The lesbian+feminism dilemna

Ah that got your attention!
Amazingly, sadly, repulsively, we as males are intrigued by the L word.
The word brings with it a flurry of pornographic and pseudo-pornographic snapshots steamrolling through our depraved skulls.
I think it was all that damn lesbian porn we saw as teens (or adults, as the case may be) that served to reinforce the idealistic image we have of dykes.
Except that what we saw sputtering by on bad videotapes…were most assuredly not dykes. Those were babes, they were HOT LESBIAN SLUTS; we decorated them with hetero folly in order to make them hot, but the sad truth is that it was all a big fat lie. Most lesbians do not, I repeat,


, look like this:

Generally it is safe to say most lesbians do not voluntarily wear skirts, do not have long hair and are not the slightest bit feminine. Not a complaint or a judgement, just a statement man.

Nope, dial up Lesbian Escorts Outcall and you’re more likely to find this knocking at your door:

To each their own. I’m a live and let live kinda guy. I’ve known lesbians, I know lesbians, some of them are the coolest chicks out there…the only catch is they don’t want your penis. Lesbians are the ultimate self-perpetuating cockblockers.

And for the other side my equation…the feminists.
Hey what the hell is a feminist anyways? My first thought…a woman who actively campaigns for equality, no? But I hear the damn word slung around with such ferocity, it is used to describe all manner of ills and scourges…but what can we conclude a feminist is?

According to the encyclopedic standard of modern day internet-ism, Wikipedia, feminism is a political discourse aimed at equal rights and legal protection for women. It involves various movements, theories, and philosophies, all concerned with issues of gender difference; that advocate equality for women; and that campaign for women’s rights and interests.
My friends, that is fine.
I can’t possibly rationalize any useful or pressing need to relegate women to second class citizenship. Let them earn as much as men, let them vote, let them change spark plugs. Let them pee standing up for chrissakes! I do not give a shit. Call me a feminist then.

With Wiki’s loose definition, I think we could call most people feminists. Despite the fact most hetero women want and desire equal opportunity, they do not necessarily disregard clear cut gender lines. Hetero women, while striving to accelerate through the corporate rat race and make lotsa dinero so they can decorate their homes ala HGTV and kitchens ala Food TV, do not consider themselves equals to men in biological terms.
And this is clear distinction that must be drawn between different brands of feminists. The typical hetero woman has no urge to usurp manhood and is quite happy and comfortable living the biological subservient role they were born into by virtue of their XX chromosomes.

Get my point?

Lesbian = cool, whatever rocks your boat!
Feminist = of course, I have a mother, women are human and should be treated as such.

But then…things get dicey. You know why??
Because all great human arrangements are unquestionably doomed to implode and degenerate into a pile of steaming shit once humans get their hands on them.

Take 2 ingredients: 1 tablespoon of Lesbianism, 1 tablespoon of Feminism, mix them together and you got yourself a toxic brew, a bitch’s brew, so to speak.

The Lesbian Feminist, bless her soul!

You see, whereas the average hetero woman strives for financial independence and a modicum of self-respect while being more than willing to relinquish material control to the male, the lesbian feminist is a different creature entirely.

The LesFem does not enjoy being a woman, does not relish the prospect of fulfilling the gender role nature has handed her; the LesFem must compete and defeat the aura of masculinity. The LesFem has nothing to lose in the battle of the sexes because she doesn’t want or need dick! The only dick the LesFem wishes she had was her own growing between her legs, right above the testicles she’d die for. Nope my friends, the LesFem is indeed out to usurp the male species. The LesFem is quite content throwing the baby (gender lines) out with the bath water (feminist ideals) because she seeks nothing from mankind. The hetero woman, like most “well-trained” women realizes she can only push things so far, and beyond that…all things are lost. Being a woman, she has womanly needs. Thus, equality with, and eventual defeat of, the male species, would only leave her high and dry and lonely and non-revered…quite a plight for the normal woman, indeed.

