Becoming a Vegetarian Despite PETA

I've been following PZ Myers for a few months and you'll see he's on my blog list under Pharyngula.  He's an atheist, whereas I would put myself in the agnostic camp, so I don't always agree with his hard line against theists.  He's a scientist as well, so I don't always understand the science he's describing, but I find the topics interesting nevertheless.  I admire his energy, intellectual vigor, honesty, and courage in being able to see the "heart" of many an issue, and to stand up for what he believes, even when it means criticizing powerful voices in his own community, or people he identifies as friends. 

So I felt myself in good company when he announced that he is embracing a vegan diet after reading a recent Rolling Stone expose of the meat industry.  I myself had come to the same resolve as a result of reading the same article with its accompanying film.

Like Myers and a gazillion other anxious liberals, I had been cutting back on meat consumption while wrestling with the moral implications of all my consumer choices.  Over the past couple of years, I have experimented with meat-free recipes and meat substitutes.  I have been buying organic milk and cage-free eggs even though it's hard, given my budget, to resist the incredibly cheap alternatives.  I've read The Omnivore's Dilemma and Animal Liberation and watched scores of documentaries on the subject.

I'm not sure why that particular article has motivated me to finally commit myself, if not fully to veganism, but at least to no longer eating or wearing the flesh of mammals.  And this motivation is not based on particular concerns for my own health, but because this is one fairly easy thing I can do to reduce the suffering of sentient beings. 

A couple of years ago I watched a documentary, the name of which I cannot remember, which was so graphic and horrifying in its depiction of the fate of animals used in research labs that I immediately dashed off a check to PETA for $200 (a significant sum for me).  Unfortunately, within a few days I had cause to bitterly regret my impulsive largesse, as PETA came forward with its notorious "Save the Whales" campaign.

The purpose of these billboards was to "fat shame" women into becoming vegans by persuading them that vegans are never fat.  This is patently untrue.  I've met a number of chubby observant Hindus, for example.  It's perfectly possible to consume enough calories to get fat with an abundance of nuts and grains, and one of my personal concerns about giving up animal flesh is that I find when I don't get plenty of protein, my "sweet tooth" takes over.

Aside from being utter twaddle, the PETA campaign's chief objective was to humiliate fat women.  The billboards were erected near beaches in Florida and California: at least one woman commented that seeing it had caused her to cancel a planned outing to the ocean with her kids, which is terribly sad.  But that is what "fat shaming" does.  It effectively discourages fat people from participating in social activities most likely to promote their physical and psychological health.  Ask any fat woman how she is received when she enters an athletic club (hell, ask me!): she is either given the "stink eye" by customers who find her appearance offensive, or she is condescended to in the most demeaning manner.  That's why people who justify "fat shaming" by claiming "concern" for others' "health" are pernicious liars, hypocrites of the worst sort.

For me, the humiliation of PETA's "Save the Whales" campaign was double, for I realized I had just thrown a wad of hard-earned cash at an outfit that had absolutely no respect for me.  In other words, I had unwittingly paid for my own humiliation.

PETA soon dismantled the campaign and apologized, but the damage to my end was done.  I had learned to dislike PETA, a disdain that persists to this day.  I couldn't get my money back, but I did insist they drop me from their membership roll.  And although I'm a fan of Joan Jett and Chrissie Hynde, my admiration for them has been, frankly, tainted by their endorsement of PETA.  I try not to look at PETA ads in magazines.  When I can't avoid seeing one, I'm always nauseated by their blatant objectification of women's bodies. 

I'm not surprised that PETA has started a new campaign that is every bit as stupid and offensive, with assertions that are not only medically unproven, but are, in fact, simply another heaping helping of "fat shaming" with a light pseudo-scientific dressing.  And that is a shame because promoting the ethical treatment of animals is important for many valid reasons.  I am fairly certain that no fat person has been coerced into turning "vegan" because some vain-glorious, celebrity-studded ad campaign "shamed" her into it.

I give small amounts of money as I am able to local animal rescue and shelter organizations where I can witness firsthand the positive results of my charity.  Now that I've learned the Humane Society is really trying to help shine a spotlight on abuses in factory farming, I'm going to shoot them some support too.  

