Light Housekeeping

I was getting my hair colored at the beauty school yesterday.  The students always do a nice job and it's certainly affordable, but the client pays in time.  It can take close to three hours all told, although most of that time is just sitting in a chair waiting for the chemistry to happen.  So I usually remember to BMOB (Bring My Own Book) -- but yesterday I forgot.  With a sense of foreboding, I surveyed the literature piled up around the coffee urn.  Fortunately, amongst the stained and tattered copies of old Us and Today's Spa, I found a current issue of Esquire.  Actual reading material.  Score!

I hadn't read Esquire for a long while.  I can't tell you what a relief it was, after a year sounding the depths of the "manosphere", to read a mainstream "men's lifestyle" magazine.  I scanned the issue:  the return of the "cocktail cuff" (whatever that is), a lame joke attributed to a beautiful woman I've never heard of, a Prada suit made of flower-printed brocade that maybe Jared Leto could pull off  -- the usual fare. Then I stumbled on a column by Stephen Marche, whom I'd also never heard of, but which caught my eye since he seemed to be the magazine's resident "gender" expert.  It was an interesting article about what a freak show media depictions of masculinity have become.  I really wanted to tear it out and take it home, but I restrained myself. 

When I got home and read more of Marche, I learned he had written an article a few months ago, "The Case For Filth," that had got bloggers a-bloggin'.  I'm late to the party as always, but the topic is one that got me thinking since I often hear women bitching and moaning about how their husbands slack off in the house cleaning department.

Basically Marche's thesis was that the fact that wives are still doing more housekeeping than their husbands is primarily a matter of the women's choice.  And the solution to the endless wrangling over who does the lion's share of household chores is for both parties to relax, kick back, and embrace a bit of mess.

 Frankly, I agree with him.  Of course I'll admit that I'm a perfectly lousy housekeeper.  Because I'm a spinster, I can't really blame the fact that my house is in a chronic state of disarray on my husband + children.  (So I blame my dogs, LOL.)

The fact is, I don't give a damn.  There are two tasks I will never have time to do: ironing and dusting.  I rather subscribe to Quentin Crisp's philosophy, that after seven years, a house just can't get dirtier. And seriously, folks, if I can't run it through the dishwasher or the washing machine, I don't want it.

I do have a "zero growth" policy:  for every book, every can of food, every piece of clothing I acquire, I try to toss out something that takes up an equivalent amount of space.  And I like to be able to locate my stuff, so I maintain highly structured piles of crap.  My house isn't so much cluttered as it is just plain dirty. 

On the other hand, I do like to be personally clean, so I have no problem keeping up with laundry and washing dishes.  But everything else can go to hell.

BTW, although I'm not married, I have cohabited with various people over the years.  And we never argued about housekeeping.  Once in a while, I would pick up a boyfriend's sock and throw it in the laundry pile, and if he wanted it washed, he knew where it was.

This laissez-faire attitude could be a problem in the future though.  My girlfriend is kind of a neat freak.  If we ever move in together, I'm going to have to clean up my act, or else we're going to have to move into adjoining units in a duplex (and I probably don't have to tell you that I favor the latter option).

Anyway, poor Stephen Marche!  The ladies really took after him. First, Amanda Macotte took him to task.  Another female blogger pitied his wife.  Some women railed, Think of the children! Think of the germs!  It went on and on:  Obviously, this topic touches quite a nerve -- a source of angst and endless wrangling that I, as a barren spinster, am blithely oblivious to.  

Here's my take on Housework: it's kind of like Sex.  With sex, the one with the least desire controls the show, whereas with housework, the one who is least fastidious gets to opt out.  This isn't so much a man/woman conflict as it is a slob/clean freak conflict.

I must say that I thought the study Marche cites that suggests women who out-earn their spouses do MORE domestic tasks rather interesting.  And it supports my theory that part of the reason wives continue to do the lion's share of household duties is because they don't really want to forfeit their "traditional feminine" roles.

Matt Forney: Not a Guy, Not a Male, But a MAN

Ah, here goes Matt Forney again, revealing to the world how cripplingly, heartbreakingly insecure he is.  In his latest post, "The Myth of Female Intelligence," Matt explains that, just as womanly self-esteem causes his dick to wilt, "girls who tout their intelligence" make him "nauseous."  Furthermore, Matt feels confident in asserting that he feels that way, ergo all men feel that way.

Anyway, I have no reason to doubt Matt when he claims that in all his 25 years he has only met one girl who was smarter than he was.  That is because I am willing to bet that the number of girls Matt has "known" (not in the biblical sense, merely those who have willingly interacted with him for an extended period of time) can be counted on the fingers of just one of his damp, pudgy little mitts. 

Matt supports his assertion that female intelligence is a myth by arguing, among other things, that girls pick "soft majors like English... where there are no standards."  Hey, wait a minute, I thought Matt was an English major!  (BTW, I myself was an anthropology major because, believe it or not, I thought a social science major was more "practical" than one in the humanities -- but then, I am not going to argue that I am smarter than Matt Forney...)

The notion that women are valued for their intelligence is "laughable" according to Matt, although I must say, in my experience, intelligent men tend to prefer intelligent partners, if for no other reason than to validate their own smarts.  I mean, what fun is it if she doesn't appreciate how witty you really are?  What's the point of being able to make references to "Petruchio" and "Kate" if she's never read Shakespeare?  

"As men, it is our responsibility to bring girls back to their proper place. To lead them into their natural roles as wives and mothers. We men do not choose or reward girls for their clown college degrees, their meaningless cubicle jobs... We reward them for their willingness to please us and make us happy ...  No amount of phony education or career “success” will scratch that deep itch in a girl’s soul: the desire to serve a man.  Not a “guy,” not a “male”: a man." 

A man like Matt Forney, of course.  In my mind's eye, he is typing all this while holed up in his childhood bedroom in his parents' house somewhere in upstate New York, waiting for his mom to call him downstairs for dinner, perhaps mashed potatoes and meatloaf?  But no worries: after several years of nonstop blogging, he is generating almost enough income to support himself thanks to the mysterious "unethical" gig he has recently scored.  With a little more effort, he will soon be able to "reward" that elusive "suppliant" female of his fantasies...

Oh, Matt, never give up on your dreams.

This Alpha's Got Solid Game

Why Blog

Kate Harding, whose Shapely Prose was perhaps the most beloved and influential feminist blog ever ever ever, last year wrote an article "That's All She Wrote" about why she decided to "retire" from blogging (and it wasn't only because she got a column in Salon and a book deal, either).  

"I occasionally teach Blogging 101 classes now, even though I haven’t had an active blog in almost three years. The first thing I tell my students is: Do not even bother to blog unless you find it fun or someone is paying you for it. Those are the only two good reasons to do it. The second thing I tell them is: Probably no one will pay you for it. Fun is actually the only good reason to blog."

