The Olive Press

I was reading an article about abstinence in Rolling Stone magazine when I stumbled upon a picture caption under a lovely snapshot of a woman dolled up like some kind of freaky Jesus porcelain doll. The dancer, as the caption reminded me, was too short to be a Rockette, but her lusty long legs and her heavy bosom were untouched by a man because she wanted her purity to be a secret from all heaving neantherdals. It was about that time when I decided that I ought to take some sort of action against this neo-abstinence thing. Granted, abstinence has a long history of social acceptance, and man (and woman's) control over carnal lust has been adored and adulated since sin was fathomed, but I doubt that the media blitz of purity campaigners was as pronounced as it is today. Some how, I cannot imagine that the popes of the middle ages conducted poster campaigns with witty slogans such as "Cherry picking is best left for the fruits. They're going to hell anyway."

Really, I dont have anything against people who desire to save themselves until marriage, or until the first willing anal experimenter. The in-your-face virginity advertising and gloats only miff me slightly, not really enough to actually use my energy to write something damning. What really ticks me off is how people keep portraying virginity as a gift to be given. It irks me that people have taken a noun, carried it up on the mountain, and have sat it there without caring that the thin mountain air will eventually ravage its delicate lungs. I may not me making much sense, so let me attempt to illustrate what I mean with a few sentences.

"She is a virgin."

Lets deconstruct this sentence. We have the pronoun "she," which is the subject of the sentence. The predicate, or "is a virgin," consists of a verb, an article, and another noun. This, in short, implies that the pronoun, "she," is in the act of being a virgin. That, I believe, is the proper way to describe a virgin. It ought to stop there, but language is a flexible and sometimes malodorous being which, when used incorrectly, billows forth like a foamy cloud of mustard gas. The only difference is that language doesn't char the lungs of those it infects, although it may have a disastrous influence on the minds of its hosts.

The proper statement of "She is a virgin," gave way to "She has her virginity." Ah, "virgin," has now mutated into a new noun, "virginity." The mutation eliminated the process of being and has now substituted it with the process of having. We aren't virgins as much as we contain a mythical substance, ordained "virginity." This is where the language mutates much like a malfeasant cancer. Because "virginity," is now a state of having, it can be freely given. A girl gives a guy her virginity. I'm left to wonder where she stores her virginity. Apparently, she stores it in some kind of box. Now, I've been with a virgin before and I definitely did not see a virginity in her box. Perhaps I wasn't looking for the right thing? Was it supposed to come in a pretty little package with shiny paper wrapping and a little, cute bow on top?

I know a few of you are claiming that the virginity of which I speak is nothing more than the hymen. I remain unconvinced that the hymen is a true sign of virginity. Most girls tear their hymen when they are children. I mean, horseback riding, gymnastics, and other activities which exert pressures on the crotch muscles will eliminate any flimsy sort of vaginal covering. Also, if the girl uses tampons, chances are she ruptured her hymen. A few of you claim that bleeding after the first intercourse is a true sign of a ruptured virginity. Baby, if the girl bleeds after her first intercourse, she either wasn't wet enough, or you thrust like an uncouth, inexperienced prick. Next time, might I suggest lube, longer bouts of foreplay, and the sort of rocking motion that doesn't resemble the bolt-action of an automatic gun?

This, of course, brings me back to my original irritant, the secret of the virginity, which sounds like a bad B grade mystery flick, if you ask me. The Rockette failure claimed that her virginity was her biggest secret. I have pictures in my head of another white bread, virile Christian man donning a fedora and entering her cavernous caverns of carnal copulation in search of the secret virginity. Ah, little man, take a left at the cervix and watch out for the host of white, amoebic demons! Funnies, aside, what is the secret of the virginity? Is it in how she fucks? I bet, with all her experience, provided she doesn't read Cosmo, she'll lay there like a log and wait for the holy spirit to descend upon her and take her up to the majestic lands of orgasm, if she's even aware that such a state exists for women. Most likely, the man who possesses her will claim that her secret was that she fucks like a dead fish.

Even if the virginity of a woman was a sure, physical thing, then that does not discount the fact that no man has any physical evidence of his virginity. So, when a man claims that he's saving his virginity, or that he'll give his wife his virginity on his wedding night, to what exactly does he refer? When I lost my virginity (I found it under the couch cushions a few years later), I didn't feel like I did anything but dirty up another condom. But, if I must be honest, I confess that I did not explore what I left in the condom for any traces of virginity. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know for what I'm looking.

