Over at ROK there is a review ("How to Build a Beta Male") of a short 2007 Danish film called "Dennis" (link to the film here). It depicts an evening in the life of a stolid, hypertrophied body builder who lives with his clingy, emotionally incestuous single mother. He asks a girl from his fitness club out for pizza. The evening doesn't end well, as the girl's friends make fun of him and he runs back to his mama's bed (literally). A little disturbing, a little sad, but I like to think that this was only Dennis' first attempts to strike out on his own. (In fact, the director Mads Mathiesen took Dennis on an extended and more upbeat adventure to Thailand in a feature length 2012 film called "Teddy Bear").
The character Dennis, and his enmeshed relationship with his tiny terrifying mother, seems to have struck a chord even with Roosh, and the discussion on ROK focuses on "beta/omega" males and how women create them. The whole concept of alpha vs. beta men is rubbish, of course, which is why the manosphere spends huge amounts of time just trying to define what these distinctions are. However, that there are a lot of lonely single men out there with undeveloped social skills is self-evident by the very existence of a PUA/game industry.
I hate to admit I recognize the Evil Mother in this film, but sadly I do. I know a few mothers, both married and single, who have turned their sons into their proxy "boyfriends," and it ain't pretty. Very close to home is my partner's ex, who has been undergoing a kind of emotional meltdown as their son (now nineteen) begins to flex his wings. The youth, whom I'll call Kirk, is still living at home, still cooking and cleaning for mom, still accompanying her on holidays, still tucking her in to bed when she's polished off the nightly bottle of wine.
I see hope on the horizon though. Unlike "Dennis," Kirk has great social skills. As a result, he has a lot of close friends, both male and female. In fact, he has recently acquired a girlfriend whom he texts constantly, much to his mom's dismay. He has a part time customer service job that he is good at and he goes to school part time.
Kirk and his dad (my partner) spend regular time together, sailing, attending musicals, cooking, building stuff, flirting outrageously with everyone they meet. Both are the gregarious sort for whom the expression "He never met a stranger" was coined. Kirk also seems to have inherited his dad's sunny resilience and unflappable self-confidence. From his father (a M2F transsexual), he has developed a spirit of tolerance and all-embracing compassion. It seems a bit ironic that it is his transgender parent's qualities that already make Kirk his own man.
I'm not really worried about Kirk even though I am sympathetic with the prolonged and often painful separation process he is undergoing. I stay on the sidelines, of course. We encourage his growing autonomy, but never disparage the attachment with his mom. He's going to be fine (and eventually, I hope his mother will be too).
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
Erasing Hate
A few months ago, I decided to have my tattoo removed. It is on my forearm, so it's quite visible during the warmer months, and I was tired of dealing with other people's reactions to it. When I had it done, almost thirty years ago, it seemed a beautiful and daring form of self-expression, and I enjoyed the attention it got. Now I am older, in many ways a different person: a person who no longer wants to wear her heart, literally, on her sleeve.
I underwent three laser sessions at a total cost of nearly $1000. Laser treatment is so excruciating that I cracked a molar gritting my teeth. The only mercy is that it doesn't take long. Unfortunately, although the outline faded a bit, the image didn't budge. The doctor told me I was wasting my money to continue. Because the ink had probably been adulterated with silicone, it was impervious to the laser. I was disappointed, but not surprised. In truth, I was relieved that I didn't have to undergo the pain or expense anymore. So me and my tattoo: we're pretty much stuck with each other, at least until the technology advances.
That's partly why "Erasing Hate," which depicts a former skinhead's odyssey back into Society, moved me on a visceral level. When Bryan Widner is offered a chance to have his racist facial, neck and hand tattoos removed courtesy of the SPLC, he undergoes eighteen months of literal torture. (Although he is under general anesthesia for each session, it is still an extremely painful process.)
The transformation is jaw-dropping, as Widner goes from menacing freak to an ordinarily handsome man.
What the documentary fails to explain is exactly why Widner, once known as "The Pitbull" of the Vinlanders Social Club, decided to let go of his racist identity. He credits his new responsibilities and joys as a husband and father. His wife, a former white nationalist herself, suggests the couple became disillusioned by the violent misogyny of the white supremacist subculture. The family is shown attending a Baptist church, but there doesn't seem to have been any one great spiritual epiphany.
