All Tomorrow’s Parties

St. Elliot
For Thursday’s child is Sunday’s clown.

The 2013 Isla Vista shooting signified a watershed moment in my personal life. I had moved out of Isla Vista only a year before, leaving behind Santa Barbara for what I thought would be the last time. Isla Vista is an unincorporated town bordering the Pacific Ocean, home largely to students from the adjacent UC Santa Barbara and Santa Barbara Community College; it is Southern California distilled into its absolute essence. The town has a reputation for its house parties and bohemian surfer culture. It’s not uncommon to walk around on a weekend night and end up invited to an ad hoc party provided your group contains a girl or two.

On its surface, Isla Vista is a fairly welcoming place. It’s easy to talk to random people when you’re both in varied states of inebriation. By the end of the night, you’ll often find yourself with a larger group than you had initially gone out with. The drunken friend, in all his inescapable ephemerality, is among the most agreeable of souls. He is excitable, earnest, and adventurous. You will never see him again beyond the night you met. Your haphazard plans for hanging out again will fall through despite his prior insistence.

Californians love to make plans and never follow through with them. If you don’t have a specific date and time set to meet with someone, they will never show up. Even if you do, they still won’t show up. It’s somehow acceptable here to make arrangements at the end of a conversation and silently disregard them the following day. Word is most definitely not bond around these parts. I’ve often postulated whether alcohol is the only substance holding our postmodern social fabric together. Alcohol makes what so many find unbearable about company temporarily endurable. It’s no small wonder that mastery of the fermentation process was one of our earliest agricultural achievements.

Beyond the opaque façade of revelry and distraction, Isla Vista can be an incredibly sinister place. When you are not invited to the parties, when you are alone, the entire town comes to resemble a rowdy bar in which you’re the only sober person. Being in a bar while sober is a test of patience. The drunken man exists on a mental plane far apart from the sober man. His freewheeling speech and brazen antics become unwelcome provocations on your limited patience. Some men become aggressive while drinking, and though I consider this to be an exceptional circumstance, their presence can often sour a night out.

No more is the sexual Pareto principle in effect than in Isla Vista. I can imagine it has only gotten worse with the advent of online hookup apps. The top ten to twenty percent of young men in regards to appearance and reputation have unlimited access to the affections of the young college girls populating the town. In a place known for its laid back culture and open-mindedness, the competition for sex is a constant Pyrrhic war of deception and deceit.

Your status as a young man is proportional to your sexual desirability. Young men do not compete so much for economic or scholastic achievement, as they do for the favors of women. Even the perception, manufactured or legitimate, of sexual prowess among your peers is enough to catapult you into the upper echelons of social status. Men want to be you; women want to be with you. The former case inspires an effete, but caustic jealously among your male peers. Those unable to compete with you in the extended domain of struggle are hell-bent on hindering you, damaging your reputation and dragging you down with them into the mired pits of involuntary celibacy.

French philosopher Jean Baudrillard wrote that in Santa Barbara, the question you always hear is, “What are you doing after the orgy?” To paraphrase from a friend on Twitter, Elliot Rodger asked us, “What are you doing when you are not invited to the orgy?” During my time in Isla Vista, I arrived at the inevitable conclusion that violence would one day come to this town. Someday, someone would snap under the immense psycho-sexual burden bearing down on them and lash out against man and woman alike.

Elliot Rodger was a victim of Isla Vista, as much as those whom he killed were victims of his unfulfilled desire and rage against a society that enables unchecked lust and hedonism. While I must profess that, for the sake of public record, I do not endorse his murders; I understand completely the unfortunate series of events that led to their occurrence. Reading through My Twisted World, one comes to comprehend the entirely foreseeable and deterministic character of his birth and upbringing. What the media, in all their faux outrage seems to have missed, was how a young man of his breeding and background would invariably choose the fatal path he walked.

Elliot was born of an East Asian mother and a Northern European father, creating at birth the genetic aberration of the Eurasian or Hapa male. The Hapa is a castaway Frankenstein monster of East and West, a byproduct of mass transit and globalization unfairly rejected by both of his disparate cultures. The sexual marketplace of Isla Vista predominately favors those of the tall, fair Nordic phenotype. The ‘surfer dude’ of California is in fact a blond, blue-eyed male of impressive stature and physique. At the outset, Elliot was unsuited to his future life in Isla Vista. This, coupled with a detached father figure and an isolated adolescence, would portend his eventual rejections and untimely demise.

While race is seldom a deciding factor in one’s fate, one can often internalize unwanted or undesirable aspects pertaining to their racial phenotype. The rejection that hurt Elliot the most was not at the hands of any girl, but the initial and lifelong rejection of Elliot by his father. Fathers want to see themselves reflected in the visage of their sons, an insurance of their reproductive success. It is likely this phenomenon that underscores the primeval demands for marital fidelity and unspoiled brides. Fathers have yet to learn, if possible, to empathize with the biological results of their interracial pairings.

