Can it really be a Neil Diamond ghost story?

I remember when this song hit the AM airwaves.
Wasn’t sure of the date, so I referred to Wikipedia and learned that “Song Song Blue” was written and recorded in 1972, the same year it spent 12 weeks on the Billboard Top 40. Ouch.
Nothing spells Old like musical remembrances that are shrouded in antique cobwebby novelty to anyone listening now.
To put it in perspective, most Big Band music was about 30-years-old during my preteen years. The same age that music from my youthful era is now, in 2010.
Music indelibly etches its mark on your psyche and memories, doesn’t it? Isn’t it natural?
A song that you listen to repeatedly is absorbed into your memory and psyche, and while the rest of your life unfolds, the two become intertwined in a mutual existence. If you are particularly attuned to these types of things, listening to a specific song 5 or 10 years later will elicit vivid memories of the period during which the song was popular.

Music’s ability to draw me into antique realities isn’t quite as powerful anymore. Sure, the right song can still conjure old memories, and in some cases, leave me with the sensation that I am experiencing much of the inner voice and sensations of the time the song first filled my head. However, for the most part, music doesn’t quite unlock the vividness of memories it used to.

If there are memories to be recaptured by listening to “Song Song Blue,” they would have to be a few sporadic glimpses of time back when I was 7 or 8. See in those days, there were no child murderers or kidnappings or Amber Alerts. Well that’s what some might lead you to believe when they speak fondly of the glorified and idyllic past when bad things didn’t happen, especially to children. So it was 1972, 1973; children were still sent to school on foot at 7 years of age even though the school was a good 3/4 of a mile away. No worries!

God I loved walking to school. It sat on the corner of an area gridded by straight streets and rectangular blocks. I would walk and daydream, occasionally interrupting my journey by marveling at the insect life I passed, or entertaining the random stray dog or fellow student on his way to school. I carried my books and I loved reading and life was slow-paced and everything seemed so “manual.” Technology’s greatest gift is its repudiation of hard labor, of rudimentary concepts and rituals. I loved singing to myself, not out loud batshit crazy, but quietly to my own ears, humming the song of the day. Singing songs that issued from fuzzy speakers of the day. One of them was “Song Song Blue.” I was too young to appreciate sadness. The song was just sad, a bit of a lackadaisical downer, not gloomy or pessimistic or suicide-inducing like some later doom and gloom Goth. No, this song was just about a bad day, it was about waking up on the wrong side of the bed, it was about the passing of a storm whose grayness you knew would soon be remedied by the eventual emergence of a sunny day. It offered lighthearted sadness. Nothing else. But I was 7 and I loved humming it on the way to school about 20 minutes away.

Some of my most vivid memories from that time involved Nana, my babysitter. She was in her 60s and was the mother of a family friend. She was my stand-in grandmother (as my maternal grandmothers had both been dead about 20 years). I spent more time with her than any other adult in my young life, she fed me and clothed me and nursed me when I was sick. She cooked for me, listened to me, allowed me to sit behind the curtained nook in the living room where I burrowed into the base of the wall below the glass windows and read. She was the grandmother I never knew. She babysat me until I was 9. Not sure of the circumstances, but she and her husband moved from their house to an apartment and I remember walking away one morning as I headed to school. It was the last day she would ever watch me walk away, and she cried from behind the screen door. I walked on courageously, not sure how I was affected in my young heart. Probably humming “Song Song Blue” to myself. The song conjures images of sidewalks and lawns and Nana’s lush backyard with its sharp-smelling Geranium plants. Of the kitchen where she cooked fresh spinach and I credit her with instilling excellent eating habits in me, for I never shied away from vegetables unlike other kids my age. I still have one photograph of her which I must have taken, one of those old, yellowing photographs whose color is washed out, the kind we used to develop at Fotomat, that crazy little shack you could take your film for developing. In the photograph, she was wearing her standard gardening robe and her hair was detained by a transparently black hairnet and she held a hose as she watered the lawn. Apparently, she caught the photographer in time to stick her tongue out foolishly, the stream of water frozen in air by the rapid camera shutter. Circa 1971?

And that is what “Song Song Blue” meant to me.

