In Italanglish, they sometimes say “uno mushato.” Mush—as in a spine composed of vanilla pudding. Not stupid mind you: worse pay for essay writing than that — reasonably intelligent, but completely lacking in the wherewithal to stand up for his way of thinking, his manner of looking at the world. Mushato—va fangul.

Just back from a party, and I was treated to its consummation, one of its ultimate exemplars. Actually, the news was delivered by HER.

I know them both, and they’re both of my generation, and this is the target group of my essay, although I suppose that it’s more widely applicable. However, I speak from experience, here, experience of 50-something and 60-something males ready to give up their opinions, viewpoints, and many levels of control over their lives for a piece of ass. Miserable, lonely shitheads, who after failed marriages or relationships & some period of time living alone are looking fort that “rest-of-the-life” experience . . . at whatever cost.

In this instance, she showed me the diamond engagement ring. My first thought:” holy shit, how ridiculous. Your second or third go at this, in your Fifties, and you still cave to that horseshit tradition? Gimme a freakin’ break.

So what about this “wallpaper” jive? Very personally derived, actually. Began with the guy that my ex-wife “cleaved to” after, supposedly, we split up. Don’t ask about the details because they’re still unclear to me. Then she moves back East, and suddenly, like a good puppy, he follows her out & moves in with her. And although my friends out here in the West knew the man, my friends back East didn’t know him, knew my ex, but had never encountered the dude. Subsequently, one of my closest friends, who’d known my ex as long as I had, had some business with her. Naturally, he called me somewhat later to tell me that he’d seen her. “So who was the wallpaper?” was his most salient comment/question.

“Ah, wallpaper, good one,” I answered, knowing immediately that this was his metaphor for “mushato.” It made sense. Blending in, a decoration, no backtalk, no commentary at all. This is apparently what divorced women in the Boomer Generation want—subjugant, feckless, no-talk-back males. Castrati.

Ten there was T (not her real name nor actual first initial). We waxed heavy for 3 months, had a falling out when I stood-up for my expectation of loyalty, that she would consult me before believing someone else’s, i.e., her girlfriends’, side of a story involving me. But that was far too much to expect. I should obviously shut the fuck up and acquiesce. Sorry, just not, me. I haven’t lived this many years, gotten a PhD, had an effect literally on around 10,000 students, written 5 books, and as many screenplays, and done high-level work for 2 National Laboratories to fade into the woodwork and stuff my opinions and expectations of my friends. No goddamned way.

I have tried it, now, seriously, with 3 different women. I have observed plenty of evidence that wallpaper is indeed the desired commodity. What a freakin’ disappointment. In response, I have stopped, ceased and desisted in trying to initiate relationships — waste of time: I will never be wallpaper. Sorry, girls.