Calling All Bitchez!

So.

Today, at the cafe (oh, dear, it's always a cafe these days, with the dissertating) I saw that the prized bay window niche was free for my taking and I took it. Because who doesn't want a 180-degree view of the world at large while taking one's forced march down the specialized and over-specific?

But, what I didn't realize is how much this particular cafe was a destination for the business meeting (earphones in, ambient noise out, normally) and that this particular window niche is a total commitment, should two or three people take the neighboring table and block all the few narrow points of egress otherwise available.

The result was that in my six hours writing about interiority and botany in the Romantic era, I was treated to not one but three consecutive long business meetings for exit-blocking neighbors. One of which began with a debate over the relative merits of kale vs. dandelion greens as a salad component, and turned out to be a catering contract where there were a lot of high-flown opinions and misplaced passions about vegetables (vegetables are fine and wonderful in their supporting role, but nobody goes home talking about the broccoli rabe, dammit). Another of which turned out to be a gossip session about the wedding plans of a coworker. I don't know whether my sympathies are more repulsed by materialist bridezillas or their backstabbing besties. But either way, I always make a note to fill my gratitude journal with effusive thanks for the fact that my friends all either came to me married or are not the marrying kind.

Conclusion: Oh shut up and leave so I can squeeze out for a cigarette without making a big production of your or my "agreeableness" in accommodating my fat ass.

But the business meeting between the two extremely "genteel" men really perked up my ears. For one, they were talking finance, which one does not see so often in my particular hipster neighborhood. I'm used to only seeing such economically-advantaged in their Harvard B-School ass-hat stomping grounds, where they feel ordering Jack neat is the very most leading edge of taste and it's OK to holler at obviously poor strangers (me) that they couldn't leverage their entitlement into untold and unearned millions (or billions). So two middle-aged gay boys talking about finance in the most civilized of terms was... novel.

But it was the raison d'etre for the meeting that really got me.

One financier had summoned the other for advice on how to deal with a problem character who was not "taking the hint" from his performance reviews. By not taking the hint I mean, he was told directly what the problem was, and not only was he defensive in taking criticism from his boss, he had no problem disregarding the recommendations entirely. And saying so, in front of his coworkers.

The problem: he was "ageist" and "too focused on beauty" of his clientele and coworkers and was apparently alienating everybody--the paying everybodies included--despite being "otherwise very talented." And they both talked about how offering mild correction would be a benefit to all, including his own personal growth. There was much talk about his personal growth.

Let me now confess that I will be doing some serious reading between the lines. I am imagining some jack-off tool who thinks that all value in women begins and ends tits and ass and is extremely vocal about it. I say this because there seems to be some serious overlap between dudely bros who think "ugly" women in any context are an insurmountable affront to their nuts and berries and dudely bros who think they are entitled to be the financial masters of the universe. If you don't believe me, recall the existence of Wall Street, and its present pathetic sequel (the latter of which appears to be some creepy Oedipal yet homosocial wrangling over the right to money and daughterly pussy, at least based on the trailer). Also, just trust me. They are all over this town. And it's not like this is Manhattan, you know? Beyond the ladies, I would further guess that anybody who strayed farther from his dudely world would present an existential crisis, should he or she or ze make his or her or hir existence unignorable.

So two things:

(1) What talent in finance--that profession in which driving the entire country into the effin' ground is rewarded with enough government cheese to bloat the bonus checks to historical record size the very next year for the very same people--is so effin' rare that someone can roam the cubicles undercutting the boss's authori-tay and said boss to have to justify an almost/not-quite smack down on the grounds of Oprah-tastic personal growth? You're a couple of gay dudes--you know what balls are. Find them--use them--silverback that poo-flingin' monkey into his place. Or replace him. They are a dime a dozen here and everywhere: and in the words of the immortal Beyonce, he shouldn't ever for a second get to thinking he's irreplaceable (for all his personal convictions of omnipotence).

(2) Because: I am quite certain that dude is spreading his bile among all his old, gay, lady, fat, uggos clientele and coworkers--to their daily, exquisite torture. And I am quite certain that flat out, pure principles first, nobody deserves this. And I am equally quite certain that no amount of talent can counteract the horror of finding, that when wanting to hand over some large sum of money to some probably not-quite well-known company, you are not taken seriously because you are old, gay, female, fat, or otherwise aesthetically tool-penis deflating. And then you don't want to hand over your money anymore. Pure principle aside, bad business.

So far, so obvious.

But, it needs to be stated.

