I hate the morning mirror. Just another reminder on a daily basis that time keeps inching forward, and my waistline keeps inching outward. With all due respect to Sir Paul; no, I’m not half the man I used to be either. More like one and a half times the man I used to be. And, if wisdom comes with age, I must be a freakin’ sage. No matter, I have to concentrate and get rid of the horrific white stubble that makes me look rather like a vagabond. Today of all days, please let me get through this without severing part of my upper lip or excising an ear lobe. Is my hand shaking with too much excitement to do this? All I ask is that if I can no longer look young and handsome, at least let me look acceptable; passable. For tonight, I have a date with the girl of my dreams.

I hear it even now....

I hear it even now….

Somehow, I managed to get the cold, multi-bladed instrument of torture to navigate around the gourd that masquerades as my nose, with no loss of skin or blood. All in all, a pretty good start to the day. Hey, I’ll take my victories wherever I can, no matter how small. Now, I just need to make sure my shirt is clean and pressed, my slacks are neat and for gosh sakes, try to make sure my dammed socks match. Preferably with no holes.

Twenty years have gone by. Twenty. The same anxiety I had that night buzzes through my body now, just as it did then. My stomach is doing the same back flips. It’s simple really; I worried for a whole week twenty years ago leading up to that night, hoping that somehow I could convince her to say yes. Since then, I’ve been hoping to convince her she made the right decision.

Twenty years. The restaurant is gone now, replaced by who knows what; probably some quickie mart or local Hallmark store or whatever. She loved it there. The food was always fantastic, the service was welcoming and friendly. The atmosphere was so relaxed, dim and romantic with plants and flowers all over the room. It had to be there. Had to. I’ve never asked her if she expected it. I never asked her if she noticed my hands trembling like an addict’s in withdrawal. Thank goodness that the room was candlelit or she may have seen the red tinges of my ears, the flush in my face. Or was I terrified white? I can’t remember. I do remember the pain I felt in my right hand, jammed way down into the front right pocket of my slacks, tightly gripping the ring, rolling it over and over in my hand, stopping every so often to squeeze it tight enough to dig into the fleshy part of my palm. I was afraid to let it go, convinced that I was going to lose it, drop it on the floor, misplace it somehow in much the same way I can misplace my keys or glasses with alarming ease and frequency.

I managed to smuggle a small poem that I had written on simple white paper, in script, in a beautiful black frame. During a casual walk to the men’s room, I nervously slipped it into the hands of the waitress and she quickly became a co-conspirator. Well, actually, her and a couple of the other waitresses. She managed to bring it out just after our meal, right before we were expecting dessert. I wish she wouldn’t have waited near the table with her co-workers; it felt like a thousand eyes upon me. I was only interested in two; two beautiful, bright blue eyes that mesmerized me from the first glance and have enthralled me ever since.

I had to write it down. I would never have gotten through it otherwise. My mind was racing and scattered, my tongue had no master and my mouth would never be able to adequately convey my thoughts without rushing or stuttering. Somewhere between the heart, the mind and the lips, emotion takes far too many twists to be expressed the way that it’s truly felt. No way I was going to risk this; no way.

It was simple. She read it slowly, at first not quite sure what it was when it was placed in front of her. And in that moment, I realized that there is nothing quite so beautiful in the world as the reflection of candlelight in her tear-welled eyes. As she read it, I realized that I might have just managed to have another person peer directly into my soul. I let her read it over again before I said a word;


Marriage is a dance to love,

which is the music of life;

Please dance with me until the music stops.



Twenty years have gone by. Twenty. That she said yes still makes me tear up. Twenty years. And in all that time, I still hear the music. What was once a soulful ballad, sung softly by a hopeful lone voice has become a symphony with rich, deep lows and breathtaking crescendos. I hear it when she walks into the room. I hear it when she speaks, or when she sighs. I hear it when I’m alone and my thoughts wander to her face. It lulls me to sleep every night. It echoes in the deepest part of my being.

Please tell me, dear Diane, that you hear it too; that twenty years hasn’t dulled the beauty of the music for you. Does it make you sway involuntarily? Does it wash over you, warm your soul the way it does mine? Does it still have meaning, this symphony, twenty years after it became the soundtrack to my life?

