Formerly "Dave's Blog About Movies and Such"

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Men Are Creepy As Fuck or: What I've Learned From Being a Woman on the Internet

When I posted my “fuck you, blogging” piece last year, I thought for sure it would be the last time I logged in to blogger. No way would I return to the site that for so many years robbed me of my time without giving anything in return. But that was before I started anonymously self-publishing smut under a female pseudonym.

Huh?

Yeah. I want money. Lots of it. Don’t give a shit. But I’m not writing this post to advertise my smut (would take away the point of publishing under a pseudonym); I’m telling you I'm fucking sick of creepy fucking men.

But let me backtrack. When I realized I couldn’t make money blogging, I quit that shit to focus on the writing I care about: the novel I’ve been writing since forever (now on the fifth draft), and the screenplays I’ve been writing with Roger. I still wanted short-term cash, however, so I brainstormed easy writing options. Wasn’t long before I realized, hey that shitty Fifty Shades of Grey shit made fuck-tons of cash; I want cash; smut is the rigoddamndiculously easiest thing to write and won’t take time away from my real writing; I’m gonna write smut.

Turns out, as quick and easy as it is to write smut, it’s hard as hell to sell, or maybe I just suck at selling it, or maybe the market’s glutted with smut. Point is, to date I’ve made five dollars. My revenue might pick up, but I’m not keeping my fingers crossed. I haven’t been able to budge my sales numbers even after exploding my online presence. During the few months of her existence, fake me has managed to garner thousands more online friends than real me will ever now. (I wish that my fake twitter and facebook blowing the fuck up would translate to sales, but I’ve yet to crack that code. Maybe I just need to write a different kind of smut (BDSM creeps me out, so I write chaste love story shit with some sex sprinkled throughout.)

As to why I decided to use a female pseudonym, a few reasons: one, I wanted it to be less likely anyone would link fake me to real me; two, I’ve never fully identified as male, so writing as female seemed logical; and, three, I thought I could make more money writing smut as a woman. The last reason was cynical, I know, and as it turns out, wrong. Still, I’m glad I decided to write as a woman because it’s opened my eyes to an entire online world I had no idea existed. In creating a female persona (granted, one with a particularly large online presence—seriously, fake me interacts with so many more people on a daily basis than real me will ever know), I feel like I’ve taken whichever one of those Matrix pills lets you see…uh, the Matrix or something. Ok, I haven’t seen the Matrix in fucking years and can’t remember the references and shit. Point is, the internet is different when you’re a woman.

I’ve seen a lot of dicks is what I’m saying. How many dicks? All the dicks. Picture yourself in that boat that gets hijacked by child Jason at the end of the first Friday the 13th, but in this scenario you’ve managed to kick that kid to death and started swimming back to shore, but uh oh, you can’t swim, but don’t worry the lake is filled with life-preservers, except instead of life-preservers, they’re dicks, and you’re not in a lake but a Chuck E Cheese ball pit and all the balls are dicks—also, testicles.

The first time I received an anonymous dick pic, I was all “…?” It’s hard to overstate how weird and random the anonymous dick pic is unless you’ve received your first in your mid-thirties. Someone I don’t know just sent me a private message? Ooh, human contact. Yay!!!! I’m a depressive-as-fuck person so any type of contact from another person gets me giddy, makes me feel like there’s something about me (or at least the fake me I’ve constructed on-line) that seems interesting enough to a stranger that he’d wanna get to know me further.  I opened the message and instead of words it was just a picture of an erect penis.

Huh?

No context? No hello? No what are you into? Just: 8====) (except instead of my symbol penis, a real penis; and you don’t want to see it.) After getting over the creepy presumptuousness that this stranger would think it would make my day to see his erect piss hose, I giggled at the randomness of it (to send a stranger an unsolicited pic of your dick makes about as much sense as sending a stranger an unsolicited pic of Richard Speck). But after the first dick pic, when the floodgates burst and I was inundated with dick pics, when I saw so many random dicks that the flesh tubes lost all context, becoming abstract formations of pixels on my screen, another thought overwhelmed me: dicks are fucking boring. Like super boring. Like why would anyone who doesn’t have a penis care about this shit boring.

