A commenter on Manboobz shared a link to a documentary called "Shy Boys," in which the director, Sara Gardephe, interviews several "Incels" (involuntary celibates). Because Incels tend to be ready "converts" to Game, I watched it with interest.
The fact that most of the young men describe themselves as "ugly" is really striking to me because, really, none of them are. In fact, I thought the long-haired dude was quite pretty in a rock star way. Yet they blame their lack of success with women primarily on an imaginary defect in their own physical appearance. Of course, girls do that too, and to such a degree that we hardly notice. I don't remember boys being so self-critical in the past, however. I am sad to see men starting to share women's neuroses about their looks. Body dysmorphia is a form of equality I don't welcome.
As for their disgust of female genitalia, it reminded me of Victorian art critic John Ruskin, famously unable to consummate his marriage because he was so horrified by the sight of his beautiful bride's genitals.
Somehow I cannot judge these boys too harshly. Truth be told, I've never been enamored with the sight of my own bits, and recall how unpleasant I found it when a Nurse Practitioner insisted I examine my own cervix with the aid of a mirror, speculum, and flashlight. Working in an abortion clinic, I saw hundreds of vulvas, of course, and I gradually lost my revulsion to my own. So my first Rx for these troubled lads is more exposure to real women and less porn.
I cannot even be too hard on the way the Incels in the documentary refer to "fat girls" as scraping the bottom of the barrel in the sexual marketplace. They are simply parroting what the entire culture is teaching us, so why should we expect them to challenge the standards of the day? It takes self-confidence to buck the system. I refused to date fat boys when I was an undergrad even though (or because) I weighed 170# myself. Being discriminated against did not make me compassionate or tolerant -- the opposite, in fact.
Was I so different from these guys at the same age? As a teenager, I would go six weeks without speaking to anyone. I was so shy that some days I simply couldn't muster the courage to go to school, instead whiling away the hours sitting alone in parks or aimlessly riding buses. One day, when I was about seventeen, I realized "This won't do," and started to force myself out into the world. But it took many more years before I overcame my almost crippling shyness, and I only managed to do so by acts of will, challenging myself with activities that caused me the greatest degree of manageable anxiety.
I finally figured out that my self-consciousness was basically egocentrism. I found that the more I attended to another person, the less "shy" I was. Perhaps it was this realization that drew me towards work where I had to perform service for others. In a professional role, I could finally let go of myself.
I still remind myself, when I feel the old social awkwardness and anxiety creeping up, to focus, focus on the other person. Ask questions. Then listen. Reflect on what he/she is saying. Get over yourself!
Ironically, "game" is probably the worst way for these fellows to overcome their issues. I wish I could share this with Incels.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Finally A Country That Will Appreciate Roosh!
Having soured on the Romanian scene, Roosh announced he will shortly be landing in Moldova.
Moldova is the poorest country in Europe, with 80% of the population living below the poverty line. It is known for its excellent wine, high crime rate, systemic corruption, and staggering rate of prostitution. According to one source, the poverty in Moldova is so acute that two out of three Moldovan women resort to prostitution at some point in their lives. Moldova, not surprisingly, is a prime source of women sold into sex trafficking. (If you are interested, PBS Frontline did a documentary last year about this -- but I warn you, it is heart breaking.)
In other words: lots of young, thin, blonde, desperate women to be had for pennies on the dollar. It should be Roosh's idea of "poosy paradise."
One caveat, Roosh: Moldova also has one of the highest rates of antibiotic resistant infections in the world. So don't forget to wash your, uhm, hands.
Moldova is the poorest country in Europe, with 80% of the population living below the poverty line. It is known for its excellent wine, high crime rate, systemic corruption, and staggering rate of prostitution. According to one source, the poverty in Moldova is so acute that two out of three Moldovan women resort to prostitution at some point in their lives. Moldova, not surprisingly, is a prime source of women sold into sex trafficking. (If you are interested, PBS Frontline did a documentary last year about this -- but I warn you, it is heart breaking.)
