Tag Archives: art

Milk Bags, Hostage Negotiators, and Hands: The Untold Story of The Breast – A VH1 Behind the Music Exclusive*

Over the years I’ve started to see a trend, one that doesn’t really get talked about. Utilitarian Breasts. Yes that’s right the bra is now a Batbelt, and breasts are the tools within. “What are you talking about?” is probably the question on everyone’s mind. I’m referring to the practice of using breasts as a storage device, or in any other user created, situation specific useful capacity.

Several years ago Master MonkeyT0es and I had a roommate that would keep beer bottles between her breasts in order to have two free hands to do other things (primarily to chase and coddle three large dogs). Over the years I have seen Master MonkeyT0es use their breasts to hold IDs, credit cards, and money in place of carrying a wallet, clutch, or purse. A few months back I saw a video of what I believe to be the Brazilian version of America’s Got Talent where a woman with HUGE breasts used them to smash watermelons, OWWW. Today at the mall I saw a teenage girl with her Crackberry in her chest so she could have two free hands to skillfully scavenge the back-to-school racks at Aero.

Breasts have often been used in society to demean people of all different identities in one way or another. If you have breasts your abilities to navigate a map or do math are somehow automatically compromised. You’re automatically seen as over emotional or irrational. You may be male identified and have to bind them painfully tight so that no one can discover your “secret” and exercise their ignorance and bigotry upon you. You may be male identified and dealing with a physiological condition that society has made you ashamed of. Your physical body is automatically assigned as weak. Your character lesser than. Your breasts are only for nursing purposes, but not in public because it’s “shameful” and “they” reserve the right to kick you out of public spaces for doing so. Heaven forbid you have them and feel comfortable enough to flaunt them and possibly even use them to support you or your family. The Tetanus infested other side of that blade drives into you with the ideologies that you are only valuable if you have large breasts. That they are to be ogled, groped, and exploited.

So where’s the upside for those that have breasts? I think it partly lies in being open to discuss their utilitarian factor. I have found through simply witnessing these novel uses of breasts I have personally become much more comfortable with other people’s breasts, and not in the #tweetcreeper kind of way. Seeing these magical phenomenas makes them simply seem…well…natural.

Another interesting thing that someone (most likely Master MonkeyT0es) exposed me to a few years ago, was a website where someone decorates bras and turns them into purses, or bra bags and sells them. The visibility of bras as just another accessory, with a fun utilitarian approach, also helps with the idea that breasts aren’t shameful, despite the fact that for many bra shopping is made to be a HUGE pain in the ass, and bras are often extremely uncomfortable, especially when the underwire stabs you in the ribs or side boob, or all together snaps.

Breasts don’t fit into the shameful taboo category for me anymore when it becomes painfully obvious that they are like another set of hands. And more importantly, a part of a PERSON. A person with feelings, wants, needs, and desires. A person that deserves respect until proven otherwise, and that factor will have nothing to do with their breasts. A person to be valued and appreciated for their experiences.

So that’s it, I just wanted to state that breasts are cool. Breasts are useful little arms, hands, pillows and situation specific negotiators. Where’s the shame in that? I’ll tell you, THERE ISN’T ANY.

So I want hear about all the wondrous ways your breasts have been your Hero. If you don’t have breasts but would like to share a way in which someone else’s breasts have been a Hero for you, please do.


***********************SO I DON’T GET SUED**********************

*VH1 has NOT consented to or is in anyway (that I am aware of) affiliated with this blog post.
*No one was actually harmed in the wake of Brazilla.

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buck·le

buck·le

[buhkuhl]

noun, verb, -led, -ling.

–noun

1.

a clasp consisting of a rectangular or curved rim with one or more movable tongues, fixed to one end of a belt or strap, used for fastening to the other end of the same strap or to another strap.

–verb (used without object)

12.

to yield, surrender, or give way to another (often followed by under )

At some point in my adult life I decided the ultimate fashion accessory was the belt buckle. I’ve collected many over the years all with a unique history and design. My favorites always being ones with a story to tell. For example, I had a Marlboro belt buckle given to me by a former acquaintance, that belonged to his late father. It was a large brass piece with the older style Marlboro steer head with a large star behind it. It pained him to let it go, as it was one of the few remaining sentiments he had of his greatest idol, but in the end he realized he would never wear it, and would rather it go to someone who would display it proudly and be able to share the legacy of his father whenever asked. Living in Texas at the time, where everything’s bigger, having a bullet catcher sized buckle above your crotch was still considered to be a symbol of awesomeness, and to some degree I’m sure fertility.

