Toward the end of 1990, you couldn’t get away from Simpsons merchandise- from posters, to pajama sets, to pencil toppers- mostly featuring Generation-X’s very first mainstream media icon, Bart Simpson. You see, before “The Simpsons” became obsessed with Homer’s gradual decline into retardation, the show’s initial protagonist was skateboarding prankster Bart- the country’s first take on their next generation.
And those savvy Simpsons writers seemed to have nailed it. While Bart’s driving characteristic was apathy, it was a kind of self-aware apathy. Bart wasn’t stupid, he was an “underachiever”- he was capable of more but consciously chose less. This hyper-aware apathy would become the generation’s defining trait.
“I found out long ago, it’s a long way down the holiday road”
Believe it or not, Clark W. Griswold was pretty fucking masculine. Sure, “Vacation” (1983) featured a kind of proto-idiot Dad, a trope that would become the standard by 1990- but Clark was a different kind of idiot Dad.
Clark was a masculine idiot Dad.
“Vacation” relied on one-joke with Clark, but luckily it was a good one. When Clark would do something stupid, royally screwing things up or putting his family in danger, he would say “I meant to do that” and move on.
This took many different forms. When Clark goes to trade in his car for a new station wagon before the trip- one he surely researched meticulously (my own Dad has a “Consumer Reports” subscription to this day)- he gets the old “bait and switch,” being forced into buying an ugly clunker after his own car is traded in destroyed. To dispute this by waiting for the car he ordered to come in would ruin his family’s vacation- so what does Clark do?
He sells his wife on the ugly clunker by using the same line that the scam-artist car salesman used on him: “Youmay think you hate it now, honey, but wait until you drive it.” Or, in other words, “I meant to do that.” He isn’t apologetic, he doesn’t admit defeat- he takes inventory of the situation and moves forward. This is the masculine approach- yes, even if you’re an idiot.
In a flash Fake Winehouse was able to transform our hetero-normative experience back into something she was more comfortable with, her own safe space of gender neutrality, with the magic words: “get this shit off me.” Tossing her the tissue box, I chastised her for breaking the narrative, something usually reserved for slightly longer than fifteen seconds after sex.
Winehouse may have rolled her eyes, but the fact of the matter remains: sex is the narrative of attraction. For the red-hot 20 minutes I spent with Amy, she behaved like the ideal submissive- what she wanted in the moment. After, when her big girl brain came back, the feminist became disgusted with herself, and, “get this shit off me,” was her way of re-framing the mess she’d made by treating me like an alpha male.
Sex is like editing together a documentary film. Everything is based in reality, but it’s up to you to put together the story. Initial attraction may be there, but if you don’t string things together the right way, you’re not getting laid.
There was a gleam in her eye when “Ghostbusters” (2016) came up in the group’s discussion. She corrected the speaker, a male, who didn’t make an elaborate point to reference the movie’s notorious gender component- “the new Ghostbusters” he offhandedly called it, but this was “girl Ghostbusters,” she said with pride. After all, she was a high school Science teacher and this was a victory with which she could attach herself.
This attachment was the point, existing independently of the movie. She may not see it, nor should she have to- her attachment to “girl Ghostbusters” had served to bolster her identity. The actual film is an afterthought- a big budget leftist talking point. Beyond all the fuss, “Ghostbusters” is a pile of crap with regurgitated jokes, so who really cares?
Someone working deep inside the Clinton campaign must really fucking hate her guts. Old Hillary is gearing up for an appearance on the Ellen show alongside the entire cast of the smelly-like-farts “Ghostbusters” (2016) re-make. I am praying to Jesus that she comes out with the stupid uniform on, personalized with CLINTON across the left breast; she can have her own proton pack, maybe some impromptu CG will be employed. Please God, make her the honorary fifth Ghostbuster.
Don’t just finger me, God; I want it all the way in.
This stupid movie has the stink of death, and for Clinton to attach herself to it almost certainly means that someone working for her is either certifiably retarded or absolutely insane… but why is this movie so particularly hated?
