'Caramel'

Except for the occasional political one, I rarely recommend films on this blog. But if you are free tonight, this Thursday evening, tomorrow or Saturday and live in Ottawa, then please find the hour and a half needed to head over to the Bytowne Cinema where you can catch Caramel. (Tonight it's on at 5pm, Friday at 4.30pm & Saturday at 2.15pm.)

Later, I will insert here why I loved this movie as much as I did...check back.

Freedom!

Before you begin reading, please note that: Of course there is a middle-ground that below I’m not discussing. I’m speaking in the same extreme as that spoken by the window and the commercial mentioned. Understand that the state we are in is because of a backlash against the over interference of the Church and the moral arm and all of the history that has brought. But who the f*ck decided to throw the baby out with the bathwater? (I'm adding this as an after thought - Michelle pointed out that we can't point at only one thing here, and she's absolutely right. There are many factors to blame for our current state, only a couple of which are mentioned below.)

We went out recently, sat on a patio and I was this close to shooting myself.

One gem of an overheard conversation was the following:
“I just threw up in the bathroom.”
“But you still look good.”
“Thank God! I’m so lucky I can do that. Look. He said he thinks I’m cute and he wants to f*ck me.”
“AWESOME. He’s so hot.”
“Yeah. I think he likes me. I’m going to go with him.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Uhm. I can’t remember. Anyway, uhm, how are my chubs?”
“AWESOME. That’s totally why you picked up, bitch!”
“Right. I’m out.”

If I were to try and communicate either my pain or shame at overhearing this, I fear I may bring down my blog server.

Link to: Behold what we’re selling our young women (Be) and to our young men (Expect):



The above is a display window of a very popular shop in Ottawa. Notice, her jeans and underwear are around her ankles. She has wine bottles in front of her and her head placed on the toilette, clearly denoting the sexy state of inebriation that induces vomiting. The two background figures are one male and one female and written on the mirror is: “For a good time call….”

I stood in front of the display staring with my mouth open when a young woman came out, looked at me and said: “I know! It’s so cool!”

Instead of taking her down for her stupidity, I instead turned slowly to face her and declared “Noooooo. There’s nothing cool about this. It’s demeaning and degrading and a TESTAMENT. To just how low we’ve landed.”

She looked puzzled, gave me an awkward smile and walked away.

Link to: The latest birth control pills that are being marketed to an audience of very young women. The interesting thing about these commercials is:
The girls appear to all be aged between 16 & 22.
There are no men in the commercials.
They’re representing carefree lives; girls running on the beach, eating dinner out together, having coffee in the middle of the day, lounging around at home with magazines (heaven forbid it be a book), running out for a first job interview. All of them are smiling, laughing, unburdened and beautiful young people.

The first time I saw these commercials, I thought they were for a clothing or make-up company and was taken aback when I realized it was for birth control. N & I were seated in a movie theater the second time I saw them and she declared “Holy CHRIST! The girls look like they’re about 12!!”

I don’t care how many partners you have sex with, or how many drunken one-night stands you’ve had or in which way and for how long you’ve been taking the pill. And I most definitely don’t care if you’re male of female. Your life is your own and your responsibilities and consequence to your body are yours for the choosing. But if you wish to declare that you can have sex without any emotional connections or blowback then to you I actually say bullsh*t, because our bodies, our skin have and hold memories. More importantly, they have rights over us and so inherent in that is the fact that your physical being is not an entity that you can – no matter how hard you try – detach from the rest of you. But that’s not what this entry is about – and if you are proud of the fact that you have casual sex without emotional connection, then it is your right to sell yourself so cheaply and there is no place for that on this blog.

Right. So what’s troubling me about the above is the greater theme of casual sex lifestyle void of worry and stress, when in reality, pregnancy may in fact be the least worrisome consequence of sex. ‘Least’ when compared to the psychological, emotional, spiritual, and sexual disease consequences of sex within the particular context presented by the above two references to ‘lifestyle’.

As already mentioned, there are no men in these commercials and so no hint at relationships. If, as adults, you wish to go out and have random sexual relations, then fine – but that’s not the audience being targeted. They are anything but adult. (I remember being a 16 year old ‘adult’ very well because that was the summer all of the girls in my high-school started having sex. I also recall – crystal clearly – the traumatic consequences most of them encountered because of that choice; None of them having anything to do with a pregnancy scare.)

