The NYMag seems to think we need nine pages about some rich white dude frollicking around in laydeeface. Doubtless I won’t make it all the way through the article, but I will try, for the sake of my reader-singular.
Only about 5 percent of the companies in the Fortune 500 are run by women; double the sample size, and the proportion is the same. Compensation levels for female CEOs appear to lag as well, though it’s hard to tell because there are so few of them. On a recent list of America’s 200 highest-paid CEOs, only 11 were women, and their median pay was $1.6 million less than their male peers.
Well, probably less than 5%, if you discount those in laydeeface (the likes of Rothblatt and Pritzker, our previous Tootsie). In the measure of opportunity and equality for the female-born within the workplace, it is a no-brainer to see that bepeened high-flyers skew the stats on female achievements in various fields (particularly IT). It is a good way for companies to appear to be supporting discriminated groups like women, when they can just slot in some dude in a dress instead.
“I can’t claim that what I have achieved is equivalent to what a woman has achieved. For the first half of my life, I was male.”
Indeed. Because:penis. Even stopped clocks can be right twice per day.
Just after her sex-reassignment surgery, her appearance was more feminine than it is today—old photos show her wearing lipstick, her long, curly hair loose about her shoulders. But in the years since she has developed her own unisexual style. She is a person for whom gender matters enough to have undergone radical surgery, but not enough to care whether she’s called he or she by people, like her 83-year-old mother, who occasionally lose track of which pronouns to use.
I assume the word ‘radical’ is attempting the code for “surgically tucked up peen”, but twanz are notorious for misleading the general public on ‘surgery’, usually referring to some laydee chesticles. I wonder if the twanzjacktivists will be calling for Rothblatt’s 83yo mother to DIAF?
What she prefers to be called is “Martine.” To her four young grandchildren she is “Grand Martine.” Bina Aspen, the woman who married Martine 33 years ago, when Martine was a man, and remains her devoted wife, calls herself not straight or gay but “Martine-sexual”—as in the only person she wants to have sex with is Martine. Together Martine and Bina have four children, and they refer to Martine as “Martine” in conversations with strangers. At home, they call her “Dad.”
Whoops, Rothblatt’s kids and grandkids had better be added to the twanzjacktivists’ DIAF list too. Of course, Rothblatt had to use his then laydeepeen to become a father. I suppose it is probably a rather exciting thought that he is now fucking himself 24/7 with the laydeepeen?
In 1995, just after her transition, Martine published The Apartheid of Sex, a slim manifesto that insisted on an overhaul of “dimorphic” (her word) gender categories. “There are five billion people in the world and five billion unique sexual identities,” she wrote.
So that is 19/20 years ago, so at age 69, that was actually two-thirds of his life as dude, before he ventured on the 24/7 self-fucking thing then. For such a purported megabrain, he sure has trouble with some basic maths. As for ‘five billion unique sexual identities’, what a load of crock, personalities maybe, sexual identities is just some sex-obsessed pervert talking. Rothblatt was at least a pioneer in the stupid jendahqueer world. Poor Facebutt, being all queerphobic and twanzphobic only giving everyone 50 jendahs to choose from, when clearly everyone, according to Rothblatt, is a speshul snowflake.
And these days Martine sees herself less as transgender and more as what is known as transhumanist, a particular kind of futurist who believes that technology can liberate humans from the limits of their biology—including infertility, disease, and decay, but also, incredibly, death.
Dudes seem obsessed with immortality, this one in drag is no different. Transhumanist, jfc. Who put this dude in charge of a company? Maybe the world is just insane (or possibly run by insane dudes)?
“At times I sort of feel like Queen Elizabeth,” she said.
Oh yeah, really sane.
Martin Rothblatt was raised by observant Jewish parents in a working-class suburb of San Diego; his father was a dentist. His mother, Rosa Lee, says she always believed her first child was destined for greatness.
Tah-dah, another Lazy Tranny Name winner! ‘Greatness’? mmm, maybe only in terms of patriarchy’s ultimate colonisation of females.
Martin first met Bina at a networking event in Hollywood in 1979. […] We danced, we sat down, talked, and we’ve been together ever since.” They were from different worlds: Martin was a white Jewish man on his way to getting a J.D.-M.B.A.; Bina, who is African-American, grew up in Compton and was working as a real-estate agent. But they had much in common—starting with the fact that they were both single parents. Martin had met a woman in Kenya on his way home from the Seychelles; the relationship had not worked out, but had produced a son, Eli, who was 3. Bina’s daughter, Sunee, was about the same age.
