Friday, July 10, 2009

Masculinity is a Psychopathic Death Cult

From wiki:

“Hare describes people he calls psychopaths as "intraspecies predators who use charm, manipulation, intimidation, sex and violence to control others and to satisfy their own selfish needs. Lacking in conscience and empathy, they take what they want and do as they please, violating social norms and expectations without guilt or remorse. What is missing, in other words, are the very qualities that allow a human being to live in social harmony."

If one were to replace “violating social norms and expectations” with “establishing and maintaining social norms that reproduce the same psychopathic behavior,” one would have a very accurate description of human men—and how they relate to human women— under patriarchy.

This is what I bear witness to:

Condescending to them
Talking over them
Shouting them down
Ignoring their feelings
Ignoring their humanity
Dismissing their rights to physical autonomy
Physically grabbing, pushing, striking them
Beating them
Subjecting them to verbal abuse, insult, and humiliation
Degrading them
Parasitizing them
Using them
Killing them
Raping them
Condoning and excusing their murders
Condoning and excusing their rapes
Celebrating violence toward them
Celebrating their dehumanization
Blaming them for their dehumanization

Without guilt.
Without remorse.

A whole society that promotes and celebrates it.
Myriad cultures worldwide that are built around it.
Sexual arousal being entwined in it.
Family structures supporting it.
Law supporting it, by enforcement or lack thereof.
Language reproducing it
Media reproducing it
Art reproducing it
Behavior controlled by it
Science justifying it
Religion divinizing it

Masculinity is a psychopathic death cult. Its prayers are muttered, shouted, whispered behind backs, written across billboards and magazines, screamed, scrawled, sung, rapped, worn on T-shirts, tattooed onto flesh, written into religious scripture.


We giggle and laugh about these words, as if there was nothing under them, as if the face of an adolescent girl coerced by poverty into rape-slavery in Bangkok, in Hong Kong, in London, in Los Angeles, in Small Town America could be erased from history and denied all meaning. Her face, and thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, simply countless faces just like hers. We just call it prostitution, or “the game,” and go back to trading stories of chicks we banged or felt up or wanted to fuck but she didn’t want to and who is she to want anything? Humanitarian crisis: nobody gives a fuck.

Anyway, whatever, so what? Trot out some more Chris Rock wisdom, or drop some pimp lessons, or read the latest Maxim or Men’s Health article about How to Score a 10. Surely someone in the room can tell us all a joke about an ugly feminist, or a dumb blonde, or their crazy ex, or their stupid girlfriend, or their brother’s wife. Hold on, I’ll send you a picture of her tits. More giggles.

“She’s more beautiful than ever.” A random quote I hear from one of my man-neighbors as I write this, spoken to another man-neighbor as they cross paths.

Because what is her principle value? Her appearance.

Her sex. She is sex. She is the sex class. Beauty 2K compliant—the body, the parts, the revealing clothes, the face, the makeup, the magazine dream. Sexually available to any man, at any time. Not MY daughter/mom/wife/etc. Not MY property. Me. Mine. My. Me. Man.

Sexually available, unless of course she’s under protection (ownership)—under the timeworn tradition of signing away her freedom to one man in exchange for protection from others, also known as marriage. A global tradition of prisons for desires to rot, where a woman is given away by one man (her father) to another man (husband), and did you do my laundry? Did you pick up the kids yet? Why isn’t dinner ready?

If you’re having problems with your love (domination) life, perhaps you could look to those gestated in a more extreme version of subjugation. I hear that in (impoverished country), women treat a man the way he is supposed to be treated.

He, human being, sovereign individual, King of Castle.
Her, defined by him.

If she sleeps with everyone she’s this, but if she sleeps with everyone but me, she’s this. Ha ha ha, elbow nudges and eye winks. Giggles in hell.

Wait, let me get this straight: I have something growing in my body, my sovereign human body, and you want to write into law and enforce by the threat and application of physical violence the idea that what is inside me has a greater right to exist than I have to control what happens to my sovereign human body?

You must be out of your fucking mind.

But it’s not me, it’s her, so abortion, as they say, is murder. She shouldn’t have (fucked)(fornicated with)(been raped by) him, anyway.

Look at what she’s wearing. Why was she out so late? She has a reputation. Isn’t that what they say? Or some other bullshit write-off? Are there any boundaries to our callousness? Any depths to which we will not sink in destroying human integrity?

I will fight you to the death to preserve my humanity, my autonomy. How much more of it I have, because I’m not “her.”

How long I’ve smiled or nodded my head or dropped my eyes to the ground in the face of the ultimate in casual destruction.

How fucking tired of it I am.

This is not the universe I want to live in.

I am human, and I want to live amongst human beings.

Not psychopaths. Not victims. Not slaves. Not monsters.

