Around the turn of the century, I saw news that a women’s college here in the U.S. had contemplated admitting men within a year or two. The shock and outrage from the female student body was as palpable as it was vociferous. Ironically the institution had a male chancellor at the time. He tried explaining to the crowd that the college was trying to maintain its viability, but his voice was suffocated by the intense hysteria. You would have thought the incoming male students would be selected from a sex offender registry. I’m sure those young women had long since bought into the feminist myth that all men are naturally prone to violence, especially sexual assault. Almost immediately, however, the college rescinded its decision, much to the delight of the students. That same male chancellor made the announcement by unfurling a banner that bore the term “For Women Again”. The crowd erupted into cheers of relief; some even popping open bottles of champagne.
At the bank where I worked at the time, the subject arose during a lunch conversation. I was the only man in the small group, and my female colleagues collectively agreed that they understood the reticence of that college’s students to admit men. But, of course, I had to opine by highlighting the obvious anger those young women expressed at the initial announcement. “I wonder what those little girls will do when they enter the adult world and have real problems. And there’ll be men all over the place, and there’s not a goddamn thing they can do about it.”
I suppose my constituents weren’t surprised by the statement, but to some extent, they had to concur. There was a time when the genders were explicitly separated, and everyone seemed fine with it. Men did this, and women did that. And things functioned relatively well.
But I pointed out that, if women want true equality, they have to accept that men are part of that equation. In many ways, for centuries, men have excluded women from the decision-making process; claiming there was a “place” for them. Women have fought back and demanded a place at that proverbial decision-making table.
Oddly one of the women sitting with me in that lunch room didn’t believe women should be in positions of power, such as the U.S. presidency. “We have too many emotional and hormonal problems!” she said, much to the shock and chagrin of the other women. She wasn’t the first woman from whom I’d heard that. But this was 2000, and I was certain such beliefs had been relegated to ancient times – like dial phones.
A few years before that particular conversation a similar debate arose among me and some female colleagues at the bank; another one about gender parity. I noted that, if women wanted true equality with men, they needed to start registering for Selective Service – like the men have to do. In the U.S., Selective Service is the most blatant form of sexism. The current system was reinstated in 1980 by then-President Jimmy Carter. Every male in the U.S. born since January 1, 1960 has to register for it within 30 days of their 18th birthday. In the face of a never-ending Cold War and the sudden Iranian hostage crisis, it was a call-back to an older time in America. There’s no penalty for late registration, but there are plenty of punishments for failure to register – including jail time and a six-figure fine; no admittance to college; and no financial aid. The issue was a big one when I was in high school and it became a concern during the 1991 Persian Gulf War.
In the aforementioned workplace conversation, one of my female colleagues – the mother of a single college-aged son – responded, “When men get pregnant,” before storming off. Another woman concurred with a laugh. But I pointed out that men have to register for Selective Service; otherwise, face some serious legal repercussions. Women, on the other hand, don’t have to have children if they don’t want. There is no law that compels women to get pregnant. My female cohorts couldn’t offer a logical reply.
All of that came back to me last week, when Vice-President Kamala Harris accepted the Democratic Party’s nomination as presidential candidate. She’s only the second woman and the first non-White woman to be so honored. This year’s presidential campaign has literally turned out to be the oddest in decades; certainly the most unusual in my lifetime. And at the age of 60, I don’t have too many first time experiences left.
I started coming of age in the 1970s, just as the contemporary feminist movement was making more concerted inroads into a patriarchal American society. I recall how just being male seemed to become anathemic. Many women demanded full and complete equality with men in every aspect of civilization. Yet, by the 1990s, I noticed some women (and men) expected a double standard.
Women can’t reasonably demand to be treated as equals to men in business and politics, yet still expect to be placed in the same category as infants and children when it comes to their health and welfare. In other words, don’t insist on being given the chance to be the CEO of a major corporation, a governor, a Supreme Court justice, or president of the United States and still want to be the first ones in the lifeboat when the ship hits the ice berg.
If you want equality, I’ll give you equality. But, remember the old saying: be careful what you wish for; you might just get it. When it comes to progressive attitudes, I sometimes think of the 1967 film “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”. Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn portray a liberal San Francisco couple whose all-inclusive ideology is tested when their daughter (Katherine Houghton) introduces her fiancé (Sidney Poitier) to them. While the movie is rife with stereotypes, the general message is essential: how sincerely should people value and hold onto their beliefs. The presidency of the United States has often been deemed the ultimate “glass ceiling” for women. As we march further into the 21st century, members of every previously-marginalized group need to consider how much shattered glass they want on the floor of progress.
