Fagfestival.

We’re sitting in class. WantToBiteMyNipples? tells me: you should write about our lecturer in your blog. It didn’t hear exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of girls choosing “softer” subjects than men. This, to say the least, makes WantToBiteMyNipples? and me pissed of. Why is it so often that people talk about women with a patronizing tone?

I went to this Danish media festival with an awesome title – Fagfestival (http://www.fagfestival.dk/). It costs like thousands of Dkr to get in, but since we’re studying @ the Danish School of Journalism (http://www.dmjx.dk/international/) some of us were granted a free entrance.

All of the sessions that were given in English were more or less worth seeing and enriching. But the one that stuck out was given by John Peet. This is a rare instance, explained by the organizers: “Employees at the powerful magazine The Economist rarely agree to speak at media conferences, but the magazine's European editor (…) has made an exception.”

Why did I remember him in this context? He’s the kind of arrogant prick that I love. As well as love to hate. He inspires. When asked why won’t they write credits for the article, he simply states that once a journalist develops his name brand, he starts asking for more money, which is just inconvenient. Makes sense, right? Haha.

But the thing that struck me was the discussion between Peet and the audience about the readership and magazine’s target audience. One of his central statements was something along the lines of “women don’t give a shit about politics. Mostly men read the Economist. Women are interested in ‘softer’ topics than economy, world politics and international relations”. People who’ve ever discussed anything similar with me know that after such statements I turn into an enraged bull.

However, he somehow managed to say it in such an arrogant and ignorant way that it made me want to work for him. Perhaps it’s some domination issues that I have, but it felt like a challenge. And it’s not often that negative comments trigger me in a positive way; it gave me an impetus to challenge him back.

Perhaps it’s because I new he couldn’t be more wrong – most of the women I know read the Economist. Very few of the men I know read the Economist.

Men have become lazy instead of becoming more competitive, whereas women are marching forward with god’s speed.

Wake up, boys.

words

"A study completed in July 2007 by Matthias Mehl of the University of Arizona shows that contrary to popular belief, there is little difference in the number of words used by men and women in conversation.^[1] The study showed that on average each of the sexes uses about 16,000 words per day." [wiki]

And yet how diverse are the uses of these words...

Men don’t say nice things anymore (well, old men do, but I can never tell if it’s out of desperation or kindness). Or at least not the men I’m around. They are educated (or at least consider themselves smart), well brought up, with bright futures ahead of them. And yet no matter how many women surround them, they truly believe that talking about bukakke or glory holes are topics that reveal their great sense of humour.

At the beginning of my Denmark experience I used to mostly hang out with guys. I even got an elaborate piece of poetry written about me, which goes something like “God I love alcohol, every Friday night me and the boys hit the town and drink ‘em up till we fall down (...)”.

We formed a triumvirate of one Canadian, one German/French and me. Three months later I was on a brink of a nervous breakdown. Seriously. So I found a few girls to balance it out and now I’m fine. Guess I’m just not that all men’s girl. And it wasn’t even the drama of sleeping together/wanting to sleep together/hearing the stories of somebody sleep with someone and yet yearning for you (yeah, if I haven’t mentioned – no matter how old you are, this whole study abroad experience makes everyone horny as fuck). It was the never ending effort of trying to avoid any solid conversation topics with idiotic sexist/sexual jokes. Don’t get me wrong, I love those guys. But I just can’t be their duuuude.

I was just chatting with one Italian at a library who tried to explain it all to me. The thing is – I don’t need explanation, I GET IT. But the question remains: WHYYYY?? Why the heck is this generation of men so insecure? What happened to those poor boys? Should I just hug them, stroke threir hair and tell them it’s all gonna be alright? Well I’m sorry, I’m not your momma.

I sometimes do miss a simply nice guy.

P.S. Why are our moms way cooler than we are? Seriously though.

P.P.S. or P.S.S. Today a song was played @ Joe & the Juice, which I used to obsess over because a certain guy in school liked it. Haven’t heard the song or anything about him for like 7 years. Came home, googled him. Apparently he’s an awesome font designer in Berlin. I think that’s a sign. Pretty sure it is. Right? Right?

das experiment

So last night my friend (let’s call her The Kickboxer) and I are indulging in alcoholic substances – distilled 5 times through platinum Sobieski vodka, which, as one Icelander noted, is good enough for Bruce Willis – well then, it’s good enough for us. Good music (moloko, Florence and the Machine, Edward Sharpe), cookies, good talking. Another girl joins us (not without master persuasion skills in action) in a little while (let’s call her The WantToBiteMyNipples?) and the discussion fires up.