Human beings.

“For if you give, you will get! Your gift will return to you in full and overflowing measure, pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, and running over. Whatever measure you use to give—large or small—will be used to measure what is given back to you." – Luke 6:38

Friday, August 22, 2008

Chemical Warfare

I’ve been doing battle with ants for the past few weeks.

The heat drives them in. The recon men travel the endless landscapes of counters and tile and linoleum, searching for the colony’s next meal. Over night, one or two stragglers turn into a swarm on the kibble dish.

I have a basic policy in regards to various lifeforms in my home: as long as long as they are not threatening my survival, they can stay.

I’ve escorted more than a few of my multi-legged brethren out to the lands beyond my doorway. I de-skeeve myself to spiders by picking them up with clumps of toilet paper and tossing the whole thing out. By the time I come to throw the paper in the trash the next morning, they’ve usually gotten the hint and skittered off.

Disease-carriers and grocery-eaters fall directly into the Survival Threatening category. I have been in this apartment for over one year, and I have seen three cockroaches, all of which I caught and burned in effigy as a warning to the rest.

The ants, however, just keep coming back, so I’ve resorted to chemical warfare. The filthy chemical reak of Raid permeates the kitchen and bathroom. For now I’m letting the bodies linger, like a battlefield.

Of course, if I ever want to shower again, I’ll have to rinse that nasty Death Chem off my tub. I would sooner step barefoot into a pile of shit (which I’ve done) than touch my twinkly toes to that toxic shite.

New Arrival on the Mothership

Attention-span deprived as they are, the kids in the park are my favorite of all the students I’ve taught so far.

Rewind: recently, I have had the opportunity to teach a children’s martial arts class at a park in Historic Filipinotown. I’m proud to be carrying on the tradition of park lessons in an ethnically diverse neighborhood. I did a lot of my learning at Garvey Ranch Park in Monterey Park. Also, one of my instructors used to do a class at the park in Chinatown (I studied with him in classes given at my university). I never got the chance to go to the Chinatown class—back then, I was terrified of venturing out of my small, school world. Which is a shame really, because every time I did, it was a rewarding experience.

The kids have energy and spirit to spare, and they love the exercises I give them. We have yet to throw a punch or a kick, and I can already tell that a few of them are on board for the long haul.

I ride the Metro train out there, which is another new experience for me. I’d only been on the Metro train once before, a few years back when Malik took me to the first May Day protest in downtown (thankfully we missed the stormtrooping LAPD incident, which came the following year). It takes me about an hour and a half to get to the park from my place, but it beats the hell out of sitting in traffic. My favorite is the blue line, because the fences and walls along it are laced with glyphs.

During class this past Tuesday, a baby girl kitten showed up, with no mommy in sight. Her right eye was swollen shut and gunky with dirt and puss, and she was covered from head to toe in fleas. However, she wanted to live, so the Hollywood Jedi and I rescued her. I brought her home, and I’ve been bottle feeding her for three days now.

Took her to the vet. I got a bag full of medicines and vitamins and everything else, along with a fat bill. She got a bath.

Lord Byron wasn’t too pleased at first. He arched his fuzzy white back and hissed at the mewling pet carrier rather enthusiastically. But eventually he came around, and has even begun grooming her. The bonding will have to wait though—she is under quarantine until: 1) the antibiotics have done their work, and 2) she learns to use the litter box. I have yet to see evidence of her even going potty, which I’m thinking about getting worried about, but either way I don’t want her learning on my clothes/rug/journals/comics.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Android Boss

The Terminator is not a cyborg.

That's what they call it in the movie, of course. But they fucked up. It's not a cyborg.

See, a cyborg—cybernetic organism—is an integration of living systems with non-living systems, part organic, part machine. An example of a cyborg would be the Six-Million Dollar Man, who was mainly human but enhanced. Another example is the Borg race from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

The Terminator doesn’t have integrated living systems. All it is, is a “metal endoskeleton” with a layer of flesh over it. The flesh is only a mask. The Terminator appears to be human, and masquerades as human, but is not. The Terminator would be more accurately classified as an android.

This is an important distinction. If you had an artificial heart, you'd be cyborg. But if you had an artificial soul, you'd be an android.

It so happens that a good friend of mine works for an android.

You wouldn't know it was an android right away. It's a very good one. It is programmed with Non-Threatening Effeminate Male: Social Interaction Code 2.0, (upgraded from the first models to incorporate sports knowledge, and therefore appear less "gay"). I can hear its artificial "Hi, how are ya?" in my head as I write this.

There were several clues that led my friend and I to determine that his boss was an android. Follow the trail:

*First of all, the thing is a manager unit in a large corporate entity. Corporate entities, as we know, are systems of artificial intelligence--machine gods, etherial robots. Any manager unit, due to its close association of "self" goals and policies with "company" goals and policies, should be immediately suspected of being a dirty andy.

