One of the things about game is the mind-opening possibilities that the choice offers. I confess to being amused when first stumbling on the ‘sphere back in 09. There was now a whole body of research and field reports on the mastery of picking up and (cover your eyes, blushing brides!) bangin’ hordes of young, no-longer-nubile (if the Social Pathologist is to be believed) women. This being an activity not of interest to me, it appeared to be a passing amusement, like one might spend a day reading randomly on Wikipedia.
Then I stumbled on the single most important post ever made in the whole ‘sphere, Relationship Game: A Reader’s Journey. (I’m not going to link it, because you ALL had better have it bookmarked.) I know that this saved at least one life of a person I sent it to, and it should be required reading of EVERY married man. I went along the path, finding Dave in Hawaii, with his explanation of the terminology of “the red pill.”
The red pill doesn’t just help with relationships, however, or helping to see how to avoid bad ones. As Carnivore wrote, a knowledge of game is essential to understanding many classic operas. I had my own moment watching Rigoletto. Scales dropped from my eyes, and I could understand ALL the coded messages that were in that piece. (An earlier understanding of that piece is similar to the views of the writer of this piece.) The Duke, a carefree Alpha, gets away with crap no one else can; the denuded betas can complain, but cannot act as he does. Learning the theory of game gave me a visit to a brand new opera that night, and it has continued.
But game is like the secret decoder ring to just about ANY artwork from before the triumph of Cultural Marxism in the 60s. Consider I love Lucy. (Question: does Lucy love me? Ah, there’s the rub.) I NEVER found it funny, NEVER. As I explained to an older Boomer friend years ago, Lucy’s antics are not funny to a Gen-Xer like me. Dysfunction and disorder were the norm to my generation, and recall that comedy is a tragedy that happens to SOMEONE ELSE. I never laughed at ditzy, dysfunctional stuff because I grew up in a society that had lost its freaking mind (now, having read the Fourth Turning [see Grerp’s excellent overview], I understand that underprotecting children like those of my generation is NECESSARY to spawn a generation of cynical, disaffected middle-aged people with no love or loyalty to the society that did not protect them so that they will make the hard decisions necessary in a crisis to build a better world for the next generation) Dysfunction, I told him, was only funny to the Boomers of the 50s who grew up in a relatively normal, stable society. (One tidbit from the Fourth Turning: the Boom was the only time in history when college-educated women had more children than lesser-educated women.)
Now I know that I had only part of the story when I talked to him. This past weekend, I chanced to have the idiot box on (and television use is DYING among the young; read this excellent article to understand why) while working on my laptop, and I Love Lucy went on in the background. Too lazy to mute it, Ricky and family came through my bubble into my brain. And I laughed. Oh, my, did I laugh. Because now I understood.
The societal dysfunction under which I grew up was based in Cultural Marxism, one aspect of which is Feminism. And Feminism was adamant about coverig up sex differences, putting forward strong women and cutting men down to size, leading to an excess of moxie and entitled princesses. So men of my generation were indoctrinated, not educated; if we chanced to grow up under a beta, we never had the calm, confident masculine leadership to show us NOT to take women’s histrionics seriously, to show us how to bat aside their, uh, fitness tests. (In this regard, recall that Feminism is women’s greatest fitness test.) The indoctrination was so severe that I realize now that I never liked Ricky, as I thought he was pushing around Lucy, bossing her, acting like the evil patriarch of feminist legend.
But watch, ye whose stomach lining is crimson from pill coverings. You’ll see a master of frame control. In the three episodes that I chanced to see Sunday, Ricky NEVER ONCE bent to her frame, but always calmly, dominantly, had her submit to his (and this does not mean he was an ass: when he went too far, he did, as HL recommends, make a sincere apology. But he never subjugated himself to her.) He laughingly dismisses her like a little kid, but she does not complain: she loves every minute of it. He teases her constantly, but lovingly. His mastery of Spanish and English gives him a leg up on her: he is contantly her superior. He is, in the immortal words of Athol, always the captain, and she the first mate.
It is like watching my friend, the pre-Castro Cuban, as he flirts, asserts, and woos EVERYONE (including me) in the restaurant when we have lunch. You cannot help but smile, and want to emulate, for you recognize that you are in the presence of a master. So, too, with Ricky Ricardo. If you never liked him before the Red Pill, take another look.