The Cheerleader and I (OR: The Most Beautiful Girl in The World Hit On Me and I Didn’t Believe It.)

I’ve alluded to this story, but I’ve never actually told it, so here it is in relative detail. When I was in high school, the most beautiful girl in the world hit on me, and I didn’t notice/believe it because I was too shy to do anything about it. Huh... that was less detail than I thought.

We’re going to say her name was Becky, because it very well may have been. Even if she were born with Rebecca, it would have said “Becky” on her letter jacket. Becky was a cheerleader, not only that, but she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” with the exception of the hair. Oh she had the requisite blonde hair. She wouldn’t be the girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” if her eyes weren’t a sparkling blue and if her hair wasn’t a light and fair blonde. It was just, hers was cut into a short dutchboy style hair cut. There was nothing so odd about that, as it was1993-94 (a period scientists would later call “The Early to Mid-90s) such things were deemed acceptable. And as she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” it wouldn’t really have mattered if it weren’t acceptable, I’m pretty sure if that was how she wanted to cut her hair, she would have either way.

Becky and I were in an English class together, creative writing if you must know. Those of you who went to CVHS will remember the East Building, and will understand what that means. The tile floors, rather than carpet, the bare concrete breeze block walls, and so on. Just giving those of you who never set foot in that benighted hellhole an idea. Miss Greely was okay, and the class was okay, and it was creative writing so that was pretty easy and so on...

What happened was that I had chosen a desk, and right next to me, the most beautiful girl in the world chose the desk that was basically the closest you could get to the door while still sitting in one of those demonic plastic chair/desk combinations with the black streaks in the brown resin to make it look as though the surface had once come from a tree. The joke was on them of course, as it had come from a tree, just during the Paleozoic era. I had guessed that the seat nearest the door was her goal, and I sympathized. First day of class, the first day of school, she had worn her cheerleader costume and I had pegged her for someone trying for an easy A and a “Get Out of Stupid English Requirements” card. She had some nervous energy, and if I were a worse writer, this is where I would make comparisons to lithe jungle cats or some bullshit. Not going to though, because what she looked like was more magnificent than all the tigers and jaguars and ocelots in the world. She was the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” and she was the most beautiful girl in the world. I’m not going to discuss legs, or skin, or style, because I already told you. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, that’s what you need to know. And he had nervous energy because he all did. I could sympathize with her desire to get out of that room, I had a pretty strong desire to be free of the whole school.

What ended up happening that first day was that we broke into small groups, me and Becky and another boy who is so unimportant to this story that I won’t even bother telling you his name was Phil. We were supposed to talk about the last thing each of us had read and why we either liked or disliked the main character. I was expecting to hear about how Miss Woodhouse had fallen for Mister Darcy in whatever bit of tat she’d read. Phil had read a sports book, about the big game or the guy who won the big game or GOD I DON’T CARE! God love him, he’d actually read a book once, but he was badly matched and I said he wasn’t important to the story.

I explained about The Dark Half, and how George Stark might be the hero of the book, even though really it’s Thad, but it could have been George. Beck surprised me a bit by relating how she’d read a detective story from the thirties. It wasn’t her usual reading material (As I had suspected, the Woodhouse/Darcy situation was more her speed) but the amorality of the hero fascinated her and she ended up liking the book quite a bit. While Phil tried to add comments here and there, he was rather lost in a talk of detective stories and movies that had dead actors who didn’t even have the good graces to be shot in color. It had was a pretty enjoyable conversation, even if it probably contains more in my head than it did in reality.

I didn’t really think much more about it, even when we chatted a bit the next day. I mean, yes, I thought about Becky because you think about the most beautiful girl in the world when she’s not there. But I still had this idea of spheres of existence in those days. Even if we talked every day, and even though we talked about a lot of different things that people around us didn’t talk about, and even if and even if. She was a cheerleader and I was... not. I wasn’t a jock, nor an achiever, nor... well, a lot of things. I was never a member of any group or subgroup. If you’ve ever seen me at a place where there are a lot of people, you might notice I talk to one group, then talk to another group, and then another, and it almost doesn’t matter which group it is because I can walk into any group and have a conversation. What I haven’t always been able to do though it approach any member of any group and ask them out. She had a boyfriend for a while, and then she didn’t and I still didn’t ask her out because she and not knowing if she was interested and she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” and must have had better offers. So instead she was a girl I talked to in creative writing class. It sort of goes deeper than that though, and with hindsight, of course I can see that.

See, I made her a couple of tapes. Now, if you’re some sort of god damn kid who can git offa mah damn lahn, you probably don’t get what that means. I don’t care what you’ve been told, making a CD, or a Spotify playlist, or whatever the hell you kids do now is... IT! IS! NOT! THE! SAME! Making a tape was a complex process where a pair of complementary programs have to be produced. You have to ride the rises, and gently lower them into the lows, each song has to flow into the next and follow the theme you’ve decided on and then it has to be recorded live onto a tape. It was a skill! It was a highly valued skill too, as people sometimes asked me to make tapes for them to give to other people. Anyway, I made her a tape when she broke up with her boyfriend, full of sad songs on the one side and gradually rising into happier songs on the other. And the second tape I made was one on a theme she had asked for and I’m not going to tell you what that is because it’s private.

She asked for the second tape though, she requested a theme, she wanted me to make another thing for her like the thing I’d made before that she’d enjoyed. I mean... yeah.. you’re right. Looking back, I can see it, I can see she liked the way I put music together and that I had good taste in tunes. What? Why are you looking at me like that?

So a few years go by, and she’s in college or something, I don’t really know. I never actually hung out with her, or anything like that. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, but we just sat next to each other in class. Or so I’d thought. It would still be a while before I’d learn about the syndrome that affects pretty girls, where so many people get intimidated by their beauty that they can actually end up with poor self esteem and a bad sense of self worth. She had a friend that I knew, I wouldn’t call this other person a friend because I was and am pretty selective with that word. It doesn’t matter, because she and I met somewhere and that was when she gave me the lowdown. Becky got mentioned, and how she was at MSU or U of M or EMU or wherever it was she went to school and how she was engaged to a guy and then her friend laughed a little and said the phrase that still haunts me to this day.

“She had the biggest crush on you.” Friend said, like it wasn’t ripping my heart out or anything.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“She thought you were cute, and smart and funny.” Friend said as if she wasn’t yanking the other organs out, strewing them on the floor in a gaudy cascade of blood and offal. She kept yanking, hoping that if she found the liver she could devour it and gain all my power. “She was like, totally in love with you, but she didn’t think you were that into her. You never asked for her phone number, or asked her out, she thought maybe you weren’t into the cheerleader type. You should have asked her out, she totally would have gone with you.”

“Well it does no one any good to tell me that now.” I explained. “You could have said something.”

“Would you have believed me?” She asked, biting into my liver and smiling at me with her gore covered visage.

So there you have it, I had no idea anyone was into me in high school until well after it was over. I realized that Becky had a similar problem, not knowing that the guy she really liked was into her too. I mean... I made her two tapes, in some cultures that binds our souls with invisible silken threads that even the gods cannot break, though they look down on us with jealous malice. In the culture of high school though, she thought me aloof and I thought her beyond me.

I have no moral for this, or it’s so deeply woven into the tapestry of the story that if I were to simply hand it to you the whole tale would unravel. Either way, I’m done talking about it for now.

on it,

It wasn't JUST anything.

The further along I get in this losing weight and getting healthy thing, the more I want to curb stomp anyone who says "Just eat less and exercise more." or "Just do more cardio." Or "Just..." anything. You get that a lot on the internet, lots of self-satisfied fit people who have never known actual fatness, or depression, or glandular dysfunctions, or any number of things. They’ll give you a lot of “Just” answers, like that’s all you need.

Just exercise more, never a word on how to start, or what you should do at your skill level. Just exercise. That, as advice, is useless, since it addresses nothing and often leaves a person feeling even more defeated than before. I get it, you’re a busy person and you don’t have time to step by step someone, but if you just parrot off the same bullshit again then you might as well have just kept your mouth shut.

Besides, there is no such thing as “Just” in this world. As I’ve said a few times, I have made a lot of progress in the last few years. This was not “Just” anything. There was no “Just” to a single thing I've done. Every single step, every single motion, has been a struggle.

Saying “Just eat less” makes it sound like making a radical change in my diet was something I tossed off in an afternoon. Like I just sat down and said “Right, no more cases of Coca Cola for me.” and then I just never drank any after that. What I’m about to say is going to shock and dismay many of you, but it wasn’t quite that easy. Took a lot of forward and backward motions, a lot of struggle.

Likewise, “Just exercise more” make me want to come at you with a blade. Again, we need a list of follow-up questions for that. How does one get over the crushing depression? I mean, you’re supposed to exercise to get over depression, but you can’t exercise because you’re too depressed... so they tell you to “just” exercise... and you know that results in the question how can you not see how dead these fish are? And there are more questions. What’s a good beginner level? Where do you go where fit people won’t harass and bully someone not as fit as them? How do I not get discouraged and give up? And more besides.

There is no just, just is a myth. This was a lot of work and the work feels unending.

Stop this “Just” nonsense.

Just stop it! See? Sounds stupid, right?

Genghis Khan Would Have Taken Bitchin' Selfies

Genghis Khan's empire stretched from Iran to Korea. He basically got all of China and most of Russia and his name was actually Temujin, but we'll ignore that for now. The larger issue is, if he'd had cellphones he'd have gotten a lot more done. With cell net technology, he could have expanded to encompass all of Eurasia. And he would have used Text messaging if available. He not only would he have texted while riding a horse, he would have taken bitchin' selfies and photo bombed them with the head of some dude he just chopped off.

