I like hipster guys.I do. I like their thickly framed glasses, and unnecessary need to squeeze into their little brother's Ryan Adams T-shirt.I like their chain-smoking habits, their Beatnik reading material, their oh-so-tortured artistic souls,their vegan moral codes, and their inexplicable desire to be ironic or "authentic". These are precisely the kind of guys i am friends with, the kind of guys i respect and admire and come to appreciate.
But more often than not i am mentally pelted with two critical questions: 1.)How does any oxygen get to his junk while squeezed into skinny jeans 5 sizes too small? and 2.) Why does the hipster guy pride himself on participating in EVERY socio-political cause known to (wo)man EXCEPT feminism?
Honestly, they will squeeze into "I heart PETA" T-shirts and rip the rabbit fur coats off of runway models during fashion week, or dive in front of moving vechicles as a bizarre anti-war protest gimmick. They will peel through clothing at "vintage stores" and the Salvation Army so as not to contribute to the child-labor sweatshops in Tahitti. They read the Cornel West Reader and the Autobiography of Malcolm X and claim that it made them aware of their privledged socio-economic status as a corn-fed suburban white boy. They will wave the rainbow flags with the fags. They will live green. They will create T-shirt slogans like "The only Bush i trust is my own" and spend their spring breaks on voter registration commitees and raising money for some international AIDS fund while their peers are kegging-it-up for Girls Gone Wild videos. But when it comes to women's issues, they suddenly morph into Bush 2 .
But this isn't a complete conundrum, because, you see, i've deciphered the code behind their women-related apathies, and it is this: They simply feel left out.
It seems that feminism is one of the only politcal posses to keep the edge exclusivity still visible; to basically say, "step back, Jack Keuroac, we got this." It never discouraged the support of free-thinking men, but it did not actively depend on it. The great thing about feminism is that it is a movement that must start and end with women. It is one that decided to manifest itself straight from the core; with girlfriends and mothers and sisters and daughters, and to make point of our concerns first. Men looked up and saw a bunch of women tinkering around with picket signs and talking this nonsense about equality without ever really asking them to be apart of it. They felt obsolete and unimportant, and decided to oppose feminism, to hate it, destroy it, and reclaim their power! This is one of man's most primal instincts: reject what has rejected them.
And even the others, the hipster guys who believe they should be exempt from feminism's wrath because they dont, say, beat up on their wives. But even these men, while certainly better than those who are blatant mysogynists, are still not blameless because they don't do anything. They bite their tongues when screaming would be the more appropriate response to a culture that is raping, killing, and mutilating their sisters and daughters and mothers as a passtime. They sit down, they are passive and apathetic when they need to be angry as fuck that there are people who are groped, hit, mocked, laughed at, restrained, belittled, and denigrated on a daily basis. They believe they are informed and compassionate because they plant neighborhood trees or visit nursing homes, but never realize that you cant call yourself a humanist until you call yourself a feminist.
And no, it isn't just the fault of men. I really believe that eventually women will wake up, shake themselves out of their masochistic mindsets, and they will have to do that on their own. But in the meantime, it would nice to have a little help.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
What Sex and the City Can Teach Us (But Probably Won't)
I'm going to give the writers of the inexplicably overrated and mostly moronic television series/movie Sex and the City the benefit of the doubt: I'm going to assume that the characters Charlotte, --the oh-so-wholesome girl next door who spends her entire life either a.) whining about wanting a husband b.) whining about wanting a child c.) fetching a husband of child, or d.) gushing obnoxiously about how happy they both make her--and Samantha, the 40something "nymphomaniac" whose preference of do-em'-ditch-em' sex over monogamous relationships is almost refreshing, as cultural symbolism. I'm going to assume that the entire purpose of having these two characters interact with one another, despite their personal differences, is to illustrate the classicly epic battles of two seperate entities. You see, ladies and gents, it isnt just Charlotte vs. Samantha, that exist in these cliched, badly written scenes. It is conservatism vs. liberalism. It is ancient vs. modern. Marriage vs. singledom. Good vs. evil. And, of course, it is feminism vs. patriarchy.
