If women were in charge, if somehow we had evolved as a matriarchal society, it goes without saying that things would be different. Indeed, hints and remnants of ancient matriarchies are still evident today, veiled as they are behind the posturing of loud and powerful men. Our military strategy for one, would have little in common with today’s. That is to assume we would need a military as such, in the traditional sense of the word. Perhaps we would have no urgent need to send our children off to far away lands to impose our will on other worlds . Don’t get me wrong, I am truly honored that our men and women in uniform are out there willing to lay down their lives to protect me and those I love from whatever threats, real, imagined, or conjured, are out there. There is no greater commitment or devotion to the people of a sovereign nation. But if women were running the show, there might be a whole lot more talking things through, endless summits, meetings, and an infinite number of compromises and treaties, detentes and pacts, and a whole lot less blood. Perhaps.
But if warfare was inevitable, what would battlefield strategy look like? Lots of pointy things, implements of trajectory, devices that fire things from an orifice designed to penetrate, long cylindrical tubes arched skyward phallus like? I think not. Our weaponry would surly be more seductive and alluring, perhaps manipulative, and certainly more cunning. The Sirens would sing and the traps would spring, and the prisoners would be forced to do all of the dirty work. They would be garbage men.
And what of the uniforms? Blending camouflage is out. To be seen, in all the glory and color of a desert flower, sets the bait. What then might be the result, if apposing sides in the conflict showed up in the same outfit?
I was a social misfit as a young man, and I suppose still am. I had no “way with the ladies”, and I suppose still don’t. Not that opportunities never presented themselves, they did. Rhonda begged me to help her rob a bank in Waukesha, using the maze of train tracks and the predictable timing of the trains for our escape. I may have misread her intentions. Emily needed help with her math in the shed behind her house, I may have misread her intentions. Cathy wanted to trade ski pants in the men’s room of a chalet, I may have misread her intentions. There were more, but now at fifty something, with no prospects for romance, why torture oneself? The point is, knowingly or not, I ran from every Siren song, unwittingly avoiding every trap, teetering on the precipice of the spring, and thus managed to stay free and roam the country for an extended period of young adulthood. Being a pathetic romantic, had I fallen in love at a tender age… Well, impossible to say.
The first time I had sex, it was with a friend’s older sister in Arizona, and to tell the truth, I was hammered drunk and she took full advantage of the situation. Her ex Green Beret husband off an a business trip and returning the following day helped spice up the dish. And then, in 1979, there was Anna Mae and the week of Mellow Yellow Experiments. I’ll get into that a bit later. For now, I’d just like to say, if she hadn’t hooked up with an older photographer at the Great Northern Bluegrass Festival in Crandon Wisconsin, and left my pal Jeffery and I to stick our thumbs in the air and set our sights Westward, a good half of 1979 would have looked a lot more like 1978.