Have Trolls Overtaken Return of Kings?

One of my favorite past times has become to identify the trolls on Return of Kings.  The website is riddled with them, and the more blatant they are, the more fervent are the responses they elicit from the ROK's moronic simple-minded fan base.  Return of Kings is basically the equivalent of the World Wrestling Federation.  It doesn't matter if this stuff is real or not; it only has to deliver a predictable form of entertainment.

In his (?) post, "The Moment I Saw Women For What They Really Are," "Fry Koskenin" retreads the ground so familiar to Roosh and the other New Misogynists: the utter perfidy of the female sex.  In this particular story, our hero experiences his epiphany about the truly vile nature of women when a "fiery fit" former girlfriend coerces him into having (anal!) sex with her despite his suffering from a slipped disk: "My back, buttocks, and pelvis felt like they were filled with loose razor blades during every tentative thrust."* 

To top it off, this succubus proceeds to deride his unsatisfactory performance before storming off into the dark night:  "And then it occurred to me that I had brought a stealth predator into my sanctuary, and when I was most vulnerable to boot. She was not my ally and not my friend, and certainly not when my needs diverged from her most frivolous whims." 

Hey, when did the desire for sex become a "frivolous whim?" According to the "game" artists' version of evo-psych, we are all driven by the relentless messages emanating from our loins (because reproduction).

Fortunately, there were positive lessons to be learned:  "Now I laugh about all of this unnecessary strife, and take a certain sick joy in knowing that it’s unwise to ever fully relax in a woman’s presence.. It has liberated me from so many burdensome concerns, and for that I am grateful. You just can never fully trust what women are thinking or might do... And a bit of unease is always prudent when you know that a vampire is watching you sleep."

I would bet a significant amount of money (in my case, say, $100) that not only is "Fry Koskenin" not "a regular guy," but is not a guy at all, despite claims to be "a 41-year-old nuclear-engineer-turned-writer ... fond of intelligence, achievement, danger, and beauty, and not much else... [who] loves his motorcycle and despises communists."  The only part of Fry's post that is probably true is that he/she does have "an exemplary education."

This is not Matt Forney-level trolling.  This is far too carefully crafted.  And this particular troll has even gone to the trouble of creating a fake website. 
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*Is it possible that she was just trying to play Marilyn Monroe to his Jack Kennedy?  MM was said to have mischievously remarked, "I think I made his back feel better" after one of their trysts in the early sixties.

Academic (Dis)honesty

Although we're only halfway through the quarter, one of my students has already failed another class because she plagiarized an essay, apparently in a very blatant and deliberate way.  She sat in my class last week, tears rolling down her face.  I felt sorry for her.  I was also disappointed.  I address plagiarism and other forms of academic dishonesty in every class, warning students of the consequences if they are caught.

I tell them the story of the late Edward Kennedy, who was suspended from Harvard for convincing a classmate to take his Spanish exam for him.  Of course, his father quickly bought his way back in, but for the rest of his life, despite a long and distinguished senatorial career, this incident remained a blemish on his character. In fact, in retrospect, it seems to have foreshadowed a personal and public life that was plagued with ethical lapses.

If my non-native speaking students are particularly vulnerable to accusations of plagiarism, it's not because they are more "dishonest"; it's because they don't have enough control over English to "dumb down" the language of their plagiarized sources so that they can be plausibly passed off as their own efforts.  And when they "google" their material, they somehow fail to consider that instructors can also "google" it.  Which is how the hapless student (above) was busted.

Part of the problem, from my angle, is that too many assignments practically "invite" students to plagiarize: the topics are too general, too over worked, and do not require students to do any more than synthesize other writers' ideas.  The failure of instructors' imaginations in designing writing assignments is a big part of the problem.

But here's an example of academic dishonesty that troubles me even more:  There is a tenured writing instructor who habitually teaches 20 credits a quarter.  That's a stunning load in terms of marking.  How does he manage it?

Easy!  He farms out his students' papers to an outfit that, for a modest fee, reads and grades the papers for him.  It's common knowledge that he does this.  Perhaps his dean does not consider his behavior unethical.  (His students complain it takes a long time to get their work back from him, but no wonder; he probably sends the stuff in batches to India.)

I find it infuriating.  I also wonder if I'm a bit of a chump.  What is keeping me from recruiting my own cadre of "assistants?"  Marking grammatical errors isn't difficult, nor does it require any qualifications beyond a command of English sentence structure; it's just tedious.  Being relieved of reading and marking student papers would free me up to focus on the parts of teaching I do enjoy (e.g., story telling, pontificating), allow me to moonlight, and probably double my income.  Furthermore, there are some (bored housewives looking to supplement the income from their monetized blogs, unemployed English majors) who might view this kind of piecework as "an incredible job opportunity."

The Way Girls Compete

First off, is there anything more mind-numbingly boring than listening to women excoriate themselves for their "sinful" and "addictive" behavior around food?

Second, I can't count the number of times I have been "the fat girl" in the group listening to the (relatively) "thin" girls compete for who has the most disordered eating.  I used to believe that these women were merely being insensitive when they nattered on about their shameful food-related confessions.  As I get older, I recognize that this is, in fact, how "mean girls" (of any age) put each other down. 

Twenty years ago, the massage school where I had been newly hired to teach sponsored a buffet brunch at one of Seattle's nicer seafood restaurants.  I loaded up my plate with a little of everything that looked good (and trust me, it all looked good).  I happily plopped myself down at a table with two other young women, both of whom had been my instructors, and for whom I still felt a certain measure of awe. I was thrilled to be acknowledged as their peer.

Neither gave me more than a cursory acknowledgment.  In fact, one immediately turned to the other and said, "Do you want to split a muffin with me?"

I looked down at my plate, heaped with crab, smoked salmon, cheese, eggs. A giant muffin, too large to perch on the plate, sat conspicuously off to the side with a pat of butter.  Taking advantage of the school's singular act of largesse, I hadn't thought I should offer to "share" my booty with anyone.  Not that the two ladies were inviting me to. 

"This food is positively sinful," one of the instructors declared, picking at her salad. 

"I know," the other commiserated.  "It's terrible."

Terrible?  It was delicious!  Plus it was free!  What's not to like here?

It suddenly occurred to me that I probably weighed about as much as the two of them together.  And suddenly I had lost my appetite.

