Last week, with no rancour at all, a moment of clarity fell upon me and I began my sabbatical from the Perfume Nationalist for the rest of the year.

If there was an inciting incident, it was Jack’s power to wound by second or third orders. It was he, the progenitor of the art-podcast scene, who railed with distaste against “tradcaths.” These mythical beings stand astride Jack’s motley crew of bugbears. As I am not a variety of oil or of transvestite, only this genteel pogrom was of any note to me. (Cernovich keeps saying that Democrats would genocide conservatives if they could. True. Jack would line up and machine-gun anyone who ever called him fat or mean. Except we’d have a place to go afterward.)

Surely because Jack, the Red Scare gals, and so many others partake of “group chats,” to which I have access in ways they do not grasp, anti-tradcath social contagion spread the way transgenderism does among teenage girls, one of which Jack still is. And lo did Anna Khachiyan launch her own broadside on (indeed) the Red Scare. As I then wrote:

Have we ever heard Anna sigh exasperatedly on this show? Well, she did, and her trigger was Catholics and “tradcaths.” (Quite the buzzword.)

We tune in to Red Scare to witness Twitter news hooks transmogrified into startlingly novel aperçus on eternal truths. We already have a podcaster who shit-talks Catholics – our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist, a monster who puts out a good show. Anna and Dasha are icons, not least of style, who put out a good show.

Listen to the last quarter-hour. Is this the closest Dasha has come to taking offence at her cohostess? Though actually Red Scare has long since become the Anna Khachiyan Show, with Dasha a sidekick. Anna could do to Dasha what our friend Jack does to one cohost, guest, friend, or sibling after another – shitcan her.

Dasha’s feelings are already hurt, it seems. She will nonetheless have God, who has always loved her and forever shall.

I cannot even see girls, yet, so help me God, I felt Dasha’s pain. I imagined having double espresso with her at a Toronto film shoot, and with great warmth offering her a gift of a Swarovski-crystal rosary, a beautiful feminine talisman. (I hope such a token would be compatible with her rite.)

I have substantially less than no link to Dasha. If I’m that worried about a lady – a celebrity – whom I do not remotely know, something is up. Or amiss.

Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist is indeed a monster. I have lots of time to put my postdoc in TPN studies on hold. Eternity, in one sense.

There’s listening to a wounded narcissist’s podcast, and then there’s writing about him

When people fall out with me, often as here through no fault of my own, they form bitter little hater circles and I see their [avatars] pop up whenever anyone has a nasty word to say. They attempt to make TPN without me, which doesn’t work since I’m the king and I keep winning[.]

This is very comical coming from a degenerate emotional baby who’s still crying over the fact his lady friends from college don’t want to watch rape movies with him anymore.

Hayden is a beautiful kind artistic soul and you’re a weird satanic faceless do-nothing with nothing to show for it[.]

I like Hayden. You have been repeating the same thing in the same style for at least four years and will still be doing so for the next four decades, and that thing is uselessly footnoting your influences through paid discussion panels until death. You are an algorithm.

Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist has any number of catchphrases, two of which are “Paglia is right about everything” and “I’m right about everything.” Broadly stated, yes, he is.

But so am I.

Jack will methodically excommunicate his most loyal supporters

All you need to know here is this statement Jack blurted out: “My brother quit the show.” I could ask about this, but I suspect the two of them aren’t speaking anymore. I surmise Jack got Peter into a lot of trouble making him comment, for the permanent record, on rape/torture/exploitation movies – for years at a stretch. He’s got a wife and a son – responsibilities our “depraved” friend Jack cannot comprehend. (At least the brother reproduced. Isn’t that “nationalism”?)

I did list the Perfume Nationalist Excommunication Countdown. We haven’t hit zero yet.

