Home

What If Men Were Extinct?

2 Comments

worried man

As a man, I’m worried for my species …

I worry that if we guys don’t evolve and act quickly, well, we’ll find ourselves in the dumpster out back jammed to the brim with beta and VHS tapes, 8 tracks, cassette players and buggy whips.

Recently as I’ve told you, I’ve become a bartender.

I make a lot of Shirley Temple cocktails in my new job. Kind of a girly drink, would you agree?

Some things are inherently feminine by their nature. I get it.

But when I attend a spin class or a boot camp exercise class, there is nothing feminine about doing 300 squats … or 70 pushups … or riding a spin bike up “hills” for an hour. And yet, I’m usually the only man, or one of 2 or 3, tops.

So why is it that men avoid these classes but pile in to Cross Fit boxes for intense exercise? I get confused by things that are supposed to be feminine or masculine.

Just like the confusion I feel about the attraction of women to the “50 Shades of Grey” movement, I find myself scratching my head when it comes to attendance at fitness classes.

These are the things that float through my head and lead me to further thoughts about gender roles in our world.

gender roles

Aside from my sperm (and I don’t even have that in my post-vasectomy life), what do I and other guys have to offer to women?

We’re living in a post-masculine world. This is a good thing. Great, actually.

But switching from a male-supreme society to a female-dominated one is not where we want to be either. Merely switching from missionary to cowgirl position is not going to cut it. High heels and neckties should be equal.

woman dominating man

A world commanded by neither gender would be a wonderful thing.

We don’t live in the same place where men returned from war and chased all the competent, hard-toiling women back to the sidelines of the home and aprons and coupon cutting.

Women have evolved and grown and assumed and learned roles that once filled men’s lives.

Woman work and earn money to support themselves and their families.

Woman operate big machines and carry rifles in the Armed Forces.

Women are police officers and astronauts and engineers and doctors and pilots.

I repeat, this is a good thing.

We men are the ones slow to adjust to 21st century realities.

Far too many guys just don’t bother to show up for this new world where men need to be responsible 50:50 partners.

Real men may not eat quiche, but they sure as hell should be equal participants in home life regardless of whether they bring home a paycheque or not.

Just as a woman should know how to make a reasonable living, cut a lawn, change a tire, and replace a lightbulb…

Real 21st century men should know how and be willing to:

  • childmind
  • clean house
  • shop for groceries
  • wash and dry clothes
  • cook a meal

But but but I see and hear of situation after situation where the boys won’t play fair, leaving their female compatriots most or all of the roles that hold families and relationships together.

Pssst … Guys? Here’s a little secret that many of us aren’t catching onto yet.

Most women have figured out that we’re not pulling our weight and that they don’t need us.

They may want us, but if we’re not able to take on a reasonable workload on ALL fronts as well as provide emotional support…. well, then the option becomes clear. Why have a man in her life at all?

Check out the graph below.

percent-married-by-decade

It’s pretty apparent that more and more women are choosing not to marry as they become more independent, more able to provide for themselves.

The need for physical protection and a breadwinner, traditional male roles, are crumbling. Wilma doesn’t need Fred Flintstone any more than Lucy needs Ricky Ricardo.

When these “needs” are no longer needed, and the desire for an emotionally supportive partner who carries an equal burden on the home-front can’t be readily found despite the wonders of MATCH.COM and Plenty-of-Fish… then why bother?

Bottom line guys? If we want to stay relevant and equal in all areas of our world, we’d better get out of the La-Z-Boy a bit – or a lot – more often and cook a meal, change a diaper, or run a load of laundry. It ain’t a big deal … really!

Maybe the dinosaurs didn’t die in a cataclysmic storm from a meteor. Perhaps they just assumed their Tyranno-partner would chase and catch dinner and look after the wee little dinos.

Maybe the dinosaurs would still be with us if they pulled their heads out of their Dino-X-Boxes.

Honey, I’m heading off to Spin Class with the girls to think through my gender confusion issues. I’ll pick up the kids from daycare and should be back in time to make dinner before you get home from work.

Spin guys

50 Shades of … Shame …

4 Comments

christian and ana

Tsk tsk Christian Grey!

Are you serious? You’re showing your face in public again with some sort of boastful, manly pride?

Here we are once more, back in the news with a Valentine’s Day release of the tawdry film 50 Shades of Grey.

Our book-inspired imaginations can finally relax now that we can gaze in stunning Technicolor at your little fantasy world of mental, physical, and sexual abuse. Oops … my apologies Christian, you’d prefer that we call it BDSM to dress it up pretty and sound sensuously sexy.

…………………………………….

I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.”

…………………………………….

And you, Anastasia Steel?

Ana, you will look gorgeously enticing and naive and innocent, occasionally displaying some subtle signs of estrogen-strength that will float the illusion that dominance by and submission to another… any other … is really quite empowering, somehow acceptable, yes, even dreamily romantic.

Oh Ana, get thee to thy shrink!

Anyway 50 Shades … Congratulations.

50-Shades-of-Grey-Movie

It will be a colossal smash box office event. It will.

Millions of women with submissive stars floating in their wide, moony eyes will drag their gal pals, maybe even boyfriends and husbands to the event of the year.

The sequels will be in filming mode before you can snap a whip on a woman’s ass and “playrooms” will fill with nouveau riche moviemakers sporting huge smiles.

And me? Well, I’ll still be scratching my head at the hypocrisy of what women want in this world; and also the men who believe that objectification and dominance over women is just fine, thank you very much.

In a way, 50 Shades transports me through time and history … the story’s insinuation that men can sit back and assume a controlling, dominant role, well, it takes me back 150 years to the plantation porch – back to the good old days of Lincoln and slavery and the quaint notion that having a master/servant relationship is tolerable in any sort of sane world.

…………………………………….

I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward. “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine.”

…………………………………….

Almost 3 years ago I wrote a post expressing my disappointment in current-day liberated women who flocked in huge numbers to read the BDSM mega-hit 50 Shades of Grey.  Well … have I softened on my stance over that time you ask? Definitely… NO…

https://lwgsummerland.wordpress.com/2012/07/16/50-shades-of-green/

It clearly taps into a large female segment who tingle to an interior women’s world that is beyond my understanding.

Obviously, I can’t claim that 100 million readers are all mistaken in their admiration and might I say –  desire –  for a sexual fantasy like this.

