Vonclauswitz on MGTOW

One of the members of GoingYourOwnWay.com spotted the following rationale for MGTOW on the “voat.co” website. It was published by ‘vonclauswitz’ – I found it so well-reasoned that I decided it’s worth repeating, with the author’s permission, here on Beyond The Sunset.


Here’s what I think MGTOW means:

(1) The society in which I find myself (in my case, American) has prescribed roles into which I am pressured to conform.

I’m supposed to:

(1.a) organize my life so as to be useful to women. Specifically, I must have excess resources (which mostly means, make enough money) to not only support a family, but also to afford a very specific lifestyle (sometimes called, “keeping up with the Jones'”).

(1.b) approach and pursue women. This requires an investment of time, energy, and money to learn the skills of picking up women (because even for an attractive guy, this requires some practice and effort) and time, energy, and money to actually do it (dating isn’t free when you’re in this societal role – even if it’s free for other men).

(1.c) initiate relationships and propose marriage.

(1.d) organize my life around the marriage. This substantially means giving up pursuits that I enjoy (because stereotypical male pursuits are labeled immature and condescended to with terms like “man cave” and “midlife crisis”) and take up the company of and lifestyle chosen by my wife.

(1.e) bear a disproportionate responsibility for the success or failure of the marriage. There is a long list of things that husbands are expected to do for their wives under the auspices of being romantic or adventurous or just keeping her from being bored, but little if anything that is expected of wives (indeed, the very suggestion that she has responsibilities may be labeled oppressive).

(2) I have the ability to fulfill this role. It’s completely within my power as a man. I could do it as easily and as successfully as all the generations of men before me. But in the present society in which I find myself, I just don’t see that there are any real rewards for it. It appears to be all work with nothing in return.

(2.a) The supposed benefits of following this path are either not persuasive (not enough of a reward for the amount of work required), not true, or not rewards that I actually care about.

  • The promise of sex is not persuasive. Sex is available at a fixed and guaranteed cost outside of this path. But on this path, the cost of sex is greatly variable and not guaranteed.
  • I don’t believe that following this path will make me happy. Surveys that find married men are happier are only finding that successful marriages are happy. No shit. Lottery winners are richer, but that doesn’t mean that playing the lottery is a good idea.

(2.b) Society does not ask what men want, or what we would consider to be a fair trade for the work required of this role.There is no negotiation here. We are derided if we express dissatisfaction, and shamed if we refuse to play along.

(2.c) Many women see this role not as a social contract between men and women for which they should be thankful, but as a safety net or golden parachute.One possible answer to 2.b above is that many men would like sexual access to a woman when she is young (for discussion, let’s say mid 20’s). And in return for that, men would be happy to bear the substantial costs laid out above. But many women ask that the type of man willing to fill this role should wait until she is a decade or more older. This of course is her right, but it substantially reduces the benefit of this path without any reduction in its cost.It also makes it clear that we are plan B, and likely prevents any real bond between us.

(3) Worse, there are substantial risks for anyone who attempts to fulfill this role.

(3.a) Too many men are falsely accused of rape.

(3.b) The majority of marriages end in divorce. Divorce is painful and expensive. Many men pay exorbitant alimony.

(3.c) Family courts are hostile to fathers. Child support is out of proportion to the actual needs of the child, is often not applied to the child, and in some cases amounts to indentured servitude (as when a judge says, “your ability to pay is not relevant to your obligation to pay” – and sends a man to jail because his 3rd quarter sales numbers are down).

(3.d) There is no legal protection against paternity fraud.

(4) Fatherhood appears to be a thankless job. I don’t believe that I’ll have much if any authority over my children.

(5) I therefore choose to deviate from the prescribed role in various ways.Each man looks at the list of things that is expected of him, and makes his own decision about where he will leave the path and what alternative direction he will go. We are united only in this core idea: none of us will follow society’s path from start to finish. We are going our own way.


More and more of us men are viewing Society’s norm of “love and marriage” from the same perspective. We see too much wrong with marriage, nowadays, for it to be worth the risk. I don’t see this, necessarily, as the fault of the Modern Women themselves – nor, strictly, that of feminism, though feminism has been a driving influence. I see it more as the doing of the Legislatures, who planted the minefield by giving Cupcake more and more incentives and advantages to destroy a marriage and the poor chump she married, and of Family Court, which has an incredible track record of bending over backwards to give everything to Cupcake at the expense of said chump.

Society’s bias is to hold the woman innocent-as-an-infant, and to demonize her partner, for anything that goes wrong in their relationship. It’s his fault if she’s “unhappy.” It’s his fault if she’s cheating on him, if she blames him for her “boredom” in the marriage bed, if she accuses him of “abuse,” if she attacks him with a weapon and then tells the police “she was afraid.”

Whatever goes wrong, “it’s HIS fault.” And Society will penalize HIM.

The facts of this matter used to be pretty-well hidden, even in plain sight. They were the sort of “inconvenient truths” that a young man, full of the natural love-potions that Evolution has developed over the millenia, was unlikely to consider in the intoxicating presence of his inamorata. But more and more of us are deciding that Society’s path (as Vonclauswitz describes it) is not for them. Consider this: 70% of all US men, 20-34, have never been married.  (Graph from CNS News.com – it’s part of an article, “Bachelor Nation,” shaming the young men of the USA for their “perpetual adolescence” and branding them as having “failed” because they haven’t manned-up and married-up.)