And while i know the only reason the S.&T.C writers created Samantha is because she gave a good excuse to shoot a tacky graphic sex scene every 30 seconds, the logic behind my theories are still supported.
Because for every quasi-feminist, sex-obsessed Samantha that exists in America, there will a Charlotte, vowing to hang herself by the sheets of her JC Penny canopy bed if she isn't hitched by age 30. These women seem to flock to their appropriate piles and branch off into the two opposing camps:
Camp # 1. The Charlotte camp. --This one is usually a mix of brainwashing via housewife mother and Billy Graham television programs. Even if they aren't religious, these women believe that her body should be cherished and respected in a Holy fashion. This undoubtedly means: a.) No sex until marriage so that on your wedding night, your new-fangled hubby will be so profoundly impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed, that he will never tell you that he just slept with your best friend at the bridal shower and may have a hefty case of Chlamydia. b.) No sex on the first date, because a man will be so impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed (in the name of respect!) that he will never tell you that he slipped a roofie into your chardonnay at the dinner party. Or c.) No mastubation or impure thoughts, as this may lead to violation of rules one and two, not to mention the eternal damnation and shame that should face you for reaching sexual satisfaction without aid from a dilapidated penis. These are women who take Cosmopolitan quizzes that tell them if they may be too aggressive (or bitchy or apathetic or arrogant or outspoken) to get a man, (The answer, is always, "yes") they use cheesy cliches for their virginity, like, "flower petals" or "gift of virtue" and lecture hookers on the importance of letting her flower grow until the right man comes along to pick it. They are women who cannot fathom a life where a man does not control it, run it, make it, or destroy it. They are, frankly, utter morons.
Camp #2, the Samantha Camp, is, predictably, the opposite. They are wild and untamed. They are women who go up to men in the bars to set a time and a place. They say "fuck" more times than they say "making love", they are single, and they like it, because they don't have to answer to anyone (and wouldn't even so). They use men like men use women, as physical tools of sexual desire, but can only ever be sluts when they do. They make married women nervous, make them curiously question their husbands whereabouts and check pants pockets for phone numbers. They are women subjected to, "dont you ever want to get married?" questions and have to, exhaustedly, perpetually, come up with an answer. They are women who get jobs and statuses, and lives that don't revolve around a man, they learn to change their own tires and pay their own rent. They are free and absolutely, undeniably, unstoppable. And they are feminists.
The only trouble is, like the women of Sex and the City, there are still far too many who start out wanting to be Charlotte, and always end up happier as Samantha.
And while i know the only reason the S.&T.C writers created Samantha is because she gave a good excuse to shoot a tacky graphic sex scene every 30 seconds, the logic behind my theories are still supported.
Because for every quasi-feminist, sex-obsessed Samantha that exists in America, there will a Charlotte, vowing to hang herself by the sheets of her JC Penny canopy bed if she isn't hitched by age 30. These women seem to flock to their appropriate piles and branch off into the two opposing camps:
Camp # 1. The Charlotte camp. --This one is usually a mix of brainwashing via housewife mother and Billy Graham television programs. Even if they aren't religious, these women believe that her body should be cherished and respected in a Holy fashion. This undoubtedly means: a.) No sex until marriage so that on your wedding night, your new-fangled hubby will be so profoundly impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed, that he will never tell you that he just slept with your best friend at the bridal shower and may have a hefty case of Chlamydia. b.) No sex on the first date, because a man will be so impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed (in the name of respect!) that he will never tell you that he slipped a roofie into your chardonnay at the dinner party. Or c.) No mastubation or impure thoughts, as this may lead to violation of rules one and two, not to mention the eternal damnation and shame that should face you for reaching sexual satisfaction without aid from a dilapidated penis. These are women who take Cosmopolitan quizzes that tell them if they may be too aggressive (or bitchy or apathetic or arrogant or outspoken) to get a man, (The answer, is always, "yes") they use cheesy cliches for their virginity, like, "flower petals" or "gift of virtue" and lecture hookers on the importance of letting her flower grow until the right man comes along to pick it. They are women who cannot fathom a life where a man does not control it, run it, make it, or destroy it. They are, frankly, utter morons.