Like, I get it, dudes, your penises gives you pleasure; when you’re feeling pleasure you want to share that pleasured feeling with all of existence. But guess what? The image of your dick in its pleasured state doesn’t give pleasure. And another guess what, all dicks look the fucking same. There are only two varieties: hooded and non-hooded. Unless you’ve got enough extra testicles that your scrotum looks like a sack of oranges, and enough extra shafts that you can stage at least one Mexican stand-off with your cock, your dick looks no different than 99% of dicks in existence. I can’t overstate how boring your dick is. As I’ve already said, I’ve never felt completely male, so this whole anonymous dick pic shit was foreign to me before I was harassed with anonymous dick pics (I’ve never looked at my crotch and thought, “I’m really proud of my penis today. Other people should see this. Where’s my phone?”), but now it feels just so much more bizarre.

That’s just the anonymous dick pics. What’s been even more discouraging is the dick pics I’ve received from online people I thought were my online friends. Granted, this scenario hasn’t arisen as often as the anonymous dick pic, but it bothers me even more. It makes me feel as if I’ve been tricked. Some stranger messages me, mentioning something I’ve posted, how much he likes it and all. I get giddy with the confirmation that something I’ve done matters. I respond with a thank you. Meantime I go to his page and compliment him on something he’s posted. You know, just a general back-and-forth mutual respect exchange. Then, like four messages in, in response to my opinion on his opinion on the feud between Tay Tay and Nicki (me taking Nicki’s side, natch, ‘cause fuck that untalented Tay Tay) he responds with a wordless dick pic.

Huh?

What a fucking bummer it is when you start to find a rapport with someone you think respects you on an intellectual level, only to find out he’s been interacting you with this entire time because he’s been trying to figure out how to get you wet (or scared—most of these douchebags just want to make you uncomfortable). I thought he cared about my opinion on this matter, but no, he cared that someone with a female name interacted with him. Clearly his brain circuits fried, sending the message OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD GIRL TALKING TO YOU SHE WANTS YOUR PENIS WHY AREN’T YOU SHOWING HER YOUR PENIS IF YOU DON’T SHOW HER YOUR PENIS NOW SHE’LL DISAPPEAR BEFORE YOU CAN PUT YOUR PENIS INSIDE HER SHOW HER YOUR PENIS YOU PUSSY.

More upsetting is the porn images and gifs I’ve been getting. It’s a sign that you’ve been in this shit too long that you see as a positive sign a private message gif of a 2m/1f threesome in which, after getting fucked doggystyle by the guy on top, the woman queefs the first dude’s semen into the open mouth of the man waiting below her. I mean, at least the second dude in this gif is the bottom. It’s a step up from the violent and rapey porn shit anonymous fucks have been privately messaging. And then there’s just the miscellaneous weird shit, like the dude whose avatar was an erect penis asking me for my address (I’m a naturally paranoid person, so I turned off my computer after receiving that message, worried this potential rapist could track me down). And then there was the unsolicited dick pic I received from a dude whose avatar was a close-up pic of a penis inside a vagina (the unspoken message there being, “Play your cards right and you could be the lucky lady whose genitals are hugging mine in my profile pic.”)

I realize as I write all this that I probably come across as one of those na├»ve privileged straight-white-male douche-bags who discovers some fucked-up thing that has existed since forever and Columbuses his ass all over the issue, acting like he’s the first person to discover this shit. That’s not what this post is about. Plenty of amazing female writers have already discussed the issue of online harassment; and you should read their posts instead of mine. That’s not the reason I wrote this. Why did I write it? I don’t know. I guess it falls into the category of “shit that’s been going in my life.” Maybe I also wanted to send a public service message to creepy dudes everywhere: The next time you send a pic of your penis to some hot woman on the internet, the only person who will see it is some hairy sweaty dude in his boxers. And he thinks your penis sucks.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Dave's Replies to Spambots #1

On the 2012 post "Podcast Tease" Anonymous commented:

Hi there! I know this is sort of off-topic however I needed to ask.
Does managing a well-established blog like yours take a large amount of work?

