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Month: August 2019

Womenology – 100 – Introduction To Womanry

Part 1 of 3
Being And Mystery

by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

September, 2019


Women, ladies, dames, broads, damsels, lassies, chicks, sheilas, squeezes, babes, gals, and girls – I have anticipated your… female… reactions! They are on the order/variation of:
“Oh no! Not another one of these boasting gloaters that hadn’t ever read ’50 Shades of Grey’, going on about knowing ALL about women!”

Well no, I’m not one of those boasting gloaters who believes he knows everything about women… omg… don’t you just HATE THEM!

Though… though… though with what I do know about women, I could lecture at the Sorbonne. And more the wiser the world would be about women, which is presently altogether too willfully obtuse and preciously deluded.

In The Beginning

Woman had been formed from the man’s rib. This tale may be parable but it is medically sound. Bone is reliably chockablock with pristine DNA.  And GOD apparently gave the plumbing some thought but little revelation. GOD does NOT push the envelope – I think Einstein had first made that discovery.

The human is a dichotomous creature. Either it is male or female; and then, to the higher form, man or woman. i.e., the mold and the molded.

It was bone that made Eve human, gave her substance made her near as much, physically, as Adam. But what had made her woman beyond the aforementioned plumbing? What had made her pysche womanish? What had made her think as a woman; feel as a woman; perceive as a woman? There’s a mystery here and it’s going to remain one… and with reason.

“Insofar as something retains mystery it commands interest.”
– George Palczynski

Mystery, Thy Name Is Woman

“I am not a woman—I am a world. My garments have but to fall, and you shall discover upon my person a succession of mysteries.”
– Queen of Sheba (to St Anthony)
Gustave Flaubert (The Temptation of St Anthony)

The Queen has not even broached the subject revealing mind/soul. Just at that level, merely the flesh, she is mystery – and don’t men know it.

In whatever of the brain’s nodules and relative synapses this ‘sex stuff’ is contained, however widely or narrowly dispersed, lies the greatest mystery of all, excepting the one – the WHY? of it all. But of everything else it is the greatest. Long after deep thinkers and esotericists have resolved the Theory of Everything into one neat beautiful equation, the mystery between man/woman will remain unresolved.

Men are crazy; Women are nuts. Fact – crazy and nuts are NOT the same.

What’s The Big Mystery?

Crazy is digital; nuts is analog.

Men are digital, binary. Women are analog and multivalent. Note the inherent complexity as to women… multivalent! Already, just sixteen words in, and a guy’s gotta start looking stuff up in Websters.

Men are on/off, yes/no, ones and zeros.

Women are yes and no – simultaneously; they are mostly maybe; yes with a little no; ‘no’ with a scaled down ‘yes’ micro-organically inserted.

You see the dilemma… yes?… no?

Men think digitally, expect to be responded to digitally. A man’s response to a man is digital/binary; yes/no, agree/disagree; drink/fight; or, rock-paper-scissors.

Women think multivalently… good luck with that. I’m not writing a damn book.

Men are mechanical; women are mechanical. Aha! Yes!

…Not so fast.

Men are simply mechanical; women are quantumly mechanical. Acquaint yourselves with the overwhelming complexity involved with the quantum microcosm – convoluted is the worst that can be said about it – maddeningly counterintuitive the best. THAT is woman.

Men are 1 or 0, or 1000101001, always precisely there and nowhere else. Woman, on the other hand, being an analog wave may be, quantumly, at two places at the same time; can be both at the crest and trough of the wave – simultaneously. I mean WTF?! How maddening is that… to have to deal with.

Yeah, no… I don’t have to hear it to know. Misogynist!… Terrified! Angry! Broken! Hurt! Damaged! STOP reading COSMO ladies!

Everyone Knows

It’s long been known. To say it is all not much understood is true; to say it is all not much true is ornery contrariness.

Women are idiots; men are lunatics.
Rebecca West

Women are wonderfully gifted with powers of observation. This is their wheelhouse. Ms. West was twice again a powerhouse. She was not only pithily observant she was pithily expressive. In the above quote, she reveals one of the truly great observations regarding the psychic chasm that separates the sexes. She’s not been proven wrong.

Women are idiots; because women are complex. Women make note of detail – all manner of details; and will overload their capacity for them. Women will make too much of details; conclude much the wrong thing based on details. With enough detail, ‘x’ may be inferred where ‘y’ had, in fact, been implied. In other words, women, to be repaired, if any man dared an attempt to repair them, would be fitted with a fine filter.

Imagine details as dots to connect. There is a point reached of too many details/dots, so that when they are connected they are not so much a shape, as a Jackson Pollock abstraction; and at that, left more to surmise about than know of.

Men are lunatics. Because men are simple, Men see things as though by moonlit silhouettes, without much, if any detail. It has the shape of a house? It’s a house. The shape is horsey? It’s a horse. What matter the detail, what can it matter if it’s a roan, palomino, or piebald – a horse is a horse… The recognition of the essentiality of a thing is knowledge of the thing – done. Men would be better off seeing things in the morning’s dawn, with some detail. But this is not about men but about women.