There may be millions of girls, deserving of husbands, who will be doomed by this situation to lives of solitary despair, paper-shuffling in their HR cubes by day and taking solace in their cats and Black Box chardonnay by night. It’s a terrible shame, I’m sure; in fact, I’ve been terribly shamed, and repeatedly shamed, for not donning my White Knight armor and riding to the rescue of these poor lonely ladies. But even if I didn’t analyze the perils of living by Society’s program as rigorously as Vonclauswitz has, I arrived at the same decision long ago. Too bad, so sad, Cupcake, and please recycle the Black Box box.

MGTOW, “Men Going Their Own Way,” has been getting quite a lot of press lately – and drawing some extra flak from some unexpected directions. Sandman’s video “The Monks Of MGTOW” was a slap in the face to a lot of us; but there have been other efforts by “agents of influence,” in the Manosphere and in the mainstream, to disdain MGTOW or corrupt it or water it down.

The kernel of MGTOW is in the Marriage Strike rules – “do not marry, do not cohabitate, do not procreate.” But it seems more and more evident that they’re a couple of cards short of a full house. They are at the core of “Going Your Own Way,” but they aren’t enough by themselves. What’s missing? After some deep thought on the last few months’ wrangling over MGTOW, I realized: They say nothing about living a self-directed life, rather than a life directed by others or by Society.

There’s something that propels the vast majority of people down the Blue Pill Highway, and I think it could be summed up as “the quest for approval.” So much of what we do is motivated by our desire for approval – I’ll make a case that it was Mommy’s approval that got us toilet-trained! We first went to school for Mommy and Daddy’s approval; we worked for good grades for the teachers’ approval; we took our friends’ dares for the sake of their approval; we spent our money on our Honey for her approval … and so ad infinitum. In the broadest case, we work and strive and live for Society’s approval.

And, of course, the strongest draw, the strongest Object Of Desire from which a man craves approval, is Woman. It’s a special sort of approval we crave from her, a mixture of approval and appreciation and admiration and affection and lust that we label Love. We hunger for it – we get high on it – we center our lives on it, making it “All About Her.” That is at the core of gynocentrism, a powerful force in Society countering our will to Go Our Own Way. We’re pushed to Go Gynocentrism’s Way.

Those hungers are part of being a social being, and a sexual being. And we evolved as social beings, from the jungle to the savannahs, to the forests, to the farms and the cities, even here in cyberspace. But the problem is that we can, all too damn easily, let others’ approval – or the possibility they’ll withdraw their approval – get us off track from Our Own Way, pull us away from our own goals, and route us back onto the Blue Route. And Society has demanded men to live by its rules – of service, of utility, of dispensability – since the days of the savanna.

John Galt answered the demands of Society with the oath he offered at the end of his famous speech in Atlas Shrugged: “I swear – by my life and my love of it – that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.”

In mind of that oath, I’ve added two more items to the Marriage Strike rules, for a total of five … like the Five Precepts of Buddhism, the rules-to-live-by for that religion (kind of like the Judeo-Christian Ten Commandments):

  • Do not marry.
  • Do not cohabitate.
  • Do not procreate.
  • Rid yourself of gynocentrism.
  • Follow your own dreams.

Buddhism’s Five Precepts – do not kill, do not steal, do not lie, do not be unchaste, do not take intoxicants – were the Sakyamuni’s guideposts to the layman for living the Buddhist life. I offer these five precepts in the hope that they’ll be useful, solid guideposts for living the MGTOW life.

(Note – 30 March: I’ve revised “Reject gynocentrism” to “Rid yourself of gynocentrism.” The idea is not to rant against gynocentrism in others and in the culture, but simply to put aside the conditioned reflex to “think of her first.”)

Poor Poor Victims

Thinking about Men’s Rights today …

Remember the Occupy Movement, from the summer of 2011? It started as a demonstration in a privately-owned park in New York City, with picketers and social-justice warriors pitching a “sleep-in” bivouac to protest the social inequity between Wall Street’s money-makers and “the 99%” struggling to make a living in the recession-bled economy. It went on to spawn more protests, more protesters’ campsites, more disagreement and faction-fighting in the Media, and (predictably) more hateful PR directed at “the 1%” who the protesters blamed for the whole situation.

They saw themselves as “victims” of Wall Street. But that wasn’t all … they sorted themselves out by their “victimhood,” when it came time for any discussions or pronouncements. I personally was fascinated to hear of their “progressive stack” discussion practice, sorting out who got a voice in discussions according to how “marginalized” they were, insisting that everyone “check their privilege” and demanding those of “privileged” groups – white, or male, or cis-gendered, or middle-class, or otherwise “born to privilege” – to “step back” and let the underprivileged others have their say.

In other words, let the “greater victims,” the “oppressed,” do the talking. Let them flaunt their “oppression,” display their scabs and their scars, and voice their victimhood and their demands – and the rest of you, the “privileged,” you just shut up. It spawns an underlying competition between different races, sexes, genders and classes, to prove who’s “more oppressed.” and deserves more of a voice.

The Oppression Olympics.