The two instructors clucked on in this vein for the next thirty minutes, studiously avoiding eye contact with me.  I hadn't been snubbed like that since I had tried to crash the popular kids' lunch table in high school.  I tentatively tried to enter the conversation a couple of times, but they weren't having it. It slowly dawned on me that they weren't "overlooking" me; they were engaged in a subtle conspiracy to humiliate me.  Why?  Simply because they could.

Not surprising I lasted only two quarters as a massage school instructor, which was a shame in a way, because I was probably the most knowledgeable (certainly the most academically qualified) teacher there, and was well-liked enough by some students that I was invited to speak at their graduation ceremony. 

Now I'm a mouthy old broad who would call these ladies on their shit (in the nicest possible way, of course).

I'm so sick of women who use food and weight as an opportunity to put other women down.

Maybe if enough women see this Amy Schumer sketch, they will learn not to act like this.  Can women ever stop using food intake and weight as an arena in which to compete with one another?

Students Say The Funniest Things

When I'm not tearing my hair out, my students' papers sometimes make me laugh.  Last week I showed my class the "Blackfish" documentary, which examines the case of Tillikum, a captive orca known to have killed three people so far.  I also gave my students a couple of articles to read, and then asked them to "take a stand" on the question of whether orcas should be held in captivity.

One student, perhaps conflating "Blackfish" with "Moby Dick," concluded, "If we don't start taking whales seriously, they will kill us."  

This film marked Bo Derek's debut, BTW, but what the heck were Richard Harris and Charlotte Rampling doing in this ludicrous farce (besides looking fabulous)?

Another student, carried away by SeaWorld's PR, declared, "Orcas should be kept in captivity, where they are served restaurant-quality meals and much mental stimulation."  Come to think of it, why can't I live at SeaWorld?

And yet another student, also a hardcore SeaWorld fan, mused tenderly that "People and orcas need to be together... because of love."

It Would Be So Nice If You Weren't Here

A close friend, soon to turn 65, reported a kerfuffle he'd had with a neighbor.  The neighbor, a 30-something employee of a local high tech firm, had removed the stakes that marked the lines between their properties.  My friend complained; and furthermore, he complained that the young neighbor had been throwing his yard waste onto my friend's property.

During the course of their heated exchange, the younger neighbor told my friend, "Go home, old man!"

My friend was deeply wounded by this remark.  It was the first time that he had been called "an old man."  

I told him that the answer was to have a survey done, the legal property line re-established, and then to have a privacy fence constructed post-haste to prevent any further conflicts with this ass-hat neighbor.

The next day my friend reported that he'd heeded my advice, but that the local surveyor was already at work establishing the legal property line -- at the young neighbor's bequest.  "Fine!"  I said.  "You're already ahead of the game!  Let him pay to have the property line established!  Then all you need to do is erect a fence along that boundary."

"Good fences make good neighbors," at least according to Robert Frost.  So it would seem that the "problem" was soon to be solved.

I will say that the young neighbor was not only mean, but shockingly short-sighted.  I have always strived (despite provocation) to maintain a cordial relationship with my neighbors, if for no other reason than that we never know when we will need their help.  But he is young, after all, and probably has never lived anywhere for longer than a year or two.  What does he know of the reality of communities?

So today, I was entering the building where I work.  I had to walk around a couple of young people (late teens / early twenties) loitering on the steps, listening to music.  As I passed, I heard the young woman say, "What's with all the old people around here?"  I looked around: there was no one else in sight.  "Are you talking about me?"  I asked.  The girl hung her head in embarrassment and said nothing.  Perhaps she had assumed that I -- at the advanced age of 58 -- was so deaf with age that I wouldn't hear her.  

"I hear you," I sympathized.  "We're everywhere, aren't we?  And more of us, everyday!"  I laughed, and went on.  

But I was roiling with age and boiling with rage by the time I got to my class.  I know this because I immediately told the story to my students ("leaking" my anger, once again).  They responded with little outrage on my behalf, but some sympathy.  Their pity made me angrier yet.

But note to self:  This resentment is bound to grow as Baby Boomers -- arguably the most entitled generation ever -- consume ever more resources, and insist on being kept in the style to which they are accustomed at the expense of the Millennials.

"We need to look look into retiring in Ecuador," I told my friend.

You think I'm kidding?

Self Evident Truths

An Incredible Job Opportunity!

UPDATE:  I had to edit this, since it turned out I'd inflated my normal annual income quite a bit (I had a "temporary" raise this year.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Matt Forney is now in the enviable position of supporting himself entirely through his own writing.  If you too are an aspiring writer, contact Matt immediately.  He'll show you how to throw off the shackles of working for the man nine to five.  If you've got a sample, go to the head of the line! 

300 words will net you up to $10.  That doesn't sound bad at all.  I write at least 300 words per day on my blog, just for fun!

Hmm, let me do the math here...  It will take a few minutes cuz remember, I'm a teacher...  OK, got it!  I currently support myself on $35,000 a year (sad, true, and easily verifiable since I am an employee of the state). To maintain this modest income, I would need to write nearly 3000 words per day -- three or four standard length college essays -- every day of the year, with little time off for holidays, church, or good behavior. 

And, yes, that does put my endless whinging about marking student essays in an entirely different perspective!  In other words, I'm pretty sure my head would explode after about one week.  I'm no Stephen King, that's for sure.  And although it's said that Hemingway dashed off three short stories in one particularly inspired morning + afternoon, he wasn't that productive every damn day.  (He had to squeeze in all that shooting, drinking, and womanizing after all.)

What kind of writing is Matt Forney doing, one wonders.  Could it be this or this? I'm dying to know, but if I send him an e-mail query, he's bound to claim I'm "stalking" him again, and thwarting an enterprising young chap like himself from making an honest living.

What's To Be Done?

Matt Forney ‏@realmattforney

If you are a teacher or work in education, kill yourself. It's the only way to save your fuckin' soul.

Hey, if I thought it would help, I'd seriously consider it. But then who would teach my classes?

Learning that I taught in community college, a smart-aleck I once dated snarked, "You mean 13th grade with ashtrays?"

Yeah, in retrospect, he was "negging," wasn't he?  But it worked in this case.  And he wasn't far off the mark, although the ashtrays are in danger of disappearing thanks to a push to ban all smoking on campus.

This morning I devoted to "professional development," attending a series of informal talks and workshops designed to share "best teaching practices" as well as to acquaint faculty members and administrative staff from disparate disciplines with one another.  After a luncheon sponsored by the Foundation (burgers consumed on bleachers) there will be a variety of engaging activities, including an opportunity to roll around the floor of the gymnasium in "human hamster balls" (and yeah, the metaphor is not lost on me either). 

