Menu Close

Author: George Palczynski

George (Wildman) Palczynski is a student of Life without certificate, degree or expertise. Knows a little about most everything but not everything about any one thing – which makes him generally smart but particularly stupid.

Womenology – 100 – Introduction To Womanry

Part 1 of 3
Being And Mystery

by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

September, 2019

Preface

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

The Accidental PUA

Wildside Tales

by Wild Man, aka George Palczynski

Once Upon A Time I Was A PUA… Once, Kinda

What is a PUA? A PUA is a pick up artist; the envy of schlubs the world over. What is a schlub? A schlub is a male human who routinely trips over his tongue and most anything else when in proximity to a girl with distinctly girlish features… i.e., pretty. In other words, the PUA and the Schlub are on opposing terminals of a great lineal near cosmic spectrum. Where am I on the spectrum? Somewhere in that great place that’s called “the middle”. I insist it’s the middle nearer PUA. If anyone has reason to insist that assessment takes liberties with reality… keep it to yourself.

The following is based on actual events. Where memory does not well preserve the dialogue, it meticulously preserves the essence:

The place is crowded. A handsome female sits alone at a generous table for two. Twenty minutes later – status quo ante. I’m standing. I don’t mind standing. I am a young enough buck. I could strike a pose with the best of them – power, strength, elegance, and grace.

Aside: Bear with me. I claim, here, dramatic license. It’s my experience, my story, my memory, my perception, my finer points. Deal with it as best you can without resorting to speculative ornery dubiety… all right?

Resumption:

But I will not lead you astray. Let’s work backwards. I had grace… …when I was not moving. When I moved I was not clunky/awkward but… nearer them than graceful. To look upon me for the first magnificent moment, the better part of the population would have bet this bloke had it – grace. I hadn’t; just looked it. Mind, I was not a bumbler/stumbler. I could successfully dodge the furniture with seeming aplomb, but I could not dance on and around it like Astaire and Ginger.

Elegance! Yeeeaaah… …not so much; even though it didn’t require movement. I would cut a better figure in coat and tie than anything casual – but… but that’s true of most any guy; and I wasn’t wearing a coat and tie. It’s a bar with a big screen TV, a big ball game and happy drunks… and it was still morning. Power, strength, yeah, no sham there; it was unmistakable, though, not Promethean.

So, there I was, a mixed bag… and didn’t any of what was in that bag appear to be Adonis. So, there again, the record – stripped down to the truth. Now for the tale that’s as true.

To The Chase

I saunter over to the table for two with two sturdy chairs and the one handsome woman.

WM: Might I sit down… my name’s George?

Her: There must be an empty seat somewhere.

WM: Maybe, but none have you sitting next to it.

Her: (LOOK-THINK… near imperceptible eye-roll) SILENCE.

Aside: My Brain Churns Wildly! In all of a nanosecond, the following crosses my mind:

“CRAP! Did I just say that!… WTF man… Get IT THE FUCK TOGETHER!… Holy and cripes sake!… STOP doing David Niven!”

This was so unlike me, so alien, so out of character, so peculiar, so queer, so freaky-creepy… …but… I got my share of cool too… forgot to mention that.

Resumption:

WM: Look, I got a slightly bum leg – honest. I’ll leave soon as your friend shows… and drinks, on me.

Her: (with a slapdash flash of reluctance): Why not?

WM: (waves over waitress) What’ll you have?

Her:Drambuie coffee.

WM: What’s that?

Her: Shot of Drambuie in a cup of coffee and whip cream on top.

WM: What’s Drambuie?

Her: You never heard of Drambuie?

WM: Heard the name – don’t know what it is.

Her: Scotch and honey liqueur.

WM: (to waitress): Make that two. (to HER) sounds interesting… What’s your name?

Her: Carol

WM: Here for the game I take it.

Her: Yep.

WM: What’ll we talk about over the Drambuies?

Her: Must we?

WM: It’s that or awkward silence.

Her: I’m okay with that.

WM: Yeah right.

Her: Yeah right.

WM: You’ll regret it.

Her: Yeah?

WM: Yeah, all sorts of regrets.

Her: I doubt it.

WM: No one can resist being curious of a stranger. You’ll wonder tonight… hmm… was he rich, or, a cool guy, or… could he blow a mean trumpet?… might…

Her: (Laughter)

WM: There yah go – icebreaker! It’s on Carol.

