bit and even fathered a child named Billy), trying to shoot a drink glass off her head. He missed and shot her in the head instead. Police interviewed and determined it was an accident and let him off. Talking about this with a friend who liked Kerouac a lot more than Burroughts, my friend shook his head, “He definitely went crazy after that,” he said. Maybe so. But Burroughs was always pretty crazy, even as a boy. The great writers and artists often are after all.

Your task: Identify the following famous Beats and hipsters in this short film:

  1. Allen Ginsberg
  2. Lucien Carr
  3. Patti Smith
  4. Herbert Huncke
  5. John Giorno
  6. James Grauerholz (twice)

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Filed under Cinema, Literature, Music, Novel, Philosophy, Punk, Rock

Why Doesn’t He Hurry Up And Die Already?

His name is Henry the K., but we leftwing children of the revolutions of the 1960’s always just referred to him as “Satan.”

People who truly know me know that I came out of the Vietnam War protest era, although I actually worked for Richard Nixon’s aptly named CREEP at age 15 in 1972, at my mother’s behest, for which I will always forgive her.

However, in 1968, I went door to door with my Cold War Liberal father campaigning for “Clean Gene” Eugene McCarthy, a forgotten Democratic politician who ran on a strict antiwar banner in the fateful Democratic primaries of 1968. I was only ten years old.

The well known riots at the Democratic Convention came later that year. I remember those also. Mayor Daley turned his police loose on protesters and many relatively peaceful protesters were badly beaten by police. A nearby park in Chicago was taken over by protesters and named “People’s Park.” Inside the convention, an equal amount of chaos ensued, with the party coalescing around establishment candidate Hubert Humphrey, who did not run on an antiwar ticket. I remember Humphrey well too. He seemed a decent enough man at the time.

The Chicago Seven were later placed on trial for conspiracy after the demonstrations. They included Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and a number of others, mostly Jewish. They were represented famously by Jewish radical attorney William Kunstler, who has always been one of my favorite people. Although my father was against the Vietnam War, he really hated those hippies. He used to inveigh against “Ay-bie Hoffman.”

By 1974, I’d added long hair, rock music, LSD and marijuana to my high school studies. I hung out with hippies, potheads and acidheads. I remember once David A H, a bisexual hippie senior who nevertheless always left me alone. He used to take windowpane LSD by putting it right on his eyeball.

Nixon was one of our villains. You have to understand that in that era, if you identified with the hippie movement, still going gangbusters in 1975, Nixon was probably automatically your enemy. Hating him was almost a cultural requirement. He represented, all in one man, of everything we were against. The perfect human voodoo doll.

One day David said matter of factly, “Nixon always looks like he hasn’t shit in a month.” A good one-liner!

I always felt that that was one of the best summaries of Tricky Dicky I’d ever heard.

K. was Nixon’s right-hand man. Although he was not an attractive man, ponderous, overweight, nerdy, homely and bespectacled, he had an odd reputation as a playboy, often seen escorting various actresses in public. I remember one morning at the breakfast table my father was looking at the latest pic of him with some comely model draped on his arm.

“Boy,” my father remarked. “This administration’s really got problems if Kissinger’s their playboy.” A good zinger!

The more I read about this man, the more convinced I am that he is something approaching pure evil. He has to be a psychopath of some sort. He’s one cold-blooded bastard at least. He look in his face and you see a man with heart of ice. There are probably few people as hated among my anti-Vietnam War cohort as this man. I’m getting very impatient waiting for him to kick off so I can dance on his grave. He’s stuck around far too long already.

Just hurry up and die already, Henry!



Filed under Cannabis, Cold War, Culture, Democrats, Hallucinogens, History, Intoxicants, Jews, Left, LSD, Politics, Pop Culture, Regional, Republicans, US Politics, USA, Vietnam War, War

I Guess All World War Two Generation Males Must Be Toxic

My father wasn’t really an alpha but he thought he was like so many other men. He also wasn’t that extroverted but he thought he was once again like so many other introverts. He had problems speaking on the phone for Chrissake, often collapsing into pathetically amusing stutters. I’m not sure I ever saw him speak to a group. I doubt if he would do well.

He was a teacher though, and I once saw him teach a class. A very good female friend of mine was a student in one of his classes at the college I attended in the day and he taught at night. One night I attended one of his classes. There he was, swimming freely in his own element, quite at home and very pleasant and even stunning to behold. As is so often the case, he was a completely different person roaming about at the head of his class than he was away from the blackboard. He was actually charming up there. He was nothing like that at home. You would have thought they had switched him out.

He was a beta introvert, an intellectual who even at the end of his life was inhaling a book a day. He wore glasses. He taught school. He was a prig with Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. You get the picture.

Yet my father very much valued masculinity as a concept. I once asked my mother why she didn’t call him on some particular aspect of his behavior.

“Oh…” she whispered. “I’m afraid he would see it as an attack on his masculinity and I would never do that to him.”

She would never attack his masculinity. Incredible. Can you imagine a woman of my generation (Baby boomers) ever saying she would not dare attacking her man’s masculinity? What ever happened to later generations of women? Didn’t they get the memo? Actually, I am afraid that what happened was a brain toxin called feminism.

My father despised gay men and mostly saw them as incomprehensible freaks if not mentally ill unfortunates to be pitied at best.

He hated his long hair more than anything else. My father felt that long hair on men was effeminate. As a boy, his mother had grown his hair long and even dressed him up in dresses around the house. At some point as a young boy, he rebelled against this nonsense and demanded to be treated like a man.

He later demanded that his formal first name be reduced to the more macho sounding nickname. He was quite proud of this form of rebellion against the strictures of imposed familial culture.

He took macho jobs in the summer working at Yosemite National Park, where he met my mother, or even working in supermarkets. I remember once visiting a supermarket and there was my bespectacled schoolteacher father, tossing and catching watermelons like they were tennis balls.

When my mother first went to work in 1980, my father objected. He was raised that a good man should not allow his wife to work. If your wife worked, that meant you were a failure as a man because you were failing to earn enough money to support your family. Your wife taking a job was a form of emasculation.

As you can see, my father took great importance in masculinity, as did many men of his generation. However, the Cultural Left seems to deny that things like masculinity and femininity even exist, God forbid that they may be essentialized by Nature.


Filed under Cultural Marxists, Feminism, Gender Studies, Left, Man World, Scum