I am brand new to writing a blog however I do write in my diary everyday.

I'd like to start a blog so I will be able to share my own experience and views online.
Please let me know if you have any ideas or tips for brand new aspiring bloggers.
Appreciate it!

For a wonderful solution please take a look at this amazing site; [Spam Site Redacted]


My Reply:

Hello Anonymous,

Thank you so much for your comment. Though I haven’t worked on KL5-FILM in some time, it warms my heart to know that faithful readers such as yourself still continue to visit my classic posts. As you can see from “Podcast Tease” (72 words surrounding an embedded video I had no part in creating), hard work was the cornerstone of my well-established blog, so I feel especially suited to doling out advice to potential bloggers.

Before I launch into my advice, however, I think it helps to illustrate what blogging is by way of a space metaphor. (I’m in the middle of binging on the new Cosmos series, so I hope you’ll forgive all such imagery.) Picture yourself masturbating on a starless depopulated orphan planet situated in the most remote section of the back-road cluster of masturbation galaxies in this acceleratingly expanding universe. Your only connection to any other form of life: wormholes connecting you to other planets in the masturbation cluster, each world populated with masturbators of marginally better technique than you. But your masturbation is special, you tell yourself, you’ve got your own signature move that should be the envy of others. Other masturbators are bound to come and gaze in awe at your handiwork.

And every so often one of them does. After sending signal flares through various wormholes, you manage to attract one masturbator, who slips through the space-time mechanism into your world, glances at your masturbation form and says, “I really admire your work. I can’t wait to come back and see more,” before slipping through an adjacent wormhole to a planet populated with masturbation-famous masturbators, all of varying skill but each with far more masturbation-showmanship savvy. Let’s call this planet Masturbation One. The denizens of Masturbation One take turns performing for various visitors, while the other masturbators on Masturbation One spend their time wormholing to the farthest reaches of the masturbation cluster, praising the techniques of those they visit, simultaneously spreading the hype of Masturbation One.

A few eons pass after receiving your first visitor and you realize that if you want more visitors, you gotta travel to different worlds to make yourself known. Not that you need the validation of strangers, but it’d be nice if someone noticed. You travel through the wormholes, visiting every godddamn planet you can find, giving encouraging “Way to go’s” to every masturbator whose work you don’t even watch. In your absence you leave on your own planet videos of your laziest most ill-performed masturbations. Every limp whiskey-wank. Every falling-asleep-before-coming-unspent-dick-still-in-your-hand depression-jerk. Every barely-climaxed-half-hearted-hey-I-can-still-do-this tug. Every goddamn one.

And when you return home, you are elated. All those planets you visited, all those lousy masturbators you gave thumbs up to—guess what, half them returned the favor, visiting your planet, leaving in their wake, notes with the same facile words of encouragement you saw fit to bestow upon them. But that’s not all. Masturbation One, the titan of Masturbation planets, left some good will on your planet as well. You are over the fucking moon. Or you would be if your starless, shrouded-in-darkness desolate isolated planet had any such bodies orbiting it. Nevertheless, this is what it was all for.

You begin masturbating constantly. And you know what, though you’ve significantly increased your output of shameless no-effort-at-all there-just-to-be-there masturbation videos, you occasionally surprise yourself with, because of all your practice, the advance in your technique. You get a little cocky, spending more time masturbating, eventually rubbing one out you can be proud of: a slow edging build to a half-minute climax. Looking toward the wormholes for approval, you are met with silence. You think, this one was really good; why doesn’t anyone care? You travel through the wormholes again, this time to hate-watch other masturbators. You grow increasingly depressed that they aren’t paying attention to your work. And this is when the understanding finally sinks in that your best wasn’t even a fraction as good as most everyone else’s average. In fact, your signature jerk that you thought so unique—it’s a maladroit version of a played technique most others have already mastered.