Camp #2, the Samantha Camp, is, predictably, the opposite. They are wild and untamed. They are women who go up to men in the bars to set a time and a place. They say "fuck" more times than they say "making love", they are single, and they like it, because they don't have to answer to anyone (and wouldn't even so). They use men like men use women, as physical tools of sexual desire, but can only ever be sluts when they do. They make married women nervous, make them curiously question their husbands whereabouts and check pants pockets for phone numbers. They are women subjected to, "dont you ever want to get married?" questions and have to, exhaustedly, perpetually, come up with an answer. They are women who get jobs and statuses, and lives that don't revolve around a man, they learn to change their own tires and pay their own rent. They are free and absolutely, undeniably, unstoppable. And they are feminists.
The only trouble is, like the women of Sex and the City, there are still far too many who start out wanting to be Charlotte, and always end up happier as Samantha.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Slick 70's Slogan
Femspo for the day:
"77% of anti-abortion leaders are men. 100% of them will never be pregnant."
Perfect.
"77% of anti-abortion leaders are men. 100% of them will never be pregnant."
Perfect.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Open Tent=Open Mind, Right? Wrong.
Some women just kinda decided that feminsm should become one of those invitations to a fifth-grade birthday party. You know, the ones your mother made you give out to everyone so that the paste-eaters, cootie-catchers, and kids with lesbian moms in your class wouldn't grow up to be 40-yr. old hermits talking to 14-year old girls online, only to re-emerge from their basements to go on a shotgun rampage at the post office because they're still angry they weren't invited?.
Apparently, Laura Bush got a wee bit tired of her prestigous First Lady duties of tea parties and shopping for badly tailored suits and thought (so she is capable of such a function? go figure.) that she would take up said invitation. "First lady Laura Bush identified herself as a 'feminist' on "This Week with George Stephanopoulos.."Ed O'Keefe writes in a 2006 article i stumbled upon. "A lot of what I do internationally does have to do with women's issues, with women's rights, with the education of women and girls," says Mrs. Bush.
Laura, honey. Sweetie. Sugar plum. You are not a feminist. You cannot serve the cookies and serve the cause. You cannot wear the apron and wear the pants. You cannot be June Cleaver and Gloria Steinem. People will laugh at you. Most importantly, i will laugh at you. This is the truth.
I can't imagine what catastrophe occured to make Laura decide to identify herself as a feminist. She broke a nail? Ann Taylor ran out of slingbacks in her size? She got into an argument with Bush? Ha!
Imagine this, seriously:
BUSH: Laura? Laura?!! How many times have i told you to handwash mah boxers!
LAURA: But, honey, we have people to do that for us, so i just figured our staff would--
BUSH: No! No staff! How many times have i told you, if you aint-a-workin, yur-a-washin?
LAURA: But i'm the First Lady, for godsakes!
BUSH: Exactly! What doya think that means? It means you aint got no job but ta' tend to my underrgarments. Thats what all the first ladies arre 'supposed to do! Nancy did it, my mama did it, Hillary did it! Now yur gonna do it! Ya hear me? Oh, and dont ya say God's name in vain! Ya know how much i hate that!
LAURA: George, honey, don't yell at me! I feel belittled!
BUSH: Dont be a-callin be George, from now on its "King George"...and what the hells 'belittle' mean? You been readin' again?! Stop usin' all them fancy words woman!
