65

My brother claims he smelt an angel in the room.  “Like butterscotch,” he said.  “Aunt Julie smelled like butterscotch.”  Aunt Julie did smell like butterscotch.  But butterscotch also smells like butterscotch, I remind him, and he frowns a mournful frown.  “You can’t smell angels,” I said, staring down into the bathroom sink, washing away the stray hairs that had clung to the porcelain.  “They may be around us, with us even, but they don’t share our senses.  They don’t share our dimension. Our things.”

My brother looked up as I did and smiled.  We smiled.  And we got out our toothbrushes and floss and cue tips, laying them across the edge of the sink. 

“You make me so sad, sometimes.  But I like you.”  And I opened up my brother, reached into his chest, and took another handful of pills.

Idle Bananas Are the Devil’s Playground

I couldn’t sleep.  For as tired as I was, and as closed as my eyes remained, I knew I had left two rotting bananas in a bag next to the door.  Two bananas that had not been chosen from the bunch, and had instead come to rest at the bottom of a shopping bag, tied tightly, from over three weeks before.

The gnats swarm to it like vultures.  Pesky little vultures that prefer the stained carpet of a disheveled bedroom to the bleached sands of a California pit.  And with company like me, who can blame them.

I’ve tossed and turned for several nights thinking about those bananas.  What they look like now, decomposing at the other end of the room, starting to smell just strong enough that a dousing of Oust won’t disguise their presence. And the gnats that won’t leave me alone.

Tonight I fell asleep for several minutes before I awoke and took a quick shave.  The gnats followed to the bathroom and hovered next to the mirror.  And as quickly as I clap my hands to crush them, quicker than any other movement I have made for months, I seem to never catch them between my palms.  They merely disappear for a moment.  Then they hover round once more.

And when I returned to bed, the stumbling baton for the marching band of gnats, I found myself nearly disgusted with my own mind.

“It’s 3:38, Alex.  And do you hear the crunching?  The crunching of a sack, being outgrown, left behind, like the shell of an ambitious locust.  You can pretend you don’t hear it, but you do.  And what’s inside the bag?  Bananas?  Not anymore.  Your bananas disappeared long ago, the unfortunate victims of decomposition – and feast. 

“But for whom?  The pesky little gnats?  Merely foot-soldiers to a larger revolution.  But you’re about to meet the leader of the band.”

And the sack would tip over, and I would sit up in my bed, squinting through the darkness.  The sound of a thousand gnats lifting off would try desperately to muffle the sound of what I fear most from across the room. 

Across papers it would squirm.  My clothes, my socks, my shoes, taking precious time to travel, and leaving a putrid trail of disgust with every wretch it calls a step. 

A maggot.  Two to three foot long.  I can hear it squirm across the floor as though it were squirming right between my ears and tunneling to my brain to suck at the frontal lobe.  The segmented, careless body chugging toward my bed, and I can’t move.  I can’t think.  I can only faintly see it getting closer, without thought, to the source of the rotten bananas.

And there it will sit at the foot of my bed, moving just enough to hear, the squishy, wet smack of a living tail pounding against the carpet.  And I will never leave my room again.  I will never sleep.  Held hostage by a maggot of my own creation – perhaps nature’s most primitive vomit – an eyeless, brainless, thoughtless character of desire.  A yellow shit that feeds on shit in great hoards of yellow shits.  Sitting at the foot of my bed.  And I have to wait for evolution. A maggot to a fly.  Or I’ll die tired and afraid, the most sophisticated life form paralyzed by a peon in the system.  A lowly yellow shit. 

Yes, I’ve tossed and turned for several nights thinking of those bananas.  And my palms have bruised from swatting gnats.  But the dumpster’s several hundred yards away, and it’s cold for mid-October.  Too cold for mid-October.  And too cold for giant maggots.

Cigarettes, Brunettes, and the Recession.

