Archive for March, 2008
So John Hawkins did another Interview With The Conservative Female Bloggers (who are much more attractive and less whiny than the vampires), and this time the subject was dating. It got plenty of high-profile attention around the dextrosphere, and some commentary from Ace, which begins thusly:
Secret Hope For Beta Males? Female Bloggers
Six female bloggers sound off about mistakes men make in dating, and three of them are put off by… overconfidence and braggin’ on what hot shit they are. (Not Karol, of course!)
So, basically, if more women were like female bloggers, Allah and I (and most of you) shouldn’t be able to leave the house without raincoat & rubbers for all the downpour of female attention and the splashing in puddles of adoring women.
Which leads me to believe 1) women bloggers are nothing like normal women or most likely 2) women bloggers are exactly like normal women in that they lie their pretty asses off.
The rest of the post goes into more detail, but what struck me is that there is absolutely no contradiction between a woman being highly put off by overconfidence and braggadocio and that same woman being attracted to “alpha males”. Because whether you call them “real men”, “alpha males”, or “that son of a bitch that seems to get chicks as easily as he breathes”, they are not overconfident and they don’t brag. They are exactly as confident as is justified and they don’t brag because they don’t need to. Overconfidence is an insecure guy who is trying too hard- or a dumb guy who has no ability to evaluate his own status. Bragging is either more of the same, or a guy who is so self-impressed that no woman could ever hope to match up to the reflection in his mirror when it comes to his interest.
Alpha males don’t need to posture, because they know exactly where they stand: at the top, and it’s comfortable there. Beta males posture, because they’re not totally secure where they stand- they’ve got ambitions to move up, and are a little frightened that they could be knocked down.
Coming with the attitude that eh, look, it’s another chick, I could take her or leave her, is insulting. Some women who have little of their own self-worth will respond to that, but the vast majority of women who DO have some confidence or self-respect will respond to his disinterest with disinterest of her own. It’s either an attempt to manipulate (turnoff), or it’s real indifference and there’s simply no point in bothering anymore. Coming with the attitude that you’re there for an audience with royalty is also a losing strategy- if she actually buys into the attitude of herself as above you, then she’ll logically conclude that she IS above you and therefore should be trying for something better. If she has a more realistic self-image, then she’ll react to being idealized logically as well- she’ll conclude that either she’s going to fall off the pedestal soon and doesn’t want to be around for that, or that you have your own problems with evaluating others or yourself and are therefore creepy, desperate, or both.
Attractive confidence is active interest and courtesy- he is, after all, there specifically because he’s interested in getting to know the woman better- but not fawning. He knows he’s got a lot going for him, so he’s there to meet an equal, not a superior. (If he were there to meet an inferior, that would just make him an asshole looking for someone easy to manipulate.) She might not turn out to be interested, because that’s how adult dating works, but it’s not the end of the world if she isn’t, so he doesn’t need to put on a frenetic sales pitch or try to convince her how lucky she is just to get an audition.
Of course, I’ve been with the same guy since I was nineteen, so you can take my dating advice with a shaker full of salt… but I still know damn well what actually impressed me and what inspired me to put on Hilarious Impression Hour with other girls.
What started as a minor configuration error, thanks to the help of outsourced Chinese tech support, has turned into a full blown hardware failure. I’m posting this from my folks’ house, and hopefully we’ll be back online soon.
I won’t waste time ragging on TSA, and their wonderful security theater. They did not act in accordance with their own stated policy (because doing so might compromise their image of authority). Moving on.
The commenters defending TSA make my head spin though. I’m not sure which is stupider. Is it the notion that the enemy has surgeons good enough to successfully implant a stable bomb into a breast, leave part of it sticking out of the breast, and have the breast actually heal into anything that would pass visual inspection by anything with a brain larger than a chipmunk, or is it the part where the bomb would work on some Acme principle with a pin to pull, or is it the part that somehow believing the first two to be possible, you insist she pull the pin?
