Dear Misandrist

he sat alone                                                                                                                         

at a solid whiteoak library table that seated eight                                                                       spread out before him were old advice columns and gossipandgiggle ditties

                                                                                                              a breeze came in 

through the screens  tickling the slats  his table  quietly  restlessly  rustled

                                                                                                          sounding like autumn

the newspapers and magazines smelled like late autumn leaves on an unraked lawn

Dear Misandrist:

I am writing for your advice.

My friend Wally . . .

                                            it was written with a steady hand in clean clear penmanship

over his shoulder a friend leaned in  who else could get that close   he looked  and read

                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                     --  Ah 

I couldnt help but notice

he rolled on his hip and looked up into his face   -- You couldnt . . . . help . . . . but notice 

Youre lookin over my shoulder

--  Yeah well  But thats not the point

--  Lookin over my shoulder  Not the point

--  No  Dear Misandrist

--  Youre lookin over my shoulder

--  You got this stuff spread out all around you

   

     . . . . . . . . .

--  My point IS  Youre obvious  In the library  Nobodys as exposed as you

he sat back in his laddered chair

took it in 

--  Good point

--  And advice columns  Dear Misandrist

--  Yeah  Ever wonder what their history was the need was whod write in why write in what authority was theirs to offer advice that it should be heeded

--  No

--  It occurred to me 

--  Obviously 

--  Agony columns  In England agony aunts  Back to the 1800s

--  Didnt know that 

--  Something huh

--  Something       Whats with Dear Misandrist Whos Wally

--  Playing with it  Think Im tryin to offset misogynists  Dear Misogynist doesnt have the same ring as Dear Misandrist  or my rue or angst  Some ugly pricks out there pulling down a lot of men with their big lousy mouths  Thought itd be a great idea for a column

--  And your authority

--  My authority  Im on the flip side of the same coin a different mint however

--  Whats Wally get out of this

--  Wally   Wally B Caribou  From Minnesota  He outed as a stand up guy

--  You Wally

--  Could be  Figure Id posit him  maybe a hypothetical  and run at the mouth  I imagine whod write in why write in runs along the same vein as reality shmucks these days  wannabe stars  starspangled celebrities  Were wobbling on our axes  Figure a push in the opposite direction couldnt hurt  Is warranted

--  Hmm I apologize  I was inappropriate coming up over your shoulder

--  Apologeez accepted  smiling

shakes his head   --  If you dont mind lemme know how it goes

--  Could always write in  Dear Misandrist

--  Could

he departed

a slight breeze continued at the screens ruffling the pages 

                                                                                  hackles and feathers had gone flat

Dear Misandrist:

I am writing for your advice.

My friend Wally is sickened by overt misogynists who seemingly take their place, or believe it is conferred, by pious Christian words plied in churches and at the behest and authority of elder churchmen.

He believes it is fundamentalist ignorance, the belief it is God’s Word. And their women are chaste, browbeat, or worse to comply. East or West. It is the same.

                                                                                                               

                                                                              

                                                                              the ink still wet  as thought  shimmered

1645,  Wednesday,  19  2. 14