die donker het sy naam gesteel
hom laat vergeet van more
en hom vreesbevange
laat rondtas in gister
Friday, January 30, 2009
As hy homself verloor
die donker het sy naam gesteel
hom laat vergeet van more
en hom vreesbevange
laat rondtas in gister
Stille waters diepe grond
Stille waters diepe grond...dis wie ek is...die stil een met die diepe gedagtes oor gewone dinge, mense, plekke en idees. Ek skryf wat ek voel en soos ek voel. Ek is ek en geniet elke oomblik van my geloof, liefde, lewe en alles wat God my gegee het. Vir goeie tye en slegte tye is skryf my uitlaatklep...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
You Found Me - The Fray
I found God on the corner of 1st and Amistad
Where the West was all but won
All alone, smoking his last cigarette
I said, "Where've you been?" He said, "Ask anything."
Where were you, when everything was falling apart.
All my days were spent by the telephone that never rang
And all I needed was a call that never came
To the corner of 1st and Amistad
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
But in the end everyone ends up alone
Losing her, the only one who's ever known
Who I am, who I'm not and who I wanna to be
No way to know how long she will be next to me
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
[ The Fray Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
The early morning, the city breaks
And I've been calling for years and years and years
And you never left me no messages
You never sent me no letters
You got some kind of nerve taking all I want
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, Where were you? Where were you?
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
Why'd you have to wait, to find me, to find me?
Where the West was all but won
All alone, smoking his last cigarette
I said, "Where've you been?" He said, "Ask anything."
Where were you, when everything was falling apart.
All my days were spent by the telephone that never rang
And all I needed was a call that never came
To the corner of 1st and Amistad
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
But in the end everyone ends up alone
Losing her, the only one who's ever known
Who I am, who I'm not and who I wanna to be
No way to know how long she will be next to me
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
[ The Fray Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
The early morning, the city breaks
And I've been calling for years and years and years
And you never left me no messages
You never sent me no letters
You got some kind of nerve taking all I want
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, Where were you? Where were you?
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
Why'd you have to wait, to find me, to find me?
Verdura Caged Ring
This stunning Verdura Caged Ring in 18k gold and blue topaz makes a serious statement (in the gifting and in the wearing). Priced at $8,100, it's also available in diamond, rock crystal, aquamarine, citrine, amethyst and peridot. To purchase in the UK, visit Obsidian at 13 Duke St, St James, London or call +44–020–9303375. In the US, visit www.verdura.com or call +1 212–758–3388.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Human Pain
"Human pain does not let go of its grip at one point in time. Rather, it works its way out of our consciousness over time. There is a season of sadness. A season of anger. A season of tranquility. A season of hope."
The Pussification Of The Western Male
The Pussification Of The Western Male
November 4, 2003
11:24 PM CST
We have become a nation of women.
It wasn’t always this way, of course. There was a time when men put their signatures to a document, knowing full well that this single act would result in their execution if captured, and in the forfeiture of their property to the State. Their wives and children would be turned out by the soldiers, and their farms and businesses most probably given to someone who didn’t sign the document.
There was a time when men went to their certain death, with expressions like “You all can go to hell. I’m going to Texas.” (Davy Crockett, to the House of Representatives, before going to the Alamo.)
There was a time when men went to war, sometimes against their own families, so that other men could be free. And there was a time when men went to war because we recognized evil when we saw it, and knew that it had to be stamped out.
There was even a time when a President of the United States threatened to punch a man in the face and kick him in the balls, because the man had the temerity to say bad things about the President’s daughter’s singing.
We’re not like that anymore.
Now, little boys in grade school are suspended for playing cowboys and Indians, cops and crooks, and all the other familiar variations of “good guy vs. bad guy” that helped them learn, at an early age, what it was like to have decent men hunt you down, because you were a lawbreaker.
Now, men are taught that violence is bad—that when a thief breaks into your house, or threatens you in the street, that the proper way to deal with this is to “give him what he wants”, instead of taking a horsewhip to the rascal or shooting him dead where he stands.
Now, men’s fashion includes not a man dressed in a three-piece suit, but a tight sweater worn by a man with breasts.
Now, warning labels are indelibly etched into gun barrels, as though men have somehow forgotten that guns are dangerous things.
Now, men are given Ritalin as little boys, so that their natural aggressiveness, curiosity and restlessness can be controlled, instead of nurtured and directed.
And finally, our President, who happens to have been a qualified fighter pilot, lands on an aircraft carrier wearing a flight suit, and is immediately dismissed with words like “swaggering”, “macho” and the favorite epithet of Euro girly-men, “cowboy”. Of course he was bound to get that reaction—and most especially from the Press in Europe, because the process of male pussification Over There is almost complete.
How did we get to this?
In the first instance, what we have to understand is that America is first and foremost, a culture dominated by one figure: Mother. It wasn’t always so: there was a time when it was Father who ruled the home, worked at his job, and voted.
