11.10.09
The Uppity Feminist’s Reply to the Veteran Critic (Essay #17)
UF: Dude!
VC: What?
What’s your deal?!
What are you talking about? Who are you?
Can’t you see that your posts — particularly the past couple — are extremely sexist?!
So? So what’s wrong with being sexy?
Sex-IST.
Oh. No they’re not.
What? Of course they are!
No, they’re totally not. You’re just closed-minded.
“Upskirts”…objecting to “upskirts” is being “closed-minded”?!
Hey, sugar — calling ‘em as I sees ‘em is not the same thing as endorsement; I was merely relating a strange and mildly amusing personal experience via contemporary parlance.
Don’t call me “sugar.”
Won’t happen again.
So what do you want, Gregory?
What do you mean: “What do I want”?
In a girlfriend. What do you want already?
[Peculiar wheezing sound.]
What’s that supposed to mean?
It means it’s a moot question.
Why?
When?
What?
Where?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY “MOOT QUESTION”?
Don’t yell at me. Look: Diminishing returns, babe. It sucks, I hate it, why play the game anymore?
Don’t call m–
Right. Done.
So what do you mean b–
All right, I don’t know if it’s America (probably), or television (likely), or L.A. (definitely) — or even a little bit me (and a little bit you…toooooo…) — but I’m struggling, really struggling, to think of any girl-woman I’ve dated in the past twenty years who didn’t turn out to be a pro-level asshole — and, honestly, the only ones (and they’re few and far between) I’ll spare that rude definition are the ones I only briefly or barely dated (including those whose friendship I still value, in distinct and different ways). But romantically? Shee-it. Epic fail.
[Rubs thumb and forefinger together.]
Don’t bother.
You didn’t even know what I was going t–
Yes, I did, actually — that’s the problem with females: You think your stupid little jokes and cutesyisms are adorable — or, worse, unique — but in fact the shtick just sucks. Don’t do it, please. It sucks. Try a little harder.
Fine.
Oh, now don’t get the fucking “huffy” face.
I’m not getting a “huffy” face.
Yes, you are. Uncross your arms. What are you, seven?
Hey — I’m here to interrogate you!
Well, fine, do it.
Why are you grinning?
Well, you’re me anyway. Carry on, genius.
You’re impossible!
No — I’m just highly improbable.
I return to my first question.
“What’s my deal”? Okay, my deal is this: Every now and again, I give really good energy to a seemingly deserving girl-woman — and I get shit in return. That’s my deal. And I want a new deal. Immediately.
How can you be s–
How can I be what? How can I tell the truth of my experience? It’s gotten a lot easier since I gave up hope, actually. I strongly recommend giving up hope. Hope is for idiots.
I suppose you’re going to say that “love is for idiots,” too.
Uncross your arms.
Fine.
No, I’m not going to say that, actually.
Well, what are you going to say?
I like Paul Simon.
Pardon?
Paul Simon. Little Jewish guy from back east. Genius songwriter. Used to make hilarious apprearances on Saturday Night Live way, way back when it was watchable.
Why do you mention that he’s Jewish?
That is actually an interesting question. It’s irrelevant to me, truly — just as I feel that all archaic religions are noteworthy but have passed into obsolescence. However, for some reason some people in some ethnic or social groups feel the need to remind people constantly — and I mean constantly — that they are such-and-such or whatever. It certainly doesn’t offend me or bother me — but it’s kind of like if you and I were both standing somewhere together, and I kept feeling the need to remind you that I’m a biped or a mammal. It’s kind of like, “Um, yeah, that’s nice…and it’s related to our immediate conversation how exactly?” That’s all.
This I did not expect.
I’ll talk about anything, anytime, anywhere. Whoo, just look at me go. But really, the Jew thing is fine — just, like, if you’re already wearing a Star of David sweatshirt and waving an Israel banner in my face, it might not be necessary to remind me that you’re Jewish. I may figure it out. But taking the point even further, I mean, at least you’re not Christian. I’m not a big fan of either faith, but “The Messiah ain’t here yet” is a whole lot more comforting than, “The Messiah already came and left, and when he returns he’s totally going to kick your ass if you don’t do EVERYTHING exactly the way WE tell you to do it!”