I am left with the impression that the Widners just got tired of pretending that they believed in something they no longer believed in. Like many of us, they got smarter as they got older, and were hungry to live with greater integrity, and in greater harmony with the rest of their species.
Hate takes a lot out of a person without much return.
It's understandable that estranged adolescents will be attracted to hate groups, cults, and radical political activism, which seem to offer all the answers and solutions to Why Life Sucks. What I would like to know more about is how former members like the Widners manage to walk away. That question is not really explored in any satisfying depth in "Erasing Hate," but the story of one family's "redemption" makes this the ultimate "feel good" movie.
I underwent three laser sessions at a total cost of nearly $1000. Laser treatment is so excruciating that I cracked a molar gritting my teeth. The only mercy is that it doesn't take long. Unfortunately, although the outline faded a bit, the image didn't budge. The doctor told me I was wasting my money to continue. Because the ink had probably been adulterated with silicone, it was impervious to the laser. I was disappointed, but not surprised. In truth, I was relieved that I didn't have to undergo the pain or expense anymore. So me and my tattoo: we're pretty much stuck with each other, at least until the technology advances.
That's partly why "Erasing Hate," which depicts a former skinhead's odyssey back into Society, moved me on a visceral level. When Bryan Widner is offered a chance to have his racist facial, neck and hand tattoos removed courtesy of the SPLC, he undergoes eighteen months of literal torture. (Although he is under general anesthesia for each session, it is still an extremely painful process.)
The transformation is jaw-dropping, as Widner goes from menacing freak to an ordinarily handsome man.
What the documentary fails to explain is exactly why Widner, once known as "The Pitbull" of the Vinlanders Social Club, decided to let go of his racist identity. He credits his new responsibilities and joys as a husband and father. His wife, a former white nationalist herself, suggests the couple became disillusioned by the violent misogyny of the white supremacist subculture. The family is shown attending a Baptist church, but there doesn't seem to have been any one great spiritual epiphany.
I am left with the impression that the Widners just got tired of pretending that they believed in something they no longer believed in. Like many of us, they got smarter as they got older, and were hungry to live with greater integrity, and in greater harmony with the rest of their species.
Hate takes a lot out of a person without much return.
It's understandable that estranged adolescents will be attracted to hate groups, cults, and radical political activism, which seem to offer all the answers and solutions to Why Life Sucks. What I would like to know more about is how former members like the Widners manage to walk away. That question is not really explored in any satisfying depth in "Erasing Hate," but the story of one family's "redemption" makes this the ultimate "feel good" movie.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
What Kind of Girl?
What kind of girl marries a guy like Tamerlan Tsarnaev?
According to Roosh's blog, Return of Kings (link to manboobz here, no reason to give ROK any more page views), she's a typical all-American slut, because "here in America we have women rushing with open legs into the crotches of abusers despite a legal system that is designed to 'empower' them."
I had been waiting to see what the Rooshophiles take on the Boston Bombing would be. Aside from some grudging admiration for the way "the kids went out with both guns blazing" and Roosh's twitter that those "Chechnyans don't mess around... real Scarface stuff," nobody said much.
It's a bit awkward, I suppose, since -- like Roosh himself -- the bombers were the socially estranged children of Muslim immigrants, "losers" in their uncle's words, who "couldn't settle themselves [assimilate]."
While I expected Roosh and his gang would find a way to blame women for this, I figured the villainess would turn out to be the brothers' gimlet-eyed, fanatically religious mother, Zubeidat "Ma Barker" Tsarnaeva. It never occurred to me that they would target Tamerlan's wife, of whom almost nothing has been printed or speculated about in the media (and rightly so, since she appears to have been entirely innocent in knowledge and action).
Leave it to the manosphere to crucify the reputation of the pretty, young American girl who (as far as I am aware) had the simple misfortune of falling in love and marrying this crazy MF.
What kind of a girl marries a guy like Tamerlan Tsarnaev?
I know nothing about her (except her name now, courtesy of ROK). At the same time, I can't help feeling I know a lot about her. I've met this girl before. I could have been this girl myself.
Back in the late seventies, I attended a large midwestern university. This was the time when petrodollars were sending thousands of middle eastern (and Venezuelan) kids (mostly boys) to the U.S. for "higher education." The campus was blooming with dark, exotic masculine specimens and sweet, fresh-off-the-farm coeds. Opposites attract, right? Naturally enough, it was not uncommon to see a blue-eyed blonde lass on the arm of a handsome Persian youth or snuggled next to a Saudi "prince" in the front seat of his brand new Trans Am.
