Showing posts with label Roosh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Roosh. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Roosh As A Subject of Art
Feminist artist Angela Washko recently did an interview with Roosh that she expects to exhibit, and is now following up by seeking women who have had "exchanges" with him. Assuming such women actually exist, who would want to admit it? Although I do recall reading a post by a college student who basically threw herself at Tucker Max so that she could write a mocking account of his less-than-adequate sexual performance. Roosh appears to be both flattered and threatened by this attention.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Roosh -- Now a Journalist!
UPDATE: "Jackie" was doxxed today by budding right wing, "C grade" journalist Chuck C. Johnson. Well done, Chuck! That'll show the liberal press a thing or two. Cuz it's all about "ethics in journalism."
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Roosh claims today to have the identity of "Jackie," the young woman who may or may not have been raped at UVA, and whose veracity is at the heart of a recent controversial article in Rolling Stone. His dilemma: Should he dox her?
Hard call, indeed (hard call, that is, for someone who has no moral compass whatsoever). Good thing he has the sagacity (and flattery) of the Juice Bro lawyer to guide him!
Mike Cernovich
@PlayDangerously
·
2 hours ago
This is a heavy decision. I do not envy@rooshv right now.
Mike Cernovich
@PlayDangerously
·
18 minutes ago
Having examined the purported image of "Jackie" now in his possession, Roosh concludes that, in his expert opinion, she is simply not "attractive enough" to be raped, and therefore, her story is patently false:
Jackie is a 5.5 or 6: not attractive enough to get top attention from an elite fraternity. Her rape story is seeming like wish fulfillment.
Well, then, I guess nothing else needs to be said. I mean, who better than Roosh to assess whether a young woman is "worthy" of being sexually assaulted?
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Roosh claims today to have the identity of "Jackie," the young woman who may or may not have been raped at UVA, and whose veracity is at the heart of a recent controversial article in Rolling Stone. His dilemma: Should he dox her?
So I was sent the real identity of "Jackie" (full name and picture). I'll think about this carefully before deciding what to do.
Hard call, indeed (hard call, that is, for someone who has no moral compass whatsoever). Good thing he has the sagacity (and flattery) of the Juice Bro lawyer to guide him!
Mike Cernovich
@PlayDangerously
·
2 hours ago
This is a heavy decision. I do not envy
Mike Cernovich
@PlayDangerously
·
18 minutes ago
That said, I am not a journalist. If I were Roosh, I would probably publish her name. It is newsworthy. Hard call, though.
Right now the SJWs are on the run. Hoaxes and frauds are being exposed. It's better to not let them regain high ground.
I *personally* would not publish "Jackie's" name. It will lead to her claiming death threats and change conversation.
If
you run a news organization, you print the news. Free speech isn't
free. There will be backlash. But "Jackie's" real name is newsworthy.
Roosh has gone from a random guy who writes about meeting women to a cultural critic and now a journalist. I am proud of him.
Roosh @rooshv has a First Amendment right to publish "Jackie" the Rolling Stone hoaxer's name. I believe he should exercise that right.
Having examined the purported image of "Jackie" now in his possession, Roosh concludes that, in his expert opinion, she is simply not "attractive enough" to be raped, and therefore, her story is patently false:
Jackie is a 5.5 or 6: not attractive enough to get top attention from an elite fraternity. Her rape story is seeming like wish fulfillment.
Well, then, I guess nothing else needs to be said. I mean, who better than Roosh to assess whether a young woman is "worthy" of being sexually assaulted?
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Wringing the Last Out of Gamergate
Even Ken White at Popehat had fun with Roosh's new Reaxxian website.
Meanwhile, Mike Cernovich is sore because newsweek did a story this week about Randi Harper and although he is mentioned (unfavorably) the story doesn't link to his websites, but rather to a critical piece by Sam Biddle on the "D List Rightwingers" who hijacked Gamergate and tried to lead them to the Red Pill. This is a big deal to Cernovich because of SEO or something: Newsweek in collusion with Gawker is denying him hits on his blog that are rightfully his.
JuicyFruit is venting his spleen by retweeting photos of his followers' gun collections, whilst complaining (or bragging?) that no SJW had the guts to attend his "meetup" in Chicago, and then making the curious statement that he "has never met an SJW in real life."
Meanwhile, Mike Cernovich is sore because newsweek did a story this week about Randi Harper and although he is mentioned (unfavorably) the story doesn't link to his websites, but rather to a critical piece by Sam Biddle on the "D List Rightwingers" who hijacked Gamergate and tried to lead them to the Red Pill. This is a big deal to Cernovich because of SEO or something: Newsweek in collusion with Gawker is denying him hits on his blog that are rightfully his.
JuicyFruit is venting his spleen by retweeting photos of his followers' gun collections, whilst complaining (or bragging?) that no SJW had the guts to attend his "meetup" in Chicago, and then making the curious statement that he "has never met an SJW in real life."
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
A Safe Place For Gamers
I for one fully support the new addition to Roosh's media empire, a gaming site for heterosexual men. He saw a need and he stepped in to fill it like the true entrepreneur he is. Glad too to see he has a strong ethics policy which explicitly prohibits doxxing and online harassment. Most of the SJWs and feminists are equally thrilled. As one wag tweeted, "Can we now replace the gate with a wall, put razor wire on top, and keep them all in there?"
Sunday, August 17, 2014
If They Were Women...
Some of the New Misogynists are a bit ticked off by the recent media attention given to the FeMRAs. Roosh posted a video warning the Men's Rights Movement that they were making a
serious tactical error by allowing girls into their tree house. Some of these guys believe that FeMRAs are the Trojan horses of a vast feminist conspiracy to infiltrate every last space once the sole and rightful dominion of men. [Sigh! If only!]
Mostly their feathers are ruffled because journalists find the spectacle of female anti-feminists morefreakish intriguing than a bunch of Angry White Guys bitching and moaning about how they've now got to share their pie with everyone else, and it's so [sob!] unfair!
Vox Day observed the other day, "If we were women, there would already be a Time Magazine cover with Roosh, Roissy, and me dressed in all black, arms folded, cast in dramatic lighting."
Actually, if that trio were women invited to pose for such a cover, they'd be photographed in soft pastels, nonthreatening postures, their makeup and hair impeccably done, bathed in the warm, flattering light of feminine subjugation. Now wouldn't that be a pretty picture? Although even then, they'd have to face an onslaught of angry readers who complained they were too fat, ugly, old, or hirsute to merit media attention.
But that remark got me imagining: If I really were "La Strega" and had magical powers that could, say, transform a prince into a frog, what more delightfully malicious way to exercise them than to turn all the New Misogynists into women? I don't mean permanently -- I'm not that cruel! -- but only until they could persuade a beautiful transgender warrior princess to kiss them and reverse the spell...
Mostly their feathers are ruffled because journalists find the spectacle of female anti-feminists more
Vox Day observed the other day, "If we were women, there would already be a Time Magazine cover with Roosh, Roissy, and me dressed in all black, arms folded, cast in dramatic lighting."
Actually, if that trio were women invited to pose for such a cover, they'd be photographed in soft pastels, nonthreatening postures, their makeup and hair impeccably done, bathed in the warm, flattering light of feminine subjugation. Now wouldn't that be a pretty picture? Although even then, they'd have to face an onslaught of angry readers who complained they were too fat, ugly, old, or hirsute to merit media attention.
But that remark got me imagining: If I really were "La Strega" and had magical powers that could, say, transform a prince into a frog, what more delightfully malicious way to exercise them than to turn all the New Misogynists into women? I don't mean permanently -- I'm not that cruel! -- but only until they could persuade a beautiful transgender warrior princess to kiss them and reverse the spell...
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
These Guys...
UPDATE: A couple of commenters have reminded me that the reason my story is significant to anyone except me is because it represents a broader pattern of harassment and intimidation by various manospherians of women bloggers or critics. The significance of my story is that it represents part of a deliberate malicious campaign to silence women by using the technology of self-publishing -- which, ironically, gives everyone an equal "voice" -- as a weapon against them.