Listening to the song now, I experience a tinge of nostalgia but it is blurry and unfocused and nearly impossible for it to evoke vivid sensations of 1972 now. The memories are old and muted. Nana is a hazy and indistinct murmur, and when she died in 1976, just days before I turned 12, I was saddened and crushed. Much of my childhood has always seemed framed around the music of the times. I hear “Fernando” from Abba and it reminds me of that dark November day I learned she died. How I wish I could listen to “Song Song Blue” and experience even a trace of the innocent and youthful lushness of the time. I would feel the roar of childhood fill my ears and my soul and Neil Diamond’s deep, sentimental voice would lure me back to younger days I can no longer get a sense of.

But it is gone.
Unrecapturable. Artificially constructed words that fill in so well to dictate impressions.

There was a night, around 1980, I guess…so much of our past is a mess of indistinguishable dates and periods and we can only estimate rough calendar approximations by gathering all the environmental recollections possible and somehow deconstruct (or construct) a place in time by backing into the props of our life at that very moment. 1980, give or take a year, or two… I was living at home. In the new room addition. Nana was dead already. That adds to the supernatural aura of the story.


Oh, we had a dog, I’m positive it was Cookie, which definitely affirms my early 80s estimate.
My room was in the rear of the house, next to the backyard.
I would listen to the clock radio while I drifted off to sleep with the help of the “sleep” feature. Music lulled me into peaceful oblivion.
One night after I’d turned the lights out and buried myself beneath the sheets, the radio played while I drifted toward sleep. My mind must have scraped the borderline state of consciousness while it left the remnants of earthbound alertness behind.

And the radio began playing “Song Song Blue.” Here in the dark room as sleep began to overtake me. Still bordering on the sleep state, the remaining portion of my mind which was still alert began concentrating on the song while it played and slowly shook out old memories from my sleeping mind. Reminding me of Nana. Of those walks to school. In this position, this state of waking meditation, the realism and sensation of my past was acute and powerfully realistic. I allowed myself to sleepily descend into the consuming pool of memories and my descent was so steep I felt as if I was 7 again, as if I could smell the Geraniums and hear Nana’s voice scolding or reprimanding. 1972 was real, if only for those few shapeless dark moments as I buried myself in bed while Neil Diamond played on the radio. A dead reality, long since dissipated into the fog of the recent past, re-formed, like air giving shape to a slack balloon. My intense recollection of Nana prodded and fueled by “Song Song Blue.” In a brief moment of sheer conscious abandonment, I felt as a flickering schism had flown by, offering the vision of a different plane of reality…lulled not into sleep but detoured to another location somewhere along the surrendered path that leads to sleep.

And at that exact moment Cookie began howling outside my window.
No other dog in the neighborhood barked or howled; there were no sirens. Silence, the night, ruptured and aroused by Cookie’s mournful wails.

Cookie was a friendly Dachshund mix someone gave us in 1969.
Eleven or twelve years later…it was, if not the first, one of the few, times she howled.

Her howl, eerie in its timing, fractured my semi-consciousness. I quickly silenced the radio and the howling stopped abruptly.
I’m not mystically or supernaturally inclined, but the timing and circumstances of Cookie’s unsolicited howls have always remained a nagging puzzle. As a boy I was constantly reminded by the avowedly superstitious older Catholic women in my life that dogs howled when they saw ghosts.

Empty justice and false retribution

Metaphysics has always struck me as a prolonged form of latent insanity. If we knew the truth, we’d see it; everything else is systems and approximations. The inscrutability of the universe is quite enough for us to think about; to want to actually understand it is to be less than human, since the human is to realize it can’t be understood.
“The Book Of Disquiet” by Fernando Pessoa

Within the past month, a couple of unrelated announcements, which, though, somehow, are chillingly related. Or is it uneasily related?

Glenn Beck, possibly losing his eyesight.
Christopher Hitchens stricken with a grave form of cancer.

Fodder for the cold-hearted on both sides of the idealogical aisle.
Not a time for public pronouncements on the part of idealogues seeking to capitalize on the misfortune that has befallen their antithetical brethren.

It brings to mind, to my mind, the concept of fate, justice and “karma.” Loosely speaking.