I know I'm being a bit literal and that "virginity" is one of those metaphorical nouns, much like the soul, or the spirit. People, obviously, have no qualms about buying, selling, or saving souls. Why, then, should they have any qualms about keeping virginities secret or saving them in boxes for the proper person? I suppose that's all fine and dandy, but I would much rather they keep their metaphorical virginities secret and away from my precious media waves. Allow us our useless metaphors about the taste of language (Alpha-bits does not count as eating a word), and the stench of an idea (Woa, Einstein left a big, stinky one!), but keep your virginities under the covers.


(Yes, this was written tongue in cheek, but I think I made some interesting points.)

D

I believe...that hotdogs and buns ought to both come in packages of eight

I believe many things. I believe that it's hard for me to write, sometimes. I believe that fruits are best eaten outside. I believe that hot weather should be complemented with a cool chick. I believe that art is the pinnacle of human creation. I believe that most T.V. is junk, and that the collective intelligence would be higher if people actually read something worthwhile every so often. Like I said, I believe many things.

I really dont want to write about everything I believe because such an ontology would take up more time than both you and I have. Granted, I have more time than I know what to do with, and I never thought I'd be in that kind of situation, but between you and I, I really dont feel like writing such an exhaustive list. Instead, I'd like to write about a few ideas that massaged my mind while I was out running.

I'm not really a runner. I'm more of a panter. I think most of my exercise comes from the amount of panting I do while attempting to run long, inhumane distances (three or four miles). The facial distortions at the end of the run have to be worth a few hundred calories per tic. So, rather than focusing on the sheer activity that is running, I often let my thoughts wander in order to forget that I am subjecting my body to something that might be considered a Gitmo torture. Sometimes I think about the life I left behind. I'm always leaving lives behind, but that happens when change pounces. Other times, I think about the decisions I made that culminated in a run down a Phoenix side street. I don't mean the kind of decisions that began the same hour in which the run was begat, but the kind of decisions that spiraled into the glorious flame-out of which I am a part.

I didn't contemplate that existential line of thinking long and I barely touched on other important subjects (to law, or to teach). Instead, I decided to focus on something in which I really believed. I believe cities have auras which affect those who live in them and in their metro areas. When people visit a city, part of the incredible glow of passion comes from the culture clash, or rather, the mixture of auras. Yeah, people bring their city auras with them. I'm not sure how long it takes for a city aura to dissipate. When I lived in D.C., I never completely cast off my Chicago aura. After a few months of D.C. life, I think I was assimilated into D.C. culture. Of course, when I moved back to Chicago, my D.C. aura was immediately discarded. The home aura is the most natural.

I'm not really in the mood to describe the auras of all the cities I've visited. My head still throbs from running in the heat. Even though I ran at 8 at night, it was still over 100 degrees. I don’t care if it’s a dry heat. The oven is a dry heat, but the food gets cooked all the same. Some auras, though, are preferable to others. I love Boston, D.C., Chicago, and San Francisco. I wouldn't mind living in any of those cities, although San Francisco is highest on my list because of the incredible weather (Fog and rain don't bother me that much) and the passionately bohemian culture which rises rampant off the bay.

I'm not in San Francisco, though. That much is apparent. I'm in Phoenix, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I've been making friends, and I have a lot coming in from other states. That is a good thing. Once I acquire my own car (convertible with manual transmission), I'll be free to make my way around as I please. Things will be even better when I find my own apartment, over in the east valley. One hundred mile round trips from bars do become tiring after awhile.

I really dont mean to constantly rag on 'nix. It's a good city with good people. There certainly are some good looking women here. People weren't kidding. But, I'm not quite sure what to make of the Phoenix aura. Some cities give off their auras liberally and I need not be there for long to sense the vibes emanating from the wealth of the cities. Boston battered me with aura the moment I stepped in it, as did Los Angeles and San Francisco. Phoenix, on the other hand, has been very subtle with its aura output. Every so often I breathe in and think to myself that, ah, this is the Phoenix smell, then a wave of revulsion hits me and I realize that I just inhaled a bug or something. I highly doubt that searing, oppressing heat and a multitude of winged exoskeletons defines Phoenix.