For one, if you are in a position of power of any kind, don't put up with the kind of behavior that always dragged you down. Don't apologize. Be angry. It's OK to be angry, and it's OK to fire somebody, who, frankly, is a legal liability. You're the boss in a bad economy and untapped talent abounds--use it for the forces of good and hire someone who at least can swallow their vile hatred well enough to treat people with basic decency. What makes you miserable surely makes others miserable as well.

But, I know the motivation. I teach at a fancy-pants school. Everybody here thinks their shit don't stink, and relies on every cheap trick in the book to make me feel like it's my fault I smell an atrocious smell and not their gassy asses. For instance, women are not supposed to be bitchy--and criticism and rigorous standards are so bitchy. I'm sure same and/or similar standards apply to people who don't fit the white/straight/dudebro/able-bodied/young prescription. But at the end of the day, I'm in charge (sort of) and never have socialize with these sorts in actual fact--I can be the bitch, and it doesn't matter to me. But it does matter for those students who actually try and actually succeed, and to those who want to be in a class sans-asshattery. Draw conclusions about your underlings. If you wouldn't invite him to meet your partner over drinks, you need not worry about sacrificing your ethics to appearing agreeable.

At a certain point, there comes a day when, having boot-strapped, ass-kissed, and cock-sucked your way into a position of authority, you, the non-white/straight/dudebro/able-bodied/young person can actually use it.

Oh, please use it, for the little people who have no power and have to take the lashings of dudebro asshattery with patience and resigned wisdom! Don't lapse into uncertain apologia and euphemism! Don't be so effin' agreeable!

Don't excuse! Don't ameliorate! Obliterate!

[There are pom-poms in my imagination at this point.]

The afternoon after

Cultural Cancer

I was driving with my Womance ladies the other day, and I saw a bumper sticker that said “Save the Ta-Tas”. This is one in a series of like advertisements geared towards raising awareness about Breast Cancer, and potentially raising funds for a cure. And the whole thing pisses me off. What’s so offensive about a pink shirt that says “Save the Boobies,” if the end result is money for cancer research? Namely, because once again women’s health issues are being sexualized, and a whole person reduced just to her breasts. Why not save the woman—the person? Besides, whose “boobies” are we supposed to be saving, anyway? Young-ish white women? What if those cancer afflicted “boobies” belong to an African-American grandmother? (And breast cancer is the most common cancer diagnosis for African-American women). Since hers won’t conform to what our culture idealizes in breasts (i.e. youth, firmness, whiteness etc) are they not worth saving? When are we as a society going to value women as people, and not just as an assembly of sexualized body parts?

Of course, such a thing doesn’t exist for men, or if they do, they’re far less prevalent than the “save the ta-tas” bullshit. I have yet to see a “save the nuts” bumper sticker (and we can’t use proper names for said body parts, we have to use cutesy nicknames, even further reducing the gravity of this disease). That’s because men’s health issues are the default health issues—the norm, and they’re certainly not sexualized in a mass campaign. It’s also important to note that this campaign isn’t solely designed for getting men involved in a women’s health issue (though that certainly is at play, horrifyingly enough)—for every man I’ve seen wearing a “save the boobies” shirt, I’ve seen two young women wearing one, because young women are also being socialized into believing that their breasts are what’s important.

I don’t know too many people who haven’t had their lives impacted by cancer. I’ve lost three of my four grandparents to this voracious disease, and I participate in the Relay for Life every year, because cancer is going to keep killing people—people, not breasts.

Daily Dialogue: Coming to God

Kitty Carney: So, did you hear about that guy who got caught in the campus chapel... ahem... exposing himself?

Lily Pistil: Maybe he's from the dorms. Maybe he just needed a quiet place to masturbate.

Lady Perriwhig: Aren't those chapels mostly glass?

All: Ew!

Kitty Carney: Well, you know what they say, though: People in glass houses shouldn't stroke bones.

A long winded introduction to the world of ugly heroes...

So I'm sitting here, one in the morning, reeling from a combination of cold medicine, coffee (what?) and THE PLAGUE. I should be asleep, but I can't breathe, and tomorrow I have to teach a room full of undergrads the wonders of queer theory when most of them think that feminism is a bad word.

And of course, in response to all this, I'm sitting in front of my computer working on my comic book database... and that's when it hits me...

I have some incredibly ugly superheroes in my collection.

And I don't just mean that literally, though I kinda do.

You see, I'm a fan of Warren Ellis. You know, the guy who did The Authority, Transmetropolitan, and a little ditty known as Hellblazer? And one thing about Ellis, he's dynamic, but he's very rarely pretty. No clean lines, no CGI shine, and when folks get hit-- it gets ugly.