If it does, then dance with me for another twenty years. Diane, give me your hand; stand and embrace me.

And I will waltz with you through eternity.



Another milestone, another tear. Should I have been prepared for this one, knowing it too was coming? I already faced the mixed bag of emotions when my eldest reached sixteen, realizing that the path I have chosen, the burden I have so eagerly, gleefully placed upon on my shoulders is coming to fruition. Fatherhood cannot be all rainbows, glitter and unicorn poop; one day you blink and she’s standing at the altar with someone you want to trust to love her and adore her with the same abandon that you have had her whole life. But the years have been kind to me; I have been part of the lives of two of the most beautiful souls I have ever come across. I could only have hoped that it would have lasted longer, ebbed away instead of hurtling away at the speed of light. Can’t we cuddle on the couch just one more time? We’ll see if we can find “Clifford” on PBS like we used to. Just us; no boys, no school, no Drivers-Ed, no world outside of “dad and daddy’s little girl” where I know you’ll always be safe and I know I’ll always be in your heart. We never heard the alarm of the dreaded “father clock”; can’t we linger just a little longer? I promise, I’ll make a ridiculously huge bucket of popcorn, just like I used to.

The things we remember make us who we are...

The things we remember make us who we are…

No, we can’t linger any longer. You’re running headlong into the world and I couldn’t be prouder. The memories we shared will forever play in my nighttime theater, old black and white reels of giggles and adventures. I remember when it wasn’t safe for me to kneel down on all fours to peer under the couch or a chair for a lost toy; it was always an open invitation for you to leap onto my back, demanding to be ridden around the living room until I was exhausted, breathless from the task and the uncontrollable laughter. It was always thus with you; you are joy incarnate, a deep resounding appreciation of life, love, friends and laughter. You are the light in any room; an easy, inviting soul. I can even see it in the eyes of your many friends who look to you for inspiration, acceptance or comfort. It is so rewarding to see you touch so many people the way you have touched me.

I may have been somewhat melancholy before; it is different with you. You are my baby, my last child. Yet, I only feel the apprehension of separation for you; I will always wish to be there for you. I’ll loosen my grip but I’ll never let go. But as I watched you grow into the young lady I now see before me, I took my own strength from your accomplishments, knowing that your depth of character, your remarkable intelligence tempered by a loving heart accompanied by a quirky, dry humor will endear you to many; I have yet to see you back down from a challenge, or fail at one. But your intelligence is only surpassed by your humility. The dignity you carry yourself with, and the deep respect and love you have for others is inspiring. Could I at least, in some small measure, claim that I had any contribution to the lovely soul which you have become? Or is that just vanity on my part? As I have said before, this is and has long been my calling:

I only want to be a good father. No greater responsibility can be placed on any man’s shoulders; No greater reward can be had.

I’m sorry, but I cannot allow myself to think that you have become the person you are now without me having some influence, however insignificant. A father’s pride I guess. Through the years, I spent many hours agonizing over if I was teaching you well, was I the father you deserved, did I do a good job…always agonizing over everything, every issue large and small, giving the same import to flowers that wilted to soon or pets that would pass unexpectedly. Did you have your helmet on? Were you climbing too high? Did you brush your teeth tonight? And through it all, you displayed a serene calmness, smile pasted on your face that seemed out of place for one so young; a lesson you took great pains to teach your father. I guess I always worried until the day you actually put the issue into perspective for me; “gee dad, I’m just not into all that drama.” I watch intently now as you navigate your life, seemingly frenetic to me, but barely giving you pause.

I only ask that you bear with me now. I’m sure I’ll embarrass you in front of your friends. Maybe I’ll get on your nerves asking about this grade, or details on this or that friend. Who are you with, when will you be back. You know, dad stuff. The stuff that lets me believe, lets me hope that I’m still important in your life, now that your life is so filled with things other than me. And always know that I am proud of you. I know you and your sister find it funny when I get all weepy; something I can’t control. Maybe a little too much drama.

But in the end, you are sixteen. And soon seventeen and then on and on. But the one constant is that I will always love you, I will always be proud of you. And I am more and more astounded by the person you have become and the possibilities that stretch out in front of you. My dear little Hannah; go on, get out there and own this world. I have no doubts that you’ll be successful in anything that you set your mind to. And don’t you ever look back.

