Erotique Picasso and the Borders Romance Aisle

The first time I was in Paris, in 2001, my friend and I went to an exhibition at the Musee Jeu de Paume called Erotique Picasso.

It was interesting. It was filthy. I think it was banned in America.

At some point, my friend and I got separated, as we often do at these times, and I was left to wander around alone. For an artist known for his abstract paintings, these works were straightforward.  Literal.  They were profoundly graphic.

Most pointedly, there were several works, like the one featured in this post, that depicted women having sex with Minotaurs.  At the time, I have to say that I found it strange and thought provoking. Or you know - freaky and weird - depending on who you're talking to.

I had never given much thought to Minotaurs before, but I haven't thought about them in the same way since. 

When I met up with my friend again, she said "What do ya think?"

And I said "I think Pablo was a freak."

And she said "Word."

'Cause that's how little white girls from West Virginia talk to each other in France.

I thought about Erotique Picasso this week while I was over at the bookstore browsing around in the romance section.

What is going on out there? There are romances about women and vampires, women and warewolves, women and centaurs. Even Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility has been reimagined and Colonel Brandon has been turned into some sort of sea monster.  There very well may have been a Minotaur section that I just missed. 

Is this what we're doing now?  Are we getting turned on to the idea of sex and romance with men who may or may not be entirely human?   Are real men so infernally boring that we have turned our lustful dreams towards vampires and men who are half horse?  Half sea monster?

Although I haven't actually read any of these books, I have been noticing their proliferation for a while now, mostly involving the vampire romances.  I, myself, am no less guilty of this, having had a long and happy lust affair with both James Marsters and David Boreanaz during the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" years.

What is it about a man with the soul of a human and the raging instincts of a beast?  Does this feed our desire to save or be saved?  Is it wrong for us to talk about the female urge to be so beautiful, so sexy, so unforgettably desirable that our love can transform a man from tortured monster to monogamous minivan dad? 

I don't know the answer to these questions.  I guess I was hoping that I'd throw it out there and maybe someone would have some thoughts or insights as to what exactly is going on here. Are we over the sensitive man?  We we ever really under him? 

Anyone?

Image:  Dora et le minotaure by Pablo Picasso

Full Grown Men

If it's Tuesday, you just know I had to go to Harris Teeter.

Before we start this, let's get a few things straight.

First, I didn't start this blog to talk about the Teeter or the people in it. However much I hate to admit it, though, my life is pretty mundane most of the time and a lot of stuff happens at the Teeter.

Second, as much as I swore that I would try to steer clear of blogging about the mundane, I swore to myself even more that I wouldn't use this blog as a platform to bitch about the mundane.

I am about to break both of those rules.

My best friend said to me, "You should blog about men more often."

The problem with that plan is that I don't really want to blog about men because right now I'm not dating and even if I was, wouldn't it be kind of tacky to blog about him?

The other reason I am loathe to discuss men is because I fear that I am bitter. Or maybe it's that I'll be perceived as bitter. I'm afraid ya'll will think I'm bitter and middle aged and living with dogs.

However, after tonight's Teeter encounter I decided to throw all these rules and trepidations out the window and talk about one of the things that bothers me most about men.

Ready? Here it is:

Men pretending to be boys. I think Newsweek even wrote an article about it. Perpetual Dude-dom or something.

Whatever you want to call it, it Drives. Me. Crazy.

Case in point: Man in line at the Teeter who we will refer to throughout this whole diatribe as "Carolina Boy".

We're gonna call him Carolina Boy because Carolina boys are all over the place down here and I guess you have to live with them to fully understand what I'm talking about. If you don't know, just roll with me for a moment. Let's just say that they are usually very tanned, very preppy, register Republican and have a leisure wardrobe made up almost exclusively of khaki pants and golf shirts.

They have an air of twinkdom about them.

The Carolina Boy in question was at least 55 years old and conducting a really loud cell phone conversation while he waited in line to buy his frozen pizza.

I would just as soon not have been privy to the goings on in Carolina Boy's perpetually swinging life, but for the 10 minutes that I had to stand in line behind a check writer at the Teeter, I was stuck listening to it, as was everyone else.

Apparently, Carolina Boy needed to tell "Cindy" that he and "Potter" and "Shaw" and "Michael Hallowell, you remember Michael Hallowell, right?" were going to the beach in a couple of weeks and it's just gonna be "crazy". They also are in need of tickets for the "Practice Round" (I assume he's talking about the upcoming PGA event, but really, who the hell knows) and they want to know if Cindy can get them for him. Then Cindy put him on with "Laurie" and he had to go through the whole thing again. He promised Cindy faithfully that he'd pay her for the tickets.

Um, yeah.

I'm pretty sure that Carolina Boy's second wife threw him out at least six months ago.

I was standing there listening to him and I just wanted to look at him and say:

"Look, we're not impressed with you."

"You're not in high school anymore, we don't need to hear about your crazy beach plans with Potter and Shaw and Michael Hallowell."

"We don't care whether or not you know somebody who can get you tickets to the Practice Round because any mid level executive at Wachovia can get tickets to the Practice Round. You're not fooling anybody."

"We also know that you're all having a little bromance with Tiger Woods and ya'll all go out there and try to look cool while you surreptitiously take Tiger's picture with your cell phones and jockey to be close to him while he putts."

"Grow up, would you? You have a bald spot, for God' sake. Your days as a seventeen year old high school baseball stud are over! There are no more cheerleaders waiting for you in the parking lot."

"Furthermore, you're standing in line at a grocery store showing the world that you don't have any manners by talking too loudly on your cell phone."

"And speaking of cell phones and their tacky, ill mannered owners? Nobody is so damn important that he has to go through life with a blutooth headset sticking out of his ear so that he can be in constant, grocery store communication with Cindy and Laurie and Shaw and Potter. And we don't know Michael Hallowell and we don't care if you do."

The thing about this guy? The thing that drove me crazy?

He just thinks he's so cool, with his too loud cell phone call and his bluetooth and his golf shirt and his crazy beach plans and golf tickets. It's like he was saying "Look at me, I'm still young!"

Except, you know, he's wasn't. He's pushing sixty and planning beer trips to the beach with his buds and he wants to make sure that every stranger in line at the Teeter knows it.

That's not youthful, it's juvenile. And it's tiresome, not to mention a little pathetic.

When in the world do men grow up?