Grow a pair, my brethren.

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We all know those couples where the woman ‘wears the pants’ as the saying goes. Wait a second, I can list… five such couples – off the top of my head – where the woman is the dominant one. Let me think for a second longer… Okay, all but one couple (out of all the hundreds of people I know and have known) conform to this sickening status quo: the woman wearing the pants in the relationship. 

To elaborate, ‘wearing the pants’ means setting the tone. Whoever doesn’t wear the pants is usually trying to please their ‘partner’ (fuck I hate that word) whenever they are with them. And whoever doesn’t wear the pants wears the dress, by process of elimination. It’s time to start shaming these men for not growing a pair.

Anyway, when these skewed couples are apart from eachother, the dress-wearing male might slander his girlfriend’s name, denounce her power over him, and generally return to his normal, male, form. However, together they form an item that spits in the face of evolutionary psychology. I’ll give you an example:

I was at a club dinner the other week, seated at a table of fairly uninteresting people. It turns out the girl I was talking to earlier was seated, with her boyfriend, at my table. Earlier, whilst away from her boyfriend, this girl was meek and softly spoken. Her boyfriend – let’s call him Wheatley because he was a milquetoast – was in a twisted relationship with her – may she be named Heidi. Now, Heidi was a very boring person in my company, barely holding up her end of the conversation. All she seemed capable of doing was smiling and nodding. She was moderately attractive, in the sense that store-bought shredded mozzarella cheese is a moderately strong cheese. Having been bored sufficiently by her lack of conversational flair, I ejected myself from the set of dinner-goers. My heart sank a little bit when I saw her seated at my table. 

Cut to the dinner proper: So Wheatley was even more boring than Heidi, except that he would talk your ear off, and he tended to dominate the conversation even though everybody wished he would just quietly leave. But then something funny happens. We’re talking about different types of beer, and Heidi elbows Wheatley and then whispers something in his ear. I couldn’t make out what she said, but he proceeded to apologise. He then tried to change the subject, evidently because she didn’t want him to talk about beer. Normally I don’t judge when a girlfriend metaphorically puts her boyfriend in a testicular vice and controls his every breath. But when her domineering ways change the dynamic of a whole group of people, I won’t take it. I interrupted his attempts to change the subject and told him about a beer I’d tried a few weeks ago called Torpedo (2 standards in one bottle, WIN!). He squirmed and apologised again to Heidi. Point taken, I turned to the guy next to me and told him about the awesomeness of Torpedo beer.

Later on, some chocolate fondue was being served. I shit you not, Wheatley actually asked Heidi for permission to go and get her some fondue. He said, “Heidi, is it okay if I get some fondue? I’ll get you some, too!” My heart sank even further. I only wish this girl had had a slightly stronger voice than an emphysemic mouse, because I couldn’t hear her response. Apparently Heidi had given him the all-clear to go and get himself and her some fondue. I nearly threw up in my mouth, because the gravity of what just happened hit me like a ton of horses shit: this poor Wheatley probably has to ask his precious Heidi permission to use the toilet. 

Needless to say I skipped the fondue and went outside to pollute my lungs and talk to some French people. Kids, the lesson to be taken from this little parable is that YOU MUST TAKE THE REINS early on in a relationship. Otherwise you’ll just be a reindeer like Rudolph, yanahmean? Seeing couples like this (and believe me, in Australia it’s nearly every couple) where the woman is domineering and where the man seeks approval from the woman every time he tells a lame joke, makes me sick to my core. When it comes to marriage and the husband has to seek permission to maintain friendships he fostered before the marriage, well that just makes me want to burn a building (not really, calm down my loyal police and firemen readers). I know a married couple where the husband cannot even wash a load of dishes without being screamed at for using the hot water in an incorrect way. (N.B. there is no incorrect way to use a hot water system. It’s either on or it’s off, or you’re using too much hot water – but there is no fucking incorrect way to use hot water). I overheard this whole absurd argument about doing the dishes because I was at a dinner party and the married couple thought they couldn’t be heard from the hallway of this tiny-ass house. Dumb, dumb, dumb. You’re supposed to at least maintain a façade of normalcy for the world to see. 

Oh wait, I guess the wives being domineering and demonic IS normal.

It’s been a blast, 

JImi.

Why did I start this blog?

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So I haven’t been blogging as much as I should, and I’ll tell you why. I haven’t been blogging as much as I should be because I have been censoring myself. The real reason I wanted to start a wordpress was to share my thoughts, even those thoughts that should be kept to myself, for fear of offending people. 