But in the twentieth century, women became more and more involved in the body politic, and in industry, and in the media—and mostly, this has not been a good thing. When women got the vote, it was inevitable that government was going to become more powerful, more intrusive, and more “protective” (ie. more coddling), because women are hard-wired to treasure security more than uncertainty and danger. It was therefore inevitable that their feminine influence on politics was going to emphasize (lowercase “s") social security.
I am aware of the fury that this statement is going to arouse, and I don’t care a fig.
What I care about is the fact that since the beginning of the twentieth century, there has been a concerted campaign to denigrate men, to reduce them to figures of fun, and to render them impotent, figuratively speaking.
I’m going to illustrate this by talking about TV, because TV is a reliable barometer of our culture.
In the 1950s, the TV Dad was seen as the lovable goofball—perhaps the beginning of the trend—BUT he was still the one who brought home the bacon, and was the main source of discipline (think of the line: “Wait until your father gets home!").
From that, we went to this: the Cheerios TV ad.
Now, for those who haven’t seen this piece of shit, I’m going to go over it, from memory, because it epitomizes everything I hate about the campaign to pussify men. The scene opens at the morning breakfast table, where the two kids are sitting with Dad at the table, while Mom prepares stuff on the kitchen counter. The dialogue goes something like this:
Little girl (note, not little boy): Daddy, why do we eat Cheerios?
Dad: Because they contain fiber, and all sorts of stuff that’s good for the heart. I eat it now, because of that.
LG: Did you always eat stuff that was bad for your heart, Daddy?
Dad (humorously): I did, until I met your mother.
Mother (not humorously): Daddy did a lot of stupid things before he met your mother.
Now, every time I see that TV ad, I have to be restrained from shooting the TV with a .45 Colt. If you want a microcosm of how men have become less than men, this is the perfect example.
What Dad should have replied to Mommy’s little dig: Yes, Sally, that’s true: I did do a lot of stupid things before I met your mother. I even slept with your Aunt Ruth a few times, before I met your mother.
That’s what I would have said, anyway, if my wife had ever attempted to castrate me in front of the kids like that.
But that’s not what men do, of course. What this guy is going to do is smile ruefully, finish his cereal, and then go and fuck his secretary, who doesn’t try to cut his balls off on a daily basis. Then, when the affair is discovered, people are going to rally around the castrating bitch called his wife, and call him all sorts of names. He’ll lose custody of his kids, and they will be brought up by our ultimate modern-day figure of sympathy: The Single Mom.
You know what? Some women deserve to be single moms.
When I first started this website, I think my primary aim was to blow off steam at the stupidity of our society.
Because I have fairly set views on what constitutes right and wrong, I have no difficulty in calling Bill Clinton, for example, a fucking liar and hypocrite.
But most of all, I do this website because I love being a man. Amongst other things, I talk about guns, self-defense, politics, beautiful women, sports, warfare, hunting, and power tools—all the things that being a man entails. All this stuff gives me pleasure.
And it doesn’t take much to see when all the things I love are being threatened: for instance, when Tim Allen’s excellent comedy routine on being a man is reduced to a fucking sitcom called Home Improvement. The show should have been called Man Improvement, because that’s what every single plotline entailed: turning a man into a “better” person, instead of just leaving him alone to work on restoring the vintage sports car in his garage. I stopped watching the show after about four episodes.
("The Man Show” was better, at least for the first season—men leering at chicks, men fucking around with ridiculous games like “pin the bra on the boobies”, men having beer-drinking competitions, and women on trampolines. Excellent stuff, only not strong enough. I don’t watch it anymore, either, because it’s plain that the idea has been subverted by girly-men, and turned into a parody of itself.)
Finally, we come to the TV show which to my mind epitomizes everything bad about what we have become: Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. Playing on the homo Bravo Channel, this piece of excrement has taken over the popular culture by storm (and so far, the only counter has been the wonderful South Park episode which took it apart for the bullshit it is).
I’m sorry, but the premise of the show nauseates me. A bunch of homosexuals trying to “improve” ordinary men into something “better” (ie. more acceptable to women): changing the guy’s clothes, his home decor, his music—for fuck’s sake, what kind of girly-man would allow these simpering butt-bandits to change his life around?
Yes, the men are, by and large, slobs. Big fucking deal. Last time I looked, that’s normal. Men are slobs, and that only changes when women try to civilize them by marriage. That’s the natural order of things.
You know the definition of homosexual men we used in Chicago? “Men with small dogs who own very tidy apartments.”
Real men, on the other hand, have big fucking mean-ass dogs: Rhodesian ridgebacks, bull terriers and Rottweilers, or else working dogs like pointers or retrievers which go hunting with them and slobber all over the furniture.
Women own lapdogs.
Which is why women are trying to get dog-fighting and cock-fighting banned—they’d ban boxing too, if they could—because it’s “mean and cruel”. No shit, Shirley. Hell, I don’t like the idea of fighting dogs, either, but I don’t have a problem with men who do. Dogs and cocks fight. So do men. No wonder we have an affinity for it.