Well, except once in a while to wave and to say “I love you, dad.”

After all, I still need a little drama…

I tried my best you know; being stoic. It just doesn’t work for me though, no matter how hard I try. If it’s not welling up in my eyes, it’s firmly lodged in my throat making it hard for me to get anything out without a quiver. You know; you’ve seen it. Whether it’s you bounding out on stage in your first ballet, your teeny little tutu fluttering, or as you walked across the stage to receive your scholarships, I’m sure you saw it in my eyes. I know sometimes it embarrasses you, so I try to keep it hidden. Well, at least under control. Usually with little success. The competing emotions make it hard to find a solution to keep it in check. Part pride; part sadness; sheer joy; muted concern. I can’t nail it down. If you can’t name it, you can’t fix it. It’s all part of the dad thing I guess. Let’s face it, you’ll never stop touching my heart until my heart decides to stop on its own.

Dads never let go.....

Dads never let go…..

I know I caught a little of it in your eyes too. As we decided where to hang your tapestry, your smile was interrupted briefly, very briefly, possibly only noticeable by those who study your face as constantly as I do. A small glitch, as if the signal had frozen and the feed hadn’t caught up. And just like that, it was gone, replaced by the boundless confidence and enthusiasm that bubbles from your personality.  We had quite a while to prepare for this day, you and I. From the hours we spent in the car canvasing different campuses, to the summer-long process of mom filling her checklist of the things you’ll need, we always knew we’d be packing the car full of your new life and disgorging it into some cramped, institutionally designed room where you’ll start the next chapter that takes you so far from us.  But it’s not just the distance. It’s the time; that vacant spot you’ll leave in our daily existence, the dammed inability for me to determine that you’re okay, that you don’t need anything, that dad can’t be there; even though it’s what I struggled to prepare you for your whole life. I guess I should have prepared myself. I was too busy denying it would ever come, as if I could put it off just by ignoring it and pushing it into the same dark corner of my mind where I hide the rest of my fears and disappointments.

But I can’t let my life be a series of events that I see in the rear view mirror of my past. I’ll always look back and see you; the first step, the first words, the start of school, the first date. It’s all there, letting me see where we came from as we map out where we go next, as if life always cooperates and things go as we plan. No, the rear view mirror only serves to remind me of how utterly fantastic and randomly wonderful my life has truly been. Every day, every event in that day made that particular day “the greatest day in my life.” Marrying your mom; greatest day of my life. The day you were born; greatest day in my life. Sharing a quiet paddle on the lake, the wildlife observing us as we awed at the majesty of it all; greatest day of my life. Every day with you has been just that; the greatest day of my life.

Perspective. I need perspective. Every little memory that fades in the rear view as I drive further down the road of my mortality was once an exciting, distant location looming larger in the windshield as it approached. Some of life’s little trips were meticulously planned; many were not. But I was always at the wheel, always in control, with the exception of the radio of course. Now I’m the passenger, maybe even sitting in the back as you steer toward your own destiny, trips and events planned and unplanned, always and forever heading forward in the direction which you have set for yourself, making memories that you’ll revisit one day in the rear view mirror of your own mind. And who knows, maybe you’ll find you get the same sharp, shortness of breath, the same hitch in your throat as you look forward toward destinations uncertain, peeking back into the memories that have set you on the journey which you embrace with full abandon today. And I’ll learn that going along for the ride now means that the greatest days of my life, from this point forward, will be those that you share with me, on a journey of your choosing, with days that will forever become “the greatest day” of your life.  I know you’ll have many; I know you deserve them. I cannot tell you just how proud I am. I like to think I have a way with words; there is however, no way to tell you just how happy I am for you.