We talk about gender equality – the gentlemen dilemma, wife vs. career woman and that kind of stuff. We compare Spain and Lithuania. Not much is different in this sense; the struggle is evident wherever you go. The worst part is – we all agreed – that women who fight for equal rights are seen as fanatics, whereas men feel threatened and de-masculinized, and everything is thrown off balance. We talk about the blog, and suddenly the main objective that I from now on shall abide by religiously is vocalized: the core of our endless discussions, the impetus for this blog is a cry – STOP, for a second, and LISTEN… Listen to each other. What do men find scary or repulsive, or throwing them off balance? What fears do women have, what struggles do they have to overcome? It is no longer about gender – it is about each and every individual wanting to be heard and understood. Thank you, WantToBiteMyNipples? for helping me locate the target.

Enough with the serious. So, eventually we decide to head out, but we’re facing this whole resistance movement, which is called “Stay in the Mundus House on a Friday night and pretend that you are going to study”. In short it’s just a bunch of lazy asses. Only three of us are ready for the walking downtown challenge: The Kickboxer, me and an awesome dude (whom I shall call The Womanizer). We hit a bar called Herr Bartel’s and before I know it we are 500dkr poorer. But it was all worth it, and you’ll soon find out why.

The das experiment chapter. In bars, pubs, clubs I prefer to… how to put it… not pay attention to my surroundings. I either dance or converse with someone I know already and find interesting or amusing or both. However this time, in moments when The Kickboxer and The Womanizer would be involved in a conversation it would be difficult for me to chime in as it was noisy and just not worth the effort. So I did look around. And all I could see were hungry hungry men. So I learnt a new term from The Womanizer – if you act invitingly, you’re giving men the “hungry eyes”. So I flipped my hair and touched my neck and licked my lips (be sure every time I wanted either to start laughing hysterically or to puke, but it’s all in the name of science), and e v e r y s i n g l e time there was a man ready to leap. Some were hesitant and watched by my two highly entertained friends. Some were terrifyingly forward with questions like “have you ever kissed a black man? I can show you how to do it”. Muahahahaha. There should be a concluding sentence at this point, but please, I think you know what I’m thinking…

Around 4am we hit another bar, where das experiment took on a new pace. Now it was cap ou pas cap – challenge accepted or declined. My first challenge was to get 2 phone numbers from 2 Danish men of my choice in 5 minutes. I think it took me about 3 minutes. At that moment I remembered reading an article recently about human trafficking and organ thefts and I couldn’t help but think – women are always looking out for these kind of threats, I don’t remember giving out my phone number to someone I did not know. And all these men were just throwing their phone numbers at me, without even asking me why I needed them (since I would just walk up to them and be like: give me your phone number). Not a single one asked for an explanation – they were just too happy that I showed interest in their petty personas. Sad. And scary. I could’ve sold their organs out piece by piece.

We went on with the challenge, which led to The Kickboxer getting a free drink and The Womanizer stealing a lip gloss from an unsuspecting girl. Lastly, I had to involve a guy in a conversation with me for 2 minutes. The catch? His girlfriend standing right next to him. He ended up ignoring her completely and putting his hand on my shoulder. What a moron. One falafel, one shwarma, one kebab and a 40-minute walk later we were safe and sound at home, everyone in their beds alone (as far as I know).

Conclusions? I don’t even have any. My perceptions have changed quite a bit. And I can’t not warn men – really, if you enjoy your kidneys, take a little more interest in the reason a girl is hitting on you. And try to control your testosterone levels. Because otherwise, unfortunately, we control you.

Mozart, seriously?

As I was brainstorming for a topic for my first post, three instances came to my mind. Those instances are a downright proof that it is vital, while we are young and vibrant (which I do feel slowly receding and being replaced with horrible cynicism. For example I no longer give a damn what kind of cell-phone I have – terrifying, isn’t it? But about this some other time), to take leaps of faith; to take risks at things petit and grand. When I have to decide upon things that matter, I remember moments when I’ve ventured into unknown lands, undiscovered minds and undisclosed corners of my own subconsciousness.

