Over here at Casa La Strega, we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a brief Public Service Announcement: Hey, kids, there is a reason that people of my generation used to scrawl "Speed Kills" on every wall and alleyway.
Now, personally, I've never used speed. Other than nicotine and caffeine, I've never gone in for stimulants. Maybe that's because I saw the devastating effect that amphetamines had on my mom. Like many housewives in the sixties, she was routinely prescribed "diet pills" by the family doctor. If you watch Mad Men, this unfortunate period in American medical history is accurately depicted in the Betty Draper storyline.
My mother under the influence of speed was terrifying to me as a child: I truly thought she was possessed. Somewhere I still have a drawing I made of her when I was seven or so, with lightening bolts shooting out of her eyes.
Routine use of amphetamines can render otherwise normal people paranoid, delusional, and grandiose. For someone who already demonstrates these characteristics in a non-medicated state, it is a lousy choice as a recreational drug.
What is an even more baffling choice is soliciting for this, or any other illegal drug, on Twitter. Just saying, man. Just say no!
Monday, February 17, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
And Yet We Outlive Men!
Over at the Inner Sanctum of Il Douche, "Scorpion" weighs in on a female writer I haven't heard about for decades. (Scorpion is an enthusiastic participant there, having posted over 1300 comments in three years.) Scorpion is in a state of high dudgeon over author Elizabeth Wurtzel. If you don't recognize the name, don't feel bad. Her
"She really is completely obsessed with herself," he fumes. And you know what, Scorpion? I couldn't agree more: Wurtzel is one female writer to whom the manosphere's favorite descriptors of women -- that they are "narcissistic" and "solipsistic" -- fairly apply.
I remember having a go at Prozac Nation when it was first published, while visiting my sister. She had thoughtfully left it on the night table for me as a little bedtime reading, but within the first chapter, I found myself disliking the author so much that I had to plod into the living room to find an old National Geographic to nod off to instead.
Scorpion continues: "Women literally go insane if they don't have the stability of a man in their life, or the purpose provided by motherhood. They just lose themselves in their own minds, overcome by their solipsism. Without a husband and children, the middle-aged and beyond a woman literally has no purpose for existence. She is just sort of there, consuming resources for her own enjoyment."
As I take in those last two lines, I take in the bitter reality of my own wasted life.
Because I have to admit, this has been one day like countless others when I haven't accomplished a damn thing beyond getting my nails done and making an impressive dent in the Valentine's Day chocolate my sweetie presented me with yesterday.
And I'm clean out of Prozac.
"This ultimately leads to extreme self-loathing, which this woman is undoubtedly experiencing... Once the last of her looks fade, she will literally be left with nothing but cats, wine and memories of her youthful whoredom."
It then occurs to me that a glass of blackberry wine would be just the thing to finish off my chocolate orgy. I'll first have to kick my way through a pack of sleeping hounds to reach the kitchen though:
"Another wasted life. Another victim of feminism."
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
I'll Admit I'm Kind of Impressed
Ironically, I am probably the only person who visited this blog this week who had not read Matt Forney's "justification" for doxxing me last Sunday. It took me a few days to summon the steel to do more than glance at it. I'm sure you can understand.
I have only just read it in its entirety tonight, and... and... Oh, how can I put this? I have to admit that he demonstrates an exceptional flair for... this particular kind of thing. (I'm not sure what to call it -- character assassination? I'm not being snarky BTW -- I'm absolutely sincere. If he weren't so emotionally crippled, he could be the Karl Rove of his generation.
I mean, Holy Moly! By the time I had finished reading, I was scared of myself. I'm not sure I come across as a narcissist, though -- more like a someone with severe Borderline Personality Disorder. I had to go back and read what I had written over the past year just to reassure myself that I was actually pretty lucid (at least most of the time).
What strikes me is how much effort Forney put into this. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to compile. And none of those hours were compensated, not even at his modest advertised rates. In a way, it's a shame, because trying to make this thing "go viral" turned out to be a complete bust, and if he attempts to milk it further, he's really going to look desperate.