_______________________________________________________________________
Attila Vinczer's recent attempt to intimidate David Futrelle via Twitter by threatening to post scandalous revelations about him is pretty funny. After all, Futrelle has nothing to fear from AVFM's attempts to "smear" him, being, as he is, an established (male) journalist who is recognized as such by the mainstream media.
But for someone who has been the victim of "these guys," and who is an obscure female (non-professional journalist) internet "voice," it's not something to be lightly mocked, is it?
Several months ago, I was the target of another "manospherian," Matt Forney, who revealed my IRL identity, including my Facebook pictures, my home address and phone number, and my employer, and attempted to paint me (carefully couched in the language of "opinion") as "a dangerous feminist stalker." I had annoyed Mr. Forney by mocking and critiquing his blog; in response, he attempted to frighten me into removing my blog and to discredit my words by scurrilously questioning my sanity.
The most intimidating aspect of being doxed, as Mr. Forney did me, is that I was initially very afraid of physical harm. The point in identifying me as "the enemy" and publishing my photos and home address was to send me a clear warning that I was being targeted for potential violence. The fact that Forney issued a "retraction" the following day via Twitter (that he did NOT wish me physical harm) was an acknowledgement of this: an intent to absolve himself from liability, in case a follower interpreted the dissemination of such personal information, along with my identification as "the enemy," as a kind of "call to action."
And initially Forney's plan worked: For several weeks, I patiently awaited the sniper through my living room window, the bullet in my back as I walked to my class, or, at the least, the message from my employers that they were being inundated with calls for my immediate expulsion. I'll admit here, once and forever: I was fucking terrified.
And make no mistake: That was precisely Matt Forney's intent.
What Forney failed to consider (because these guys really aren't that smart) is that his actions forced me into a defensive corner. In other words, had Matt Forney warned me, "Take down your blog or else...!" To be honest? I would have taken it down in a New York minute. However, I was not given that option (which would, of course, have constituted actionable extortion). After the fact, the damage (to my "google-able identity") was already irrevocably done. And once I had consulted with a handful of local attorneys, and realized that I had little legal remedy under current U.S. law (and being disinclined to throw money at a slender chance of proving that at least part of his post was pure "libel"), I had no practical recourse other than to mitigate the damage done to my online reputation.
I did so in the time-honored (or perhaps hard-wired) "female" tradition: I sought the protection of the group. I couldn't "fight" nor could I "flee"; I could only immediately appeal to people whom I sensed would be willing and able to come to my aid. In other words, I appealed to bloggers whose internet voices were "louder" than my own. Since my own blog was pseudonymous, I had virtually no internet presence whatsoever. How hard could it be to find a more prominent blogger to publish a "favorable" post that would outweigh Matt Forney's hit job? Well...
I sent messages to a number of people whose blogs I followed or websites I routinely commented on and admired. Very few responded, and of the few that were kind enough to at least express sympathy via e-mail, no one was willing to devote even a line to remedying my personal (and admittedly very trivial, in the broad scope of things) "problem."
My dilemma was this: I was (and still am, and will forever be) a Big Fat Nobody. I was not someone who was worthy of A Story under anyone else's byline. My tiny audience of twenty-odd regular readers could hardly help me either although a few bravely tried (and I -- and Google -- acknowledges your efforts).
I am not complaining, or indulging in self-pity here, by the way: I am simply acknowledging the unvarnished reality of what it means to be have an online voice as a woman.
Nor was I willing or able to make my pathetic little tale into a story that would excite the interest of commercial websites like Jezebel or XOJane. However, I thought that my very obscurity might, in itself, make this A Story. The fact is, groups like A Voice for Men or notorious misogynists like Roosh, very deliberately target female bloggers that are "nobodies," because we are vulnerable in ways that professional journalists or celebrities are not. The idea that ordinary female bloggers are being forced off the internet appeared to me -- and still does -- a very important story indeed. Unfortunately, Mother Jones could not care less.
P.Z. Myers did agree to post something that puts the whole contretemps into some kind of palatable perspective. Approaching him was the smartest, or luckiest, move I made during this curious, furious month of "damage control": His little post on Pharyngula "saved" my Google-able identify by putting the Forney smear job into a context that most employers will understand. It also spoke volumes about Myers' personal character.*
I also quickly slapped my legal name on my hitherto-pseudonymous blog, confident that there is nothing here that was likely to compromise my modest professional opportunities. Let's face it, my blog is (in Lindy West's words), "pretty innocuous" stuff. I called out a handful of the manosphere for being liars, and misogynists, and being pretty much dreadful, all-around evil people, and I stand by pretty much everything I have written here. I shared aspects of my personal life that were true and that are not particularly damning or even surprising to anyone who knows me. Let history be the judge.
The only question future employers might have for me is this: Why did I devote so much of my free time in the past eighteen months to an online "movement" that is so marginal and patently unworthy of my attention? That is the topic of another post, but suffice to say right now that I didn't necessarily find it as "marginal" as most people would like to believe: Rather, I found the "manosphere" to be a kind of window into a hidden subculture of seething misogyny and masculine entitlement. It has not been a perverse waste of time; it has, rather, been a journey to the edge of the abyss of human dysfunction, one which has fundamentally transformed my perspective on the state of gender relations in the West today. It would not be an over-statement that these guys have made me the self-identified "feminist" I am today. The New Misogynists have taught me a lot more than they could ever guess, and there is nothing I have read in their blogs that I haven't, on some level, "recognized" from my personal experience. Are the manosphere blogs "triggering?" Hell, yes!
Meanwhile, I hearken to the words of Arthur Goldswag, the SPLC writer whom I had initially approached who was unable to "help" me in the fashion I had hoped he would:**
If you really care about gender equity and empowerment, then the Andrea Dworkins and Paul Elams of the world are mostly a distraction. It's easy to demonize MRAs, but they don't do anywhere near the damage to women that, say, the Hobby Lobby is trying to do, or the GOP. They're easy to hate, but engaging with them is about as useful as it is for LGBT activists to fight with the Westboro Baptist Church.
I cannot help but feel that Mr. Goldwag is speaking directly to me here, as when, in his rather condescending personal e-mail to me, he admonished me to "try not to let these guys get under your skin."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Prof. Myers is one of those people who is willing to make a difference in one stranded starfish's life, even while the beach is littered with them. A small act of generosity, perhaps, but he can never know how much it meant to me.
**I expected that the SPLC would report specifically on the ways that online female writers were being targeted, harassed, and intimidated by misogynists. I was very disappointed that responses to my reports to this organization consisted solely of relentless solicitations for donations and an unwanted copy of Morris Dee's biography.
_______________________________________________________________________
Attila Vinczer's recent attempt to intimidate David Futrelle via Twitter by threatening to post scandalous revelations about him is pretty funny. After all, Futrelle has nothing to fear from AVFM's attempts to "smear" him, being, as he is, an established (male) journalist who is recognized as such by the mainstream media.
But for someone who has been the victim of "these guys," and who is an obscure female (non-professional journalist) internet "voice," it's not something to be lightly mocked, is it?
Several months ago, I was the target of another "manospherian," Matt Forney, who revealed my IRL identity, including my Facebook pictures, my home address and phone number, and my employer, and attempted to paint me (carefully couched in the language of "opinion") as "a dangerous feminist stalker." I had annoyed Mr. Forney by mocking and critiquing his blog; in response, he attempted to frighten me into removing my blog and to discredit my words by scurrilously questioning my sanity.
The most intimidating aspect of being doxed, as Mr. Forney did me, is that I was initially very afraid of physical harm. The point in identifying me as "the enemy" and publishing my photos and home address was to send me a clear warning that I was being targeted for potential violence. The fact that Forney issued a "retraction" the following day via Twitter (that he did NOT wish me physical harm) was an acknowledgement of this: an intent to absolve himself from liability, in case a follower interpreted the dissemination of such personal information, along with my identification as "the enemy," as a kind of "call to action."
