emotional equiv

Walking around the eerily silent, and acrid-smelling,  dystopiascape of a post-Plague Berlin, where former sites of congregation are boarded up by emergency decree,  or marked off by skull-and-crossbones-filigreed biohazard tape, and blackened patches on the sidewalk indicate where bodies were burned, as a precaution, where they fell…

Laugh. Just kidding. Everything in Berlin is quite standard (if intermittently rather chilly) for July.  People are working, meeting, strolling, shopping and flowing in and out of public buildings and tooling around on bikes or e-scooters, doing what they usually do. No corpses stacked at the curbs nor post-Apocalyptic Sanitizer Cults to torch them. The only jarring notes in the tone-poem of the everyperson’s everyday are the masks… which are not even prevalent, on the open sidewalk or in the parks, but mandatory on public transport and in grocery stores and most, though not all, cafes. The German Authorities are obviously fairly half-hearted about the charade… ferfuxsake, the cops aren’t even wearing masks… because, I suppose, Germany isn’t as weak and vulnerable to coercion, economically, as charade-compliant places like Italy, which threw itself into its role early on and helped convince many Americans to shit their collective Liberal pants. Intellectual Playwright John Steppling has been following this absurdly global homage to Ionesco since the beginning, throwing his intelligence and rhetorical skills against the big dumb rubbery plodding ass of the collective corpus of the Obediently Duped, and, in reaction to his latest, I commented… and Steppling concurred:

  1. “The most clarity is found at the level of the working class today, a class acutely aware of the desperate straits into which they have been thrown, and a class that has devised strategies to deal with the violence the state visits upon them.”

    That sentence is striking and it is the key; it chimes with what I’ve observed over the decades: to be really very hoodwinked, in a clever way, one first needs a certain amount of education.


  2. John Steppling says:


In a city of pop. c. 4,000,000,  the official “Covid death-toll” is c. 215 about five months into it, a figure running neck and neck with the hush-hush death-stats of aging Siemens execs, wearing ball-gags, infarcting in the arms of their 20-year-old mistresses. This is the shocker on which  TFIC are trying to hang a Totalitaria-on-Steroids break-and-remake of the semi-familiar world? The vague deaths of two hundred 81-year-olds? Seems rather flimsy. It’s working in the US because “health care” facilities in New York were able to hasten the deaths of lots of powerless old Black people, which took on a satanically cynical poetry when TFIC then tried to motivate the “woke” by spinning the Black deaths (from the neo-Black Death) into a Black Lives Matter issue.

It’s not lost on me that many of the Alt Righters who are immune to the dupery are immune because they’re racist and too ignorant to be conned; their anti-Wokeness wokeness is too conditions-contingent to be useful, in the end, a problem that many popular dissident former blogging-Lefties are ignoring as their comment sections fill up with crypto-Nazis to whom they are obliged, increasingly, to pander. I never would have pegged Ian Welsh or Denis Rancourt  or the OffGuardian as Alt Right but their ever-growing Alt Right “reader”ship is dead set on it and who are they to disagree? The Left, as an audience, is dying off. Disappointing but: fuck it. What can you do? Steppling + my straggle of fellow Lefty Dissidents + five or six of you readers and I, are not a sufficient enough mob to grab virtual torches and storm the Social Media Bastille with anything other than laughably pick-them-off-as-they-come-up-the-hill results. And I am sure-as-fuck not going to start courting an Alt Right “reader”ship for the pleasure of joining a MGTOW Borg. No, I’m going to fuck my Wife instead. Though that sort of thing is frowned on.

Haven’t you noticed? Read the Zeitgeisty Zines, check out the articles, the ones aimed at college-educated Liberals, the ones who have been programmed to respond to direct  (reverse psychology) commands from T-Rump by doing the opposite of whatever T-Rump says or does (instead of wisely ignoring him altogether), producing the intended results*: they’re trying to break up marriages, families, lasting emotional unions of every stripe. Read the Womyn-targeted articles painting rosy, dewy, thoroughly exciting pictures of Womyn in their 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s dating. Single (non-wealthy) men in their 30 and 40s pretty much resign themselves to lonely futures of hookers and drinking and porn, but Womyn are being told to see themselves diddling toyboys in far-off places well after menopause! See the white-haired model-shots, portraying foxy divorcees, appended to these delusional entreaties (of “toxic positivity”) to pick a fight with the snoring warm chump you’ve been with for decades, right? and thereby precipitate the liberating miracle of a divorce! Womyn were once encouraged (rightly) to divorce abusers; now the word “abuser” is being redefined as a synonym for “husband”.  The blatant Social Engineering is blatant. But effective. Dump that anti-Adonis who loves you, supports you, never harmed nor seriously dissed you, for a bright future full of glistening sixpacks and snore-free post-conjugal naps spooning and cuddling with a  lifeguard or fitness instructor or Club Med DJ who finds wrinkles, as it happens, quite sexy! The Guardian and Slate and HuffPo and Oprah and Facebook and whomever are prodding middle class, middle-aged, middlebrow Liberal Womyn with a collective and sinister and suspiciously shrill YouGoGurl… with tragically realistic results. More and more lonely people. The multitude of disoriented worker-bees of Autumn. No more malleable a psycho-social putty in the hands of The Fuckers in Charge could there ever be.