Her: What’s on?

WM: We’re on. We’re gonna talk – not sit here like strangers, afraid the other’ll bite. Women always want to talk… talk.

Her: About what?

WM: Whatever. No limits. Anything.

Her: You start.

WM: Okay… what’s your favorite color?

Her: (another demure eyeroll… and some strange indecipherable sound nasally emitted – a ‘snort’!?!)

WM: Wait now. Before your eyes roll out of your head, I have first to tell you what your favorite color is by whatever means – guess, educated guess, deduction, induction… prayer…

Her: You swear this is a game?

WM: I swear it. When it’s your turn, you’ll ask me something and then tell me what you expect I’d say… capeesh?

Her: Yes.

WM: So… what’s your favorite color? I say it’s… …green.

Her: How did you get that?

WM: Your scarf has long swirls of dusky green. The thing hanging from your neck has a green stone of some kind… emerald? So… both your highlights are green, so… green!

Her: It’s green. And it’s not an emerald.

WM: Hah! Great, I’m up one. Your turn.

Her: Okay… What’s… your… favorite… … …lady part?

WM: I don’t blush easy… …and you’d say it was…

Her: Oh, forgot. Your favorite is… … …the breasts.

WM: Why so?

Her: I caught you looking.

WM: Looking at the pendant.

Her: That’s probably a lie.

WM: Now, you don’t know me well enough to tell if I’m lying… and… I won’t lie to you.

Her: It’s not the breasts?

WM: Not.

Her: What then?

WM: My favorite Lady Part is the philtrum.

Her: The WHAT?

WM: Philtrum. p-h-i-l-t-r-u-m

Her: That’s not a thing.

WM: You mean, you, a grown woman, don’t know what your philtrum is?

Her: You’re making it up.

WM: you mean to say, you a grown woman, had never had a guy compliment your philtrum? You poor neglected….

Her: You made it up.

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie and I haven’t.

Her: Okay. What is it?

WM: Tell you what. Let me touch yours. …just for the purpose of pointing it out to you.

Her: Okay.

WM: REALLY! Right here with everyone around?

Her: Sure. I trust you.

WM: You have a page on me written already… or… you’re just hoping?

Her: It’s a feeling, my feelings are usually right.

WM: Okay, I need to get close to you, and I’ll need you to close your eyes.

Her: (Closes her eyes)

WM: (waiting seconds… puts finger gently onto the valley between her nose and upper lip).

Her: (Opens her eyes) That’s a philtrum?

WM: Yes, and yours is near exceptionally…

Her: So help me, if you’re making this up, I’ll…

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, and I haven’t.

Her: Why is my philtrum…

WM: (interrupting) it insinuates itself onto your upper lip and curls it up and out. Gives your lips the cupid’s bow shape guys like.

Her: You think maybe you have a little too much interest about such things?

WM: I have to.

Her: Why?

WM: That’s my realm of expertise.

Her: What are you an expert on… women?

WM: Hardly. I’m an expert on pretty… cute, and beautiful.

Her: Now that’s a lie.

WM: Is not. It’s a boast, there’s a difference. Guys ought never lie, they must always boast – it’s a genetic imperative.

Her: You are so… … …

WM: What, what?

Her: Full of it.

WM: That’s an evasion.

Her: That was nonsense… ge-net-ic.

WM: What is it when the male of the species fans his tail, splays his feathers, sings his chirps, or thumps his chest?

Her: I don’t know.

WM: They’re ALL manners of boasting. My fan’s greater than his; my feathers brighter, my chirps happier, and my thumps harder than his… BOASTING

Her: (long silence)… And your favorite part is the… philtrum?

WM: (humongous smile – VICTORY!) Yes.

Her: Hard to believe.

WM: But true, entirely… and I couldn’t imagine explaining it to anyone’s satisfaction – even my own. But it’s the first thing I notice on women – not lying.

Denoument

The clock and I made it noon. It may as well have struck midnight. Her friend showed. He was not a boyfriend – he hadn’t an edge to him. My first thought – I could take him – easy, (unless he knew some of that jujitsu shit).

