Go! Go!

Note that the espousal of hostile obnoxiousness as a guiding
philosophy appears to be an almost uniquely American horror. It
certainly isn’t requisite to independence or self-respect. I recently
met a quite attractive blonde who, among other things, was smart, a
long-haul motorcyclist, a student of the martial arts out of sheer
athletic enjoyment of it, and an excellent marksman. She was also
heterosexual, feminine, delightful company, and had no trace of “the
chip.” I was astonished. How was this possible, I wondered?
She was Canadian.
— ibid

That is an interesting question, and maybe it should be brought up in a shorter thread so some real discussion of it can happen.

In my case, no. I don’t like the whole leader/follower setup very much. I’m happiest with roles that let me stand off to the side and do my job with a minimum of interacting with the social and political tribe-drama that goes on in the organization. Freelancing suits me very well.

…weed does not enhance decision-making ability.

Heh, another lesson that usually has to be learned the hard way. That’s how I learned it.

Compare Sen. Norm Coleman’s ad with the wingnut virgin’s post……

aside from folks in MN wondering if Coleman’s wife was greenscreened, the other question was
who exactly is Norm targeting with an ad where his wife tells him to ‘take out the garbage.’

WOMEN: THE NEW MEN …. indeed. Only they seem to be married to GOP Senators.

Anne Laurie for the win. Again.

You know, here’s the thing I want to ask some folks. Have any of you ever run for a leadership positionof ANYTHING??

Great question, g. I can say that I gave up on my own leadership skills at age 17 when I tried to run a Dungeons and Dragons game. It was a disaster.

Even worse was when the Navy put me in charge of a dozen other guys.

In both instances, I found that the best rule was, “when in doubt, check the rule book.” Along with, “never show yourself to be in doubt.”

Oh, and that weed does not enhance decision-making ability.

George Strait sang a song “HOW ABOUT THEM COWGIRLS.” And just for a moment – there it was! A man singing about the beauty that is WOMAN. Celebrating it ….singing about it/ admiring and loving the all that is the feminine energy in a country song. WOW!! He nailed it!

Isn’t the entire appeal, or rather, the definition, of a cowgirl is a woman who acts like a man? Wearing the same clothes including big hats, boots, belt buckles, cursing and drinking and fighting and shooting guns and riding horses and driving pickups, etc.?

Not there’s anything wrong with that but it kind of throws the whole “feminine energy” concept right out the window, doesn’t it? That’s the point. It’s what I love about cowgirls- the rejection of femininity as a useless constriction of behavior to conform to society’s enforced gender stereotype.

This guy really is clueless.

Oh, and has anyone yet mentioned that Casablanca is about the love between two men and a woman? I’m guessing so, knowing you guys.

In re the Gabernater’s story: the biker’s name is MICHAEL MURPHY? Does he ride away on a Harley he named “Wildfire”?

Men are hungry for women who make them feel good. About them being men ….about them being themselves….about there being women in the world that they can be friends with, associates with and sometimes lovers with….relishing all those qualities that women have always possessed that have captivated, and elevated us as men that I no longer see absolutely any trace of on afternoon talk shows or in my living room any more watching TV.

I can totally picture him softly sobbing while he wrote this.

Harley man came walking toward my direction again. He walked like he had just gotten off a motorcycle. He was wearing boots. He was lighting a cigarette with a turquoise Bic lighter, and then I saw that he was wearing a wedding band.

His wedding band chinked on the aluminum handle of the café door as he pushed it open. The boy behind the counter looked up, his mouth gaping a little in surprise. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” he said, as though he were addressing his father.

–That’s OK, boy. I’m not planning to stay. Just tell your manager to call Murphy this evening.

–Sure, I’ll tell her.

I could see the boy relax it when Harley man started to turn on his boot heel. At the same moment Ms. Highlights pulled a gun out of her capacious purse. When I looked at her friend, the red-eyed woman was holding up a set of handcuffs and a badge. Ms. Highlights spoke.

–Put your hands up over your head, Michael Murphy. You and your lackeys are under arrest.

I heard shouts and the sound of many running footsteps outside, but couldn’t take my eyes off the shiny gun, where my reflection was stretched around the barrel like a funhouse.

Harley man raised his arms slowly and drawled an unworried answer.

–There’s not a judge in the county that will convict me on a cockfighting charge.

–Maybe not. But we’re federal agents, and we’re arresting you on drug charges. We’ve already got teams searching your meth labs, and they tell me there’s plenty of evidence. Ms. Jackson is in custody and has admitted to distributing drugs from this café.

The boy behind the counter leaned forward, turned undescribably pale and murmured—Shawneena! He kept leaning until his head hit the counter, bounced off and his whole body slid out of sight.

The interruption distracted Highlights and Red-eyes long enough. Harley man pulled a gun from his pocket and there were three deafening crashes.

I felt as though some linebacker had run into me with his shoulder. I stared up and saw the ceiling fan make a slow circle-like motion over my supine body. Then Harley man’s head came between me and the fan. I saw the blood pulsing out of my chest reflected in his mirrored sunglasses. He spoke.

–Teach you to stare at me, bitch. Do I look like a TV?

Ironically, his mirrored sunglasses did make his face look like two little TVs, but I could only gurgle in reply. His head disappeared from sight. There were more shouts and crashes and sounds of breaking glass. I heard an anguished wail.

–My bills. They’ve got blood all over them.

At least I wouldn’t have to grade any more badly written papers that weren’t even paper clipped. The fan beat slowly at the end of a gradually shrinking tunnel of light through gathering darkness.

See, Mary’s narrator is being cruised by a HARLEY guy selling fighting COCKS with the assistance of a couple of sweaty, non-English speaking minority guys. The PINK shirt is what passes in Grabar-World for, you know, ironicalism. Besides, a penis-shaped dude in a black Harley tee would be a little *too* threatening…

MzNicky:

She does NOT teach English at an institute of higher education.

Well, not really. Last I checked, Grabar teaches at a commuter college around Atlanta. I think we determined it was Georgia Perimeter College, or something of similar academic rigor.

Which is to say, you could do it. Probably better.

The man’s name was Eduardo.

The way she writes this, Eduardo should be the Harley-man’s name. Don’t tell me our little English teacher is thinking about a Latino man in ‘that way!”

He had been muscular in a previous life, but now his waist competed with his chest in a girth contest and started to inch over his belt. It was like dough rising under the cover of a pink Harley t-shirt.

Yeah, I always use a pink Harley shirt for my baking. Oh wait, she meant his shirt. Boy, that metaphor vanished like steam rising to the top of the empty skull of a woman named Mary Grabar.

He had long hair in the back, short in the front, with a beard closely trimmed to ornament and frame.

What? Ornament and frame WHAT?? Oh I see. She’s building suspense. Clever, aren’t we?

His mirrored sunglasses reflected back the pavement and my own curious look.

How close do you have to be to a person’s sunglasses to be able to read your own expression in the reflection? For that matter, why is she framed by the pavement? Is she lying down? Is she… oh my God, is she doing the nasty with him right there in the parking lot?