            Today’s one of those days that is completely controlled by the twitching of my fingers.  One of those days that I could really use a cigarette – and I don’t even smoke.  My legs are pumping like pistons in a 35cc and every few moments I find my hand going through the drawers of an empty desk, looking for something, or nothing, or anything, or everything.  Or a fucking cigarette.

            And all the while I’ve been making kissy faces at this brunette in the library, trading giggles and valuable time, as I peck away at an economics plan for a community college micro course.  I’m supposed to fix the economy.  I can’t even fix the broken window in my apartment, letting every particle of evaporated glacier take a shit on my bed.  And what’s my plan to tackle that one?  Spend less time in my room.  Which is exactly why I’m in a tug of war with this brunette, over which one of us is actually going to give up first, and whether or not I’m going to have to account for my sins as a male.  Put it on my tab. 
          
  And again, instead of running through scenarios for green-level SUVs or government label sedans, I’m searching through my mental data files as to whether I need to apologize to anyone today.  Maybe I should buy my mom some flowers. Wouldn’t that be nice.  Or maybe I should give that brunette some flowers.  Maybe this entire scribble should be an apology to anyone that reads it, a demographic that is becoming increasingly more hostile, and have requested that I kill myself on numerous occasions.  And believe me, I would if I had the time!  But I’ve got to seduce a girl I’ve never met, send my mom flowers, and fix the economy, all in time for the Bears game this evening.
                       
Cry baby blues.  I need a new pair of shoes.  And a hat made of alligator, too.  Boo-hoo.

Smile.

837,594 people have committed suicide this year.  I like to keep track on a daily basis, for silly reasons.  As a matter of fact, it’s the best reason not to commit suicide, this tracking fetish.  The last thing a person on the edge wants is to become another statistic.  It’s statistics we’re all running away from.

Besides that, it’s too dark outside to be productive.  The wind howls just loudly enough to cover my roommate’s snore.  So I watch the ticker clock the amount of suicides on a Tuesday morning.  It must be raining in Seattle.

“They tried to get me – I got them first!”  Some poet said that back in the thirties right before drinking a quart of Lysol.  I drank a bit of Agent Orange when I was a kid, but I couldn’t imagine finishing a quart of it for any reason – even eternal despair.

I used to keep track of how many people have told me to kill myself, but it got to be a trendy thing to say a couple years ago and I lost count.  I found a request addressed to me yesterday, and a couple in my inbox last week.  Note to self: When telling people to kill themselves, remember to hand write the letter.  Emoticons do no justice to cruelty.

The people that claim it’s the coward’s way out are obviously the ones that have something to live for.  When you hit skeleton low, cowardice and care take a backseat to relief.  Anesthesia is the coward’s way out, too.  But Jesus do I hate watching them slice through my giblets when I could enjoy a nice nap, instead. 
Speaking of naps and suicide, Ernest Hemingway is a good way to tie the two together: “I love sleep.  My life has a tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?”  Years later, he partook in the longest nap.

I can’t wag my finger in the faces of the self-destructive.  People get old.  Love dries up.  Sometimes, you have to cut your losses – or your throat.  No, I can’t wag my finger in the faces of the self-destructive.

837,663.

The sun gets up every morning and pisses in someone’s face.  

SMILE. 

(10.19.08)

And the Nobel Prize Giveaway Continues!

(Sweden — Friday) Barack Obama has just won the Nobel Peace Prize.  Not even realizing he was a finalist for the award, he woke to the news in shock.  While it’s not EXACTLY obvious as to why he was the UNANIMOUS choice, among the reasons suggested are: uniting an entire nation (to vote for Barack Obama,) helping to ease racial tension in the United States (in accompaniment for voting for Barack Obama,) and for promising future strides in world peace and economics (that have yet to unfold.)  All in…a few months work…right?

What most people don’t know is that this signals a new beginning for the Nobel Prize board.  A new encouragement for underachievement, some would say, while others, (winners,) claim it is now a much more realistic goal to strive for.  Did you know Gandhi never got one of these things?  Well, in future years, look for his corpse to receive the prize for not causing any problems in the afterlife.