When will PETA learn that they are turning off more people than they are winning?  I'm beginning to think that PETA is just about promoting PETA...

Get Groupies By Blogging!

Giving female fans a face for their fantasies.

This week Matt Forney teaches readers how to "get groupies by blogging."  No, really.  By following Matt's seven easy steps, any man can "enjoy a rock star life." 

You see, women are "hardwired to mate with winners" and nothing signals "conquering hero" better than a soft, goofy-looking guy who makes almost no money and sits in front of a computer most of the day cranking out vitriol while deluding himself that playing in "a crappy local band" makes him a professional musician.  See, we live in such a celebrity-crazed culture that it isn't necessary to be good at something: it's only necessary that one has a recognizable name: like, say, "Matt Forney".

Matt refers to a girl that once "not only made me breakfast, but insisted on doing my dishes, vacuuming out my living room, and dumping Drano in my toilet."  I have little doubt this happened to Matt, but he refers to the incident so often (always with the telling Drano detail), it's obvious it was a fairly singular event in his life.  Furthermore, what he takes as a girl being "suppliant" I take as a girl feeling sorry for him.  At any rate, it's not a very erotic memory, is it?  I mean, how bad does a toilet have to get to call for Drano?

Of course, Matt lays down certain caveats.  First, "most groupies reside in the middle of the attractiveness spectrum."  Really?  So Kate Hudson-as-Penny Lane was just a Hollywood fantasy after all?
 

Second, groupies don't make good long-term girlfriends because they are all "ho's" ("ho's," let it be noted, who occasionally provide fanatically high levels of housekeeping service).  

Third, geography is a major "cockblocker" for bloggers, since potential groupies tend to be dispersed around the world of Matt's imagination.  Easy to see why that presents a serious obstacle for a guy like Matt, who relies on hitch-hiking to get across the country.

Once he has responsibly forewarned his readers, Matt gets down to the business of getting girls by building blogs.  See, if Matt knows anything, it's how to get women's attention.  Apparently women on the internet like blogs about game, self-improvement (i.e., weight lifting), and punk rock because those interests make a man look "cool."  "Unacceptable topics include politics, video games and anything that makes you look angry, bitter, or nerdy."  (It's almost hard to type that last quote because even my fingers are laughing so hard.)

Then there is the matter of style.  Bloggers who attract groupies "convey strength, confidence, and mastery," just like Matt.  On the other hand, indulging in a "negative, carping tone" a la Paul Elam is the kiss of death.  Girls want winners, not whiners!  Writers like Matt himself, who project "unapologetic masculinity... establishing ourselves as dominant men who put women in their place."  Don't squander logic and reason on the likes of women, and instead engage their erotic imaginations by describing "hot" sexual encounters.  Look at the success of 50 Shades of Grey -- how difficult can it be?

But, wait, there's more!  Read Aristotle's Rhetoric (I'll put that on my reading list immediately) for the fundamentals.  Find your own voice -- but make sure that voice is deep and commanding.  Blog regularly (alternate, perhaps, with lifting?).  Network with other bloggers (cuz "no man is an island" yadda yadda yadda).  Oh, and by the way, please buy Matt's e-book on the subject (of course!).

Curiously, Matt claims it is "absolutely vital" for bloggers to post pictures of themselves.  I say this is curious advice from Matt because as far as I know, there are only two photos of Matt in the public domain, and they are only used by bloggers like me who want to mock him.  In fact, Matt took down his old "vlog" because Youtubers made such relentless fun of his, uhm, less-than-dominant presentation.

Finally, Matt cautions would-be rock stars bloggers who dream of following in his trail-blazing footsteps to "be patient."  This isn't going to happen overnight (or probably ever), but when your manosphere blog takes off, it will all be worth it.  One day you too will lie back on your satin upholstered, circular bed, like the returned king you were destined to be, and "bask in the attention of your lady fans."

Happy First Wedding Anniversary!

My boss mentioned this morning that she and her wife are planning a belated honeymoon in Hawaii over Christmas, the lucky dogs!  Some balmy weather and sunshine sounds mighty good to me right now.  We're experiencing a cold snap.  Instead of the usual unflagging drizzle, the temperatures have been plunging into the teens overnight.  

