achtungbaby
08-10-2002, 03:44 AM
I used to write a monthly column for the UC Irvine newspaper, The New University. It was called, The Masochistic Matyr, (the title was my editor's idea). Anyway, here's a piece I wrote after seeing too many covers of womens magazines.
Starbucks is her territory.
She glides in with a tousle of her mane; a flutter of her limousine lashes; her angelic voice, full of promise...
Immediately, she's offered a table. She's engaged in pretentious conversation. Free cappuccinos. Drowned in phone numbers, scrawled on napkins, "Call me anytime! Anytime."
Other girls glare, boys simply stare. "Wrapped Around Your Finger" by the Police can be heard playing in the background.
Meanwhile, I'm sipping coffee in the corner, observing. For its cold pragmatism, her strategy is reminiscent of Machiavelli. I'm suddenly filled with a mixture of respect, disgust, and terrible, terrible excitement.
"They all want me," she says innocently.
Meet my friend Kate. In another life, another sex, she was probably Genghis Kahn, conqueror of men.
* * *
Radical feminists aren't just burning bras anymore - an action, needless to say, applauded by males - they're putting their bras back on, compliments of Victoria's Secret.
It's a new direction of the feminists unsatisfied by the appearance of equality, and not its actual form.
I caught onto the feminist conspiracy from two events - clues - which helped me put everything together.
The first clue was from a lecture I recently attended by Susan Estrich, a law professor at USC and nationally-recognized feminist.
I heard she once argued in a law review that PMS was an adequate justification for murder. Naturally, I sat far from her podium.
Expecting to hear a diatribe on the war men waged upon women, I was surprised at what she had to roar: contemporary feminism was all about women having choices - the choice to climb the corporate ladder or stay at home.
The choice to shave armpit hair or to drive off potential dates.
Modern feminism, she implied, was about the choice for conscious objectification.
Although I was suspicious of her mutation of the concept of choice, I politely applauded with everyone else; after all, like I always say, whatever makes you feel good.
The second clue was a recent advertisement I'd seen for the Tender Box, a lingerie store. A voluptuous woman, clad in a black teddy: "Make Him Think You Bought It For Him."
At first, I laughed at the irony it presented, "Oh, I get it, ha-ha." And then I got scared. I ran to the nearest magazine rack to examine some women's magazines, like Glamour, Elle, and Mademoiselle.
"How to make Him feel better in bed"
"How to know if He is cheating on you"
"Personality test to see if He's the one"
My - and any man's - worst fears were realized.
Females had finally realized that men had hitherto succeeded in presenting the palpability, and not the substance, of equality in society, while unconsciously forcing them to envision a world dependent upon male existence.
Females had understood that men were still barricading them to the periphery of society's focus.
Equality doesn't mean autonomy.
It was payback time.
Now, females are purposely flaunting their limbs in order to disarm men, probably to execute us later.
The logic is if men had historically used their physicality to subjugate women, why couldn't women do the same?
The strategy can't be generalized as women simply copying men. It's more a synthesis of seemingly divergent ideas: pragmatism, traditionally thought a male characteristic; femininity, wielded by anti-feminists, arguing that women were inherently delicate; and genocide, traditionally a feminist solution for men.
They just want guys to think they're brainless pin-ups.
Pamela Anderson is probably Hitler then: Barb Wire is her Mein Kampf.
Of course! I thought of all the times my female "friends" had argued that high heels, short skirts, and edible underwear - typical apparel at UCI - were worn for themselves, and not to attract men.
Liars.
In a brief epiphany, I understood other related phenomena: bikini issues in sports magazines, strip clubs, Demi Moore baring her considerable assets for $12 million.
Friederich Nietzsche once prophesied this new feminism: "The muscular strength of a girl increases as soon as a man comes into her vicinity; there are instruments to measure this."
I don't know what instruments Nietzsche was referring to.
* * *
Of course, I might just be paranoid.
Maybe I just got confused by reading feminist books and women's fashion magazines at the same time.
I decided to call Kate. I hadn't seen her at Starbucks for some time, and I wondered if she'd claimed another area as her territory.
Coincidentally, she was home, studying for her women's studies classes. We embarked on a discussion of gender, and she promptly renounced her former ways.
"I know I was being objectified," she said matter-of-factly. "I was a volunteer. But I don't want to be like Madonna; it ultimately demeans women."
I was shocked - in fact, a little disappointed. I told her I was using her for my column, and for the purpose of the angle, it was necessary for her to remain totally shameless, totally masochistic.
"I even compared you to Genghis Kahn!" I blurted.
She laughed softly, politely, and reaffirmed her resolve for traditional feminism: equality for men and women without the subjugation of, men and women.
