(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_ is a complete nightmare.
of_Holocaust_w_JUGS_n_Ty_E_TEASER - The Perfume Nationalist
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.
No. What he doesn’t have is continuity with cultured eldergays, of whom he knows none. His boyfriend certainly isn’t one. Lebowitz unoriginally observed that AIDS killed all the cool people (I know who gave her that line), and further observed, this time originally, that AIDS killed off a high-connoisseurship audience that has never been replaced. But Jack forgets Fran Lebowitz’s own life history (as retold in Public Speaking):
I was interested in older people. I always had friends much older than me. I had friends so much older than me that, by the time I was 40, many of my closest friends had died of old age already. But it was because they were older than me – in other words, because they could teach me something, you know, but not because I thought they were going to do the new thing. That was my job, you know? That’s how the work used to be split up.
Jack derides White wymmynz’ performative allergies to perfume and their endless elective ailments, like fibromylagia. He instant-messaged me to basically tell him to stop funnelling corrections his way, at which point I told him he could block me.
Jack’s an expert on perfume (I still do not know what [a]ouds, fougères, and chypres are, but at least I can pronounce those words, along with “Fassbender” and “chthonic”), while his brother is adept at sound design. Jack’s allergy to other forms of expertise is performative and traces back to the unbreachable chasm caused by having no cultured eldergays in his life to guide and correct him.
(I added the public Perfume Nationalist episodes to the Internet Archive, where Jack’s brother’s insane URLs are prominently displayed. All my corrections were and are correct and his ire is purely elective, but I’m a paid subscriber to the Perfume Nationalist nonetheless. And despite Jack’s hubris, some brigade of trannies, a word often used on the podcast, are going to get him booted off Patreon, which will then seize all his money.)
“You know someone is cool when their big thing is owning people by correcting pronunciation,” Jack writes.
Option 2: Learn and improve. Surely Old Spice is just like Yatagan? (2020.05.01)
Nice labradoodle – brave of you to adopt an animal born from nuclear waste
Nobody has Jack’s sensibility. And he has used it to attract a tribe of adoring admirers.
Instead of hurling themselves bodily at Morrissey onstage, which I have personally observed twice, what Jack’s acolytes do is send in underwear photos.
When they manage to keep their clothes on, they produce mood boards evoking an entirely novel masculinist sensibility. (2020.08.20)
JACK: Do people not understand you can download the file for every episode? In fact, I wish someone would just, like, reliably leak all the episodes. Like, I don’t like paywalling some of them, but I have to, because this is a business. But I wish somebody would reliably leak them all.
Very well. Now every episode is on the Internet Archive indefinitely.
JACK: And, like, I’m doing these motherfuckers a favour by sharing this divine wisdom with them – for $5! They could be so enlightened. They could be so happy. I’m also eminently forgiving and welcoming anyone back to the flock.
Not only does and did Jack not welcome me “back to the flock,” which flock I never left, he unblocked me then re-blocked me. His brother and an army of his World War I–soldier-redolent hetero acolytes blocked me, no doubt in response to a blocklist innocently purveyed by Jack or his brother.
People will favorite 36 tweets trashing me and then later complain through a proxy that they’re blocked
No, I state explicitly that Jack and/or his brother circulated a blocklist. I was on it for no reason, and even less than no reason given that my own accounts are set to PRIVATE. A blocklist is a blacklist and is indistinguishable from the so-called cancel culture Jack Mason decries on every episode when he’s not promoting his lifetime anti-censorship doctrine. (“But since I’m just totally against everything that even remotely resembles like cancelling and unpersoning, except for people behind cancelling and unpersoning, this whole going through history and deleting people – it’s evil. There’s no other word for it. It’s evil.”)
It’s my od-given right to massblock randos who favorite cruel, stupid tweets directed at me and actively contribute to my mental anguish. Where do lunatics get this idea that they’re entitled to spiritually rape you and see your Twitter feed at all times
I’m not a fucking rando and I’m not the cruel one here. (2020.11.19)
To summarize: Jack, who needs all the friends he can get, insists he is right about everything, except what he isn’t right about. On those topics (on seemingly all topics), he will not tolerate the tiniest bit of correction. Everyone who doesn’t endorse him to the max is a mere “hater.” Jack purports to be forgiving, but he, his brother, and/or his acolytes went out of their way to set up a blacklist. Meanwhile, I am a paid subscriber and I am the one who lifted a finger to ensure Jack’s work will be preserved in some guise.
JACK: Like, I’ll keep my fucking eye on you, but I’m still, you know—
GIRL: It’s part of our Christ-like nature.