And initially Forney's plan worked: For several weeks, I patiently awaited the sniper through my living room window, the bullet in my back as I walked to my class, or, at the least, the message from my employers that they were being inundated with calls for my immediate expulsion. I'll admit here, once and forever: I was fucking terrified.
And make no mistake: That was precisely Matt Forney's intent.
What Forney failed to consider (because these guys really aren't that smart) is that his actions forced me into a defensive corner. In other words, had Matt Forney warned me, "Take down your blog or else...!" To be honest? I would have taken it down in a New York minute. However, I was not given that option (which would, of course, have constituted actionable extortion). After the fact, the damage (to my "google-able identity") was already irrevocably done. And once I had consulted with a handful of local attorneys, and realized that I had little legal remedy under current U.S. law (and being disinclined to throw money at a slender chance of proving that at least part of his post was pure "libel"), I had no practical recourse other than to mitigate the damage done to my online reputation.
I did so in the time-honored (or perhaps hard-wired) "female" tradition: I sought the protection of the group. I couldn't "fight" nor could I "flee"; I could only immediately appeal to people whom I sensed would be willing and able to come to my aid. In other words, I appealed to bloggers whose internet voices were "louder" than my own. Since my own blog was pseudonymous, I had virtually no internet presence whatsoever. How hard could it be to find a more prominent blogger to publish a "favorable" post that would outweigh Matt Forney's hit job? Well...
I sent messages to a number of people whose blogs I followed or websites I routinely commented on and admired. Very few responded, and of the few that were kind enough to at least express sympathy via e-mail, no one was willing to devote even a line to remedying my personal (and admittedly very trivial, in the broad scope of things) "problem."
My dilemma was this: I was (and still am, and will forever be) a Big Fat Nobody. I was not someone who was worthy of A Story under anyone else's byline. My tiny audience of twenty-odd regular readers could hardly help me either although a few bravely tried (and I -- and Google -- acknowledges your efforts).
I am not complaining, or indulging in self-pity here, by the way: I am simply acknowledging the unvarnished reality of what it means to be have an online voice as a woman.
Nor was I willing or able to make my pathetic little tale into a story that would excite the interest of commercial websites like Jezebel or XOJane. However, I thought that my very obscurity might, in itself, make this A Story. The fact is, groups like A Voice for Men or notorious misogynists like Roosh, very deliberately target female bloggers that are "nobodies," because we are vulnerable in ways that professional journalists or celebrities are not. The idea that ordinary female bloggers are being forced off the internet appeared to me -- and still does -- a very important story indeed. Unfortunately, Mother Jones could not care less.
P.Z. Myers did agree to post something that puts the whole contretemps into some kind of palatable perspective. Approaching him was the smartest, or luckiest, move I made during this curious, furious month of "damage control": His little post on Pharyngula "saved" my Google-able identify by putting the Forney smear job into a context that most employers will understand. It also spoke volumes about Myers' personal character.*
I also quickly slapped my legal name on my hitherto-pseudonymous blog, confident that there is nothing here that was likely to compromise my modest professional opportunities. Let's face it, my blog is (in Lindy West's words), "pretty innocuous" stuff. I called out a handful of the manosphere for being liars, and misogynists, and being pretty much dreadful, all-around evil people, and I stand by pretty much everything I have written here. I shared aspects of my personal life that were true and that are not particularly damning or even surprising to anyone who knows me. Let history be the judge.
The only question future employers might have for me is this: Why did I devote so much of my free time in the past eighteen months to an online "movement" that is so marginal and patently unworthy of my attention? That is the topic of another post, but suffice to say right now that I didn't necessarily find it as "marginal" as most people would like to believe: Rather, I found the "manosphere" to be a kind of window into a hidden subculture of seething misogyny and masculine entitlement. It has not been a perverse waste of time; it has, rather, been a journey to the edge of the abyss of human dysfunction, one which has fundamentally transformed my perspective on the state of gender relations in the West today. It would not be an over-statement that these guys have made me the self-identified "feminist" I am today. The New Misogynists have taught me a lot more than they could ever guess, and there is nothing I have read in their blogs that I haven't, on some level, "recognized" from my personal experience. Are the manosphere blogs "triggering?" Hell, yes!
Meanwhile, I hearken to the words of Arthur Goldswag, the SPLC writer whom I had initially approached who was unable to "help" me in the fashion I had hoped he would:**
If you really care about gender equity and empowerment, then the Andrea Dworkins and Paul Elams of the world are mostly a distraction. It's easy to demonize MRAs, but they don't do anywhere near the damage to women that, say, the Hobby Lobby is trying to do, or the GOP. They're easy to hate, but engaging with them is about as useful as it is for LGBT activists to fight with the Westboro Baptist Church.
I cannot help but feel that Mr. Goldwag is speaking directly to me here, as when, in his rather condescending personal e-mail to me, he admonished me to "try not to let these guys get under your skin."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Prof. Myers is one of those people who is willing to make a difference in one stranded starfish's life, even while the beach is littered with them. A small act of generosity, perhaps, but he can never know how much it meant to me.
**I expected that the SPLC would report specifically on the ways that online female writers were being targeted, harassed, and intimidated by misogynists. I was very disappointed that responses to my reports to this organization consisted solely of relentless solicitations for donations and an unwanted copy of Morris Dee's biography.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
What's Your Name? Who's Your Daddy?
One of the most cherished delusions of the manosphere is that women "hit the wall" (somewhere at the tail end of their twenties), while men go on and on and on, just getting more deliciously seasoned with age. Apparently, this may not be true. According to The Daily Mail, the age at which most men become "invisible" to younger women is 39. Yep, that's the age at which girls begin to perceive men as "father figures." And who wants to be ogled by Daddy? I mean, like, ee-yewww...
Roosh himself acknowledged recently that the party doesn't go on forever, even for experts of game:
No matter how good your game gets, a 23-year-old girl will have less primal attraction for your 53-year-old self than when you were 33. This suggests that there is definitely a peak for men, and while there is some argument about the exact age, consensus among men I’ve talked to suggests it’s around 43.
43? When I was 23, I thought 30 was plenty older, and 43 downright "old." But perhaps Roosh has a few good years of chasing nubile young poosy before he has to either "settle" or "sponsor a gold-digger" (which, unless he plans to come into an inheritance, he'll be hard-pressed to do on the slender living he ekes out from hawking his wretched little rape manuals). Hope he's making the best of his time in Russia, cuz any way you slice it, Roosh, it's all downhill from here...
Roosh himself acknowledged recently that the party doesn't go on forever, even for experts of game:
No matter how good your game gets, a 23-year-old girl will have less primal attraction for your 53-year-old self than when you were 33. This suggests that there is definitely a peak for men, and while there is some argument about the exact age, consensus among men I’ve talked to suggests it’s around 43.
43? When I was 23, I thought 30 was plenty older, and 43 downright "old." But perhaps Roosh has a few good years of chasing nubile young poosy before he has to either "settle" or "sponsor a gold-digger" (which, unless he plans to come into an inheritance, he'll be hard-pressed to do on the slender living he ekes out from hawking his wretched little rape manuals). Hope he's making the best of his time in Russia, cuz any way you slice it, Roosh, it's all downhill from here...
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Hitting the Wall Softly
It goes without saying that I am so far beyond "The Wall," I am practically knocking on Heaven's Gate. But if The Wall is defined as the moment a woman realizes that she no longer commands the Male Gaze, I reckon I didn't hit it until I was in my early forties. I was about 45 when, for the first time in my adult life, I found I could walk into a bar unaccompanied and nurse a drink for a full hour in uninterrupted solitude. Suddenly -- it seemed overnight -- I was as invisible as a ghost, passing unseen in streets, browsing undetected in stores, attracting neither positive nor negative attention everywhere I went.
As we all know, it is a basic tenet of the manosphere that American women spend their twenties "riding the cock carousel" until they see thirty candles on their cake, and realize the day has come when they must resign themselves to dusty spinsterhood, fill the yawning void of their barren lives with either cats or sperm-jacked infants -- or else settle for some "beta" chump and start pumping out the requisite 2.5 kids to fill a tract house in the suburbs. You know, I really have no right to deride Roosh for extending his own adolescence into his mid-thirties; I did exactly the same thing. I was at least 35 when it dawned on me that maybe I should start looking around for an agreeable man to knock me up. Oops!
