Gangstas, Herbivores and Soft Meat Men

[Taiwan’s Yen-j in his music video, “USA”]

This morning at the café on General Uprising, Tank Top’s pudgy son wore a Shohoku jersey. It’s the bball team from the anime hit, The First Slam Dunk. Number 4 is the center, a vaguely black looking Japanese. The entire team, though, is impossibly muscular. Softer than marshmallow, Tank Top’s kid can now imagine himself as Shawn Kemp, my favorite slam dunker. Reign Man rules.

On 7/8/19, Ring Magazine had Naoya Inoue on its cover, but as drawn by manga artist George Morikawa. With bigger eyes and much squarer jaw, it didn’t look anything like the boxing champ.

Pop and commercial images are wet dreams, demanded by and served to the much blemished. Sexed up, they’re also tools to warp taste.

In Taipei, I noticed an ad with four white children. The company is Singapore’s myFirst, so Chinese were using whites to sell to Chinese. In Don Don Donki, there’s a Japanese toothpaste with a square jawed, blue eyed white man on its sign. Whites are deployed across Asia to sell just about everything. English, too.

In Taipei’s metro, I walked past an attractive couple on an ad. Though neither appeared surgically tampered, the woman’s hair was dyed blonde. Too many yellows would rather be white. Blacks, too. Just look at Michael Jackson’s or Beyoncé’s transformation.

Raised in small town Michigan, Malcolm X visited Boston at age 15:

I spent my first month in town with my mouth hanging open. The sharp-dressed young “cats” who hung on the corners and in the poolrooms, bars and restaurants, and who obviously didn’t work anywhere, completely entranced me. I couldn’t get over marveling at how their hair was straight and shiny like white men’s hair; Ella told me this was called a “conk.”

To be urban and sophisticated also meant becoming whiter. In Taipei, Seoul, Saigon or Shanghai, this is still being played out. Deforming yourself is at least psychologically violent. Often enough, it’s much worse. Malcolm X on being conked:

[..] my head caught fire. I gritted my teeth and tried to pull the sides of the kitchen table together. The comb felt as if it was raking my skin off. My eyes watered, my nose was running. I couldn’t stand it any longer; I bolted to the washbasin.

Malcolm X’s lengthy reflection on getting a “good conk” should be read by all those who would rather be somebody else:

My first view in the mirror blotted out the hurting. I’d seen some pretty conks, but when it’s the first time, on your own head, the transformation, after the lifetime of kinks, is staggering.

The mirror reflected Shorty behind me. We both were grinning and sweating. And on top of my head was this thick, smooth sheen of shining red hair—real red—as straight as any white man’s.

How ridiculous I was! Stupid enough to stand there simply lost in admiration of my hair now looking “white,” reflected in the mirror in Shorty’s room. I vowed that I’d never again be without a conk, and I never was for many years.

This was my first really big step toward self-degradation: when I endured all of that pain, literally burning my flesh to have it look like a white man’s hair. I had joined that multitude of Negro men and women in America who are brainwashed into believing that the black people are “inferior”—and white people “superior”—that they will even violate and mutilate their God-created bodies to try to look “pretty” by white standards.

Look around today, in every small town and big city, from two-bit catfish and soda-pop joints into the “integrated” lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria, and you’ll see conks on black men. And you’ll see black women wearing these green and pink and purple and red and platinum-blonde wigs. They’re all more ridiculous than a slapstick comedy. It makes you wonder if the Negro has completely lost his sense of identity, lost touch with himself.

You’ll see the conk worn by many, many so-called “upper class” Negroes, and, as much as I hate to say it about them, on all too many Negro entertainers. One of the reasons that I’ve especially admired some of them, like Lionel Hampton and Sidney Poitier, among others, is that they have kept their natural hair and fought to the top. I admire any Negro man who has never had himself conked, or who has had the sense to get rid of it—as I finally did.

I don’t know which kind of self-defacing conk is the greater shame—the one you’ll see on the heads of the black so-called “middle class” and “upper class,” who ought to know better, or the one you’ll see on the heads of the poorest, most downtrodden, ignorant black men. I mean the legal minimum-wage ghetto-dwelling kind of Negro, as I was when I got my first one. It’s generally among these poor fools that you’ll see a black kerchief over the man’s head, like Aunt Jemima; he’s trying to make his conk last longer, between trips to the barbershop. Only for special occasions is this kerchief-protected conk exposed—to show off how “sharp” and “hip” its owner is. The ironic thing is that I have never heard any woman, white or black, express any admiration for a conk. Of course, any white woman with a black man isn’t thinking about his hair. But I don’t see how on earth a black woman with any race pride could walk down the street with any black man wearing a conk—the emblem of his shame that he is black.

To my own shame, when I say all of this I’m talking first of all about myself—because you can’t show me any Negro who ever conked more faithfully than I did. I’m speaking from personal experience when I say of any black man who conks today, or any white-wigged black woman, that if they gave the brains in their heads just half as much attention as they do their hair, they would be a thousand times better off.

Sly comedian, that Malcolm! “Of course, any white woman with a black man isn’t thinking about his hair.” I should just stop writing, traveling, eating or sleeping so I can laugh at that line for the rest of my days.