Wife and I (especially as parents) figured out that waiting for the Sex Fairy to hit us with its “romance”-wand on very specific, and just-so, candle-lit, moon-drenched and lyre-soundtracked nights… would make no sense. There’s not enough time in the day or night to wait for that faux-crystal moment to form; it was the same back when we were contemplating getting pregnant and I cautioned Wife we should wait until the conditions were “right” but there is no right timeNOW is the only time… do it NOW. And we did and Wife was right and regarding Sex, therefore, we fuck on a schedule. Every third day we go All The Way and between those days we spontaneously fondle, diddle, grab-ass, wrestle, pet or suck for a minute at a time without needing to bring off the showstopping m-80 of a Big O.

Do it on a schedule, strengthen the bond, ignore Hollywood’s idiotic (often sinister) advice to expect (require) ’80s sax, slow-mo, perfect lighting and screams of yes yes yes yes yes, oh yes. My Wife just grunts and gasps quite discreetly when she comes; if she screamed YES I would assume she was faking because she would be. Yes,  Sex on a fixed schedule may seem to render Sex banal, in a way: naturally banal as eating, drinking, sleeping, breathing and sunlight.  Banal-yet-vital-to-Life is a good thing to be; the banal-but-vital-for-Life is an objective treasure and can often be Nirvana. No one fucks anyone more passionately than I fuck Beloved Wife (I kiss her as though her lips are slathered in chocolate sauce and festooned with cherries) and she coos and purrs and absorbs me like a champ. The moment I slide in I am, finally, again, grounded; I’m Earthed; I’m no longer a free radical buffeted by the laws of Brownian motion. I’m getting a stiffy just writing this.

Men who suffer stiffy-malfunctions at 35, or 40, or 45 or 55 or 60 and anything up until, say, 70: consider your diet. Consider the ecology of the vibe between your partner and your tremulous cock. Is your partner super-welcoming, super-tender, super-present, never-supercilious and alive with the inside-jokes, shared pidgin and symbiotic co-preferences of a long, rich conjugal history? If so, you should be super-hard, mate. Or have your cholesterol (the bad kind, I mean) checked. If your cock is flat-out broken, then re-purpose the tongue. Re-purpose the fingers. The big toe…

If it’s too late for marriage, find the right hooker. It’s better than nothing. Fuck her once a week for as many years as you can; a kind of relationship will develop by default. The Continuity is what counts. But a genuine marriage is preferable and that’s why this message is aimed, ideally, perhaps, at a reader in his/her 30s. You can put on your Reality Goggles and find a decent human to partner with. You can tweak a “broken” marriage.

I’ll be the Henry Miller of fidelity. The Casanova of the long-term partnership. The Scarlet Pimpernel of…

Young Revolutionaries, running on the high-pressure steam of fresh testosterone and alive with the tactical advantage of being unpredictably foolish, work best as single horny fuckers. But the Old Revolutionaries; the Effective Heads of any possible Organized Dissidence; come in pairs, in Dyads**. Het or Homo or whatever else. Tweak your marriage, strengthen the bond, don’t fall for the self-destructive NeoMania TFIC have been attempting to infect you with since as far back as any of us can recall. Fix your marriage, fix Capitalism: healthy, clever, unselfishly self-interested Sex is the foundation upon which to build both projects. If the population of the Left is ever rejuvenated and replenished, profoundly personal Sex will be the key.

Lonely masturbation isn’t Sex, whether or not Facebook gifts you with an ironic fantasy to facilitate the drain on your Soul that is inevitable with the crippled O the activity induces. Once every year or so I get so wound up (with no access to naked Wife) that I Onanize at something like 9am… feeling hollowed out and exhausted, and feeling Comer’s remorse, immediately thereafter. Yet, I can fuck Wife exactly at the same hour of the day and finish by ejaculating in her mouth (so terrified are we at the prospect of a pregnancy, even with a slathered diaphragm in place) and feel not exhausted but invigorated as a result. There’s something mystico-scientific about it. Fix your marriage and get fucking and maybe we can save the World before the hideous Mr. Gates (I shudder to picture the clots-webbed depths of Bill’s libido) destroys it.



2 Speaking of Sex

The following album (linked below) is even better if you read this (enameled, Blakean, glorious) YouTube comment that was posted under it:
“mwakatumbula milambo mushani
2 months ago
And the introduction song opened the gates of my brain to start bubbling some first English and love words accumulating the word hoard in my vocabulary. I need You, I love Yeah… in 1973 when I was in grade 7 at Mutamba Primary School and then after failing joined Muleya Winter Primary School where I met my first mysterious girlfriend Daddy Nancy Chola, a posh and prettiest in school. I was mesmerised by her beauty. I wrote her a proposal love letter decorated with flowers I spent writing the whole night till late only to be rejected when my friend Robinson Kalaba Kaponde took and handed her the love letter. She thought my friend concocted the letter but later she fell in love with me and started preparing some egg pastry. She really looked like a chicken baby!”
(This supports my long-running suspicion that Culture is merely a biological strategy for fertilizing Ova)

*If Trump had come out of the gate, on this “Pandemic,” demanding lock-downs and ranting about the unprecedented lethality of the “plague,” there’s no doubt in my mind that Liberals would have been the most intractable, unfoolable,  anti-mask Covid-hoax-unbelievers in the US. Why can’t they see through this?

**Poor Johnny Lennon had the right idea but the wrong (WRONG) partner and that fact invokes the YOKO CLAUSE that actually mitigates the gist of this essay somewhat. You can’t tweak a bad marriage to a psychopath.



THIS Romanian GUY liked this post mere minutes after I posted. Whether or not he actually read the post, a cursory examination of his page turns up the surprising possibility that he’s a Real Poet. If I were his editor I’d prune a few words here and there but what I’ve read (six or seven works thus far) is quite good.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR [letters are vetted for cogency and style]

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