My website has become fairly popular with men, and in the beginning, this really surprised me, because I didn’t think I was doing anything special.
That’s not what I think now. I must have had well over five thousand men write to me to say stuff like “Yes! I agree! I was so angry when I read about [insert atrocity of choice], but I thought I was the only one.”
No, you’re not alone, my friends, and nor am I.
Out there, there is a huge number of men who are sick of it. We’re sick of being made figures of fun and ridicule; we’re sick of having girly-men like journalists, advertising agency execs and movie stars decide on “what is a man”; we’re sick of women treating us like children, and we’re really fucking sick of girly-men politicians who pander to women by passing an ever-increasing raft of Nanny laws and regulations (the legal equivalent of public-school Ritalin), which prevent us from hunting, racing our cars and motorcycles, smoking, flirting with women at the office, getting into fistfights over women, shooting criminals and doing all the fine things which being a man entails.
When Annika Sorenstam was allowed to play in that tournament on the men’s PGA tour, all the men should have refused to play—Vijay Singh was the only one with balls to stand up for a principle, and he was absolutely excoriated for being a “chauvinist”. Bullshit. He wasn’t a chauvinist, he was being a man. All the rest of the players—Woods, Mickelson, the lot—are girls by comparison. And, needless to say, Vijay isn’t an American, nor a European, which is probably why he still has a pair hanging between his legs, and they’re not hanging on the wall as his wife’s trophy.
Fuck this, I’m sick of it.
I don’t see why I should put up with this bullshit any longer—hell, I don’t see why any man should put up with this bullshit any longer.
I don’t see why men should have become feminized, except that we allowed it to happen—and you know why we let it happen? Because it’s goddamned easier to do so. Unfortunately, we’ve allowed it to go too far, and our maleness has become too pussified for words.
At this point, I could have gone two ways: the first would be to say, “...and I don’t know if we’ll get it back. The process has become too entrenched, the cultural zeitgeist of men as girls has become part of the social fabric, and there’s not much we can do about it.”
But I’m not going to do that. To quote John Belushi (who was, incidentally, a real man and not a fucking woman): “Did we quit when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?”
Well, I’m not going to quit. Fuck that. One of the characteristics of the non-pussified man (and this should strike fear into the hearts of women and girly-men everywhere) is that he never quits just because the odds seem overwhelming. Omaha Beach, guys.
I want a real man as President—not Al Gore, who had to hire a consultant to show him how to be an Alpha male, and french-kiss his wife on live TV to “prove” to the world that he was a man, when we all knew that real men don’t have to do that shit.
And I want the Real Man President to surround himself with other Real Men, like Rumsfeld, and Ashcroft, and yes, Rice (who is more of a Real Man than those asswipes Colin Powell and Norman Mineta).
I want our government to be more like Dad—kind, helpful, but not afraid to punish us when we fuck up, instead of helping us excuse our actions.
I want our government of real men to start rolling back the Nanny State, in all its horrible manifestations of over-protectiveness, intrusiveness and “Mommy Knows Best What’s Good For You” regulations.
I want our culture to become more male—and not the satirical kind of male, like The Man Show, or the cartoonish figures of Stallone, Van Damme or Schwartzenegger. (Note to the Hollywood execs: We absolutely fucking loathe chick movies about feelings and relationships and all that feminine jive. We want more John Waynes, Robert Mitchums, Bruce Willises, and Clint Eastwoods. Never mind that it’s simplistic— we like simple, we are simple, we are men—our lives are uncomplicated, and we like it that way. We Were Soldiers was a great movie, and you know why? Because you could have cut out all the female parts, and it still would have been a great movie, because it was about Real Men. Try cutting out all the female parts in a Woody Allen movie—you’d end up with the opening and closing credits.)
I want our literature to become more male, less female. Men shouldn’t buy “self-help” books unless the subject matter is car maintenance, golf swing improvement or how to disassemble a fucking Browning BAR. We don’t improve ourselves, we improve our stuff.
And finally, I want men everywhere to going back to being Real Men. To open doors for women, to drive fast cars, to smoke cigars after a meal, to get drunk occasionally and, in the words of Col. Jeff Cooper, one of the last of the Real Men: “to ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth.”
In every sense of the word. We know what the word “is” means.
Because that’s all that being a Real Man involves. You don’t have to become a fucking cartoon male, either: I’m not going back to stoning women for adultery like those Muslim assholes do, nor am I suggesting we support that perversion of being a Real Man, gangsta rap artists (those fucking pussies—they wouldn’t last thirty seconds against a couple of genuine tough guys that I know).
Speaking of rap music, do you want to know why more White boys buy that crap than Black boys do? You know why rape is such a problem on college campuses? Why binge drinking is a problem among college freshmen?
It’s a reaction: a reaction against being pussified. And I understand it, completely. Young males are aggressive, they do fight amongst themselves, they are destructive, and all this does happen for a purpose.
Because only the strong men propagate.
