Story without end

So, you know that guy at the cafe who said he wanted to have a tiny little woman (sort of Tinkerbell's size) to keep him company? I couldn't tell whether he was being facetious. Yet, there is no other physical creature that can please us visually simply by existing -- by moving with grace, her hair swaying, her hips swaying, her long legs ever so gracefully moving over the same earth that we hairy brutish simians stomp and stumble, gouging out marks as we go, lifting our legs to pee here and there, marking our territory.

How pathetic is a male? Today I watched a dog, straining against his leash, come to a stop by a light pole so he could spray his mark. I suppose the smell from that must have meant a lot to all the other sniffing canines as they passed by that same light pole today.

Males in most warm-blooded species of mammals have certain undeniable advantages. We are bigger, stronger, and more aggressive, generally, than females. In many of our societies, we have established gender hegemony. I'm thinking of the U.S. of my youth, when it was hard for an educated woman to do anything more than work as a teacher, nurse, or secretary.

I'm also thinking of the Muslim world, especially Afghanistan, where I used to live. There, women were covered head to toe by the chadori, with only a tiny triangular set of viewing and breathing holes over their faces to help them see where they were going without fainting in the desert heat.

And then we have Japan, where traditionally women end up so subservient to men that they artificially raise their voices an octave, tap their feet together and bow obsequiously, and emit the word "hai!" repeatedly.

So, yes, over my life I've seen how it is for women. In addition I have three daughters. I have many women friends. I've had a number of partners who shared their experiences and perceptions with me.

From the first moment I heard about it, I instinctively supported what was then called the "women's lib" movement, i.e., feminism. There was never any doubt that the oppression my sisters faced paralleled what blacks, homosexuals, and other minorities encountered in this culture dominated by white men.

However, I am, for better or worse, a white man, though admittedly a screwed up one, whose only societal identity has always been that of an outsider. Nevertheless, although I've supported every progressive civil rights effort I've encountered by attending marches, giving speeches, writing articles, and adjusting my own behavior when indicated, I would never call myself a feminist.

I recall a marriage counselor, one of many I met during my doomed second marriage, who proudly proclaimed that he was a "feminist." I said I was not. I also thought he was a hypocritical fool for saying that, and that he was probably trying to curry favor with my wife by doing so.

How can any honest man declare himself to be a feminist? Feminism has brought men nothing but pain. That doesn't mean that it isn't right or just or that we should not endorse its goals and do our best to help it achieve its goals. But, any honest man knows what this is about is the loss of power we once had, in real time, must as the fabled British Empire lost its India, its Malaysia, its Middles East and Africa and America, the Caribbean, and pretty much everything else except Canada and Australia, insofar as their currency still carries a photo of Britain's Queen.

I'm quite excited. Later this month I may have the opportunity to visit Vancouver, B.C., for my first time ever. My family has history there, Aunt Helen and her son Alan, lived there when I was raising my first three kids in the Haight. They visited us once. That was right about the time a distant cousin of mine, a beautiful Scottish woman named Cheryl Kennedy, arrived in town with a lead part in a major theatrical performance.

Another old friend lives in Vancouver. We have not seen each other in over two decades.

The reason I may go there, if I do, is to help another friend extract herself from a rather talkative companion for a night or two. If this sounds like a flimsy excuse for a trip, I'll cop to that. I probably have other objectives in mind.

But even if I didn't, what could be better proof that we are still alive and curious about how it will all turn out than our impetuous choice to visit a city we've always heard was wonderful, but never have visited?

Any excuse can be fine. After all, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.