“Damn! You’re old as shit!” That’s what Dan*, a friend and former colleague, texted to me last year after I’d informed him that I’d just turned 60.
“And you’re so ugly you almost hurt my feelings!” I replied with a laughing emoji.
Dan and I have always had that kind of friendship – if one of us didn’t insult the other, we might think we were mad. It’s a man thing actually.
I’ve had those so-called “senior moments” where I walk into a room and wonder why. I find myself occasionally losing my balance and stumbling or literally bumping into something. A bruise just below my left knee hasn’t healed after several months. It’s like a dark, small-scale version of Jupiter’s “Great Red Spot”. A night light in my bedroom is one that I used to turn off at 10 p.m. because I generally have to sleep in total darkness. Now I keep it on 24/7.
Albeit a former gymnast and taekwondo practitioner, I can no longer do deep knee bends. My left knee in particular seems to get caught whenever I bend it. In March of 2021, a close friend posted a picture on Facebook of himself squatting beside a vintage vehicle. His wife and daughter had treated him to a vintage car show for his birthday. I congratulated him and then added, ‘BTW, how long did it take u to stand back up from that squatting position? LOL!’
Earlier this year I wrote how I moved my Uncle Wes* and his cat, Leo, into my home. Wes had just turned 84, and – after a hard life – his body is slowly giving out on him. I don’t know how much longer he has, but I’m glad I can provide him a safe home in these final days. And then I look in the mirror and think, ‘Damn! With any luck (if you can call it that) I’ll be his age.’
My father was 83 when he died in 2016, and my mother was 87 when shed passed away four years later. I have a few other relatives who have made it into their 80s. My paternal grandmother died in 2001 at 97. Aside from their longevity, all of them had one other thing in common: they had loved ones caring for them as they aged.
I did get some good news recently, though. I had visited a local urologist, mainly for general male-specific healthcare, but also because I’d noticed a significant decline in energy and focus over the past couple of years. I attributed the latter simply to age, but I wondered if I needed testosterone replacement therapy; a growing practice for older men. I had some blood drawn at the urologist’s office and then visited the doctor again to discuss the results.
And the results were phenomenal. I measured 534 ng/DL (nanograms per deciliter) of testosterone, which puts me in the 35-40 age range. Most men my age fall into the 300 spectrum. I won’t necessarily reclaim my lost title of “Stud Burger” (or maybe I will), but to say I’m as healthy as a 35-year-old feels pretty good. The urologist doesn’t want to put me on any kind of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) as that could eventually hurt me more than help.
So the only possible cause of my fatigue is the result of another blood test by my regular doctor more than a month ago: low sodium levels. I grew up in the 1970s and 80s, when high cholesterol and too much salt in one’s diet became alarm bells of concern. I remember talk in the early 80s of actually trying to ban salt in processed foods. It was met with the same response Ronald Reagan got when he tried to get the state of California to label ketchup as a vegetable.
A couple of months ago I was discussing age with a close friend who’s a few years younger than me. I highlighted my concerns about my own aging; that I have no siblings (and therefore no nieces or nephews) and no children. Going back to what I stated above: I’m getting older alone.
“I hear you, brother,” he responded. He’s mostly in the same position, although he has a sister.
Regardless I have to say that I’d rather get to be this age – and experience the myriad agonies that come with it – than to die as a very young man. I lost a close friend to AIDS in 1993; he was almost 32. During my tenure working at a retail store in the 1980s, two of my teenage colleagues were killed in auto wrecks. I look at photos of young military men and women who died in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and recollect what I was doing at their age.
So I’m doing okay. Gray hair or not – I’m at a good place in life.
The outrage has been palpable. A recent advertisement by Adidas featuring a man modeling a women’s swimsuit has sparked more controversy than a drag show being staged outside a pre-school. It’s the latest volley in the ongoing and very contentious debate regarding transgender issues. In the Adidas ad it’s almost too obvious that the model is a man – squared shoulders, a prominent bulge in the groin and a smattering of chest hair. I don’t know what idiot thought this would be a good idea, but they need to find another career. Advertising isn’t working for them.
Women across social and political spectrums are understandably upset. In an editorial last year, New York Times columnist Pamela Paul wrote: “The noble intent behind omitting the word ‘women’ is to make room for the relatively tiny number of transgender men and people identifying as nonbinary who retain aspects of female biological function and can conceive, give birth or breastfeed. But despite a spirit of inclusion, the result has been to shove women to the side.”
