Men. What *are* they good for?

One of those old myths -- not terribly old, because I still hear this shit -- is that lesbians and feminists (and lesbian feminists, for sure!) *hate* men. I've denied this as fervently as I've insisted that any "divine creator of the universe" who gives a rats ass whether I believe in it or not actually suffers from serious character defects and therefore cannot be the being people insist it is.

But after watching writers George Saunders and Mary Gaitskill "sit in conversation" tonight as part of the Portland Arts & Lectures series, I found myself thinking, I hate men. I mean, WHY oh why do my sisters put up with that shit?

You must be addicted to the penis. Because on the whole, there are times when I have great difficulty finding anything especially redeeming about men, their absurd and unwarranted positions of power and their pathetically stunted way of relating to others and to the world. We women seem to be little more than part of their dominion.

Where's this coming from today?

I'll tell ya. Give a man the stage -- even if he's to share it with a woman -- and he'll throw his weight and "authority" around with very little regard for whether there's oxygen left for anyone else. (Yes, I'm aware I'm speaking in broad, and even disgusting, generalities. But it's mainly because I paid to get this experience and found that the woman ... was ever so much better. As usual.

I went to the lecture because of George Saunders. I had never heard of Mary Gaitskill. I have read nary a word of her prose.

But as I watched them talk, I knew first that I will want to pick up some of her work (and read it someday when this thing called graduate school is over). And I knew second that what I was witnessing there on stage was a classic case of a neurotic and less-talented man trying somehow to use his man-ness and hold court (and lord over) a considerably more erudite, thoughtful woman.

They are both professors in the writing program at Syracuse University. And yet, they apparently have not had an extended chat about writing. It took a certain alignment of the planets and a hefty wad of cash, but they came out here to Portland, sat down and did just that tonight.

It was a telling moment, early in their conversation, when he said to her, basically, "We've never really sat down and talked. I don't know why."

"Probably," she replied in essence, "because the one time we did, we almost came to blows."

Let's just say that, watching them systemically, I can imagine why that almost happened.

She spoke some of the most beautiful words I've ever heard about writing, about the purpose of fiction and literature. And he, in reply, did some kind of ain't-I-grand routine combined with a twitchy, Woody Allen-like presentation. Not the best combination. Rather grating.

Fortunately, there were times when he shut up and she spoke up.

Gaitskill shared some thoughts, saturated to the point of dripping, on how fiction illuminates realities that are on the edge of our consciousness and helps to slow down our experiencing of a moment or an object.

The woman made me want to "write" again.

He? Made me laugh a few times. And otherwise, gave me the urge to hate men.