You know why? Because there was nothing in that man's life that wasn't totally bitchin'! ALSO! Because he was a brilliant man who used all the technology, organizational skill and leadership techniques that were at his fingertips. He wouldn't have pretended that this or that tech was a fad, or below him. He would have used it to the fullest extent and pretending that he wouldn't is just ignorant bullshit. George Washington would have used Twitter (more likely Thomas Paine would have run the official Revolutionary Army's Twitter account) to tell the French how much is sucked freezing to death at Valley Forge, The Impressionists would have had a Facebook Group, and if the Algonquin Round Table could have utilized whatever the hell Google is calling their videochat service this week, you can bet your ass they would have.

You aren't even a Luddite! THAT was a reaction to mill owners being dickheads, and not the machines that actually powered the mills. Their complaint was one of economics and not technophobia. If anything, the Luddites were just an early trade union. The only reason any of these people went without these things is that they hadn't been invented yet and if Eilmer of Malmesbury had gotten his glider to work a little better, or Hero of Alexandria hadn't been killed, maybe it would have all kicked off sooner!

Pretending some kind of superiority, either moral or intellectual, because "These damn kids" are ahead of the technological curve and you don't like it, is just bullshit. And if y'all don't know who Eilmer of Malmesbury is, then how can you claim to be intellectually superior to anyone? My CAT knows who Eilmer of Malmesbury is. That ain't a deep cut, that's just basic aviation history son.

Can we talk about this "You're an Inspiration... Fatty" bullshit for a moment?

Can we talk about this "You're an Inspiration... Fatty" bullshit for a moment?


Read this, now read this.

Okay, got all that? What we have here is “fit” people bullying “not fit” people (air quotes because the idea of fitness is rarely what you think it is). That really is it. The tone of every single one of these is "Oh, look at you, you fatty, actually trying to do something... that's adorable!" Gosh, why don't out of shape people go to the gym more? Could it be because fit people shame and degrade them at every turn? Maybe? Calling someone “Fatty” over and over again is not something a friendly person does, it’s what a bully does. If not to insult or degrade, then why use the insulting term? Why start off in a way that’s going to make it sound like an insult, which it is, if you want someone to feel good? Not only that, but loading up on the stereotypes that you just assume someone conforms to.... fuck off forever and die by the hands of an angry mob of china dolls. When you praise an overweight person for running and explain that each step is paying off another chocolate bar, I have to ask, do you praise a black person for speaking so well? I mean, you have the most worthless piece of shit imaginable, and the only thing they can do to make themselves feel better it to point out that someone else isn’t in peak physical condition. Sometimes they try to pretend they’re putting a positive spin on it, but that’s just so much more bullshit and you know it.

That got off to a nasty start, but I know bullying when I see it and when I see it, the red mist comes a rushin’ in and all I can do is be mean.

Let’s talk about my personal journey for a second, okay? I used to be in super good shape, and the gods weren’t just kind when they sculpted my features. Quite frankly, they were showing off at that point. I was lithe and sexy and your girlfriend wanted to do me so hard it hurt a little when she looked at me. Your boyfriend wanted me too, don’t pretend my hotness didn’t transcend gender or preference. I was looked on by straight men as someone who could turn them, alright?

And then something happened in my early to middle 20s. Let’s call it depression because that’s an easy enough single-word concept for people to get right about now. So I drank a lot of pop to stave off the darkness, and eat a lot of food to fill up the emptiness inside. The only emotions I had were “tired” or “horny” or “angry” and I was just lucky they were socially acceptable for a man to feel. After a while, someone I loved left me because she couldn’t take watching me destroy myself anymore. There were other reasons, but I’m not going to expose my whole being to you right now. Point is, I decided I needed to do something and came up with a multi-stage rocket to take out London plan to get back to my idea of humanity.

Now here is the important part – Your idea of why a person should get fit is not my idea. In fact, unless you know me really well, you probably have no idea how my mind works or what it’s given reasons for things are.

I don’t much give a fuck about my body image. It’s a sack of meat to carry around my brain, and as such isn’t that important to me. My body image issues are things I know are ultimately cosmetic. Looking good isn’t an issue for me. If nothing else, I’m a white American male. Men aren’t “chubby”, we’re “Cuddly” and we aren’t “skinny” either, we get to be “Lithe” and when we start to go gray at the temples that shit is “Distinguished” because we go from “Fuckable” to “Fuckable for different reasons” in this world. That’s not everyone’s experience, but we’re talking about my personal journey.

So body image is out. Do I want to be able to “Do more stuff without getting winded” or some such thing? No. I’m actually fairly active. I work in retail, I walk for 8 hours a day. That was stage 2: Get a job, move around. Nailed it, I’m still on the floor, but now I’m management. I have mild asthma, so I get winded no matter what, but I always tried to run anyway because that’s what you do when you’re young. I still run sometimes, but I make sure to take it a little easier.

Do I want to be stronger? More manly? Physically able to defend myself? Some other bit of patriarchal bullshit? No. I was killing it when I was fit. I learned like, a dozen martial arts, some of them involving swords, knives and sticks. I know three different forms of sword fighting (Kendo, Fencing, Broadsword) I can do Boxing, Judo, Karate Kung-Fu, Greco-Roman Wrestling, and so on and so on. Worse yet, because I was a small kid, most the things I know work even if you’re out of shape or don’t have much muscle mass. I know where it hurts, and I know how to hit there, because when you’re little you just want the fight over as soon as possible. And I’ve been carrying a knife of some kind all the time since I was 18, along with a pocket handkerchief, eye drops and a time telling device (it sounds less weird if you lump it together as a group). So what I’m saying is, basically, the only reason I haven’t killed you is because I don’t want you dead yet.

So why did I buy the dumbbells? Why did I walk at a brisk pace through the park all last summer? Why am I doing these stupid exercises? I am trying to stay alive! Not health wise. Me, my father, my grandfather, his father before him and so on since Ask and Embla have all been far healthier than any three horses. Despite the rotund Nero Wolfe like appearance, my heart pounds in an easy, regular beat that neither work nor drugs has ever been able to get out of rhythm. My lungs are strong and healthy, my liver and kidneys are awesome, and my bowels could make the most delicious sausage you ever ate. Remember, the gods weren’t proud of their work, they were smug.

No, the only problem I have is that when my parents had the party, they forgot to invite a couple of fairies. As a result, one spurned fairy brought dyslexia, the other brought ADD, and the third fairy (who hadn’t been invited to my sister’s party either and was getting pissed by now) gifted me with depression. It put the good looks, the brains, the charm, and the ability to shoot fire from my finger tips into something of a tailspin.

Now, the only thing my doctor was willing to prescribe, since my depression was the “sit quietly in the corner in a dull gray fog” variety and not the actual self-harming variety was exercise. That was all well and good when I was in a dull fog, because you might as well have told me all I had to do was fly to the moon under my own power and I would never be sad again. However, when I had gone through Stages 1-3 I actually started having enough energy to be suicidal. So I said “Oh shit! I’d best put in a 4b or something and buy some motha fuckin dumbbells or some shit.” because I’m still not comfortable enough around people to exercise in front of them. I have that planned for Stage 7, but I’m not enthusiastic about it. Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of “Go shopping for groceries all by yourself” which was Stage 1, but now that I’ve done it for a couple of years I like it.

So if you see me, one fine spring day, marching down a path with a dumbbell in each hand pumping away with a determined look in my eye... keep your fucking thoughts to yourself. Your input is neither required, nor desired. I am not doing this to get thin, I don’t need encouragement, I’m working this one out on my own. I know I don’t look that fat now, but we’re in Stage 5 and by Stage 5 I should look like I look now. I’ve lost 5 pant sizes since stage 1, even though I weigh EXACTLY the same. Also, these dumbbells are heavy and if I hit you with one, you will cry.

I am doing this to fight off depression, and having this part of my personal journey pointed out to me by someone who has absolutely ZERO idea what it took to just get here feels like bullying. I dealt with a lot of bullies growing up, and I found that putting their face into the ground and making them cry for their mother was an easy way to not get bothered anymore. Remember, I’m carrying heavy metal weights and I am armed with a good sharp knife. Nod, smile, give a thumbs up if you must acknowledge the fact that we have passed each other, but basically leave me the fuck alone. I’m not in a good place, and you probably don’t spend a lot of time thinking “Will I sound helpful here, or will I sound like a condescending asshole” and as such you are always the later.

I am not your inspiration, I’m not even my inspiration, I am just a pile of meat trying to convince it’s brain that there are better things out there than self destruction. I don’t want your encouragement, I’m doing that on my own. I don’t want your advice, I looked this shit up and I know what I’m doing. I really don’t want you trying to offer helpful criticism of my method of working out. I am walking with weights because that is what I have decided to do today. Trying to tell me there are better ways to work out, without understanding my goal (and you didn’t even know that Stage 1 was “Go to the grocery store and buy groceries by yourself” so shut up) feels like you just stopped a stranger to tell them they’re wrong for not doing what you’re doing. I don’t wish to sound mean, or nasty, but there is literally no nice way to put this... I will fucking cut you. I would fucking cut you if you approached me and told me my hair was too long or that my Poly lifestyle was against the made-up laws of the god you made up yesterday and I will tear into you if you try and explain that I’m working on my own shit in a manner that isn’t approved of by you or whatever guru you’re following this week.

Worse yet, I might not cut you. I might just tear into you verbally, and I’ve got 30 fucking years of old books, filled with acidic comments and flowery language that can make you feel about two inches high. I’m not well, I haven’t been well and I’m probably not going to be well for some time. And as for trying to “Encourage” some other “Fatty” as you jog though your life, god help you if you decide to “Encourage” someone like me who is only at Stage 2. I was extremely nasty at Stage 2, it would be embarrassing to see one you genetic lottery winners with a face full of gravel while some “Fatty” explains through what I would be willing to swear in court was “Merely an interpretive dance” that there is a hell of a lot of “Muscle” that you can’t see under all that “Fat” and a fair few of us had to learn how to fight because some asshole like you picked us as the thing you’d stand on to make yourself feel taller for that day.