I don’t think it would be insane or far-fetched to say that at that age one is completely vulnerable and their identity still being formed. As equally important are their perspectives on relationships and sex (be it within or without a relationship). Here I discuss both boys and girls.

To those of you considering someone like I a throwback to the Stone Age, I say better the Stone Age than what I’ve seen as of late. And please note: anything I say re girls, I argue equally for boys. If there were a pill for boys targeted in this fashion, I would make exactly the same arguments. If boys were being represented in shop displays in this manner, I would fight against that equally.

Speaking only for myself here, I will say two things. First, to those who are great advocates of the pill, I’ve read all of the arguments and understand them, though I don’t accept or agree with most of them. I have no problem denying entry into my body chemicals of the sort found in the birth control pill. What you choose to ingest is your business, but do not try to misrepresent the context of something that is so much more than a wee little pill to what are, essentially, children.

Second, I fully expect that the man who is going to love me isn’t a man who would want me to take the risks associated with birth control. (e.g. ‘Crazy girl’, ‘no sex drive girl’, ‘my body will never again be able to produce natural lubrication girl’, etc.) Just as it would be my duty to make certain he took care of his health and avoided harmful substances, I expect him to be doing exactly the same where I was concerned. These are my standards and mine alone, and this last bit - to me - would be one of the measures of a ‘man’.

But heaven forbid we hold ourselves to any sort of a standard that falls short of complete hedonistic freedom. People should have the “freedom” to have sex with whomever and whenever, at the age they choose. Because they should learn the meaning of responsibility…even though I am not exercising any. I’m so proud.

Proud enough to head back down to the store display and stand in front of it with a big banner that reads: YAY! I’M LIBERATED! I’M FREE! AND I DON’T CARE THAT MORE THAN HALF OF THE WOMEN IN THE WORLD OVER 15 CAN’T READ OR WRITE! I CAN SHOP, YO!

I DON’T CARE THAT WOMEN PRODUCE 80% OF THE FOOD ON THE PLANET BUT RECEIVE LESS THAN 10% OF AGRICULTURAL ASSISTANCE! I CAN GET TRASHED ON TONS OF LIQUOR, BABY!

I DON’T CARE THAT WOMEN ONLY OCCUPY 2% OF SENIOR MANAGEMENT POSITIONS WORLDWIDE! I CAN SLEEP WITH THE OTHER 98%! WOO-HOO! HURRAY FOR ME WITH MY PANTIES AND jeans…around my ankles? And uhm, whose that guy behind me? And is that my number? And is that my girlfriend looking over me? Not interfering because, uhm, that wouldn’t, like, be right to tell me how to behave, would it? I mean...would it? And will you come to the sex clinic with me because I’m bleeding and I don’t know why.

But heaven forbid…heaven forbid…we ever say ‘no to anything’ because ‘yes’ has brought us so much good.



*Thank you to Woman Kind.

Men are from Mars and Some Women are from Stupid

In 32 years, I've only ever cared for one person. Well...maybe one and a half, the half not really counting because in hindsight it's easy to see that it was little more than a very fun and exciting fantasy holding no water.

A few girls invited me out after work one evening and they were blathering on about their "tricks" with men because apparently, "a woman has to play games to get what she wants". I am about to divulge some sisterhood secrets and I don't mind doing this because thankfully, it is not to this particular sisterhood I belong. Most of the women were in their late thirties and single, having jumped from one bed to another.

True gems of wisdom imparted were:
"...cry - you'll get anything!"
"...yell! You have to yell to show him whose boss!"
"...break up with him first. YOU HAVE TO BREAK UP WITH HIM FIRST!"
"...jealousy is par for the course with a man, make sure to always keep him on his toes and guessing that you have other men on your a** always."
"...hold his ex girlfriends against him!"
"...play with his emotions by being temperamental and unpredictable."
"...never make him think he's totally got you or he'll take you for granted."
"...f*ck his best friend when you break up. It'll kill him!"
"...needle his most vulnerable psychology!"
"...be a b*tch, it's what all men secretly want."
"...never pay for anything or he'll expect you to always do it."
...and my personal favourite was when one of the women decided to lecture me on that you should really get out there and date because that's what men are for. Women's lib! We fought for this!(1) And really who cares if you wait until marriage when there's so much variety to be had and look at me I'm a tramp and I love it been with more men than I can count on all fingers toes and appendages and it doesn't matter that I now wear a diaper because I have zero muscle drone drone drone.