So very much... not me.

Actually, I get a lot out of these affairs.  I have learned more about teaching from watching other teachers (especially in the role of a student) than I ever have from classes in pedagogy.  I often admire their creative techniques, their classroom innovations.  I am always impressed by their caring and commitment, by their boundless optimism that seems to feed on thin air.  (Whatever one says about teaching as a refuge of the mediocre, most instructors care a lot -- at least the ones who show up for "professional development" sessions on a Friday.)  And since I teach remedial classes, it's helpful to be reminded what it is (and for whom), I am preparing my students.

The most interesting workshop addressed the problem of "under-prepared students."  Since the majority of my students will freely admit that they have never read a single book in their lives, and my objective is to prepare them to be successful in their college-level English classes, this hour promised to be highly relevant.  Ah, the eternal question: How do we get these students from A to B?

The session was heavy on statistics and predictably short on answers, because when it comes to education, I think we're all flummoxed -- especially the instructors, who are like soldiers sent forth to vanquish the enemy (of ignorance) by generals and a public at large who, far removed from the front lines, lounge comfortably in their barcaloungers, endlessly carping about the crap job teachers do.

Metaphorically, of course.

OK, here's a fun fact: 58% of students who enroll in community colleges in my state do not place into college-level classes.  They spend their first quarter or possibly first year struggling with the basic skills that you and I probably mastered in eighth tenth grade.  Except this time around, they are paying for the privilege (usually in the form of financial aid) to study "Fundamentals of Algebra" or "Vocabulary Development."  Because they cannot place into core college level classes until they demonstrate proficiency in high-school level math and English, they must supplement their schedules with electives like physical education or Introduction to Ceramics -- for which many must also borrow the money to pay.*

Of these under-prepared students who enroll in remedial classes, only 25% go on to earn either a certificate or a degree.  Those under-prepared students who decide to enter college part time have virtually no chance of ever graduating at all.

What accounts for such a low success rate?  We can assume that whatever roadblocks stood in their way as children continue to impede learning:  poverty, alcohol/drug abuse, chaotic families, mental disorders, or just plain PPP.**

Looking at various factors (race, age, etc.), the most salient one appeared to be gender.  Male students are significantly less likely to overcome the hurdles and wind up graduating (with either a transferable A.S. or a vocational certificate).  In other words, a single mom has a better chance of graduating than a single man with no dependents. 

We were invited to discuss why this might be so.  It was hard for me to discount the anger of certain manosphereans who claim education has become "feminized" to the point of disenfranchising the boys, but no one else was suggesting this as a possible factor, not even the several male faculty members present -- although one male math instructor interpreted the relative (modest) strides of women in obtaining degrees as "a positive sign."  

And complaints of "under-prepared" students are by no means confined to teachers in the humanities (which may be dismissed by manospherean sages such as Captain Capitalism as "feminine" or "fluff" fields).  In fact, the Construction Management and Information Technology instructors are equally vexed by students who are unable to read a manual or write a set of coherent instructions.

I have observed in my classes that the "under-prepared" women do seem to be more compliant: more willing to do what they are told they must do in order to pass my class, for example.  They exhibit a certain dogged persistence in pursuing their goals in comparison to the men, who are more likely to express impatience or "give up" (or "blow up") when faced with frustration.  

Female students, regardless of their degree of preparedness, are more likely to seek support (to approach instructors for help, to identify and consult with advisers, to figure out how to navigate the byzantine system of higher education).  Being a student, especially one with academic deficits, is humbling.  Before we can learn something, we have to admit we don't know it.  Is this something that women are socially more conditioned to accept?  In other words, is it possible that their typically "feminine" behaviors serve them?

I don't know what the solution is.  I'm not even sure what the problem is.  I've been known to piously intone that "College isn't for everyone," or that "Students deserve the opportunity to fail," but such sentiments are not only sacrilege in my circles, they seem like terrible cop-outs.   
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*For profit colleges and technical colleges often lure such students with the promise they will not have to meet these pesky prerequisites, and indeed will often push students through their programs, but their rate of success in subsequently placing graduates in jobs is abysmal.
** "piss poor protoplasm"

Get A Load of Those Shoulders!

Whether perusing the manosphere or more, uhm, mainstream masculine spaces, a woman might conclude that men are just slaves to women's asses.  Or tits.  Or legs (which are always supposed to "go up to there," wherever "there" is). 

These standard criteria for judging feminine beauty have always troubled me.  In my winsome youth, I was the girl for whom the expression "Such a pretty face...!" was coined.  Seriously, from the neck up?  I was gorgeous.  But, sadly, full-length photos (or mirrors) were never my friends.

Although my face (even pushing sixty) is assessed as "attractive" by a few, and "pleasant" by most, my ass has always been mediocre at best.  My tits, though once bodacious, are well past their expiration date(s) -- although I can still summon formidable cleavage with adequate support.  And as for my legs?  Let's just say that there was a reason I was called "Stumpy" by a few of my crueler grade school peers.* 

What with my calcaneal bone spurs and ever-falling arches, I can no longer even flash what Victorian gents might have wistfully referred to as a "well-turned ankle."

So I hardly need tell you that I was downright thrilled to read on Julian O'Dea's website that there are men out there who are most enthralled by a pair of shapely feminine... shoulders.

Finally!  A category of Feminine Beauty Olympics I can compete in!

Because, folks, I don't mind telling you:  I have awesome shoulders.  First of all, they are rather narrow (which makes fitting clothes, at 200#+, a real bitch).  They are lightly muscled (yes, I can still bench press my own weight), but smooth and plump, with no discernible underlying bony structure.  My skin is flawless, thanks to a life-long scrupulous regime of Jack Daniels, minimal UV exposure & motel room soap.

My exceptionally attractive shoulders compelled me to seek "cold shoulder" fashions long before (and after) this style enjoyed its brief heyday.  My greatest frustration in life is that acceptable professional attire does not include strapless dresses or halter tops.
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* The upside?  "Learning to fall" in ski bunny class was a lead pipe cinch, given my extraordinarily low center of gravity.

Listen Up Ladies!

One of the most unfortunate aspects of venturing forth into the public sphere is that it requires us to witness other people's unfortunate sartorial choices.  I seem to recall Fran Leibowitz doing a whole riff once on the horror of "polka-dots" or t-shirts printed with pithy messages ("If we don't want to hear from you, what makes you think we wish to hear from your shirt?").  I myself shudder at the sight of grown men wearing baseball caps turned backwards.  How do we screw up the fortitude to leave our houses every day, given the barrage of visual abominations we are forced to contend with: flip-flops, tattoos, Scrillex haircuts... yoga pants?

