Archive for Table for One

This “Foolish” thing

I knew the drill: new songs drop on Friday at midnight, Eastern time. “Give or take,” I recalled, and therefore I showed up at the online store at 10:57 Thursday to push buttons rapidly. At 10:59:30 the magical word “Buy” appeared. Achievement unlocked.

In Time — gads, in Time!Rebecca Black explains her new single “Foolish”:

I was 18 when I wrote this, and I was just getting into a relationship. It was my first real boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I was really excited and terrified. There was this one point where I was just laying in bed with my boyfriend at the time, and we had been listening to a Coldplay record. It stopped, and all we heard was the buzzing from the record player. It was the most calm, sweet, intimate moment we had together, just listening to silence. I think it’s those moments that really make a relationship — at least for someone like me who’s just trying things out.

And the timing couldn’t be better, since (1) it came out on Friday, as do all new records now, and (2) in its tenth week on Billboard’s Dance Club chart, “The Great Divide” has slid down to #45.

The song itself? So far, all that’s out as a freebie is a clip via Spotify; there will be a video eventually. I liked it, but then I would.

Update, Saturday: A lyric video appears:

Carly Rae Jepsen could have sung this, I think.

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An unverified substance

The justly famed “Love Potion No. 9,” we are told, “smelled like turpentine and looked like India ink.” As unappealing as that sounds, it’s got to be better than this:

The one thing people seek in a healthy sex life is a way to make it even better and mostly making it last longer in order to have more sex is seen as key to achieve that. Although there are several means for higher sexual desire and maintaining a hard on for longer, people often fall prey to unverified substances.

A woman in Zimbabwe’s Bikita wanted to increase sexual desire in her husband and for this reason she laced his tea with a love potion she got from a local traditional healer. But the substance which contained baboon urine proved a bit too much, as her husband ended up getting an erection that lasted three weeks.

And we are expected to panic after the fourth hour. Wusses, we are.

Initially it seemed effective but things got out of hand when her husband would demand sex more than six times a day, which included times when she was working on the fields, cooking and even during church service.

Thirty-fourth and Vine was never like this.

(Via Fark.)

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Throw a rope toward that ship

It’s long since sailed, but the Tar Heels are digging in just the same:

Republican state lawmakers in North Carolina are proposing a bill that would ban gay marriage in the state, according to a local CBS affiliate report Tuesday.

North Carolina state Reps. Larry Pittman, Michael Speciale, and Carl Ford, all Republicans, are the primary sponsors of the “Uphold Historical Marriage Act.”

Republicans? Really? Who would have known?

The bill says that the U.S. Supreme Court “overstepped its constitutional bounds” in the 2015 decision in Obergefell v. Hodges, legalizing same-sex marriage nationwide. In the decision, the justices struck down “Amendment One” in North Carolina’s state constitution, which prohibited the state from recognizing or performing marriages or civil unions for same-sex couples.

Over 60 percent of voters approved the amendment in the spring of 2012.

Hey, you went three whole sentences without mentioning Republicans.

And how, since there have been at least 20 amendments to the 1971 North Carolina Constitution, did this one get designated Amendment One?

Assuming this passes, we’ll need to calculate the over/under on how many days it takes for it to be thrown out.

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So it’s come to this

I spotted this advertisement on Fimfiction, the My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fanfic repository, and I have to assume that it’s probably at least somewhat well tailored to their readership mix:

Online dating advertisement

I mean, when’s the last time you saw me make the first move?

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Scarf now

Where, precisely, could feminism and Islam possibly find common ground? Steve Sailer thinks it’s the hijab, and imagines the thought:

[T]the appeal to American liberal women of the idea of the Muslims taking over is that if Society makes me wear one of those tents, I can be both a hot-looking (because all the other women will have to wear them too) woman of mystery and I won’t have to lose those last 15 pounds.

Sharia law is a small price to pay for that.

This is consistent with an earlier Sailer declaration:

The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.

The one problem with this scheme is that during a Revolution, you get to observe an awful lot of revolting people, and the memory fades slowly if at all.

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Good as dead

I suppose that I’ve already beaten the odds, or at least flattened them a bit:

Vivek Murthy, the surgeon general of the United States, has said many times in recent years that the most prevalent health issue in the country is not cancer or heart disease or obesity. It is isolation.