So I turn the car away from the campus, the last images of your dorm peeking from the trees and obscured by the buildings that surround it. Maybe it was better that we said our good-byes quickly. Just the same, I peeked back in the rear view mirror, hoping against hope to get one last glimpse; maybe you were running after the car, maybe I should stop just to be sure you weren’t trying to follow me. No; you weren’t following. You’re on your own journey now, one that breaks my heart when I realize it’ll take you away from me and I’ll have to share you with a cold, uncaring, difficult world. But’s that’s only a dad’s perspective. Actually, you’re running headlong into a wonderful future, a fantastic journey that leads who knows where, to places I’ve only dreamed of; without fear, without hesitation, with the confidence and enthusiasm to achieve your dreams and your goals, ticking off one “greatest day” after another.  I know this because that’s the way we raised you. I can still see it in the mirror of my soul.

As I ponder how time will now move forward, I catch a glimpse of your sister’s face. She’s searching her own mirror, thinking of all the giggles you’ve shared, the things you’ve seen, done and accomplished together, sisters by birth, best friends by the tug of your hearts. And just as with the expression on your face in the dorm, whatever cloud darkened her face drifts away and instantly she’s back to the wide grin that she often wears.  She’ll miss you too, but soon she’ll have to face the windshield of her life and search into the distance for the journey that will take her from us as well. But this time, I’ll be prepared.

I plan to rip the rear view mirror from the car.

Lesson learned…..


The GOP elites, establishment as they’re known out here in “not-Washington DC,” told voters for years to hold their noses and unify around the nominee they gave us. For the good of the party, for the good of the country, you see. And we did; to no benefit at all to the voters who did so. It was however, of great benefit to those who chastised us for complaining about the nominee(s).  They kept their hold on power, even expanding it while giving lie to the promises they made to the millions of working stiffs who canvassed neighborhoods, made cold calls and gave meager donations from the household rainy day funds in the hopes that we could halt the progressive slide towards socialism and moral decay we were witnessing.  Even though they continued to look down upon those who pulled the lever in their favor, they assured us that the party needed to be open to everyone who held dear the common principles of the party, as tepid as they were in support of those very principles.  Principles that they were all too willing to abandon once they started to wander the halls of power and prestige, looking for the opportunity to trade the power delegated to them for their own personal gain. They gladly shook hands with those of the other party, and quickly gave away the hopes, efforts and passions of their constituents, playing nice so they could reap the rewards of being able to sell their influence at the expense of those who truly owned that power.  The big tent was actually the tent of snake-oil salesmen and we were duped by mere carnival barkers, the voters dutifully playing the role of P.T.Barnum’s suckers.

Tickets limted; see #nevetrump for details

Closing soon! Tickets limted; see #nevetrump for details


So now the tent is too crowded for them; they look upon the Trump voters with the same contempt they claimed to have had for their opposition. Reality happened to come along and poke them in the eye.  The party became too inclusive over night;  actually over the course of a very unconventional campaign season.  A season, you might remember, that was highlighted by the pledge to support the nominee, no matter who it might be, and to eschew the thought of the third party route for those who might just suffer from a bruised ego and seek vengeance on the party.  Of course, they were at that time, trying to contain the biggest ego on the stage, the one that sucked all air out of the room and wasn’t ashamed of his inability to practice the art of political correctness.  Assuming Trump would never energize the party, they wanted to ensure he could do no more damage once he was defeated; hence Mr. Priebus noted in the early days of the pledge that “I think everyone understands that if Hillary Clinton is going to get beat, she is going to get beat by a Republican and most people that run for president run to win. If our candidates want to win, then they will have to run as a Republican.”  It took some convincing Ol’ Donald; who knows what was agreed to.  But Preibus managed to get the Donald to sign the document in early September, after the other sixteen wannabees had done so.  Why would Trump give up his third-party leverage? Simple; because he intended to win.  Why did the other sixteen sign? Equally simple; because they didn’t think he would.  And like most of the promises the party leadership has made through the years, this one too, went by the wayside. Now, it’s all about #nevetrump.  Or as I like to call it, #yeahwe’refinewithhillary.

It’s rather amusing watching this all unfold as someone who is not a Trump supporter. Where was all this new-found party unity during the last few election cycles?  Just half of the effort directed at derailing Trump would have been quite useful against Obama.  Or, even now, directed at Hillary-the-Great.  Party be dammed, country be dammed, no matter what Priebus’s original disingenuous intent was, his statement still holds true;  beat Clinton with a republican.  He just managed to leave off the remainder of the sentence, the unspoken qualifier that we voters had seen put into practice before; our chosen nominee.

