Homicide: Life On The Streets of Dharma and Greg.

Hi, I hate my peer group, always have, always will.

Today’s peers are middle-aged female heterosexuals who have read

Susan Faludi’s

Backlash

uncritically, at least once, probably twice, fine, ok, I get it, you do that for the same reason some of my defenders compulsively re-read their favorites, the difference between me and Faludi is that she justifies her lies and I do not.

The difference between me and my peer group is that what they look for in feminist cant I look for in Robert De Niro.

Theory is easy. Comprehension is hard.

It’s one thing to seek respect and recognition for your wounds, which are not inconsiderable, but I defy you to waste your time on shit.

Are you a woman?

Have you seen Mean Streets?

Did you understand it?

Some women who speak to me have said they didn’t like Taxi Driver, much less Deer Hunter. Most men liked The Deer Hunter, which women find

“depressing.”

What did that movie mean to her?

Well, Nick was so screwed up, it was depressing.

This is our proto-typical American woman who everywhere says men

just don’t get it.

Women, who believe they hold the title to honesty, are pathetically self-deceptive, and women are whores, thoroughly alienated from self and other, they take no responsibility for being seen as commodities, bitch about being victimized, all of which cuts down on the whole subjectivity thing, but as human beings, the subjectivity of woman comes out, all twisted up in a tiresome blather against objectification by the burrowing male gaze.

They are most at ease around babies, dumb animals, and of course, the downtrodden, which serve to make them feel, by comparison, as if they have it all “together”. That’s what they do—compare themselves to whatever else breathes. Nice hairstyle.

Mine’s better.

Go tell it on the mountain, buy me instead.

Commodity.

It was my burrowing male meow-maker who gave me a new framework for understanding The Deer Hunter, we just talked about it last night, and today it’s on AMC. He says Nicki and Michael represent

The Fountainhead’s

Gale Wynad and Howard Roark, respectively, ok, I know this book and he nailed it, I am no more at peace with this film than I was before, why should I be, is that the point? The point is to be more, period.

You can’t expect a whore to understand Nicki, that would require her to understand motivation, to look at his truly great fall from his point of view, rather than her stock, moralizing brain-dead therapeutics.

I walk out of movie theatres humming to myself, trying to block out the squawking for fear I will kill the sensitive, yammering ignorant whores.

The protagonist was so screwed up she says.

She may need to have a soothing Glade Candle scented warm bath.

Soothing lavender rarified air.

Show your gratitude for these higher sensibilities, oaf.

You think I’m kidding?

Life Story:

1998, World Gym, riding exer-cycle reading Glamour magazine, this is one

of the good ones, yay.

What To Watch In Syndication This Season:

Monday: bullshit

Tuesday: bullshit

Wednesday: bullshit

Thursday: nothin. Nothing on TV worth watching.

NYPD BLUE is too intense for delicate female temperament.

Why not make Thursday your night, home-spa, bubble bath, pedicure

(harsh reality: brass-plated toe separator, battered children in house next door. Who knew, cucumber eyes?)

Friday-Sunday: Television for unfuckable thumb-sucking

blah blah trophy wives.

Hi, sheriff trouble here to lay down the law once and for all, y’all-

NYPD BLUE:

Gestures.

Nice sex.

Passion and charisma.

Andy’s hurt.

Character-building.

Too intense

for divine bovine female sensibilities.

Let’s do lunch, huh.

I’ll make herbal tea while you cut the crusts off the sandwich bread.

(They cut crusts off the sandwich bread.)

A woman’s work is never vomitous.

Home.