I just got off work, cracked myself a beer and – in a brain-dead haze – looked at the six articles I’ve been puttering on after dragging my ass home. Most of them scare the piss outta me, but not because they may be over-the-top, taboo, complete failures, or even that I may get my share of backlash for daring to consider such concepts. The problem is that, when I’m not already mentally and physically exhausted, the very real ramifications of what I’m typing tends to trigger my OCD and then my conspiracy theorist boner twangs, sending me into a state of terrified shock as my mind reels with the absurdity that people can’t actually see the blatant truth all around them.
Do I really gotta point it out and describe the problems to them? REALLY??? Given that people still drink and drive, and/or use dangerous recreational drugs, I really shouldn’t be surprised but, come on humanity, throw me a bone of hope before I water my beer down too much.
My fantasy girlfriend sent me a private message not long ago, eagerly looking forward to my next violating mind-rape of what I consider to be “common sense” (If sense were common, we’d all be wise; sadly, we are not). I tried desperately to cry on her textual shoulder and make sad pitiful excuses with no apologies, all the while making a long-winded assault on her saintly gynotegrity. Unfortunately, the recent changes to the forum caused the mailbox to repeatedly eat my response to her. (It’s a plot I tell you! A well thought out plan; damn it patriarchy, where are you when I really need you?) So, for the time being, she’s still safe from the ravages of my evil patriarchal harassing texts. So I had to do the next best thing: sob into the wife’s ample bosom, until they suffocated me and I passed out, waking up on the floor where she had eventually pushed me off to let me crumple like wet spaghetti. I look forward to the quote-miner’s brandishing this iron pyrite.
I finally got tired of staring blindly at my artful works of abject horror and flicked on the Youtube to delve into the ingenious works of AMV’s (Animated Music Videos) people manage to put together. Hoping to draw a modicum of inspiration, possibly to gain the day’s second wind before I step outside for a shot of cancer and mentally sketch out a battle plan for my next foray into my burgeoning world of article writing and to decide which one is more important, or maybe just which scares me the least, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that I haven’t thrown in the towel. While a timid mouse among giants of activism, I am bold enough to squeak… once in a while.
You must be wondering by now what any of this has to do with the title. The sad truth is; everything. I am not a Paul Elam, or a Karen Straughan, certainly not a Warren Farrell, or an Erin Pizzey, and you know what? I’m good with that. I have no one to blame but myself, and my reasons are my own, though I imagine most of the readers can draw up fairly accurate conclusions as to why I’m satisfied with a place of mediocrity within the “virtual” presence of the thoroughbred icons who have pointed out to me the foundation, when I was dumbly wondering why the house was so damned crooked.
So the title… institutional sexism, and the glass ceiling. Why are men at the top in everything?
While perusing the Youtube, I happened upon a video that encapsulates the answer of why some men dominate. They are lessons that girls typically never hear or, if they have heard it, they’ve ignored it because fixing their tear-streaked eyeliner was more important. They are lessons of self demand, to continue to push the envelope, to own your determination and your failures. My stepfather and I rarely ever got along, but he told me something about being the best at anything, “take responsibility for anything you do, the buck stops with you: RAMIFICATIONS MAN, look into the future of every move you make; when I work on that freight train, if I make a mistake, PEOPLE DIE! It’s that simple.” Likewise, when I was in sea cadets (a teenager’s version of the navy), I learned another hard life lesson as I rose through the ranks, “your juniors are a reflection of you, they are an extension of you, when they do good, you get the glory; however, when they do poorly, they should never get the blame, you trained them, you lead them, you gave them orders, the buck stops with you, you screwed up, you take the heat, you don’t pass blame, and you certainly don’t publicly embarrass them, you figure out what went wrong and how to correct it, and then you make it happen.”
If you know what you’re worth, go out and get what you’re worth! But you gotta be willing to take the hits. And not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or because of her, or anybody! Cowards do that, and that ain’t you! You’re better than that!
Or, as Yoda would say, “Do… or do not. There is no try.”
I know a guy, good guy, funny man; I refuse to play poker with him. As the story goes, he came from Vietnam with barely a nickle to his name and took up residence in a town on a major highway. He managed to con a few hotel owners into financing his acquisition of a struggling hotel, with the promise of paying them back by a set date; he had it paid off in half that time. Not satisfied with that, he built another hotel in my city, nicest hotel in the neighborhood, I know this, I’ve done some flooring in all the best ones we have, and he gave me the flooring contract for this one. Still not satisfied, he built another hotel in a neighboring city. Now he has plans to build another hotel in a city a few hours away, and is currently getting into the suburbia game, buying up property on the outskirts of my city. The man is on fire, and he ain’t no young buck; he’s got grown young ones filling in the wake of his path. He wasn’t handed this destiny, he didn’t get it through affirmative action, he didn’t even inherit it; he saw an opportunity and he exploited it for all it was worth; at any point, his burgeoning empire could have crumbled, and it still can.
But on he goes.