LAURA: I will not! And i will not take this abuse! I have been reading books, and they tell me that i'm special, and that i dont have to be married to someone who treats me like dirt! I'm becoming a feminist, you hear me! A feminist!!
BUSH: Oh, shut up and go get me a sandwich, woman.
LAURA: Sigh. Okay, honey. But then i'm becoming a feminist.
Reactions to Laura's political rebirth were somewhat mixed. Feministing ranted, "Hey Laura, if you’re really a feminist then why not tell hubby to stop rolling back women’s rights?" and "I'm sorry, but feminism just isn't for everybody."
Danelle Morton wrote a great piece about it, but kind of got off balance with: "I'm for Big Tent Feminism. Everyone welcome. ...it places [the movement] back in the middle of things instead of remaining a small-scale interest of a few elite intellectuals."
This brings me around to my point: Feminism is not, and should not be, an Open Tent. Or a blanket invitation. There are basic rules, minimum requirements for anyone who dare bear the "F"-word: 1.) you cannot be, or be married to G. Bush. 2.) You must be pro-choice. 3.) You must believe in social, financial, educational, and political equalities for men and women. 4.) You may not be a housewife.
The last one will surely step on toes. But i dont believe any woman who calls herself a feminist and chooses to simply be married with children for her fullt-time job. To accept it as her identity. To live and die as Mrs. (fill and the blank). Elizabeth Wurtzel's Bitch nailed this home: "...Feminism demanded certain rights, and every woman who continues to live in a man's shadow is an affront to what few gains were made. It's not that a woman should be a self-sufficient person; it's that she must." and "Women who go out and make their own way in the world...are more important...women who get manicures all day are less important than women who write legal briefs."
Now, this doesn't necessarily mean i believe in Closed Tent feminism (if there is such a term), because i want it to grow and be adknowledged and relatable. But if we start to blur the lines that distinguish us as a movement, if we start to "accept" any and every ol' body, if we make one exception and then another and then another, what are we left with? The answer is: Nothing. We would be a bunch of women with mixed-up views and foggy intentions that are so unclear and uncertain, we'd forget what we were trying to do in the first place.
At some point you have to put up the velvet rope to this secret little club of ours. And what better person to start with than Mrs. Bush herself?
Apparently, Laura Bush got a wee bit tired of her prestigous First Lady duties of tea parties and shopping for badly tailored suits and thought (so she is capable of such a function? go figure.) that she would take up said invitation. "First lady Laura Bush identified herself as a 'feminist' on "This Week with George Stephanopoulos.."Ed O'Keefe writes in a 2006 article i stumbled upon. "A lot of what I do internationally does have to do with women's issues, with women's rights, with the education of women and girls," says Mrs. Bush.
Laura, honey. Sweetie. Sugar plum. You are not a feminist. You cannot serve the cookies and serve the cause. You cannot wear the apron and wear the pants. You cannot be June Cleaver and Gloria Steinem. People will laugh at you. Most importantly, i will laugh at you. This is the truth.
I can't imagine what catastrophe occured to make Laura decide to identify herself as a feminist. She broke a nail? Ann Taylor ran out of slingbacks in her size? She got into an argument with Bush? Ha!
Imagine this, seriously:
BUSH: Laura? Laura?!! How many times have i told you to handwash mah boxers!
LAURA: But, honey, we have people to do that for us, so i just figured our staff would--
BUSH: No! No staff! How many times have i told you, if you aint-a-workin, yur-a-washin?
LAURA: But i'm the First Lady, for godsakes!
BUSH: Exactly! What doya think that means? It means you aint got no job but ta' tend to my underrgarments. Thats what all the first ladies arre 'supposed to do! Nancy did it, my mama did it, Hillary did it! Now yur gonna do it! Ya hear me? Oh, and dont ya say God's name in vain! Ya know how much i hate that!
LAURA: George, honey, don't yell at me! I feel belittled!