"Fun" is a subjective concept, isn't it?  There are certainly a lot of activities that are worth doing that aren't necessarily fun ("physical exercise" springs to mind).  I would rather substitute "engaging" for the word "fun" here. I have to admit that reading and writing about the manosphere initially captured my interest, even my fascination.  With over a year of exposure, my interest has waned considerably.  Once a person gets inured to the jaw-dropping horror that passes for discourse on most manosphere sites, they get mind-numbingly tedious.  And depressing.

I honestly don't know how David Futrelle keeps it up.  P.Z. Myers has likened Futrelle's job to "mining for turds under an outhouse.  You simultaneously think, “OMG, that’s the easiest mission in the world” and “OMG, that’s the most horrible mission in the world.”

I sincerely appreciate Futrelle for being willing to do what he does, because God knows someone needs to monitor these groups and keep them in the proper perspective (that is, viewed strictly through the prism of mockery).

I started a blog to practice my writing skills, but until I ran into the "manosphere" I must say "feminism" was not a subject I had much interest in at all.  I'm still not very interested in reading much feminist theory.  I may never get around to reading The Feminine Mystique and I will almost certainly never read The SCUM Manifesto, Andrea Dworkin, or other radical feminist works.  Last year a friend kept pressing me to read The End of Men and I refused for no better reason than I really detest that hyperbolic title.  So it seems rather artificial and strained to be characterized or encouraged to characterize myself as primarily a "feminist."

One of my favorite bloggers, Eseld Bosustow, announced today her intention to write about whatever she damn well pleases.  She is also burned out on the MRA.  Her appetite for logic and constructing clean, tight logical arguments is, of course, wasted on responding to intellectual pygmies.  I hope she'll keep writing, though -- on whatever topic she fancies.  Similarly, I hope Ms. Bodycrimes returns to writing on the far-reaching theme ("the ways that the body intersects with commerce") that initially inspired her blog. 

For the kind of writing I am interested in, which is personal response, bordering on confessional, a blog that is now inextricably linked to my true identity is probably just about the worst medium.  I can no longer do the kind of writing I want to do here, since I am now constrained by the knowledge that everything I write Can and Will Be Used Against Me.  And hence I have developed a kind of visceral distaste for blogging in general.  

And so it comes down to Ms. Harding's point:  If it's not fun, and you're not being paid for it, why do it?  To which I would add, if I have nothing particularly fresh or insightful to contribute, that hasn't already been said (by Ms. Harding and so many others), why bother?

And really, when it comes to the Men's Rights Movement, Ms. Harding has already said everything that ever needs to be said: "Fuck You Men's Rights Activists."

April Fools

It's April 1, in case you forgot, so Matt Forney has announced to the world he will commit suicide. Ha ha!  

It's obviously a joke.  Except that it isn't, really. Such a jest rings hollow when it's coming from a young man every cell of whose body is infused with self-loathing.  

It throws into sharp relief what a toxic stew the "manosphere" really is.  It's a place of darkness, delusion, and despair, of impotent rage, insatiable yearning, and misplaced aggression.  Anyone intent on exploring its depths for any period of time should be required to don full haz-mat protection. And then undergo several rounds of antibiotics afterwards. The scientist who discovers an antidote to the "red pill" should win the Nobel Prize.

Tears of a Clown

Reading between the lines of Roosh's post today ("Men Are Nothing More Than Clowns to the Modern Woman"), I'm guessing someone just got dumped.  

Hey, it happens to all of us, and I would be the last to dismiss the havoc it can play to one's self-esteem.  It's one thing to be rejected before we hit the dance floor.  We can always rationalize the person didn't really know us, so he/she just couldn't recognize the opportunity he/she was passing up.  But to be dumped after a few dates, and perhaps some shared intimacy, hurts like the devil, cuz that stuff is personal. It means the other person has sampled your wares -- probably the best you have on offer -- and found yours not to their taste.

But wait, in the Universe of Roosh, it's never personal.  None of his readers ever need to consider their own inadequacies when girls break up with them.  It has nothing to do with any deficiency on the guy's part, or even on the girl's:  It's the welfare state's problem.  If women didn't have jobs, they would not be able to afford to reject men.  We knew this was the case in the United States, and even worse in Denmark, but it appears to be true in Ukraine as well.

"This is why provider men (beta males) are so hopelessly failing today to secure the commitment of beautiful women in their prime, and this is why even lesser alpha males fail to enter relationships with women beyond a few bangs. Once the entertainment or novelty you provide her declines—and it inevitably will—she moves on to something or someone else..."

Roosh, the master of bizarre analogies, then compares himself to a skirt -- specifically a "glittery" skirt (i.e., not a wardrobe staple).  Then he concludes sadly that men with "tight game" have been reduced to the role of mere entertainers... "clowns."  And who would disagree with him?  Most people do consider him a clown.  Entertaining?  Well, clearly I think so.

Roosh winds up his "Dear Diary" post by trying to comfort himself that he doesn't need girls either.  (After all, he's got "options!")  He can do his own laundry and with his portable panini-press, he has no problem rustling up a home-cooked meal all by his lonesome.  And who needs babies anyway?  You can almost hear the muffled sobs as he taps all this onto his keyboard.
"Whatever natural connection that once existed between the sexes has now been severed."  Seriously?  Cuz I was outside not an hour ago, and I saw half a dozen young couples pushing strollers, enjoying a rare afternoon of sunshine, so there doesn't seem any shortage of "natural connections" in my neighborhood, at least.  Although I doubt there would be much "natural" in a "connection" with Roosh, and good for this girl for recognizing what a selfish, deluded loser he is, and moving on quickly.

 

What Was He Thinking?

When I read via mancheez about mechanical engineering professor Thomas Impelluso's sexist remarks about women on A Voice For Men, I was actually shocked.  I won't quote or summarize, just refer you to her posts.

Prof. Impelluso has elsewhere, in more mainstream forums, commented that he refuses to care about the lack of women in engineering so long as boys are lagging in reading skills.  This recalls Attila Vinczer's idiotic assertion that the focus on breast cancer just demonstrates how nobody cares about prostate cancer.  Everything is a zero-sum game with these fools.  And everything, in the end, is the fault of feminism.

And frankly, speaking as someone who teaches "college readiness" classes in reading and writing, I am offended by the implication that the young men in my class get short shrift compared to the women.  If anything, I spend more time with and more attention to helping male students in and out of class.

Now, of course I wasn't shocked that a professor might personally, in the darkest recesses of his guarded heart, hold those views  (although I still have a hard time reconciling such ignorance, arrogance, and just plain "crankiness" with being, well, educated).  What flabbergasts me is that he posted them under his real name.  Never mind the retro mindset and hostility to women in math, which, by the way, is completely counter to the efforts most academic institutions (including my own) are making to encourage women to enter STEM fields.  Never mind the curious obsession with penises and with the obligation of women to make those penises happy.  It's the simple and utter lack of common sense that blows me away. 

I can only think of Jay Leno's 1995 interview with Hugh Grant: "What the hell were you thinking?"