All I can say is next time I have to fly, I’m setting aside bail money first. If I have to put on a show for some GED holdin’ bully, I’m gonna put on a fuckin’ show.
All right folks, I know you’re expecting some funny story or well researched post on $topic, but it’s 72F outside with a gentle breeze and all of the animals, even Zydeco, are doing their damndest to get us to play. So instead of what you really wanted, have some more stuff that appeals to our weird-assed tastes.
Sam and Max
How LabRat left this off the first list, when she introduced me to it in the first place, is beyond me. Sam & Max are Freelance Police, and theirs is a very strange world. “Sam! Sam! A seven-foot tall spectre of death appeared in the middle of the road, so I ran it over! It sounded like a bag of dirty laundry going under the wheels!” In Sam and Max’s world, violence most often is the answer. Originally a comic series (a reprint of their anthology “Sam & Max: Surfin’ the Highways” is availible), they moved into the world of video games with “Sam and Max Hit The Road,” wherein they visited bizarre locations across the US in search of escaped circus freaks. After a brief run as a fairly unsuccessful tv show, they faded into cult obscurity. Newly brought back from the dead by Telltale Games, they’re again starring in an episode-based series of adventure games that are Just. Plain. Awesome. Original creator Steve Purcell is on board, lending the project that wonderful authentic touch. Consider the following:
Liked the Glen Baxter stuff? Same vein. Monkeyfluids is more willing to include profanity, and these images come from actual old illustrations and such.
Scud, The Disposable Assassin
This one isn’t quite as light-hearted as the first two. In this weird world, you can purchace robot assassins from vending machines, which will self destruct on successful termination of their target. Scud, in the course of an epic battle with a plug-headed pop-culture-quoting mutant named Jeff caught sight of the warning sign on his back explaining his disposable nature. Rather than finish Jeff off, he wounds her and puts her on life support and begins taking other assignments to pay her hospital bills. The series is a bit hard to find at the moment, but fortunatly it’s coming back. Creator Rob Schrab is going to wrap up the cliffhanger he left the series on, supposedly this year, along with an anthology of the first 20 issues.
This series is based on Anthony Bourdain’s book of the same title, and if you’ve any sense of humor is outright hilarious. Fox killed it with their usual schedule juggling and poor promotion. Depending on where you live, as few as four episodes originally aired, but there’s a full half season availible. I don’t want to say too much about it, lest LabRat and I turn into the type of people that make “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” less funny for having heard all the good lines 90000000 times, but trust me, it’s worth watching this show.
A musician with songs that are hit or miss, with the hits being utterly hilarious. One such song, “Re: Your Brains” he describes thusly:
If Hollywood has taught us anything, it’s that being trapped in a mall surrounded by a million zombies would be really troublesome. But how much more annoying would it be if the head zombie used to be your co-worker, and he was kind of a prick even before he got infected?
There’s a frickin’ hilarious music video to that song availible here using World of Warcraft for the video source. Other awesome songs: “Code Monkey” and “Skullcrusher Mountain”.
All right folks, that should keep you busy for a while. Time to go play with the dogs.
When your standard anxiety dream of beating up on an enemy only to have no visible effect on them changes to beating them so severely that you actually feel bad about it, does that represent an uptick or a downtick in your self-image?
Now that we’ve had a good serious run pointing out that Barack really is just the same political sleaze as everyone else in the race, and “enjoyed” a good shocking at how utterly fucked up radical feminists are (Hint: If your shrieks look like quotes from the Womynists in P.C.U., you’re doin’ it wrong), let’s lighten things up a bit, shall we?
Once when I was in high school, I wrecked the truck and convinced my dad it was his Christmas present.