Do you think maybe we’re sick of other people?

Beginning in the 1980s … study after study started showing that those who were more socially isolated were much more likely to die during a given period than their socially connected neighbors, even after you corrected for age, gender, and lifestyle choices like exercising and eating right. Loneliness has been linked to an increased risk of cardiovascular disease and stroke and the progression of Alzheimer’s. One study found that it can be as much of a long-term risk factor as smoking.

The research doesn’t get any rosier from there. In 2015, a huge study out of Brigham Young University, using data from 3.5 million people collected over 35 years, found that those who fall into the categories of loneliness, isolation, or even simply living on their own see their risk of premature death rise 26 to 32 percent.

Let the record show that “eating right” is something that requires a correction factor.

The studies under discussion deal with the longevity, or lack thereof, of men, which suggests the Real Reason why women live longer: less research.

(Via Jason Kottke, a mere 43 years old.)

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Sort of a bandwagon

And a short bandwagon at that, but surely no harm is being done:

A Birmingham radio station is taking women hosts off the air and will only play songs by men as part of [today’s] “A Day Without a Woman” protest.

WUHT/Hot 107.7, a Cumulus Media station, said the change reflects the absence of women for the day. Midday host Tasha Simone and station voice Jeannie Johnson will be off air for the day and all songs played during non-syndication hours will feature men only.

“This was an easy decision for us,” said Ken Johnson, Operations Manager, WUHT-FM/Hot 107.7, and Vice President, Urban, Cumulus Media, said. “Women are our core listeners and these women contribute a great deal to our sound. Honoring women by highlighting to the community how important they are is a no-brainer.”

Wonder if DJ Big Sweatt will get his hours extended.

“Plus,” said Johnson, “hearing more Marvin Gaye, Teddy Pendergrass and Luther Vandross is not a bad thing.”

True that.

(Via Kirby McCain.)

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Bucolic romance

Not everyone is prepared for happiness out in the boondocks:

Note: We are not making this up.

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Goodbye, American woman

You won’t hear Jack Baruth — or, for that matter, me — singing that. But the fact is, things have changed, and I’m not prepared to say that it’s for the better:

I grew up in an era and environment where moms spent their lives raising children and dads bought them cars to make that task easier. We didn’t know that we were racist and sexist and evil tools of the patriarchy. Our moms looked after us and our dads sat in the recliner in the evenings after earning the daily bread. Everybody was pretty happy, as far as I could tell. Most of my friends who grew up in this antiquated, hateful state of affairs grew up to be attorneys and doctors and successful businessmen.

Since then, however, I’ve been properly re-educated to understand how hellish and repressive the suburbs truly are. I’ve learned that women are only happy when they focus on their careers until the atomic clock of their fertility reaches two minutes to midnight, at which point they stop the game of musical chairs, marry the guy who happens to be sitting in said chair, and immediately pay a fertility specialist $250,000 to get one designer baby named Kayden with strong signs of autism-spectrum disorders and a light case of measles from lack of vaccination. How this is better than being one of the pretty 27-year-old mommies of my youth in Columbia, Maryland, I don’t know, but my opinion on the matter is no more valid than, say, that of the GEICO caveman, and for pretty much the same reasons.

The truly hard-core, of course, would prefer it if that chair were occupied by someone who isn’t a guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

And the hellishness and repression of the suburbs will be deemed Properly Corrected at the moment the residents therein stop voting for Republicans, and not one second sooner. Feminism isn’t about women anymore; it’s about being the largest Democrat voting bloc. Despite wearing the sacred D (as distinguished from others) for four and a half decades, I’m considered obsolete, passé, my eyes incorrectly sparkled.

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Still more of the best-unlaid plans

Almost certainly you’ve seen this before:

I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don’t know how to cook or clean, don’t want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?

American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women.

In fact, you’ve seen it here twice before. Both incidents were in 2011, which tells me that this character can carry a grudge nearly as long as I can, and he might even have a long memory.

I sum him up this way: “He wants you to know he’s taken the Red Pill. He doesn’t want you to know that he begged for a chewable version.”

