To live in the United States is a gift. U.S. citizenship confers great privilege. The evidence is that people from all over the world still strive to immigrate here.
I don't acknowledge this with pride; I did nothing to earn the right to be an American. In my case, it was an accident of birth. I did nothing to deserve the fortunate circumstances of being a white, middle class American and enjoying all the advantages of that. My nationality in no way makes me better than anyone on this planet; it just makes me luckier.
And I don't say this with complacency. As a country, we are facing huge problems: democracy is compromised by the disproportionate power held by corporations, for example. Our leaders' penchant for military adventures ("nation building") has degraded all of us. We have earned the wrath and contempt of the world.
In fact, America was probably never what we were taught it was.
And yet the recent Boston bombings by two disaffected youth is not only tragic (for the victims and their families, for the perpetrators and their families), it is god damn infuriating.
Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev had been living in the U.S. for ten years, most of their young lives. America had taken them in, and had provided them with opportunities, such as a top notch high school education, beyond anything they would have enjoyed in Chechnye, Dagestan, or Russia. They had friends and family, health and good looks, religious and intellectual freedom here. And they spat in the face of all these unearned gifts.
Similarly, Roosh's family came to the U.S. as refugees in the late seventies. Roosh writes that his father had been one of many children born of a fourth wife in a poor, rural village. This is pure speculation on my part, but I am guessing Roosh's dad had sought upward mobility through a military career under the Shah. When the Shah's regime fell, the Valizadehs were taken in by the U.S. Roosh went on to enjoy all the advantages of being a middle-class American, not least of which was an education at a state-supported university. And now he spits in its face.
I'm in no way anti-immigration. I've devoted much of my teaching career to helping immigrants assimilate culturally and linguistically. I've done my share lobbying state legislators to maintain funds for English language and other programs that support immigrants. And freedom of speech, the freedom to criticize the government or society, is just about my most favorite thing.
I've seen up close how the children of immigrants struggle. In my trade, we call them the Generation 1.5. They are dumped into American classrooms with little preparation or support: sink or swim. Depending on their parents' educational level, they may find themselves on the threshold of adulthood with huge academic deficits. They are torn between two worlds: their parents' traditional values and and the values of their modern American peers. Their parents immigrate -- often at great sacrifice to themselves -- in order to give them the gifts of opportunity and freedom, but with those gifts come cultural loss and great inner conflict.
Immigration is not for wimps.
I'm just saying, it's the lack of appreciation, the pissing away of the gifts, that jacks my jaw.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Sex in America
I looked at my stats page today. I'm mainly curious where readers are coming from.
I'm old enough to get a thrill from seeing that someone from South Korea or Romania has read a few of my words. I'm so old that the global nature of internet communication still excites me. When I was a kid, having a foreign pen pal was a big deal (and significant investment of time and effort). But I digress...
I'm also curious how people manage to find personal blogs, the search terms they use to get there.
One intrepid soul had come to me via "sex in america." Holy-moly, the mind reels at how many sites he had hit with that entry!
Although I hope he found what he was looking for, I kind of doubt it...
I'm old enough to get a thrill from seeing that someone from South Korea or Romania has read a few of my words. I'm so old that the global nature of internet communication still excites me. When I was a kid, having a foreign pen pal was a big deal (and significant investment of time and effort). But I digress...
I'm also curious how people manage to find personal blogs, the search terms they use to get there.
One intrepid soul had come to me via "sex in america." Holy-moly, the mind reels at how many sites he had hit with that entry!
Although I hope he found what he was looking for, I kind of doubt it...
Another Response to Matt Forney's Rape "Satires"
Dear Matt,
This post is in response to your recent attempts to write humorously about a topic we can all agree is loaded. Yeah, I mean both of your rape "satires", not just the one you quickly took down and "apologized" for.
I can see you're struggling with the genre, so I thought I'd helpfully link you up to a writer you'll recognize, Lindy West, who wrote a brilliant piece about How To Tell A Rape Joke.
Oops, my bad! I know how much you dislike feedback fromwomen females on any subject whatsoever (especially if the subject is women females themselves), so let me link you instead to a male masculine comic you might relate too. Like you, Louis CK is bald, pale, pudgy, and has built a stellar career on charting his trouble with girls.
Louis CK has done several bits concerning rape but this one is my personal favorite. (In case you don't "get it," the "butt" of the joke here is the girl and / or rape culture itself -- yet women find it as funny as men do.)
Enjoy!
La Strega
This post is in response to your recent attempts to write humorously about a topic we can all agree is loaded. Yeah, I mean both of your rape "satires", not just the one you quickly took down and "apologized" for.
I can see you're struggling with the genre, so I thought I'd helpfully link you up to a writer you'll recognize, Lindy West, who wrote a brilliant piece about How To Tell A Rape Joke.
Oops, my bad! I know how much you dislike feedback from
Louis CK has done several bits concerning rape but this one is my personal favorite. (In case you don't "get it," the "butt" of the joke here is the girl and / or rape culture itself -- yet women find it as funny as men do.)
Enjoy!
La Strega
Friday, April 19, 2013
MGTOW, or My Uncle, the Misogynist
I don't usually think of putting a trigger warning on one of my posts, but I will alert anyone who is reading that this post involves incest and sexual abuse (not of a child).
This year my mother's younger brother died. Aside from my sisters, he was the last remaining member of my immediate family.
Although my sisters and I were not indifferent to his passing, no one shed a tear.
He died alone, in his late seventies, in a nursing home. He had been failing for several months. A social worker handled his final arrangements. There was no funeral; no one would have attended, anyway.
How did this happen?
Once I adored my only uncle. Every other Christmas, he swept into our lives from exotic locales: Korea, Iran, Thailand, Turkey. He worked as a technician for military contractors like Litton. He seemed to me to be larger than life (and at 6'4" 300#, was an indisputably powerful presence). When I was a child, he was the only male who showed me physical affection. "Don't pick her up Ken!" my mother would cry. "She's heavier than she looks!" But clinging to my uncle's thick neck, fragrant with aftershave, I was as light as a baby monkey. He bought me Lincoln Logs; he laughed at my antics. My sisters and I vied for his attention, but I was always secretly convinced that he loved me the best of all. I had every reason to believe that my uncle would always be the #1 Guy in My Life.
Time passed. My sisters and I entered adolescence. Suddenly our uncle didn't love us so much. He had a way of scrutinizing my developing body with a hypercritical eye. He warned me darkly of the dangers of becoming so fat that no man would ever want me. He no longer had any interest in what I was studying or reading or doing. When we did engage in conversation, he steered it toward sexuality: his own and mine. He regaled me with stories of his adventures in third world brothels, of the sexual peccadilloes of his many girlfriends, his own sexual preferences, and all the perils and pleasures of being a randy globe-trotting bachelor.
Of course, a part of me was fascinated and flattered that an adult would make me such a confidante, but part of me was increasingly uncomfortable with him. As a 14 year old in the 1970s, I knew nothing about "appropriate boundaries." That concept had not yet been coined. I dealt with my internal conflict by mostly avoiding him. From a safe distance, I could still "love" and admire him
While I was teaching in Tehran, my uncle popped in unexpectedly from Amman. While using the toilet, he glimpsed my diaphragm drying on the edge of sink, and let me know in no uncertain terms how "disgusting" he had found the sight. Deeply shamed, I explained that, had I known he was visiting, I certainly would have hidden it from view. My apology hardly mollified him. Apparently, it wasn't the sight of a diaphragm per se that upset him, but the fact that it was my diaphragm. I was perplexed by this.
Clearly, my uncle enjoyed sharing the details of his own sexual adventures with me. Why was he distressed by evidence that I was sexually active myself? Did I not at least get credit for being sexually responsible?
While I was doing a Fulbright in Italy in my twenties, my uncle visited me from Germany. He offered to take me to the Riviera for three days. As we checked into the hotel our first night, I found he had reserved a "matrimoniale". He was visibly annoyed when I balked at this arrangement. When he complained that I was taking advantage of his generosity by insisting on separate beds, I paid for a separate room.
Later, I met my uncle at the pool, where he coolly appraised my swimsuit-clad body. "You're one of those fat women who actually looks better without her clothes on," he opined. I dived into the water to escape my embarrassment. Later, he came over to the pool where I was idly dangling my legs. He sat down beside me, laid a ham-sized hand on my knee, and invited me to give him a massage before dinner. As he insinuated his hand between my thighs, it was clear that "massage" was code for something more intimate.
I stammered something along the lines that what he was proposing sounded a lot like "incest." The very word stuck in my mouth like a clod of filth, but my uncle was unfazed.
Indeed, he proceeded to instruct me that incest was nothing new, nor anything necessarily immoral. After all, the Pope had routinely given 17th century Spanish kings dispensation to marry their nieces. (I didn't think at the time of pointing out that our family had been neither ruling class nor Catholic for at least 300 years. All I could think of was Sex with Uncle Kenny = eeewwww.)