We all have interior domains that thrive inside – worlds of bizarre and untold fantasy that we would never want the rest of society to be aware of. I’ll cop to guilt on many fronts where fantasy of various makes and models thrive. But never a fantasy that places someone in a lowly, denigrated position …

A Toronto Star article this week made this point: “ … it’s not the BDSM that has Joe-Anne Dusel, provincial co-ordinator with the Provincial Association of Transition Houses and Services of Saskatchewan, worried.

“The elements of isolation and humiliation that go on outside of the bedroom are serious red flags,” Dusel said, noting that in the book, Grey tracks Steele’s cellphone, follows her to work, threatens her and isolates her from her family and friends.

“These are the tactics that the women who walk through our doors report on a daily basis they are experiencing in our own lives,” Walker said.”

We read the daily news and take in the dark, disturbing stories of Jian Ghomeshi, and Bill Cosby, and Ray Rice, and Chris Brown, and Charlie Sheen and we shake our heads saying “tsk, tsk”. And then paradoxically, we fill the local theatres to watch it acted it out as a desirable fantasy. Huh????

The book’s author E.L. James has long defended her books against accusations they promote violence.

But you know what? I don’t blame Ms. James for her book or the characterizations that are portrayed.

I don’t “blame” anyone.

It merely tells me that despite ALL of the strides that Western civilization has made in terms of gender equality and respect, there is still a huge number of those – both men AND women – who believe, or at least fantasize about a world where men can exercise total control over women.

 

… leaving me wanting, unzipping his fly, and pushing me down onto the couch so he’s lying on top of me.
“Hands on your head,” he commands through gritted teeth as he kneels up, forcing my legs wider…
“We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand?
Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth.”

And those same women will sensuously sigh and raptly eat it up with delighted visions of denigration. Denigration at the hands of a handsome muscled hunk that treats them like a spent cigar butt on the street… enjoying a puff or two… but believing that it’s really just someone else’s trash.

It just leaves me sad…

oneshadeofgrey

50 Shades Shelters

Are There Ghosts Living In Your DNA? … Song For A Winter’s Night …

4 Comments

 

winter night2

It was a rapturous moment … sitting in the just-darkened theatre.

The din of voices dimmed in harmony with the overhead lights.

As the light melted away, the honey-mellow sound of soft acoustic guitars rose like the swoosh of a hot air balloon lifting, and I felt that strange simultaneous mix of warmth and chill in those first melodic moments as I always do when I attend a concert.

Is there anything more soul-stirring than the first 30 seconds at the opening of a musical performance, whether rock, country, folk or classical?

It’s a mild, late fall evening on the western side of this rocky Canadian country and I’m listening – live for my first time ever – to the well-worn Canadian singer-songwriting icon named Gordon Lightfoot.

His voice is a wispy shadow of its original timbre – at least he sings on key, otherwise I’d go crazy – but the brilliance is buried inside his tones.

Lightfoot was a huge international phenomenon in the 1960’s and ’70’s with his lengthy song list that included The Canadian Railway Trilogy, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Sundown, Daylight Katy … and … Song For a Winter’s Night.

Song For A Winter’s Night is a metaphorical wonder of wintry snow and cold, and warm romance. True Canadiana.

There’s a lyrical beauty in it whether sung by Lightfoot himself or magically covered by another iconic Canadian, Sarah McLachlan.

I’m watching the stage, mesmerized, and as the song begins I silently ponder if the two versions could be pixie-dust consummated into a single duet akin to Natalie singing Unforgettable alongside her long-dead father Nat King Cole.

Gordon then

Gordie then…

 

SONG FOR A WINTER’S NIGHT

The lamp is burning low upon my table top
The snow is softly falling
The air is still in the silence of my room
I hear your voice softly calling
 
If I could only have you near
To breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter night with you
 
The smoke is rising in the shadows overhead
My glass is almost empty
I read again between the lines upon each page
The words of love you sent me
 
If I could know within my heart,
that you were lonely too
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter night with you
 
The fire is dying now,
my lamp is growing dim
The shades of night are lifting
The morning light steals across my windowpane
Where webs of snow are drifting
 
If I could only have you near,
to breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
And to be once again with you
On this winter night with you
 
GordonLightfoot now

The same Gordie now …

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

The guitars return it home to a hazy finish of sleigh bells and I find my head in fluffy clouds of musical thought.

It’s here where a part of our existence dwells in a log cabin in the backwoods of northern Ontario or standing on a breathless wintry Saskatchewan lake frozen over with rabbit and deer tracks criss-crossing the barren snow-covered distance.

We close our eyes, our minds drifting like smoke from a moonlit chimney with curlicues of wonder and memory.

Often, a song carries us to an emotion-laden time and place where we experience our senses overflowing, telling us of the smells and sounds of euphoric good times or maybe, the heartbreakingly not-so-good.

But sometimes, just sometimes, a song takes us on a journey into a story of our inner heritage and even though we may have never felt the soothing warmth of a fire crackling to comfort us, we know inside ourselves what it means. It’s as if a mystical seed has been planted in our brains, a historic reminder of where we originated, who we are.

Each and every one of us is a product of countless generations that lived and loved and struggled, so it only makes sense that tiny fragments of those lives reside inside our makeup.

We tend to think of ourselves as an amalgam of our Ma and Pa, and maybe sometimes we see our grandparents contributing to our mix.

Child-JigsawPuzzle

 

But in reality, we are a huge jigsaw puzzle constructed of genetic pieces going back centuries. A corner piece that is the unexpected curl in your hair may originate in Great-Great-Great-Great Grandma Elizabeth’s DNA, a pun-filled sense of humour the little piece that was your G-G-Granddad’s mischievous demeanour.

Don’t ask me how listening to a musical tune brings these thoughts floating to the surface. Is it possible that the past is reaching out to me? Is there something in the words and tune that reflects something existing deeper within the chasms of my core structure?

Perhaps Song For A Winter’s Night has unearthed a wistful story of the lives of a man and a woman in my distant DNA.

Each impatiently yearns for the time when they can once again find solace and warmth in the other’s arms after a lengthy separation because of war, religious differences, or difficult times. It’s a story that somehow developed without the modern interruptions and connections of motorized vehicles, cellphones, or eHarmony.

Gordon Lightfoot won’t be with us for a whole lot longer – yet his lyrical memory will wander the musical stage for generations.

But the dimensions and associations that originate in his words, his melodies, like so many other gifted artists, linger on in our DNA to be shared the next time you sit in a theatre and sweet notes float over you, caressing you like a gentle river.

