Testing the limits of food as art...
My husband and I just got back from San Francisco, a city known as a mecca for foodies and culture vultures. Some people live for the Rocky Mountain high. I always thought they were on drugs.
My beloved girlfriend since ancient times is one of these hearty sorts. She is nature girl, and likes nothing more than to be roughing it in the wild with her hubby and the bears. Not for me. I am a confirmed urbanite who prefers that a hike end in a café that serves up Illy espresso; where temples of fashion and art are all within walking distance, and the ‘wildlife’ wears green hair and Doc Martens, not fur attached to mile-long fangs. I prefer mints on my pillow to ants in my pants.
And if I want to see the top of Mt. Whitney, I’ll watch the Discovery Channel.
San Francisco is a city I love for many reasons; their love of art, design, and architecture is expressed in multiplicity. Relative to the creation and enjoyment of food, in San Francisco the bar is held higher than almost anywhere else in the country. It is the city’s religion, discussed in depth by people of all ages and genders.
Food, how it is grown (locally and sustainably), how it is prepared, and then by whom are subjects of common discussion and a great way to break the ice with the locals, talking about one of their defining passions. I found it amusing how passionately they try to distance themselves as far apart from their Southern California cousins as possible. Truth be told, San Francisco is closer to my native city of Washington, D.C. in temperament than to Los Angeles.
In LA we have movie, television, and music stars. In SF they have celebrity chefs, whose names were murmured to us in hushed tones like this should set off flashes of immediate recognition and culinary orgasms of anticipation. In this age of information overload, we just politely nodded and gasped, as names flew over our heads.
Our culinary journey began with a resounding bump in the LA airport. This is a no-man’s land where caught unprepared with a delayed flight you will have to - gasp! - forage for something to eat. We settled on some sandwiches and cappuccino from a faux-Euro café which we will call ‘Café Bastille’, because its victuals conjured images of what one might have been fed whilst waiting for one’s appointment with the guillotine. The rats are just for ambiance. (I jest.)
Still, two stale tuna sandwiches from a refrigerator bin proudly labeled ‘Organic and Prepared… Recently’, a bag of BBQ potato chips and a weak cappuccino later, we were cursing. Not only because the sulfates in the sandwich were making us sick and spacy, but because this lunch had cost us $28! Our flight cost $128. You do the math!
Luckily, San Francisco and its bucolic spread of restaurants and bistros of all persuasions awaited us only an hour's flight away. It is very hard to have a terrible meal there, though some are better or pricier than others, which brings me to the interesting epiphany we came to whilst exploring this gastronomical landscape.
Haute cuisine does not necessarily a good meal make.
In my opinion, good food is a combination of quality in ingredients, care and deft creativity in creation, with a respectful nod to tradition. A chicken should look like chicken in my humble opinion, not the wreckage of an alien space craft. There is primitive comfort in food that is – well, recognizable as edible, and which does not seek to reinvent the wheel. Also, there is a point at which the price of a meal becomes ridiculous, and value becomes a matter of conjecture.
The best meals we enjoyed in San Francisco were Mediterranean or French bistro fare, frequented by locals and crafted from locally produced meats and produce so that one had the feeling of eating in the comfort of a farm house in Provence; a fond fantasy, since we were only an hour away from our smoggy home base.
These places made sensuous use of local fruits, pairing cherries with lamb or figs with duck breast. I would describe this cooking as inspired variations on a theme by Bach, rather than the pretentious strivings and clattering of Charles Ives, who scorned musicality and inserted fire alarms and barking dogs in his pieces.
To merely enjoy music, in his opinion, was to be banal. However, if it seared your ears like fiery hot tongs and you still managed to tape a clenched-jaw smile on your face and rave like a lunatic, then and only then could you claim to appreciate music and lay claim to being an intellectual sophisticate whose tastes and understanding rose above the rabble. This is a colossal load of hogwash with regards to music, and the same metaphor applies to cooking and the enjoyment of food.
One restaurant comes to mind as I write this. Since my husband picked it, I was blissfully blame free, while he could only mutter and laugh at himself before pondering whether he’d need to order something from room service later. He finally settled on a protein shake mixed up with tap water from our boutique hotel’s bath.
Since few things make a man more irritated than to leave a restaurant with an empty wallet and a grumbling stomach, he left a scathing review on the city restaurant board online, giving some much needed balance. Taking a turn at cultural commentary, he raved, “Kate Moss would have left hungry if she ate there!”
Well done, darling!
Poor thing. He had been all excited to try the ‘true suckling pig’ when it was described to him, and expected something like a Maori feast. Even I had visions of Polynesian bonfires, or Elizabethan tables with burnished piglets served up with an apple in their mouths, but it was not to be.
What arrived was something that looked two-bites-shy of an appetizer. Actually, they sent us out an appetizer compliments of the chef… if you can count one mussel next to some regurgitated melon-wasabi froth to be an appetizer. This was presented with much fanfare on extraordinary plates with the serving part the size of a silver dollar, and rims the size of one of the rings of Saturn.
For my dinner, I ordered the ‘poulard’. Are you confused? Don't worry. So was I. Even my computer’s spell check doesn’t know what to make of this. A poulard is not a ‘canard’ who plays pool, but a type of red hen.
When my own meal arrived, I was speechless. My husband asked if I was okay. I must have looked shocked, which the clearly pleased waiters interpreted as unabashed awe, but I was genuinely confused for a moment.
It wasn’t clear what I was looking at.
It was like contemporary art, or an alien’s idea of a good chicken dinner! Curls of barely cooked red hen wrapped around tiny new vegetables and strips of zucchini, and there was a piece of deep fried gristle I was told was a pounded wing… I was struggling for context.
As it was, it had taken two waiters apiece to pour out our soup, simultaneously, if you please. This is cuisine by way of Cirque de Soleil, and really a bit much. The relentless atmosphere of arch hyperbole seemed strangely necessary in order to keep the diners in a continual state of submissive shock, so as not to question anything, but only bob their heads and babble expected superlatives. We had equally good soups at other places without conjuring images of Las Vegas magic acts or the Wizard of Oz.
Did I mention the entree portions were minuscule?
Hungry as we were following the main course, we resisted the tempting cheese course offering of local goat cheeses, suspecting this was going to lift our bill straight into the stratosphere. It was well on its way already! These Euro-inspired cheeses are created by people who left their jobs as stockbrokers and entertainment PR agents in LA to raise goats in the surrounding areas of San Francisco, but then expect them to begin minting money from their teats and turning them into millionaires.
They remind me of alchemists, hoping to turn goats' milk into gold.
There is a lot of exaggerated inflation and massaging of egos that go on in these temples leading to the impression that you are in a theater where you are part of the production, perhaps its feted pasha. It is only later that you realize you have been the main course, as the bill is presented to you with a flourish and the fawning performers all flee!
No one is there to hear you scream.
We paid our bill and left, feeling vaguely rubbed down, goosed, bewildered, and over two hundred dollars lighter - and still hungry. Had we actually attempted to satisfy our appetites, dinner could have easily sailed past the three hundred dollar mark, which we weren’t about to do.
In the end, walking back to our hotel, we chalked up the evening to adventure and a lesson learned, and for the remainder of the trip enjoyed the more soulful traditional bistro offerings which proliferated around us. We felt much more satisfied with this, and much better fed after our days of hiking in the urban jungle and pondering Matisse. We also got more value for our money, which is important for digestion as well as enjoyment.