The weekend went down hill from there. Needless to say, I couldn't wait to get home. Bidding my uncle arrivederci at the train station, I urged him to get psychological help to deal with his issues. I mean, that's actually how I put it, and I said it with great kindness because I mostly wasn't angry; I mostly felt sorry for him; I mostly thought he was just a very, very lonely man with "issues" (possibly stemming from abuse my his mother / my grandmother). I suppose I thought that my familial duty was to steer him into therapy so that he could learn to have intimate relationships with women who weren't prostitutes (or nieces).
My uncle looked me in the eye rather tenderly for a moment while i was earnestly imploring him. "You know, you remind me so much of your mother..." The implication was that it was not me he lusted for, but instead his sister / my mother.
"Anyway," he suddenly turned away dismissively, his face hardening, "You're too old for me now." (I was 25.)
I never shared these experiences with my mother. I didn't trust she would believe me, and I didn't want to poison his relationship with the only person he really loved.
Fast forward ten years later: I accidentally saw my uncle while visiting my mother. We got into a heated dinner table conversation about domestic violence. When I declared, "There's no excuse for a man to hit a woman," my uncle flew into a rage. He reared up, chair clattering across the floor, and raised his huge, clenched fists. Towering over me, eyes bulging with fury, he bellowed, "Some women NEED beating! Because SOME women just don't know when -- to -- SHUT UP!" And then -- and this is the worst part -- he opened his mouth and began flapping his tongue in a grotesque caricature of a nagging woman.
My jaw tingled in apprehension of the shattering blow it was about to receive.
I fled, barricading myself into my mother's bedroom, and refused to emerge until my uncle had left. Weeks later, I sent him a note, telling him our relationship was "over" until he had gotten "help" for his "anger management."
That was the last time I ever spoke to my uncle in person. We occasionally exchanged words when I picked up the phone at my mother's house. I was cold but civil, while he nattered on, seemingly oblivious to the chill.
When I heard Uncle Kenny was undergoing a triple bypass, I wondered if I shouldn't patch things up between us; let bygones be bygones. I didn't want to be left holding the grudge if he died.
However, while I was mulling thusly, my mother mentioned casually-in-passing that my uncle had long been disparaging my character to anyone who listened, i.e., had accused me of being "a slut" who had actually come on to him, and, apparently, had slept with half the Iranian Air Force as well. Aside from the obvious disturbing question of What kind of mother allows her daughter to be so slandered?, I was mortified to realize that extended family members, many of whom hadn't seen me since I was a child, had been hearing this vile stuff about me for years.
In the end, I did call my uncle a few weeks before he died. I wanted to remind him that he had been loved once, if only by a little girl that no longer existed. He wasn't moved by this gesture. "I'm not leaving you a dime," he croaked faintly in a voice I could hardly recognize. "I know, I know," I assured him. "It doesn't matter."
His will left his entire estate (or at least what could be traced and pieced together) to a Korean bar girl who'd had the misfortune of suffering a debilitating aneurysm in his apartment twenty years before. The social worker did the legwork of locating the girl's family in Seoul; I'm sure they were happy for the windfall. I was just grateful it hadn't gone to the NRA.
My partner might admonish me for speaking ill of the dead here, but my rejoinder is this: My uncle cannot read these words, and even if he could, he wouldn't suffer because he would not feel a jot of remorse.
Anyway, he had an entire lifetime to try to understand and be understood, to love and be loved. It was his choice to live, and to hate, and to die alone, the same choice being made right now by all those MGTOW.
This year my mother's younger brother died. Aside from my sisters, he was the last remaining member of my immediate family.
Although my sisters and I were not indifferent to his passing, no one shed a tear.
He died alone, in his late seventies, in a nursing home. He had been failing for several months. A social worker handled his final arrangements. There was no funeral; no one would have attended, anyway.
How did this happen?
Once I adored my only uncle. Every other Christmas, he swept into our lives from exotic locales: Korea, Iran, Thailand, Turkey. He worked as a technician for military contractors like Litton. He seemed to me to be larger than life (and at 6'4" 300#, was an indisputably powerful presence). When I was a child, he was the only male who showed me physical affection. "Don't pick her up Ken!" my mother would cry. "She's heavier than she looks!" But clinging to my uncle's thick neck, fragrant with aftershave, I was as light as a baby monkey. He bought me Lincoln Logs; he laughed at my antics. My sisters and I vied for his attention, but I was always secretly convinced that he loved me the best of all. I had every reason to believe that my uncle would always be the #1 Guy in My Life.
Time passed. My sisters and I entered adolescence. Suddenly our uncle didn't love us so much. He had a way of scrutinizing my developing body with a hypercritical eye. He warned me darkly of the dangers of becoming so fat that no man would ever want me. He no longer had any interest in what I was studying or reading or doing. When we did engage in conversation, he steered it toward sexuality: his own and mine. He regaled me with stories of his adventures in third world brothels, of the sexual peccadilloes of his many girlfriends, his own sexual preferences, and all the perils and pleasures of being a randy globe-trotting bachelor.
Of course, a part of me was fascinated and flattered that an adult would make me such a confidante, but part of me was increasingly uncomfortable with him. As a 14 year old in the 1970s, I knew nothing about "appropriate boundaries." That concept had not yet been coined. I dealt with my internal conflict by mostly avoiding him. From a safe distance, I could still "love" and admire him
While I was teaching in Tehran, my uncle popped in unexpectedly from Amman. While using the toilet, he glimpsed my diaphragm drying on the edge of sink, and let me know in no uncertain terms how "disgusting" he had found the sight. Deeply shamed, I explained that, had I known he was visiting, I certainly would have hidden it from view. My apology hardly mollified him. Apparently, it wasn't the sight of a diaphragm per se that upset him, but the fact that it was my diaphragm. I was perplexed by this.
Clearly, my uncle enjoyed sharing the details of his own sexual adventures with me. Why was he distressed by evidence that I was sexually active myself? Did I not at least get credit for being sexually responsible?
While I was doing a Fulbright in Italy in my twenties, my uncle visited me from Germany. He offered to take me to the Riviera for three days. As we checked into the hotel our first night, I found he had reserved a "matrimoniale". He was visibly annoyed when I balked at this arrangement. When he complained that I was taking advantage of his generosity by insisting on separate beds, I paid for a separate room.
Later, I met my uncle at the pool, where he coolly appraised my swimsuit-clad body. "You're one of those fat women who actually looks better without her clothes on," he opined. I dived into the water to escape my embarrassment. Later, he came over to the pool where I was idly dangling my legs. He sat down beside me, laid a ham-sized hand on my knee, and invited me to give him a massage before dinner. As he insinuated his hand between my thighs, it was clear that "massage" was code for something more intimate.
I stammered something along the lines that what he was proposing sounded a lot like "incest." The very word stuck in my mouth like a clod of filth, but my uncle was unfazed.
Indeed, he proceeded to instruct me that incest was nothing new, nor anything necessarily immoral. After all, the Pope had routinely given 17th century Spanish kings dispensation to marry their nieces. (I didn't think at the time of pointing out that our family had been neither ruling class nor Catholic for at least 300 years. All I could think of was Sex with Uncle Kenny = eeewwww.)
The weekend went down hill from there. Needless to say, I couldn't wait to get home. Bidding my uncle arrivederci at the train station, I urged him to get psychological help to deal with his issues. I mean, that's actually how I put it, and I said it with great kindness because I mostly wasn't angry; I mostly felt sorry for him; I mostly thought he was just a very, very lonely man with "issues" (possibly stemming from abuse my his mother / my grandmother). I suppose I thought that my familial duty was to steer him into therapy so that he could learn to have intimate relationships with women who weren't prostitutes (or nieces).
My uncle looked me in the eye rather tenderly for a moment while i was earnestly imploring him. "You know, you remind me so much of your mother..." The implication was that it was not me he lusted for, but instead his sister / my mother.
"Anyway," he suddenly turned away dismissively, his face hardening, "You're too old for me now." (I was 25.)
I never shared these experiences with my mother. I didn't trust she would believe me, and I didn't want to poison his relationship with the only person he really loved.
Fast forward ten years later: I accidentally saw my uncle while visiting my mother. We got into a heated dinner table conversation about domestic violence. When I declared, "There's no excuse for a man to hit a woman," my uncle flew into a rage. He reared up, chair clattering across the floor, and raised his huge, clenched fists. Towering over me, eyes bulging with fury, he bellowed, "Some women NEED beating! Because SOME women just don't know when -- to -- SHUT UP!" And then -- and this is the worst part -- he opened his mouth and began flapping his tongue in a grotesque caricature of a nagging woman.
My jaw tingled in apprehension of the shattering blow it was about to receive.
I fled, barricading myself into my mother's bedroom, and refused to emerge until my uncle had left. Weeks later, I sent him a note, telling him our relationship was "over" until he had gotten "help" for his "anger management."
That was the last time I ever spoke to my uncle in person. We occasionally exchanged words when I picked up the phone at my mother's house. I was cold but civil, while he nattered on, seemingly oblivious to the chill.
When I heard Uncle Kenny was undergoing a triple bypass, I wondered if I shouldn't patch things up between us; let bygones be bygones. I didn't want to be left holding the grudge if he died.