Discothèque Juliette

Shut up and dance with me.

She completed all her homework assignments with a plastic giraffe pen. I would steal something from her bedroom every morning, forcing her to call me later that day. Today I had stolen her giraffe pen. You piss me off so much. I pulled her closer and kissed her and she tried not to smile, feigning indignation. When she said that I knew I had stolen her heart. Summer would come a few weeks later and we would wordlessly part ways as separate atoms racing through the immeasurable void.

In the event that you find yourself without a social circle following your high school years (an all too common fate), the entirety of your future female connection will be sourced through online dating applications. Here more than anywhere else, your sexual value as a man is reduced to the capricious whims of distracted girls swiping through your profile in between bored glances at Netflix. If you are not photogenic, or worse, genuinely mediocre in appearance, your prospects are dismal. Tinder is the Colosseum and you are the lowly gladiator whose survival depends on appeasing the vapid egos of the patrician caste.

The matches you do get invoke a thrilling, short-lived dopamine release; that is until you view her sixth picture and discover she’s obese. Gone are the lithe, fourteen and fifteen year old blondes who pined after you in high school. The metaphysic of filth we inhabit taints their little souls with a rapid, unrelenting savagery. Your high school girlfriend, should you have been so fortuitous to have experienced young love, is now a single mother: on methamphetamines and with a tattoo reading LIVE LAUGH LOVE displayed furtively above her mons pubis.

Certain Internet forums, the names of which I am disinclined to mention, propose that men have but four bargaining chips in the sexual economy: appearance, status, wealth, and social skills in descending order of importance.

Your appearance is, more or less, at the mercy of biochemical reactions that occur before you are even born. The face, rather the unalterable geometric proportions that constitute your countenance, is irrefutably the largest determinant of your attractiveness. Euclid was a bastard.

Second only to this is height, again a factor dependent on your genes and childhood diet. Frame is the third constituent of appearance and the most readily alterable. The weight room is filled to capacity with young men, who lacking suitable facial aesthetics and heights starting with the number six, spend hours per week lifting weights in order to make amends with Nature’s cruel machinery.

Now, status, wealth, and social skills are much more nebulous concepts, not as easily quantifiable as appearance (save for wealth), and lacking all three, I am not qualified to discuss them at length. We all know of rich men with bitch Asian wives, henpecked at home and at the office, who in a last ditch act of desperation either commit suicide or flee to Thailand and spend their remaining days drinking cheap beer and sleeping with prostitutes (a form of suicide in its own right). Likewise, status is no longer a guarantee of a fulfilling sex life unless you were born into a powerful family and given the access code to the secret Illuminati Tinder app full of fifteen year old American Apparel models.

We are thus left with social skills, or ‘game’, as it is referred to in the aforementioned forums I am disinclined to mention. ‘Game’ has been the subject of many an e-book, hawked online to lonely subcontinental men lacking entirely in the other three bargaining chips. However, I will argue, social skills cannot be taught. Like appearance, your ability to navigate the intricacies of the sexual economy is largely based on early childhood experiences. Appearance and social skills go hand in hand. Beautiful people can do no wrong. This is why attractive women, though they may not deign to sleep with you, are wholly more pleasant to talk with than less attractive women.

If you were ugly as a child, you missed out on many of the formative social experiences enjoyed by your more attractive peers. You were not invited to the parties, the dances, the trips to the beach. Through no fault of your own, your exclusion from these outings ensnared you in a vicious circle: exclusion reduces your opportunity to improve your social skills, poor social skills result in your exclusion. Blizzard, realizing this troubling social trend, graciously released World of Warcraft during your adolescence, providing you with a simulacrum of community (if you rolled Alliance, stop reading).

The mass shooting is the last shocking act of post-modernity. Aside from those massacres of a sectarian nature, episodes that have become all too familiar in the West in recent years, the mass shooting represents a lashing out of the repressed violence and unfulfilled sexual desire dormant in the young men of our society. Our society, one accustomed to fictionalized representations of sex and violence via the media, is appalled to witness the fuming reaction when the two mix in real life.

Young men shoot up their schools and universities for the deceptively simple reason that they’re not getting laid. Parents and the media are swift to blame guns, video games, and a lack of proper mental health care (as if boys aren’t being prescribed enough medication already), but in reality, like all things, it comes down to sex. If a boy is sexually active, he’s not emptying a loaded magazine on his school cafeteria.

Sex serves as the ultimate demarcation of social status in early adulthood, effectively separating young men into castes based on their attractiveness. A boy with minimal sexual experience will gradually find himself unable to connect with his male peers. Social isolation ensues, and with it a slew of mental health issues. You can guess what happens next.

Were the young men of our society not so thoroughly anesthetized with pornography and electronic entertainment (arguably the two most effective forms of social control), there would be a mass shooting every day. Nobody playing League of Legends into the early hours of the morning and jerking off three times per day is killing anybody.

