badphairy's leery lair

Suck it up, Buttercup

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Kate’s Arguing Advice: Inspired by Rachel Drummond

When you decide to wade into an argument, ESPECIALLY if you are the lone dissenting voice:


Otherwise you have to be a dedicated Boolean (look it up) and, as Daniel Keys Moran often notes, you have to be able to type REALLY FAST.

Also, pickyourbattles, pick your battles, PICK YOUR BATTLES!!!!

Are you a lone white woman walking into a morass of misogynoir? Stop, collaborate and listen. Actually, not so much collaborate, but stop and fucking listen. Do not engage mouth/fingers unless you’re willing to have your head ripped off by not only the black men in the room, but the women too. Pack behavior is a thing, don’t invite it. (Yeah I know, I do it all the time, but I don’t really have a choice, because most of the people in my world, are white. It’s also my fucking world, so there.)

Rhetoric is a -skill-. Treat it like one.

When you do step into quicksand, the first thought should be “Do I have to do this?” If not, extricate self, go on about day. You may want to have a store of parting shots.

By the way, wrt parting shots, when l’esprit d’escalier visits you, WRITE THAT SHIT DOWN! You likely will get to use it later, just when you need it.

Develop a rapport with your readerate. My friends know when I call someone “Sparky” shit about to go down. Sometimes I can smell the popcorn.

Use the tech you have: Try keeping two FB windows up at once. One is the conversation you’re watching. The other is your commentary on watching it. Make use of the “Only Me” posting option, until you have time to go back and write it up properly.

If you’re really trying to change hearts-n-minds, do it well, which means planning, prep, practice. Go my people, and annoy.

Gun Violence: A Public Health Perspective

As someone tasked with making the individuals and society healthier, guns absolutely cause more injuries and deaths than pretty much any other vector. As someone tasked with keeping the cost of health care down, that cost took a huge jump today with over 200 people injured, some who will never fully recover. As a medical professional focused on reducing loss of life by accident or intent, guns provide the mechanism by which many of these incidents occur.

It’s about results. It’s about how much those results cost our society.

Sensitivity reading and social consulting, guidance/critique

I am available for sensitivity reading your manuscript for issues of race/ethnicity, gender, and worldbuilding. Please email badphairy at for estimate.

I am also available to consult wrt social issues (not getting along with a group, needing new terminology personally explained, etc.). $2/minute with a 15 minute minimum

I have a selection of t-shirts on teespring.

Why do you even -want- to go to San Quentin?”

As I prepare for my upcoming trip to California, I keep getting the same question, repeatedly.

“Why do you even -want- to go to San Quentin?”

Because it is the purest distillation of our idea of “justice”. And it’s a fucking nightmare.

It’s something I wrestle with long after I come back home. Whose life is being spent in a cage, waiting to die, and can I look those people in the eye and say with conviction, “This is the correct system by which to treat you.”

The socio-economic implications have been exhaustively covered academically, but the visceral impact of LSP Angola can’t be ignored. I’ve stood there, watching lines of mostly black men, hoes over their shoulders, going to work in the fields under the watchful eye of the white patroller…why are we doing this in 2016? What have we gotten wrong, besides…everything.

These are the kinds of questions I need to be asking myself when I think about who I vote for and why. What kind of place do I want the U.S. to be, and how far from it is the status quo.

In order to even be able to construct these questions, is why I go.

Working title: Blood

Are you ready to play”, Nela challenged, sweeping condiments and water glasses out of the way. She unrolled a piece of worn, split skin, inked with a faded grid.

Urit rolled her eyes, inserted a hand in her cleavage and brought out a spotted grey skin bag. She upended it, showering the skin with bone pieces of various shapes, all about the size of a Classic M&M. She flicked pieces by twos, dividing them evenly between Nela and herself.

“Don’t I get to play,” asked the journalist.

“This is not a game for prey, “ growled Nela, as she pointedly did not smile.

It was hard to tell how the game was played. There were knucklebones to be thrown, but they were etched with unfamiliar symbols. The counters were moved onto the grid, occupying where lines crossed, not the spaces in between. It looked a bit like “Go”, but not quite. After a while, what had to be swearwords in a number of dead languages began to fill the air.
Urit looked at her watch, sighed, made ready to leave. “Do you want to come Nela, it’s overnight at the hospice.”

“Do you have enough?”

“Sure, death is always in season.”

“I don’t need to kill, but an Ativan-laced cocktail would be a treat.”