Sexism: When Rad Brains Fail

Ingredients for this My Time: stupid idiots and their stupid faces, drinking, a gal pal to bitch with, pajamas that just say no, and a night or four in.

Oh Darlings, darlings, darlings. When was the last time you were "poked" on Facebook by some moron sent to the future from the early 2000s in his attack plan, and all 1950s in his head? Let's talk about SEXISM. Lately my gap pals and I have had a pile of bullshit loaded on our vagina carts, and YET, no payout of a hard penis to make amends for such trifling. Then again, we have closed our bank accounts to such payments because mixed metaphors make more fun than the men with brains and Facebook accounts. Here's some of what we're sick of.

Smart White Nerds in Academia.

Hey Assholes, all of you in the US who work in contemporary literature of the world? You use words like "neoliberal" and oppose racism, genocide, Republicans, Nafta, and support Occupy movements, political action, local farms, comic books to discuss world issues, radical left publication, and theoretically women's rights to the things you haven't ever had to discuss as a "right?"

Here's a fucking clue: don't try to fuck every single one of the women around you in your profession. BUT FOR WHY, you ask. Well, they're your colleagues. Sure, banging happens, but maybe you shouldn't send out one mass text to multiple women in your profession, hoping one bites, "poke" them on Facebook like some nerd, ask them all "so you want to go fuck?" as a PICK-UP LINE, or slam your body against theirs and grab an ass in a conference lobby. Guess what you are? A sexist. A man with great ideals who can't even HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH A WOMAN without objectifying her let alone befriend a woman or consider her a colleague. Good job having great morals that mean nothing in actual daily or yearly life. And we women you don't objectify? Well, that's worse. We don't get the benefit of at least a nasty look up and down to take home later to our vibrators because we're nothing. While the harem of women you try to bang laugh at your nasty face and/or bang you and talk about it later to all of the rest of us ladies, the ones you openly call UGLY or don't even mention are farther down the totem pole of the profession than the ones you give a second to because you want to bang or bang again. It's unclear: as sexual beings who like sex and sexy stuff, we don't even know what you find sexually attractive.

Go back to your nerd convention, you measly, sociopathic, never-fucked-in-my-teenage-years-so-making-up-for-lost-time-and-narrow-ideas-about-women piece of shit. You exist, and it needs to be okay at some point for all of us to talk about how you exist and ruin progressive intellectual and empathetic collaboration, mentorship, and art. Let the women who fuck you be condemned to fuck you.

Looked out at the publications you subscribe to, lately? New York Review of Books?

London Review of Books? Are you all competing for the absence of women as a way to somehow have your very own vagina, i.e. absence? Just because you read and teach Fun Home and Persepolis doesn't mean you have taken a long look in your nerd mirror to see how you treat your fellow female colleagues. Your equals.

What's just as bad is the women who sleep with you, don't tell anyone, then bring up how disgusting you are and say they would never sleep with you.

The shame you bring to their bodies, already clearly so fucked up that they can't say to themselves "I'm an adult woman and I'm allowed to sleep with adult men, whether they be creeps, studs, or people I have an actual emotional interest in." How is it that I've heard recently by adult women who pull this kind of strange, anti-feminist, lying to girlfriends in some convoluted way, sad shit and proclaim: "I'm so worried about what my father/my family/my siblings/my peers would think if I slept with someone [that you already did sleep with, Honey]." You are an adult woman and no Nerd Asshole you sleep with cares about what anyone thinks about him. You're his colleague, his student, his teacher, his peer, his something in the world because he does not exist in isolation even though his penis thinks he does. No one has told him that it's not okay to not think about these things. Give yourself a break. Think about them half as much if your desire for sex is paramount. Ladies: it's okay to have sex; it's not okay to lie to girlfriends about sex with men, or to punish yourself for what people might think about you for having sex.

Yes, we all have issues, yes, it's important to be generous with people over condemning, yes, it's important to understand that these issues are more complicated that a simple rant makes them. Wait. NO. No no no. Don't do that. Don't avoid actually engaging--simply and clearly--a real actual thing that happens to women every day (at least where I am and who I'm with--perhaps I'm in a vacuum, because certainly this can't happen elsewhere, right?!) because you have a rad brain. Rape, genocide, murder, war: these are men's burdens because they instigate and carry them out. It takes courage for a man to say that rape is their problem, sexual harassment is their problem, death at large and the destruction of many things are their problem. And it takes courage for a women to say that she has been a victim of men's simply made poor decisions. It takes courage for us all to speak up. Rant. Rant. Rant. Say it and don't look back. Save your life every declarative sentence at a time. Don't let anyone with a rad brain complicate an issue for you that is as simple as you wanting to have a good life.

