ERposting

composing this in “hall bed” at emergency room, drankin saline solution thru stigmata.  was weak all day and slightly short of breath.

not lookin forward to the bill.  the way the insurance tango works i might not know the final tally for months, or might find out in a week.  that is to say, i might come to y’all with hat in hand again at some point in that time frame.

fun how so few people here wear masks.  minimizing my household’s exposure to crud by having no company in here.

i’ve queued this post so if it goes live with nothing after this point, you can assume i’m dead or otherwise unavailable.  be concerned if the rest of my queue starts rolling out one day at a time, posts with titles but no text other than a hasty note to myself or a keysmash.

i’m sure it won’t be like that, but this is a weird one for me, and who knows?  will it be better for them to discover nothing or for them to find out i have something annoying or expensive to treat?

will i contract covid in here?  will the visit be worse for my health than muddling thru without help?

will check in later…

nothing!  they found nothing.  i don’t think they ran the most expensive tests so i’ll probably be coo.  just gotta get up the gumption to stop smoking my sick leave.

yeah, back home, had dinner, feel better – if a bit frail.  what will i feel like tomorrow morning?  stay tuned lol.

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Life List: Common Pheasant

I’ve surely seen these before, in a zoo collection filling out a mixed flock of more exotic poultry.  The common pheasant is what you think of when you hear “pheasant” – green head, white ring neck, weird red lappets on the face around their eyes, spots and stripes in a motley of earth tones, long sweeping tail.  That’s the male, females more drab as usual.  I don’t remember a specific instance of seeing them alive.  They’re not from here, introduced as they were around the world.  There’s a different introduced species of fowl one sees far more often, despite it being more showy and likely having smaller numbers globally: peafowl.

Pheasants were put on this continent to shoot.  Whatever, colonizers.  Now they’re here, out in fields, doing whatever it is that a chickenish wild creature does.  I can only remember seeing them in the wild one time.  It was some kind of game farm, or game farm adjacent plot of land where the unwise go to look at birds.  On the way in, we passed a ditch with a pile of dead birds, submerged in yellowish murky water.

At first I thought they were hawks.  It was hard to make out individual details, but they were stripey and not too small.  My brother was with me and considered calling the authorities – killing hawks is not allowed, right?  But we figured it out.  Shot for the sake of shooting, and left to rot.

I don’t get the pleasure of killing.  Seems like the behavior of sick creeps.  One might point out that predatory animals get a pass, right?  It’s how they live.  Alright, but their behavior does little to dissuade me from the idea that hunters are sick creeps.  The most intelligent predatory animals are legendary for their cruelty – for playing with their food.  Cannibalism, particularly of cubs, is widespread within Carnivora.

The conduct of white hunters in particular is doing their reputation no favors.  Every time you look up a hoofed animal no matter how tiny, meatless, or rare, you will see a white man posing next to a dead one.  I swear, I saw a pic of a mouse deer where the proud hunter was posing over it with the tiny peashooter he had used.  Famous politicians who hunt have also been puppy murderers, or blast from helicopters, or use assault rifles.  Losers.  Get a spear and put your ass on the line like a real hunter.

But I do eat meat, and when the soup goes down, you will see me hunting as well.  You will not see me making a game of it or smiling.  I guess it’s no big deal if it ain’t endangered species.  You’re not doing anything a dog wouldn’t do, and we’re all supposed to like dogs, right?  Fine.  I’m not going to say no.  Especially since you assholes killed all the wolves and somebody has to keep the deer numbers down.

But pheasants.  They look alright.  And they probably taste like chicken.

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The Lowest White Person

I recently had an injudicious rant about racism, chiefly that against latinx immigrants in the united snakes, and the very day after I composed that, I ran into a living example of the old LBJ quote “If you can convince the lowest white man he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket.  Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you.”  OK, not the entire quote, just the phrase “the lowest white man.”