And women know it. You want to know why I know this to be true? Because powerful men still attract women. Women, even liberal women, swooned over George Bush in a naval aviator’s uniform. Donald Trump still gets access to some of the most beautiful pussy available, despite looking like a medieval gargoyle. Donald Rumsfeld, if he wanted to, could fuck 90% of all women over 50 if he wanted to, and a goodly portion of younger ones too.
And he won’t. Because Rummy’s been married to the same woman for fifty years, and he wouldn’t toss that away for a quickie. He’s a Real Man. No wonder the Euros hate and fear him.
We’d better get more like him, we’d better become more like him, because if we don’t, men will become a footnote to history.
November 4, 2003
11:24 PM CST
We have become a nation of women.
It wasn’t always this way, of course. There was a time when men put their signatures to a document, knowing full well that this single act would result in their execution if captured, and in the forfeiture of their property to the State. Their wives and children would be turned out by the soldiers, and their farms and businesses most probably given to someone who didn’t sign the document.
There was a time when men went to their certain death, with expressions like “You all can go to hell. I’m going to Texas.” (Davy Crockett, to the House of Representatives, before going to the Alamo.)
There was a time when men went to war, sometimes against their own families, so that other men could be free. And there was a time when men went to war because we recognized evil when we saw it, and knew that it had to be stamped out.
There was even a time when a President of the United States threatened to punch a man in the face and kick him in the balls, because the man had the temerity to say bad things about the President’s daughter’s singing.
We’re not like that anymore.
Now, little boys in grade school are suspended for playing cowboys and Indians, cops and crooks, and all the other familiar variations of “good guy vs. bad guy” that helped them learn, at an early age, what it was like to have decent men hunt you down, because you were a lawbreaker.
Now, men are taught that violence is bad—that when a thief breaks into your house, or threatens you in the street, that the proper way to deal with this is to “give him what he wants”, instead of taking a horsewhip to the rascal or shooting him dead where he stands.
Now, men’s fashion includes not a man dressed in a three-piece suit, but a tight sweater worn by a man with breasts.
Now, warning labels are indelibly etched into gun barrels, as though men have somehow forgotten that guns are dangerous things.
Now, men are given Ritalin as little boys, so that their natural aggressiveness, curiosity and restlessness can be controlled, instead of nurtured and directed.
And finally, our President, who happens to have been a qualified fighter pilot, lands on an aircraft carrier wearing a flight suit, and is immediately dismissed with words like “swaggering”, “macho” and the favorite epithet of Euro girly-men, “cowboy”. Of course he was bound to get that reaction—and most especially from the Press in Europe, because the process of male pussification Over There is almost complete.
How did we get to this?
In the first instance, what we have to understand is that America is first and foremost, a culture dominated by one figure: Mother. It wasn’t always so: there was a time when it was Father who ruled the home, worked at his job, and voted.
But in the twentieth century, women became more and more involved in the body politic, and in industry, and in the media—and mostly, this has not been a good thing. When women got the vote, it was inevitable that government was going to become more powerful, more intrusive, and more “protective” (ie. more coddling), because women are hard-wired to treasure security more than uncertainty and danger. It was therefore inevitable that their feminine influence on politics was going to emphasize (lowercase “s") social security.
I am aware of the fury that this statement is going to arouse, and I don’t care a fig.
What I care about is the fact that since the beginning of the twentieth century, there has been a concerted campaign to denigrate men, to reduce them to figures of fun, and to render them impotent, figuratively speaking.
I’m going to illustrate this by talking about TV, because TV is a reliable barometer of our culture.
In the 1950s, the TV Dad was seen as the lovable goofball—perhaps the beginning of the trend—BUT he was still the one who brought home the bacon, and was the main source of discipline (think of the line: “Wait until your father gets home!").
From that, we went to this: the Cheerios TV ad.
Now, for those who haven’t seen this piece of shit, I’m going to go over it, from memory, because it epitomizes everything I hate about the campaign to pussify men. The scene opens at the morning breakfast table, where the two kids are sitting with Dad at the table, while Mom prepares stuff on the kitchen counter. The dialogue goes something like this:
Little girl (note, not little boy): Daddy, why do we eat Cheerios?
Dad: Because they contain fiber, and all sorts of stuff that’s good for the heart. I eat it now, because of that.
LG: Did you always eat stuff that was bad for your heart, Daddy?
Dad (humorously): I did, until I met your mother.
Mother (not humorously): Daddy did a lot of stupid things before he met your mother.
Now, every time I see that TV ad, I have to be restrained from shooting the TV with a .45 Colt. If you want a microcosm of how men have become less than men, this is the perfect example.
What Dad should have replied to Mommy’s little dig: Yes, Sally, that’s true: I did do a lot of stupid things before I met your mother. I even slept with your Aunt Ruth a few times, before I met your mother.
That’s what I would have said, anyway, if my wife had ever attempted to castrate me in front of the kids like that.