A conversation I had with a male colleague:

Me: "you shouldn't tell women writers in our classes that their work would be better if they had more sex. That's sexist. We're your colleagues. Some of us your senior colleagues."

Him: "you're racist."

Me: "No, I asked to speak to you because of your sexism."

Him: "But I love women! What are you, one of them--them feminist things? A lesbian? You need to get out more."

Me: "No, I'm straight and I have a boyfriend. And I go out all the time."

Him: "Really?"

Then he cries. Of course he was given the best fellowship for money and prestige in my profession. Which was awarded by people far more established in the profession. And never once in any course, talk, reading have any of those established people addressed his sexism. So what do we do? We laugh about him. And we are told not to worry about such things, it's not productive. Be quiet. Don't rant. I have a rad brain and I can tell you that.

I'm Back! And Thinner than Ever (You're Welcome)

Hello Honey! It has been so long and we have SO MUCH to talk about that I fear this will be quite rambling. Please forgive my lack of tact, brevity, and concern for your time.

It has been so long, I know. If I knew you were going to be so interested in me affirming that I'm still alive through things like "communication," "keeping up with communication," and "responding to requests for communication," I wouldn't have started becoming "friends" with you in the first place. As if I trust that such interest in me as a human being could sustain! As if I actually believe that you care. As if I'd trust that you'd come if I called you before I ended up on the floor in the corner AGAIN. As if I'd tell you what I THOUGHT about THAT and DID with an ABALONE KNIFE. Honey, that's what Xanax and cable is for. And yet, you ask me, "where are how are you?" Congratulations on being a human being you goddamn bleeding heart.

                                            Oh, you got me. I kid. Really. Just joking.

 

Now, let's move away from your fickle interest in our friendship and get back to MY interest in not our friendship and substance friends. Today is Sunday, Honey. You know that is hard for me. Let's look at what my elegant home looks like on a late Sunday morning.

Elegant? Yes. Innocuous? No. My camera seems to be an optimist, as the amount of light it's showing you does not accurately reflect the amount of darkness my house is in. The $10,000 Roberto Cavalli curtains are closed. And that's the thing about being so rich, Honey: sometimes if you want to show off what you have, you have to highlight what you never will, i.e., the sun. But my, those curtains do look elegant as they close me into my safety.

And that's real gift of wealth, Honey. It hides the parts of you that are the poorest. I can't remember the last time I didn't have a conversation with myself on a Sunday that went like, well, you could hang yourself from the beams on your front porch so as to feel the sun on your face, and suddenly the forced survival lessons in the woods with timed rope-tying sessions your father implemented makes sense!

...but wait, you'd have to go outside to do that. Out of the question. Well, you could run the bed knife along your arms and lean backward...but of course you'd never be found because you go days without anyone checking in and the cat would eat you.

DO NOT DEPRESS YOUR DOG, TOO,

...but a lady learns to never inflict trauma on another creature that is rightfully her own. The trauma, not the animal. And then I'm like, well, this damn cat is still alive and clearly needs your help. Who else would change her diapers? Conversely, who else would she let change her diapers? Why do I have an animal with diapers?

Oh wait. I'm still asleep in my nightly dream, Honey. Sorry. Let me wake up from it and move on.

Ok, I'm awake from my nightmare because CLEARLY I think I'm too important to die anyway. I mean, I'M RICH AND FAMOUS! I've slept with men WHO OWN BOATS! I HAVE A SPECIAL SPECIES OF CAT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! And then you forget that you were having a conversation about your suicide idealization because you're like, goddamn Manx cat what are you doing now? Where did you get that pedestal?

I mean, really, what love one can be reminded of, and that is the sublime element of the earth that makes me shake. Seriously, if you move an animal inch by inch to stay in a sun spot, you are truly taken. And Honey, now that the morning Vicodin and Grey Goose Bailey's Silk Nog VITAMIN MIX shake is kicking in, I can tell you that this is what I try to do for you, my friends. I would drag your tired body through the sun until the freaky space star took off for the day. And then, again.

this bitch.

 The conclusion, Honey, is that, like that personality-less Carrie that every rich man in Manhattan wants to bed (AHEM WHITE MANHATTAN), "I wondered, did suicide require a level of sobriety that I was unable to meet?"

"It was then that I realized, did my blue eyeshadow make me blue, or is it my own blueness blah blah pun"

I mean, I've just started my semi-precious stone furniture collection! Who else, alone in the dark, will sit upon my mother of pearl stool, the coolness and hardness of which I covet? To be luminescent and full, all angles and reflection. To sit upon this is as if to be stable because the suchness of you is made through your primordial history. The stability of the rock does not decline.

And lo, Honey, if you don't mind me saying so, who would put their head inside of my abalone square? To feel that surrounding one's head, the same head that has had its share of injury and should probably be checked out for aenurisms, etc but as decided not to until one learns how to spell aenurism, etc the luminescent coolness of the sea, a family history made of ashtrays and forced dives off of cliffs, a way to not see beyond the glare. What then becomes of this?