Sometimes these were real love affairs, and sometimes the girls married the boys. Post graduation, they returned to their grooms' homelands, or the boys easily found jobs in the States with their newly minted green cards. I am willing to bet that few of these marriages endured over the long haul, at least not happily, but it happened quite a lot.
I myself was infatuated for months with an Afghan grad student. I begged him to marry me and sweep me off to what I imagined would be 1001 Arabian Nights. I was crestfallen when he refused. "You wouldn't be happy," he repeated firmly. (A few years later, when I visited him in Kabul, I realized he had been absolutely right.) I never got pregnant, though -- I wasn't that besotted. I had Big Plans For My Life. I had my own destiny to fulfill. I wanted to travel and experience and achieve, and I wanted to do it all under my own steam.
But the dreams of many of my girlfriends were different. They wanted to Get Married and Have A Baby, the sooner the better. Their foreign boyfriends seemed so much more interesting and worldly and passionate than the familiar homegrown American guys they'd grown up with. Language and cultural differences deepened the mystery. Of course, neither party had any way of knowing who they were really marrying.
I had a friend I'll call Leslie. She was heart-breakingly pretty: big blue eyes, high cheekbones, long smooth corn silk hair, rosy lips that were always smiling, exposing a row of teeth as perfect as chiclets. However, she was always about thirty pounds overweight despite her constant efforts to diet. She came from a long line of stout German peasants, so her body type was quite normal by her community's standards and certainly her family never considered her anything less than perfect. Nevertheless, Leslie considered this avoir dupois to be her greatest obstacle to happiness.
One day, Leslie met Gazi, and I'll call him Gazi because that was his name. He was very bright, attractive, and ambitious. He could be charming when he chose to be, but mostly he was angry. He'd grown up in a Palestinian refugee camp, so he had plenty to be angry about.
Leslie fell madly in love with Gazi, and Gazi fell madly in love with getting a green card. Her parents couldn't have been pleased about their sweet young daughter marrying a glowering Arab with terrorist ties, but they relented and threw the couple a beautiful wedding on the ol' Nebraska homestead.
Gazi constantly complained about Leslie: her weight, her lack of interest in all things academic, her haphazard housekeeping. His constant harping and disrespect read like "Authority" to Leslie. She became convinced that she needed Gazi to be "tough" on her so that she could achieve her potential.
For several months, she ate when Gazi came home to feed her: a single 8 oz portion of steak. She dropped a lot of weight fast, but only temporarily; the only real lasting effect was a weird vitamin deficiency which marred Leslie's porcelain complexion. And after dabbling in several different majors, she never managed to graduate from college, preferring to spend her days "crafting," watching her "soaps," and dreaming of the day Gazi would let her get pregnant.
When Gazi graduated, he and Leslie went off to Saudi Arabia. There, despite getting Gazi's permission to go off the pill, Leslie didn't conceive. She believed it was because of her weight, and commenced a serious program of diet and exercise.
I never saw Leslie during this period, but I was told she got down to a size two and was damn near unrecognizable. Still no baby, though. (No one seems to have questioned Gazi's fertility.) Returning home for a visit, family and friends congratulated Leslie on her stunning transformation. "I've told her that if she regains a pound, I'll divorce her," Gazi said. He didn't seem to enjoy the attention Leslie was getting.
Of course, I expect that some of the weight began to creep back, but instead of divorcing her, Gazi began beating her. Open hand at first, closed fist later, the usual progression of escalating violence.
And finally Leslie had had enough. The shock of being physically injured finally galvinized her. It was sad enough to find herself thirty and so far from her home and all her girlhood dreams, but she could never face her family if she allowed herself to be visibly maimed. "It would have broken their hearts." She packed her bags for a "holiday" and never went back.
And this, I imagine, is the kind of girl who would marry someone like Tamerlan Tsarnaev: a pretty girl with modest self-esteem, a naive girl with a sweet and trusting disposition, a girl who conflates "rigidity" with "stability," a girl with conventional dreams (loving leader husband, a clutch of adorable babies), a girl who would easily sympathize with a troubled young man, a girl who would be flattered by the notion that she (she!) could finally make him happy.
In short, the kind of girl that most of the New Misogynists say they want and cannot find.