As to this woman, to some it would seem odd that in thirty two years I would have only said "I love you" once. To those who think I am a freak of incredible proportion I'll have you know that the more I look around me the happier I am about this particular aspect of my life. And in fact, the more respect I have for myself. I believe there's something pure and honest about it. Having dealt with T's recent PIGLET! lying and cheating husband, I realize that my reality means I don't take either the words or the sentiment lightly and that stands for something; no one can ever claim that part of me has been diluted by over usage. More important still is that with every time we give ourselves away, we loose something. We become dulled, we become more cautious, we become less giving the next time. And...I...I wish to be able to give all of myself to someone someday without hesitation, trepidation or fear because of tangible things such as a past encounter. I don't think that's far-fetched or unattainable (I don't actually believe in that word, but think it's the ideal excuse for not working harder); Absolutely challenging and filled with hard work, but fully attainable nonetheless.

I like that: I won't ever be someone who does dilute everything in their lives. Who jumps from one relationship to another, never mourning, never understanding, never learning, never growing. I don't want to be with someone for the sake of being with someone, to avoid boredom. I don't want to further disrespect the man I will marry by giving so much of me away today that there'll be nothing left to give him tomorrow. I don't want to be the fool who doesn't know how to be alone. Who doesn't value their body or their heart and hands both out at random. I refuse to belittle everything that I am just so I have the occasional date on Friday night and so that I'm not lonely because I fully believe that if we don't know how to be alone and enjoy our own company, we won't know how to let someone else share in that very company. I also refuse to fit into some bizarre prototype of 'modern female' because I don't much like 'her'.

More importantly, I like boys. I don't want to be cruel to them or play games with them or disrespect them. When I am with someone, I don't want to yell at him or make him cry or harm his heart and I want to believe that everything earthly is possible.(2) Instead of aiming to do these things I'll hope to do the exact opposite to the best of my ability. Inevitably, at times I'll fail, but I'll have at least attempted to avoid that failure. I want to love him fairly and completely. Understand his history and psychology, alleviate his fears, reinforce my love for him and forgive his weaknesses as I would expect to have done for me. I also want to like him enough to hold his hand when we're 85. I think women underestimate their capacity to hurt men and that's an absolutely terrible thing. Simply because men may not discuss their feelings, it doesn't mean they don't have them. I wouldn't want someone to play games with me or yell at me or be mean to me and so why would I ever inflict that sort of thing on another individual? Especially if it's someone I love?

And if you believe that you can be a shit to your partner and yet don't deserve to be treated in the same manner, then you need a lot of therapy and a kick in the ass. There's nothing uglier than a spoiled brat, male or female.

****************************************

(1) We fought for 'this? For the freedom to f*ck? And here I thought we were fighting for equality and respect. How shameful and backward of me to accuse the feminist movement of anything short of complete and full pornification of the female and her many fruitful usages and bendy ways. Oh! And while I'm on it...thanks very much for providing me the opportunity to CHOOSE having my brea*ts sliced to obtain a more 'womanly' figure, my lips injected for a sexier pout, my eyebrows tattooed to shave off 10 minutes of 'getting ready' time in the a.m., my ribs broken for a smaller waistline and my face expressionless and poison filled so as to appear 'younger'. Because deep down, I don't think I can get anywhere on brains alone, I'd like to thank the modern day Miss. Interpretation of 'feminism' by the greater sisterhood allowing me to indulge these very exceptional and MY CHOICE! actions. These choices make me liberated, Hurrah!

Liberated enough to look down my new perfectly shaped "Jennifer Aniston" nose in order to mock the Muslim woman and her head gear - because heaven forbid she force the world to listen to her rather than stare BY CHOICE! at her. (3)

(2) Except the wanking PIGS! and Cheaters.

(3) Yes, there is a happy middle way, but not with the likes of the women who were the catalysts for this entry.

Are you a Picasso?

