What happens when #MeToo meets #BanBossy?

Ci women bosses are even worse as leaders than Ci men bosses, and, accordingly, they scream at their subordinates even more than the manicured man-boys they are alleged to be equal to.What do you suppose Ci women bosses scream about?Photo by: GDS-Productions

A few days ago, I batted out a moral ranking of the ‘guests’ at The Sex Addiction Clinic of Misfit Celebrities:

• Garrison Keillor – harmless
• Charlie Rose – clueless
• Donald Trump – mendacious
• Matt Lauer – opportunistic
• Harvey Weinstein – predatory
• Bill Clinton – diabolical

You can quibble about the personalities and their offenses, and I truly don’t care. The point is there are gradations to the kind of behavior we’re condemning, differences in motivation that tell us what is going on.

DISC it: We’re going to find C and I in huge abundance among true offenders, obviously: Both are poorer at reading inbound displays, and hence are more likely in general to faux pas-in-full in social encounters. But C and I are much more likely to treat other people as tokens in a game, too: To see an individual human being not as the present and momentary instantiation of his entire life, but simply as a sale or a fare or a deal or a trick – or a “free” gumball.

Everything that rational people could plausibly object to comes down to predation: Deploying force or fraud (in the form of guile) to induce behavior the victim would not otherwise have chosen. Much of what is being #MeToo’d about amounts either to clumsy courtship or unwelcome conversation – but, of course, women can make anything trivial. In any case, anything short of actual predation should be ignored. That’s the only way adult-babies will learn how to act like adults.

But the motivation of that actual predation matters, because it illuminates the intoxicating, addicting illusion-of-omnipotence that undergirds all socially-abusive behavior: Predation is not about sex. It’s about power. Not even power over the person, directly, but power over the inconquerable laws of nature that say one lion should never be able to enslave another.

Ultimately – and aboriginally – C and (more…)

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Men: What’s your best defense from yet another catty #MeToo meow? “She hit me first!”

The “Fighting Words” legal doctrine says that, when you persistently taunt a man into punching you, you’re the bad guy. I don’t know that judges will want to talk about tortious fornicative displays, but that’s what’s going on when a slutty dresser comes to work.Illustration by: Surian Soosay

I think every working stiff in America should file a sexual-assault grievance every time some floozie shows up to work dressed to incite working stiffies. She’s hitting you first. Fight back.

If a skirt shows leg above the knee, standing or sitting, report it.

If arms are visible above the elbow, write it up.

Shoulders? Back? If you’d look hard to see it from behind your sunglasses on the beach – it’s an act of sexual aggression.

Snazzy shoes? They’re meant to make you look at her legs. High heels? Her calves and butt. If you see something, say something.

Is she wearing a long necklace or a broach? She’s flaunting her tits, so she can flail you with them later. Tell HR.

All jewelry on a woman is sex-parts advertising: She’s drawing your eyes to what she thinks is most ogle-worthy. Don’t take the bait, but do report the baiting.

Red outfit or accessory? Eye magnet. Form-fitting clothing? Grope magnet. Perfume? Rape magnet. She’s violating your nature as a man. Speak up.

And don’t forget to remember: Past offenses count, but only your memory of them counts, and the injury was to your feelings, not to anything that can be measured from the outside.

Got three specific grievances? That’s a hostile work environment: You are being asked to labor against a company-endorsed tide of deliberate sexual temptation.

The “Fighting Words” legal doctrine says that, when you persistently taunt a man into punching you, you’re the the bad guy. I don’t know that judges will want to talk about tortious fornicative displays, but that’s what’s going on when a slutty dresser comes to work.

Report the bitch. She’s not just disrupting the workplace, she’s a walking land mine self-programmed to destroy careers, marriages and families. Be a hero and rid the job site of toxic femininity.

Most women who work outside the (more…)

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A dumpster diver’s Christmas.

Screen Shot 2014-12-12 at 6.58.52 AMA Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Sunday, December 24, 1995 – Christmas Eve

I can be counted upon to walk, after all.

When everybody’s nowhere and even the laundromats are empty. When the respectable stores are closed and the line at the 24-Hour Slurp ’n’ Burp is 15 deep with people craving cold beer and hot salsa and high-octane unleaded. When there’s one lonely mailman in an immense empty truck delivering insanely last-minute gifts sent via God-Help-Me-If-I-Screw-It-Up-Again Express Mail. When the streets are empty and the highways are empty and the parking lots are empty and, for once, even the bars are empty – I can be counted upon to walk. You’re at home with the yule log blazing, with a glazed ham baking, with a Bordeaux breathing, with the children seething to tear into that cache of treasures parked beneath the tree. And Uncle Willie’s out walking on Christmas Eve, dragging his pencil on the pavement for no good reason at all.

