Ambiguous Genitalia

I ran across the term today in a discussion of transgender issues, and it just strikes me as an oxymoron along the lines jumbo shrimp.

In my opinion, anybody with ambiguous genitalia would have to be a woman, by default. Simply because a man’s genitalia cannot be ambiguous. It is anything but.

Take mine…

My genitals have always known exactly what they wanted, without doubt, ambiguity or hesitation. Which is why they have a tendency to take charge over other parts of my body that should be running things, like the brain.

Quite possibly this was what W.B Yeats was referring to when he wrote::

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

It takes balls to write a passage like that.

Why I Don’t Have Many Friends: Aren’t Old People Supposed to Die?

Facebook, the Ground Zero of shallow comments, disposable sincerity and vapid insights is abuzz with news of Nancy Reagan’s passing. And everybody says they are sorry. Or sad. Or that it’s a sad day. Whatever.

It’s not that I wished the woman ill. I didn’t wish her anything. In fact, I can say with 100% certainty that I haven’t had a wish or a thought about Nancy Reagan for at least 20 years. I couldn’t have even said with any certainty that she was still alive. Until today. Now I am pretty sure she’s dead.

I am also pretty sure that most other people, even Americans, have been similarly unaware of Nancy Reagan’s comings and goings for the past 20 years. And that, even when she was First Lady, most of the people now expressing mourning and condolences to the world in general weren’t all that interested in her.

So why is everyone sorry and sad now?

I mean, she was 94 years old. How long is she supposed to live? 94 is a good stretch by almost any standard. I understand she had friends and family, and for them it’s going to be tough to say good-bye, of course. But for the rest of us? Why do we have to act sad when somebody who we never thought about dies at a comfortably old age in normal circumstances?

It smells of fake sincerity to me. Maybe it’s just politeness, but politeness would be saying that to her family members or close friends, who might actually be mourning. Just announcing to the world in general that one is sad, sorry, sympathetic strikes me as bullshit. Sorry.

Let’s bring it to celebrities who I do somewhat care about, like David Bowie. In his case, he died at what should have been a still-spry 69. And he died just after calling attention to himself by releasing new material. Which I think was planned on his part. The man didn’t want his death to be greeted by “Bowie? I wondered what happened to him.” Or worse, “Bowie was still alive?” He was a showman, and he wasn’t going to slink off the stage unnoticed.

So I was surprised, having just downloaded his new material. He was huge to me when I was a kid looking for role models, and I loved his music. So certainly I should have been as moved as the millions of people that went on Facebook to announce their sadness and proclaim his sorely missed genius. Mostly people who weren’t especially fans in the first place.

I could announce my feelings, but to do it in the cold emptiness of social media seems like puffery. That’s just me.

I won’t even get into how I despise Facebook birthday greetings.

The Bukowski Brothers

Bachelor Tom Peeping - Page 26

Two big, stupid and violent Pollacks from East Detroit. Though that was never said, mostly because of the big and violent part. Because they were bigger than any of us, and older. And because they took us to a decrepit titty bar in Detroit before we had even entered high school. I remember only patches of when I was 15. A screwed up family life, drifting pseudo-friends and the recent discovery of drugs to take all that shit out of sight, if only for a while.

There are things I forgot because I wanted to, things I forgot because I drank to much one-dollar wine, and things that just didn’t matter enough to remember.

But I remember the little titty bar in Detroit.

It wasn’t called that, of course. It was called a “Gentlemen’s Club” on the sign – a fritzy neon thing hanging on a brick storefront in a crappy neighborhood. That was the likely the most expensive part of the decor. And it slightly set the building apart from every other crappy storefront in that crappy neighborhood, most of them boarded up – a place set apart from the rest of Detroit because the criminals were mostly white rather than black.

The violent Pollacks were called the Bukowski brothers. Actually, they weren’t even called that. Their name is among the memory casualties of that period. I just remember it was a Polish name with a -ski suffix, and sounded brutish. Bukowski will have to do for now – I’m sure Charles would’t mind. They weren’t even brothers, but we thought of them that way. They were close. They were both big, liked to drink and liked to fight. And, in hindsight, only rarely got laid. That may have had something to do with the fighting. Maybe they fucked each other.. who knows? That stuff was way beyond me at 15.

Instead of getting laid, they connected with their “little brother” Martin, who had moved to the more upscale Birmingham after living near them on the East Side. They adopted the bunch of us, and served as an unfortunate choice of father figures for many of us. They were an inspiration in ways. They had one of the greatest jobs we could imagine. They were garbagemen.

It wasn’t something I ever thought of doing, but they were making a few hundred dollars a day riding on the back of a truck for a few hours each morning. They didn’t have to sit down and buckle seat belts like the rest of us, they rode like cowboys hanging off the back of the beast. The companies were run by the mob and paid for by the city, using taxpayer funds. So they were paid well. They worked hard, but they worked about 4 hours a day. They could drink until late night, go to work, and then be back in bed by 8 am. When you’re 15 and life sucks, that sounds pretty good.

So one night they decided we needed to be introduced to tits, as we hadn’t actually seen many. They drove us an hour across town to the Gentleman’s Club. The neighborhood was unsafe even for adults, and the bar was certainly unsafe. But we were 15, and accompanied by two huge bruisers with one eye out for trouble.

When we walked in, one of the strippers and the bartender eyed us, and then looked at the brothers with what seemed like exasperation, “Mike…what are you doing…?”