Fortunately, Roosh has had a revelation: "The Wall Is Softer Than We Think." Which is good news for older women, bad news for guys like Roosh: "The wall for women is more like a speed bump that any woman with half a brain can easily pass at high speed."
You see, savvy spinsters 35-85 have technology to efficiently sift through the remainder bins of available mates, "while forcing the bottom 90% of men to lower themselves through clown game or copy pasta begging on OK Cupid." It's true that a male friend of mine who dipped his toe in Our Time reported a rush of attention -- primarily from the septuagenarian ladies.
"We all want to believe that women will be punished for their bad decisions in life, because there’s no doubt that as men we are punished for ours." Hmm... I'm not sure which "bad decisions" Roosh feels he is being punished for, but I imagine abandoning a career as a biologist in order to pursue "poosy" full-time -- and then blogging about it under his real name -- must be among them. Double oops!
"We want to think that women will be reprimanded for passing on good men in their prime to have sex with bad boys who don’t care about them. But very few will. They will have their cake and eat it too, simply because they have a vagina in a time and place where vagina has the highest value it has ever had." Hey, does this mean we're heading for a "vagina bubble" in the near future? How will a "vagina crash" impact the global economy? (As for having my cake and eating it too, that reminds me: I still have some left over from my birthday in the freezer. Yay me!)
"In my recent stay in America I was shocked to see the nearly unlimited choice that women over 30 still have to at least get sex, and if you tell them about the wall they would not understand what you speak of. The wall, we must now admit to ourselves, has just as much power in our minds as in reality." Actually, Roosh has been stewing about Elder Sluts for years.
"There will be no redemption. There will be no comeuppance. For most of their lives, women will have it easier than us..."
I don't know about that. The opportunity to get laid any night of the week does not necessarily "the good life" make. And furthermore, I see little evidence that one gender has it much harder than the other, and how would one quantify respective degrees of hardship, and what does it matter anyway? I used to think that wearing heels and hose everyday was a far greater burden than having to shave every morning or change my own tires. Now I'm compulsively plucking my chin hairs and wearing flat, velcro-strapped mary janes with everything I own like some superannuated toddler, so...
Let's just agree that being a human is hard, and that sooner or later, everyone eats his (or her) peck of shit. We all have needs, sometimes competing needs: the need for freedom, the need for security; the need for recognition, the need for privacy; the need to find love, the pain of losing that love. We all get old -- that is, if we're lucky -- and we all will experience the physical deterioration that is part of the normal aging process. It's tempting to envy the heirs to great fortunes and Hollywood stars for their "easy" lives, but even Casey Kasem, grossly neglected by his once beautiful blonde trophy wife, died, in the end, of a bedsore.
"The truth is that any woman who rejects me today will never regret it."
Now that I believe! I'll even take it so far as to declare that any woman who "bangs" Roosh will always regret it.
But getting back to "the wall" metaphor, it occurs to me that what we often think of as "walls" really are more like "doors." About a decade ago, I went out the door of youthful, fertile femininity and emerged in another country calledMiddle Age Cronedom. Once I had overcome the "culture shock," I began to perceive certain advantages of escaping the male gaze, a freedom and dignity that I had only hitherto experienced as a small child or when wearing an abaya and veil in the middle east. This new "invisibility" can be exhilarating, not unlike discovering a latent "super power." Security and
customs officials wave me through lines without
meeting my eyes; I wouldn't be altogether surprised to discover that security cameras can no longer capture my image. Certainly, this is the time in my life to consider a
second career as a world-class thief, con artist, or terrorist. Strange men, who no longer find me sexually viable,
either ignore me completely or initiate oddly frank and self-disclosing conversations: I have, it appears, become everyone's favorite maiden aunt. Students have become more respectful as I have become more direct and authoritative. I can get away
with all sorts of bossy behaviors and displays of temperament without
causing offense. Although I care less about being found "pleasing," I am certainly kinder in my intentions. In short, an aging female finally enjoys the opportunity to be her most authentic self.
I'm happily coupled and hope to remain so for the rest of my life, but if I were to find myself a lonely singleton, I would have pretty much the same options I had twenty years ago. I could look for a new love amongst my current social circle, or once more brave the trenches of online dating. The same choices are there, although given that I am not the same person with the same needs I had at 35 or 40, I might choose another path altogether: I could simply embrace the joys of single life. After all, what more does anyone need to be happy than a little dog, a stack of books, music to listen to, a small garden to tend, and meals occasionally enlivened by wine and conversation?
As we all know, it is a basic tenet of the manosphere that American women spend their twenties "riding the cock carousel" until they see thirty candles on their cake, and realize the day has come when they must resign themselves to dusty spinsterhood, fill the yawning void of their barren lives with either cats or sperm-jacked infants -- or else settle for some "beta" chump and start pumping out the requisite 2.5 kids to fill a tract house in the suburbs. You know, I really have no right to deride Roosh for extending his own adolescence into his mid-thirties; I did exactly the same thing. I was at least 35 when it dawned on me that maybe I should start looking around for an agreeable man to knock me up. Oops!
Fortunately, Roosh has had a revelation: "The Wall Is Softer Than We Think." Which is good news for older women, bad news for guys like Roosh: "The wall for women is more like a speed bump that any woman with half a brain can easily pass at high speed."
You see, savvy spinsters 35-85 have technology to efficiently sift through the remainder bins of available mates, "while forcing the bottom 90% of men to lower themselves through clown game or copy pasta begging on OK Cupid." It's true that a male friend of mine who dipped his toe in Our Time reported a rush of attention -- primarily from the septuagenarian ladies.
"We all want to believe that women will be punished for their bad decisions in life, because there’s no doubt that as men we are punished for ours." Hmm... I'm not sure which "bad decisions" Roosh feels he is being punished for, but I imagine abandoning a career as a biologist in order to pursue "poosy" full-time -- and then blogging about it under his real name -- must be among them. Double oops!
"We want to think that women will be reprimanded for passing on good men in their prime to have sex with bad boys who don’t care about them. But very few will. They will have their cake and eat it too, simply because they have a vagina in a time and place where vagina has the highest value it has ever had." Hey, does this mean we're heading for a "vagina bubble" in the near future? How will a "vagina crash" impact the global economy? (As for having my cake and eating it too, that reminds me: I still have some left over from my birthday in the freezer. Yay me!)
"In my recent stay in America I was shocked to see the nearly unlimited choice that women over 30 still have to at least get sex, and if you tell them about the wall they would not understand what you speak of. The wall, we must now admit to ourselves, has just as much power in our minds as in reality." Actually, Roosh has been stewing about Elder Sluts for years.
"There will be no redemption. There will be no comeuppance. For most of their lives, women will have it easier than us..."
I don't know about that. The opportunity to get laid any night of the week does not necessarily "the good life" make. And furthermore, I see little evidence that one gender has it much harder than the other, and how would one quantify respective degrees of hardship, and what does it matter anyway? I used to think that wearing heels and hose everyday was a far greater burden than having to shave every morning or change my own tires. Now I'm compulsively plucking my chin hairs and wearing flat, velcro-strapped mary janes with everything I own like some superannuated toddler, so...
Let's just agree that being a human is hard, and that sooner or later, everyone eats his (or her) peck of shit. We all have needs, sometimes competing needs: the need for freedom, the need for security; the need for recognition, the need for privacy; the need to find love, the pain of losing that love. We all get old -- that is, if we're lucky -- and we all will experience the physical deterioration that is part of the normal aging process. It's tempting to envy the heirs to great fortunes and Hollywood stars for their "easy" lives, but even Casey Kasem, grossly neglected by his once beautiful blonde trophy wife, died, in the end, of a bedsore.
"The truth is that any woman who rejects me today will never regret it."
Now that I believe! I'll even take it so far as to declare that any woman who "bangs" Roosh will always regret it.