*Second of all, it is from Texas, yet possesses no identifiable regional accent. If you've ever known anyone from Texas, you know the accent, and you know that they're damn proud of having it. No born and Bred Texan would shed that accent. The accent is, as organic accents always are, an indicator of genuine humanity. Instead of a Texan accent, the android boss sounds exactly like the generic Television male voice we're all so familiar with from commercials, sitcoms, newscasts, etc.

*It has been quoted as saying, "everyone is replaceable," revealing his association of a workforce of unique, individual human beings with "parts." This is robot thinking. The robot does not value "humaness" because it is not human.

*It experiences "short circuits" of understanding when rules and policies are not followed. I've seen it scrunch up its face when being told that someone was leaving work early. It clearly did not compute.

*It solves all problems with the creation of more paperwork. Paperwork is a mechanism, for the machine to communicate with itself. Robots reproduce by assembling more of themselves. The android boss has shit out dozens of new Paperwork robot bastards in the couple of years that he's been in charge.

*An anecdote: The android boss had declared that no vacations, for anyone, were to be taken during a certain period of months, because that period was the business's high season. An employee petitioned for time off--with plenty of people available to cover his shifts--to go out of the country to visit his sick mother after her cancer surgery. Upon hearing about the employee's mother, the android boss's reply was: "Well, she should have scheduled her surgery for our down season."

It all adds up folks. When the machine's values are your own, your soul has died and been replaced with programming. Your human body is a mask over synthetic values. You are an android.

This world has made thousands of them.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

The Real Dark Knight

The Dark Knight did not portray Batman.


Every scene with the caped crusader was clearly lit with Two-Million-Gigawatt floodlights, so we all could be blessed with a vision of the costume designers' hard work. This is completely and utterly wrong, unacceptable. Batman does not jump into a fluorescently lit parking garage and commence to kung-fuing guys who seem to line up for their beatings.

Clearly, whoever is responsible for this depiction of Batman does not understand the character. The need for clarity on this matter is dire. Allow me.

This is Batman:

It's a Gotham city parking garage at night. It's dingy and smells like piss and there's trash everywhere, including inside of 3-piece suits & mercedes benzes. This latter group of refuse is toting automatic weapons and making a drug deal with a lunatic in a canvas mask named Scarecrow. They start arguing about the money, get distracted.

Pretenders in Batman masks show up with shotguns and get to blasting. Two or three guys go down for good, everybody else holes up for a showdown. Bullets and curses lace the air, metal clangs and windows explode. It's urban warfare with no air support.

Then the lights go out.

The shooting stops. Adrenaline fueled thugs gasp for air, terrified. A panicked voice stumbles out, Batman! It's Batman!

From one side of the darkness comes a rumble of crunching bones and thudding bodies. A shot goes off. Everyone dissolves into panic: thugs are either running, shooting blindly, standing frozen with wet pants, or laying sprawled out on the concrete. Scarecrow shoves a thug filled with vigilante buckshot out of the driver's side of his van and starts the ignition.

All around, smoke fills the air, along with more crunching and thudding and shooting and screaming. The van starts and swerves and collides and finally takes off. As he speeds toward the exit of the garage, the last of the thugs are hitting the cement, unconscious.

A bat-shaped monster silhouette flies out of the smoke, into the clear dark, and falls through the air.

It lands on top of the escaping van.

It's Batman.

Then the lights go out. That is the fucking key. Batman is not Superman, he does not descend under the glow of the Neon Sun. Batman is a ninja, he appears under cover of DARK. Hence DARK Knight.

It is impossible--to the point of crushing any suspension of disbelief--that one dude in some armor could walk into a situation like that and leave as anything other than hamburger.

And, more important, it simply is not what Batman would do. He's too smart.
Batman's game works because he causes panic and terror. The majority of criminals will fold if they even think Batman might show up. When Batman does show up, you don't see him. He sees you. And while you're freaking out, he takes apart the scene like a science.

There is nothing…


There is NOTHING scary about a dude, armor or none, that you can see as clearly as the Volvo next to him and the cigarette-chewing punk next to you.

If that was Batman, every pistol kid in Gotham would be well capable of putting a bullet in him, and wouldn't respect him enough not to.

And P.S., Christian Bale's growling in the mask is the worst. Get that dude a valium.

Batman does not growl. He speaks low and clear and straight to the point, without passion. That's what so terrifying about the Joker, is that Joker's madness drives even Batman to temper tantrums—the coolest dude there is loses his cool.

And Batman certainly does not stand around with his mouth open like a simpleton. Costume designers, fix it up for next time, eh?