THE HONEST TRUTH ABOUT MEN

Image result for father and son in renaissance painting

One cannot discuss the subject, men, without discussing everything.

A discussion of one gender will always be dishonest and ridiculous.

Nor can we forget society and nature when discussing men.

The truth about one thing must include the truth of everything, which is why very few are able to comprehend, much less say anything intelligent, on the topic of men and women. The “click bait” articles on genders, dating, sexuality, and so forth, are usually dangerous by their partial understanding; the whole truth must be understood; one is more ignorant after swallowing clever half-truths; loneliness, confusion, and heartbreak only increase among those who desperately research topics on “men and women.”

Here, then, is the whole truth: the number one problem society faces is the rapacious sexual nature of men (even if it only remains in their head, where it makes them selfish and stupid).

There is only one way to channel this potential destruction (and whoever denies this problem is creating a diversion): parenthood.

Not fatherhood.

Parenthood—men and women proudly sharing in the joint effort of creating, raising and nurturing children, whether doing this in actual practice (one does not have to actually have children) or creating the climate in which this can best occur.

A long, innocent childhood of deep reflection is the most profound measure of any society.

Everything else which diverts, or prevents, men and women from achieving a safe space for happy, innocent, children, will feed destruction, loneliness, and heartbreak.

Women should never push men away from this purpose, and men should never push women away from this purpose.

To do so will ruin paradise every single time.

It’s that simple.

As we all know, this practice is sometimes followed, and sometimes not—and quite often, not—and when not followed, creates sad, deluded, twisted, confused, and unhappy creatures—as fit punishment.  The unhappy creatures who read “How To Get Laid” articles. The unhappy creatures who condemn an entire gender, using “history” to support their claim. Those creatures.

But reform can be achieved. Instantaneously.

When the principle just explained is understood and followed, happiness will be immediately possible, and there is no excuse for not following this principle, which conforms to nature, and reality.

The uncompromising nature of this truth does not preclude forgiveness for genuine mistakes—mistakes, and difficulties, and shades of understanding and accomplishment: in this realm of forgiveness the slightly unhappy make poetry, music, art, humor, and legislation; and every good idea or material thing a person creates is joy which surrounds, protects and nourishes the sweet innocence of the child—taking his or her first hesitant steps towards immortality.

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1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    August 3, 2017 at 10:06 pm

    Speaking of the “unhappy creatures who read ‘How To Get Laid’ articles”, here’s a tale of a mating dance from hell, recounted by Lester Bangs (from his piece “New Year’s Eve”, printed in the ‘Village Voice’ in 1979):

    Later I went to a party where I met a British socialist-type girl who gave me her number as well as wrote at the bottom of the scrap “I liked you.” Of course I called her and we saw each other for about three months, earnestly discussing the Clash vs. The Guardian over Japanese dinners. The full extent of our physicals was a peck g'nite on the cheek as she departed at her subway stop headed for Iceland or Brooklyn I forget which. I soon grew to hate her, and we parted in ash-curdling acrimony. But later on that same New Year's Eve nite I really lucked out by going back to the Bells [of Hell bar] where this totally comatose thirty-year-old stranger who worked for UPI hung all over me to my manifest indifference and the embarrassment of everyone else at our table. I could have told her to go foist her slumbrous blandishments elsewhere, but I was too much of a wimp. Finally I got up to leave. I was just a ways past the door when I heard these steps following me down the sidewalk.

    “Wait…”

    I waited, stood gallantly propping the creep up till I could hail her a cab. Meanwhile I lectured her in my best Bill Cosby voice. “Listen: you are truly foolish. You don’t know me. I could be David Berkowitz, the Boston Strangler, Richard Speck with a new set of contacts. You really oughta be more careful.” I swear, sometimes I wonder if I’m not Jewish, and a Jewish mother at that.

    When I went to put her in the cab, she asked, “Aren’t you going to take me home?”

    All right, that’s it, I said to myself like Richard Burton looking at his paycheck for The Medusa Touch, and got into the cab. All the ride to her Upper East Side Laura Mars swankpad she kept prattling about the black leather jacket I was wearing.

    “Are you a member of a motorcycle club or something?”

    I laughed. “Hell no—I’m a media hack, just like you!”