Fathers, Daughters, and Purity Balls

The other day PZ Myers had a brief post about the incredible ickiness (that's the clinical term) of Father-Daughter Purity Balls.  These are celebrations in which a teenage girl pledges to remain a virgin until her father approves her marriage.  Everyone is dolled up as though for a wedding, with men in tuxes, and girls in fluffy bridesmaid dresses.  Well, that's not the weird part.  Quinceaneras are superficially similar rites of passage, and they don't strike me as creepy at all, maybe because, while the original purpose was to announce a girl was available for marriage, the modern function of these celebrations seems to be to introduce the daughter of a family to her community as a young adult while also honoring her cultural heritage; a quinceanera marks her debut into greater society. 

At Purity Balls, on the other hand, Daddy and His Little Princess participate in a formal ceremony during which they exchange rings and kisses on the mouth after she promises God & everyone else present that Daddy will be her "boyfriend" until she is given away to her future husband.

This is the belief system underlying patriarchy taken to its logical extreme: that a woman "belongs" to a man (a father, a husband, possibly later a son) who controls her sexuality.  For all the problems and social injustices we face in the 21st century, most of us have come to recognize that no one can legitimately claim ownership of another person's (living) body.

I can almost guarantee that if my own father were still alive, he'd find "Purity Balls" as viscerally abhorrent as I do although he would have had a hard time articulating exactly why.  Even attending my Campfire Girls' annual Father/Daughter Buffet was excruciating for the poor guy, although he enjoyed sharing activities in which our gender difference played no part (riding motorcycles, camping and boating).  My father, for all his faults, was a man who absolutely respected his daughters' sexual and physical boundaries.  (He could be a little uptight, in fact.  Once, having returned home after a two year absence, I flung my arms around him at the airport and he was so mortified that it was like embracing a marble column.)

Neither did my father ever tell me I should expect to find a man who would treat me "like a queen."  In fact, to the extent to which he advised me about my future, it was to nag me to take more math and science classes and quit wasting my time with my head in a novel, and not get married too early. Once, during a long car ride home from college, he confided that he hoped I would find a job I liked because "working would have made your mom a happier person." 

In other words, my father more than anyone made me a feminist. 

Someday, if I can do so tactfully, I'm going to ask my fundamentalist Christian neighbors what they think about these "purity" covenants. Or maybe I won't because... well, maybe there are some things I just shouldn't know.

Meanwhile, the little girl below is clearly having none of this nonsense! 

AVfM Doesn't Activate?

Whoever says that hasn't been paying attention to the tireless, nonstop efforts of Attila Vinczer, the Canadian Activism Director for A Voice for Men.

I'd never heard of Attila Vinczer before, probably because I've not hung out on AVfM all that much.  He certainly came to my attention yesterday, via David Futrelle's post about the AVfM's reaction to Danielle D'Entremont's assault, when Mr. Vinczer announced his bold intention to interview the victim at police headquarters himself.

Now I have very little idea how Canadian criminal investigations are conducted -- and it's probably chauvinistic for me to assume they are not very different than those in the U.S. -- but this struck Futrelle and his readers as... well, a tad presumptuous.  And it made me rather curious about this fellow.

So I did what any serious researcher does; I googled.  And oh my!

First of all, at the risk of being creepy and objectifying, may I confess that I find Attila Vinczer to be a remarkably handsome man?  In fact, he's a real dish compared to the other guys at AVfM (sorry Dean! sorry John! sorry Karen!).  He makes me think of the sommelier at an elegant French restaurant, the kind of gentleman with whom one would not hesitate to entrust one's wine choices for the evening.  

And also, may I just share that I have always been rather partial to the name "Attila?"  (Also "Genghiz.")  Blame this on spending so much time in my youth immersed in All Things Turkish and learning that, after all, those alpha Huns and Mongols had just gotten a bad rap from the chroniclers of Western Civilization.

Second, I have discovered that Mr. Vinczer is, in his words, "a benevolent man" who loves children and animals, and is not shy about documenting his efforts to rescue dogs in distress.  So I've learned that we have this passion in common, and for me, that is no trivial matter.

Third, given Mr. Vinczer's appetite for litigation, may I suggest that he is living in the wrong country? He's really missing out on the big action by staying north of the border.  Because Mr. Vinczer has sued -- or threatened to sue -- a helluva lot of people, including a fellow "dangerous feminist blogger" at Mancheez (for being "vexatiously malicious").

To whit:

He has sued the principal and vice-principal of his son's school, as well as the police constable called in to investigate, for fabricating evidence and providing misleading information to police that resulted in his son being arrested.  (It appears that the boy had been accused of assault against a classmate; the charges were dropped.)

He has sued the Catholic School Board that facilitated the police interrogation.

He reported an acquaintance to police for allegedly giving his son booze at a party (and helpfully provided photos to the news media of the 12 year old boy being treated for alcohol poisoning in hospital).

He's on record for refusing to support breast cancer awareness until the Canadian government gives men free prostate cancer screenings.  Because of course breast cancer affects only women and prostate cancer affects only men!  (Tell that to the widow I know whose life was devastated by losing her husband to the latter disease, or the young man I worked with who was left a single dad when his 29 year old wife died within months of diagnosis of a particularly aggressive form of the disease, HER2-positive breast cancer.)

Mr. Vinczer has even threatened TMZ to "contact authorities" because they posted a comment that was fraudulently made in his name.

He has also written a very long and very turgid letter to the Queen herself to beseech her support on behalf of fathers' rights (a letter copied to all members of the Canadian Parliament, the Provincial Parliament in Ontario, the Pope, the Prime Mister [sic] of Canada, etc.).
 
When Mr. Vinczer isn't lodging official complaints, he's posting Youtube videos of various acts of misandry (or just plain "unladylike" behavior), including teenage girls rudely pushing to the front of amusement park queues or women picking their noses in public.

This guy is truly indefatigable, and gives lie to the scurrilous accusation that MRAs are not true "activists" at all.

P.S.  Please don't sue me Mr. Vinczer!

Girl Punched In Face Because Feminism

David Futrelle posted today about the attack on a university student in Kingston, Canada, possibly by an MRA, and the hay that AVfM (A Voice for Men) was having with this news.  AVfM is vigorously denying any culpability, whilst at the same time attacking the victim as either (1) a liar (who presumably punched herself?), or (2) an instigator who got what was coming to her for protesting the presence of an MRA speaker on her campus.  The usual cast of characters weigh in, including some weird over-sharing by Karen Straughan, the manosphere's version of Camille Paglia.  Straughan, while conceding the perpetrator might have been influenced by anti-feminist rhetoric, suggests he was in some way justified: if you kick a dog enough he will eventually bite.  (Because, you know, men are dogs in danger of being "metaphorically castrated" by feminists. Or something.)
  
As sad and scary as this news is, I am glad the young woman wasn't more seriously injured.  And I take some bitter satisfaction in the way this incident will discredit Paul Elam and his gang of thugs even further, which is perhaps in the long run for the good.