Though undeclared and quietly guarded, I guarantee there are many more people than we’d comfortably admit who harbor a private spark of elation at the bad fortune that has afflicted either of these two men. In fact, it’s often the religious and virulently devout who shamelessly rejoice in the ill fortune of the sinner or blasphemer who has fallen on their bad side. Invariably preached in the spirit of “God’s will” and other pernicious rationalizations.

There is justice to be witnessed at play in all instances of ill fortune. It is intrinsically evil to herald bad news, even that which befalls your enemies. Hitchens and Beck both have their share of evil detractors and the recent announcements by both these men was surely greeted with some dark celebrations in the minds of lurking onlookers.

Which brings to mind the question of justice.
Justice varies so widely and can be viewed as “just” by almost anyone in almost any situation. How is justice to be meted out fairly when there is such a disjunction in its presentation vs. its perception?

Can we be certain that Hitchens’ cancer is not justice? That Beck deserves to go blind? Naturally the majority would agree that there is little a man could wreak on mankind which would righteously expose himself to such debilitating fates. But there would also be those who, inspired by the harshest sense of punitive punishment, would find it acceptable and even logical that these 2 men are paying the price for living wayward existences.

And there is punishment most would agree on.
Punishment for acts which seem so indelibly cruel and monstrous that very few would find a sense of clemency in their hearts. For instance, I recently read a news report about a man by the name of Jonathan Richardson from North Carolina who was accused of beating, torturing and raping his girlfriend’s 4-year old daughter. This is a most heinous category of crime which most would agree should be punishable by blindness or cancer or other agonizing and life-altering affliction if in fact mankind were able to harness such power.

Punishment ultimately must be doled out by humans when there is doubt that it may occur without their judicial intervention. Punishment and justice are the slipperiest gifts man can bestow upon his fellow man. Civilized man seeks to reduce justice’s arbitrary nature by standardizing its retributive nature and by laddering the vehemence of its expression in corresponding degrees to the severity of the transgression which initiated it.

Man’s subjective and moralistic expectations decide other’s fates and dictates levels of punishment based on the measure of the crime’s severity in congruence to the ratio of normal members of society who would find the crime distasteful or abhorrent (as expressed by the level of distaste it arouses in our civilized senses). Thus justice, punishment, are but mere indicators of a deed’s unpopularity.

Always, there is the presumption that “justice” must counteract the human vision of “bad” or “wrong.” Justice is not blind for it is wagged by our unnatural perspective of humanly morals.

Where does the line of justice get drawn?

If the celebration of Glenn Beck’s blindness fills the hearts in even the smallest fraction of civilized people, why is it assumed his fate is less valid or just than Jonathan Richardson’s? Why is it considered callous to laud the fact that Christopher Hitchens has been stricken with a deadly cancer as just punishment when the same cancer striking Richardson would be applauded?

The cancer is the same.
The fate is the same.
Circumstances are oddly blind.
However, fate is a coldly human contrivance.
Punishment is written and produced by man.
It is served with the presumed endorsement of a lifeless God. Man recognizes, has long recognized, that punishment in the absence of cosmic authority is merely a display of humanly chivalry as it pertains to the treatment of insolent human behavior.

Man would find equally futile the attempt to harness lightning than to attempt to manipulate the laws of fate.
Man punishes man; man asserts pain indirectly in consequential retort to the wrongdoings of man. Unsure of the immediate pleasure or vindication to be derived from the pain’s acute punishment, he can never be convinced that justice is served. Justice cannot be real; not when its allocation is subject to such subjective manners of trust and hope.

The long gray road, spanning all visitations of misery, the journey of punishment and retribution which we sporadically join in order to play the transient role of punisher before we exit the road again. The ideal of punishment is opaque. The range it spans, from this end where it vanishes into irrelevant nothingness, to that other end where the monstrousness of the human heart dwells, the point where man dares to set foot and assume the role of punisher.

Sometimes, questioning the concept of god, questioning fate and purgatory, we must question punishment. If punishment serves no metaphysical purpose, it follows that virtue also serves no function other than the sensory enlightenment of the human desire to achieve an unachievable equilibrium.

