Stroking the Egos of Men

I’m a little behind on this. That’s because I wasn’t going to say anything about it but it’s built to a point in me that I can’t let it go, just like my love for Matt.

There was this football game in 2004 where Janet Jackson performed a concert during the part where the players take a break from trying to beat each other to a bloody pulp, return to the locker room and slap each other with towels. At the end of this concert, Justin Timberlake brought sexy back by ripping off a piece of Janet’s corset, allegedly to reveal her red lace bra underneath. But somehow, poor Justin must have accidentally ripped off more than he should have, for there was Janet’s right breast (with the nipple covered by a kind of brooch that looked like a silver star) exposed for all the world to see. Well, maybe not all the world, but a reported audience of 140 million, who were apparently so offended by the horrific turn of events that the second-and-a-half mishap was declared the most-searched-for event in internet history, with 60 times as many search requests as the Paris Hilton sex tape and 80 times as many as Britney Spears, who my brother claims is “hotter than a two-dollar pistol on a Saturday night.”

Federal Communications Commission Chairman Michael Powell was watching the game with his two children and reportedly found the incident “outrageous.” CBS, who aired the event, and MTV, who promoted it, both issued apologies, but the stock price of Viacom, CBS’ parent company, rose more than 1 percent the following day. Janet was badgered to make an apology of her own, but Timberlake didn’t need to be asked, as he immediately distanced himself from Janet and issued this little press release: “I am sorry if anyone was offended by the wardrobe malfunction during the halftime performance at the Super Bowl. It was not intentional and is regrettable.” Why, even the White House got into the spirit of renouncing Janet as a sex fiend on a mission to corrupt minors, putting out this statement: “Our view is that it’s important for families to be able to expect a high standard when it comes to programming.” What, Janet’s boobies are subpar?

There are several problems I have with all this. The first is, if MTV wasn’t aware of what was going to go down, why was their website in the week leading up to the event broadcasting this little tease: “Janet Jackson's Super Bowl show promises shocking moments.” Hmmm? Also, there seems to be a great deal of concern for the sensibilities of minors who may have been watching this “game.” American football is not exactly a peaceful, Scrabble-like contest where opponents match their wits with one another using highly-practiced brain power. In fact, there were three fatalities in 2005 alone from football-related brain injuries. Two of the deaths were high-school students and one a professional player. So I’m given to understand that deadly violence is okay for children to witness, but human anatomy is off limits. Thank you for explaining that to me, I shall try to keep it in mind.

But wait – this year, the little sporting spectacle took place again, but with a halftime concert performance by Prince, the former slave of Warner Bros. (that’s what he scrawled on his cheek during 1994 negotiations with the entertainment giant). He played four songs and then launched into his signature tune, Purple Rain, during which his shadow was projected onto an enormous sheet – a shadow that highlighted the phallic nature of his specially-crafted guitar. And the diminutive performer took it one step further by simulating a bit of self love on his, er, instrument. The reaction to this was a bit of good-natured teasing from late show hosts Craig Ferguson and Stephen Colbert, and a slap-on-the-wrist mention on foxnews.com.

Greg Aiello, spokesman for the NFL, who produced this year’s halftime show, commented: “…it takes quite a leap of the imagination to make a controversy of his performance. It’s a guitar.” Okay, I can’t argue with that, it was indeed a guitar. But Gavin Edwards, a contributing editor at Rolling Stone, remembers during Prince’s Purple Rain tour in the mid-1980s, he performed with a guitar that would ejaculate, that is, spurt water out of its end during the, uh, climax of the song Let’s Go Crazy. So what were Prince’s intentions when he stroked his long-neck guitar in larger-than-life silhouette in front of the sensitive Super Bowl viewing audience? We may never know. But this is the man who prompted Tipper Gore to begin her campaign to include warning labels on CDs after she heard the song Darling Nikki, in which the elfin musician sang “I knew a girl named Nikki, I guess you could say she was a sex fiend/I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine.”