Now, I’m not denying that some people, some groups, get a rawer deal than others. I’ve seen it. I haven’t been “victimized” so much as others, but guess what? The markers used for “Check Your Privilege” don’t mean much when you’re a child of a poor-but-proud single mama, working hard to stay off welfare in the richest county of the United States. And the Oppression Olympics have become the States’ system for sorting out who needs more help, more benefits, more laws to favor them, more “empowerment.”

And that brings me back to Men’s Rights … and what might be the biggest obstacle faced by the Men’s Rights Movement: Men are poor ‘victims.’

Not “poor victims.” No, we are lousy as victims. We are so obviously at the Pinnacle of Privilege, that when men speak of their grievances – their very real grievances – they’re laughed off the stage.

Women, on the other hand, are “obvious victims.” They’ll show you. They’ll snow you with their evidence of “discrimination,” of “suppression,” of “second-class citizenship.” The Women’s Movement has been piling up this evidence for way more than a century, from Seneca Falls forward, and they have so well campaigned for a reversal of this “inequity” that now, the central purpose of the Laws and the Courts would seem to be the protection, the succoring, the empowering, and the benefit of those Poor Poor Victims, The Women Of Today.

And there just isn’t any room left for men at the table.

Men also tend to let go of their “victimhood,” given half a chance. Look at men who are the victims of divorce – and wouldn’t you say men are victimized by a system that routinely gives the complaining wife not only the benefit of the doubt, but the benefit of keeping the kids, the family home, and a sizable hunk of the man’s income, future earnings, and pension – with the threat of jail, of debtor’s prison, if he doesn’t keep up the payments? But the men struggle – they strive through – and the majority manage to carry the load as they get on with their lives. Their ex-wives? How many of them flaunt their “victimhood,” while they’re living on the ex-husband’s alimony and child-support payments? While they’re poisoning the minds of their children with hatred for the “Daddy” who loved them, tried to raise them well, and is still paying for their well-being?

The biggest issues of the Men’s Movement tend to crowd around divorce law and the practices of “Family Court.” Issues like shared parenting, and paternity fraud, and divorce fraud, and the ignored side of Domestic Violence (women’s violence toward their men, which is half of all domestic violence), are the raison d’être for the Movement.

But they fight in vain, because men are poor, poor “victims.”

Maybe men would do better without “being victims.” Maybe we’d do better by avoiding the problems of Family Court, paternity fraud, divorce fraud, and living with a potentially-violent partner.

Maybe the better solution is to Go Your Own Way. At any rate, I think so, and I practice what I preach.

Going Your Own Way – going Galt, taking part in the Marriage Strike – isn’t about fighting the Men’s Rights fight – or fighting against it; it’s about avoiding the issues altogether. That may not be “effective action” politically, but it is on a personal basis; and to misquote Ricky Nelson’s “Garden Party,” I can’t save everyone so I’ll have to save myself.

It’s a simple solution – don’t get married, don’t cohabitate, don’t procreate.

To quote YouTube vlogger Razor Blade Kandy:

I can’t fix the divorce problem within my culture. But I will never face divorce. I have removed divorce as a possibility by avoiding marriage; that’s MGTOW. I will not have my children taken away from me, nor will I be forced to pay child support, because I have no children; that’s MGTOW.

Yes, that’s what I advocate. That’s what I do.

I am NOT a victim.

 *   *   *

Community Organized Compassion and Kindness posted an illuminating article on “Empowering Women” a few weeks ago. It could have been subtitled “The Female Chameleon;” its theme is the way that women change their opinions, ideas and philosophy as readily as they change clothes. There’s nothing new in this observation; Giuseppe Verdi highlighted it in Rigoletto’s “La donna è mobile;” what struck me is the way the article laid responsibility for this on the men who enable it.

One of the classic sayings about owning a boat is that there’s always something that needs fixing; the corollary is, even if everything’s working, there’s always something that needs improving. My boat is no exception, and though there’s little that needs fixing on a simple boat like mine, I’ve found plenty of things worth improving.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

This winter, my project is to build a new “dodger,” or “spray hood.” This is a canvas shelter, with vinyl windows, built over the entryway from the cockpit to the cabin. It’s supposed to keep spray and maybe rain from getting into the cabin, and to provide a windbreak on a chilly, blustery day. A sturdy one can (and should) give you something to hang on to, when you need to go up on deck. The one that came with my boat was wearing out; the stitching was breaking down, I’d replaced all the zippers, and this summer I decided that it was time to for it to be retired and replaced.

Then I saw a better idea, at the Seven Seas Cruising Association’s Annapolis Gam. It was a “hard-top” dodger, with a rigid top canopy made of thermally-formed, high-density polyethylene (“StarBoard”),with zip-on windshield and side curtains. It was billed as strong enough to stand on … certainly it was strong enough for me to mount a semi-flexible solar panel on the top, and add a whole lot more to my existing solar-charging system. I could also have the top built so it extended back over the cockpit, giving me a little more shelter … It looked good. It looked great. But their estimate looked daunting. Their hard-top dodger was priced at some $3500, and the solar panel I was contemplating would be $1500 more. Not so good. I had the money, but that was more than I wanted to spend. I got some more estimates, but it was “back to the drawing board.”

