Check your privilege, sugar-tits

You can’t blame Adria Richardson’s lunatic hyper-entitlement on modern feminism. It wasn’t Betty Friedan or Simone de Beauvoir who came up with the idea that one (1) woman has a perfect right to walk into a conference center full of men, meeting to discuss a field built and maintained by men in a male culture, and police everything every one of those men says and does. It’s not a recent idea. It’s an eighteenth-century[1] upper-class English idea: After dinner, the ladies would retire to another room, and the gentlemen would drink port and talk man talk (in France, the ladies did not leave the table, incidentally). That sort of thing. Affluent Victorians exaggerated it to a baroque absurdity, and drove it down-market to the rest of society. It never fully penetrated the working class; it’s a class marker to this day, in the English-speaking world. That would be why our modern progressives are so devoted to guarding the ladies’ delicate ears from coarse masculine ejaculations.

The French always said English ladies were frigid stiffs.

Anyhow: The point is, I don’t mind much that men welcome women into male spaces like tech conferences far more readily than women will ever welcome men into female spaces (“what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is ours” — Eve). They just need to accept that these are our spaces, we created them, and we must know what we’re doing because ALL of the spaces actually worth entering into just happen to have been created by men. So maybe they could try to control the raging privilege in their girly little hearts and show some respect for immensely valuable institutions that were built and maintained for decades entirely without the kind of input they bring to the table. But that’s the problem: You can’t get that concept past the female solipsism filter. Adria Richardson thinks the tech industry exists for her benefit. She is incapable of conceptualizing any other reason for it to exist. She is incapable of focusing her eyes on a picture that isn’t a portrait of herself.

 

[1] Or seventeenth? Dunno: The Elizabethans were pretty coarse, and the Cromwell crowd weren’t as far as I recall an upper class phenomenon. Did this crap spread both up and down from the merchant classes? What about Germanic proddies on the Continent? It’s an interesting question.

Memento mori

It’s funny, having friends in their seventies and eighties. You know they won’t last forever. Just got off the phone with a friend who mentioned that he’s not worried about the ammunition shortage, because he’s got enough to last the next two years and he doesn’t think he’ll still be shooting longer than that. It’s not a big thing the way he says it, just a datum. He’s past seventy, and I know he hadn’t retired yet last summer. He’s an old Mainer, the kind they don’t make any more. Indestructible working class guys, with the old Maine accent. Only the old guys really have that these days. They’re easygoing, have nothing to prove to anybody, and they aren’t lazy. One fella down the street, close to ninety, is out there shoveling after every snowfall. We go down to help him and he says he doesn’t want help, but he’s happy to lean on his shovel and chat for a while. Another one, a neighbor, we lost last fall in her eighties. Old Mainers are tough.

But they don’t last forever.

Contact your national-level GOP representation, if any…

…and tell them you’re leaving the party for good.

But then it gets complicated. I already wrote to McCain and told him if he supports gun control in the senate I’ll get on a plane to Arizona next election and canvas for anybody who runs against him — I’d canvas for Dianne Feinstein (spit) against that pig, since, hey, what’s the difference, right? And he will support gun control, you know it.

Unfortunately, we’ve got the gun control thing happening right now too, and not all of the GOP is knifing us like McCain will. In the next elections, we can send the Dems a message about gun control by electing Republicans, or we can send the GOP a message about illegal immigration by abandoning them. We can’t do both.

I can’t help thinking the shitlords running the GOP are making exactly that calculation: That centrist anger at Dems for knifing them on gun control will weigh more than our anger at the GOP for knifing us on immigration. That’s simple enough for them to comprehend, if they try.

So it’s one or the other, and that’s USG. USG isn’t legitimate. They disregard both the law and the interests of the American people.

The Yellow Peril

The Yellow Peril is a cocktail of my own invention: One part top-shelf[1] bourbon, two parts Smiling Hill Farm Banana Milk.

Smiling Hill’s Banana Milk is an intensely yellow banana-flavored whole milk. Smiling Hill does pretty good milk, and the banana flavoring is strictly from Laffy Taffy, which is just the kind of banana flavoring I like best. It’s one of their second-tier flavors. There are a few of those that they cycle through, and it’s been Banana Time since January. If you live anywhere near Gorham, Maine, don’t miss out! They make a hell of a good eggnog, too, come the holidays.

Update: Bourbon means bourbon. Do not use rye. I had a crazy idea it just wouldn’t be as good. No, it’s awful.

 

[1] Or any other shelf you’ve got handy. Since you’ll be finishing the rest of the bottle neat, I recommend something decent.