Get A Load of Those Shoulders!

Whether perusing the manosphere or more, uhm, mainstream masculine spaces, a woman might conclude that men are just slaves to women's asses.  Or tits.  Or legs (which are always supposed to "go up to there," wherever "there" is). 

These standard criteria for judging feminine beauty have always troubled me.  In my winsome youth, I was the girl for whom the expression "Such a pretty face...!" was coined.  Seriously, from the neck up?  I was gorgeous.  But, sadly, full-length photos (or mirrors) were never my friends.

Although my face (even pushing sixty) is assessed as "attractive" by a few, and "pleasant" by most, my ass has always been mediocre at best.  My tits, though once bodacious, are well past their expiration date(s) -- although I can still summon formidable cleavage with adequate support.  And as for my legs?  Let's just say that there was a reason I was called "Stumpy" by a few of my crueler grade school peers.* 

What with my calcaneal bone spurs and ever-falling arches, I can no longer even flash what Victorian gents might have wistfully referred to as a "well-turned ankle."

So I hardly need tell you that I was downright thrilled to read on Julian O'Dea's website that there are men out there who are most enthralled by a pair of shapely feminine... shoulders.

Finally!  A category of Feminine Beauty Olympics I can compete in!

Because, folks, I don't mind telling you:  I have awesome shoulders.  First of all, they are rather narrow (which makes fitting clothes, at 200#+, a real bitch).  They are lightly muscled (yes, I can still bench press my own weight), but smooth and plump, with no discernible underlying bony structure.  My skin is flawless, thanks to a life-long scrupulous regime of Jack Daniels, minimal UV exposure & motel room soap.

My exceptionally attractive shoulders compelled me to seek "cold shoulder" fashions long before (and after) this style enjoyed its brief heyday.  My greatest frustration in life is that acceptable professional attire does not include strapless dresses or halter tops.
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* The upside?  "Learning to fall" in ski bunny class was a lead pipe cinch, given my extraordinarily low center of gravity.

Listen Up Ladies!

One of the most unfortunate aspects of venturing forth into the public sphere is that it requires us to witness other people's unfortunate sartorial choices.  I seem to recall Fran Leibowitz doing a whole riff once on the horror of "polka-dots" or t-shirts printed with pithy messages ("If we don't want to hear from you, what makes you think we wish to hear from your shirt?").  I myself shudder at the sight of grown men wearing baseball caps turned backwards.  How do we screw up the fortitude to leave our houses every day, given the barrage of visual abominations we are forced to contend with: flip-flops, tattoos, Scrillex haircuts... yoga pants?

Matt Forney ‏@realmattforney

Women who wear yoga pants in public disgust me. I don't care how good it makes your ass look, you still look like a lazy slob in them.

A pair of well fitted jeans, on the other hand...

Humor, Teaching, Therapy

My therapist suggests I "intellectualize" my emotions, and she's absolutely right. My question is, What's wrong with that?

My therapist also suggests I use humor as a shield, and she's right about that, too. What else have we got with which to defend ourselves against the casual cruelty and endless stupidity of others?  As Mel Brooks proved in "The Producers," nothing cuts an enemy down as effectively as biting mockery.

But I use humor in other ways, too.  My students consistently report on student evaluations that "Teacher is funny."  I like to make students laugh at least once an hour because I think there is something inherently rewarding about "getting a joke" in a second language, and because the physical mechanism of laughter at least brings a burst of oxygen to the brain. 

But sometimes I wonder if this is too much of a good thing.  Am I sacrificing clarity of purpose for cheap laughs?  In other words, do my attempts to keep students engaged through humor obscure the teaching points I have been entrusted to communicate?  Are my attempts to make others laugh a gift to them, or just a way to prove to myself how clever I am?

Argh, there I go over-analyzing again, a propensity that makes me a very good therapy patient but a chronically exhausted (and occasionally exhausting) human being. 

$15/hour

Seattle now has the highest minimum wage in the nation.  I can almost afford to quit teaching and get a "useful" job (as a bartender, perhaps?) and finally quit being such a social parasite.