In other words: lots of young, thin, blonde, desperate women to be had for pennies on the dollar. It should be Roosh's idea of "poosy paradise."
One caveat, Roosh: Moldova also has one of the highest rates of antibiotic resistant infections in the world. So don't forget to wash your, uhm, hands.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Roosh: PUA Most Likely to Join the Taliban
Roosh hasn't been having so much fun in Romania lately. Fortunately, out of hardship and suffering, great insights are born. Roosh has been pondering The True Nature Of Women, and he is now ready to share some of his Deep Thoughts.
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills." This is the metaphor Roosh has chosen to illustrate how women adapt to the cultures they live in. He is so captivated by this "water for women" metaphor that he repeats it over and over. And over. (Be warned: Roosh's habit of repeating inane metaphors is likely to trigger a migraine in sensitive readers.)
Roosh, as he frequently reminds his readers, is "a man of science" (that is, he has a B.S. from the University of Maryland with a biology major), so he certainly must know as much about the properties of H20 as he does about women.
"I believed the properties of water were in part tied to its location, that water from the East could mimic by only a small degree water from the West, but never be just like it. I was less experienced when I had this belief, for now I know better. Water that has been boiled into steam still has the molecular properties of water, and once the atoms cool down, it will readily take up its more familiar form."
I'm not sure, Roosh. Maybe because in a small city club, you stuck out more as an outsider and an interloper? Maybe because you wandered into a dyke bar by mistake? Maybe because you believe believe "yelling" is something "black American girls" do? There are so many possible reasons for a woman to yell at you, I can hardly begin to speculate.
Roosh finally concludes that the girls in Cluj enjoy such "a surplus of men from all over Europe" that they have been allowed to get away with being rude to strange men. Because in Roosh's mind, all women should defer to their social betters (= men, especially Roosh). Can't they recognize a returned king when they see one?
Then Roosh muses, "Would a girl display a single negative trait if it prevented her from finding a good man or living a comfortable life?" (The short answer to that is: Yes! Yes, she would!)
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
So you have (already) told us.
"I appeared on four separate Romanian TV channels, soaking in local fame, trying to get easy lays. I was recognized more times in the ensuing two months than I ever have in Washington DC. When a girl stared at me, I wasn’t sure why she was looking, but I hoped it was because she knew of me, and it would help get into her pants as in the fashion of American celebrity culture. Very early on I get a big surprise—girls who knew of me and my writing played some of the hardest, most lethal game I’ve seen in my life. One girl stood me up. Another was testing me to the point of frustration, as kind as I was to her. Another tried to put words in my mouth, serving up challenges when I wasn’t doing the same. And then I would meet a girl who did not know me, often in the same venue, and she would be the nicest girl in the world, not unlike my first experience in Poland. I have no doubt that the girls who acted bitchy to me would be sweet to the next guy that came along afterwards, suggesting there was a sort of switch that women could flick depending on the circumstance they found themselves in and the man they were meeting."
I hate to say I told you so, but didn't I warn you that Romanian "celebrity" was going to be a double edged sword? There you are on television, announcing to your hosts your intent to "game" the local women, and you're surprised that the women who recognize you decide to turn the table? Why does it surprise you that women dislike being conned, manipulated, or "played" as much as men do?
For ten years, Roosh has done everything he can do to Be A Somebody. In the process, he has tossed away his education, his family, his cultural heritage, and his professional prospects. He has squandered peak years, when he could have been building a meaningful career and emotionally intimate relationships, in order to bask in the admiration of adolescent boys (of various ages). It has got to burn.
As for that peculiar "switch" women have, that mystifying ability to go from "nice" to one fellow to "bitchy" to the next? Hmm... Is it possible they just don't like you, and the more they know about you (via all those TV appearances), the less they like you?
