By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
"Cover it up, sweetie pie"—and strap on that chastity belt because "Commie Girl" is actually Carrie Nation the Younger in feminist drag. You, Rebecca Schoenkopf, are more Stalinist than repression allows you to know, as could only be apposite in the psychosexual tyranny of boors and its premier gulag known as Orange County—your sarcasm and contempt for all things erotic glint of the "sexual decadence" laws of the former Soviet Union. In this, you more colorfully outperform your predecessor, Ms. Rose Apodaca Jones, who once wrote about a nightclub's clients that they "were too alive to worry about sex."
Lack of orgasm during intercourse and an unshakable castration complex qualify just about anyone with a B.A. in English to jot for the Weekly about OC "nightlife" (at least Mr. Michael Alarcon seemed to love the opposite sex, but, oh, what are appearances?). Perhaps instead of thinking in clichťs, you should actually observe what's happened to our culture in the past 20 years, which is visible tenfold in any Orange County nightclub: Mae West, Janis Joplin and Gayle Rubin lost; Nancy Reagan, Alanis Morissette and Andrea Dworkin won. According to the Feb. 10, 1999, Journal of the American Medical Association, 43 percent of American women admit—and these are the ones admitting—to little or no interest in sex and an "inability" to orgasm. According to my friend and translator from Copenhagen: "Why are these American women so spiteful?" Women have regressed on their own navigation to the worst prudishness since the '50s. It's The Donna Reed Show with navel rings.
Let's review some of your stereotypical remarks from a random column (Commie Girl, June 4):
"Whatever happened to buying a broad a nice [drink]." Whatever happened to women sharing and rejoicing in their Californian economic parity with men and buying a man a drink, or even starting a conversation? It died in the '70s. Then, women understood men were fun things to fuck, not mere conduits for Boolean algebra. In 35 years, no woman has ever: 1) bought me a drink; 2) started a conversation; 3) approached me for sex. But in Germany and Holland, all these wonderful events befell me (oh and, of course, I'm ugly because I've earned only $120 per hour as a facial model and am 5-foot-4, a hopeless defect in Surf City, but what could looks matter when all value is reckoned in dollars? This is our first principle of aesthetics). The Orange County female could be a sexual subject, but so much more pleasure drips from whining of "being treated as an object," circling purses and rationalizing years-long celibacy, a new totemic ritual that anthropology has yet to well-document.
As for your appeal to the management for boy dancers, that supposes at least some women would be conscious of their (heterosexual) longings, and where is the evidence of such consciousness? Recently at Club Lunch, all the girls ignored the beautiful black man dancing, and, of course, those sideburned, barbarian men have no bisexual impulses. George, the Boom Boom Room dancer? Ah, yes, of course, a gay man is the object of your lust. I'll copy Karl Abraham's article "The Female Castration-Complex" for you; I'm too impatient to explain this old story.
The "sullen, silent" men? They're sullen because the answer is either "no, I have a boyfriend" or "no." Chris Rock pointed out that 90 percent of American women have sex with about 10 percent of the men. He's only half-right; half of American women don't have sex at all. Unless you're a movie star, forget it, boys; move to Europe or the Philippines.
When it comes to the girls "mocking" the go-go girl, this only happens when prudettes resent their precious commodity being undermined by an "easy"—that is, free-thinking and free-fucking—girl. Nothing's more hateful than philanthropy to the genital monopolists. For a "socialist," Ms. Commie Girl, you appear unpardonably ignorant of how modern women —excluding the flappers of the '20s and the hippie chicks of the '60s and '70s—have "gone into business for themselves." Wake up. To hoard, pawn and barter the body and mind is to cheapen them into commodity.
Incidentally, not all strippers are meth addicts, but most don't enjoy their instincts, except exhibitionism. Nor are all prostitutes victims of childhood sexual trauma; one of my girlfriends was an ex-prostitute, and she was the victim of Christian parents who refused to let her go on dates. So she left home at 17 and found a job she loved because she got to choose. . . . Oh, well, I won't bore you with details that might threaten your prejudice.
There actually ARE bisexual women, but Chasing Amy "was just a movie, boys"? Well, the movie did chronicle well how neurotic and uptight sexual life in the '90s is—and let's not excuse neurosis as rational fear of venereal disease when there are blood tests for all of them and HIV shows up within eight weeks of infection (Centers for Disease Control report, '98).
"Show me your papers!" isn't romantic? Aw, well, you can always sit at home and write tirades like this—or, wait, isn't there a new situation comedy debuting soon so we all can feel like we're fucking?
Oh, well, I'm sleepy, the war is lost, and it's too bad everyone can't make love instead of war.—Jason Lynn, a.k.a. Elagabalus, via e-mail