However, while I was mulling thusly, my mother mentioned casually-in-passing that my uncle had long been disparaging my character to anyone who listened, i.e., had accused me of being "a slut" who had actually come on to him, and, apparently, had slept with half the Iranian Air Force as well. Aside from the obvious disturbing question of What kind of mother allows her daughter to be so slandered?, I was mortified to realize that extended family members, many of whom hadn't seen me since I was a child, had been hearing this vile stuff about me for years.
In the end, I did call my uncle a few weeks before he died. I wanted to remind him that he had been loved once, if only by a little girl that no longer existed. He wasn't moved by this gesture. "I'm not leaving you a dime," he croaked faintly in a voice I could hardly recognize. "I know, I know," I assured him. "It doesn't matter."
His will left his entire estate (or at least what could be traced and pieced together) to a Korean bar girl who'd had the misfortune of suffering a debilitating aneurysm in his apartment twenty years before. The social worker did the legwork of locating the girl's family in Seoul; I'm sure they were happy for the windfall. I was just grateful it hadn't gone to the NRA.
My partner might admonish me for speaking ill of the dead here, but my rejoinder is this: My uncle cannot read these words, and even if he could, he wouldn't suffer because he would not feel a jot of remorse.
Anyway, he had an entire lifetime to try to understand and be understood, to love and be loved. It was his choice to live, and to hate, and to die alone, the same choice being made right now by all those MGTOW.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
A Better Man
When I arrived home this evening after a long, hard day of being the cancer of American academia, I was gobsmacked to discover my next door neighbor was mowing my front lawn.
I'll call my neighbor "Dick" because that's how I have customarily referred to him. As in, "that Dick next door has erected a carport right on the property line" or "the Dick and his girlfriend kept me awake last night brawling" or (the worst), "the Dick's friend, who has been living in the trailer parked in his front yard for three months, has finally managed to kill the hedge with pee."
One afternoon Dick came barreling over to rage that my dogs were barking. Guilty as charged. But it was 2:00 on a weekday, and his dogs were barking too (well, howling, really, because they're huskies), so, so what? He was obviously inebriated, and just spoiling for a fight. In fact, he seemed mad enough to punch whatever was in his way which was, at the moment, me. I apologized profusely, promised to rectify the situation, and ever after had a paranoid fear of arousing his ire. But I kept my temper and bit my tongue. I even handed him some peonies from my garden on Mother's Day, perhaps hoping that I could kill him with kindness.
I was not alone in my distaste for Dick. My other neighbors mentioned he was a bit of a scammer. Apparently he had sold one a lemon car. Then he bragged about getting on disability due to a shoulder issue, which miraculously healed itself when he started taking special vitamins, which he then started to peddle around the neighborhood.
Dick, a self-professed "car addict," also had a habit of parking his dozen dilapidated vehicles all over the cul-de-sac, effectively leaving visitors to the neighborhood no place to park.
In other words, Dick became The Neighbor Everyone Loves to Hate.
Several months ago I complained to my fundy neighbors about him. "Don't worry," they assured me. "He's changed: he's found Jesus."
I wasn't impressed. Jailhouse conversions are a dime a dozen.
However, about a week later, Dick staggered over. At first, I was reluctant to open the door without anyone else in the house, but Dick was bearing a gift: an acrylic sink that he had gotten from the Home Depot remainder bin. "I thought maybe you could use this," he offered. I have no idea why Dick thought I needed a sink (if anyone wants one, it's still in its box in the hall) but I appreciated the weird gesture. It suggested he was declaring some kind of truce, at least.
Then tonight, I found him mowing my lawn. Not knowing what to make of this mysterious development in our relationship, I took my time pulling into the driveway and unloading my car. In fact, I had to look at him a while to make sure it really was Dick, and not some random stranger performing a random act of kindness.
"Well, thanks!" I approached warily. "What's going on?"
"I've decided to Do or Say One Nice Thing every day," Dick explained.
"What made you decide to do that?" I asked.
"I'm trying to be a better man," Dick confided. (Wasn't that the name of a country western song?)
Later I told my partner about this miracle.
"Great!" she said. "Maybe he'll mow the back lawn tomorrow."
I'm not sure why I think this story is relevant to the theme of this blog, except that I do believe that even the most hateful, angry people can change for the better. Sometimes it takes a visit from the Ghosts of Past, Present, & Future. Sometimes is takes being Born Again. And sometimes people just figure it out for themselves. It's all good.
I'll call my neighbor "Dick" because that's how I have customarily referred to him. As in, "that Dick next door has erected a carport right on the property line" or "the Dick and his girlfriend kept me awake last night brawling" or (the worst), "the Dick's friend, who has been living in the trailer parked in his front yard for three months, has finally managed to kill the hedge with pee."
One afternoon Dick came barreling over to rage that my dogs were barking. Guilty as charged. But it was 2:00 on a weekday, and his dogs were barking too (well, howling, really, because they're huskies), so, so what? He was obviously inebriated, and just spoiling for a fight. In fact, he seemed mad enough to punch whatever was in his way which was, at the moment, me. I apologized profusely, promised to rectify the situation, and ever after had a paranoid fear of arousing his ire. But I kept my temper and bit my tongue. I even handed him some peonies from my garden on Mother's Day, perhaps hoping that I could kill him with kindness.
I was not alone in my distaste for Dick. My other neighbors mentioned he was a bit of a scammer. Apparently he had sold one a lemon car. Then he bragged about getting on disability due to a shoulder issue, which miraculously healed itself when he started taking special vitamins, which he then started to peddle around the neighborhood.
Dick, a self-professed "car addict," also had a habit of parking his dozen dilapidated vehicles all over the cul-de-sac, effectively leaving visitors to the neighborhood no place to park.
In other words, Dick became The Neighbor Everyone Loves to Hate.
Several months ago I complained to my fundy neighbors about him. "Don't worry," they assured me. "He's changed: he's found Jesus."
I wasn't impressed. Jailhouse conversions are a dime a dozen.
However, about a week later, Dick staggered over. At first, I was reluctant to open the door without anyone else in the house, but Dick was bearing a gift: an acrylic sink that he had gotten from the Home Depot remainder bin. "I thought maybe you could use this," he offered. I have no idea why Dick thought I needed a sink (if anyone wants one, it's still in its box in the hall) but I appreciated the weird gesture. It suggested he was declaring some kind of truce, at least.
Then tonight, I found him mowing my lawn. Not knowing what to make of this mysterious development in our relationship, I took my time pulling into the driveway and unloading my car. In fact, I had to look at him a while to make sure it really was Dick, and not some random stranger performing a random act of kindness.
"Well, thanks!" I approached warily. "What's going on?"
"I've decided to Do or Say One Nice Thing every day," Dick explained.
"What made you decide to do that?" I asked.
"I'm trying to be a better man," Dick confided. (Wasn't that the name of a country western song?)
Later I told my partner about this miracle.
"Great!" she said. "Maybe he'll mow the back lawn tomorrow."
I'm not sure why I think this story is relevant to the theme of this blog, except that I do believe that even the most hateful, angry people can change for the better. Sometimes it takes a visit from the Ghosts of Past, Present, & Future. Sometimes is takes being Born Again. And sometimes people just figure it out for themselves. It's all good.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Observe But Don't Engage!
That's the opinion of my partner regarding commenting on manosphere blogs.
She's worried about my safety of course. She also thinks that by engaging with them, I am egging them on. She thinks I'm on a Joan of Arc trip. "Don't make yourself bait for a nut case," she pleads. There is merit to this argument.
She assures me, as does my young male colleague, that the "manosphere" is a tiny group of delusional and paranoid misfits who are mostly all bluff, anyway. "But there seem to be thousands of them," I protest. "Maybe, but I doubt it," says my male colleague. "I'm a guy, and I'm all over the internet, and I've never heard of any of this crap. Anyway, there are millions of other people."
I know thousands is a lot less than millions, but it still seems like rather a lot. Of course, if most of these guys were dragged out from behind their computers and exposed to the full light of day, it's likely I'd find them more pitiful than threatening. Although they fantasize a lot about running away to various poor countries where the living is easy and the girls are cheap, I suspect most of them never go farther than the local convenience store for more beer.
For example, they idealize angry old gasbags like Mark Minter, an MGTOW who brags about living off the local economy in Colombia, and you know what? I too tried escaping from the U.S. (in my twenties, a lifetime ago), but it got pretty damn old, pretty damn fast. In the hothouse environment of most expatriate communities, it takes about two weeks to recreate whatever social straight jacket you thought you'd escaped, only now it's even worse because there's no reliable electricity, hot water, or public libraries. You learn after a while that wherever you go, there you are.
If it seems like you're an outcast in your own land, and everything and everyone is rubbing you the wrong way all the time, and you are casting about for someone or something to blame, take it from me: Look in the mirror.
Don't take these buffoons seriously, I think. And then I remember, wait, Isn't that what a lot of Germans were telling each other in Berlin in 1930?
I've promised my partner to step away from this for the sake of my sanity, but I'm of two minds. Does one just ignore bullies, hoping they'll get discouraged and go away? On the other hand, do they "win" if they chill or silence feminists' public voices? I'm thinking of course of the redheaded protester doxed and harassed by "A Voice for Men" readers this week.
How can these guys scoff at the existence of "rape culture" when their widespread response to rude or uppity women is to advocate gang-raping, torturing, and murdering them?