I guess I was afraid of one day being denied a job because somebody discovered a web archive of this blog and linked it to me. Paranoid? Yep. But they say “what goes on the internet, stays on the internet.” There must be some truth to that saying. I have a lot that needs to be written, and I haven’t etched out a niche yet. 

This won’t be exclusively a Red Pill blog (I hate the acronym MRA, because it’s a tag that certain people will use against you). But it will be mostly filled with my un-PC thoughts and ravings. Luckily for you, my valued reader, I have correct syntax and grammar and all the rest. 

So strap in, buckle up, brace yourselves, and a thousand other clichés that basically mean the same thing: here is the inaugural RealTalk post. Well, to be truthful, the next post is where the RealTalk will begin. I don’t know why I made those two words into one – I must have read it somewhere and thought it was super-cool. 

It’s been a blast,

Jimi Pacino.

Video

Everyday driver slash DRAG CAR?

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Okay, I’ve written twelve posts on my blog without once mentioning my favourite topic. I deserve this.

Nelson Racing Engines is home to much innovation, and they build terrifying twin-turbo V8 motors. The one in this video has 2000hp (2x Bugatti Veyrons) and runs on fuel you can buy down at the local service station (regular unleaded, not premium, you snob). In the video Tom Nelson will show you that this rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth drag car can be a pleasant daily driver with power-steering and power brakes.

I wonder how much it would cost to import a car built to this standard from NRE in CA to Sydney in Australia? I wonder if my bank would lend me the money… Nah! If I were to own a beast like this I’d be dead in a week. So, NRE, happy for the free plug? Just say, ‘thankyou, Pacino.’

You’re welcome,

Jimi.

Muscle memory – and future memories

ImageLast night I rode a skateboard for the first time since 2004. To be specific I rode a little cruiser board the size of my shin bone. Muscle memory works, yo! I picked it up just like that. That’s not to say I was any good, but the fact that I was able to push off, mount the board and ride it down a pussy-ass little hill amazed both myself and my friend (who is a seriously good skater). It almost makes me want to buy a deck, that’s how much fun it was.

Imagine skiing on land, or surfing on land. It’s a feeling of civil liberty, but at the same time intimidating for the novice. Skating also has a really cool image attached to it, so if you’re into looking cool, get into skating. Otherwise you can just wear skate apparel and look the part (you poseur, you!) I prefer the basic smart casual look – makes me look older so I can tune those 27-year-old dimes who somehow have a thing about “seeing” blokes so much as a day younger than them. Anyway back to the good times on a Wednesday night, just for the hell of it.

Last night my friends and I spent about three hours in an empty carpark, just skating and drinking. It was The Suite Life, with Zach and Corey (Disney channel reference, geddit?) I know for a fact that I will miss times like this when I get too old to be doing such things without being deemed a loser by society. Imagine: 30-year-olds drinking and skating in a carpark on a weeknight – whole different mental picture, huh? I get nostalgic sometimes about the present moment, thinking how I may never be as care-free as I am right now.

The thought of pulling 12-hour days at the office (routine numbers for the profession I’m currently studying to enter) mortifies me to the very core. How would I have time for nighttime martial arts classes and random drinking binges on public property? I suppose I’d have to settle for binge-drinking at classy bar/restaurants where they charge $11 for a pint of some beer brewed by mustached, Ray Ban-wearing wankers in some hippie district in Byron Bay. Give me a pint of Carlton Dry any day, brewed by real salt-of-the-earth types down in Victoria. It tastes better when the pint is $3 anyway (at a certain Irish pub in my city every Thursday till 11pm – all those Lawyer Bars should take a leaf out of the Irish pub’s book. Though I suppose one pays an eight-dollar premium per pint to be surrounded by fancy décor and fabulously dressed people).

My rapidly dwindling youth motivates me to live for the moment. I try not to care about work the next day, and just try to be home before 1AM. Oh, and don’t get the wrong idea, I never drink and drive – that would be the stupidest thing to ever be deemed stupid by a stupid person. Now that’s stupid. This mentality of living like there’s no tomorrow doesn’t extend to serious law-breaking, but it does motivate me to go to a bush-doof. If you don’t know what a bush-doof is, let me tell you. It’s a giant party/camping trip/trance music concert in the middle of the forest, usually out of major cities and organized without permission from the park rangers. That adds to the danger whilst also reducing the danger of getting done for DUIs. I’m really keen to try a bush-doof but I don’t really like camping, so I’d need to be pretty munted to not care about sleeping on rocks. That means money for getting munted (on alcohol – illegal drugs are evil, kids). There’s the Mayan End of the World party coming up, which should be the doof to end all doofs (pun intended). If the world did end, I sure-as-shit would want to be partying right up until the meteors started raining down and ruining everyone’s days.

