Frank writes on Listics: “Stanley Fish fishes around the Jason Horowitz article in GQ, but neither man can quite bring himself to call the Hillary hating what it is. Jason? Stanley? It’s MISOGYNY … I am puzzled about how the topic of “hating Hillary Clinton” could be addressed without either writer (or their editors) making a single call-out regarding the misogyny and sexism that underlie so much of the vituperative ad feminam critiques.”

Way to go, Frank! And here I thought the only man who could really “get” what it’s like, being on the receiving end, would have to be black. Read the rest of this entry »

(Fiction) … It wasn’t for many years that I got even a hint of a grip on Alec’s issue with work. First, we start with the assumption that I am a sponge, a freeloader, then we move on from there. That was the current that ran below everything, a resentment, a form of hatred that I certainly sensed, and from the start … yet what desperate young woman can afford the truth. I wanted to get married because that is what I knew to do, I needed help with my dear little children, I had no money … and I suppose the truth is that in Alec, in his hatred, I was given yet another crummy gift. Why me, oh Lord, which is exactly the sort of plea that goes unanswered.

Because the real question is, why Alec.

Why men.

Why the hatred and no end of punishment to women in need.

Now that we know of some of the nastier attitudes of the really entrenched, okay, there’s a tiny hue and cry. Perhaps it is not quite the thing, this stoning to death of the woman fucked out of wedlock. Bury her upright in a pit and batter her about the head. On the other hand, as Alec used to so cheerfully say, Better you than me.

Had I but known it, every hateful thing Alec said was a direct pipeline from ancient tribal feuds. The kind of hatred baked, after eons under the sun, into a shrivelled, bitter lump that once eaten, sits there in the gut, neither regurgitated nor shat. Churning. Churning like his old man, churning like Alec. Churning but stuck. Churning without hope of removal of the indigestible truth of their lives …

So they strike out. Which relieves exactly nothing. Perhaps only aggravates the churn.

And women are so used to it, I am so used to it, tell me, does it not seem normal? This … cycle of buildup and release? Don’t we pity the poor souls, having no better way? Yes, we do. Pity which has no bearing on the fact, we are maimed. Pity, genuine pity, will get you killed. Hold up a sign, go around, “I feel for you.” See how long—with someone like Alec—see how long you last.

… And if I may digress. Oh please do, this is your blog, after all. Thank you. I came across a New Hampshire newspaper with that lovely photo of Nancy with all the children in her lap, touching the precious gavel and all. NANNY STATE, it said. WELL THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED, AMERICA, SNEER, THIS IS WHAT YOU GOT.

They shoot Nannies don’t they?

Okay, funnies over. In point of fact, my roots are in New Hampshire; my grandmother was born in Rumney, in 1897. She was the first person to ever go to college from Plymouth Highschool (her little sister the second) and when she finished Colby, she promptly married her very handsome highschool English teacher. Then the First World War ended her chosen career, teaching German, when it was barely begun. They set up housekeeping in West Hartford, and she spent her life in Connecticut. Ostensibly editing the Connecticut Church Times, but mostly telling the Bishop of Connecticut what to do, and and I expect he is just now learning how to get along without her.

When everyone with half a brain leaves a state, that leaves the dregs and seriously inbred. I know and you know, if the mere photograph of an Important Woman, and her grandchildren crawling all over the podium in the capital of these here United States is enough to whip the Live Free or Die fringe into a Freudian lather, we got issues.

What bothers me is the hatred and fear behind such shows of disgust. These are the kind of men I, as a woman, fear most. Who are so full of hatred for the father, likely had the crap beaten out of them by Daddy, the only possible place they can express it is upon the body of the mother, the feminine. Upon women, girls, little girls, the vulnerable, the precious and the “weak”. These are the men for whom rape means rape, and in whom remorse was killed a long time ago.

Sure you have to be tough to survive a New Hampshire winter. Tough is no excuse. We ought to turn upon such contemptuous bullshitters the toughest black heavyweight and watch ‘em piss themselves—whilst he then bestows a kiss upon his venerated mother.

And I will lead a little talk on Freud. Ri-ght. Oh she is filled with fantasy tonight. But the sad fact is, sometimes the biggest buffoons are just little quaking shits. And they are not going to slur Nancy Pelosi or the grandchildren that way, not as long as I am around.

Nor do I see where, like, the White Man has done so much better, hello?

No, Granite-Staters, we don’t want to take care of everybody, not even you. We’re just waiting til you guys get the hang of what it is to take care of somebody beside your granite selves.

My grandmother died in Connecticut, several weeks short of her 101st birthday. Sharp as a tack, in good health til that moment, funny as hell. Never did get the hang of being old.

I see I haven’t gotten around to Norman. Next post.