Good food is one of life’s great pleasures. It can be like art, but it is not art; and that is an important distinction. It is especially not art, and fails in its very essence, if in the end it ceases to resemble food and feeds neither the body nor soul.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
T. Rex - It's What's For Dinner
Fearsome dinosaur's closest relative found in barnyard.
By comparison, an athlete in a 200 meter sprint can reach a top speed of 27 mph. T. rex’s speed is slightly quicker than the average professional soccer player. This would make the rest of us dinner.
As for the question of ‘What were they chasing after?’ Dr. Bill Sellers says, “We’re now doing some work on Hadrosaurus which is assumed to be one of the things that T. rex would prey upon because there have been fossils found with bite marks on their backs. What we find is that we’re getting really quite high speeds for these animals as well, which makes perfect sense. If you’re a fast predator, you’re probably chasing fast prey that you want to catch.”
The computer was fed information from fossil records concerning the sizes and shapes of different animals and rendered their movements accordingly, free from any preconceptions scientists might have had of how they might run and how fast. Using this data, the computer made decisions on muscle movements. The results were somewhat surprising to the scientists who noted that T. rex ran like neither a human, nor like an ostrich. As the technology used to render such information is still in its infancy, more information about these ancient animals will be revealed.
Computers do not currently have the capacity to explore what the scientists want to do with their data. Just making the dinosaurs model to learn to walk was a big feat. Their next goal is to be able to render full dinosaur movement in 3-D.
All of this is quite a paradigm shift. Either you are going to start feeling quite superior to the bland chicken breasts in your refrigerator, or you're going to begin having nightmares of them chasing you. Your therapist should be amused.
Modern science is amazing. So, now we know the answer to that ancient question philosophers have scratched their domed heads about, and courtesans contemplated whilst staring at the ceiling. The dinosaur egg came first, from whence emerged the genetic permutation that became the barnyard chicken.
Now that we’ve put that old nut away, we can turn our minds to other mind-twisting philosophical questions that people have pondered for millennia, such as…
How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?
Sequencing proteins from a 68 million-year-old leg bone from a T. rex, scientists have learned that what they were actually looking at — was a drumstick!
Comparing sequences of proteins with other animals it was discovered that the closest living relative to the T. rex was practically right under our noses all along, in the refrigerator aisle, and on dinner plates the world over, dressed in a variety of cunning disguises from coconut curry to cacciatore.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the humble chicken.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
This revelation is amazing, amusing, and a little disappointing; rather like pulling back the curtain of the Great and Powerful Oz and finding a pudgy little man from Kansas. Still, this brings an answer to the great philosophical question;
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
It would be the egg, laid by an ancestor who was more reptilian than avian.
According to the UK Guardian, study of a 68 million-year-old leg bone of a T. rex, unearthed in 2003 in Montana by Dr. Mary Schweitzer, a paleontologist at North Carolina State University and the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences, revealed that it still had collagen fibers which could be analyzed. Collagen is a protein that allows bone to have flexibility and structure.
Scientists at Harvard University's Medical Center used advanced medical technology normally used for analyzing human cancers to study the T. rex bone collagen matrix. Seven different proteins were extracted, sequenced, and compared to other animals living today.
The scientists discovered that T. rex protein make-up is indistinguishable from a modern chicken's. Dr. Angela Milner, the associate keeper of paleontology at the Natural History Museum in London concurs, "This corroborates a huge body of evidence from the fossil records that demonstrates the birds are descended from meat-eating dinosaurs."
So, for all the veggies mad to defend the buttery chickens, think about this. If times were reversed, you would be running for your life from T. rex, who wouldn’t consider you anything but a tasty morsel it needed to survive – and it would dispense with the spicy Vindaloo.
And for those having visions of Jurassic Park, scientists assure that the recreation of living dinosaurs like T. rex remains thankfully in the realm of science fiction. As Dr. Angela Milner noted, "Cloning any organism needs its DNA which carries the instructions to make a copy. DNA is not a protein, it is not a very stable molecule and it has never been recovered from any organism more than 30,000 years old."
Protein sequencing and analysis ushers in a new and exciting chapter in palaeontology, rather than being limited to examining relative sizes and shapes of fossil bones. As computers, software, and medical technology advance, the ability to analyze and learn will increase. The book is far from closed on the mysteries of the past. There are surprises, theories to be overturned, and new things to be discovered.
Judging from another recent article, this one from the BBC, assuming you and T-rex had a confrontation, you wouldn’t have much of a chance escaping one either. In a computer modeled race amongst a predatory dinosaur, a human, an ostrich, and an emu, all bets were on the birds.
By comparison, an athlete in a 200 meter sprint can reach a top speed of 27 mph. T. rex’s speed is slightly quicker than the average professional soccer player. This would make the rest of us dinner.
As for the question of ‘What were they chasing after?’ Dr. Bill Sellers says, “We’re now doing some work on Hadrosaurus which is assumed to be one of the things that T. rex would prey upon because there have been fossils found with bite marks on their backs. What we find is that we’re getting really quite high speeds for these animals as well, which makes perfect sense. If you’re a fast predator, you’re probably chasing fast prey that you want to catch.”
The computer was fed information from fossil records concerning the sizes and shapes of different animals and rendered their movements accordingly, free from any preconceptions scientists might have had of how they might run and how fast. Using this data, the computer made decisions on muscle movements. The results were somewhat surprising to the scientists who noted that T. rex ran like neither a human, nor like an ostrich. As the technology used to render such information is still in its infancy, more information about these ancient animals will be revealed.
Computers do not currently have the capacity to explore what the scientists want to do with their data. Just making the dinosaurs model to learn to walk was a big feat. Their next goal is to be able to render full dinosaur movement in 3-D.
All of this is quite a paradigm shift. Either you are going to start feeling quite superior to the bland chicken breasts in your refrigerator, or you're going to begin having nightmares of them chasing you. Your therapist should be amused.
Modern science is amazing. So, now we know the answer to that ancient question philosophers have scratched their domed heads about, and courtesans contemplated whilst staring at the ceiling. The dinosaur egg came first, from whence emerged the genetic permutation that became the barnyard chicken.
Now that we’ve put that old nut away, we can turn our minds to other mind-twisting philosophical questions that people have pondered for millennia, such as…
How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Move Over Metrosexuals, the Vegansexual Is Here!
...And if you ate meat, you ain't gettin' any.
It’s not enough to be a vegetarian these days; you have to be a vegan with all the attendant headaches of ‘cruelty free’ accouterments and baggage. Even this is not enough though, as in their moral pique, they often feel the need to convert innocent meat eaters who may cross their paths at dinner time.
This brings to mind a woman, the wife of an old school friend of mine, whose vegan zealotry over the years has been a something of a curiosity; sometimes amusing, sometimes infuriating, always astounding. A friend told a story of being button-holed by her at a restaurant gathering. People were free to order what they liked. This is a fellow who will eat from any cuisine in the world, as long as it is some variation on steak and potatoes. Steak and rice will do. He is a sweet, salt-of-the-earth kind of person, so he was taken by surprise. Staring him down with a basilisk eye, the rabid vegan hissed,
“Meat is murder!”
Since our mutual friend was strong-armed into converting to veganism as terms of his marriage, this friend of beneficent temperament sighed and ruminated that he would
prefer to remain a bachelor forever rather than marry such a food fascist. She later included a PETA flier in his Christmas card. He muttered to me he had been sorely tempted to return the favor with a recipe for beef bourguignon, but restrained himself.