But getting back to "the wall" metaphor, it occurs to me that what we often think of as "walls" really are more like "doors." About a decade ago, I went out the door of youthful, fertile femininity and emerged in another country called
I'm happily coupled and hope to remain so for the rest of my life, but if I were to find myself a lonely singleton, I would have pretty much the same options I had twenty years ago. I could look for a new love amongst my current social circle, or once more brave the trenches of online dating. The same choices are there, although given that I am not the same person with the same needs I had at 35 or 40, I might choose another path altogether: I could simply embrace the joys of single life. After all, what more does anyone need to be happy than a little dog, a stack of books, music to listen to, a small garden to tend, and meals occasionally enlivened by wine and conversation?
Friday, June 13, 2014
Roosh Calls For "Retrenchment"
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
("For What It's Worth" -- Buffalo Springfield)
Acknowledging that Return of Kings (and similar Red Pill sites) have suffered "quite a beating in the wake of the Elliot Roger's [shooting]," Roosh is calling on his troops to lay low, "burrow within society," and "attack only when we have a clear advantage." In other words, quit publishing click-bait that only gives young women something to furiously re-tweet, and which gives the "megaphone of the cultural elite" more ways to paint the fine young men who make up his readership as "cannibals." "We must only attack when victory is assured -- when we can isolate a liberal blogger or reporter and hurt their credibility in the eyes of Google."
Ah yes, that fail-safe strategy favored by the manosphereans: publish smear posts that will mess up the online names of obscure bloggers (teachers, students, beginning journalists). I suppose it's futile for me to point out to Roosh and his followers how very ineffective that strategy has proven to be? Or to suggest that most people recognize how ephemeral -- and notoriously untrustworthy -- Google-able information is? There is a reason that college students are discouraged from relying on Google for their research papers!
And while being the victim of such a campaign is unpleasant, it certainly doesn't shut critics up. If anything, it suggests the "target" was "on to" something, and the perpetrator(s) look like unscrupulous crackpots. The professional journalists he has targeted appear to be carrying on doing their professional journalist thing, utterly indifferent and unfazed -- this sort of attention goes with their territory, doesn't it? Getting epic hate mail from the New Misogynists is, if anything, a pretty fair litmus test that a writer is on the side of the angels (or at least on the side of common sense and decency).
As for a big nobody like me, the fallout of having my name smeared online has been... well, zero. Apparently nobody Googles me! Even my friends and colleagues, when I informed them of this terrible blight to my reputation, couldn't be bothered. Certainly no one has come to my little blog by searching my legal name yet; the only unfriendly visitors appear to have been linked directly via Matt Forney himself. Since the "attack" on my "credibility," I have managed to get a promotion at work and pre-qualified for a mortgage and no one has looked at me askance. The real world -- or at least the world I live in -- doesn't give a shit what Google says any more than it cares who Roosh is or the cranky online cult he seems intent on creating.
Rather than face the overwhelming evidence that the world at large is pretty much repulsed by, or indifferent to, his philosophy, Roosh continues to frame its rejection in terms of an epic underground ideological war in which he (and his followers) must bide their time, harness their resources, and patiently await the day when they will ultimately rise up to vanquish their enemies (the girls?), be crowned with laurels and awarded scores of houris (the perpetual virgins of an Islamic paradise).
Meanwhile, Roosh concedes that not only is Red Pill victory impossible in the short term, but survival itself is not a given, and is therefore recommending that like-minded neo-reactionaries ally themselves with "traditional conservatives" while vigilantly (but discreetly) seeking opportunities to recruit "masculine men" to their fantasy Fight Club.
Maybe that's what he's doing in Siberia?
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Roosh Helps Me Keep Up
Typically, I rely on the manosphere's tweets to keep me abreast of what feminists are saying. Seriously, they do a phenomenal job of keeping track of the feminists, not only the big up-and-coming voices, but also the most obscure. Back before they doxed me, I don't think I'd ever had more than twenty readers at a time -- but one of them was Mattie, who apparently read everything.
Suffice to say, they take theirenemies opponents verrry seriously, which is a measure of both their thirst for recognition and their paradoxical fear of being exposed. They're always "collecting names" and compiling dossiers in the form of accusatory tweets. But the upside of their paranoia is that they are always a good place to start whenever you want to know who's-new-in-the-zoo of young female media presences.
I'd never even heard of Elizabeth Plank, for example, until Roosh twittered, "I would not have shed a single tear had misandrist & anti-white racist@feministabulous been one of Rodger's victims."
It's hard for me to imagine even lachrymose Roosh shedding a genuine tear for anyone except Roosh (in which case, I expect he can shed a bucket). But my imagination was piqued -- who was this radical feminist that had Roosh's blood up? -- so I moseyed over and took a look.
Nothing very inflammatory about her post, unless you think it is "misandry" or "racism" to point out -- and support statistically -- that mass murderers are overwhelmingly white males with huge reservoirs of entitlement. (In other words, the very same demographic group that composes the "manosphere.") And that we, as a society, need to start addressing misogyny as a systemic disorder.
Suffice to say, they take their
I'd never even heard of Elizabeth Plank, for example, until Roosh twittered, "I would not have shed a single tear had misandrist & anti-white racist
It's hard for me to imagine even lachrymose Roosh shedding a genuine tear for anyone except Roosh (in which case, I expect he can shed a bucket). But my imagination was piqued -- who was this radical feminist that had Roosh's blood up? -- so I moseyed over and took a look.
Nothing very inflammatory about her post, unless you think it is "misandry" or "racism" to point out -- and support statistically -- that mass murderers are overwhelmingly white males with huge reservoirs of entitlement. (In other words, the very same demographic group that composes the "manosphere.") And that we, as a society, need to start addressing misogyny as a systemic disorder.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Save the Date!
If you're an Incel / would-be player who is planning to be in Washington, DC on April 30, Roosh will be hosting an opportunity for "intimate conversations" with the Game Master himself (at a location TBA on his Facebook page and twitter feed).
There's even a secret handshake and greeting so that the boys will be able to identify one another, just like the underworld conspirators they aspire to be. No mention of secret decoder rings, but maybe those will be in the goodie bags.
"Non-obese" (fat-free?) women are invited to attend, but only provided they agree in advance to "fornicate" at least one of the lads that evening. Don't plan on winning brownie points with Roosh by buying him drinks, however: "For such an event, I have to maintain my mental faculties at the highest level of sobriety for the philosophical and metaphysical conversations that are likely to take place."
There's even a secret handshake and greeting so that the boys will be able to identify one another, just like the underworld conspirators they aspire to be. No mention of secret decoder rings, but maybe those will be in the goodie bags.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Tears of a Clown
Reading between the lines of Roosh's post today ("Men Are Nothing More Than Clowns to the Modern Woman"), I'm guessing someone just got dumped.
Hey, it happens to all of us, and I would be the last to dismiss the havoc it can play to one's self-esteem. It's one thing to be rejected before we hit the dance floor. We can always rationalize the person didn't really know us, so he/she just couldn't recognize the opportunity he/she was passing up. But to be dumped after a few dates, and perhaps some shared intimacy, hurts like the devil, cuz that stuff is personal. It means the other person has sampled your wares -- probably the best you have on offer -- and found yours not to their taste.
But wait, in the Universe of Roosh, it's never personal. None of his readers ever need to consider their own inadequacies when girls break up with them. It has nothing to do with any deficiency on the guy's part, or even on the girl's: It's the welfare state's problem. If women didn't have jobs, they would not be able to afford to reject men. We knew this was the case in the United States, and even worse in Denmark, but it appears to be true in Ukraine as well.
"This is why provider men (beta males) are so hopelessly failing today to secure the commitment of beautiful women in their prime, and this is why even lesser alpha males fail to enter relationships with women beyond a few bangs. Once the entertainment or novelty you provide her declines—and it inevitably will—she moves on to something or someone else..."
Roosh, the master of bizarre analogies, then compares himself to a skirt -- specifically a "glittery" skirt (i.e., not a wardrobe staple). Then he concludes sadly that men with "tight game" have been reduced to the role of mere entertainers... "clowns." And who would disagree with him? Most people do consider him a clown. Entertaining? Well, clearly I think so.