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Duly quarter-noted

The Oklahoma City Philharmonic stuck this up on their Facebook page with the promise that it would improve your dating life 110 percent:

S'up babe?

After that much sightreading, I could use a rest.

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V for Vanished

“Why just this year?” is my only comment to this proposal:

If I were an activist of any stripe, and someone who people actually listened to, instead of, you know, me … I’d put out a call to “cancel” Valentine’s Day this year.

Not for any reason about frustration with romantic love (though there is that, and I get tired of how V-Day is all about the romance, and so those of us who have none in our lives are left standing on the outside of the restaurant on a cold night, looking in at the happy couples eating good food in the warmth).

No. It’s because I see precious little love in the world: humanity, at least the US culture form of it I see, is becoming more separated and fractionated and I’ve said several times this week that maybe the future of humanity is for all of us to live solo, with as little contact with other humans as possible, because it seems we can’t do interpersonal stuff without it turning into either a fight or a virtue-signalling contest.

Nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

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You had, um, one job

Snoopy the Goon reports on a curious, or perhaps not so curious, Russian decree:

State Duma Deputy, Yelena Mizulina from the party “Fair Russia”, Chairman of the Duma Committee on Family Affairs, Doctor of Jurisprudence proposes to introduce a penalty for men for failing to perform their marital duty.

“The family is a social unit,” says Mizulina. “Evasion of execution of marital duty is an evasion of duty to the community. If a man for no apparent reason (eg health-related.) systematically fails to fulfill his conjugal duty, or executes it carelessly to get done with it — he must pay a fine to the State. This measure will further strengthen the family and improve the morale in the country. And adultery must be punished as treason — by imprisonment. It is proposed to set the quota of execution of marital duty in Russia for men aged up to 45 years — to 1 time per week. For older people, this rate can be reduced.

Admittedly, this is a Snoopy + Google Translate version, but I still quail at the term “execution of marital duty.” Snoopy, for his part, doesn’t:

I would suggest that for the public to get into the spirit of the thing, a few public executions here and there, from time to time, would be helpful.

Might improve compliance, at least at first.

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All in my head

What happens — or, perhaps, what doesn’t happen — when the entirety of your love life proves to be virtual.

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A majority in perpetuity

I don’t know if this would actually work, but I’d be interested in seeing it being tried:

I’m confident that if Trump really wants to found his own party, and make sure it never loses another election, he should immediately create his own version of the Bund Deutscher Mädel. Give women social sanction to be feminine again, and the rest takes care of itself — no more Pajamaboys, no more Bronies, no more whatevers calling xyrzelves “xyr.” Suicide rates would crater, birth rates would skyrocket, and two young folks will be able to make googly eyes at each other without needing three cameras and a lawyer present.

“Yeah,” you say, “but … Hitler Youth!”

Trude Mohr, the group’s first Reichsreferentin:

Our volk need a generation of girls which is healthy in body and mind, sure and decisive, proudly and confidently going forward, one which assumes its place in everyday life with poise and discernment, one free of sentimental and rapturous emotions, and which, for precisely this reason, in sharply defined femininity, would be the comrade of a man, because she does not regard him as some sort of idol but rather as a companion!

Your garden-variety feminist would of course hurl at this, but then she has no desire to be the companion, let alone the comrade, of a man.

And bronies, I suspect, will persist regardless.

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Don’t look at me that way

Severian led off with this terse observation:

I’m tempted to argue that you can sum up all of pop-feminism with “we think we’re cuter than we actually are, and we’re going to get the government to force you to agree.”

See also Steve Sailer, similarly:

“The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.”

At this point, Nightfly sees an opening:

Is it that they think they’re cuter than they are, or is it that they realize they’re not cute enough to get by on cute alone, so they are determined AT ANY COST to make “looks” a dirty word — or even a punishable offense?

The dreaded Male Gaze. They despise it at least as much as they despise the male who withholds it; the only true joy in feminism is to find some way to humiliate men. (See about every fourth article by Robert Stacy McCain.)

We’re talking about lasses who could work their way into the 5-6 range, right? Well, that means that, in college, their absolute best efforts would leave them behind at the quarter pole of life, though with diligence they could be in that second wave of ladies who settle down (emphasis on “settle” in their minds) in their late 20s or early 30s with guys whom they would have considered beneath them in school, but who are also the only ones left once all the good catches are made.