Matt Forney ‏@realmattforney

Women who wear yoga pants in public disgust me. I don't care how good it makes your ass look, you still look like a lazy slob in them.

A pair of well fitted jeans, on the other hand...

Humor, Teaching, Therapy

My therapist suggests I "intellectualize" my emotions, and she's absolutely right. My question is, What's wrong with that?

My therapist also suggests I use humor as a shield, and she's right about that, too. What else have we got with which to defend ourselves against the casual cruelty and endless stupidity of others?  As Mel Brooks proved in "The Producers," nothing cuts an enemy down as effectively as biting mockery.

But I use humor in other ways, too.  My students consistently report on student evaluations that "Teacher is funny."  I like to make students laugh at least once an hour because I think there is something inherently rewarding about "getting a joke" in a second language, and because the physical mechanism of laughter at least brings a burst of oxygen to the brain. 

But sometimes I wonder if this is too much of a good thing.  Am I sacrificing clarity of purpose for cheap laughs?  In other words, do my attempts to keep students engaged through humor obscure the teaching points I have been entrusted to communicate?  Are my attempts to make others laugh a gift to them, or just a way to prove to myself how clever I am?

Argh, there I go over-analyzing again, a propensity that makes me a very good therapy patient but a chronically exhausted (and occasionally exhausting) human being. 

$15/hour

Seattle now has the highest minimum wage in the nation.  I can almost afford to quit teaching and get a "useful" job (as a bartender, perhaps?) and finally quit being such a social parasite.

Roosh Channels Brillat-Savarin

One of the paradoxes of the New Misogynists is that they consider women so vastly inferior to men, yet simultaneously invest women with almost magical power over a man's psyche or social status.  In fact, according to Roosh, a woman (or rather, a woman's appearance) has the power to define a man, even providing "a strong indication of [his] value, though of course not the sole determinant."

In "You Are The Last 3 Women You've Slept With," Roosh instructs his readers to assess their past three conquests with a critical eye in order to identify their own weaknesses and limitations.  Because those ladies, for all intents and purposes, represent him.

Wow.  I knew I had influenced a few past boyfriends (I hope in mostly positive ways), but I had no idea that I had defined them.  I'm almost tempted to ring them up and let them know.

But wait a minute.  At the risk of discouraging the hapless lads (who are now regretting that tattooed land-whale they went home with at closing last Saturday), Roosh hastens to reassure them that in fact, her deficits do not necessarily reflect the inherent value of the player himself.  Sometimes the limitation is a matter of geography:  "I believed Washington DC was the biggest one for me, so I got up and left, to find that the ceiling was lifted in what I could sexually accomplish."

Then Roosh segues into one of the strange metaphors for which he is renowned, wherein women become food, and average looking women are "fast food."  And once Roosh sinks his teeth into a juicy metaphor, there's no stopping him!

"The day after eating McDonald's, when my bowel movement becomes problematic, I regret my decision to eat there."  Now, anyone who has read Roosh's travel books knows that he is apt to become uncommonly obsessed with the state of his bowels, so it's natural that the sex = digestion metaphor springs so readily to his mind.

Anyway, at the risk of becoming "morbidly obese" or even courting "diabetes," Roosh realized he had to return to his higher ("gourmet") standards in women and so he "made the choice to hit the farmer's market and buy the freshest produce and meats."  I assume that open air market is located in Odessa?  (Poland, once vaunted as the perfect "poosy paradise" has now been relegated to the status of a Safeway or a Publix.)

I'll admit I'm rather confused.  This sounds more like nutritional advice than anything; perhaps Roosh should call this post "You Are What You Eat," or even better, "You Are The Last Three Things That You Have Eaten."  

In which case, at this moment, I'm a taco, a diet Coke, and a bowl of lentil soup. 

Please don't judge me.

Put That In Your Funk & Wagnells!

If you aspire to become a serious scholar of the manosphere, like me, you've got to learn the lingo.

Yes, like any subculture, the manosphere has its own specialized jargon.  You may not find these terms in your standard dictionary, so here are a couple of links to consult when you run across a cryptic reference to, say, "hypergamy" "gynocentrism" or "pussification."

David Futrelle has put together a glossary at his website.  The webmistress of Bodycrimes has also compiled a helpful "Dictionary of Misogyny."

Coming Soon to a Youtube Channel Near You!

Woud-be auteur Davis Aurini of StaresattheWorld is seeking your support in bringing his vision of the "casual cruelty" of modern life to cinematic fruition.  Mr. Aurini's vision is as dark, potent, and singular as the man himself -- and it promises to "revolutionize" the contemporary narrative.

Friends, if you have ever dreamed of getting into an indie film production on the ground floor, this is your opportunity.

"Lust in the Time of Heartache" is a dark meditation on the state of our culture and our love lives, combining elements of Film Noire with marital arts action sequences."

Watch the clip for lulz.  Try to ignore the way the microphone neatly obscures the ever-natty Mr. Aurini as he swings a pair of nunchucks in a deserted parking garage, or the near inaudibility of the innocent bystanders "colleagues" who are endorsing Dr. Demento's Mr. Aurini's latest project.  And who's the jarringly-loud Slavic chick with the manic gleam in her eye at the end?  So many intriguing mysteries here, and this is only the pitch!

The theme of the proposed film is "man against himself" -- which pretty much sums up the nutty manospherean philosophy in a nutshell.
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Speaking of Dr. Demento, remember "They're Coming To Take Me Away?"  I remember hearing this on the radio as a kid and responding with a queasy admixture of humor and horror -- which also pretty much sums up my reaction to the nutty manospherean "philosophy."

Save the Date!

If you're an Incel / would-be player who is planning to be in Washington, DC on April 30, Roosh will be hosting an opportunity for "intimate conversations" with the Game Master himself (at a location TBA on his Facebook page and twitter feed).  

There's even a secret handshake and greeting so that the boys will be able to identify one another, just like the underworld conspirators they aspire to be.  No mention of secret decoder rings, but maybe those will be in the goodie bags.

 

"Non-obese" (fat-free?) women are invited to attend, but only provided they agree in advance to "fornicate" at least one of the lads that evening.  

 

Don't plan on winning brownie points with Roosh by buying him drinks, however:  "For such an event, I have to maintain my mental faculties at the highest level of sobriety for the philosophical and metaphysical conversations that are likely to take place."