Would you like a blowjob?
What…now? Here?
Yeah.
No. I don’t find you appealing.
Yeah, but it’s a blowjob!
Blowjobs, more often than not, lead to terrible unhappiness.
Yoiks. Let’s go back to talking about religion!
We weren’t talking about religion.
Yes we were!
Well, “we” weren’t — but I was, but only peripherally — in the sense that I find it annoying NOT what religion or ethnic identity someone chooses as their personal definition — but that they feel it necessary to slip it into conversation every forty-five seconds. It’s just boring. Why be boring?
I think…I think I get your point?
Well, duh. You’re me. But hey, Hava Nagila. Do as thou wilt.
Thanks.
Sure.
But you’re sexist.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are.
Did I pay for an argument?
What?
Nothing. I didn’t expect that to connect.
Okay…so…wait…Paul Simon?
Oh, yeah. He’s pretty great. As extremely wealthy Jewish-American singer-songwriters go, I like him better than Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow and Robert “Bob Dylan” Zimmerman combined.
What about the Beastie Boys?
I hate the Beastie Boys.
What? How is that possible?
I’ll admit that a small percentage of their shit is catchy — but those screechy voices make me wanna die. Hate ‘em.
Why are you even in this country?
You’re asking me? It wasn’t my idea.
Well, where would you rather be?
I don’t know. Anywhere but Germany. I hate Germany, too.
But wh–
They pride themselves on being assholes; I just can’t get into that.
[Long, exasperated sigh.]
Hey, would you like some cunnilingus?
WHY SURE!
Oh. Um. I was just k–
I know.
Whew.
Yeah.
Paul Simon has this great song — one of many — called “Born at the Right Time” — it’s on his terrific Rhythm of the Saints album — which, perhaps not coincidentally, was given to me as a birthday present from a neurotic Jewish friend of mine who never calls.
Do you still have it?
Yes, I still have it. But it’s in a box somewhere.
Your point?
Well, now it occurs to me to say that everything connects. I mean, he bought the CD (presumably he bought the CD) at the Warner Bros. company store, on the lot in Burbank. I mean, how many people can say that about their Paul Simon – Rhythm of the Saints CD?
Not many, I imagine.
And you’d be right about that, sister!
Don’t call m–
Oh, I won’t. I’ve been through the sister thing. Talk about assholes. Anything anybody has ever told you about sisters being kind, intelligent, supportive, loving beings — believe me, I’ve got the counter-story. Miserable.
So obviously this strongly impacts your perceptions of women.
Wait, should I get on the couch first?
Reconsidering that blowjob?
Hardly. You’re totally not my type. But in fact I can very easily distinguish between sisterly and romantic inclinations. It’s simply that, when one has sisters, one’s hopes and longings and desires get severely warped before one is even out of the gate.
Or the closet.
You know, that brings up an interesting point.
Okay.
You may not like it.
Try me.
For as long as I can remember in my life, any time I haven’t instantaneously gotten a boner and turned into a mush-brained romantic moron for some stupid girl, it’s been turned into some leering, reactionary homosexual appraisal. As if.
As if what?
Honey, maybe the problem is with YOU.
Don’t call me h–
I promise you, I really promise you, it won’t happen again.
But what if you are?
What? Gay? Ha. I mean, if same-sexers are into that, hey, their business, not mine. But really I’m only typing this part because I know that the human attention span has diminished to nearly nothing — especially whilst reading (a skill more people are losing every day) — and so I’m taking a tip from Bowie: Make ‘em wonder; it’s lucrative (or, at least, it keeps ‘em paying attention). But I’ve gone over this for myself years ago, and it’s a lifelong thing: I don’t like ding-dong; I like bing-bong.
Why do you feel you even have the right to–
To what? To write whatever I want on my own web journal thingie? Gosh, and I suppose that fat housewives ranting about their periods is more acceptable?