Roosh Channels Brillat-Savarin

One of the paradoxes of the New Misogynists is that they consider women so vastly inferior to men, yet simultaneously invest women with almost magical power over a man's psyche or social status.  In fact, according to Roosh, a woman (or rather, a woman's appearance) has the power to define a man, even providing "a strong indication of [his] value, though of course not the sole determinant."

In "You Are The Last 3 Women You've Slept With," Roosh instructs his readers to assess their past three conquests with a critical eye in order to identify their own weaknesses and limitations.  Because those ladies, for all intents and purposes, represent him.

Wow.  I knew I had influenced a few past boyfriends (I hope in mostly positive ways), but I had no idea that I had defined them.  I'm almost tempted to ring them up and let them know.

But wait a minute.  At the risk of discouraging the hapless lads (who are now regretting that tattooed land-whale they went home with at closing last Saturday), Roosh hastens to reassure them that in fact, her deficits do not necessarily reflect the inherent value of the player himself.  Sometimes the limitation is a matter of geography:  "I believed Washington DC was the biggest one for me, so I got up and left, to find that the ceiling was lifted in what I could sexually accomplish."

Then Roosh segues into one of the strange metaphors for which he is renowned, wherein women become food, and average looking women are "fast food."  And once Roosh sinks his teeth into a juicy metaphor, there's no stopping him!

"The day after eating McDonald's, when my bowel movement becomes problematic, I regret my decision to eat there."  Now, anyone who has read Roosh's travel books knows that he is apt to become uncommonly obsessed with the state of his bowels, so it's natural that the sex = digestion metaphor springs so readily to his mind.

Anyway, at the risk of becoming "morbidly obese" or even courting "diabetes," Roosh realized he had to return to his higher ("gourmet") standards in women and so he "made the choice to hit the farmer's market and buy the freshest produce and meats."  I assume that open air market is located in Odessa?  (Poland, once vaunted as the perfect "poosy paradise" has now been relegated to the status of a Safeway or a Publix.)

I'll admit I'm rather confused.  This sounds more like nutritional advice than anything; perhaps Roosh should call this post "You Are What You Eat," or even better, "You Are The Last Three Things That You Have Eaten."  

In which case, at this moment, I'm a taco, a diet Coke, and a bowl of lentil soup. 

Please don't judge me.

Put That In Your Funk & Wagnells!

If you aspire to become a serious scholar of the manosphere, like me, you've got to learn the lingo.

Yes, like any subculture, the manosphere has its own specialized jargon.  You may not find these terms in your standard dictionary, so here are a couple of links to consult when you run across a cryptic reference to, say, "hypergamy" "gynocentrism" or "pussification."

David Futrelle has put together a glossary at his website.  The webmistress of Bodycrimes has also compiled a helpful "Dictionary of Misogyny."

Coming Soon to a Youtube Channel Near You!

Woud-be auteur Davis Aurini of StaresattheWorld is seeking your support in bringing his vision of the "casual cruelty" of modern life to cinematic fruition.  Mr. Aurini's vision is as dark, potent, and singular as the man himself -- and it promises to "revolutionize" the contemporary narrative.

Friends, if you have ever dreamed of getting into an indie film production on the ground floor, this is your opportunity.

"Lust in the Time of Heartache" is a dark meditation on the state of our culture and our love lives, combining elements of Film Noire with marital arts action sequences."

Watch the clip for lulz.  Try to ignore the way the microphone neatly obscures the ever-natty Mr. Aurini as he swings a pair of nunchucks in a deserted parking garage, or the near inaudibility of the innocent bystanders "colleagues" who are endorsing Dr. Demento's Mr. Aurini's latest project.  And who's the jarringly-loud Slavic chick with the manic gleam in her eye at the end?  So many intriguing mysteries here, and this is only the pitch!

The theme of the proposed film is "man against himself" -- which pretty much sums up the nutty manospherean philosophy in a nutshell.
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Speaking of Dr. Demento, remember "They're Coming To Take Me Away?"  I remember hearing this on the radio as a kid and responding with a queasy admixture of humor and horror -- which also pretty much sums up my reaction to the nutty manospherean "philosophy."