Thanks for Noticing

Bonald at Throne and Altar posted thoughtfully about the "catfight" between Sunshine Mary, Lena, and Laura that has got half the manosphere chirping like an aviary full of parakeets.  (See also Jim's Blog for a measured response to SSM's "doxing" and manospherean reaction.)

Identifying "The Real Danger to Pseudonymous Bloggers," Bonald concludes:

So anyway, if you’re writing an anti-feminist blog, your main danger of being outed or made the target of hostile internet campaigns comes from the lunatic wing of the manosphere, not from actual feminists.

True, and thanks for acknowledging it.  Whether a female blogger is a "feminist" or an "anti-feminist," the real danger (of being doxxed, maligned and harassed) is from the manosphereans.  Blogging-while-female is asking for trouble, regardless of which team you're playing on.

What is "the real danger" of being doxxed and maligned, even libeled online?  The potential consequences are widely acknowledged to be so severe that most people consider doxxing their ideological opponents beyond the moral pale. The intersection between one's "online persona" and one's public face is a fragile membrane; in some cases, it is a horrific car crash just waiting to happen.

Being doxxed online is, in a way, to suffer the exposure of celebrity with none of its perks.  It's disconcerting, at least, to know that thousands of people can identify you, while you have no way of knowing who they are.  (Of course, I am not suggesting that thousands of people care who I am; in fact, it's obvious that they do not.)

The greatest threat to the victim is the possibility of suffering bodily harm or exposing one's children to physical harm (or humiliation).  The fact that it is statistically unlikely does not lessen the psychological impact of the threat.   

If you're blogging under a pseudonym, you'd better be prepared to be identified with the material you post in your personal and professional life, and be willing for your family members to be identified with it as well, because you are just one "Matt Forney" away from having to slap your John Hancock on it forever.

Being doxxed and my name linked to a "character assassination" was a personal violation that I would not wish on anyone, no matter how abhorrent I found his or her opinions.  But I'm also very fortunate.

I'm fortunate in that there is little that I have posted here that could ruin my professional or personal reputation.  Indeed, I live so transparently that there is little here that would surprise anyone who knows me.  That's probably why my blog is kind of boring...

ROQ Makes Me Laugh (On Purpose)

A lot of stuff on Return of Queens makes me laugh, but in a way that probably does not reflect well upon my own character.  The writers on ROQ make a fetish of their femininity and constantly admonish their readers to be "lady-like", but their blatant bigotry makes a mockery of their class airs.

You see a true "lady" (or anyone born of the professional or upper middle class in the past fifty years) may be as racist as they come, but she would rather die than admit to it. So that's what I laugh about: the ladies at ROQ are hicks, and -- sorry to say it -- white trash to the core.  Their attempts to pretend otherwise are what make me laugh.

What's different about this ROQ post, "a cutting edge documentary of the MGTOW movement," is that is is supposed to be funny. Kudos to Meredith Knight, the contributor who posted it.

In fact, all of Meredith Knight's posts so far are decent, and show a degree of wit and humor noticeably lacking in most of the anti-feminist female bloggers. Not surprising, perhaps, if she is a Registered Nurse (they're usually pretty smart people).  I wish I could persuade her to switch teams.

I'd leave a comment on the site about how tickled I was, but I am sadly not welcome there, since according to their policy, "No hybrids of either are welcome, especially feminists.  Included in the list of excluded are trans-gender [pre AND post op], gender fluid [whatever the hell that means], gay men, lesbians, male feminists [yes they do exist], and any combination of those previously listed."

I just hope Knight, with all the biology classes she's surely taken, does not seriously believe that "human hybrids" exist.

Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Ass

Although Matt Forney has taken his leave of the "manosphere" by slamming the metaphorical door in the faces of his former chums, he still has a few words to say on "the futility of online communities."

He first explains that he recently deleted a sure-fire winner of a post because it wasn't up to his own quality standards, and he "realized that writing filler pieces like that would dilute the quality of my brand."

Yes, Matt Forney has a marketable identity that he must protect!

"Excessively writing/reading about politics or feminism or current events is the intellectual equivalent of slicing your dick with a penknife while you jerk off."   

My goodness, that does sound unpleasant.

"Furthermore, sticking around in the same stagnant ideological pool warps you mentally. The water becomes dirty with feces and piss. The normal people [like Matt Forney?] slowly edge away, leaving behind the weirdos, who further retreat into their weirdness."

This all sounds so... so familiar somehow.  I didn't follow Ferdinand Bardemu (Matt's former incarnation) In Male Fide, being blissfully unaware of his / its presence at the time, but didn't Matt quit that blog too because he had grown to detest his bottom-feeding followers?  I am beginning to detect a pattern here...

According to the new'n'improved Matt Forney, continuing to read blogs that reinforce one's already entrenched political or social position is "just masturbation."

That's probably true, but so what?  If the $4 billionish porn industry proves anything, it's that people really enjoy masturbating.

"Online communities are useful for two purposes: learning and making connections with like-minded guys in the real world." 

And, I may add, for wasting an idle twenty minutes making fun of little twerps whose intellectual pretensions are only exceeded by their malice.

Not Going Back, Nu-uh, No Way

When George W. Bush was re-elected, some people in the Pacific Northwest expressed a longing to secede from the Union, perhaps incorporate with British Columbia and form a new state:  Call it "Cascadia." 

We were joking.  Kind of.

A recent post by The Practical Conservative reminded me that the impulse to break away from the mainstream and form utopian communities is an enduring theme in American history.

My mother's family were Mormons, my father's were Anabaptists, so I come from a long line of people on both sides who were utterly convinced that there was "one correct way" to live, and I was weaned on tales of the hardships they endured, the sacrifices made,  to achieve their utopian visions.  I am the offspring of two people who escaped from religious-based communities governed by rigid patriarchal ideals, and who never looked back. And I don't want to go back either.  In fact, I would be willing to sacrifice everything to maintain my individualism.  And if I had to be dependent on a community where people like SSM or the Queens set the standards of socially acceptable behavior, I'd take my chances on surviving in the wilderness.

This I believe:  There is more than one way to be a human being on this earth.  There is no one "correct way" to live. 

It's the Economy, I Tell You

In case you didn't see this excerpt from the upcoming book Marriage Markets: How Inequality Is Remaking the American Family, authors Naomi Cahn and June Carbone find that working class women (in contrast to upper middle class women) do better economically as single moms.  I didn't find the authors' conclusion in the least bit surprising: I see evidence of it all around me, every day.  