False. There is no coming back. (2020.09.04)
The Perfume Nationalist podcast has now lost both of its anti-Semites. Jack eventually (indeed twice) explained that special-guest-star anti-Semite Ty E made himself unbearable and all but denounced Jack and the podcast. Fine. But cohostess Jugs was simply airbrushed out of any photographs that depicted her standing next to Brezhnev. (2020.10.26)
“People who post incredulously about ‘the Perfume Nationalist circle’ don’t know how they’re gassing up [sic] this homo’s Warhol/Factory aspirations.” (2020.10.28)
Ghost Jail Nº 1: Women (≈56:10):
What do I think about women? Well, being a homosexual, I grew up in the world of women. You generally emerge from a cushy uterine female world into the world of men later on, whereas straight men follow the opposite path, going from the world of boys into a world of total enslavement by females until the grave.
I actually like women quite a lot, which is something that seems incompatible with my alleged status as a misogynist. But they made themselves simply unbearable throughout the entirety of the 2010s, the worst decade in human history. Women operate as brownshirts for liberals, for the Democrat party. Because their innate conformity and desire for approval, social approval, they are extremely susceptible to all manner of propaganda – most notably, first of all, gender theory, the widespread and cynical dispersal of transgender ideas throughout the 2010s as soon as regular homosexuals like myself had ceased to become a profitable minority for Democrats after the passage of gay marriage.
Women have an innate love of censorship. Show me a woman who doesn’t love censorship and I’ll show you a liar. They are always on the side of things needing to be excised, things needing to be forgotten, for the common good, for an abstract common good. They have a reptilian capacity for adaptation to any situation, any societal or cultural changes, which works to their credit, but to me is not likable or admirable.
We’ve seen their reptilian capacity for adaptation with the covid propaganda, which has been largely executed through women. Women are now OK with wearing a mask in public forever as a symbol of their fight against white supremacy and patriarchy and Donald Trump. They are no longer bothered by any of the trappings of covid that seemed so authoritarian to them just a few months ago. They’re totally fine with lapsing slowly into a lifestyle of pointless E‑mail-correspondence jobs, and eternal Netflix, and Uber Eats delivery by only the blackest of Africans, which they will never acknowledge.
They are preserved and protected at all costs despite that they have more power than anyone in society. And, as Sam Hyde said, it’s like having your video-game character’s capabilities maxed out at the start, and still they tend to fail.
Mainly I hate them because they’re largely responsible for the 2010s.
I wrote the informed and innocuous comment “Rather reminiscent of Joe Frank” on Ghost Jail’s SoundCloud page. “ig fan of Joe Frank!” Big Boy Berto wrote back, then blocked me there.
“Buy physical media”
Jack is laboriously transcribing his own podcast. Strong idea but weak execution, since his original copy will have so many errors, and will not be structurally marked up in the slightest, that it will take ages to bring to a point where it can be copy-edited and typeset. (Hyphen-hyphen is never ever a dash, for example.)
Additionally, podcast episodes’ sizable audio files can be stored semipermanently. The Perfume Nationalist can sell DVD‑Rs containing each season’s MP3 files, all with carefully edited filenames so they sort properly and read well when ba(l)dly presented by a DVD player on a flatscreen. Jack could easily sell 50 copies at 100 bucks a pop. (2020.11.19)
Jack’s brother: “The DVD box set with MP3s on the DVD that you could clean up on? [Uproarious laughter] Sorry, sorry.”
It was suggested to me by a former acolyte of TPN – now there are former acolytes – that Jack fares so well with heterosexualist males because he has his brother’s approval. That brother’s aperçu above took place in the nearly-nine-hour Season 3 première, which, earlier on, had presented us with Jack’s tears of frustration at being harassed online by autogynephile transgenders.
Jack’s brother is nastier than Jack is. Both are guilty of what they accuse Jack’s tormentors of. Yes, you dumb cunt, DVDs with MP3s on them that you distribute widely so that the Perfume Nationalist cannot be wiped off the face of the earth by the autogynephilic transgenders at Patreon and everywhere else in Silicon Valley.
Nobody mentioned “cleaning up,” but any archivist will tell you that the way to ensure a work’s longevity is to produce and distribute copies of it. That does not mean copies on drives that can crash, or on telephones from which it is functionally impossible to extract a file.
What’s Jack’s brother’s filename for Season 3, Episode 1?
Hell Bent for Leather with Christlover2000 - 2020 12 05 TPN s03 ep92 4db 128st.mp3([uproarious laughter] “Sorry, sorry”).
If the goal is to undermine, to fight like a girl, why have a straight brother co-host the Perfume Nationalist? If I’m going to be mocked or derided on a show I pay to listen to, at least stab me in the front. (2020.12.10–11)
The Perfume Nationalist mantra – “Buy physical media” – applies everywhere but to itself, just as its condemnation of shunning, censorship, cancellation, and “spectral rape” apply to all but itself.
Shut up and take my money
When not blubbering on a 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 favorite 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 focusing 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.
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 voking Elizabeth Taylor: Passion, A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and (wait for it) Boom! and Secret Ceremony.
The final episode of the Perfume Nationalist
…should treat the most disturbing film ever made: The Rapture.
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 can think and, redolence notwithstanding, 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.”