    She didn’t get the joke. When we got out at her corner (where believe me I had no thought in ten purgatories of paying), she kept up this leather routine, persisted at this spume of dogs till finally in a rage I tore the jacket off and flung it at her.

    ”Here, take the damn thing if that’s all you’re interested in!”

    “NO, no..”

    Up in her digs the footlights was boss. She had Grand Marnier night-capwise while I opted for the more proletarian Pinch-with-water. I commenced the usual routine and she pushed me away, blubbering incoherently about some guy she loved who’s stationed with Reuters in Bangkok. She tried to call him. He wasn’t home. We hung out in her kitchen awhile and somehow, suddenly, from the way she was acting towards me and my clothes I got the creepy feeling for the first time in my life that just maybe this one wanted me to slap her around a little bit or maybe a lot or who knows what beyond that. This was some time after having been flashed back to the scene in City of Night where the customer throws the hustler out of his house in a rage because this supposed steerhunk truck driver committed the unpardonable gaffe of letting drop that he too had read D.H. Lawrence. I’d had the feeling that something was expected of me, but up till now hadn’t a clue what and doubted she did either. She kept baiting me verbally, weird little zingers from the twilight zone bouncing off the fact that I was about as butch as a college professor who has been sedentary for thirty years. This talk alternated with zonkout google slurs.

    It got boring in spite of all freak appeal after a while so I went over and looked through her record collection. The only album she owned that I could remotely relate to was Surrealistic Pillow. I put it on. It sounded nice. We ended up on the couch again where she recommenced to drool aloud. I seem to remember at one point telling her that it really didn’t make any difference to me whether we had sex or not, especially considering the deadening effects of all the speed and booze inside me. Later I grabbed her head between my palms and forced her waxen eyes to look straight into mine sorta and I said in measured dramatic tones, “Do you know what I see when I look into your eyes? Stark, naked terror.” What an asshole I was. A bit later I snapped, “You got any drugs?” By now I was actually beginning to enjoy playing the role. She brought out this vial of pain pills left over from previous misadventure, asked me what use I could possibly have for them. I said that when I had a real bad combination hangover this stuff was the only thing that eased it. Then she decided maybe she’d better hold on to them after all, giving me two and stuffing the vial down her purse, which was interesting. About five minutes after that she passed out curled sitting up in a foetal ball on the couch as the sun came up through the curtains. What the fuck, I said, I’ll give the bitch the B production she wants. I robbed her. I dug in the purse for the vial, actually found myself looking for a moment at her wallet, either couldn’t go that far or realized how silly this whole charade was, grabbed the fifth of Pinch on the way out the door, stomping down just a little meaner in my badass Frye boots…I wished I could call up Dotson Rader for a Merit Badge. Out in the street I hailed a cab; the driver was a middle-aged black guy. I said, “Jesus, man, I’m so glad to be around another human being at last! Can I tell you a story?”

    Sure, he says, so I belched up the mess, capping it with the declaration that when I got home I was gonna call her and tell her that she was a sicko weirdo Goodbar so-’n’-so and yeh baby I stole your pills ’n’ booze but you stole a li’l bit o’ my soul.

    When I finished my story, the driver, who had laughed uproariously throughout, turned and said: “Aw, hell, man, why go to all that fuckin’ trouble? Look, here’s whatcha do. Wait till ’bout two o’clock in the afternoon when you know she’s up, then phone her and real calm and polite say, ‘I just called to see if you were all right.’ Then after she answers tell her to go fuck herself an’ hang up!”

    I realized immediately that he was right and I was still halfway up a horse on some backlot in Hollywood. I thanked him profusely. When I got home I drank her Pinch, took more speed, listened to the Clash through headphones feeling the righteous wrath of all us boots-in-the-alley working class minorities. Then I dialed her number. She wasn’t home. When I told a friend of mine about it a couple days later he just laughed and said: “So you let some barfly take you home, so what?” So I got to be Rough Trade for a Night, something I can tell my apple-eyed grandchildren about around the hearth, so fuck you, you’re just jealous because you never got mistaken for Sonny Barger. I did learn one valuable lesson, though, which convinced me that what all those hippies called karma actually does exist. That very next New Year’s Night, twenty-four hours later, somebody stole my black leather jacket out of the cloakroom at the Bells.


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