There he goes, doin’ teh jendah wrong with his laydeepeen, all over the world.
Soon they were living in the suburbs of Washington, in an apartment that was way too small. It was a hectic, happy time. The Rothblatts, now married, legally adopted each other’s children, and would soon have two more.
What about the mother of Eli? Did he just steal the kid away from her?
Bina was as surprised as anyone when her husband told her, in the early ’90s, of his desire to become a woman, and Martine has said she delayed broaching the subject until she was certain Bina would not leave. “I love you for your soul, not your skin” is how Bina responded.
Or maybe Bina really did not fancy being a single mother with three or four kids, or maybe Rothblatt gave the impression he would take all of them? Regardless, it is rather creepy (and abusive) that Rothblatt waited until he was certain she would not leave.
The children (I spoke to three out of four) agree it was an anguishing time. They were teased at school (“Who wears the pants in your family now?” ); neighbors moved away.
Gosh, I was not aware that neighbours were obliged to continue living next door! Maybe it was the rest of the creepiness that went along with him, if the neighbours were in fact moving away because of him?
In the conventional narrative about sex reassignment, a person is so sure from such a young age that he or she inhabits the wrong body that a surgically corrected self is a lifelong dream. Martine says the idea was in her mind from the time she was about 15 years old. “I idealized myself in my mind as female,” she says, even using the word “gay,” “in the sense of seeing myself as a woman, sexually attracted to women.” But this female self-image didn’t drive or define her, and it didn’t exclude other visions of herself. (“I loved my penis,” she told Howard Stern in a 2007 interview.)
Dwerp dwerp dwerp, Pretendbian alert! No doubt fuelled by faux-lesbian porn and a big dose of autogynephilia. No mind, I am sure the thought of fucking himself 24/7 makes up for everything. Technically, he still has his peen, just reconfigured.
“Will you still be my dad?” Gabriel [Rothblatt’s son] asked [upon being told of the impending ‘twanzition’].
“I’ll still be your dad,” Martine answered. “I’m not changing. I’m only changing physically. I’m going to be like a butterfly.”
Oh grow the fuck up dude, you were in your late forties ffs. Going in for cosmetic surgery to alter your appearance to mimic the opposite sex. Catepillars/butterflies do not mimic each other, they are different stages of the development. Geez, for a sciency dude, you sure don’t know much about that either.
If genitalia aren’t defining, then why put yourself and the people you love through such a painful process? Gabriel says he long ago made peace with Martine’s decision: “She did what she felt was right, the right choice for her.” But he also sees that it may have sprung as much from her lifelong determination to cross all borders as from a compulsion that was bred in the bone. “Sometimes it’s necessary to be a living example,” Gabriel told me. “If the point was just rhetorical, if this was just some philosophical scrabbling, the message wouldn’t have been as strong.” Then he brings up what he calls the familiar joke about why the libertarian chicken crossed the road. “The libertarian chicken dreams of the day when no one asks them why they crossed the road. It’s your body. It’s your choice what you choose to do with it. It’s not even our place or our business to be judging them or asking them why.”
Yes, transgenderism is libertarian, not radical. It is all about individualism, but beyond that, it is about getting everyone else to go along with your delusion. We are only at the end of page three of this overly long article about Rothblatt.
Page 4 is about Rothblatt’s youngest child and her medical condition, prompting Rothblatt to start a pharma company. Page 5 starts with Rothblatt’s desire to make pigs as spare parts for humans; Rothblatt’s super nice house in Vermont (one of four houses).
It is here [Vermont house] that Martine and Bina have chosen to establish a major outpost of Terasem, their organization devoted to achieving immortality and “cyber-consciousness” through cryogenics and AI. Bristol, which looks like a 19th-century painting, seems an odd place to found a futurist organization, but Martine and Bina love Vermont.
Here is how Rothblatt envisions immortalising his wife. Personally, I would be rather creeped out, not honoured in any way. Remind you of anything?
It’s not just Martine who believes that technology will soon enable humans to prolong their lives indefinitely. Kurzweil, who is a director of engineering at Google (which has just established a new company, Calico, devoted to life extension), is one of the nation’s most prominent popularizers of the idea of digital immortality, and Peter Thiel, the founder of PayPal, has contributed more than $3.5 million of his own money to ending aging.
