On Milo: I told you so five years ago with Slate's decision to publish Jesse Bering's diffident advocacy for pedophiles. I also told you that Dick Wolf's Law & Order guild writers saw this coming during the peek of Andrew Sullivan's media recognition, but before Milo snatched his alter ego's thunder, and no one listened to me. No conservative editor waded through my anger, acumen, or anything else, to see that I was ahead of this curve, and so, okay, I was ahead, and civilized societies no longer murder their way out of aberrant sexual orientation chemistry, and, outside of Africa and certain other vanishing medieval terrains, the closet is gone, unless Peter Thiel litigates a new cloth out of the old by prohibiting the revelation of sexual orientation. Where does this leave us?
No where beneficial, but I will say this as a Catholic atheist: Homosexuals cannot be Christians. It is an apostasy. And yes, I believe this. They may be shown mercy, and God is mysterious, but they cannot be followers of Christ if they must live by homoerotic desire. Kristof enjoyed pointing out that biblical text has nothing to say about lesbianism, but this is literalist nonsense. If sodomy is an abomination, under terms of patriarchal dominance in doctrinal law, then two women engaged in coital orgasm through oral stimulation meets the same definition of the term.
Why does the atheist in me care, particularly if it violates libertarian tenets, at least at first glance? Stability, cohesion, and boundary.
The problem there: the boundary is already shattered, Milo's musing aside. We're headed for very troubled times, very troubled times indeed, and the consequences will be far more significant than a blogging administrator's alarm at what many consider my ridiculous stridency on the issue. Marriage is a sacrament. Same sex activity is hormonal indulgence which contributes nothing to God's grace, but this is where we are headed, Milo's vision a meld to HG Well's secret horror in The Time Machine. Remember? Think about it. I have a previous engagement.
Showing posts with label jesse bering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jesse bering. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Carcinoma
The phenomenology of moral wrong and evil is vast and complicated. -- Charles Griswold
At the end of La Strada, Anthony Quinn's brutality is pierced through by Masina's absence, perhaps even silence. Are we supposed to forgive Zampano? What does Fellini insinuate about oppressive relationships? If the biracial inner city Miss Eddie had not caught me totally by surprise-- she was preparing to leave, turned around and lunged at me, and her mouth said what lips say when someone hits on you-- if I was not so shocked, I would have lacerated her skull with any blunt object available, within my reach, and I would have felt justified, and might have attempted to break her arm, dislocate her shoulder; if the police had come, I am not sure if I would have been arrested. Officers on the scene are not interested in twenty plus years of traumatic events, The only method I have to circumvent my hatred of her slovenly indulgence is contempt. I know from what she told me that her Caucasian father was murdered (good) and that she "kisses everybody" when I fought with her the next day and suggested she leave. She looked frightened.
When I went to a basketball game with a technician named Rick; it was obvious about thirty seconds in I had made a mistake dumbing down to my sister's idea of white welfare trash. After an excruciating two hours, I almost almost got rid of him, but he coughed in the hallway. Taking pity I offered him tea. He kissed me. Fuck him and get it over with. Things proceeded accordingly until I discovered he lacked protection. He tried a soft force, but had obviously never confronted the resistance of palsied legs; he left, called me two three times after he skedaddled for real. I forgave both him and myself long ago. Date gone bad. If I ever see Eddie again, however, she'd face my triggered anger as a representation of ablest violation that I have experienced over the course of a lifetime.
Jesse Bering might say this is a classic aggressive response to unwanted erotic stimulus, but I'd object that attendant care management doesn't respect me as equal to ambulatory humans, and won't unless I'd rematriculate. I feel justified in defending myself against black females on the down low.
At the end of La Strada, Anthony Quinn's brutality is pierced through by Masina's absence, perhaps even silence. Are we supposed to forgive Zampano? What does Fellini insinuate about oppressive relationships? If the biracial inner city Miss Eddie had not caught me totally by surprise-- she was preparing to leave, turned around and lunged at me, and her mouth said what lips say when someone hits on you-- if I was not so shocked, I would have lacerated her skull with any blunt object available, within my reach, and I would have felt justified, and might have attempted to break her arm, dislocate her shoulder; if the police had come, I am not sure if I would have been arrested. Officers on the scene are not interested in twenty plus years of traumatic events, The only method I have to circumvent my hatred of her slovenly indulgence is contempt. I know from what she told me that her Caucasian father was murdered (good) and that she "kisses everybody" when I fought with her the next day and suggested she leave. She looked frightened.
When I went to a basketball game with a technician named Rick; it was obvious about thirty seconds in I had made a mistake dumbing down to my sister's idea of white welfare trash. After an excruciating two hours, I almost almost got rid of him, but he coughed in the hallway. Taking pity I offered him tea. He kissed me. Fuck him and get it over with. Things proceeded accordingly until I discovered he lacked protection. He tried a soft force, but had obviously never confronted the resistance of palsied legs; he left, called me two three times after he skedaddled for real. I forgave both him and myself long ago. Date gone bad. If I ever see Eddie again, however, she'd face my triggered anger as a representation of ablest violation that I have experienced over the course of a lifetime.
