Monthly Archive for June, 2011

Spinster aunt becomes proficient in typing words “open thread”

Spinster HQ is all blumped up again today. I don’t, for example, have time to tell you that bleeding heart liberal Tom Petty is cheesed off at Michele Bachmann for using his song “American Girl” as exit music at her rallies. So I invited my sidekick Stingray to guest-post on the Republican excrescence/presidential candidate who avers that “not all cultures are equal,” that the Founding Fathers strove tirelessly throughout their lives to end slavery, and that hundreds of Nobel Prize-winning scientists “believe” in intelligent design. La Stinga, who apparently has a pretty full dance card, hasn’t coughed up this essay yet, so I throw the subject into your capable hands.

No need to limit yourself to Bachmann, though. Go wild. Be delightful. Eschew ellipses. I’ll catch you on the flip-flop.

Spinster aunt answers eternal question “when should I dump him?”

Got a mean boyfriend who gets mad at you all the time?

DUMP HIM. DUMP HIM NOW.

Reluctant to completely change your life based on the exhortation of some random Internet feminist? Then at least try out youarenotcrazy.com for some No. 1 Verbal Abuse Information. Tragically, the entire website suffers from gratuitous Flash, which makes it challenging to navigate (and copy text from), but slog through it anyway, because I promise you, you don’t deserve the shit that asshole is dishing out.

An excerpt from the “Defective?” section:

The ramifications of abuse are yours, and the payoff is his. If you feel crazy, he’s in control. These things add up to an all-around anxiety of being crazy:

• I often feel disconnected and confused, wobbly.
• I engage in introverted dissections of our conflicts to figure out what went wrong.
• I’m wary and distrust my own ability to form friendships.
• I feel as if an important dream shattered, but I can’t remember what that dream was.
• I have a growing doubt in myself and my self-respect.
• I feel like the whole world is muffled and out of my reach.
• Emptiness lingers around me like an endless fog, and I’m afraid to tell anyone.
• I must carefully edit anything I say because I’m not normal.
• I used to love doing some activities, now I just can’t muster the enthusiasm.
• I don’t know why I’m not happier within my relationship.
• I’m ill at ease in his presence, but I know I love him.
• I often don’t trust that my perceptions are valid.
• I have an intense desire to NOT be the way I am (as in “too sensitive”).

As the alumna of several abusive relationships (hell, who isn’t?), and as the observer of about 1753 more of my friends’ abusive relationships, I am the world’s foremost authoritative expert know-it-all wise old crone on the subject. I can attest that the information contained in youarenotcrazy.com is quality stuff.

The “Quiz” section, for example, contains an actual audio recording of an actual dickhead boyfriend verbally abusing the author, and will make you throw up as you play “spot the abusive tactic”. It’s awesome (if navigationally confusing) because the author’s hypothesis — that women often do not recognize verbal abuse when they hear it — is spot on.

Another of my favorites is the “Abusers Are Rarely Motivated To Change” section. I love this section because almost universally, the abused woman thinks her abusive dude can be turned into a nice guy if she can just get him to understand that he’s been acting like an entitled prick. For instance, she wants dude to go with her to couples therapy, where she believes the therapist will validate her concerns in front of the dude, whereupon she will be vindicated as not-crazy, and the dude, confronted with his horribleness at last, will be shamed into changing his ways, and they will be a happy loving couple again.

Say I: Don’t waste your time! Dump him now!

Says our author:

It’s rare for an abusive man to truly become nonabusive; even men that take part in renowned abuser programs. Sadly, in therapy, most men just learn to abuse without looking bad, using new skills and psychological jargon to avoid taking responsibility for the pain they inflict.

One thing I didn’t see at youarenotcrazy.com is the “but he’s not like that all the time” bit. Sometimes abusive dudes go through phases where they act like they like you. This can be mistaken for love, but listen girls, love is not sporadic episodes of quasi-decency punctuated with rage. A pal of mine recently called me up in tears because of her mean boyfriend. She told me “he can’t help being mean to me, he ran out of weed last week.” All his empathy and compassion were in that dime bag, I guess.

DUMP HIM.

Tangentially, I would like to take this opportunity to pooh-pooh self-help books that purport to take you inside the mind of your abuser so that you may understand his motivations. Who cares about his motivations? DUMP HIM NOW.

Shout-out to veteran blamer Jezebella for hipping me to this website.

Buddhism sounds familiar

The other day I dared to impugn the feminist credentials of a global religious leader, head of state complete with palace and throne, and internationally revered dude whose every antic goes virtually unquestioned by the entire world. I caught a little flak for this impugnment.

The impugnment to which I allude, of course, is that of the Dalai Lama. I said “he is no feminist,” and I meant it, by gum.

