Defaming Horniness

Slate


That, my friends, is a link to an article that posits that internet p*rn reduces rape.

I simply do not know where to start. I first wondered whether I was missing some kind of "Colbert Report"-style sarcasm, but alas I'm thinking not. Take a read and tell me what you think. His "data" seems questionable; or rather, his conclusions based on the data seem questionable. That's problematic. What is an outrage, however, is his seemingly clueless notions about what rape actually is. His contention seems to be that horny boys will use internet p0rn instead of date rape for enjoyment, but that would imply that a state of horniness causes rape, rather than a desire (however subconscious) to overpower, control and dehumanize another person.

For god's sake, if male horniness were all it took to cause rape, there wouldn't be a name for rape. It would just...be. I have plenty of male friends. I'm certain they, like most 15-19 year-olds, spent a good part of their young lives (and let's not discuss their current lives!) horny. I'm also certain they would never commit rape. Why? Because the two don't have a simple cause/effect correlation. It's what MAKES you horny that makes the difference. I'm certain that the average guy would not find it at all arousing to have sex with a woman who was not enjoying it, or worse, actively trying to make the sex stop. My guy friends seem quite unanimous on the fact that they will have a good time if the woman is having (and being seen to be having) a good time. For heaven's sake, it's the entire reason faking an orgasm was invented, because the average guy, however horny, doesn't want to have sex with someone who doesn't want to have sex with him. So to say that some 16 year-old horny guy will not rape someone as long as he has access to internet p0rn is a shockingly unfair indictment of 16 year-old boys.

The data I'd like to see is a study of convicted rapists, before and after internet p0rn usage, to determine whether they lost the urge to rape. THAT would be statistics worth seeing. Until then, let's not defame the good name of horniness by attaching it to rape, when we all know that the kind of men who'd use "but I was horny" as an excuse for hurting a woman are doing just that: defending the indefensible.

ManDiggers: Morally Wrong

Peoplewatching has always been a passion. From my youngest days I always loved going to airports and parks and seeing all the varied and wonderful elements of life’s rich pageant traveling by. Belief in serendipity and the meant-to-be-ness of all things has also always been a passion. That’s why I think my seemingly-unfortunate mandatory time at Hopkins has become a part of my life for a larger reason, one ordained by no less than our Creator. That reason, friends, is to engage in both peoplewatching and peoplejudging. Yes, it's true. God told me, via Katherine Harris, Lynne Cheney and James Dobson, that he would smite my bone marrow but anoint my snarkiness; that it was okay to judge others harshly as long as I've got a staff who can revise and extend my remarks after the fact to assure those listening that I really did not say anything remotely offensive or morally judgmental, unless you agree with me and in that case I meant every word I said.

So, with my PR team at the ready, today’s object of concern was a 30-something man who came sauntering into my life in the waiting area. He was wearing a pair of Kevin Federline-worthy long, baggy shorts. You know the offending pantaloons of which I speak: those mid-calf denim long shorts/short jeans worn by young men of a certain fashion sensibility, namely, none whatsoever. The primary reasons these pants should not be worn are threefold:

1. Capri pants for men (and that is precisely what they are, even if you call them "clamdiggers" or "hip hop baggy shorts") is an idea whose time will and should never come. It’s just wrong. Wrong like any woman but Marlene Dietrich wearing a full tuxedo when not on a movie set. Wrong like any man standing over a grate in a flouncy dress just at the moment hot steam blows up. Wrong like…well…a man in capris.

2. There are few among us whose featured asset in a clothing ensemble should be their skinny-a** calves juxtaposed against wide-legged pants and massive sneakers. Much like heavy-legged women should wear neither large clunky shoes nor skinny stilettos for fear of visually enhancing the width of their calves, men with no calf definition should not be wearing outsize capris with massive footwear to highlight the spindly chicken legs they are sporting.

3. Capris on a man simply highlight the stereotypical commitment issues inherent in his character. ;) You see a man in capris and you know he just couldn’t commit to either shorts or pants; he wanted to have it both ways. Don’t have to do the work to have shorts-worthy legs, and don’t have to be a grown-up in actual pants.