Jesse Bering might say this is a classic aggressive response to unwanted erotic stimulus, but I'd object that attendant care management doesn't respect me as equal to ambulatory humans, and won't unless I'd rematriculate. I feel justified in defending myself against black females on the down low.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Viscosity: The Case Against Homosexuality
Part of the reason I do not believe in God, or monotheism as a dialectic concurrent against Eastern pantheism, is that it is conceptually easier, as even theologians have a difficult time ascribing the existence of personhood outside or inside of natural law. Evolution and biology are also contributors, inclusive of natural deformities, like my fucking colon. I should have weighed the evidence of my segregated childhood in Old Forge grade school and given up, never aspired, nor have dared to tie sexual arousal to my history instructors who believed their precocious student was Harvard material, all due to my gastrointestinal tract. No, my darlings, Jerry was not the first, he was simply the penultimate for my asinine and obsessive temperament. The nursing students I lived with looked at me askance then, and in the contemporary era, I twirl negro assessment teams on my pinky, pleading with the ACLU for my liberty, when in point of fact, there is no such thing; in the US, we are the country of the governed, and the broken body gets governed the most. I should just give up, and let the minority paraprofessional return to their earnings off my epidermis, the least educated among them believing I am in the grasp of demonic possession.
I was not always like this. Nope. I fought with my uncle over integration, defied mio padre to try to date a wheelchair basketball player, and came on to the son of a reverend, and unlike my Shakespearean, Michael considered it; had I not lost my cool it no doubt would have been the almighty fuck of my life. I was fascinated by case law surrounding marriage and initially, in the abstract, supported gay marriage. What changed? Jesse Bering and his more notorious colleague, whose only response to me was to send me a skyscraper snapshot from his "outside your window" catalogue, the skyscraper I view every day, struggling to restore my profession from my failed vocation, may or may not know the LBGT culture I have observed, learned, and sometimes trusted, only to get a knife in my back from it, and abused by it at least twice in both my professional and client capacity, but if they do, they never write or speak of it frankly, and I know I am not winning any popularity contests, but the movie faggot who is every girl's best friend, the metrosexual wedding planner with a Vogue bible, is a non-threatening character study to reassure movie goers. The truth is messier, darker than that, and that Zola had to portray Nana's lesbianism as vicious in order to get this sad eponymous novel published is not all that far from the truth. Franzen, knowingly or not, does the same thing with Denise Lambert, who swings like a wrecking ball into her boss'es marriage, turning the wife into a masochistic whiner. Whatever the abuse and duress I've suffered, Franzen's characterization of Denise is a rebuke that illustrates an exhausted sexual liberalism, and even though this exhaustion hurts his novel, his argument is on point. The biology of sodomy and lesbian sex games may be inconsequential, procreation aside. Culturally, sexual orientation is going to send us over a cliff, and the disabled, like myself, will keep getting exploited, and this despite the fact that I have been spared being forced to be a sex toy on the down low. My intelligence and ability to react has protected me, but the developmentally disabled are fruitbowls for the welfare class. Of course, neither you, Andy, or Bering have anything to say about that. You do not even wish to consider the implications.
I was not always like this. Nope. I fought with my uncle over integration, defied mio padre to try to date a wheelchair basketball player, and came on to the son of a reverend, and unlike my Shakespearean, Michael considered it; had I not lost my cool it no doubt would have been the almighty fuck of my life. I was fascinated by case law surrounding marriage and initially, in the abstract, supported gay marriage. What changed? Jesse Bering and his more notorious colleague, whose only response to me was to send me a skyscraper snapshot from his "outside your window" catalogue, the skyscraper I view every day, struggling to restore my profession from my failed vocation, may or may not know the LBGT culture I have observed, learned, and sometimes trusted, only to get a knife in my back from it, and abused by it at least twice in both my professional and client capacity, but if they do, they never write or speak of it frankly, and I know I am not winning any popularity contests, but the movie faggot who is every girl's best friend, the metrosexual wedding planner with a Vogue bible, is a non-threatening character study to reassure movie goers. The truth is messier, darker than that, and that Zola had to portray Nana's lesbianism as vicious in order to get this sad eponymous novel published is not all that far from the truth. Franzen, knowingly or not, does the same thing with Denise Lambert, who swings like a wrecking ball into her boss'es marriage, turning the wife into a masochistic whiner. Whatever the abuse and duress I've suffered, Franzen's characterization of Denise is a rebuke that illustrates an exhausted sexual liberalism, and even though this exhaustion hurts his novel, his argument is on point. The biology of sodomy and lesbian sex games may be inconsequential, procreation aside. Culturally, sexual orientation is going to send us over a cliff, and the disabled, like myself, will keep getting exploited, and this despite the fact that I have been spared being forced to be a sex toy on the down low. My intelligence and ability to react has protected me, but the developmentally disabled are fruitbowls for the welfare class. Of course, neither you, Andy, or Bering have anything to say about that. You do not even wish to consider the implications.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Biology Fallback
Another item Slate's gay journalists, and William Saletan, enjoy using is the scientific measurement of autoerotic arousal as an indicator of bisexual repression. Here is Bering again:
Research has shown a positive correlation between a man’s loathing of gay men and his own repressed same-sex desires. “Since homosexual behavior violates both their moral code and their sense of identity,” explained the psychologists Donald Mosher and Kevin O’Grady long ago, “homosexual threat is experienced as men become aware at some level of their … arousal to homosexual stimuli. This awareness can be avoided by anger, disgust, and contempt directed against homosexuals, as a means of bolstering hypersexual identity.”