The Dalai Lama, successfully marketed to “spiritual” Western iconoclasts as a god among men, is problematic from a radical feminist viewpoint. I have already explained why this is so, but I don’t mind repeating myself. The Dalai Lama is 1) a global religious leader, 2) a head of state complete with palace and throne, and 3) an internationally revered dude whose every antic goes virtually unquestioned by the entire Western world. These are three dude-qualities that without exception spell, and have always spelled, trouble for women. Why feminists think it’s OK to overlook these in the case of the ridiculously enpedestalized dudely Dalai Lama I cannot say.

What I can say is that Buddhism, the Dalai Lama’s ism of choice, is just as goofy and fucked up as any other dude-invented religion. I mean, reincarnation? Seriously? What a load.

You know, no jokey essay on Buddhism would be complete without a fond remembrance of delusional ex-movie star tough guy-turned-reality TV Deputy Dork Steven Seagal, who came out as a reincarnated lama, evidently having paid his personal guru-monk to ordain him.

Anyway, while those moments when spinster aunts may be observed to endure gasbag Christopher Hitchens are as rare as feminists on TV, it is difficult to suppress a chuckle at Hitch’s assessment of Buddhism, from his infamous 1998 Dalai takedown, as “the sinister if not indeed crazy belief that death is but a stage in a grand cycle of what appears to be futility and subjection.”

Even if you are, for some reason, okay with Buddhism’s fairy tales of magic and rebirth and ascendance, you may consider it useful to know whether or not your religion hates you. One way to divine the attitude toward women of any given venerable institution is to inspect its power structure for evidence of female representation. So how many Buddhist lamas, tulkus, monks, or poobahs are women?

Zippo.

They got nuns, though. Long-suffering nuns (is there any other kind?):

“[Nunnery founder] Shugseb Jetsun Rinpoche was particularly known for holding a lineage of Chöd, the meditation practice of offering one’s own body for the benefit of others.”

Sound familiar?

Here is a list, handed down by the Buddha Himself, of the crap (the Eight Garudharmas) that nuns are expected to endure on accounta they are members of the sex class:

1. A nun who has been ordained (even) for a century must greet respectfully, rise up from her seat, salute with joined palms, do proper homage to a monk ordained but that day.

2. A nun must not spend the rains in a residence where there is no monk.

3. Every half month a nun should desire two things from the Order of monks : the asking (as to the date) of the Observance day, and the coming for the exhortation (of a monk).

4. After the rains a nun must invite before both the Orders in respect of three matters; what was seen, what was heard and what was suspected.

5. A nun, offending against an important rule, must undergo manatta (discipline) for half a month before both the Orders.

6. When, as a probationers, she has been trained in the six rules for two years, she should seek ordination from both the Orders.

7. A monk must not be abused or reviled in any way by a nun.

8. From today admonition of monks by nuns is forbidden, admonition by monks is not forbidden.

The Buddhist website from which I swiped the above list claims that these gender-based injunctions are not intended to control women, but are actually for the nun’s own protection.

Sound familiar?

Women are, in fact, specifically prohibited from attaining Enlightenment, period. Per El Buddho himself: “It is impossible that a woman should be the Universal Monarch/King of Death/Brahmaa.”

Yes, women are the sex class, yes, even for those chill, enlightened Buddhists! Busy Buddhism-mocking spinster aunts on the go are nothing if not shoddy scholars, so here’s a little blurb supporting my argument from — I say it loud and proud — Wikipedia.

“According to [professor of Buddhism at Stanford] Diana Paul, Buddhism inherited a view of women whereby if they are not represented as mothers then they are portrayed as either lustful temptresses or as evil incarnate.”

Sound familiar?

I was eventually able to transcend Wikipedia to turn up a paper authored by this same Diana Y Paul which contains this unpleasant but hardly surprising revelation concerning Buddhism’s elemental misogyny:

“If a woman is acknowledged as having the spiritual potential of becoming a Bodhisattva, then she has access to the way of enlightenment. If she is denied this capacity, she is denied the religious goal of Mahayana Buddhism. Some texts, such as the Pure Land Sutra, deny women birth in the Pure Land unless they despise their female nature. Despising the female nature results in rebirth as a man in the Pure Land. Vows to be reborn as men were seen as acts of piety performed by devout Buddhist women. In texts of this kind, the female sex is subordinated to the male sex as inferior — as defective and impure in body. Only through denial of one’s feminine body in this lifetime is there spiritual attainment in the next. While men too were to deny their sexual and bodily needs in order to gain rebirth in the Pure Land, there was never a specific vow for them to despise their own body. Sexual transformation from female to male is taken literally — that is, a women dies and is reborn as a man.”

Paul is quick to suggest that not all Buddhist sutras reflect this high-grade misogyny. However, she acknowledges that such “liberal portraits of women a religious beings” comprise an “extremely small percentage” of these religious texts.

