Happy White Pride Day (Whenever It Is)

Yesterday (March 21) was White Pride Day, when Americans of European ancestry could come out of their trailers homes with their heads held high and finally say it: Yes, I'm White and I'm Proud!

And I missed the whole thing, although I did spend much of the afternoon performing the Spring Rites of My People, like slathering myself with SPF 100+ sun screen,* rooting around for my Ray Bans for hours before venturing out into the jungle my back yard, and then cursing roundly at my dead lawnmower for twenty minutes before retreating in defeat to my cave living room.

No, White Pride Day would have slipped clean past me had I not decided to check out a new blog for "feminine women" called Return of Queens.  The top stories featured today are "The Most Disgusting Thing You Will Ever See!" [An abscess being lanced? Thanks, I'll take your word for it!], and one with the plaintive headline, "A Day For Whites: Too Much To Ask For One A Year?"  Both stories were penned by "Queen A." (not be confused with Queen Bee).

But hold on a minute!  If White Pride Day is an "international" holiday, why will it be celebrated April 5 in the U.K.?  You'd think that the anglosphere, at least, could coordinate their calendars.  

Ah, according to yet another source, the 15th of every month is "White Pride Day."  (Or, let's face it, every damn day of the year.)  Show solidarity by wearing white clothing. But what if it's after Labor Day?

Never mind your pretty little head, there's a recipe for Green Beans and Red Potatoes at the bottom of the page which the contributor promises "are actually enjoyable to eat, even for kids."  Though the accompanying photo fails to convince me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* You think I'm kidding? Skin cancer is just one more part of my proud genetic heritage.

Ouch!

I assume the following tweet is a dig at me, so I'll take the bait and acknowledge it.  Perhaps it's in retaliation for my recent observation that Matt Forney the Writer can be hired at astonishingly low rates. I can only guess what kind of "unethical work" he is alluding to, but I expect it's something along these lines.

It's strange that he should suggest the worth of teachers and adjunct faculty (or anyone) is measured by their paychecks. And while it's certainly true that a lot of folks make more money than I do, it doesn't follow they behave unethically in the process.  Hell, my manicurist makes almost as much money as I do (and, believe me, she's worth every penny).  Call me a schmuck (or the female equivalent thereof), but I take a measure of pride in knowing that what I do actually empowers people by teaching them skills that will make their own lives richer in ways that matter. Though a cost-of-living increase would be nice...  I suppose, at the end of the day, we all have to live with our consciences.

1. Matthew Forney ‏@realmattforney 7h

   Example: my current freelancing gig is the very definition of unethical. But I get paid more than most teachers and adjunct faculty do.

   
   Matthew Forney ‏@realmattforney 7h
   America is a country where it's more profitable to cheat the system than it is to actually help people improve their lives.

Who the Hell is Belle Knox?

The other day a young manospherian blogger (whose name I may be linked to as long as we both shall live) tweeted, "How can ANYONE  defend Miriam Weeks/Belle Knox at this point? She's a living, breathing argument for both patriarchy and arranged marriages."

I thought, Who the hell is Belle Knox?

That's one benefit of monitoring the manospherians: they're constantly introducing me to names and stories that would otherwise have entirely escaped my notice.

Turns out Belle Knox is a 19 year old Duke University student who was doing a little porn on the side to pay tuition.  As the manosphere would have us believe, this has become a widespread phenomenon, and yet another portent of the imminent Collapse of Civilization.  Knox was outed by a classmate and quickly became subject to a horrendous, still ongoing torrent (well, what passes for a "torrent" on the internet) of public abuse attention.

Still, I had to wonder why this New Misogynist was so angry at poor Belle?  After all, she's thin, pretty enough (an "8" at least), and she makes porn, a genre I imagine this young man enjoys on a regular basis, along with 77% of his demographic.*  Physically (which is to say, in the only way that matters), she's the feminine ideal of wannabe rock stars and horny young PUAs, and judging by her demeanor on camera, quite a charming, articulate young lady.

The manospherian tweeter went on to grumble, "This is what a feminist looks like: self-mutilating, living in a crappy apartment, getting fucked for a living," and links to a predictably exploitative story in the Daily Mail that focuses on the severe depression Knox had suffered as a younger girl, who as a former "cutter" still bears the scars without shame. There is a subtext behind the rather shocking photos, of course: Only emotionally damaged people become porn actors.

I have to take that tabloid story with a few grains of salt because Belle Knox appears to be exploiting her, uhm, exposure for all it's worth, engaging in a blizzard of buzz, appearing on talk shows such as "The View," and making her brazen debut as a stripper.  And frankly, she looks to be having a lot of fun with her moment in the spotlight.