AND! If you are one of those people, like me, who is fighting the good fight, trying to get over your own brain chemistry and an addiction that science told me this week was more powerful than cocaine or heroin, all I can say to you is fight on. Don’t let the bastards win! Even someone like me who physically won the genetic lottery can fall from grace. It happens, and each of these Stages was super hard. Stage One was practically paralyzing the first time. Stage Two was incredibly hard and I thought I’d gotten done with Stage 3 four, fucking, times, before I actually was ready to move onto Stage 4. You will slip, you will fall, or at least you will if you’re anything like me. I slipped up, fell down, gave up and tried again. Just try. Fuck what Yoda said, you fucking TRY all you can.

Hiding The Light Under a Bushel.

Six months ago, I was at Nino Salvagio, which is a local grocery store. Kind of a highish end fruit and international market, you know the sort of place. It’s not really important, but you need to understand that it’s not a corporate place, it’s local. Now I was getting a few things and I saw... her.

She was beautiful, even though there were several things she had going on that aren’t to my tastes. Dreadlocks always look weird to me on blonde girls. Almost... contrived? She had gauges in her ears, which is fine, but not something I’ve ever been fond of. There were scars on her arm, a remnant no doubt of an earlier cutting habit. A few bad tattoos and some misbegotten make-up, and a sullen slouch completed the look. And through all that, she was beautiful. Jaw dropping, heart aching, mind ceasing, utter beauty. The sort of beauty you’d talk about until she became some kind of legend, and when people saw her they’d say “Okay, so one time reality has it over legend.”

Through what seemed to be a considerable amount of effort, she had tried her best to negate what the dvergar that assembled people that day gave her, and all that came to was that she was stunning. Not in a Venus in Blue Jeans kind of way, but in a “Why did you bother fighting it?” kind of way. There was nothing short of going at her face with a straight razor and a hammer that would do anything to hide the perfection of her features. And I’m guessing she hated every moment of it.

I didn’t talk to her about it, of course I didn’t. People say that sometimes “So I talked to her.” But no, they usually didn’t. If they did, they didn’t get an honest answer anyway. She wasn’t going to talk to someone nearly twice her age about her life choices. Had I asked, I would have gotten a few non-committal answers and she would have run to her phone and tweeted “OMG some gross old man just tried to hit on me, or shame me about my tats I don’t know #fuckoffoldman” Because that’s how these interactions really go, I know. I have had to give nosey fuckers non-answers when they try to ask me questions that they have no right to.

I understand, I was an attractive child. From infancy I had the sort of face that made people think I was up to something. At the age of two I had perfected the little lop sided grin that says “I’m going to get away with it, and you’re going to let me get away with it because look at this face.” I grew from an adorable infant to a beautiful child. Some teenage girls clustered around me one day, talking about how beautiful I was, how dark and black my eyes were and so on. I would have been in with a chance if I hadn’t been four at the time. That was what life was like. I was a good looking child.

No one much wanted to listen to me, (besides a few people) I guess, they’d have rathered I was quiet and attractive and did what I was told. I had different ideas, more self-directed. I was adored by many, but also deeply frustrating because I wouldn’t do the “good things” people had planned for me. There comes a problem though, even though I was adored, I could never really trust anyone. No one wanted to listen, they wanted control or at best to be liked by me and my prettiness. I am, several people said, easy to like in a strange way.

I’m good as many things. I can paint, and sing, and draw, and cook, and listen, and write, and make love, and identify songs and why a place might be playing them on Fourth of July Weekend. I do some of these well, and some of them less well. The problem is, there are some people who never let me know I wasn’t doing something well. I was smart enough to identify bullshit when I heard it as a child. For example, I am shit at making clay sculptures. I have one that I keep, to remind me of how shitty I am at it. It’s a good thing I do too, because otherwise people would still be telling me how great I am at making clay sculptures.

Now sure, if I practiced, and worked at it, I could become good at clay. I’m not interested though, I don’t like it enough and I don’t care. Sign of genius that, quitting something because I wasn’t instantly good at it. I was interested to learn that last year, before I thought I was just kind of lazy because I didn’t want to work at things I wasn’t good at. Writing is something I can be good at, even though I tend to entertain myself through my writing too much. I sacrifice flow and readability for the sake of something I find fun. As you well know, I can often go on irritating tangents and fill paragraphs with things that only connect for me and links. However, sometimes I let it burn because I like it burned, so there. Most of this paragraph was filler, but I like the filler. It’s good filler, and I won’t hear a word against it.

I’m pretty sure I was making some kind of point here. Allow us to wallow past the point and into this little pool of thought that’s sort of bubbled over from the main stream. Lay on your back and just float for a moment...

I try to be honest, and posts like this one are an attempt at the sort of honesty I’m talking about. I try to give you an idea of what being inside my head is like. And yeah, this is what it’s like. The sudden gear changes, the references to old books, movies and music, because melody haunts my reverie. Some things are so obscure, and the connections change so quickly, I won’t remember why I thought A was connected to B when I read this later. Syd likes the honesty, it baffles a lot of other people. Some people are always looking for a duplicity that doesn’t exist, and that sort of depresses me because I’m always doing my best to be honest. I’m not good at dishonesty, unless I dedicate myself to it, and then I can’t even stand to be around the asshole that it forces me to become. So I go for the honest thing, because it’s easier and nobler and I can. I know other people lie though, because they do.

Back to the story (about this girl named Blah Blah Blah that adored me)

It always leaves me wondering, how much of any compliment is real. It becomes more complicated when people compliment me for things that are automatic for me. I do some things without thinking and other people are all “Holy shit! You did that thing!” and I’m standing there saying “Yeah... I have pretensions to being a person and in order to maintain the facade I have to do shit like this.” It deeply complicates the matter when 80% of the things people have said to me have been either A) Bullshit or B) Stupid.

Did I mention this above? Screw it, I’ve gone this far and I’m not re-reading this thing again. People will offer empty compliments to attractive people. I often have trouble knowing if I told a funny joke, or if the person I’m talking to just thinks I’m cute. Is my painting any good, or were certain people blinded by desire and as such said they liked the horrible splotches of mangled color? I don’t know if I like the paintings that much myself and around the 30th re-write, or the 90th re-read, everything looks like shitty half formed ideas put together by someone as smelly as a monkey with a typewriter, but not as bright. You can’t trust anything anyone says after a while, and when you’re also smart enough to understand what’s going on you quickly start to feel like you’re on an island about two feet by two feet... and the water is rising. At some point we’ll talk about depression, but not today.

I can understand that girl’s problem and her attempt as a solution though. I would assume she has some intelligence and doesn’t want to just be pretty. She had no choice, but she wants more. She’d like to be thought of as a person, an individual, maybe even someone with a thought and an idea. It’s harder for girls, because society still wants women to be ornamental baby makers. Guys can have thoughts, but no one ever really listens or understands. They just try to keep up as best they can and act impressed when he says a big word. If I could do what that girl did, I just might.

There isn’t much I can do, if I leave off showering I just get smelly. I don’t like being really smelly. My hair actually gets more manageable and gets really shiny on the third or fourth day, so that can be worse. If I don’t shave, I just get rugged stubble. It takes a week to get to the just too much stubble to be sexy, but not enough for a beard which is a different kink all together. I can’t do a lot of other things without running afoul of the honesty issue. I can’t say the weight issue came about because of that. The weight and other things came because of an already discussed depression issue. I’m working on that though.

That’s what can happen sometimes though, people just want to look at you, but not talk or listen to you. It can become deeply frustrating, and can lead to a beautiful young person trying to uglify themselves in various ways. Just so they can try to be taken seriously, even though I’m sure this young woman’s activities are already begin dismissed as “A Phase” by people who were never quite as pretty and probably not as smart. Maybe I’m projecting, but if we’ve gone this far then why not? Who are all these posts about anyway?

I think the other reason I never went to try and uglify myself is that in all honesty I have always had to fight stupid shit. From the age of five, when I first worked out people where bullshitting me about my skills, I decided to just fight through it. If I was going to deal with stupid people saying stupid shit then so be it. Before I’d read enough, or understood enough to know what was going on, I’d picked fighting as the way to go. I’d decided on the natural as my way forward, doing things without aid would be the standard I would carry into battle. My combat is more subtle now, but I still do it the same. I’m not taking diet pills to try and slim my waist. I’m working out and trying like hell to avoid the things that made me fat. I’m not putting on make-up to hide or accentuate things, I just want people to be able to take them straight on. I say this with no complaint about people doing it another way. This is the way *I* have to do it, this is the way that I feel is most honest for *ME* in this instance.

I have always been aware enough of the privilege that these midnight black eyes, long lashes, tumbling ravenesque locks (and so on) bring to not wish to not be what I am though. Of course, I’m also aware enough of the privilege this level of intelligence brings as well. I wouldn’t want to be ugly anymore than I’d want to be stupid or lame or deaf or unable to taste sweet things. I know that the cross I’m talking about is less to bear than some people’s, but while I’m talking about myself, I’m also thinking of that poor girl.

I don’t think she has the strength to really fight. She’s putting up a good front, but I fear this battle may be beyond her. Does she have the resources to fight for her own identity? Can she maintain against the pressure? It’s different for girls, they’re given so much more pressure than boys, and the pressure I felt at her age was enormous. I haven’t seen her lately, I hope she got a job where she fits in better, where she can get away. I still think about her, like I think of so many I have seen.

You wanted to know what it was like in here. Now you have one more piece of the puzzle. When you work the whole thing out, let me know. I’m curious to see if it’s a barn or the Space Shuttle Endeavor.


