Archive for the ‘The Big City Life’ Category

Ejected from the valences of the elementary particles, a new social science survey (re)discovers that city life breeds loneliness.

Are there aspects of city life that can heighten one’s feelings of loneliness? The charity network Acevo, which set up The Loneliness Project last year to tackle social isolation among young people in London, today publishes a report which suggests young Londoners are twice as likely to be lonely as their counterparts elsewhere in the country.

Young people surveyed for the report cited high housing costs, long working hours and the growth of social media as factors contributing to loneliness in the city.

Part of the reason for this increased loneliness of Londonistan Shrillennials is sample bias. Maybe the kind of people who abscond for the big city life are prone to solitude, or to feeling lonely. But my bet is the two big reasons for the increased urban loneliness are the negative effects of Diversity™, which has been proven to lower social trust and fray social bonds, and the severing of connections to family, neighbors and friends in the home towns from where the fresh London recruits hail.

Loneliness is a combination of distrust of your neighbors and density of strangers in your proximity, intensified in those with introvert personalities. The modren deracinated Western megalopolis deepens feelings of distrust and sharpens the division between the soulful social connectedness the new resident left behind and the stew of mystery meat animus he bears and the self-protective ennui he adopts when he moves to the city to become a “stranger in a strange land”.

The report recommends, among other things, the establishment of a mayor’s Fund for Young People’s Resilience and Inclusion, worth £3.2m, to help ensure that young people build the necessary strong social connections to battle isolation.

Instead of blowing money on another fruity lib welfare project doomed to fail, how about enacting long-term plans to reorient Western societies so that there’s a backing-off from the rush to stuff everyone into these market bazaar soulless anthill megacities, and a concomitant revival of small cities geographically distributed across the nation into which smaller, more cohesive groups of people can sort themselves?

Of course, this won’t happen under the globalists’ watch, because it would mean stronger local community bonds, less concentrated Diversity™, and more affordable housing, all social goods which undermine the political and cultural power of insular coastal elites.

Having tried both rural and city life, I’ve come to the conclusion that although you can experience loneliness in both, it feels more pressing in a city environment. I’ve just moved to a big city and I’m reminded again of how alienating it can be. When you’re approaching 50 and trying to ‘start again’ in a new place, it can be really hard. In a city it can feel like the whole world is out having fun, which makes you feel like a bit of loser. (Polly, Edinburgh resident)

Big cities are intimidating. The more people around you, the easier it is to get lost among them, to lose track of your own self. In big cities one can be completely busy doing so much and be left with little to no time to nurture any particular relationship or interest. Therefore, you’re living surrounded by people, but connected to no one. (Gustavo, Chicago resident)

Growing up in a city that had little to offer but decrepit playgrounds, underfunded schools and a sorry park, I spent most of my precious childhood at home staring at screens. Later, I was compelled to move out of the city and into a more suburban, almost rural place. After a rough phase of adaptation, I was overwhelmed with the cordiality that surged up on me. Within a year, I made dozens of friends, met the girl I now live with and developed a much more positive attitude. (Donald Saunter, ex-Saarbrücken resident)

I personally feel that NYC has become a more transient place rather than a community-building place. There’s no real sense of community left. The city has also become an investment haven for absentee foreign owners. It has also become a homogenised ‘Disneyland’ of sorts – imitating itself like the New York New York hotel/casino in Las Vegas. Another life-long New Yorker I know once referred to the city as a ‘five-star jail’ which I found to be pretty accurate. What can be more lonely than a jail? (David, New York City resident)

I have a thing for major cities, but they can be intimidating. While anonymity isn’t necessarily always bad, big cities do leave you somewhat unprotected and exposed. But part of that loneliness means cities are the ideal environment to discover yourself in your own light, without feeling like you are being watched or frowned upon, and really thrive. (Juliana, Buenos Aires resident)

Juliana is the kind of girl I prey on in the biggest cities. Girls who need to “discover themselves” free of judgmental family or friends who would “frown upon” their sexual adventures. (Let’s cut out the bullshit…in femmespeak, “thrive” means “lotsa cockas”.) This lifestyle does come with its downsides, though. Ironically, urban atomization and its discontents offers a chance at romantic redemption for loveless beta and omega males by giving them the closest facsimile to an “SMV blank slate” they can hope to have.

I once wrote that the anonymity afforded by dense city living was a godsend for aspiring cads, (and a threat to aspiring dads), as the urban milieu does a good job sheltering men from angry ex-boyfriends, bored gossips, and disapproving parents. Similarly, the anonymizing urban jungle encourages permissiveness among girls who don’t have to worry so much about their reputations and walks of shame circulating far and wide among watchful family and friends. They can let their slut flag fly.