According to Roosh's blog, Return of Kings (link to manboobz here, no reason to give ROK any more page views), she's a typical all-American slut, because "here in America we have women rushing with open legs into the crotches of abusers despite a legal system that is designed to 'empower' them."
I had been waiting to see what the Rooshophiles take on the Boston Bombing would be. Aside from some grudging admiration for the way "the kids went out with both guns blazing" and Roosh's twitter that those "Chechnyans don't mess around... real Scarface stuff," nobody said much.
It's a bit awkward, I suppose, since -- like Roosh himself -- the bombers were the socially estranged children of Muslim immigrants, "losers" in their uncle's words, who "couldn't settle themselves [assimilate]."
While I expected Roosh and his gang would find a way to blame women for this, I figured the villainess would turn out to be the brothers' gimlet-eyed, fanatically religious mother, Zubeidat "Ma Barker" Tsarnaeva. It never occurred to me that they would target Tamerlan's wife, of whom almost nothing has been printed or speculated about in the media (and rightly so, since she appears to have been entirely innocent in knowledge and action).
Leave it to the manosphere to crucify the reputation of the pretty, young American girl who (as far as I am aware) had the simple misfortune of falling in love and marrying this crazy MF.
What kind of a girl marries a guy like Tamerlan Tsarnaev?
I know nothing about her (except her name now, courtesy of ROK). At the same time, I can't help feeling I know a lot about her. I've met this girl before. I could have been this girl myself.
Back in the late seventies, I attended a large midwestern university. This was the time when petrodollars were sending thousands of middle eastern (and Venezuelan) kids (mostly boys) to the U.S. for "higher education." The campus was blooming with dark, exotic masculine specimens and sweet, fresh-off-the-farm coeds. Opposites attract, right? Naturally enough, it was not uncommon to see a blue-eyed blonde lass on the arm of a handsome Persian youth or snuggled next to a Saudi "prince" in the front seat of his brand new Trans Am.
Sometimes these were real love affairs, and sometimes the girls married the boys. Post graduation, they returned to their grooms' homelands, or the boys easily found jobs in the States with their newly minted green cards. I am willing to bet that few of these marriages endured over the long haul, at least not happily, but it happened quite a lot.
I myself was infatuated for months with an Afghan grad student. I begged him to marry me and sweep me off to what I imagined would be 1001 Arabian Nights. I was crestfallen when he refused. "You wouldn't be happy," he repeated firmly. (A few years later, when I visited him in Kabul, I realized he had been absolutely right.) I never got pregnant, though -- I wasn't that besotted. I had Big Plans For My Life. I had my own destiny to fulfill. I wanted to travel and experience and achieve, and I wanted to do it all under my own steam.
But the dreams of many of my girlfriends were different. They wanted to Get Married and Have A Baby, the sooner the better. Their foreign boyfriends seemed so much more interesting and worldly and passionate than the familiar homegrown American guys they'd grown up with. Language and cultural differences deepened the mystery. Of course, neither party had any way of knowing who they were really marrying.
I had a friend I'll call Leslie. She was heart-breakingly pretty: big blue eyes, high cheekbones, long smooth corn silk hair, rosy lips that were always smiling, exposing a row of teeth as perfect as chiclets. However, she was always about thirty pounds overweight despite her constant efforts to diet. She came from a long line of stout German peasants, so her body type was quite normal by her community's standards and certainly her family never considered her anything less than perfect. Nevertheless, Leslie considered this avoir dupois to be her greatest obstacle to happiness.
One day, Leslie met Gazi, and I'll call him Gazi because that was his name. He was very bright, attractive, and ambitious. He could be charming when he chose to be, but mostly he was angry. He'd grown up in a Palestinian refugee camp, so he had plenty to be angry about.
Leslie fell madly in love with Gazi, and Gazi fell madly in love with getting a green card. Her parents couldn't have been pleased about their sweet young daughter marrying a glowering Arab with terrorist ties, but they relented and threw the couple a beautiful wedding on the ol' Nebraska homestead.
Gazi constantly complained about Leslie: her weight, her lack of interest in all things academic, her haphazard housekeeping. His constant harping and disrespect read like "Authority" to Leslie. She became convinced that she needed Gazi to be "tough" on her so that she could achieve her potential.
