The voice of men, the voices of despair

I spent the sunny afternoon at a public pool near my home.  Not surprisingly, given that it was an exceptionally warm day in Seattle, the pool was filled with families.  The density of splashing, shrieking youngsters frustrated my effort to swim laps, but I enjoyed observing the kids nevertheless.  Although I don't have a family and children myself, I sometimes find a kind of vicarious pleasure in watching other families enjoying themselves together.  I was especially moved by several affectionate, attentive fathers interacting with their little ones.  It gives me a kind of hope.  After all, one does not need to be a biological parent in order to feel invested in the youngest generation.

When I got home, I thought about the men of the manosphere, who are so angry and hateful towards women.  Although I frequent manboobz, the site which delights in mocking misogyny, I sometimes feel at odds with the prevailing tone of dominant commenters.  The more I follow the manosphere (Voice for Men, Heartiste, Roosh), the more compassion I feel for the young misogynists.  It's easy to ridicule them, because most of what they say is ridiculous.  It's easy to be outraged by them, because most of what they say is outrageous.  It's easy to be frightened by them, because they are simmering with anger.  And then it's comforting to reassure myself that their ideas are, well, after all, pretty silly.  They pretend they are a movement, but they spend so much of their energy squabbling with one another that it's evident that they couldn't organize themselves out of a paper bag. 

But more and more, what I hear behind their hateful words, their virulent disdain for all women (and most other men), is despair.  Roosh and his ilk (Matt Forney, Paul Elam, "Roissy," et al.) are men who have pretty much given up on the one thing -- other than engaging work -- which makes life meaningful: intimate, committed relationships with others.

A couple of weeks ago, Roosh was positively distraught when Mark Minter abandoned the manosphere ship to marry a gal he'd met online.  His sense of betrayal was palpable.  Even his followers were a bit baffled that he took it so much to heart.

But someone like Roosh has nothing else except his convictions, as delusional and self-destructive as they are.  He has no relationships beyond his tenuous online connection with the men and boys who echo his nihilistic philosophy.  He is so out of sync with the cultural tide that he must seek refuge in ancient texts, to constantly imagine that the way it was is the way it should be now.  

Today he posted, in his typically self-aggrandizing and melodramatic fashion, that "every man dies by his own ideas."  He views himself as a martyr to his own ideals.  But relentless, inchoate rage is not a "cause."  It is a symptom of a personality disorder. 

I reflect on the mothers and fathers I watched frolicking in the pool today.  Whether they are "happy" in their marriages I have no idea.  I have never been convinced that "happiness" should be a person's primary aim.  I'm not sure even what "happiness" means.  I can say that they all looked thoroughly engaged with one another.  I thought, "This is Real Life."  And by merely observing from the sidelines, I felt myself part of it:  the Family of Man.  And I pity the men of the manosphere, who have learned to hate what they have come to believe they cannot have: intimate connection, a sense of purpose, community membership, an investment in the world around them.

Is Roosh Even Human?

In a recent forum, Roosh and his minions were amused by a well-publicized news story about two women who drove into a lake and drowned.  What they found particularly hilarious was that one of the women, in a panic, attempted to dial "911" on her cell phone.  Because women are so stupid.  And because women deserve to die, anyway.

Back when I was living in Louisiana, I was in the throes of my "bridge phobia."  Driving on bridges and overpasses triggered severe panic attacks.  (I still get a little anxious about bridges, but I managed to "desensitize" myself once I moved back to Seattle -- otherwise, I wouldn't be able to drive anywhere!)

I've had nightmares of being trapped in a car underwater ever since the Chappaquiddick scandal, when Mary Jo Kopechne was abandoned to such a fate by a drunken and cowardly Edward Kennedy.  And who can forget the death of Jessica Savitch, whose date drove into a canal in New Hope?  Mired in mud upside down, the doors of their car could not be opened.