The loneliness of city living isn’t its sole enervating aspect, but it will contribute, along with the sexually primal, non-inclusive secret society that hums just underneath the city’s androgynous veneer, to a vast interwoven malaise that saps souls of meaning and wombs of nurslings.

The open borders project forced by a 0.1%er elite on an unwilling citizenry can be viewed in the context of this post as a poisoned ameliorative for the negatives of big city life, specifically the fertility depression and the spiritual depression brought on by social atomization. It’s no wonder elections are more and more shaping up into existential battles between the working and middle classes in the countryside and the dregs and upper classes in the cities. Rome fell under similar strains. Barring a Trumpian reversal, we will too.

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The Right needs more Sabos, fewer cucks. I like this guy and what he’s doing ON THE GROUND to advance the anti-globohomo, anti-leftoid, anti-cuck, pro-Trumperica resistance.

The guerrilla art movement is usually associated with leftwing politics. Banksy targets capitalism, consumerism and inequality. Blek le Rat, the father of stencil graffiti, depicts oppression and resistance.

Shepard Fairey gilded Barack Obama’s rise with the iconic “Hope” poster and now highlights the scapegoating of Muslims and the corporatisation of US politics.

In the Trump era, the right, however, has its own guerrilla artist: Sabo, a former US marine who works from an apartment-cum-studio in Los Angeles beneath a sign that says “Fuck Tibet”. Another says “Fuck peace”.

There’s no clause in the cosmic laws that says the Left has to own the domain of street art or street activism. The Maul-Right is showing that clever artlords can turn the streets into their agitprop playgrounds with arguably more impact than do the icons of the shitlib self-pleasuring consortium, given that the material the maul-right works with is by its nature incredibly subversive and id-throttling.

“Republicans are the new punk,” said Sabo, echoing a slogan on his T-shirt also adorned with an image of Trump in a three-piece suit, looking rather rakish, giving the finger. “I’m pretty much the only right-winger doing guerrilla art. I’m like patient zero, the first one doing this on our side.”

Ahem, I hate to preen out of turn, but a case can be made this very Chateau was uglytruth guerrilla art before it could be even imagined by the kweer kultur kommissars.

Several other rightwing street artists are in fact active in LA but prefer anonymity, thinking that gives their work more power. Some on the right consider Sabo a showboater.

He is not shy about self-promotion, calling himself a one-man rebuttal to Madonna, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and other anti-Trump performers. “I cater to the street urchins, the young people. I want them to understand that there’s another message out there.”

I don’t have a problem with Sabo’s showboating as long as he’s effective, passionate, and willing to stick the shiv in leftoid guts when the sticking’s good. But anonymity does generally imbue an artist with an ineffable coolness factor.

Sabo now says he is “cautiously optimistic” about the president. “The day I came to love Donald Trump was when I saw how hard he was kicking liberals in the teeth.”

Amen, Sabo. How can you not admire a man who doesn’t cry at the sight of his own balls or apologize for their impudent heft?

The left, he said, has mastered cultural and political “dark arts” and “weaponised” Hollywood, the FBI, the IRS, universities and other institutions to promote a nefarious agenda.

Indeed, for going on sixty plus decades. But hope glimmers from a retreat nestled deep in the Alsatian wood. Chateau Heartiste is a place where lords and guests come to retrieve those dark arts and reclaim them for the side of Truth and Beauty.


Here’s a take on Sabo over at the Chicago Boyz.

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A reader submitted his encounter with Diversitopia in America, lived to tell the tale, and wants Chateau guests to know that they don’t need to fear they’ll be alone when the storm comes.


The coming war that needs to happen

Seigneur de la Chateau Heartiste,

I have been considering this correspondence for some time now, my delay being in part to the rigors and schedule of my work as a welder and construction superintendent, and also in part due to my recovery which has been longer than anticipated.

In March of this year, I was attacked by a shining example of Diversity! (Inc.) in Baltimore, Maryland.  I had returned to my car after having a few drinks with friends in a recently gentrified artsy fartsy part of town– don’t ever let that fool you in Baltimore or any other major city with a significant black population where recently converted ghettos may have been sold to productive human beings for fire-sale real estate prices.  There is no part of this city where a “good” neighborhood is less than 500 to 1000 meters from a slice of Mogadishu.  Predators learn the travel patterns of its prey.  I see it every day when I drive to work through Liberty Heights and other squalid hells.  Since the attack I moved to Annapolis, the last big town in Maryland not connected to the others by way of subsidized transportation in the form of the Light Rail network, Amtrack-MARC lines, or regular bus shipments of the third world.  To live in Annapolis largely means to work elsewhere, and to work elsewhere means to have the capacity to own, register, inspect, and insure a private motor vehicle for which you are responsible for maintaining.  The automobile may be our salvation if we let the cattle cars crumble, as at least then we can largely immobilize the third world into their respective islands whilst we build walls around them with the machine gun sectors pointed in.