BUSH: Dont be a-callin be George, from now on its "King George"...and what the hells 'belittle' mean? You been readin' again?! Stop usin' all them fancy words woman!
LAURA: I will not! And i will not take this abuse! I have been reading books, and they tell me that i'm special, and that i dont have to be married to someone who treats me like dirt! I'm becoming a feminist, you hear me! A feminist!!
BUSH: Oh, shut up and go get me a sandwich, woman.
LAURA: Sigh. Okay, honey. But then i'm becoming a feminist.
Reactions to Laura's political rebirth were somewhat mixed. Feministing ranted, "Hey Laura, if you’re really a feminist then why not tell hubby to stop rolling back women’s rights?" and "I'm sorry, but feminism just isn't for everybody."
Danelle Morton wrote a great piece about it, but kind of got off balance with: "I'm for Big Tent Feminism. Everyone welcome. ...it places [the movement] back in the middle of things instead of remaining a small-scale interest of a few elite intellectuals."
This brings me around to my point: Feminism is not, and should not be, an Open Tent. Or a blanket invitation. There are basic rules, minimum requirements for anyone who dare bear the "F"-word: 1.) you cannot be, or be married to G. Bush. 2.) You must be pro-choice. 3.) You must believe in social, financial, educational, and political equalities for men and women. 4.) You may not be a housewife.
The last one will surely step on toes. But i dont believe any woman who calls herself a feminist and chooses to simply be married with children for her fullt-time job. To accept it as her identity. To live and die as Mrs. (fill and the blank). Elizabeth Wurtzel's Bitch nailed this home: "...Feminism demanded certain rights, and every woman who continues to live in a man's shadow is an affront to what few gains were made. It's not that a woman should be a self-sufficient person; it's that she must." and "Women who go out and make their own way in the world...are more important...women who get manicures all day are less important than women who write legal briefs."
Now, this doesn't necessarily mean i believe in Closed Tent feminism (if there is such a term), because i want it to grow and be adknowledged and relatable. But if we start to blur the lines that distinguish us as a movement, if we start to "accept" any and every ol' body, if we make one exception and then another and then another, what are we left with? The answer is: Nothing. We would be a bunch of women with mixed-up views and foggy intentions that are so unclear and uncertain, we'd forget what we were trying to do in the first place.
At some point you have to put up the velvet rope to this secret little club of ours. And what better person to start with than Mrs. Bush herself?
All It Takes Is Three...
Three men i chatted with the other day helped me to get a good, snug, grasp on calcualted male operations in the quest to getting laid.
I was running errands a few afternoons ago, as is my custom, when three very conspicuous young men were huddled around a bench near a parking lot. A place i've come to realize that (besides jail) is the 24-hour hotspot for deliquents, ex-cons, and criminal offenders when they aren't in women's nylon stockings holding up pizza delivery guys. I was walking by, when one of them decided to get my attention with this curteous, ever-so-charming remark:
"AYE GIRL!"
I. The Approach. This is the first step, and the most important step toward in the guide-to-getting-laid. The goal here is to be noticed by your target (i.e,, an unexpecting girl on her way to the post office) using whatever tactic necessary. Wave an arm, scream, dance, walk up to her, appear from behind a dumpster waving a condom. Don't waste time with silly anecdotes like, "what's your name?" or "how are you today?" The less talking the better. Besides, once you have your target in the desired location (bed, sofa, or any flat surface in a horizontal position) it won't matter if her name is "I Eat Large Bugs", since the only oral interaction you are striving for will take place below the waist. Be blunt, foward, and aggressive!
I turn around, snatch out my earbuds, oblivious as to what he wanted. Then, Boy # 2 spoke up: "YOU GOTTA MAN OR WHAT?"
Atta boy. Right to the point.
Me: Excuse me?
Boy #2: WHAT YOU TRYIN' TO DO?, CUZ I'M TRYIN' TO SEE IF WE CAN GET TOGETHER.
