If You Can't Dance Too

There is a certain species of man who approaches women he desires with what might at first be considered attentive criticism. Because I have been a performer and a public person, this man has approached me many times, in many forms. Once, the women's clinic in defense of which I'd devoted two years and over 100 Saturdays was firebombed. I was asked to give a speech at a ceremony, and I did. A man sidled up to me and said, confidentially, "I saw your hands shake." It was not lost on me that he chose a moment of incalculable loss and terror to mention my insecurity as if only he understood me, in a way that might make it worse. This man insults for attention. He will observe your accomplishment and curl his lip. Most recently, a man interested in dating asked about PIC's stats, and when I told him between 450-750 unique visitors drop in daily, he said, "I don't read personal blogs. How many people did you have to blow for that?"

Hilarious. Women can only get ahead on their knees. I've never heard that one before. This man will be the first to cry foul if you suggest he's a misogynist. His manner is mild, his eyes are bright and they follow but make no mistake. There is a certain man who thinks women should be quiet, and if he has anything to say about it, no one will hear a word you say - especially not him.

There is a certain man who thinks women do not rock. On Friday night, I went to a basement show at the bar in which I spent a good chunk of the last twenty years. Some nights, I was the only woman in the joint. On Friday, I arrived to find a Jimi Hendrix cover band on stage and cranking. There is a certain man who wants to see a faithful recreation of something long past. Usually, he is in his mid-forties to mid-fifties, hasn't cut his hair in three years and believes women should never touch guitars. Few of this species of man were in the basement Friday night, but musicians in the audience burst into applause after every blistering solo. The band was tight and deadly serious, though I laughed behind my hand at the oddness of the singer's Castillian accent - not that he wasn't good. His tone and inflection were perfect. But so?

The third band was RayC/DC, which was composed of bored members of True Love and the Groucho Marxists playing out just for fun. Their covers were perfect and when Chris threw his guitar on the ground and sprinted for the men's room I almost fell off my barstool. It was a riot and I do not regret losing beauty sleep.

In between, a Runaways cover band called The Stay-At-Homes tore up the stage. It was an excellent spoof, complete with in-character bitchy bickering and upstaging, of a - pardon me - seminal corporate girl band by skilled actors and musicians, and I laughed from the moment they tuned up until they said goodnight. You should see this band because these women can really play and everyone loves a too-short Catholic school girl skirt. For about half their set, the intense guitarist with the Castillian accent stood next to me, facing away. Every few minutes, he muttered, "Tsk!" because these girls should leave playing out to the Real Men. I've seen the hostility so many times I laughed at him, which of course he didn't hear. I'm a woman, after all, and I should be at home, waiting for someone.

There is a certain man who does not love women. I get frustrated with the demand for credentials from younger femininsts who seem to think I should fight every fight. I get confused when presented with a new front to fight on twice a week - or worse, a new assault on the same old affronts. If you think you can bargain with the anti-choice movement you haven't paid attention for the last thirty years; equivocation has always failed. Stop it. Without ifs or maybes, your medical procedures are between you and your doctor - forgive me - period, without intervention from anyone else. (And it has not escaped my notice that every time I hear Concerned Women For America speak, the representative is a man.) My feminism will not be yours because my life experience has been different from yours. The compromises I've made to survive have been my own. I'm not going to apologize nor will I engage a young woman in conversation about the purity of my politics or hers. We make mistakes. At some point, we come up against a situation where we have to do something we don't like to pay the rent. We all do. A certain man is waiting for us.

I am not the enemy. We do have one.

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Thanks to Mr. DBK for help lining up those pronouns.

Update: See comments here for the circular firing squad shit that simply must stop but won't.