A few weeks later, I found an ad in Boat US Magazine, for an engineered-plastic “hard top” that wasn’t as impressive – but a call to the manufacturer proved it was a whole lot more affordable. This one was made of extruded, cellular polycarbonate sheet material – kind of like corrugated cardboard – with an optional, sturdy aluminum edge. The “Premier” edge-frame was plainly strong enough and wide enough to give me a substantial “grab bar” – and it could be built long enough to hold a pair of 100-watt, semi-flexible solar panels I’d seen at the Annapolis Sailboat Show, that cost $300 each!OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

So I worked up a cardboard pattern, taped it on my existing dodger frame and sent my measurements off to “HardToTop.” They couldn’t build a top to fit the frame of my canvas dodger – the curves weren’t right for their top to fit – but they could build a new frame; and their hard-top and frame would cost $800. So I went for it – “Chaaaarrgge It!” as Wilma Flintstone used to say in the Flintstones cartoons.

A couple of weeks after Christmas, I got the new hard-top and support frame. I fitted the frame on the boat – then the Winter set in; cold, blustery, snowy, rainy, too much of a mess for me to do anything until mid-March. I was able to dry-fit the panels with the outer frame, figure out how to fit the solar panels and their cables, and cut notches in the frame pieces so I could run the cables inside the frame.

Finally, in mid-March, we got some warm (or warm-ish), sunny days when I was able to fit the hard topDSCN1249 to the frame. The first day, I dry-fitted the panels and slip-fitted the outer frame in place – then I drilled and fitted the panels, adjusted everything to where it seemingly needed to be, and finally caulked the panels’ edges and bolted them in place. “So far, so good” – there were things I might have improved, but the hard-top fit as I needed it to fit and it would provide me plenty of shelter!

The weekend afterward was rainy, sloppy and blustery, but Monday was warm and partly-sunny and suitable for me to fit the solar panels and the cabin-top braces that would make my “solar dodger” strong and sturdy.

I had a lot of “visionary” tasks to manage, to make everything work. I drilled the dodger frame and pulled wiring for the solar panels through to the underside of the frame; I taped down the solar panels, with “extreme outdoor” mounting tape, as I’d figured they’d need to be placed on the top. I installed connectors beneath the hard-top, and led the solar-panel cables through the frame as I’d envisioned. I drilled and tapped the mounting screws for the “MC-4” connectors, and finally I put it all together, with the aluminum frame and the stainless-steel struts that lock the hard-top in place.

And I’m proud of the results.


I’ve got some more work to do with the “Solar Dodger.” I’ve got to install the “awning strips” around the lower edges, and I’ve got to call in Galesville Yacht Canvas to make the windshield and side-curtains. And I’ve got to hook up the solar panels to the charge-controller, so they can feed my batteries. But I’ll have an “embarras de richesse” of solar power when they’re hooked up … maybe even enough to install a refrigerator!

It’s worth considering.



Shedding of the Ego is a new blog by MGTOW legend Barbarossaaaa, and it is off to a great start. The first article I read (and I’m still in the midst of reading) is “Are Seasoned MGTOW Bored With The Red Pill?” by contributing author Kolinahr, and I heartily recommend it.

From the start of this blog, I’ve been putting my attention on the “Men On Strike” phenomenon – the “Escape From The Village,” the marriage strike, the reluctance of men to put themselves into the mink-lined man-trap of “Just Cupcake And Me And Baby Makes Three (until Cupcake kicks me out)” Society. I wasn’t exactly a voice in the wilderness, more like another voice in the choir – and the ‘choir’ keeps getting bigger and louder, and more and more men are paying attention.

A few days ago, CNS News published an alarmist, wringing-their-hands article about the growing extent of this “Escape” mind-set. They’re pointing trembling, panic-shivering fingers at the “civilizational catastrophe” that 70 percent of men, age 20 – 34, are not married.

Viewing this from the perspective of Traditional Conservative Churchly-ism, this is quite horrifying. These “Peter Pan men” are accused of living “in a state of “perpetual adolescence” with ominous consequences for the nation’s future,” according to spokeswoman Janice Shaw Crouse (author of “Marriage Matters”) … who further asserts that these juvenile slackers “have failed to make a normal progression into adult roles of responsibility and self-sufficiency, roles generally associated with marriage and fatherhood…”

Yes, they’re leaving the marriage-go-round.


Has Janice Shaw Crouse considered why these “Peter Pan boys” are abandoning the “sacred” roles of “responsibility and self-sufficiency … associated with marriage and fatherhood”?

(Hear the hollow laughter!)

Crouse’s plaint is overwhelmingly concerned with the “bleak prospects for millions of young women who dream about a wedding day that may never come.” She gives absolutely no attention to the concerns, the worries, the fears, of the young men who are supposed to “man up” and marry these women; though after she’s gotten the bit in her teeth and ran with her sob-story for several paragraphs, she deigns to mention that feminism might have played a part.

But then she characterizes that “part” by feeding right back into the “evil evil men” syndrome, and declaring that “after decades of feminism … young men are now the ones who set the parameters for intimate relationships, and those increasingly do not include a wedding ring.” (So saith CNS News.)

And the rest of the article continues with the same man-shaming tone – that the problem with Society is that “Peter Pan boys don’t Man UP,” get married, and take their proper place on the Plantation. I’ve linked to the article above, and you’re welcome to explore it for yourself.

Excuse me, Sister Janice of the Order of Our Lady of Infinite Responsibility, but I have another explanation for the Lost Boys’ reluctance to join in the bonds of Holy Slavery, er, Matrimony.

Society used to take marriage seriously, and it was all about the marriage, not the Wedding.