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
Yeah, yeah, enough with the water / container.
Roosh is bitter now, now that he realizes "Every woman on this planet, regardless of her education or background, [harbors an inner] bitch, a cunt, a slut, a golddigger, a flake, a cheater, a backstabber, a narcissist, and an attention whore that is dying to get out and that, if certain conditions arise and she is placed in a certain container at a certain temperature, will thrust her worst upon you, and this, I’m afraid, is the true nature of women." Furthermore, even the most angelic woman is hiding inner excrement; she is a dormant volcano waiting to unleash harm.
The solution Roosh offers to his fellow misogynists: Society needs to start putting constraints, limitations, and shackles on women's unbridled freedom of behaviors and choices by force, through application of law or shaming.
Wait a minute! Where have I heard all this before?
I give you Daryush "Roosh" Valizadeh: The PUA most likely to join the Taliban.
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
(No matter how often you repeat that, it still sounds lame.)
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills." This is the metaphor Roosh has chosen to illustrate how women adapt to the cultures they live in. He is so captivated by this "water for women" metaphor that he repeats it over and over. And over. (Be warned: Roosh's habit of repeating inane metaphors is likely to trigger a migraine in sensitive readers.)
Roosh, as he frequently reminds his readers, is "a man of science" (that is, he has a B.S. from the University of Maryland with a biology major), so he certainly must know as much about the properties of H20 as he does about women.
"I believed the properties of water were in part tied to its location, that water from the East could mimic by only a small degree water from the West, but never be just like it. I was less experienced when I had this belief, for now I know better. Water that has been boiled into steam still has the molecular properties of water, and once the atoms cool down, it will readily take up its more familiar form."
Doesn't that sound like something Sheldon might say on "The Big Bang Theory?" I mean, if Sheldon were a really angry and delusional misogynist?
Anyway, Roosh moves on to prove his theory in singular Rooshian fashion by explaining how, after years of lauding Poland, he was dismayed to find the girls of Warsaw to be as wickedly self-involved as the girls of Toronto (and they are the worst, as you may recall). Fortunately, a short train ride away from the capital took him back to the land of the sweetest, most feminine, and reliable women an armchair sex tourist could dream of. Away from the corrupting influence of the big city, Polish women retain their more pleasing genetic qualities.
Cuz the "container" (i.e., the city) "shapes" "the water."
Anyway, Roosh moves on to prove his theory in singular Rooshian fashion by explaining how, after years of lauding Poland, he was dismayed to find the girls of Warsaw to be as wickedly self-involved as the girls of Toronto (and they are the worst, as you may recall). Fortunately, a short train ride away from the capital took him back to the land of the sweetest, most feminine, and reliable women an armchair sex tourist could dream of. Away from the corrupting influence of the big city, Polish women retain their more pleasing genetic qualities.
Cuz the "container" (i.e., the city) "shapes" "the water."
Got it? Good.
This theory has been challenged in Romania, however.
Even in Cluj, which Roosh describes as a second-tier city, "No girl in Cluj asked me to buy her a drink, but two girls yelled at me. One because I didn’t move from her “spot” in the bar and another for a trivial reason that I forgot as soon as her neck cocked back and forth while yelling at me like she was a black American girl. What caused them to get so angry at me when no girl in Bucharest or Iasi have [sic] even given me a sneer?"
Even in Cluj, which Roosh describes as a second-tier city, "No girl in Cluj asked me to buy her a drink, but two girls yelled at me. One because I didn’t move from her “spot” in the bar and another for a trivial reason that I forgot as soon as her neck cocked back and forth while yelling at me like she was a black American girl. What caused them to get so angry at me when no girl in Bucharest or Iasi have [sic] even given me a sneer?"
I'm not sure, Roosh. Maybe because in a small city club, you stuck out more as an outsider and an interloper? Maybe because you wandered into a dyke bar by mistake? Maybe because you believe believe "yelling" is something "black American girls" do? There are so many possible reasons for a woman to yell at you, I can hardly begin to speculate.