Roosh winds up his "Dear Diary" post by trying to comfort himself that he doesn't need girls either. (After all, he's got "options!") He can do his own laundry and with his portable panini-press, he has no problem rustling up a home-cooked meal all by his lonesome. And who needs babies anyway? You can almost hear the muffled sobs as he taps all this onto his keyboard.
"Whatever natural connection that once existed between the sexes has now been severed." Seriously? Cuz I was outside not an hour ago, and I saw half a dozen young couples pushing strollers, enjoying a rare afternoon of sunshine, so there doesn't seem any shortage of "natural connections" in my neighborhood, at least. Although I doubt there would be much "natural" in a "connection" with Roosh, and good for this girl for recognizing what a selfish, deluded loser he is, and moving on quickly.
Hey, it happens to all of us, and I would be the last to dismiss the havoc it can play to one's self-esteem. It's one thing to be rejected before we hit the dance floor. We can always rationalize the person didn't really know us, so he/she just couldn't recognize the opportunity he/she was passing up. But to be dumped after a few dates, and perhaps some shared intimacy, hurts like the devil, cuz that stuff is personal. It means the other person has sampled your wares -- probably the best you have on offer -- and found yours not to their taste.
But wait, in the Universe of Roosh, it's never personal. None of his readers ever need to consider their own inadequacies when girls break up with them. It has nothing to do with any deficiency on the guy's part, or even on the girl's: It's the welfare state's problem. If women didn't have jobs, they would not be able to afford to reject men. We knew this was the case in the United States, and even worse in Denmark, but it appears to be true in Ukraine as well.
"This is why provider men (beta males) are so hopelessly failing today to secure the commitment of beautiful women in their prime, and this is why even lesser alpha males fail to enter relationships with women beyond a few bangs. Once the entertainment or novelty you provide her declines—and it inevitably will—she moves on to something or someone else..."
Roosh, the master of bizarre analogies, then compares himself to a skirt -- specifically a "glittery" skirt (i.e., not a wardrobe staple). Then he concludes sadly that men with "tight game" have been reduced to the role of mere entertainers... "clowns." And who would disagree with him? Most people do consider him a clown. Entertaining? Well, clearly I think so.
Roosh winds up his "Dear Diary" post by trying to comfort himself that he doesn't need girls either. (After all, he's got "options!") He can do his own laundry and with his portable panini-press, he has no problem rustling up a home-cooked meal all by his lonesome. And who needs babies anyway? You can almost hear the muffled sobs as he taps all this onto his keyboard.
"Whatever natural connection that once existed between the sexes has now been severed." Seriously? Cuz I was outside not an hour ago, and I saw half a dozen young couples pushing strollers, enjoying a rare afternoon of sunshine, so there doesn't seem any shortage of "natural connections" in my neighborhood, at least. Although I doubt there would be much "natural" in a "connection" with Roosh, and good for this girl for recognizing what a selfish, deluded loser he is, and moving on quickly.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Step Away From the Keyboard
A few days ago, Roosh V wrote an ostensibly serious piece, "The Internet Is Doing You More Harm Than Good" in which he points out that "The internet has solved the cost barrier to idea distribution... [but]... This
ability, upon closer inspection, is actually causing us harm. We would
all better off limiting our internet usage than expanding it further."
He goes on to say, "There used to be a dearth of reading material for humans but now there is too much, and we are wasting time on content that we shouldn’t just to be entertained, just to feel a little emotional rush that we may not be getting through our normal lives. Consider that people now purposefully read content they hate just to stir their emotions. They do this as part of their daily routine."
This is an excellent point, one which even I have addressed. We won't point out the irony that Roosh has made his living by publishing provocative material on his blogs, has crowed with delight when a particularly vile post goes "viral", and retweets every tweet that references himself (positively or negatively). Let's not look at the way his example has inspired hundreds of men to beg for donations on their own little blogs. Perhaps what he is really saying is "Quit talking and listen to me."
I will also refrain from pointing out that long before the days of "yellow journalism," much less the internet, the public managed to waste a lot of time on idle entertainments that included dog fighting, gambling, public executions, and mystery plays.
A couple of days later, Matt Forney announced he was "unfollowing" people on Twitter in preparation for a social media blackout. The "addiction" was too much and was interfering with his "productivity." I think this is a good step for Forney. Like Roosh, he wants more than anything to be taken seriously as a writer and an intellectual, an aim that is incompatible with "click-baiting."
It occurs to me that, besides being hypocritical to the nth degree, Roosh misunderstands the nature of the manosphere. It is not a place to exchange ideas, obtain information, or engage in serious debate. It is a place where disaffected men go to experience a sense of community and belonging. The element they have in common is their hatred & desire for women; bashing "feminism" is just a pretext for bonding with one another.
And to be honest, the same could be said for the "anti-anti-feminist" bloggers like myself. It's a place where we go to be reassured that we are not alone; we have "friends" out there in cyberspace. Of course these are not "friends" in a conventional sense. We might find, as Eseld Bosustow has mused, that we actually have little in common besides a shared disdain for misogyny, bigotry, and ignorance. And yet that is not an insignificant basis for friendship either, as it suggests a number of shared core values, a certain sympathy of perspective.
I have experienced and observed real acts of support -- the sort of reaching out I associate with friendship -- amongst complete strangers on the internet. The fact that, as of today, Karen Stollznow's legal fund has surpassed its goal by over $10,000 is an example. (I'll bet she's feeling the love right now!) The fact that a very busy man like P.Z. Myers agreed to help "rescue" my name is another example: I can never not consider him a good friend although we will always remain "strangers." And because he inspired others to champion me, I now feel much less alone. There are a handful of readers here that, should the opportunity ever present itself, I would be delighted to meet in "real life." Maybe we would find out we didn't really care for one another -- but somehow I doubt that.
Meanwhile, there is no question that when the internet starts interfering with the opportunity to mix and mingle with flesh-and-blood people, it's high time to step away from the keyboard and (in my case) toddle down to the Eagles for a round of bingo.
He goes on to say, "There used to be a dearth of reading material for humans but now there is too much, and we are wasting time on content that we shouldn’t just to be entertained, just to feel a little emotional rush that we may not be getting through our normal lives. Consider that people now purposefully read content they hate just to stir their emotions. They do this as part of their daily routine."
This is an excellent point, one which even I have addressed. We won't point out the irony that Roosh has made his living by publishing provocative material on his blogs, has crowed with delight when a particularly vile post goes "viral", and retweets every tweet that references himself (positively or negatively). Let's not look at the way his example has inspired hundreds of men to beg for donations on their own little blogs. Perhaps what he is really saying is "Quit talking and listen to me."
I will also refrain from pointing out that long before the days of "yellow journalism," much less the internet, the public managed to waste a lot of time on idle entertainments that included dog fighting, gambling, public executions, and mystery plays.
A couple of days later, Matt Forney announced he was "unfollowing" people on Twitter in preparation for a social media blackout. The "addiction" was too much and was interfering with his "productivity." I think this is a good step for Forney. Like Roosh, he wants more than anything to be taken seriously as a writer and an intellectual, an aim that is incompatible with "click-baiting."
It occurs to me that, besides being hypocritical to the nth degree, Roosh misunderstands the nature of the manosphere. It is not a place to exchange ideas, obtain information, or engage in serious debate. It is a place where disaffected men go to experience a sense of community and belonging. The element they have in common is their hatred & desire for women; bashing "feminism" is just a pretext for bonding with one another.
And to be honest, the same could be said for the "anti-anti-feminist" bloggers like myself. It's a place where we go to be reassured that we are not alone; we have "friends" out there in cyberspace. Of course these are not "friends" in a conventional sense. We might find, as Eseld Bosustow has mused, that we actually have little in common besides a shared disdain for misogyny, bigotry, and ignorance. And yet that is not an insignificant basis for friendship either, as it suggests a number of shared core values, a certain sympathy of perspective.