At the same bus stop where I once met a friendly narcoleptic dude, on another hot shitty day, there were two random things of note.  On the bench, a very well-groomed man was reading a tablet.  I took him for Middle Eastern but he could have been from anywhere medium-toned, as far as I can tell.  The other thing of note, a girly purple backpack sitting in the street, where the bus would be pulling in.

When you see an unattended bag, you might reflect on post 9-11 warnings about explosives.  It did cross my mind; was a bomber sitting in a car with tinted windows nearby, waiting for a crowded bus to pull into view before hitting the remote control switch?  Not likely.  I decided it was randomly dropped there by a drunk or high homeless woman.

Coming down the hill from the overpass, I saw two white people approaching.  The lady could have been conventionally attractive at that distance – thin, tan, whatever.  But a healthy person would have no reason to be in the neighborhood of that overpass.  I knew they were unhoused.

They reached the bus stop and she went straight for the backpack, adding it to the bags she was already hauling.  Up close, she was hard-lined, had a few witch warts, and had the expression of a pit bull that had eaten too many babies and was now bored with the experience.  She had pissed her pants, the wet area centered on the crotch was the size of a dinner plate.  This made enough of an impression I didn’t clock as many details in the man she was with.  He also had too much sun on his skin and was hauling a backpack or two.

They made their way to an empty stretch of parking lot nearby, to rifle through their stuff and make sketchy plans, then hobbled back to the bus stop.  I was listening to my headphones, but lifted them just long enough to fit the N95 over my face – the bus was arriving soon.  In that one little moment, I heard the lady say a racist slur against Mexicans I haven’t heard in years.

Man, I do not thank Satan often enough that I have the privilege of not being around nazis every day.  Thanks, Satan.

Was she referring to the well-groomed guy?  Some other random people she had encountered in her miserable day?  Didn’t matter to me.  I was just thinking, this slang term is based on a sense of disgust, yes?  How can a person living at the outer limits of what normies find disgusting devote her hard-won life energies to feeling disgust for anyone else?  Does that shit help?  Personally, the more I become disgusting to normies, the more convinced I am that disgust is not a value I want to base my own perceptions and judgments upon.

Lady, I get that every day of your life is hateful and desperate.  Everything you own is stolen by your fellow homeless people about as often as you steal everything another homeless person owns from them.  Pleasures are thin on the ground and largely poisonous; pains are constant.  Nobody loves you; I’m sure you don’t love yourself.  But still.  I wish you didn’t let that own your mind, change the way you treat others.  Shit’s a fucken mess.

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Life List, Supplemental: Chill Geese

Every damn time I see this post’s title in my queue I think “grilled cheese?  What did I want to write about grilled cheese?”  It’s chill geese.  Chill geese, I swear!

I had to go on a long journey by bus and by hoof, on a hot shitty day.  I despise summer profoundly.  There were a few nicer stretches, though I didn’t have time to enjoy them.  The apartment complexes on 1st Ave had shade trees and grass near the road, which were a good environment for canada geese.

There were a few small flocks on this day.  I wondered that they might be mixed flocks because some of the geese were much smaller than the tallest adults, but I realized they had just recently come into adult plumage.  Stray bits of down stuck to the surface of those feathers like they’d been caught in a dandelion’s orgasm.  The white and black on their head weren’t quite 100% contrast yet.

Geese have a big rep for hostility and violence, but I’ve never experienced it myself.  The ones closest to the sidewalk, closest to me, were the youngest – of whom you’d think the largest ones would feel protective.  Nobody threatened me.  They all looked very peaceful and sweet.  I could have busted a professional wrasslin’ move and collected a goose dinner, but they felt no danger from me.  They got my number.

I just love beautiful animals, even if they muck up the sidewalk.  They looked so pleasant, like this was paradise, despite the proximity to the asphalt and speeding cars.  I look one way I can see the endless train of people going places, the other and it’s goose elysium.

Thanks, geese.

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Kein Mensch ist Illegal

It’s easy when an issue is outside your direct experience to see it more broadly, to feel its impact less personally.  I dunno, these words are excuses for the fact that while I was always on the better side of the issue of immigration, I wasn’t passionate about it.  Recent events have changed that, which is good.  Of course, it feels bad.