Let's move on from this melodramatic stuff and get to ALL THE OTHER THINGS I have to talk to you about. I mean, it has been a long time, and FINALLY that Vicodin has set in so I can consider our friendship again. I'll move through the list, and hope that this list reminds me that I really need to get back to updating this internet exchange more often.

I had my vagina removed! You might think, oh that sounds dreadful, the vagina is such a great thing yatta yatta feminism embodiment empowerment rediscovery after rape intelligence calm spectrum of yatta yatta good life blah. But really, after the fucking classy man, I just can't with it. And she couldn't with me. So, she's moved on down the road.

every vagina has the prerogative to be a hobo

And I, Honey, AM THINNER THAN EVER! Aren't you so happy? You really would not know how much weight that little lady brings into the equation. She really has a no joke history that adds the pounds.

 

so judgmental about the history!

So here I am, thinner than ever, i.e. HAPPIER THAN I COULD POSSIBLY BE EVER AGAIN UNLESS I GREW ANOTHER VAGINA AND REMOVED IT AGAIN AND SENT THAT HOBO DOWN THE ROAD. So, that means, triumphantly, I can consume and become a state of safety and calm.

Oh, it was so lovely to not have her around for the holidays. I mean, at a lovely charity ball where one sees the old lovers around the champagne fountain, and one GETS A TEXT FROM AN EX WHO IS STANDING ACROSS THE ROOM that says "I wish this were different," what does a lady do? Shrug.  Without a vagina around reality becomes so clear: I mean OBVIOUSLY a man could not have acted differently in the past, nor could he change the present, and is only empowered enough to WISH that "this"--and not a particular person's behavior--might be, well, "different." I mean, the ol' vagina might say, how about apologizing, dude? How about recognizing that you aren't powerless in the history of personal exchanges? How about just being a human being? But now that I don't have a vagina, I see the truth: how could a mere white man who has had a good life ever assert power in the first place? Clearly it's the vagina's fault.

how else would this dude happen?

 

 Oh, and what about THE OTHER ONE? Of course when I STILL HAD MY VAGINA I drove 4 hours to a dinner with an ex and his new girlfriend and sister. And he was an hour late, and OF COURSE we sat and drank in the same restaurant--same table--that 8 years before he had yelled at me at. Which he did not remember, and I did, as I was so in love with him and willing to go anywhere for him. As his new girlfriend sweetly tried to explain to me the intellectual pursuits I had dedicated my life to by explaining jouissance, I believe IT WAS MY VAGINA that suggested we explore what that actually means as I guided us into my car to listen to Elvis's "Only The Strong Survive" while he and his lady held a 19th century poster of verbs in a river that I placed on them and I passed around a bottle of the perfume I was wearing for us each to smell. I believe it was my vagina who said, SEE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE SUBLIME AND JOUISSANCE? 

And it was my vagina who steered the wheel all those hours home in the dark while I cried and listened to Elvis. Clearly only a vagina allows for such female problems. And clearly it is only because of my vagina that I will probably be known as the crazy ex-girlfriend. For I have nothing to do with it.

at a local Costco, obviously

I guess now is the time where I have to admit that I still have la vhagzine. And I, consumed with jealousy, can't believe that women pop up out of the ground like out of some cute girl hole and get with all the men I know whenever they want. I am jealous that I have never found some hole in this town that I live in. Before I got here I was vibrant, humorous, and actually had admirers. And now, now? I think my body has gone dormant. It does not suggest nor detect any desire connected to it. Well, I guess I'm lucky that I all I think about when I think about love, sex, and human connection is:  NEVER AGAIN. It's a gift, really. For the first time in my life a desire to connect physically and emotionally comes in second to a desire to never do that ever again.

welcome to the jungle: never again

So what instead remains? Well, Honey, I am now the proud attender of prisoner parole hearings. The strangest thing happened. I was writing in my memoir and it occurred to me that as a child raised by a very rich and prestigious man who died in a hail of golden coins, my father's bad investments corresponded to his brother's murder. His brother, a famous and rich spy working with the Soviet Union, had died in a battle to the death. The men who murdered him are now in prison, and since my father has now died and gone to rich man heaven, I realized that it is me who can attend these men's parole hearings and speak for my father. What this means is something I will have a separate post about, but needless to say, my lofty and wishwashy thoughts of suicide have to take a back seat to speaking for, dare I say AS, a rich man who has lost a rich brother. I have a voice of authority to speak, and I will. My new hobby at the California Department of Correction awaits. And the new wardrobe I must purchase as the widow of justice is undeniable.

hats!

