Saturday, December 08, 2012


This blogger frankly admits it: I am a frightful sexist pig.
I firmly believe that most women should NOT be in bars.
Neither should most men, but for entirely different reasons.

No, not the whole nonsensical "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" crap, but an entirely different analysis.

'Men are Sponge Bob, women are Betty Boop'

At least, in bars they are.

The arrival of women changes the whole dynamic. Before that moment, the majority of the men may have been semi-rational, and a few of them even capable of intelligent conversation. Hard stretch, I know, but it has happened. Once the women arrive, however, the boys mostly lose it. The hard-edged competitiveness of many males comes into play almost immediately. "Holy sh*t", they seem to say, "here's a chance to elbow all these other blokes out of the way - even if I am not in the slightest interested in this person with pronounced frontal lumps, I can make some other man feel stupid!"
Or at least inconsequential.

Fevered rivalry for a place proximal to bosom turns everything surreal.
The noise-level goes up enormously, to the point of unbearable.
Women, it must be said, contribute their share of sound.

I try to stay away from drunken mating rituals. While I like watching pigeons fan out their tail-feathers and dance for uninterested female pigeons, as well as the head-bobbing and throat stroking of other birds, seeing that in humans is a little disconcerting.
Well, if truth be told, revolting.
Rutting should be private.
It's better that way.

Public 'courting' behaviour among bipeds should be nothing that embarrasses. Restraint, good manners, and above all a sense of propriety must always be the hallmarks of association with the opposite gender. Even if you are of legal age, and your parents have grudgingly accepted that your mistakes are your own. Which may be anytime between 21 and 65, but nevertheless.
Calmness and a twinkle in the eye are OK.

It's not that any of the people in question are "on the prowl", in most cases far from it. It's just that when you combine alcohol, good cheer, loud music, and opposing genders, what you end up with is a lamentable lowering of thresholds and a rise in instinctive behavioural patterns.
Especially if young men are involved. Or 'youngish' men.

Most women are, thank heavens, quite oblivious of all this. They will gaily swan into a respected drinking hole -- such as, for instance, the Tosca Cafe at 242 Columbus Avenue -- flaunting their smaller hands and less angular characteristics, and blithely assume that all the men are there purely for innocent social gib-gab and restrained consumption of a beverage or two.

Well, they were. Up to that moment. See, the Tosca Cafe lacks a television, and one cannot watch sports there. So that right there naturally limits the conversational abilities of many males.
I am convinced that masculine dialectic, in the main, is directly proportional to the size of teevee screens and mammaries. Without that stimulus, the majority are calm, almost somnolescent.
Very peaceful.


I myself am not entirely unaffected. But I like my round parts in tasteful moderation, and my sports not at all. A woman radiating "hot sh*t, she's BRILLIANT!" is far, far better company than "holy Moses, wouldya look at them deedees!".
I rationalize it thus: if she's brilliant, AND hanging around with a certain man, he himself must have a fairly decent bit of grey matter also. So just being seen with an intelligent and intellectually capable person rubs a bit of glory off on the man.

Besides, it increases conversational options. Being at times either full of it, OR a hyper-stimulated chatterbox, I like associating with people who keep me on my toes.
Any meeting between people should leave each person with the sudden realization, immediately after parting, "darn, I should have mentioned .... ,
I could have said .... , we should have discussed .... , why didn't I ask .... ,
I wonder what she/he thinks about ....
Even in just friendly relationships, that's worth looking forward to.
Leaves one overwhelmed, and wanting more.
Next time, many more times.


The foregoing was prompted by a recent experience at the Tosca Cafe. My friend the bookseller and I were having a pleasant conversation, when a brash, loud, and overly endowed, individual walked in. Her presence, as well as the miracle of a minuscule cocktail dress that did NOT pop her boobs, yanked the decibel level up to unbearable. Screaming laughter, top-of-the-lungs OMG! exclamations, combined with Johny Cash singing about killing a man in Reno -- plus, last but not least, the boisterous idiot sub-human boychiks to the right -- made reasonable discourse impossible. She had a very unpleasant metallic voice, and her big floppity breasts should have been far better covered. As good an argument for a ball-gag and a full burka as anything, she epitomized everything with which you never want to be seen in public.
Unless you're a vulgarian flaunting your own stupendousness.

Most women should stay out of bars.
And so should most men.
I firmly believe that.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

1 comment:

bibiophilically amphibious said...

I have to say that I was fascinated to see whether they were going to pop out; I suspect that had she inhaled they might very well have done so. She did, however, have a voice like a parrot, possibly the result of habitually having to be careful not to inhale too deeply.

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