What troubles party elites the most about Trump might be several things. One, he brings the great unwashed into the tent.  A party that wants to increase its size and inclusiveness is certainly doing its best to alienate any of those nearly nine million votes Trump has garnered to date. He betters Mitten’s  vote count at this point by more than two  million. Of course, they all happen to be bigots, racists, low IQ, misogynists and a few Nazi’s sprinkled in for good measure.  The media says it; Democrats repeat it; the GOPe believes it; it must be true.

Secondly, Mr. Trump has reminded those in power just how they got there. And they don’t like it. Not just in the GOP mind you; party elites in the democrat party are doing their best to hide the growing contempt their voters have for their own prom queen. The realization that these usurpers in Washington may just have to answer to someone who doesn’t have a private jet or a zip code in Hollywood scares the living shit out of them.  As it should.  “Where the people fear their government, there is tyranny. Where the government fears the people, there is liberty.”  Of course, democrats don’t believe that one bit because it was uttered by on old dead white guy.  White, but dead, privilege you know.  The GOP doesn’t believe it because no one at the Chamber of Commerce told them to.

Those leading the GOP have no intention of going down without a fight. The years they spent alarming us about the democrats, and how the GOP could fix everything if we just voted for them, voted their way, has given us all the clarity that comes with hindsight. Conservatives and libertarians were never truly welcome in the party at all; the tent was zipped, no matter what they tell you. They did everything they could to keep us out and now have the audacity to warn us that Mr. Trump is certainly no conservative; as if that’s a great concern to those we elected whose first act was the omnibus, effectively funding everything we voted them in to stop.

So of course, now the cry is that a vote for Trump is a vote for the wife of Monica’s boyfriend. If true, then what is a vote “not for Trump?”  Their answer of course; voting for my conscience.  All of a sudden, those who told us for years that they would repeal Obamacare and build the wall, a wall they voted the funding for years ago, have a conscience.  Yes, they have a conscience the way “the Donald” has a filter.  Not so much.

More telling is that Mr. Trump has expanded the party, gaining cross-over voters as well as independents. We can’t all be racist can we? Or misogynists?  I’m quite sure I’ve seen ladies and blacks and even black ladies supporting him.  Howzat? He’s increasing not only the diversity and inclusiveness of the party; he has awoken a great number of people who have been fairly apolitical up to now.  People who want to take their power back from Washington, not necessarily people who agree with one another or even agree with Trump on all issues, except in that Washington is a failed state, filled with those who are only concerned with the welfare of their constituents when they need funding for their next election cycle.

As the GOP finally folds the tent, I’ll be mildly amused. I’m sure those who are firmly #nevertrump will be easily accepted into the democrat party for as long as that gig lasts.  And they’ll blend in very nicely too, most likely adopting the #neverbernie stance that will be required.  Hell, they’ll probably even sign a pledge supporting “Wall Street’s favorite Motivational Speaker.” Don’t think that those voters won’t remember your names. Then there’s speaker Ryan, who was probably just echoing what he’s been hearing since he took over his speakership role; the hue and cry from voters disappointed in his performance and his willingness to throw us under the bus, back the dam thing up and hit us again. Ironically, Ryan speaks about more than unifying; he talks about a dedication to conservative principles. Are you kidding us? You actually believe the things you’re saying, don’t you Paul? Mr. Speaker, you should heed your own advice.  Millions of people are supporting the man with the unruly hair; I doubt you could garner as much support.  Oops; sorry, I forgot, you were on the ticket with Mitt.  You probably already realized that for all his faults, it’s fairly likely that Donald is far more popular with the voters then you are. In fact Paul, it might just be time for you and Mitch to look into switching parties.  You know, your conscience and all?