And when you realize that not only are you bad at masturbating, but no one cares (nor should they), it finally hits you what a self-obsessed world you’ve created for yourself. You are the center of your own void.

You fall into a shame spiral. You can’t even remember why you once thought awkwardly masturbating for strangers would be a fun way to spend your time. You continue to masturbate for a time—for appearance’s (for none’s) sake, telling yourself that you’ve already wasted so many years doing it, there must’ve been a reason for it. So your masturbation is defiant. You want to tell people you know they don’t care. And you don’t care that they don’t care. It was never about that, anyway. But still, the defiance lasts only a few years. As with everything, your jerking becomes less frequent, until, not with an eruption but a slow half-limp drizzle it peters out, your performance just kind of spectoring away. You while away the rest of your time on your planet masturbating just for yourself until the inevitable day that the universe dies and all that has ever been ceases to be; and you feel vindicated that though your pursuits were pointless, at least you weren’t alone. None of it mattered anyway.

Anyways, you should post kitten gifs. The internet seems to like those. Good luck.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

And Here's a Gritty Reboot of Bio-Dome


Alright, so it looks like I’ve now got something of a tradition on my hands. Last Sunday I finished the second draft of the novel I’ve been working on since forever (hooray for me); and though I’m nowhere near having a readable draft, I decided to celebrate, regardless. So I gave myself a break this week…by writing a gritty reboot of Bio-Dome. And as with the reboot of Deuce Bigalow I wrote after finishing the first draft of my novel, I’ve never actually seen Bio-Dome. In fact, I know next-to-nothing about the movie other than Pauly Shore + Stephen Baldwin + Bio-Dome + drugs = shenanigans. Even my research on the movie extended no further than watching the trailer and looking up character names. Also, I don’t know anything about Bio-Domes or science or drugs or…really, anything mentioned in the screenplay I wrote. Except masturbation. I’m really good at that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Bio-Dome—my gritty reboot of it. So, yeah, this screenplay is the result of nothing but a self-imposed week-long deadline, shit-tons of caffeine, and one night of drunk-writing. With that mind, here you go. Also, you’re welcome.

Friday, February 7, 2014

Thursday, February 6, 2014

I Contradict Myself Again

Seeing as I've spent most of my movie-watching time the last few years scouring the depths of frequently forgettable exploitation films, I decided a few months ago to finally catch up on my director blind spots. I haven't written much about it, but I've been all kinds of happy about playing cinefile catch-up. I've discovered that I'm really into the works of Almodovar, Fassbinder, and Pasolini. So far, success. But this week I watched my first Hal Hartley movie, Simple Men. And well...

Yeah, I'm not sure how I feel about it. The sort of deadpan absurdity he traffics in would've been right up my twenty-something-self's alley. But now...eh, I don't know. I guess I'm just not much into that kind of thing anymore. I tried, but just couldn't get into this movie. I wanted to like it, but everything left me cold.

Except for the Sonic Youth dance sequence. Which is probably a shock to my readers, seeing as I've stated my distaste for both impromptu dance sequences and over-the-top cool. Yet, after the movie ended, I couldn't wait to find the clip on youtube—you know, just to remind myself why it didn't work for me, because, you know, like, it totally didn't work for me; I just had to watch it again to reinforce why it was I didn't like it. Well, I couldn't remember why that was after the second viewing, so I watched it again. And again. And again. And again. After about the thirty-seventh time, I decided to face facts: I really dug this scene. I suppose you could chalk it up to my love of Sonic Youth, or the fact that it reminds me of the dance scene from Band of Outsiders, one of the few Godard movies I actually enjoy. But the fact of the matter is, I just don't know what I like.