It is a compelling argument and quite worthy of the 3 minutes it takes to read, but by no means but by no means should we regard the seeming disconnect between values and conduct as purely related to racial and religious identity and all their attendant fears and bigotries.
There’s a good deal of self-identification at work, as well. It is difficult to find a place so rife with illicit and immoral conduct than a protestant church. Don’t take that on my word. Statistically, despite decreasing numbers, American Evangelicals have the highest divorce rate (and highest rate of domestic violence) among all religious groupings, including non-believers (Atheists have the lowest rates).
And who can blame them? All that energy and intensity has to go somewhere, and it often goes into each other’s spouses. And why not? Forgiveness is at close at hand. They get Trump. They understand how difficult it is to keep things zipped up. God has his plan, after all. It wouldn’t happen if HE didn’t want it to (so slip out of that girdle, Mildred). Pots don’t call kettles black. Stones and glass houses. etc. etc.
Ever look at a headline and you think wow, someone found that interesting enough to write about? (Quit smirking. This one doesn’t count.)
I knew these brats were up to no good. But who knew J. Crew was still a thing? Their crap never fit me and always cost too much, but the pictures were pretty. I looked at the web site and was surprised how “mall cheap” the stuff they’re trying to peddle looks. Back in my day J. Crew was all full of khaki and muted pastels, clothes that models wore on pretend sailing adventures and picnics by the river, soft cotton sweaters that looked like they’d feel really nice between one’s hand and a preppie pixie’s left breast.
In Oregon, a man was recently arrested for paying a hooker with money from a stolen Girl Scouts fundraising jar in his pet store, then tipping the industrious Professional Intimacy Facilitator with a exotic primate. Because nothing says “lets do it again sometime” like a creepy little exotic mammal.If I were the girl, I would have held out for some contraband Thin Mints.
I received a link to the official Playboy website recently, where it seemd Bunny Nation has uploaded its entire history, every last word, every last airbrushed nipple, every last cheeseball article on how to be a sophisticated man.
The answer is yes, I followed the link–right to a number of well written articles, including a rather predictable story about returning the Long Island Ice Tea to it’s 1970s mastery, as well as great short stories by David Foster Wallace and Chuck Palaniuk. There was some cheesecake, too, but I found it interesting–and indicative of our times–that Playboy is using literature and journalist to market it’s new all-access membership. And it’s tempting, too, but explaining why requires a story:
The first time I ever saw a non-maternal breast it was within the pages of Playboy Magazine, provided generously by a new kid in town, Mike LeBlanc, sometime around third grade. I thought to myself: hey, that’s not bad. If the opportunity presents itself, I would be open to the idea of inspecting similar subject matter again. Fate, it would seem, was on my side. New editions of Playboy magazine would appear at roughly one-month intervals, as if by magic, between the mattress and box spring of Mike’s parents’ bed. Thank you, Mr. LeBlanc–and thank you, also, to Former Miss Norway Ingeborg Sorensen. I owe you both an incalculable debt of gratitude for the richness you unknowingly contributed to my youth.
A few years later, Mike moved away, and my source for inappropriate “lite-core” mens’ entertainment went with him, along with my main source of camaraderie. We’d grown to be best friends, to the detriment of my other relationships, and the summer after sixth grade was brutally lonely.
Fortunately, I was twelve and the owner of a sweet Sears Free Spirit 12-speed bicycle–top of the line–for which I had saved and saved until I had the $89 necessary. For a department store bike, it was pretty nice–it’s 27″ size was perfect for my rapidly growing body–I would be 6’1 and 190 by the end of seventh grade. I rode that bike all over the county, sometimes 40 or 50 miles a day. My mother, to this day, has no idea that I roamed so far, but it was always the same: bored, I’d ride and ride and find myself in some town 15 or 20 miles from home, and say “Oh, shit.”
Aimless wandering around town was also a viable way to kill a day. It was on one of these adventures that I stopped at a yard sale, looking for “cool stuff” and maybe some comic books (I bought a copy of Fantastic Four #48–now worth about $400–for a nickel about the same time, and threw it away after reading it–doh!).
They had nothing good at this sale, except–a 10″x12″x24″ box of old Playboy magazines from the 1970s that was listed at $1. I had fifty cents in my pocket, but the lady cut me a deal: 45 cents for the box, since she didn’t want to take my last nickel.