There is a new dimension in eco-terror.
Enter the ‘Vegansexuals’. A recent article in the UK paper The Daily Mail described this new phenomenon where vegans claim an ethos and bio-ecosystem of such unspeakable purity that it would nauseate them to have sex with meat eaters. According to the Daily Mail, "The co-director of the New Zealand Center for Human and Animal Studies at Canterbury University, Annie Potts, said she coined the term after doing research on the lives of ‘cruelty-free consumers’."
“'Cruelty-Free Consumption in New Zealand: A National Report on the Perspectives and Experiences of Vegetarians and other Ethical Consumers’ asked 157 people nationwide about everything from battery chickens to sexual preferences."
Was that ‘buttery chickens’, you said? You’re making my mouth water.
"Many female respondents described being attracted to people who ate meat, but said they did not want to have sex with meat eaters because their bodies were made up of the animal carcasses… One vegan respondent said: 'I believe we are what we consume, so I really struggle with non-vegans when it comes to sexual contact.'"
I applaud your stoicism. That means more men for me, and my feline kind.
The Daily Mail continues, “Another vegan said she found non-vegans attractive, but would not want to be physically close to them.” Yet another opined, “I would not want to be intimate with someone whose body is literally made up of animals who have died for their sustenance.”
I can understand your feelings completely. Now, please step aside.
You want a man who is more like… a rutabaga? You are what you eat, you know. How enticing, how very nouveau… men who are made up of mulched soy protein and carrot shreds. Yum yum. As for me, I prefer my leather black, my men made of beef, and my meat bloody.
Red meat is healthy. It is rich in heme-iron, a form of iron that is not found in vegetable sources like lentils and spinach, which are more difficult to absorb anyway and not as biologically compatible. Heme is as in hemoglobin, as in blood. Yours and your dinner’s. Which bring up another gripe. If you are a vegan, and willing to traumatize a nice guy by telling him his body is made up of corpses so you would not consider him as a lover, then you should not keep a cat.
Be consistent here. A cat is a meat eating beasty, a predator; a carnivore. It has no qualms about eating meat, and no qualms about killing its meat. It actually thoroughly enjoys it. It will practice its meat killing moves for sheer joy, with whatever is at hand – including your hand.
No, to be perfectly vegan-aligned, one should own a chicken. Give it a castle, for Pete’s sake. Or a bunny. Yes, a rabbit’s the thing. It is very boring compared to a cat, I agree; not nearly so sassy and clever, but then rabbits are not meat eaters. They are pure eco- vegans, the moral pinnacle to be aspired to. They are not made up of dead carcasses as those gorgeous cats are. Nibbling on sprouts, carrot shreds, and pellets made of unmentionable vegetable hash are all in a day’s work for them.
I almost gagged when I saw one of the photos accompanying this article depicting an actress of recent memory, who is now best known for her adherence to and promotion of raw vegan-eco-dogma, wearing a T-shirt — with a leopard on it. Sheez Alicia! Way to get it wrong! Buy a vowel, gurl! A leopard eats meat! It kills animals and eats them.
It would have no moral qualms whatsoever about dropping down on you from above, biting into your jugular until you suffocated, dragging you with its muscles made of carcasses up into said tree and eating you. It would eat you with great gusto - meat, organs and marrow - and with less prejudice than these vegansexuals do tucking into someone’s entrails who eats a different diet from them. Why that leopard wouldn't even think of discriminating against you because you are made up of --
raw vegetables and pureed sunflower seeds.
So with that in mind, and considering that PETA has been telling women what to wear for years, leave the sporting of leopards and their spots to women more like them; women who enjoy a good piece of rare meat with ruby juices running, as well as men made up of beefsteak… not almond meal.
I would say that raw vegan food is ‘for the birds’, but I cannot. After lunching at one such LA mecca, and feeling distinctly ill-fed, I tried to toss some pieces of raw pressed seed bread to some sparrows that landed nearby. The little buggers pounced, picked it up in their mouths, masticated a bit with a curious look on their faces, and spat it out!
So I can attest raw food veganism being ‘not even for the birds’, at least not where I went. The poor kids in there are all eco-communists, seeing visions from lack of food (the stuff is prohibitively expensive) and lack of zinc which is known to cause effects experienced as 'spiritual visions' or 'heightened spirituality'; which is part of the reason the Catholic church figured out it was a great idea to make people fast during the lead-up to different holy days. Fasting and no meat leads to a loss of zinc. People see visions, their brains hallucinate, which interpreted as 'spiritual experience' vindicates a church's repression over rational thought of its people.
Red meat is also a source of saturated fats, especially if grass-fed beef, which are important for mood stability and fat stability in your body. Think butter here, not vegetable oil. Certainly not soy oil. Saturated fat protects the fats of your brain from rancidity. Polyunsaturated fats are not only good for creating free-radicals and turning rancid, they do this in your brain! Your brain is made up of fats.
The myelin sheaths of your nerves are made of fats protecting them as the plastic does on copper wires. Interestingly, vegetable oils consumed by most Americans in abundance, and by vegans exclusively, lead to inflammation and make it difficult for the brain to make use of the all-important mood fats Omega 3 fatty acids, which are rich in fish oils (flax oil does not compare) and is scarce in the diet without supplementation.
Of course fishes would have to die here, and a vegan would be opposed to that, which just goes to show that the vegan diet is terrible for your brain. Not only will one be heading toward mood disorders, but one obviously loses any sense one ever had to begin with.
Bodies made up of dead carcasses? Come on.
And while we’re on the subject of ‘cruelty free’, let us consider the importance of red meat, its high heme-iron, bio-available amino acids and zinc to humans. It is a food that is excellent for women, but also excellent, and I would say important, for men. Women tend to cook for and feed their men. What you feed them affects their health. Would you put your mad veganism ahead of your man’s health?
Obviously, many vegans would. Worse yet, they would discount a perfectly delectable specimen – because he was a meat eater? You lasses are lucky I am off the market. This would be too much fun. I would be snapping up disdained carnivorous dumplings left and right.
Man – chicken – Man – chicken – Man – Chicken... Chicken dies.
Early on, I wrote an article about the dangers of testosterone poisoning leading to imbalance and violence as in the case of athletes who abuse or even kill their women. There is a flip side to this story. Adequate testosterone is important for a man’s health. It is important in physiological amounts for a woman too, but it is important that men are not below healthy levels due to poor nutrition, especially nutrition driven by pathological eco-extremism.
I live in California where I get to see vegan men first hand. I can tell them at a glance; skinny and under-muscled, with backsides so paltry from lack of healthy muscle mass from inadequate intake of amino acids that their pants look like they are empty. These are a vegan girl’s dream, these men with too many estrogens from processed soy, and not enough testosterone from red meats, with temperaments that are often whiny, cranky, and generally neurasthenic. They remind me of older men in andropause, who are also dipping in physiological levels of testosterone. So, when one talks about ‘cruelty free’, ask yourself, "Cruelty free to whom?"