Marriage was, indeed, a transition from “boy” (and “girl”) to adulthood. The partners in the wedding CONTRACT – and yes, even with the Separation of Church and State, it was a contract under civil law – agreed to conjoin their identities and combine their resources, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance …” (From the 1928 “Book Of Common Prayer” of the Episcopal (Anglican) Church – the vows my mother took when she married my father.) And the singer from the church choir would have sung “I Promise Thee” while the new Mister Newlywed slipped the gold ring onto the finger of his Blushing Bride. And they might have been intimidated by the breadth and solemnity of their vows – but well they should have been; marriage was supposed to be ‘forever.’

It isn’t that way any more – or, at least, not necessarily.


Nowadays, the Church has far less say about the state of Holy Matrimony that is supposed to follow from the Bridezilla Wedding and the Awesome Honeymoon. Once the Bride and groom (use, or lack, of capitalization intentional) sign the State’s wedding contract, they are subject to State law – which is to say, to the standards and requirements and prejudices and sexist bigotry of the State Family Courts. And guess what? Those Family Courts, certainly not in the USA, are not part of the judicial system established by the Constitution of the United States. They are increasingly revealed as a law unto themselves – with White Knight judges who will discard any prior arrangement, prenuptual agreement, or police-rendered evidence, to make sure that “Ms. I’m-Not-Haaaaaappy” is coddled and cared-for in the Divorce Decree.

It sure-as-hell wasn’t that way when my mother divorced her husband in 1953. I’ve got the divorce decree in my fire-proof strong-box. The modern Cupcake gets everything – the house, the kids, child support, debt relief, et cetera, ad nauseam.

Why is it a surprise that the Modern Millenial Man sees this for the one-sided, man-shaming, man-blaming, man-plundering deal that it is – and refuses to take part in it?

If the TradCons would like to have even a Hail Mary prayer of fixing this, they’d better put their lobbying dollars into de-fanging our Family Court system. I am not holding my breath.

The Last Dance

It’s been a long time … two and a half years … since I’ve posted anything here. There’s been a lot of water gone under the keel since September 2012, and a good few notable events. But it may be the most notable event was the wedding.

No, not my wedding! Not even if I were carried to the chapel by flying pigs.

This was the wedding of my ‘adoptive’ nephew, Charlie. He’s been centered on Holly, a cute-enough girl but not one to my own tastes, for years and years. They bought a house together … they sold it, and bought another … and he proposed to her last year, in a situation she couldn’t escape (as if she’d wanted!) aboard an airliner from ‘home’ to Las Vegas.

Charlie was raised Catholic. Holly – damn if I know, it’s most emphatically none of my business. Indeed, I was aware enough that it was none of my business, that I raised no protest with the Lamb To The Slaughter and I even let him take Halcyon, my fiberglass mistress, as the site of his Bachelor Party.

And … I was part of the ‘family party’ when we filed in to Saint Whats-er-name’s Church and they traded vows. Holly was as cute as she could manage to be, in her long-train bridal gown. Charlie actually wore shoes to the ceremony, with his nicely tailored suit, though he had changed into his usual flip-flop sandals when he got to the reception. He was wearing them when he danced his first dance with his wife – his wife! – Mrs. Holly P—!

But what got to me … was his dance with his mother, to Lee Ann Womack’s I Hope You’ll Dance.

If you’re not familiar with the song, well, it’s like a mother’s affirmation of her hopes for her child. It is tender and wistful, and chock-full of “I hope you’ll …” wishes and advice. As Womack told The Today Show, “You can’t hear those lyrics and not think about children and—and—and hope for the future and things you want for them. And those are the things I want for them in life. I want them to feel small when they stand beside the ocean.” And each verse closes with,

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.
I hope you dance … I hope you dance….

It means so much more than “stand up and shake to the music,” doesn’t it? It means the whole sweep of love – romance – sex – marriage – and -onward, per the program.

And it stuck in my craw. It was four minutes of reminding me how I’d sat all of that out – largely for the sake of the one person in my life who, in my head and my heart, deserved, merited, and needed my loyalty and love and support. She’d given me all of that, as best she could, while she raised me from her newborn love-child to my adulthood. And I “sat it out” with her, till the day she died.

They say that if a man remains unmarried until he’s forty, there’s practically no chance he’ll ever get married. I was 48 when Mom went West, and there is no way I would consider marriage today.

Now, a confession. I started this post after Charlie and Holly’s wedding, almost two years ago. In a few days, they will celebrate the first birthday of their baby daughter. And “Uncle BeijaFlor” will be there, to smile and congratulate the parents, and hold their little one awkwardly in my arms, and hand her off to some doting relative or family-friend as soon as it can be managed.

And truly, when their daughter grows to adulthood, and sets forth on her own life’s journey … when she gets the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope she’ll dance.

*  *  *

I’ve been away from here for a long time! And I’ve had a wealth of excuses to let this site lie fallow. My biggest has been my involvement as a moderator on Going Your Own Way, a forum devoted to MGTOW philosophy and practice and the MGTOW lifestyle (for lifestyle it is – it’s not a movement. Feminism is a movement. So is peristalsis.)