Probably it'll turn out to be The Pillar of Cheese in the Shape of Jane Austen.

How Hipsters Taught Me The Beauty of The World

Scientists say that complaining is a part of life. It’s unavoidable, because it’s a necessary part of existence. It’s chemical, people MUST complain about things. If you have nothing to complain about, life ends, so you must find whatever tiny irritant exists to have something to complain about.

Now, we’re supposed to hate hipsters, despise them in fact. We’re supposed to call them shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space for being the total shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space that they are. BUT WAIT! Just hang on a moment, give me a few minutes of your time and let me tell you about how Hipsters changed my mind about life, the universe and everything.

In 2008, Polaroid (or what remained of it) announced it would no longer be making instant film. The hipsters, true to their rather worthless form, treated this as the sign that the apocalypse had begun. They rushed to LiveJournal and tumblr and bitched and moaned about how unfair it was. Oh the howls, oh the moans, of the gnashing of teeth and wailing into the wind my dears, my darlings.

“Oh shut the fuck up!” cried many a denizen of this fine internet.

“First World Problems!” Declared others in a firm and steady voice.

BUT! If I may, allow us to examine this from another angle, I think you may see that actually these hipsters carry with them the promise of heaven.

YEAH! I said it. Promise of Heaven.

Think about this for a moment, if you will. Or rather, dig if you will the picture...

This life is a sad veil of tears, yeah? But there are, in mythology, beings called messengers or envoys. These beings enjoy a more joyous and perfect life. In Greek, the word used to describe such perfect creatures is ángelos. They bring us glad tidings, they bring us hope. We can look towards these creatures, some beautiful, some hideous, some both, and know that perfection can be achieved.

Now consider this for a moment. There are mortals who enjoy lives so encapsulated by bliss, so crystalline and flawless, so utterly and completely perfect that the only thing, THE ONLY THING, that they have to complain about is that an economically unviable product, from a bankrupt company, was no longer going be to available for their use. The rest of their time is spent liking things before they were cool, buying albums they bought on itunes a months ago on vinyl, and growing their facial hair. We’re still complaining about pain, physical pain. We complain about crippling depression, bigotry, sickness, and the simple basic difficulty of getting over the betrayal of loved ones. We are too much of this earth, every too much in the sun.

While we concern ourselves of these base and low concerns, these... these... these plaid clad angels with ugly horn rim glasses and handle bar mustaches walk among us. Yes, you might argue that there is a reason people stopped having handle bar mustaches, but they disagree and besides it took her so much effort to grow. Who are we to disagree? They are, as I said angels, walking abroad among us in this world.

YES! Brothers and Sisters! I say unto you, that these angels are a promise of a better world! One where the only thing we have to worry about is Polaroid film and someone, somewhere, liking something before we liked it. They are a PROMISE my dears, my darlings. They live in a world of unutterable beauty, of inexcusable perfection. They are our angels.

In point of fact, they’re better than angels. Real Angels are like... Wheels of Fire! With a giant eye looking out from the middle. If one of those showed up, you’d think Sauron had just showed up and you’d just sit there trying to scream, but no words would come out. At least with a Hipster you know the reason you’re not saying anything is because you’re biting back a lot of comments.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is satire, that I’m being comical. That’s a reasonable supposition, particularly if you’ve read me before, but no! I’m being serious.

The world is a beautiful and glorious place, and all I had to do was to look at it like these mindless creatures, who are so far above that even thought is beyond them. They live in a jewel of perfection of a world, and we just need to work hard and achieve that level for everyone. There is a place so beautiful it causes rancor and endless cynicism for its inhabitants. Don’t you see? We no longer need the gods, we don’t need to look forward to heaven. We, and these beautifully hideous creatures, we can form such a place.

My dears, my darling, do you know what that’s worth? Heaven can be a place on earth. They say in Heaven, love comes first. In 2010, The Impossible Project started producing new lines of Polaroid Cameras and film for the old cameras. Heaven, my dears, my darlings, is a place on earth.

I will forever find comfort in these beautiful, mad, frightfully stupid bastards. You can too. Maybe you were afraid before, I’m not afraid anymore.



It should be said, when I explained this to Syd she opened a browser and brought up this image...



So, maybe it’s not a universal theory.

Why Do You Still Need Feminism?

We sat at the counter and ate and drank. "Did you make the spaghetti sauce?" she said.
"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."
"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"
"Yep. Got that from my mother."
She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing."
"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark."
"Why?"
"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti." I said.
She did. Me too.

Promised Land - By Robert B. Parker (1976)


There is something you are taught in therapy, I have been told. I myself have never had more than a brief fling with therapy (it becoming obvious quite quickly that it actually wasn’t me that had the problem the one time I went in for real) but I have been told and I have read a lot. You’re not supposed to make “You Statements” when you talk about something bothering you, but rather “I Statements”. It’s not supposed to be “You do this to annoy me!” but instead go for “I am annoyed by this.” which brings charges that therapy makes people selfish, because they talk more about themselves than other people. I’m often thrown by this, because the complaint often becomes “She just talks about herself and doesn’t want to gossip anymore.” or “They won’t just sit and listen to me anymore!” and I check out of the conversation from there. As a result, I’m going to try to use a lot of I Statements here, because I want to talk about how a thing effects me as well as others.


I’ve listened to a lot of Men’s Rights stuff over the last few years, and almost agreed with some of it. The problem is that they often loose me the more they talk, see if you can see where I’m going with this little playlet.

MRA – Men aren’t allowed to be what they want in this society!
Me – Okay, you’ve almost got something of a point there. (Let’s see what you do with it)
MRA – We’re as trapped as women by the expectations of modern life.
Me – Here! Here! (Why can’t a man wear a dress?)
MRA – Which is why feminism needs to go away!
Me – I’m sorry?
MRA – Women need to get back into the kitchen and remember their place!
Me – Wha-Huh?
MRA – And then men can be MEN again!
Me – What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about?
MRA – Bitches won’t date me! I’m Unwillingly Celibate!
Me – Um....
MRA – I mean, I open doors and everything.
Me – Okay, you need to shut up now or I will beat you to death with this small decorative elephant that a relative gave me as a memento of their trip to Mexico. Why a brass elephant from Mexico, I’ve always wondered, but I will kill you with it.
MRA – You’re just saying that because *URK*!
Me – *thump* Muthafucka! *thump* I did say. *thumpthumpthump*


NOW! Why was I even listening to this person at the start? It has to do with the quote I started with. A person starting with that phrase can go one of two ways, you can either go towards some idea of gender equality, or towards the idea that you should be handed “hot bitches” free with every oil change. I am not going to go into the whole argument here, but if you shower and if you open doors because you’re polite (instead of making a speech about chivalry and how now people OWE YOU for being a decent person) then things will actually go easier for you. It’s not that women love jerks, if they did, they’d go for some of you self-professed Nice Guys.

That’s not even what I called you all here to discuss!

I cook, I have always cooked, ever since I was a child I have cooked. When I have cooked, there have always been people who have treated this like it’s some kind of magic. As if I stood back away from the stove, rolled up my sleeves and yelled “Ala-ca-muthafuckin-ZAM!” and with a brilliant yellow flash (which would mean there was sodium in the mixture) there was suddenly food. Even people who themselves knew how to cook treated this mystical skill of mine like something I learned at the foot of Wong Fei Hung. Because I was a male, cooking, it was regarded as an odd and noteworthy event.

I was quite old before I realized that I actually could cook quite well, enviably well in fact. That it wasn’t just people reacting to the notion of a male-child applying the mystic roots and ancient flames to ingredients in order to create food from non-edible matter. The concept of a male cooking has become less noteworthy over the last twenty years or so, but well into my early twenties it was still an odd and interesting thing to talk about. That I was basically the only one in our house that did the cooking, was often seen as weird and frankly wrong.

Now, Syd can cook some. In that she can cook some things, when she puts her mind to it. I suppose if she had to cook all the time, she would probably be good at it, but she doesn’t need to. Holly could just about toast bread and spread peanut butter on it without burning the house down. She was more than happy to let me do the cooking, because she had no interest at all. In fact, most the women I’ve dated haven’t had much use for the notion of cooking, allowing someone else to do it as much as possible. Just a thing, like so many others. Women I have dated have many a similarity. ANYWAY. I get annoyed at the idea though, that because I cook I am performing magic. It’s bad enough when I actually do something magical, like make a marshmallow. It’s doubly annoying when someone treats any application of heat to food like I’ve performed some kind of goddamned miracle and should have statues erected in my fabulous honor. (Note, I’m not saying cancel the statue, it’s a great statue, but honor my skills as a world-class lover, not as someone who can cook.)

The latest kerfuffle Penny Arcade got into actually reminds and prompts me on this. The problem with all gender issues boils down to the cooking thing for me. Sexual identity means something to me, because all identity issues mean something to me. How you identify yourself is important, because without self-identity where are you? What you decide to be, who you are, how you act, how you present yourself to the world, it all has an impact. Sometimes it’s changing everything about you (even fixing physical errors you were stuck with by the cheap dvergar laborers that the gods hire for people construction) and sometimes it’s just doing what you feel most comfortable with.

Cooking should not be considered some kind of transsexual affair, and I should be considered a hero for doing it. And yet, I was by people who thought they were admiring me. I often got treated like I was some brave pioneer, throwing off the yoke of gender identity roles while... I dunno, cooking without an apron. I have never worn an apron, I don’t tuck a towel into my belt either. I just keep a hand towel on the stove and this isn’t important. I was actually called “Pretty Brave” by someone who was well meaning and thought they were delivering a compliment. When asked to elaborate, they said some people would “call you queer for doing that” and that “it’s kinda gay for a guy to cook” but that I made it “look masculine”. I almost felt bad killing that person and leaving their body in a peat bog but it was the only way people will learn! Now remember, that was supposed to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like one at the time, and the person began to see how I felt about it as the interview continued.