  • Jack alienated somebody who is a real creep and an even worse underachiever, Grant Cook from some frozen tundra, whose spectacular long-haired dachshund is his only saving grace. Deserved exile on an ice floe? No. (You expected me to say yes.) But it is par for Jack’s course.
  • Our friend Jack, a high-functioning drunk, picked a fight with a Catholic dad whose accomplishments rival Jack’s. The latter produces one of the three podcasts that have changed men’s lives, while John Dios’ sui generis Catholic art podcast, the Holy Agony, has restored souls when it didn’t save them outright. (“Jack, I do not use the word ‘friend’ lightly. I do now and always will consider you a friend. Regardless of any disagreement we have or company we keep. My door is always open to you.”) John does not realize he has a perfect life. He too gets into “Twitter fights” with abandon, claiming to find them distasteful while, just like Jack, relishing them the way Nassim Taleb does. One of these men claims to be a Christian, while the other affirmatively is, not least in deed.
  • Hermaphrodite Christlover2000, herself hardly a paragon of normalcy, excommunicated Jack. (“Drained the colo[u]r out of my life for a week after listening[. Y]ou held up heroically as the only person who has pushed back when confronted with the abyss and dared give her a taste of her own medicine.”) In so doing she gives us insight into the kind of asymmetrical warfare needed to bring Jack to heel. Block him first.
  • Our friend Jack (recall he got nailed for an actual DUI) uses the Twitter to tell dedicated fans to get lost and never so much as mention his name again.
  • Jack sours friends of friends. The Surfing Violinist still won’t talk to me after he imagined he and I had some kind of “beef” regarding Jack. (Ford didn’t respond.) What happens to the social circle of TPN-flanker podcasts when he disowns just enough of them to make any mention of Jack a minefield?

Backing the wrong horse

I do that all the time. Surely I have done so here.

I want to say our friend Jack, who can down most of a bottle of booze in a single TPN episode, will rue the day when he assailed Catholicism while defending transvestites, pederasts, the worst homosexualists (define that as you will – he’ll back them), and anything that allows him to run a rape-movie podcast and muse about drunkenly fellating Lou Grant. (Might Jack’s noticeably more petite boyfriend unit, inevitably named Chris, be on the same page with that?)

The completely unpublicized Unregistered Live in Chicago

Another scion of depravity, Thaddeus Russell, brought TPN and any number of flanker podcasters together (certainly including Ghost Jail) in Chicago. When was that? Was it promoted anywhere, except in a Patreon post that was deleted and in a sidelong comment to Filthy Armenian Alec Mouhibian?

(Recall that Russell, who was surely stoned on pot, could not tell Jack to his face onstage what perfumes he’d been wearing lately [“I’ll send you a list”].)

“Group chats”

I have samizdat-style access to the worst of Jack’s excesses in Twitter “group chats,” which, by virtue of using a surveillance platform as their medium, stand a good chance of making Jack rue them one day.

As one example that doesn’t involve calling blacks failures:

Not my place to say it[.] but the [I]nternet idea that I am ugly is literally just inaccurate

Jack, a soi-disant top, before he allegedly lost 40 pounds:

Jack shirtless, with moobs spreading globularly in two dimensions

And a week or so ago:

Jack (in shirt) with man, Pariah the Doll feigning strumming a harp

Jack has sadly begun to believe his own press, all of which he wrote himself

BAP: Perfume Nationalist attaq me for using Dolce Gabbana The One. Jack: No, I didn’t. You literally just made that up

Jack is a textbook wounded narcissist. One day, all his friends will have become enemies at Jack’s behest. You’re next.

Perfume Nationalist Excommunication Countdown

Thomas777 (bandana, long hair, shades) vs. Barrett (delicate features, earrings, fashionable sweater)
  • (Top) Notional average TPN listener

  • (Bottom) Actual


The Perfume Nationalist will necessarily have a final episode. Everything episodic must. The end will occur because, one by one, all of the soldier-redolent boys who hurl themselves olfactorily at Jack will dare to voice a single criticism each. So in turn will other fans. These are all people who… have no reticence to speak their minds.

Jack – with no capacity to tolerate dissent or criticism, even while regaling us of his tales of growing up gay, fat, popular, and well-adjusted (also right about everything) – will block every one of them. After the Ice‑9 manner, soon there will be no one left to block. Jack’s fan base will be as corpses gauzily visible beneath the frozen Thames.

Thus will conclude the Perfume Nationalist – “delivered to an audience of no one, for no reason.”

Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist (it’s an eponym that, like Charlie, he has no choice but to wear) is well on his way to blocking, denouncing, unperson(n)ing, and freezing out his entire fan base one at a time.

  1. I was first on the receding ice floe.

  2. Fascistic cinephile, frequent guest, and crack-of-dawn irritant Ty E (no relation) was next to be excommunicated.

  3. Then the show’s unwanted third-wheel faghag cohostess, Jugs, was mysteriously airbrushed out of future photographs of Jack with his boyfriend and that lady from Red Scare.