I excused myself immediately. Carol made all the right noises about staying, joining them. I had a previous engagement – friends that had invited me. She bid me wait a second and wrote something on a table napkin – handed it to me – it was a phone number. I requited in kind and borrowed her pen to do so. No problem. I was feeling not a little ‘damn good’ handing it to her and walking away without another word between us.

Aside: Not one moment’s calculation. The natural ebb and flow of girl and guy as it had been ordained ‘in the beginning’. The closest I’d ever been to a PUA, and it had all the good vibrations of pure intentions and not one iota of the craft of cunning.

Life was good that day.

By the by: the home team won the big game.

Imagination Is A Talent

A Paean, Tribute, and Panegyric

Had I discovered first, the Bard of Avon, I would have shouted the discovery far and wide. If instead I’d discovered Jonathon Swift, I’d have yelled – not as loudly nor as long, but yell I would. And I’d do as much for the ever-clever Mr. Wilde.

Now this is not to say I’d discovered someone new. Only that I’d noticed what has been little noted but was there all the time. The most brilliantly addled imaginative mind I have ever come across, personally, so to speak. His is either a brain to which half a hemisphere’s nodules and synapses are devoted entirely to imagination… or… he’s been swilling magic mushroom juice of his own making and refuses to put a label on it and market it for the masses.

Look, I’ll not be singing hosannas about anyone’s virtuosity because I just don’t roll that way.
Ask anyone who knows me well and they’ll tell this: the signal feature of my interest in anything… ANYTHING, is to badmouth, excoriate and abrade it. If you must think it than do so – I’m a natural born hater – there, I said it for you. If you can’t say something nasty about some one/thing don’t say anything at all.

Give me some one to beat up or have cider spit in their eye and I’ll beat him and spit cider – with a song in my heart. But ask me to say something praiseworthy about someone and I cringe all over. It’s not that I believe there are no humans worthy of praise – it’s just not in my wheelhouse – missing or damaged DNA perhaps? As that Dirty Harry guy said – “a man’s got to know his limitations”. The dark side of ‘nice’ is mine.

But I can not let it not be noted that I’d come across an imagination so fecund, so pregnant, so juicy/luscious, and, so delectable an eccentricity, or so nutritive a compost heap that is a brain, as the one that has hold of this fellow calls himself Psykosity.

I truly believe if you took the squeezin’s from a cold-pressed Psykosity the resulting decoction could cure the pandemic insanity that is warping the world. Would that not be a scientific breakthrough? Like venom fighting the venomous, warp would re-adjust the twisted.

PS – Psykosity, really, on the QT, between jus’ you ‘n’ me – Magic Mushroom juice… is that it… c’mon… is it? Is it? It is isn’t it? Yes?

 

Autosatiriasis

Word And Concept For The Day

Neologism: autosatiriasis

Autosatiriasis noun

1. a condition of having consciously orchestrated a persona ridiculously at odds with the concoctions, inventions, delusions, that compose it.

2. a condition of actively, persistently, obliviously, subjecting oneself to humiliations generated by one’s own predilections, conceits, lifestyle.

(Anyone indulging in either practice is – ipso facto – an ‘autosatirist’)

Of the first definition, think… ‘the id offs the ego and superego and, finally unrepressed, dedicates itself to masturbatory Zen’.

Of the second, think… public exhibitions of onanism.

Everybody’s Doing It

Malcolm Muggeridge observed, while editor of Punch Magazine, some 60 years ago, that modern life’s absurdities had made the satirist’s role redundant. Oh Malcolm, you sharp sharpshooter.. but if you could but see us now!

Here, a prime example of an absurdity being presented as ‘insight’, a decade ago. In a Sunday NY Times column, resident monger of trite insight, David Brooks, extolled a crisp crease of a pant leg as all the curriculum vitae necessary for the office of President of the United States. The clubhead had time, plenty, to dwell on it and conclude, as any normal person would, that the line was vaudevillian comedic shtick, and had no place in declarative reasoning. But the oblivious knucklehead opted to lampoon himself –hence – ipso facto – autosatirist.

The advent of President Husseiny brought out self-inflicted buffoonery by the barge load. Chris Matthews had a publicly televised orgasm on CNN, reveling in the tingle up/down(?) his leg, which was reverie, which was fantasy, which was Husseiny. Any normal man would have quit his job and lost himself in Malaysia rather than live a public life with that humiliation as his signature moment on air – but not the autosatirist.

