Also: Me, In "Jezebel." Who Woulda Thought?

My essay “Can I Buy You A Coffee?” has been reprinted at Jezebel.  Judging by my Twitter-splosion, where I gained like thirty followers overnight, it’s been well received.
It’s a little weird to see, but overall I’m pleased.

Let's Talk A Little About Woo-Woo

Over on FetLife, there’s a really interesting essay called “I’m Going To Stop Calling It ‘Woo-Woo’,” which is about how those who deal with mystical practices talk about their beliefs to others.  One of the traditional ways of handwaving it is to say something like, “Yeah, I work with tarot cards and auras – all that ‘woo woo’ stuff.”  And in case you’re not willing to click through to FetLife to read it in full, the essay can be summarized with this excerpt:

“What I realized last night was that by referencing what I do as working in ‘woo woo’ stuff, I had taken away the seriousness of what I believe and had taken away some of the power that these concepts have and given up some of the power that I have as someone who practices these disciplines.”

And it’s interesting, because I am not a woo woo kind of guy.  Yes, I believe in God, but I also acknowledge that it’s a thoroughly irrational belief; I keep my science and my religion separate, thankyouverymuch, and God makes sense to me in a way that I cannot, and more importantly would not, explain to others.  It’s a personal thing, fitted to me as carefully as a tailored suit, and though it’s riddled with things that might not make sense to others it works for me. It probably wouldn’t hold up to any kind of rational examination, and doing so would probably cause me damage, as I’d just create increasingly elaborate mythologies to bridge the logical gaps.
Meanwhile, I think aura work and past lives and crystal and prayer and any number of other mystical stuff are complete bullshit – just stuff that people who want to believe make up.  Yet that bullshit is not a bad thing; these sorts of irrationalities can be a useful tool to focus the mind.  Alan Moore once said (in a terrible paraphrase via me) that he doesn’t really believe in magic, but he does believe that believing in magic allows his brain to arrange his subconscious in interesting ways, thus producing phenomenal ideas… so he practices magic.
And that’s largely how I view it: useful bullshit.  Which is not a contradiction.  A lot of what most people believe is bullshit, but if it’s the kind of bullshit that gets them through the day and makes them feel better, well, so be it.  (I think I’m an absolutely terrible writer, and nobody likes what I do, which is bullshit, but that self-hatred makes me determined to improve myself.  It’s not truth, and the belief often makes me miserable, but it spurs me in good ways – which is all you can really ask of useful bullshit.)
The problem with many of the woo-wooeticers, however, is that when they discuss their magic, they have this intense way of discussing it.  “I viewed your bedroom last night,” they’ll say, staring at you intently, as if daring you to disbelieve them. And if you say, “I don’t believe in astral projection,” they’ll often talk about it more, without even acknowledging that you’re not a believer and that you’ve said this isn’t your cup of tea.
I’m of two minds about this.  I mean, yes, if it’s a part of something that gives you power, then by all means discuss it.  Either it’ll be one aspect of a larger and more interesting conversation, in which case I’ll stick around, or all you’ll be able to talk about is your ability to divine the future via the magic stick-arts of Kau Cim, in which case I’ll move on.  I’m not trying to dismiss the satisfaction you get from such things, and I think that you should be able to talk about it freely. It’s a part of who you are.  It’s part of what forms you, and that is a vibrant and inextricable portion of your personality.
Yet at the same time, some of the Great Woo-Woo Practitioners seem a little… desperate.  As if they can’t really be comfortable around you until you acknowledge the truth of whatever it is they believe.  And those conversations tend to be subtle pressurings, a constant stream of “Yes, but you do realize that I possess a power that you do not even begin to fathom,” where it keeps circling back to that central mystical tenet.  And those conversations, yeah, woo to the maxifuckin’ woo.
So I don’t have an easy answer.  I don’t know how you’re supposed to talk to people who don’t believe.  I don’t think there’s a single answer, either.  All I know is that there’s some tenuous balance between handwaving it with “woo woo,” and asking me to pretend that yes, you are an eleventh-level psychic and can read my past lives in the dregs of this chicken soup.  There’s gotta be a way, but damn if I know what it is.