Not only do I expect that his fan base found the "expose" rather boring, but, on some level, the whole episode must have made some of them downright queasy. My rather white-bread, matronly mug probably reminded them of their own moms'. And something tells me that the last thing a typical Matt Forney reader wants to be reminded of is his mom.
Face it, 99.9% of the "manosphere" participate anonymously. How can they fail to acknowledge how vulnerable their identities are? This is not to be construed by any paranoiacs out there as a veiled threat BTW. If I have ever "doxed" anyone (this is Mr. Forney's justification for behavior that violates even the norms of his own community) it was not intentional and I have apologized and rectified the error.
See, I'll admit I'm kind of a dope about technology (blame age + lack of interest). I can barely operate the media console in my classroom! Obviously my own naivete contributed to my own doxing. Live and learn.
In closing, I must say it's been a strange and singular experience to see an image of myself planted at the foot of a manosphere blog home page, kind of like it would feel to unexpectedly glimpse myself in someone else's movie. The picture, BTW, was taken at a local restaurant a couple of years ago, at a birthday celebration. I recall that I was a little tired, but having a nice time with my friends. I'm grateful that I at least look pleasant. If he'd found my old faculty picture, everyone would think that I was an elderly Korean man on a bender.
I have only just read it in its entirety tonight, and... and... Oh, how can I put this? I have to admit that he demonstrates an exceptional flair for... this particular kind of thing. (I'm not sure what to call it -- character assassination? I'm not being snarky BTW -- I'm absolutely sincere. If he weren't so emotionally crippled, he could be the Karl Rove of his generation.
I mean, Holy Moly! By the time I had finished reading, I was scared of myself. I'm not sure I come across as a narcissist, though -- more like a someone with severe Borderline Personality Disorder. I had to go back and read what I had written over the past year just to reassure myself that I was actually pretty lucid (at least most of the time).
What strikes me is how much effort Forney put into this. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to compile. And none of those hours were compensated, not even at his modest advertised rates. In a way, it's a shame, because trying to make this thing "go viral" turned out to be a complete bust, and if he attempts to milk it further, he's really going to look desperate.
Not only do I expect that his fan base found the "expose" rather boring, but, on some level, the whole episode must have made some of them downright queasy. My rather white-bread, matronly mug probably reminded them of their own moms'. And something tells me that the last thing a typical Matt Forney reader wants to be reminded of is his mom.
Face it, 99.9% of the "manosphere" participate anonymously. How can they fail to acknowledge how vulnerable their identities are? This is not to be construed by any paranoiacs out there as a veiled threat BTW. If I have ever "doxed" anyone (this is Mr. Forney's justification for behavior that violates even the norms of his own community) it was not intentional and I have apologized and rectified the error.
See, I'll admit I'm kind of a dope about technology (blame age + lack of interest). I can barely operate the media console in my classroom! Obviously my own naivete contributed to my own doxing. Live and learn.
In closing, I must say it's been a strange and singular experience to see an image of myself planted at the foot of a manosphere blog home page, kind of like it would feel to unexpectedly glimpse myself in someone else's movie. The picture, BTW, was taken at a local restaurant a couple of years ago, at a birthday celebration. I recall that I was a little tired, but having a nice time with my friends. I'm grateful that I at least look pleasant. If he'd found my old faculty picture, everyone would think that I was an elderly Korean man on a bender.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Death Wish?
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Some men treat the red pill as a small dip in the pool, but I'm driving this submarine as deep as I can go until the window starts cracking.
Roosh
On Doxxing
Doxxing: a new word for a new social phenomenon. I was just reading an interesting article about it.
My students are always amazed when I tell them of the "old days" (when I was their age), before the age of personal computers and the internet. They simply cannot conceive that there was a time when people communicated by hand-written letters or expensive long-distance phone calls, when "self-publishing" involved mimeograph machines.
Who imagined back in the seventies that one day anyone could "publish" anything globally, instantaneously, and... anonymously?