Needing a good steak.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Catfight! Hemingway's Beloved Cats in Peril
A home without a cat, and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat, may be a perfect house, but how can it prove its title? — Mark Twain
Ernest Hemingway was a fine writer. He was an even finer man. How do I know this? He appreciated cats. More than this, he really adored them. They inspired him and made him laugh. Cats are the ideal companions for a writer. They lounge about attractively and do not demand to be taken for walks. Even better, they can use the bathroom without dragging you out to share the experience.To say that you love cats is to declare yourself to possess a capacity and amusement for eccentricity and individuality; that you appreciate something just for "being", rather than what it "does". This recalls a philosophical spat I had years ago with a big Swede who argued rudely that cats were useless, but his dog - oh, his dog had function and purpose. This really flummoxed me until I went home that night and was distracted by the preternatural beauty of my Siamese cat, and an epiphany hit me. She didn't have to "do" anything.
Her "being" was enough to justify her existence. She brought joy and magic to my life that haunts me to this day. Beauty is its own excuse for being, and cats are beauty and grace incarnate. They are primal and unfathomable. We can only aspire to be as cool as cats, which is why people either love them or are helplessly envious of them and profess to hate them, or work to undermine their freedom.
It was Hemingway’s will to leave his home as a museum to the public and to ensure the domestic tranquility of cats at this latter day temple of Bast for ever more. Now I like Hemingway well enough as a writer and I wouldn’t mind touring his estate, but the lure of communing with 47 cats who essentially own the place and are its living soul and sense of humor would make his home an irresistible tourist haven if I ever visited Key West. They’d have to kick me out at closing time.
It must have been an unnaturally overcast day, or perhaps the eye of newt porridge did not sit well, when two socialist activists, former members of the Florida Keys Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals became haunted by phantasms that made their gallbladders sick. Before their eyes were elegant creatures, dilettantes in fur yawning, meditating, slinking through the grass or reveling in the refrigerator cool of the master bathroom tiles of a great American writer… Doing. Nothing.
It made the blood boil.
Here they were, God/dess’s aristocrats, muses since the days men and women first lay eyes upon their ancient predecessors slinking through the reeds of the Nile until they deigned to grace humanity’s homes and granaries with their timeless mystery and allure. In their sensuous beauty and lives of ease, these modern day temple cats embodied everything that makes a socialist get a bad case of the fits. But these were just cats they assured themselves, just animals. "We can do something about them. We can make ourselves feel better and more in control - by enforcing control over them - by mobilizing the iron wheels of government bureaucracy!"
"Those cats have seen their day! No more will they taunt us with their nonchalance and aristocratic demeanor. They will bow to the iron will of the collective’s commissar; be humbled, yoked and forced to be called ‘performing animals’, proper ‘working animals’ - or they should not be there at all!"
And with that they hopped on their brooms and reported the Hemingway museum to the USDA and those charged with applying the 1996 Animal Welfare Act. The fur has been flying ever since.
This is a travesty. Legislating against the freedom of domestic cats? Against the stated will of a lion of American literature? In disregard of people who have lovingly tended them and the estate for years? In disregard for the many thousands of people who travel to see this historic landmark partly because of the living spirit and wit of an artist embodied in the keeping of these cats? This must not be.
It is downright un-American, which last time I checked was about freedom and the spirit of independence, not socialism or any form of totalitarian imposition on these values by bitter pills. At least it shouldn’t be. If it is, people need to wake up and vote with their dollars and at the ballet box.
But let us return for a moment to the idea of domestic cats as "performing animals." Hemingway himself might have laughed at this, before going after those bat-winged harpies with a harpoon. I stand here humbly in his stead, with a lampoon.
When I was about six or seven years old I had the idea to hold a circus our backyard and charge admission, of course. In between gymnastic feats performed by myself and neighborhood friends, I would amaze and delight the audiences with lion-taming stunts starring our beautiful, saintly cat Tiger, a marbled tabby with dark auburn markings contrasting with bright white fur and huge green eyes.
He really preferred the calmer company of adults, but as his karma had it, he landed amongst a slew of children who absolutely adored him, but subjected him to the occasional indignities of modeling doll clothes in baby carriages… and performing in circuses.
I stripped down the leaves from a branch of a willow wand, long and flexible, and ran with it through the summer grass as Tiger flew after it, leaping gracefully over gardening buckets I had set up. I think we had one performance. We made enough money for chocolate all around, which was pretty good.
Still, this was not a "performing animal". This was a domestic Bodhisattva.
According to a recent article in the Los Angeles Times, “In October 2003, a USDA inspector posing as a tourist surveyed the grounds and later ordered the museum staff to get a license or face $10,000 in daily fines.” $10,000 a day adds up to a lot of cat food and veterinary maintenance from the Hemingway museum’s funds, or filet mignon and entertainment for politicians, depending on how you look at it.
“Since then, a veterinarian from the USDA has made repeated inspections of the property, recommending increasingly restrictive measures each time,” said the museum’s chief executive, Michael Morawski. The Times continues, “Angled screens have been installed atop the wall to prevent the cats’ jumping over. A misting system is intended to dissuade any critters from loitering close to the exits."
"But he and the cats’ caregivers balked at government requirements that the museum prevent all escapes by installing an electrified wire atop the wall and 12- to 15 foot high mesh back stopping, like that used along driving ranges and ball fields.” This is bizarre. People aren’t forced to do this with man-mauling bull mastiffs!
“Our National Historical Site designation precludes us from doing anything like that.” Morawski said. “It became contentious to the point where they said, if you can’t do these things, you’ll have to round them up and put them in cages.’” In cages? Are we dealing with lions or cattle here?
These people claim to have the cats’ best interest at heart... and if you believe that, there will be no new taxes. Ever. According to the article in the Times, “Suspiciously, the only known off-site fatality involved a cat run over after being lured out by the activists.” Oh.
This news is not only sad, it is patently disturbing, though not surprising. For socialists, truth is a relative squishy thing, a matter of semantics. Language is a tool to obscure and twist rather than reveal the truth, and the ends always justify the means. Think about that little cat lured and deceived and crushed beneath the wheels of a car, for a ‘greater cause’. Think about it at election time when a socialist tries to lure and deceive you in order to part you from what they perceive as the ‘pampered lair you don’t deserve’.
One should be wary of people who would restrain the freedom of domestic cats in their own abode on a protected site in the name of the common good, or the good of these creatures whose freedom and happiness they would destroy; for such people would legislate against your freedoms and leisure as well if it piqued them. And I assure you it will. With such people, it always does.
Socialism in all forms is a hydra with many heads that reflect its immortal one, ‘the politics of envy’. We should protect these cats the way a mother cat protects her kittens and stalk useless politicians who prey on domestic cats, like the worthless grouses they are. For in a way, those cats are us. Don’t let anyone take their freedom away.
I hope that other people will come to the defense of these modern cats where Ernest Hemingway cannot; for if he were alive today, be assured that you would hear a mighty roar and then it would be open season on these malcontents and their ilk. The gentle sanctity of those cats’ existence would not be in question. It would be like safari time out on the Savannah, with ‘Papa’ Hemingway staring down the scope of his hunting rifle. If you so choose, you can join the many who have signed online petitions to the USDA, and save the Hemingway Cats.
The ancient Egyptians, writers, artists, philosophers, culture vultures of all stripes… the admirers of cats are legion. I leave you with a thought from the photography book, Vavra’s Cats. A beautiful tabby cat gazes into the darkness, her jewel eyes ringed with cobalt blue make-up that matches the jewels which drape her head and neck.