Goodbye

Get Paid. Get Laid. Lose Weight.

2 Comments

Larry SuperHero

I’ve got to be very careful because sometimes I feel like I am a SuperHero.

It suggests power that needs to be respected and restrained.

………………….

You know how when you become a Mom or a Dad and you lose your identity? It’s like you’ve had your name de-listed from the human registry and now you’re just “Erin’s Dad”. Wherever you go in your world, people refer to you by your relationship to your children.

After blogging here for close to 2 and a half years, my given name Lawrence aka Larry is transforming into Man on the Fringe or That Blog Guy, or as my friend Pam mocks me, Man with the Frills.

When I started out in the blogosphere, I had maybe 5 or 10 visits to my site daily. Bit by bit, the numbers crept up and by the end of last year, my daily average was about 25 visits.

Now it’s usually in the range of 60-100 each day which is tiny by blog-world standards, but for me, it’s pretty significant. I really appreciate you and everyone else who sets aside a few minutes to read my stuff.

I myself pass by acres of articles and e-mails every day, so I know that it isn’t easy to attract eyeballs in today’s multimedia, ultra-connected world.  Dreaming up titles, searching for evocative photos, and using colourful language are eyeball-eliciting elements that I put to work.

My first blog post ...

My first blog post attempt …

By now, most of the people I encounter who remotely know me, are aware that I write a blog.

Some of those same people I’ve mentioned in my posts because they’ve impressed me with their extraordinary skills or talents in areas such as creativity or persistence, or their ability to inspire me to invest wisely or to stretch and keep fit. I’m always on the lookout for everyday SuperHeroes.

Anyway, I’m just beginning to stumble onto the realization that I have a power.

It’s the power of the pen, er, keyboard. Frankly, I’m not convinced that it’s truly mightier than the sword ’cause I know I don’t want to encounter some swarthy tattoo-laden hood with a sword in a dark alley and my only weapons are some hard-edged words.

That’s just scary. I don’t want to see my smelly bowels unravelled like a lengthy snake on the pavement in front of me.

However, I know from life’s experience that words do have an impact on people and their lives.

I recognize that I’m connecting with you occasionally when I run into you on the street or we’re chatting on the phone and you say, “Hey Larry, I read your post about “Paid Sex Workers for the Handicapped (this is gonna be a future post!) … it made me think of my poor friend Peter trapped in a wheelchair who’s yearning for an intimate encounter. By the way, I think you should write a blog about …insert your pet peeve or best-loved idea here… “.

I think this is the finest compliment you can give a blogger. It’s a beautiful gift that you’ve wrapped up and given to me. I honestly glow when this happens.

Blogger-gift

It tells me  you believe my words are worthy and strong enough that I’ll put my superpower to use and tell a story or represent something that you feel passionate about.

I have to be honest here. Most times I don’t use your main idea because it just doesn’t speak to me somehow. But I always try to find some hook in what you’ve said to build a story that works for me. And, of course, after writing 130+ blog posts on a weekly basis, finding a story idea that interests me can sometimes be a challenge.

I’ve been told that if you want to build an audience, powerful Blogging SuperHeroes expound on one of these three sure-fire topics that seduce and charm readersThere are a lot of approaches I can use to build a story that revolve around these 3 gems:

GET PAID, GET LAID, LOSE WEIGHT

  • GET PAID: A few of my blog posts have figured on how I go about investing my modest savings.

I have a keen interest in investing money and attempting to build a mini-fortune. Because I’ve not been hugely career driven – translate this to say I’ve never earned a huge income – my issues with money have revolved around taking the modest $$ that I have and saving at least 10% (just like The Wealthy Barber told me)… and more importantly, investing the dollars so that I can enjoy the freedom to pursue all of my ADHD interests. I usually spend about an hour each day reading and researching possible investments, normally in the area of high quality companies found on the Toronto or New York exchanges. Tim Hortons and Disney keep my financial wheels spinning … I’ll hit on this topic again, trust me!

  • GET LAID: I began this blog site with the notion that I would write about the similarities and differences between men and women. I’ve spent an entire career surrounded by a moat filled with bright women. I figure I have an insight or two that Joe Blow the Plumber lacks – of course, plumbing is no longer a man’s domain any more than cooking dinner is a woman’s.

The whole veiled background that bobs to the surface over and over when peering at issues about men and women comes down to getting laid. I usually just refer to it as plain old sex, but the underlay, the true bottom line, is where, when and how we end up between the sheets.

Human nature is deeply … I said deeply … imbedded in the intimate connection between our brains and our naughty bits. We hear about it in our political, entertainment and sports stories every single day.

And so you may have noted that I hit on this area with some frequency in my writing. Well, you can probably lay a few dollars down on the Vegas gambling tables that I’ll be expounding about this again sometime in the near future. I’m a man, and gender laws have proven that we males think about this stuff multiple times each minute. Who am I to break the law?

  • LOSE WEIGHT: Hmmm, just how many of us are totally contented when we step on the weigh scales? If you always have a serene and satisfied smile on your face during your regular weigh-ins, please feel free to ditch out here and move onto someone else’s post, I have nothing further to say to you.

I’ve lived my life on the knife’s edge of muffin tops (do we call men’s swollen bellies muffin tops?). The struggle of enjoying the sweet bliss of delicious, mouthwatering foods while keeping their caloric tonnage from remaining with me on a longer-term basis is as perennial as the moon waxing and waning, the sun rising and setting, Lindsay Lohan entering and exiting rehab.

I admit I am a weak person when food is within my grasp. I love See-Food. So, by default, my writings in this area have largely revolved around exercise. Self-control and initiative for me are mostly limited to battling calorie excess with running and swimming and biking and TRX’ing and weight-training and yoga’ing and tennis’ing and boot camping and spinning …….

Most days each week, you’ll find me involved in some sort of physical combat against calorie creep and so I write about this theme while inhaling my 3,000 calorie snacks.

……………………………..

 

By now, you can see I’m just an average everyday blogging SuperHero.

Thanks for helping me keep my cape pressed and intact by telling me that, like Sally Field on Oscar night, you sometimes like me and what I have to say.

I’m gonna try to keep this knowledge from hungrily consuming my humility, once I figure how to unleash my word power to get out of this damned phone booth.

Gibraltar -- Stuck in a British Phone Booth

Put On Your Kinky Boots Jian Ghomeshi

4 Comments

Who are you doing this week Jian?