But there’s more going on in the world than that, and more going on in my life that isn’t part of that. I’m going to pick this blog up again, at least tentatively – I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Playground Proofing

I am old enough to remember flat, wooden-board swings in the playgrounds of my childhood. A flat wooden board wide enough for an adult’s hips, hanging on sturdy steel chains from a really high (to a child’s eyes) frame. A kid could really pump high on one of those swings, high enough to feel himself almost floating above the seat at the top of its arc, high enough that I never dared jump out of it at full swing. High enough to be scary; high enough that a fool or a daredevil could get hurt on it. Boy, they were fun.

I am young enough to remember when they swapped those wooden boards for thick flexible straps like little hammocks. They weren’t made for a kid to pump them, to swing high and feel the excitement. I couldn’t get a good swing out of them, anyways. They were made to keep a kid from falling off. They were ‘playground proofed’ to keep a kid safe – an admirable goal, I assume – but they had a hidden cost: A kid couldn’t fly high and get the thrill. And nowadays, when I look at playgrounds, I see that so much has been done to ‘keep a kid safe’ that it’s hardly possible for a kid to have fun on the stuff any more. They were designed for mommies, not for kids. And they’re deserted.

Well, it’s more than playgrounds that are ‘playground proofed’ nowadays. We find this same ‘protecting from consequences’ as a major, almost a prime, goal of modern society. What’s even more striking is that this ‘playground proofing’ is being conducted, directed, mandated, for the benefit of one class of people over another … a privileged class that has been historically protected from their bad choices, from their folly, from their mistakes and their consequences, by the other ‘class’ which were carefully taught the goal of keeping them safe, and warm, and comfy, taking care of their needs, and protecting them from harm, even if that meant protecting them from their own folly and not giving them the chance to learn from their consequences. But their bad choices and folly and mistakes have gotten so out-of-hand, their ‘needs’ so overblown, their demands so greedy and their complaints so outrageous, that more and more of the ‘underclass’ is turning its collective back on them and leaving their care and protection-from-folly to the hands of the Mommy State.

The name of the privileged class? Woman.

And the nature of the privilege, the protection, the coddling under the names of entitlement and empowerment, is such that it puts women into the role of the chronically childlike of our society – the children who don’t have to grow up emotionally, because the underclass – men – will be expected and shamed and even forced to carry their load.

This starts, remarkably, in the playgrounds and the schoolyards. Little boys are into rough-and-tumble games, and when little girls get into these games they’re prone to being rough-and-tumbled themselves. A little girl cries with a skinned knee – and the Adults are all over the boys with shaming and punishment. Never mind that Jill gave Jimmy a black eye, then danced away sing-songing, “Can’t hit a girl!”

Little Jimmy should be ashamed for earning that black eye. Obviously it’s the boys’ fault, no matter who started it. And if some games are too rough for the little girls, then the boys shouldn’t be allowed to play them either. Oh, and by the way – little Jill came home with that knee that she skinned on the blacktop. You need to put down a heavy soft layer of tanbark so that won’t happen again. And those swings aren’t safe, and that thing, and that, and the teeter-totter discriminates against heavy kids on one end and light kids on the other.

And little Jimmy, who worked off his energy in those now-banned boys’ games? He gets ‘diagnosed’ with ADHD because he can’t sit still any more. He’s fed Ritalin to make him sit still, never mind that he’s listless.

Along about puberty there’s a new game in town. The boys get interested, and the girls get interesting. It used to be a father’s job to protect his Little Red Riding Hood from all the Big Bad Wolves showing up at the family door … but now so many Fathers have been excluded from their children’s lives that the State has to step in and playground proof the innocent young things from harm (or, rather, from their own folly). More entitlement, empowerment and protection for the young ladies, while the boys are blamed and shamed and punished for just having gone along with the young ladies’ lead. I mean, now Sheila is old enough to dress up and make herself up like those ‘Bratz’ dolls she played with as a kid. How can it be her fault that Sam got a little fresh with her at the high-school dance?

Shiela can come-on to her heart’s content, but she is “proofed” from the consequences of her actions. Mommy State to the rescue, with laws and rules and regulations that penalize the boys in the name of protecting the girls.

Then you get to that magical stage – adulthood! There’s another wild and delicious game in town, now, called ‘alcohol.’ Bonnie can get that delicious dizzy feeling she used to get, spinning in the playground, out of a glass. And it makes the sensations of kissing and getting all-snuggly with a boy even more delicious. The Bratz costume is even more effective as bait, now that she’s got real curves to pack into it, and she’s getting lots of attention from the boys – from all of the boys, drat it, not just the ‘Big Man On Campus’ she really wants to hook.

Back in my college days, if Bonnie woke up in Ben’s dorm room, Gentle Ben, rather than in Dirk Studly’s, it was embarrassing and disappointing.

Now, it’s date-rape. And when she goes to the Campus police about it, Ben gets kicked out of the university – no trial, no questions, no chance to defend himself, and anyway, all his defenses amount to guilt in the eyes of the Powers That Be. Remember, ‘Dear Colleagues,’ it is your duty to protect Bonnie from harm, or harassment, or an unwanted kiss from the wrong guy. She’s not a ‘bad girl,’ after all, even if she was wearing the uniform, talking the talk and walking the walk.