[ed: fyi this is one reason leftoids hate hate hate the privately owned automobile]

As a former US Marine, I am painfully aware of the security risks of Baltimore, and go out of my way to reduce my need to resort to force for survival.  At approximately 10 PM, I sat in the driver’s seat with the engine running and texted a few friends while I let the engine warm up (diesel car, cold night).  I was parked in the corner of a restaurant parking lot that is surrounded by fence on all sides save for the entrance– trapped.  Suddenly, to my left, a loud banging against my driver window caused me to drop my phone, and I looked up in horror at some young dindu punk with a cheap Hi-Point brand 9mm pistol leveled right at my chest ordering me to get out of my car.  I raised my left hand in a stop motion to show him I meant no harm as my right hand inconspicuously but instinctively went for my right hip where, if I were in Virginia or my native New York, my hand would have grasped the hilt of my Glock model 27 .40 caliber soul liberator.  The realization of its absence is when the blood truly drained from my face, and the icy cold reality of having to get out of my car and into the jaws of the beast to negotiate for my life set in.  Had I been able to drive off, I would have done so, and run this dindu down in the process by a fast reverse with the wheel hard to the right.

The instant I lowered the window to tell him to take the car, he started pulling on the glass (thanks for the fingerprints, asshole) and managed to force my window down to reach inside to pull the door handle. He grabbed me by the shirt, and pulled me out of the car but my seatbelt slowed my progress. He kept screaming, almost in a frightened manner, to “get out of the fucking car.” His pistol-whips came raining down on my head and somehow I was able to get out of the car when I tried to just run, but was on my knee with the door open and my right leg still in the car. He kept screaming for the keys, when I yelled, “they’re in the car, they’re in the car!” On about the fourth or fifth smash to my head and face with his crude instrument of an impoverished savage, I saw a starry flash and knew this cocksucker was going to kill me if he was able to get control of my car. I unclipped my Benchmade 4.5″ Stryker knife when I felt him lean over me to look into the car and plunged the glinting tip of my shiv directly into his abdomen somewhere near his spleen. I pulled the knife out to go for a second thrust when I barely got the edge of his blue hooded sweatshirt as he was in Jessie Owens mode running for the street nearby to make his escape back to the shadows. It just goes to show that we are ceding Western Civilization without so much as a whimper, because the instant I became a hard target capable of presenting danger to him and taking his life, he ran like a spearchucking skinny after the last gazelle on the grassy plain.

After driving off hurriedly to safety and dealing with the police, where my vehicle and knife were impounded for evidence for the night, I called my loved ones to let them know I was OK. The smiling southern belle who worked in the evidence lab gave me my knife back when I went to retrieve my car, smiling and thanking me for “marking” the son of a bitch while mentioning that she took the time to completely wash off all the blood for me. Had she not had a wedding band on, I might have asked her if she liked coffee, and if not, the company of handsome men.

The recovery was a bit longer than I expected. I went to see a neurologist and had an MRI in the coming week to check for bleeding, as my girlfriend said there were several times that I stopped mid-sentence and lost my train of thought completely. In addition to the headaches from the concussion, I went approximately three weeks with SEVERELY reduced libido– thankfully that has all worked itself out and I am functioning again as a physically fit man. That fucking dindu nearly made me a eunuch for a car whose resale value is less than ten grand, and one I tried to give him as the insurance company (one of those things that only white people have) would have paid me up in full when my car was found wrecked or parted out in some hole in the city. The black eye and swelling lasted for about two weeks.

Enclosed is a photo of my face that morning, as I decided to go get a line of cocaine’s worth of coffee before heading home to shower and clean up. [ed: injury status confirmed] Later that evening, my girlfriend and I went to a pub in Annapolis to just enjoy each other’s company and celebrate our love and my still being here on this earth– rather than her standing with my parents as my fellow Marines fire three volleys over my lifeless corpse. A gentleman sitting next to us with his girlfriend interrupted us to say that he was a photographer and graphic designer, gave me his card, and asked if he could take our picture for us because he “never sees the kind of affection in couples nowadays.” This wasn’t the first time we were complimented on being so “obviously in love,” so I know it wasn’t just the previous evening’s events that was causing this reaction. My girlfriend will always sit close to me, or in booth-seat restaurants, next to me. I give her the non-hoverhand, and occasional smile or peck on the cheek as I like to refrain from public displays, so what you recently wrote about a woman who has to fight to contain herself resonated that I must be doing something right. The body language in that photo is admittedly a bit beta, but the guy asked me to lean in and kiss her while she looked at him for the specific purpose of hiding my bloodied and bandaged left side of my mug. [ed: it was about as alpha as a peck on your girl’s cheek could look, so well done. cute girl, too 👌🏻] She insisted on being on top that night because of my bruised state. I let her have that request for about half the session.

