The Dharma Bum

The Dharma Bum by Jaysen Buterin

"Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye

In every gesture dignity and love" - Book VIII, Paradise Lost

Maybe it's because of the fact that I have moved to Greensboro apparently at the height of its monsoon season.

Maybe 24 years of junk food, caffeine, TV babysitters, rock-n-roll arcanity and an annually snowballing cynicism have finally gone to my brain.

Maybe it's promise in a year of election.

Whatever the particular reason may be it seems that in the past few fortnights I've been afforded some rather acerbic glimpses into the universe in that seesaw, good luck/bad luck, Murphy's Law meets Ockham's Razor kindof way. One day I find out that I have free cable and HBO, the next - that I have less than two weeks to make an assiduous attempt at studying for the GRE so I can achieve a score with a modicum of grace. One day I get my first paycheck from my new job, and conversely, the next I pay the last of my life-sucking, capitalist debtors and have five dollars to live off of for two weeks. Normally during these ever-vacillating disparate turn of events I would say, "God, when do the locusts come?" Luckily for me I have my dearest Kindal (yes Marc I'm writing about her again),well, not completely about her. I had the fortune of going shopping all day with her (you figure out if that's the good day or the bad day, I'm not saying) and I got to see mankind in perhaps its truest form. That naked pristinity that leaves no room for a badge of honour to be worn or pinned on anything. I got a closer glimpse at the aberrancy of equanimity that, ideally, should be pandemic - that "in a perfect world" equality of power and responsibility that should theoretically dictate a fair dichotomy for both men and women. Of course, in theory, communism works, but that's beside the point.

You see dear readers, throughout history men have been under the intransigent misperception that they have been in control. While he's carried out senseless atrocities, created indescribable works of beauty, acted out of pure malevolence, and served as altruistic as possible, he seems to think he's had the power. WRONG. For give me the most sagacious of leaders, the most prolific of poets, the most pious of paladins and they all turn into mindless, drooling idiots when they set foot in a Victoria's Secret store.

What is it about the sight of silk, satin, and see-thru that reduces us to nodding savants? The most dangerous of us all being those who actually have the monetary means to justify the amourous ends. Think about it - what other infallible form of proof of power do you need than this? As soon as we step across that threshold we revert back to testosterone driven thirteen year olds learning about the birds and bees through late-night Cinemax movies, who would sell their souls to the Devil to see a girl in a push-up bra and garter belts, and now we're in a store full of them·the belts and bras that is.

I make no admonitions for my gender superfriends. For as egalitarian and respectful as I try (emphasis on "try", and usually succeed) to portray myself, I too am one of the hormone driven teenagers left to wander around the store while the wives, girlfriends, or friends actually shop. So while Kindal floated around the store looking for a wedding gift for a friend, I was left to fend for myself amongst that sea of sartorial sin, but at least I wasn't alone. I got to watch as other lads were asked, "Honey, would this look good on me?", to which they nodded in such a detached way as you could see their imaginations reeling and pining at the very thought. The funny thing is that the women would ask this for every item they would display, which further illustrates their flaunting of the power because they know we don't care. So long as there's cleavage, translucency, and some sort of "snap-button-clasp" thing that looks sexy but is still mindlessly simple enough for us to operate, we're three sheets to the wind. I bet the world could solve all its pugnacious and misanthropic problems if the UN had a peacekeeping force of Victoria's Secret models at its disposal. You could stop entire wars just with the sight of breasts ensconced in a "Body by Victoria" bra. I could solve the Middle East Peace Crisis with terms like "French cut", "crotchless", "thigh-high", and "strapless"·and of course, some visual aids too.

The battle of the sexes has long been over, and gentlemen, we didn't win·in fact, we got beat by girls - they're just waiting for us to realize it. Now some may say that it's not a battle of power that is necessary but a balance, and I agree wholeheartedly, if we as human beings were mature enough to realize this and get over whatever sophomoric desire it is we have to be better than someone else in that gloriously subaltern way we have. I'm not vilifying men, we've done that on all our own. I'm not objectifying women, the media has done that all on it's own. I'm just being facetious and having some fun with those biological inadequacies and inconsistencies that make us, us. A simple random lottery of meaningless tragedy in a series of near escapes does a body good, but remember boys and girls, Barbie is bad. Needless to say I escaped the Victoria's Secret store without spending any money (remember I have five dollars to my name) - but just wait for Christmas...I mean, umm, no. But don't worry about me - the locusts aren't coming, I get paid this week, and I've given up bad Aaron Spelling shows completely! I have however developed an alarming "Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel" habit. So as the sun sets slowly in the West, I bid you a fond farewell, from the check-out line at Victoria's Secret with the other drooling/nodding idiots as we happily pay for whatever it is we're buying, as long as it's got "snappy-button-claspy" things.

Goodnight kids.