We revere sports heroes, rap stars, movie star icons, and anyone who can stand out and show that they made their mark decisively and finally. Do good driving in a circle in a fast car, and you’re golden. Because the little people need heroes. Because. Oops – do we really want too much introspection about that? We know how much horror the knowledge of the sciences has wreaked upon us. Better to let it rest this time?
Society is built upon … umm, society is constructed out of… umm, society is a system of social roles, that function together, and by nature is striated. We want, and we try to get what we want, and some people get less and some people get more, and we trade favors and try to be the people who get more. Either by political patronage or by civic duty, the sytem works such that we try to get what we want. Some guys get all the pussy and money, some girls get all the girls favoring them to get the best guys, and etc. Teenager prom King and Queen business that all primates innately get. We are after being on top, one way or the other.
I understand that some people don’t think merely in terms of physical sexual tension, and consider that money has other uses. Benefit of family, housing, food. Security. Personally, I think it always comes back down to sex.
I think all social hierarchy is about access to pussy and cock. Sure, food and shelter come into play. But food and shelter are monetized to get access to the important things in life.
Let’s stretch that out a bit. For a man, much importance is placed upon his immediate emotional need for a little whiff of female neck. For a woman, wouldn’t a family feel right, and wouldn’t that family that her family demands fare better in the best possible environment.
Sure, a woman wants smells. But decisions about family and decisions about tonight are like decisions about how much to drink on New Years Eve and how much to drink for the rest of your life.
I’m blathering old ideas, because women socially construct reality against simple ideas that are unfavorable to their power. Women know well the power of social construction, as their gossip can alter the direction of marriages and small communities. Lately, they over estimate the power of social construction, and that pisses of pragmatists who just want to get things done without religious beliefs of some Crowd getting in their way.
The concept of “politically correct” is feminine. Or rather, anti-feminine, as calling shenanigans tends to be an anti-group-think male thing to do. I’m putting things in categories, not to divide, but to invite fresh decisions about categories. It doesn’t have to be the categories of male or female. In or out-group is the primate category we are stuck with – our groups just happen to also divide along gender. Even if we became like the new polar bears and because of carpet protectant accumulating up the fishy food chain grew both sets of genitals, we’d still have the us and them mentality to fuck up all our thoughts and make us categorize everything.
Wait… I’ve got a great story. I was looking at a pie graph today, and on the right hand was the key to the colors, in little sqares. A picture of a red square was beside the printed words of what that portion of the pie represented. Below that a blue square, and the explanaion. Then a green square and its representation in the pie. Then yellow, then turquoise, then some kind of purple only graphic designers of uncertain sexual orientation know the name of. Fuscia? Here is the punch line. I saw the 3rd small green match up with color large swatch of the pie that was the color turquoise. I thought the little green square was turquoise, and I SAW turquoise. Even after I realized my mistake, I could look at the green square, and it would turn into turquoise. I could see how associating the little square with a piece of the pie chart would alter what color I perceived. Right in front of my eyes, green became turquoise, because I associated it with something I knew.
You’d think colors are colors.
But the brain doesn’t work that way. Colors are also associations. Every bit of knowledge has a familial history, and exists only in context. Even primary colors exist in dependance.
I could say politics, or philosophy. But in this little essay I’m trying to make things simpler, not richer. Yes, perspective always changes and we have no self that rides our surf board. Except that we do, and it looks a lot like all of our ancestors looked like. We can see our commonality with our ancestors in our actions, and for me I see actions as a world removed from thoughts.
And so we need leaders. To remind us that green is green. To remind us that white is “in”, this season. We gladly pay taxes to the political machine because we identify with the heroes we want to become. We want a piece of that iconic power, and so trade favors in hope and expectation. If I believe your story about green being green, maybe I stand a chance in your administration.
P.S. Alcohol plays into this and the above post. Neither would have been conceived or written without it. I’m into bad big bottle number two. The muse is a drunken whore – and don’t get irritated by the deliberate debasement. She is inconceivable and common and pops up in poop. So what does that make me? A drunken whore lover, I suppose. I’m not sure which memories will flash before me as I die, as my memories seem divided by substances, and the camps have distinct personalities. The meditative memories can’t be missed – but the drunken ones have more flair. Which self will flash by? It couldn’t possibly be a cohesive one.
Update: And so we need leaders. To remind us that green is green. To remind us that white is “in”, this season. We gladly pay taxes to the political machine because we identify with the heroes we want to become. We want a piece of that iconic power, and so trade favors in hope and expectation. If I believe your story about green being green, maybe I stand a chance in your administration.
That starts out as straight logic, moves into way too dry irony, becomes something we can agree with or that might raise a smile, and in the end bites our own ass. A sword with two edges is the best humor – it bites our own ass. It’s an indictement of the root of culture, how we see our world based on our political choices. Funny because it sucks and we suck, and it’s still true, and we still won’t change.
I’m leaving the broken stumbles of missing words in the post unedited, as I’d like the reader to appreciate just how fucked up I sometimes am when I write. And that just like those moments after dreams and before you arise, these drunken times are a temporary harmony with our excited and happy to join us muse.
And like half asleep laughing fits and other ephemera that has no footing in the seriousness of stature, or which part of what is supposed to gain a proper place in the scheme of things, I have no idea what the muse was up to with the title of this post. Beats me… For me, a Britney is a short hand term for some barely pubescent girl who has no concept of sexuality involving sex. A poser. A Poseur. Someone who likes to be looked at, but has no interest in giving head or getting deeply and permanently fucked.
So public battles might have related to our groupthink tendancy to battle alongside our alliances, and Britneys might have related to Southern people of the United States, who tend to vote repugnican. Let’s rename this Group Think and the Arrogance of Being Right.
(And yes, I’m at the service of and only speak the words of Bacchus again. Our dear Lord, or at least the number one girlfriend, above all others.)