What a relief. Paranoia confirmed.
"I'll see you at Starbucks," she said, hanging up.
Starbucks is her territory.
She glides in with a tousle of her mane; a flutter of her limousine lashes; her angelic voice, full of promise...
Immediately, she's offered a table. She's engaged in pretentious conversation. Free cappuccinos. Drowned in phone numbers, scrawled on napkins, "Call me anytime! Anytime."
Other girls glare, boys simply stare. "Wrapped Around Your Finger" by the Police can be heard playing in the background.
Meanwhile, I'm sipping coffee in the corner, observing. For its cold pragmatism, her strategy is reminiscent of Machiavelli. I'm suddenly filled with a mixture of respect, disgust, and terrible, terrible excitement.
"They all want me," she says innocently.
Meet my friend Kate. In another life, another sex, she was probably Genghis Kahn, conqueror of men.
* * *
Radical feminists aren't just burning bras anymore - an action, needless to say, applauded by males - they're putting their bras back on, compliments of Victoria's Secret.
It's a new direction of the feminists unsatisfied by the appearance of equality, and not its actual form.
I caught onto the feminist conspiracy from two events - clues - which helped me put everything together.
The first clue was from a lecture I recently attended by Susan Estrich, a law professor at USC and nationally-recognized feminist.
I heard she once argued in a law review that PMS was an adequate justification for murder. Naturally, I sat far from her podium.
Expecting to hear a diatribe on the war men waged upon women, I was surprised at what she had to roar: contemporary feminism was all about women having choices - the choice to climb the corporate ladder or stay at home.
The choice to shave armpit hair or to drive off potential dates.
Modern feminism, she implied, was about the choice for conscious objectification.
Although I was suspicious of her mutation of the concept of choice, I politely applauded with everyone else; after all, like I always say, whatever makes you feel good.
The second clue was a recent advertisement I'd seen for the Tender Box, a lingerie store. A voluptuous woman, clad in a black teddy: "Make Him Think You Bought It For Him."
At first, I laughed at the irony it presented, "Oh, I get it, ha-ha." And then I got scared. I ran to the nearest magazine rack to examine some women's magazines, like Glamour, Elle, and Mademoiselle.
"How to make Him feel better in bed"
"How to know if He is cheating on you"
"Personality test to see if He's the one"
My - and any man's - worst fears were realized.
Females had finally realized that men had hitherto succeeded in presenting the palpability, and not the substance, of equality in society, while unconsciously forcing them to envision a world dependent upon male existence.
Females had understood that men were still barricading them to the periphery of society's focus.
Equality doesn't mean autonomy.
It was payback time.
Now, females are purposely flaunting their limbs in order to disarm men, probably to execute us later.
The logic is if men had historically used their physicality to subjugate women, why couldn't women do the same?
The strategy can't be generalized as women simply copying men. It's more a synthesis of seemingly divergent ideas: pragmatism, traditionally thought a male characteristic; femininity, wielded by anti-feminists, arguing that women were inherently delicate; and genocide, traditionally a feminist solution for men.
They just want guys to think they're brainless pin-ups.
Pamela Anderson is probably Hitler then: Barb Wire is her Mein Kampf.
Of course! I thought of all the times my female "friends" had argued that high heels, short skirts, and edible underwear - typical apparel at UCI - were worn for themselves, and not to attract men.
Liars.
In a brief epiphany, I understood other related phenomena: bikini issues in sports magazines, strip clubs, Demi Moore baring her considerable assets for $12 million.
Friederich Nietzsche once prophesied this new feminism: "The muscular strength of a girl increases as soon as a man comes into her vicinity; there are instruments to measure this."
I don't know what instruments Nietzsche was referring to.
* * *
Of course, I might just be paranoid.
Maybe I just got confused by reading feminist books and women's fashion magazines at the same time.
I decided to call Kate. I hadn't seen her at Starbucks for some time, and I wondered if she'd claimed another area as her territory.
Coincidentally, she was home, studying for her women's studies classes. We embarked on a discussion of gender, and she promptly renounced her former ways.
"I know I was being objectified," she said matter-of-factly. "I was a volunteer. But I don't want to be like Madonna; it ultimately demeans women."
I was shocked - in fact, a little disappointed. I told her I was using her for my column, and for the purpose of the angle, it was necessary for her to remain totally shameless, totally masochistic.
"I even compared you to Genghis Kahn!" I blurted.
She laughed softly, politely, and reaffirmed her resolve for traditional feminism: equality for men and women without the subjugation of, men and women.
What a relief. Paranoia confirmed.
"I'll see you at Starbucks," she said, hanging up.