Recall how last year I told you about my need to be a Mayflower Madame for Halloween as a young child. Following that, I was a witch, another year a ballerina, and finally a ghost. The last time I was wh*ring around on Halloween was at the tender age of nine, pretending to be God only knows what (I called it "a lady"). Anything to prance around in my mother’s Crack and wear red rouge.

When I grew up, I dressed up once for Halloween, I was a bumblebee. I wasn’t sexy, I was a bumblebee. I was wearing a large barrel and would lay on my side with my arms awkwardly sticking out because I couldn’t actually sit. Anything I drank, I drank through a straw. My antennas rocked and I received a lot of compliments about my costume.

I’ve been speaking with several women about their costumes, and I am a little surprised by their intentions. Each one of these women is beautiful, successful, and intelligent. Add to that, each woman is using the occasion to show off her sexuality by being a “sexy (insert whatever pleases you)”. So, we have:
- A sexy bunny
- A Playboy bunny (way to move the sisterhood forward!)
- A sexy cowgirl
- A sexy nurse
- A sexy librarian

My male friends, on the other hand, are going to be:
- A gorilla
- A dead cowboy
- A seal
- A pirate
- A mobile telephone
- A plumber
…there is nothing sexy about any of the above male choices unless the gorilla decides to become a baboon and paint its ass red. Whereas none of the men declared “a sexy cowboy” or a “sexy pirate”, each and every woman did. And when I pressed further, I was told that it was the perfect opportunity for them to show off the fact that they are “sexy”.

And so this has left me a little disconcerted, without really understanding why it was upsetting me…until I finally realized that there are two layers to my personal distaste re the above. First, it is that these women – who have everything going for them – feel the need to illustrate overtly, their sexuality. None of them believe that by default and by virtue of the fact that they are women, they are already sexy.

They don’t need to take off their clothes or show a little more cleavage or a little more ass. They ARE sexy because they’re of the female sex. It is built in us, it is in the way we move and the way we touch our hair, look at you, smile at you, put on our lipstick, take off our sunglass, and dial the phone. I quite honestly believe that no matter the size of a woman’s ass or chest, she is stunning and sexy in all of her incarnations.

The second red flag I see with the above is as follows…
When I asked: “Why is it important that you be perceived as ‘sexy’?”, none of the women were able to provide a straight answer, instead tip toeing around the reality that it’s for attention. What I hate about this is that – in terms of my personal beliefs – it’s the easiest and therefore most fleeting sort of attention. Several of the women kept stating how it would be “empowering” to play the sex kitten.

Ok, so then here’s my Q: How hard is it to get a man’s attention with your boobs hanging out or when your ass is much higher than your pantline?
A: Not very, sweetheart.

There’s much to be said about our society stemming from the above reality; although you may be wondering why I would be upset by this, I do believe it lends itself to a much greater and deeper problem in our society. There’s MUCH to be said about the feminist movement as well, but for now (and just for today) I’m going to leave it at this: Empowerment does not come from your breasts, nor does it come from your ass. Most definitely it is not this strange belief that because we, as women, now have the right to f*ck as often and as frequently as men, we are therefore equal to them. (And if you would like to talk about the “empowerment” of females in the porn industry who “choose” their profession, please consider this an invitation to engage me and those who live here in the comments field of this entry.)

Empowerment comes from your accomplishments and your return to this world (and for those who believe, then also in your return to Him). Empowerment and strength are when you overcome the odds and the challenges blocking your way, and not when you use the easiest means accessible. Ergo, empowerment is not about using your God given sexuality that resonates in every single movement flowing through you, it is about taking the road less traveled and on the 31st of October, that means dressing up as a bumblebee.

As an aside, I’d like to place one small thought into the minds of women reading this blog (all of the brilliant men, too, who will undoubtedly print this up and hand it to their daughters in 10 years). We possess the right to make a choice. What seems to have been lost in translation is that since we've been given a right which has always been ours, our only "choice" seems to have become: giving it up, and to put it crassly, it is to undress and sleep with dozens of men at our own whim. Otherwise, you may be perceived as frigid or "square". Does that then mean that your actions are in fact a "choice", or are you merely choosing not to act, but to avoid a specific label? (Ultimately, choosing the later is still a "choice" but it is most definitely not about equality.)