Now to finish on a high note: did you know that over three people die, a day? It’s true, you know. I may be underestimating the actual figure, but definitely it’s more than three people who die per day.

 

It’s been a pleasure,

 

Jimi.

Aside

Working out is one of the great pleasures in life. No, that isn’t an oxymoron – many people really do enjoy lifting absurdly heavy weights, and the subsequent deep muscle ache in the days after a workout. Now that’s manly. If you hit the gym early in the morning, you will be energised for the rest of the day – this sounds counter-intuitive, but trust me, your day will be like a lime with Tabasco sauce: zingy.

A perk of going to the gym is feeling superior, like Zeus looking down upon the poor unenlightened minions. I’m not talking strictly about being the most shredded guy there with the largest-circumference upper arms (though that would be an awesome feeling). I’m talking about being the only one with the correct technique in the whole gym. Have a look around: that middle-aged man who realised 2 days ago that it might be nice to have a 6-pack before he dies: he will throw out his back soon because he’s throwing the weights around like they’re really heavy medicine balls. That buffed-up guy using the Smith machine? He may also ruin his back with his ridiculously fast squats. It’s like these guys are in a time trial competition to see who can finish their workout the quickest whilst also looking like special n00bs. 

Girls like working out too. They get right into the cardio, so they can keep their Body Mass Indicies under 20. The cardio room at my gym might as well have a sign on the door saying, “no boys allowed.” The boys that do go in there are just that: boys, albeit post-pubescent boys who look like women minus the long hair and breasts. But enough about androgynous people. The cardio room is extremely well air-conditioned compared to the rest of the gym. I feel like there should be cases of beer kept in there for after a 30-minute treadmill burn. Speaking of beer, I could really go one right now. It’s hot in the office, a little too hot and zingy.

I think I’ll hit the gym after knock-off then get a Corona with lemon. Now that’s manly.

Rolling out solo

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Rolling out solo is quite hard. I’m talking about going to a cafe or restaurant by yourself. You may be waiting for somebody, or just looking for some decent coffee without having to rush out with a takeaway cup. Right now I am waiting for somebody at a cafe, I have been here for 30 minutes by myself. At first it was fine, the place was nearly full. Then people started leaving, the lunch hour being over. Here I am still, nursing my bottle of water (I had a double shot ristretto before, the effects of which are wearing off). 
If somebody stands you up or keeps you waiting for longer than 15 minutes without a seriously good excuse (such as being carjacked at the lights), then just leave the venue. You owe it to yourself. Unless you’re relying on the rude man for a lift back to the office, in which case you can drink tap water and plot his violent accidental death.
 
The reason why rolling solo is hard, is because you feel self-conscious without another person’s conversation to distract you. You have no public validation from another man or woman. Have you ever tried going to a bar solo? Try it, you probably won’t like it. I once did it because I was keen to see TyDi hit the decks at the biggest club in the city, however I didn’t make it past the first half-hour of his set. You get funny looks if you’re at a club by yourself. It’s fine if you’re intoxicated though, provided you’re feeding off good vibes.
 
Ah, my mate has just arrived at the cafe, as I’m the second last party here. I’m staring daggers at him until he sees me sitting here. He had better have a great excuse otherwise I’m feeling a premonition coming on about a poisoned cup of coffee…
 
Haha just kidding, murder is wrong kids! Just remember, if somebody stands you up, leave early.
 
You’re welcome.

Future: one way to a better world

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Music festivals are like nothing else on earth. If you have been to a dance music festival, or – at a stretch – a rock festival, you have really lived it up. Everyone is having a good time, and most importantly, the chicks are all wearing next-to-nothing. If you’re into blokes, that’s cool – about 1 in 2 men at an event like Stereosonic Festival are shirtless and shredded, Zyzz-style.

 I make the distinction between electronic music festivals (e.g. dance), and rock festivals because:

a)     Rock music is so passé.

b)    EDM is the future, and infinitely more complex than rock or pop

c)     All EDM fans are on drugs at festivals (except for myself, of course), which makes for some hilarious spectacles on the day (or days, you lucky Americans with your Ultra Music Festival over three days!)

d)    There’s more bass than you can shake a subwoofer at (can you even shake a subwoofer in its wooden case? I know I can’t, so you get the idea that the amount of bass at a festival is enough to vibrate your ribcage and induce heart attacks in the obese and frail.