The experience hasn’t really changed me, but it certainly has honed my resolve, Heartiste. If white men are to take back the cities they built, they will need to use the same weapon on the dindus as they do on us– fear. Civilization is starving for squads of proud, iron-pumping and steel-strapped shitlords to peaceably take to the streets in fearsome enough numbers to remind our squatting guests that transgressions will be met with the same but multiplied. Western Civilization is hungry for her men, and any political advocate of disarmament should be treated, verbally at first, as nothing more than someone who wishes you a terrible death. Do not be their friend. Do not play nice with them in the workplace lest your advancement or security rest upon it. Do not tolerate their bullshit, and remind them who are committing the murders (dindus). Ask them if they would buy an affordable house in the shit pit to live with the pets they so admire. Rub their fucking noses in the shit they have dropped on the floor in which to test white men and white civilization.

Please keep up the tireless work. I sincerely believe that Le Chateau is at the forefront of important work for the coming storm.

As always, you have my faith and support.


Six decades of this equalism shit is enough. These lethal Diversity™ skirmishes are taking place all over America, and are routinely ignored, suppressed, or sanitized of relevant facts by our anti-White Gaystream Media. And our White foot soldiers who are out there on the front lines taking black flak and fighting back are targeted for silencing and intimidation by Creep State operatives who will allow nothing to stand between their cushy sinecures and their dream of a one world open borders globohomo dystopia.

Which is to say, lunatic libs are at the helm, and their disfigured morality has made war inevitable.

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If you’ve ever lived in a diversitopia — I mean an area with real Diversity™ not just black and White but multiple races living under one neighborhood roof adding to the colorfully hazardous stew — you’ll notice a peculiarity that shitlib SWPLs would rather you never mention, which is that nonWhites — the subcontinental browns, the aztecs, the orientals, the MENAs and even the fuckin mystery meat race orphans, among others — treat blacks so much worse than Whites treat blacks. Blatantly, rudely worse.

You’ll often see a scene where some bindi is excoriating a black service worker for tardiness or general incompetence. As a White person, you might cringe a little at the scene, even though you know gandhi is right on the merits. A part of you wants to chastise him for not recognizing the informal rules of engagement in America when dealing with blacks: abide their shortcomings with a sumptuously magnanimous spirit.

It’s as if all the world’s empathy, big heartedness, and indulgence were concentrated in just one race — White Western Europeans — and the Lord of Lunacy decided no other race but Whites should possess such divine traits. Whites alone seem to have the ability to grasp the failings of another race and to obligingly adjust their behavior to draw the least amount of attention to the stark racial differences when in the company of members of that race, so that they don’t feel like lessers in the presence of superiors, or like oddballs in a world where White norms of social interaction are foreign to them.

NonWhites, however, whether they grasp the inherent and therefore unmitigable nature of black failings or not, care not a whit for blacks’ feelings and will gleefully, almost sadistically, make their displeasure with black incompetence known to participant and spectator alike.

All this is a roundabout way to reiterate the infamous CH maxim “Diversity + Proximity = A lot of hurt feelings and suppressed aggravation”. Diversity is not our strength or our moon landing; it is our miseries heaped atop miseries, only prevented from exploding in a cataclysm of spite by wealth transfers (aka paid ransom) from Whites to nonWhites.

PS I used to have to drive a short way through a shitty hood that was half-black and half-hispanic. Along this one residential street a hispanic gang (possibly MS-13) would gather across the road from a black gang (whose members were belched up from the deepest ghetto pits), and I’d drive between the two groups on occasion. They never mingled, and every time I drove by it looked like a shooting could go down in an instant. It was like West Side Story, except a lot more ominous. Ese Side Story meets The Wire. Anyhow, one day I was perusing the police blotter for entertainment value, and read that there was an incident on that street that included multiple stabbings and one victim that was seriously injured after “being thrown into a moving vehicle”.

NonWhites can be marshaled to gang up on Whites for a time, but their seething intertribal hatreds will always make it difficult for their handlers to keep their hatreds focused on the prime enemy.