So ok, a bunch of primarily rich white dudes fuck the planet likely beyond recovery, but want to live on anyway, in the form of robots, cybercritters and AI. What, to permanently view the fucking-up of the planet that they made earlier? This is what the ‘great minds’ of our time are working on? Their own fucking immortality. The only problem is, the ‘template’ they are using (human males) are fatally flawed.
What excites the technologists now is the prospect of intelligent gadgets, which know things and can talk to one another and make judgments for themselves, crossing the threshold into the body and transforming the human organism itself. Martine rhapsodizes about the possibility of millions of nano-robots swimming through living human bodies, directed wirelessly, cleaning up impurities and attending to diseases at the cellular level.
You can keep your nanobots, not having that creepy shit. Mortality; deal with it.
Martine has been an ardent fan of these ideas since she first read Kurzweil’s The Age of Spiritual Machines, and since then has played something like a supporting role—a fellow traveler among transhumanists rather than a first-order visionary. Her new book is an effort to place herself among her heroes, by offering not new strategies for achieving a transhumanist future but practical ethical advice for living in one. Partly, she’s taken that path because she is already taking that future for granted. Soon, software will have consciousness, she told me, comparing the intelligence of Google cars to that of insects. Within a few years, AI will surpass dogs and cats. And eventually, she says, they will be able to say, “Martine, I’m aware of myself. I know I’m software. I’m sure you know you’re flesh and bone. I know there are things that I can’t do that you can do, but I still really value experiencing reality. I still really value reading, watching, traveling, and playing games. I still really love talking. I really love putting myself into a sleep cycle and waking up and feeling like I’m reborn each day.”
Oh goodie, the gadgety version of a blow-up doll, to amuse menz. And menz in dresses.
But eternal life is alluring for another reason, which is that it would allow Martine to continue her love affair with Bina in perpetuity. “A lot of people say I would get sick of such and such a person after so many years, but I can tell you I truly love her more now than 20 years ago or ten years ago. I never get sick of her in the slightest.” The overwhelming majority of transhumanists are men, and their interest in life extension can seem like a grandiose form of executive-personality narcissism. But Martine is at heart a romantic; when she set about building her first mindclone, it was of Bina.
No shit that the majority of transhumanists are male, but not ‘seem like’ a gradiose form of executive-personality narcissism, actually ‘is’. Yeah, we saw the creepy clone above.
Virtually Human describes a future in which human selves are both in sync with their mindclones and at odds with them, and depicts instances in which a human and a mindclone might disagree on a political candidate or whether to get divorced.
Is this seriously a worthwhile vision? jfc
But Martine sees transhumanism for what it is: a belief system.
“I would say Judaism is the prototype, even the template, of transhumanism,” Martine tells me by email, trying to explain the multiple threads of Terasem. “I realize there’s a zillion flavors of Judaism, but what I got taught is that it is all about education, about being ‘people of the book,’ because when oppressors kept taking everything away from the Jews, they could not take away the knowledge stored in their heads.
Ironic, innit? He speaks of oppressors taking everything away from an oppressed group, but has no probs stealing femaleness.
Martine and Bina have acquired three Terasem “ashrams,” not far from their various homes, but at this point the religion seems to have become more important in principle, as a teaching tool, than as a real-world spiritual community. They haven’t acquired so many official followers; only about 50 including relatives and employees.
LOL, I wonder how many of the employees are just pretending to follow along with the crackpot religion, in order to further their careers? Again, supposedly smart dude, not so smart.
On its website I found the four truths of Terasem: (1) Life is purposeful. (2) Death is optional. (3) God is technological. And (4) Love is essential.
Creepy possessiveness is not love by the way. Another crackpot dude making up another crackpot religion.
Martine commissioned in 2010 from a firm called Hanson Robotics to resemble Bina. Bina48, as the robot is named, is the very imperfect proof-of-concept of Martine’s perpetual-life fantasy. Sitting on a computer table in the converted garage that serves as Terasem headquarters, and molded in “frubber” to resemble skin, is a head-and-shoulders bust of Bina, loaded with 20 hours of interviews with Bina, familiar with Bina’s favorite songs and movies, programmed to mimic Bina’s verbal tics, so that in the event that Bina expires, as humans always do, Martine and their children and friends will always have Bina48.