II. The Invitation. This second step is crucial to the completion of your quest. Here, you want to make sure you make it clear that you would like her company, but being ambiguous about your intentions at the same time. So, the phrase, "I'm tryin' to see if we can get together" could mean anything; Could we be going on a picnic? Seeing a Broadway play? Engaging in a game of Scrabble? (For best results, consider a target that is considerably less intelligent than you, so that it isn't obvious--perhaps until she sees the bottle of K-Y personal lubricant on your nightstand--that you will not, indeed, be playing Scrabble tonight).
Me (in thought): What am i trying to do?? I'm trying to get to the fucking post office, what is it look like? Why the fuck are you talking to me, anyway? Cant's you see i'm busy, you brainless pest! Huh? Can't you see that?!!
Me (speaking): Uh. Okay.
Despite my suggestion of choosing a target of less intelligence, Boy#2 and his accomplices gambled on one that in fact, does have an I.Q exceeding 80. A risky wager considering the fact that their vocabulary consists of about 6 words ("aye" and "girl" being among the favorites), so 80 might be a little far reaching.
The smallest one, Boy#3, looked like a knock-off version of Aaron Carter back when "Candy" was still a radio hit, and was making not-so-subtle gestures toward his nether regions. Unfortunately for him, i wasn't in any mood for a lolipop.
Boy #2: AYE, YOU BUSY GIRL? WHAT CHU GOT GOIN' ON TOMORROW?
III. This is called the, "Your Place or Mine?" phase, where the time and place should be decided. Always, always ALWAYS suggest her place. That way, if she goes totally Alex Forrest on you, you can collect your belongings and leave abruptly. No strings (or rabbits) attached. Oh! and make sure you create enough time in your schedule for this affair (10-15 minutes for the travel, 4-5 minutes for small talk and two minutes for the actual sex.) After you've finished, mumble something loud enough for her to hear, "I'll call you," but not loud enough to have any definitive details. Describe the sex in graphic details to your friends, and begin scouting for your next target.
Me (finally): Fuck off, i have somewhere to be.
IV. Now, be aware guys. The possibility of this happening are very rare (especially to someone as bright and as charming as these young men) but be prepared anyway. I call it, "The Revival" :If she walks away (as was the case in this scenerio) reclaim your dignity with a couple, "I didn't want that bitch anyway"..s. A few "fuckin tease" and "cunt!" or two for the road.
Okay. So let's review: Approach, Invite, Decide, and Goodbye. In Boy tongue thats: See her, get her, fuck her, leave her. Got it? Class dismissed.
I was running errands a few afternoons ago, as is my custom, when three very conspicuous young men were huddled around a bench near a parking lot. A place i've come to realize that (besides jail) is the 24-hour hotspot for deliquents, ex-cons, and criminal offenders when they aren't in women's nylon stockings holding up pizza delivery guys. I was walking by, when one of them decided to get my attention with this curteous, ever-so-charming remark:
"AYE GIRL!"
I. The Approach. This is the first step, and the most important step toward in the guide-to-getting-laid. The goal here is to be noticed by your target (i.e,, an unexpecting girl on her way to the post office) using whatever tactic necessary. Wave an arm, scream, dance, walk up to her, appear from behind a dumpster waving a condom. Don't waste time with silly anecdotes like, "what's your name?" or "how are you today?" The less talking the better. Besides, once you have your target in the desired location (bed, sofa, or any flat surface in a horizontal position) it won't matter if her name is "I Eat Large Bugs", since the only oral interaction you are striving for will take place below the waist. Be blunt, foward, and aggressive!
I turn around, snatch out my earbuds, oblivious as to what he wanted. Then, Boy # 2 spoke up: "YOU GOTTA MAN OR WHAT?"
Atta boy. Right to the point.
Me: Excuse me?