But I digress. Back to the Dalai Lama. Surprise. He hates Buddhist homos, promotes religious intolerance, eats meat, opposes abortion, and sees nothing oppressive about men paying to rape women.

“Men-to-men and women-to-women is generally considered sexual misconduct,” he asserts.

And here he’s just blatantly buttering up the faithful:

“To have sexual relations with a prostitute paid by you and not by a third person does not constitute improper behavior.” But if your best man buys you a hooker for your bachelor party, karma gonna get you. You’ll probably be reincarnated as one of those poor body-offering nuns.

The Dalai Lama, it turns out, is just another liberal dude in a gaudy toga, imbued with misogynist dudeliness, like all liberal dudes.

Spinster aunt watches another Turner Classic Movie, picks chunks of blown lobe off ceiling

Last night Turner Classic Movies — it’s horrible, yet I can’t look away — ran the crappy so-called noir classic Angel Face (1953), starring Jean Simmons and Robert Mitchum. Playing the titular character in a tight sweater, Jean Simmons, whose only motivation appears to be that she’s just a manipulative psycho bitch malignant narcissist femme fatale, becomes obsessed with Robert Mitchum, kills her father and not-particularly-evil step-mother by tampering with their car, beats the murder rap in a goofy trial sequence, and then kills herself and Mitchum by backing her two-seater off a cliff. As the camera lovingly follows the car crashing down the rocks, you get to see the stunt-double dummies flap around unconvincingly. This is the best part of the film.

I mention all this because during the trial scene, the district attorney, played by Thurston Howell the Third, questions an expert witness to determine the level of skill required to rig the death car.

“Could it have been done by anyone?” he asks, functioning as the vox populi. “Even a woman?

That’s when my lobe blew, but don’t worry; I’m used to it by now.

Anyway, that’s why everybody loves mid-20th-century Hollywood noir films. They are so unapologetic about their blatant misogyny, so unencumbered by the annoying feminism that plagues the modern world. Back then, men were men and girls were toilets girls.

The female leads in noir films are always manipulative psycho bitch malignant narcissist femmes fatales. In one of the opening scenes of “Angel Face,” Robert Mitchum smacks Jean Simmons right in the face. She smacks him back, to demonstrate her psycho bitch attributes, but then, to restore the natural order, the script makes her apologize to Mitchum and act all grateful for the original slap. Also, Jean Simmons is obviously hurt by her slap, but Robert Mitchum doesn’t even flinch when Simmons pops him. Girl is weak, man is strong.

Once again I complain that, sure, it was 1953 then, but TCM is running this shit now, in 2011. Without any kind of accompanying critical analysis, it is difficult to see this as anything other than hate speech. The host, Robert Osborne, did make a few introductory remarks about “Angel Face.” He explained that Jean Simmons was wearing a wig in the movie because the producer didn’t like girls with short hair. Good to know, Osborne!

___________________
Photo: still from “Angel Face” trailer.

Feminist blog saves lives

Reader testimonials!

I.

Just last week I successfully identified a cluster of stinkhorn mushrooms. All because I read this here blog. I took pictures! I told my friends! Life is better with Heartwarming Nature Crap! — cootie twoshoes

Send the pictures, La Cootie, send the pictures. Stinkhorns are, as the poet said, teh awesome. Obviously, if you hadn’t read here that they are also poisonous, you would have eaten them, right? Another life saved!

UPDATE: cootietwoshoes has generously consented to share a stinkhorn mushroom photo with the group. Quoth Cootie: “Note the dripping ’stink’! Note the salivating fly!” The brown goo is a spore mass that stinks like poo to attract spore-mass-distributing insects. Cootie was lucky to find them in this resolute, stinky state; the spongey pink glory of a stinkhorn shrivels within a day or two.

II.

I have recently dumped a manipulative patriarchal bastard, in which your blog was instrumental (the dumping, that is). I have therefore been finding it necessary to reaffirm my feminist-ity, and my, what a place to do it. It’s so great to find a blog which is so uncompromisingly radical and with such wit and humour. i.e. nice to laugh at the patriarchy as well as blame it.

– another blamer [via email]

You go girl. Whenever a blamer dumps a manipulative patriarchal bastard and has a laugh, a spinster aunt gets her wings frozen margarita machine.

III.

Meanwhile, the Obama presidency gets an anti-testimonial:

An impecunious woman has resorted to selling the handwritten letter from President Obama she received last year after writing to him expressing her fear that “this dreaded economy is going to have my family homeless.” The president magnanimously replied with these meaningful words of encouragement empty platitudes:

“Please know that things will get better for you and your family.”

Obama didn’t add “by selling this letter on eBay for some quick cash!” but luckily “single mom” Ms Mathis was able to read between the lines to take quick online auction action. Because instead of “things” getting “better” for her and her family, she’s about to be evicted. Sadly, unless it’s a letter from Abe Lincoln thanking Mr Ford for the tickets to the play, presidential correspondence isn’t gonna bankroll an impoverished family for long.