You don’t know that they’re fat.
Let’s call it a good guess.
Paul Simon.
Oh, right. He has this song called “Born at the Right Time” — and it’s excellent — but it also really pisses me off. Because he pretty much was born at the right time: Money, real estate, “free love,” experimentation, great big wide fucking horizons leading way out into the Hamptons.
And let me guess: By contrast, you were “Born at the Wrong Time.”
Precisely.
That’s pathetic.
Is it? Dig this, sticky buns–
Don’t call m–
I SAID, DIG THIS, STICKY BUNS: Boomers scooped us, and this can be proven — statistically proven — by examining just about any perspective on our current economy. It’s a catastrophe — and why? Boomers. Greedy, stupid, self-absorbed Boomers. Me, me, me, me, motherfucking ME. Well, great, thanks a lot. Excuse me while I sit here trying to build a house out of crumbs.
Wow, you really need that blowjob!
Actually…nah. But that does signify another aspect of the misery of being born Gen-X.
Which is?
Romance. It really is dead. As a doornail. Or — as Dickens put it — as a coffin nail. The “I Like Ike” generation got romance — they got to cut a rug to Glenn and Bing and The Andrews Sisters, and have a gay old time before gay meant gay. They toughed it out, made love last. Then you get your Boomers: A few interesting innovations, I’ll grant — but boy did they ever fuck up romance — and then they killed it. If you doubt me, just take a look at their kids. You won’t have any trouble recognising them: They’re the ones playing Rock Band on Ritalin.
But where do you fit into all this?
I’ve never been one for definitions — I used to know people in the Pac NW who spent all day every day trying to force people into stupid little pigeonholes, whether politically or spiritually or whatever, and it sucks, it sucks, it sucks — however I would say that I rode into the picture just exactly in “time” (unlike the more idiotic humans, I don’t believe in “time”) to witness the murder of romance — and the rise of Female Empowerment.
So what’s wrong with that?
Well, may I make a dubious and potentially career-killing example?
Shoot.
I don’t shoot; I despise all guns and want them all destroyed immediately.
Okay.
You mean it?
No — okay, get on with it.
Rats. Well, I speak now in generalities — and only from personal observation — but, for instance, there are a lot of Jewish people in Media.
Yeah, and?
Well, many of them I have encountered are super fucking rich, and can do and say pretty much whatever they want all day, and they get fun and glory and snazzy trophies to boot.
You’re freaking me out now.
No need. My point is actually extremely benign — merely very curious: And yet — and yet — these same people — who have power, prestige and freedom to burn — many of them are profoundly paranoid, and act like — this is the part I seriously do not understand — they act like they’re being persecuted, and that this in turn allows them to be as awkward, unpleasant or antisocial as they please.
Your point?
No — it’s not my point. It’s merely an illustrative example. I’ve carefully surveyed the Bible Belt, and I sure as “Hell” wouldn’t want to live there, and it deeply upsets me that the people who are into that very limited worldview feel it necessary not only to obsess over their ignorant and misinformed claims — but also to try to push them — push them, exactly like drugs — on others. Just stop it! It’s disgusting!
Okay, but Jews.
Hey, fine. Six thousand years, a boatload of wisdom there — even if the religion can be fucking weird. (Eat dead pig? Don’t eat dead pig? Why? Etc.) But it’s the “THEY’RE PERSECUTING ME!!!” thing — from people who are literally running the show — that I find bizarre. But again, it’s very, very much a general observation — and a local one, too — and is not in any way, shape or form to be applied to any individuals, or to be misconstrued to bring harm.
So why mention it?
Well, frankly, it’s parallel to the way I perceive women today, generally. Power: You got it. Money: You got it. Freedom: You got it. Control: You got it. And yet still, there’s this pathetic, knee-jerk, “I’M BEING PERSECUTED!!!” button any female gets to press, at any time, anywhere, whenever they feel like it, if they’d like to turbo-boost their Power/Money/Freedom/Control — at the expense of whichever unlucky man happens to be around at the time to take the blame.