Every time I had to drive across a lake or bayou in Louisiana, I unrolled the driver's side window and mentally rehearsed swimming out.  I tightened my muscles in anticipation, and visualized bursting to the surface.  The problem was that the windows of my Toyota were pretty small, and I wasn't convinced I could squeeze through.  So there I would be on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway -- which is 24 miles long, mind you -- gripping the steering wheel, sweating profusely despite the wind rushing through the speeding vehicle, and roundly cursing myself the whole way for being such a lard ass.

I still occasionally read of people, often late at night, driving off embankments or bridges and drowning in their cars.  And I still think it's prudent to unroll the window when crossing bodies of water.

The story was tragic, but the real horror here is the psychology of people who find such stories risible, or evidence of the inherent inferiority of the victims. 

When we hear about terrible accidents, we naturally try to learn how to avoid them (or how to survive them if they befall us despite our best efforts).  We struggle to find meaning and purpose in what is otherwise random horror.  We may look for ways to "blame the victim" in order to deny the possibility that such a fate could ever visit us.  We grieve for the families and friends, imagining or remembering the sudden loss of our own loved ones.  But regardless, on some level, we can't escape being reminded of the fragility of our own existences.  Such stories are occasions for somber reflection.

But a person like Roosh is not one of "us," is he?  He is a human who is devoid of humanity.

It's not exactly accurate to say that people like Roosh lack empathy.  In fact, he has enough empathy to actually take pleasure in the suffering of others (specifically women, the targets of his inchoate, inexplicable, relentless rage).

His isolation from the cloak of humanity is his tragedy. And although I have just finished reading The Wisdom of Psychopaths, in which author Kevin Dutton argues that psychopathic elements contribute to the survival of cultures, I cannot imagine what purpose the existence of someone like Roosh serves in this world.  

Perhaps one must simply accept that there is no purpose.  Perhaps the best we can do is to try to identify the potential dangers of dark mountain roads or dark charismatic personalities, at the same time resigning ourselves to the fact that these are simply parts of the mystery of life.

A Man I Love: Steve Shives

Courtesy of "carnation," a commenter on Manboobz, two videos by Steve Shives:

While the MRM has predicted it's quickly reaching a tipping point, poised to go "mainstream" and become a real force for social change, this is what is happening instead:  vigorous pushback from... well, men:  serious men (that is, men to take seriously).

I know I've said I don't care for baseball caps on grown men, but for Mr. Shives, I'll make an exception.  In fact, I'd love to buy this guy a drink right now!

ROK: A Kinder, Gentler Place?

Roosh V is "on hiatus," his exact whereabouts unknown.  Maybe he's in Moldova learning the fine art of gun-running.  He is definitely casting about for his next scam.  

Meanwhile, is it just my imagination, or is Roosh V's "other blog," Return of Kings, becoming a kinder, gentler place?  It seems to be filling up with articles about how to set up a "bachelor" kitchen, healthy eating "on the run," the joys of the great outdoors, and the relative merits of "soylent" as a food substitute.  One today exhorted readers to quit whining about their jobs and start using their leisure time more fruitfully!  Plus a very idiosyncratic list of coma-inducing songs that are supposed to be conducive to lovemaking (see David Futrelle's take on that one.

Even Matt Forney recently devoted an entire post to the art of shaving using mineral oil instead of shaving cream (which believe- you-me I read with interest).  Of course the comments section is another matter entirely...  Tread there at your own peril. 

Aspiring PUAs Watch Out

Garfunkel and Oates have got your number (and the bimbos they lust after).  Could these girls be cuter?

Welcome Oh Warrior Princess!

Anyway...  That these issues are being raised for scrutiny and debate is a positive step, I suppose, even if it feels like kicking over a rock.  Exposing the depth and breadth of misogyny is the first step in eradicating it.  

Twenty years ago I accompanied my ex and his children to Disneyland, and I hated almost every single minute of it.  (To be fair to Walt and his "imagineers," my misery had less to do with the park and more to do with the relationship.)  At one point, sobbing bitterly on a bench under the entrance banner that read "The Happiest Place on Earth," I looked up to see a small throng of Japanese tourists taking my picture.  So at least the opportunity for an ironic picture was not lost.

