Thomas Wictor

Finally saw “Blurred Lines”

Finally saw “Blurred Lines”

I mean the NSFW, uncensored, unrated version of the video. The song didn’t really interest me because it’s another in a long line that sound more like sketches than finished products. It’s an idea for a song more than an actual song.

Also, it’s a copy of Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give it Up,” so I’d already heard it before. A long, long time ago.

What struck me about the “Blurred Lines” video is the near-total lack of imagination. A tan background and topless women in flesh-colored thongs strutting around so that their breasts bounce. I didn’t actually finish the video. It could be that my age got in the way. I’ve seen many naked women in my life. To any young men reading this, I’ve got some bad news for you: All vaginas are basically the same. There’s not much qualitative difference between them.

As Benjamin Franklin said, “In the dark, all cats are gray.” Meaning there’s no magical Super Vagina out there that’s going to rock your world. After a while they all blend into one. What happens is that when men come (oops) arrive at that realization, they panic. Popular culture and advertising tell you that the strutting, topless, boobular, sassy wenches in the uncensored “Blurred Lines” video are supposed to make this happen to you forever.

But with repeated exposure, you get desensitized. It’s unavoidable. So, boys, there will come (oops) arrive a day when you’ll be like me. You’ll look at the bouncing boobs and go, “Yeah? And?”

The horror.

Well, not for me. When asked my favorite part of a woman’s body, I’ve always said, “Her brain.” I wasn’t trying to be all thoughtful, sensitive, and feminist. It was actually true. The biggest turn-on for me is intelligence and a deranged sense of humor. I like nice female bodies as much as the next guy.

No, I like nice female bodies far more than I like the next guy, no matter who he is.

But intellect and humor are lasting attributes, unlike that bodacious bod; someday those boobs will sag. Intellect and humor are also rare, which makes them very attractive to me. The women in the “Blurred Lines” video seem very ordinary and humorless. They all have that smug I-know-you-want-me vibe.

Actually, in all honesty, I don’t. Especially the blonde with the flabby bottom. The brunette has magnificent hooters, but her expression in the closeups negates them. Her eyes look dead. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I don’t see no soul in there, missy.

(I know she doesn’t give a damn what I see in her eyes. She’ll be fine without a soul. In her line of work, you need big boobs, not a soul.)

Five British universities have banned “Blurred Lines” because they say it “excuses rape culture.” Another article now behind a paywall says that it promotes “lad banter,” which is British for the sorts of secrets boys pass long to each other for how to get a woman into bed.

Women say that the video degrades women. We need to break that down into two parts:

1. The women in the video allow themselves to be degraded in exchange for money, attention, and fame. They’re willing participants.

2. The aptly named Robin Thicke, a sausagey fellow I didn’t know existed until a few weeks ago, lost control of his mouth during an interview: “People say, ‘Hey, do you think this is degrading to women?’ I’m like, ‘Of course it is. What a pleasure it is to degrade a woman. I’ve never gotten to do that before. I’ve always respected women.’”

So yes, the intent on the part of both the singer and the nudie, bouncy, bethonged ladies in the video is to degrade women.

One of the lines from the song is, “I’ll give you something big enough to tear your ass in two.” Not much…nuance there. Kind of a moronic lyric, though, isn’t it? From the standpoint of mechanics, what does it even mean? Has the rapper T.I. not seen a woman’s ass? Didn’t he see the asses in his own video? Or does he mean he’s going to give the lucky woman four buttocks?

My unsolicited advice is to not ban the song or complain about “rape culture.” Banning it will just make it more desirable. You’ll turn Thicke into a victim, and he’ll sell more copies of his dopey, unoriginal song. And banning it ignores the fact that plenty of women cheerfully allow themselves to be objectified and degraded. Again, look at the eyes of that brunette in the video.

You women who don’t like guys telling you that he’s so massive he’s going to tear your ass in two? You have the most effective weapon possible against this approach: mockery. Just laugh at it. Getting outraged and offended and talking about how “unsafe” you feel is just pathetic. You need to make up your minds about whether you’re equal to us men or you’re scared little girls who need to be protected. You can’t be both.

Adult women are in charge of their own fate. You can be an object or not. It’s entirely up to you. Those of you with little girls, just be good parents. Tell your kid, “I don’t care if you want to dress like that. You’re not going to. The end.” Tell her, “I don’t care what everyone else is doing. It’s garbage. Is your goal to fill your head with garbage so that you fit in with other garbage-headed kids? If so, you can wait until you’re eighteen. For now, you’re not doing it. The end.”

In my Tom Wolfe phase, I became fascinated with Ken Kesey. God knows Kesey made horrible choices and is the father of much societal degradation. But I read something about him once—and I don’t remember if Wolfe wrote this or not—that really impressed me.

Kesey was the keynote speaker at an antiwar march. As he stood at the foot of the stage, watching those who went before him, he remarked to someone that the speaker at the podium looked and sounded just like Mussolini. The crowd loved this speaker and got more and more revved up. Finally, Kesey went onstage to cheers and applause. He’d tell everyone what they wanted to hear, and in a blaze of righteous anger they’d begin the march.

Gazing out over the crowd, Kesey said something like, “The guy who was just up here looked and sounded like Mussolini.” He imitated the speaker for a few seconds. In the ensuing, aghast silence, he said, “You’re not going to change anything with these marches. Sometimes you just have to turn your back and say, ‘Fuck it.'”

And he took out a harmonica and began playing a happy little tune.

The crowd was flabbergasted. After much confusion and rage expressed at Kesey, they had their march, but they all felt like clowns. The event was a complete bust.

So instead of condemning Robin Thicke’s stupid song, just play your harmonica. If you don’t want to be objectified, don’t let yourself be objectified. When some skinny dork says he’s going to tear your ass in two, laugh at him.

Because by getting all angry and tight-lipped, you’re putting money into Thicke’s pockets and bringing far more attention to his work than it deserves.

It’s likely that I’ll never achieve any real literary success. I could become an overnight sensation if I turned myself into a rutting hog surrounded by naked women with big boobs. Having closely studied all of this, I know exactly what to say, write, and do to manipulate everyone into buying my books and turning me into a star.

But I don’t want to be a star made of manure. It would just be too mortifying to know that brainy, funny women my age were laughing their intact asses off at me.


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