Amongst the comments was a link to an article by feminist blogger Sady Doyle that was written three years ago.  The title ("A Girl's Guide to Staying Safe Online") is ironic, given that the list of "suggestions" that follow are impossible for anyone who wishes to have an online voice.  The bottom line?  Being a feminist blogger = abuse.  Of course it's one thing to be called "a cunt" "a slut" or a lunatic, it's quite another to have your teeth knocked in.

Of course, the AVfM Grand Pooh Bah had a word or two to say about Sady's article:  "But no matter what you do, you are going to see a lot more of the things you don’t like in the future...  courtesy of the men’s movement.  Simply put, we are coming for you. All of you.  And by the time we are done you will wax nostalgic over the days when all you had to deal with was someone expressing a desire to fuck you up your shopworn ass."

So what is the answer?  "Ultimately," Sady concludes, "the best way to 'stay safe' online may simply be to stay online. After all: If there’s no one left willing to complain about the harassment, what are the odds that it’s going to change?"

Step Away From the Keyboard

A few days ago, Roosh V wrote an ostensibly serious piece, "The Internet Is Doing You More Harm Than Good" in which he points out that "The internet has solved the cost barrier to idea distribution... [but]... This ability, upon closer inspection, is actually causing us harm. We would all better off limiting our internet usage than expanding it further."  

He goes on to say, "There used to be a dearth of reading material for humans but now there is too much, and we are wasting time on content that we shouldn’t just to be entertained, just to feel a little emotional rush that we may not be getting through our normal lives. Consider that people now purposefully read content they hate just to stir their emotions. They do this as part of their daily routine."

This is an excellent point, one which even I have addressed.  We won't point out the irony that Roosh has made his living by publishing provocative material on his blogs, has crowed with delight when a particularly vile post goes "viral", and retweets every tweet that references himself (positively or negatively).  Let's not look at the way his example has inspired hundreds of men to beg for donations on their own little blogs.  Perhaps what he is really saying is "Quit talking and listen to me."

I will also refrain from pointing out that long before the days of "yellow journalism," much less the internet, the public managed to waste a lot of time on idle entertainments that included dog fighting, gambling, public executions, and mystery plays.  

A couple of days later, Matt Forney announced he was "unfollowing" people on Twitter in preparation for a social media blackout.  The "addiction" was too much and was interfering with his "productivity."  I think this is a good step for Forney.  Like Roosh, he wants more than anything to be taken seriously as a writer and an intellectual, an aim that is incompatible with "click-baiting."

It occurs to me that, besides being hypocritical to the nth degree, Roosh misunderstands the nature of the manosphere.  It is not a place to exchange ideas, obtain information, or engage in serious debate.  It is a place where disaffected men go to experience a sense of community and belonging.  The element they have in common is their hatred & desire for women; bashing "feminism" is just a pretext for bonding with one another.

And to be honest, the same could be said for the "anti-anti-feminist" bloggers like myself.  It's a place where we go to be reassured that we are not alone;  we have "friends" out there in cyberspace.  Of course these are not "friends" in a conventional sense.  We might find, as Eseld Bosustow has mused, that we actually have little in common besides a shared disdain for misogyny, bigotry, and ignorance.  And yet that is not an insignificant basis for friendship either, as it suggests a number of shared core values, a certain sympathy of perspective.

I have experienced and observed real acts of support -- the sort of reaching out I associate with friendship -- amongst complete strangers on the internet.  The fact that, as of today, Karen Stollznow's legal fund has surpassed its goal by over $10,000 is an example.  (I'll bet she's feeling the love right now!) The fact that a very busy man like P.Z. Myers agreed to help "rescue" my name is another example:  I can never not consider him a good friend although we will always remain "strangers."  And because he inspired others to champion me, I now feel much less alone.  There are a handful of readers here that, should the opportunity ever present itself, I would be delighted to meet in "real life."  Maybe we would find out we didn't really care for one another -- but somehow I doubt that.

Meanwhile, there is no question that when the internet starts interfering with the opportunity to mix and mingle with flesh-and-blood people, it's high time to step away from the keyboard and (in my case) toddle down to the Eagles for a round of bingo.

MRA Drinking Game

Seriously, let's do this.  Give me your ideas and I'll post them.

OK, I'll start:  Every time a dude describes himself as "an alpha male" = 1 shot of tequila.

Sexual Harassment

UPDATE:  I posted this yesterday.  Today I read, via Pharyngula, about Karen Stollznow's plight.  It appears that sexual harassment is alive and well in academia.  I've sent a small amount to her legal fund, a token really.  And ordered a couple of her books, which look fascinating.  Maybe I should try writing a really crappy porn book, tailored to the rich sexual fantasies of your average manospherean reader, so I could afford to give more?  Anyone care to collaborate on such a project?
______________________________________________________________________

I'm old enough to have experienced sexual harassment before "sexual harassment" was A Thing, much less a cause for legal action.  When I was a graduate student I took a part time job taking dictation for a much respected and frequently cited law professor, renowned for his work in civil rights.  I got the gig through the student job center.  Although the work schedule was erratic and inconvenient -- the professor was most productive in the wee hours -- my small stipend as a TA (teaching assistant) wasn't quite enough to live on.  So I felt lucky to have another small stream of income to make ends meet.

The job entailed the professor picking me up around midnight at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, and driving me to his house across town.  Our voices were hushed as we climbed the dark stairs to the upstairs bedroom he used as his study; his wife and children were sleeping in adjoining bedrooms.  I settled myself in front of an IBM Selectric (this was a couple of years before personal computers had rendered typewriters obsolete).  The professor stood behind me and... well, talked to himself.  He was the kind of guy who needed to have an audience, to hear himself form his own ideas out loud, and the fact that I had little idea what he was talking about did not deter him in the least.  I was a pretty fast typist, and I did my best to capture every word.  Still, it took a lot of focus to follow the unrelenting stream of consciousness through the dark, unmeasured hours.  Sometimes he would make sudden detours, backtracks, need to annotate.  Sometimes he got annoyed (at himself? at me?) and raised his voice impatiently, or stomped about.  These exhausting sessions usually lasted a few hours, sometimes only a couple, depending on the professor's inspiration and energy level.  When he was finished for the night, he drove me back home as though I were the family babysitter (which in retrospect I might have been), and I fell into bed half-dressed, curled up against my boyfriend's bony back, and tried to catch a couple of hours of sleep before getting up to attend classes.

One evening the professor announced that he appreciated my work so much that he wanted to reward me with an excursion.  He drove me to the town's only porn theater and invited me to attend a movie with him.  I demurred.  At that time, the notion of watching a "dirty movie" in a public venue was akin to parading down Main Street nude.  The fact that a professor was encouraging me to do so made me dizzy with confusion and shame.  Reluctantly, the professor turned the car around and we headed to his house where we resumed our work.  However, about an hour in, his voice trailed off... He had another idea.