And on her we shall continue in Part 2 of 3:

Womenology 101 – Basics of Womanry

A Word About Flying with Firearms

Flying today is bad enough, but if you’re flying with a firearm, pack your patience. I’ve had to declare a firearm a number of times when flying, and for the most part, it hasn’t been too terribly bad. But one time sticks out in my head, and looking back, I can now find a modicum of humor in it.

When you check in, you have to tell the ticket agent you have a firearm, show it and the empty magazine, and show there is no round chambered. Put it in the case, throw the lock on, and pray it’s in your suitcase when you land.

So I am checking in and quietly tell the agent (a “wee” fella) that I have a firearm to declare, and I start to pop open the case…I look at him and the expression on his face is one of abject horror. He stammers “One moment” and flees, flapping his wrists. I half expected him to wail “I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies!” Well, I don’t know about babies (doubt he ever had to worry about that) but he sure as hell didn’t know his airline’s protocol for checking in a gun.

The next thing I know, there’s a supervisor, two other agents, and Butterfly McQueen standing in front of me…supervisor says, “I’m training these two…can you start from the beginning, so they know what to do?” Sure, I’m fine with that. Meanwhile, all the people in line are watching in fascination, much to my chagrin.

I start from the beginning, go through all the steps, show the gun, etc., lock it up, put it in my suitcase, and wait…then the questions to the supervisor begin. “What do we look for?” “How do we know there’s no bullet in the gun?” (Pay attention, Scooter – I just racked it back to show you) and the best: “Do we need a key for the lock on the case?” (That’d be a big fat NO, sweetie)

Paperwork finished, suitcase closed, and the supervisor says “Any last questions?” And I hear “Lady, what kind of gun is that?” I just smiled.

The kicker is I was coming home from my mother’s funeral, and in my carry-on was a very large amount of cash and her jewelry…gun, cash, jewelry…all I needed was a kilo of cocaine, and I was Scarface’s sister. Makes me wonder if I’m on some “list” with HSA?

On Becoming A Dad (Part Two)

It was time…

The ride to the hospital was quick and uneventful, largely because the hospital was around the corner and down two blocks from our apartment.

At this point, my wife and I were pretty badly sleep deprived; her by virtue of her feeling like someone had parked a Honda Accord in a mailbox, and me because I was sleeping on the floor next to the couch on which slept a mailbox that someone parked a Honda Accord in.

As soon as we hit the emergency room, there was chaos. Sick people shocked by the language my wife was using and the detailed threats of violence, my mother, busy stroking my wife’s forehead and humming Christian hymns softly; as if preparing for the exorcism that was going to have to be performed. Two nurses and an orderly appeared, having just graduated clown school, and, for the safety of herself and others, strapped my wife into a wheelchair and rode her into the examination room while a small person who looked like a bridge troll kept following me and asking me questions about my insurance.

Insurance. What a joke. The love of my life had just minutes before threatened to gut me and use my skin for curtains. What insurance was going to give me assurance that she was going to be all right, that our child was going to be born healthy; that I wouldn’t spend the best years of my life with a curtain rod up my ass?

I answered no to all the questions I was asked about my wife’s health, possible allergies, and whether or not I wanted fries with my order, flung my insurance cards at the bridge troll, and signed my name on pieces of paper. I had no idea what the papers said, for all I know I own a nice plot of land in upper lower Slobovia and pledged my epiglottis for important medical research.

Of course, in this day and age, it had long been assumed that I was going to go into the birthing room.

Guys: DON’T GO INTO THE BIRTHING ROOM! For the man, the birth of the child should happen just like it used to happen on TV: the woman off camera in some mysterious room behind double doors that flap open and closed when nurses and doctors are rushing to and fro, the man pacing frantically, wide-eyed, smoking constantly, occasionally stopping one of the nurses to ask pitifully, “How is my wife, Nurse? How is my WIFE?”. Ideally, this scene should be in complete black and white as well.

Guy, I’m telling you, if you go into the room, you are going to see horrors straight from the very heart of hell, horror that you will never forget. Is the birth of a child a beautiful miracle? Miracle, yes. Beautiful? Short answer: No. Long answer: NNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!

I got strapped into my gown (It was a lovely floor length affair, taffeta, v-neck, I felt like a PRINCESS!), put on my paper shower cap and mask (gorilla) and entered the arena with the chair and whip that someone had given me.

My wife was on the gurney; her legs akimbo with her feet in the metal stirrups, and I made a mental note that it was a scene very much like this that got me into all this trouble in the first place. My wife insisted that my mother be present and she was; standing at the head of the gurney, stroking my wife’s forehead and humming softly to her.

Wait a minute, my mom was standing where I WAS SUPPOSED TO STAND! Where am I going to be? I was counting on being on the side of the little waist curtain that was NOT the business side! IF ignorance is bliss, and it is, I wanted to remain as blissful as I possibly could!