This is at the heart of Garfunkel and Oates’ “29 31.”

And it’s not, you should know, the creation of those horrible folks with the Y chromosome either:

[M]en aren’t the builders of this game, contrary to insane assumptions — we’re just fellow players. Just as there are plenty of women who can never land a Mr. Darcy, there are plenty of guys with no prayer of securing a Ms. Bennett. We all face this realization about our own status in life. I mean, do you think all men are equally handsome, equally ambitious, equally smart, equally accomplished? Plenty of us had to take stock while the top catches had their pick of our peer group, and quickly figure out what else could capture and hold someone’s interest. (Or, not so quickly. I was pretty much 35 years old when I got married — I’m not exactly Dr. Genius McQuarterback over here.)

For a while, I came off as more interesting than I actually was; at least, that’s the only explanation I can find for having any notches on the bedpost at all.

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Enchanted by an older woman

Some things never, ever change:

Dear Jaxon: Just a warning. This way lies madness. I’ve been there.

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In the spirit of the season

The Oklahoma state whatever-it-is seems to be causing a dustup in South Carolina:

Implied Consent dishtowel

It pictures a sprig of festive mistletoe with the tagline “Implied consent.” Many people on Twitter and Facebook, where a picture of the dish towel has been widely shared, say it makes light of a serious societal problem and promotes rape culture. Others wrote it off as a simple joke, misinterpreted by political correctness.

It all started when College of Charleston student Caroline Connell, 21, noticed the dish towel on display at C’est La Vie on Market Street on Saturday. She snapped a picture of it and posted it online.

“literally WHO signed off on this???,” Connell wrote on Facebook. “why is this the first thing you see when you walk in c’est la vie on market st.???? wildly inappropriate.”

As always, the marketplace came up with the definitive answer:

Connell told The Post and Courier she went back to C’est La Vie on Monday and spoke to the store manager. She said she attempted to explain why some customers would be offended by the towel. She said he told her it was already sold out.

If you’d like to scare the dickens out of a coed, the towel comes from Jake Witzel Wooden Monograms in Fort Worth, Texas.

(Via someone I should have kissed at the time, but didn’t.)

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Activists just want to be loved

Gagdad Bob is reading Extravagant Expectations: New Ways to Find Romantic Love in America by Paul Hollander, and he reprints an improbable-sounding personal ad:

These women are so perfect, one wonders why they have to resort to advertising their qualities. There are dozens to choose from — they’re everywhere! — so I’ll just pick one at random:

“Blonde, slender, tall, willowy DWF. Very attractive with graceful lightness of heart, refined intelligence, smiling eyes. PhD/academic. Optimistic, elegant, physically sensual, aesthetically attuned. Lovely profile, long legs. Considered great package: head, heart, spirit. Puts people at ease.” Etc.

I’ll bite. What’s the catch?

D’oh!

“Progressive worldview, passionate about social justice.”

I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t exactly put me at ease, if you know what I mean.

Seriously, I hope she (1) exists and (2) finds someone with a compatible worldview. Were I looking — God knows I have no reason to look — I’d probably look elsewhere.

I just wish there’d been a photo.

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Looking out for Number Three

There are alpha males, and there are beta males, and the two are generally fairly easily distinguishable from one another.

SF writer/philosopher Vox Day offers a definition for gamma males:

The introspective, the unusual, the unattractive, and all too often the bitter. Gammas are often intelligent, usually unsuccessful with women, and not uncommonly all but invisible to them, the gamma alternates between placing women on pedestals and hating the entire sex. This mostly depends upon whether an attractive woman happened to notice his existence or not that day. Too introspective for their own good, gammas are the men who obsess over individual women for extended periods of time and supply the ranks of stalkers, psycho-jealous ex-boyfriends, and the authors of excruciatingly romantic rhyming doggerel. In the unlikely event they are at the party, they are probably in the corner muttering darkly about the behavior of everyone else there … sometimes to themselves. Gammas tend to have have a worship/hate relationship with women, the current direction of which is directly tied to their present situation. However, they are sexual rejects, not social rejects.