"You seem like an adventurous girl, Cynthia," he said.  "Would you like to listen in on a phone call?"  It was 1:00 am.  I couldn't imagine who he might call at that hour.  I obediently picked up the extension in the office while the professor disappeared downstairs.  For the next twenty minutes or so, he engaged in what I would now describe as "phone sex" with an unknown but apparently willing woman in another state.  I don't know if she was a former student or a colleague.  I knew it was a long distance call, and I couldn't stop worrying about how expensive it was, and whether the professor's wife would be cross when she saw the bill, or whether these calls were itemized research expenses (like my services) that the university reimbursed him for.  When the conversation had reached its conclusion, the professor returned, looking pleased with himself.

"Well, what did you think?" he asked.  "It was interesting," I replied dully, my cheeks scorching.  Nonplussed by my disappointing response, the professor continued to dictate and the evening proceeded as usual.

The next morning I called the student job center to tender my resignation.  "I can't work with Prof. X," I said.  "And I can't explain why."  Of course, the job center director, a woman, knew exactly why, but she wasn't about to press for details.  Yes, she conceded, they'd had similar reports before.  She understood.  She didn't offer me an alternative job, and I didn't ask for one. 

And so the matter rested...  but not quite.

A couple of weeks later, the professor's wife called me at home, imploring me to return.  "My husband works so well with you," she told me.  "You're not like the other girls."  I fibbed, telling her a change in my teaching schedule made it, much to my regret, impossible.  

The next day I took a job at a shopping mall kiosk, selling hot dogs.  It was a little embarrassing when my students passed by and giggled at the sight of my silly orange plastic visor, but I preferred that variety of humiliation.

I didn't think about this incident for almost two decades because I didn't have the language to describe what had happened.  And I knew, I just knew on some level, that it had all been my fault anyway.  I must have been giving off some signal that convinced the professor I was receptive to that behavior.  There was something dirty and damaged in me that he had picked up on... If only I could figure out what I had done!  (Certainly my boyfriend at the time thought so.)

Not long ago, I looked up the professor.  I figured he was retired by now, but I was curious if he had ever been implicated in sexually harassing other female students.  I was shocked and saddened to learn he had committed suicide years before.  I don't know if anyone understands why, but he apparently had fallen into a deep depression following a lawsuit brought, not by a woman, but by a group of African American students, charging him with -- of all things! -- racism.  Given that he had devoted his career to civil rights legislation, the nature of this dishonor and his subsequent death seemed impossibly ironic and sad.

My little anecdote is common stuff, hardly to be remarked upon, for women my generation.  I wonder if I shared it with younger women, they would dismiss it as part of a quaint and troublesome era, as irrelevant to their professional lives as a Mad Men episode. It would be rather pleasant to believe we have come so far.

And so...

Is the fact that there is a generation out there who don't recognize the name "Anita Hill" yet another reminder of how old I am?  Fortunately, there's a new documentary that will familiarize younger people with her ordeal during the 1991 confirmation hearings of Supreme Justice Clarence Thomas.

It's comforting to learn that Hill prevailed, despite the dirt she was dragged through, with her sanity and dignity intact, and went on to establish the rewarding career she still enjoys.

If Only He'd Use His Powers For Good...

Today Matt Forney revealed he is the creator of Virginia's Secret Garden, the confessional blog of a sexually submissive Christian housewife that somehow never picked up much steam in the manosphere.  Will we find out he is actually Femitheist Divine and Desiree Myers-Leibowitz next? 

The past few weeks have seen quite a flurry of hoaxes exposed and identities doxxed in the manosphere.  Their twitters and forums are buzzing with scandal and gossip.  The blatant contempt figures like Roosh and Matt Forney have for their own readership is shocking and, on some level, very pathetic.  I guess the good news is that it gives them less time to pick on women.

Matt explains his motivations here.  That he boasts of generating a "three figure income" from a crappy porn book reminds us, once again, that he is still struggling to find a way to make a living as a writer.  His claim that by writing porn (for men) he has mastered the feminine voice is debatable.  And his criticism of a buddy's wife (who chronicles her wifely sexploits in her own embarrassing blog) reminds me of St. Theresa of Avila's scolding remark to the Lord, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few."

However, there is no doubt in my mind that his observation that most "Red Pill Women" are complete nut-burgers℠ is right on the money. 

My Ethical Dilemma

This may be sacrilege coming from a community college instructor, but I couldn't agree with Michael J. Petrilli more.  The college route is not for everyone, and sometimes it seems to me that encouraging kids to keep pursuing academic failure is downright cruel and exploitative.  Why am I trying to teach that young man to write essays when he (and I and society in general) might be benefiting from his brilliant mechanical aptitude instead?  What's wrong with working oneself up to a management position in a fast food franchise?  We need to be offering these kids more pathways to self-sufficiency and "the good life" than joining the military.

We Have To Talk

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  I wish visual artist Malcolm McNeil had taken that wisdom to heart before he published this essay in Paraphelia.  I've edited this passage not only to respect copyright law, but also because the bloody thing runs 1000 words long -- just to reiterate the same old tired evo psych bullshit in the windiest way possible.  Judging from Mr. McNeil's prose style, and in direct opposition to his thesis, he seems to be the kind of guy that likes to hear himself natter on.

"We have to talk." To a man, the four most terrifying words in the English language... Women accept that men don’t talk as much; men accept that women talk a lot more – a whole lot more sometimes, often seemingly for no reason or the need to make sense... As hunter, the human male became predator. His success was contingent on stealth and strategy. Only essential information would be exchanged during the process and it would be directed with specific intent. Unnecessary sound would not only be contrary to the purpose but potentially life threatening... Verbal communication among males therefore, would have inevitably become imbued with characteristics of economy and efficiency. For human females [in contrast] Their inherently compromised mobility definitely made them potential prey to other life forms – including other, out-group, male-humans...   ‘gathering’ is a more methodical activity in which economy of sound is irrelevant to success... As Chris Rock points out, “…it’s impossible for a man to win an argument with a woman, simply because men…” – in keeping with the hunter paradigm – “are handicapped by the need to make sense. Women aren’t going to let a little thing like sense get in the way of a good argument.” Women simply “have to talk”; it makes them happy, it makes them feel secure. It’s been that way for a very long time..."
 

Evo Psych Bingo

I've stolen this from The Feminist Skeptic, who stole it from someone else:

Howl

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

Angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection

to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

---Allen Ginsburg (1955)

I've seen the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by Twitter.
---Matt Forney (2014)

I hope this allusion is ironic.

Happy White Pride Day (Whenever It Is)

Yesterday (March 21) was White Pride Day, when Americans of European ancestry could come out of their trailers homes with their heads held high and finally say it: Yes, I'm White and I'm Proud!