    (Was Jugs shitcanned because that other Red Scare lady refused to appear on the Perfume Nationalist if Jugs were there? Shall we transcribe Jugs’ reminiscences of how she almost but not quite started her own show for the Right Stuff, aimed at crypto-fascist wymmynz?)

  4. Soon enough, the queen of TPN underachievers, recherché arctic polyglot Grant Cook (q.v.), dared to profane the sacred name of Paglia and had to be pushed overboard – and not in any Hitchcockian Lifeboat manner, either. (The next tripwire shall be Michael Jackson.)

The same fate will befall any number of Barrets or Barretts, mestizo Brendans, LDS missionaries, tough guys who live for Angel and live out of their cars, and beloved Catholic art podcasters. (I warned the last of those already.)

Jack’s BF unit and that Red Scare lady will reënact the last hours of the Ceaușescus – baffled by the route by which they ended up against a brick wall, about to share quite the black Christmas.

Recall Jack’s stated philosophies of blocking

  • Say what you will about blocking[,] but every time I see an egregiously awful tweet or everyone’s mad about a particular account on here I click on the tweet and it turns out I already have the person blocked, no idea who they are, because you can accurately judge from v[ery] little info[.]

  • Love that people pretend it’s noble and brave to engage with random anon antagonistic reply people instead of banish[ing] them to the shadow realm forever because it’s really easy to read whether people are good or bad on here[.]

  • “These tweets are protected”: Oh, AKA this person is a baby who’s addicted to Twitter but won’t even properly participate in it, gotcha[.]

  • There’s literally no reason to post anything if you have your account locked.

The unstated philosophy of this stated enemy of censorship is “distribute a pre-blocking list.” Soon enough, Jack will run out of other people’s money (reckoned in Patreon memberships).

A mere three podcasts have changed men’s lives

Joe Rogan’s, Jordan Peterson’s, and our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist’s. All are Howard Beale–style false prophets of the airwaves. (“Mad prophet” was what Beale was called in Network [q.v.]. I’m not changing my statement.)

I can think of three reasonably obvious methods by which our friend Jack could secure the annual hundred grand or so he would need to liberate himself from his quotidian shackles and become the god-emperor of cinephilic parfumerie he was meant to be. But Jack is like his listeners, and indeed like the listeners of the other two men’s-life-changing podcasts. He, and they, have no ability to monetize their intelligence, a topic so perennial it has its own category here.

I concede that Andrew Tate, whose factotum actually invited me to one of his Eastern Bloc bimbo/cigar retreats, is correct. He who gets rich is he who spends all day thinking about how to get rich. Why am I three steps ahead of Jack there?

Moreover, let’s recall that the man who demands his acolytes buy physical copies of everything refuses to make money selling physical copies of his own show. Indeed, his brother Peter (“Speed”) lampooned that idea on air.

Still the only coverage of the Perfume Nationalist

Jack’s lifelong enemies in the military–industrial–entertainment complex have enacted a commensurate lifelong omertà against him. He’ll barely ever even be acknowledged. Jack has nought to complain about there, as he does the same with the kulaks he excommunicates.

I cannot be eliminated. The articles will continue until morale improves.

Psychopathic, underachieving savants become what they beheld

The ecosystem elliptically orbiting Jack the Perfume Nationalist has become what it beheld – liberals. A crowd of underachievers, these artists’ vice is nothing so déclassé as heroin or as trailer-park as fentanyl. It is psychopathic cruelty.

As I have explained at length over my decades online (a corpus far in excess of anything the TPN demimonde has produced in totum), what I have called downtown progressives decide to inflict opprobrium and ostracism on an unworthy, then justify their mobbing as the very least he deserves.

A downtown progressive is a liberal in Jack’s nomenclature. Like André the Giant, Jack’s got a posse, and I’ve had them mob me the way BLM and antifa (and black guys on the subway) have done.

The art podcaster’s vice is mislabelling an ardent supporter a vexing adversary (in their argot, a “hater”) and pillorying him directly. And, in Jack’s case and his brother’s, passive-aggressively writing me up on Twitter. Jack is ringleader of the tormentors.

These guys are all underachievers. I would expect something resembling class solidarity from a cohort all of which listens to Aimée Thérèse, the fastest talker this side of Eminem.

  • Jack has simply not figured out how to monetize his brilliance and works a front-desk job dealing with neoliberal yuppies he loathes. On Canada Day a decade ago, I listened to an Adam Carolla episode in which he was explicitly coached and schooled about how to make money in podcasting. Deservedly or not, who’s the millionaire now?

