Proof

Donald Trump throws a lot of sticks and expects us to chase each one. His ability to feint, distract and stir the cocktail of chaos borders on a kind of genius. I mean, Trump couldn't lead a parade. But he can reliably be counted on to turn a group of Buddhist monks into a howling, finger-pointing mob.

On the surface, he appears to at least acknowledge women—even when he isn't grabbing their pussies. He's installed several within his administration and recently tossed the electorate a bone by naming a woman to the Supreme Court, even if she's as conservative as a pair of beige khakis.

He's also placed a smattering of minority males within his administration, having discovered outliers like Herman Cain and Hispanics who are somehow able to look past Trump's wholesale demonization and repeated attempts to bar them from entering the U.S.

But Donald is too misshapen, too angry, too transparent to hide his true feelings. No, those emerge like the creature that popped out of John Hurt's belly in Alien. They emerge, squawk and scurry off before anyone is able to recover and process exactly what they've seen.

Donald then plays a game of yes I did/no I didn't with the media and that sentient portion of America's citizenry who are disinclined to wear MAGA gear. When that doesn't work, he throws another stick.

But it's not so easy to walk back an executive order.

Whatever his skills at manipulation, President Petulant can't claim his was quoted out of context or misinterpreted when the words are from his own hand.

In a lightly-reported story buried in last week's Chicago Tribune, Donald Trump recently signed-off on an executive order demanding that all government contractors cease sensitivity and diversity training and that failure to do so will result in the cancellation of their big, fat government contracts.

The administration maintains that such concepts are divisive and anti-American and adds that any program Trump, Inc. deems divisive (which I imagine is anything that doesn't include your lips and his flabby, corpulent ass) will be stripped of government funding.

There it is, ladies and gentlemen. Trump laid bare.

Donald can hem and haw and play dumb about the Proud Boys and have his pretty little blonde designated liar lie until she doesn't know which end is up. But the next time you hear a Black person speaking of systemic racism or a woman speaking of institutionalized sexism, instead of sneering 'get a job' try rolling their words around in your head. 

Then roll the words in this executive order around the same space. Donald's tacit approval of white supremacy and misogyny oozes from every line.  

Hundreds of millions of years of success in the natural world aren't proof enough of the inherent value and viability of diversity.

No. Per usual, the biggest turd in the MAGA toilet knows best.

Confronting #MeToo

If you need proof that anything can be taken to an unhealthy extreme, witness the removal of Baby, It's Cold Outside by Cleveland radio station WDOK from its holiday playlist. According to the station's general manager, this is in response to complaints that the song's lyrics are “inappropriate”.

If you're not familiar with the standard, it is a playful exchange between a man and a woman. The man wants his companion to stay the night, citing the undue cold and potential risk taking her home could subject her to.

The woman effectively pleads her case that this is not the right time, and the song draws to a close. There is no rape. There is no assault. There is no predation.

We don't even know if she stays or returns home. 

Apparently, the #MeToo community is privy to information the rest of us aren't.

Let me address the sexist hysteria responsible for turning this harmless song into an invitation to date-rape. (I should also apologize in advance for possessing a penis, which likely renders this yet-another unbearable example of mansplaining.)

Baby, It's Cold Outside is a vignette. An imagined dialogue between two people confronting the eternal question: I want to. Don't you?

Men express this thought. Women express this thought. There is no gender monopoly here. It is a song about the beautiful longing two human beings can feel for each other. It is a wry and poetic seduction. 

I hear it and smile at the memory of my own (mostly unsuccessful) attempts.

It is cute. Playful. Nothing more, nothing less.

I am of the opinion that the well-intentioned people who have issues with this song could find evidence of Satanic worship in a Norman Rockwell painting, or enticements to methamphetamine use in The Sound of Music. 

Look hard enough for something and you'll find it.

But beyond that, I'd like to know the whereabouts of the legions of fierce, strong women I hear so incessantly about. I mean, seriously? A guy cooing in your ear and inviting you to a sleepover is your kryptonite?

Sorry, but that's crazy.

For those of us with the broad and deep frames of reference age affords, this is the feminist equivalent of the Tawana Brawley scandal. A flimsy, cheap, over-reaching and ultimately damaging effort that will undermine, not strengthen, #MeToo.

Please. Keep your sexism out of my Christmas.

What to Wear

I don't read the Sunday newspaper—I scour it. I scour it like those guys in hazmat suits who neutralize EPA Superfund sites.

That's how I end up reading about condo associations and grilled pork served with mint leaves and fig compote and South American political scandals from the 1940s. It's also how I end up reading a woman's complaints about how men dress at the gym.

The aggrieved party wrote a columnist because she is disturbed by the sight of men in tight-fitting clothing at the gym. Shorts in particular. Even worse, the sommelier who heads this whine cellar goes on to empathize with the complainant.

Sigh. Eye rolls, anyone?

I've heard this argument before. And if I hear another woman complain about guys in Speedos (or clingy gym attire) I'm going to burst. And here's why:

Everyday I see size 18 women waddling around in size 5 clothes. I see cellulite jiggling underneath tissue-thin yoga pants. Guts hanging out from midriff tops. XL rear ends not quite contained by XS string bikinis.

And that's just the beginning.

But that's not indecent exposure. Nope. That's empowerment. Women being strong. Liberated. Casting off the shackles of male expectations of beauty.

If you say so.

I call it U-G-L-Y. And I really, really don't want to see it.

But saying so makes me a seething, hateful misogynist. Which only fuels my argument that there's a raging double-standard at work here.

We live in an age of unfettered ego. “What do you mean I don't look like Kerry Washington? I rock these, baby!” “You can actually tell the difference between Vin Diesel and me? I'm gonna run you over, you punk-ass bitch!”

All of us have the bodies of Greek gods and goddesses. Check.

And speaking of unfettered egos, I should add that I wish more people were just like me.

You see, not so long ago, I stood 6' 3” and weighed 190 pounds. I had a thirty-four inch waist. I played basketball without a shirt, and did my power walking in shorts that did not conform to the prevailing skater/hip hop/just-released-felon aesthetic.

I.E., they did not hang down to my shins.

But then I gained thirty pounds.

As a result, I don't walk around the house, much less public spaces, without a shirt. You feel me? I am embarrassed. I am not proud. I am—as we like to spout on social media—humbled.

Yes, the old self-esteem has taken a hit. But even after cataract surgery, I fail to see how going out in a too-tight t-shirt is going to empower me.

Granted, I am not a woman. But even within the relaxed appearance standards women typically hold men to, I am fat. I am a middle-aged, pear-shaped, dad-bodied cliché. It's not self-loathing. It's not culturally-induced shaming. It's just a realistic look in the mirror.

I don't like it, and I doubt you would, either. So, in a gesture of magnanimity to my fellow man, I cover it up.

And it doesn't make you or me a hater or sexist to wish that all the ball-sack baring, stretch-mark sharing men and women around us would do the same.

Two sexes, one standard.

We can do this.