First of all, I remembered a certain discussion in a balcony of a cheap hostel on la Rambla, Barcelona, with a girl who is the complete opposite of everything I used to stand for at that time.

How did I get there? At a certain time during my studies in the Netherlands I decided that I either kill myself in a horrible biking accident (yeah, badass), or I go somewhere for a breather. So I sent an email to all of my… acquaintances (I didn’t want to take any chances on just friends) saying what the deal was and that I’d go anywhere they would like to go at a time that suited them (just as soon as possible).

This girl responded saying Barca is the new Vegas and so I found myself standing in a balcony with her, watching old men workout in a hotel gym across the back yard. For our convenience let’s call her the Giant.

The epicenter of the discussion was the life of the unborn. The Giant was staring at me blankly, slowly sucking her cigarette, legs on the railing, telling me without any hesitation whatsoever that pro-choice is the only way to go. And there was I, hyperventilating for a moment, as a certain speech from my first year of uni flashed by – first TV exam, recording of anything you’d like to say. My subject of choice was abortion, and the story I presented in short was something like “If you knew a woman who had 2 deaf children, 2 blind children, 1 mentally challenged child, was pregnant, a widow, and had syphilis, would you advise abortion? If so, you would have killed Mozart.” A bunch of various scientific arguments followed (together with a constipated look on my face). Charming. But that was what I believed in with all my essence.

And yet there we were – this Giant diva and a self-righteous-bit-of-a-nerd. At that very moment I suddenly understood something – we were at such distant oppositions that it was not even a subject for discussion. And yet of course we did discuss, as it is the vice of many journalists – we preach about being impartial and yet most of the time we can’t shut up; our opinions pouring out like a freakin geyser.

However, what struck me was that I was capable of acknowledging that she did have valid points.

Many times later in life I had gone back to the whole situation and wondered what my answer would be now; had anything changed? And even at times when for a second I’d think I might be carrying a child of a fascist egoistic pig (though very handsome), I knew I could never go through with what I do consider killing.

And it wasn’t even that much about morale or fear, it was always a very simple concept that helped me keep my thoughts straight: if you’re gonna fuck, you have to be ready for any consequences the fucking may produce. And it should never come as a surprise if you do get pregnant. That’s why I could never justify termination of pregnancy, unless one was impregnated against her own will or it posed threat to her health.

The Giant and me are now good friends. She’s taught me a lot, but the main lesson I’ve learned – I’m pro-choice now. I’m still pro-life though as well. How is this possible? It’s because I’m not pro-choice in general, I would most probably never apply it to myself, but I am pro her own choice. No one has a right to tell someone else what to do with his or her body. And when there was a discussion in my country about banning abortions I was opposing it fiercely. It is just not for you or me to decide.

The second two instances that came to my mind are yet to materialize on paper some time soon.

intro.

Cap ou pas cap? Cap.

My palms feel itchy. I can’t sleep, can’t breathe like there’s something growing inside my chest, expanding, ready to explode. I need to move, I need dare, game, phase out; cause holding myself together is damn tiring. Trying to push through is making me detest myself, cause I’m boring, bland, tedious, dull, ponderous to myself. But to get back on track there’s gotta be an impetus, somebody’s gotta kick my butt big time. Can you? Cause now I’m driven by anger and cynicism. Preppy idiot. Does. Anything. Really. Matter? Or are we all just “the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all a part of the same compost pile.”?? To be honest, I don’t even really care what the answer is. That’s how much of a show-off I’ve become.

I feel sort of zuckerberg-ish at this moment [nerdy allusion, I know]. I couldn’t be further from computer science - I wouldn’t be able to figure out my IP. The allusion arises from the oh-so-glorious Hollywood and it’s Social Network where, of course, the idea of FB reveals itself as a phoenix from the ashes of lost love. I could not not use this as a starting point, as I’m a cheesy bastard.