And then I realized what Matt Forney's real beef was:  Belle Knox has identified herself as a "feminist."  (Never mind that there are plenty of "feminists" who wouldn't necessarily agree.)  See, she's taken what the New Misogynists (and to be fair, most of the American public) see as "degradation" and proceeded to spin it into into a platform from which she can be be heard above the din, reveling in her fifteen minutes, and earning admirers for her sheer guts.**  It is for this transgression that Belle Knox must be punished!

For someone like "The Real Matt Forney," who has courted notoriety with every fiber of his being, yet still hasn't managed to sell a single $5 ad space on his website, the "overnight success" of this belle du jour has got to irk. 

Typical feminist / shameless hussy

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* More fun facts about Americans' porn habit can be found here.
** My own views on pornography are ambivalent.  Basically, there is porn, and then there is porn.  Had I a daughter or a son, I would rather they didn't get involved in the sex industry for a myriad of reasons.  However, I have to credit Ms. Knox.  She's a role model for anyone seeking to turn the tables on "shamers."  I wish her the best in all her future endeavors.

Fred Phelps Is Dead

Fred Phelps, patriarch of the Westboro Baptist Church, has finally died.  

He will not go to Heaven.  He will not go to Hell.  He did not have a soul that will live on in any form, corporeal or spiritual.  

He will be buried.  His body will decompose (is, in fact, already decomposing as I write this).  In fifty years, he will scarcely be remembered, and the people he tormented will be gone too.

His ultimate fate is no different than my own will be.

His death gives me no satisfaction or hope.  His death does not mark the end of human cruelty and malice.

“Life ... is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Especially the life of Fred Phelps.

My Woody Allen Problem

The other day, a couple of friends invited me to join them to see "Blue Jasmine" at the charming second-run movie theater in our town.  The movie had gotten excellent reviews, I really wanted to catch up with the girls, and I was way overdue for a night out.  Still, I couldn't bring myself to go.

You see, I have a Woody Allen problem.  I know I'm not alone.  

"Don't think of it as a Woody Allen movie," my friend urged.  "Think of it as a Cate Blanchett movie."

That didn't help.  She chose to work with him, and to laud him at the 2014 Golden Globes.  Now Scarlett Johansson has slipped in my esteem by calling the little girl (now woman) who maintains Allen molested her "irresponsible." (One thinks wistfully of the old studio days when movie stars spoke to the press only from carefully crafted scripts.)

See, here's my problem:  I'm, like, 99% sure that "Dylan Farrow" is telling the absolute truth.  

Some people blame Mia Farrow for the fact that this scandal cannot die.  They say she's manipulating the media coverage, that she's still carrying on a bitter vendetta against her former lover because he betrayed her with...  her daughter.  (Like for Christ's sake, that wasn't bad enough?)  Don't think I don't think rather poorly of Ms. Farrow, too, BTW, although not for the reasons much of Hollywood does.  My beef with Mia Farrow is that she didn't do more to protect her daughter, soon enough.  

I've had arguments with my old friend Max about this.  He claims that artists (say, Courtney Love) operate on a different moral plane.  They are, by virtue of their talent, somehow "above the law," which only applies to mediocre schlubs like you or me.  The art must be judged apart from the artist who created it.  

You can argue this with me til the sun goes down, I don't disagree in theory, but it doesn't change my visceral unease and distaste for both the man and his movies.  I tried to get past this by watching "Midnight in Paris" last year, but I could never let my guard down enough to immerse myself in the cinematic experience.  

I have a similar problem with Roman Polanski, for similar reasons.  I watched "Carnage" recently on DVD just because, you know, I'll watch anything Christoph Waltz is in (even when it's in German without subtitles).  Yeah, yeah, I know Polanski's victim is now a middle aged matron who forgives him, and the fact that he (in notable contrast to Allen) has admitted his guilt and expressed remorse should mitigate his sentence, but frankly, the only way he could fully redeem himself in my harsh, judgmental eyes is if he returned to the U.S., prepared to face his sentence, which is damned unlikely for a lot of reasons, not least of which is his age.

Last week PBS was hosting one of those "golden oldies" fundraising specials, and who do we see?  Michelle Phillips (Mamas and the Papas), burbling on about what a songwriting genius her late former husband John Phillips was.  And he was.  Unfortunately, he also had a longstanding incestuous relationship with his very vulnerable, very drug-addicted daughter Mackenzie, which she described a few years ago in a book.  I watched the Oprah Winfrey interview, and you know what?  I am 99% certain she was telling the absolute truth too.  And sure, learning that Phillips betrayed and exploited his own daughter in the worst way doesn't mean he didn't make some great music, but it mightily diminishes the pleasure I can now take in listening to that music.  And the fact that Michelle Phillips has publicly renounced her stepdaughter as a delusional liar taints her too.