For several months, she ate when Gazi came home to feed her: a single 8 oz portion of steak. She dropped a lot of weight fast, but only temporarily; the only real lasting effect was a weird vitamin deficiency which marred Leslie's porcelain complexion. And after dabbling in several different majors, she never managed to graduate from college, preferring to spend her days "crafting," watching her "soaps," and dreaming of the day Gazi would let her get pregnant.
When Gazi graduated, he and Leslie went off to Saudi Arabia. There, despite getting Gazi's permission to go off the pill, Leslie didn't conceive. She believed it was because of her weight, and commenced a serious program of diet and exercise.
I never saw Leslie during this period, but I was told she got down to a size two and was damn near unrecognizable. Still no baby, though. (No one seems to have questioned Gazi's fertility.) Returning home for a visit, family and friends congratulated Leslie on her stunning transformation. "I've told her that if she regains a pound, I'll divorce her," Gazi said. He didn't seem to enjoy the attention Leslie was getting.
Of course, I expect that some of the weight began to creep back, but instead of divorcing her, Gazi began beating her. Open hand at first, closed fist later, the usual progression of escalating violence.
And finally Leslie had had enough. The shock of being physically injured finally galvinized her. It was sad enough to find herself thirty and so far from her home and all her girlhood dreams, but she could never face her family if she allowed herself to be visibly maimed. "It would have broken their hearts." She packed her bags for a "holiday" and never went back.
And this, I imagine, is the kind of girl who would marry someone like Tamerlan Tsarnaev: a pretty girl with modest self-esteem, a naive girl with a sweet and trusting disposition, a girl who conflates "rigidity" with "stability," a girl with conventional dreams (loving leader husband, a clutch of adorable babies), a girl who would easily sympathize with a troubled young man, a girl who would be flattered by the notion that she (she!) could finally make him happy.
In short, the kind of girl that most of the New Misogynists say they want and cannot find.
Monday, April 29, 2013
The Fokken Twins: Two Women I Love
The other night I watched a documentary on Netstream about Louise and Martine Fokken. I was afraid a documentary about geriatric sex workers might be depressing, but in fact I found it very uplifting. I defy anyone with half a heart not to fall in love with these old Dutch bawds.
So what's to love about a pair of 69 year old prostitutes?
In a word: Love itself. The love they have for each other, the love they have for their children and for their spoiled-rotten-Chihuahua, and, most inspiring, the love they have for their clients (that is, "the kind gentlemen," not "the punters"). Their love for color, fashion, food, nature, and painting. Their Love for Life Itself.
How do such generous spirits survive, nay flourish, after fifty years in the Red Light District of Amsterdam? I'm in awe...
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Everybody's bloggin'
Everybody's bloggin'. Everybody in the manosphere, that is. There are hundreds of them. There are PUA blogs. There are anti-PUA blogs. There are MGTOW blogs. There are MRA blogs. There are female anti-feminist blogs. There are manosphere blogs about other manosphere blogs. And there are manosphere blogs devoted to giving other manosphere bloggers advice, like The Private Man.
What do they all have in common? Well, as Zosimus the Heathen pointed out in his last comment: everything. Remember the theme song of the old Patty Duke show? "They look alike, they talk alike, they even dress and walk alike." (Thanks a lot, Zosimus, now I'm going to be hearing that in my head all day!)
One of the memes of the manosphere is the "hive mind" of women, but Jezebel and Feministe ain't got nothing on these guys. They stay united by constantly commenting or repeating each other's comments. They band together at the virtual feet of their gurus, few of whom tolerate dissent within the ranks. Roosh is notorious for blocking the IPOs of commenters who fail to demonstrate the appropriate degree of fealty, while Paul Elam prefers to publicly eviscerate potential rivals to his throne. These tiny beleaguered sects cannot withstand much tension or challenge to authority before they splinter and fragment. And thus are born ever more blogs. Yet they're all pretty much singing the same tune, which goes something like this.
A preoccupation of many manosphere bloggers is figuring out how to spin straw into gold support their "masculine lifestyles" with blogging. (Cuz what's more manly than spending your days in your tighty-whities in front of a computer, kvetching endlessly about women?) In fact, Matt Forney is right now promoting on his blog his new self-published e-book about how to make money blogging and self-publishing e-books (even though he hasn't made any money yet and his stats aren't much higher than mine LOL).