The answer is, of course: They don't care. They're not looking for truth, or compassion, or mutual understanding. They are angry white guys who have lost (or never developed) the capacity to engage in rational debate or self-analysis. That leaves them to spinning fantasies of escape and revenge rather than doing the hard work of engaging in any effective way with the rest of society or taking any positive actions.
She's worried about my safety of course. She also thinks that by engaging with them, I am egging them on. She thinks I'm on a Joan of Arc trip. "Don't make yourself bait for a nut case," she pleads. There is merit to this argument.
She assures me, as does my young male colleague, that the "manosphere" is a tiny group of delusional and paranoid misfits who are mostly all bluff, anyway. "But there seem to be thousands of them," I protest. "Maybe, but I doubt it," says my male colleague. "I'm a guy, and I'm all over the internet, and I've never heard of any of this crap. Anyway, there are millions of other people."
I know thousands is a lot less than millions, but it still seems like rather a lot. Of course, if most of these guys were dragged out from behind their computers and exposed to the full light of day, it's likely I'd find them more pitiful than threatening. Although they fantasize a lot about running away to various poor countries where the living is easy and the girls are cheap, I suspect most of them never go farther than the local convenience store for more beer.
For example, they idealize angry old gasbags like Mark Minter, an MGTOW who brags about living off the local economy in Colombia, and you know what? I too tried escaping from the U.S. (in my twenties, a lifetime ago), but it got pretty damn old, pretty damn fast. In the hothouse environment of most expatriate communities, it takes about two weeks to recreate whatever social straight jacket you thought you'd escaped, only now it's even worse because there's no reliable electricity, hot water, or public libraries. You learn after a while that wherever you go, there you are.
If it seems like you're an outcast in your own land, and everything and everyone is rubbing you the wrong way all the time, and you are casting about for someone or something to blame, take it from me: Look in the mirror.
Don't take these buffoons seriously, I think. And then I remember, wait, Isn't that what a lot of Germans were telling each other in Berlin in 1930?
I've promised my partner to step away from this for the sake of my sanity, but I'm of two minds. Does one just ignore bullies, hoping they'll get discouraged and go away? On the other hand, do they "win" if they chill or silence feminists' public voices? I'm thinking of course of the redheaded protester doxed and harassed by "A Voice for Men" readers this week.
How can these guys scoff at the existence of "rape culture" when their widespread response to rude or uppity women is to advocate gang-raping, torturing, and murdering them?
The answer is, of course: They don't care. They're not looking for truth, or compassion, or mutual understanding. They are angry white guys who have lost (or never developed) the capacity to engage in rational debate or self-analysis. That leaves them to spinning fantasies of escape and revenge rather than doing the hard work of engaging in any effective way with the rest of society or taking any positive actions.
I am the cancer that is killing American academia...
Or so says Matt Forney, in response to a comment I left on his blog giving his most recent post a C-.
"Herds of rabbits???" I wrote in imaginary red ink in the imaginary margins of his unimaginably weak essay. "Logic?" "Over generalizing!" and "Please support this assertion."
I know, I know: quit picking on Matt Forney! He has enough problems, especially now that half of Portland Reddit is about to tar, feather, and ride him out of town on a rail. And God knows I have enough grading to do without taking on another recalcitrant student; it's not like I'm getting paid by the head.
Yet I can't help laughing. Cancer! Really? In typically hyperbolic, manospheric fashion, Matt will never reach for a fly-swatter when he can fire his really big cannon.
Now I realize I'm not just some overworked, underpaid, ineffectual frump with a crummy M.A. Rather, I am a curiously powerful, even dangerous creature, part of a vast malignancy invading the highest portals of learning, stealthily inserting the tentacles of feminism and liberalism into every nook and cranny. The horror! The horror!
In fact, when I say that I "toil in the basement of academe," even that's a stretch: I teach remedial English in a community college (or, as one wag put it, "13th grade with ashtrays"). Which means that going to the manosphere for recreational reading is, for me, a kind of busman's holiday. It also means that Young Matt greatly overestimates my Power to influence young minds, either for Good or Evil.
Trust me, had I such powers, my students would recognize comma splices by now.
Cancer is no joke, of course. At the moment, I have four-count 'em-four friends who are either in treatment for, or in remission from, cancers of various lethal sorts plus two peers who have died in the past two years (I really don't have many friends, so that is a lot.) And since everyone in my circle is aging at an even faster rate than I am, "cancer" is likely to become an ever-increasing presence in all our lives. Bummer.
"Everybody's dead or dying and I don't feel so well myself," as my mother used to grimly chirp -- before she died too.
Back to grading essays! I am twenty down, fifty to go. Each essay takes at least 15 minutes to read and mark: you do the math.
"Herds of rabbits???" I wrote in imaginary red ink in the imaginary margins of his unimaginably weak essay. "Logic?" "Over generalizing!" and "Please support this assertion."
I know, I know: quit picking on Matt Forney! He has enough problems, especially now that half of Portland Reddit is about to tar, feather, and ride him out of town on a rail. And God knows I have enough grading to do without taking on another recalcitrant student; it's not like I'm getting paid by the head.
Yet I can't help laughing. Cancer! Really? In typically hyperbolic, manospheric fashion, Matt will never reach for a fly-swatter when he can fire his really big cannon.
Now I realize I'm not just some overworked, underpaid, ineffectual frump with a crummy M.A. Rather, I am a curiously powerful, even dangerous creature, part of a vast malignancy invading the highest portals of learning, stealthily inserting the tentacles of feminism and liberalism into every nook and cranny. The horror! The horror!
In fact, when I say that I "toil in the basement of academe," even that's a stretch: I teach remedial English in a community college (or, as one wag put it, "13th grade with ashtrays"). Which means that going to the manosphere for recreational reading is, for me, a kind of busman's holiday. It also means that Young Matt greatly overestimates my Power to influence young minds, either for Good or Evil.
Trust me, had I such powers, my students would recognize comma splices by now.
Cancer is no joke, of course. At the moment, I have four-count 'em-four friends who are either in treatment for, or in remission from, cancers of various lethal sorts plus two peers who have died in the past two years (I really don't have many friends, so that is a lot.) And since everyone in my circle is aging at an even faster rate than I am, "cancer" is likely to become an ever-increasing presence in all our lives. Bummer.
"Everybody's dead or dying and I don't feel so well myself," as my mother used to grimly chirp -- before she died too.
Back to grading essays! I am twenty down, fifty to go. Each essay takes at least 15 minutes to read and mark: you do the math.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
The Arrogance of Youth
One of the tropes of the New Misogynists is that attractive "quality" women, with their impossibly high standards, often miss the boat. They turn thirty (or forty, or whatever), only to find themselves alone on the dock, all weathered and nasty and flea-bitten, while the ship of true happiness (a marriage to one of them, presumably) sails away.
In Roosh's forum, he reproduced a post from "Date Lab" from a very attractive middle aged blonde named "Carla" who was reporting that she had recently met a nice fellow. My response to Roosh's snark attack follows.
In Roosh's forum, he reproduced a post from "Date Lab" from a very attractive middle aged blonde named "Carla" who was reporting that she had recently met a nice fellow. My response to Roosh's snark attack follows.
Date Lab: 53 y/o woman wants magical spark
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| Author | Message |
Roosh 
Innovative Casanova  
Posts: 8,346 Joined: Aug 2008 Reputation: 91 |
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A Modern Love Story
I have a younger friend. I'll call her Becky. I've known her about ten years. She's from the midwest, is tall, slender, auburn haired. At the age of forty, she still looks very much like the barrel-racing rodeo princess she was as a teenager. To my annoyance, she still gets carded in clubs.
Around the time I became friends with Becky, she met "Mark." Mark is a couple of years older and also from the midwest. He's been bald and rather pudgy since he was in his twenties. As a result, he doesn't look much older now than he did when he graduated from college, but he's still rather self-conscious. Both Becky and Mark are passionate about hiking, wine-tasting, and sex (not necessarily in that order).
Mark was enamored with Becky from the get-go. In terms of appearance, she was the kind of woman he had always wanted but never thought he could win: real trophy wife material. Becky, on the other hand, never seemed quite as enthusiastic about Mark, and she definitely had zero interest in being a trophy wife (she made her own income, thank you).
Ten years ago, Mark was doing very well in commercial real estate, pulling in $200,000/year plus bonuses. That was a lot of money in our circle, and I'll admit I was a bit envious when Mark sent Becky exotic blooms for no reason at all, or swept her off for all-expense-paid vacations in Europe.
But Becky was always complaining about Mark. He drank too much. He didn't share his feelings enough. He was too conventional. He wanted to get married and she didn't. He was bossy and critical. He wanted her to play hostess at his parties. His friends and colleagues were pretentious. That sort of thing.
Yet their relationship persisted, off and on, for a decade. Finally, Becky announced she'd had it with Mark, and they broke off. Becky took off for North Dakota to take care of aging parents. We thought it was kind of a shame. We liked Mark and we missed being invited to his parties. However, it was a relief not to listen to Becky complaining about him anymore.