So. The moral lesson of wearing "ManDiggers"? You might be able to have free milk and a cow with women, but you cannot have them with fashion. That, and they are the outward manifestation of the moral turpitude of the soul. God said so, and I agree.

Back By Five

Gotta go do some Hopkins stuff today, so posting--such as it is recently--shall resume this evening. In the meantime I am working to get JHU to act like my local coffee shop and offer FREE Wi-Fi. Odds? Slim and none, but it gives me something to do...

Happy Monday, y'all!

What I'm Reading This Month

Okay, it's Open Book Night. Tell me what you're reading these days. Tell me if it's worth
a) a toilet read (ie, you read it only while on the commode, over the course of weeks, in 5 minute increments),
b) a read-through, wherein you read it, sort of, but don't necessarily seek to fully internalize the whole thing, or
c) a literary rogering, wherein you stay up late, get up early, and do (or don't do) a whole litany of important things in order to really devour the book.

This week for me it is The Portable Dorothy Parker, edited by Marion Meade. I'm giving it every spare second I have, which is therefore C: a literary rogering. I cannot put this collection of Dorothy Parker's works down. I was telling someone that if I could write like her, think like her, throw out bon mots (or in her case, bitter mots or sarcastic mots or mal mots) like her, I would be the happiest woman on the planet.

Here's a nugget of her wit and genius that doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of her stories and letters, never mind her other poems:

Untitled Birthday Lament, circa 1927
"Time doth flit.
Oh, Shit!"

Who are you reading?

Amy Sedaris is So Damn Cute

I love this woman. She's what your grandparents would call a "spitfire." With the mouth and mind of a trucker.
Village Voice

I'm In Bed Early

I should be so lucky to have this be a ribald blog post.

Unfortunately, I am officially a senior citizen. I am in bed at 10pm, which is an hour later than I was hoping for. Today was a No Nap Day for Bambina. I don't need to tell you what that means if you have kids, know kids, or have been in the presence of kids sans naps. She doesn't get cranky, whiny or mean; she just gets ADHD. She gets really wound up and all I can do is watch her spin till she collapses in a heap...oh wait, I mean, till *I* collapse in a heap.

So the clothes came off, the sunflower headband went on, as did the purple belt. No underwear, no shirt, no socks. Just a very naked little kid jumping up and down yelling, "NAKED!! NAKED!!!NAKED!" Then riding her tricycle. Before renaming all of her stuffed animals with her name as a prefix, ie, Bambina = Mary, Dog = Fido, Dog is now: MaryFido, MaryKitty, MaryMoo, MaryPuppy. Then we sang that 60's tune called Charlie Brown--"He's a clown; that Charlie Brown; he's gonna get caught just you wait and see; why is everybody always pickin on me?" over and over and over. Then demanded over and over that I show her how to dance the "bebop," a word she heard on the Baby Loves Jazz CD, till I asked her to show me what she thought bebop would look like. So she danced and danced. Till she refused to go to the potty or put on a pull-up, and "had an accident" on my closet rug. Which, as it did in college, signalled the end of the evening for me. I learned long ago that whenever someone at your party urinates on your floor, it's time to break up the festivities.

And so she went to bed under protest, and five minutes later she was out like a light.

With any luck, in five minutes I will be too.
Night, night y'all!

Just Call Me Connie

At JHU the nurses come and call you in for treatment, scanning the room for a visual while speaking. Every time I’ve been called I see a look of surprise on the caller’s face that I am the bearer of my name, it being something more likely to be on the Titanic passenger manifest than in knee high boots and a kicky black outfit. Yup. I have one of those “classic” names that often ends up being a junior high schooler’s nightmare double-dog secret middle name. You know what I mean, Ms. Ashley Norma Wilson and Mr. Jake Elmer Brown. Except that I got it as a first name, and ain’t nuthin more character-building as a teen, more stereotype-defying as a young adult, and more humorous as a finally-secure in my not-Julie, not-Melissa thirty-somethingness. So I enjoy those looks of surprise when I see them, but I’m always curious to hear what person on the list the name-caller thought I’d be.

The biggest winner in my life to date by sheer volume of responses is…….Connie. Followed closely behind by Debbie and Kate. Go figure.