Imagine how horrifying it would be to learn that your ex-husband, someone whom you once loved and had a child with, was, in fact, capable of such evil -- especially when your own legacy is irrevocably tied to his.  Still, I have this... this problem with any woman who chooses loyalty to a man over loyalty to a child (even a grown child, and one who is not biologically her own). 

I'm also aware that men get falsely accused of child abuse.  A lot.  And if I believed in God, I would believe there was a special circle in Hell reserved for just such false accusers.  It's just that in the above mentioned particular cases, I happen to believe the victims.  

It doesn't help those victims that I no longer enjoy the art their perpetrators created, of course.  It doesn't help me either.  I used to be a huge fan of Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, and John Phillips, before their own actions robbed me (and many others) of the capacity to admire their work. 

Mainstream Invading the Manosphere!

Remember Geoffrey Miller?  He's the doorknob evolutionary psychologist and author of The Mating Mind who last year tweeted that fat people lacked sufficient self-discipline to successfully complete doctorate programs.  

Miller, a tenured associate professor at the University of New Mexico, didn't lose his position, but he was formally censured.  Among other punishments, his work must be monitored by his department chair.  Not too tightly though, since he seems to have been given the go-ahead to team up with reformed rake Tucker Max in a joint venture, a men's magazine called "Mating Grounds."  

And this has made manosphere blogger Danger & Play madder than a wet hen.  D & P is accusing Max and Miller of "riding coat tails and pretending to be original when they are copying Danger & Play."  Others in the manosphere are equally incensed.  How dare that has-been former alpha & now hopelessly beta Tucker Max suggest that there is even a need for another site that teaches men how to get laid? Hasn't he checked out their little corner of the internet lately? They are already accusing Miller and Max of stealing their "content."

First the webmaster of "Viva La Manosphere" tries to muscle in on Danger & Play's juicing turf, then this impertinent challenge!  And to add insult to injury, Miller is now pretending he doesn't even know who D & P is!

I've heard academic politics can be brutal, but it's nothing like the dog-eat-dog world of wanna-be masculine lifestyle gurus. I hope Miller and Max appreciate what kind of competition they're up against.

And that concludes the latest episode in the continuing drama that is [cue organ music] the MAN-o-sphere...

There Are Consequences...

There is this cracker on the manosphere I'll call "Dr. Delusion."  He has a very young girlfriend I'll call "Lady Misandry."  Now before you get all politically correct on me and call me out for the use of the term "cracker," I'll have you know that I have it on high authority (that is, a series of bartenders in Florida) that "cracker" is not necessarily a slur and I am not using it pejoratively here.  I'm using it to paint a picture of a working-class Southern man who is suspicious of outside authority (government, intellectuals, etc.) and clings to the Old School values of traditional gender roles, independence, self-reliance, and bigotry.  The kind of guy who waves the Confederate flag at Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts but will happily offer you a beer from his cooler.  (Racists usually take to me on sight because, well look at me!  I could be an Aryan Den Mother.)

In fact, I find much to admire about Dr. Delusion.  First of all, he is one of those rare "manospherians" who actually seems to work, and to work hard.  He's the kind of guy who is not afraid to get his hands dirty.  He embodies a lot of the traditional masculine virtues I hold in high esteem, not least of which is the ability to fix stuff.  I'm sure he knows his way around Home Depot, and can take any power tool in hand with confidence and authority.

Dr. Delusion and his lady live in a rural area where they raise their own vegetables and animals.  I was particularly interested to find that they raise rabbits for food because a few years ago, when the economy tanked, I seriously considered doing the same in my backyard.  Unfortunately, I couldn't imagine actually slaughtering them.  I would have had to find someone like Dr. Delusion to do that for me.  Also, I've eaten rabbit once, and I didn't like it very much.*  That's when I decided a better plan was to stockpile booze, so that I'd have something to barter when Doomsday hit.

I've been trying to give up meat, but it's a struggle.  I'm fully aware that eating flesh I am not prepared to kill myself is hypocritical.  Therefore, I forced myself to view the photos Dr. Delusion had gleefully posted on his blog of killing and skinning a rabbit.  It actually looked pretty easy, and tossed in a stew I'm sure it was very palatable.

So I'm reading along, almost wishing I had a neighbor as handy and resourceful as Dr. Delusion, when I come to this line:  "This was a two year old female who refuse [sic] to let my bucks breed her.  Around my house, there are consequences for refusing to breed." [italics mine]

And that's when I almost lost my lunch.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* I've actually seen a rabbit killed before.  When I was visiting a friend's farm near Alessandria, la nonna beckoned me over so that I could watch her dash a rabbit's head against the side of the barn.  I threw up on the spot, much to the old lady's amusement.  I had just enjoyed a gelato, and when it came back up it was still cold.  A singular experience.