Stiffed

Thursday, August 21, 2003

Anybody read this book called “Stiffed,” by Susan Faludi?

Amazing analysis of the plight of masculinity. I’m only a hundred pages into it. Faludi is actually a noted feminist. Her book seems to shed light on what I’ve been feeling most of my adult life. Being a man is a very limited role. Being a man is not what was two generations ago. Men were told they would be inheritors of this nation and this world. Men are now caught between an old value system and a modern world in which we are superfluous.

[Some of the ideas here I saw illustrated (allbeit comically couched) in the movie “Roger Dodger.” ]

The old male value system of strength and integrity is irrelevant in our image based society. The service jobs of today don’t rely on man’s industriousness, or his character. Men have become media defined objects – The Metrosexual Male – judged on our appearance. In the 70’s feminists fought to break women from the limits of this objectification. Maybe they didn’t tear down the superficiality, but they gave voice to the situation surrounding women.

There are many forces at work keeping us quiet, having us question ourselves rather than society at large. As a man this “Crisis of Manhood” panders to a dangerous zone of my psyche- The Victim. And voicing a problem, complaining like a victim is not part of the old male ideal of stoicism and quiet determination.

As men we have no jobs, no value system, no integral role in the family unit. This is a problem.

hopefully ranting will help me get out of this hole

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

So here goes. I’m getting more versed in just spewing my diatribe out to the public and seeing if something comes of it.

I’m at a poiniant juncture in my life where I have nothing but options. My life has been this way in varying degrees as long as I can remember. But right now it really jumps out at me because not long ago I had a really full existence. Too full in some senses. My current stuff is frantic, nothing new there. But not long ago I had meaning. I had someone who was incredibly important to me. Now she’s gone. Absent. Having your heart broke is like a death in the family. Suddenly the void. If you learn one thing about me its that I’m melodramatic.

J was the most serious, passionate relationship I ever had. It was only 6 months.

// posted by Whit @ 4:07 PM

9/11/03

Just a note’s all I have time for.

Mournful day. Mournful time in general.

But there’s hope.

Changes are coming.

SF is a burnt bitter place now. Relations here are stilted. If there are relations. Everyone has too much to do. And for me none of it adds up to anything worthy.

Thank God for Vay.

Signal to Noise

7/27/06
I got out to East Hampton yesterday. A long flight next to a manic five year old girl. Her father was impressively attentive.

Now. East Hampton. Surreal as I remember it. The “Quaint” summer cottages ($4million), the rustic tree lined streets with more high dollar automotive consumables. And the effervescent ladies of the island (manhattan or long) with their unattainable entitlement and their shoppers scrutiny.

The private jets of the wallstreet warlords stream by overhead. The laborers headdown and sweaty. An iotta of community, or humanity is bereft and left on the sidewalk like spilled change-too prescribed to pick it up. Commercially consumable and viable as Las Vegas. But whacked as a prozac/zoloft bender.

The air is thicker here, more moisture. Less desert. More season. Less space.

Tonight a dinner with the folks. Steak and subterfuge. Yes, got to manifest. Did a couple sets today, got my motor to turn over even if I didn’t do much. Possibly go for a program tonight. Stephen’s Talk House. Or Star. Or The Resort. Though this was supposed to be $20 cover and all you can drink. Would they let me in to not drink for free?

Stepmother Joan wants me to run the table and lamp over to the other house. Jump through another hoop. Alright, what can I get her to do for me? Just start small. Pass me the salt. Get me a glass of water.

My dad and Joan, together in fantasy, till debt do us part.

Time to move the table.