Boy #2: WHAT YOU TRYIN' TO DO?, CUZ I'M TRYIN' TO SEE IF WE CAN GET TOGETHER.
II. The Invitation. This second step is crucial to the completion of your quest. Here, you want to make sure you make it clear that you would like her company, but being ambiguous about your intentions at the same time. So, the phrase, "I'm tryin' to see if we can get together" could mean anything; Could we be going on a picnic? Seeing a Broadway play? Engaging in a game of Scrabble? (For best results, consider a target that is considerably less intelligent than you, so that it isn't obvious--perhaps until she sees the bottle of K-Y personal lubricant on your nightstand--that you will not, indeed, be playing Scrabble tonight).
Me (in thought): What am i trying to do?? I'm trying to get to the fucking post office, what is it look like? Why the fuck are you talking to me, anyway? Cant's you see i'm busy, you brainless pest! Huh? Can't you see that?!!
Me (speaking): Uh. Okay.
Despite my suggestion of choosing a target of less intelligence, Boy#2 and his accomplices gambled on one that in fact, does have an I.Q exceeding 80. A risky wager considering the fact that their vocabulary consists of about 6 words ("aye" and "girl" being among the favorites), so 80 might be a little far reaching.
The smallest one, Boy#3, looked like a knock-off version of Aaron Carter back when "Candy" was still a radio hit, and was making not-so-subtle gestures toward his nether regions. Unfortunately for him, i wasn't in any mood for a lolipop.
Boy #2: AYE, YOU BUSY GIRL? WHAT CHU GOT GOIN' ON TOMORROW?
III. This is called the, "Your Place or Mine?" phase, where the time and place should be decided. Always, always ALWAYS suggest her place. That way, if she goes totally Alex Forrest on you, you can collect your belongings and leave abruptly. No strings (or rabbits) attached. Oh! and make sure you create enough time in your schedule for this affair (10-15 minutes for the travel, 4-5 minutes for small talk and two minutes for the actual sex.) After you've finished, mumble something loud enough for her to hear, "I'll call you," but not loud enough to have any definitive details. Describe the sex in graphic details to your friends, and begin scouting for your next target.
Me (finally): Fuck off, i have somewhere to be.
IV. Now, be aware guys. The possibility of this happening are very rare (especially to someone as bright and as charming as these young men) but be prepared anyway. I call it, "The Revival" :If she walks away (as was the case in this scenerio) reclaim your dignity with a couple, "I didn't want that bitch anyway"..s. A few "fuckin tease" and "cunt!" or two for the road.
Okay. So let's review: Approach, Invite, Decide, and Goodbye. In Boy tongue thats: See her, get her, fuck her, leave her. Got it? Class dismissed.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
There Goes That F-Word Again
Asking a woman if she considers herself a feminist is like asking if she would like to help axe-hack your next door neighbor and then join you for a delicatable man-flesh sandwich with a side of internal organs. She gets a, "what the fuck?" kind of expression on her face backs away slowly.
In the 70's, no one wanted to be a feminist because it was subtext for (whisper:) Birkenstock-wearing lesbian. Now, no one wants to be a feminist because it's a punchline.
Announcing to the world, (or whoever happens to be within earshot) that you are feminist yields the same reaction it would to say that you are a cross-dresser, or a Morman. You become target practice for jokes like, "What happen, 'd boyfriend dump you?" It, feminism, seems to be so glazed with the cultural caricatures, that it's not even accepted as a legitamite political belief; it just means you're pissed off about something.
That's another thing. Apparently feminism is a temporary emotional reaction to everything that goes apeshit in your life now.
Your husband leaves you for his secretary with six kids?: Become a feminist
Wake up late for work, miss your morning commute, and get fired on the spot?: Become a feminist.
Walking home alone one night and get mugged by a crack-head for three bucks?: Become a feminist.
Have a fight with your closest friend who decides to spread a rumor about you contracting Herpes from the pizza guy?: Whip her ass. Then become a feminist.