No one has ever tried to insult me, or threaten me because I canoodle in the kitchen (cooks have VERY big knives) but they do belittle the event with this notion of gender normativism. It’s deeply insulting to think that only a woman is really supposed to cook, and it harms both me and the woman not cooking to say so. That, if I may conclude where I intended to begin, is why I still need feminism. Yeah, it’s not as big as other people’s, but I’m a cis-gendered middle class white male. If I don’t like something you do or say to me, I’m still legally allowed to burn your house down (unless you are an upper-class white male) because, you know, privilege. That’s just it though, as a therapeutic tool, this has to be about me, not about you. Still though, it’s a sign, one that comes even up to the cis-gendered middle class white guy level that says “Shit’s still broken!” and asks us to fix it. The deeper we go, the more problems we're going to find, and if this one made it to the surface...

When I’m still being applauded for being a man that cooks, and rape culture is still a thing that people pretend doesn’t exist, and gender stereotypes are still rigidly enforced... can any of us say we’re truly free? There are eight million stories in the Naked City Internet, this is one of them.

Hired Self-Destruction - On the Subject of Suicide and Changes

“ I starved to death in 1916. ... Logically I was dead; a man can't live on dry grass. Actually I went on breathing.”
-- Nero Wolfe (Over My Dead Body)


“I worry about you. About you doing something stupid and permanent.”

“Have I given you reason to worry about me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A thousand things.”

I didn’t tell her that I knew where her mind had been, that I could smell her sadness, feel her desperation like movement of the air. That when she was near, I could practically taste the danger she seemed to be in. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the words to articulate it without sounding ridiculous.

Because we’ve all been there, right?

Maybe?

Maybe not.

For about a year and a half, I toyed with the idea of a post called “On the Subject of my Impending Suicide.” Wherein I would explain that I wasn’t planning anything, but that some days it felt inevitable. It kept coming up as an idea, as a thought, as a backup if everything else went wrong and I had no other recourse. It’s good to have a plan, even one that requires you to end your own life. I couldn’t come up with anything that seemed right, that wouldn’t be too painful. Also, I absolutely didn’t want to fuck it up. The last thing I wanted was to have an “attempt” to explain. I also didn’t want to do it in such a way that it gave the message “See what you made me do.” Because I was going to do it on my own, for me.

I got a captcha one day that has stuck with me for whatever reason.

Hired Self-Destruction.

I remember it because A) the idea of hiring out your self-destruction seemed like a turn on the old irony wheel and B) I knew people who had done/were doing it. You may remember that in September of 2009, I posted some photographs of a place called Flat Rock. I was visiting that town for what I had decided was the last time. I was there for the funeral of my cousin, who had engaged in his own Hired Self-Destruction. That sounds nicer than saying “He killed himself in a way that was indirect enough that people wouldn’t accuse him of committing suicide.” Because that’s what Craig did, let us not bullshit ourselves. He had hit rock bottom, and there was no one to help him out, or he wasn’t able to ask for help, or... whatever. He packed on about 100 pounds to what had already been pushing 300. When he was laid to rest, they didn’t cross his arms over his chest because his limbs literally couldn’t be made to sit like that.

Hired-Self Destruction.

This was just about the apex of bad times. You might remember if you were there. A couple of months later, a relationship fell apart, we had to move to pokey little apartment, and we were feeling a little bereft. Friends who would have helped lived too far away, people who lived nearby fell away from us in droves. Syd did not react to the situation well, and some members of her family reacted by saying “Quit being such a selfish little bitch and let me score points of your depression! Can’t you see your suicidal state of mind is ALL ABOUT ME?” I have few good things to say about certain people, and I won’t spoil a cheerful post like this by going into that. Suffice to say, I had to help her carry the load. When you tell someone you’re not going to leave them alone, and you’re not going to let them kill themselves, you’ve got to stand by that or what are you?

I think Syd helped me carry my load, but I felt like I was doing most of it on my own. That’s probably my warped perspective, because I didn’t even really have my parents to talk to and she can at least sort of talk to her mother and father about certain things. Not everything, but some things. I couldn’t talk to anyone about anything. My parents were going through... they had their own bullshit to deal with. I’d always been the emotional booster anyway, everyone came to me with their issues, and I would either help them solve those problems or distract them.

I felt on my own in a way I’d never felt alone. Not as lonely as those last six months with Syd and Holly. We weren’t lonely, not like that, and Fancy willing we will never feel that lonely again. I’d gotten used to being internal from the time I was a child. Living in a house of tension had prepared me, doing it with twice the people ready to explode made steel out of the iron.

Internal. I’d spent some time simply sitting and looking at the internet, saying nothing, doing little, making myself small and inoffensive. Hard way to live, but it was one that didn’t seem to break any rules. Syd’s suicidal thoughts kept coming to my mind, that she had plans and ideas, and knew what to do. I’d had no idea, just a vague wish for it all to be over.

And then Hol left, and I knew if I did anything dramatic it would look like I was trying to blame Hol, which isn’t what it was about. I just wanted things not to be the way they were. I didn’t want to feel the emptiness I had felt. I never felt fear, or sadness, or shame, just nothing. As the Rockbiter said “A hole would have been something, this was nothing.”

I came to a conclusion. This has to end. Either with the death of the body, or the death of this existence. One way or another, this has to end. Syd had come to the same conclusion, although we never articulated it in such a fashion. Neither of us chose the first route, and we concentrated on the second.

Hired Self-Destruction.

Syd got the lap-band operation. That was hard, painful, and a complete and utter change in the eating habits she’d formerly known. If anyone wants to call it an easy way out, I will gleefully puke up half eaten Arby’s in their car so they can share in the joy I felt. They can slurp on clear broth for a month, then extend the thrill of actually having broth that was cloudy! OOOOO! You can’t actually see the cats through the soup anymore. That was no more easy than going on a starvation diet is easy, or suddenly having to avoid anything with gluten is easy. It was hard, and it was painful, and we’re still going through it. But we’re doing it together, and we’re going to get there. She has had to destroy the person she was, in order to become the person she is becoming.

I got a job. Because we had only one car, if I was working when Syd would be at work, I had to walk. Two Miles. Rain, heat, sun, cold, snow, wind, monkeys, custard... I walked to work and got there on time. Syd would get me on her way home and I’d take my lunch break taking her home and coming back. If I was working in the morning, I would drive Syd to work, come home, get my lunch, drive to work, work eight hours, drive home, pet the cats, drive to Syd’s work, pick her up, bring her home, cook dinner, and try to come up with the energy to explain to people why I didn’t seem to be writing anything anymore.

If you want to talk about a period of Hired Self-Destruction, then that was is. Physically, I was in torment. Mentally, I was pretty badly depressed and I had no patience for the bullshit that dealing with people brought upon me. I had to bend my will toward the idea of patience, to dealing with people without hitting them. I had to work harder in that year and a half than I’d ever worked. Remember, I was still holding up Syd a lot of the time, or at least felt like I was. And I was cooking every day, or trying to. I was destroying myself, and I was basically employing my employer for the task.

Hired Self-Destruction.

And then the clouds actually broke. Later than I thought they would, but THEY DID BREAK is the important part. I thought they’d break with my second store, but that place was in a neighborhood that was as close as it could be to the ghetto while still being patrolled by the police. For a while there, I felt like I was piled on more than ever. I had a feeling my Self-Destruction was going to be a complete job. But that was actually a good thing. It caused me to do something I hadn’t thought about before. It caused me to prove I could take the extra weight. If I could strive through this morass, then I could do anything... right? I grew stronger, and it was then that I’d realized how weak I’d been, how dependent. But here was the thing, I could take the weight.

And then we got the car, and then the I heard about the new store opening, and I started to make a plan. And it was about that time I realized what had happened. I’d basically completed the Self-Destruction project and had somewhere along the line begun the rebuilding process. Making a plan was a sure sign that one is done being destroyed and that one is ready to build again. I got the car, I got the job, I got some shoes so I can go running, I’m going to buy some dumbbells, and I’ve got plans to make some art again. The shoes and the pass to Stony Creek were step 3, and I’ve got 7 more steps to go as far as I can figure. I’m making progress though. I am moving forward. We’re going to be okay again... or at last. I can’t tell yet.


Stephen Fry made an admission recently, that he’d attempted suicide last year, and it got me thinking about this. It got me thinking because I feel like I did commit suicide. I killed the person I had been, I just went on breathing like Nero Wolfe, and that gave me enough time to build up this person I’m becoming. Sort of building on the ruins, but still... building. I had to go through this period though, just to manage to get through.

Hired Self-Destruction. Sweet Fancy's Mousey, that's a stupid phrase.

Problem #246

“Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore it if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson


That sounds good, but I grew up in the 90s, when everyone was trying to take ol' Ralphie at his word and found that non-conformity became the conformist view.

Slow Clap

When you loved your gay kids, Sen. Rob Portman didn't care about their rights and thought you were a sinner for not disowning them. Now that he loves his gay kids, he expects you to care and love both him and his son. Okay, he can vote for marriage equality, I'm always ready to welcome someone into the human race.

As for his spiritual redemption though, he's only getting a slow sarcastic clap from me.

It leads me to believe he never REALLY opposed marriage equality, he just wanted to look like he was because it played well with his voting block. I assume that he will still oppose women's rights, the rights of minorities, the rights of the poor, the rights of those who can't afford health care, and on and on and on...

"So what's wrong with being a Nice Guy?" You mean besides everything?

So we need to discuss this... I guess.