Now, I have to ask: who sells 4 or 5 dozen playboys to a kid on a bicycle for what was then the price of soda?. Answer: Mrs. Anderson of Oakland Avenue. She wanted rid of those things. Badly. I was only too willing to lug that box home–it must have weighed 25 pounds–4 miles on my bicycle, and hide it away in my closet.
Years later, I spent a winter at my mother’s house taking care of her after an illness, and found the box in a closet full of my abandoned junk, and decided to steal a peek at my old childhood sweetheart, Monique St. Pierre. This was before the internet, let me remind you–1991. I opened the box, found Monique, smiled a little but shrugged too–you know, once you’ve got to the place in life where real naked women are readily available, perspective changes. At least it had for me.
I found myself, surprised though it made me, fascinated by the articles and interviews, none of which I’d ever looked at as a pimply pubescent–and I digested the box, top to bottom, glossing over the airbrushed glamor porn for the substantive journalism.
It was only later that I enjoyed a good laugh at myself–I’d devoted not hours but days to reading Playboy…for the articles. Afterward: when my mother recuperated enough to take care of herself, as prepared to depart, I hefted all those old magazines to a used book store and sold the entire box for $100 bucks–except for the carefully removed centerfold of ol’ Monique, which is still pressed neatly inside the cover of a large format picture book of renaissance artwork. Seemed fitting.
As for Monique, she became Playmate of the Year in whatever year that was–1979, I think, but I’m not going back to look. Not only that, she’s become one of the legendary models of Playboy history. They even made a statue.
I cannot be too happy about this. First, it makes my week two DAHoF inductee a no brainer, but it also proves I’m not the most hopelessly obtuse and inconsiderate husband in the world and gives me a belly laugh in the process.
In no way should that be interpreted as approval for the wife’s actions, though I can sympathize. That’s a lot of pestering and whining to put up with. My question is how did this guy ever decide on “anger and humiliation” as a marital therapy tool? Of course, I’m even more surprised by the battalion of equally frustrated men who have leapt to this guy’s defense, all but crying out “how dare this woman keep her vagina to herself?!”
Sheesh. Have they all forgotten when we were teenagers and sex was a magical land, carefully and scrupulously guarded, the key to which inspired us to unending quests, humiliating gestures, and most of our pride and limited wealth? Man, we’d do ANYTHING–at least, I would have–to visit that wondrous land, and yet somehow these guys have gotten to a place where they best they can do is make half-assed passes while their wives are watching old episodes of Friends? Again: sheesh. As Bill Cosby used to say: these guys are like a baseball team during a thunderstorm: NO GAME.
I’m not talking about that mysogenist singles-bar pickup bullshit, but regular old relationship maintenance. For the love of god, man: wash the frakking dishes, pal. Run the vaccuum. Do a load of laundry. Fully half the foreplay I’ve been part of, over the past 33 years that I’ve been sexually active (is that TMI?) began with a domestic chore–and I’m good at announcing the “man stuff” I do that might otherwise go unnoticed. “I just changed the furnace filter” or “I added a quart of oil to your car and checked the tires–they looked low.” It amazes me how many men are too dull-witted, or too stubborn, to actually do the things that make their women happy. Even an old (beloved, admittedly) bumpkin like Waylon Jennings can offer up some valid insight.
So, here’s the thing. My wife is kind of hot, and I’m regularly asked if I plan to start dressing up as Santa for the poor kids one of these Christmas seasons–I totally have that whole “bowl full of jelly” thing going on, and the last time I was at the Hair Salon the girl who cuts my hair–and knows me away from work as well–asked me if I got the senior discount. The Senior Discount. I’m 48. Mrs. Junk is certainly not into me for looks–although we can’t discount a bit of Stockholm syndrome after more than two decades together, and it’s not my sense of style: some of my clothes are older than my teenage children, but still. Or my money: I majored in Literature in College, which is actually a negative mark on most job applications, like answering “yes” to the “have you ever been prosecuted” question.
Does my wife loathe the sight of me sometimes? Yes; quite often, I suppose. Does she ignore me when I’m muttering about tire pressure and furnace filters? Almost certainly. Does she ignore me to the point that I call her out, specifically to hurt her, with attached documentation. No, because I’m not a dickhead.
Guilt doesn’t make someone want you, and incessant begging and whining and moaning doesn’t make a woman growl like a panther and whisper “Got to have me some of that.” Folding the napkins does, though. A lot of guys on that Reddit page would probably tell me it’s reverse sexist to expect the man to dance for his dinner, so to speak, and to them I would boldly demand: “So, what’s your point?” Women are soft and warm and they smell nice–that’s worth working for. And, while you’re at it: make a point to tell your woman you love her twice a day, and let her know you think she’s hot just as often–and do it with more than a slap on the ass and a rude suggestion (though, occasionally, if you’re careful, a little lechery can go a long way).