    Umpteen straightforward options are available so that Jack can bring in a hundred grand a year and pursue the intellectual leisure he and everyone else agree is his birthright. He’s doing none of it.

  • The latest defamer, a 49th-stater with the facial laxities of the visible depressive, can’t get his upstairs neighbour to stop blasting rap music and just barely upgraded himself to office lady, a position I had held in the previous century.
    Grant Cook and boom mike

    This little man ruined my day today. He, like Jack, calls himself a Christian, or at least they allow Trans Regret Snoopy to believe same.

  • The mastermind behind the second-best art podcast, Ghost Jail, works a 9‑to‑5, as do the passel of Barret(t)s in this circle. Even Jack’s brother is surrounded by cubefraus on all sides. A boisterous fan is purgatorially consigned to a health-food co‑op. Then there’s that insurance adjuster.

Of course they’re frustrated. But the scenario here is the same as Jack’s: I’m right about everything, and another thing I’m right about is you guys have decayed into a liberal mob who can’t wait to express the bottomless hatred that springs from the frustrations of your stunted careers.

I don’t initiate shit. I show up pre-blocked on Twitter. (Jack’s lies about forgiveness and generosity in this regard gall still.) On luckier days I can actually talk to these men. One of them hasn’t turned on me yet (Zion is still to fall). The rest have.

In their view (the view of the liberal), I deserve it. I deserve so much more.

The psychopathy of the TPN-adjacent underachiever is far worse than pulling a Heath Ledger and leaving a beautiful corpse. While amassing unique works of art, building them up episodically in formats that can be destroyed in a flash, these wayward manchildren put a whole lot of day-to-day effort into nastiness and cruelty.

This distributed gang warfare by skinnyfat podcasters brandishing Bijan like a sigil is something they’re quite proud of. In their Walter Mitty– or Billy Liar–redolent imaginings, they really would harangue me in person. They really would take it to the next level.

Overall, this is the wrong way to be a tortured artist, and these are life choices you can unmake on a dime. Since that’s how much you’re basically making on what has become your life’s work, take the advice.

Skill-testing question for TPN acolytes

Is your first response to this posting to lash out even more?

“Shut up and take my money”

May–June 2021 updates:

  • When not blubbering on an hermaphrodite’s shoulder, here’s how the Perfume Nationalist explains what a kind and generous guy he is online. (All copy-edited.)

    • Open invitation for anyone to simply talk to me instead of posting unwell-seeming threads of screenshots arguing with a Black Lodge version of me they’ve made up and projected the various unrelated strains and tensions of life in 2020 onto.

    • If you’re blocked and someone tells me you’re cool or want to be unblocked I’ll do it.

      Well established as a lie at this point, but let’s continue.

      But most people prefer the excitement of being blocked so they’ll have a little plotline for their group chats to discuss.

    • This is my block philosophy:

      • You favo[u]rite egregiously bad tweets about me
      • You normalize psychotic stalker behavior by encouraging people who do that
      • Antagonistic Reply Guy with annoying tone

      These are just mass blocks of spider nests. I don’t recall most blocked individuals.

    • If you have ever, and I mean ever, selected a stranger online to negatively focus on or spend a minute of your day trying to “own” or “expose” or “bullycide” instead of focus[s]ing on things and people you like, your priorities are fucked and you’re wrong about your entire life.

      (Another would-be fan: “I haven’t mentioned the Perfume Nationalist in like half a year. Why did he block me again, like, just recently? Very healthy to keep a mental Rolodex of everybody who has ever called you fat on the Internet and nurture grudges against them.”)

    • I unblock literally anyone who asks but most people prefer the giggly drama/feeling like they’re part of something important.

    • Love that people pretend it’s noble and brave to engage with random anon antagonistic reply-people instead of banishing them to the shadow realm forever because it’s really easy to read whether people are good or bad on here.

    • “These tweets are protected”: This person is a baby who’s addicted to Twitter but won’t even properly participate in it, gotcha. There’s literally no reason to post anything if you have your account locked. Get out of the kiddie pool, LURKERS.

  • Jack’s shockingly inarticulate brother (he at least recognizes same) is now making fun of the term eldergay, coined by DataLounge but known to these two only through me.

  • These fellas have been uniformly awful to me. But I still have the iMessages I had exchanged with Jack, in which I wrote “Thinking of you” when he had posted on Twitter how unwell he was feeling.