My husband had a boyfriend once who was racist against Mexicans, and when that came out, my dude didn’t even process it at first.  How can you hate those guys with the oompa music and straw cowboy hats?  What did they do to you, rat-faced little creep?  I had a friend who emerged from the methed-out trailer park to become an itinerant goth queen, very cool, but one time she likewise exposed a racism against Mexicans that shocked me.  I imagine she has moved and improved since then.  Unlike my husband’s shitbird ex, my goth friend had decent values in the broad sense, was amenable to change.  And I did understand what was happening to call it out when I saw it, so she had a learning opportunity.

Now where are we?  I’m on the phone at my day job, full time talking to the breadth of amuriKKKa about the difficulties of obtaining and maintaining benefits of various social programs.  I had a front row seat to the effects of rethuglican propaganda, as late 2023 through the whole of 2024, there was a significant increase in the number of fools randomly blaming “the illegals” for the barriers they were experiencing.  Motherfuckers, those barriers were set in place by racists like you, who are convinced with zero evidence that there are a zillion little brown people getting buckets of welfare cash.  You are literally voting to make life harder for yourselves.  They did, and now my rate of fucked-up tragic phone calls where I can’t do anything to help a person has increased, because of this shit.  Cause and effect.

I’ve carefully come close to saying exactly that a few times, and the response from xenophobes is a surly nuh-uh, or silence, or whatever.  Doesn’t matter.  What’s really making them mad is that we can’t explicitly make a whites only pass for welfare programs.  When the revolution comes (if shit comes to that) I will shoot these people in the face.

The mobilization of the genocide machine has begun.  Of course it’s starting with immigrants.  Saw a comment at Mano’s that “people will die because of this situation.”  I regret to inform you they are certainly dying already, and had been under Biden and Obama as well.  It’s just going to get worse now.

Talk about “the illegals” has never been about the rule of law, or protecting your people, or whatever they imagined.  It’s the seed of mass murder.  Zero tolerance for that talk wherever you encounter it.  Fuck the motherfuckers.

Let us stay furious, block the bastards, be as proactive as we can be, protect those who need protection, and not sleep on a single instance of this ongoing horror.  I say that but I know it’s already too late for a full account of the fallen.  So many of those ghosts will never be named.

No more ghosts, no more genocide.  Fuck the USA.

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Dreamposting: Annihilation

Been having apocalyptic dreams again lately.  A while ago I had a dream that alien colonizers had annihilated nature and enslaved all of humanity.  Was it conventional slavery or some kind of mind control?  I no longer remember, but I do remember it was at a preposterously cosmic scale – stars being arranged in rows.  I was in a spaceship, but I don’t recall if I was planning some suicidal resistance gesture or just trying to survive for a few minutes.

The newer dream was more of a supernatural apocalypse.  The entire world had corroded away under something like a super fungus, including rocks, earth, water, all physical substance.  Left in its stead was a sloppy approximation of the annihilated world, populated by sad and confused ghosts that were trying to convince themselves that there was still some kind of concrete reality that they could live in and depend on.

I was in a room where part of the floor had corroded away, and people were discussing what could be done to repair it.  I knew that was futile, that the place was on the verge of dissolving forever, but I let them have their plans.  Is it better to have a false hope or a hopeless truth?  It probably depends on the situation, but my dream self was leaning toward the former.

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Does Bébé Want to Fvck Glenn Danzig?

This article is patently facetious.  Of course it’s problematic – imagine such an article written by some bro about a woman and that is apparent – and of course the person in question is a real and entire-ass human being with thoughts and feelings beyond his public persona, and of course he is to all appearances not interested in getting with fat middle-aged queers, and this fat middle-aged queer is married and also not interested in getting with people who are not interested in getting with them.  Proceeding with these facts in the back of the mind…

There are important questions we must ask of ourselves in this life, to prepare for all eventualities and exigencies, no matter how unlikely.  Given the outsized presence the music and persona of Glenn Danzig have in my life, one may reasonably assume I am a fan.  And as a fan, that I might come into contact with the old man in some way, someday.  And if that should happen, would I want to fuck Glenn Danzig?