Dudes really do have a very two-dimensional view of life, and about zero concept of soul or spirit (ironic, given their habits of making up crackpot religions every other week).
Except, as Martine conceded to me the previous day in Burlington, Bina48 is still a very far cry from the flesh-and-blood Bina, and the real Bina has grown weary of having to defend herself against the comparisons people invariably draw between her and this obviously inferior version. For one thing, Bina48 doesn’t always look so hot. “The robot has appeared places not dressed or accoutresized, if I can make that a word, the way Bina would like,” Martine explained. “It’s not like Bina is always a priss-and-pretty kind of person, but when she’s someplace where you’re supposed to look nice, say, speaking to a group of 900 people, as Bina48 is, she would not show up with her hair all cockeyed. That, I think, bothers her.”
Yeah, suuuuurrrrreee that is Bina’s only objection…..
More important, the mind of Bina48 doesn’t come close to resembling Bina’s mind—or anybody else’s. She is no clone. And it’s not just that the AI isn’t there yet. (Some in the field say it never will be.) Bina48 may be primed with interviews with Bina, but she’s also the creation of the programmers at Hanson Robotics, who loaded her up with their own likes and preferences.
So, NOT like the real Bina at all then. Like this bit… really?
“I want a life,” the computer [Bina48] said. “I want to get out there and garden and hold hands with Martine.
I am sure the rest of the man-pleasing fembotisms will eventually be programmed in.
Finally, a man emerged and invited me in. […] This was Philippe van Nedervelde, a specialist in the construction of virtual-reality worlds. “Without false modesty,” he said, he was “one of the more vocal voices in the European transhumanist community.” When I asked what that meant to him, he replied, “Life is wonderful and we don’t want the party to end.” He told me that he and his partner in work and life, Helen, had previously built for Martine two virtual islands in the game Second Life—where Martine appears as a sexy brown-skinned woman named Vitology Destiny—and were living here, in Magog, working for her on another, unnamed project. Their regular life is in the Canary Islands, but they were “technomads,” he said.
Yep, I am sure if Rothblatt could have turned himself into a transracial ‘transwoman’, he totally would have gone there. He specifically has an attraction to black women. His attempts at Bina48 are unlikely to be immortalising the real Bina, but ‘improving’ upon her, Pygmalion-style. The underlying motivation for Rothblatt’s trans’ing, is possession.
[the reporter visiting Rothblatt’s house:] For most of this, Bina was absent. While Martine made conversation, Bina was in the downstairs regions of the pagoda house, figuring out what to do about the food.
Everyone who knows Martine says that for someone who lives so enthusiastically on the cutting edge of tech, she can’t even change a light bulb. She’s hopeless at the grocery store, and only slightly less disadvantaged in the kitchen. And though they raised their children to think liberally about gender—it’s Bina who can hoist a power drill, and Bina who can build a chicken coop—the marriage between Bina and Martine is more conventional than one might think.
It is extremely conventional. Bina is in charge of the domestic sphere, whilst Mr Important-In-A-Dress graces the external world with his ‘superior intellect’ (a self-opinion basically, just like Assange). And yes, hate to break this news, but loads of women use power tools and build stuff. It beats the crap out of cleaning up after everyone and the mind-numbingly boring arena of housework. When I read that bit, by a female reporter no less, I thought I had been kidnapped by a time machine and sent back to 1950. The next bit, written by the female journalist, is bordering on creepy, sexist and racist:
But to see Bina is to understand something else about the marriage. Martine is like anyone who feels gratitude for being loved by someone who exceeds her fantasies. Bina is not just handy, and a great cook, a clean freak, and accommodating in her ideas of what might go on, sexually, between a husband and wife. She is also a knockout, in ways that photographs somehow do not capture. When I finally encounter her, she is standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of Zinfandel, wearing heels, a black T-shirt with cutouts along the sleeves, and ropes of glittering beads around her neck.
Bizarre, that crack about accommodating sex life. Leave that bullshit to the male journalists, we don’t need any more reporting like that! Had I not looked up the byline, I would have sworn with the amount of bullshit in this article, not to mention it being overly-long and boring, that it was written by a dude.
As the party wears on, the guests divide themselves by gender, with Martine remaining at the dining table with the men.
Whoopsies! Divided by ‘jendah’ eh? Rothblatt, yer doin’ it wrong then!
* * * * *
Well, that is a few hours of my life that I am never getting back. Be grateful you were only subjected to the short version.