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Monday, September 22, 2014

You Know, He's Right!

A number of MRAs have complained that women get preferential treatment at clubs and bars that offer discounts or free admission to women. I always dismissed their resentment as frivolous at best. My knee-jerk reaction was they should be grateful for institutions like "Ladies Nights," which at least improved their odds of actually meeting "a lady" in the flesh. Then I stumbled on this interview with grad student / DJ Trevor Doughtery about why "ladies nights" are downright pernicious, and it got me thinking.

Fact is, in all my years of being an XX person-in-drag, I had never taken advantage of a "Ladies Night" special. In large part, this is because I have always recognized on a subconscious level that because I was not the kind of "lady" these promotions were designed to attract, taking advantage was a violation of the terms of an unwritten contract. I would be cheating the system. Then I fell in with a group of cross dressers who thought such promotions were a fun way to "turn the tables," so I thought, Why the hell not?

One night my SO and I met up with some other "ladies" at a local piano bar that had "Ladies Night" specials on slow Tuesdays. It was not a pleasant experience. In fact, it was the only evening I have ever felt that we, as a couple, were in real physical danger. To make a long, creepy story short, a party of "frat boy" types locked us in their cross hairs, relentlessly imploring us to join their table, and wouldn't take our polite "no's" for an answer. There was a predatory vibe that unnerved us to the point where we wound up "sneaking out" of the back of the club and high-tailing it back to our vehicle as fast as we could. 

Any woman who attends a "Ladies Night" does so at her own peril. She is placing herself in an environment where the men who are paying full covers feel that they are "entitled" to her favors. OK, to be blunt? She is whoring herself for cheap drinks (and mediocre entertainment). She is putting herself in harm's way. 

No wonder "Ladies Nights" are now banned in five states.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Summer is Over...

I'm back from three weeks on Cocoa Beach where my partner and I own a time share in a funky little fifties-era motel. The courtyard is studded with palms and plastic flamingos, the air conditioning system is a bit wonky, the towels plentiful but threadbare. Tiny swamp rabbits boldly demand their daily rations of carrots and broccoli. 

We spent a good portion of that time parked under umbrellas hypnotized by the ever-shifting cloud formations over the azure horizon, watching surfers and children frolicking in the waves, learning to identify feeding sharks and various sea birds. 

When it got too hot, we retreated to the dark coolness of local bars to drink pitchers of icy beer and sample fresh blue crab, shrimp, and other delicacies not native to our own waters. We patrolled the shores of the Indian River lagoon to get up close and personal with manatees and dolphins. At night we were lulled into sleep by the pounding surf. One night we watched a launch off Cape Canaveral. Another night we spent at the observatory of the local college peering at Saturn through the telescope. One day we spent hunting for the obscure grave of Zora Neale Hurston. At my partner's insistence, we visited the Navy Seals Museum, the Veterans Memorial Museum, the Air Force Museum, mostly free and blissfully refrigerated. The exhibits were not nearly as interesting as the volunteer guides who had all the time in the world to chat with us. It was the "off" season for tourists, the time of year when thrilling tropical storms blow in at a moment's notice and buckets of rain flood the streets, and we were treated to a spectacular electrical display while inching our way through a lonely wilderness sanctuary. 

We had such a good time we started to seriously discuss retiring in Florida ("God's Waiting Room" after all) and spent the last two days looking at cottages for sale on the canals and fantasizing about what our lives would be like if we took the plunge and moved down -- or simply became "snow birds."

Last night we jetted back across the country to reluctantly take up our routine lives. Fall quarter starts tomorrow so I'll be busy teaching, while my partner continues to work on her "fixer-uppers." After all, vacations can't last forever or else they wouldn't be "vacations" would they?

Perhaps someone needs to tell that to Roosh. Here he is, customarily morose and solitary. standing on a similarly exquisite beach in Alanya, Turkey, complaining about how boring and meaningless the whole "resort" scene seems to him, and how perplexed he is that other people want to hang out with their families and friends loafing about in the sun on the sand or buying pretty trinkets from seaside vendors or "drugging" themselves with raki and dancing into the wee hours. His advice to his fans? Don't enjoy too much "good" travel in your youth because it will only "jade" you. Sure, it's "nice" enough, but after all, once you've seen one pocket of paradise, you've seen them all. Poor world weary Roosh, like Alexander the Great, weeps that there are no more worlds left for him to conquer. 

As for me, I spent much of my youth traveling rough, including to Alanya, Side, Bodrum, Pammukale, and Cappadochia before they were much developed, and lazed romantically with my boyfriend on the same beach where Roosh stands now looking so disgruntled, and thought I would never be so happy again. I would love to see the Aegean Sea again before I leave this earth, but I now depend on my little comforts, so it may be from a cruise ship. 

I hate to admit how many years it's been since I visited Alanya, but I still have the cheap blue glass "evil eye" bead necklace I purchased from a stall to remind me of that magical place. I can't imagine I will ever get so old that I will be "bitter" to find myself in such surroundings with nothing to do but drink it all in.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Twitter Blocking

Has blocking people on twitter become the modern equivalent of "shunning?"