In today's economy, many working class guys can't get or maintain jobs that allow them to contribute much in the way of financial support.  Marrying such a man makes the woman responsible not only for providing for the child, but also her partner, and gives the man parental rights (i.e., shared custody) or control over her life that he wouldn't easily enjoy if she did not marry him.

Under these circumstances, choosing not to marry the father of her child is kind of a "no-brainer," especially if a woman has parents or other family members willing to help out with child care. 

Is it possible this phenomenon is fueling the backlash that the "manosphereans" represent?  Their fear of obsolescence is, after all, not unfounded.  As the middle class continues to erode, and the former working class slip into chronic, inescapable poverty, the trend of mothers unwed by choice is unlikely to reverse itself, however much they are berated by the religious right wing.  And the impotent efforts of the New Misogynists to shame these women are less menacing than pathetic, for they know and we know that those women they call "sluts" or "feminists" not only don't want them, they are better off without them.

Sloth

The webmistress of Return of Queens has promised that readers will be treated to an exposition of each Deadly Sin in the near future.  So far the Queens have tackled "Envy" (that is, the envy of feminists women of other women), and "Gluttony."

Now, looking at me, you would naturally assume that I was most afflicted by the the sin of Gluttony.  It's manifestly true that I eat too much and too often.  I joke that a day doesn't go by that I don't consume something from each of the Four Major Food Groups:  (1) chocolate, (2) cheese, (3) caffeine, and (4) alcohol.  

It isn't that I don't know better, either.  I have a college education I watch enough television to know perfectly well that a "proper" serving of meat is the size of a deck of cards, not a 12 ounce slab of tenderloin (Make mine rare!).  But who wants to eat a deck of cards?  I know that an array of fresh, lightly steamed vegetables should be adding the color to my diet, not a random bag of Skittles.  I know nuts are an excellent source of protein, but seriously, who can confine a serving of those to "five almonds" (unless they're really stale)?

"Ladies, obesity isn’t pretty.  It isn’t lady like.  Its not Queen like.  Obesity is (among other things) a disease of gluttony.  Gluttony is my pet peeve because it indicates a lack of self control.  We as women should be known for self control, and the ability to monitor our urges."  

The problem is that as soon as someone starts admonishing me to exercise "self-control" over my various "urges", my Inner Child digs in her heels and begins to howl vociferously in protest.  

Look, I've lost over one hundred pounds.  Twice.  So I am not incapable of extraordinary self-discipline for months at a stretch.  What I can't figure out is how to sustain the desire to exert that degree of self-control every day for the rest of my life.

I just sat through a lecture, part of the "Six Weeks to a Healthier You" that my school sponsors every spring.  Of course, there was not fact or figure (BMI, calorie counts, longevity tables... zzzz) that was new to me (nor to any of the other anxious Baby Boomers filling the hall).  I was there to pick up my free water bottle, grocery coupons, and discounted athletic club membership.  What I need is to want to do the things I already know will make me "healthier."  No dietician or personal trainer can give me that kind of motivation.  I guess that's what shrinks and clergy and lovers are for.

As for obesity not being "queen like," may I introduce you to Catherine the Great?

She was not crushed by a horse.

How about Queen Victoria, then?

Even in her youth, you could see the fat lady waiting to emerge.

ROQ's notion of "queen like" figures may be based on Disney fantasies and "Game of Thrones," but history shows us that plenty of fat gals have commanded nations in their day.  It's only in the past 100 years that a svelte physique has been the hallmark of class and status.  

All right, I'll concede that "obesity isn't pretty" even though a lot of fat women are.  And it's rough on one's knees.  I'll concede that I suffer from the sin of Gluttony, big time.  (There, are you happy now, you sanctimonious twats?)

However, I steadfastly deny that Gluttony is my worst offense.

My worst sin is Sloth. 

Now, by "sloth" I don't mean mere physical laziness, although it's generally true that I would much rather curl up in bed with a pile of magazines than do... well, just about anything else you can name.

By "sloth" I mean "dejection and listlessness."  In other words, probably what a lot of people nowadays call "depression."  Sloth, then, is a manifestation of a kind of despair and helplessness.  It causes me to withdraw from others because their presence makes more demands of me than I am able willing to respond to. It causes me to internally shrug at the bazillion brain cells I am blithely killing with each martini I imbibe.  The boredom I often complain of is just another word for "sloth."

My friend's death last weekend, last night's foray into "activism" are reminding me that Sloth really is My Worst Deadly Sin.

Of course, I'll have to wait to learn what the Queens have to say when they weigh in on the subject.

Free Tilly

Looking good for a centenarian, isn't she?

My happiest childhood memories were formed when my dad took us out to the San Juan Islands on our little pink cabin cruiser.  We trolled for salmon, back then so abundant that they were easily caught in view of the downtown landscape.  Sometimes we were lucky enough to sight orcas.  Once -- to my mother's mortal terror -- one of those orcas swam so close to our boat that I was able to reach out and stroke its back. 

A typical Seattle native growing up in the sixties, I took these casual interactions with the natural world for granted.  The orca, like the salmon, are still our totem animals, and we hold them in reverence, and feel that they somehow "belong" to us.

Of course, the Pacific Northwest has changed a lot in my lifetime.  The middle aged "natives" grump about these changes endlessly, and are always taking stands on what and what is not a "permissible" development, as though our disapproval made one iota of difference in stemming the relentless tide of "progress."  How pathetic and self-righteous we can be!

For example, as a typical Seattle native, there are some places I never will go.  One of them is the EMP (Experience Music Project), Paul Allen's architectural monstrosity controversial contribution to the Seattle Center.  I still haven't visited the museum, but last night I did go to a concert there to raise money for the Orca Lab.

If you have been following the aftermath of Blackfish, you probably are aware that a number of big-name acts pulled out of performing at the Florida Sea World last summer in protest of its captivity and exhibition of orcas (killer whales) and other marine mammals.  And several of these acts got together to put on a show last night.

I was happy to fork over $200+ to take my place in the standing room only crowd.  For three hours we rocked out to Country Joe McDonald, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Heart, and others.  I was most looking forward to Joan Jett, and she didn't disappoint,* but surprisingly it was Graham Nash who made the biggest impact.  It had been a long time since I heard those Crosby Stills and Nash classics, rendered so sublimely fresh and sweet with harmonies provided by Ann and Nancy Wilson and Jami Sieber's cello accompaniment.