And it goes on like that, out of college and into adult life. Women are insulated from the consequences of their actions, and they can and do reap untold benefits from the actions of the men around them. ‘Can’t hit a girl,’ with all the insane bias that implies, gets enacted into the Law of the Land, with the Violence Against Women Act in the USA, the Australian Government’s National Plan to Reduce Violence against Women and their Children (The Plan); the misandric legislation of dozens of countries, designed to protect women at the cost of punishing men – down to the point of harnessing them to be financial draft-animals, the economic slaves, of women and the Nanny State that so carefully protects its own.

Actions have consequences.

Playground proofing has consequences, too. The consequence is that the boys are leaving the playground – leaving its padded girl-friendly surfaces, its consequence-free zones, the shaming and blaming of the supervisors, to go play somewhere else.

They’re growing up to be boys who don’t trust girls, men who are more and more likely not to pursue or hook up with women, or who do so only with the intention of sexual relief; men who are choosing not to ‘man up’ but to ‘man out’ and leave the protected, pampered, coddled, ‘empowered and entitled,’ spoiled brats in adult bodies, to face their own consequences – alone.

A tip of the hat to Dr. Tara Palmatier of shrink4men.com for coining the term “playground proofing” and inspiring this article.

(This article was originally published by to A Voice For Men; their version is here.)

“Otto” The Autopilot

One of the problems of solo sailing is that you still have to sleep. You still have to eat, and fix your meals, and use the head. You have to leave the boat to make its own way, when you do these and if it can’t stay on course, you’ve got a heck of a problem.

There are a few ways to handle this, but only two of them work if you’ve got a sloop (like mine) with a helm wheel (like mine). You can install a mechanical device that keeps your boat pointed correctly in reference to the wind (a wind-vane system), or you can install an electrical/electronic device that keeps your boat on the magnetic-compass course that you want to follow more-or-less … an autopilot. For a boat like Halcyon, the electronic solution costs about one-third the price of the wind-and-water-powered version, and it requires a boat-owner to do a lot less modifications to his/her boat.

So it is that I decided to entrust Halcyon and (and my own skin) to that latter, electronic system … decided, with trepidation and reservations, because of the less-than-stellar performance of a similar autopilot system on my previous boat, Bossa Nova. And with my first little day-sailing voyage using the new and improved Raymarine X-5 Wheel Pilot, I am thoroughly delighted with the device as it runs on Halcyon.

Otto the Autopilot, on board Bossa Nova (artist’s misconception)

As I suggested, I had some prior experience with autopilots because I decided to put one on ‘Bossa Nova,’ my Macgregor 26X … which is best described as ‘a 26-foot sleep-aboard sailing dinghy.’ The MacGregor 26 series are trailer-borne day-sailors with enough amenities to work as a weekend-or-vacation getaway for one, or a couple, or a man and wife with two young children … or so they say. I’ve used it as a vacation home, and as a funny-shaped travel trailer, and it worked well enough for me by myself; but it’s a very light and ‘nervous’ boat, built for protected waters and/or excursions in the best of conditions. Because I was sailing solo – the whole point of my sailing, because I don’t expect or plan or wish to need someone else sailing with me – I needed some ‘help’ to keep Bossa Nova on-course when I had to take down and flake down its mainsail. And ‘Otto’ did a pretty good job of that. Otto was noisy, though, and drank up the amp-hours from my electrical system, which (on a boat like this) wasn’t all that capable and strong to begin with.

But … don’t the world-cruisers, the people who are sailing away for real, use wind-vanes? I should say, wind-and-water-powered steering systems, designed to keep your boat following the wind, and costing you not a watt-hour of battery power. A cursory check of long-distance-cruisers’ Web sites reveals this is the case. But is a wind-vane system like the Cape Horn (the one I’d like) well-suited to sailing the Chesapeake Bay, for someone who just wants to extend his horizons a little beyond the local area? And would the next buyer of Halcyon – if I decide she’s not quite enough boat for my dreams – feel comfortable about a wind-vane?

Between the money, and the difficulties I envisioned installing the thing, I decided that the autopilot makes more sense for now. The easiest thing to install would be a ‘wheel pilot’ that attaches to the helm wheel directly, and only Raymarine makes one of those any more. When I spotted a sale at Defender, a mail-order boating supplies firm, I put in my order for the whole kit, plus an instrument housing for the control head.

Halcyon’s autopilot, driving me home.

The installation wasn’t all that hard, but it took time and I made a couple of bad decisions in mounting the stuff. One problem was that Raymarine had cooked up a new networking system that meant I had to install a ‘backbone’ close to the control head. Another was that I let a well-meaning friend talk me into mounting the control box in a place where I found it would not be able to be cabled up; the old-style control head with its cabling system would have worked fine there, but I couldn’t get the cable through the helm pedestal. Oh, well, live and learn, and take care of the cosmetic problems when you have to. I also had to order a longer device cable and a special ‘right-angle plug’cable directly from Raymarine. And I had to find places to put the parts, access routes to pull the cables through from all over the boat to the power pack, ways to make access holes to do the final cable-leading to that control head, power connections, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. So it took a few days of work, spread out over several weeks. But finally I got it all installed, all hooked up, ready and steady and sturdy and strong.