As I can already hear the cries of “bullshit” wafting forth from the tubes, let me explain. To what I’m sure will be the shock of absolutely everybody, my teenage years contained a few moments of stupidity and poor judgement. In one of my fits of at-the-time genius, I was taking advantage of the mud created by a recent early and melted snowfall to do donuts and generally misbehave in the family’s (well, Dad’s) Blazer. With my teenage judgement skills working in peak condition, I misjudged my stopping power and the distance between the corner of a shed and the nose of the truck by about six inches. The shed came out the worse of it, but there was a rather noticable vertical line down the front of the hood on the blazer. It wasn’t huge, and didn’t buckle the hood, but there was no way to miss it looking at the front of the truck. My youthful mind had a sneaking suspicion that Dad would consider this a bad thing.
Thinking swiftly, I panicked. My dad and I were taking a welding class together at the local branch campus at the time, and working in my favor was the fact that it was dark out by the time we met there. Also in my favor was the fact that I was commander of our JROTC unit’s rifle team, and we practiced every morning, causing me to leave the house around 4:30 each day – well before he was up and about. Under cover of darkness, a solution occured to me.
The hood of the blazer was not in the most stellar shape to begin with. The thing was coming up on ten years of age by that point, and the small, vertical forward section of the hood had encountered more than a few flying rocks and such during its travels, and looked more than a little cratered. The rest of the hood was in good shape, but that leading edge had taken a beating, and didn’t look pretty. Now we reach my ace in the hole: at the time, my afterschool job was sanding and priming in the local paint and body shop.
Pulling into work the next afternoon, I explained the situation to the boss, who found the whole thing funny and agreed to help. We straightened out the crease, smoothed the craters, and managed to get the hood repainted and clear coated by just a little past quitting time. My dad is famously inattentive to certain details, and I was betting he probably wouldn’t notice the suddenly craterless condition of the hood until it had developed a few new ones. Unfortunatly, Murphy showed up during this process. While we were masking things off and preparing to shoot, the radio antenna decided to be a little bastard, and sheared off. That was something big enough to notice.
During the drive home, as I stayed carefully back from the other cars to make sure nothing damaged the still semi-fresh paint, I pondered my options. Eventually, I settled on the “wait and see” approach. If I was lucky, I could get out before sunup the next morning or two and install the replacement antenna when it came in without him noticing, then stick to the original plan. When I pulled up to the curb and he was working in the front yard on something or other, I realized that I was not going to be lucky.
“Hey, kiddo. Good day at wor — where’s the antenna?”
Y’know how in a cartoon a lightbulb will appear over someone’s head? I’m surprised he didn’t comment on the one over my head next.
“Damn. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice and ruin the surprise. Merry Christmas.”
“Your Christmas present. I just finished it today, but the damn antenna had to go and foul things up.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know how you’re always complaining about the rock chips in the hood? Take a look at the nose of the truck.”
“…Wow! This came out great!”
“Thanks! It was a slow afternoon in the shop, so I floated the idea by for a way to learn how to work the paint instead of just primer. The guys thought it sounded cool, so here we are.”
“Man, that’s a great job, Tiger! Thanks!”
“Glad you like it! Sorry about the antenna. That sheared off when we were trying to pull it off to mask, but there’ll be a replacement in either tomorrow or Friday.”
“Eh, it happens and it’s easy to fix. Man, that really looks good! Hey, go get your Mom and tell her to come look at this!”
A few years later, he sold the Blazer, none the wiser still. Not being quite as dumb as I look, I still held off telling him. After I graduated college, LabRat and I were over at my parent’s home for some small get together with some of their friends, when Dad decided to start bragging.
“Yup. Stingray here made it all the way through high school without wrecking the car once! Surprised the hell out of everybody, but he was a pretty good kid.”
“Nah, you just didn’t find out about it when I did, Dad.”
His expression froze.
“Yeah, remember your ‘Christmas present’ when I repainted the hood? Guess why it suddenly needed repainting.”