I have experienced and observed real acts of support -- the sort of reaching out I associate with friendship -- amongst complete strangers on the internet. The fact that, as of today, Karen Stollznow's legal fund has surpassed its goal by over $10,000 is an example. (I'll bet she's feeling the love right now!) The fact that a very busy man like P.Z. Myers agreed to help "rescue" my name is another example: I can never not consider him a good friend although we will always remain "strangers." And because he inspired others to champion me, I now feel much less alone. There are a handful of readers here that, should the opportunity ever present itself, I would be delighted to meet in "real life." Maybe we would find out we didn't really care for one another -- but somehow I doubt that.
Meanwhile, there is no question that when the internet starts interfering with the opportunity to mix and mingle with flesh-and-blood people, it's high time to step away from the keyboard and (in my case) toddle down to the Eagles for a round of bingo.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
So I'm meandering through the Mysterious Forest of Twitter (because I will do anything to avoid marking papers) when I stumble across a tweet by a self-styled, Las Vegas-based playboy (whose first name is probably what he is not practicing, and whose last name is pretty much the epitome of posthumous cool). This particular specimen of machismo has a manosphere blog, too, of course, where he promotes his e-books and classes. His latest post teaches men "How To Have A Three Way With Strippers." I didn't read it since I'm not planning a trip to Sin City anytime soon, but I would hazard to guess that it's all a matter of having the right party favors.
I recognized his moniker because he was one of the boys who was outraged by Roosh's little hoax. But now he's done an about-face, urging his followers to "Treat Roosh right. I'd take a bullet for him. Don't fuck with him or fuck with me. And trust me, you don't want to fuck with him."
Now that got my attention, because I reckon I'm somewhere on Roosh's Shit List. And at least by his standards, I've already "fucked with him" a bit.
And "take a bullet for him," isn't that a bit... melodramatic? I mean, under what circumstances might that be necessary? Is Roosh a masculine lifestyle guru, or a war lord?
What are these guys so afraid of, I wonder? That they'll be doxxed and their Google-able identities slimed?
Trust me, fellas, it isn't as bad as you fear.
Oops! Breaking news! Looks like the Las Vegas playboy has just been doxxed himself! And not by some nasty feminist either!
Anyway, poor guy, I'm certainly not going to compound his misery here. After all, we can all agree that doxxing is a terrible thing to do, a cowardly and despicable action, and as a sympathetic compadre pointed out, [tsk-tsk!] just goes to show how some people have way too much time on their hands!
I recognized his moniker because he was one of the boys who was outraged by Roosh's little hoax. But now he's done an about-face, urging his followers to "Treat Roosh right. I'd take a bullet for him. Don't fuck with him or fuck with me. And trust me, you don't want to fuck with him."
Now that got my attention, because I reckon I'm somewhere on Roosh's Shit List. And at least by his standards, I've already "fucked with him" a bit.
And "take a bullet for him," isn't that a bit... melodramatic? I mean, under what circumstances might that be necessary? Is Roosh a masculine lifestyle guru, or a war lord?
What are these guys so afraid of, I wonder? That they'll be doxxed and their Google-able identities slimed?
Trust me, fellas, it isn't as bad as you fear.
Oops! Breaking news! Looks like the Las Vegas playboy has just been doxxed himself! And not by some nasty feminist either!
Anyway, poor guy, I'm certainly not going to compound his misery here. After all, we can all agree that doxxing is a terrible thing to do, a cowardly and despicable action, and as a sympathetic compadre pointed out, [tsk-tsk!] just goes to show how some people have way too much time on their hands!
 |
| I don't think this is going to help. |
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Too Funny Not to Share
If you haven't seen the new website of "Femgoddess" Desiree Meyers-Liebowitz, it isn't for her lack of self-promotion on twitter. She only has one post up so far, but it's designed to create quite a stir in the PUA community: "The Five Ugliest Pickup Artists". It's a much funnier (and much meaner) riposte to the Return of Kings post that started me on my own road to ruin over a year ago.
My initial question was, Who exactly is Desiree sending up? Because she seems to be making as much fun of the "fat acceptance movement" and the "BBW" scene as she is of the New Misogynists. In other words, I was pretty skeptical that Desiree Meyers-Liebowitz was the unapologetic cuckolding feminist fatty that she claimed to be.
I had no idea who the creator could be of (what I initially assumed was) this brilliant caricature, or even his/her gender. For if "The Five Ugliest Pickup Artists" she eviscerates in her post represent the average woman's worst nightmare, Desiree's online persona is custom-built to be the average manospherean's fever dream of what a "feminist" is: A "gender studies" major, she has scored herself a "beta" lawyer husband "Harold" who, when not busying himself in the kitchen, is rubbing her feet and, indeed, embracing every inch of her gloriously wanton, gluttonous self, while she lolls on the couch stuffing herself with cheetos and entertaining a stream of eager swains.
Then I did a little "research" (that is, idlestalking googling) and I learned that Desiree has been lurking in the manosphere for years, even posting on Il Douche's Forum in 2012 (back before he decreed that vaginas defiled the Inner Sanctum*). So it appears that she has either been "trolling" these guys for quite a while, or else Desiree Meyers Liebowitz really is "for real."
It doesn't matter either way, I guess. My only question for Desiree at this point is, What took you so long? And what will you post next?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* And before he thought to explicitly exclude "homos" or even ban his own members if they stooped to respond to a female commenter who had somehow slipped through security. Are there no lengths to which this freak won't go to maintain "ritual purity?"
My initial question was, Who exactly is Desiree sending up? Because she seems to be making as much fun of the "fat acceptance movement" and the "BBW" scene as she is of the New Misogynists. In other words, I was pretty skeptical that Desiree Meyers-Liebowitz was the unapologetic cuckolding feminist fatty that she claimed to be.
I had no idea who the creator could be of (what I initially assumed was) this brilliant caricature, or even his/her gender. For if "The Five Ugliest Pickup Artists" she eviscerates in her post represent the average woman's worst nightmare, Desiree's online persona is custom-built to be the average manospherean's fever dream of what a "feminist" is: A "gender studies" major, she has scored herself a "beta" lawyer husband "Harold" who, when not busying himself in the kitchen, is rubbing her feet and, indeed, embracing every inch of her gloriously wanton, gluttonous self, while she lolls on the couch stuffing herself with cheetos and entertaining a stream of eager swains.
Then I did a little "research" (that is, idle
It doesn't matter either way, I guess. My only question for Desiree at this point is, What took you so long? And what will you post next?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* And before he thought to explicitly exclude "homos" or even ban his own members if they stooped to respond to a female commenter who had somehow slipped through security. Are there no lengths to which this freak won't go to maintain "ritual purity?"
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Is This the Worst Relationship Advice Ever?
A couple of weeks ago, our favorite "Game Master" challenged his readers, "Are You The Player Or Are You Getting Played?"
There are only two roles that can exist in any male-female relationship:
(This post seems deliciously ironic in light of the fact that it was quickly followed by the writer and his co-conspirator Tuthmosis "playing" the entire Roosh V and Return of Kings readership, as though to drive home the point in the most humiliating manner that this "zero-sum game" is not confined to sexual relationships.)
The man who is "a winner" gets to establish all terms, chief among them "the frequency and depravity of sex," the opportunity to "degrade her in bed to your satisfaction."
Wow. Let's just get past this unfortunate choice of words -- this is Roosh, after all -- and concede (for the 100th time) that this is a person who not only hates women, but really hates the sexual act itself. For how can one person "degrade" another without degrading himself? How morally bankrupt and perverse is a person who perceives the act of sex as an opportunity to "degrade" another human being?
"There is no other role that you can fill. There is no 50/50."
In fact, I have seen (though thankfully few) relationships in which the individuals involved DID take turns exploiting and humiliating each other tit for tat. But I didn't get the impression either party was enjoying himself/herself much.
A relationship in which one party pulls all the strings all the time is going to get tedious even for (indeed, especially for) the one in charge. That's why it strikes me that doms have a much harder "job" than subs do. That's why there is always a bigger market for "tops" than "bottoms."
