OK, so I have recently written for a somewhat fluffy magazine. Fluffy in that while it contains information, most of the information is couched in pleasant, anecdotal ...fluff. I don't know what else to call it. Anyway, my pieces fit in just fine, because apparently, I possess the emotional depth of a puddle, and the first time I had one published, I (of course) sent word to just about everyone I know. One of my long-time friends, whom I'm going to call John Good, was very nice about it, and linked to his own website, where his readers could find me and blah blah blah, it was a very kind gesture, which I appreciated and thanked him for.

Anyway, this time, I sent him a note to let him know I'd been published again, and kind of joking about my new article, and he wrote back saying that after he'd read a certain word, he had to close the window. Which is fine, except that the word in question, which is not at all offensive, incidentally, appears in approximately the third sentence. So, essentially, he didn't read it at all, and he wrote specifically to TELL me that he thought it was stupid. The word he found objectionable wasn't obscene, it was just too fluffy and Californian for his downtown uptown black leather sensibilities.

My question: Why would I need to know that, Edgier-than-Thou?

(If you think I'm being oversensitive, I'll have to agree and add that oversensitivity is one of my more prevalent, if unenjoyable, qualities.)

I probably wouldn't care, except that a) I used the word knowing that it was dorky, and b) his comment strikes a particularly irritable nerve, making me feel like I'm not acceptably edgy. I occupy an uncomfortable terrain in that I'm not quite respectable enough to succeed in the corporate world, and not edgy enough, apparently, to swing with the downtown hipsters.

I really don't know what people expect from me. I was raised by evangelical parents who made me get rid of all my records and destroy any object in the house bearing an image of an owl, a frog, or a pig, so that demons couldn't use them as evil freeways and get into the house to contaminate my soul. (Yes, really.) We had to go to church all the time, and my parents had our house exorcised when I was 8, because they believed it was inhabited by evil spirits. They encouraged me to go into musical theatre, and wouldn't let me listen to any radio, even Top 40, because it was "too suggestive." As a result of many years of intense training at Ned Flanders Academy, there's bound to be a little Holly Hobby left in me somewhere, even if it's not my dominant trait, so cut me some motherfucking slack!

I think what really got to me was the fact that when I told the Keelhauler about John's message, the Keelhauler kind of verbally shrugged (we were talking by phone) and essentially told me to suck it up. I believe his exact words were, "Well... he has a right to say that." What? Fuck that! He's never even MET John Good, but according to the International Brotherhood of Testosterone, they're automatically on the same side.

Of course, technically, he's right. John Good does have a right to say that. And the Keelhauler has a right to say what he said. And I have a right to think that sometimes I find it unfortunate that there is no male equivalent, insult-wise, to the word "cunt." Because if there was, I would really like to use it right now.

In short: Fluff this.

P.S.

Midol, anyone?

P.P.S.

This review of the above-referenced article just in! " Excellent, and I truly mean Excellent, article. I enjoyed every morsel. " Thanks, Mom. I take back what I said about all the frog- and pig-burning.

Star of the day. . .Jacques Tati