Prisons, jails, courthouses…lofty palaces concocted where mankind can park his eternally troublesome instinct to match fate with uncaptured reality in a cascading slope of confused motives. The justice system plays a vestigial role in our quest to impose civilization and order to a crumbling sense of wanton moral aimlessness. Man’s incapacity to capture and furnish justice speaks to its faulty and fallacious nature. Justice is the promiscuous inkling of surrealistic reality masquerading as fact which man can attach himself to while still pretending to maintain saintly neutrality.

Justice is false, and as carved by man, cannot truly exist, for he is an impostor to suppose that he can appropriate natural fate. Justice only lives up to its name when it transcends man’s ability to intercede. Justice is mightiest without his complicit help or noble intentions.

I read once of a teenager who was goofing around (as teenagers do) with some friends at the Kodak Center here in Hollywood, and while daredevilling along the rail of an escalator, fell 2 or 3 stories to his death.

That is a fury of remorseless and incautious justice that man can only dream of unleashing. The only justice is that which is sentenced behind the back of our moralistic fiddling and patronizing sense of grandiosity (divided by our ballooning sense of powerlessness).

On Zuckerberg’s girlfriend and female entitlement

I don’t know if I do satirical well.
Or, when I try to be modestly satirical, I have even worse doubts.

For instance, the other day, my Plain Jane post was a rough approximation of satire, and in the spirit of satire, I did my best to indict a general attitude that seems prevalent in the Roissysphere and all the blogospheric satellites it has spawned.

I might not have thought twice of the post if I hadn’t come across a couple of items which reinvigorated my caustic sensibilities when examining what I perceive as a herd mentality and judgmental cultishness on the part of many of these guys who appear intent on solidifying their viewpoint as the standard operating model by which all men should abide (if they want to lead glamorous and pussy-filled lives, of course). It would seem a dereliction on my part if I don’t now revisit the Plain Jane post in the spirit of regurgitating these 2 items that share a synchronous sense of existence to my post.

The first item is a feature story from “msn relationships” called Dating Down, a femicentric diatribe presented as vaguely scientific proof that women who marry men who are less physically attractive than they, are usually happier and more “emotionally satisfied” than women whose husbands are of equal or greater physical attractiveness.

The article rehashes much of the evopsych wisdom that gets bandied about regularly, which in this story, is disguised behind the female perspective with its unacknowledged motive of making marriage and relationships more amenable to the female interests. The article surmises:

A recent study published in the Journal of Family Psychology suggests that for women, dating a less attractive man may result in a happier, more emotionally satisfying relationship.

The story spouts some common sense and popular wisdom which is nothing new in these parts. I believe having such a perspective and pre-knowledge helped me read between the lines. Reading Citizen Renegade and the like has given me an awareness and knowledge that has given me a glimpse into the evolutionary world the article alludes to and grants me the ability to dissect the proposed findings of the author, Elise Nersesian-Solé.

Nersesian-Solé really is just drawing out the simple idea of the economics of marriage and relationships that dictate both parties are involved in an ongoing cost/benefit analysis in which they appraise the other through the self-interested lens of utility and worth (to themselves). She cites a university study in which couples are filmed and their interactions detailed as well as measurements made of their relative “attraction” levels.

After analyzing the tapes, researchers discovered that in couples where the man was more attractive than the woman, he said often things such as, “This is your problem, you deal with it” whereas the unattractive hubbies were more apt to say things like, “I’m here for you — what do you want me to do? How can I help you?'”

In other words, couples in which the man assumes the symbolically subservient role by virtue of of inferior physical attractiveness (in relation to his girlfriend or wife) are those that experience “success” and “health”…that is, from the self-interested vantage point of the female. Hell with the man. Women are defining a relationship as “ideal” one in which they possess superior strength and options over a weak puppy dog husband who is obediently grateful that his wife has inconvenienced herself by choosing his raggedy ass. A physically inferior male mate, lacking a strategic sense of masculinity and the power that ensues, will commit himself to the consumptive chore of selflessly sacrificing his manhood in order to comply to his wife’s desires in the desperate pursuit of maintaining his unlikely hold of her. All the attendant traits of a self-perceived weak man are at play here…fear, insecurity, excessive gratefulness. Which comes first…the unattractive or the Beta? The dynamic is alive and well in the world of television sitcoms, ever notice that?