Paul Spong, director of the Orca Lab, spoke about his lifetime commitment to studying orcas in the wild, recording their language and music, analyzing their complex culture and family structures.  He talked about the rehabilitation of Keiko ("Free Willy"), a project that proved orcas can be successfully returned to the wild.  (Although Keiko was not able to rejoin his family of origin because they were not identified during his capture, he was able to swim free for five years after his release before succumbing to pneumonia.)

It's perhaps too late for Tillicum, the whale featured in "Blackfish" who has killed three humans over the course of his imprisonment, and now spends his time in isolation, listlessly floating, staring at the wall of his tank for hours at a time.  But it's not too late for Lolita and others.  Lolita, who has been circling a concrete tank the size of a hotel pool for 44 years, is considered healthy enough to be released.  Her mother is still alive, and there is every reason to believe her pod will recognize her and welcome her back when she is repatriated to her home waters.

Sea World lies and lies and lies.  It lies, for example, when it claims orcas in captivity outlive free orcas.  Granny, the matriarch of J2, is 100 and is still the leader of her pack.

It was easy to summon the spirit of the 1840s abolitionists last night.  The capture, enslavement and exploitation of animals that rival us in intelligence and social complexity is clearly indefensible to anyone whose heart is not made of stone.  It must stop, and it will stop... The only question is, How long will we allow these creatures to suffer in order to fatten the shareholders of Sea World? 

What can we do?  For starters, refuse to go to Sea World or take kids to any aquariums that feature performing marine mammals.  Challenge the message these corporations are sending children about our rightful relationship with nature.  Resist the temptation to "swim with the dolphins" on vacation (so much fun for us, not so much for the dolphins who have no choice to interact with us in those environments).

Come to Washington State during whale watching seasons.  There are several local charters that will take visitors out to observe killer whales from a respectful distance.  If you're a regular reader, shoot me an e-mail and I may even accompany you to the top of the Space Needle (I have to go some time, I guess). 

* OK, I was a teeny bit disappointed she didn't play "Androgynous," so I'll just play it right now:

An Agnostic at Easter

As anyone who has read my blog can readily ascertain, I am not a religious person although I would not define myself as an atheist, since even that label implies a measure of certainty I can not claim.  

I see no reason to believe in an After Life, at least not one in which I will exist as a conscious being.  This lack of belief is not a choice on my part.  Indeed, I would much rather believe, for I imagine it brings great comfort to those who do.  Some of the people whom I most love and admire are Believers, and it would be presumptuous, even cruel -- not to mention pointless -- to challenge their faith.  I once tried to explain this to a friend: how I envied her gift of faith!  She sharply reprimanded me, explaining that faith was not a gift: rather, it was something a Christian had to work at.  I've often thought about that; maybe she's right.  But trying to convince myself that something I don't believe is true is like trying to pretend you're in love when you're not.  I'm not willing to lie to myself or others in that way.

Yet, I try to keep my heart open to all possibilities.   

When I look out upon the grass growing lushly, the daffodils and tulips blooming, I wish I were reminded of the Resurrection and the promise of Eternal Life. Instead, I find myself remembering my father's premature death twenty-five years ago.  He died suddenly and unexpectedly the Saturday before Easter, and his death was so shocking and terrible to us that Easter has become an anniversary of this event, a day of remembrance and some sorrow for both my sisters and me.  As the years pass, I am more inclined to contemplate the great gifts he gave me, the occasions of joy we shared, his wisdom and humor, but there is always a part of me that mourns his loss afresh on Easter Sunday.

And this Easter, I learn of the death of a friend, only a few years older than myself, and I am reminded of the ephemeral nature of life.  This is a woman who I thought would live to be very, very old.  Both her parents had lived well into their nineties, and she seemed cut from the same enduring Norwegian peasant stock.  But more than that, I have never known anyone who had more zest for life than she.  I have never known anyone who laughed as much, gave as generously, took more pleasure from this world.  How could death defeat her unassailable energy and boundless cheer?  I used to gently mock her, call her goofy and giddy, but honestly?  I was always a bit envious of her capacity for joy.

It really seems impossible that we will never meet with her again in some cafe, to be regaled with tales of her latest adventures or admire her latest thrift shop acquisitions. 

What kind of woman was she?  She was the kind of woman who wore unusual hats, and carried a handbag with a clock embedded in it (because she was chronically late).  She made krumkakke every Christmas.  She hired a belly dancer to entertain her guests at her sixtieth birthday party.  She spent every penny she had (never much) and dealt with her lack of medical insurance by cheerfully resolving never to get sick.  She had a series of (scandalously) younger beaus, and then settled down with a much older one -- who died in her arms.

Tonight some friends and I will gather, a sort of informal wake I expect, and reminisce.  I will probably drink too much wine and I am sure that I will cry.  I will try to take comfort in the fact that she spent the last two years of her life with the people she loved most, and lived long enough to hold her only grandchild.  I will try to learn from her example how to embrace the life I have, and not to squander another moment of whatever precious time is left -- be it counted in hours, weeks, or years -- in misery or despair.

Mary, Mary, Mary!

Over at Return of Queens, a lady with dubs herself "Charity Love" (without apparent irony) has written a piece about "Envy."  This is part of the Queens' series on the "Seven Deadly Sins," and I cannot wait to read each and every one.  Miss Love is specifically targeting the indisputable envy that fugly "feminists" have of beautiful feminine women (like the gals at Return of Queens no doubt). 

And guess who has popped up there in the comments section, not two hours ago?

"What I find is that gossip and unsubstantiated accusations are tools that women sometimes use against other women of whom they are envious. I suppose if we are honest, nearly all of us have engaged in such behavior at one point or another, so we probably all have some room to grow in this area, and I'm not too proud to say that I certainly need to ask God to set a guard over my mouth sometimes." [italics mine]

Pardon me for taking the Lord's name in vain here, but Jesus H. Christ, it appears that SSM is blaming her recent (re) doxxing and character assassination on the envy of other women!  

Proving, in case anyone had any doubts up to this point, that, as one parody blogger observed, "SSM has the self awareness of a taco."  And I think the taco could sue for defamation in this case.

Heavier Than Heaven

The fact that I can still vividly remember where-I-was-and-what-I-was-doing the first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (and also where-I-was-and-what-I-was-doing when I learned of Kurt Cobain's suicide) is a measure of how powerfully the music of Nirvana moved me.  I may be a "baby boomer," but I've always identified, culturally at least, with the Generation Xers.