I suppose I escape this definition by dint of never actually “hating the entire sex.”

But a lot of that hits just a hair too close to home.

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Deep, dark coincidence

I mean, who would have ever thought so?

Elsevier will sell you this paper for $35.95, or about a buck and a quarter per howler.

(Via Michelle Catlin.)

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I suppose this was inevitable

It’s still, however, a bit disquieting:

But maybe that’s just me and my aversion to things hanging out of one’s nose.

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Damsels bring distress

To the likes of me, anyway:

Just five minutes alone with an attractive female raise the levels of cortisol, the body’s stress hormone, according to a study from the University of Valencia.

The effects are heightened in men who believe that the woman in question is “out of their league.”

Cortisol is produced by the body under physical or psychological stress and has been linked to heart disease.

Hmmm. How did they check this?

Researchers tested 84 male students by asking each one to sit in a room and solve a Sudoku puzzle. Two strangers, one male and one female, were also in the room.

When the female stranger left the room and the two men remained sitting together, the volunteer’s stress levels did not rise. However, when the volunteer was left alone with the female stranger, his cortisol levels rose.

I know where I’m going to fall on this scale.

(Via Glenn Reynolds.)

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Scared off

From early 2003, I deal with one of Barbara Dafoe Whitehead’s assertions about guys:

BDW: Several women mentioned that at times in their life they felt that their intelligence or intellectual achievement seemed to work against them in their romantic relationships with men, but most women felt that there were some men “out there” who would be attracted to smart women. The problem was finding them.

CGH: The inference, as I see it: all else being equal, we guys would prefer to be the brains of the operation. This is certainly true of some of us; historically, I have often been drawn to women of greater intelligence than mine, but there’s always that nagging thought in the back of my mind: “If she’s that smart, what in the world would she want with the likes of me?” The author does in fact touch upon this phenomenon; asked if some men felt they “were being spurned because they aren’t impressive enough,” she replied:

BDW: [S]ome men did, yes, but they tended not to be four-year college graduates. They were guys who were not quite so well-educated and felt that many women looked down on them.

CGH: I think there’s more to it than that — I don’t think I’d be any more desirable (or, more precisely, any less undesirable) with a sheaf of postgraduate degrees — but frankly, what would a plumber have to say to an art historian? Or, for that matter, what would an art historian have to say to a plumber?

Have things improved in the intervening decade and a third? Not a chance:

A recent study from the Warsaw School of Economics, located in Poland, suggests that men are intimidated by clever women.

Yeah, that’s right: Study findings suggest that after a woman reaches a certain level of “clever” or “smart” behavior, there is no longer a positive correlation on how attractive her potential partner finds her.

The guy from Psychology Today explains this thing in terms of the methodology used:

[The] most interesting result was that there is a clear point at which men stop valuing a woman’s increasing intelligence. We have seen that, when it comes to women’s preferences, more is better: a man is more likely to be chosen if he is more attractive and more intelligent. As far as women’s preferences are concerned, the sky’s the limit. Women may be happy to trade intelligence off against attractiveness, but they will always be more likely to choose a man who is that little bit more attractive or intelligent. Not so when it comes to men choosing women.

To illustrate this, let’s track the chances of one woman being chosen by a man at a speed-dating event. This woman scores a 6 out of 10 for attractiveness: about average. Now, if her intelligence rating is a lowly 2 out of 10, she has only a 20 percent chance of being chosen. Let’s imagine that her intelligence increases 2 points, to 4 out of 10: now she has a 30 percent shot. Boost her intelligence by another 2 points, to 6 out of 10, and she now has a 40 percent shot. But a further 2 intelligence points have virtually no effect: she is still at 40 percent. And maxing out her intelligence to 10 out of 10 reduces her odds of being chosen, back down to 30 percent!

To sum up, our hypothetical woman with a 6 out of 10 score for attractiveness will do best with men at a speed-dating event if she scores around a 7 for intelligence: if she is any less or any more intelligent than this, men will be less interested in her.

I would argue that a 7 for intelligence is no slouch, and that average appearance is more like 5 than 6. Still, I know enough women smarter than 7 — they’re smarter than I am, and I figure myself to be about a 7 on this scale — to be properly intimidated.