Watch where you put those hands Jian!

 

I’m not surprised often, but that morning I was pretty shocked.

And it wasn’t just that my left sock was black, the right navy blue.

Years ago I worked in a mid-sized medical lab at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Comox, on Vancouver Island. I went to my job one day, and returned home a little less naive at the end of my shift.

Entering the lab, I had to pass through the front waiting-room area. Chairs stood in rows where patients sat before being called into one of the smaller back rooms to have their blood taken or electrocardiogram leads laid out in a curving river across their chest.

A long narrow hallway led into the back of the lab past an open washup and sterilization area on the right, followed by the tiny pathologist’s office in the far right corner.

Each morning, I veered left at the pathologist’s office into my Microbiology department. It opened out with its warm incubators and cold fridges and counters layered high with multi-coloured petri dishes sprouting bacteria of all makes and models.

There was a familiar – almost sweet – but not totally unpleasant bacterial scent in the air. You probably know you’ve worked in a lab for a (too) long time when the putrid scents begin to develop an appeal…

Microbiology

.

But really, it was the pathology office that held a magnetic lure.

.

On many, if not most mornings, protruding from the IN-BOX screwed to the wall just outside the door there would be a long paper sheet or two loosely jutting up from the upper opening.

It was an invitation begging to be looked at.

These long sheets were dropped off by the local coroner from the previous night’s usually routine, or sometimes macabre adventures that resulted in a chilled body stretched out in the morgue downstairs.

The page was a request to the pathologist to carry out an autopsy on someone who had expired and where some explanation was needed. Tidy block writing described all of the important details of the poor wretch’s demise. The factual commentary outlined the circumstances of the death and the reason an autopsy was needed.

Most were straightforward and vanilla: suspected heart attacks, strokes, tumbles down stairs, drownings.

But one day … this day … a story unfolded in the coroner’s script that still stands out in my mind all of these years later. It was a sad little tale of sexual kink that ended tragically for one poor fellow.

morgue body

So why am I thinking about this now? I blame it on you Jian…

Well … Jian Ghomeshi, Canada’s premier radio show host, it’s thanks to you and your 50 Shades of Grey proclivities and adventures. The stories are popping up all over like a Whack-a-Mole board about your BDSM lifestyle and sexual recreations with choking and other maybe-not-so-fun stuff.

I’m no prude. What happens behind closed doors is all fun and good with me.

Most of the time.

I’m trying really hard not to judge you Jian so early on without more background detail. And it’s hard because I’ve always admired you and your considerable abilities to carry out wonderful interviews with both the famous and the common folk.

You are the epitome of cool, you have a great radio voice, a charming smile, and your questions are insightful and respectful, even if Billy Bob Thornton thought you were an asshole when really he was just looking at himself in the mirror.

Hearing the stories about Jian from increasingly numerous young women of beatings and forced chokings in a sexual context carried me back to the moments years earlier as I stood outside that pathologist office in Comox reading the coroner’s notes graphically detailing a young man’s death.

I had never heard the term before:

Autoerotic Asphyxiation

Wikipedia describes it as:

When you rob your brain of oxygen (asphyxia), you experience a high — euphoria, dizziness, and lowered inhibition — before you lose consciousness. To make their sexual experience more thrilling, autoerotic asphyxiators masturbate while strangling themselves with cords, ropes, scarves, and ties, or they suffocate by sealing their heads in plastic bags.

The vast majority don’t mean to kill themselves. They usually devise some kind of rescue mechanism to stop the asphyxiation once they’ve climaxed. But the fail-safe often fails. For example, they may tie a slip-knot or hang themselves from something that’s shorter than they are, so they can simply stand up to stop the strangulation. But they may get so weak and disoriented from lack of oxygen that they can’t pull out the knot or stand up, and they pass out and die.

The Wikipedia description almost perfectly outlines the coroner’s notes of the young man in the morgue fridge downstairs.

He was found hanging, a knotted rope circling his neck, porn magazines scattered open on the floor around him, a carrot protruding from his rectum. While standing on a small stepstool in order to get some tension around his neck, somehow the stool had slid away and out of his reach. He was found a couple of hours later – too late – by his wife when she returned from work.

North American statistics suggest this is a occurrence that repeats itself over 1,000 times each year.

My little naive mind was shaken and disturbed. It was an uncomfortable and sad feeling that stayed with me and lingered. It even still resides like a dormant virus in a tiny corner of my mind.

And so this week when I listened to the (alleged) stories arising about Jian, I felt that same sense of unsettled discomfort. It’s a lifestyle choice that is far beyond even my own internal kinky fantasy life.

50 Shades of Grey, like a good horror movie, transports many of us into a world of supposed make-believe that has some shock appeal perhaps solely because it is pretend. Fantasy and imagination can be a wonderful enriching part of our existences.

I’m just not sure I’m ready or want to disassemble my naivety and enter a place where “normal” people like Jian Ghomeshi (supposedly) roughly take their personal narcissistic enjoyment.

I’m still in recovery from one day in the Comox laboratory all those years back.

Are those your Kinky Boots Jian??

Are those your Kinky Boots Jian??

I Have Bagina Envy …

Leave a comment

Boy did we get it wrong. 

Who is this WE I’m talking about?

MEN.

little girl and underwear display

 

All these many Freudian decades we thought that women suffered the slings and arrows of PENIS ENVY. Ha!

It’s difficult for me to say this, but the painful non-patriarchal truth is that I, and most men actually suffer from BAGINA envy (see, it’s so difficult and painful that I can’t even say the real word!) … the Grandest of All Canyons.

OK, it’s probably not envy so much as worship. It’s like the control centre of our universe. We always thought that Captain Kirk (Penis) was at the helm of the Starship Enterprise, but really, all along it was Commander Uhura (Bagina), the Communications Officer.

UhuraTellsFerrisKirk

Yup, the Bagina is in charge…

We can’t help it. We just can’t help it.

It’s not a conscious choice where we men sit ourselves down at the conference table one morning and say, “Today I shall lay myself at the blessed altar of the bagina.” Unh-uh. Some joker of a mind programmer inserted a viral chunk of code in our heads that dictates, “you must have the Bagina, the more the better”.

There’s a ton of science behind it all.

Many have addictions to drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, race horses (for betting, not carnal relations) … these are isolated, one-or-two-off dependencies for select individuals. ALL heterosexual men have an addiction to the big V, bar none. Why are porn websites so popular?… yup, worship of the bagina.