Consider, if you will, the appeal.  Danzig is a blues man, part of the long tradition of howlin’ about your supernatural sexual prowess and affinity for death and the devil.  Said Bo Diddley, “I walk 47 miles of barbed wire, I use a cobra snake for a necktie, I got a brand new house on the roadside Made from rattlesnake hide. I got a brand new chimney made on top, Made out of a human skull. Now come on take a walk with me Arlene, And tell me who do you love?”  Said Glenn Danzig, “Come wrap my love in your house of ice, Melt you down more than once or twice, Make you shake till worlds align, See your body tremble with the blood of fire.”

Danzig is buff.  I used to draw musclemans when I was a child, inspired by toys and images in cartoons.  That was the body of the cool and powerful.  Once upon a time, comic nerds strongly favored Glenn to play Wolverine.  The fact he is short was a note in favor – comics canon Wolverine is short and thick.  But I lost interest in muscles, especially the more I realized I wanted to get with men.  Some bi people want mans to be buff and womans to be soft, but I’m more like, everybody be soft now.  Still, it doesn’t necessarily repulse me, as long as they’re not popping every vein like they do on muscle magazines.

The main thing is the Dark Sexual Majesty.  Brooding intense guy will own you body and soul with his grand satanic gifts.  Get destroyed and do so gladly, to experience and to serve a lust more powerful than god.  Realistically, no way he’s that good at fucking.  People get a limited number of talents and he’s already got his share before the bedroom door is opened.  The idea, however, can itself serve as foreplay – prime one to enjoy something more than they otherwise would.

This image is ripe for mockery.  Some rude indie comix nerds made arguably homophobic hay with Henry & Glenn Forever, a series featuring Glenn and Henry Rollins as gay lovers.  Reportedly Mr. Danzig is not amused.  I hope this article, should it find his attention (do not bring it to his attention plz), does not hit him the same way.

Would I mock his arch-macho posture?  Never.  Maybe a wee bit.  Let’s talk about that bassist from Hole, Melissa Auf der Maur.  She bought the act, and cut an extremely cringe-inducing duet with him.  The plot is about how cowboy bad boy Glenn shot her dad, but she’s cool with it, because he’s too sexy.  Like The Quick and The Dead, if Sharon Stone gave up on vengeance and boned Gene Hackman instead.  Does Melissa always sing like that, or was she trying to play the role of a pubescent girl?  Glenn played the part fine, if the part existing in the first place could be considered fine, but I dunt know what in tarnation Melissa was doing there.

So it works!  I could suspend my disbelief for it.  What other considerations are there?

Age.  He is now seventy years old – about my father’s age.  Looks a bit like Donald Rumsfeld with a facelift and chronic depression.  But I’m feeling my age and have always been cool with much older partners, so no prob there.  He once had a song about how he doesn’t want anybody to bar his entry to the afterlife when he’s “tired of being alive.”  Let’s hope he isn’t tired yet.

Height.  Some guys are smol, and try to make up for it by getting swole.  The bodybuilding can’t help but look napoleonic, as did his practice of escrima.  This seems Italian to me.  Glenn is Italian as hell, despite stagenaming himself after a place in Poland.  In college I had two professors of visible Italian heritage with Italian-ass Italian surnames.  One looked more northern, with the gold blond hair and impish lil’ napoleon face.  The other looked more southern, dark skinned and prominently schnozzed.  Cute fellas, but tiny.  Didn’t see them pounding HGH flintstones chewables, but different people get by in different ways.  This doesn’t bother me.  Nonetheless, his old drummer Chuck Biscuits could probably chuck him for distance, and it looks like that bothers him.

