Feminism, eh?

I'm not sure if I claim to be a feminist. As with most things, I find claiming to be a feminist binds one with the understanding that people continually expect that self-proclaimed feminist to uphold feminist values to the extreme and without exception. This may not be fair, but it happens. The kicker is that, like those of nearly any issue, feminist values vary, passions explode, and and we start seeing focus shift from making proactive changes to beginning feminist civil wars. Some argue that men cannot be feminists. That's a touchy one. My personal tendancies to reject absolutist principles on matters force me to question the distinction between men and women in the first place, to bring up issues like gender roles and definitions of self and blah blah blah, but I'd say that someone who identifies as male and, most importantly, has accepted and conformed to most of the male roles his society has lain out for him may claim to be a feminist but probably is not such. Yeah yeah, define feminism. But let me guess, this man, opposed to violence as he may be, would NEVER hit a woman but may strike out at another man. This man nearly ALWAYS takes the side of the female when it comes to a heterosexual relationship's breakup, yet he won't let her ex call her a cunt even if she called him a dick first. Is it because we need defense? Is it because years of female oppression owe it to us to have the upper hand for once? Why can't we look at things situationally? If the goal is, in fact, equality, then why are some people so reluctant to compromise? I've compromised my ass off. I think many males feel that claiming to be a feminist exempts them from blame when they choose to exercise the upper hand that their accepted gender roles have granted them. "Here, my gentle household dove/ firey demanding bitch-dragon, why don't I act like a good little feminist boy and ALLOW you certain emotions for a limited amount of time so that you can become accustomed to my seemingly unconditional acceptance of you? Why don't I encourage you to become dependent on me so that I can feel manly when my big arms encircle you in times of contentment and feel strong when I throw you out into the cold because I'm too weak to hold you up like I spent weeks getting you to believe I would?" All this may seem like the rant of a bitter butch, but I don't identify myself as such. What is the point? I'm not sure exactly, but I question the importance given to issues like equality and gender issues if they are nothing more than labels having little to do with what their disciples choose to practice in their own, private lives.

Diagnosis Day...that time of year again.

It's a seltzer! It's a spritzer! It's a pirate on the moon! No, nope. It's just one petty orgasm after another. Funny thing: my cat has started breaking glass...either that or I've been doing it in my sleep, which I doubt because like I'd want to go anywhere near those remaining four ounces of skanky Diet Coke. Diet Wonder. Diet Poison. Mind Poison, all of it, and don't forget to mind poison. I'm supposed to keep her in her carrier all night with a bowl of water so that because she won't be able to use her litter box, she will have a full bladder in the morning when we walk over to the vet's clinic. However, that's very mean and she will cry all night and probably be very frightened and confused. I'm not going to do that to my baby bumpkin pumpkin, who apparently now has a thing for old Shur Fine Cheese Crackers.

A Long-Overdue Thanks

I don't think we thank our commercial society's delivery personnel nearly enough. Take pizza delievery, for ezample: it's a job, and on nights like tonight, a very uncomfortable one, but it is a choice, and I applaud the driver's dedication. How easy it would have been for David to take a look outside and find no reason to freeze his ass off in the dark to make his clothes damp for the next several hours just so some adequately fed and not pregnant young woman could spend the evening rocking out to Paula Cole and feelin' love from her various cosmetic products. David, you rock! This young woman is going to write a song for you and your others when the time comes.

A Reflection on my Coin Collection

It must be sad for a nation to give up its coin, a loss comparable only to a mother parting with her child. No, it has not died, but like a youth called to leave home, it has gone on its way and the land has ceased to mother it, hoping only that she has been fertile enough to provide sufficience to last the duration of its journey. And, slowly, the coin becomes old and fades away; its use becomes limited, and eventually it is sent to retire, to collect, and to die, perhaps with its remains to be found years later and for someone to look at it and know its mother, wonder what she looked like in the fall when the birds began to soar through the fading evening sky. They'll know its brothers: the little old man buying newspaper-wrapped fish in the rainy market, the homosexual punk using her-his hands to dial a call in the phonebooth on a busy city street, the young widow and her shawled sisters begging outside a church. The motherland smiles, watching the excitement of a new coin's birth, watching a value and new sense of of pride crown, and again she forgets the pain and sorrows as she smiles into its new, shining face.