    I was going to PayPal Jack a hundred bucks (“Quoth Fry: ‘Shut up and take my money’ ”), but I knew he would just refuse my money, and that he and his brother would laugh about it on his show.

  • I spend all day telling people how Jack instigated podcasting’s parthenogenesis of culture. He brought an entire subgenre, the art podcast, into being (indeed in the shadow of Joe Frank – true no matter what the masterminds behind Ghost Jail do to me for pointing it out).

    But he and his friends are overall quite vile. One strains to separate art from artist.

Now they’re just fucking with me

“Do you want all four seasons of ‘Thirtysomething’?” “Yes”

Jack knows well I have a 330-page handwritten Thirtysomething episode guide and have told him the only episode I would ever want to appear on is that one.

Are Jack’s cussedness, grudge-cherishing, and biliousness contributing factors here?

If Camille Paglia ever writes to the Perfume Nationalist, it will have been of my doing

After a second-tier gay podcast actually received a reply E‑mail from Paglia, I assumed that, after 20-odd years of her being online, mailing the professor directly was finally tolerated. (In the olden days, one could not even fax-o-gram Camille Paglia.)

Acolyte builds entire hundred-episode podcast series around your work

I’m not that acolyte, though I have been a fan since Day 1. I am referring to Texan gay bear Jack Mason, better known as the Perfume Nationalist. For that is the title of his shockingly original podcast, which pairs transgressive or simply ill-appreciated artworks (typically movies) with the one thing middle-class ladies in offices have a “performative allergy” against, perfume.

On seemingly every episode, Jack explains how you were right about everything, and, in interviews, describes how you offer a means of interpreting culture that celebrates beauty and life. You’ll love his diatribes against the 2010s and against liberals, whom he blames for every censorious moral panic we’ve had to live through.

Of course he adores Liz Taylor and soap operas. (The Perfume Nationalist theme song is the one from Knots Landing.) By championing a Live Laugh Love™ philosophy, not only has Jack managed to Pied Piper a flock of beautiful straight guys to his art podcast (all of whom now buy and wear perfume!), he has instigated an entire subgenre of flanker art podcasts, to use a term from the fragrance biz.

There’s nobody like him. And none of it would have happened without you and your œuvre and your moxie. Indeed, his various avatars and user IDs have included your name or face…. (Do drop him a line – it would be the highlight of his day if not year!)

You quite fairly do not appear on podcasts, to the chagrin of impish Soviet-American author Michael Malice, who considers you the biggest possible get. But please allow this fan to suggest that you start listening to the Perfume Nationalist podcast, viz while driving or suchlike. A relevant recent episode unites all these masterpieces by or [e]voking Elizabeth Taylor: Passion, A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and (wait for it) Boom! and Secret Ceremony.

I will continue to cover TPN

Web sites do not discuss the Perfume Nationalist. Anyone who Googles this signature enterprise in the domain of the art podcast (indeed the progenitor of same) will find my discussion of TPN. Coverage will continue until morale improves.

The Perfume Nationalist

(UPDATED)Jack Mason hosts the Perfume Nationalist podcast with his brother and a girl nicknamed Jugs. In other words, Mother, Jugs & Speed cohost the Perfume Nationalist. (She’s the in-house anti-Semite, joined by a special-guest-star anti-Semite for a number of episodes.)

Originality is overrated and underrated all at once, but the show achieves actual originality by “pairing” a varietal of perfume with one or more movies. Jack’s rejection of neoliberal morality as mere play-acting, particularly by females, is as recognizably gay as his voice, with which he delivers bon mots at breakneck speed. He reminds me of the late Prince of Queens.

He also mispronounces things constantly and just uses the wrong words. His brother, a sound-engineer hobbyist, handles everything technical, and subjects listeners to a sound collage on each episode prefaced by a piercing pure tone, but cannot quite figure out that a filename like 2019_09_04_TPN_s01ep33_Rose_Clouds_
of_Holocaust_w_JUGS_n_Ty_E_TEASER - The Perfume Nationalist
is a complete nightmare.

Jack appreciates avant-garde cinema and makes a strong case for the true artistry of works and performers, from Knots Landing to Lens Dunham, derided by bien-pensant lamestream critics. He appreciates Thirtysomething, for which I handwrote a 330-page episode guide, and adores C. Paglia and F. Lebowitz.

So you think we’d get along like a house on fire.