Then the recession hit. Overnight, Mark lost his job and his prospects of finding another one were bleak. He was so devastated he started seeing a therapist, which wasn't the sort of thing we expected Mark to do.
It took Mark a year to find another job, and that was in the non-profit sector for about $45,000/year, a fraction of what he was used to making.
And that's when Becky decided she really missed Mark after all, for all his imperfections, and they got back together, and have been together ever since in apparent harmony.
When I ask Becky what accounted for her change of heart, she shrugs. He's still bald and he still drinks too much and he still nags her about getting married. And now when they go out, it's dutch treat: no flowers or expensive restaurants.
But apparently, she likes him better now that he makes less money. She's always nattering on about how darn important his work in low-income housing is. Go figure!
So much for hypergamy.
Around the time I became friends with Becky, she met "Mark." Mark is a couple of years older and also from the midwest. He's been bald and rather pudgy since he was in his twenties. As a result, he doesn't look much older now than he did when he graduated from college, but he's still rather self-conscious. Both Becky and Mark are passionate about hiking, wine-tasting, and sex (not necessarily in that order).
Mark was enamored with Becky from the get-go. In terms of appearance, she was the kind of woman he had always wanted but never thought he could win: real trophy wife material. Becky, on the other hand, never seemed quite as enthusiastic about Mark, and she definitely had zero interest in being a trophy wife (she made her own income, thank you).
Ten years ago, Mark was doing very well in commercial real estate, pulling in $200,000/year plus bonuses. That was a lot of money in our circle, and I'll admit I was a bit envious when Mark sent Becky exotic blooms for no reason at all, or swept her off for all-expense-paid vacations in Europe.
But Becky was always complaining about Mark. He drank too much. He didn't share his feelings enough. He was too conventional. He wanted to get married and she didn't. He was bossy and critical. He wanted her to play hostess at his parties. His friends and colleagues were pretentious. That sort of thing.
Yet their relationship persisted, off and on, for a decade. Finally, Becky announced she'd had it with Mark, and they broke off. Becky took off for North Dakota to take care of aging parents. We thought it was kind of a shame. We liked Mark and we missed being invited to his parties. However, it was a relief not to listen to Becky complaining about him anymore.
Then the recession hit. Overnight, Mark lost his job and his prospects of finding another one were bleak. He was so devastated he started seeing a therapist, which wasn't the sort of thing we expected Mark to do.
It took Mark a year to find another job, and that was in the non-profit sector for about $45,000/year, a fraction of what he was used to making.
And that's when Becky decided she really missed Mark after all, for all his imperfections, and they got back together, and have been together ever since in apparent harmony.
When I ask Becky what accounted for her change of heart, she shrugs. He's still bald and he still drinks too much and he still nags her about getting married. And now when they go out, it's dutch treat: no flowers or expensive restaurants.
But apparently, she likes him better now that he makes less money. She's always nattering on about how darn important his work in low-income housing is. Go figure!
So much for hypergamy.
Roosh: America's Ambassador of Love to Romania
I hate to link to one of Roosh's posts, cuz I know it just gives him more hits, but the videos from Romania are pretty funny, especially the one where he wanders around a half-empty subterranean shopping mall looking for girls. All I can think about is, He's paid a thousand dollars to fly to Europe and he's in a deserted underground mall? WTF? I'm not sure what I'd be doing there, but I'd definitely want to do it above ground, in daylight, where I could actually see something.
In one video he is a guest on a local TV show, sandwiched between two lissome Romanian girls, and being thrown questions in broken English that are meant to show the audience what a perfect tool he is. I'm pretty sure he realizes they're making fun of him, but he is just so damn happy to be on camera he can't stop grinning. (It warms my heart to see Roosh smile, but when he laughs, he exposes his teeth and tosses his head back, so that one can't help but picture a braying donkey.)
Again, I don't know what I would wear if I were invited to appear on Romanian television, but I'm sure that whatever it was, it would be clean. Maybe Roosh's faded t-shirt and peculiarly unflattering jeans are freshly laundered, but they don't look like it. There he is, complaining about what slobs American women are, and look! He's showing the Romanian public that American men are equally slobby. I don't think he's doing American guys any favors over there. And what's with the crotch shot? He has spread his legs just as far apart as he can, like he's saving a seat on the bus for a friend who's getting on later. It doesn't even look like a comfortable posture.
Oh God now I sound like his mother. And we all know what Roosh thinks of his mother.
In his favor, Roosh is definitely showing a flair for comedy in these videos. Maybe he can get himself cast in a European sitcom, playing himself ? I'm serious! It could happen!
In one video he is a guest on a local TV show, sandwiched between two lissome Romanian girls, and being thrown questions in broken English that are meant to show the audience what a perfect tool he is. I'm pretty sure he realizes they're making fun of him, but he is just so damn happy to be on camera he can't stop grinning. (It warms my heart to see Roosh smile, but when he laughs, he exposes his teeth and tosses his head back, so that one can't help but picture a braying donkey.)
Again, I don't know what I would wear if I were invited to appear on Romanian television, but I'm sure that whatever it was, it would be clean. Maybe Roosh's faded t-shirt and peculiarly unflattering jeans are freshly laundered, but they don't look like it. There he is, complaining about what slobs American women are, and look! He's showing the Romanian public that American men are equally slobby. I don't think he's doing American guys any favors over there. And what's with the crotch shot? He has spread his legs just as far apart as he can, like he's saving a seat on the bus for a friend who's getting on later. It doesn't even look like a comfortable posture.
Oh God now I sound like his mother. And we all know what Roosh thinks of his mother.
In his favor, Roosh is definitely showing a flair for comedy in these videos. Maybe he can get himself cast in a European sitcom, playing himself ? I'm serious! It could happen!
Friday, April 12, 2013
Seals: An Animal I Love
Reading manosphere blogs makes my head spin. And not in a good way.
I'll watch this whenever I need to go to My Happy Place. I only wish the clip were longer, so I didn't need to keep clicking the restart...
I'll watch this whenever I need to go to My Happy Place. I only wish the clip were longer, so I didn't need to keep clicking the restart...
Don't Get Me Wrong, I Love Dogs!
Whenever the topic of gender came up, my old boyfriend, Paul, used to assert that, "Men are dogs." Our ensuing argument always followed along the same lines, with me protesting, "Not all men are dogs! You're not a dog." "I am a dog," Paul would counter, "because I am a man. And all men are dogs." (By insisting that men were dogs, Paul was claiming men were slaves to their dominant, hormone-driven instincts. Or something like that.) After a few rounds, I gave up trying to convince Paul to take a more evolved stance on the matter, and after a couple of years, boredom and frustration with Paul's distorted logic and lack of sophistication took its toll, and I broke off with him.
Whether comparing men with dogs (or rabbits), or women with hamsters (or chickens or snakes), barnyard analogies render any argument meaningless. They are simply ways to "dehumanize" the other so that you don't have to treat them as individuals with unique qualities and experiences worthy of consideration. While it's true that humans, like wolves, are pack animals, as any (reputable) social scientist will tell you, to understand the origins of our own behaviors, we are better off studying the higher primates, i.e., chimpanzees. (I'm a bonobo myself.)
And yet-- and yet--
Today I found myself wondering if Paul wasn't right. Men in groups can certainly act like dogs in packs. I have four (male) dogs myself. Each dog, on his own, is a sweet and distinct individual. As a group, however (Anyone say "kibbies?") they form a howling, snarling mob bent on chaos and destruction, impervious to either reason or protocol.
Roosh recently got a couple of e-mails which he reproduced in part in his forum. Apparently they were from a male friend of one of the "conquests" Roosh had described in a book. What the sender's messages lacked in coherence and literacy, he made up in sincerity.
Sample of what the "white knighter" wrote to Roosh:
"I hope you [Roosh] feel bad for what you did. You betrayed her.... Do you ever think of the consequences you create when you do this? What pain you create?... I believe this is a form of terrorism towards other countries and to the people you have hurt already. Terrorism is defined as creating terror in people and that is what you do when you write about your conquest. It is the woman's fault too, to fall for your game and they have had a choice to sleep with you, but it is not fair to them that you write about it without their permission...What you did to her was uncalled for. You scared her... When you write your books, please warn them or at least send them a book so that way they can take steps to prepare for the shame you might bring them. .. to be published in your books of accomplishments with women would make any woman feel cheep, used, and disgraced..."
Whether comparing men with dogs (or rabbits), or women with hamsters (or chickens or snakes), barnyard analogies render any argument meaningless. They are simply ways to "dehumanize" the other so that you don't have to treat them as individuals with unique qualities and experiences worthy of consideration. While it's true that humans, like wolves, are pack animals, as any (reputable) social scientist will tell you, to understand the origins of our own behaviors, we are better off studying the higher primates, i.e., chimpanzees. (I'm a bonobo myself.)
And yet-- and yet--
Today I found myself wondering if Paul wasn't right. Men in groups can certainly act like dogs in packs. I have four (male) dogs myself. Each dog, on his own, is a sweet and distinct individual. As a group, however (Anyone say "kibbies?") they form a howling, snarling mob bent on chaos and destruction, impervious to either reason or protocol.