Few people talk about the following "choice", which is based on the belief that: Everything about you is unique, special, invaluable, timeless and rare.

You are among the world’s most treasured items. The items that hold these same characteristics and values are items we protect and to which the majority of humanity does not have access. The reason a Picasso is so valued is in part due to its perfection but also because of the lack of access to it. Make this a reality of who you are and treat your bodies in this same vein because you truly are a work of art.

Mr. Adjective

What follows does not stem from any particular experience I have had, but rather, it is from observing dear girlfriends go through what I am about to describe and reading emails sent from girls living at this blog who have also gone through the same thing. Am hoping that this entry may help some girls either avoid or let go of their own 'Mr.Adjective'.

Every once in a while, I post a personal opinion on straight men and the straight women with whom they interact.

Tonight, I’ve decided to discuss one such caricature of a man.

Society at large calls him A Player.
Women call him The Love of My Life.
Men call him Stud.
I call him Mr. Adjective.

The man with the thesaurus
Mr. Adjective doesn’t have to be spectacularly beautiful, but he does have to be charming. He needs to know how to work a room and everyone in that room (male, female, straight, queer, undecided, fetishist, child, etc.). For the most part, Mr. Adjective does this by making every single person in said room feel like they are the very centre of his attention. This is often done by his undivided almost creepy concentration on and awareness of you when you’re in his face. He’s heavy with eye contact, will ask you intimate details about your life and may even share intimate details with you. (In hindsight and when you revisit his words, you’ll recognize that he didn’t really give you much of anything, let alone something honestly intimate.)

Mr. Adjective will tell you you’re ‘innocent’, ‘childlike’, ‘fragile’, ‘delicate’, ‘breakable’, ‘exposed’. Lines that are well practiced and well placed in Mr. Adjective’s game of seduction. He’s smart enough to understand these words evoke a need for protection, and who better to provide that protection than the very man seated before you telling you how strong and sexy you are. ”And yet, how oddly ‘fragile’ you appear to be.”

It’s relatively simple: He’s a predator, and he’s supreme at what he does.

I’ve been lucky because I’ve had one such experience which I recognised immediately and so was able to avoid (as it was being executed rather poorly by a man I am inclined to call a mental handicap).

A small aside to any women currently suffering the aftermath of Mr. Adjective: What he doesn’t know yet is that he’ll peek and then drop as soon as he hits 40, due to the repeated intake of antibiotics used to fight his many S.T.Ds.

Your role in Mr. Adjective’s game
The problem with Mr. Adjective is that whereas he may be playing you (& recall: “Players only love you when they’re playing”), Mr. Right will also throw adjectives around because he means it. Whereas the former is somewhat of a loser in need of validation received from throwing his d*ck in anything that moves, you will genuinely enthrall the latter (how could you not?). You have to learn to differentiate and to hold Mr. Adjective at arm’s length. For the most part, Mr. Adjective will make a killer friend because there’s a lot to learn from him in terms of male/female interaction (just as there is to be learned from Ms. Player where men are concerned).

Unfortunately, there’s no equation here. There’s no simple word or moment or indication that will help you differentiate between Mr. Adjective and the nice guy; it’s a matter of trusting your gut instinct & your intuition and ultimately, of learning how to be a good judge of character. If you’re Ms. Player, it’ll be easier for you to pinpoint Mr. Adjective, understanding his game and seeing his tactical moves before he does. Ms. Player will play it back in spades. (e.g. evoking what every man wants to hear about himself: strength, alpha, provider, protector, etc.)

Be the smarter woman and know what’s happening as it’s happening. While doing this, permit Mr. Adjective the illusion that you’re falling for his every word. Essentially, let him think you believe what he's saying to you (because being seduced by Mr. Adjective is really quite lovely). Then move on.

The aftermath of Mr. Adjective
If you fell for the seduction willingly or otherwise, your interaction with Mr. Adjective will be short lived. When all is said and done, he’ll do one very particular thing: he’ll insist that you call him. Over and over again, he’ll insist that you call him. This happened to F and I had to sit back and watch it without saying a word because she wouldn’t allow any of us to ‘slander’ the boy in question. The fall out from that situation was devastation where she was concerned, but she’s a better woman for it today.