Because of this, it has always been hard for me to wrap my head around the way people take "anonymity" for granted nowadays. I'm very ambivalent about it. I'm not sure if it's a positive social element. In fact, I've often sensed that, at least as it has been practiced on the internet recently, it can be downright pernicious. The freedom to say anything one damn well pleases without the risk of social disapprobation brings out the most careless and cowardly behavior. It divorces actions from consequences. (And yeah, I'm including myself here.)
I believe public discourse probably functions better when opinions are attached to real people.
What would happen to the "manosphere" if everyone was simultaneously and forcibly "doxxed" as I have been? How would they react if they had their names, their addresses and phone numbers, their work and sexual histories revealed and disseminated to the most hostile imaginable audience? Would these tough-talking guys just slink back into the woodwork, or would their "movement" finally evolve into a reality-based force for change? We'll probably never know, but I find it amusing to speculate.
I once had a conversation with the writer Joanne Greenburg, who published her first and most successful book, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, under the pseudonym "Hannah Green" in order to protect her parents' privacy. She told me that she regretted it, and that pseudonyms generally caused more trouble than they were worth.
If I were to do it over again, I must say that I would not have used a pseudonym. Of course, that means I might have been a mite more circumspect about the personal information I revealed! But on the other hand, maybe not. Truth is, I'm just getting too old to be very self-protective of my "image" or to present myself as anything other than what I am. Call me crazy, ugly, fat, old, barren (!) -- I really don't care, you're probably right, it just doesn't matter. See, I have pretty much lost all my vanity. There's a great deal of freedom, as well as time-honored patriarchal tradition, in becoming a shameless crone operating on the margins of polite society. That freedom is, perhaps, the greatest consolation of age. And it has ever been thus.
Roosh
Hmm... "above average in appearance"... Am I damned by faint praise here?
Ruin my reputation? I don't have a "reputation" to ruin. In fact, I am so completely inconsequential, so utterly without influence or public recognition, that even if you littered the internet with slander about me, no one would care one bit. I've been employed at the same institution for fifteen years, and the admin there already know I'm a mixed bag of nuts. And contrary to what Forney may believe, critical thinkers do "consider the source". Anyone whose opinion I care about is unlikely to give much weight to online attacks from noxious trolls.
The real mystery is why Matt Forney et al care what I say. After all, in their world, I have long outlived whatever usefulness I once served as a woman, and now hardly count as a human being at all. I reckon I'm about as much a threat to Matt Forney as a mosquito. A mosquito with bad knees, a full-time job, and a mortgage. Who lives on the opposite coast.
So life proceeds apace at Casa La Strega. After a flurry of hits on my blog (though I suspect no one hung around long enough to read anything, unfortunately), and a handful of inane, anonymous comments, nothing much is different. I awake each morning and find there are no flying monkeys circling my roof, after all. I go to school and plod, more or less cheerfully, through my daily grind, I make plans for Valentine's Day with my sweetie, I chuckle at the characterization of myself as "a dangerous narcissist" as I clean up dog poop, drive my neighbor's kids to school, pay utility bills.
My students are always amazed when I tell them of the "old days" (when I was their age), before the age of personal computers and the internet. They simply cannot conceive that there was a time when people communicated by hand-written letters or expensive long-distance phone calls, when "self-publishing" involved mimeograph machines.
Who imagined back in the seventies that one day anyone could "publish" anything globally, instantaneously, and... anonymously?
Because of this, it has always been hard for me to wrap my head around the way people take "anonymity" for granted nowadays. I'm very ambivalent about it. I'm not sure if it's a positive social element. In fact, I've often sensed that, at least as it has been practiced on the internet recently, it can be downright pernicious. The freedom to say anything one damn well pleases without the risk of social disapprobation brings out the most careless and cowardly behavior. It divorces actions from consequences. (And yeah, I'm including myself here.)
I believe public discourse probably functions better when opinions are attached to real people.