Manosphere bloggers unite in their admiration of Roosh's ability to travel the world on the money he makes with his "Bang" guides. I'll admit I am myself rather curious how much income his blogging and self-publishing generate. Obviously, it's extremely variable. I've read blogs with high traffic can generate as much as $1000/month. Suffice to say he's no Stephen King, and, as his videos demonstrate, he lives frugally: in simple sublets overseas, in his father's basement stateside, schlepping his own panini-maker wherever he goes, and proudly refusing to buy drinks for the ladies (it's a matter of principle, doncha know).
Roosh
@rooshv
"And trust me it's not dope to be 25 and move back to your parents' basement" http://ow.ly/kuye4 Tell me about it
Manosphere blogging as a career choice is problematic on so many levels. One's potential readership is limited right out of the gate. (Of course, the manosphereans maintain this is just a matter of converting a critical mass of American youth.) As Delicious Tacos points out, he hasn't bothered to commercialize his blog because the potential profit doesn't justify the effort. And don't only manosphere readers buy manosphere e-books? And most of what is in their e-books is on their blogs anyway. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
Which reminds me of my mom's comment many years ago, when the shale oil boom collapsed, that the entire economy of Grand Junction, Colorado was being kept afloat by neighbors buying each other's stuff at garage sales.
Manosphere Blogging 101 – 21 Pieces Of Advice
There are many new, self-identified Manosphere bloggers cropping up ( some links below). I’m enthused by this. For all the new guys, I have some advice. I never thought that I’d be in the position to offer Manosphere blogging advice but after being at this for almost two years and with almost a million page views, I’ve learned a thing or two:1. Blogging requires patience and perseverance. Blogging for a couple of months and being disappointed is normal. A few hundred (if you’re fortunate) page views a day is to be expected until readers realize the seriousness of the blog. There are few, if any, home runs with blogging. Writers should only expect singles and doubles as page view counts grow.
2. Writing is work. For those not accustomed to writing often, it’s a serious chore. Not only must a man live his life, he has to be introspective and be willing to write about it. It’s not easy. You have been warned. Writing is work.
3. Manosphere writers, for now, are but humble pamphleteers (link below) and not real movers and shakers when it comes to shifting public opinion. The good news is that pamphleteers have an historic precedent of shifting public opinion. It just takes time and a critical mass of readership.
4. Commenters are the life blood of good blogs. A good blogger acknowledges and supports good comments. It doesn’t have to be often but it’s important that it’s done.
5. Haters gonna hate. Got hate comments? Nuke ‘em and ban ‘em. It’s your blog. It’s your real estate. If haters want to shit on your blog, moderate heavily and use the banhammer relentlessly. Don’t engage trolls… ever.
6. Spammers gonna spam. It’s vital that you check your spam inbox for legitimate comments because sometimes good comments get spammed out. Don’t let the spam folder get too full.
7. In the beginning, post often. These means three posts a week, at a minimum. When your blog gets some traction, you can cut back a bit, but not too much.
8. Brevity is the soul of wit. Posts needn’t be long. Rollo and Ian (links below) are the huge exception as their posts are usually quite long. You can’t be the exception to the rule until you’re well established. Three hundred words or so (well-written and concise) will do.
9. Comment on other blogs with meaningful comments that add to the original point(s). Dropping a brief comment just to generate traffic to your blog won’t do you any favors in the long run. Read the post. If you don’t have anything to offer, don’t comment.
10. Link to other blogs via your blogroll or your comments on your post. The other Manosphere bloggers will appreciate the links and be more willing to the link back to you.
11. Try to meet Manosphere bloggers and readers in real life. The Internet is not real life. Shaking a fellow man’s hand is real life. For example, I’ve got a live event coming up in March, 2013 (link below).
12. Find your niche. This will take time and your commenters will steer you in the right (write?) direction. As the Manosphere stands now, there are almost too many young men writing. For you young guys, consider focusing on a geographical or lifestyle niche on which to focus your concentration. Or, go personal as Danny (link below) has done.
13. Don’t give up. Patience and perseverance, remember?
14. Be willing to be a contributing author to group Manosphere blogs (links below). This will build your credibility and drive traffic to your blog. If you find yourself only able to post irregularly on your own blog, be willing to give that up and only be a contributing author to group blogs.