Remember this part of the Wiki entry? It involves various movements, theories, and philosophies, all concerned with issues of gender difference. That is the point where feminism ceases to be about equal rights and instead swells into some demented idealogical beast which declares war on the physioligical underpinnings of the male and female roles. And we can thank LesFems for that.

Papas don’t let your baby boys grow up to be…indecisive

One of the great transgressions of modern mores which I see fit to punish with 30 lashings and a good dose of tar and feathers is that logjam presented by the indisputably annoying sack who hems and haws for 5 minutes at the counter while they decide exactly which coffee or sandwich or big fucking meal special they want this fine day.

And we wait in line hanging on each confused and unsteady thought which rambles out their mouth as they contemplate all the choices that this godforsaken restaurant’s menu presents to their wavering souls.

Just when it seems they have made a choice and you’re only one step away placing your order quickly and confidently (because you’ve had a good 10 minutes to make up your mind while this ninny was deciding…) and then…he/she decides they need to ask the cashier one more question because they simply cannot choose between the 2 choices it has taken them an eternity to wittle the menue down to. So they ask and you wait.

It it’s a woman, you shrug helplessly. It’s the female curse…that insane inability to make up one’s mind. Cool. Whatever, even. We can tolerate annoying behavior when it’s expected, part of the script. It’s what girls do. If a 4-year-old in-potty-training boy pisses all over my toilet seat…well, frankly it is annoying but it’s no big deal. It’s what you expect.

So if you have a woman lingering and holding up the Starbucks line because she can’t decide between a caramel macchiato and a vanilla latte, it seems business as usual. But when it’s a guy…

Now it’s strangle time. Be a man damnit. A man makes a decision and lives with it. Simple. If you don’t like the coffee you ordered, oh well, life goes on. Next time you can order something different. A man recognizes that life is too large and of such grave concern that agonizing over what kind of ice cream cone to order is indeed a pitiful display of manliness.

Simple law of gender nature: men choose after short introspective deliberation; women choose after extended and drawn-out public consultation.

Problem is, I’m seeing way too many men lapsing into the female netherworld of indecisiveness lately. Too many men now seem overwhelmed by the choices they face; a panic sets in, a loss of self, a loss of direction. The masculine inner compass is rendered directionless here in the topsy turvy world of the 21st Century Male.

Making a decision and facing the consequences is a stoic exercise in maleness.
When did we stop teaching little boys that one stands by their choices and their words?

Burnt L.A. offerings

Where the ragtag L.A. skyline sits nothing but smoke, haze. In the Angeles National Forest, just north of here, a wild-eyed fire rages, or raged…it may be under control now.

During yesterday morning’s weights I thought I smelled burning something and expected to hear sirens blaring nearby, but nothing. My son, more versed in current events, filled me in, told me there were wildfires.

Ah. A hazy picture of downtown up close close and impersonal would convey the “scene” much better, but I was late and not about to pull off the freeway. For a blog photo.

A finger-licking Moment in Time

August 26, 2009
2:00 pm
Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hollywood, California

a Warm Hot lunch walk out the front door of the corporate confines, sterile white precision construction out into the sun-drenched and smoke-drenched hot LA air (for there is a raging brush fire somewhere in the county) and wander down sunset then down gower, and finally down de longpre.

down. walking out at lunch is, Down, a downwards experience, descend on the elevator, descend onto streets, into murky hollywood.
murky and smoky trash strewn experience, hollywood streets oh so filthy and cluttered and worn and Splattered with human waste and refuge and mysterious dried puddles of humanity’s flailing gasps.

dotting sidwalks, dotting walls, ramble Down de longpre, cross the busy and suicidal vine street, into the kfc, where in hollywood, even at this hour, people people people fill the tables, eating late lunches early dinners?

