Monthly Archives: January 2018

The Rise and Fall of Owen Cook

For judging any man, I hold two principles:

  1. Does he practice what he preaches?
  2. Is he content with what he practices?

 

I recently watched an Owen Cook video with some friends. It’s been a year since I last discussed RSD. My opinion has not changed.

Gurus like Owen Cook remain fascinating figures. Men seek avatars to learn from and Owen explicitly is such an avatar, especially since he actually talks in front of crowds, as opposed to anonymous writers on the internet who might as well be keyboard-hitting monkeys.

But no one is perfect and sometimes the most ostensibly successful persons are the most fucked up. The greater the rise, the harder the fall. Such it was with Ken Wilber, as documented by Mark Manson (who himself completely sold-out since the days he garnered praise from Nick Krauser. My local bookshop sells Manson’s book ‘the subtle art of not giving a fuck’, yours probably does too).

Anyway. As with Ken Wilber, so it is with Owen. Below his most recent video.

We watched Owen talk for about 20 minutes, when my friend, who used to be pretty big on RSD, paused the video and exclaimed: ‘this is nonsense. He is just bragging and talking nonsense!’ My friend is right. Owen has no coherent message here. What Owen says here is a random collection of stuff he knows his audience expects him to say, and his audience plays along because Owen says what they paid him to say, but any sense of meaning is lost. It is noise, with little to no information.

It wasn’t always like this. Old Owen was better. For instance take the clip below.

Beardless Owen talked sense, had some good concepts. ‘Pinging’ always stuck with me, which refers to your dependance on other people as anchors for reality. Women ping all the time. Arrogant men ping little and if they are forced to ping they often do so irritatingly slowly. The person who pings less has most power.

But the seeds of his failure were already visible in the fruits of his success. Lemme explain.

Tyler’s big thing has always been deconditioning your social conditioning. What is social conditioning? Everything you’ve been taught by society, your parents, your teachers. You are taught to feel depressed, confined and self-hating. You are taught to shut up and keep your head low. In reactionary circles, social conditioning is known as the false life script.

So Owen wanting to end this makes perfect sense. So far, so good.

The problem arises with his proposed replacement. What is his proposed replacement? Well, in a nutshell: not giving a fuck, being your best self. Do what you like, when you like. Be who you like to be.

Which is great advice. For a fortune cookie. See, men need freedom, sure. But men also need direction, purpose. The reason traditions are important is that they provide a place of belonging for men. Just because our current societal rituals are rotten does not mean we can do away with rituals all-together. Need rituals.

What are such rituals? Rituals derived from the acceptance that we are imbued with genetic programming. As a white male this means you want territory, you want power, you want your own female, you want your female to give birth to your children, you want to protect and care for your family and be loved in return. More or less.

Deviation from this path is possible, but you do so at your own risk. The life-long bachelor does not age too well I think. Paraphrasing Spandrell, life-long bachelors have too much idle time on their hands, do silly things. Jim puts it stronger: if a man does not own a woman he becomes horribly broken. I for one think you end up feeling lonely.

How does this relate to Owen Cook? Well, his wife divorced him and took his 2 kids.

This piece of personal information is crucial. It is sad. But it is also strange. Here’s a guy travelling the world telling men how to achieve success with women, yet he could not convince the mother of his children to stay with him.

Owen Cook’s best teachings are as deeply purple-pill you can describe life without going red. He made all the right observations about women. He described social dynamics accurately. He went into the evolutionary background of it all. But he failed to draw the obvious conclusions that everyone who has taken the red pill has. Owen Cook’s genes want him to own a woman, want him to be patriarch of his family, and if the opposite happens, if his woman leaves him and takes away his children, he becomes horribly broken. Which is exactly what happened.

Men need freedom, but men also need chains of family. But men like hearing about freedom more so Owen did exactly that.

It is ironic that the same thing that brought Owen success, namely telling men what they wanted to hear without setting off too many CRIMETHINK alarms, led to his own downfall.

Not that he has literally hit rock bottom, of course. Dude is still richer than I’ll ever be. But a guru always cares more about his reputation than his bank account, and the end of Owen’s reputation has arrived.

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Part VII — Life or Death

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Perv swerved his arm to take aim at Sadiq, but the butch arm of a rainbow soldier knocked the gun out of his hand. As Sadiq and rainbow soldier jumped Perv, Hans and Mike handed out punches to the disbelieving blue-haired goons. Farage pulled Barron down to the ground behind a couch and talked as quick as an Englishman could talk: ‘Young man, judging by the effort our enemies are making to stop you, it is imperative that you obtain the orb of Covfefe. For this you must leave England in one piece.

A gunshot whizzed through the room, followed by the sound of broken glass, some of which Barron felt landing on his back. Barron looked up to see Sadiq Khan running at Perv with a swollen lip and fist raised in the air. Perv evaded the fist and punched Khan in the stomach. Barron turned to Nigel. ‘how do I get out of here? They must have the place surrounded.’
– ‘Yes, it is merely a matter of time before reinforcements arrive. But there is an escape. Follow me.’

They crawled to the back of the room, half-successfully avoiding the scuffling men and shards of glass. The last thing Barron saw before he exited the room was Hans landing a high-kick in the pierced nose of a rainbow warrior, and Perv ripping of his own shirt in a bloodrage, revealing chiseled abs underneath. Once out of the room Nigel and Farage got on their feet and Barron could hear Khan’s voice crying behind him: ‘Don’t let them escape! Get the boy!’ Barron followed Nigel who ran down a small stairway. Behind them Barron heard the sound of someone in pursuit.

Quickly Barron rushed down wooden steps until he found himself in a damp cellar, barely high enough for Nigel to stand upright, let alone Barron. Nigel was hurriedly pushing aside wine bottles and cans of food. ‘Where is it where is it’ he murmured.

Barron in the meanwhile grabbed a wine bottle and pushed himself against the wall behind the stairs. Nigel found what he was looking for: a wooden Santa Clause statue, as large as a hand. He pulled it towards him, and with minor rumbling a hidden door in the stone cellar wall slid open. Grinning, Nigel turned around, only to look straight into the barrel of a gun pointed at him by a very angry looking rainbow warrior. ‘Step away from the door, NOW’ she said. ‘Or else I will…’

It will never be known what she would have done, for at that same moment a green bottle hit her head so hard it broke into pieces, and 170 pounds of blue-haired butchness fell unconscious to the floor. Barron emerged from the shadows, the remainder of the bottle in his hand.

‘Splendid!’ Nigel said. ‘Here, take this.’ He hastily scribbled some notes on a piece of paper and gave it to Barron.

‘Make your escape through the tunnel. You will emerge safely at the other end. Get to Dover as quick as possible. Call the number on this paper, say I sent you. Now go quickly!’

Barron nodded and with bent head entered the low, dark tunnel. Before he disappeared, he turned around and faced Nigel Farage one last time. ‘Thank you’, he said. Farage’s eyes watered up. ‘Thank you, young Barron. Bless your father. Godspeed to your mission, the world depends on you!’ Nigel pushed the Santa Clause figurine back in its original space, and with the closing of the door darkness engulfed Barron.