Jeff Spencer
iscellaneous ruminations on the fairer sex
Writ 2-7-94, London
BOOTED OUT OF EDEN AGAIN
Ah, here she comes: The Queen of Tragedy, the Lady of Shalott, Ophelia incarnate. To look at that sweet, innocent, betrayed face one would believe herein lies the repository of the sorrows of the world: Woman Used, Woman Despoiled, Woman in Distress. What a canny slag. What a routine. I fell for it a thousand times. I would fall for it again and again. What perfection.
Across the smoky bar (Some enchanted evening/When you find your true love/Whenyou feel her call you/Across a crowded room), I saw her against the wall. Little Tragedy. That sweet, sweet face—the face of a little girl lost, not of a woman of 38 and a half. Yes, I knew that look. It was her hunting face: Look at me, man I love!, look into my eyes, and see the love I have for you! Look! Look! Look! My emotional elevator snapped its cable and dropped into the basement with terrible execution to all aboard. Those oh so soulful eyes were aimed at some rustic musician on the stage, not at me. I hadn’t seen that look aimed at me in 17 years or more. But I knew it.
Hell, I would have given my life—-three times—-to have seen that look aimed at me again. She is a professional lover, sans pareil. Nobody in skirts can match her. What a schtick.
FAILED THE QUEER TEST
Writ 2-5-05
Am basking in the arctic twilight of not being loved or even affectionately loathed by women. I seem to leave lasting rage in my wake. Well, spares me seasonal visits to places where you buy stuff for broads. Last week I was presented with a gem to place in the crown jewels of my collection of clawed remarks made to me by seething women. I was talking to Ms. C and she suddenly embarked upon a fulminating essay on my inability to select jewelry for women. I was at a loss to recall buying her jewelry, but, if error there is to be made, I’ve done it with gusto, I’m sure. For a rapier right to the vitals, she selected an unusual rhetorical weapon—rather confused, to be frank, but it gets high marks for being right up to date—-her denoument was to spear me for not being a homosexual because homosexuals know how to buy stuff for the ladies. I believe this is a First. To be scathingly napalmed by one’s former lover for failing to be an invert contravenes the usual rules of engagement in female verbal swordplay which are to assert violently and at the top of one’s voice that the male is either: (1) impotent, (2) inadequate, (3) gay, or (4) all. But, since pop culture has now plainly declared that gay men are dramatically superior to straight men because they allegedly know all about broad’s gear and what colors don’t clash when painting your flat (I ask the adherents of this fatuous stereotyping to consider the taste of a butch sadist leather boy who would be unlikely to know the difference between Tiffany’s and a well-lubed hole in the wall), I savor the trendy thrust of this impromptu javelin. However, like so much of the modern world, the conceit is incoherent, and not well crafted to penetrate the heavy armor of self-satisfied delusions of sexual omnipotence which convey men through this harrowing pig-sticking contest called life. Indeed, having once recovered from the venomous articulation of this venturesome sally, I was relieved to have been spared the conventional reductive arsenal which, at my age, would be quite accurate in almost all respects.
ORDEAL BY BOOMBOX
Writ 2-17-05
Around 6:30PM the house was hit by the shock waves from the loudest boom box I’ve ever heard. The whole bloody house was shaking. Affected the rhythm of my heart. Went away. Came back. Went away. Came back. Finally, they parked in the middle of the street on the south side of the house. Two black guys, one looked 40 and must have weighed 350 lbs. I bellowed “OK, that’s enough.“ Slowly they drove off. I expect a brick through one of the windows as retaliation for “disrespect”. I figure it was just the opening shot in the culture wars as the gangstas take over this neighborhood—-“listen up, we own this area, punks.“