It has been a year today that Washington State has recognized marriage equality.

A year ago, my girlfriend and I helped celebrate by attending a public wedding reception at the Paramount Theater downtown.   I don't think I've ever been in the middle of such a deliriously happy crowd before.  The open (free) bar and trays of delicious donated cupcakes certainly contributed to the festive spirit.

My girlfriend and I haven't talked about getting married yet, but now that she is "legally" a woman, I'm sure we both recognized how passage of this law affects our relationship too.

I am fortunate to live in Washington, the state where I was born and raised and plan someday to retire and die -- despite our gloomy weather, insane traffic congestion, and occasional earthquakes. 

Feeding the Beast

A Facebook friend posted today a link to some new Fox-promoted lie about Obamacare with the comment, "I'm always surprised people continue to believe this stuff."  I was surprised that she was surprised.  After all, she is a successful psychologist who specializes in treating addiction. More than most, she should understand that "believing" is not what drives the audiences of Fox and other media outlets that rely on people's insatiable appetites for outrage.  The fact is, most of us enjoy being outraged.  It's fun to get mad.  Anger makes us feel strong.  It motivates us.  That's because anger releases a cascade of stimulating hormones that make us feel more alert ("alive") and energetic.  No wonder many of us get addicted to these powerful mind-altering chemicals that we can manufacture ourselves, right in our own heads, in the privacy and convenience of our own homes.  (And by "us," I mean "me" because, being of the XX persuasion, I am hopelessly solipsistic.) 

There have been a number of articles about "feeding the beast" of public outrage, and I expect to see more about this as people start to feel trapped in cycles of frustration and helplessness that are relieved temporarily by experiencing a dose of righteous anger, only to result in a "crash" -- that is, until the next scandal engages our attention and pumps us full of adrenaline once more.  It's exhausting, though, isn't it?

There is a lot of anger addiction in my family, and I am an anger addict myself.  I was taught to fuel myself with my own anger the way other people are taught to use coffee, as a routine stimulant in response to fatigue, fear, stress or any event that I find excessively taxing.  That doesn't mean I walk around in a state of simmering rage or am prone to public melt-downs.  But it does mean I can be rather unpleasant to be around when I am girding my loins for battle with some unpleasant or tiresome task such as cleaning the house or tackling a mountain of paperwork.  I have long been conscious of how I manipulate my own brain chemistry in order to energize myself with a goodly dose of anger.

Ironically, by feeding the anger beast I often wind up depleting my reserves.  Instead of actually harnessing that anger to effect real change (such as actually re-grouting the tub), I pursue the "high" like the junkie I am, seeking more "hits" of outrage.  For better or worse, like everyone else I live in a media-rich environment where there are endless opportunities to divert myself, and endless opportunities to be outraged.

I suppose this came to mind today when I found myself idly peeking at Matt Forney's twitter feed instead of cleaning the bird's cage.  Yesterday, he had tweeted something about me, to the effect that reading my blog was "like watching a nervous breakdown in slo-mo" and that I should really be put on "suicide watch."  Both comments made me laugh, and I wasn't offended by either.  To be honest, I wanted to see if he had tweeted anything more about me!  ("Vanity, thy name is woman!")  Instead, he was on an entirely different toot, courting new sources of outrage by virtually dancing on the grave of Nelson Mandela.

Forney's post about why girls need less (or was it more?) self-esteem has already faded from collective memory.  These things seem to have a half-life of about two weeks. Now he is left with the unenviable task of keeping attention on himself with nothing but his internet connection, smartphone, and nastiest impulses to help him.

Not for the first time I am thinking that in terms of grinding, mind-numbing, thankless vocations, the endless pursuit of internet notoriety must be the worst.  And it isn't even like "trolling for a living" fetches up much of a "living."  One of my mild but persistent obsessions is trying to figure out how a guy like Forney manages to stay as porky well-fed as he does.  I can only speculate that even though he's long since dropped out of college, his mom is still sending him "care packages."  (Or is it that, in the words of Shakespeare, anger is his meat and he sups upon himself?)