But that’s not what men do, of course. What this guy is going to do is smile ruefully, finish his cereal, and then go and fuck his secretary, who doesn’t try to cut his balls off on a daily basis. Then, when the affair is discovered, people are going to rally around the castrating bitch called his wife, and call him all sorts of names. He’ll lose custody of his kids, and they will be brought up by our ultimate modern-day figure of sympathy: The Single Mom.
You know what? Some women deserve to be single moms.
When I first started this website, I think my primary aim was to blow off steam at the stupidity of our society.
Because I have fairly set views on what constitutes right and wrong, I have no difficulty in calling Bill Clinton, for example, a fucking liar and hypocrite.
But most of all, I do this website because I love being a man. Amongst other things, I talk about guns, self-defense, politics, beautiful women, sports, warfare, hunting, and power tools—all the things that being a man entails. All this stuff gives me pleasure.
And it doesn’t take much to see when all the things I love are being threatened: for instance, when Tim Allen’s excellent comedy routine on being a man is reduced to a fucking sitcom called Home Improvement. The show should have been called Man Improvement, because that’s what every single plotline entailed: turning a man into a “better” person, instead of just leaving him alone to work on restoring the vintage sports car in his garage. I stopped watching the show after about four episodes.
("The Man Show” was better, at least for the first season—men leering at chicks, men fucking around with ridiculous games like “pin the bra on the boobies”, men having beer-drinking competitions, and women on trampolines. Excellent stuff, only not strong enough. I don’t watch it anymore, either, because it’s plain that the idea has been subverted by girly-men, and turned into a parody of itself.)
Finally, we come to the TV show which to my mind epitomizes everything bad about what we have become: Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. Playing on the homo Bravo Channel, this piece of excrement has taken over the popular culture by storm (and so far, the only counter has been the wonderful South Park episode which took it apart for the bullshit it is).
I’m sorry, but the premise of the show nauseates me. A bunch of homosexuals trying to “improve” ordinary men into something “better” (ie. more acceptable to women): changing the guy’s clothes, his home decor, his music—for fuck’s sake, what kind of girly-man would allow these simpering butt-bandits to change his life around?
Yes, the men are, by and large, slobs. Big fucking deal. Last time I looked, that’s normal. Men are slobs, and that only changes when women try to civilize them by marriage. That’s the natural order of things.
You know the definition of homosexual men we used in Chicago? “Men with small dogs who own very tidy apartments.”
Real men, on the other hand, have big fucking mean-ass dogs: Rhodesian ridgebacks, bull terriers and Rottweilers, or else working dogs like pointers or retrievers which go hunting with them and slobber all over the furniture.
Women own lapdogs.
Which is why women are trying to get dog-fighting and cock-fighting banned—they’d ban boxing too, if they could—because it’s “mean and cruel”. No shit, Shirley. Hell, I don’t like the idea of fighting dogs, either, but I don’t have a problem with men who do. Dogs and cocks fight. So do men. No wonder we have an affinity for it.
My website has become fairly popular with men, and in the beginning, this really surprised me, because I didn’t think I was doing anything special.
That’s not what I think now. I must have had well over five thousand men write to me to say stuff like “Yes! I agree! I was so angry when I read about [insert atrocity of choice], but I thought I was the only one.”
No, you’re not alone, my friends, and nor am I.
Out there, there is a huge number of men who are sick of it. We’re sick of being made figures of fun and ridicule; we’re sick of having girly-men like journalists, advertising agency execs and movie stars decide on “what is a man”; we’re sick of women treating us like children, and we’re really fucking sick of girly-men politicians who pander to women by passing an ever-increasing raft of Nanny laws and regulations (the legal equivalent of public-school Ritalin), which prevent us from hunting, racing our cars and motorcycles, smoking, flirting with women at the office, getting into fistfights over women, shooting criminals and doing all the fine things which being a man entails.
When Annika Sorenstam was allowed to play in that tournament on the men’s PGA tour, all the men should have refused to play—Vijay Singh was the only one with balls to stand up for a principle, and he was absolutely excoriated for being a “chauvinist”. Bullshit. He wasn’t a chauvinist, he was being a man. All the rest of the players—Woods, Mickelson, the lot—are girls by comparison. And, needless to say, Vijay isn’t an American, nor a European, which is probably why he still has a pair hanging between his legs, and they’re not hanging on the wall as his wife’s trophy.
Fuck this, I’m sick of it.
I don’t see why I should put up with this bullshit any longer—hell, I don’t see why any man should put up with this bullshit any longer.
I don’t see why men should have become feminized, except that we allowed it to happen—and you know why we let it happen? Because it’s goddamned easier to do so. Unfortunately, we’ve allowed it to go too far, and our maleness has become too pussified for words.
At this point, I could have gone two ways: the first would be to say, “...and I don’t know if we’ll get it back. The process has become too entrenched, the cultural zeitgeist of men as girls has become part of the social fabric, and there’s not much we can do about it.”
But I’m not going to do that. To quote John Belushi (who was, incidentally, a real man and not a fucking woman): “Did we quit when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?”
Well, I’m not going to quit. Fuck that. One of the characteristics of the non-pussified man (and this should strike fear into the hearts of women and girly-men everywhere) is that he never quits just because the odds seem overwhelming. Omaha Beach, guys.