She spoke of Egypt, and a white temple… against night she smiled with clicking teeth and said, that the dead were never dead; said old emperors hung like bats… but empresses come back as cats. — William Rose Benét
To learn more, visit the official website of the Hemingway Home and Museum.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Man With The Golden Gun: When The World Wasn't Enough For Billionaire Businessman
I have been chuckling over this article I ran across in the New York Times recently, not only the article, but the priceless expressions on three billionaires’ faces caught for such antics as: running a gay sex club out of his Manhattan penthouse with furnishings borrowed from the Spanish Inquisition; having underage girls come to the mansion to give special massages; and my personal favorite, building a multi-million dollar sex grotto on the same property where his unsuspecting wife probably threw fund raising teas and tended her begonias.
To quote the New York Times:
The latest in a long line of lurid Lotharios is said to be computer chip mogul Henry T. Nicholas III, who allegedly built a $30 million underground grotto, complete with hidden doors and secret levers, at his equestrian estate in Laguna Hills, California. According to court documents unearthed by the Los Angeles Times, Nicholas is said to have planned a "secret and convenient lair" where he could indulge his "manic obsession with prostitutes" and "addiction to cocaine and ecstasy."The article goes on to explain that the 47-year-old Nicholas (a billionaire who co-founded Broadcom Corp) used his private jet to transport prostitutes from other cities like Las Vegas to his hideout, nicknamed "The Pond," where he provided his guests with drugs, according to the complaint. The Times continues:
In addition, the complaint dug up by the Times alleges that Nicholas used the lair as his “personal brothel” until his wife caught him in the act with a prostitute, according to the paper. [Pwned!] His wife Stacy Nicholas has since filed for divorce.
Nicholas’s attorney Steven A. Silverstein told the Times that “all of the allegations are denied.” In 2000, Nicholas told the paper that the underground facility was a “pump house” to handle runoff from his horse trails...”
Nobody ever suggested it wasn’t a “pump house” Mr. Nicholas.
But it is suggested you are a “horse’s ass” of mammoth proportions.
It is unclear whether these fellows fancy themselves to be James Bond, Auric Goldfinger, or a mind-bending combination of both. Meanwhile, having contemplated A View to A Kill, our girl Stacy (who will probably need years of therapy now – retail and otherwise) is singing "Diamonds Are Forever" in her best Shirley Bassey rendition.
She will need this therapy for taking a wrong turn in the garden one day, possibly stepping on a hidden lever and seeing a door open before her like some fairy mound. Stepping into the darkness, she may have followed light and murky sounds, words whispered, "This is For Your Eyes Only" … until the unthinkable horror revealed itself. It was pussy galore!
In one instant, Stacy’s reality splintered as she confronted the sight of her husband in flagrante delecto with Miss Goodthighs, having finished with Xenia Onatopp and with Bambi and Thumper waiting nearby. They were flown in from Casino Royale in Las Vegas.
“Henry!” she may have shrieked, her voice echoing through the Pond, but then we can only imagine. Who knows what thoughts went through Stacy’s mind at that moment, but I’ll wager she wanted to knock The Living Daylights out of the lot of them. In the end, she relented and decided to Live And Let Die.
"You Only Live Twice!” Henry may have blathered pathetically, his breath choking from the weight of Miss Goodthighs energetically playing horsey on top of him. “It’s not what it seems, my dear! They’re only here for the odd job!”
Stacy probably considered offing Henry on the spot, but considered he could Die Another Day.
And so the curtain closes on our lurid little drama of early 21st century extravagant peccadillo hyped up on drugs and fueled by bottomless cisterns of money. For the divorce lawyers, Tomorrow Never Dies.
Never Say Never Again.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Men Controlling Women: From the Minds of Voles
I subscribe to several men’s magazines for my husband. He usually ignores them, so I read them; largely to keep myself abreast of articles that pertain to men’s health. In addition, one of these magazines sends online material. I get a particular thrill out of reading these as if I am stepping behind a curtain, the shower curtain in the gym as it may be. The very sense of being on "other" territory is titillating. I feel rather like a spy.
So, what are they thinking? What are they plotting?
It was worse than I expected.
The lads at a certain magazine believe they have cracked the code on the brain – the female brain. Every generation of men thinks they have done this. Goddess must sit back and laugh. There were all kinds of interesting tidbits that sounded more like how to fine tune your computer’s clock speed or your Mustang’s carburetor, but this was to be applied to that ‘other thing’, a woman; maybe one just captured by sleight of hand at a bar, maybe a girlfriend or a wife.
Amused, but my curiosity piqued, I read on. There were tips on manipulating her dopamine levels. My nose wrinkled. It is not so simple to manipulate oneself in this way, let alone other people. The boy geniuses at the mag never considered that for all the millions of women on SSRIs or the new SNRIs in this country, these dopamine tricks would not work. These gals have been chemically altered.
Perhaps this explains the article on "the rise of fembots" I read recently with much awe and not a little consternation. Is this the neuro-chemical effect of a generation of teenagers put on Prozac? Still, SSRIs will make a woman’s dopamine flatline, causing emotionally flat affect, lack of sexual desire, difficulty with arousal, and difficulty with orgasm. I would say this is an evil plot to neutralize women’s sexuality, but it puts an end to the happy-hydraulics of men as well, which is not good either. Serotonin exists in opposite relationship with the neuro-transmitter dopamine. You need dopamine to experience the emotion of romantic love. Then, we came to the voles...
I believe that as long as there has been a patriarchy, generations of men have applied themselves to the task of building a better mousetrap - er - chastity belt. They of course cleverly tried to keep themselves on the outside of such bear-traps, and pocket the key as well if they could; which is where paradox, bitter irony, and unmitigated disaster reign until the next batch of lads say, “You old fogies had it all wrong! This is the way!” and it begins again.
Well, the brave new 21st century lads at this magazine are dying to tell you about the mating neuro-chemistry of voles. Now, a vole is a charming creature, vaguely related to a prairie dog or the average editor at a magazine who would promote such sociopathic advice as they gave, not to have a better sexual relationship with a woman, but how to attempt to manipulate her neuro-psychologically to be "addicted to you" while teaching you how to keep yourself far away from such an effect. Of course, you wouldn’t want that, they suggest with a wink. You’re a man, not a rodent, right? Right?
The neurotransmitter in question is oxytocin, the primary bonding chemical. It bonds women to men (and men to women, the dips) and women to their children. Kissing a woman’s breasts sends neurological signals to the brain and clitoris and releases oxytocin. Cuddling with your mate is good for your relationship, making you both feel bonded and safe and connected. But this is not what the voles writing the article had in mind.
They suggested that as a woman’s orgasm releases oxytocin in her brain, a man should craftily climb onto the back of her legs after this event and massage the muscles in her spine in little circles going up to her neck, making sure to stay clear of this himself, natch.
The cunning plan is not to relax her, give her pleasure, or show her love. The reason was to attempt to have the effect of manipulating her body into producing more bonding chemical to cause a neuro-psychological "addiction" in her brain beyond her conscious control (ah, the dream springs eternal) thereby ensuring not only her fidelity, but her slavish devotion, all the while steering clear of such deadly effects himself; the better to chase Fifi, Muffie and that hot new intern at the office.
The writers and editors assure a bloke that he can actually do this (practically and ethically), control the woman like a Stepford Wife with a control manual and then be non-monogamous himself, feeling tipsy with methanated power that he has assured the woman’s sexual servitude with only a few handy tricks and tweaks worthy of Popular Mechanics. Zombified from his manipulations and tripping from an overdose of oxytocin, she will presumably stumble past even more handsome and eligible men, and he can sleep at night.