Roosh finally concludes that the girls in Cluj enjoy such "a surplus of men from all over Europe" that they have been allowed to get away with being rude to strange men. Because in Roosh's mind, all women should defer to their social betters (= men, especially Roosh). Can't they recognize a returned king when they see one?
Then Roosh muses, "Would a girl display a single negative trait if it prevented her from finding a good man or living a comfortable life?" (The short answer to that is: Yes! Yes, she would!)
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
So you have (already) told us.
"I appeared on four separate Romanian TV channels, soaking in local fame, trying to get easy lays. I was recognized more times in the ensuing two months than I ever have in Washington DC. When a girl stared at me, I wasn’t sure why she was looking, but I hoped it was because she knew of me, and it would help get into her pants as in the fashion of American celebrity culture. Very early on I get a big surprise—girls who knew of me and my writing played some of the hardest, most lethal game I’ve seen in my life. One girl stood me up. Another was testing me to the point of frustration, as kind as I was to her. Another tried to put words in my mouth, serving up challenges when I wasn’t doing the same. And then I would meet a girl who did not know me, often in the same venue, and she would be the nicest girl in the world, not unlike my first experience in Poland. I have no doubt that the girls who acted bitchy to me would be sweet to the next guy that came along afterwards, suggesting there was a sort of switch that women could flick depending on the circumstance they found themselves in and the man they were meeting."
I hate to say I told you so, but didn't I warn you that Romanian "celebrity" was going to be a double edged sword? There you are on television, announcing to your hosts your intent to "game" the local women, and you're surprised that the women who recognize you decide to turn the table? Why does it surprise you that women dislike being conned, manipulated, or "played" as much as men do?
For ten years, Roosh has done everything he can do to Be A Somebody. In the process, he has tossed away his education, his family, his cultural heritage, and his professional prospects. He has squandered peak years, when he could have been building a meaningful career and emotionally intimate relationships, in order to bask in the admiration of adolescent boys (of various ages). It has got to burn.
As for that peculiar "switch" women have, that mystifying ability to go from "nice" to one fellow to "bitchy" to the next? Hmm... Is it possible they just don't like you, and the more they know about you (via all those TV appearances), the less they like you?
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
Yeah, yeah, enough with the water / container.
Roosh is bitter now, now that he realizes "Every woman on this planet, regardless of her education or background, [harbors an inner] bitch, a cunt, a slut, a golddigger, a flake, a cheater, a backstabber, a narcissist, and an attention whore that is dying to get out and that, if certain conditions arise and she is placed in a certain container at a certain temperature, will thrust her worst upon you, and this, I’m afraid, is the true nature of women." Furthermore, even the most angelic woman is hiding inner excrement; she is a dormant volcano waiting to unleash harm.
The solution Roosh offers to his fellow misogynists: Society needs to start putting constraints, limitations, and shackles on women's unbridled freedom of behaviors and choices by force, through application of law or shaming.
Wait a minute! Where have I heard all this before?
I give you Daryush "Roosh" Valizadeh: The PUA most likely to join the Taliban.
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
"Water takes the shape of the container it fills."
(No matter how often you repeat that, it still sounds lame.)
Monday, May 20, 2013
Whatever Happened To...?
Whatever happened to the Feminist Victim Fund that Roosh set up? It's been over a month since any commented over there. Have they reached their mark? Did they even raise a dime? Or did everyone lose interest, like, immediately?
I wanted to ask over at Manboobz but they were busy talking about real victims (of the tornado) and I didn't want to seem like a completely insensitive jerk.
I wanted to ask over at Manboobz but they were busy talking about real victims (of the tornado) and I didn't want to seem like a completely insensitive jerk.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Is Evil Crazy?