I want a real man as President—not Al Gore, who had to hire a consultant to show him how to be an Alpha male, and french-kiss his wife on live TV to “prove” to the world that he was a man, when we all knew that real men don’t have to do that shit.
And I want the Real Man President to surround himself with other Real Men, like Rumsfeld, and Ashcroft, and yes, Rice (who is more of a Real Man than those asswipes Colin Powell and Norman Mineta).
I want our government to be more like Dad—kind, helpful, but not afraid to punish us when we fuck up, instead of helping us excuse our actions.
I want our government of real men to start rolling back the Nanny State, in all its horrible manifestations of over-protectiveness, intrusiveness and “Mommy Knows Best What’s Good For You” regulations.
I want our culture to become more male—and not the satirical kind of male, like The Man Show, or the cartoonish figures of Stallone, Van Damme or Schwartzenegger. (Note to the Hollywood execs: We absolutely fucking loathe chick movies about feelings and relationships and all that feminine jive. We want more John Waynes, Robert Mitchums, Bruce Willises, and Clint Eastwoods. Never mind that it’s simplistic— we like simple, we are simple, we are men—our lives are uncomplicated, and we like it that way. We Were Soldiers was a great movie, and you know why? Because you could have cut out all the female parts, and it still would have been a great movie, because it was about Real Men. Try cutting out all the female parts in a Woody Allen movie—you’d end up with the opening and closing credits.)
I want our literature to become more male, less female. Men shouldn’t buy “self-help” books unless the subject matter is car maintenance, golf swing improvement or how to disassemble a fucking Browning BAR. We don’t improve ourselves, we improve our stuff.
And finally, I want men everywhere to going back to being Real Men. To open doors for women, to drive fast cars, to smoke cigars after a meal, to get drunk occasionally and, in the words of Col. Jeff Cooper, one of the last of the Real Men: “to ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth.”
In every sense of the word. We know what the word “is” means.
Because that’s all that being a Real Man involves. You don’t have to become a fucking cartoon male, either: I’m not going back to stoning women for adultery like those Muslim assholes do, nor am I suggesting we support that perversion of being a Real Man, gangsta rap artists (those fucking pussies—they wouldn’t last thirty seconds against a couple of genuine tough guys that I know).
Speaking of rap music, do you want to know why more White boys buy that crap than Black boys do? You know why rape is such a problem on college campuses? Why binge drinking is a problem among college freshmen?
It’s a reaction: a reaction against being pussified. And I understand it, completely. Young males are aggressive, they do fight amongst themselves, they are destructive, and all this does happen for a purpose.
Because only the strong men propagate.
And women know it. You want to know why I know this to be true? Because powerful men still attract women. Women, even liberal women, swooned over George Bush in a naval aviator’s uniform. Donald Trump still gets access to some of the most beautiful pussy available, despite looking like a medieval gargoyle. Donald Rumsfeld, if he wanted to, could fuck 90% of all women over 50 if he wanted to, and a goodly portion of younger ones too.
And he won’t. Because Rummy’s been married to the same woman for fifty years, and he wouldn’t toss that away for a quickie. He’s a Real Man. No wonder the Euros hate and fear him.
We’d better get more like him, we’d better become more like him, because if we don’t, men will become a footnote to history.
I need to Change
How can i change? The only way to change is to consistently work at it. Knowing is the beginning. Knowing more and learning more and achieving more. The minute you stop wanting to know more, that's when you stop growing. And that's when you die. And that's when you nothing
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Soen my
Soen my met my slaapspookasem
En jou sluimerspoeg
Verlei my met jou lenige luigelêde lyf
Vry my met jou murgbelaaide pype
Hou my vas en hou my styf
Sien jy my slaapgesusde oë en my droomgevulde mond?
My palm op jou rug se naat, jou kuit teen my sool se voet?
Kyk my moeggesluimerde arms, my rusgekreukelde skouers
Voel my gaapgeplooide, oggendgloeiende goed
Plooitjies papille pupille spleetjies
Holtetjies bultjies rondinkies
Hobbeltjies halfmaantjies knobbeltjies
Groefies skaniertjies skroefies maniertjies
Buigies en voutjies grepies strepies
Haartjies en aartjies en oksels en kuiltjies
En are en lyne en kontoere en gladdes en skewes en soepel en sag
En warm en lenig en… en…. En…. En…
En…
Vers vir Jou
ek bou vir jou ‘n huisie
van sandsteen son en skalie
ek plant vir jou ‘n wilgerboom
wat wolffluitlange skadu’s maak
ek dors vir jou ‘n riviertjie uit die aarde
waarin paddas moederlik grom
ek plaas vir jou ‘n paar vet kuikens
en cuddlesome katjies op die werf
ek brei ‘n voetmatjie om te lê
voor die riempiestoel wat ek vir jou gevleg het
ek vra die wolke
om die blou lug plek-plek melkwit af te werk
ek gooi die damme vol water
sodat ons kinderlik kaal daarin kan baljaar
ek versamel stronke vir jou stofie
sodat ons koffiewater lekker warm kan stoom
ek brei vir jou ‘n matrasveerbedjie
waarop ons nagtelank bymekaar kan doeks
ek sit sterk vensters in die mure
om tokkelossie buite te laat bly
dit alles doen ek net vir jou
omdat ek vreeslik baie van jou hou
Verlange na Iemand Onbekend..