After all, “Ghostbusters” is a movie and movies are bad.
While I haven’t seen Christine in years, every time we catch up the conversation ends with her saying something like, “well, as long as you’re happy…” She doesn’t understand why I’ve never left the suburbs, nor have I had any real desire to do so. Even more troubling to Christine, the idea that I may be happy with this.
For a conscious man wading through the muck of modern treachery, yes, I am fairly happy. Living in the city never appealed to me; there is nothing better than a quiet summer night. Everything I need is a car ride away, and since I was never really much of a drinker, I rarely had to face the quandary of getting home from a bar.
But, like always, there was more at stake than what Christine could understand. We may as well have been playing out roles on a reality TV show- not exactly scripted, but loosely scripted. It was hardly a genuine conversation. Even if neither party felt the overt grasp of invisible puppet strings guiding our interaction- our thoughts, our feelings, our desires, our identity- they are deeply present regardless of our being conscious of them.
Understanding the presence of these puppet strings is what separates the conscious man from the unconscious man. Understanding the depth of their control dictates the level of consciousness. And understanding the true power of these influences can make a man omniscient.
Christine went to great lengths to convince you that she wasn’t like those other girls. Her experiences had greater depth, her thoughts were more developed, her interests were more artistic, and her feelings were more genuine. Christine had esoteric qualities that made her special and unique, while those other girls were basic and shallow. Christine also had a bigger waist and fatter thighs.
She wasn’t fat, but Christine was conscious of her limitations and adjusted accordingly. If she couldn’t compete with those other girls, Christine would attempt to hijack and redefine what it meant to win and then try to convince men that what they thought they wanted was all wrong.
Casey Anthony epitomized something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on as I sat on my couch, eating Cocoa Puffs and smoking a bong, watching the coverage of her trial during a comfortably warm evening in the Summer of 2011.
There was something missing from my life at the time… I wasn’t conscious of it, but felt its weight all the same. It wasn’t that I was unhappy, I was certainly comfortable; I had a passionless career with the faux-achievement of a master’s degree, I had a fat girlfriend who was acrazy bitch but Iloved her anyway, and I spent my free time feeling good… after all, life was about maximizing consumption while sleep-walking through minimal responsibility. The idea of ambition beyond this baseline, or the contribution of value to a community, were equally foreign and laughable to me.
But even still… alternating between video games, television, pornography, processed food, whimpering oxytocin, and marijuana left a fuzzy feeling on my brain that something wasn’t quite right, but I wasn’t quite ready to see it yet…
It was third period lunch- a bit early in the day, yes, but if that’s when you were given a lunch period, you were kind of fucked. So it’s 10:15am and I’m dipping french fries in mayonnaise, because that was “so European,” sitting with my friend Sally Rapehoax.
Sally was a boring and plain kind of girl, but in High School sometimes you’re stuck with the people you befriend in ninth grade. Fine, whatever, but my jaw dropped when Sally casually mentioned, “yeah, I’ve been raped before,” almost as if she’s telling me about her homework, or her favorite Nirvana song, or how profoundly connected she felt to “The Craft.” It all seemed the same to Sally, but my world slowed down just a bit…
Men are universally able to separate all female acquaintances into two categories: women we want to fuck, and the rest.
The more of a beta-doofus you are the more likely it is that you want to fuck everyone you know, but for any man with a shred of dignity there will typically be a line drawn between potential fucks and “the rest.”
A female not being on our literal “to do” list doesn’t mean we want them to fall off the face of the planet or die in a fire, and it certainly doesn’t mean we wouldn’t lend a hand if they were falling off a cliff- it quite literally means that we don’t want to have sex with them. And it is this distinguishing detail that opens up the rather new, from a generational standpoint, possibility of becoming just friends with a woman.
“None of these girls want to be your girlfriend…”
It’s twenty years later and I still remember the uncomfortable feeling my Dad’s blunt assessment produced.