When I first stumbled into the "manosphere" I couldn't believe my eyes.  I would never have guessed how many Angry White Men were out there.  I felt compelled to read boatloads of these blogs in an effort to grasp the depth and breadth of it, to accept that the resurgence of a "new" misogyny was real.  I started with Roosh (hence the name of the blog), but soon discovered he was only one of many men who really, really hate women and don't hesitate to express that fear & loathing with shockingly contemptuous and even violent imagery (from safely behind their keyboards of course).  And they had fans too, and many of those readers had their own tiny terrible blogs and tiny furious twitter feeds.

I'll admit that these guys (and a few of these gals) scared me.  I hate to admit that because that's exactly what they want to do: to control women by playing on their fears.  And then I got very angry, which is a natural coping mechanism, because anger makes the fear manageable.    

OK, I now see this New Misogyny really is a thing in our world (not in my own small "real" world, mind you, where I have never met -- or at least never had reason to recognize -- any guys like this).  I've entertained my worst fears about what it represents, and have come to the conclusion that it does not represent a serious social threat, at least in its current incarnation.  

So what's my excuse for continuing to immerse myself in the toxic morass that constitutes the "manosphere"?  Is there a 12 Step program for people like me, who are addicted to feeding their own internet-fueled anger?  And what are the salient differences between "people like me" and "people like them" anyway?  In terms of our respective anger addictions, it seems very few.

It strikes me that on some small level I have been engaging in a symbiotic relationship with the manosphere bloggers, a sort of "dance of anger" in which we take turns outraging each other.  Maybe there is more in common between, say, Matt Forney and me than meets the eye.  Like many dysfunctional relationships, we are each getting some pay-off, feeding some addictive and self-destructive need.

Anyway, enough about Rush Limbaugh-wannabe Matt Forney for now (and in a reasonable universe, enough about Rush Limbaugh and Matt Forney forever.)  Time to watch once more "The Marriage of Maria Braun" (yes, I'm still on my WWII Germany kick) and pull my Christmas lights out of the attic because God forbid I be the only house on my cul-de-sac without lights on it.

Involuntary Celibacy and Me; or TMI

One of the themes of the manosphere is that "sex" is a commodity that women control and men will go to any lengths to obtain.  Women use "sex" to manipulate men and get them to do their bidding, or else cruelly deny men whom they capriciously deem unworthy.  Men, on the other hand, require sex to be fully masculine.  It is their biological imperative to pollinate every fresh flower they see; it is to attract potential hotties that they are driven to labor, to achieve, to acquire.  For example, according to at least one "incel" (see previous post), JFK did not become a senator and then a president in order to please his striving father, or even to fulfill his own ambition for power; he was driven by his innate need for nooky.

It strikes me that both men and women share a tendency to blame the other gender for their own base impulses or thwarted desires.  One thing that women don't generally do, however, is feel "entitled" to the sexual services of men.

Now, I know the Angry Guys will say that is because women, just by virtue of having vaginas, can have all the sex they could wish for.  But that isn't exactly true.  Sure, even a flabby old crone like me knows of at least one notoriously seedy bar in my area where I could find a fuck buddy in ten minutes flat (make that five if I were buying).  I could find a partner for most of these incel guys at the same place, if they would just ratchet down adjust their expectations of what it is they believe they "deserve" -- just a mite.

I know a lot of women who are lonely and horny, who spend many nights yearning and burning, writhing alone in their beds, listening to vintage Sarah McLachlan and gnashing their teeth.  I know how that feels:  I have been one of them myself.

I have had several periods of "involuntary celibacy".  One of these periods lasted nearly five years, which, by anyone's reckoning, is a long dry spell.  It followed a seven year relationship with a man who had finally put me out of my misery broken up with me by announcing on the phone he was marrying someone else.  I was devastated, alternately in denial (spinning fantasies of winning him back) and suicidal (cuz that would show him).  It was a period of extreme depression and social isolation punctuated with bursts of manic, impulsive activity:  I moved several times, started and abandoned three different jobs. 