In a tremendous understatement, she continues

It’s possible that a man who is less attractive than his partner feels so grateful to be with her that he works harder to maintain the relationship, amping up the amount of emotional support and kindness he provides,” says Benjamin R. Karney, Ph.D., a professor of social psychology at UCLA. “Yet a man who is better looking than his partner knows he has lots of other options besides his mate, so he’s less committed to providing the emotional support long term relationships need to thrive.”

And we need social scientists to tell us this?

The most striking portion of the article is the degree to which the author twists (ie, manipulates) the logic of evolutionary psychology to justify the mentality of the self-absorbed female whose desire to be placed on a throne trumps all other healthy facets of a complementary male/female relationship. This reminds me of the elephant and the blind men. Everyone sees something different, and in this case the woman defines a helpless, weak mate as emotionally giving and cooperative for he obediently feeds the feminized claptrap of what a marriage “should” be. Whereas a man perceives his beautiful mate as a glorious and miraculous gift from heaven and immediately the relationship embarks on a radically asymmetrical power-sharing dynamic. His dignity is willingly sacrificed as he tenaciously digs his hole deeper and deeper while he basks in her self-righteous and entitled spotlight.

And later I discovered a post titled Why Game Is Worth More Than A Billion Dollars over on Citizen Renegade.

It involved a photograph of Mark Zuckerberg, billionaire founder of Facebook, taken as he walked to an unnamed event or location with several people, including his girlfriend.

The comments which followed degenerated into an all too familiar, predictable shitfest in which just about every guy who participated joined in a communal trouncing of Zuckerberg who appears to shamelessly persist in dating this girl who apparently pre-dated his billion-dollar fortune (I’m relaying what I learned in reading the comments, I don’t usually keep abreast of this chick fodder, unlike a lot of guys who have the time), a girl who incidentally looks to easily land in the “Plain Jane” category I spoke of.

The wrath and ridicule that was leveled at Zuckerberg was stupefying. There was the predictable chortling and accompanying “if I were that rich, I wouldn’t be dating that hog” sentiments. I suppose this is all in good “fun” and is generally harmless. However I can’t discount this piranha-like bloodlust I witness as guys circle the object of their pseudo-Alpha derision who really has done nothing wrong. Yes, it’s only a bunch of anonymous commentators feasting on the purported Betaness of a public figure, but it is representative of an underlying modern male attitude that rejoices in petty judgments infused with short-sighted gratification and soulless torpor. Lost amidst the sea of male cynicism was the possibility that maybe Zuckerberg really likes this chick. What a concept.

I’m not romantic idealist (hardly) but how can such a wide swath of men instinctively condemn a man who has chosen to remain with his girlfriend through the temptations of wealth?

I’m not praising Zuckerberg, but neither am I ridiculing him. I don’t know the guy, I have no idea what goes on in his life or his girlfriend’s. I refuse to invest much of my analytical thought in deconstructing the guy’s motives. To do so is misguided squandering of the intellect and personal energy. The commentators symbolize much of what I decried in my post when it comes to men and the Woman they elicit in this society: men living enormously outside themselves, enmeshed in private social circles they know nothing about and involved in all this bullshit that serves no purpose or reason. To denigrate this dude because his girlfriend doesn’t match his income level? And besides, where exactly the fuck is the reference manual which spells out just how “hot” your girlfriend should be based on your annual income (I’d like to know where I fall on that continuum, and let me tell you, it won’t be pretty)? This rampant cynicism demonstrates a lagging helplessness and disabling ennui on the part of modern man who has bought into feminized culture’s reliance on the art of prattling on like a bunch of high school girls talking shit about people behind their backs in the absence of constructive self-enhancement tempered with a good dose of humility.

So yeah, undoubtedly, while Zuckerberg is raking in astronomical amounts of income and dating his Plain Jane, some abrasive PUA with only a copy of The Mystery Method to his name will be hooking up with an illiterate Barbie Doll. Tonight, or maybe as I type away here, the shameless keyboard jockey that I am.

Whose shoes would you rather be in?

Over the border and a world away

Poor Mexicans man, doesn’t anyone like us?