With this new mission in order, the rest of the recipients have been named.  And for your enjoyment…they will be listed…

THE NOBEL PRIZE IN PHYSICS:

 Dwight Howard: For his outstanding achievements of being bigger than all the other players on his team, and most other players in the league, as well as his contributions to jumping higher than the average male, and for doing a bunch of whack-ass crazy shit in dunk contests.  The Nobel Board salutes your contributions.

THE NOBEL PRIZE IN CHEMISTRY:

 Colonel Sanders: A posthumous award, Sanders is recognized for his achievements in the perfect recipe for fried chicken.   Though the ingredients have not been revealed, (and only two people know the secret to this day,) Sanders’ contributions to deliciousness and widespread obesity can not go ignored.  (Several members of the board seem to believe they know the secret ingredient: everything nice.)

THE NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE:

Jeff Mondlock: My former roommate, Jeff, doesn’t actually know he’s won the award yet, and even if I told him, I don’t think he’d put down the new Batman: Arkham Asylum game to accept it.  For his outstanding achievement of actually reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Fliver King” for his history class last semester, despite all odds and distractions that included, but were not limited to, video games, Coca-Cola, and a Filipino roommate, Mondlock wins his first Nobel Prize – but it will certainly not be his last.

THE NOBEL PRIZE IN MEDICINE:

 Keith Richards: After fifty years of incredible drug use, (something that almost deserves an award in itself,) researchers began to wonder how Richards was still breathing, let alone touring with the Stones.  After months of study, it was found that Richards actually died in 1986.  Someone forget to tell him.  The award is in recognition of his CONTINUED drug use, which seems to be some kind of fountain of use, and certainly a positive model for youth across the nation.

THE NOBEL PRIZE IN ECONOMICS:

 Michael Jackson/Joe Jackson (Shared Award): The award goes to Joe Jackson for obvious reasons: Even in the aftermath of his son’s tragic death, Joe was able to keep his composure and maintain business as business, helping to promote the albums on his label for as long as CNN would let him.  And Michael Jackson’s contribution to economics?  Discovering the only foolproof way out of bankruptcy: death.

Maybe next year you’ll win an award! 

-Denison (10.9.09)

Whoppers From the Lens: Swallowing Ghosts Force-Fed Through Photography

“You think the dead we love ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?”

For centuries upon centuries, the presence of ghosts and the supernatural had to be accepted from eyewitness accounts.  With no concrete form of documentation, and without great strides in the investigation of the afterlife, the existence of ghosts was as difficult to prove as disprove.  But in the mid-19^th Century, alongside the rise of Spiritualism, mediums, and the séance, spirit photography was born.  And as technology has progressed, and photography has evolved, the ability to prey on the mourning and the mystified is easier than ever before.
          
  Though the first photographs of “ghosts” were merely accidents, a number of photographers noticed that the business of capturing spirits on film could be an extremely lucrative practice.  Without suggesting that every photo that depicts a ghost is doctored, it is more realistic to press that a great number of these photographs are hoaxes, made for profit, fame, or for any other number of devious reasons.  In his book, The Stereoscope, the 19^th Century optical scientist David Brewster perhaps said it best: “For the purpose of amusement, the photographer may carry us even into the realms of the supernatural” (American Museum of Photography).  It would be childish to think that all photographs of spirits are genuine, and that the evils of greed would not dare seep into the touchy subject of the supernatural. 
          
  With this in mind, it is impossible not to mention William Mumler, though not the first to take pictures of “ghosts”, but certainly the first to offer his services as a medium through photography.  Although many of his photographs were investigated at the time and found to be inexplicable, the most convincing evidence for his fraudulent practices comes not from any of the investigations into his business, but rather the clientele.  It is no coincidence that the people most interested in seeking Mumler’s services were also the most desperate to reach out to lost loved ones.  And although it may seem logical that those with lost loved ones would have the best chance of attracting the spirits they desire, it’s even more logical to believe that someone is willing to exploit the dead for a buck.  In the case of William Mumler, it was ten bucks per photograph (The Haunted Museum). 