Yesterday on Manboobz, a new commenter was called out for dismissing MRAs as "crazy." Her feelings got hurt, and she flounced off the board, which was a shame, because it could have been a great learning moment for her. It certainly was for me.
For one reason, it reminded me of how pejorative the word "crazy" is, and I should know. I recently "unfriended" an acquaintance who had commented on Facebook (and I paraphrase here) that I needed to get my head examined before I lost my medical insurance. Yeah, it hurt my feelings. And also, was that ever a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Suffice to say, I am hardly a paragon of mental health myself. I struggle with chronic depression and anxiety, and sometimes my girlfriend warns me that I am "going off the deep end." I have more than a touch of OCD, and have been medicated for panic attacks on occasion. Overall, however, given the genetic hand I was dealt, the circumstances I grew up in, and some of the god-awful choices I have made, I have managed pretty well so far. But I digress...
My point here is that I know firsthand that to disparage people who suffer from mental disorders is cruel and unfair. I know that the vast majority of people with psychiatric diagnoses do not commit crimes and do not intentionally hurt other people. I know that psychiatry cannot fully address the nature of "evil," nor is psychiatric treatment in itself a solution.
The kerfuffle at Manbooz yesterday, as well as a brief exchange with Zosimus the Heathen (see comments), also made me reflect on how the language we use not only expresses, but shapes, our thoughts. It was one of my favorite discussion topics in graduate school. Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, anyone?
Spiritually, I would have to describe myself as a skeptic. While I enjoy attending church, and often derive sustenance from it, I am not a Believer. I sometimes envy others their faith even as I soundly reject their attempts to instill it in me. I don't have a personal conflict with this. When it comes to religion, I have zero interest in converting anyone else to my point of view. Indeed, I deeply love and respect a number of people (including My Most Beloved) who happen to find comfort and guidance in what I personally consider a lot of hooey.
However, my lack of belief in supernatural causality does run me aground when it comes to the concept of "evil." I have found myself labeling much of what I read in the manosphere as "evil." And I think I need to look at this habit, which is a kind of intellectual "shortcut," a lot more carefully. What do I mean when I call Roosh or JudgyBitch or Paul Elam "evil" people?
James Knoll, a psychiatrist, recently posted in Medscape:
For one reason, it reminded me of how pejorative the word "crazy" is, and I should know. I recently "unfriended" an acquaintance who had commented on Facebook (and I paraphrase here) that I needed to get my head examined before I lost my medical insurance. Yeah, it hurt my feelings. And also, was that ever a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Suffice to say, I am hardly a paragon of mental health myself. I struggle with chronic depression and anxiety, and sometimes my girlfriend warns me that I am "going off the deep end." I have more than a touch of OCD, and have been medicated for panic attacks on occasion. Overall, however, given the genetic hand I was dealt, the circumstances I grew up in, and some of the god-awful choices I have made, I have managed pretty well so far. But I digress...
My point here is that I know firsthand that to disparage people who suffer from mental disorders is cruel and unfair. I know that the vast majority of people with psychiatric diagnoses do not commit crimes and do not intentionally hurt other people. I know that psychiatry cannot fully address the nature of "evil," nor is psychiatric treatment in itself a solution.
The kerfuffle at Manbooz yesterday, as well as a brief exchange with Zosimus the Heathen (see comments), also made me reflect on how the language we use not only expresses, but shapes, our thoughts. It was one of my favorite discussion topics in graduate school. Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, anyone?
Spiritually, I would have to describe myself as a skeptic. While I enjoy attending church, and often derive sustenance from it, I am not a Believer. I sometimes envy others their faith even as I soundly reject their attempts to instill it in me. I don't have a personal conflict with this. When it comes to religion, I have zero interest in converting anyone else to my point of view. Indeed, I deeply love and respect a number of people (including My Most Beloved) who happen to find comfort and guidance in what I personally consider a lot of hooey.