(Just so you know, at this point I was going to punctuate this rant with some Spanish, real ethnic, italicized and all, but I couldn’t do the phoniness. I haven’t spoken Spanish for years and I understand it when it’s spoken slowly with common words. I am of Mexican descent, I’ve alluded to it many times, however I’m not thoroughly immersed in my culture. To keep in mind during the remainder of this post. Read: Pocho)

It seems we are so reviled as an ethnic group (at least in the U.S.) that the only people who can tolerate Mexicans are other Mexicans (and even that is disputable).

Black people get a lot of shit also, yes, but at the risk of sounding like a racial Pollyanna, they have had a much longer history in this country, and consequently have become rather adept at infiltrating and becoming an integral part of Americana. Black culture has grown within the blueprint of American history. In essence, black culture has defined much of American culture as well. Inseparable but slightly equal approximately defines the state of black social advancement in this country, whereas for Mexicans it seems to be defined by “separate and forgotten.” Mexican culture tends to be insular and enamored of the Spanish language and the old country (which is too destructively close to the United States for there to be any semblance of Mexican assimilation into American culture.)

Porfirio Diaz, the Mexican President at the turn of the 20th Century, said it best in his observation, “Poor Mexico – so far from God and so close to the United States.” Rather than construing the sentiment as “anti-American,” I believe it is merely stating a simple, unequivocal truth that Mexico, possessed of whatever failed government or culture it did have, still never had the ability to succeed or fail in a manner which it completely owned. All Mexican triumphs and tragedies were realized through the fuzzy distortion from the immediate presence of the magnificent gravitational pull of it’s northern neighbor’s affluent mass. I believe Diaz was pointing out that geographical and historical happenstance are partially to blame for Mexico’s less than sublime historical record (at least from a First World status-oriented perspective). Would Mexico’s fortunes have smiled otherwise? I don’t know, but in such a situation Mexico’s fates would have been its own to build or destroy.

And thus Mexico’s birth into an existence in the shadows of the most powerful and wealthy country in the world thus struck its soul down.
Unable to assert tremendous strength or weakness; only proliferating an unwavering sense of insignificant notoriety in its people and its culture, Mexico has two choices in concurrence with Diaz’ quote. Embrace the United States and its ambitiously responsible culture, or eschew its principles of capitalism and cheesy hedonism. Having chosen the latter, Mexico was left to fend for itself to find a way to create a viable and independent nation while resisting the imposing gravitational wake issuing from the north.

Mexicans, we are a half-hearted American minority. We own our culture outright and being Mexican seems to be a state of geography and language above all. Our culture belongs to us, and exporting it to other nations, even in Latin America, has proven to be troublesome at best. Our culture is encapsulated by our language and brushed in broad, esoteric strokes which have not proven transmittable to strangers. The other segment of Diaz’ quote offers a curious dichotomy for the Mexican people.
So far from God.
My opinion, which was assuredly not Diaz’ in the year 1900, is that another ingredient in Mexico’s travails in its march to independent and healthy self-governance was the presence of the overbearing and dictatorial Catholic church. “So far from God” in the sense that the Catholic church, consumed and bloated with power and its centralized, earth-bound dogma, never allowed Mexico the opportunity to know any sense of God, for Mexico was inserted so deeply into Rome’s anal orifice that the poverty-ridden country was, for all intents and purposes, an unthinking and blindly devoted satellite puppet of the Vatican. Yet one more meek nail in the coffin for a country seeking to establish an identity and a culture.

Hence, on one hand, Mexico heeded the call of a small but powerful religious state halfway around the world whose global hegemony insisted on Mexico’s dependence, suffering and intellectual submission. And on the other hand, Mexico was asked to choose between joining the mighty ranks of the swelling cultural pulse of American wealth and dominion…or not. Instead, my ancestor’s timorous embrace of the American dream and journey to the foreign land (a concept which loses its potency considering the foreign land was a short walk away) failed to be magnificent in glory or in doom.

Where is…Mexico?

The Plain Jane and the culture of artificiality

This is a post I was on the verge of beginning with
Guys, you don’t know what you want
but after some thought, it dawned on me this is not quite right.
I decided
Guys, you know what you want, but the problem is your wants are incompatible with many of the heroic feminine traits you praise in concept.