But are women as beholden to the phallic member of their male brethren?

By the popularity of BDSM literature like 50 Shades of Grey, you might be tempted to think so. But really I think that women are more attracted to the romance and desire inherent in the stories … a penis just happens to be involved – perhaps this is one more instance where a man is incidental to the true lusty lure.

Women say that men don’t understand them, which is probably true. Of course it works the other way around as well. Just as Men Are From Mars and Women From Venus, women don’t necessarily understand the primal sexual urge that propels the male head(s).

men-and-women-brains

The appeal of visual porn for men and written erotica for women reveals the differences between the needs of the two genders. Men are viscerally turned on by the mere sight of female skin – foreplay be damned – show us a bagina, and we’re 95% of the way to steamy liftoff.

Women say “hold on … talk to me, hold me, tell me I’m desirable, touch me all over, not just on the naughty bits. Let’s make this performance a full-length feature, not just a 30 second commercial break.” 

…………………………..

Women know the formidable power that resides in their nether regions. Men have guns and swords and big bicep muscles for weapons. Women carry an arsenal that’s far different. They wield a softer, furrier form of authority that they carry with them at all times and can never set down or misplace. Men fear, yet yearn for it more than they fear or covet the sword.

…………………………..

To be in possession of a bagina confers automatic membership to an exclusive club, no boys allowed.

It’s a whole secret organization, a club for bagina owners, like the Freemasons or the Knights of Pythias (what the hell is a Knight of Pythias anyway? … is there some connection to urine worship here?)

There are pluses and minuses to Bagina Club membership, but the real bottom line of the clique is that its members secretly rule the world, a sort of  The DaVinci Code.

vagina-club

Men have no Penile Club to belong to where they share genital inside information with their comrades … no “I’ve got penile cramps”… no, “I’m a week late”, no, “is it hot in here, or am I just having a hot flash?”. NOPE, nothin’.

Women share the mystery and glory of their private parts as cooperative partners with other women. They carry spare tampons and pads for those stranded in distress. They nod compassionately and offer Midol to those in cramped discomfort. They visit restrooms (something they call “Powder Rooms”) together.

The closest men come to this clubby sort of atmosphere resides in the urinal line-up where we huddle in straight lines, hand-on-member, looking bored into a cold, tiled wall 6 inches from our nose … sure, 6 inches is really more like 3 inches, but we boys have difficulty determining true length. Talking is frowned upon while urinating because it just feels too intimate to be chatting to another guy when you have a penis in your hand.

Yes, to men, the bagina – and its club – are mysterious. The bagina is, like the Wizard of Oz, hidden behind a lacy curtain and all powerful.

Here are some of the features, tenets, advantages, and disadvantages of belonging to the BAGINA CLUB. I can’t know them all because I don’t have a membership card to the coven of adherents (and obviously never will):

  1. Women have monthly menstruation … until they don’t, then another set of complications arises.
  2. Women have hysterectomies – this is the easy way out of the complications mentioned above.
  3. The bagina doesn’t protrude like a pistol when excited.
  4. Women need options: Birth control pill, the ring, IUD’s, hormone shots, sponges, diaphragms, even female condoms. It’s like a shoe closet for the bagina.
  5. There are whole aisles of product set aside in supermarkets for the care, scent and maintenance of the bagina … no penis aisles. OK, one shelf of condoms, but men don’t really want to use the product, so who is it really for?
  6. There are special spa treatments for the bagina… Brazilian waxing, bikini waxing, sugaring, threading, bidet rinsing.
  7. Sexual performance isn’t complicated … the emergency backup method is a bottle of lube, and if it’s still there in four hours, you don’t have to consult a physician.  You just wash it off.
  8. Cutesy names: Peach Pit – Velvet Office – Temperamental Tunnel –  Garden of Eden –  Pride Lands –  Love Cushion –  Nappy Dugout –  Kitty Kat –  Mystical Fold –  Pandora’s Pink Box – Box Office

So for all the men who have derogatory comments about the one place they are constantly, actively trying to enter, and for all the ladies who are the gatekeepers of such an exclusive location, listen up.

I think we can all agree that women are not going to give up the “pit of power” anytime soon. So let’s shelve the Freudian pretense that women envy and want what we have and accept that girls have a more desirable “Playhouse” than boys.

The consolation? We boys still have control over the power tools  – at least the ones that reside outside the bedroom – the TV remote and the BBQ.

What more could we want?

Yes, you are the king here, and THIS is as good as it gets!

Yes, you are the king here, and THIS is as good as it gets!

A Moment of Sweetness at the Scotia Inn

2 Comments

IMG_4248

I pulled open the glass-fronted door and entered the Super 8 Motel in Fortuna, California, just south of the state line from Oregon.

The “Tasting” Tour was 3 days in. Lots of driving and little stops here and there for a taste of what the area has to offer … and then off down the road once again.

There’s a certain sense of relief when you reach the end of a 12-hour day of a road trip. The sun is close to settling down and the muscle memory of twists, turns and rises in the asphalt is still buzzing inside, like the sensation you feel when you dismount from a horse and the movement hasn’t quite stopped yet.

A young, red-faced man sat behind the high counter in the tiny, cramped lobby and when I began to speak, he immediately began nodding his head, preparing to speak before I could finish telling him that I had made a reservation earlier for the night.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry, I just called Booking.com to tell them that they reserved you a room that I don’t have. We’re full. There’s a bikers’ gathering in town and everything’s filled right up. You could try a few of the other places nearby, but I think you’ll find the same everywhere. I’m real sorry.”

………..

Early morning that day, descending the last bit of hill to the coast and the town of Cannon Lake, Oregon was a real transition, leaving the warm sun behind at the top of the hill, falling downwards on the bending road, finally finding cooler and heavy misty-damp air at the bottom.

It took a couple of hours, driving past numerous scenic pullouts – why pullout to look at the soupy greyness greedily enveloping all of the scenic beauty? – one after the other until the sun finally pushed and burned its way through the foggy mist and the Oregon coastline finally announced its arrival.

Sandstone cliffs overlooked bay after bay where jagged rocky outbursts pushed out of the ocean floor – the salty scent of the water wafting in the gentle onshore breezes – sun speckles twinkling on the azure blue ripples of the sea.

All of the oohs and ahhs of those I had spoken to about the Oregon coastline finally meant something real to me.

…………………………..