The reality is more like this. Yes, when women orgasm, oxytocin is released. If all other systems are go, she may be bonded to you, which means she will also become protective, possessive, and madly jealous. Jealous as in "hell hath no fury." I promise. This can turn what a guy thinks he has neatly compartmentalized as a casual booty call or fuck buddy into something entirely different (in her brain) and can become major drama if he happens to find "the one". Just try telling SuzyQ she was just a booty call then. I wouldn’t want to be there.
The situation recalls The Magician’s Apprentice. Things get very out of hand. There are just so many possibilities for this to explode. It is sad that men’s magazines would suggest to men that they could control women neuro-endocrinologically, while keeping emotionally removed and immune themselves. This is not about love or giving pleasure. It is about a pathetic attempt at the usurpation of sexual relations for dominance and control, feeding into men’s lowest, most fearful base cultural conditioning of controlling women’s sexuality while having theirs uninhibited.
Even if you could do that - which as I explained, would backfire spectacularly - it’s so crassly manipulative as to be sociopathic. It’s just totally gross, with major jerk factor. I expect such from my husband’s multiply divorced friends, who still don’t get it. The paradigm, idea and application are wrong. They end up losers in the end. Detached and manipulative in the bedroom, they are endlessly paranoid as to whether their woman is glassy-eyed under their sexual control, while they hope to furtively bang someone else in the supply closet.
It is never wise for men to play women. Play at your own risk. Once a woman learns you are not faithful, there will be hell to pay. I won’t even go there if she comes across a copy of that article and puts your ‘new moves’ in context.
Ultimately, if you betray her trust and are lucky, she may punish you and keep you on a short leash. If you are not and she thinks you are not worth her emotional investment, aggravation, and assaults on her self-esteem, she may head for other pastures with less well-informed and crafty stallions, leaving you to figure out why that radical vole-trick-neuro-control panel-chastity belt tip not only did not work, but blew up in your face.
When are men going to learn that they have as much chance of controlling women as they have of controlling cats?
So, what are they thinking? What are they plotting?
It was worse than I expected.
The lads at a certain magazine believe they have cracked the code on the brain – the female brain. Every generation of men thinks they have done this. Goddess must sit back and laugh. There were all kinds of interesting tidbits that sounded more like how to fine tune your computer’s clock speed or your Mustang’s carburetor, but this was to be applied to that ‘other thing’, a woman; maybe one just captured by sleight of hand at a bar, maybe a girlfriend or a wife.
Amused, but my curiosity piqued, I read on. There were tips on manipulating her dopamine levels. My nose wrinkled. It is not so simple to manipulate oneself in this way, let alone other people. The boy geniuses at the mag never considered that for all the millions of women on SSRIs or the new SNRIs in this country, these dopamine tricks would not work. These gals have been chemically altered.
Perhaps this explains the article on "the rise of fembots" I read recently with much awe and not a little consternation. Is this the neuro-chemical effect of a generation of teenagers put on Prozac? Still, SSRIs will make a woman’s dopamine flatline, causing emotionally flat affect, lack of sexual desire, difficulty with arousal, and difficulty with orgasm. I would say this is an evil plot to neutralize women’s sexuality, but it puts an end to the happy-hydraulics of men as well, which is not good either. Serotonin exists in opposite relationship with the neuro-transmitter dopamine. You need dopamine to experience the emotion of romantic love. Then, we came to the voles...
I believe that as long as there has been a patriarchy, generations of men have applied themselves to the task of building a better mousetrap - er - chastity belt. They of course cleverly tried to keep themselves on the outside of such bear-traps, and pocket the key as well if they could; which is where paradox, bitter irony, and unmitigated disaster reign until the next batch of lads say, “You old fogies had it all wrong! This is the way!” and it begins again.
Well, the brave new 21st century lads at this magazine are dying to tell you about the mating neuro-chemistry of voles. Now, a vole is a charming creature, vaguely related to a prairie dog or the average editor at a magazine who would promote such sociopathic advice as they gave, not to have a better sexual relationship with a woman, but how to attempt to manipulate her neuro-psychologically to be "addicted to you" while teaching you how to keep yourself far away from such an effect. Of course, you wouldn’t want that, they suggest with a wink. You’re a man, not a rodent, right? Right?
The neurotransmitter in question is oxytocin, the primary bonding chemical. It bonds women to men (and men to women, the dips) and women to their children. Kissing a woman’s breasts sends neurological signals to the brain and clitoris and releases oxytocin. Cuddling with your mate is good for your relationship, making you both feel bonded and safe and connected. But this is not what the voles writing the article had in mind.
They suggested that as a woman’s orgasm releases oxytocin in her brain, a man should craftily climb onto the back of her legs after this event and massage the muscles in her spine in little circles going up to her neck, making sure to stay clear of this himself, natch.
The cunning plan is not to relax her, give her pleasure, or show her love. The reason was to attempt to have the effect of manipulating her body into producing more bonding chemical to cause a neuro-psychological "addiction" in her brain beyond her conscious control (ah, the dream springs eternal) thereby ensuring not only her fidelity, but her slavish devotion, all the while steering clear of such deadly effects himself; the better to chase Fifi, Muffie and that hot new intern at the office.
The writers and editors assure a bloke that he can actually do this (practically and ethically), control the woman like a Stepford Wife with a control manual and then be non-monogamous himself, feeling tipsy with methanated power that he has assured the woman’s sexual servitude with only a few handy tricks and tweaks worthy of Popular Mechanics. Zombified from his manipulations and tripping from an overdose of oxytocin, she will presumably stumble past even more handsome and eligible men, and he can sleep at night.
The reality is more like this. Yes, when women orgasm, oxytocin is released. If all other systems are go, she may be bonded to you, which means she will also become protective, possessive, and madly jealous. Jealous as in "hell hath no fury." I promise. This can turn what a guy thinks he has neatly compartmentalized as a casual booty call or fuck buddy into something entirely different (in her brain) and can become major drama if he happens to find "the one". Just try telling SuzyQ she was just a booty call then. I wouldn’t want to be there.
The situation recalls The Magician’s Apprentice. Things get very out of hand. There are just so many possibilities for this to explode. It is sad that men’s magazines would suggest to men that they could control women neuro-endocrinologically, while keeping emotionally removed and immune themselves. This is not about love or giving pleasure. It is about a pathetic attempt at the usurpation of sexual relations for dominance and control, feeding into men’s lowest, most fearful base cultural conditioning of controlling women’s sexuality while having theirs uninhibited.
Even if you could do that - which as I explained, would backfire spectacularly - it’s so crassly manipulative as to be sociopathic. It’s just totally gross, with major jerk factor. I expect such from my husband’s multiply divorced friends, who still don’t get it. The paradigm, idea and application are wrong. They end up losers in the end. Detached and manipulative in the bedroom, they are endlessly paranoid as to whether their woman is glassy-eyed under their sexual control, while they hope to furtively bang someone else in the supply closet.
It is never wise for men to play women. Play at your own risk. Once a woman learns you are not faithful, there will be hell to pay. I won’t even go there if she comes across a copy of that article and puts your ‘new moves’ in context.