Wow, you’re really something.
Yes, I know.
So you were “Born at the Wrong Time,” and women are all out to get you.
I never said that. Well, the first part — yeah, I only really enjoyed parts of the ’80s — the rest thus far has been total fucking shit.
Nice.
Hey, I didn’t make all that crap.
But the women thing.
Yeah, like I said, I’ll talk about anything. And here’s what I’d like known in regard to that: When I was a kid — I mean literally a kid — I got into Punk Rock. Not in a big way, and not the ugly stuff. The Clash, mainly — because they were and are awesome. And I kept struggling to write songs — loads and loads and loads of lyrics. And you know what one of the songs was called?
[Yawning.]
Hello?
Oh — sorry. I was thinking about shoes.
I’m sure you were.
What were you saying?
The song was called “Serious Girlfriend.” Because that’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
You’ve had a few opportunities, haven’t you?
Not really, no. Like I said, there were a few nice people — ships passing in the night — and I bow to them and thank them for their continued existence, and I bless them. But any real attempts — based in part on context and available resources and other variables — have met with terrible pain on my side of things — because I made the idiotic choice to give it a go with nutcases and sociopaths.
What have you learned?
No fat chicks. I have learned that.
Come on.
Well, around here it’s not all fat. There’s also that psycho-actress look about the eyes, or the horror of it in the voice: Warning signs. Stay away!
This is all very sad.
Tell me about it.
So what now?
No fucking clue. I didn’t vote for the Bitch party. My romantic inclinations — and I think you’ll find this backed up in magazine articles both scientific and tawdry — are challenged beyond the breaking point by these allegedly “Empowered” women.
You hate them, don’t you?
Of course I don’t hate them. I think most of them are assholes, though. And I think it’s perfectly acceptable to call an asshole an asshole when they’re being an asshole.
So how do you fix this, at least for yourself? Make it livable?
Again, no clue. What I have done is I’ve gotten accustomed to solitude. Gotten very comfy with it. I stay up all night, but when I choose to sleep, I sleep well. I mean, I could go hook up with a wide variety of available females on any given day or night, just ply them with this or that stupid luxury and the legs pop right open — but even though that is a very real reality, it is also of no interest to me except for verbal shock value.
It worked.
Thank you.
Sure.
But like I said, this is a rotten “time” for romance. It’s certainly not the males’ fault, either. 99% of males are stupider than I am. They want sports, and then they want food, and then they want pussy, and then they want sleep. They read a book every five to ten years — and it’s usually about sports. But they’d also like to be considered suave lovers. They will usually do anything to make “their” woman “happy.”
It’s no wonder women are so fascinated by gay men.
Yeah. Duh. But anyway, I’m a reasonably smart male. And a smartly reasonable male. I’ll mouth off like hell if provoked, but my heart is good, my intentions noble. Fuck you if you don’t believe it — it’s totally true. Just don’t shit in my face. I’ll do the dinner thing, the movie thing, the support thing, the listening thing, the meeting-the-stupid-family thing, the taking-trips-to-places-about-which-I-could-give-two-shits thing. But just don’t shit in my face. That’s all.
And then they do.
Yes. They do. And they want to be ADORED for it.
That is pretty weird.
Damned weird! “Check me out! I’m a wretch! Love me for it!”
Even I can see that.
Well, don’t forget you’re actually me.
I haven’t forgotten that.
Good.
Are there alternatives?
Well, again, this may be America, or it may be L.A. — or it may have something to do with the Boomers ruining everything for everybody (clean up your fucking mess, Boomers!). But here’s what I’ve noticed about successful romantic relationships these days.
Oh, this ought to be good.
Oh, it is.
I’m all ears.
If you’re a guy, and you’re an abusive asshole — you WILL get an adoring girlfriend.
Check. True.
And, if you’re a guy, and you’re a pathetic loser — you WILL get an adoring girlfriend.
Also true. I see it all the time.
So do I. (But I don’t believe in “time.”)