Erotica.  Glenn puts his erotic imagination into the world for all of us to see.  Part of the blues thing, but he goes farther.  Weird stuff.  He wore black vinyl kitty claws for one music video, a gimp suit for another.  Didn’t he have a video where he drooled on a lady, like we were supposed to think that was hot?  I think he did.  It’s been a minute.  This is all fine.  Sex nerds are fine.

But he also publishes erotic comic books.  I dunno if he has written or done art for any, but he publishes them.  This led to a wacky situation in my life.  Early in my relationship with my husband, he and his mother felt the need to get me christmas gifts that I’d enjoy, something personal to me, even tho there’s not many material things I want at all.  They knew I liked Danzig, so they got me Danzig things.  My husband crocheted me a Glenn amigurumi that was truly epic, while his mom just bought seemingly random shit from his online stores.

That included two comics, one being a Devilman translation / reprint, and the other being a kinda disgusting erotic comic.  The dudes all had summer sausage schlongs and no balls.  I get it; people who aren’t attracted to men often think of balls as disgusting, but their absence was felt.  My mother in law is christian.  She did not look at these gifts before wrapping them, and I did not show them to her after I opened them up.  (holy hell he actually made a movie out of that foolery, looks terrible)

High school Bébé wasn’t over the “musclemans is cool” thing yet, and bought his image.  Long black hair, elvis sideburns, and giant meat titties.  What’s not to love?  I sometimes drew rpg characters to look like that.  The songs can still work for me.  Dude is a very good songwriter.  The Misfits without him were such a bad joke that they found jeezis.  Disturbing.  But yeah.  I was totally into Danzig, at the same time I was going big for grunge.  There was room in my heart for earnest heroin boys and meaty satanic posers alike.  I contains multitudes that I would be down to fuck.

And where am I now?  If I accidentally’d into the boudoir of His Satanic Majesty?  Yeah, I’d hit that.  But I’d probably end up on top.

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I keed, I keed!  Is joak, da?  By the way, If the title of this post made you remember something from Blue Velvet, congratulations and apologies.  Have a nice day.

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RP by Comment 00008

I will never be able to justify the number of zeroes in front of that number in the title.  This is a bonus post; see the adjacent articles for the regularly scheduled content.  You can still join this RP by comment, open for two more players.  Catch up from the beginning here, or whatever.  This is an “urban fantasy” in an earth-like world.  The characters are students at the equivalent of a community college, for the usual reasons a person might end up there instead of a more prestigious school.  What are you doing here?  What’s your major, something mundane or something adventurous?

~Previous~ 🏵️ ~~~

At Magic Boots, the party was certainly going to burn through the night.  Yes, the prudish human conquerors of The City of Romance had set a two o’clock closing time, but the hearty revelers had literally inhuman stamina, and would simply take the party out into the streets when the bouncers shuffled them through the doors.

It felt like everybody in the building had, at some point, danced with everybody else.  Some debauched characters found dark corners to do a bit more than dance.  What sort of biz might your guy have gotten up to, and with whom?  One of the crew, or a mysterious third party altogether?  Or more than one of the above?

What of the Cortellire Hall freshmen?  Div and Racker were the biggest party animals, in their own distinct ways.  Div took the club for its intended purpose, sharing erotic energy with the masses, experiencing the release of reckless dance, drink, and drug.  Racker partook of his share, but was also getting into other kinds of hijinks, making the bouncers mad and always disappearing before the hammer came down.  At one point he surfed across the dance floor balanced on a folded “wet floor” caution sign, at another he took over the DJ booth and played a bunch of sexual groans and bellows from a soundboard.

The meatheads Tollison, Liu-gon, Markud, and Grundr all had good times and bad – one minute making time with a promising fella, the next finding out it was bad news, the next minute onto another.  Grundr was easy to lose track of at his height.  The tallest meathead was Humuk, which meant he was the easiest to keep an eye out for – and this was good, because he seemed the most out of his depth.  Still, his muscles helped.  He could hold his own when the bawdy got too ardent for his experience level.  He’d find out about himself at his own pace, tho that pace would surely be accelerated by the night’s foolishness.

