Skip to content

Posts tagged ‘Feminist Glittery Hoo Haa’

An Embarrassment of Riches

Or something, anyway. Because while I was trying to decide what to write about for today’s post, there was a positive wealth of stupidity on offer, along with several sides of glitter, the delightful news that all of us here are “fascists” according to the League of the Perpetually Butthurt as embodied by one Damien Walter (I pity the poor fellow’s parents – I mean, really. They name him Damien, expecting to get, you know, the Antichrist, and instead they get this poor useless wimp who presumably farts glitter and cries when anyone suggests that he might, maybe not be perfect. It’s enough to make any self-respecting Satanist give up and convert to Christianity) and his sidekick (oh, wait, that’s not right, he’s male, she’s female, in that world she must be the heroine (and damn did I ever want to leave of that ‘e’ because you’d swear that’s what she’s on)) Cora B-something who despite being from what used to be East Germany and being female appears to have the world’s biggest hard-on for communist everything.

Maybe her family was higher up the food chain than the average East German and she misses the good life the good loyal Party officials got?

Anyway, dear Cora nominated the entire Mad Genius Club to Damien-lite as the big “fascists” of the genre, along with such heinous creatures as Tom Kratman, Larry Correia, Vox Day (whatever you think of him, if there’s a Glittery Hoo Haa making a list of the most evil people in SFF, Vox will be on that list – and I would not object to his sales figures, thank you very much), and of course our very own Sarah Hoyt. Who gets on the list twice because of that. Once as herself, and once with the rest of us – which is perfectly acceptable because she is the Beautiful but Evil Space Princess of the Evil League of Evil (and speaking as a charter member of the Evil League of Evil – oh, yes I am, and I have the badge to prove it! – I can assure you that Sarah is indeed a magnificently Beautiful but Evil Space Princess of the Evil League of Evil (as well as the only Beautiful but Evil Space Princess of the Evil League of Evil )).

But what does it mean, you ask. Well, no, you don’t, because you know damn well I’m going to tell you anyway. Aside from the dedicated campaign by the Social Justice Warriors of the Sacred Glittery Hoo Haa to render words like “fascist” and “racist” and practically anything else “-ist” meaningless by applying it to anything and everything they dislike, it means that most wonderful of things, free publicity. Free publicity, folks. Those who contribute to Tom’s and Larry’s and all’s sales numbers will see my name with theirs and some of them will think, “This Kate Paulk chick must be okay, if these people hate her that much.” and some of those will buy and the money will come rolling in, right?

Okay, that part of my evil plan of world domination hasn’t quite materialized yet, but it’s early days.

So, how does it feel being a “fascist”?

I have to say it doesn’t feel any different than normal. I haven’t had any cravings to make the Italian trains run on time or take over any industries on behalf of the Italian government. I’m certainly no more evil than usual, although it is possible that I hit some kind of evil event horizon a while back and simply can’t get more evil.

Do let me know if any of you find yourself experiencing strange urges to do with world domination – oh, wait, scratch that. We already have those – nationalizing everything and making it look like they’re working better than ever before, getting your evil minions those spiffy 1930s uniforms (and in my case getting a higher class of evil minion to pour into said spiffy uniform because let’s face it cats and fancy uniforms do not make good partners), and surrounding yourself with beautiful hangers on of your preferred sex and orientation (er… hang on… this is supposed to be bad?)

Ahem

So that’s one set of stupid. Others have done a better job with the Hatchette hatchet job attempt on Amazon (and damn, unless they’re aiming for authors and readers they’re really doing a shitty job of it). I’m inclined to suspect the latest analysis of Amazon sales figures is the real reason Hatchette is trying to chop Amazon off at the knees. The fact that they’re having difficulty reaching the ankles is another issue altogether.

Take note, folks, in Romance and SFF, indies are eating the Big However Many It Is These Days lunch. And their breakfast and dinner as well. While giving them the finger and smiling sweetly.

In other genres indies are matching the Big Wankers or somewhere in that general vicinity, so yeah, the dinosaurs are running… er… lumbering scared. They don’t have anything close to a lock on what people can see or buy any more, and that means they’re losing the ability to tell people what to think.

Except they never really managed that anyway. Nobody did. Even when you catch them early and infest them you won’t get them all, particularly the cussed independents like us. When there’s no way to control everything people see and hear and experience, there’s no way anyone is going to control what they think.

Yes. That does mean we’re winning. We’re hearing the screams of panic and outrage as the Titanic goes under (they didn’t head for the lifeboats because the Big Publishing Titanic couldn’t possibly sink, so it must have been a drill or something), and ah, such sweet music it makes.