The nightlife is the most vibrant part of a city. Without a nightlife, the city would wither and collapse under the weight of its own ennui. The funny thing about 'nix is that the nightlife is outsourced. I've yet to go drinking and dancing in Phoenix proper. That honor is reserved for Scottsdale, Glendale, and Tempe. The funny thing about that is the bars aren't filled to maximum capacity. I'm told that the summer is the reason for the occasional club breathing space. Call me biased, but I doubt that a club in Chicago will have empty tables because all of the college students have gone home. A small part of me wants to believe that ASU and ASU-West is the life blood of the Phoenix night life, but an even larger part of me, the part that wants a decent summer night life, denies it completely. I just havent found the right clubs to hit, although I've hit quite a number.

I'm going to give Phoenix a few more months before I decide whether this will be my place for a few years. I dont think I'll ever be able to call Phoenix home. Well, I dont want to say that for sure. There might be a chance that I'll settle down here. It all depends on my social life and if I'm able to make the proper connections.

I dont mean to be so morose. I'm just having a hard time adapting to all this change. I went from a thriving, burgeoning social scene to spending most of my time watching daytime TV with my mother. She likes Buffy, Angel, and Charmed. I'm going to gut myself.

Pictures

I finally uploaded some of the pictures I took during my two week road trip. Seeing that it was about 5am when I posted, I'm sure you'll forgive the dangling modifier and lack of picture captions.


The Route

Hey, Ho. Let's Go

Surprisingly, the episodes of the last week have not killed me. I do, however, have a painful bruise on my solar plexus that serves as a rather colorful reminder that booze and fences do not mix. I am tempted to rampage around town screaming lines from "Mending Wall," but devout fans of Frost would likely eviscerate me before any real damage is done. To tell the truth, I really dont mind fences. We have one, and it's the first fence of ours that actually walls in the yard. I am able to let my dog out to shit with abandon without fear that he'll run off and cause another biped to shit in fear. I have already survived one minor dog mauling (Sorry!) and would not want to inflict on another the utter embarrassment that arises when a little thing with a mouth full of teeth inflicts damage.

"Aw, isn't that a cute little thing."
"Rowr."
Chaos. Mayhem. Screaming like a little girl. Silence. The screen fades out and fin.

Other than doing repairable damage to my body (although my mind is another matter) I have been busy working on the feng shui of my room. I certainly do not prescribe to the actual philosophy of feng shui, and no little chinese women will be found wandering my room in search of its center of chi. The actual flow of goodness in my room will have to remain its present course and I can only modify it with my own belated undertakings. The addition of a rubber plant, which is a real fern, mind you, brings shocks of colour and gives me the sensation that I'm cleansing the bad air. At times I find myself talking to the plant, begging it to make me breathe something other that the putrid stench of failure which occasionally wafts through the windows from the direction of the midwest. Go, little plant! Make my lungs wonderful!

I have also placed various framed edifices around my room. Over the center of my door, where all sorts of negative space gathers and cackles its white cackle, I huge a favorite frame given to me by a former professor. The frame contains a saying by Cicero which resonates deeply.

"To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child."

I had told my teacher that I wanted that particular quote above any classroom in which I taught. I must admit that I had robbed the idea, but not the quotation, from a movie which I enjoyed. Regardless of the seed, the sprout gets daily eye-time before I dilly off to sleep to dream of happy things, like blue eyes and rainy libations. I'm not exactly sure what about that quote appeals to me, but it is probably related to my eternal befuddlement on the nature of people and their approach to education. People generally seem to agree that education is a valuable, and even noble, endeavor, but I constantly meet people who would rather not be educated. Their ignorance is a sweet science that they savor each time they refuse to question or study. This is especially pronounced in the deaf world (according to statistics pulled out of my experiences) where people seem content to graduate high school and immediately attach themselves to the government teat. I have asked many why they did not continue on until college. Many are convinced that they can make do without a degree. I do my best to get them back on the proper track, but after a few minutes of not-so-subtle hints, I shuffle back and bid them the best of my luck. Those who need education the most deny themselves the ability to excel.

Shit. Now I have Barbara Streisand screeching in my head. People who need people ought to head to strip clubs.

Perpetual frustrations aside, my forays into the feng shuiness of my room have led to little bits of happiness. I'm able to enter my room without immediately looking for a doctor. I even accidentally created a bit of an ark of tabernacle above my head with candle sticks and a coffin incense burner. The comfort level of my room rose marginally and all sorts of animals, including myself, take refuge in its goodness. I have, at points, attempted to move bits of foodstuff only to find that said foodstuff is an insect annoyed at being disturbed. While I dont mind the occasional living creature, I draw the line at exto-skeletons and any being that bears one will be immediately snuffed.

My head throbs a mighty wail. I really dont feel much like continuing.