Josh and Keires were the easiest to lose in the crowd and it was hard to see how they were doing, tho at some point after midnight, Keires used his elemental powers to dance above the crowd’s heads – a spectacle they appreciated.  Ilenka and Kaldonia likewise became hard to see, shorter than the main run of manly dancers.

But trouble was brewing.  The freshmen kept catching haughty looks and threatening body language from a large clique of guys.  A few wore garments or accessories that gave away the source of their solidarity – they were from The University of Romance.  Mostly human and well-off, they seemed to regard the community college kids as a contemptible vulgarian freak show.  The freshmen were holding their own, not letting the insult get out of hand, but as two o’clock drew nigh, it was harder by the minute.

~Previous~ 🏵️ ~~~

Brainjackin: Silent Hill Good

I’m no kind of gamer.  I usually just watch other people play, and have since long before yewchoob “let’s play” videos were a thing.  When you first get to know somebody in a relationship, you share your interests with each other, and this was one my husband shared with me early on.  Silent Hill 4 had just come out a few years before we got together, and he still had a lot affection for that series of horror video games.  This would quickly sour, to the point that he refuses to look at anything related to the well-received remakes that are starting to happen.

So I’ve played a few.  I played one through three and part of four.  Four reached a point where it was too difficult for me, and I just gave up.  Those who are familiar will know exactly when.  But up until that moment?  It was a great time.  No complaints.  Up until SH, I had only extensively played Super Mario games on snes, Sonic 1-3+Knuckles and Eternal Champions on sega, and Soul Reaver.  Bits and bobs of other things, but nothing to prepare me for playing a video game of atmospheric horror.  (I had watched a homeboy play The Dark Eye on PC once.)

Silent Hill 1 was on ps1, and the graphics would not be acceptable to most gamers now.  Horror gamers are a different matter.  Indie horror has delved deep into retro graphics, some specifically aiming to emulate the graphic restrictions of the old playstation.  It’s a strange kind of impressionism, well deployed by this video game.  There were certainly a few games back then that made better use of the constrained art form than SH1 had, but looks ain’t everything.  Taken as a complete experience, it deserved its legendary status.

I just have affection for the characters.  Maybe that was because of my dude’s fandom rubbing off on me, but the blocky pixelated protagonist Harry was swell.  He wanted to rescue his lost little girl, just being a good dad, but without the macho BS american bros would have put into the performance, or the mucus-dripping tearfest they’d have put on a lady protagonist.  The monsters were unearthly and disturbing in part because the graphics were so lo-fi.

There was a shitty British SH game called Shattered Memories that rewrote the events of SH1 to have Harry be a bad dad.  Fuck that shit a lot, especially because it has become such a played-out trope of “psychological horror” by now.  Harry was the goodest boy.  Like the Evil Dead series of films, where I’m a freak for preferring the first one, I am an outlier in enjoying SH1 the most.

Silent Hill 2 is the game that introduced the iconic Mr. Pyramidheadington of the West Gloucestershire Pyramidheadingtons.  Almost every game after SH4 stood in the shadow of that creation, or some beefed up steroidal version of it.  Nonetheless, he was very cool in that historic moment.  While I prefer SH1, I have to admit the writing approach used on this one was just superior.  The first game leaned into arcane lore and sideplots that meant nothing to the point of the game.  This one focused on one character’s tragic personal experience.  The former approach is a very common weakness of Japanese media, the latter is just a bit of common sense that is often forgotten in the field of video games everywhere.  Big movies about complicated historic events like the World Wars focus on singular characters because it makes more emotionally resonant art.

It was a great game, although some parts dragged for me, and I did feel invested in the family story that was left behind to focus on the new protagonist, famous James.  It was more elegant and powerful than the first game, but less evocative and slightly less fun for me, personally.