Research has shown a positive correlation between a man’s loathing of gay men and his own repressed same-sex desires. “Since homosexual behavior violates both their moral code and their sense of identity,” explained the psychologists Donald Mosher and Kevin O’Grady long ago, “homosexual threat is experienced as men become aware at some level of their … arousal to homosexual stimuli. This awareness can be avoided by anger, disgust, and contempt directed against homosexuals, as a means of bolstering hypersexual identity.”
Jesse Bering and the Progressive Left
As a content aggregate, if this is the best way to categorize what Slate Magazine is, an extension of floundering corporate media enterprise, it likes trends that I do not care for, or, I am not affluent enough to enjoy. Poverty accentuates vulnerability, indeed. Susanna Daniel successfully caught Slate's tempo as a long delayed first time suburban novelist, and I have yet to penetrate the site on the strength of rapidly aging bylines. I do not think its Jewish contributors offer the best philosophical analysis, and their political illuminations are no better, no worse, than David Brooks in his climb through the ranks. Much of its woman's interest coverage is dull, and they virtually ignore the disability activism of which I'm often critical, although their journalists were kind enough to respond when I gave them a capsule of the hostile environment, long in the making, that exists between me and my disability center (the picture of the lovable minority spastic in his chair is so adorable that it only reinforces your perception that my judgment is impaired; am I assessing your sentiment accurately, mmm?) They also enjoy catering to homosexual identity and ceding the field of human pair bonding deconstruction to columnists like Bering.
For anyone who has been following me since I started blogging, whether you've responded or not, whether you are sympathetic or not, I imagine you say to yourself that I cheapen my intellectual capacity through reactionary trash talk. Fair enough, as the charge stands. I could be forgiving of Jimmi Shrode's significant mental, emotional limitations, and for a couple of early years, he was my friend, as was every other named individual I have discussed in my disabled culture past, and, do I actually care about him and Erik as a couple, where Shrode's penis goes? No, but they disgust me. Is that fair? I have written things about myself that might disgust normal comedic and presumably Protestant happy women like Susanna. It may not be fair, but this is what I have to say in response to Bering's censure of homophobia: disgust is not an invalid response to the sheer squalor of the human body, nor is emotional pain in response to sexual exploitation, whether it can be graded as abuse or not. I have been denigrated by whites and blacks alike, hurt in very bad ways by boths straights and gays, and this is why I see progressive sexual equality, and progressive sexual liberalism, as dangerous, at the end of the day, as we keep pushing the boundary. How horrific does the human condition have to become before liberals are willing to recognize that social difference, and sometimes caste, have a legitimate function for cohesion and survival?
Whatsoever we imagine, is Finite. Therefore there is no Idea, or conception of anything we call Infinite. No man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude.
Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan
For anyone who has been following me since I started blogging, whether you've responded or not, whether you are sympathetic or not, I imagine you say to yourself that I cheapen my intellectual capacity through reactionary trash talk. Fair enough, as the charge stands. I could be forgiving of Jimmi Shrode's significant mental, emotional limitations, and for a couple of early years, he was my friend, as was every other named individual I have discussed in my disabled culture past, and, do I actually care about him and Erik as a couple, where Shrode's penis goes? No, but they disgust me. Is that fair? I have written things about myself that might disgust normal comedic and presumably Protestant happy women like Susanna. It may not be fair, but this is what I have to say in response to Bering's censure of homophobia: disgust is not an invalid response to the sheer squalor of the human body, nor is emotional pain in response to sexual exploitation, whether it can be graded as abuse or not. I have been denigrated by whites and blacks alike, hurt in very bad ways by boths straights and gays, and this is why I see progressive sexual equality, and progressive sexual liberalism, as dangerous, at the end of the day, as we keep pushing the boundary. How horrific does the human condition have to become before liberals are willing to recognize that social difference, and sometimes caste, have a legitimate function for cohesion and survival?
Whatsoever we imagine, is Finite. Therefore there is no Idea, or conception of anything we call Infinite. No man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude.
Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan
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