At this point, I related the above story. When I got to the “Merry Christmas!” his friends started cracking up, while his expression gave me cause to wonder if I shouldn’t investigate a new career as a sprinter. Since he couldn’t kill me in public, he had time to calm down. Since then, he’s even managed to come to find the whole thing funny, so I suppose all in all things worked out.
The dust largely having settled at Fort Sumter, Holly has returned fire to officially kick off
Bull Run round two: sex-positive feminism, is it a total patriarchy-appeaser or what?
Over on the sidebar under NSFW links there is The Pervocracy, the not-safe-for-workiest of all. It’s pretty much what it sounds like. We have it linked because we’re perverts and because the writer, Holly, is frequently HILARIOUS, especially when commenting on gender issues. Plus, her pervy butt has totally been our blogfriend since forever.
Holly is a feminist, which in her apparently charmingly naive world of white privilege, means she thinks that men and women should have the same rights and responsibilities and that rigidly proscribed gender roles aren’t very good for either gender. Holly reads feminist blogs. Holly had some negative reactions to certain strains of thought in “radical feminism”. Holly said as much.
Thanks to the wonder of trackback- which is why this won’t be hotlinked, although I’m pretty sure that anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together can figure out my cunning plan and come foam on us anyway- Holly gave the radical feminists a severe case of butthurt: http://blog.iblamethepatriarchy.com/2008/03/23/its-all-about-me/#comments
(Needless to say, the Stingray in that post is not our Stingray. In fact, they might explode on contact if they were ever to meet.)
The subsequent deluge in Holly’s comments, as well as the fire in the comments there, was extremely educational. Radical feminism has simply never been something to take up much of my attention, as even when I was in college the majority of women there found them rather silly. It was actually something of a surprise to find that going from “mostly ignorant” to “full contact” mostly meant having most of my uninformed stereotypes vigorously confirmed. Here are some things I’ve learned:
1) I’m not a feminist and never can be, because if HOLLY is a “vulgar right-wing libertarian in feminist’s clothing” (a phrase I liked so much I considered changing this blog’s subtitle to it), then I’m Ayn Rand. I’m not all that heartbroken, though Stingray might be when he learns this doesn’t mean I’m going to be doing any more of the housework.
2) Radical feminists really ARE commies, apparently. Who knew? The logic behind this is that radical feminists want to eliminate all “privilege”, which means any form of inequality that is “changeable”. So, we short people aren’t going to get to chop a few inches off the tall people, but everything else needs to be overhauled. Once we bring the glorious new world of socialism, as the state/society/whatever (the commenter was extremely vague) will own everything, we will all be equally oppressed. Then it will be okay because nobody got to do any more or less of it than anyone else. Also, all work is slavery. When we are removed from the obligation rather than the choice to work on anything, we’re going to be so thrilled about it that we will no longer care that there’s no longer any link between effort and reward except moral satisfaction.
3) If you aren’t out right now rescuing battered women, you are not only ignorant, you are completely unqualified to criticize a radical feminist. They’re using THEIR free time to Fight The Patriarchy On The Internet; you’re using yours to spread ignorance and hateful lies about radical feminists.
4) Speaking of disagreeing with a radical feminist, if you REALLY disagree with them, it’s because you’re trying to please men/ThePatriarchy/our unjust society. You certainly can’t have come to such distasteful conclusions all with your own pretty little head.
5) Everything you think that radical feminists think is a straw man, even if they were saying it themselves on their own blog last week. What radical feminists ACTUALLY think, other than that you should be helping battered women right now, is apparently a closely guarded secret. This is because if you are a “sane” radical feminist, as defined by radical feminists, you do not think anything that could possibly be found to be absurd by an objective evaluation. Who qualifies is also apparently secret. The Freemasons should learn a thing or two from them.
6) Ladies, when they want your opinion, they’ll tell you what it is. You are too ignorant, too sheltered, and too privileged to know.
Saunter over and have a look. You’ll get an education, too.