My story’s quite fucked up. It all began in a library two years ago where I met a fellow student whom I barely spoke to during lectures (point of information: there are many libraries and many better things to do then rot in them, which makes running into someone you know quite a unique and embarrassing experience). We exchanged a couple jokes, yadda yadda yadda, a month later she’s the only person on earth who actually gets me. Or, more accurately, gets, what we named, the suffering. It’s notably a very noble act where you over-indulge in petty little details of your miserable life (though to others it may seem completely normal and even jolly). So there the suffering was born and every now and then we’d phase into it. What’s even more ridiculous, it was always the same time that we got into this phase together, and only perhaps Charlie the unicorn can explain why the hell this was the case.

It actually turned out to be quite a useful thing – always ignited creativity, crystallized our thoughts and gave us sort of a cleansing experience without using unidentified substances produced by the natives. It became an outlet for our unexpressed-selves; as, seriously now, most of our frustration came from having much potential and no worthy outlet (none of us ever had any problems finding a job or getting into anywhere we wanted – we are those who you despise as we seem to be gliding through life). I have once heard in a sermon that the talented ones carry an awful burden as they are never satisfied with who they are and everyone’s always expecting more and more of them. You are never enough to the world, to your teachers, to your parents, to your older/younger sister, to yourself. That’s why I just stopped trying altogether. Whatever happens.

So, two years later, we’re in the suffering again. My sweetheart of four years decided that he sort of… how to put it? Didn’t freakin love me anymore. Oh, darling, I’m so glad you realized that before I’ve borne a child or two of yours. As I am going to quote Gloria Steinem A LOT here, I might as well start at this point: “most women are one man away from welfare“.

OK, fine, I drove on ice at 120km/h and screamed my lungs out to this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7nD1T7mjp8. Then I mourned for about two weeks crying hearing the lecturer talk about deductive research methods as it would remind me quite remotely of something that has happened in the course of those four long passion-filled (and sometimes not so much) years. Before the mourning my mom had kicked my ass with a long speech [yet premature] that could be summed up quite accurately as “get over it for god’s sake” and I must say with time it started sinking in.

And then, an epyphany. “We are becoming the men we wanted to marry” [rephrasing glorious Gloria Steinem. Again.]

A concept suddenly crystallized. I AM all I’ve been expecting someone else to be. I can do anything I need to be done. I can console myself, cheer myself up, put myself into misery and pleasure myself. Most of the times, actually, better than anyone else will ever be capable of. Therefore free will remains the only, ONLY reason, why I would expect anyone to be in my life. So I let go of the past and I moved on. How? By writing on topics I’ve been brainwashing my poor girlfriends about for a decade. “Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else." [G.S.]

Some things need to be cleared out of our way before I begin.

1) I do not prefer to be called a feminist (because of the negative aspect this term has gained thanks to a few slightly hysterical ladies).

2) I love men. The more, the better.

3) But there’s even more: most of the time I hate women. The hen-like laughing sound when there’s more then two of them and especially if there are any testosterone-flooding beings close by. I apologize in advance for the sexist stereotype, but MY GOD the way they drive… Seriously, the mirrors fixed on the outside of the car and above the windshield are NOT for putting make-up. And, my personal favorite, what they become after they’ve given birth… These bragging Loch Ness monsters, posting their children pictures instead of theirs on their FB profile. When I ask you how you’re doing, I specifically DO MEAN YOU and not one or all of your children. I thank god my sister, a mother of four, has a tolerable level of this syndrome (but it also could have something to do with my legendary tolerance to those next of kin).

What I am is very VERY opinionated. One of my friends just told me the other day on the subject of birth-control pills: “I’m a strong advocate for not taking those. But every time somebody asks me why – I can’t remember the reason. The only thing I can stammer out is that YOU told me so and that must be right.”

This also means that I take great pleasure in luring girls over to my side. Therefore, not judging has become my daily challenge and I can proudly say that I’ve succeeded in judging… less :) (it’s just too much fun). I still have friends who are highly pro-choice on abortions, friends who take birth-control pills and friends who think that serving men is a woman’s greatest purpose. I can only thank my wonderful female side of the family – my grandmother, who never tires of repeating what a bore marriage is and my mother, who has preached of self-worth and emancipation on a daily basis. They both had long, relatively happy marriages.

So that’s me. I’m going on a journey here and you are welcome to join me. No promises. No expectations.