Understand that he’s not asking you to call him because he wants you to call him. It most definitely is not because he wants any sort of a relationship with you. It is his way of pussying-out. And by ‘pussying-out’, I mean he doesn’t ever have to call you. You may call five times or maybe even ten times. Every time you speak, he’ll tell you how happy he is you called; he’ll tell you how great it is to hear your voice; he’ll tell you he’s sorry he’s not called but he’s been so busy that he’s not had a moment to “even” shine his ego. He’ll never commit to calling you, not even at the end of that conversation…instead, he will ask you to call him again.

Mr. Adjective never wants you to think ill of him. He never wants you to discover he's an asshole, and so he always wants you to walk away thinking he still wants you "if only". "If only" he had more time. "If only" he didn't have such a busy schedule. "If only" he got that rash cleared up. "If only" he wasn't such a gigantic enormous leech on your emotional well-being.

That’s his hook, because it validates what you were looking for: That he wanted to hear from you, and you can’t be angry with him because he was happy to hear from you. Wasn’t he? I mean, why would he ask you to call back if he wasn’t happy to hear from you?

There are two things Mr. Adjective can't handle: (1) you discovering that he's an enormous d*ck; and, (2) a woman sharp enough to know what he's trying to do. Re the former, if he showed you he really wasn’t pleased with your call, you’d think he was an asshole. Re the latter, he will immediately back off, not even attempting to pursue Her because she's not good for his ego. He won’t be able to seduce Her, and that would be a huge defeat where Mr. Adjective’s concerned.

He feels good when he seduces you.
He feels good when he wins at his own game. (He's a winner!)
He feels good when you call him.
He feels good because he never has to feel guilty.
He feels good because you pay him way much more attention than he ever deserved.

In closing…
If he wanted you, he would have come after you and nothing in the world could have gotten in his way. That’s the bottom line with men, and if they’re incapacitated and incapable of pursuing what they want (you), you don’t want them anyway. Don’t kid yourselves about Mr. Adjective; he’s a messy variation of ‘p*ssy’ because he doesn’t have what it takes to play you and walk away from you like a real woman. Instead, he half-asses it and plays you while still wanting you to like him and think he’s a nice guy. I actually can’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Adjective. But I’m arrogant that way.

Never believe that you’re the exception to the rule but always know that were he lucky enough to bag you for the long haul, no body else could compare.

Don’t sit around waiting for him, because he’s not thinking about you. (Sweetheart, he’s too busy trying to find an acceptable adjective for ‘underage’.) Believe what he says to you in the moment because you are all those things, including fragile and sexy and sensual. Because Mr. Adjective may have been lucky enough to hit the nail on the head thanks to his bedside thesaurus, it doesn’t make it’s reality any less true.

It’s very nearly Saturday evening and a nice guy is waiting for you to step into his life as Mr. Adjective sits at home and applies his ointment. Get out there and have some safe fun…

The Feminist Movement & Eric Balfour's Hoo Hoo

I like Eric Balfour. There's a 'je ne sais quoi' about this guy that makes him look as though he belongs in Madonna's Vogue video. (It helps that he has some serious moves on a dance floor.)

All over NY were posters for the film 'Lie With Me'...I'd never heard of the film prior to, nor have I heard of it since.

Based on both the posters and this weird affinity I have for Balfour (and the like: Billy Zane), I picked up the movie. I love the fact that it was shot in Canada (yay Shopper's Drug Mart!) at large, Toronto specifically (yay Bloor!). What I couldn't decipher was that the packaging had NA BC on it.

While chatting with the staff, we finally determined that the NA BC meant the film was not available for distribution in British Columbia. I didn't understand why this was so until we watched this SOFT PORN FLICK. (Or is it 'soft core porn'? Am unfamiliar with the porn vernacular, sorry.)

We got so much more of Balfour than we had hoped or cared for. Although not an X-rated film, it had REAL oral sex in it. Through hysterical laughter, blushing, pausing, rewinding, standing closer to the television set and slo-mo'ing, we determined that it may have even been REAL sex.

Is Hollywood going in a new direction vis-a-vis sexual representation in 'non pornographic' films? Is this the next step in Hollywood? Because. I don't like it. And now I'll never look at Eric Balfour without seeing his hoo-hoo first. WHY ERIC? WHY?