I mean, now that the tent is coming down, you’ll need hawk your wares in front of someplace other than the tent of  “Trump’s Party of the Disaffected.” I hear Hillary is vetting VP’s.  There’s one born every minute…

You just gotta love Camille Paglia. Well, maybe not all the time, but her writing is succinct and well reasoned; even if you don’t agree with the central thesis of whatever piece you happen to be reading. I’m quite sure that as often as I’ve shaken my head in amazement at her stances, some of her liberal friends find themselves in the same boat. Her article from last Thursday is a great example of what I mean. I’m quite sure she’s pissed off more than a few of her fellow abortion rights comrades by highlighting their religious fervor towards the issue of abortion, much the same way the pro-choice movement derides those of a more traditional religious viewpoint. I’ll give her this much; she’s consistent and declares herself to be more courageous than her fellow abortion rights supporters who hide behind what she calls the “cowardly euphemism” term of “pro-choice.” Courageous indeed.

Been there, done that, got the T-shirt...

Been there, done that, got the T-shirt…

Paglia was writing about the unfortunate slip of the tongue of Hillary the Great, the anointed democrat nominee. (Can nominee and anointed be used in the same sentence?) Was Hillary trying to soften her abortion stance, hoping to move as far to the right as Bernie will allow her, or was this actually a deep rooted conviction from a woman who has really only shown a deep rooted conviction for anything that might benefit Hillary? Was Hillary simply confused when she referred to the fetus as an “unborn person,” quite possibly recalling her junior high school biology lessons where I and millions of other eager yet empty headed youngsters first learned that when a woman gets pregnant, she’s carrying a human child and not a puppy, a goldfish or a snail? How dare she humanize a fetus? Did she possibly search Webster’s online: “an unborn or unhatched vertebrate especially after attaining the basic structural plan of its kind; specifically :  a developing human from usually two months after conception to birth.” Say what you will, but I won’t be shaken from the certainty that you’re killing something that was always human. It’s biology you see.

It’s quite amazing, really, and somewhat depressing that young women are being taught that they’re not carrying anything that even remotely looks like their own baby pictures. If you don’t humanize it, it’s easier to kill it. And heaven forbid someone offers you a chance to look at the face of your “choice” via any type of ultra-sound so you can see just what you’re about to tear to pieces. What kind of idiot provides a woman with that kind of clarity? But hey, Hillary redeemed herself by assuring those so offended by the term “unborn person” (you know, a human child) that the unborn don’t have any constitutional rights anyway. So there.

Camille, Like Hillary, is quite sure that the execution of the unwanted gestating child is supported without restriction under the fourteenth amendment. And Camille does pat her self on the back quite often, proud that she has always been consistent with respect to the sanctity of life, and feels that her support of abortion on demand equals her support for the death penalty of those convicted of heinous crimes. She tells us that she feels that pro-choice Democrats have become “callous and extreme” about abortion. How you can, in the same breath, find that abortion is protected by the fourteenth amendment which gives equal protection to all persons under the law and then equate an innocent unborn person with a convicted murderer is beyond me. And to call others callous in the process. But such is the life of an ardent, courageous “pro-abortion supporter” I guess.

Troubling even more is that she glances over her support for Margaret Sanger, noting only in passing Sanger and Planned Parenthood’s origins promoting eugenics; she never mentions the fact that much of the purification of the gene pool was aimed at blacks. No, Camille became disillusioned over Planned Parenthood when she realized it became a “covert arm of the democrat party.” And leaves it at that. Not because Planned Parenthood and the democrat party are systematically killing unborn not-quite-human-victims, many of them black mind you, but because they are a “covert arm of the democrat party.” Which of course, is news to no one at all.

At least Camille points out that nature oppresses women in far greater ways than men do. But the left doesn’t quite go for biology; see the entry above from Webster’s. In fact, if they can’t find someone to blame, they can’t create more victims. Like Camille, I too consider myself quite libertarian, leaning more conservative. And yes, my own views on abortion frustrate the bejeebus out of everyone. Want to have an abortion? Go ahead. On your own dime. With your own child, not mine. Explain it to your God, or Gaia, or whatever you call your conscience, but leave me out hell out of it. I have no right to tell any woman who is not carrying my child what she has to do with her body. Sorry friends, I have always felt that way. I have no more right to control you than you have to control me. But that’s not good enough for second or third wave feminism. What was once a movement about reproductive rights became sex without consequence; the choice at the front end of the act de-coupled from the consequence of that “choice.” And somehow, you decided the government needs to get me involved. Either I pay for your abortion or pay for your offspring. I got just as sick of the feminist movement over abortion as Camille seems to be. And of course, I’m told I hate women because of it. Camille, you dammed misogynist. It appears that feminism was just a change in how women could fund their victimization due to the burden of pregnancy. Being supported by a man is heinous; having his financial support coerced from him and filtered through the government; a-okay.

