If you’re dyslexic, let me help. Spelled “Yardarm.”
It’s called the Pareto Principle. The 80-20 rule. Works differently by sex. 80 percent of women are decent, dutiful, and suitably dull. Dull. Oh so. The other 20 percent are sex workers. “Open wide, all night long.” Men are 80 percent dumb shits who think the Three Stooges are funny, 20 percent authors of everything great about civilization.
Their 20 and our 20. Think about it.
Well, let’s dig a little deeper. Of that 20 percent of men, most are losers. Say, 80 percent. The remaining 20 percent are the genius pool. Of which only 20 percent are responsible for everything great about Mankind. You do the math. It’s that first 20 percent (you know, the ones who knew the Stooges were never funny) that aspiring men cotton to in youth. We believe you could be great. Life is the process of discovering that you will never be great. Most of you, say 80 percent of the 20 percent, will be oafish sellouts to the first organization that asks for your supreme loyalty. Corporate toady, leg breaker for the mob, everybody nobody asked for ever.
But let’s say you’re one of the 20/20/20/20th and you’re Diogenes looking for the honest friend. Lantern held high.
Then you find, over so many years, that they are all nothing but old. What you believed about them, hoped for them, was always wrong. Because the math was always against you, One in 20 x 20 x 20 x 20 always equaling near zero. And almost all the women are more worthwhile. And, yes, dull. Beautifully so. Which is when, if you’re still keenly conscious, you revisit your old assumptions. She is not dull. She is beautiful. You are delusional. She is the calm that quiets the storm of so much failed manhood. She is the reason we can keep waiting for the next Shakespeare, Newton, Blake, and, yes, Christ.
So here you are. Old, disappointed man. Sittting next to God’s greatest miracle, trusting, loving women.
How many of us ever learn where and how to direct the beam of that lantern? No. Higher.
And, yes, I have no friends.
She is the very face of God, hidden in plain sight. She is not Newton. She’s Cosmos.
P.S. And then I remember. About women. As a culture, at their insistence in fact, we have turned them into artificial men. So they have all our weaknesses — promiscuity, emotional isolation, ruthless career ambition — plus their own innate weaknesses: hormonal sexual delusions, innate immorality (my child, my way, over EVERYTHING else), a propensity for hysteria and lifelong grudges, penis envy, and the inferiority complex that accompanies 500 years of the Enlightenment with barely a notable masterpiece accomplishment (not to mention 100 years of the so-called Women’s Emancipation Movement). Move along. Nothing to see here.
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