I might almost miss the screams when they finally sink. Almost.

From Teh Stoopid That Goes Bump At Wiscon, Oh Good Lord Deliver Us

Yes, yes, as if you didn’t have enough stupid cluttering the walls of the Mad Genius Club already, we’ve got even more on display, this time some twit who is incapable of distinguishing between self-delusional ego-stroking and fact going all concern-troll over N. K. Jemison’s Guest of Honor speech at Wiscon last week.

Mostly the article is a little bit of fangirling, a little bit of concern trolling, and quoting honking great chunks of the actual speech. Which seemed just a bit off to me, so I took a deep breath and waded over to the deep end of Glittery Hoo Haa land to Jemison’s blog to read the whole thing.

I’m fairly sure I could feel brain cells dying as I read. Well, no, that’s not quite true. I couldn’t feel them dying, but I could hear their tiny little screams of “No more torture!” “Stop! Stop!” as they scrambled out of my ears and leaped to their deaths on the tiles far below (well, by brain cell standards it’s a long way down).

Let’s get this out of the way to start with. Yes, there are bigots in SFF. Duh. It’s a human field, peopled by humans (at least, I don’t know of any aliens in the industry). It’s possible that there were once far fewer bigots in the field simply because people who look to the future and see hope for humanity tend not to be the sort of people who are going to get hung up on who someone’s parents are. That’s changed, and the people who changed it are the ones this fool and her Feminist Glittery Hoo Haa adore.

That does not excuse lying about past events and claiming bigotry where none exists. Nor does it excuse such a narrow view of life and the industry that everything, no matter what it is, must be viewed through the distorted lens of “racism”.

When she says:

But it has been almost twenty years since his prophetic announcement, and in that time all of society — not just the microcosm of SFF — has racheted toward that critical, threatening mass in which people who are not white and not male achieve positions of note. And indeed we have seen science fiction and fantasy authors and editors and film directors and game developers become much, much more explicit and hostile in their bigotry. We’ve seen that bigotry directed not just toward black authors but authors of all races other than white; not just along the racial continuum but the axes of gender, sexual orientation, nationality, class, and so on. We’ve seen it aimed by publishers and book buyers and reviewers and con organizers toward readers, in the form of every whitewashed book cover, every “those people don’t matter” statement, and every all-white, mostly-male BookCon presenters’ slate. Like Chip said, this stuff has always been here. It’s just more intense, and more violent, now that the bigots feel threatened.

Jemisin neglects to mention one crucial factor. In the last twenty years or so, the Social Justice Warriors and the Feminist Glittery Hoo Haas have subjected everyone to a relentless drumbeat of white=evil, male=evil, not-white=victim, female=victim until anyone with more than two braincells to rub together is heartily sick of it. Jemisin has clearly bought the “victim” idiotology hook, line, and stinker, and seems utterly unaware of the way the – yes, bigoted – establishment has promoted her and her ilk against other equally meritorious authors (and is some cases authors with more merit) simply so they can say they’re doing all they can to “combat discrimination” without ever having to come out of their nice cozy plantation and actually deal with anyone honestly.

See, there’s a sneaky little trap buried in all the Social Justice bullshit that the Warriors and Hoo Haas never see. They’re so busy preening about their glorious glitter they never realize that the people in power aren’t letting anyone who isn’t in the power-club get anywhere near the real seats of power. It’s sickening, really. All they have to do is dole out a few goodies, just enough for those lesser sorts to get by on, and said lesser sorts will be so grateful they’ll never even think of revolt.

Seriously. If Hitler had claimed all his assorted untermenschen were poor, hardworking, hard-done-by people who needed a bit of help and given them unemployment benefits and subsidized housing everyone would have proclaimed what a wonderful humanitarian he was and cheered him on. The six million would still have died, only over a longer time period and nobody would have thought there was anything wrong about it because it’s just terrible the way an unjust society forces those people to kill each other, isn’t it? (Okay, this is pure bullshit – but stop and think about the analogy for a little while. Scary? Good).

Then, presumably in a fit of masochism, I hopped Jemisin’s link to her speech in Australia last year, the one that started off the whole round of bullshit that saw SFWA expel an “unnamed member” (yes, everyone knows who was expelled, but not because SFWA said anything) for doing rather less than anyone else did (namely use the twitter handle SFWA used to provide for SFWA members to link in their blogs to link in his blog) and claim he violated SFWA rules and supposedly brought the organization into disrepute. Honestly if that was an expulsion offense there would have been entire SFWA executive committees dismissed on a regular basis. SFWA’s executive committee brought itself into disrepute with its heavy-handed action towards what was fundamentally nothing more than an opinion they didn’t like.