And I missed the whole thing, although I did spend much of the afternoon performing the Spring Rites of My People, like slathering myself with SPF 100+ sun screen,* rooting around for my Ray Bans for hours before venturing out into the jungle my back yard, and then cursing roundly at my dead lawnmower for twenty minutes before retreating in defeat to my cave living room.

No, White Pride Day would have slipped clean past me had I not decided to check out a new blog for "feminine women" called Return of Queens.  The top stories featured today are "The Most Disgusting Thing You Will Ever See!" [An abscess being lanced? Thanks, I'll take your word for it!], and one with the plaintive headline, "A Day For Whites: Too Much To Ask For One A Year?"  Both stories were penned by "Queen A." (not be confused with Queen Bee).

But hold on a minute!  If White Pride Day is an "international" holiday, why will it be celebrated April 5 in the U.K.?  You'd think that the anglosphere, at least, could coordinate their calendars.  

Ah, according to yet another source, the 15th of every month is "White Pride Day."  (Or, let's face it, every damn day of the year.)  Show solidarity by wearing white clothing. But what if it's after Labor Day?

Never mind your pretty little head, there's a recipe for Green Beans and Red Potatoes at the bottom of the page which the contributor promises "are actually enjoyable to eat, even for kids."  Though the accompanying photo fails to convince me.
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* You think I'm kidding? Skin cancer is just one more part of my proud genetic heritage.

Ouch!

I assume the following tweet is a dig at me, so I'll take the bait and acknowledge it.  Perhaps it's in retaliation for my recent observation that Matt Forney the Writer can be hired at astonishingly low rates. I can only guess what kind of "unethical work" he is alluding to, but I expect it's something along these lines.

It's strange that he should suggest the worth of teachers and adjunct faculty (or anyone) is measured by their paychecks. And while it's certainly true that a lot of folks make more money than I do, it doesn't follow they behave unethically in the process.  Hell, my manicurist makes almost as much money as I do (and, believe me, she's worth every penny).  Call me a schmuck (or the female equivalent thereof), but I take a measure of pride in knowing that what I do actually empowers people by teaching them skills that will make their own lives richer in ways that matter. Though a cost-of-living increase would be nice...  I suppose, at the end of the day, we all have to live with our consciences.

1. Matthew Forney ‏@realmattforney 7h

   Example: my current freelancing gig is the very definition of unethical. But I get paid more than most teachers and adjunct faculty do.

   
   Matthew Forney ‏@realmattforney 7h
   America is a country where it's more profitable to cheat the system than it is to actually help people improve their lives.

Who the Hell is Belle Knox?

The other day a young manospherian blogger (whose name I may be linked to as long as we both shall live) tweeted, "How can ANYONE  defend Miriam Weeks/Belle Knox at this point? She's a living, breathing argument for both patriarchy and arranged marriages."

I thought, Who the hell is Belle Knox?

That's one benefit of monitoring the manospherians: they're constantly introducing me to names and stories that would otherwise have entirely escaped my notice.

Turns out Belle Knox is a 19 year old Duke University student who was doing a little porn on the side to pay tuition.  As the manosphere would have us believe, this has become a widespread phenomenon, and yet another portent of the imminent Collapse of Civilization.  Knox was outed by a classmate and quickly became subject to a horrendous, still ongoing torrent (well, what passes for a "torrent" on the internet) of public abuse attention.

Still, I had to wonder why this New Misogynist was so angry at poor Belle?  After all, she's thin, pretty enough (an "8" at least), and she makes porn, a genre I imagine this young man enjoys on a regular basis, along with 77% of his demographic.*  Physically (which is to say, in the only way that matters), she's the feminine ideal of wannabe rock stars and horny young PUAs, and judging by her demeanor on camera, quite a charming, articulate young lady.

The manospherian tweeter went on to grumble, "This is what a feminist looks like: self-mutilating, living in a crappy apartment, getting fucked for a living," and links to a predictably exploitative story in the Daily Mail that focuses on the severe depression Knox had suffered as a younger girl, who as a former "cutter" still bears the scars without shame. There is a subtext behind the rather shocking photos, of course: Only emotionally damaged people become porn actors.

I have to take that tabloid story with a few grains of salt because Belle Knox appears to be exploiting her, uhm, exposure for all it's worth, engaging in a blizzard of buzz, appearing on talk shows such as "The View," and making her brazen debut as a stripper.  And frankly, she looks to be having a lot of fun with her moment in the spotlight.

And then I realized what Matt Forney's real beef was:  Belle Knox has identified herself as a "feminist."  (Never mind that there are plenty of "feminists" who wouldn't necessarily agree.)  See, she's taken what the New Misogynists (and to be fair, most of the American public) see as "degradation" and proceeded to spin it into into a platform from which she can be be heard above the din, reveling in her fifteen minutes, and earning admirers for her sheer guts.**  It is for this transgression that Belle Knox must be punished!

For someone like "The Real Matt Forney," who has courted notoriety with every fiber of his being, yet still hasn't managed to sell a single $5 ad space on his website, the "overnight success" of this belle du jour has got to irk. 

Typical feminist / shameless hussy

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* More fun facts about Americans' porn habit can be found here.
** My own views on pornography are ambivalent.  Basically, there is porn, and then there is porn.  Had I a daughter or a son, I would rather they didn't get involved in the sex industry for a myriad of reasons.  However, I have to credit Ms. Knox.  She's a role model for anyone seeking to turn the tables on "shamers."  I wish her the best in all her future endeavors.

Fred Phelps Is Dead

Fred Phelps, patriarch of the Westboro Baptist Church, has finally died.  

He will not go to Heaven.  He will not go to Hell.  He did not have a soul that will live on in any form, corporeal or spiritual.  

He will be buried.  His body will decompose (is, in fact, already decomposing as I write this).  In fifty years, he will scarcely be remembered, and the people he tormented will be gone too.

His ultimate fate is no different than my own will be.

His death gives me no satisfaction or hope.  His death does not mark the end of human cruelty and malice.

“Life ... is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Especially the life of Fred Phelps.

My Woody Allen Problem

The other day, a couple of friends invited me to join them to see "Blue Jasmine" at the charming second-run movie theater in our town.  The movie had gotten excellent reviews, I really wanted to catch up with the girls, and I was way overdue for a night out.  Still, I couldn't bring myself to go.

You see, I have a Woody Allen problem.  I know I'm not alone.  

"Don't think of it as a Woody Allen movie," my friend urged.  "Think of it as a Cate Blanchett movie."

That didn't help.  She chose to work with him, and to laud him at the 2014 Golden Globes.  Now Scarlett Johansson has slipped in my esteem by calling the little girl (now woman) who maintains Allen molested her "irresponsible." (One thinks wistfully of the old studio days when movie stars spoke to the press only from carefully crafted scripts.)

See, here's my problem:  I'm, like, 99% sure that "Dylan Farrow" is telling the absolute truth.  