An hour and a half later I groaned, dropping myself like a sack of potatoes into the overstuffed antique sofa in the expansive, high-ceilinged lobby of the Scotia Inn. It was a friendly haven to find after being rejected at the Super 8 in Fortuna.

IMG_4371

There were some streaky, orange signs of sunset through the expansive front windows, but for all purposes, night had now claimed its place – along with some grey damp fog-  in this tiny town called Scotia, about 20 miles south of Fortuna (or UnFortuna, as I like to think of it) just off Highway 101.

In the quiet, semi-darkness of the hotel lobby, I watched a 40-something man move toward the front desk. He was bent slightly at the waist as if he too had been driving in an uncomfortable position all day.

In his hand he held out a long-stemmed daisy, extended to the pretty 30’ish blond sitting behind the counter.

She smiled, a crinkle setting in the corner of her eyes and stood – “is that for me?”.

She was the girl-next-door type, pretty-faced even with no makeup and a gentle voice that told you you were at home here.

At a distance, I could see a faint blush in her cheeks. What I couldn’t discern was if her smile was a nervous, “oh my God, how do I handle this poor guy”, or perhaps, “isn’t it nice that someone is paying attention to me.”

In a nervously halting deep tenor voice, he said – “thanks for telling me about that restaurant, it was good.”

“Oh, you liked it? It’s really the only Italian food you can get in this little town, and I enjoy it there.”

The Scotia Inn is a throwback of a grand Old Dame. Built about 100 years ago, it’s fine white expanse of building was a pleasurable sight when we pulled up a half hour earlier.

Standing in front, looking up at its gables and 2nd storey windows feels like drawing back in time to an era when cars filled with men in suits and spats drove up with lovely girls in frilly dresses that their mothers would have never approved.

Cigarette smoke would drift lazily in the early evening air and the men would hurry around the car to open the door for their dates who just smiled, knowing they looked delicious, tempting but never willing to offer too much.

The blond girl at the counter took the flower, licked her lips and glanced downwards a bit shyly.

Scotia was a small quiet town and she probably saw little that would make her heart beat a bit faster.

A smatter of male attention was likely going to be the high point of her week. She would look over at the flower sitting in its vase from time to time and dream of worlds and exotic men waiting out there for her.

And as the man with dark, receding hair turned way from the counter and the winsome blond who stood with her satisfied smile, I could see that he also was slightly flushed and pink-faced.

His eyes too were a bit misted over, just like early morning Oregon fog, a dream and a smile settling into his head for the night.

Your Castration Awaits!…8 Reasons Women Will Dominate Men in the 21st Century

8 Comments

I’m taking this week to recharge my writing chops, so for the first time, I thought I’d re-post an earlier blog post. This is my most viewed post ever from February 2013.

The King is dead… long live the Queen!

.

I’m prepared for the inevitable…are you? Patriarchy is dying…the secret is coming out, and you can say you heard it here first!

…and “I am woman, hear me roar” runs through my Helen Reddy-filled mind…

Helen reddy

The start of the Information Age was the beginning of the end for male domination in western society.

I and my male cohorts are tumbling, tumbling in slow motion down the slippery mountainous slope. Men have “ruled” since before the biblical sighting of the Star of Bethlehem over Jerusalem 2,000 years ago…now, women are the new western Tsars and are going to rule the world.

The golden age of might over right that celebrated physical strength and brawn and ability to dominate by force has come to an end for us boys. Society, business, and government are now ruled by intellect, drive, social acuity, and perseverance — all things that women excel at.

Today, I work with a female boss in my lab (in years gone by I might have said “under a female boss” and snickered with my male comrades) who is a better corporate leader than most men I’ve worked for over the past 30 years or so.

Is it because she’s a woman? Yes and No.

I’ve worked for bitchy tyrannical messes of female overlording that were ball busters. But in most instances, women are more supportive and constructive in managing their charges. There are exceptions to every rule, but as a rule of thumb, women make better bosses.

To win in the world up until 25 years ago you only needed your fists and a loud voice, or a sword or a gun and you would win the game, whatever the game. How did we men do it?

Take over government? Send in 5,000 bulky warriors or blast some cannons at the parliament.

Succeed as CEO? Knock back the gin martinis and go to the strip bars with the rest of the boys in charge of the company.

A few signposts of the future:

  • There are more women Canadian premiers than men today.
  • Hillary Clinton and Condaleezza Rice and Angela Merkel are just the tip of the imposing iceberg preparing to sink the manly Titanic cruising along. The following countries have women Presidents or Prime ministers: Thailand, Germany, Argentina, Brazil, Liberia, Australia, Bangladesh, Iceland, Costa Rica, Finland, Trinidad and Tobago, Lithuania, Slovakia, Denmark, South Korea, and Malawi.
  • Major corporations like YAHOO, PEPSI, KRAFT, XEROX, ARCHERS DANIEL MIDLAND, AVON, DUPONT are all run by women.

Thailand PM

Women in charge is a good thing for the health of the world.

Despite the peccadillos of Lindsay Lohan, Kim Kardashian, and Paris Hilton…women have begun taking the reins and making the world over. And it will be a more peaceful, environmentally friendly, and orderly place.

The ship of patriarchy is now a leaky sinking hulk which is slowly going down and will not likely rise again except to be dredged from the murky depths someday to be placed in a museum and be marveled at.

Going back in time, men were convinced that the female was “the weaker vessel” and that the “seed of life” was contained within the male until the human ovum was discovered in 1826. Woeful ignorance kept women from voting, signing loan papers, owning property.

But it was really all just a surface farce. Reality was distinctly different. Even on BBC’s 1920’s era Downton Abbey, poor anachronistic Lord Grantham is surreptitiously ruled over by women ie his mother, wife and daughters who were truly in charge of the castle despite the full-frontal appearance of men in control.

downton-abbey

Lord Grantham (in front) only appears to be in charge…

It’s only speculation, but I think if there were women in charge of the Middle Eastern countries, we’d have an end to the interminable tensions and war in the region. Netanyahu and all of those Arab lads would be out on their cans just watching the women settle issues and grievances that have been stirring for centuries. Women wouldn’t allow their sons and daughters to be fed to the war slaughterhouses.