I had gained a lot of weight, and was living in rural Colorado, where I hardly ever met anyone, much less any eligible bachelors.  Still, I was a young lady with a high libido.  This was in the late eighties, the burgeoning era of internet dating, and I was among the first to try to hook up that way.  There were long, passionate e-mail exchanges with a bipolar lad in Canada and a slightly demented elderly gentleman in California, but to no avail.   

This was back when I still identified myself as straight, although even if I had realized I was in fact "hetero-flexible," I doubt it would have improved my plight.  Looking back, eighty percent of the problem was that I was functioning under a dark cloud of depression, practically exuding desperation, and obviously needed therapy (which I eventually got) even more than a roll in the hay.

This was also the period that I discovered pornography erotica and mail order, uhm, marital aids.  So it wasn't a complete waste...

A friend who was in similar straits used to joke that if she could order a man like a pizza, she would have tipped generously.  We joked about taking up horseback riding, about telephone poles, about the gnawing hunger to be taken, to be well and truly fucked, to be royally rogered while we thrust our noses into some random stranger's hairy armpit and inhaled his musky pheromones. 

We were, to put it bluntly, mad with unrequited lust.

I even thought about hiring a male prostitute.  (This was, after all, the decade book-ended by "American Gigolo" and "My Own Private Idaho", so the concept of men commodifying their sexuality had become a thing.)  I had no idea how to procure one, however, especially in my dusty little town snuggled high in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Even if I had stumbled upon Richard Gere (or even better, Brad Pitt) in some cowboy bar, I couldn't yet un-bundle my desire for sex from my desire to be desired.  And I don't think these angry male "incels" or frustrated PUAs are much different.  Whether male or female, we look to sex with a partner to provide confirmation of our own desirability. 

I broke my five year record as soon as I had moved to a larger city and found a career that (at least temporarily) I enjoyed and which put me in contact with a broader array of like-minded people.  In fact, I proceeded to make up for lost time by having a string of casual encounters colorful off-color adventures that I immortalized in another blog.  

Now I am an old(ish) woman.  My circumstances and needs are quite different.  I haven't had penetrative sex for a number of years, and I don't miss it.  Yet I can still remember the pain and frustration of my own days of involuntary celibacy, and sympathize with those men (and women) who rail against it.  

The Unknown Soldier

Taking advantage of the mini-break surrounding Thanksgiving, I further indulged my obsession with Nazi war crimes by watching "The Unknown Soldier," a documentary by Michael Veerhoeven that explores the reaction of the German public to the Wehrmacht Exhibitions that have toured that country in the past two decades. 

The point of the exhibition was to prove that the regular German Army played a huge and ongoing role in the extermination of the Jews, especially on the Eastern Front, i.e., Ukraine.  We forget that many of the Jews were not killed in death camp gas chambers, but were herded into ghettos (often established off the main streets of towns with hastily erected barbed wire), from which they were periodically, methodically, and openly marched through the towns to open pits or gullies a couple of kilometers away, and shot.  It is estimated that 100,000 Jews were disposed of at Babi Yar alone.  

The magnitude of these numbers always beleaguers my imagination.  When I lived in Grand Junction, there were 35,000 residents, and it seemed like a pretty big town to me (x 3? in one pit?)  

And much of this action was carried out by rank and file German soldiers.  Indeed it could not have happened without their direct involvement.  And their full and enthusiastic participation could not have been engaged unless they themselves were acting out their own ingrained anti-Semitic belief system.

The evidence of their involvement takes many forms, but most compellingly, in snapshots taken by the soldiers themselves and later lovingly preserved in family photo albums: "Grandpa's Service."  I was reminded of the shock that the Abu Ghraib photos caused, not only because they provided horrific evidence of war crimes by American soldiers (and American female soldiers at that!), but because the pictures had been taken and distributed so freely and joyfully.

The culpability of the common German soldier is not what I was taught in grade school, and it certainly came as a shock to Germans of my generation, whose fathers and grandfathers had been exonerated after the war.  Not surprising, then, that the Exhibit triggered protests, not only by neo-Nazi thugs, but by ordinary middle class Germans and even a few very elderly veterans themselves. 