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In a neighborhood I once occupied, I used to see a man — an avatar of vibrancy — around town who was “suffering” from some kind of medical condition that caused his genitals to swell to immense proportion. Elephantitis of the nuts, although his entire package, beans plus frank, was uniformly yuge so maybe he hit the jackpot and got pachyderma of the penis too. Anyhow, this guy would stroll happily and confidently from cafe to cafe and bar to bar, on sunny days and sultry nights alike, chatting up random girls with the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, his old man pleated pants stretched to smoothness by the extraordinary bulge that traveled the length of his thigh and bubbled like an active caldera at least a foot outwardly. A truly swole gentleman, his eighth wonder of the world could easily have been mistaken for a basketball stuffed down his pants.

For an astute observer of human nature such as yours unduly, the reactions of the girls were primetime entertainment. Swollen Genitals Man made no effort to hide or otherwise minimize the assault of his bursting crotch into the personal spaces of the girls he approached. He’d even put his hands on his hips and ever-so-subtly sway his King Dong pelvic region in a hypnotic figure eight.

I say hypnotic, because from the looks of them the girls couldn’t tear their eyes away. I can recall not one girl who turned away disgusted or promptly waved him off. Some smiled, some giggled, and some bantered with him, but all of them stared at that super sack like it was a T-bone to a hungry doge.

I wouldn’t say this is ideal Game, because I doubt he actually bedded any of these girls, but it was an object lesson in how fascinated girls are by a man’s impudent, remorseless, intrusive sexuality, because they hardly ever experience it surrounded by neutered corporate manginas.

PS One time SGM approached a mixed table from a bad angle, resulting in a hilarious awkwardness when his pride and joy nearly grazed the cheek of one of the men sitting at the table. The man jerked his face toward SGM and almost took every pound of that junkernaut in his mouth. The unfortunate victim was, physiognomically, a shitlib male. Another man at the table sitting about five feet away was, physiognomically, a shitlord. CH readers can guess how each man reacted to the scene as it unzippered (hint: their reactions were what you’d expect).

PPS Open borders and mass third world invasion means grotesque exotic diseases coming to a neighborhood near you!

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A natural red-head early 20s girl in a summer dress riding a bike on a warm spring day as a gust of wind catches the hem and lifts it just enough to glimpse sheer pink panties caressing a smoothly perfect ass cheek. Praise Cleft.

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Here’s a simple social experiment necessitating few input variables other than a public venue and a street hustler to determine if you, or other men you can observe, exude alphaness or betatude.

Those carnival barkers working for non-profits like Greenpeaceout or Abortion, Yay! are useful proxies of a man’s SMV. Try this: the next time you pass by one or more of these millennial hippies holding clipboards and pamphlets near subway entrances, bus stops, or along busy sidewalks, take note of their reaction to you.

Do they accost you to pitch their dreck? You exude betatude.

Do they let you walk by unbothered? You exude alphaness.

Pretty cut and dry, if I must say. And if the NGO urchins begging for donations let you pass unmolested with a look of apprehension and even fear in their eyes, your alphaness may be off the charts. If, on the other hand, they rush right into your face and press their case for an uncomfortably long time as you stutter and stammer to get away, your betatude is bad enough to require a PUA’s intervention.

In short, look like a badboy who doesn’t suffer bullshit gladly, and you are likely an alpha who enjoys plenty of female attention. Look like a niceguy who takes shit from everyone, and you are likely a beta balls-deep in the GoFap Zone.

If you want to gauge your progress from invisible beta herb to irresistible alpha chad, keep track of the reactions you get from volunteer streetside beggars. You want to unlock the achievement level in which all those shitlib cause du jour curs are retreating from your arrival like the fucking Red Sea parting before Moses.


Prof. Woland writes,

I was once approached by a SPLC fundraiser while getting out of my car at whole foods (where else?). He asked me if I knew who they were and tried to rope me into some guilt trip social justice tripe. I stopped and thought for a second then answered back that they were an anti-white organization. His face contorted like he had stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He was shocked. When I came out of the store 5 minutes later there was not a trace of him.

Beautiful. People think that these scumsucking anti-White leftoid organizations like the $PLC are so fully converged with the Weltanshauung that they are nigh impregnable to attack from the righteous, but the reality is that they are powerful because they’ve never experienced REAL PUSHBACK. The anti-White Left has been so protected and coddled by the media hate machine that they have no idea there are people out there who KNOW THE SCORE about them. So when they get hit with an accusation of anti-White bigotry, they fold like cheap lawn chairs. Because they know it’s true.

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