Ultimately, if you betray her trust and are lucky, she may punish you and keep you on a short leash. If you are not and she thinks you are not worth her emotional investment, aggravation, and assaults on her self-esteem, she may head for other pastures with less well-informed and crafty stallions, leaving you to figure out why that radical vole-trick-neuro-control panel-chastity belt tip not only did not work, but blew up in your face.
When are men going to learn that they have as much chance of controlling women as they have of controlling cats?
Thursday, July 5, 2007
What Makes A Man?
The media storm about the wrestler Chris Benoit and the steroid-fueled waste of three lives, one a woman and one a seven-year-old boy, has haunted me. It begs the question, 'What makes a man?'
When a man becomes a father his testosterone levels naturally go down. Why? It is nature's way of saying, "You competed and got the woman, you have a child. You need to be a companion and help-mate now, a partner and protector - not a danger to them, not hunting for new mates, not abandoning them.
There is a cult of the testosterone-poisoned man in current culture. I see his face screwed up into an ugly mask of violent rage reflected on everything from boys' toys and games to movies, video games, body building magazines... and the mock-berserkers of wrestling, phony warriors that little boys think are as harmless as their Teddy bear while holding out the promise of phallic dominance; which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with asexual power.
If you murder your wife in a blinding supernova of hormone-intoxicated rage, you can hardly be said to be a good lover. You didn't even enjoy sex yourself unless violence is what gets you off, which gets us back to the whole phallic dominator paradigm again. Emptiness, numbness, and a creeping fear, alienation, and a paranoid disassociation are the real end result.
Note to men: I love you guys, so I want you to get things right — when you are set on dominating women (and children) you are displaying weakness, not strength. You cannot be a lover, husband, or father of any quality from this paradigm. You can't even be a philosophical friend. The mask of testosterone rage is the image of a man 'out of control', 'out of his mind', unable to create, unable to think, or to contribute to society and civilization. All he can do is destroy in an infantile narcissistic rage that ultimately destroys him as well; if all it does is leave him abandoned, unloved, and alone.
There is no weaker state than this. It is total failure, as a human being, but specifically as a man. Injecting steroids and other substances is not the answer. I suggest a different paradigm, one that is more mature and fuller in the musky poetry of virile masculinity.
I suggest the Tantric paradigm of Shiva's role, and the Celtic Green Man, or horned Cernunus who operate in harmonic dance with the female whose truth of goddess-center then becomes something that enables his masculine flowering into the hero, or the Adonis; the conscious heroic man. Google and start your own explorations. Familiarize yourself with male archetypes that exist in harmony with nature. This is inner work. Nothing you do in the gym, and certainly nothing you inject, will give you this.
The potential of man is found by honoring the Primal Feminine in his woman, not by running in fear and seeking to dominate and destroy that which reflects the cosmic void of womb and tomb; the Shakti energy of raw creative force, coming back to her armed with injections of testosterone beyond which nature designed for his health. Read up on the philosophy of Tantra. It's about more than lasting longer in bed.
Health is defined as being able to function in nature, as all creatures are designed. The bloated raging cartoon man is advertising his extreme insecurity and fear of women, women of intelligence, women who are goddess-like in their spirits and will not be intimidated or dominated. It is like he is trying to create flesh armor and weapons to better go into battle against them, or defend himself against them. In any case, the insides always betray themselves, even if one manages to look like a brontosaurus with the charming temperament of a T. rex.
Too many men, and increasingly teenaged boys, are being sucked into a gym culture whose bible is found on the magazine racks, and whose gods are somato-narcissistic oafs who hold their extreme vanity which poses as a 'sport' over health, good sense, and healthy relationships. A 'sport' that necessitates injecting steroids, and juggling insulin and Tamoxifen is hardly a 'sport'. It’s pharmacology.
I have seen my husband gape at 'documentaries' of such steroidal characters. One in particular sticks in my mind because I am too often asked how he looks in comparison, and ‘aren’t I amazed?’ by him. (Quite frankly, no.) I looked over his shoulder as this fellow mumbled nonsense and kicked food he didn’t like off his plate. “Why are they filming this?” I thought. “There are nature documentaries that are more exciting, like ‘the mating rituals of Amazonian tree frogs.'” What was interesting to me was that panning around this man’s home I noticed there were no books, no art, nothing that showed a life of the mind.
There were only pictures of himself and his bodybuilding trophies lying around. There was nothing else in his life but the endless rituals of lifting, eating, injecting, with the occasional interruption for a pedicure or massage. This film could be marketed as a sleeping aid. "Are we driving back to 'Black Eyed Pea' again for more steak?... Oh, it's different... It's chicken now... ZZzzzzzzzzzz."
He lived alone, because his wife obviously could not live like this and was probably tired of being ignored or abused (and ignoring your wife is a form of abuse). There is actually more than one of these wonders. In one such 'documentary' I observed his mother cooking for him like a servant. In another it was his daughter, beleaguered at the stove with no care for her appearance, numbly catering to the all-consuming somatic narcissism of her father who ignored her and left no space for her to shine. There was room only for him. It was sad to watch.
Like Narcissus, such men fall out of the natural order, fall into the pool, or in their case, the mirror and lose... perspective, and often much more. The physical, emotional, and relational wreckage of steroids is quietly kicked to the side, or swept under the table until a case like Chris Benoit's explodes onto the stage of public awareness, because there are literally billions of dollars to be made brainwashing boys and men into believing that they are 'less than men' unless they do this, and that these bloated men with GH gut and nothing on their minds but primping for a beauty competition are to be their idols of manhood.
Men are lured in with the promise of women and sex, but it turns into something else that will ultimately exclude them both. Women like men to be fit and they appreciate muscles, to a point. There is the question of proportion, and looking good in your clothes. A man needs more than a loincloth or thong to be a well-presented man. Then, a man has to show himself to be a whole human being who loves and adores us and has our interest in mind, not just his own. We want a partner.
When somatic narcissism becomes a disease that swallows a man's life, there could be no one left but the man in the mirror. Sadly for many of these men, that becomes enough. They are lost. Those women who stay have tales of abuse. Mrs. Benoit does not even have this anymore. Her story is done. Unfortunately, she too bought into the paradigm that ‘a real man’ is a raging dominator and not a loving partner.
Many of these fellows do not realize that when you take testosterone, your body stops producing its own. It also throws your estrogens off balance. And yes lads, you need your estrogens too. It makes a total mess. The old margarine ad cliché 'It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature' was never truer.
I am not against the use of hormones for replacement therapy, far from it. This is the difference between a 'physiological' dose though and a 'pharmacological' dose. For a man experiencing andropause, testosterone can improve mood, and help age-related muscle loss. In contrast, Mr. Benoit's 'doctor' was enabling him to take the dose equivalent of ten months of testosterone therapy every three to five weeks, thereby turning him into a monster, not a man - a monster who hogtied and strangled his wife and then used the very choke holds kids cheered him for on his seven-year-old son.
Then, being the real man he was, he went into the garage and hung himself.
What is a man?
If you are male, you will need to find the courage to look into the heart of darkness and ponder this yourself. Your future, health and happiness and that of your family will unfold upon the way you can answer this question, and the 'paradigm' of masculinity you choose to ascribe to. Philosophically speaking, the paradigm forms the scaffolding of your self-consciousness, and your choices spring naturally from that. It's the primal operating program, the root. It will affect the way you see yourself, the world, and the way you see women.