I wish I’d had this one for Valentine’s Day, but I’m too impatient to wait 8 more months.
And here’s a tip–this is the sort of greeting every man would like to receive when he walks into the bedroom.
Some notes on these photographs:
This blog is for personal entertainment, not commercial reasons. I derive no income from this site. Not a penny.
The pictures in this feature are obviously not mine, and I have made no effort to secure the rights–I’ve found most of them on places like Tumblr and Pinterest, and it’s nigh impossible to find out the original sources. I posted them because I like and enjoy them. If any of these are yours, let me know and I can add an attribution–I certainly hope my posting has added a little fame or promotion to your name–or I can remove them, as appropriate. Thanks!
I’m a man–with blustery, testosterone-stained, primitive, often immature, and generally not-fit-for-company tastes and preferences. I like flowers and mountains and little baby animals, but I also like pictures of beautiful women, old motorcycles, stupid trucks, and so forth. If the photo most appealing to me from a particular search is a bikini-chick in high heels riding an old Indian motorcycle, I’m going to go with it and welcome a dialogue re: my neanderthal sensitivities and the relevant socio-political implications of my actions. Just saying.
Likewise, it is highly unlikely that there will be an equitable inclusion of oiled-up muscular hunks to balance out any typical man stuff that appears in this feature.
In the velvet darkness, of the blackest night, burning bright….
I recently stumbled into a rather dated blog post (link below) that read….
This weekend I went to see Rocky Horror Picture Show done by a group of players who ran the movie and simultaneously acted out the movie as a live play. Staging and production-wise, I’d say don’t try this at home. They were a cute bunch of kids in cute costumes and I think everyone had a pretty good time. I felt very middle-aged throughout, especially considering that unlike me, most of the live cast and audience weren’t yet born in 1975 when “Rocky Horror” first came out.
I was much too young for “Rocky Horror” when it debuted and not much interested in the counter-culture that embraced it as I came of age. My previous attempts to watch it (once at a party, once at a theater and once at
home on video) ended with dozing, falling asleep and general boredom. It’s not that I didn’t get it. It was that it was the cultural relic of a time that I didn’t belong to and didn’t idolize. I understand the era it came from and had some passing familiarity with it, but it isn’t my thing. As much as the young Rocky party goers wish otherwise, it’s not really their thing either.
There’s nothing particularly outrageous in 2008 about going out in public in a corset. Hell, they make them as outerwear these days. While there is still a lot of anti-gay sentiment, most people of my acquaintance today know exactly what a transsexual is. And for those of us who watched friends die of AIDs, a free-for-all sexual lifestyle looks more idiotic than liberating. The sexual revolution that spawned Dr. Frankenfurter is as antique today as a Victorian opium den. However fun and salacious the young people doing this production found it, they’re even less likely to actually understand Rocky than I am. It was a profound realization in the middle of a very silly night. Sadly, even with my previous mostly unconscious attendances of the past, I knew the cues for the stuff in the prop bags better than most of the avowed enthusiasts.
It took two days and a lot of scrubbing to get that “lip” stamp off my hand, too!
Liked the post because it gave me pause to think, and recall fondly–I was fifteen when some friends and I walked two miles to the theater for a midnight showing of Rocky Horror. It was 1982, I had no idea what the show was about, only that it was a movie at midnight and was supposedly a lot of fun. It was, though we arrived without makeup, costumes, squirt guns, or toast. I could take or leave the idealized debauchery, and the counter-culture sex/gender-bending element non-plussed me even then (Dustin Hoffman’s Tootsie came out that same year). I had a crush on Columbia, which was strange, because the girl who’d head-over-heeled me in real life had a definite Magenta vibe. But I digress: my pleasure from that night, and the dozen or so Rocky shows I’ve attended in the ensuring 30-some years, came from the joy of the crowd, not the dated ribaldry of the script. Scenes like Rocky Horror are ultimately reliant upon a group of (mostly) strangers mutually agreeing to indulge themselves in–not wildness, but the idea of wildness, and in this it occurs to me that Rocky Horror has more in common with a bunch of old folks doing the chicken dance at a polish wedding than it does with outmoded sexual exotica. After all, it’s just a jump to the left….