Some people blame Mia Farrow for the fact that this scandal cannot die.  They say she's manipulating the media coverage, that she's still carrying on a bitter vendetta against her former lover because he betrayed her with...  her daughter.  (Like for Christ's sake, that wasn't bad enough?)  Don't think I don't think rather poorly of Ms. Farrow, too, BTW, although not for the reasons much of Hollywood does.  My beef with Mia Farrow is that she didn't do more to protect her daughter, soon enough.  

I've had arguments with my old friend Max about this.  He claims that artists (say, Courtney Love) operate on a different moral plane.  They are, by virtue of their talent, somehow "above the law," which only applies to mediocre schlubs like you or me.  The art must be judged apart from the artist who created it.  

You can argue this with me til the sun goes down, I don't disagree in theory, but it doesn't change my visceral unease and distaste for both the man and his movies.  I tried to get past this by watching "Midnight in Paris" last year, but I could never let my guard down enough to immerse myself in the cinematic experience.  

I have a similar problem with Roman Polanski, for similar reasons.  I watched "Carnage" recently on DVD just because, you know, I'll watch anything Christoph Waltz is in (even when it's in German without subtitles).  Yeah, yeah, I know Polanski's victim is now a middle aged matron who forgives him, and the fact that he (in notable contrast to Allen) has admitted his guilt and expressed remorse should mitigate his sentence, but frankly, the only way he could fully redeem himself in my harsh, judgmental eyes is if he returned to the U.S., prepared to face his sentence, which is damned unlikely for a lot of reasons, not least of which is his age.

Last week PBS was hosting one of those "golden oldies" fundraising specials, and who do we see?  Michelle Phillips (Mamas and the Papas), burbling on about what a songwriting genius her late former husband John Phillips was.  And he was.  Unfortunately, he also had a longstanding incestuous relationship with his very vulnerable, very drug-addicted daughter Mackenzie, which she described a few years ago in a book.  I watched the Oprah Winfrey interview, and you know what?  I am 99% certain she was telling the absolute truth too.  And sure, learning that Phillips betrayed and exploited his own daughter in the worst way doesn't mean he didn't make some great music, but it mightily diminishes the pleasure I can now take in listening to that music.  And the fact that Michelle Phillips has publicly renounced her stepdaughter as a delusional liar taints her too.

Imagine how horrifying it would be to learn that your ex-husband, someone whom you once loved and had a child with, was, in fact, capable of such evil -- especially when your own legacy is irrevocably tied to his.  Still, I have this... this problem with any woman who chooses loyalty to a man over loyalty to a child (even a grown child, and one who is not biologically her own). 

I'm also aware that men get falsely accused of child abuse.  A lot.  And if I believed in God, I would believe there was a special circle in Hell reserved for just such false accusers.  It's just that in the above mentioned particular cases, I happen to believe the victims.  

It doesn't help those victims that I no longer enjoy the art their perpetrators created, of course.  It doesn't help me either.  I used to be a huge fan of Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, and John Phillips, before their own actions robbed me (and many others) of the capacity to admire their work. 

Mainstream Invading the Manosphere!

Remember Geoffrey Miller?  He's the doorknob evolutionary psychologist and author of The Mating Mind who last year tweeted that fat people lacked sufficient self-discipline to successfully complete doctorate programs.  

Miller, a tenured associate professor at the University of New Mexico, didn't lose his position, but he was formally censured.  Among other punishments, his work must be monitored by his department chair.  Not too tightly though, since he seems to have been given the go-ahead to team up with reformed rake Tucker Max in a joint venture, a men's magazine called "Mating Grounds."  

And this has made manosphere blogger Danger & Play madder than a wet hen.  D & P is accusing Max and Miller of "riding coat tails and pretending to be original when they are copying Danger & Play."  Others in the manosphere are equally incensed.  How dare that has-been former alpha & now hopelessly beta Tucker Max suggest that there is even a need for another site that teaches men how to get laid? Hasn't he checked out their little corner of the internet lately? They are already accusing Miller and Max of stealing their "content."

First the webmaster of "Viva La Manosphere" tries to muscle in on Danger & Play's juicing turf, then this impertinent challenge!  And to add insult to injury, Miller is now pretending he doesn't even know who D & P is!

I've heard academic politics can be brutal, but it's nothing like the dog-eat-dog world of wanna-be masculine lifestyle gurus. I hope Miller and Max appreciate what kind of competition they're up against.

And that concludes the latest episode in the continuing drama that is [cue organ music] the MAN-o-sphere...

There Are Consequences...

There is this cracker on the manosphere I'll call "Dr. Delusion."  He has a very young girlfriend I'll call "Lady Misandry."  Now before you get all politically correct on me and call me out for the use of the term "cracker," I'll have you know that I have it on high authority (that is, a series of bartenders in Florida) that "cracker" is not necessarily a slur and I am not using it pejoratively here.  I'm using it to paint a picture of a working-class Southern man who is suspicious of outside authority (government, intellectuals, etc.) and clings to the Old School values of traditional gender roles, independence, self-reliance, and bigotry.  The kind of guy who waves the Confederate flag at Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts but will happily offer you a beer from his cooler.  (Racists usually take to me on sight because, well look at me!  I could be an Aryan Den Mother.)

In fact, I find much to admire about Dr. Delusion.  First of all, he is one of those rare "manospherians" who actually seems to work, and to work hard.  He's the kind of guy who is not afraid to get his hands dirty.  He embodies a lot of the traditional masculine virtues I hold in high esteem, not least of which is the ability to fix stuff.  I'm sure he knows his way around Home Depot, and can take any power tool in hand with confidence and authority.

Dr. Delusion and his lady live in a rural area where they raise their own vegetables and animals.  I was particularly interested to find that they raise rabbits for food because a few years ago, when the economy tanked, I seriously considered doing the same in my backyard.  Unfortunately, I couldn't imagine actually slaughtering them.  I would have had to find someone like Dr. Delusion to do that for me.  Also, I've eaten rabbit once, and I didn't like it very much.*  That's when I decided a better plan was to stockpile booze, so that I'd have something to barter when Doomsday hit.

I've been trying to give up meat, but it's a struggle.  I'm fully aware that eating flesh I am not prepared to kill myself is hypocritical.  Therefore, I forced myself to view the photos Dr. Delusion had gleefully posted on his blog of killing and skinning a rabbit.  It actually looked pretty easy, and tossed in a stew I'm sure it was very palatable.

So I'm reading along, almost wishing I had a neighbor as handy and resourceful as Dr. Delusion, when I come to this line:  "This was a two year old female who refuse [sic] to let my bucks breed her.  Around my house, there are consequences for refusing to breed." [italics mine]

And that's when I almost lost my lunch.
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* I've actually seen a rabbit killed before.  When I was visiting a friend's farm near Alessandria, la nonna beckoned me over so that I could watch her dash a rabbit's head against the side of the barn.  I threw up on the spot, much to the old lady's amusement.  I had just enjoyed a gelato, and when it came back up it was still cold.  A singular experience. 

Happy International Earth Day!

Would it surprise you to discover "neo-reactionaries" generally dismiss "climate cultists" who warn us of the effects of global warming? 