“Storm windows,” John Prine sings. “Gee, but I’m getting old. Storm windows, keep away the cold.” And that’s a silly enough thought in the great outdoors. I was cutting through an apartment complex and the closed-for-the-holidays supermarket next door had left its parking lot speakers blaring. And the radio station was playing a song they’d never play if they thought anyone was listening.

I can hear the wheels of automobiles
so far away, just moving along through the drifting snow.
It’s times like these, when the temperatures freeze
I sit alone, looking at the world through a storm window.
Down on the beach, the sandman sleeps.
Time don’t fly, it bounds and leaps.
The country band, it plays for keeps.
They play it so slow…

I was about twenty feet away from a big blue dumpster and I heard a rustle. You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take away the boy’s revulsion for rats, and I was suddenly in the mood to be walking elsewhere. But then there was a big tumble-rumble-boom, something big knocking into the steel walls of the dumpster, and I knew it wasn’t a rat.

And I knew what it was, too, and (more…)

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Fifty Shades of Bubba: Christmas at The Sex Addiction Clinic of Misfit Celebrities.

Bill Clinton looked at Garrison Keillor. “What are you doing here, farmboy? The last time you had a dirty thought, you wrote a book about it. Matt Lauer’s trying to get back at the jocks in his high school – and Harvey at the cheerleaders in his, right? You guys aren’t predators. You’re just parasites.”Illustration by: DonkeyHotey

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

“Fuckin’ Bill Cosby,” Harvey Weinstein said. He said it in my dream, to be fair. But if you can’t trust your dream, you’re having a nightmare – and therefore it’s good odds you’re awake, anyway.

Matt Lauer agreed, in any case: “Fuckin’ Bill Cosby.”

“Well that hardly seems fair.” Garrison Keillor said that, and if you think he’s just here for comic relief – he’s not laughing.

“No,” said Charlie Rose, doing his best to fit in, a practice he may well master in the next five or six hundred years. “They’re right. This all started with him. Fucking. Bill. Cosby.”

“What do you know anyway, Keillor?” Weinstein demanded. “What the hell are you even in here for? You accidentally touched a fat cow’s blubber and didn’t wash your hands afterward?”

Keillor said nothing. The man was born into retirement.

“What kind of name is Garrison, anyway? Is your brother named Stockade? Your sister’s called Embargo? Did your dad think he could make a man of you by giving you a manly name?”

Still nothing. Start wilted, stay wilted.

“And what about you, Charlie Rose? Did you think prancing around like a homo in front of women means you’re not a fag?”

“Now that’s just not fair. No one has ever called my sexuality into question.”

Matt Lauer did nothing to hide his snort.

“Oh, shut up, pusswad. You’re not a predator. You’re a congenital fratboy on too long of a leash.”

And believe it or not, this was my show. In the dream, that is. For some reason, I was leading a therapy group at The Sex Addiction Clinic of Misfit Celebrities in breathtaking Scottsdale, Arizona. The name was right there on the wall, along with the clinic’s slogan: “You kissed. She told. Now what?”

My (more…)

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How I got thrown out of Walmart at Christmas for unauthorized salesmanship.

“My name is Loco Willie and I am loco for frisky dogs, precocious children, classy broads and cheap, red guitars.”

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Friday, December 1, 2017

“Don’t you know any other songs?” The kid we’re going to call Stingray asked me that. Tank top and cargo shorts in December, but, hey, it’s Phoenix. And he’s Stingray because we all know how he gets his scrawny ass to Walmart after school.

“You kiddin’?” said another kid, shorter and way too heavy for his age. He was in shorts, too, but Charter School uniform khakis. How do I know it’s a Charter and not a Catholic School? His corresponding polo shirt was a bright, warm red, not navy blue or forest green – and it was new this school year, not hand-me-down worn. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes and he hasn’t played the same thing twice.”

I looked up from the guitar I was playing and spoke to Josh, who had come along for the ride. “Who’s right?”