Also last year actress/singer Bette Midler made headlines when she tweeted: “WOMEN OF THE WORLD! We are being stripped of our rights over our bodies, our lives and even of our name! They don’t call us ‘women’ anymore; they call us ‘birthing people’ or ‘menstruators’, and even ‘people with vaginas’! Don’t let them erase you! Every human on earth owes you!”
Gillian Branstetter, a communications strategist at the ACLU, noted, “The notion that you can’t say the word ‘women’ strikes me as the notion that you can’t say ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s a panic that is very absent from reality and attempts to position a growing, changing society as a threat.”
I agree with them. That we are discussing what is female and male is the epitome of ludicrous. There wouldn’t be an argument if the transgender crowd hadn’t become so vocal and vociferous in recent years. I don’t understand the transgender matter and I’m not certain I want to understand it. I do realize that some people may suffer from gender dysphoria. But I don’t know at what point this matter goes from a medical discussion to a social dispute.
Yet, as the transgender debate ensues, I almost want to laugh. For years, I’ve heard some women say emphatically that they do not need men; which is overtly cavalier because they need to know that men don’t necessarily need – or want – them. And I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard women say they don’t even need men to procreate because they have sperm banks – which is like saying we don’t need farms because we have grocery stores. I’ve also heard others – including some “enlightened” men – declare that males of the species overall are becoming irrelevant; that our Y chromosome has been shrinking over the past several millennia and will eventually vanish into the morass of human refuse.
All-female societies look great in sex videos, but the reality is starkly different.
As far as I can determine now, we can’t replace men and we can’t replace women – no matter how much hardcore feminists and delusional trans activists try. The transgender movement has become unhinged in its efforts to become relevant and valued. The anxiety over gender and “appropriate” roles for males and females is manufactured. Humanity has made it this far without the restrictions bestowed by politically correct culture warriors who – like book censors – think they know what’s right for everyone else.
I don’t know if crap like the Adidas ad is an experiment in shock value; an attempt by media cretins to assert themselves into popular culture. Despite their best efforts of the trans crowd and their sympathizers, gender is not subjective.
I am male and I’m proud of it. I have no qualms and make no apologies for it. Neither should anyone else.
You never know what you’ll get with email, text or any other sundry cyber forms of communications. Proof: the above email from a local weather service.
“We’re not talking about eight-year-olds’ soccer. We’re talking about post-puberty sports. We’re talking about girls who’ve worked their whole lives to earn a scholarship and not have to worry about being outplayed by a boy.”
Painting the rioters as victims, Hice noted that four of them died, including Ashli Babbitt who was fatally shot. The other three suffered medical emergencies while part of the crowd laying siege to the Capitol. Another victim is Capitol Hill police officer Brian Sicknick.
President Joe Biden’s first State of the Union address to Congress is notable for a historic first in the U.S.: Vice-President Kamala Harris and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi stood behind him. There’s an old saying – behind every great man is a woman. In this case, I guess it’s two women! Although I can’t say if Biden is a great man – yet. Regardless, I look forward to the day when an image like this is no major news event.
Why can’t I move? I just can’t move! It’s like I’m glued to this bed. With the VCR playing. VCR? And a porn video. Really? At this time of…what time is it?
I have no idea what’s going on. Why am can’t I move? What stupid video is playing? On a VCR?! I didn’t know I had a TV in my bedroom. Why the fuck can’t I move?!
And – oh, what the hell! There’s a naked man standing over there! Who the – ?! Who is he?! Who are you?! Standing here in my bedroom! Butt-ass naked! What the – ?!
At some other time, that would be a fantasy come to life. O the start of some cheesy porn film. Speaking of porn…what the hell is going on here?!
What’s happening?! I can’t believe this!
I can’t move!
I’m stuck here in my own bed! What the fuck is that all about?! Why can’t I move?!
I mean…
That’s utterly terrifying.
Imagine that.
You’re in your own bed – and you can’t fucking move!
What else could go wrong?
I have enough shit in my life.
Now this!
I can’t move!
In my own bed!
I’m thirsty.
Great. I’m thirsty, while laying down, and I can’t get up. What else can go wrong?
It’s hot in here.
Thirsty and warm.
And stuck in my own bed.
A porn movie playing – on a VCR.
Naked man standing against the wall.
He’s not even looking at me. Come on, dude! You’re in my bedroom – sans clothes – and you don’t have the decency to look at me?!
How rude! I can’t move!
Why can’t I move?
What is going on here?
I’m struggling…squirming…practically bouncing up and down in my own bed.
Chief Writing Wolf 