The problem goes much deeper. The colonized obey and ape distant centers, but wherever you are is already central to everyone you interact with, so that’s your center of the universe. Who cares what they do in Paris, Tokyo or New York? Following global trends, you will most likely become a parody or caricature.

Listen, man, I’m not some reactionary Nazi who hates all innovations. The mini skirt is a great progressive invention that must be universally adopted. I risked multiple heart attacks each time I stepped out of Tomorrow Hotel. I must fly back to Taipei tonight. Dowdy Vũng Tàu can go to hell.

After that last sentence, I walked a few blocks to buy roast pork with crispy skin. Too lazy to make spaghetti, I ate it with cucumber and cayenne pepper. Side dish was some “extra bitey” Aussie cheese. Cosmopolitan snobs eat fusion.

Back at Cóc Cóc, I can see that optician’s sign with a black man and white woman has been taken down. With business slowed, they’re renting one corner to an ice cream parlor. Sign indicated their eyeglasses were meant for uppity bitches.

In a Taipei alley, I ran into a huge photo, covering an entire wall, showing a black woman, yellow girl, white woman, black boy and yellow man. Smiling or laughing, they represent the new globalist family. So harmonious, they can’t be happier. Even in the most homogeneous societies, such signs have popped up. Never mind that strife and violence are common in multicultural societies. Nearly every war has a racial aspect.

Race obsessed progressives pretend they’re color blind. Tribalist Jews insist races, nations and tribes don’t matter.

On 9/17/24, ex general Steven Anderson opined on MSNBC, “People like Vladimir Putin are going to say, ‘Hey, wait a minute, these guys, you know, they truly have a democratic country. They truly are representative, they truly are fighting for all their people, and Kamala Harris is a manifestation of that.’” Electing a biracial idiot proves America is superior. Putin and Xi will only laugh.

As the West becomes queerer than ever, Russia and China are reasserting traditional masculinity. Unlike Occidental castrati, they don’t view it as toxic, but healthy. Two years ago, China started to remove “soft meat men” from its media. In Japan, sissies are known as “herbivores.”

Debasish Roy Chowdhury sums it up in Time Magazine, “Concerned that young Chinese men are overly influenced by androgynous pop stars, the authorities are cracking down on what it calls a ‘chaotic’ celebrity fan culture, and want broadcasters to ‘resolutely put an end to sissy men and other abnormal aesthetics.’” Chowdhury’s article is titled “Empires and ‘Effeminate Men.’ After Britain and America, It’s China’s Turn to Worry about Masculinity,” so he’s linking masculinity with empire building.

Relaxing its manhood, America is “tired of the strenuous life of strife and wants to return home.” That’s good, supposedly, except it isn’t true. Gay, transgendered or just morbidly obese, Americans are more belligerent than ever. Much of it is posturing. As drag queens or gangstas, Americans must overbear. With feathers and sequins flying, they won’t exit quietly.

Becoming a man is, simply, learning how to survive. Boys must learn how to hunt and fight. Otherwise, he won’t get any meat or pussy. Each tribe has set up hurdles for its boys to overcome. Here’s an instructive tidbit from James George Frazer’s majestic The Golden Bough:

In some Indian tribes of Brazil and Guiana young men do not rank as warriors and may not marry till they have passed through a terrible ordeal, which consists in being stung by swarms of venomous ants whose bite is like fire. Thus among the Mauhes on the Tapajos river, a southern tributary of the Amazon, boys of eight to ten years are obliged to thrust their arms into sleeves stuffed with great ferocious ants, which the Indians call tocandeira (Cryptocerus atratus, F.). When the young victim shrieks with pain, an excited mob of men dances round him, shouting and encouraging him till he falls exhausted to the ground. He is then committed to the care of old women, who treat his fearfully swollen arms with fresh juice of the manioc ; and on his recovery he has to shew his strength and skill in bending a bow. This cruel ordeal is commonly repeated again and again, till the lad has reached his fourteenth year and can bear the agony without betraying any sign of emotion. Then he is a man and can marry.

Societies that don’t harden their males won’t endure. Being a man, though, isn’t about lifting weights, slam dunking or, of course, worrying about the smoothness of your skin. Stop fussing about the waviness of your beautiful hair.

Before my recent trip to Taiwan, I only had the briefest glimpses of it during layovers. In May of 2018, I did notice a curious Calvin Klein ad in the Taipei Times. It showed a young Taiwanese man with his black girlfriend. She had a slim body more typical of Orientals. In South Korea, Audrey Hepburn is an icon for the same reason. With his arm around her neck, it was as if the Taiwanese had his squeeze in a headlock. His head was also above hers, and more of him was seen. Cool, he didn’t smile, only she did. Clearly, this was composed for a Taiwanese audience. It wouldn’t fly in Africa or even America.

In 10/13/21, I saw a display in a Cape Town shop window. The man, very black, is sitting and looking stern. He exudes authority. A white blonde, his trophy, stands slightly behind him.

Men must compete. Nations often war. Races have been wiped out.

[China’s TNT in their music video, “Popcorn”]

[Vietnamese rappers, Phong Le and Justin Nguyen, in their music video, “Dân Chơi Cali” (“California Playas”)]

[ad in Taipei Times on 5/10/18]

[Cape Town, 10/13/21]