It is good to be so wealthy, Darling. It is so good. It keeps you busy, doesn't it? It keeps you here for the moment. It keeps you hidden from the world in HATS.

Well, the morning pills and booze combo has produced a headache that requires my attention, aka my passing out into hopefully a dreamless sleep. I will write more in the next few days, and as I slide back into this internet world, the posts will become better at being poignant and interesting. This one was obviously boring except for the SEMI-PRECIOUS STONE FURNITURE. Oh, so much more interesting stuff to share. But alas, I must depart for the moment into the world of Roberto Cavalli dreams and Alexander McQueen nightmares. As only a rich woman can. Ta ta, Love.

Champers on me!
Daggy

Mexico And The City (MATC): Revenge of the Sopa

Ingredients for this My Time: Immodium AD, Hint flavored water, bed, an Iphone, a gay life partner.

Well hello there, Honey. What are you doing? Oh, that's nice. Work, vacay, coffee, morning cocktails. Your life sounds so normal and nice. Oh, me? Thanks for asking. I'm here. You know. Here. Let me tell you how it began.

I was in the Mexico City airport, again, as an elegant woman finds herself in occasionally. Whilst before there I had seen a strange yet alluring man playing a ukelele and humming a tune, following me with his gaze while I was trying to eat my huevos rancheros WITH NO CHEESE in private shame, and I thought, who is this strange man, and should I talk to him

Dr. Suess-shaped-face of musicians

it was already too late. Thus, another husband squandered due to your little Dag stuffing her face with LOVE AND SAFETY. While men can do things like compete in "The Biscuit Challenge" for no gain, emotional or physical--just pure prowess and intrigue--we women, as you will see below, have deep emotional bonds with our eating. But this time, I was on a return trip to Los Angeles, or as Shas of Sunset call it, Tehrangelos

I was remembering my incredible arrival into MX City when I found a whole new kind of lover

who I sang to, with all my heart, how you're my best friend, but I am just to close to love you, but I can't stop loving you, but I am too close to love you 

After working so hard on the final chapter of my project, I shoveled that good lovin' in (under a large, expensive sun hat, of course, to hide my shame and orgasmic glory, which often go hand-in-hand), and celebrated a special day in any woman's life who has worked an office job and gets off in time for the happy hour at Acapulco Restaurant and Bar while still wearing tan stockings and a poly-blend suit jacket with diminutive shoulder pads--like only an inch thick--

But you know what I was thinking on this return trip to the airport, on my way back to the Shas who live and love in "the ghettos of Beverly Hills," as they say? I was thinking, no Dagmar. If you ever want to get married again (haha, I kid, I was thinking, if you ever want increase your alimony payments by getting another divorce. haha I kid again, I was thinking about how all I want is love and the roll around my waist named WineChips and the lines on my delicate pale skin will prevent that from ever happening haha) you better learn some manners. So what did I do, Honey? I ordered the clear vegetable soup with chicken broth. Consomme. Can you believe it?

Upon arriving to my summer home in Malibu-Lite, I started to feel a little, how should I put it, effervescent on the inside. Having recently purchased a diamond-studded IPhone, I immediately went to text various rich friends to tell them what I was experiencing a little to much of. Realizing my fingers are far too fat to text on the IPhone, I was resolved in my choice to order the consomme. Honey, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror one of the fifty times I was in there, I'm asking you to change your ways. As I tried to punch the fucking so fucking little letter keys with my long, elegant, feminine nails, "it was then that I realized," a phrase spoken on Sex and City almost as many times as I was running to the bathroom (seriously, you want to click on and read that link immediately), that my fingers weren't the problem. My elegance was. I ordered a sopa like a lady. I had long, perfect nails. Why was this horrible thing happening to me? Once I could, I did what every rich, lonely straight (unless we're talking big money) woman does, I texted my gay male life partner to explain my situation. Now, on SATC, if the vapid Carrie Bradshaw had texted her gay male buddy, he surely would have bemoaned her state, sent her flowers, and canceled a date with a model to be with her. Because he'd be rich and for some reason Carrie B. is like a gold-dusted chocolate fountain to everyone in SATC's New York.

Good Job, Sociopath.

But my gayelle life partner, raised in the buffets of Hawaii, the only place buffets in the USA have been shut down by the amount of eating the masses can do, responds: "Hahahahaha." And then, "at least you'll lose some weight." And then, after I explained that this concern is what got me in this mess in the first place, as I ordered soup over nachos, he tells me: "Big mistake. Bitch it's always about nachos."

"It was then that I realized"

It's true; it is always about nachos. And that's the lesson here. I've learned it for all of us, Honey, so you don't have to go through what I am right now. I can't even drink red wine! Sure, a white wine spritzer between runs to the gold-plated toilet seat, but nay a Bourdeaux in my Bourdeaux-hole.

Written upon my deathbed,
Daggy.