Courtesy of Muse in Vivo, this is really brightening my afternoon!
24 Hours of Happy with Pharrell Williams
Friday, February 28, 2014
"Barren" vs. "Child-Free"
Several of my colleagues are dealing with the travails of parenting adolescent children, and whenever I overhear them complaining, I can't help but think, "There but for the Grace of God..." For some of them, the workplace is a refuge from the incessant demands of the ungrateful, surly rebels in their care. How fortunate I feel to go home and have only to tend to loving pets and a kind, supportive human companion.
Yet the New Misogynists darkly warn young women to avoid the fate of spinsters like me, who wind up alone and unloved. Having failed to fulfill our biological destiny, we are almost worse than useless. I have even recently been described, without irony, as "barren", one of those portentous biblical terms (like "fornicate") the manosphereans like to fling about in a futile attempt at gravitas. It never fails to amuse me.
Like most women of my generation, I vaguely assumed that some day I would have a biological family -- when I was good and ready, that is. Unfortunately, by the time I was psychologically and financially prepared to take such a momentous leap of faith, I had developed a medical condition that prevented conception. That was sad. It took me several years to make peace with the loss of that dream. Yet however wistfully I have viewed my childless state, I have never regretted not becoming a mother in my twenties: That would have been an unmitigated disaster for everyone involved! Nor have I ever thought human evolution has suffered from my failure to reproduce, since it has always been evident to me that what the world needs is greater investment in fewer people.
Not having one's own biological children is just that: the loss of a dream. Because it strikes me that the longing to become a parent is based on a kind of fantasy. In my dream, of course, my children would be healthy, attractive, intelligent, and moral. They would be perfected versions of myself. In my dream, I would be an exemplary mother: nurturing, stimulating, endlessly patient. Of course, with the hindsight of age, I can see that I would probably have been a well-meaning but highly imperfect parent. There is no guarantee that any child I might have had would have turned out to be either happy or successful. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that we would even have liked each other. Few of us are always grateful to our parents for conceiving us, the "gift of life" being the very mixed bag that it is. In fact, parents are fortunate if their children finally come to understand and appreciate the efforts that they made on their behalf.*
One colleague worries that her teenager is a "narcissist" who is "full of rage". We hasten to assure her that these unpleasant traits are part and parcel of normal adolescent development, and that he is bound to "grow out of it". Then, of course, I wonder, "But what if he doesn't?"
What if I had had a son who had turned out like Roosh, or Matt Forney, or any of the men who admire them? I have no reason to believe that their parents were any worse or better than most. While it is clear to me that these young men have been failed in some terrible ways, I do not assume the failure is their parents', or at least not exclusively their parents'.
Although these men are now adults, I imagine their families must be deeply disappointed and aggrieved to see their only sons, who started out in life so bright, shiny and full of promise, take such wrong turns.
I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
--Lady Macbeth
_______________________________________________________________________
* Does the curious fact that the following poem by Philip Larkin was one of my mother's favorites hold some kind of key here?
They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were sloppy stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have have any kids yourself.
Yet the New Misogynists darkly warn young women to avoid the fate of spinsters like me, who wind up alone and unloved. Having failed to fulfill our biological destiny, we are almost worse than useless. I have even recently been described, without irony, as "barren", one of those portentous biblical terms (like "fornicate") the manosphereans like to fling about in a futile attempt at gravitas. It never fails to amuse me.
Like most women of my generation, I vaguely assumed that some day I would have a biological family -- when I was good and ready, that is. Unfortunately, by the time I was psychologically and financially prepared to take such a momentous leap of faith, I had developed a medical condition that prevented conception. That was sad. It took me several years to make peace with the loss of that dream. Yet however wistfully I have viewed my childless state, I have never regretted not becoming a mother in my twenties: That would have been an unmitigated disaster for everyone involved! Nor have I ever thought human evolution has suffered from my failure to reproduce, since it has always been evident to me that what the world needs is greater investment in fewer people.
Not having one's own biological children is just that: the loss of a dream. Because it strikes me that the longing to become a parent is based on a kind of fantasy. In my dream, of course, my children would be healthy, attractive, intelligent, and moral. They would be perfected versions of myself. In my dream, I would be an exemplary mother: nurturing, stimulating, endlessly patient. Of course, with the hindsight of age, I can see that I would probably have been a well-meaning but highly imperfect parent. There is no guarantee that any child I might have had would have turned out to be either happy or successful. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that we would even have liked each other. Few of us are always grateful to our parents for conceiving us, the "gift of life" being the very mixed bag that it is. In fact, parents are fortunate if their children finally come to understand and appreciate the efforts that they made on their behalf.*
One colleague worries that her teenager is a "narcissist" who is "full of rage". We hasten to assure her that these unpleasant traits are part and parcel of normal adolescent development, and that he is bound to "grow out of it". Then, of course, I wonder, "But what if he doesn't?"