The other day I posted this link on another social media that sounds like a horror movie* if you say it right. The person I snagged the link from had kind of a discussion on their board because someone wanted to know what was so bad about being nice. He hadn't quite twigged to the idea of what Nice Guy actually means to the internet, and was soon set straight. Now, since most the Nice Guys I've met don't have the self awareness of a Rotary Club Sign, it might be time that we lay this mutha out for everyone.
*Seriously The Book of Faces! Also, Twitter is a romantic comedy, Tumblr is an action movie and My Space is a wacky Sci-fi comedy probably starring The Weasel himself, Pauly Shore. Yeah, I have a mentally undemanding job and a lot of time without interaction.


So the basic facts first, I think... and there is no nice way to say what I'm going to say here.

If you describe yourself as a Nice Guy, you might want to stop doing that. See, everyone outside of Nice Guys (note the capital lettering) thinks anyone who self-identifies as one is an asshole. Seriously, it's like a code that Nice Guys don't actually know and it's frankly kind of sad. Is that fair? Sorry, what the blazing blue fuck does fair have to do with this? Fair is for sports, and this ain't no sport. There ain't no points and you only loose by failing to play the game. Go read over that link I provided, that will give you a great deal of the problem. The sort of guys who call themselves Nice Guys are so often not, and in fact are just assholes in disguise that most everyone else sees the word Asshole when they read the words Nice Guy. So yeah, stop calling yourself that.

I'm not going to go into the whole Nice Guy thing, except to say that you need to either understand some women aren't as attracted to you as you are to them and be a man about it instead of a bitter little baby. Here's the thing, they might want you later if you keep being a good friend. I don't say that it WILL happen, but it COULD happen. However, if you take the rebuffed advances with the attitude of "All bitches are bitches and they don't know a good thing when it's in front of them." then it WON'T happen. Not only won't it happen with her, but if she networks right, it won't happen with any woman inside the tri-state area. They don't always share talk about the good ones, but they will always warn someone off a bad one. You should be nice, but be nice for its own merit and as its own reward. It's not a game, you don't build up points, the friendzone is not a penalty box.

In fact, let us talk about The Friendzone for a moment. I have only once or twice heard the term used by women. It's almost totally used in the context of "That bitch put me in the freindzone and *blah blah misogynistic whining and entitlement issues* what a bitch!" For starters, call her a bitch again, women love to be insulted by guys. If you can't spot the sarcasm in that last sentence, please break off a chair leg and beat yourself in the face until you see spots, I honestly can't be bothered to come over and do it for you. Most the people who use the phrase use it as a complaint, and I can't understand why. I am firmly in the Friendzone of a woman I know. She's married, and monogamous, and possibly not into me despite my long flowing hair and dark as midnight eyes. Thing is, I love her deeply and dearly. We've never been to bed together, we've never even kissed. I've kissed her on the cheek a couple of times, that's the closest we ever got to that and as far as I know it's the closest we will ever get. And I'm okay with that because I love her and to an extent I love her husband and I care deeply about them both. I can't imagine that being a bad thing. She didn't penalize me, she didn't even consciously "Put" me there, that's just where I ended up.

I did however once have a woman explain that she had to "Friendzone" a guy. This surprised me, as she and I always refer to each other as friends. Now... spoiler alert, she had slept with me before and did so again soon after this conversation and the whole time referred to me as Her Friend. so I was surprised to hear that "Friend Zone" didn't come with a side of sex for the poor bastard. She explained that she had sort of intended to sleep with him, but he went on this hateful rant about what a bitch his ex was and it totally turned her off him forever and ever. And that's the other part of that, I am friends with a great many women, and I've had sex with more than a few of them. Unless there was an ongoing, committed relationship, all those women called me their friend. So yeah, even in the friendzone, there is sex.

The problem is, if you approach with desperation, with bitterness, with the attitude on your face... they'll know and they won't want to be with you. Maybe they don't want to be with you anyway, but you don't want to poison the well as it were. Okay, this one woman doesn't want to date you. Maybe that's because she's with someone right now, maybe it's because she doesn't have those feelings for you, maybe it's just not the right time. If you react badly, if you throw a tantrum, they'll talk to other people about it. Even if you throw a tantrum outside that one woman's sight, other women will see it. The network is strong. The network includes all types and genders. There is no escape from The Network. Fear the network. The only thing worse that labeling yourself a Nice Guy is for The Network to label you.

AND THEN THERE'S THIS!

Even if "Nice Guy" wasn't being used by everyone but Nice Guys to mean "dickhead", is that all you have going for you? That you're nice? Really? Because where I come from, that's like saying "I have a pulse and metabolize sugars in my liver" or "I am a person" No matter what, you've got to have more game than that you are "nice" by whatever we mean by that. Nice is a baseline, nice is expected, nice don't even get you through the door. You need some skills. Probably more than video games, although maybe not. If you can avoid calling a girl a Fake Geek because she's better than you at Medal of Duty: Call of Honor, you might be in with a chance. Look at me. Yes, I'm pretty, but there is so much more. I write bad novels, I take amazing photographs, I sing, I dance, I know more about the history of film making than is good for me, and I write truly atrocious poetry. Result? I still strike out seven times out of ten. Some people just ain't into me, but I have a fairly decent reputation and I know how to self-congratulate in a way that is sort of endearing and appropriately lamp shaded.

Point is, grow the fuck up, be an actual man, and quit pretending that Nice ever was enough for anybody.

Thank you and goodnight.

Okay Feminists, listen...

You're basically right. Let's get that out of the way. 98% of what feminist are currently saying is more or less correct. Dismissal of Intellect? Yeah, that happens. Objectification on a Mass Scale? Yeah, we still do that. Rape? Yeah. Reproductive rights? We've got problems like wow. Male Gaze? Guilty, though I'm not really sure how you intend to fix it without changing genetics. I agree with the substance of your arguments and endorse the whole of your ideas. (you can already hear the "but" coming, can't you?)

HOWEVER!

Pretending that there was NEVER a time when the man-hating feminist was a thing?

That's a lie.

Argue they were a minority, argue they don't matter, argue that those ideas were part of a process and are no longer needed, but don't say they never happened. Valerie Solanas was a popular and influential feminist of her time. And the SCUM Manifesto was, by her word, a serious work. She stated several times that she meant every word. Now, if you want to say "That doesn't represent current feminist attitudes and never really represented mainstream feminism" no one would be happier to listen to you than me. I don't think those ideas where ever really picked up on by most women who were looking more for better pay, less objectification, and maybe a little more understanding about what we all have to go through.

Except of course, a few mainstream feminists pick up on those ideas and expressed great admiration for those works. Gloria Steinem does represent mainstream second wave feminism and I found her hateful enough that I recoiled from her works when I tried to read them. Germaine Greer gives me similar problems as well. Both of them are intelligent women, with a lot of important things to say, but it gets lost in passages that left me going "Oh, it's like that is it?" Sort of a shame, but there it is. I got burned at an early age by some very harsh talk and had to make my way to the idea that you're getting fucked over on my own. I've had problems with a lot of the second wave feminism that I've read. I've read a lot I agree with as well, but on the whole I end up feeling like being born with a penis was a failing on my part. I sort of prefer the purity of the first wave, from what I've read of it. I'll grant, I haven't read all there has been to read, but I've read a few of the books and articles over the years. Of course, you also have Betty Friedan, who is the originator of the phrase, "Men weren’t really the enemy — they were fellow victims suffering from an outmoded masculine mystique that made them feel unnecessarily inadequate when there were no bears to kill." which is pretty good.

NOW!

Current feminist? Third Wave Feminist? Fine group, interesting ideas. I'm sort of annoyed that many of them are saying the exact same things that first and second wave feminists said, but that's more of a "Are you really still having to talk about that? Haven't we fixed that yet?" which is more a problem with society than the writer. I find that those feminists are much more even handed, and tend to extend out the idea that men aren't the enemy, but a fellow combatant. I like the idea that it won't really work until we're all free. I get a better feeling that third wave has done more to embrace the "Man is not the enemy here, but the fellow victim." mindset.

So far I haven't had much of a problem... EXCEPT! This wish to pretend those second wave feminists didn't exist. It is a problem. It smacks either of ignorance or of dishonesty, and we can't have an intelligent conversation with either of those hanging over our heads. It's like saying misandry doesn't exist. Yes, it does. I can prove it does. I've seen examples of misandrists in my own life. The level of misandry I have seen, as compared to the level of misogyny is akin to that of the rainfall of Des Moines as opposed to the rainforest of the Amazon. But let's not try and pretend that it never rains in Des Moines, okay? It does, just not as much as the Amazon.

To say that it never rains, or that there are no man hater, when we can pull out sheets of paper to the contrary, is far more problematic than having to deal with the fact that someone can justifiably call you a liar. Stand up tall, say "Yes, that happened, however that doesn't invalidate everything else I've just said. The amount of shit women have to put up with is far and away far more than men have to deal with." Yeah, some asshole will try to shut you down once you agree it happens to both sides, but that guy is shutting you down RIGHT NOW with far more justification because you are either lying about or are ignorant of what your own side has previously said.

You can't let those assholes have any more ammo than you can help. Why give them that? I don't want to be 60 and still having people asking if there are any funny women despite the fact that Kate Beaton, Josie Long, Susan Calman, Tina Fey and Ellen DeGeneres out there. Never mind the republicans talking about how awesome rape is, let's sort out if women can be funny first. Yes, they can. Okay, glad that's settled.

Look, I'll make it simple. It comes down to veracity, and I want this discussion to have some. We must remain truthful. Yes, the bra-burning was false, never happened, but that doesn't mean that nothing bad has ever come from our side. Accept it, and move on.