So my question is: why was there so little commotion raised over this bout of sexual expression, when the entire country went crazy after viewing Janet Jackson’s right breast covered only by a nipple-brooch? I’m guessing it’s because Prince is a man, football games are watched by men and all men understand what Prince is referring to when he strokes his musical euphemism. But hold on a minute, why should American men, who seem to be fascinated by breasts (note the existence of Jugs magazine), be so outraged by the display of such a common piece of flesh? Ah, therein lays the mystery. But it would seem to me, if men celebrated Janet’s breasts, they might just be endowing them with the power they actually have, whereas, if they feign shock and rush to lock up the wives and children to prevent them from viewing such offensive matter, they are successfully keeping the woman in her place. Maybe Janet’s album 20 YO didn’t sell as well as her previous offerings because she isn’t currently barefoot and pregnant? But perhaps Janet can stroke Prince’s guitar on the cover of her next disc and that will make everything right again?

I Guess Not

This morning, I came up from a hole in the ground, paid too much for caffeine in a cup that burned my hand and headed toward my office. On the corner, every day, is a man handing out free local newspapers. Most days, when I walk past, he shouts out the name of the paper, kind of like those cute little London street vendors in the movie Oliver! (“Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny”). But today, as I completely ignored his outstretched hand, which, by the way, was totally in my face, he said “Have a nice day.” Since I don’t know him, I have no concern for his paper, and I’m not really a morning person, I said nothing. I’m not interested in a conversation in the morning, I’m interested in getting to my desk where I can take the lid off my overpriced and overheated coffee. As I passed by, since I made no response to his “Have a nice day” comment, he added “I guess not!” Well that was uncalled for, I thought.

This man has decided to call into judgment my morning demeanor. And to comment on it as if he were Simon Cowell and had ratings to uphold. I could understand this need he had to let me know of his dissatisfaction with my attitude had I, say, been kicking puppies to the curb and swinging kittens around by their tail over my head, but no, I was just walking. I did nothing to him, said nothing to him, indeed, failed to bring him into focus at all, and yet, I seem to have touched a nerve in the poor guy.

Kind of reminds me of the time I answered a man’s plea for “spare change” on the Avenue of the Americas with a sympathetic “I’m sorry,” to which he responded “You ain’t sorry!” Well, yes, actually, I am. I’m sorry you feel urged on by something great inside you to approach strangers in the street for assistance. I’m sorry you don’t understand that although all men are brothers, not all men have an abundance of “spare change.” And I’m sorry you’ve become disillusioned to the ways of the world to the extent you feel people you don’t know have some obligation toward you.

In this country we have community outreach programs to help disenfranchised individuals, as well as many social services that can be accessed through local religious centers and government offices. Although I am someone the current White House resident might call a “bleeding heart liberal,” I don’t actually have any spare change at this time. I have pressing concerns of my own which demand every bit of my change, so as empathetic as I may be toward the unfortunate plight of those who have less funding than I, I’m afraid I can’t act as payroll administrator for them.

The act of depending on the kindness of strangers is not new. In NYC, it’s grown so prevalent that a few years ago, it was deemed inappropriate in a legal kind of way for people to ask for money on the subway. This was great news for me, as I never could stomach being a captive audience for those who were homeless, sick, just out of prison or somehow maimed in a war someone other than I sent them to fight. The fact that it’s now illegal to ask strangers to contribute toward one’s cost of living doesn’t really act as a deterrent. Some still come on the train and make an impassioned speech to those of us just trying to focus on our romantic fiction while being jostled about with 1,427 people we don’t really have any interest in spending time with. Others, however, have become even more resourceful. One older blind man sings for his spare change. He taps out a rhythm with his cane and belts out his medley of hits from the late 70’s, Always and Forever followed by Do Ya Think I’m Sexy, in a tenor voice that sounds to me like a cross between Billie Holiday and Macy Gray. There’s also a Mariachi band and a group of five men who sing doo wop. This is all on the R train. Well, as nice as it is to be entertained, it’s also very distracting when you’re trying to read. But does that matter to these entrepreneurial gentlemen? I guess not.

What I suppose I’m trying to say is, if Matt Damon
were sitting next to me on the train ride either to or from my office, I would indeed think he’s sexy, but I wouldn’t want him to pose that question to me in song. And if he were handing out free local newspapers on the street corner, I would request that he understand his position. He accepted the job of distributing the news for whatever they’re paying him. That would mean that, as beautiful as he would be thrusting his hand into people’s faces, no one is actually required to speak to him or to accept his free litter box liner. Now, do you suppose Mr. Free Press can grasp that concept? I guess not!