Volg my treurlied oor die see
antwoord my roepstem
wanneer ek in eensaamheid
na jou smag en jou gesig wil sien
deur diepe waters van depressie
het ons gespartel
om dit te ontdek en te bewaar wat
ons s’n is
waarop ons beslag lê in ons drome
en vir ewig onder ons kussings bewaar
in my swaar gemoed draal ’n eensame siel
en in verdriet en pyn is daar net ’n paar
sake wat vir my sin maak en my vertroos
God is naby en jy is ver
ek smag daarna om net weer jou stem te hoor
fluister in my oor en vertel vir my dat alles
pluis is, want woorde van swaarkry en verdriet
is te algemeen en te wyd versprei oor onse
lewens
stuur vir my ’n spierwit duif oor die see
met ’n boodskappie toegedraai in ’n lint
hy sal veilig land en die roofdiere sal hom
nie verslind
ek stuur my liefde oor die see
en van jou kom…
…geen respons
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Marie Claire - Naked Issue 2009
It's that time of the year again when South African celebrities dare to go bare for charity.
"We organise the Naked feature every year to raise funds for a worthy cause," Seton Vermaak, PRO of Associated Magazines, told News24 in Cape Town.
"This year the campaign protests against the high incidence of rape in this country and will raise funds for Rape Crisis," he said.
"The public will get a chance to bid for their favourite portrait and all the proceeds will go to the Rape Crisis/SafeSpace project."
Friday, January 16, 2009
...
I don't really want to stop...
Running my hands from your neck to your chest...
I could try hours finding new ways to be awed each minute by you...
Must see movie...Revolutionary Road..
How do you break free without breaking apart?
April and Frank Wheeler are a young, thriving couple living with their two children in a Connecticut suburb in the mid-1950s. Their self-assured exterior masks a creeping frustration at their inability to feel fulfilled in their relationships or careers. Frank is mired in a well-paying but boring office job, and April is a housewife still mourning the demise of her hoped-for acting career. Determined to identify themselves as superior to the mediocre sprawl of suburbanites who surround them, they decide to move to France where they will be better able to develop their true artistic sensibilities, free of the consumerist demands of capitalist America. As their relationship deteriorates into an endless cycle of squabbling, jealousy and recriminations, their trip and their dreams of self-fulfillment are thrown into jeopardy.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Fame vs. Success
Aangename kennis ek is Lorinda Voges, ken jy my?
2008 was ‘n jaar vol aanpassings, groei pyne asook baie uitdagings.
Een van die grootste uitdagings was om die volgende lewensles te leer en te besef dat jy nie jouself in iemand of in enige iets kan verloor nie.
Dis so maklik om verward te raak oor jou identiteit in die industrie wat ek werk.
Dit was ‘n moelike jaar maar ook een van die mees vormste jare wat ek kon beleef.
Ek het geleer mense glo en sien net wat hulle wil. Hulle skets ‘n prentjie in hulle kop van wat reg en verkeerd is sommer om die waarheid eintlik te ken of om hulle self die guns te doen om iemand regtig te leer ken. Ek is baie keer self skuldig aan die slegte kwaliteit.
Ek dink die grootste les wat ek geleer het is dat die sogenaamde bekende mense in die land dood normaal is nes ek en jy. Dit het regtig baie ‘ontmoetings’ met baie bekendes gevat wat vir my die volgende wysheid openbaar het:
Ek gee nie om wie jy is, wat jy doen vir ‘n lewe of wie jy ken nie.
Ek wil by jou weet: Ek wil weet waarmee hou jy jouself besig, wat is jou hartsverlange en of jy die kans sal vat om op die tyd van jou lewe nog jou drome te verwerklik en nie ander mense sin nie?
Kom ons sit die bullshit agter ons en wees eerlik dat met kennismaking of selfs die beeld wat die media en die pers van jou skep, is jou gesig merendeels die beriggaming van wie en wat jy is. Mense kyk daarna en som jou daarvolgens op. Tweedens is dit oor wat jy doen vir ‘n lewe.
Die vermaaklikheids wereld is genadeloos, dit het ek net weer besef. Dit vra jou nie hoe oud jy is, hoe hard jy werk of jy ‘n plek in die limelight verdien nie. Dit gooi jou in die diep kant in en dan moet jy swem of anders verdrink jy.
Ek werk al 5 jaar in die bedryf. Miskien werk ek nie elke dag met egoistiese supersterre nie, maar ek werk met mense wat geld honger is, met dronk varke en seksualiteit elke dag van my lewe.