And the results are very satisfactory. I’m not trapped at the helm, able to leave it wheel-locked for only a minute or so. “Otto” takes care of things well, if not exactly ‘efficiently’ – moving the wheel in response to every wave, every burble of wake, every excuse it gets. I’m not sure how much electricity it’s using, but I have solar panels to mitigate its energy use and I’m thinking about where I might put a couple more panels if it turns out I need them. The new control head is more sophisticated, ‘smarter,’ than the one on Bossa Nova. It’s a definite improvement, and very liberating … I can sit at ease in the shade or even sunbathe up in the bows of the boat, and let Otto take care of steering. In wide-open waters I could take a nap while letting Otto run the boat – which is critical, as I will need to be able to ‘catnap’ through the night on ocean passages.

With Otto at the helm, my horizons are extended – dramatically.

The Other Ricky

I went to visit my Dear Auntie this afternoon, and to take her out to lunch, to a restaurant she enjoyed when she still had sense enough to enjoy it. I parked in the garage below her ‘assisted-living’ residence, carded myself into the access stairwell, punched the code to gain access to the first floor and the stairwells, and punched another code to gain access to her floor in Memory Care. Then I went down to her room, gently but firmly directed one of her neighbors (a man who didn’t seem to have any idea of much of anything) to sit down where he wouldn’t be in Dear Auntie’s way, and knocked on the door to her room.

“I’m so glad to see you. Where’s the other Ricky?” she asked.

I’m damned if I know, Dear Auntie.

There have been a goodly number of people in my life who have acted as if to persuade me to fetch out, to deliver, ‘the other Ricky.’  They have ranged from people who sought out a more assertive, more macho Ricky, to those who sought out a more accommodating, more supplicating, more pussy-begging Ricky, to those who simply sought out a Ricky who would cast himself loose from his mother’s apron-strings. Then there was my mother, who rejected the very idea of a Ricky who might have his own desires, independent of her needs and wants and wishes.

It is fifteen days short of the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death; pretty close to the tenth anniversary of the day her last best friend, Pat, and Pat’s husband Jake, went to lunch with us on the last day my mother was able to do so. Pretty close to the day we went out for a ride, and she asked to see our airplane the Snowbird, and I pulled up close to its propeller and she patted it goodbye.

I am hurting, to hear my Mom’s sister ask ‘where is the other Ricky.’ It hurts when I wonder, who on Earth or beyond it could indeed be ‘the other Ricky?’ Her brother? Her son? Her imaginary playmate, in the cloudy impenetrable maze of her own dementia?

We went to lunch at the restaurant she’d loved best in the last months of her sanity. Becky, our friend among the waitresses there, found us a table adjoining her area, and she brought her own supper to that table after she ended her own shift. She was oh-so-kindly to my Dear Auntie, while she ate her dinner and Dear Auntie fumbled around with the ice-cream that I’d brought her after she finished her proper meal.

I don’t know how long I’ll be able to be Dear Auntie’s ‘other Ricky’. I do hope that I will be able to progress from that, to a reality and a space where it won’t matter who I am … and, as Jimmy Buffett sang it in One Particular Harbor, “when I see the day when my hair’s full gray, and I finally disappear.”

There ain’t room for two of me in Dear Auntie’s life, or in any life I can envision for myself after Dear Auntie shuffles off this mortal coil and Goes West.

For the last five years, Vladek Filler of Ellsworth, Maine, has been fighting for his freedom, against a corrupt, misandric prosecutor who tried to get him imprisoned for rape, on evidence that amounted to little more than the ‘she said’ testimony of his bitter, estranged wife. Hancock County Assistant DA Mary Kellett’s chicanery in prosecuting – or may I say ‘persecuting’ – Mr. Filler has gotten more than local, but national and even worldwide attention, and it raised enough of an outcry that the Maine Bar could not ignore it; she faces a hearing for prosecutorial misconduct at the end of August. Mr. Filler is the plaintiff in this matter, and he is scheduled to testify in Kellett’s hearing.

During that selfsame time, Vladek Filler will be incarcerated in Hancock County for the one charge Kellett was able to make stick – allegedly throwing a glassful of water on his then-wife, Ligia Filler. He will be in the control of the prosecutorial office where Kellett has been serving up this style of justice. How convenient … for Kellett, and her like-minded boss, Carletta Bassano, who has been doing all she can to shield Kellett from the scrutiny and discipline she deserves.

I fear that the timing of Vladek Filler’s sentence was set up so he can be bullied and intimidated out of giving testimony in the Kellett hearing. I fear that there is an unchecked culture of corruption in the Hancock County prosecutor’s office, and there has been ample evidence of misandrist behavior on the part of this office in the past.

In fact, I fear for Vladek Filler’s safety, if he is being held in Hancock County at the time of Kellett’s hearing before the Maine Board of Overseers of the Bar. Having him there would provide far too easy an opportunity for ‘something to happen’ to him, denying him his voice in the hearing.

Vladek Filler’s conviction should be overturned and stricken from the record. Absent that, he should be pardoned, in view of the suffering he has been put through by Kellett and her boss.

At the very least, his incarceration should be postponed until after the Kellett case is closed. If the Hancock County authorities won’t permit that, then his treatment and condition in there hands MUST be strictly and closely monitored by State officials who are not affiliated with the Hancock County prosecutor’s office, the Ellsworth Police Department, or any other local law enforcement agency.

There appears to be an unchecked culture of corruption, a culture of misandric behavior and persecution of men, in the Hancock County District Attorney’s office. They have Vladek Filler in their clutches, and I fear for his safety.

More information can be found in Gentlemen, Start Your Keyboards, A Voice for Men, 3 August 2012.