It pays to examine it, question it, and tweak it if necessary, especially if you are being led down a bad path by some glossy presentation challenging you to live at the gym and take their products 'or be a less of a man', even more so if you are considering taking steroids or already do so. You need to be able to hold your masculinity 'disembodied', or you will never hold it at all. You may even lose it. As Chris Benoit learned, it is literally a matter of life and death.
When a man becomes a father his testosterone levels naturally go down. Why? It is nature's way of saying, "You competed and got the woman, you have a child. You need to be a companion and help-mate now, a partner and protector - not a danger to them, not hunting for new mates, not abandoning them.
There is a cult of the testosterone-poisoned man in current culture. I see his face screwed up into an ugly mask of violent rage reflected on everything from boys' toys and games to movies, video games, body building magazines... and the mock-berserkers of wrestling, phony warriors that little boys think are as harmless as their Teddy bear while holding out the promise of phallic dominance; which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with asexual power.
If you murder your wife in a blinding supernova of hormone-intoxicated rage, you can hardly be said to be a good lover. You didn't even enjoy sex yourself unless violence is what gets you off, which gets us back to the whole phallic dominator paradigm again. Emptiness, numbness, and a creeping fear, alienation, and a paranoid disassociation are the real end result.
Note to men: I love you guys, so I want you to get things right — when you are set on dominating women (and children) you are displaying weakness, not strength. You cannot be a lover, husband, or father of any quality from this paradigm. You can't even be a philosophical friend. The mask of testosterone rage is the image of a man 'out of control', 'out of his mind', unable to create, unable to think, or to contribute to society and civilization. All he can do is destroy in an infantile narcissistic rage that ultimately destroys him as well; if all it does is leave him abandoned, unloved, and alone.
There is no weaker state than this. It is total failure, as a human being, but specifically as a man. Injecting steroids and other substances is not the answer. I suggest a different paradigm, one that is more mature and fuller in the musky poetry of virile masculinity.
I suggest the Tantric paradigm of Shiva's role, and the Celtic Green Man, or horned Cernunus who operate in harmonic dance with the female whose truth of goddess-center then becomes something that enables his masculine flowering into the hero, or the Adonis; the conscious heroic man. Google and start your own explorations. Familiarize yourself with male archetypes that exist in harmony with nature. This is inner work. Nothing you do in the gym, and certainly nothing you inject, will give you this.
The potential of man is found by honoring the Primal Feminine in his woman, not by running in fear and seeking to dominate and destroy that which reflects the cosmic void of womb and tomb; the Shakti energy of raw creative force, coming back to her armed with injections of testosterone beyond which nature designed for his health. Read up on the philosophy of Tantra. It's about more than lasting longer in bed.
Health is defined as being able to function in nature, as all creatures are designed. The bloated raging cartoon man is advertising his extreme insecurity and fear of women, women of intelligence, women who are goddess-like in their spirits and will not be intimidated or dominated. It is like he is trying to create flesh armor and weapons to better go into battle against them, or defend himself against them. In any case, the insides always betray themselves, even if one manages to look like a brontosaurus with the charming temperament of a T. rex.
Too many men, and increasingly teenaged boys, are being sucked into a gym culture whose bible is found on the magazine racks, and whose gods are somato-narcissistic oafs who hold their extreme vanity which poses as a 'sport' over health, good sense, and healthy relationships. A 'sport' that necessitates injecting steroids, and juggling insulin and Tamoxifen is hardly a 'sport'. It’s pharmacology.
I have seen my husband gape at 'documentaries' of such steroidal characters. One in particular sticks in my mind because I am too often asked how he looks in comparison, and ‘aren’t I amazed?’ by him. (Quite frankly, no.) I looked over his shoulder as this fellow mumbled nonsense and kicked food he didn’t like off his plate. “Why are they filming this?” I thought. “There are nature documentaries that are more exciting, like ‘the mating rituals of Amazonian tree frogs.'” What was interesting to me was that panning around this man’s home I noticed there were no books, no art, nothing that showed a life of the mind.
There were only pictures of himself and his bodybuilding trophies lying around. There was nothing else in his life but the endless rituals of lifting, eating, injecting, with the occasional interruption for a pedicure or massage. This film could be marketed as a sleeping aid. "Are we driving back to 'Black Eyed Pea' again for more steak?... Oh, it's different... It's chicken now... ZZzzzzzzzzzz."
He lived alone, because his wife obviously could not live like this and was probably tired of being ignored or abused (and ignoring your wife is a form of abuse). There is actually more than one of these wonders. In one such 'documentary' I observed his mother cooking for him like a servant. In another it was his daughter, beleaguered at the stove with no care for her appearance, numbly catering to the all-consuming somatic narcissism of her father who ignored her and left no space for her to shine. There was room only for him. It was sad to watch.
Like Narcissus, such men fall out of the natural order, fall into the pool, or in their case, the mirror and lose... perspective, and often much more. The physical, emotional, and relational wreckage of steroids is quietly kicked to the side, or swept under the table until a case like Chris Benoit's explodes onto the stage of public awareness, because there are literally billions of dollars to be made brainwashing boys and men into believing that they are 'less than men' unless they do this, and that these bloated men with GH gut and nothing on their minds but primping for a beauty competition are to be their idols of manhood.
Men are lured in with the promise of women and sex, but it turns into something else that will ultimately exclude them both. Women like men to be fit and they appreciate muscles, to a point. There is the question of proportion, and looking good in your clothes. A man needs more than a loincloth or thong to be a well-presented man. Then, a man has to show himself to be a whole human being who loves and adores us and has our interest in mind, not just his own. We want a partner.
When somatic narcissism becomes a disease that swallows a man's life, there could be no one left but the man in the mirror. Sadly for many of these men, that becomes enough. They are lost. Those women who stay have tales of abuse. Mrs. Benoit does not even have this anymore. Her story is done. Unfortunately, she too bought into the paradigm that ‘a real man’ is a raging dominator and not a loving partner.
Many of these fellows do not realize that when you take testosterone, your body stops producing its own. It also throws your estrogens off balance. And yes lads, you need your estrogens too. It makes a total mess. The old margarine ad cliché 'It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature' was never truer.
I am not against the use of hormones for replacement therapy, far from it. This is the difference between a 'physiological' dose though and a 'pharmacological' dose. For a man experiencing andropause, testosterone can improve mood, and help age-related muscle loss. In contrast, Mr. Benoit's 'doctor' was enabling him to take the dose equivalent of ten months of testosterone therapy every three to five weeks, thereby turning him into a monster, not a man - a monster who hogtied and strangled his wife and then used the very choke holds kids cheered him for on his seven-year-old son.
Then, being the real man he was, he went into the garage and hung himself.
What is a man?
If you are male, you will need to find the courage to look into the heart of darkness and ponder this yourself. Your future, health and happiness and that of your family will unfold upon the way you can answer this question, and the 'paradigm' of masculinity you choose to ascribe to. Philosophically speaking, the paradigm forms the scaffolding of your self-consciousness, and your choices spring naturally from that. It's the primal operating program, the root. It will affect the way you see yourself, the world, and the way you see women.
It pays to examine it, question it, and tweak it if necessary, especially if you are being led down a bad path by some glossy presentation challenging you to live at the gym and take their products 'or be a less of a man', even more so if you are considering taking steroids or already do so. You need to be able to hold your masculinity 'disembodied', or you will never hold it at all. You may even lose it. As Chris Benoit learned, it is literally a matter of life and death.
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