I found the details of the documentary riveting.  For example, in one brief film clip, a German Red Cross nurse tenderly secures a blanket around a naked elderly Jew's shoulders as she calmly directs him into a mobile gas chamber... 

But the segment that made the greatest impression on me was the research that had been done on the fate of soldiers who refused to participate in the genocide: not a single one who refused to shoot Jews was disciplined in any way, much less court-martialed.  In other words, the soldiers of conscience -- and there were a few, there always are a few good people! -- suffered no negative consequences whatsoever as a result. Which puts the lie to the commonly cited belief that taking a moral stand always meant risking martyrdom.  In other words, the soldiers that shot Jews did so because they wanted to (or at least didn't mind doing so), and the soldiers that didn't shoot Jews did so because they didn't want to.

I hope German historians will continue to seek out and reward, if only posthumously, those individuals.  Because if there are important lessons to be learned by examining why, and how, people commit heinous acts, there are even more important lessons to be learned by examining why, and how, people resist evil.

Angry White Guys

Russell Brand recently remarked "We have more in common with the people we're bombing than the people we're bombing them for."

That quote has been rattling around in my head the last week or so, and I re-quoted it once more to my friends as we sat around the table after we had consumed our Thanksgiving feast, supplemented with a great deal of wine, yesterday.  Talk had turned to the Tea Party, and for some reason it seemed apt to muse upon the ways we have more in common with the people we imagine are our enemies than we do with the powers that be who are really running the show.

I actually know a Tea Partier or two (although neither, thankfully, was present at the table yesterday).  One is a childhood playmate who lives in a cabin in the Tetons.  I haven't seen her since I was eleven years old, and doubt I ever will see her in the flesh again, but we reconnected via Facebook as people do these days, and have been reading each other's posts ever since.  We even had a short, rather awkward chat late one night.  I'm really surprised she hasn't un-friended me by now because I'm sure it has become painfully apparent that we are diametrically opposed on just about any social or political issue there is.   

Lately she's been "sharing" a lot from a Facebook page called American White History Month, which has, as its banner, the slogan "Never apologize for being white!"  For some reason that slogan strikes me as pretty hilarious.  I've never felt I needed to apologize for being white even when, as I was on this particular Thanksgiving, I am surrounded by black and Latina women.  I mean, isn't that part of white privilege?  I hardly ever have to think about race at all!  (At least as it affects me personally.)

The reason I don't un-friend her is because I rather fancy having a small window, via Facebook, on an entirely different way of perceiving the world.  I rather relish being reminded that, if my mother hadn't fled her tiny Mormon hometown at the age of seventeen, I could be that woman myself: a woman who admonishes others to respect the flag and "put the Christ back into Christmas", who hates homosexuals and loves her grandchildren with equal passion, who posts recipes of rich desserts at least twice a day, and who recently shot an elk through her kitchen window while cleaning up after supper.   In a way, she is living my heritage, that of a very devout, albeit very bigoted, modern day frontier woman.

I don't un-friend her because I need to remind myself where I come from -- my own personal white American history -- and how far from "other", in fact, the members of the radical right are to me.

After finishing Michael Kimmel's book, Angry White Men, I am feeling a resurgence of compassion and connection to this corner of humanity as well.   Blame it on the holiday season, perhaps.  These angry white men, with their sense of "aggrieved entitlement," and their woefully misdirected anger, and their nostalgia for a patriarchy that is dismantling under their very feet -- these men are part of my heritage too.  And I'm beginning to feel guilty about making fun of them and shaming them and calling them morons.

Because making fun of these guys is beginning to feel like poking at caged bears.  Or bull fighting.  In other words, it doesn't seem like a fair fight because these guys can't win.  They certainly can't win an intellectual argument, they're on the wrong side of history, and they aren't smart enough to figure out how they are being played.  They are being encouraged (and encouraging one another) to believe "the problem" is immigration, feminism, or affirmative action, or just plain lack of nooky.  The source of their troubles, in other words, is always the class one or two rungs down the ladder.

"Divide and conquer," one of my friends said, as we soberly picked at our pie, and imagined a day when the angry white guys would wake up and smell the coffee.