Roosh recently got a couple of e-mails which he reproduced in part in his forum. Apparently they were from a male friend of one of the "conquests" Roosh had described in a book. What the sender's messages lacked in coherence and literacy, he made up in sincerity.
Sample of what the "white knighter" wrote to Roosh:
"I hope you [Roosh] feel bad for what you did. You betrayed her.... Do you ever think of the consequences you create when you do this? What pain you create?... I believe this is a form of terrorism towards other countries and to the people you have hurt already. Terrorism is defined as creating terror in people and that is what you do when you write about your conquest. It is the woman's fault too, to fall for your game and they have had a choice to sleep with you, but it is not fair to them that you write about it without their permission...What you did to her was uncalled for. You scared her... When you write your books, please warn them or at least send them a book so that way they can take steps to prepare for the shame you might bring them. .. to be published in your books of accomplishments with women would make any woman feel cheep, used, and disgraced..."
These tidbits are the bones that Roosh throws to his troops, who slavishly leap into the fray like... well, like a pack of dogs. A grindingly predictable thread follows, in which the Roosh's minions deride the "beta orbiting" e-mailer's masculinity and dignity (for protesting the treatment of his friend), and lavish praise on Roosh, All Hail to the Chief, etc., ad nauseum. In this way, Roosh uses a "threat" to the Group Think to reinforce his own authority. He's very shrewd that way (part of why he's scary).
Ironically, the "hive mind" of females is a persistent trope among misogynists.
I can only hope that on some level, some of of these Rooshites realize: Hey, he [the victim's friend] has a point... Maybe it's not very manly or heroic to exploit women that way... I wouldn't like it if it were my sister / my friend / my daughter Roosh was exploiting sexually and monetarily. ..
(While some manosphere bloggers do concede that Roosh isn't the type of guy they'd want their sisters to marry, they don't seem able to take empathy any further.)
Ironically, the "hive mind" of females is a persistent trope among misogynists.
I can only hope that on some level, some of of these Rooshites realize: Hey, he [the victim's friend] has a point... Maybe it's not very manly or heroic to exploit women that way... I wouldn't like it if it were my sister / my friend / my daughter Roosh was exploiting sexually and monetarily. ..
(While some manosphere bloggers do concede that Roosh isn't the type of guy they'd want their sisters to marry, they don't seem able to take empathy any further.)
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Russell Brand: A Man I Love
I've always had a mad crush on Russell Brand. I've sat through every one of his movies, even though most of them were crap, just to watch him. His gypsy-boy physicality is dead sexy: the unruly hair, licorice-whip legs, yoga-toned torso, the manic energy his wiry frame can barely contain, those black eyes glinting with mischief...
But as we all know, physical attraction isn't enough to sustain a long term relationship, even one as unilateral and unrequited as the one I have with Russell Brand. No, it's his brain that really turns me on: the cliche "rapier wit" was invented to describe Russell Brand..
When did I first know that it was love, not just lust? Perhaps it was when he hosted the Westboro Baptist Church on his talk show. It's hilarious. He is irrepressible, and yet so sweet in his mockery. He shreds them, but in the kindest way. One imagines that it would be impossible to have a real quarrel with Brand: in minutes, he would have you on the floor laughing at yourself in spite of yourself. He would kill you with kindness.
Then yesterday I read his remarkable essay on the demise of Margaret Thatcher. It was one of the best things I have read for a long while. Although I am neither British nor of Brand's generation, he made me understand what it was like growing up under her administration. (Actually, liberal Americans who have been living with the post-Reagan legacy will relate equally well to what Brand writes about Thatcher).
The entire essay is a masterpiece -- anyone with the slightest interest should read it in entirety -- but this bit really stayed with me:
It always struck me as peculiar, too, when the Spice Girls briefly championed Thatcher as an early example of Girl Power. I don't see that. She is an anomaly, a product of the freak-conomy of her time. Barack Obama interestingly said in his statement that she had "broken the glass ceiling for other women." Only in the sense that all the women beneath her were blinded by falling shards. She is an icon of individualism, not of feminism.
And this! This is when I knew beyond any doubt that the love I felt for Russell Brand was no passing fancy, but The Real Thing:
Interestingly, one mate of mine, a proper leftie, in his heyday all Red Wedge and right-on punch-ups, was melancholy [upon hearing of Thatcher's death]. "I thought I'd be overjoyed, but really it's just... another one bites the dust..." This demonstrates I suppose that if you opposed Thatcher's ideas it is likely because of their lack of compassion, which is really just a word for love. If love is something you cherish it is hard to glean much joy from death, even in one's enemies.
(SIGH)
Sunday, April 7, 2013
On PUA
Are you old enough to remember when the back pages of comic books and popular magazines had ads for stuff like "X ray glasses," that promised to give readers the power to see through girls' clothes, and Charles Atlas programs that guaranteed to turn any 90 lb. weakling into a muscle-bound beach bully? There was always at least one ad for a guide to picking up girls. I'll admit I was intrigued by glasses that provided x-ray vision, and I remember buying at least one clutch of "sea monkeys," but I knew the pick up guides had to be a load of rubbish and even if I had been a boy, I was pretty much sure I wouldn't have fallen for those scams.
Nowadays, we have infomercials and pick up artists like Roosh. And while I'll confess I still slow down at the Walgreen counters where "As Seen On TV" products are displayed, I still scoff at the sad sacks who think the secrets of successful seduction can be found in slim missives dispatched from turd world countries.
Although I am contemptuous of PUA, I don't hate the suckers who support this industry: I feel kind of sorry for them.
I don't really hate PUA on principle, or rather I don't hate it more than I hate Cosmopolitan magazine. PUA is like Cosmo for boys. Adolescents are desperately looking for answers to the burning teenage question, "How do I make [people of the opposite sex] desire me?", and these sources give lots of advice, repetitive and reductive and simple-minded to be sure, perhaps reassuring by its very repetitive, reductive simple-minded nature. It's understandable to devour junk when a person is fifteen, but by the time he/she has graduated from college and entered the "real" adult world, it's time to grow up.
Anyway, I'm all for everybody pursuing as much sexual validation as they need or want. What I hate is reducing both men and women to the sums of their worst parts.
My problem isn't with PUA or MRM in theory, it's withmisogyny misanthropy. My problem with the PUA of Roosh, Rossy, et al. is that it isn't "sweet love making" that is being promoted, but rather opportunities to degrade, exploit, or humiliate a.target. My problem is with referring to women as "notches" and "flags" or to men as "betas" and "manginas."
My problem is that I just don't recognize the people who inhabit the PUA/MRM world, where every man is a caged, snarling predator in a gnawing state of priapism, and every woman is either a conniving gold-digger or a maniacal, castrating bitch.
For one thing, nurturing a hateful, resentful, "us against them" mind set is counter-productive to the immediate, pressing concern of getting laid. We won't even think about how it ruins any chance of a long term, emotionally intimate and trusting relationship. C'mon guys, think about it: Roosh gets his dick wet maybe once a month by making pick up his full time job but he's in his mid-thirties now, and he doesn't seem to have ever had a real friend, much less a regular girlfriend. And this is your relationship guru?
People like Roosh or Roissy or (God forbid) Paul Elam are not making the world a better place, that's for sure. And the irony is they're so self-evidently miserable themselves.
What's in that red pill, anyway? Why would anyone want to take it?
Nowadays, we have infomercials and pick up artists like Roosh. And while I'll confess I still slow down at the Walgreen counters where "As Seen On TV" products are displayed, I still scoff at the sad sacks who think the secrets of successful seduction can be found in slim missives dispatched from turd world countries.
Although I am contemptuous of PUA, I don't hate the suckers who support this industry: I feel kind of sorry for them.
I don't really hate PUA on principle, or rather I don't hate it more than I hate Cosmopolitan magazine. PUA is like Cosmo for boys. Adolescents are desperately looking for answers to the burning teenage question, "How do I make [people of the opposite sex] desire me?", and these sources give lots of advice, repetitive and reductive and simple-minded to be sure, perhaps reassuring by its very repetitive, reductive simple-minded nature. It's understandable to devour junk when a person is fifteen, but by the time he/she has graduated from college and entered the "real" adult world, it's time to grow up.
Anyway, I'm all for everybody pursuing as much sexual validation as they need or want. What I hate is reducing both men and women to the sums of their worst parts.
My problem isn't with PUA or MRM in theory, it's with
My problem is that I just don't recognize the people who inhabit the PUA/MRM world, where every man is a caged, snarling predator in a gnawing state of priapism, and every woman is either a conniving gold-digger or a maniacal, castrating bitch.
For one thing, nurturing a hateful, resentful, "us against them" mind set is counter-productive to the immediate, pressing concern of getting laid. We won't even think about how it ruins any chance of a long term, emotionally intimate and trusting relationship. C'mon guys, think about it: Roosh gets his dick wet maybe once a month by making pick up his full time job but he's in his mid-thirties now, and he doesn't seem to have ever had a real friend, much less a regular girlfriend. And this is your relationship guru?
People like Roosh or Roissy or (God forbid) Paul Elam are not making the world a better place, that's for sure. And the irony is they're so self-evidently miserable themselves.
What's in that red pill, anyway? Why would anyone want to take it?