i’ve wandered into this kfc
about 1,648,432 times. that many. a lot. and still
i forget, every goddamned time.
but you must pay a $0.99 merchant fee. i’m tight and miserly enough that this affects me deeply.
but i have no one to blame. but myself.
but I.
will i let the 99 cents come betweeen
me and fried chicken? why of course not, i relent
and punch in my 4 digit
secure and secret ID
the number, it is XXXX
ha gotcha. gotcha!
like i would say. so i pay for my 2 piece meal with wings and breast, it’s a little more. 7 bucks and change. comes with a drink, 2 sides and a biscuit!

and like a cascading slap of disappointing reality, the 99 cents. total bill is $9.21. $9.21!!!!! too too fucking much money for chicken. and green beans and potato wedges. too much money for greasy
heart clogging fat, too much money for death accelerant. but i bound
out of my chair when my number is called, # 41! And behold my golden crispy chicken and side morsels and
run to my table, the high one with stools where i can tower over other diners but which conversely exposes me to stranger’s scrutiny as i lick my fingers oh so clean.

and the moment; the Moment:
In the brief span of
5 or 7 oily and fried minutes.
in walks an old gent. a very thin old gent wearing his best 1975 leisure wear. strange white ricardo montalban slacks and some strange Mafioso grandfather velvet-y gold-colored polo shirt. it strikes me…these are not only the clothes of an old man now, they were even the clothes of an old man during the U.S. bicentennial. fitting very snug but when you’ve got the geriatric emaciated
package it’s all good. and he insists on talking to the one of the workers about something and his voice. loud and sharp and Chihuahuaishly overbearing. and that bag…a plastic bag with seemingly
pharmaceutical items sitting in it. which waves dangerously with each
frantic gesticulation.

and then an elderly asian (Filipino) couple and the husband(?) wearing
thick horn-rimmed glasses and not only a sunken chest but a sunken belly, skinny skinny why do all these really skinny people eat the fried glories of KFC how can it
be so?
because the crowd has been so uncharacteristically and misleadingly frail in comes the obligatory fat social miscreant. fresh off his Honda motorcycle cruiser goldwing thingY. he stands amidst the thin, his belly
hovering sullenly over his useless belt, a tshirted chap with hands that don’t look have taken too kindly to soap for a while.
he glances at his thin surrounders. and speaks “this is the end of the line right? i don’t want to skip in front of anybody. i don’t want people to get mad at me.” the words, the voice, the spoken package, the affect of someone who may have
spent more time
chatting at walls and racoons
than humans.
as if the old asian couple that weighs a combined 180 pounds
is any match for Honda bubba.
old geriatric dude in velvet-Y polo skips out, tired of talking, did he take food didn’t notice. he drives off in a buick. so very old of him!
Honda bubba meanwhile…discovers a coupon flier that is laying
and during this time
the music, piping in, over KFC’s PA
“I Wear My Sunglasses At Night” … one of the very sickest and head-bashing hits of the 1980s and that
is the theme of the hour here in hollywood KFC. olden eras, the distant past
regurgitated here in the temple of Poultry.

Honda bubba
what does he do with the coupons?
apparently, interested in the discounted offerings
he pulls out a menacing pocket-knife which easily borders
on the illegal
and begins to cut out special offers
what did you expect, scissors?

Perish the noble pursuit


Now if I were to say this is a noble pursuit.
Would you laugh?
Sneer cynically?
Ignore me?


Noble pursuits.


Is there room for such a thing anymore? Do we live in ignoble times?
I believe you can get a sense of a society’s harshness by taking a measure of its sense of cynicism.


I can’t imagine that anyone claiming to undertake a noble pursuit in this day and age would be viewed as anything less than a quack or a scam artist, or even a self-deluded sap.






Increase the scorn tenfold…and that is the fate of the Noble Pursuit in the City of the Angels. Such is the state of urban living in the land of celebrities and celebrity worship where ideas are shunned in favor of the cult of hollow gratification that the only self-described “noble” pursuits involve plastic or metal (or maybe even a good dose of silicon).


For if the “noble” idea perplexes the common comprehension of the time, the concept of noble pursuits doubly loses meaning and relevance.