And, of course, when things start to wind down a little, go back to being a "normal girl" (you know, painting your toenails and giving casual blowjobs for a date to your sister's wedding.)
With all of the objections people have to the movement (and they always have an objection), it's almost like i feel obligated to say:
"Yes, i am a feminist. And no, I am not a lesbian or a man-hater. I don't own a pair of Birkenstocks, i bathe on a regular basis (sometimes even once a day), I'm not a terrorist, communist, international spy, ex-con, child molester, schizophrenic or misanthropist. I don't worship Satan, i do not not possess a vagina and a penis simultaneously, i am not currently hoarding 35 cats in my basement. And i occasionally (but only occasionally) have a mustache."
So don't even go there.
In the 70's, no one wanted to be a feminist because it was subtext for (whisper:) Birkenstock-wearing lesbian. Now, no one wants to be a feminist because it's a punchline.
Announcing to the world, (or whoever happens to be within earshot) that you are feminist yields the same reaction it would to say that you are a cross-dresser, or a Morman. You become target practice for jokes like, "What happen, 'd boyfriend dump you?" It, feminism, seems to be so glazed with the cultural caricatures, that it's not even accepted as a legitamite political belief; it just means you're pissed off about something.
That's another thing. Apparently feminism is a temporary emotional reaction to everything that goes apeshit in your life now.
Your husband leaves you for his secretary with six kids?: Become a feminist
Wake up late for work, miss your morning commute, and get fired on the spot?: Become a feminist.
Walking home alone one night and get mugged by a crack-head for three bucks?: Become a feminist.
Have a fight with your closest friend who decides to spread a rumor about you contracting Herpes from the pizza guy?: Whip her ass. Then become a feminist.
And, of course, when things start to wind down a little, go back to being a "normal girl" (you know, painting your toenails and giving casual blowjobs for a date to your sister's wedding.)
With all of the objections people have to the movement (and they always have an objection), it's almost like i feel obligated to say:
"Yes, i am a feminist. And no, I am not a lesbian or a man-hater. I don't own a pair of Birkenstocks, i bathe on a regular basis (sometimes even once a day), I'm not a terrorist, communist, international spy, ex-con, child molester, schizophrenic or misanthropist. I don't worship Satan, i do not not possess a vagina and a penis simultaneously, i am not currently hoarding 35 cats in my basement. And i occasionally (but only occasionally) have a mustache."
So don't even go there.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Assume the following...
Lately, i've been inspired by the wonderful, ever insightful Chuck Klosterman, and decided to whip up a hypothetical of my own.
Hypothetical Q: You meet the man/woman of your dreams. He/she is physically attractive, intelligent, funny, loving, attentive, everything you've ever wanted. The two of you share a special mushy-gushy bond that is so unreal, it seems only comparable to a PG Disney film. You get married, have three beautiful, healthy children. You buy a wonderful house with a lake view, white picket fence (cause thats what every American wants, right?) and a German Shep. named Herman. You are financially stable, you have great sex, life is amazing. But then you find out something shocking: he/she is your first cousin. You, of course, had no idea, and neither did they. Do you tell your spouse? Do you stay in the marriage? Would your feelings for that person change? (Even the sexual attraction?)
Hypothetical Q: You meet the man/woman of your dreams. He/she is physically attractive, intelligent, funny, loving, attentive, everything you've ever wanted. The two of you share a special mushy-gushy bond that is so unreal, it seems only comparable to a PG Disney film. You get married, have three beautiful, healthy children. You buy a wonderful house with a lake view, white picket fence (cause thats what every American wants, right?) and a German Shep. named Herman. You are financially stable, you have great sex, life is amazing. But then you find out something shocking: he/she is your first cousin. You, of course, had no idea, and neither did they. Do you tell your spouse? Do you stay in the marriage? Would your feelings for that person change? (Even the sexual attraction?)
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