Friday, April 5, 2013
Roosh Hates Toronto
One of these days I mean to visit Toronto, because until recently I had heard nothing but rave reviews of this sparkling, multicultural cosmopolis. My parents visited Toronto when I was a teenager. They returned with a beautiful Indian scarf for me (which I still cherish) and praise for the sophistication and civility of its residents. A friend of mine used to date a Canadian lad. Unfortunately, when he sold his Toronto condo and moved to Edmonton, she kind of lost interest...
The only person I've run across to say a disparaging word about Toronto was Roosh, who had a recent, spectacularly unsuccessful weekend there, unable to persuade one single lady to return to his hotel room for a sip of flavored vodka. (I know, flavored vodka? Blecchh. But apparently that's what all the cool club kids are drinking.)
Apparently, he is still stinging from his defeat.
Roosh was offended by a young Toronto lass' words in response to his negativity about "game" in Toronto. (Read her entire post; it's quite funny.)
Roosh observed that "Girls are more excited about getting late night food than having sex."
Emilia: "Could not agree more. Everytime my friends and I heard the song “Gasolina” we changed the lyrics to “Pizzaiola”. The Diana. The Americana. OOOOOhhhh Vittoria. No sex beats a late night slice."
This made me chuckle. It also made me recall the great Southern wit Florence King, who once wrote, "I've had sex and I've had food. And I'd rather eat." Never were truer words spoken. And the older a woman gets, the truer they become. Which explains Food Porn and my own ever-expanding waistline.
Roosh also wrote that "Girls [in Toronto] cock block more than anywhere else in the world.
Emilia responds: "Girls don’t cock block. If a girl wanted to fuck you, she’d fuck you. Even with seven of her friends yelling at her to stop, she will proceed with no caution. I’ve literally had to owe my friends money for sleeping with people they hate. I’ve had friends run out of cabs and go back to people they were dragged from."
I nod my head vigorously in agreement. I hate to tell you how many guys I had sex with that my girlfriends warned me about. (Did I listen? Never! Were they right? Always!)
I'll admit that due to my advanced age, the term "cock blocking" is new to me. Back in the day, we just called it "being a good friend."
Roosh also complains, "Buy a girl drinks or she loses interest."
Emilia says, "I don’t know how to say this without sounding shallow but here’s the truth: whatever you’re talking about, we don’t care. Something about sports, something about your job, maybe you have a dog, we don’t give a shit. Less talkee, more shotsee."
I mean really, Roosh (and his lame-ass followers): Do you expect intelligent, attractive young women to fuck you stone cold sober? Men like you should fucking worship at the shrine of Dionysius.
Anyway, I guess Roosh has declared Toronto off-limits to his acolytes, which is nothing but good news for the ladies of Toronto.
The only person I've run across to say a disparaging word about Toronto was Roosh, who had a recent, spectacularly unsuccessful weekend there, unable to persuade one single lady to return to his hotel room for a sip of flavored vodka. (I know, flavored vodka? Blecchh. But apparently that's what all the cool club kids are drinking.)
Apparently, he is still stinging from his defeat.
Roosh was offended by a young Toronto lass' words in response to his negativity about "game" in Toronto. (Read her entire post; it's quite funny.)
Roosh observed that "Girls are more excited about getting late night food than having sex."
Emilia: "Could not agree more. Everytime my friends and I heard the song “Gasolina” we changed the lyrics to “Pizzaiola”. The Diana. The Americana. OOOOOhhhh Vittoria. No sex beats a late night slice."
This made me chuckle. It also made me recall the great Southern wit Florence King, who once wrote, "I've had sex and I've had food. And I'd rather eat." Never were truer words spoken. And the older a woman gets, the truer they become. Which explains Food Porn and my own ever-expanding waistline.
Roosh also wrote that "Girls [in Toronto] cock block more than anywhere else in the world.
Emilia responds: "Girls don’t cock block. If a girl wanted to fuck you, she’d fuck you. Even with seven of her friends yelling at her to stop, she will proceed with no caution. I’ve literally had to owe my friends money for sleeping with people they hate. I’ve had friends run out of cabs and go back to people they were dragged from."
I nod my head vigorously in agreement. I hate to tell you how many guys I had sex with that my girlfriends warned me about. (Did I listen? Never! Were they right? Always!)
I'll admit that due to my advanced age, the term "cock blocking" is new to me. Back in the day, we just called it "being a good friend."
Roosh also complains, "Buy a girl drinks or she loses interest."
Emilia says, "I don’t know how to say this without sounding shallow but here’s the truth: whatever you’re talking about, we don’t care. Something about sports, something about your job, maybe you have a dog, we don’t give a shit. Less talkee, more shotsee."
I mean really, Roosh (and his lame-ass followers): Do you expect intelligent, attractive young women to fuck you stone cold sober? Men like you should fucking worship at the shrine of Dionysius.
Anyway, I guess Roosh has declared Toronto off-limits to his acolytes, which is nothing but good news for the ladies of Toronto.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Don't Bang Danish Girls (or Only In Your Dreams)
I've always been irrationally proud of my Danish ancestry. Although my ancestors left Denmark in the late nineteenth century, I even allow myself to take vicarious, wholly-unearned pride in the loyalty they demonstrated toward their Jewish citizens during WWII. (How dismayed I was to learn that the story of King Christian X displaying the Star of David on his lapel was entirely apocryphal!)
Visiting Denmark some years ago with my mother only deepened my admiration for the Danish people. At one point my mother's bum knee forced us to visit a clinic for treatment. After the doctor gave her a cortisone shot, we asked where to pay, only to be told that medical services were free to anyone who needed them -- even hapless American tourists.
What most struck me about Denmark was how uniformly good looking the people are. I expect this has a lot to do with the excellent standard of health care, nutrition, and sense of social security. Despite a diet that is traditionally heavy with dairy products (butter, cheese, ice cream...) I did not see a single fat Dane. Maybe that was because everywhere we went, people were walking, bicycling, or sunning themselves in the public parks. We were actually relieved to finally encounter a woman with rather poor teeth -- finally, an imperfection!
Roosh's complaints that Danish women are unattractive and "manly" are patently ridiculous. On the other hand, I expect it is difficult to "game" a Dane. They are not easily impressed by or even very curious about foreigners (as Americans we were mostly ignored). It wasn't easy to engage Danes in conversation although, when we were able to, they were unfailingly civil, and every Dane we met spoke English fluently (although they were modest about their ability).
Perhaps what offended Roosh was subtle prejudice based on his near-eastern appearance. A lot of Danes seem a bit weary with their immigrant population, vestiges of a Turkish guest worker population that have overstayed its welcome. As one Danish woman explained to me, "I understand why they come here, with our great social services and public education -- I don't blame them, really -- but..." she trailed off helplessly and sighed. Being Danish, she couldn't bring herself to admit that these swarthy, "backwards" people didn't belong to her vision of a progressive, liberal Danish society.
Visiting Denmark some years ago with my mother only deepened my admiration for the Danish people. At one point my mother's bum knee forced us to visit a clinic for treatment. After the doctor gave her a cortisone shot, we asked where to pay, only to be told that medical services were free to anyone who needed them -- even hapless American tourists.
What most struck me about Denmark was how uniformly good looking the people are. I expect this has a lot to do with the excellent standard of health care, nutrition, and sense of social security. Despite a diet that is traditionally heavy with dairy products (butter, cheese, ice cream...) I did not see a single fat Dane. Maybe that was because everywhere we went, people were walking, bicycling, or sunning themselves in the public parks. We were actually relieved to finally encounter a woman with rather poor teeth -- finally, an imperfection!
Roosh's complaints that Danish women are unattractive and "manly" are patently ridiculous. On the other hand, I expect it is difficult to "game" a Dane. They are not easily impressed by or even very curious about foreigners (as Americans we were mostly ignored). It wasn't easy to engage Danes in conversation although, when we were able to, they were unfailingly civil, and every Dane we met spoke English fluently (although they were modest about their ability).
Perhaps what offended Roosh was subtle prejudice based on his near-eastern appearance. A lot of Danes seem a bit weary with their immigrant population, vestiges of a Turkish guest worker population that have overstayed its welcome. As one Danish woman explained to me, "I understand why they come here, with our great social services and public education -- I don't blame them, really -- but..." she trailed off helplessly and sighed. Being Danish, she couldn't bring herself to admit that these swarthy, "backwards" people didn't belong to her vision of a progressive, liberal Danish society.
It's A Big Country
I haven't read Matt Forney's blog much, mainly because when he isn't trolling for hits with outrageous posts, he's really, really boring.
He's an acolyte of Roosh, and religiously reviews everything Roosh writes, but never writes about his own adventures putting "game" into practice. He comes across as the prototypical "forty year old virgin." He seems deeply cynical about politics although he leans toward libertarianism. He is very interested in the male-bonding aspect of being an MRA, and his writing about the need for male friendship is his most original and poignant. His current preoccupation is how to make a living as a blogger. Good luck!
For a while he was working in the oil fields of North Dakota before he did a mini-Jack Kerouac and hitch-hiked to Portland. I understand that Williston is about the worst place in the world for horny guys (with the possible exception of Saudi Arabia). But my burning question to Matt is, Why Portland?