As ek nie die keuse gemaak het 4 jaar terug om “balls” te kry nie, so ek dalk vandag ook al seker na die bottle gegryp het vir ‘n antwoorde na my soekende vrae na die sin van die lewe.
Ek dink die sterkte wat ek soms binne in my vind het alles te doen met die opvoeding wat ek gehad het. Ek moet bieg. Ek het ‘n baie sterk ma. Sy is ongetwyfeld die sterkste mens wat ek ken.
Sy het kultuur, respek, God en ‘n goeie naam op my afgedwing.
Dis die goed wat my dra as ek voel die besige en soms doellose gejaagd na alles haal my in.
Dit het my geleer om plat op die aarde te bly en altyd ander mense in ag te neem.
Ek is dankbaar vir dit en ek weet ek sal my kinders dieselfde leer eendag (dis nou as ek besluit om te trou)
Ek wonder ook baie. Ek wonder oor of alles wat mens doen in jou beroep regtig die moeite werd is.
Marlyn Monroe het gese: “ A career is wonderful, but you cant curl up with it on a cold night”
Nou sal jy my dalk vra: “ Wat is jou hartsbegeerte Lorinda?”
Moenie nou lag nie: Ek wil net ‘n ma wees. Dis wat my droom was nog altyd.
Maar nou is nie die tyd nie. Ek moet nog eers ‘n pad met myself loop.
En om eerlik te wees, ek het nog nie iemand ontmoet wat ek die titel as “pa-van-my-kinders” wil gee nie.
Kom ons kom terug oor die rede hoekom ek juis besluit het om die lange blog te skryf – ‘fame vs. success”
Egos. Dis ‘n lelik ding.
Mens moet al die sterre se egos altyd streel en kom ek wees eerlik, ek streel niemand nie!
Vir my is jy as ‘n ster, nes ek. ‘n Doodgewone mens!
Meeste van die tyd is dit die sterre met die verskuilde agendas en dan speel hulle victim en blameer die media.
As jy nie in die media se oog wil wees nie, wees dan ‘n doodgewone mens, maar moet hulle nie blameer vir jou problem nie.
Ok, kom ek “pause” gou by die media. Ek verpes sensasie.
Ek verpes oneerlikheid vir die vermaak van ander mense – jy het geen idée nie!
Miskien omdat mense wat in die media al soveel keer ontbloot is vir die verkoop van tydskrifte en koerante sonder om regtig hulle kant van die storie te stel.
2009 gaan ‘n wonderlike jaar wees – dit weet ek.
Ek weet dit want ek weet dat daar goed uit die swaar kom.
Ek weet dat al verstaan ek nie altyd hoekom sekere goed gebeur nie of hoekom as ek iets so graag wil he, dit nie na my pad toe kom nie, ek weet dat daarin ook ‘n lewensles is.
Ek weet dat ten spyte van die beroep waarin ek is, ek myself soms met ander mense moet deel, maar ek nie van myself moet vergeet nie.
So, dis my siening. Wat dink jy?
Respect vs. Fame
People respect you because they feel you've survived hard times and endured, and although you've become famous, you haven't become phony.
W Magazine - Christy Turlington Burns - January 2009
Still super after all these years, Christy Turlington Burns—who turns 40 in January—shows off her iconic beauty in asymmetrical looks with an off-center charm in the January 2009 issue of W Magazine
To be Brad Pitt
To be Brad Pitt is to know the bowels of hotels: the hidden mazes of back entrances, subterranean passages and service elevators daily trudged by housekeepers and room service waiters—and sometimes traveled by a VIP guest who needs secret conveyance to his suite.
Trouble
"Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life, and when it comes, hold your head high, look it quarely in the eye and say, 'I will be bigger than you. You cannot defeat me.'"
Kings of Leon - Sex on Fire
Sex on Fire" is the first single of Kings of Leon's fourth studio album Only by the Night. The song gave Kings of Leon their first number one single in Australia, Finland, Ireland and United Kingdom, charting at the top-spot in the UK singles chart on digital downloads alone, before its physical release. It has also gained significant popularity in the United States, reaching #1 on the Hot Modern Rock Tracks chart and #56 on the Billboard Hot 100, making it their highest charting song in their homeland on both charts. Along with all of these achievements, in 2008, the song earned the band their first Grammy nominations; the song was nominated for Best Rock Song and Best Rock Vocal Performance by a Duo or Group. In addition, the album earned a nomination for Best Rock Album. Channel V Australia named the song as the 3rd biggest hit of 2008.
Name - Goo Goo Dolls
This was the Goo Goo Dolls' first hit.
It is one of my current "all time favorite songs"
Many people have various interpretations of what the real meaning of this song is and why John Rzeznik wrote it.
To me it means the following:
It is about someone that has lost themselves somewhere along the lines.
Perhaps it reflects my current view on "celebrities" in our country.
In "Name", the line "did you get to be a star" stands out to me especially because i feel many people loose their own identity by trying to be the figment of someone else's imagination.
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