15. Be patient. Keep at it.
16. Post on forums with a link to your blog in your signature. There are loads of male-oriented forums that are not relationship of socially-focused oriented. Find the “other” category in gun, motorsports, sports, and male-oriented forums where men often go. Build a reputation there. Be taken seriously… then send them to your blog or other Manosphere blogs.
17. You want to monetize your blog? That’s a whole new level requiring far more time and effort. Don’t be half-assed about it. Go big or go home.
18. Respect your blogging elders. Rollo, Roissy, and Roosh are the starting points (links below) but there are many other Manosphere bloggers worth your attention and input. Check out my blogroll for a starting point. I don’t have them all.
19. Read the Red Pill women’s blogs (some links below). These dames are smart and worthy of serious consideration. They are also signs that life isn’t too bleak for the Red Pill man.
20. Don’t post hateful comments on blue pill blogs and forums. Once branded a hater, you lose credibility and that helps to lose credibility for the general Manosphere.
21. Men’s Rights Activists (MRAs) are part of the Manosphere. So is the Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW) crowd. That statement will get me some hate and I say tough shit.
Good luck, gentlemen. We’re doing something big here. Spread this advice.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Don't Waste Time On Stupid Shit!
Over at the virtual tree house that is Thumotic, yet another online haven for "traditional masculinity," "community for men with a fighting spirit," readers can sign an oath to join the club. However, prospective members are cautioned that signing said oath is not to be undertaken lightly; oath-takers are making a real commitment in front of God and everybody.
Then they are instructed to post their signed oaths on their frig, bathroom mirror, whatever.
I wondered if I had the grit, the inner fortitude, the sense of commitment, to sign such an oath myself. I took a deep breath and forged ahead.
* * *
The Thumotic Oath
I, Cinzia La Strega, hereby swear the following:
I will train my body. I will grow stronger,
faster, and more agile. I will build my physique, and show the world
how much respect I have for myself.
YES! I'll have you know that I have just signed up for "Six Weeks To A Healthier You." I mainly registered to get the discounted gym membership. Well, I mainly registered cuz my BFF Becky nagged me into it, pointing out that we can always fit in a quick happy hour after the sessions. And now I am totally psyched!
I will fuel my body. The majority of my diet will consist of vegetables, fruits, and clean meats.
YES! Except I have no idea what "clean" vs. "dirty" meats are. But I can certainly promise to abstain from all food that I know to be contaminated, i.e., no more lunches at the Chinese buffet after 2 pm. Glad you guys carefully qualified this to read "the majority of my diet" cuz I gotta have a little wiggle room for chocolate. BTW, does red wine count as a "fruit?"
I will control my vices. Alcohol, tobacco, and drugs will be my servants; they will not make a servant out of me.
Of course alcohol and tobacco are my servants. It's just that ever since they unionized, their demands have been escalating.
I will treat what friends and family I admit to my inner circle with honesty, generosity and respect.
YES! And just so you know, my "inner circle" isn't all that exclusive, especially when it comes to sharing the core values of humanity.
I will unapologetically pursue the women and relationships that I desire.
Uh-oh, my girlfriend may have something to say about that!
I will not waste money and resources on stupid shit.
How do you define "stupid" in this context? Is nail art stupid shit? Just kidding, I know very well it is.
I will not waste time and attention on stupid shit.
OK, OK, I'll quit watching "Hoarders." And pretty much everything else on the Discovery Channel. And also that cute gay couple who seem to be on the Livewell Network 24/7.
I will remain calm, unemotional and nonreactive to the world around me.
Hey, now wait a minute, that doesn't sound like any way to Win Friends and Influence People!
I will dedicate my life to the constant improvement of my body, mind and spirit.
I will set an example, and so lead the men around me out of the darkness.
If you insist -- but I'm warning you that's a classic case of "the Blind leading the Blind."
I will help build a world in which traditional masculine virtue is celebrated, not disparaged.
If traditional masculine virtue includes a working knowledge of power tools and a willingness to remove small dead animals from my yard, I do so celebrate it.
If traditional masculine virtue includes a working knowledge of power tools and a willingness to remove small dead animals from my yard, I do so celebrate it.
I, Cinzia La Strega, swear all of this on my honor as a man person on April 26, 2013.
Wow! I haven't signed an "oath" since I was a Girl Scout. Now excuse me while I print it out and tape it to my refrigerator door...
Roosh in Romania
Family resemblance? Probably not. In Count Vlad's day, Turkish visitors to Romania were customarily impaled.
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