He’s a good-looking boy, just eighteen and nine whole beard hairs to prove it. Black Irish – tall, fit and dark – and he is most definitely not my young friend Tegan’s boyfriend – which argues to me that he could use my good influence: She’s going to be a fine woman, but she’s a tough pasture to plow. He said, “Beats me. It does sound sort of the same from time to time, and yet every song is different.”

I looked to Stingray. “Tell him.”

He shrugged. “It’s just one-four-five with sevenths.” Thunk. Try again. “The twelve-bar blues?” Thunk.

I had been playing this whole time and before – mainly charging, choppy stuff – but I picked out a bluesy little turnaround as a tiny piece of musical history.

“No,” said Charter School, “every song has been different.”

“It’s just rock ’n’ roll, dude. Same song, a million different ways to play it.”

I smiled. I spoke to Josh, including the boys but ranking Josh above them. “It’s not even a song, just a chord progression. It’s ninety percent or more of all pop music, and it’s just (more…)

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#Bitcoin is an excellent joke. It will be hilarious right up until it’s catastrophic.

Since absolutely everyone publicly associated with Bitcoin is such a sleazy gonoph, how could it possibly be a scam?Photo by: Steve Garfield

This started as a private conversation, but I’m taking pieces of my part of it public, because it’s of general interest. Our topic:

What do I have against crypto-currencies?

Start here:

I’ll be dead before this plays out, I expect, but I think crypto-currency is essentially latifundial in its objectives. Wealth is stuff people want and the means to obtain more of it, fixed and intellectual capital. Crypto scales our current state of securitization, putting punters at an even further remove from real values, even as the would-be Dukes of the new latifundia lay in for a world without trade, where not even gold-in-hand can proxy for wealth. It’s the Bell Boys coming to Wall Street, and it will be funny right up until it’s catastrophic.

We batted thing around a little, and I circled back here:

Plausibly I’m not being fair. I have no invested wealth, and my interest in Bitcoin is strictly as more of the daily comedy that is news. And, obviously, I could be madly wrong: I’ve been mocking Bitcoin from three digits to five.

Latifundia means large farms in Latin. It’s how the equestrian classes planned for and survived the fall of Rome. These became the political entities of the Dark Ages – tiny fiefdoms controlled by one man but farmed and defended by dozens or hundreds. As with TV stations today in tiny countries, the source of political power was the granary in the castle: The Duke defends everyone’s food, but rebels starve.

My take is that the modern-day equestrian classes are preparing their own modern latifundia, converting their securities to real wealth, using securities bubbles to gull the marks. Bitcoin is just part of that, target-marketed at the lesswrong.com kind of intellectualoid who cannot conceive that he could ever be in error. The perfect con is the one the mark begs to get in on.

As for how to invest, I think every kind of after-market securities investing is rent-seeking – demanding compensation for no added-value – (more…)

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If you are in despair at the end of #NaNoWriMo, consider writing my way.

“Yeah, but what does the divan look like?”Illustration by: Lewis Minor

We are nearing the end of yet another “National Novel Writing Month,” which suggests to me that a few people will have accomplished something and a lot of people will have added yet another disappointment to their catalogs of regret.

I have no informed opinions about #NaNoWriMo, this because there is only one reason to write fiction, and it ain’t competition. But I hate the idea of people making art their enemy by waging a campaign on it. If you are in deep despair because you’ve piled up a lot of words – or wish you had – but made no art, why not try a different way to get the job done?

Art matters? If all you care about is milking fools by tickling their vices, you can stop now. You’re going to hate me, and I sincerely wish you and everyone who thinks that way would find something positive to do with your time, instead. Art is leadership, and so-called art that leads people to worse choices, worse behavior, worse fates – that’s not art, that’s evil. Get help – but first stop hurting people.

But does the novel matter? Why would it? The novel was visualization porn for people with limited vistas, so, alas, your detailed description of that paisley-upholstered divan was obviated by lithography even before photography. That would be two hundred years ago. People know what paisley looks like – and know not to care, since all divans are upholstered in something – so your padded word count can shrink by a lot.

Still worse, the novel was and is rebellion porn, mutiny porn, titillating the reader in precisely those ways he would would rather not disclose to whomever he looks to for approval. That’s anti-leadership, as above, but each new book also becomes another brick in the wall separating the reader from the actual objects of his fantasized mutiny. The novel becomes his reason not to repair his storgic relationships.

So that means what? Your stories are almost certainly aimed the wrong way, if you want (more…)

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