The Doctor came in, took a look at the situation, clapped his hands together and smiled. “Well Dad, with a little bit of luck, we will have this baby out before the Superbowl!”

I had forgotten, this was Superbowl Sunday. That’s when I saw the TV in the room, the sound of the never-ending pregame banter adding to the cacophony of the room.

“Dad,” said the eager physician, “I have to go down the hall. I will leave you in the capable hands of my nurse practitioner until the baby crowns.” Then, with a smirk, he added: “I want you to grab a leg and hold on!” and then he turned and walked out of the room.


“You heard the doctor,” said the nurse practitioner, a woman who looked like she paid for her education in healthcare by playing linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, as she assumed the catcher’s position.

So, there I was, looking down the business end of the Birthing Process. There are some things a man is not supposed to see when he is looking at this part of his wife’s body; a small, scrunched up face is one of them.

I won’t go into too much detail about what happened during the process of my daughter being born, partially because I believe discretion is the better part of valor, and partially because I like sleeping inside my house and, if my wife reads this and I go into the real details, I will be sleeping on the porch for the entire summer and no one wants that. I hate it, the neighbors complain because, in the world of snoring, I am known as a “Window Rattler”.

They told my wife she couldn’t have an epidural until it was time to push because, with the epidural, she wouldn’t know when it was time to push. I didn’t understand that, and neither did she. The baby was in the birth position, turning her head as if trying to drill out of her mother, her head grinding on my wife’s pelvic bone.


Now, let me just say that the staff at the hospital we were at was more than competent, but I found out later that, because this was a Catholic hospital and the staff thought my wife and I were unmarried because we have different last names (she kept her maiden name), had a little disdain for us; an attitude that was aggressively dealt with when my wife saw her own doctor after the birth. He kicked some serious ass and after that, our every wish was their command.

The baby became stuck. A pelvic bone was keeping the baby from exiting the birth canal. My baby’s heartbeat was becoming irregular, and my wife was minutes away from going into shock.

Then, my mother kicked in. My mother, who had been a nurse for my entire life, had a certain…way, a certain otherworldly quality to her touch…you immediately felt better, calmed down, breathed easier when she touched you.

She continued to stroke my wife’s forehead, ran her fingers gently through my wife’s hair, and softly murmured, “Relax, honey. Everything is going to be all right. Just listen to the sound of my voice…”

Then, the doctor appeared with the industrial strength salad tongs and, after some work, I remember my baby daughter being held by the doctor in the light…everything in that moment ceased to exist. There was just me, in the darkness, with some hands holding my baby up to the light. She was crying, a big, healthy cry; a cry that sounded like a little lamb. It was a cry so distinctive that my wife and I could pick it out from all the other babies in the nursery down the hall.

“My baby is crying,” my wife would tell a nurse from her bed in the recovery room. “Could you bring her to me?”

” I’ll check, ma’am,” said the nurse, sure that my wife was wrong. Then the nurse would come back with our daughter.

“How in the world could you tell your daughter’s cry from all the others?” said the astonished nurse.

Well, you just could.

After that timeless moment when I first laid my eyes on my daughter, the Marx Brothers came running in, grabbed the baby and put her into a something that looked like a clear plastic freezer drawer. They were counting toes, listening to her breathing, just bothering her in general. My wife was frantic, trying to get off the gurney to see if the baby was all right, the nurses were holding her down…everything was fine.

They laid my daughter in my wife’s arms, and at that moment, I lost the ability to complete a sentence or speak in any way that sounded like a reasonably intelligent human being.

I was a Dad.

Well, all that was twenty-seven years ago as of this writing. A lot of things have gone on since then.

I remember reading to her and noticing that she wasn’t looking at the pictures, but looking at the strange marks on the page and trying to figure out how those letters were making the words that I was reading to her. I remember her first word (Dada), her first steps, “naked baby time”, where she would run through the house without a stitch of clothes after her bath, giggling as we “tried” to catch her to dry her off.

She had me play video games with her, watch her favorite movies OVER AND OVER again. She turned me on to Japanese metal, I turned her on to Led Zeppelin. She turned me on to Naruto and One Piece, I turned her on to Hunter Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. My wife and I showed her what marriage really looked like when you take the vows seriously; she grew up to find her right man and begin the journey that my wife and I begun thirty years ago this year.

I changed her first diaper. I changed a lot of her diapers, but I take pride that I was the first to change her diapers; and now we come to the point: the real question I wanted to ask and the reason I wrote this screed in the first place.

What the hell was that in that diaper? It didn’t smell, but it was some kind of black…what? Tub grout? Something to patch drywall? Some substance that they use to fill potholes?

I have no idea, but soon after that, we were home. My wife was taking a well-deserved rest in our actual bed, I was sitting with my brand-new daughter in her bassinet in the living room. I looked over the side, and saw her looking and me. She seemed to smile at me, and then she farted.

My girl!