So the questions came, “Wow, is that brass?” “Where did you find that? Marlboro hasn’t made buckles like that in over twenty years.” My personal favorite from an old leathery cowboy, “planning on jumping in front of a bullet? That ain’t a buckle for the weak.” I held up my end of the deal, proudly. I would tell the story of Joseph McCoy whenever the buckle was questioned. I would look my opponent dead pan in the eye and let them know the story of a man who died attempting to make a life for his family, only to be stabbed in the back by his wife at the time and leave his only son in a cruel world. It wasn’t truly my story to tell, but I did so unrelenting, with pride, and never buckled.

It’s funny to me how in the grand scheme of things, this really is an odd way to begin this post. Thinking about it, I realize that this story is simply yet another way in which I have displayed my uncanny ability to dive head first into the deep end of a pool that lacks water. I am the most obstinate person I know. I’ve been told on countless occasions that I know no fear, and that I am ruthless, and unrelenting in my quest to be. To be right, to be alive, to be me. I honestly know no other way to be. I will admit this hasn’t always been a mentality that has won over a lot of friends. That I imagine is simply an inevitable side effect of such an existence.

One night several months ago alone in a hotel on a 5 week long business trip, I started thinking. There really wasn’t much else to do. All the shops and movie theaters were closed. I had beer in my hotel fridge so there was no need to pay bar prices to sit and people watch and make up stories to go along with all the strange faces and voices in the crowd. So I sat there and thought. I realized that my steadfast nature has become a massive source of contention for those around me. I realized that in my inability to clearly articulate emotions and thoughts to others, and in my fear of appearing weak, I would instead nearly start a war of epic proportions simply to get to a place of what I had perceived as understanding. I thought that in anger I could understand. Anger being the primary emotion shown throughout my childhood and adolescence, by myself and others, it became my safe zone. An odd shelter. Up until that point I didn’t realize that it had left me more vulnerable than protected. Vulnerable to a life destined to be lived alone. Not necessarily physically. But alone none the less. I decided that night to take the Fight Club approach to life, to “let that which does not matter truly slide.”

So I came home, newly found power animal and all. At first my new found Zen seemed to work. It seemed as though I had found that magical switch, and every time something that would normally upset me would arise, I would simply let it slide. I would put in a neat little yellow bucket and decide how to parse it out later.

Later never came. The bucket began to overflow. As the load got bigger the bucket started to crack and buckle. It eventually shattered into a million tiny pieces and I couldn’t find them all to put it back together. The rocks, stones, and grains of sand that I had filled my bucket with spilled out everywhere and it became too much to find them all, gather them up and sort them out again.

I digress.

The aftermath of the loss of my bucket left me in zombie-like shock. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or prevent my Tornadoes from touching down. My wife instantly knew something was wrong. She did her best to be patient and supportive, but I couldn’t begin to explain what had happened. She had noticed that I hadn’t been getting angry anymore, and that I was unnaturally calm about everything. So when the bucket shattered, let’s just say that was quite evident too.

I’ve since stopped searching for all the pieces of the bucket. However I’ve found something new along the way. I’ve discovered that my biggest fear in life is for someone to be able to look at me and say that I lack the courage of my convictions. That I buckle.  I had stopped at nothing and for no one to guarantee that success. I was so hell bent for so long on subconsciously making sure that would never happen that I honestly have no idea how the two people that matter most to me in this world have stuck around this long. I have put them through some of the most egregious mental and emotional Vulcan Mind Probes that no suspecting or consenting person in their right mind would agree to.

I still haven’t found a way in which I can can deal with the seemingly big or little crisis that rear their ugly heads. Not a healthy way at least. I have however discovered some rather tasty new dark beers and that I don’t despise wine as much as I once did. I have found that when things come up, I at least recognize that they don’t agree with me. I may not know immediately how to deal with them, but I do allow myself to at least admit that they are real, to not push them away.

The hardest things to deal with are the ones with any sort of “negative” emotional attachment, anything that exhibits the slightest hint of failure, disappointment, or uncertainty. I still don’t know how to articulate why they affect me so or what I would like to see done to prevent them from happening again. I think the biggest reason I can’t bring myself to say the things that matter is that I refuse to be someone that in my mind isn’t strong and therefor viewed as “can’t be relied on.” I refuse to intentionally add to another’s uncertainty and anguish. I really don’t like knowing that I may think about something a certain way and be convinced that it isn’t so, that my perception of reality isn’t real or right, and then change my mind and buckle.

I guess that’s the thing about life, it’s supposed to be open to new interpretations and the sharing of ideas. You’re supposed to allow the good in with the bad. It’s fluid. It changes with the moon and tides, and the seasons will come and go. That sounds so serene and almost too good to be true. Too easy. How do I let it be known that something is wrong, or painful and not be weak? How do I not simply suck it up, adapt and overcome and not be flippant? How do I ask for help when drowning in a sea of distress and not be a failure? I hope these questions come to answers one day in the near future, because for now the only thing I know is that now more than ever I must be strong for the ones I love. For them I refuse to buckle.