Why Mean Comments Leave Me Baffled

I don’t consider myself a ‘Bad Dude’ nor a ‘Nice Guy’ but I can spot a bruised ego and bad writing when I see it. I hate labels because they put limits on people. Your premise that ‘Nice Guys’ don’t get sex is ignorant. Then again, I consider the source. By the way, 1990’s Hawaiian shirts, a goatee, fedora, fingernail polish, and back hair don’t make you a ‘Bad Ass’ dude. What they do make you is just like your writing? Out of touch and needing to be noticed…

Now, that’s the sort of comment that leaves me a little stung, but not for the reasons you’d think.
It was left on the FetLife cross-post of my “Why Nice Guys Don’t Get Sex: Reason #1 In An Infinite Series” essay, and that sort of furious essay reminds me of middle school.  Now, I don’t begrudge a few angry comments; after all, that post was about a behavior I find odious (and took aim at), and made some generalizations that could sting if you were caught in the cross-fire, so I don’t mind a few slams back. It’s only fair, after all.
(My favorite is the guy who claimed that women are having sex with all those assholes only because you’re such a wonderful guy, they know they don’t deserve you, and so they close their eyes and fantasize about you guiltily the entire time they’re banging jerks.  Um, I’m sure that happens often.)
But the angry comment here, when analyzed, is pretty detailed.  See, my default profile pic on FetLife doesn’t even have me wearing a hat.  Nor does it display my sad, thatchy abundance of back hair.  So to leave this comment, the guy had to go through all of my pictures, specifically taking stock of all my many flaws, just so he could leave a comment that was meant to be personal and cutting.
He failed, sadly.  They usually do.  If he’d read any of my writing or my status updates (which he probably didn’t do because that would be too time-consuming), he’d have known that I don’t consider myself a Badass at all.  I’m a neurotic train wreck who occasional partakes in ritualized acts of violence for sexualized pleasure, sure!  But note that I don’t call myself a Dom, or a Master.  I don’t swagger much, except occasionally when it comes to rejoicing in my fireplay skills (and even that’s mostly out of a vaguely surprised “I did it!”).  In fact, most of my writing is about me fucking up in some way, using it as an example to talk about How Not To Do This.
So it’s like, “Dude, if you were going to do the research, you should have done it all the way.”  There are plenty of ways you could have hurt my feelings – you just didn’t dig deep enough.
(Which is what most insults are, weirdly.  If you look at what people are picking on you about, it usually reflects what they’re most terrified of being.  Dude is probably very concerned about his badass status, and as such thought that trying to remove mine would be devastating.)
What wounds me is the time.  I see a lot of dipshit writings on the Internet that I disagree with.  If motivated, occasionally I’ll even argue them in the comments.  But it would take a lot to get me to do research to try to find personalized ways to insult them. I’ve spent time looking up links to defang someone’s argument, absolutely, but spending time rooting through their profile to try to find the things that I think would hurt them?
That’s mean.  And yet here’s the guy, taking time to do craft a personalized insult to a stranger.  The actual insult doesn’t hurt; the intent does.  It makes me wonder whether what I wrote was actually that bad, causing a self-reflection that’s troubling… And yeah, I probably could have written it better.  I’ll get ’em next time, tiger.
Yet there’s that pathetic attempt.  Someone took a shot at me, and missed.  And I wonder if that’s how Superman feels as the bullets bounce off him, going, “Do they really mean to do that?  Do they know what they’re trying to do?”
Not that I’m Superman, of course.  More like Jimmy Olsen; occasionally lucky, given more adventures than he truly deserves, but a little too cocky to be a true hero.

