Track Mangoes

It's going down. This Wednesday. High noon. Ethan Rutherford's Fiction class will engage in a kickball game against Peter Bognanni's screenwriting class. Who will come out on top? Who's penis is bigger? TUNE IN NEXT TIME TO FIND OUT!?!

Is it wrong to participate in this gross display of masculinity? Probably. Does that make me want to do it more? YOUBETCHA. Who will I fight for? Hollywood, obviously.

When we talk about masculinity at Macalester we tend to speak in terms of "construction." This is ridiculous. Masculinity is not constructed, it is real, it has an essence, something undeniable, something linked directly to the balls. Nor is it a disease, as the second wave feminist movement and its residue would have you believe.

The last civilization to worship female powers was Minoan Crete, a civilzation that, ironically, fell to natural causes and, most likely, the invasion of a more technologically sound empire. Beyond this, there is not a shred of evidence supporting the feminist fabrication of "Matriarchy." There has never been one, anywhere, at any time.

I still marvel at the intensity of a woman driven by obsession. Ann Radcliffe. Emily Dickinson. Cleopatra. And I always find myself seeing it more readily in men, perhaps due to my sexual taste and the lens it affords me. While the canon seems to paint a picture of a male propensity towards that sadistic drive for art, one cannot help but remark that when such a drive manifests in women--that self-mutilating derangement which, in its alternate forms of crime and ideation, is the disgrace and glory of the human species--it always bubbles up in a more interesting way than man could ever muster.

Someone once said that there was no female Mozart because there was no female Jack the Ripper. They had obviously never heard of Aileen Wuornos.

Photos to be posted from the kickball game at a later time.