I have never considered myself a feminist, because I don't have the equipment for it. I mean the mental equipment, there is not going to be a cheap penis joke here. I am far to entrenched in the male mindset to really understand what women are going through, in much the same sense that I can never really understand what it's like to be a poor black growing up in the ghetto. I can say "Yeah, that's bullshit and it shouldn't happen." but I can't even begin to say I understand what that person went through. I've got my own sexual-socio-political problems to work out. Now it may be that some of our issues actually coincide, but I've got to come from a different angle and I'm attacking from the other side. But I do so with as much honesty as I can muster and I ask you to do the same.

Also, if anyone can tell me if Anne Rice was endorsing Valerie Solanas's ideas in Queen of the Damned or satirizing them, I'd appreciate it.

Don't bitch to me about the pumpkins

So, I'm at Einstein Bros. bagels this morning, right? I was tired, and hungry, and just mildly pissed off at being awake and in pain at that hour of the morning. Nothing an asiago bagel with cream cheese can't handle, or at least help. So I'm standing in line and the guy in front of me... a pumpkin killed his family at the tender age of eight. That's the only thing I can come up with, because he was bitching about the pumpkin flavored cream cheese like it was a personal slight against him on the part of the Einstein Bros. bagel company.

"Look at this fucking shit." He opined to his companion. "I fucking hate pumpkin. Why the fuck do they have to put it out every year?"

His friend was trying to was trying to calm him down, explaining that he wasn't actually required to have any, but he wasn't having sense today, he was bitching about pumpkins. The kid behind the counter was looking sort of annoyed and worried, the guy's friend looked sort of worried, and I can only think I was looking pissed. This isn't rare, I often look pissed. Even when I'm not pissed, I look pissed. It's just how my face is shaped. The guy was going on and on and I found that I was thinking a statement to myself that it would be fun to say.

"It'll be gone by mid-November and no one's forcing you to have any, so shut the fuck up asshole."

I then looked at the kid behind the counter again, who was looking at me with face agape. Something seemed slightly off in the atmosphere of the room as well. Nothing you could put your finger on, just... something. I then looked at the two guys, who were looking rather stupidly at me in their suits and ties. It's at this moment that I think "Yeah, it sounded sort of loud when I thought that, must have actually said it out loud. Fukit! Imma own it."

The pumpkin hater is looking at me as if I were, myself, a pumpkin and I just decide to look back. Only now I'm allowing my face to look as annoyed as I feel. He was a big lad, but he was soft, and I do nasty for a living. After about three seconds he took two steps back and looked at the other kid behind the counter and didn't say another thing until he left. I'm sure he had a great deal to say once he was out of my hearing, but that was the point. Thing is, he's an asshole and a coward and all it took was a guy who could happily slice his face off while humming show tunes to shut him up.

Those of you who follow me on twitter or facebook, know what happened next. I sent out a small missive that explained that guy could shut the fuck up. For 90 days out of the year, people who like pumpkin stuff are happy. If you don't like it, no one forces you to eat it. And then... it happened. While looking at my phone I saw another person explaining why Twilight sucks and the people who like it suck and I got pissed. Particularly since claiming Twilight isn't very much like Harry Potter using Harry Potter's rules is like bitching that a can of cola isn't a web shooter. A little champagne cork popped off the bottle of rage I keep for special occasions.

Because... you know, you could have done anything. You could have saved a child's life, you could have written a Broadway musical, you could have given a hand job to an elderly vicar, fixed an elderly neighbor's car, learned to play the banjo, done something useful, but you didn't. Instead, you once again bitched about someone daring to like something you don't care for and telling them they were stupid for liking it. Hoo-fucking-rah for you. You have proven once again that positive reinforcement is a meaningless set of sounds as far as you're concerned. What a fucking waste of a fucking life you fucking lead. Why not do something positive? Why make someone feel bad for liking something? What sort of piece of shit are you? Isn't there some kind of apocalypse virus that could use the oxygen you're wasting? You know, so it can grow strong and wipe out the human race? Something useful, not like what you used it up doing.

You would think geeks, of all people, would be less bigoted in their approach to the culture people consume. You'd think they'd be more tolerant and accepting about what makes people happy. But the sad fact is, they're not. If you fall away from the accepted list of geeky things, you will get shouted at, mocked and treated like an idiot. And by what? By people who spent years getting shit for liking Dr. Who and Star Trek. By people who should know better, but strangely don't. I know people who have left fandom entirely because they got tired of taking shit every time they got enthusiastic about something that didn't meet with the Hive Mind's approval. I've heard tales of people leaving a group in tears because someone decided to explain to them why they, as an individual, deserved to be killed for liking something that the other person hadn't even read, but had heard sucked. And if I ever find that guy... just don't let me find you asshole.

Now, it's one thing to write a criticism of something, to explain why you didn't like it. It's okay to not like something, even to express that you REALLY don't like it. You can even spend three pages of internet paper completely and utterly savaging something, if you thought it was going to be good and it turned out to be offensive. Hell, I've reviewed enough movies in the same manner a puppy expresses the fullness of its feelings on a slipper to allow that. However, once you've made your statement, and expressed your view, you are cordially invited to shut the fuck up about the matter. You said what you had to say, now let it go and get a life.

There is a difference between presenting your opinion, and just being a dick for the sake of trying to hurt other people. Constantly insulting something someone likes, is the second group. Constantly belittling people for their enthusiasm? Second group. Regularly decrying the quality of a product, without even asking why the person likes it, or suggesting something that they might enjoy more? Yeah, you're gonna have to put "Second Group" on the form for that one. Live tweeting your insults while you're in the movie on opening night, thereby ruining the experience for other people who paid to see that? Yeah, I'm GLAD you got thrown out of the theater and were told not to return ever. That person is a massive asshole.

Someone posted a quote on Facebook recently, that said something like "Geekery is about being enthusiastic about things we love, not decrying, not belittling." and the very first comment to that quote that I saw was "Bullshit! I've never seen a geek like anything, they're like hipsters, only they think they're better because they pretend to be feminist or liberal sometimes." and I found that to be just plain tragic. Because the geeks were supposed to be the good guys. But no, give them some time and they'll be racist, slut shaming, misogynists, just as bad or even worse than any asshole you'd gleefully run down with your car. In fact, they're far worse because they have the ingrained belief that no matter what transpires, they're actually the victim here.

So there's going to be some pumpkin flavored things. Maybe that's not to your liking, but a lot of people do like it. It's not hurting you, no one is taking away the asiago bagel. The salmon spread is still there. Likewise, no one is taking Dr. Who off the shelf and replacing it with Twilight. No one is burning your Harry Potter set and forcing you at gun point to read 50 Shades of Gray. Get over yourselves anyway, you are in no way the monitors for what is and isn't good. Some of you people liked the Star Trek reboot for Fancy's sake. There's nothing wrong with liking it, but it does rather negate you from being ANY KIND of final arbiter. Not so much because of the Star Trek thing, but because there is no final arbiter. There might be some critics who are better than others, some who have a more informed opinion, but no one has the final say.

There is a place for criticism in art, even for emotional critics. After all, art needs emotion, but not bullying. Telling people they're wrong, or stupid for liking something will only drive those people further away. Particularly when you're mean spirited complaint comes from a place of ignorance. It makes you no better than the bullies many of you so often decry. Actually it makes you worse, because you know how it feels to be hurt. Now that you have some small amount of power, because a few of you are smarter than the people you've been insulting and can string words together more skillfully, don't abuse that power. I'd like to still be able to respect a few of you, and I don't like having to write you off as the same sort of mindless assholes that you are hypocritically complaining about.

So yeah, calm down about the pumpkin stuff. It'll be gone by the end of November. Really, it's the people who like peppermint I feel for. They only get their flavor for about 30 days and then it's gone.

The Rise of Women’s (trash) Literature.

I’ve been noticing that a lot of the criticism of Fifty Shades of Grey falls into the same bullshit that Twilight criticism falls into. It’s so badly written, it’s got an unhealthy relationship at its core, it’s going to teach girls bad lessons.

It’s that last part that always irks me. So many complaints basically lay the idea that Twilight will teach girls to be submissive little Mormans. Like females are unable to read a book without the ideas in that book invading their fluffy little heads. I read James Bond and didn’t turn into a racists, misogynistic, homophobic hired killer. I read Batman and didn’t turn into a member of the 1% beating up on the lowest and most desperate members of society. I read Spider-Man and I don’t wear spandex and didn’t become a photojournalist. I’m pretty sure girls can read a fantasy romance and not turn into the pet of some vampire. I find it condescending, misogynistic and insulting to the women I know to suggest otherwise.

Syd read them, she kept her independence in tact. My friend J read them, she’s relatively normal. I’ve got a buddy, D we’ll call her. Her son is autistic, her daughter is on the cusp of her teen years, she’s raising them both alone because her husband left her after being a completely selfish dick for years. She’s not stupid, or weak, or particularly dependant on any men that I’ve ever seen. She’s tough, smart, independent and she luuuuves her some Twilight. Actually, I think she likes some of the young men playing characters in the movies, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, all these women have recognized the fantasy element and got on with their day without being unduly swayed by the books’ stupidity. To suggest she might be otherwise is to insult her. Besides…

Women have been reading this stuff for decades.

Oh, yeah, didn’t you know about that? Yeah, see, if you want to complain that Twilight or 50 shades is stupid and badly written… you need to admit that either you know nothing about women’s fiction or admit that it’s 1961. Would you like me to make a Mad Men joke now or shall we wait to break those out? I pick 1961, because the oldest crappy romance book I’ve ever read was dated that date. Kind of squicky to be honest, a lot of “force her ‘til she likes it” kind of stuff. Of course, since even the Pern novels written around that time have some of that, it’s hard to differentiate.