An EDM festival is like an alternate reality. See my post ‘Utopia,’ written in October. Well, Stereosonic was a perfect world – that is to say, it was a parallel universe in which every woman is slim and attractive. That’s my kind of universe, yanahmean? Every time I turned to perve on some chick, ten more hot ones would walk past. There were simply too many chicks to perve on. I don’t know which I preferred on the day: the music or the people-watching opportunities.

Before you ask (wait, do I even have any followers and/or commenters?), the best act of the day was Calvin Harris. Commercial dance he plays, but boy does he play it well.

I thoroughly recommend you get your behind on a computer chair and book a ticket to Future Music Festival, coming up in March 2013. Future is by far the biggest EDM festival in Australia, with everything from House to Trap to Minimal Tech to alt rock (for all the pussies out there who are sure neither of their sexuality nor why they even came to an EDM festival). Oh yeah, I nearly forgot to end this post on a high note. Enjoy this photo of a typical festival crowd:

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 Peace in the Middle East,

Jimi.

Trance music

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Superstars of Trance: John O’Callaghan (centre stage), ørjan Nilsen (right stage) at Future Music Festival, Sydney, March 2012. 

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EDM stands for Electronic Dance Music, one of many types of music I listen to on a daily basis. Undoubtedly the best type of EDM is trance music, and listening to it is the closest you will get to an MDMA trip whilst sober. Try it: put on your premium sennheiser headphones or rig up your Henry Kloss stereo and crank the subwoofer up to 11. Then plug in your iPod, press play on any radio show by Armin Van Buuren or mix by Gareth Emery, and prepare to be taken to a higher plane of mental operation. 

Trance is big in Europe, yet for some reason Australia hasn’t caught on to the sheer brilliance of the genre. Here most people boogie down to house music, or at worst, top 40 jams (think Rihanna… Ugh). Yeah, most clubs here pump the top 40 like they’re trying to be a crappy RSL club or insipid radio station. Anyway, not to get down in the dumps about the clubbing scene here in Australia -I just wish there were a place that played A State of Trance through a super amazing sound system. 
Dubstep is overrated. House is overplayed. Techno is sweet but good luck finding a club that plays that in my city. Yes, trance has the positive effect of being both emotional and uplifting. At one trance show I saw in Sydney I looked around to see a few people openly crying in joy. Simply life-affirming.
 
I’ll embed a video after this post; hopefully this track will convert you to a devotee of the Music of the Gods (as zyzz called trance – RIP).

Miami Vice – quite good

Miami Vice is such a riot of colour and noise and excellent sets. Sure, the acting may be hammy in parts and certain aspects of the storylines are overblown, but the raw look of the show is mind-blowing. In what other series can an undercover cop go from testing cocaine to piloting a cigarette boat to driving a Ferrari in under 10 minutes? The show has it all. It makes the ‘80s look like a time I would like to live in, if I somehow came across a time-machine. However I know that the ‘80s weren’t all that great.

 

Miami Vice makes the ‘80s look fabulous because all the people in the show are cast for their good looks. There’s a costume department that clothes them in the very best fashion items of the decade. In short, it’s a fantasy. But there is another reason why I like Miami Vice, and that’s because it provided inspiration for my all-time favourite videogame: Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. That game was such a dynamo of awesomeness when it first came out. There was no other game like it, where you could ride a Harley out in the open. Anyway, without losing half my target audience by talking about videogames, let’s focus back on Miami Vice.

 

There are very few strong men left on TV these days. There are angry men (Kurt Wallander), dick-headed men (Charlie Sheen), psycho men (Dexter) and many, many limp-wristed milquetoast men (who are usually foils to enhance the acting of the dick-headed characters surrounding them).

Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett is a STRONG man. He does not let another man disrespect him, however he does not lose his cool every time somebody backchats him. Sonny is quick-thinking in times of danger, and loyal to his partner Rico Tubbs and his friends. He also spits pretty tight game. Watch the episode in Season 2 where Crockett and Tubbs go to New York. Crockett deals with this sassy little tart so adeptly you’d think they were old friends. He passes through her defences so easily. He is “alpha” in every sense of the word. The ‘80s was a time when masculinity was not a dirty word.

 

If you have not seen Miami Vice before, and you enjoy a visual feast and a good dose of cheesy action, I highly commended it to you. Seasons 1 and 2 are the best, in that order. They also come in DVD books in fluoro colours that will look sexy on your shelf.