I've been observing the twentieth anniversary of Cobain's death by reading Charles Cross's "definitive" 2001 biography of Cobain, Heavier Than Heaven.  And trust me, this book is "heavy" in every sense of the word. 

There are no great revelations here:  Cobain was a sweet, sensitive child with artistic inclinations who grew into an incorrigible, depressed adolescent who was a complete pain in the ass to everyone who cared about him.  What ultimately (and narrowly) saved him from becoming a professional homeless person was his commitment to his music.  Cobain was, in fact, extraordinarily ambitious and driven.  He was cunning, manipulative, conflict-avoidant, self-mythologizing, and had no qualms about taking advantage of anyone who lent him a hand. 

None of which diminishes his musical legacy of course, or even makes this reader dislike him personally.  In fact, I am in admiration of his monomaniacal quest to achieve popular success.  The fact that this success did not, in the end, make him happy is the most tragic aspect of his life ("answered prayers" and all that).

Part of the reason I am finding the book an interesting, albeit predictable, read is that I have spent a lot of time in the places Cross describes.  In the early nineties, I even considered moving to Aberdeen -- probably because the rents were so incredibly cheap there and I briefly fancied the romance of living in a modern ruin.

Anyway, I'm developing a lesson built around Nirvana for one of my classes next week.  One of the perks of being a teacher is that I get to inflict my musical and literary tastes on my students (most of whom have never heard of Cobain, but all of whom will recognize the opening bars of "Smells Like Teen Spirit").

They Walk Amongst Us

I've spent some time musing over whether certain prominent "manospherians" are psychopaths or sociopaths.  I was recently referred to this link which distinguishes the two conditions. 

One of the differences appears to be that sociopaths tend to act out in controlled, premeditated ways, to indulge in "calculated or opportunistic violence," and are "often social predators."  Psychopaths, on the other hand, tend to be impulsive, and more likely to run afoul of law enforcement.  So I will continue to use the term "sociopathic" to describe many of the behaviors I have observed by reading the manosphere.

We are learning that sociopaths are more common than previously acknowledged, and they often function at very high levels.  I've read several articles or books in the past year written by people who identify as sociopaths.  There is even considerable interest in whether, and in what ways, sociopaths serve society or whether sociopathy is an evolutionarily advantageous trait.  It's a topic that the manosphereans themselves occasionally discuss, often with some anxiety.

Personally, I have known two people in my life that I suspect were sociopaths, one a (now deceased) member of my own family.  Intelligent sociopaths perform "normalcy" so well that in the context of superficial relationships, their sociopathy is not detectable.  So it is reasonable to assume that most of them walk amongst us unrecognized.

And that's probably true of many of the "manospherian" bloggers themselves. Some of the manospherian bloggers and their commentators make such chilling pronouncements, evince such utter lack of empathy and such endless wells of rage, that it's hard to deny they exhibit sociopathic tendencies.  Of course, they're doing so, in most cases, under the cloak of anonymity.  Part of the threat of being "doxxed" in this 'sphere is that the disparity between their online and offline personas is so great that they have much to lose by being attached to the opinions they fearlessly share online.  They are well aware that by being doxxed, they will be exposed as freaks, objects of scorn, pity, and fear, to the very people they depend on most.

Of course, despite the handles they hide behind, the active participants inevitably drop clues when they refer to their "real" lives, and from these scattered crumbs it's clear that some of them occupy positions of considerable authority and public trust.  (It's enough to keep a person up at night!)

On the other hand, the same anti-social traits that make them "scary" (or at least damned peculiar) as individuals also keep them immobilized as a social or political group.  As the recent frenzy of doxxing and smearing proves, the most popular bloggers, despite being charismatic enough to generate followers, cannot form the kinds of strong alliances that would allow them to organize an effective campaign or exert much influence on society in general.  They can only wreak havoc on each other, the unfortunate people in their immediate circle (i.e., spouses and children), or upon targets that they perceive are lone, weak, and unable to retaliate (although I think Paul Elam of AVfM may have seriously miscalculated when he decided to take on Prof. Mercier).

Is it possible that the "manosphere" is a symptom, not of some broad-seated social malaise, but of the internet giving the sociopaths who have always existed a loud (albeit rather impotent) "voice?" 

Note bene: Now I am in no way suggesting that everyone who has taken "the Red Pill" is sociopathic.  In fact, most of the traffic on those sites is probably coming from very young disaffected youth who are looking for answers, an outlet to safely vent their frustrations, or a forum in which to entertain their fantasies of dominance.  A recent reddit survey indicates that the majority of respondents who characterized themselves as MRAs are between the ages of 17-20, white, and, while politically "extremely conservative," are not religious. Is it overly optimistic to trust that as they gain experience, intelligence, and find their paths in life, they will wander away from these dark recesses and integrate themselves into the mainstream?

See also Is Roosh a Sociopath?

This Could Be Dangerous For Me

Here's a clip of Emily Davison throwing herself under the King's horse, an act of suicidal defiance that is credited with helping win the vote for women in the UK:

Studies Show Trolls Often Sadists

Well, that's hardly surprising, is it?

What surprised me is that that any psychological research had been done on internet trolls.  Here's a link to a Mother Jones report published a few weeks ago.

UPDATE:  And in related news, This Ruthless World explains why some people who make "stupid jokes" anonymously need to be identified and sharply brought to heel.

An Open Letter to Sunshine Mary

You may never see this, but I'll post anyway.

I know you gloated when I was doxxed and my name was smeared, and I know you think my blog is "batshit" (and you know I thought yours was too), but believe me when I say, with utmost sincerity, that I am sorry to read this attack on you.

Your attacker didn't reveal anything new to anyone, really.  He certainly didn't "prove" you were a fraud and he sure didn't prove you were "dangerous" or merited a full frontal assault of this nature.  By violating a basic tenet of internet discourse -- respecting people's rights to post anonymously, to have a voice on the internet without compromising their personal lives -- your attacker simply demonstrated once more his weak and ruthless character.  Anyone reading his post can see that he is motivated by envy of your success, self-hatred, and (I am sorry to point this out to a Red Pill Woman), his own deep-seated misogyny.

Believe it or not, I hope you'll come back.  Your blog was very popular and provided a lot of entertainment to people, regardless which side of the fence they were on.  

I won't promise to read what you write, and I can't promise that if I do read your posts I won't gleefully shred them to pieces, but I absolutely support your right to express your beliefs without fear of reprisal.   

CORRECTION:  SSM did not describe my blog as "batshit" (see comment below). Although if she had, it would be entirely within her rights to do so!