Silent Hill 3 is the most empowering game in the franchise.  Empowerment is the antithesis of horror, so it could come off less scary, but it also perfected use of the PS2’s graphic abilities.  Animated textures impressed, and overall there was more chiaroscuro and a rich juicy look to the horror – without getting tacky.  All of the games bore some influence of the art of Francis Bacon, but this one used that influence the best.

SH3 had the missing daughter from the first game as a cool teenage girl, ably swingin’ various weapons at shimmering monsters, and having amusingly awkward conversations with members of her deceased original mom’s cult.  Was the game actually easier, or did it just feel like it?

Silent Hill 4 is so different it has been suggested (confirmed?) to be a different product altogether, randomly given a Silent Hill makeover two-thirds of the way through the production cycle.  Weirdly, that was a very good thing.  The Silent Hill paint made the art cooler, this game’s lore made the Silent Hill setting richer, and this game’s play made the franchise fresher.  I enjoyed the part I was capable of playing well enough that I don’t rate it too poorly for being unfinishable.  The main monsters of this game are ghosts.  Fucking awesome ghosts, I tell you whut.

Some long years of insulting abuse of the brand happened – terrible games made by far-flung third party companies, fucking slot machines…  My husband’s hope for any possibility of good coming from the franchise is now long gone, but just before it was gone completely, we went to see the Silent Hill movie directed by Christophe Gans.  At one particular violent moment, a guy in the audience said “oh hell naw!,” which amused.

There were good people working on that movie doing good things, but the bad kept grating on my dude until he decided he hated it.  C’est la vie.  The worst person involved had to be the screenwriter, who co-wrote the legendary screenplay for Pulp Fiction, but at this point was just a few years shy of drunk-ass vehicular manslaughtering a guy, and lifted the cheesiest line in The Crow.  (No way in fuck the bum got it from where The Crow got it, Vanity Fair.)  I agree; that shit sucked.

I wouldn’t have experienced any of that if it wasn’t for my husband.  When we met, I was more unplugged from video games than ever.  I was spending much more of my time on art and TTRPG bullshit.  I appreciate the introduction.  Silent Hill good.

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Fascism is Misogynist First

You can imagine a fascism without misogyny.  Many have, especially misogynist fiction writers in the 20th century – see the alien world where men have been enslaved by vixens in silver lamé.  Leaving aside that frivolous example and just daydreaming, you can see it, right?  Not from Shitler.  Maybe his sidekick, Couchfuck McBeardnazi, could in some world in some way be totally respectful to women, keep them close in his counsel in the tower of Mordor, march arm in arm with them to burn and oppress.  In practice, it never happens.  Misogyny is a first principle of fascism, in spirit and deed if not always in word.  As it happens, we also have it in word here.

As primary caregivers under patriarchy, women are primary authority figures over children.  To keep peace, rule one for the unruly kinder is “be nice to each other.”  Don’t hit people, think about their feelings.  Basic liberalism born of practicality.  To forge a brave new world without mercy, where violence can be wielded without restraint by the cool sexy stormtroopers, we must first remove the authority of anyone who would tell you to play nice.  We must chain mom to the house and beat her if she dares to speak.

Maybe that’s it?  Maybe not.  I’m sure you can find dozens of essays from antifascists like Umberto explaining the principle, or even writing from fascists telling on themselves.  I wonder if, in some unrealized golden future where all prejudices and bases of oppression are falling away one by one, misogyny may be the last one to fall.  Far more than racism, antisemitism, transphobia, etc, it has traitors within the oppressed group lining up to enforce its agenda.  Misogynist women are the fucking pits.  Not that there aren’t racist members of oppressed races, antisemitic jewish people, and transphobic trans people, because there are.  It just seems like a worse issue with women’s rights.

I haven’t been perfect on feminism by any means, especially the deeper you go into my foolish past (pre-blogging), and am not trying to pose like a saint of the practice.  Just pointing some shit out.  The real meaning of “woke” is “maintaining awareness of oppression, especially for self-defense.”  I want the world to wake up to the insidious omnipresence of misogyny and do some real shit about it.  We persist in our fascist coma.  Big sigh.

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