For a guy who really hates social liberals and radical feminists, Portland seems an odd choice indeed.
Why don't these lonely guys move where the odds are more in their favor?
If you are an introverted, deeply conservative guy who wants to meet women, why leave the midwest? Why not head for, I dunno, Wichita or Tulsa? Why not join a fundamentalist church (where there are loads of pretty, virtuous girls who are busting to become full time home makers for some traditional, manly-man)?
If you want a woman who looks and comports herself like a bimbo a starlet, why not take up pimping photography and move to Los Angeles?
If you are a guy who is only attracted to women with <7.5 body fat, join a coed sports team or start running marathons.
If you don't like dissolute women, stay out of bars. (Hint: Bars are where barflies hang out.) On the other hand, if you believe only drunk women will "bang" you, but hate gold-diggers, stay away from the clubs where "venture capitalists" and attorneys hang out.
If you yourself are overweight, quit whining that only fat chicks will date you. Or perhaps entertain the possibility that equity of physical attractiveness is a good predictor of long term stable relationships.
If you know in your heart-of-hearts that you can't compete for top-drawer "talent" but refuse to "settle," well, instead of zipping off to Moldava, why not save your pennies and occasionally treat yourself to a really high class call girl?
My point is, to sit around and complain about the dearth of models in your basement is pretty silly, isn't it?
.
He's an acolyte of Roosh, and religiously reviews everything Roosh writes, but never writes about his own adventures putting "game" into practice. He comes across as the prototypical "forty year old virgin." He seems deeply cynical about politics although he leans toward libertarianism. He is very interested in the male-bonding aspect of being an MRA, and his writing about the need for male friendship is his most original and poignant. His current preoccupation is how to make a living as a blogger. Good luck!
For a while he was working in the oil fields of North Dakota before he did a mini-Jack Kerouac and hitch-hiked to Portland. I understand that Williston is about the worst place in the world for horny guys (with the possible exception of Saudi Arabia). But my burning question to Matt is, Why Portland?
For a guy who really hates social liberals and radical feminists, Portland seems an odd choice indeed.
Why don't these lonely guys move where the odds are more in their favor?
If you are an introverted, deeply conservative guy who wants to meet women, why leave the midwest? Why not head for, I dunno, Wichita or Tulsa? Why not join a fundamentalist church (where there are loads of pretty, virtuous girls who are busting to become full time home makers for some traditional, manly-man)?
If you want a woman who looks and comports herself like
If you are a guy who is only attracted to women with <7.5 body fat, join a coed sports team or start running marathons.
If you don't like dissolute women, stay out of bars. (Hint: Bars are where barflies hang out.) On the other hand, if you believe only drunk women will "bang" you, but hate gold-diggers, stay away from the clubs where "venture capitalists" and attorneys hang out.
If you yourself are overweight, quit whining that only fat chicks will date you. Or perhaps entertain the possibility that equity of physical attractiveness is a good predictor of long term stable relationships.
If you know in your heart-of-hearts that you can't compete for top-drawer "talent" but refuse to "settle," well, instead of zipping off to Moldava, why not save your pennies and occasionally treat yourself to a really high class call girl?
My point is, to sit around and complain about the dearth of models in your basement is pretty silly, isn't it?
.
Is Roosh a Sociopath?
Roosh is now in Romania, a country I've never visited. I've always assumed From the little I have read and seen on television, it's kind of a shit-hole a developing country with many socioeconomic challenges and seriously ugly Soviet era architecture.
This is nothing against the people. I've had several wonderful Romanian students in the past. Rather, it's because Romania is still recovering from the disastrous socioeconomic policies of the Nicolae Ceaușesc regime, i.e., a large population of unwanted young people who grew up on the streets due to Ceausesc's prohibition of contraception = a high crime rate, degraded family structure, and pervasive despair. It certainly isn't a place that would draw me as a tourist,although I might take a temporary assignment there as part of an international aid program. yet.
But Roosh favors Eastern European countries like Romania because the people (specifically, the women) are poor and desperate. American tourists are rare for the reasons described, and they represent opportunity (for cash or green cards). This is Roosh's value in the eyes of young Eastern European women. The language barrier which he occasionally complains about actually works in his favor; it's harder to evaluate a stranger's intentions or character if he does not speak your language, and people tend to forgive foreigners for social faux pas that they would not tolerate in a native.
Roosh likes Eastern European girls because, unlike American or Scandinavian women, they embody traditional "feminine" characteristics: they put effort into their sexual appeal (naturally enough, as it is their only real avenue of social mobility), they tend to be thin, they defer to men (at least in public). And unlike American and Scandinavian women, they are not "promiscuous" (that is to say, sexually autonomous).
The problem is that the chastity that Roosh admires is an obstacle to his mission, which is to have sexual intercourse with as many nubile teenagers as he can without either opening his wallet and paying upfront, or establishing a committed relationship. He deals with this by deceiving women, either directly or by omission. For example, he suggests he's more interested in a serious relationship than he really is, he attempts to disguise his true identity, he doesn't hang around too long in one place. He coolly acknowledges the occasional tears, the sense of betrayal these girls experience, yet remains emotionally detached. He is, after all, a predator, so is only acting according to his authentic nature: "This is what I do."
He is not disingenuous when he denies that the appalling way he exploits girls reflects any animosity toward them. In the same way, many of us are genuinely fond of animals, yet still enjoy eating cheeseburgers.
He blames global feminism and western materialism on corrupting the women he himself is trying to corrupt. He refuses to acknowledge his own culpability in the process. The lack of integrity, the disconnect, is mind-boggling. He doesn't seem to be stupid. He certainly takes his own intellectual pretensions seriously, with his regular reports on the "big ass books" he is reading (Thucydides, really?).
And yet there is a giant blind spot in his moral consciousness that defies explanation.
To read Roosh is to enter the mind of a functioning sociopath.
In a Roosh V forum thread, a reader worries whether he himself is a sociopath. Some readers dismiss his concern, reassuring him that the fact that he asks is proof he is not.
I dunno, if I thought I might be a sociopath, I'd be running, not walking, to a good shrink. But that's just me, your garden-variety neurotic.
Roosh, on the other hand, responds, tellingly, "Why do you feel the need to label your behavior? Do what you want. As long as you don't get arrested, get AIDS, or cause unreasonable harm in other individuals, who gives a fuck whether you are or not." [italics added]
This is nothing against the people. I've had several wonderful Romanian students in the past. Rather, it's because Romania is still recovering from the disastrous socioeconomic policies of the Nicolae Ceaușesc regime, i.e., a large population of unwanted young people who grew up on the streets due to Ceausesc's prohibition of contraception = a high crime rate, degraded family structure, and pervasive despair. It certainly isn't a place that would draw me as a tourist,
But Roosh favors Eastern European countries like Romania because the people (specifically, the women) are poor and desperate. American tourists are rare for the reasons described, and they represent opportunity (for cash or green cards). This is Roosh's value in the eyes of young Eastern European women. The language barrier which he occasionally complains about actually works in his favor; it's harder to evaluate a stranger's intentions or character if he does not speak your language, and people tend to forgive foreigners for social faux pas that they would not tolerate in a native.
Roosh likes Eastern European girls because, unlike American or Scandinavian women, they embody traditional "feminine" characteristics: they put effort into their sexual appeal (naturally enough, as it is their only real avenue of social mobility), they tend to be thin, they defer to men (at least in public). And unlike American and Scandinavian women, they are not "promiscuous" (that is to say, sexually autonomous).
The problem is that the chastity that Roosh admires is an obstacle to his mission, which is to have sexual intercourse with as many nubile teenagers as he can without either opening his wallet and paying upfront, or establishing a committed relationship. He deals with this by deceiving women, either directly or by omission. For example, he suggests he's more interested in a serious relationship than he really is, he attempts to disguise his true identity, he doesn't hang around too long in one place. He coolly acknowledges the occasional tears, the sense of betrayal these girls experience, yet remains emotionally detached. He is, after all, a predator, so is only acting according to his authentic nature: "This is what I do."
He is not disingenuous when he denies that the appalling way he exploits girls reflects any animosity toward them. In the same way, many of us are genuinely fond of animals, yet still enjoy eating cheeseburgers.
He blames global feminism and western materialism on corrupting the women he himself is trying to corrupt. He refuses to acknowledge his own culpability in the process. The lack of integrity, the disconnect, is mind-boggling. He doesn't seem to be stupid. He certainly takes his own intellectual pretensions seriously, with his regular reports on the "big ass books" he is reading (Thucydides, really?).
And yet there is a giant blind spot in his moral consciousness that defies explanation.
To read Roosh is to enter the mind of a functioning sociopath.
In a Roosh V forum thread, a reader worries whether he himself is a sociopath. Some readers dismiss his concern, reassuring him that the fact that he asks is proof he is not.
I dunno, if I thought I might be a sociopath, I'd be running, not walking, to a good shrink. But that's just me, your garden-variety neurotic.
Roosh, on the other hand, responds, tellingly, "Why do you feel the need to label your behavior? Do what you want. As long as you don't get arrested, get AIDS, or cause unreasonable harm in other individuals, who gives a fuck whether you are or not." [italics added]
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