Barry, Barry, Bo Barry, Banana-nana, Low Faerie… Barry!

The nonpareil autosatirist in all human history, to the best of my historical knowledge is Barry Husseiny Obama. You doubt it? Perhaps this will convince you. Before proceeding, let me acknowledge that others had played a role in the making of Husseiny, but Husseiny took to it all like a loon to water.

Imagine twenty years ago a satirist, of some repute, say… Chris Buckley, were to write a satirical novel in which the following sad sack of ever replicating cells was the “protagonist”:

Barry Barack Hussein Soetoro Obama is a Kenyan. He is born to a peripatetic White woman and indeterminate Black ‘y’ chromosome donor. The mysterious and fay Husseiny takes up the ‘down low’ life in Chicago. He is baptized Christian in Rev Wright’s Church Of Latter Day Hates. He ‘marries’ a ‘beard’ with not only twice his Y-chromosomes, but also doubly hunky. Of the odd couple, the Black hulk, “he-she-it’, the wifey, the better half, was, also, the bigger man.

As a Harvard matriculate, Husseiny is presented with a JD magna cum laude and becomes besotted with himself. Neither the JD nor the self-infatuation is merited. Neither is Husseiny’s Nobel Peace Prize, announced October 9, (2009). The date is unofficially recognized as the day satire died.

Though Constitutionally ineligible, Husseiny beguiles the uppity class with Marxist bromides in millenarian tones, and… they buy it! So enamored was the MSM with Husseiny, they would squirt their drawers without having to drop trou. Husseiny is elected (POTUS), along with his teleprompter (TOTUS), as the first affirmatively-actioned black/mulatto, fuzzy-muzzie-crypto-pseudo-neo Christian president. And… …the crowd roared… and celebrated among Greek Dorian styrofoam columns. Husseiny turns the presidency into his own personal sinecure; rules like a potentate; vacations like a Saudi playboy prince; plays more golf than Tiger Woods; and plays host to Hollywoodie queer as camp, skank Uranians, cruising the White House for some “guy on guy” action. ‘Hail To The Chief’ got a new meaning.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s not a novel, it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age

The autosatirists will be the totems for our time, for we now embark on the Golden Age Of our collective national humiliation.

Here’s another spud that, though not in Husseiny’s rarified air, deserves a blue ribbon in this category… the otherwise, and by any standard measure, unremarkable Anthony Weiner. It’s news to the youngsters, a recap for the oldsters:

Anthony Weiner, a New York Jew, marries a BrotherHood Muslima – Huma Abbedin. Mrs. Huma Weiner, not unexpectedly, prefers to go by her maiden name.

Anthony, being both a metro and a cosmo sexual, Tweets his tackle all over the worldwide net, angling for sweet young things, in the mistaken belief his junk is to young ladies as chum is to game fish. Found out, he resigns his office under duress but without humiliation. Putatively rehabbed, loyal trophy wife in tow, new trophy digs for show – $3.3 million Manhattan digs (owned by a wealthy Democratic donor) – Anthony announces a run for mayor of New York. In tracking polls, he leads all candidates until it becomes evident… again… Tony still has two heads and only… no brains. To date, his only accomplishment is to have been twice an inspiration: once for aspiring autosatirists, another for the phrase ‘one prick tony’ – possibly a dyslexic malfunction – more likely a meticulous assessment.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age of autosatirists includes Alexandria Octavio-Cortez, Hill & Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, Maxine ‘The Mouth’ Waters, Beto O’Rourke, Abilio James Acosta, ‎Louis Farrakhan… They are becoming legion.

The autosatirist is most often found on the political Left*, though political emanations from anywhere in the middle also contribute. Autosatirists are not to be taken for fools. Fools are easily and universally recognized as such. Autosatirists are taken seriously by a generous portion of ‘we the people’ who vote.

Welcome to the Zeitgeist.

The Unknown Hero ~ Memorial Day Dedication

To a Dearest Friend Killed in Action – VietNam; he died not heroically, but died nevertheless, a hero.

Preface

I have never served in the military; never been a soldier; never been in a war. I write this with two spirits in mind. The one particular was my best boyhood friend. He was a year older than me; held back a year; and now in my class. He was thought not bright but those who thought so were wrong. I had both a real personal sense of his intelligence and empirical evidence of it. Having that year’s advantage on me, he served as mentor of sorts; clued me in about girls; taught me to smoke properly. When I’d nestled a lit cigarette between two splayed fingers he laughed wildly and admonished, “What’re you, Bette Davis?” He well set me on the road to being a guy.