Mike Bukowski ignored the comment greeted them with eyes slightly narrowed to preclude any further protests. Perhaps not wanting their dump smashed up, they shrugged and led us to a row of seats by the bar. The place seated maybe 20 people max, and there were 2 other customers. The bartender looked like he was going to say more, but he instead averted his eyes and then walked off. Maybe he didn’t care, or maybe he didn’t want to risk a confrontation. Mike did like a good fight.

And sure enough, this fresh faced white kid from the richer suburbs soon had a beer in his hand and 2 pairs of tits just across the bar. I was officially grown up now.

The girls weren’t exactly like the girls in my father’s Penthouse magazine collections, so sloppily hidden in the top of his closet. They were a bit worn looking, one looked old enough to be my mother. The most attractive one, and I am speaking relatively, had the breasts of a boy. And I like small breasts. I was just disappointed that my first exposure to breasts involved breasts that looked pretty much like my own.

Still, my mind was spinning. What if I could get laid tonight? I mean, these girls obviously fucked a lot. Wouldn’t a fresh faced boy be a change? With all the dregs that must walk into that bar, surely I would stand out. I could go back to Birmingham, no longer a virgin, but a man of the world who had just bedded a Detroit stripper.

It didn’t work out like that. For reasons I couldn’t then comprehend, the girls just weren’t into junior high school kids. But they danced, and one chatted up Mike next to me. And we drank beer.

Apart from the large turd carefully placed on top of the toilet seat in the men’s room, rendering it unusable, I remember little else of the night.

Except that I was not yet 16, and I had already been to a titty bar.

Slapping Doesn’t Cure Hysteria

I grew up on movies where a hysterical woman could always be brought to her senses by a good slap or two. It was a movie cliche, and there was barely a movie star who didn’t slap at least a few of his female leads. The slap was usually accompanied by a serious and controlled “get a hold of yourself” or “calm down!”

In a moment of desperation once, I tried it. I wasn’t in a slapping mood, not even angry. But the image from so many movies popped into my head. I had already tried everything else, even reason. I didn’t think it would work, but how could I know for sure unless I tried?

It didn’t work.

In fact, it more than didn’t work. I learned there was a whole new level of hysteria above the usual “God, please take me anywhere in the universe that is away from this lunatic woman.” In fact, I don’t think the universe is big enough for a hyper-slap-charged hysteria.

Things got really ugly. I was kicking myself being such an idiot – using stuff from movies in real life is the very essence of stupidity. I didn’t know what else to do after that. So I left. But even that was not easy.

She was in full banshee mode, and did her insane best to block the door. I still got out. As crazy hysterical as she was, she retained enough of her senses not to chase me outside the flat without at least a bit of make-up, and maybe some clothes. That gave me plenty of time.

I ran out of the building into the cool San Francisco air. Free at last. As I neared the crest of the hill on Polk Street leading away from the apartment, I heard a familiar voice screaming, “You can’t run from me, you son of a bitch! I whored for you! I whored for you!”

A few people turned around to look where the craziness was coming from. I kept my eyes ahead, and picked up my pace just a bit until I was over the hill and out of sight.

Last I heard, she was advising the US government and others on matters of internet security.

IMO and IMHO both Suck, in my Opinion

From a random blog…

“a very good read, IMO.”

That was the straw that broke this particular camel’s cliched back. I just can’t take it anymore…

(For those who are not accustomed to internet jargon, IMO means “in my opinion.” IMHO means “in my humble opinion.”)

I mean, of course it’s your fucking opinion! Do we have to preface every slightly subjective comment with IMO or IMHO? What are we afraid of? This??

That's just your opinion, says the Dude

I guess so. The Dude makes the rules now. Man.

IMHO is even worse. My “humble” opinion. Aw, bullshit – if you were humble you would just keep your damn mouth shut. I’m sure some of the IMHO users are people who are afraid of having their virtual lights virtually punched out by some ruthless internet troll. But there’s another kind, the pretentious others. They use it because:

1- It sounds pretentious and they just can’t help their humble selves.
2- They think it gives them the upper hand.
3- Because they affirm it’s an opinion, that will help deflate any arguments showing it to be a stupid comment. A sort of reverse-Dude defence (“Well, it’s just my opinion man…”

Get this, grammar guys and gals – we know it’s your fucking opinion. 99% of all conversation is opinions – that’s how we know. Until the internet came along and made everyone more stupid, it wasn’t necessary to remind people of that.

So, show some balls. Express yourself. Say what you think. And don’t act ashamed of it.

Got it?

How to Deal with People who Intimidate You

A little trick I learned some time back, and it’s fun to practice on everyone you associate with. Especially assholes, or simply powerful people who intimidate you (who are probably assholes as well, but you’re too nervous to pick up on that). This brings them right down to earth:

Look at that person, and imagine what kind of child they were. Imagine them as an 8 year-old.
donald trump child - Google Search

For some people, this unfortunately isn’t much of a leap. In those cases, though, it just makes your job that much easier. Whoever it is, think about them until they fit into an 8 year-old’s body, Picture their expressions, and picture their gestures and moods, on an 8 year-old. It’s surprisingly easy, because people don’t really change all that much. We acquire the wrinkles, the gravitas, the baldness… but any clever child could mimic us with devastating results. Thank God there are so few clever children.

Once you project an 8 year-old onto the mannerisms, that daunting, impressive, intimidating figure becomes very easy to deal with. I mean, there are very few 8 year-olds in the world who can’t be dealt with and managed. Even the most difficult ones are transparent to a fault. And none of them are intimidating.

When you deal with the 8 year-old, you’ll suddenly find the 41 year-old (or 61 year-old) opening up to you. This is because you have addressed their core, their true inner being. Their inner (yuck) child.

Try it. It’s the key to just about anyone.