So what do you do?
You know what I heard a dubious character say this year?
No, what?
“Abuse ‘em or lose ‘em.”
Surely you don’t endorse that!
Of course not. And don’t call me “Shirley.”
Hey, that’s from…that’s from– [snap, snap]
Airplane!
Yeah!
Hey, pretty good. You’re almost worthwhile.
But the abuse thing…
And the “pathetic” thing — well, it’s all pathetic, isn’t it? My problem is that I’m smart — women don’t seem to like smart very much. Why are so many women so fucking stupid that they think they can heal their daddy issues by fucking STUPID guys who remind them of exactly how their daddies fucked them up in the first place?
I’m speechless.
Why?
That’s really beautiful, man.
Well, it’s TRUE! I mean, in many cases. Oh, we are so very fortunate on this planet that those trends haven’t gone epidemic. But it sure seems like it sometimes.
So what do you have to offer?
I don’t know. Any girl gutsy enough to date me is going to be on probation for a couple of years.
Come on.
No, I’m serious — I really don’t have much trust anymore. I’ve dealt with some real monsters. Observed some amazingly unacceptable actions. I don’t play that shit anymore. Game over.
Come on.
Well, I’m the one who needs a change. My hopes and desires manifest almost entirely in dreams now, so in my waking life it’s pretty flatline. Again, part of it is from living in this fascinating but quite sick city — but personally my expectations are definitely nil. I already know that aberrant behaviour will manifest itself rather quickly, and then by attempting to discuss it I somehow become the “bad guy” (amazing: I’m a guy who TALKS ABOUT ISSUES, and that’s somehow “bad”), and then I get the shit end of the stick while she goes off to ride some shithead’s stick. It’s really not interesting to me anymore.
Well, it must hold some interest, or you wouldn’t–
Let me make this very clear: I SINCERELY BELIEVE THAT THE FEMININE PRINCIPLE IS THE ELEMENT — AND REALLY THE ONLY ELEMENT — WHICH CAN SAVE OUR PLANET AND ITS LIFE-FORMS, AND REDEEM OUR LARGELY INSANE HUMAN SPECIES. I deeply and sincerely believe that. It’s very obvious that human males have made a shithole of the Earth thus far, and that’s coming strictly from a Masculine principle (which, alas, many women also adopt — and all of this is usually cemented by sick patriarchal religions based on mind control).
Wow, you really, really, really need that blowjob.
It’s too late for blowjobs. Mainly it’s this: I think where women are fucked in the head is that many of them believe that they — being human beings, bipedal mammals, whatever — are somehow the actual, physical embodiment of that Feminine principle…WHICH, OF COURSE, THEY ARE NOT.
They’re not? We’re not?
Heh. Of course you’re and they’re not! People — human beings — are a colossal jumble of all sorts of crazy things. But pure embodiments of psychological and spiritual principles they most assuredly ARE NOT.
And you think this is somehow part of the problem?
Dig: Women don’t even smile at me anymore when I pass them on the pavement. A smile. A nod. Acknowledgment of a fellow human. That’s too much for them — too much strain, too much work. That’s not my doing. I shower every day, and shave every two. That’s their doing. That’s them being stuck up their own asses. And that’s a big chunk of why romance is dead as a coffin nail: My inclinations are sincere and good: I’d like to be nice to an eligible girl-woman-lady and bring her happiness and security and support and as much fun as this shit world will allow. But she — “she” meaning many of the ones I encounter — she wants to pretend she’s somehow more than human. Which of course she is not. She’s a thinking animal — which slopped out of another thinking animal — exactly as I did. Let’s not lose sight of that. Let’s employ a bit of humility.
Wait…what? What is this “humility” of which you speak?
Precisely. That’s dead, too.
Sure seems like it.
If you weren’t me, I’d be gratified by your concurrence.
Thanks.
Sure.
Blowjob?
Nah. I need a hug much more than I need a blowjob.
Hug?
Nah. You’re not my type. Here’s a video for you. Goodnight.