The other spirit to which I’d alluded is the general spirit – that of the human male, man. How many millennia have passed, year by year, each one containing some record, hint, or history, of men marching off to be intimate with, to play with, death? It is no small venture. And the dead, though they had not been heroic, nevertheless had been heroes. A man is measured a man not by what he overcomes but what he will face – come what may.


The Knight plays a game of chess with Death, for his life.
“The Seventh Seal”

It’s a rather simple equation and you need know nothing of Sun Tzu or Clausewitz to understand it. Simply, if a man runs away, runs to Canada, say, to avoid serving and deployment, he is considered a coward. By logical extension then, if he answers the roll call to both then he must be a hero. There is no call to condemn the one if you will not praise the other.

Heroes And Heroism

Hero and heroism are two distinct features of the same concept. They are not the same thing but are far from strangers. The hero answers the call. Heroism acts in ways beyond the expectations we assign to male human nature.

Male human nature is survival. It DEMANDS risk taking ONLY in the pursuit of survival. When the man abjures the very essence of this nature, his human nature to survive, he is the hero. There will be neither ribbons, nor medals, nor ceremony; nevertheless there is the hero.

Testimony

In a journal, the last entries of a low nobleman are recorded at a military encampment on the night before a battle in medieval England. It was not as great a battle as most of that time, but men, a good many were about to die, more to be maimed or mutilated. I wish I remembered his name, but it’s as well, perhaps, I don’t. For he now stands in for all such men, who’d been assigned to wars only to fall as unknown heroes.

The nobleman did not sleep that night. The army of his side was the smaller, the less prepared. Barring miracles this, his side would lose the day. He had neither premonitions of surviving intact or dying but he knew the likelihoods. He attended to the last hours he could reliably depend on to put his life to order. He wrote entries; perhaps letters also. He took care to make keen his sword, polished his armor, washed himself and shaved. Then he took special care of his steed; its life would also be precariously exposed to harm’s ways.

There is no record of the nobleman’s heroism. He’d been killed in the battle – that’s the full extent of it, but it was enough to call him hero. He was not recognized as such – no one would call him such – but if he was not heroic, neither did he did shirk, nor run. He answered the muster, and, just as each of the men who’d done as much and died that day, he, as they all, were heroes.

Natural Born Heroes

Men, ordinary, men train 3 months in military procedures, weapons, military etiquette, then are shipped off to somewhere nearer mortal danger. There, more training in combat, assault, defense, discipline etc. Finally, there comes the theater and staging of war.

Thinks anyone this training had made the ordinary man a warrior? No, warriors are rare and more rarely created – except by GOD.

Thinks anyone that training will quicken a man’s heart to assault the ancient phalanx?

Thinks anyone this training had made the ordinary man willing to go ‘over the top’, charging by barbed wire, into withering machine gun fire with bayoneted rifle?

Thinks anyone that it was the training that had made the ordinary man willing to leave the relative safety of a landing craft to jump into the ocean chest high, holding his rifle over his head to wade to a beach under withering enemy fire?

Imagine just some more of the myriad dangerous situations the ordinary soldier faces. Imagine him accepting his death as imminent at any of his next moments… and yet continuing to persevere, engage, fight.

Salute

My friend, I salute you this day by name; honor you with my thoughts, my remembrances, my prayers, and my welled eyes. To every other soldier whoever fought and died in whatever battle, I salute you all, collectively, in same manner.

God will not look askance at the hero. Greater is his mercy to the man who died in battle. Death is a sacrifice HE well knows, understands, and has experienced. God bless them ALL, to their souls and through eternity.

Indefaggotable!

FAGGOT! Faggot? Faggot. Faaaaa-gguuut, faggnut, faggy, faggoty, faggotry, faggolicious, faggatrocious, faggofreaky, fag-form, fagalot, foo-faggot*, FagWarning, faggyfag, flit**… and just plain fag. The iterations contain situational nuance apposite to near all contexts.

Synonym: Swish, swisher, swisheroo, swishbuckler

It hadn’t staying power. After a short while, anyone calling someone by any variation was… a fag!