Anxious to escape the heat and glare, I agreed to ride through "Pirates of the Caribbean" with eight year old Suzanne.  "This is my favorite ride," Suzanne confided.  "Except for this part..."  she added sotto voce, as we bobbed into a tableau of drunk, lusty brigands seizing a struggling young maid with lecherous intent (ignoring the fat, blowsy blonde who was clearly disappointed not to be raped herself).

Suzanne closed her eyes tightly until we had passed through this scene.  "I wish that part wasn't there," she reiterated.  "Otherwise, it would be the perfect ride."  I had to agree, but it took a child to remind me of what I had always known, yet had somehow learned not to see:  Sexual assault isn't funny and it isn't fun.   It's scary and degrading, and even a small girl knows that it could really happen to her if she is careless (or merely unlucky).

Rape culture means that there is no direction in which a little girl can gaze without being reminded of the vulnerability her sex imposes, not even on a kiddie ride.  

Clearly, a number of people besides Suzanne and me didn't like watching animatronic pirates violating animatronic wenches, and these people weren't just humorless feminists, either: plenty of disgruntled dads complained too.  Under considerable consumer pressure -- and much to the chagrin of certain guys-who-just-don't-get-it -- Disneyland and Disneyworld removed the "sexual slavery" element from the attraction a few years ago. So now Suzanne can take her own daughter on "the best ride ever," and neither will have to squeeze her eyes shut for any of it...

This week I've been following with dismay the abuse Twittered upon Lindy West following her televised debate with comedian Jim Norton.  To be fair, Norton is not egging his fans on.  He seems genuinely concerned about the issues that were raised -- even if he's not willing to concede (yet) that misogyny is bad for comedy.  What is clear in his twitters is that he doesn't want to be a Bad Guy, but he doesn't want to be seen as "backing down" either.  To which I would echo Ms. West in asking him, On which side of history to you wish to stand?

How anyone could deny the existence of "rape culture" in the wake of the comments left by scores of anonymous white doods... is beyond me.  I mean really fellas:  You deny "rape culture" exists by claiming some women are too ugly to rape?  You disagree with someone, so you describe in some detail how you'd like to impale her on a spit?  You don't want women to think you're rapists, so you conjure up images of the most grotesque and sadistic fantasy? 

Yet sometimes the anger and hate really overwhelm me.  After all, there are real men behind those threatening pseudonymous comments, and chances are that some of them are moving through the same public spaces as I am.  That's damn scary if you think about it.  (Which is, of course, exactly how they want women to feel.)   So when I read today that Kristin Beck, a former Navy Seal, has come out as a trans woman, I was, well, thrilled.  I for one welcome some real warrior princesses on "Team Femme!"   

 

You Say You Want A Revolution...

If you're as old as I am, you can probably remember where you were the day John Lennon was shot.  I was alone, in a bathtub in Genoa.  I started to cry so uncontrollably that I aspirated water, and wound up performing a self-administered Heimlich maneuver by hauling my sobbing, dripping carcass over the edge of the tub.  Not pretty!   

Anyway, sometimes when I read these manosphere guys I find myself thinking about John Lennon, and about his personal evolution, tragically cut short, from self-confessed wife-beater to a kind of proud Uber Beta Man, and of the following song in particular.  Note that this version, which is laid-back-to-the-point-of-lethargic, is an early "out-take."

You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be all right
All right, all right

You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We'd all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well, you know
We're doing what we can
But when you want money
For people with minds that hate
All I can tell is brother you have to wait
Don't you know it's gonna be all right
All right, all right
Ah

Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah...

You say you'll change the constitution
Well, you know
We all want to change your head
You tell me it's the institution
Well, you know
You better free your mind instead
But if you go carrying pictures of chairman Mao
You ain't going to make it with anyone anyhow
Don't you know it's gonna be all right
All right, all right
All right, all right, all right
All right, all right, all right