However, my lack of belief in supernatural causality does run me aground when it comes to the concept of "evil." I have found myself labeling much of what I read in the manosphere as "evil." And I think I need to look at this habit, which is a kind of intellectual "shortcut," a lot more carefully. What do I mean when I call Roosh or JudgyBitch or Paul Elam "evil" people?
James Knoll, a psychiatrist, recently posted in Medscape:
If anything keeps me kicking, it's the way life continues to remind me that I have so much yet to learn.What most of us label as evil is, in the final analysis, extreme selfishness. When we lack a clear understanding of something that frightens us, we call it "evil," which temporarily allays our anxiety. Our nerves settled, we believe we have become clear about the nature of the problem, and then we may go about defending ourselves against the "other" we have just created. But this defensive posture may all too easily transition into a preemptive strike -- the result of projecting onto the "other" the aspects of our own psyches that we hate or fear the most. That a killer considers his self-centered interests more important than your life is not due to some supernatural evil force; it is simply supremely egoistic... [italics mine]
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Not a Feminist, I Assume
Almost every manospherean writer claims that just because he/she is anti-feminist, that does not mean he/she is a misogynist. Of course, the writer will then proceed to demonstrate his/her fear and hatred of women in the most fulsome manner.
A few months ago, right wing conspiracy theorist Pete Santilli, on behalf of American women, demanded an apology from Alex Jones for his "disgusting remarks" promoting rape. But better not assume from this gallant gesture that Mr. Santilli himself is not a vicious misogynist.
I read today that he has announced on the air that he wants to shoot Hillary Clinton in the "vagina." One might think that her "head" or "heart" would be more lethal targets. If it is agony, not immediate death, he wishes to inflict, why not her "stomach" or her "knees?" He wants to shoot Bill Clinton and Barack Obama too, but does not specify that it is their "testicles" that should be blown off.
He chooses Clinton's vagina because this is the organ that represents the very essence of misogynistic loathing and longing. Like Phil Spector, he wants to penetrate her with his phallic gun before he sends her into oblivion. It's so fucking telling. And it's so fucking chilling. And I'm so fucking sick of reading and hearing about this kind of shit. And now I've used up my entire f-word allowance for the day, damn it.
A few months ago, right wing conspiracy theorist Pete Santilli, on behalf of American women, demanded an apology from Alex Jones for his "disgusting remarks" promoting rape. But better not assume from this gallant gesture that Mr. Santilli himself is not a vicious misogynist.
I read today that he has announced on the air that he wants to shoot Hillary Clinton in the "vagina." One might think that her "head" or "heart" would be more lethal targets. If it is agony, not immediate death, he wishes to inflict, why not her "stomach" or her "knees?" He wants to shoot Bill Clinton and Barack Obama too, but does not specify that it is their "testicles" that should be blown off.
He chooses Clinton's vagina because this is the organ that represents the very essence of misogynistic loathing and longing. Like Phil Spector, he wants to penetrate her with his phallic gun before he sends her into oblivion. It's so fucking telling. And it's so fucking chilling. And I'm so fucking sick of reading and hearing about this kind of shit. And now I've used up my entire f-word allowance for the day, damn it.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Roosh Can't Have My DFW!
One of my best friends is a former boyfriend I'll call "Max," if by "best" you mean the kind of friendship that doesn't require much maintenance. In other words, Max and I will go for months without contact; then he'll suddenly swing through the front door unannounced, with a parcel of DVDs and CDs in his hand, demanding a drink and the next six hours of my time.
We're close enough friends that I served as the officiant at his wedding.
Anyway, Max was a terrible boyfriend: a lazy, lying, mooching pothead (and I would say that to his face, and I often do). He hasn't changed much, but somehow those qualities are more tolerable now that we are not romantically involved.
Not that Max and I ever had a great romance, mind you, except insofar as I briefly wished it to be. What Max and I shared was a common taste in music, and a mutual passion for one artist in particular.