In Which I Discuss The Future Of Gay Marriage, And Republicans

Dear Republicans:
I think at this point, the whole “gay rights” issue is pretty much guaranteed to head the same way as “women’s rights” and “African-American rights.”  Oh, there’s still battles to be had, but if you look at the demographics among younger folks, most of whom see gayness as no big deal, then what’s going to happen over time is that the old homophobes will die off and the new homophiles will take over.
At which point, gay rights will continue to be an issue, in much the same way that discrimination against women and African-Americans continues to be a problem, but people will mostly agree that gays are folks just like anyone else.
At which point the Republicans will be screwed.  Their opposition to gay rights will be noted by this generation, and they’ll almost certainly abandon their anti-gay stances just to survive as a political party, but the stigma will continue.  You’ll have people going, “Well, I like the Republican party’s line on many issues, but we all know how much they hate gays.  I can’t vote for them based on that.”  Votes will be lost.
Those future Republicans will doubtlessly claim, “Hey, wait!  I didn’t have anything to do with those old anti-gay laws!  I actually like gay people!  I haven’t tried to pass any anti-gay legislation in, like, ever!”  At which point people will go, “Oh, sure, you say that, but everyone knows that if you got your druthers you’d try your best to drum gays out of the military and revoke all the gay marriage laws.”
That’s gonna suck for you.  But here’s the deal:
If you have ever agreed that the Democrats are going to take away your guns, then shove your fucking whining back in your pie-hole.
Hey, we seriously stopped battling the NRA shortly after the Brady Bill passed back in 1993, and it’s been almost two decades since we’ve given up the fight.  We got trounced so severely by our nation’s love of guns that Democrats don’t even discuss it any more.  And there are plenty of gun-totin’ Democrats who like to shoot, which inevitably evinces surprise from conservatives, because everybody knows how much liberals hate guns. It’s just how things are.  When a Democrat gets in office, he wants to remove every handgun.
So, you know, if you said at any time between his election and the end of his first year of Presidency, “Now that Obama’s in office, he’s gonna work to take away our guns!” (or stood silent when someone else did), well, you can eat a bowl of shut the fuck up when it comes to enduring the world thinking that all your kind hates gays even though you conceded the point decades ago.  Because hey, what goes around?  Comes around.
(And for those of you who didn’t?  Well, I’m sorry you’ll have to endure that.  Some day.)
 

The Cheapest Victory Is The Best Victory

So I’d determined to beat the final quest in Borderlands 2 yesterday.  And I cheated.
I’m still proud.
See, the final boss involves going up against a huge dragon in a lava pit, who in the traditional of all final bosses has a zillion ways of killing you, a zillion hit points, and a zillion smaller minions to distract and whittle you down.  Plus, there’s an ugly one-hit kill where he can knock you into the lava and you die.
I died.
Then I went back, thinking I’d find a good place to snipe from and take him out from a distance – but of course, there was a big blue barrier to prevent such shenanigans.  You had to get into the pit with him and go head-to-gigantic-dragon-head.
Except as I watched, I noticed when he did a certain move, his horns stuck up over the barrier.  Hey, can I hit that?  Sure enough, I could pop it for 70 points of damage – not too much when he had 10,000 hit points, but it was a start.
So yes.  I sat there for forty-five minutes with a rifle, waiting for him to do that move, clipping the top of his horns, reloading.  My wife and daughter razzed me.  “Are you killing him or giving him a haircut?”
Eventually, the dragon stopped moving.  I figured, “Great, this is the developers’ finger in the face to me.  I’ve spammed this cheesy move as much as possible, which they foresaw, and now they’ll make me go into the pit and face an even angrier dragon.”
Except he wasn’t.  He was motionless.  After forty-five minutes of running amuck, he must have run out of moves.  So I just emptied my rocket launcher at him, and dead dragon.
The weird thing is, I feel proud.  I beat both the game and the developers with an exploit.  It was a stupid exploit, sure, but I figure I’m owed; for every time I died in Borderlands 2 because clipping errors got me stuck on a rock while I was retreating, I now paid in full thanks to their logic.  I was preening by the end of it.
Such are the silly ways of videogames.