Some of the manosphereans and neo-reactionaries are upset because they are finding themselves literally shut out of feminist and liberal conversations. Cuz censorship! Freeze peach!

What kind of activism will they be able to do if they are no longer allowed to intrude on or "re-tweet" their "enemies"? How will they fight the Blue Pill now? There are even "feminist blockbots" out there that will automatically block social undesirables them.

"I don't get it," one little shitbot tweets plaintively, if a bit disingenuously. "I don't block anyone." Indeed not, since provoking people young women via his smartphone is his raison d'etre.

At least I don't have to worry about it: I've never twittered, and never will. I don't even have a smartphone (to the endless derisive amusement of my students). As far as I am concerned, people already have far too many ways to communicate with me, and I already have far too many ways to get myself in trouble. La Strega + twitter account + 2 martinis = hella trouble.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Nobody Knows

Nobody knows, nobody can know, what goes on between couples. Curious onlookers, we may wonder what keeps them together, or what drives them apart, or whether they are truly as happy as they purport to be, or which party loves more, but we cannot know anything more than what they choose to reveal in their actions and words. Often the people involved don't know themselves! I've read that, while fifteen percent of married Americans admit to having "cheated" on their partners, the majority of these "adulterers" maintain their marriages are "happy." And not even swans, who are said to mate for life, are entirely monogamous. 

Of course, some people can only screw up their courage to leave an unhappy relationship by hopping, like anxious frogs, onto the next lily pad. And some people engineer spectacularly hurtful breakups because they enjoy creating drama, or they need to force the other person to leave them. And sometimes they just can't help falling in love with someone else, or they're in the process of becoming someone different than the person who once swore, in all sincerity, to be loving and true 'til death dost them part.

Shit happens.

I've been cheated on more than once, and nothing is more wretched. I've howled at the moon and torn my hair over the unfairness of it. Years later, I could start to acknowledge the role I had played in these dysfunctional relationships, and it was both humbling and healing. And now, many years later, I am mostly grateful, because the breakups that ensued pushed me on down the path of my own personal journey. And I must say, I am happy where I've wound up, so I guess it was all worth it...

When it comes to matters of the heart (or loins) I can only say this:

The older I get, the less judgmental I can be. Life is complicated and messy, and nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors.  [cue Charlie Rich]


Friday, August 22, 2014

Zoe Quinn aka Chelsea Van Valkenburg

UPDATE: I came back to this blog after a few days off the internet, and was surprised to see the number of comments. Zoe Quinn is, to me, a complete "non-story" except insofar as yet another young woman being the target of online harassment. I'll admit I am not into games, and I'm in no position to judge whether or not she wrote a good one, but that is the only question anyone should care about. It's absurd to care a fig whether, or with whom, Ms. Quinn cheated on her boyfriend. Substitute the name "Tyler" for "Zoe," and imagine Zoe were the angry ex who had thrown up a website for the purpose of humiliating him. You can be sure "Zoe" would still be the target of angry, jealous little shitbots like Matt Forney. 
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So apparently Matt Forney's latest "doxing" victim is Zoe Quinn, a talented young female game designer who had the misfortune of having a vindictive ex. And so it goes...

Thursday, August 21, 2014

36 Things Wrong With American Women (Once More With Feeling)


My favorite line? "They are obsessed with cupcakes. An American woman gets satisfaction from eating tiny baked goods." (That's cuz the smaller they are, the more she can eat!)

I'm wrapping up the end of the quarter and looking forward to a few weeks off, so I decided to check in on how Roosh is doing in his campaign to garner 50,000 Youtube subscribers.

So how many of these things are wrong with you, My Gentle Readers? Because I hate to admit it, but Roosh has pretty much identified my worst flaws: I'm certainly fat and sarcastic despite knowing full well it is a major masculine turnoff. I'll even cop to wearing flip flops in public (though not at work). I believe "a house is not a home" without a couple of feathered or furry critters mucking about (fortunately my mate agrees). That I am hopelessly "addicted to brain dead entertainment" and going on and on about the trivia of my life is painfully self-evident by this blog.

On the other hand: I do know how to cook. Foodie pretensions? Not really. Even a pencil eraser would be delicious to me if it were sauteed in enough butter and garlic. I never say "filthy things in bed" unless I stub my toe on the bed post. And I've never claimed that I was doing anything "for the first time" unless, of course, I was.

Roosh is recycling one of his "greatest hits" as he ventures into the brave new world of "vlogging," and there's nothing new here for any of his faithful fans. Believe it or not, this is an abbreviated version of Roosh's original post "42 Things Wrong With American Women."  

So far, reviews are mixed, with even fervent fans remarking on Roosh's "wooden" delivery. However, one commenter, The Fuzz, wants more-more-more

ONLY 36? Im looking forward to this being an ongoing series. Brilliant nonetheless, should be going viral. Just extend this to Canadian girls, especially Torontonians.

And Australian. And German. And French. And -- oh the hell with it, we know that women are all the same. Because globalization. And also their nature.

See also: "42 Things Wrong With American Men"