Shortly after Max and I broke up, he learned I had played some songs by the same artist for another lover, and he was devastated by what he took to be the worst form of infidelity. How could I squander something so intimate and significant on a roll in the hay? Years later, he still brings it up: the betrayal of it.
You have to understand: When Max turns you on to a singer or a band, to a movie or a book, he is giving you the very best part of himself.
I'm not as territorial as Max is, but I have the same tendency to guard what is precious aesthetically and emotionally. That's why when Roosh twittered a reference to David Foster Wallace the other day, my hackles went up. No! No! No! You of all people cannot have my DFW!
Roosh @rooshv
It was with some relief, then, that I noticed that Matt Forney had posted a link to a review by Vox Day of Wallace's Infinite Jest, in which he suggests Wallace killed himself because he realized he (Wallace, that is, not Vox Day) was a terrible writer.
Much has been written about why Wallace hanged himself. He had valiantly struggled with severe depression throughout his life. The sudden epiphany he was a "terrible" writer was almost certainly not one of the reasons. As always with the manosphere, I suspect that there is a certain amount of projection going on here.
I'll concede that Wallace is not an easy read, and certainly not everyone's cuppa, and Infinite Jest is a bit intimidating, partly because of its length, but also because Wallace is not afraid to make demands of the reader. You have to give Wallace the wheel, so to speak, and then just hang on to your seat. I don't know if I would have been willing to put in the effort if he hadn't already won me over with his hilarious anthologies of essays and short stories. I recommend starting with "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" (especially if you have ever been on a cruise).
Yes, Matt Forney et al., Wallace does use a lot of "big words." Thank goodness for the dictionary in my nook. Oddly enough, some of us wordsmiths actually relish the opportunity to expand our vocabularies.
It's so reassuring to see Matt Forney hates Jonathan Franzen too.
We're close enough friends that I served as the officiant at his wedding.
Anyway, Max was a terrible boyfriend: a lazy, lying, mooching pothead (and I would say that to his face, and I often do). He hasn't changed much, but somehow those qualities are more tolerable now that we are not romantically involved.
Not that Max and I ever had a great romance, mind you, except insofar as I briefly wished it to be. What Max and I shared was a common taste in music, and a mutual passion for one artist in particular.
Shortly after Max and I broke up, he learned I had played some songs by the same artist for another lover, and he was devastated by what he took to be the worst form of infidelity. How could I squander something so intimate and significant on a roll in the hay? Years later, he still brings it up: the betrayal of it.
You have to understand: When Max turns you on to a singer or a band, to a movie or a book, he is giving you the very best part of himself.
I'm not as territorial as Max is, but I have the same tendency to guard what is precious aesthetically and emotionally. That's why when Roosh twittered a reference to David Foster Wallace the other day, my hackles went up. No! No! No! You of all people cannot have my DFW!
Roosh
Truly great speech http://ow.ly/kP5ll Too bad he didn't listen to his own advice
Much has been written about why Wallace hanged himself. He had valiantly struggled with severe depression throughout his life. The sudden epiphany he was a "terrible" writer was almost certainly not one of the reasons. As always with the manosphere, I suspect that there is a certain amount of projection going on here.
I'll concede that Wallace is not an easy read, and certainly not everyone's cuppa, and Infinite Jest is a bit intimidating, partly because of its length, but also because Wallace is not afraid to make demands of the reader. You have to give Wallace the wheel, so to speak, and then just hang on to your seat. I don't know if I would have been willing to put in the effort if he hadn't already won me over with his hilarious anthologies of essays and short stories. I recommend starting with "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" (especially if you have ever been on a cruise).
Yes, Matt Forney et al., Wallace does use a lot of "big words." Thank goodness for the dictionary in my nook. Oddly enough, some of us wordsmiths actually relish the opportunity to expand our vocabularies.
It's so reassuring to see Matt Forney hates Jonathan Franzen too.
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