One cannot fault young men for dropping out of society. We are caged lab rats in Calhoun’s great behavioral sink experiment. Childhood friends will stab each other in the back for the opportunity to become some drunken floozy’s fourth sexual partner. Participating in the sexual economy yields a diminishing return; and in the majority of cases, no return at all.

Russian Blue

xanaxcat
Say Yes To Drugs.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. What does that even mean? Most of the eyes I look into are dead. There’s no soul behind those eyes, no signs of intelligent life. The SETI Institute picks up more signs of intelligent life from across the universe than I encounter in the glassed-over vitreous orbs of the Bug Men that stare back at me.

There’s nothing as profoundly alienating as the blank, bug-eyed stare people give you when you interrupt them during one of their monologues. These people don’t want to talk with you. They want to talk at you. They want to tell you all about their dog, or why their car brakes were squeaking, or about the myriad of virile, young Italian soccer players that have been stalking them in their fertile age of 52.

Unmarried women should be forced to become nuns and hit little Catholic school kids on the fingers with rulers. That would prove a larger boon to society than a legal secretary or a medical office receptionist or whatever else these surplus women do with their miserable little lives. I don’t feel pity for them because they’re usually awful bitches deep down. You can tell when you try to correct one when she’s babbling on about something mundane. Correct some minute, inconsequential detail about her monologue. Go ahead, try it.

First, you’ll get the bug-eyed stare. That’s if they hear you in the first place. They forget they weren’t talking to their precious puppy, forget that you are a sentient being capable of transmitting complex forms of thought (hopefully), and are pulled out of their reverie by your sudden comment. Confusion strikes initially. Then irritation, frustration, and even anger manifest.

How dare you bring her back to reality? She’s childless, alone, and spends her nights with light romance novels and phallic vegetables. She must be allowed to live in Disneyland (she is a princess after all). Besides wine and Xanax, it’s her only coping mechanism. Your comment shatters the illusion, ushering her back into the cold, cold world. Now she hates you. She’ll make a snide, passive-aggressive comment. You won’t say anything back because you need to cheat off her test and don’t want her to start sitting on the other side of the lecture hall. You realize why nobody loves her and why nobody ever will.

I need to stop listening to people. I’m going to start charging for my time. They pay their psychiatrists and I’m essentially fulfilling the same function. What a terrible job. I do not envy the psychiatrist. Well, I envy his unlimited access to medication. Don’t take any of that shit, by the way. You won’t be able to hear the voices anymore.

The big question is how do we prevent ourselves from becoming like this woman in our own middle age? Smith & Wesson are always there for you if you feel yourself too far gone down that path, but there must be a more economical solution. Bullets are expensive. I suppose a vibrant social life in a multigenerational, homogenous rural community would do the trick. But that’s as unrealistic as these bug-eyed women not dying alone and incontinent in some godforsaken hospital bed.

I’ve longed hypothesized that neurodegenerative diseases like dementia are due to social alienation in old age. There’s some island in the Mediterranean where these types of diseases don’t seem to occur. Scientists haven’t quite been able to figure out how being surrounded by friends and family, eating and drinking well, and living on an island in the Mediterranean is good for health, however.

It seems the possibility of having this type of life grows ever smaller with each passing year. I’m making enough money where I have a roof over my head in a nice part of town and expensive eggs from Whole Foods. But it’s not fulfilling. Nothing ever is fulfilling. Not even chasing girls. The hunt is fun. But by some miracle when you manage to catch one you grow quickly tired of her. You’ll do everything you can to avoid having sex and dump her after a month or two.

I nearly went home with a co-worker last weekend. She was a pretty Russian girl, drunk out of her mind in traditional Russian fashion. Guys were buzzing around her like flies all night, buying her drinks and trying to make her laugh with lines they stole from some idiot comedian on Comedy Central. I walked by her and she called my name, anything to swat the flies away. I flirted with her, she with me. Her eyes were different: vast blue oceans of profound, immeasurable depth. Was this the fabled Russian spirit?

The only Russian word I know is пизда because that’s all Russians say when you’re wrestling. I could beat everyone in my BJJ class in college except the stout Russian guy from Kazakhstan and the instructor (also Russian). I’d last about fifteen seconds and find myself pinned under two hundred pounds of Slav. No escape. I would have my revenge with this girl. We weren’t going to have sex, we were going to wrestle and I was going to make her submit to America, to freedom, to capitalism.

Eye contact is the second hardest thing in the world. Eye contact with Russian women is the first. Their women are genetically engineered in Soviet labs to sniff out weakness. American men are faggots, she told me. I agreed. You don’t look American. I’m not, I lied. I made her guess what European country she thought I was from and she guessed Italy. Good enough.

She was married and all throughout the conversation her husband (an American faggot, she reassured me) was blowing up her phone with frantic, worried messages. Please respond. I guess green cards are hard to come by these days. She opened up the Uber application and sent for a ride home. Where do you live? I pointed to the left. She paused and embraced me and left the bar, left my life.