Actually Harlequin Romances have been around since the 50s, and other crap like it has been around since before then. However, everything I’ve ever been told about the Twilight series has always lead me to the same sentence “Sounds like a Harlequin to me.” And every time I say that, the woman telling me about it has nodded and said “Oh yes, they’re just like one.” It’s not always old Harley, but enough times it works. Most your basic romance novels work this way. You’ve got the rich boy, the poor boy, and the girl who must choose between them. There are a few things that separate one company from another, like the quality of the sex and the level of commitment, but more or less... yeah. That’s what the books like that I’ve read where like. That’s just it, I get the idea that most these people have never read anything like this before.

Twilight it just a basic romance novel… Mit Vampires.

See, there used to be a place for these things. It was a little corner of shame, tucked back where no one but women went. No hard covers in this section, paperback only. You grabbed something with rose vines around the edges and cursive on the cover and you got the hell out. Most people who are complaining about this stuff though, have never read them. This ignorance of most people complaining about Twilight astounds me. Because I’ve read a couple Harlequin, and yeah, they were stupid and badly written. Thing is, I’ve read a lot of things that were badly written. A lot of the “boy’s fiction” I’ve read has also been stupid and badly written. Jack Higgins is not Shakespeare. Not in any respect. Come to think of it, neither is Dick, Chandler, Poe or Twain. Yeah, I went there! They were also once crappy popular authors, disregarded in their own times. And most of them aren’t Shakespeare because they weren’t trying to be.

They were trying to be entertaining and occasionally thought provoking. Mostly though, they were just trying to make a buck. When you read Azimov, for example, you forget that 90% of the stories that were published along side his were barely readable trash. I’ve gone through some Amazing Stories reprints, there is a lot of junk in there. That is the bane of the paperback reader. The pulp world is full of that, but the romances get dismissed more. Once in a while though, I’d read a pulp romance that actually was okay. While the Detective Novels started hitting hard cover, even the crappy pulp ones, the same never seems to have happened for the girls.

The romance novels, never got respectable, like the Sci-Fi or the Detective novels did.

Danielle Steel is still considered to be a trashy writer, despite selling more books than any other author alive! 500 million Danielle Steel books are out there, 150 million more than all the Harry Potter books put together! She’s the 4th highest selling author of all time! And Barbra Cartland, another romance novel is #3. Steel’s books actually do make it to hard cover at least, but it’s hardly been considered respectable for the mainstream reader to buy one of her books. You still had to go to the corner of shame if you wanted to read Steel. And for the most part, no critic, and certainly no male critic ever bothers to read any of these books. They’re for girls, and as such have never been worth reading. The same applies to Erotica. Most erotica has gone ignored by men, unless they were looking for the good bits.

But now, suddenly, something has changed. A shitty romance (mit vampires) is number one in the charts, with a crappy erotic novel at #2. They sell the hardcovers in boxed sets and stock hundreds of copies because they know they’ll need them. Why should that be? Maybe because someone is reading this stuff. And why does it offend so many people if it is? I mean, so some extent, who cares what people are reading? I know, I know, but honestly, what does it matter? Why all this constant harping and bitching and moaning. It’s not like anyone forced you to read them. However, to another extent, you’d better figure out why they’re so popular. Someone is working out why this works, someone is riding this train, someone is getting rich. Someone had better get a handle on this whole mit vampires thing, and soon. Most of all, you need to stop insulting it all the time.

Just dismissing it and insulting it only serves to alienate the people you claim you want to reach.

Insulting 50 Shades is boring, I’ve gotta tell you. And no one cares. The publishers don’t care what you think, they’re making money hand over fist. I don’t care, it has no effect on me but to make you another troll decrying something that someone actually enjoys, which makes you an asshole. The women reading it really don’t give half a fuck what you think. They like it, they’re gonna read it, and then they’re going to go to work the next day and not fuck the mail boy in the stock room, because adults don’t actually do that. They’ll get their fantasy kick, they’ll sigh a bit, and then they’ll read something else. Maybe, if you engage them in conversation, you might find out why they like it. If you’re really skillful, and not an asshole, you might even steer them towards a better book.

So let us review…
1, Shut up about Twilight. No one cares if you think it’s stupid.
2. Shut up about 50 Shades of Gray. No one cares if you think it’s stupid.
3. Have a little respect for the intelligence of the women around you. They actually do care if you think they’re stupid.

The Recreation of Manhood

I got to thinking about macho bullshit today, and an idea about it struck me. We’ve been slowly watching the death of the traditional male for about 100 years now, but macho bullshit still remains. If anything, we have an increase in what I’m going to call MBS, because I intend to write it many times and I don’t want to write the whole phrase over and again until the end of the world.

What I’ve been seeing, and I think we really started seeing it in the 80s, is Hyper-MBS. There used to be 2 groups, quiche eating wimps and MBS-muscle men. The wimps were small, vegetarian, and possibly gay. The MBS guys on the other hand were built to an extreme unobtainable without steroids, probably ate trees, and were probably gay. Gay came up as a pejorative quite often in those days either because it was the worst thing they could think of to be or the other side knew that the previous side thought it was the worst thing to be. Many gay jokes have the air of “And I’m only saying that because it was bother him” about them, but that doesn’t make it okay. I think after this, we shall dispense with the pejorative. I simply wanted to acknowledge its existence.

Here is the thing though, 150 years ago, or there abouts, men had all the responsibilities. They earned the money, paid the bills, set the rules, made sure everyone abided by the rules, provided discipline and served as the head of the house. Along with those responsibilities, went certain privileges. We know the privileges, we don’t need to go into that right now. I’m not even saying that those men were cruel, or ill tempered, I’m merely pointing out that they were responsible for everyone in their family. They were the one who had to provide, to take care, to make sure things worked. He couldn’t show much emotion because everyone depended on him. If he was seen to be worried about something, then it must have been really serious. Atticus Finch may well be the perfect shape for a father in some ways.

About 100 years ago, some women started to assert themselves. They spoke of privileges, but what they really wanted was responsibilities. They wanted the responsibility of deciding political matters for example. You can look at this as the right to vote, or you can look at it as trying to be responsible for the shaping of local and federal matters. As some of them now earned money, some of them took more responsibility for the running of the household. They began to balance checkbooks, and serve on local councils and make decisions. You can call this taking privilege, but a lot of stress comes with those responsibilities and I call them as they are.

When this started, some men simply saw it as the woman offering to share the load. Many a man in the past leaned on his wife, asked for her help and sought her advice. Now it was just being done more widely. Slowly, by degrees, the social order changed. Soon men were being told that not only were they going to be forced to give up those responsibilities, but they would also be loosing the privileges they once afforded.

This is where MBS really got started. It was a response to being told to give everything up. MBS men decided they not only wouldn’t give up their masculinity, they would become hyper masculine for fear anyone thought they might succumb even one inch. As a result, these men became walking parodies of manhood, until they couldn’t even see a reasonable idea with a telescope. But really, they were just tired of being told to give things up without ever seeming to get anything in return.

I think this is where the rage comes from, when someone wants to have a discussion about sexism on the internet. Men have been asked to give up so much, that any talk now has the instant feeling of “Oh what am I supposed to loose this time? When will it EVER be enough?” Consider for a moment, many of these young men live in a world that tells them they can’t have a private Men’s Only club, but women can have gyms where men are not allowed in any way. There are train cars where men are barred, but if men try to have anything of their own, some female makes it her mission in life to insert herself into their tree house. Not, I will admit, without reason do these things exist. However, you men today are born into a world where the are given less than any time before, are allowed no exclusive spaces while everyone else has some, and are constantly being harangued about how much privilege they possess, when to them it looks like the privileges are being enjoyed by everyone but them. For a 15 year old, who doesn’t understand how the word works, being misogynistic can feel like the only recourse they have.

And it shouldn’t be that way.

We’ve taken a great deal away from men through the last century of feminism, but we’ve given very little to them. The idea of a man crying at a movie is still cause for humor. A man wearing clothes for style rather than ruggedness or comfort makes many question his sexuality. Any sense of feminizing is seen as a wholly wrong thing, by both men and even more importantly, women. Women say they want a sensitive man, but several will go for the square jawed gorilla 6 times out of 10. A man that doesn’t work on his abs is lazy, a man that reads poetry is suspect, a man that says he wants to know what a woman wants is subject to anger and mockery for not already knowing.

What we need, is to give something to these young men. We can’t give them the old world, that’s never going to happen. What we can do though, is turn down the hyper MBS that’s turning them into something wholly repugnant. I personally find the statements young men make about women, any women, repellent. That’s not manhood to me, that’s the screeching of scared little boys. When it comes from little boys who are in their late 60s, we have done something wrong as a society. We need to offer them some idea of manhood, and I think we can offer it though simply loosening the reigns a little.

Hear me, hear me…

In many ways, men were never really told they can let go of all those responsibilities. We’ve never been told its okay to cry our eyes out at a sad movie, or to wear what we feel like wearing when we feel like wearing it. We’ve failed to give a reasoned and responsible role model for these guys to follow, partly because our fathers didn’t have one and their fathers didn’t seem to have much of one. We started going down a strange and unknown path about 100 years ago, and we’ve never really been able to find our way. We need to make it okay to admit we’re lost. We need to say it’s okay to ask for directions. We need to show particularly our young men, its okay to make a fresh start.

In some ways, we need to let go of our old responsibilities, and in some ways we need to gain new ones. Mostly, this MBS hasn’t gone away because we’ve never really offered a viable option to that MBS. We need to make it okay to abandon that, and gain a new place. Be responsible for your own self, and be a little more responsible for those other men around you. Explain that no Real Man would in fact ever say “Bitch, go make me a sammich.” because a Real Man is confident enough not to need to say anything so childish. Syd pointed out a while ago that it’s kind of ironic that the things that make people say they’re taking you Man Card away is usually when someone has done something that makes them a Real Man in the first place. BTW, a Real Man, doesn’t need a man card.

We’re going to have to do something, this situation ain’t going away by wishing.