It's creepy and it's cooky. But all together...spooky?

           The best example of Mumler and spirit photography’s treachery may also be the most famous.  When Mary Todd Lincoln came to Mumler for a photograph, (allegedly under a false name,) the photographer was able to provide a remarkable picture of the woman with the former president, Abraham Lincoln, lingering over her shoulder, perfectly recognizable.  Despite arguments that Mumler didn’t realize who she was until the photo was taken, after years of producing images for mourning families that showed nothing but blurred figures later claimed to be “ghosts”, this obvious presentation of Lincoln is more than extraordinary.  Putting aside the perceived mysteries of photography for the 19^th Century public, it’s interesting that this photograph would allow for such a striking portrait of the former president, among the most photographed men of his time, while others were seen as nothing but blurs.  But again, the intricacies of the photos themselves are not as important as those who sought them out.  Mary Todd Lincoln, a woman who had lost most of her children and a dearly beloved husband, and who was by most accounts mentally deranged following his murder, came seeking comfort, or perhaps closure, from a spirit photographer.  And for the right price, it was provided. 
           
Furthermore, as photography has improved, its use in supernatural persuasion has broadened.  In Daniel Wojcik’s piece, “Polaroids From Heaven”, he said that in such a technological age, it should not be a surprise to find cameras being used as “divinatory devices” (133).  Moreover, digital photography has even stretched the parameters of what will be accepted as a ghost, and for what purpose.  Orbs, the fuzzy circles found in numbers of digital photographs, are now considered everything from ghosts to angels, and used for equally misleading reasons as the profitable photos from the 1800s.  Among them, religious promotion, such as Max Greiner’s website “Angel Orb Miracles,” which not only claims that orbs are actually angels, but that they are most prominent in Christian settings.  “I believe God wanted me to provide a Christian explanation of Orbs on our website,” Greiner says (2).  What better time to encourage a person to bring God into their life than after the loss of a loved one.  This marketing of Christianity comes through a simple pitch: the acceptance of God into your life will bring you closer to the dead that you miss, as evidenced by some photographs of worshippers in the presence of angels. 
           
The business of spirit photography, a literal business if there has ever been one, varies on overall goal, but remains similar in approach.  People will always be interested and mystified by the afterlife, and specifically, the state of their loved ones.  Whether we stay here to intervene in daily lives or depart to heaven, hell, or elsewhere, the fascination with the supernatural cannot be matched by any other.  And as with all commodities, spirit photographs, in the end, seem to always generate some kind of profit.  The only question left is whether the comfort some receive from these images is worth the inescapable lies and fraud that accompany so much of the topic.  

(10.8.09 : Haunting & Healing.)

A Tunnel To The Think-Box

Do you know of the Mona Lisa?  Perhaps you think you do.  Somewhere inside your fertile mind there is an image that is processing.  Still processing.  Wait for it – Got it?  Delete it.  Because like those four years you wasted learning the entire Pokemon catalogue, it is not only pointless, but questionably absurd.

Why?

Because it isn’t real.  It doesn’t exist.  That image inside your mind was self-created, self-indulgent, and self-diluted.  And might I add, unflattering. But you’re confused – where did it go?  It didn’t go anywhere, sweetheart. For it never was.  

And out of an eggshell crawls an idea of certainty, and of absolute helplessness at the same time. Or have you lost it, already? Allow me to explain.

Your brain has a section, directly behind the eye, that captures images of things you see.  You know what a McDonalds is, and you associate it with the golden arches for a reason: visual memory.  And in some ancient combative arts, it is believed that if you snatch out the left eyeball fast enough – SNATCH – you may be able to pull that cortex apart from the rest of the brain.  No more eyeball.  No more visual memory.  You’ll be able to see, but you won’t be able to remember seeing it.  Or that.  Or anything. 

And in the land of the blind, the one eyed man with the snatched visual cortex is on a relatively level playing field, for his joy at sight is short-lived due to his lack of memory.  Got me, Confucius?

There are no kings when it comes to brutal mind-theft.