Why isn't it our inclination to enjoy the mystery of sexuality? When out there for all to see (much like Eric's hoo-hoo), the magic's gone. The innuendo's gone. That innuendo, the subtlety of it can be intoxicating; like catching a man watching you in a room filled with people...a man who has enough courage to meet your eyes and hold them.

Were Eric Balfour to be the man in my innuendo game, he'd probably moon me.

And worse still was the female in this movie. She was supposed to be a strong sexual presence; dominant of, driven by and in control of her sex drive. She comes off as nothing short of a ditz, a flake, a slut in a freak show. To those who know me, they understand it would take a lot for me to use the 's' label. But in the way this film portrays this female, that's the only word to use. There's this weird thing about the feminist movement, this belief that if a woman can f&*k like a man, then she must be equal to him. This is a school of thought to which I will never subscribe. And I've always found it comical and most definitely an unsophisticated argument that so much stress has been placed on this portion of the feminist movement, a portion which essentially and most definitely works to favor men. Last I noticed there weren't many men complaining that they could get laid a lot easier in this day and age.

I have no problem with or argument against women having sex at any frequency and with as many men as they may choose. The bottom line is, if a woman wants to have sex with a different man every night for the rest of her life, that's completely her business (& for this, there is the feminist movement to thank). But whatever you do, don't possess enough stupidity to insult the likes of me by telling us that particular action makes us equal to men. Our equality comes from the quality of work that we do, the level of education that we have, and the influence in both politics and society that we may strive for, not from the number of men we have sex with.

To Be A Girl Is, Like, Totally Awesomely

I overheard the following conversation earlier today between two boys, neither of whom is over the age of 18. One of these boys was excitable, whereas the other was not. They were the perfect ying to the other's yang.

"IGotARAISEMANtoLikeNINEDOLLARSanHour!"
"sweeeeeet"
"YEAHTOTALLYAWESOMEwithTheRaiseICanTOTALLYworkAllSummer
AndTOTALLYlikeSaveEnoughMoneyAndPAYFORSCHOOLifIHaveTo
AndThen..."
"hang out"
"NOMANjustMaybeBUYACAREVEN"
"sweeeeeet"
"ButThenIWasThinkingICOULDTOTALLYJUSTLIKEMOVETOCALGARY"
"and live with the farmers"
"WORKThereManCusLikeAtMcDonaldsInCalgaryTHEYPAYYOULIKE
30BUCKSANHOURMANthat'sLikeDOUBLEnoFOURTIMEStheAmount
OfMoneyTheyPayYouHereMAN!"
"sweeeeet"
"TOTALLYITHOUGHTWECOULDALLGOANDLIVEINAHOSTEL..."
"with european chicks"
"NOWE'DBEHANGINGOUTWITHTHEFARMER'SLET'SGOMAN!"
"sweeeeeet"
"DoYouKnowTheDrinkingAgeInCALGARYMan!"
"21"
"EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! MAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"sweeeeeet"
"YeahAndCusWe'dBeLivingInAHostelWithTheFarmersWe'dSave
LikeAlmostALLOFOURMONEYMANCusInsteadOfHavingSEVEN
BARSToGetTrashedAtWe'dOnlyLikeHAVEONEBARDUDE!!!!"
"duuuuuuuude"

A lull of silence is suddenly broken by the sound of the quieter guy's thought worthy of 'magnum opus' labeling:
"dude. We could go to Calgary and prostitute ourselves."
"NO!"
"yeaaaaaaaaaa man. We could screw 1000 hot chicks and charge 50 bucks each. Or. Like, we could screw 50 ugly chicks and charge, like, A THOUSAND BUCKS EACH. That's like [I swear to God this was his math] FIVE GRAND MAN. Yeaaaaaa!"
"NOI'MNOTBIGONTHEPROSTITUTIONIDEA! WeHaveToWorkAtMcDicks!"
"Whatever dude. I'm goin' to Calgary. Tomorrow!"

Sad dumb creatures.

Wife Beating

I just found this out:

"Under Muslim Sharia law, if a woman wishes compensation for her suffering, her husband could either be ordered to pay damages or be given a beating of equal severity to the one he inflicted on his wife."

I really dig the latter option.