And I got to wondering, why? Why be drawn to a style that's so grotesque? If comic books are supposed to represent abstracted forms ready to read oneself into, imaginative landscapes the reader enters into, then what's up with the visual mess that makes up 80% of my collection?* And dude, what's up with the violence? I mean, yeah, everyone gets my love of The Authority if only for the fact that it includes ass-kicking-gay-superheroes-who-ADOPT-A-FREAKING-BABY, but it's so flipping violent. And messy. And morally problematic.

I mean, in the first volume, Apollo gets raped, Midnighter (his boyfriend) responds with unholy-medieval-jackhammer-O-DOOM violence, and they symbolically slaughter Thor, Captain America and the rest of the Avengers and then burn them in a pile.

And dude, that's like... only volume one.

So what's up? Is my imaginative landscape just jacked, or is there something more going on here?

And here it is, here is what I came up with.

I don't trust pretty people.

Now, I have some totally smokin' friends, and this has nothing to do with that. No, this has more to do with the idea of the heroic and everything we're told to believe about it. You know how it goes, right? Superman comes to save the day. He swoops down, scoops up some little kid and flies away, illuminated in the flash of a hundred cameras?**

And we're supposed to be okay with that. We're supposed to love that. We're supposed to want to be that. We associate beauty with goodness, certain colors with heroism, certain bodies with moral superiority... and we see the same in the lucky few to be rescued.

But where are all the bodies in all this? The mess? The bad nights and the heroes who don't look like they're one 'roid rage away from a nasty fall from grace?

And dude, what's with all the neon tights??

And Ellis, well, he won't let you take the easy way out. You don't get to sit back and say, "Yeah, it's totally okay that the only people who ever get rescued are busloads of beautiful children." You're not handed the easy answers, color coded and neatly labeled "HERO" so that all you have to do is point to the right color palate and get rewarded for finding the good guy. **

Ugly art makes you work for it, makes you dig in and think about it. And I know, I know, this isn't exactly a new argument and, honestly, it's one that I normally hate. But with comics, and these grotesque heroes, it just works.

Take Midnighter and Apollo as our uneasy (and at times, ugly) heroes. We love them, but it's not always fun and it's not always easy to call their actions 'heroic.' While I'll get more into the specific issue about the "Alleged Rape of Apollo" (which is an... illuminating... debate) later, Midnighter's revenge is uncomfortable even as we justify it. It makes revenge into something that you have to deal with. This isn't Bruce Wayne getting off because he finally caught the dude who killed his folks, it's not even Hamlet wandering around debating ethics. It's just... hard to process, hard to look at, difficult to deal with.

Heroes should push us to be better people, to think harder about our decisions and actually take into account the horrific ramifications of, say, trusting somebody who runs around in spandex just because they say we should. Sure, they're signs of hope in troubled time and blah blah blah, but it takes more than just a flash suit to be a hero. Superman can't just keep destroying Lex Luthor's empire, but he can't just keep letting him go, either. There has to be some sort of productive change implemented and his failure to make that change is what kills him for me.

There has to be a choice, and that choice will come with repercussions. That's just fact. The lesson is in the acceptance of the choices that have to be made, and the assumption of responsibility for those decisions.

Which may help explain my fascination with Midnighter. Because, you see, the people who make those decisions, the ones who make the productive changes? Well, often times we call them villains for making a choice that cannot be undone. And yeah, for Midnighter... that just might work...

... and well, as for me... I always did have a thing for the bad guys.

DrV

*Here I'll just note that I'm poaching from Scott McCloud and doing it rather meanly. That is, I mean that in the sense that I've pulled very little, and that I'm being rather unfair.
**Oh yeah, I totally just called you out, Superman: Doomsday. Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? Huh? "A mature comic for adult fans of the genre," my left butt cheek. Go suck an egg.

Appropriately enough...Merkins

Eighteenth century fun fact: Prostitutes would shave their pubes to keep their bits as clean as a quean could, but wear a pube-wig to retain that "natural" look.

There you have it.

Inspired Lyrics

What Do You Got--Jon Bon Jovi
"If you ain't got someone, you're afraid to lose
Everybody needs just one, someone... to tell them the truth
Maybe I'm a dreamer, but I still believe
I believe in hope, I believe the change can get us off our knees

If you ain't got love, it's all just keeping score
If you ain't got love, what the hell we doing it for"

Thanks, Mr. Bon Jovi, for asking the hard questions.

P.S. By "the change", do you mean menopause? Because sexual activity does not need to stop post-menopause.