Well, I just dug my grubby little fingers into your eye socket and pulled out a heaping wad of insanity.  You can’t have it back.  And whatever warbled vision you had of a pleasant world is gone forever.  Into the burlap sack with a few magician’s toys and a live cougar. 

…And memory’s worst enemies are my fingers and a live cougar.

America’s True ‘Great Communicator’

The entire three hours that I’ve been awake today have been dedicated to one thing: Reading the complete library of one-minute speeches from former Congressman James Traficant. 

            That may seem like the most boring thing you’ve ever heard, but I assure you, that it is quite the opposite.  Because James Traficant was not your average politician.  He wore a disgustingly tacky wig.  He sported denim suits.  He liked to finish his speeches with “Beam me up!”  And he was only the 5^th member of the House of Representatives to be kicked out – ever.  Some would say that the reason is simple: he took money in bribes, he bribed other people, he forced his aides to do chores for him on the weekends like maintain his houseboat, etc.  But I think the reason is because he had no friends.  Only one person voted to keep him in the House – Gary Condit, who would later become famous for having an affair with Chandra Levy and becoming the lead suspect for her murder.  (He didn’t do it.  Doesn’t matter.  9/11 came around and everyone forgot all about it.  Anyway.) It seems no one liked James Traficant.

Except his constituents.  While serving a seven year sentence for the previously mentioned crimes, he ran for Congress again, becoming the first person to ever run for public office while in prison.  Did he win?  Fuck no.  Don’t be stupid.  But he still got 15% of the vote, which is absolutely ridiculous.  And awesome. 

 Did I know any of this before 7 P.M.?  No.  But it just so happens that he was released from prison a couple days ago, and to be absolutely honest, I’m stoked.  If I had a collection of U.S. Politician trading cards, his would be the one that I would put in the really expensive plastic sleeve.  Back to the shoebox for you, Biden.

And because I am in such a chipper political mood, I thought I would share a couple of his nuggets with you.  These are just the tip of the iceberg, might I add, because he gave a one-minute speech EVERY DAY, giving C-Span the best ratings they’ve ever had.  I don’t even know where to begin, but I’ll just throw in two or three that are sitting in front of me.  I might print them all out and paste them around the room.  You know…for America.

COINCIDENCE
October 8, 1997
- “Mr. Speaker, Patricia Mendoza heckled the President; she got audited. Kent Brown sued the First Lady; he got audited. The National Center for Public Policy criticized the White House; they got audited. Billy Dale got the White House mad; he got audited. Paula Jones refused a cash settlement; she got audited. 
If that is not enough to tax your disgust, Shelly Davis, the author of Unbridled Power, who testified about IRS abuses before the Senate, got a notice in the mail yesterday; she is being audited. 
Unbelievable. After all this, an IRS spokesman said, coincidence, all coincidence. I say, Mr. Speaker, the IRS has turned into a bunch of political prostitutes. 
I want to apologize to all the hookers in America for having associated them with the IRS. I say beam me up, dot com, coincidence this.”

BORIS YELTSIN NEEDS COUNSELING, NOT MONITORING
March 24, 1998 – 
”Mr. Speaker, in 1993, Boris Yeltsin fell off a stage in Germany. In 1994, Boris could not get off his plane in Ireland. In 1996, Boris came up missing for 7 consecutive days, unexplained, before an election. In 1997, he forgot about a meeting with Vice President Al Gore. Yesterday, he fired his entire cabinet. The White House says they are monitoring it. 
Mr. Speaker, is Boris Yeltsin a victim of El Nino, too? Let us tell it like it is. This guy is not exactly the head of Kiwanis International. Boris Yeltsin has his shaky little finger on the button of one of the world’s most massive nuclear arsenals. 
I say monitor this, Boris Yeltsin does not need monitors. Boris Yeltsin needs Alcoholics Anonymous. I say let us save our foreign aid and let us send some counselors over to take care of this guy. I yield back 1 day at a time the balance my time.”