What if I had had a son who had turned out like Roosh, or Matt Forney, or any of the men who admire them? I have no reason to believe that their parents were any worse or better than most. While it is clear to me that these young men have been failed in some terrible ways, I do not assume the failure is their parents', or at least not exclusively their parents'.
Although these men are now adults, I imagine their families must be deeply disappointed and aggrieved to see their only sons, who started out in life so bright, shiny and full of promise, take such wrong turns.
I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
--Lady Macbeth
_______________________________________________________________________
* Does the curious fact that the following poem by Philip Larkin was one of my mother's favorites hold some kind of key here?
They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were sloppy stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have have any kids yourself.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Pharyngula Speaks on My Behalf
That notorious "white knight" and godless liberal PZ Myers has kindly agreed to champion this lady's reputation. For which she will always be grateful.
-- Cynthia Gockley AKA "La Strega"
-- Cynthia Gockley AKA "La Strega"
Monday, February 17, 2014
Why Misogyny is Unmanly
Antidote to the horrific crap I've been writing about for over a year: Why Misogyny is Unmanly.
Note to Self: Find more.
Note to Self: Find more.
A Public Service Announcement
Over here at Casa La Strega, we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a brief Public Service Announcement: Hey, kids, there is a reason that people of my generation used to scrawl "Speed Kills" on every wall and alleyway.
Now, personally, I've never used speed. Other than nicotine and caffeine, I've never gone in for stimulants. Maybe that's because I saw the devastating effect that amphetamines had on my mom. Like many housewives in the sixties, she was routinely prescribed "diet pills" by the family doctor. If you watch Mad Men, this unfortunate period in American medical history is accurately depicted in the Betty Draper storyline.
My mother under the influence of speed was terrifying to me as a child: I truly thought she was possessed. Somewhere I still have a drawing I made of her when I was seven or so, with lightening bolts shooting out of her eyes.
Routine use of amphetamines can render otherwise normal people paranoid, delusional, and grandiose. For someone who already demonstrates these characteristics in a non-medicated state, it is a lousy choice as a recreational drug.
What is an even more baffling choice is soliciting for this, or any other illegal drug, on Twitter. Just saying, man. Just say no!
Now, personally, I've never used speed. Other than nicotine and caffeine, I've never gone in for stimulants. Maybe that's because I saw the devastating effect that amphetamines had on my mom. Like many housewives in the sixties, she was routinely prescribed "diet pills" by the family doctor. If you watch Mad Men, this unfortunate period in American medical history is accurately depicted in the Betty Draper storyline.
My mother under the influence of speed was terrifying to me as a child: I truly thought she was possessed. Somewhere I still have a drawing I made of her when I was seven or so, with lightening bolts shooting out of her eyes.
Routine use of amphetamines can render otherwise normal people paranoid, delusional, and grandiose. For someone who already demonstrates these characteristics in a non-medicated state, it is a lousy choice as a recreational drug.
What is an even more baffling choice is soliciting for this, or any other illegal drug, on Twitter. Just saying, man. Just say no!
Saturday, February 15, 2014
And Yet We Outlive Men!
Over at the Inner Sanctum of Il Douche, "Scorpion" weighs in on a female writer I haven't heard about for decades. (Scorpion is an enthusiastic participant there, having posted over 1300 comments in three years.) Scorpion is in a state of high dudgeon over author Elizabeth Wurtzel. If you don't recognize the name, don't feel bad. Her
"She really is completely obsessed with herself," he fumes. And you know what, Scorpion? I couldn't agree more: Wurtzel is one female writer to whom the manosphere's favorite descriptors of women -- that they are "narcissistic" and "solipsistic" -- fairly apply.
I remember having a go at Prozac Nation when it was first published, while visiting my sister. She had thoughtfully left it on the night table for me as a little bedtime reading, but within the first chapter, I found myself disliking the author so much that I had to plod into the living room to find an old National Geographic to nod off to instead.
Scorpion continues: "Women literally go insane if they don't have the stability of a man in their life, or the purpose provided by motherhood. They just lose themselves in their own minds, overcome by their solipsism. Without a husband and children, the middle-aged and beyond a woman literally has no purpose for existence. She is just sort of there, consuming resources for her own enjoyment."
As I take in those last two lines, I take in the bitter reality of my own wasted life.
Because I have to admit, this has been one day like countless others when I haven't accomplished a damn thing beyond getting my nails done and making an impressive dent in the Valentine's Day chocolate my sweetie presented me with yesterday.
And I'm clean out of Prozac.
"This ultimately leads to extreme self-loathing, which this woman is undoubtedly experiencing... Once the last of her looks fade, she will literally be left with nothing but cats, wine and memories of her youthful whoredom."