Well, some of them can't quite bring themselves to deny the science, but they do reject "The Cathedral" that "politicizes" it.  In other words, get ready for the consequences of global warming, but do so because YOU want to, not to make some dumb environmentalists happy!

Meanwhile, enjoy this jolly little sculpture on display in Berlin:

"Politicians Discussing Global Warming" Sculpture by Isaac Cordal.

But What Would Paul Krugman Say?

The administration has proposed raising the federal minimum wage as a means of stimulating the economy. I happen to live in the state that boasts both the highest minimum wage and the highest job growth in the country. In fact, there is a lot of support in Seattle to push that minimum wage even higher, to $15/hour.  According to Venture Capitalist Nick Hanauer,  "A higher minimum wage is a very simple and elegant solution to the death spiral of falling demand that is the signature feature of our economy." Not to mention just, compassionate, and the all-around Right Thing To Do.

Of course, not everyone is on board.  The Manosphere's own resident economist, Captain Capitalism, proposes an even simpler and more elegant solution:  "I have said before, and I am 100% sincere about this, that if women were to lose weight in America, that would increase economic production... because hot chicks incentive [sic] men...  And men are the primary producers and innovators of society."

Aaron Clarey, is the "super awesome economic genius" behind Captain Capitalism.  His blog represents "some of the finest economic research and philosophy."  He lives in Minneapolis, which he claims is "a leftist shit hole."  I believe he attended community college at some point.

White Man's March Follow Up

If you missed the White Man's March yesterday, as I did, you may be comforted to learn it was a bit of a bust. They couldn't even display all those extra signs around the neighborhood: the cops made them take them all down.

I Love Cleavage (Who Cares)

A couple of days ago, I saw this story about a "creepy subreddit" that encourages members to upload pictures of women showing cleavage (in fact, any "sexy" photo will do) onto a special Facebook page designed for the viewing pleasure of...  well, I guess anyone on Facebook who loves to see a suggestion of breasts.  (I assume this isn't an "I Love Toe Cleavage" page, although God knows that would draw its own audience.) 

There are ground rules: The pictures must already have been posted by the subject (a Facebook user herself), the woman must be over eighteen, and the woman must not be named (as though that will somehow protect her identity these days). 

The pages (there are actually more than one) have met with an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response.

Disgusting, isn't it?  My first response was: One more way to punish women for being on the internet. 

But what if the tables were turned?  What if some intrepid person (woman or man) was inspired to obtain pictures of attractive male Facebook users for the same purpose?  Hell, for all I know, someone already has (but I'm not willing to waste an hour looking for them). 

I had to admit that didn't bother me nearly so much, and I had to ask myself, Why not? 

There is plenty of evidence that American women have taken to "objectifying" men in record numbers.  Just read Jezebel or any number of popular women's magazines.  Recall the kerfuffle over Jon Hamm's candid "crotch shots" last year?  I have every reason to believe he found that experience just as humiliating and invasive as some Jane Doe who has already posed for and posted the pictures herself. 

I'm not saying that "objectifying" people of any gender is behavior to be proud of.  But we have to acknowledge it seems hard-wired in the human brain to do so.  Obviously, both men and women enjoy looking at pictures of good-looking men and women in various states of deshabille.  (And kittens. And babies. And food.)  And we especially savor images we're not "supposed to" see. 

The underlying "revenge" element in "I Love Cleavage" or similar Facebook pages is quite unpleasant, like watered-down versions of Hunter Moore's Is Anyone Up.  There is an unescapable sense that these young women are being "shamed" for their sexuality.  Again, I ask, Why? I assume the young women posted their own "sexy" images as a celebration of their beauty, or out of vanity, or a desire to be desired -- all, BTW, perfectly valid, healthy, and natural reasons in my opinion.  So the idea that these pictures have "shaming potential" is merely a demonstration of how fucked up puritanical Americans are (even / especially American "feminists").

I'm not saying that Facebook shouldn't address this issue with a change of policy.  If enough fuss is raised, it probably will.  After all, Facebook is the domain of adolescents (of all ages), whom we hypocritically claim to "protect." 

If there is one thing I've learned in the last few months, it's that none of us have completely comprehended the power of social media to showcase the most base of human behavior.  

Although I'm not ever going to find my mug (or boobs decollatage) on an "I Love Cleavage" Facebook page, I will just add that I'm sorry I ever joined Facebook.  Of course, now that I'm on, I can't get off.  And I'll bet a lot of my friends feel the same way.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

So I'm meandering through the Mysterious Forest of Twitter (because I will do anything to avoid marking papers) when I stumble across a tweet by a self-styled, Las Vegas-based playboy (whose first name is probably what he is not practicing, and whose last name is pretty much the epitome of posthumous cool).  This particular specimen of machismo has a manosphere blog, too, of course, where he promotes his e-books and classes.  His latest post teaches men "How To Have A Three Way With Strippers."  I didn't read it since I'm not planning a trip to Sin City anytime soon, but I would hazard to guess that it's all a matter of having the right party favors.

I recognized his moniker because he was one of the boys who was outraged by Roosh's little hoax.  But now he's done an about-face, urging his followers to "Treat Roosh right.  I'd take a bullet for him.  Don't fuck with him or fuck with me. And trust me, you don't want to fuck with him."

Now that got my attention, because I reckon I'm somewhere on Roosh's Shit List.  And at least by his standards, I've already "fucked with him" a bit.  

And "take a bullet for him," isn't that a bit... melodramatic?  I mean, under what circumstances might that be necessary?  Is Roosh a masculine lifestyle guru, or a war lord?

What are these guys so afraid of, I wonder?  That they'll be doxxed and their Google-able identities slimed?

Trust me, fellas, it isn't as bad as you fear.

Oops!  Breaking news!  Looks like the Las Vegas playboy has just been doxxed himself!  And not by some nasty feminist either!

Anyway, poor guy, I'm certainly not going to compound his misery here.  After all, we can all agree that doxxing is a terrible thing to do, a cowardly and despicable action, and as a sympathetic compadre pointed out, [tsk-tsk!] just goes to show how some people have way too much time on their hands!

I don't think this is going to help.

Now You Tell Me!

In case you're in NYC, you may still have time to hustle your bustle down to the White Man March.  It's been organized by Kyle Hunt, a 30-year-old graduate of Amherst College with a double major in psychology and theater and dance.  (Hey, wait a minute, aren't those sort of "girly" interests for a manly white supremacist?  On the other hand, they're probably good preparation for someone launching a fledgling career producing idiotic spectacles to incite the most moronic elements of society.)   Of course, they've got signs, and those are pretty hilarious too (although not quite as hilarious as the MRA signs).

Not your typical product of an expensive liberal education.

Dragnet Nation

If you missed Bill Moyers' interview with Julia Angwin, the author of Dragnet Nation, it's well worth watching.  The worst news?  It's pretty much impossible to "opt out."