There’s perhaps no worse breed of “man” than the music snob–the one who will either only listen to Bach like the skull fucker he is or only go to or participate in DIY shows like an elitist motherfucker pretending to be a “man” of the people. There is no in-between with “men” when it comes to music. They’re either “classicist”-loving pretension-wads or angst-ridden alt rock/indie adoring fuckboys. And if they do love or even vaguely appreciate pop music, you’re probably fucked anyway because it generally signals a predilection for their love of other “men” in addition.
Even so, just because a “man” might cringe when he hears the opening, dated notes to “…Baby One More Time” doesn’t mean he ought to begrudge you one of your few simple pleasures in life, often, these days involving the making of a video of some variety to go along with your lip syncing. And anyway, is it a crime if your body responds to the frothy melodies of a pop star like Ariana Grande or the so-called vacuous lyrics of women so frequently describing being abandoned and done wrong in the most upbeat way they can? (e.g. “Sorry” by Beyonce). How else are they (and the women they appeal to) supposed to cope with the constant disappointments and fuckery if not shaking it off with the type of ditty that laments, “You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline” while also allowing you to move your arse on the dance floor? So no, do not begrudge a lady her devotion to pop music. She doesn’t hold it against you when you splooge over Radiohead, after all.
Even a “man” as demented and business douchey as Ted Turner somehow saw fit to co-create the 90s cartoon that taught you to love Gaia, Captain Planet and the Planeteers. Affectionately shortened to Captain Planet. The planeteers are summoned by Mother Earth herself after she feels some fuckwad named Hoggish Greedly–clearly a portent of Donald Trump–drilling into her. To protect herself, Earth sends five rings to youths across the globe, each one with the power to control some element of nature. Using her Planet Vision to inform the planeteers where the most destructive Eco-Villains are wreaking their havoc, the quintet manages to handle most of the environmentally unfriendly assholes on their own. But, occasionally, when the situation gets very dire, they need Captain Planet to swoop in and take on the nefarious knave of the moment ruining the earth.
Clearly, we need Captain Planet to do just that more than ever, but he’s probably slumped over at a bar made entirely out of repurposed wood dealing with the crushing blow of the Paris Agreement news. So he’s out for help. The only other option is to tie Trumpio up with hemp bindings and sit him in a chair–Alex in A Clockwork Orange-style–and make him watch nonstop back to back episodes of the show until he comes out wearing a loose, shapeless potato sack and admits he’s been Hoggish Greedly all along, who now just wants to make Gaia a sustainable place for us all to live.
For whatever reason, “men” can clam up at any arbitrary time without warning. Just shut down, close up shop and disappear from your life faster than they entered it–and you. There’s no telling why they feel it’s best and appropriate to simply cut off all communication. Maybe some aspect of it comes from an empathetic place. Or maybe, rather, a place of fear–fear of having to deal with what he interprets as a woman’s river of emotional shit. Because the only thing a “man” hates more than leaving his mother’s womb is dealing with emotions. Particularly when all he wants now is a new orifice with which to interact with. I’m talking, of course, about the opening that is made when he forms his hand into a slight fist to masturbate.
But where does that leave the woman who needs to know what went wrong? The exact moment when he started to formulate the exit strategy. Was it all her, or is something about her merely a reflection of his own lost soul, refracted momentarily in the folds of her vag until he smoothes everything out for himself? It would just be really fucking amazing to know, to hear something. To not have the title of the crucial Judy Blume novel Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. apply to your existential crisis in relationships as well. With a title instead revamped to: Are You There Fuckhead? It’s Me, The Girl You Ghosted. So try to bear in mind that your silence, while presumed to be pacifistic, is actually violence–and that a few kind words geared toward a phase out might just preserve a little longer someone you boned’s self-esteem.
Because it is naturally ingrained in women to pit themselves against one another, one of the long-held complimentary cliches “men” have used as a means to “flatter” is: “You’re not like most girls.” Ah, how touching. How truly affected of you to think that by telling me I’m not like my own “silly” gender, I would swoon for you, feel so special that you could see me as something (certainly not someone) more. Thank god I managed to convince you that I’m not like most girls, so frivolous and squawking. That I’ve managed to keep quiet and monotone enough to for you to feel unattacked by me.