Here’s some reasons why women WILL dominate in years to come:

  1. Women don’t waste time playing video games and watching porn. Girls just grow up and get on with life…well, and obsess over shoes but that’s a minor pastime on the way to the corner office.
  2. Women excel at communication and conciliation, whereas mens’ authoritarian style of coercion is outdated. Women are attuned to social dynamics and know the benefits of collaboration vs. competition.
  3. Women are getting educated and at higher levels. In just about every field, women are either in the lead or are charging hard to take the lead. It’s like China vs the U.S.. Get lazy, and complacent and watch the competition overtake you.
  4. Women know how to balance career and family. Both career and social worlds can thrive simultaneously. Men can’t pull off multi-tasking unless beer and a TV remote are involved.
  5. Men persist in thinking they can rise through manual labour. The world has changed and many men refuse to believe or acknowledge it. If men don’t excel and women do, don’t blame women. Wake up and smell that coffee boys!
  6. Womens’ self-definition is changing. Women don’t feel the need to acquiesce to men to sooth their egos. If a job needs doing, women will just jump in and do it. Damsels in distress are so yesterday.
  7. Allowing women to vote, fight wars, run businesses, and play sports levels the field. Women may never be able to build the physical strength of a man, but can equal or better him in every other facet of life if they choose to.
  8. Men want to get rich quick but don’t want to work or wait for it. Men are too impatient and unwilling to take the longer, slower route to a better solution. Too many impetuous mistakes are made by wanting everything now.

Yes, women are coming on hard and we guys are struggling to adjust. We’re fearful and nervous of a world that doesn’t conform to the notion that we are meant to be in charge without having to prove our worth.

That doesn’t mean that men should just lay down on the tracks and be crushed under the coming locomotive. A smooth running train needs an engine with all of its wheels moving in the same direction.

Women spent the 20th century rejecting the notion that they were just pretty playthings.

The 21st century needs a similar awakening by men who need to exercise their brains as much as their brawn. And if we men can retain some status and influence, our male testosterone competitiveness will provide a nice balance of forward momentum. We need both mens’ and womens’ viewpoints and strengths to experience the best of all worlds.

So, good on you girls for taking the world by the balls and making your mark. Hail to you and your efforts, and please try to be firm but gentle on us fellas as we attempt to keep up.

The question isn’t who’s going to let me; 

it’s who is going to stop me. 

                                                          – Ayn Rand.

Woman Boss with Balls

A woman with balls will always be Boss…

Victor’s Secret … Got Your Cocksox on?

Leave a comment

Cocksox

The male equivalent of the “push-up bra”? I only hope there are no underwires … OWEE!

I hear your muffled whispers,

I’m not reading any more of these boring MAN ON THE FRINGE posts until he gets back to discussing the stuff that really happens in the back recesses of my mind.”

True, it’s been awhile since I waded into the wonderful word of sex-related material.

And that’s what I’m here for. Anyone can expound on the banal, everyday subjects that fill our TV and newspaper worlds.

I’m only blogging successfully if I can vomit up the stuff that many of us are thinking about, but so often don’t wrap our tongues around in polite conversation.

And more often than not, those hidden mind-gems revolve around the time we spend un- or barely-clothed and in the passionate, perfumed grasp of someone (for couples) or something (for my unattached brethren).

Otherwise, why read my trifling words, right? Let’s move forward …

…………………………………………….

On an evening such as this
It’s hard to tell if I exist
If I packed a car and leave this town
Who’ll notice that I’m not around?
I could hide out under there
I just made you say ‘underwear”

Pinch Me  Barenaked Ladies

………………………………………………

Depending on whose statistics you believe, men think about sex 10,000 times per minute and women think about sex once each decade, and then only because they’ve been accidentally directed to a porn site while doing a GOOGLE search on “fleece stretch pants”.

So, it’s no surprise that – as a man – I have a slew of bawdy thoughts coursing through my head at any given moment.

Which brings me to the subject of underwear – yes, men’s underwear.

It’s an underappreciated, under-discussed, and under-explored field of understudy.

………………………………………………

Definition … UNDERWEAR:

The only thing separating two people from a good time.

………………………………………………

Strictly speaking, undergarments are subjects of daily practical consideration – but, can we be honest? Lurking beneath the unmentionable’s surface, the forceful ripples of sex and sensuality are always clinging tenaciously to our subconcious.

The western world is chock-a-block packed with references and allusions to sex whenever we broach underwear as a topic. Victoria’s Secret, La Vie en Rose, La Senza, Glamorose, millions of porn websites of every, and I mean EVERY, description – they all attest to our deepest, lurid ponderings.

Much that goes on in the underwear world is not about cotton comfort, it’s about the idea, the fantasy.

It’s not shameful at all, and yet we blush inwardly when we admit our lusty thoughts.

………………………………………………

 “I unzipped my dress and let it fall to the floor.

Then I got on top of him and he had an underweargasm.”

………………………………………………

Here are just a few of my takes on the masculine side of the underwear ledger:

  • Isn’t it finally time that men jettisoned the “wife beaters” and holey old baggy boxers for some fashion-forward items that will quicken the breath of their patient, panting partners?  Men usually wear the staid, old, meat minus potatoes style of undergarment that rarely stirs the erotic pot. It’s like some sort of pauper’s underwear – men will wear this for an indefinite period of time until the garment vaporizes.
  • Men have come a long way from the “tighty-whitey” era baby, but still have some major catching up to do. Women have stood for their own rights for a generation or more now – they’ve rightfully clamoured for respect and equality, while holding firmly to their sensual side. It’s time that women – like men –  took a more forceful stand on the male gonch side of the ledger. Why should men have all the fun in their insistence on “come hither” lingerie for their partners?
  • Can we dispense with the child-like term “panties”? It sounds like a word used for infants. Any time I hear the word “pantie” slipping off my tongue (oooo that sounds dirty), I look around for police officers ready to instantly cuff me for my obvious pedophilic tendencies and clearly child abusive ways. Let’s search out and use “big girl” words for what covers the bottom of girly curves like:

lingerie, briefs, CoverGirl, undies, drawers, unmentionables, undergarments, vulvacover, jockeys, underpants, shorts, Mom-don, intimates, smallclothes, knickers, bloomers, smalls, Great Wall of Vagina, petticoat, pettie, roll-on, g-string, thong. (please feel free to submit your favourites!)