Anyway. My surviving braincells stampeded for my ears so they could commit mass suicide rather than sit through this drivel. This poor, precious flower feels unsafe in Australia because she’s black? And of course it never occurred to the poor dear to actually research Australian culture or anything. There are very few places where someone’s skin color places them in danger in Australia – and most of those you don’t want to be of the lily white persuasion. That or the area is one of the relative handful where poorly integrated migrant communities have turned a suburb into a mini war zone where anyone who doesn’t belong to that specific community (color doesn’t matter there) is at risk. Most of those are fine during the daylight, and there sure as hell aren’t any within walking distance of the convention hotels.

No, I’m sure what terrified poor, innocent Jemisin is that Australians as a rule don’t bother with PC language. We don’t call a spade a spade, we call it a fucking shovel. And we’re likely to call our best friend of Chinese ancestry “our Chink mate”. And our best friend is just as likely to call us, “bloody convict, mate” or something equally friendly. We call catching a cold “getting a bloody wog” (and will laugh uproariously when one of our friends with Greek or Italian ancestry retorts “yeah, and I’ve got a bloody aussie”). If you don’t realize this, yes, Australians sound incredibly bigoted. But if you sit down and just watch a crowd of Australians in somewhere like one of the major Sydney or Melbourne train stations or the pedestrian malls, you’ll see that every damn ethnicity imaginable is passing through and getting no more and no less attention than anyone else.

But she’s got a Glittery Hoo Haa! It’s all – all – about her. What she sees as bigotry – sorry, racism – is nothing more than people giving her exactly the deference she deserves, namely the amount due any other human.

Until she can see that, she and her ilk are going to be jumping at racist shadows everywhere she goes. And writing and publishing will be poorer for it.

Nebulous Honors

The big news of the last week or so is that this years Nebula Award winners (with the exception of the Grandmaster Award) are all women. Naturally this should be taken as sincere recognition of an excellent field, the most impressive of whom just happened to be female, right?

Right…

Let’s hear from some of those who discussed the winners:

“Yes!. All the fiction winners are women. The white male patriarchy takes one right in the balls. “

Because women are naturally less violent and more nurturing, the obvious metaphor here is clearly one of… oh, wait? What? Presumably the non-violent nature of women takes second place to kicking the white male patriarchy where it hurts. Me thinks I scent a teensy amount of hypocrisy here.

Nah, impossible. These are the Feminist Hoo Haas of Glitter. They can’t be hypocrites. The glitter grants them instant righteousness or something. Anyway, having seen a picture of the trophy, it’s just not as convenient a shape for feminine satisfaction as the Hugo. No wonder they’re getting their glitter all in a flap (and we won’t even go near the latent sexism that such phallic shapes just happen to be perfect for feminine pleasure, because it’s got to be sexist, right? It couldn’t have anything to do with, oh… biology or evolution).

Another genius from Twitter:

“2014 Nebulas & all the fiction winners are women – The idea that women don’t belong in scifi has another nail in its coffin”

You know, apart from wondering why they need to keep putting nails in that damn coffin – surely they don’t think there’s something undead in there? – I have to wonder what the likes of Andre Norton, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Anne McCaffrey (herself a winner of both the Nebula and the Hugo back when they meant something) and such would think that there was ever more than a minority of socially inept (even by Odd standards) nerdy guys who were afraid of catching girl cooties that actually believed women didn’t belong in scifi.

Of course,we have to hear from tolerant, polite side of the debate:

“Another dinosaur complaining about the Nebulas. Wish they’d just leave sff and be hush for good.”

Gosh. And they call us nasty. We’ve never advocated kicking them out of anywhere, but we’re mean because we call them on tripe like this which isn’t that far off trying to claim we don’t deserve to exist. Don’t believe me? Consider this – there’s exactly one way to get someone to “be hush for good”. It’s called ‘dying’.

So naturally I had to go and find myself some preview text of the winning pieces. Now, before I start here, let me say that I have no argument whatsoever with Samuel Delaney’s Grand Master award. The man is a true giant of the field and deserves to stand with the other Grand Masters. Yes, I have read his work. Yes, I do know he’s black and gay. Do I care? Nope. He’s written some damn good books and that’s all that matters as far as the Grand Master award is concerned.