By the way, this isn’t only true of women who are of average physical attractiveness. The same pattern holds true for very attractive and unattractive women. At every level of attractiveness, the optimum level of intelligence is somewhere around 7 out of 10. For very attractive women, the optimum intelligence level is slightly higher; for unattractive women, the optimum intelligence level is slightly lower. But it’s always the case that a woman with a brain the size of a planet will be less appealing to men than a woman who is equally attractive, but less intelligent.

My interest in this realm, of course, is purely theoretical, as I expect women, irrespective of intelligence, to give me the cold shoulder.

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She carries her own weight

I doubt the authenticity of this clip, but not its wisdom:

Some people like dump trucks.

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Rejection 101

Noah, it seems, fantasizes about Zoë. Zoë, we may be certain, is Not Interested:

Noah, dear lad, I feel for you. Believe me, I do.

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That empty feeling

There is, I suppose, something to be said for knowing that I won’t leave some poor woman a widow; but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.

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The women who upheld the standard

David Warren knew some of them:

I wrote once an essay on “The Modern Spinster” — a class to which I added women who had (by war and accident) long outlived their husbands. Born, typically, before the turn of the last century; widowed perhaps in the Great War; some had survived into the 1980s. They were impressive figures of pedagogical authority. We had, even here in the once admirable Province of Ontario, women I would rank with empress-dowagers of China. They were irreplaceable pillars of a society that I have watched disintegrate, over the decades since. Not one of them was a feminist, or could be interpreted as one by any fanciful act of the imagination. Each was instead not an ism but fully a Woman, without mistake or compromise.

There are two converging strings, which I shall try to knot together here. First, that their power can be neither appreciated nor understood, in a society that has so far degenerated that sex (not imposed grammatical “gender”) is dissolved in an androgynous slurry. Second, that there can be no such thing as an independent woman, who exchanges her position for that of a little man. For it was the function of such women not to seek “equality” with these strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures we see today — whining, whimpering, whinging and wimping off to their “safe spaces” whenever reality approaches. Rather, from a station of absolute moral superiority, that Modern Spinster would corner and intimidate; leaving them a choice between personal resuscitation, and complete psychic annihilation.

“Be a man, or get away from my nostrils,” is what e.g. a certain Edith Carson, of blessed memory, could communicate by no more than a slight inflection of her sensitive nose. She and her like were, and with God’s grace will again be (after the collapse of progressive disorder), bestowers of the White Feather. They were guarantors, not only that women will be women, with their privileges defended and intact; but too, that men will not dare to let their women down.

“Equality,” while we weren’t looking, got redefined as “interchangeability” by individuals of the female persuasion who failed to grasp the concept, reinforced by several of those “strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures” who pass themselves off as feminist in the vain hope that it will win them an occasional ejaculation. This is something else in dire need of correction.

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Tuned out

Brief summation of last week’s meme:

… this coming from one of those execrable “PUA” sites (PUA = pick-up-artist, which means “a guy not actually looking for a relationship but seeking a bit of fun and maybe a good-looking woman to impress his friends with”) about talking to women with headphones. And my slightly-sad response was that there have been plenty of times I wasn’t wearing headphones and would actually have welcomed someone talking to me (well, maybe not a pick-up artist, but I’m not the type of woman they would be interested in anyway) and no one does.

Given my own distinctly non-PUA approach to the matter, I think I’d just bring along a set of headphones — I have a spare — and see if I can direct the conversation this way:

Me: “Here, put these on.”

She: “Why?”

Me: “I’m afraid I might want to talk to you. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

I have, of course, no reason to think this would actually work. But it does fit my modus operandi almost perfectly.

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Lethal hickey

This is decidedly dispiriting:

A teenage boy has died after getting a love bite from his girlfriend.

Julio Macias Gonzalez, 17, began convulsing at the dinner table with his family in Mexico City after spending time with his 24-year-old lover, The Sun reports.

It is thought the woman gave him a hickey earlier that evening which caused a blood clot that travelled to the teen’s brain, triggering a stroke.

Paramedics were called to the scene but Julio could not be saved.

I expect this will show up in the appendices to all those Thou Shalt Not books that nobody actually buys.

(Via Interested-Participant.)

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