Thus were the playgrounds, playing fields, and schoolyards of my youth. Peak ‘faggotry’ hit in the eighth grade.

Drop a ball, strike out with the bags loaded, miss the game-winning shot, etc. … Faggot! Trip and fall – Faggot! Arrive at school with your uniform school tie up high and snug? Faggot! Cool was anti-fag. Steve McQueen was ultra cool. Steve McQueen was no fag, despite the patronymic imputation.

A teacher complements a guy in front of the entire class. Two, three minutes time, he receives four, five, notes – all reading – FAGGOT!

Peer pressure played as great a role as adult role models and teachers in the making of ‘guys’. No one can better club a guy to the straight and narrow than a peer, a guy. Any failure to perform to expectations was tantamount to faggotry.

And The Point Is?

So, a week before the eighth year of grammar school commenced, scuttlebutt had it Sister Mary (let’s call her X) was assigned one of the two eighth grade classes. For a week I’d prayed to be spared – “please GOD, not her. I’ll never ask for anything again… ever”, I’d promised. God knows best – Sister Mary X it was – for the duration – nine long months.

Needless to say Sister Mary X and I had history, all the 6th grade long. I was her whipping boy. I was the example of what comes to the resolutely truculent – her word. Mine would have been puckish.

Oh what the hell, someone’s got to do it, but why always me? If the Sister thought no other boy was up to the billing I could disabuse her and recommend several on which I’d had dirt. But… for some reason, she really ‘liked’ me.

It wasn’t a week into the 8th academic year that Sister Mary X found something to hang me with. I must have thought it trite enough to forget what it was about. Nevertheless, that first Friday afternoon, I’d been made an example of.

When school day is done, the mates begin their departures. I’m a straggler. “George”, Sister Mary X calls for my attention, and gets it as I pass her desk. “Have a great weekend”, she says with a smile. It was, at once, like… a revelation… from an Archangel – Sister X hadn’t it in for me. I was her whipping boy solely because I could take it without taking it personal and without animus toward her. That afternoon’s encounter was tacit notification that our pas de deux would continue. The “wink-wink” was as tacit.

Denouement

Things had gone near swimmingly with Sister and me, for the most part. The ‘understanding’ was not, ever, acknowledged, but was in tact. A few incidents played out according to script – everything was copacetic. Then, late in the year… there came something with a trace of sulfur in the air.

Thirty minutes before the Friday school day would end, Sister had apparently gotten her fill of me. Whatever it was must have been seething some time. This was going to be not good.

“GEORGE! Join me in the corridor, would you?” She headed out, and I dawdled, but arrived. “What is wrong with you?”, and she excitedly recited for me a ‘riot act’ and a litany of offenses. I was certain I wasn’t to respond. She threw in some Latin – I’d taken them to be prayers, not imprecations. She charged me with being utterly blithe about my education – kinda angry, like she meant it. In a final fit of exasperation…”George, you are the most indefatigably lazy young man ever put in my charge. You had better fix yourself… or!”

Soooo… you know what I’m thinkin’… that moment? I’m thinkin’… fix myself… what?… … …WAIT! Did Sister Mary X just call me a faggot? WTF?!

Made my way to my seat, took out my pocket dictionary and started hunting for “i-n-d-e-f-a-g-g-o-t-a-b-l-e. Nothing! Ten minutes left to the bell. The seating chart was a matter of the intervention of fate. Girls surrounded me. Now girls are not smarter than guys they’re just more – girly – fully on board with doing as told – always paying attention, always ain’t misbehavin’. If any guy had been that good, they’d be a… …you know.

I asked around. One, Patricia, had never heard of indefaggotable but was sure of ‘indefatigable’ – “as in ‘fatigue” – she’d helpfully added. Five minutes left. Looked it up. It was a Eureka moment – ‘tirelessly lazy.’ What a union! ‘Energetically lazy’! ‘Vigorously lazy’! ‘Dynamically lazy’! The enlightenment had begun, and I was hooked.

Next year, it was to be Will Shakespeare – wizard with words. Knew how to write; dressed like a faggot.

NB:

* Foo faggot: see ‘foo fighter’ – UFO (unidentifed flying objects)

** Flit – see “Catcher In The Rye” – flitty = outrageously faggoty.