I’ve lurked in this blogosector long enough to learn what these gloriously putative womanly traits consist of just as I’ve also learned many of the signature faults which make up the laundry list of anti-heroic feminine traits. I sit here wading through both lists consisting of openly proclaimed and subtly hinted feminine characteristics that men and the misogynists among them cite as the holy grail of the female package and also, the epitome of femininity gone wrong. I concur with the majority of the items on both lists. I easily identify with what men say they seek and what they avoid like the plague. The problem is that in spite of all their lip service, men don’t normally avoid anything when the promise of pussy is indisputably at hand. Quite amazing the ease with which male principles are quietly stuffed when such situations arise!

I’d like to summarize the model female I suspect most men would agree is the ideal companion/mate.

She is generally accepting of her primal role within the male/female dynamic. She not only accepts the role, she welcomes it as an intrinsic natural instinct which is best expressed fully and not to be fought or wrestled with. She may find strength and a sense of instinctual purity within the confines of such genetically ordained gender roles. She is committed to her man’s welfare and best interests. She does not seek to undermine or subvert his influence in such a complementary relationship by allowing her flippant female proclivities to run unrestrained on a path of interpersonal destruction. She has a firm grasp of her ego. She is steady and intelligent and stoically masters her duties to uphold the relationship and its cohesiveness. To enumerate using modern examples, she knows her way around the kitchen, she does not avoid cleaning (ie, she is not averse to scrubbing down the bathroom, cleaning the fridge, vacuuming the carpet). She smartly and practically prioritizes the material and monetary needs of the household. Though she is a woman and innately admires glittery adornments, she refrains from surrendering her good sense to peer-pressured fashion and cosmetic whims. She takes pride in her appearance but does not allow this pride to degenerate into a consuming fixation which impinges on her ability to attend to practical concerns. She has common sense about her and will not play anyone’s fool. She possesses that unique female strength expressed in hardiness of spirit and emotions, and allows it to augment the man’s masculine stability in order to create an overall sense of strength in the union of these two people.

This iconic description of the “dream woman” is wonderfully nod-inducing. There’s a problem, however. Men accept it devoutly and even foolishly internalize the characterization as a righteous demand, an expected privilege that reeks of moral laziness because I believe many men, especially the younger ones, are not sincerely committed or willing to sacrifice their ego embellishments which make the attainment of such a woman unlikely.

For what I’ve described, this glaringly unrealistic image of womanly perfection, leaves out a crucial element. I’ve neglected the physical. Undoubtedly, most men are likely to insert a physical element into this mixture and in doing so, minimize the likelihood of such a confluence of female traits. Can they be blamed? I was their age once, I was a man who maneuvered the minefields of raging testosterone and an excessively idealized self-image which was reflected back on the rest of the human race. I knew what I wanted and needed while failing to heed the reality…that my lofty desire was nowhere close to meeting its adjunct partner in any of the offerings reality might offer.

We men are fond of sanctifying the the gilded image of feminine perfection while failing to live out our own sense of perfection. I see way too many men in this community who are ragingly superficial while acting the part of mindless clowns, which is fine because this gig will work and it will get some guys laid. The problem as I see it is that their own personal offerings do not invoke the quality of female perfection they act entitled to. The woman they desire and not-so-discreetly reward is the flashy temptress who willingly immerses herself in the same social outlets the men do and which affords both the ability to meet on mutually artificial terms. Men seek the brainless, whored out image they have learned from television and the rest of pop culture. Men, playing the feminine role of pretentious attention whore only serve to encourage and proliferate the same behavior in women who are their natural mating demographic.

The dating scene amongst the majority of 20-somethings (extending into their early 30s, as well) seems one that is etched with subdued superficiality and half-hearted standards when in fact the overriding impulse is one of purely physical and visceral pleasure. My memory reminds me that the woman I intellectually knew was an ideal candidate for emotional perfection/maturity in my 20’s was usually not the woman I would be willing to relinquish my youthful vigor for. Cynically stated, the idealized woman I described usually won’t meet the stringent entertainment and physical requirements that a frolicking man seeks at that time in his life. A woman with a good mind and a good heart is hard to unearth amongst the swarms of hair-teased, stiletto-heeled quasi tramps shaking their ass out on the dance floor.

