Tit For Tat
Gay marriage is, I believe, a serious issue in this country at the moment with all kinds of ramifications legally and morally. What it comes down to really is whether or not we want a whole generation of kids being born into families where they will be taught proper grooming, how to dance and an odd fascination with Judy Garland.

But when I really really think about it, gay marriage just doesn't have anything to do with me personally, primarily because I'm not gay.

I know what you're thinking "Pops, it sounds like you're protesting a little too much there. Is that because you're secretly a homosexual?" To which I might reply either "Shut up, you bastards!" or alternatively "What do you mean, 'secretly'?"

The practical truth is, as a heterosexual man, I find myself married to a woman. And while assiduous, selective, non-critical, group-thinking Bible readers of certain particular ecumenical persuasions may applaud the simple fact of my genetic (any cheers for my blue eyes? No? No credit for that whatsoever?) sexual predisposition toward boobies, I myself cannot bring myself to think in such simple terms.

What the anti-gay marriage people forget to mention is that, for a man, living with a woman for an extended period of time can on occasion be monumentally inconvenient, even if ordained by God. This of course works in both directions as I'm sure for women co-habiting with snoring, farting, remote-control hording, sports-obsessing, boobie-centric dudes presents its own set of unique challenges, none of which I'm qualified to comment on.

Of course I'm talking about compromise, the thing the Best Man at your wedding pulls you aside and attempts to warn you about 5 minutes before the ceremony in the mandated last-chance "Are You Sure You Want To Do This? Speech" (alternatively known as the "We Can Be In Vegas In Three Hours" speech, depending on where you live). The Best Man isn't being a cock-blocking son of a bitch; this is actually one of his duties. The list of Best Man duties is actually pretty short: 1) Procure stripper for bachelor party, 2) Organize the destruction of all evidence of bachelor party, including and especially any resultant corpses, 3) Don't loose the fucking ring, you irresponsible fuckwit, 4) The "Last Chance" speech and 5) Grating, inappropriate "funny" toast at the reception. It doesn't sound like alot, but figure in all the alcohol involved and it's quite a chore.

Where was I? Oh yes, compromise. At the risk of sounding conceited and hopelessly biased (this is a blog, after all) I'd say Mrs. Pops got really lucky. My parents divorced in the hazy days of pre-memory, leaving me to be raised by one mother and two sisters, one older and one younger. For my slower readers, this means 3 chicks and one dude, me. Normally this would sound like quite a weekend in Fort Lauderdale on Spring Break... unless everyone's related, you have no money and the situation lasts roughly 20 years. Then it's everything you can do just to keep all your veins closed.

Besides the mountainous therapy bills and the persistent nervous twitch in my left eye, the primary result of my cohabitation with three women is that I was thoroughly house-broken when Mrs. Pops found me; broken being the operative word. She never had to teach me the things most women are forced to teach their mates; normal stuff like putting the toilet seat down, rinse out the sink after you shave, no porn mags in plain sight, beer-can pyramids are a poor decorating choice, etc.

Those are the nuts-and-bolts, everyday-practical things that I needed to know and--by and large--already did.

But.

But but but.

There are things you must learn to do as a man when long-term coupled with a female partner. Things that no guide-book or vicarious bull-sessions will ever fully illuminate. Things that must be done, compromises that must be made in order to minimize the sudden, mysterious onset of "headache" or "tiredness" in those rare moments when you find yourselves together, awake, alone and behind a lockable door.

Knowing this about me, then, you will understand how I came to find myself in front of the TV this week to watch chick-flick Brit-fest Love Actually. It was on HBO and showing opposite Cinemax's offering of Busty Cops (oddly, no iMDB entry for that one), so you can probably guess what my first choice would have been.

Truth be told, it could have been worse. It could have been How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days (Jesus wept). The cast includes Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Laura Linney, Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson, Martin Freeman (or as I call him, "Hey! It's that guy Tim from The Office!") among non-sucky others.

I wouldn't go so far as to say I enjoyed it. It was sort of anthology-style Short Attention Span Theater. It had some... erm... weak spots. Like Hugh Grant deciding to play the British Prime Minister as though he was the guy from Four Weddings And A Funeral who had won the job in some kind of horrific radio call-in contest. And Liam Neeson's bit, playing opposite a gender-neutral half-formed embryo/child. At the opening of the film, we learn the embryo/child's mother has died, leaving step-dad Qui Gon Jinn with this... thing to raise into human-hood. And him without a womb! This establishing 30-second scene, alas, is the very last we hear of the dead mom, whom they both get over disturbingly quickly.

The film also includes Keira Knightly in the cast. Casting directors and critics keep trying to convince me that this woman is, in fact, beautiful. I'm sorry, but I refuse. And no, it's not just because she's emaciated (I'm convinced the inside-walls of her skin on opposite sides of her body actually touch in some places): it's because I can see her skull. Not her face, I mean the actual contours of the bones that make up her head. Most of us have body fat, which deposits in some places in our faces, which in turn helps us to connote or transmit our emotional state via our ever-changing expressions, something which Ms. Knightly is sadly unable to do. It scares me, frankly. But I suppose when you're British, all you have to do to be considered "hot" is to have semi-straight teeth, a nose too small to steer a boat with and any semblance of a discernable chin. This explains why people think the equally frightening Posh Spice is "hot".

But I do like Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman and I got to see a boobie (Laura Linney! That one goes on the list), so it wasn't a total loss.

I'm not sure how to close this post other than to say the cast did include Colin Firth. I swear to God that motherfucker is stalking me.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.1


Pops


PS: Bit of a ramble, innit?

- posted by Pops @ 10:41 PM