  • Women have bra cup sizes measured in A, B, C, DD etc. Does anyone truly believe that mens’ manly parts all come in identical proportions such that one size fits all? Come on!  We boys should realistically have our own measurement system. I propose a few magnitude-related terms that would separate the “men” from the “boys”. Try these on for size: Tiny Tim, Mighty Mite, Junior, Big Mac, Quarter Pounder, Whopper. Of course, no man I know would ever browse through the A or Junior size. Every man knows that HE starts at the Big Mac size. But studies suggest that women do most of the skivvies shopping for their men, so practical female shoppers would avoid much of the masculine rosy blush when selecting from the little boys’ section.men's cup size

 

I personally wear a pair of SAXX, a local Okanagan Valley-made underwear. It’s not exactly Victor’s Secret stuff, but it is a “sexxier” cut above most Hanes and Stanfield varietals. It even has a small “labia-like” set of mesh panels to lift and separate my boys from the rest of the package. It’s a great little hammock to rest my weary stones.

SAXX

My Sexy Saxx ….they should be sized as Alto, Tenor and Baritone Saxxes… 2 Baritones for me, please!

It gives me a warm feeling to send you away with some useful information to make your life a better place in which to live.

Today, I’ll assist your retail-therapy leanings by providing a few places to get down under and do your Mens’ memberwear shopping.

These should take you through slippery satins, to studly camo, to barely-there Brazilian styles and so so much more … or perhaps … less!

You’re welcome…

http://rounderwear.com/brands/rounderbum.html

http://www.hisroom.com

http://www.hommemystere.com

http://www.malepower.com/default.aspx?pageid=1

Envyunderwear

 

 

 

Psst … C’mere … Wanna Tattoo?

Leave a comment

For God’s sake, just say NO.

The other day I asked my friend Pamela if she has any tattoos.

This is a little game I play with women … many women with tattoos have them in secretive but intriguing places, and so they have to show me their “taboo” tattoo – on the slope of the breast or at the nape of their curvaceous bum crack – they want to show it to people, but are nervous to “bring it out” unless asked.

Anyway, Pam said,

Would you put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari?”

Great answer. She’s right. Ferrari Tattoo I’ll be honest – I sometimes see a tattoo that I think is attractive, but it’s invariably small and not easily spotted – usually on the shoulder, near the hip bone, or at the ankle.

But I think Pam is in the minority opinion these days from what I see out and about.

There are a ton of metaphorical non-Ferrari Jettas and Corollas roaming our streets, “bumper stickers” hung out like full-size colour billboards on the highway.

It’s difficult to look at tattoos branded on the arms of Holocaust survivors and think of the positive aspects of permanently inking our bodies.

But, self-expression is an important feature of the human race and, like a book chapter, each tattoo worn tells a story of the individual – some of the stories are intentional and filled with passion, others are deeper-rooted and less obviously intended.

Auschwitz_tattoo

And to my keen observing eye, body art is growing into a huge phenomenon with no signs of slowing down.

According to my high-tech info bible Wikipedia:

In January 2008, a survey conducted online by Harris Interactive estimated that 14% of all adults in the United States have a tattoo, just slightly down from 2003, when 16% had a tattoo. The highest incidence of tattoos was found among the gay, lesbian and bisexual population (25%) and people living in the West (20%). Among age groups, 9% of those ages 18–24, 32% of those 25-29, 25% of those 30-39 and 12% of those 40-49 have tattoos, as do 8% of those 50-64. Men are just slightly more likely to have a tattoo than women (15% versus 13%).

When I attend a lunchtime hot yoga class in Kelowna that is filled mainly with pretty, toned, 20-somethings, of a class group of about 20 persons, my companion Kara and I are close to being the only ones with no visible tattoos.

Isn’t it enough to not blend in because of our ages, but then to snap out further as body art-compromised too? How can I, Mr. conservative, be the freak?

Yoga tattoo

When I was younger, I would come across a tattoed person occasionally, usually a guy who had been in the armed forces, with an anchor on his upper arm, or a biker dude with MOM angled over top of a bright red heart.

“Dare” tattoos layered on at night while out liquored up with the buddies.

Tattoo parlors were dingy little shops in seedy areas of the inner city, scary places where you weren’t sure you would escape alive, or at least with all of your facial features unarranged, and minus unwanted infections.

And then one day it changed.

Tattoo parlors sprouted like spring daffodils, broadcast seeding the city streets with a rainbow-tinted assortment of human art studios.

What used to be back-alley naughty stuff has become mainstream for both men and women … so what’s going on here?

Are we becoming Maoris needing to symbolize our family heritage and marriage status?

WTF

I’m perplexed and need to know. Try these thoughts on for size and tell me if I’m heading in the right direction…

Every generation, every decade, has its theme that we reminisce about 20 years later.

The 1950’s had bobby socks and Buddy Holly and hanging out at the local drive-in eating burgers and fries while really it was all about hooking up with cute girls and guys.

Then the 1960’s came along and the Beatles and the Vietnam War, hallucinogenic drugs, and prominent assassinations were all the craze – literally. Protests sprung up in a bunch of cities and university campuses, but it was really about hooking up with cute girls and guys.

The ’70’s had bell-bottom pants, disco and lava lamps, pet rocks and James Taylor, the Bee Gees, Queen,  and Supertramp, but it was really about hooking up with cute girls and guys.

And on and on we go…

Are you detecting a theme here?

Maybe, just maybe, tattoos are the fashion of the early 2010’s, a hair style or clothing trend that makes us more sexy, more appealing and more likely to have sex on a Sudbury Saturday night.

The sight of an undulating snake on the arm of the Adam Levine look-alike is the deal clincher that will bring on the O-face for that Woo Hoo girl looking for her Bad Boy.

Yes, tattoos are about belonging, like sharing a cigarette in front of your high school with the cool gang. Could you possibly be a Hell’s Angel member and not carry the skin-art marks of acceptance?

When your best friend is prematurely cut down in the prime of their life, what is a more soothing tribute than having their name etched into your ankle with a group of friends?

A few years back, I was thrust from between my mother’s legs art-free. It’s true.

DSCF1434.JPG

This is just a temporary tattoo I had drawn onto my shaved chest on a conference bet that I … WON!

 

Since then, I’ve had occasional little daydreams of throwing my conservative nature to the wind and popping a half-pint of colour onto my ankle or chest. But in the end, I suspect I’ll exit this world in the same natural state that I was born.

Temporary could be the way to go:  Indian culture has henna tattoos, kids have their tattoo stickers … why not inked “compression sleeves” that can be changed like your hair colour or the outfit-of-the-day?

Me? I’ll never own a Ferrari nor will I boast a bumper sticker on this practical Honda Civic that is me.

kid tattoo

 

Older Entries Newer Entries