Man, when he is ready to grow up and leave the superficial enticements of the modern whore behind, must embrace the Plain Jane.

The Plain Jane is certainly not the glamorous female prototype we’ve been culturally indoctrinated to adore, is she? The Plain Jane is certainly not what you gel up your hair or don expensive jeans for, is she? You don’t order $12 martini’s in order to share precious dance floor space with Plain Janes (actually, no Plain Jane would be caught dead in a dance club) and you don’t work on that perfect douchie tan or pump iron for the Plain Jane, do you?

You know why I say this, guys…because everything you do is with the intention of securing feminine interest and rapt horniness. Thus committed, you reap what you sow. You play the plastic whore exquisitely; and that is what you will get in return. You are being as morally lazy and intellectually vapid as the flashy slut you want to Game right into the sack. Not until you are able to find satisfaction in self-improvement solely for the sake of self-improvement and thus derive personal benefits apart from the ego-driven consuming appetite to surround yourself with the flashiest female artifice, will you finally accept the measure of feminine qualities you romanticize.

You must embrace the Plain Jane and realize that she alone can provide qualities you prize. The Plain Jane lacks the ostentatious displays of vulgarity and self-obsessed fixations which requires doting on the part of equally self-obsessed men. The Plain Jane is content with her supporting role in the mating dance. The Plain Jane does not ask for more than she is capable of and she is at peace with the natural simplicity of life’s astute demands.

The Plain Jane’s offerings are widely hidden and disguised behind the flashy vagaries of modern society which dominate cultural discourse.

Which is a problem, for the young vibrant man is of an equally sensory nature and has been similarly inculcated with the indifference and lack of desire for that which does not assault his senses. Such a man is easily bored and spiritually unmotivated. He is flabbergasted by the self-conscious glitter of female materialism and, in turn, he nurtures the sick dynamic with his own dose of pretension and boisterously overwrought displays of so-called masculinity.

The Plain Jane is not ugly nor is she boring.
The Plain Jane is simple and unadorned.
The Plain Jane does not feel the urge to assault sensibilities for she is confident in her ability to secure her engaging personality traits only for the people closest to her. The world is not the Plain Jane’s stage.

In this culture of flash and circumstance, the Plain Jane is routinely invisible.

The artifice men and women display within the similarly artificial environment they construct with their behaviors and demands creates a cosmetic facade which eschews selflessness and concentration; which saps sincere humanity of honor and creates a bubble of superficiality, a grand stage on which the plastic pawns of humanity act out their one-dimensional roles. The Plain Jane is desecrated. She must lurk behind the curtains offstage for no one has written a role for her in this production.

Most likely, the Plain Jane will never be summoned to the stage until man matures and realizes artificiality is boring and unsustainable. Unfortunately the majority of men do not mature and remain trapped within the needy strictures of the plastic culture; he is imprisoned the moment he buys his way into the female-induced materialistic paradigm through the cultural gifts of personal and financial debt. All must maintain the public facade of community consumerism in order to play the game.

A man’s blind allegiance to our plastic culture, while dictating his taste in material items, also dictates his tastes in women. In such a state of single-minded avarice, a woman’s value equals, at best, that of an inanimate object, and all its attendant falsity. In a woman he seeks no more than he seeks in a car; physical appearance and peer appeasement and technical performance (or potential performance). Reliability and the utility of the automobile are not the primary concerns to him; instead he surrenders practicality and realism to the human desire to add another brick to the temple of artifice. Seeking and valuing such inanimate qualities in a woman will merely result in providing her further impetus to fulfill such requirements for the nature of woman is pliability and conformity to the male archetype.

The Plain Jane remains unseen, unknown, and thus lacking the means to invest in a man’s sense of egotistical worth, will remain so.
Man must choose that which pleases his soul, not his ego.

His recognition of the difference between the two requires intensive self-directed honesty and tranquility of spirit which he appears destined to overlook in this distracting world. The Plain Jane offers the renowned pleasures of mystery and surprise. A beckoning answer waiting to spring from the unknown. The Plain Jane signifies that which we cannot know and which must be excavated from the soul we buried long ago in the graveyard of human trivialities.

The Plain Jane is the antithesis to our know-it-all mentality.