Or maybe that I like video games (I don’t, unless you’re speaking of the seminal Lana Del Rey song), that I’m “one of the ‘boys.'” Thank baby J for Hailee Steinfeld’s “Most Girls,” here to shut down the myth that women want to set themselves apart from one another in order to be in the running for finagling of the biggest “dick” (if only in personality). Nonetheless, even the presence of this song in the canon of pop is likely not going to stop many a “man” from continuing to persist in his belief that women want to feel “plucked” from the sea of sameness by them. All “men,” in truth, are like each other, after all: still wanting somehow to rescue if only for the brief novelty of doing so before he throws a girl off the horse.
The Alamo Drafthouse has been known for putting customers of a shitty caliber on blast for their irascibility–from complaining about being thrown out for arriving late to being banned for texting. So it should come as no surprise that the theater is at the center of moviegoing controversy once again with its Wonder Woman women-only screening. And though the female-only showings have thus far been announced for the Austin location (sold out, by the way), Brooklyn can’t be far behind. Why “men” should feel scandalized about women coming together to celebrate the first major blockbuster starring a non-dicked person in the lead role of hero (Maleficent was all about female villainy, and Tomb Raider wasn’t Marvel or DC) is unclear.
Does this concept threaten their masculinity–that a superhero with a vag is more powerful than any “male” one that’s come before her on the screen (especially Superman, that little bitch)? And, further, what’s the big deal about women preferring to enjoy Wonder Woman in all her glory sans the twigs you call a peen in their midst? Who knows? Maybe “men” have never really been told there’s a specific area they can’t go to before (like women to the workplace or the voting polls), and the jarring nature of exclusion is too much for them to bear. All one can really say is, it’s a woman’s prerogative to be among other women for a momentous occasion such as this. Moreover, “men” generally despise being in a large group of laydays anyway, being that they’re viewed as hen-like in nature when there’s too many of them in one place. So, on a deeper psychological level, this fear of being excluded derives from the overall “male” apprehension of late that there’s going to be a female takeover/takedown. Which, if the 2016 election told you anything, really shouldn’t be a cause for concern for “men.”
When it comes to getting pregnant, or fearing becoming pregnant, it’s always–but always–the “man’s” fault. He can spin the yarn all he wants about saying the woman he had sex with was a slut and therefore didn’t deserve use of a condom, but, ultimately, it’s the panisse that expels the seed, not the vag. The culpability is clear. Thus, the least a “man” can do to compensate for the pleasure he hath snatched from a woman’s snatch is offer her a pregnancy test when she tracks him down at his place of business and tells him that she might be with child.
The appropriate (first) response is to apologize to her for contaminating her potential freedom from the lifelong burden of caring for another, and then go to the cash register (he presumably works at McDonald’s, after all) to take out $50 (one of the most expensive pregnancy tests at Walgreens is $42.99) in cash and hand it to her obsequiously, with an expression of contrition, to boot. This isn’t the type of thing to skimp on–a woman needs a real answer–not a reply that’s tantamount to getting one from a Magic 8 Ball, which, by the way, is what some “men” would rather pay for to get a response about the state of their paternity as a result of its affordability.
Ceaseless jibes at Madonna’s age and manipulated body aside, one must admit that in the early 90s, she was in her prime in every way: physically, career-wise (“Vogue,” darling, “Vogue”) and in showcasing her cutting sense of humor (see: Truth or Dare). And while Michael Jackson’s sexuality had always been “a” at best and perilous at worst (where there’s smoke there’s fire with them child molestation rumors), it seems just slightly cuckoo that Madonna would be able to “scare him off women” for good.
Try as she might to loosen Miguel up a little, to make him see that the King and Queen of Pop ought at least to be able to say they slept together once for icon posterity, the dainty child trapped inside a “man’s” body simply couldn’t react in any other way than with sheer terror at the sight of Madonna naked in his boudoir. And yet, in many respects, Michael’s actions mirror those of any average “male,” too intimidated and therefore repulsed by a woman both powerful, beautiful and appetitive of sex to engage her.