$13,000 TOILETS BUILT BY PARK SERVICE
October 22, 1997
- “Mr. Speaker, the U.S. Park Service built a $500,000 outhouse. That is right. This Taj Mahal has a slate roof, a porch, and a cobblestone foundation. The paint cost $80 a gallon. The wildflower seed was $720 a pound. 
Unbelievable. To boot, it is earthquake proof, able to withstand the shock of 6.5 on the Richter, either from without or within. 
Mr. Speaker, if that is not enough to warm your globe, there is no running water and the special high-technology self-composting toilets cost $13,000 each. The Park Service said, `We tried to cut costs desperately.’ 
Mr. Speaker, I have a suggestion. Why do they not cut those $13,000 toilets in half to better accommodate all those half-assed bureaucrats at the U.S. Park Service?”

I really hope you read this.  That’s all I can say.

(9.5.09)

Medical Fraud and Satanic Cannibalism; A Love Story

Donor Says He Got $20,000 For Kidney : Four years ago, cash-starved Nick Rosen answered a newspaper ad for a kidney donor. He says he lied to a hospital transplant team and got $20,000 for his kidney. – CNN

It’s a story like this that makes we wonder why I should ever be worried about money.

If someone like Nick Rosen, who CNN claims went as far as to make a documentary about the whole process, can sell his organs on the black market, where have I gone so wrong?  And why am I bothering to show up to my geology classes? 

Nevermind that this is completely illegal thanks to a 1994 U.S. Federal law.  That is truly the fine print of a situation such as this.  The matter in concern is the GALL.   Not the gall bladder, specifically.  I’m not sure how much those sell for on the market. 

I wrote a play about a situation like this a few years back – not a published play, might I add, (thank God.)  It was ridiculed for several reasons, including it’s absolute awfulness, but most distinctly because several of its critics didn’t believe people actually sold organs on the black market, nor did they believe there was a real “black market.”

Norman Fry, a history teacher at Southeastern Community College, claims to have visited the actual black market, somewhere in Thailand or Nepal or something, (I never paid very good attention in his class.  He used the term “upshot” in places where it should never be used, i.e. “But the upshot is – 40,000 people died in the fire, including 3,000 children.”  This, friends, is not an upshot.)  Anyway, he claims that there is an actual neighborhood in some primitive country that is simply “the black market,” where not only can you arrange the sale of organs, children, or corpses, but also more mundane items that are not available in all countries – typewriters, baseballs, or Coca-Cola. 

In some areas of herbal medicine, shamans believe that the adrenal glands of animals, if chewed, will help to increase the health, or power, of the consumer.  Then someone got a bright idea: Why not eat human adrenal glands?  Since then, the demand for human adrenal glands has been on the rise, and is one of the top black-market requests.

Furthermore – and granted, this comes at the hands of paranoid speculation – some claim that the adrenal gland has been used in Satanist rituals for some time now.  The supposed method for obtaining the gland, or rather the pure adrenal fluid, is a gruesome task.  After torturing the victim for several minutes, or even hours, and building up the adrenaline of the victim, the gland is cut out, or a needle is used to take the fluid directly out of the victim.  Then – from what I understand – the fluid becomes one powerful drug. 

“Never turn your back on a drug.”

And here I am, a 20 year old college student trying to muddle his way through journalism classes with a tuition of $30k per year, with so many unnecessary organs just taking up space in my frame.

Who needs two kidneys?  When have I ever used both eyes?  My liver isn’t doing anything but slowing down my piss-train, anyway.  And when it comes to the adrenal gland, I don’t think I’ll need to be flipping cars over anytime soon.  So why let all of this potential income go to waste?

Not to mention that this may be the most primitive but highly effective weight-loss program ever devised.  So I can’t seem to get rid of the unsightly weight that is dominating my torso.  Cut right to the heart of the problem, (no pun intended.) Get rid of the stomach for all I care – well…that would be silly.  Half the stomach, then.  And watch as the pounds simply melt away.  Fool proof?  I thought so.