It then occurs to me that a glass of blackberry wine would be just the thing to finish off my chocolate orgy. I'll first have to kick my way through a pack of sleeping hounds to reach the kitchen though:
"Another wasted life. Another victim of feminism."
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
I'll Admit I'm Kind of Impressed
Ironically, I am probably the only person who visited this blog this week who had not read Matt Forney's "justification" for doxxing me last Sunday. It took me a few days to summon the steel to do more than glance at it. I'm sure you can understand.
I have only just read it in its entirety tonight, and... and... Oh, how can I put this? I have to admit that he demonstrates an exceptional flair for... this particular kind of thing. (I'm not sure what to call it -- character assassination? I'm not being snarky BTW -- I'm absolutely sincere. If he weren't so emotionally crippled, he could be the Karl Rove of his generation.
I mean, Holy Moly! By the time I had finished reading, I was scared of myself. I'm not sure I come across as a narcissist, though -- more like a someone with severe Borderline Personality Disorder. I had to go back and read what I had written over the past year just to reassure myself that I was actually pretty lucid (at least most of the time).
What strikes me is how much effort Forney put into this. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to compile. And none of those hours were compensated, not even at his modest advertised rates. In a way, it's a shame, because trying to make this thing "go viral" turned out to be a complete bust, and if he attempts to milk it further, he's really going to look desperate.
Not only do I expect that his fan base found the "expose" rather boring, but, on some level, the whole episode must have made some of them downright queasy. My rather white-bread, matronly mug probably reminded them of their own moms'. And something tells me that the last thing a typical Matt Forney reader wants to be reminded of is his mom.
Face it, 99.9% of the "manosphere" participate anonymously. How can they fail to acknowledge how vulnerable their identities are? This is not to be construed by any paranoiacs out there as a veiled threat BTW. If I have ever "doxed" anyone (this is Mr. Forney's justification for behavior that violates even the norms of his own community) it was not intentional and I have apologized and rectified the error.
See, I'll admit I'm kind of a dope about technology (blame age + lack of interest). I can barely operate the media console in my classroom! Obviously my own naivete contributed to my own doxing. Live and learn.
In closing, I must say it's been a strange and singular experience to see an image of myself planted at the foot of a manosphere blog home page, kind of like it would feel to unexpectedly glimpse myself in someone else's movie. The picture, BTW, was taken at a local restaurant a couple of years ago, at a birthday celebration. I recall that I was a little tired, but having a nice time with my friends. I'm grateful that I at least look pleasant. If he'd found my old faculty picture, everyone would think that I was an elderly Korean man on a bender.
I have only just read it in its entirety tonight, and... and... Oh, how can I put this? I have to admit that he demonstrates an exceptional flair for... this particular kind of thing. (I'm not sure what to call it -- character assassination? I'm not being snarky BTW -- I'm absolutely sincere. If he weren't so emotionally crippled, he could be the Karl Rove of his generation.
I mean, Holy Moly! By the time I had finished reading, I was scared of myself. I'm not sure I come across as a narcissist, though -- more like a someone with severe Borderline Personality Disorder. I had to go back and read what I had written over the past year just to reassure myself that I was actually pretty lucid (at least most of the time).
What strikes me is how much effort Forney put into this. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to compile. And none of those hours were compensated, not even at his modest advertised rates. In a way, it's a shame, because trying to make this thing "go viral" turned out to be a complete bust, and if he attempts to milk it further, he's really going to look desperate.
Not only do I expect that his fan base found the "expose" rather boring, but, on some level, the whole episode must have made some of them downright queasy. My rather white-bread, matronly mug probably reminded them of their own moms'. And something tells me that the last thing a typical Matt Forney reader wants to be reminded of is his mom.
Face it, 99.9% of the "manosphere" participate anonymously. How can they fail to acknowledge how vulnerable their identities are? This is not to be construed by any paranoiacs out there as a veiled threat BTW. If I have ever "doxed" anyone (this is Mr. Forney's justification for behavior that violates even the norms of his own community) it was not intentional and I have apologized and rectified the error.
See, I'll admit I'm kind of a dope about technology (blame age + lack of interest). I can barely operate the media console in my classroom! Obviously my own naivete contributed to my own doxing. Live and learn.
In closing, I must say it's been a strange and singular experience to see an image of myself planted at the foot of a manosphere blog home page, kind of like it would feel to unexpectedly glimpse myself in someone else's movie. The picture, BTW, was taken at a local restaurant a couple of years ago, at a birthday celebration. I recall that I was a little tired, but having a nice time with my friends. I'm grateful that I at least look pleasant. If he'd found my old faculty picture, everyone would think that I was an elderly Korean man on a bender.
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