I started reading the novel winner. Went “wait, what?” This kind of cutesy games with pronouns was being done back in the sixties and they’re still calling it ground-breaking? No, it’s not. It’s confusing to readers who want to be able to tell who is whom (and in extreme cases, what). In addition to that, it’s clunky, sends confusing as hell signals (snow plus tavern then suddenly science fictiony trappings then we’re back to all the fantasy ‘medieval tavern’ signals. Screw that). One of the short form winners started “as you know, Bob”ing less than five paragraphs in. Another one was starting to look like a kind of maybe until it dropped the interesting and started an extended flashback infodump. And the shortest one was more like the output from someone on serious mind altering pharmaceuticals. I swear the only reason that one counted was instead of fantasizing the injured loved one had been a kick-ass warrior or something the dopey narrator fantasized him as a micro-T-rex.

Really. That is what is winning Nebula awards now.

Makes this little gem from Twitter look almost prescient:

“as great as it is that so many women won #nebulas, now i’m wondering what form the inevitable backlash will take.”

The backlash ain’t because so many women won. The backlash is because so much of what won is utter shit. Pardon my Australian. If this is the best SFF has to offer, the field is not dying, it’s dead.

Of course, it’s not the best that’s on offer. It’s the best SFWA’s governing Glittery Hoo Haas and Social Justice Warriors can find. Because glitter and “I’m special because I have a vagina” and social justice don’t make good fiction. They’re too busy beating people over the head with the message or claiming to break new ground that’s been broken and trampled so much it’s not just tamed, it’s frigging domesticated complete with frilly little apron.

Naturally, someone had to include a comparison with the Hugos, and the inevitable (and backwards) assumptions:

“Pretty healthy podium line-up in the Nebulas this year; I imagine the Hugo ballot-stuffers are suitably furious.”

Sorry darlin’. I’ve actually spoken to some of the alleged “Hugo ballot-stuffers” and they’re mostly finding this whole orgy of self-congratulatory masturbation rather amusing. And since nomination and voting for the Nebula’s is restricted to SFWA members, well. Let’s not forget this is the organization that expelled someone because they didn’t like what he said. The organization that has yet to publicly acknowledge who they expelled, much less why. Yes, everyone and their dog knows, mostly because the person who was expelled chose to make it public. Complete with his rebuttal of the claims (and shall we investigate just why SFWA’s officers felt the need to pull a DMCA takedown on their report? The one that is supposed to be a public document? Hm? I hear crickets chirping in the distance).

Not to mention, an award whose nominations must be made by members of a small organization and is voted on by members of the same small organization is much more vulnerable to ballot stuffing and other such shenanigans than an award that’s open (in terms of what gets nominated and the voting) to anyone with about $50 to spare for a supporting membership to the current Worldcon.

Oh wait… they mean that the wrong people can nominate the wrong people for Hugo Awards. And even worse, the wrong people can – are you prepared for this horrific revelation? – vote. Gosh. It’s a bit like the way Party membership in the old Soviet days protected people from those horrible, horrible anti-Communist thoughts, da Comrade?

Speaking of which:

“The SFWA is an organization composed of writers of SF&F. The nebulas can be voted upon by anyone in the SFWA–not a committee. There are quite diverse opinions among its membership.”

Yes, the opinions among SFWA’s membership are very diverse. They range from Marx worship all the way through to Stalin worship. With a sideline of Mao and Pol Pot for fun. Apart from the members who shut the fuck up because they don’t feel like being drawn and quartered for their heretical views. Yes, I know about this. I used to be one of those members. I am not a member any more, and believe me this makes me much happier.

There is a “review” of the winning novel on Tor.com. I don’t recommend anyone bother – not only is the review fangirl squee over fucking pronouns, it’s bad fangirl squee pretending to be a review. I’m not much of a reviewer, but at least when I’m going to go fangirly and squee all over the place I tell people up front so they can skip the post if they want. Yeesh.

Now all I need is one of Sarah’s gifferific images of the Glittery Hoo Haa and the Phallic Hugo to traumatize everyone forever (no! Don’t Google that… oh… um. I’m sure you’ll recover eventually?).

(The Kate slinks out and goes into deep, deep cover far from anything resembling Nebula, Glittery Hoo Haas, or Hugos)

Matters of Perspective

I’m peeved. The latest SFWA shitstorm (which appears to be at least in part a continuation of the previous shitstorm – it’s become rather more difficult to distinguish them since SFWA decided they needed to produce more shitstorms in a shorter time period to keep their members happy. At least I think that’s the argument) has, well… It’s shown me that I’ve missed something very important.

