SPONTANEOUS INSIGHT: Despite what they may frequently say in public, most women do not wish to be considered as equal to men in the sense of a Utopian rolled of the absence of the descriptions of gender. They understand that this might mean stepping down from that artificial mental pedestal in men’s minds and a status of a weaker creature with too much venom and no balls to back it up physically forcefully. This act leading inevitably to them having to pay for dinner and drinks and taking out their own garbage while stoically keeping silent.
“DEFINITION: Man spread may palpably defined for the modern millions chastising the male of the species as taking your two tiny little breasts doubling or tripling them in size and weight, then stuffing the pair of them squashed between your upper thighs and of course having to sit comfortably through long lectures about same.”
OK, here I am at Logan Square in Chicago. “Hello Mrs. Depyester!” The historical northern stamping grounds of those Doyen’s and the well-healed more genial environmental batteries of my social betters. People that have more shoes in the closet than I have. And at a higher per pair price tag than I would have paid for the whole lot of my own over the decades. A place where one might breath in and out in a manner not too dissimilar to that of a reptile cooling off somewhere under a rock. Yet way too rarefied for those such as myself the starvation from that unique intellectual oxygen that one might have socially hoped for. None of the expected skull and crossbones warning signs or hobo’s chalk marks outside of the host establishment for all folks not totally absorbed in that milieu to stay clear of. But, and not without some irony, just down the block a former Knight’s Templar headquarters. Itself right across the grand promenade of the wide avenue from a significantly large Mason’s hall. Will wonders never cease considering the odds of that happening so spontaneously? One thing you can be assured of is that this establishment is a monument to male intellectual servitude. A shrine to all things females insuring there is no status level afforded to old white males tolerated. “Your segment and era are invisible sir! Perpetually to be judged in the stilted history of Political Correctness for crimes against Humanity, colonizing the Third World portions of the globe, and mistreating both women, minorities and their tiny little animals!” The same disgusting behavior by male dominated white European civilizations that led to the inequity of wealth that fostered these same independent Liberal elitist attitudes of these female children who stand before me frivolously spending that ill gotten gain. But this is not a fit topic for voicing aloud in this convenient public ‘safe space’ of the literary promotion of the superiority of Liberal fostered diversity at $29.95 a crack.
Let us just say in the most neutral sense of opinion possible that you are dealing with snobs. Ones who will give you very little beyond recent gossip and their ego maniacal points of social climbing points celebrating the material inventory of their banal life’s existence. Something that comes out in tedious length through spoken text at events like these. Ouch! Nobody gives anything to anybody! At least not without an implicit price tag to be paid with a pound of flesh. More or less! Yet here I sit yet again in a den of female authors in a woman’s bookstore, enchanted within the exclusive preserve of all things exclusively female. Sort of like a person burned raw from a sunny bright day at the beach having to endure the rigor of a therapeutic vinegar bath. Something that is supposedly considered to be a healthy experience. But boy does it sting! But, for the sake of practice of attending literary based events in general at some point in the future, I will endure this prickly feeling without making a fuss in public. Real men stay silent and suppress their egos, “Sheesh!” The observations spontaneously offered to the eye however bear a certain resemblance to a zoo. One where many of the participants of this event embody the current ‘creature’ stereotypes of ‘modern Feminism‘. Here they are in various sub-phylums! The overly opinionated Middle Class Jewish heritage queen bees! The man hating young economically privileged millennial female couples persistently showcasing their overt experimentation in the ‘new liberated female elite of modern Lesbianism! Fifty-plus perpetual ingenues bouncing off the brick walls of being too far ‘way past it’ for garnering and significant male attention. And the most pathetic of all! Those vacant forlorn humdrum dressing solitary souls sporting random splashes of garish hued food coloring over the worn out straw of the rapidly graying hair on their heads. All to attract the attention that, like some fairyland Blanch Dubois, they will spurn at the first opportunity. And who can says that I don’t possess both patience and the requisite discipline to endure this menagerie?
So here I sit in the last row further back listening to “Miss So-N-So pontificate while she conscientiously avoids eye contact with me. Cinematic perfection in the art of not looking into a camera lens so as not to spoil the illusion of movie reality. While meantime, in the back row I keep grinning at all the grossly insulting observations she routinely makes about a society ‘in absentia‘ of anything male. Her thesis being that she supports her ramblings in part with the handwritten examples taken from an obscure intellectually castrated feminine male. Continuously pounding nails into the body of wooden thought that contemporary literary absurdity is the perfect anti-venom for the universal tendency of a authors to describe their immediate emotional circumstances. She makes a big display of the fact that she does not care! “Do away with all that claptrap rubbish!“, said the Red Queen, “It irks me!” Well, what the Hell, she doesn’t care about anybody else’s opinions anyhow? She works as an assistant professor at University of Chicago! “WooHoo, Lady!” “I’m impressed!” Actually, I am appalled! Appalled that like some mid-nineteen-eighties space opera this country’s educational system has been fully infiltrated by alien drones with their ‘face huggers‘ that want to spread their virus of self-serving dogmas through mercilessly shoving them down your throat until they finally explode out of your chest. All empathy for the gender that they have corrupted in the process gone leaving a big hole in its stead. Their main body of the audience present that qualify as working adults being creatively brain dead beyond putting their car keys into their Lexus. Or planning their next important purchase for a tea cozy at Bergdorf Goodman. “Flaunt that wealth, Baby!” “Smile and nod your heads, as is anything could take them away from their own little Romanoff Easter egg-like existence. One that is effectively demonstrated by a mint tea blue colored Tiffany box within a Tiffany box, within a Tiffany box, etc., etc., etc.
POSTSCRIPT: There is no fear of being mortally challenged by being eaten alive. For one knows that the meat one has to share is so distasteful to this segment that any bites taken from one by these doctrinaire entities will be promptly spit out.