Dear Tania: Letter #2
Dear Tania -
I am a middle-aged straight male who can't stop defending men whenever women (usually women but not always) start hammering some poor guy simply because he's letting his wing-ding make decisions for him. Hey, evolution is slow (news flash). Do people think crustaceans just started jitter-bugging on the beach one day? Poor men. We're saddled with our biological imperitive to, um, . . . seek out *strange* . . . . same as wise men followed that star, same as dung beetles roll you-know-what, same as George Clinton says, "Why must i be like that? Why must I chase the cat? Must be the Dog in me . . . " (cue synth riff) . . . and poor G Clinton ended up with a mug shot in the bargain . . . and I must say your blog just loves to see us "tied to the whipping post" - so what's the deal - do I peacefully enter the re-education camps and become a stepford-neutered new-agey bozo, or do I resist, go to the hills, viva la revolution?
semi-recovered Self-hating Dude in Sonoma
ps - you know you don't want a world with goody-goody men . . . that would be a worse Hell.
I'm all for you letting your wing-ding make decisions for you. Let it lead you around like a seeing eye dog.
I wholly support your right to let your life be divined by your wing-ding. Find whatever effluvia you want with it.
The same way I'll defend your prerogative to build beer can pyramids and eat Captain Crunch for dinner, I'll support you in your quest to bang your secretary on Monday and your barista on Tuesday.
I'll even hose you off when you roll in shit--or bandage your scratches when you catch that pussy George Clinton speaks of. And I'll be thankful you can jitterbug.
Indeed, have sex with a bicycle, a lamp post, or a picnic table, for all I care. I'll still be your friend.
Just don't get married. Don't be a liar.