"Remember that time when you started off as the player, but then you got played in the end? I know why that happened. It’s because you stopped giving her the game that got her in bed in the first place."
Now here Roosh actually touches on something that I can recognize as a kind of truth: To keep the other's interest, especially in the early stages of a relationship, one must remain a little at bay. It is human nature that we don't value what is too easily obtained. Courtship is a series of small tests; it is a dance in which one partner steps forward, the other back (and reverse). And even later, if and when commitment and trust are established, the roles of "giver" vs. "receiver" tend to fluctuate. Among many contented couples I have seen, one partner is always more "in love" than the other, and that works well too -- so long as the power balance is not too lop-sided. 50/50? Probably not realistic. 20/80? Not uncommon at all.
I also think Roosh has a point when he claims women dislike "needy" men who force them to run the show. My impression is that passivity and "instant attachment" are, indeed, huge turn-offs to most (although not all) women. Whether this reflects an intrinsic quality in women's natures, I don't know, but I'm willing to entertain the possibility. My personal observation is that, while it is true that "neediness" in a man is more of a turn-off to women than the other way 'round, it doesn't follow that most men are looking for a "sex-bot" in the flesh, either.
To keep the spark alive, both parties must be stimulated by a sense that they do not possess "all" of their partner. And whether male, female, or other, people in a coupled relationship need to work to maintain their individuality and "personhood" for a number of reasons. One of these reasons is pragmatic. Relationships never last forever. Unless both parties perish simultaneously in a fiery crash, one is likely to predecease the other. If the survivor has completely given himself away, built his or her life entirely around another, what will be left to sustain him? Another reason is that a relationship without any tension or conflict whatsoever is about as exciting and as "sexy" as a tepid bath. Predictability is the death of romance, and what could be more numbingly predictable than a relationship in which one person calls all the shots all the time?
What frustrates me about someone like Roosh giving relationship advice to young men is that he is someone who has never been in an intimate relationship himself (sorry, one night stands just don't count). It's even worse than celibate priests acting as marriage counselors, because Roosh actually hates women. (And while the Catholic Church as an institution treats women badly, I don't assume its individual clergy do.) It's like taking financial advice from a person who (looks like he) lives in a trailer park.
And if there's one thing I'm pretty sure about after examining the readership of these self-appointed authorities is that most of them really do want relationships. Of course, if you're a lonely, horny 17 year old, a casual "bang" (or even a series of them) sounds great, but I expect their dreams are a little bigger and better than that: They want beautiful girlfriends who understand them and want to have sex with them because they love them for who they are.
Isn't that what everyone wants?
I really hate to see impressionable minds prematurely embittered by cynical advice like this because their dreams are not impossible or permanently out of reach -- although following "game" theory is the worst way to achieve them.
There are only two roles that can exist in any male-female relationship:
- The player
- The person who gets played
(This post seems deliciously ironic in light of the fact that it was quickly followed by the writer and his co-conspirator Tuthmosis "playing" the entire Roosh V and Return of Kings readership, as though to drive home the point in the most humiliating manner that this "zero-sum game" is not confined to sexual relationships.)
The man who is "a winner" gets to establish all terms, chief among them "the frequency and depravity of sex," the opportunity to "degrade her in bed to your satisfaction."
Wow. Let's just get past this unfortunate choice of words -- this is Roosh, after all -- and concede (for the 100th time) that this is a person who not only hates women, but really hates the sexual act itself. For how can one person "degrade" another without degrading himself? How morally bankrupt and perverse is a person who perceives the act of sex as an opportunity to "degrade" another human being?
"There is no other role that you can fill. There is no 50/50."
In fact, I have seen (though thankfully few) relationships in which the individuals involved DID take turns exploiting and humiliating each other tit for tat. But I didn't get the impression either party was enjoying himself/herself much.
A relationship in which one party pulls all the strings all the time is going to get tedious even for (indeed, especially for) the one in charge. That's why it strikes me that doms have a much harder "job" than subs do. That's why there is always a bigger market for "tops" than "bottoms."
"Remember that time when you started off as the player, but then you got played in the end? I know why that happened. It’s because you stopped giving her the game that got her in bed in the first place."
Now here Roosh actually touches on something that I can recognize as a kind of truth: To keep the other's interest, especially in the early stages of a relationship, one must remain a little at bay. It is human nature that we don't value what is too easily obtained. Courtship is a series of small tests; it is a dance in which one partner steps forward, the other back (and reverse). And even later, if and when commitment and trust are established, the roles of "giver" vs. "receiver" tend to fluctuate. Among many contented couples I have seen, one partner is always more "in love" than the other, and that works well too -- so long as the power balance is not too lop-sided. 50/50? Probably not realistic. 20/80? Not uncommon at all.
I also think Roosh has a point when he claims women dislike "needy" men who force them to run the show. My impression is that passivity and "instant attachment" are, indeed, huge turn-offs to most (although not all) women. Whether this reflects an intrinsic quality in women's natures, I don't know, but I'm willing to entertain the possibility. My personal observation is that, while it is true that "neediness" in a man is more of a turn-off to women than the other way 'round, it doesn't follow that most men are looking for a "sex-bot" in the flesh, either.
To keep the spark alive, both parties must be stimulated by a sense that they do not possess "all" of their partner. And whether male, female, or other, people in a coupled relationship need to work to maintain their individuality and "personhood" for a number of reasons. One of these reasons is pragmatic. Relationships never last forever. Unless both parties perish simultaneously in a fiery crash, one is likely to predecease the other. If the survivor has completely given himself away, built his or her life entirely around another, what will be left to sustain him? Another reason is that a relationship without any tension or conflict whatsoever is about as exciting and as "sexy" as a tepid bath. Predictability is the death of romance, and what could be more numbingly predictable than a relationship in which one person calls all the shots all the time?
What frustrates me about someone like Roosh giving relationship advice to young men is that he is someone who has never been in an intimate relationship himself (sorry, one night stands just don't count). It's even worse than celibate priests acting as marriage counselors, because Roosh actually hates women. (And while the Catholic Church as an institution treats women badly, I don't assume its individual clergy do.) It's like taking financial advice from a person who (looks like he) lives in a trailer park.
And if there's one thing I'm pretty sure about after examining the readership of these self-appointed authorities is that most of them really do want relationships. Of course, if you're a lonely, horny 17 year old, a casual "bang" (or even a series of them) sounds great, but I expect their dreams are a little bigger and better than that: They want beautiful girlfriends who understand them and want to have sex with them because they love them for who they are.
Isn't that what everyone wants?
I really hate to see impressionable minds prematurely embittered by cynical advice like this because their dreams are not impossible or permanently out of reach -- although following "game" theory is the worst way to achieve them.
Monday, March 3, 2014
This Is A Bit Rich!
Roosh, in response to criticism from his forum members for "trolling" them, lectures:
Emotionally secure people are not harmed by others perspectives, genuine or trolling. … If you feel like you are being trolled or become angry at something you read online, see if there is a way you can learn from the experience and be grateful for it.
Uh-huh.
Emotionally secure people are not harmed by others perspectives, genuine or trolling. … If you feel like you are being trolled or become angry at something you read online, see if there is a way you can learn from the experience and be grateful for it.
Uh-huh.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Oh no!
I'll admit that part of the "addictive" quality of following the New Misogynists is that there always seems to be a lot of petty drama going on in their lives. Really, the "manosphere" (and that especially includes the female bloggers), is like a huge soap opera, full of squabbles, weird sexual fantasies, and the occasional twist and turn in the story lines. Although I think we could all see this coming.
UPDATE It was a hoax perpetrated by Il Douche himself. I wonder how his followers will feel about this. It's kind of like Fawney calling his readers "retards", isn't it? Oh these boys, what a merry crew of pranksters they are!
UPDATE It was a hoax perpetrated by Il Douche himself. I wonder how his followers will feel about this. It's kind of like Fawney calling his readers "retards", isn't it? Oh these boys, what a merry crew of pranksters they are!
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.
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."
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