Tangentially — and I should probably save this pet peeve for another post, but then again who knows when, if ever, I’ll post again? — notice how the inclusion of the phrase “for you and your family” is ubiquitous in propaganda, whether marketing or politicking. It is always aimed at women (those notorious suckers for anything domestical in nature), and instantly confers wholesome sincerity on the speaker and his/her bullshit message. Whenever you hear “for you and your family” you know you are about to be told some big fucken lie.

Dude wins by default, plus Open Thread!

Why no post today? I’m trapped — temporarily, I hope — in an alternate universe where it is considered bad form to write blogs when there are other, more tedious things to do (such as evading jury duty, taking care of a sick horse, or spending hours on the phone trying, with a pesky history of cancer, to get some goddam health insurance).

Fortunately, the recent pile of comments in the moderation queue has been liberated at last. For the most part there were no anxious emails demanding to know what had happened to them; I commend you on your patience and restraint. I award each and every one of you a Certificate of Ectoplasm!

Certificate of Ectoplasm

Meanwhile, you know how from time to time I cannot resist sharing the juvenile sputters of the occasional would-be dude commenter? Well, here’s some fan mail from a flounder whose dickish remarks on this amusing old post I was recently obliged to run through the PooPoop-U-Lator*, on accounta he’s a moron. He did not like that I ran his comment through the PooPoop-U-Lator, so he wrote this:

congratulations jill you’ve earned a place for this lot along side fox news for me. more then happy to ramble on, regurgitating the same tired thoughts back and forth between those with the same mindset, but no time to hear responses that don’t stroke your pathetic ego. go ahead run me through whatyouhearwhensomeone otherthenyour sheepleiscommenting-u-later. It just proves me right and you unable to form a coherent retort.

p.s. Thank you jill.
I enjoy that you scrambled my comment, it means I win by default.

Sometimes you almost feel sorry for them.

Anyway, because the last one was so popular, let’s have another open thread, what.

____________________
* The PooPoop-U-Lator replaces user-selected words or letters with any user-selected word, thus hilaritizing any bit of text. For example, if I enpoopulate dude’s comment, replacing “I” and “me” with “I’m a stupid prick”, it becomes much more useful:

congratulations jill you’ve earned a place for this lot along side fox news for I’m a stupid prick. more then happy to ramble on, regurgitating the same tired thoughts back and forth between those with the same mindset, but no time to hear responses that don’t stroke your pathetic ego. go ahead run I’m a stupid prick through whatyouhearwhensomeoneotherthenyoursheepleiscommenting-u-later. I’m a stupid prickt just proves I’m a stupid prick right and you unable to form a coherent retort.

p.s. Thank you jill.
I’m a stupid prick enjoy that you scrambled my comment, it means I’m a stupid prick win by default.

Anecdote mania!

The author as funfeminist rocker

Why no post today? I’ve been in church. So in the fine old tradition where spinster aunts rely on blamers to supply content while they (the spinster aunts) are otherwise ocupadas, I declare Reader Anecdote Day.

I know I’m always urging everyone to make with the analysis rather than the anecdote, but I read this

“Alas, it took me many funfem years to figure this out.”

in the comments the other day and thought, mang, so many of the radical feminist types say the same thing, that they came gradually to the radical position after misspending their youth as empowerfulized funfeminist collaborators.

For example, years ago, when performing in my rock band, I myself used to dress in negligees and combat boots to play such feminist anthems as “My Baby Won’t Go Down On Me” and “Don’t Fuck With the Straight Girls Downtown” while crowds of dudes hooted their approval. I thought I was being super fucking transgressive, banging on a Les Paul and snarling through lipstick “you’ve got the second-biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

Good times.

So, what’s your take? Did you slog through an embarrassing funfeminist phase? What turned you around? Is funfeminism a necessary step on the road to truth, beauty, and militancy? Give us your anecdote.

More man-hating fun

No time to post! But here’s a fun comment from blamer Fictional Queen. Enjoy.

It’s awesome that a movement of women supposedly hating men is complete and irrefutable proof that [women are] wrong, but all the woman-hating men are Great Men and great artists and cool, admired role models, like rappers or rock stars or all of those philosophers who thought women were inferior. Imaginary man-hating is condemned and yet real woman-hating is celebrated. Why shouldn’t I hate men? Clearly they hate me and that impacts my life daily.

I would aver that the supposed movement of manhaters is also considered proof that women are not merely wrong, but also evil, repellent, and deserving of punishment by Great Men.

Gaslight!

No, there wasn’t a different post here yesterday. You are hallucinating. Perhaps you should go lie down, Paula.