For those who are wondering the current shitstorm is centered around an accusation that an editor with a reputation for skeevy behavior harassed an author at a recent convention (not LibertyCon). The author did the procedurally correct thing and reported the incident to the convention authorities and the editor’s employer – and was surprised to learn that there were no complaints on record about the editor despite him having quite the reputation.

A veritable avalanche of “me too, he harassed me too” exploded after the editor’s name was made public, followed by a whole lot of people who should know better opining that the editor in question should be publicly castrated and fed his equipment or something (no, not literally. I haven’t been following the latest outbreak of Feminist Glittery Hoo Haa that closely but I’m quite sure fresh testicles weren’t on the menu. Yet. Compulsory re-education probably was). Authors posted guidelines for conventions wishing to have them as guests. I’m tempted to post mine: they’re pretty basic. Have me on a panel or three and be in driving distance of where I live. None of this harassment policy that basically says if it could possibly offend anyone at all it should be taken out and shot… oh wait. Taken out and re-educated. They don’t believe in shooting, mostly.

The feeding frenzy and hair-raising tales of harassment endured (which, peculiarly, neglected to mention precisely what the harassment consisted of) led me to conclude that I have been gypped. In all the conventions I’ve been to, I’ve never once been harassed. Never. This is why there are no rampaging harassers in the Con vampire books. I had no idea they existed.

I’m tempted to ask if I’m really so repulsive that males who – if one believes these tales – are incapable of keeping their hands and other body parts off anything with an innie find nothing attractive about me, but I know better. Besides, if I did ask one of you sods would say “yes”, just for the fun of it.

Alas, the truth is that the Feminist Glittery Hoo Haa is simultaneously all-powerful and more fragile than a Victorian fainting maiden. The same female who insists that she can do anything a male can do (even if she’s not actually physically capable of it) turns pale and has fits of the vapors if any man should – horror of horrors – actually see her as a female. If he shows any signs of being attracted to her, well, she’s likely to run screaming (usually screaming things like “sexism” and “harassment” and such).

This is not to say that actual harassment does not happen. Of course it does. The world is full of people who will use a position of relative power to get something that would otherwise be refused or to make someone’s life a living hell. Many of those people gravitate to positions of power because power inevitably attracts those who are already corrupt or who are corruptible. Those of us who fear that power would turn us into something we don’t want to be avoid that kind of position – and usually are fairly safe from it because we tend to see it as a responsibility and a bloody heavy one at that.

What the fainting Feminist Glittery Hoo Haa crowd forget is that there are ways a woman can make herself “off-limits” to a man who is basically testing the waters to see if any further advances on his part will be accepted. Most of them also work on the happy huggers who are excessively tactile (as someone who prefers to avoid physical contact, I find the huggy types a bit awkward sometimes – but I also possess this arcane ability to tell whether someone is a tactile type or if they’re taking unwanted liberties. It’s called ‘judgment’), and even to some extent those who practice the literary form of the casting couch. Of course, these options don’t appeal to the fainting Hoo Haas because they you sort of have to acknowledge that yes, you are female and yes, certain aspects of nature do in fact apply. (Males, don’t panic. I’m not talking about the icky female stuff here. I’m talking about things like females being typically smaller, weaker, having different body fat distributions, and having two built in male-attractors sitting on their chests. The things that males react to regardless of what they think about the person (yes, females also have hot buttons, as it were. Ours tend not to stand up and give semaphore signals)).

The big one is – of course – being a lady. Sounds odd, right? But, a certain confident dignity together with not behaving like a red light district streetwalker does a lot to tell the back brain that no, you would not welcome any kind of offer involving horizontal aerobics no matter how nicely it’s phrased (this may be the underlying reason for the storm in a B-cup over Malzberg and Resnick using the term ‘lady’. The Feminist Hoo Haas maintain that it should be possible to dress and act like a street whore and be treated like a lady even if they refuse to use the terminology). I tend to aim for this at cons, so I guess it’s working.

In work environments, I take the opposite tack: I go for “one of the boys”. That means I do my job, I don’t ask for favors – I don’t ask for favors at cons, either. Any kind of favors – and I don’t expect special treatment. Plus I give as good as I get. That works too. Once someone registers as one of the boys they’re off the “potential partner” list no matter how attractive they might be.

Either way, I’ve never had to go drawing lines in the sand. My behavior does it for me.

Now it’s possible that the Fainting Feminist Hoo Haas are such pathetic specimens that they think any kind of compliment is “harassment”. I don’t know. All I can say is that I haven’t been harassed at any cons, and I have it on good authority that I’m not so ugly that would explain the discrepancy.

Oh, and a free and just Independence Day to all our American readers.