What would happen to the "manosphere" if everyone was simultaneously and forcibly "doxxed" as I have been? How would they react if they had their names, their addresses and phone numbers, their work and sexual histories revealed and disseminated to the most hostile imaginable audience? Would these tough-talking guys just slink back into the woodwork, or would their "movement" finally evolve into a reality-based force for change? We'll probably never know, but I find it amusing to speculate.
I once had a conversation with the writer Joanne Greenburg, who published her first and most successful book, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, under the pseudonym "Hannah Green" in order to protect her parents' privacy. She told me that she regretted it, and that pseudonyms generally caused more trouble than they were worth.
If I were to do it over again, I must say that I would not have used a pseudonym. Of course, that means I might have been a mite more circumspect about the personal information I revealed! But on the other hand, maybe not. Truth is, I'm just getting too old to be very self-protective of my "image" or to present myself as anything other than what I am. Call me crazy, ugly, fat, old, barren (!) -- I really don't care, you're probably right, it just doesn't matter. See, I have pretty much lost all my vanity. There's a great deal of freedom, as well as time-honored patriarchal tradition, in becoming a shameless crone operating on the margins of polite society. That freedom is, perhaps, the greatest consolation of age. And it has ever been thus.
Roosh
*Standing ovation*
This post now comes up #4 in a search for her name. The sad thing is I bet she is above-average looking compared to the other posters on manboobz.
This post now comes up #4 in a search for her name. The sad thing is I bet she is above-average looking compared to the other posters on manboobz.
Hmm... "above average in appearance"... Am I damned by faint praise here?
Ruin my reputation? I don't have a "reputation" to ruin. In fact, I am so completely inconsequential, so utterly without influence or public recognition, that even if you littered the internet with slander about me, no one would care one bit. I've been employed at the same institution for fifteen years, and the admin there already know I'm a mixed bag of nuts. And contrary to what Forney may believe, critical thinkers do "consider the source". Anyone whose opinion I care about is unlikely to give much weight to online attacks from noxious trolls.
The real mystery is why Matt Forney et al care what I say. After all, in their world, I have long outlived whatever usefulness I once served as a woman, and now hardly count as a human being at all. I reckon I'm about as much a threat to Matt Forney as a mosquito. A mosquito with bad knees, a full-time job, and a mortgage. Who lives on the opposite coast.
So life proceeds apace at Casa La Strega. After a flurry of hits on my blog (though I suspect no one hung around long enough to read anything, unfortunately), and a handful of inane, anonymous comments, nothing much is different. I awake each morning and find there are no flying monkeys circling my roof, after all. I go to school and plod, more or less cheerfully, through my daily grind, I make plans for Valentine's Day with my sweetie, I chuckle at the characterization of myself as "a dangerous narcissist" as I clean up dog poop, drive my neighbor's kids to school, pay utility bills.
Woman's Tales
Somehow I stumbled on an interesting series called "Woman's Tales" of which this is part.
Monday, February 10, 2014
An Early Childhood Memory
 | |||||
| Early portrait of a dangerous feminist | . |
"Don't step on the bee," my mother warns. "It will sting you."
I consider my mother's warning for a moment. Up to this point, I really haven't even thought about stepping on the bee, but now that I've been warned not to, I can hardly resist. I don't know yet what it feels like to be stung, and my curiosity outweighs my fear. I raise one fat, pink, bare foot over the bee and press down tentatively.
The bee stings me and I burst into tears.
My mother scoops me up, deposits me inside in my high chair, and removes the stinger with a pair of tweezers. "It was a bad bee," I wail. "Don't worry," my mother says grimly. "Now it's dead. Bees die once they lose their stingers." This information triggers a fresh volley of tears, as I am now filled with remorse over the fact that I have not only been hurt by, but have myself killed, another sentient creature, simply to satisfy my own relentless curiosity.
I share this memory with my girlfriend yesterday over a late lunch, and she rolls her eyes. "You haven't changed much, have you?" she says.
Indeed, I have trundled through my entire life recklessly squashing bees, and have sometimes regretted it. Fortunately, all the bees I've trod on have had very small stingers.
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