I could also find a few typewriters for that black market in Sudan.  And I’ll trade straight up for a couple Chinese sex slaves. 

Apologetically,

Alex Denison

(9.1.09)

“All Men Are Rapists And That’s All They Are”: Or : How I Became a Eunuch In a Sea of Breasts and Tail

“To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he is a machine, a walking dildo.”
- Valerie Solanas

(You can believe that if you want.  I tend to lean in a direction of that sort.)

You’d think that I would be in heaven right now.  In the middle of a major university campus, with almost every imaginable possibility of freedom floating in my atmosphere, and a whole community – no, a whole smorgasbord – of attractive women from across the state of Missouri and beyond.  It’s a college dream.  But like my dreams of radioactive antelope, it’s growing tiresome and weak. 

For one reason or another, I would like to take a gigantic step back from the “holla” establishment.  That is, the section of college society that walk down the street and “holla” at girls in short skirts, and of course, the girls in short skirts that wear them for the lone purpose of attracting a “holla.”  And then pretending like they don’t.  And then pretending like they are above everyone else, (and not just literally on account of their 6 inch heels.)  And then having sex with the aforementioned hollerer.  And this is all before classes have ceased for the day.

And I used to have little fantasies about being able to snag a barstool at five for a beer – the cheers to another accomplished day.  This, of course, is still over a year away from being possible.  But any day of the week I can lounge around the Heidelberg or the Fugue and catch little blondes in see-through blouses taking shots at 3:15.  In the afternoon.  On a Tuesday.  Amongst themselves.  And naturally, I can watch the fellas trickle in behind them, scooping up the tabs and waiting for the fireworks.  It’s enough to make someone a stay-at-home alcoholic. 

It could be because I’ve been facedown in a biblical analysis for several weeks, (a book just over 300 pages that I was teased about for not finishing yet,) but I’ve lost a lot of pure lust-drive.  I don’t ogle at the girls in miniskirts anymore.  They’re a dime a dozen and easier to find than a Starbucks in a college town.  Furthermore, it’s exactly what they’d like me to do, and then turn their noses when it happens.  Mama didn’t raise no fool.  She raised a red-blooded American cynic, an occasional hypocrite, and a feminist with hair on his chest. 

The problem is, as I’ve said before, that feminism is no longer dying at the hands of disgusting men.  We may buy the goods, fool around, muddy the waters and then skip town, but we aren’t creating these products from our own bare hands.  I can’t make a girl wear a thong hiked well past her waistline.  I can’t make a girl pose for Girls Gone Wild.  And as much as some other men would like to believe that they can do these things, cause these sexy phenomenon, they can’t.  Women’s choice is alive and well – and the bullet in the head of feminist America.

Because I guess I had some misconceptions: that feminism was more than the right to fuck.  That feminism was more than defeating the sexual double standard.  While important, I’m fairly sure that becoming walking advertisements for easy sex with no strings attached falls far from the traditional boundaries of the feminist agenda.  Or am I – a lowly male – the only one still rooting for you? 

And that last sentence alone is sillier than anything else I could say, because it points a finger at someone that will never notice.  The same girls that clog my facebook feed with photo album after photo album of themselves in bikinis in hotel bathrooms and drunken riverbeds.  The same girls that leave their tits hanging out of their tops and then complain that the profs are gawking at them.  The same girls that will want to be professionals some day and will instead be mute and subordinate housewives.  Because they have never stood for anything.

It’s sad that I have to be one of the crotchety old men of this Generation Y.  I’m an awful example of decency or restraint, class or sound judgment.  But I would like nothing more than to see the female gender succeed in my lifetime, perhaps even past the male, but certainly to his equal.  75 cents to every dollar remains a relevant statistic, but majoring in psychology and then becoming a housewife seems like a waste of time to me. 

Maybe I’m wrong again.  I’d like to hear what you think about the status of the feminist dream.   

“[Now that I'm in college] boys seem to be more interested in friending hot girls than me.” – Friend.

Welcome to the machine — the walking dildo.

(8.25.09)