It’s interesting to note that she brings up what she feels were the “flimsy and overblown” charges leveled against Clarence Thomas. Interesting in the fact that during the same period, many young men like myself were ardent supporters of equal opportunities for women; even though we were constantly subjected to harangues of how evil men were as we stood should to shoulder with those slinging these arrows. I was concerned for my sisters (biological!) and the future Ms. Messydesk and possible daughters. But I was raised to be considerate of women; yes we were taught to pull out the chairs at the table, open doors, give up our seats on the bus. And more often, I was looked upon with derision for those actions, even to the point of being publically berated on more than one occasion. Maybe it isn’t biology that second and third wavers were struggling with, maybe it was friggin’ manners. Who knows? But it became tedious. I would always be the enemy and they were dammed sure to let me know, no matter how many signs I held up side-by-side with them. Or maybe it was because I expected them to become truly self-sufficient. And called them on it.

To be consistent, Camille should also discuss, not only how feminism misses the point on the biology of women, but also how feminism has declared war on the biology of men. Fatherhood is a joke; a quaint but antiquated social construct. No need for a man to make a child anymore. A strong father figure in the home is a vanishing breed. Any of the adjectives once used to describe the rugged male individual that women used to long for and men wanted to be like were discarded long before the Marlboro man choked out his last cigarette. No, we were now being forced to take sensitivity classes, wear pregnancy suits for a whole day, quizzed by our prospective paramours on whether we are afraid to cry, told to be less introspective and more talkative and for god sakes, take off those sweats and put on some dammed skinny jeans. Emasculation of the American male is really the goal here. This is no longer about equal opportunity, to raise women to their potential. No, the gap between the sexes, regardless of the dictates of biology like muscle mass and bone structures, uteri or prostate glands, could only be diminished by disparaging those traits that made males uniquely, biologically male. From Marlboro man to pajama boy in less than a generation.

But it’s even worse for those runny-nosed little heathens, boys, dealing with that toxic soup of the evil testosterone while they try to sit still in class, dreaming of pulling on that mesmerizing, swaying pony tail at the desk ahead of them. Society now treats them as predators in waiting, busted for a simple hug or stolen kiss on the playground, labeling them as serial sex abusers long before they develop the slightest wisp of pubic hair. Great cottage industries have grow up around diagnosing little boys as damaged little girls who might just be saved if we drug the natural, biological tendencies out of them and exchange their Tonka trucks for Barbie’s dream corvette or pry GI Joe from their hands, replaced by any one of the My Little Ponies. We wonder why children are facing dilemmas about their sexuality in far greater numbers; because we can’t face biology and project our inability to come to grips with it upon those who are currently at that stage in their lives when it has the most emotional and physical impact. Why do we teach little girls to fear and hate little boys and little boys to hate themselves. Go ahead; deny it if it helps you sleep better at night. Maybe you’re courageous too, like Camille.

We’ll never settle the debate over abortion. Unfortunately, we’ll never even agree to disagree. Some of us believe life starts at conception. Others believe life begins when society decides it does. Like maybe when you make it home from the hospital. In any event, feminism has moved to a place where I can no longer recognize why I, as a male, believed in it so strongly when I was younger. I still believe my daughters should have every opportunity to try anything they are capable of. And I also believe that their success should not be predicated on the demonization of the other half of the species. Feminist can deny their biology all they’d like; to each his or her own. But the issue still remains that what I see as the brand of feminism displayed today is nothing more than vitriol, self-loathing and an intense feeling of, maybe a celebration of victimhood. And if abortion is their Holy Grail, we should also note that biology includes death; the death of over 50 million babies aborted since Roe V. Wade. Mom went to Planned Parenthood and only brought back a tee shirt.

So like Camille, I’ve become quite disillusioned with feminism. I will however leave you with one last comment. If you can celebrate the death of your unborn child, then struggling with biology is likely not the only thing we can’t agree to disagree on.

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Jeff A Paquette

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