As I said before, I've done the best I know how to do. Captainlarab knows about the kind of work I can put into understanding a subject, such as women in the military.

I'm offering good faith and, probably, an absurd level of naivete for a New Yorker in her 50s. But I'm from the demographic that -- near as I can decrypt Jessica V's words -- is considered privileged, and in order to get answers, I need to ask the right questions.

I'm asking what questions I should have been asking. The lawyer who wrote in said to get out more. There's got to be more than this. We share the planet. I can do what I think is the neighborly thing, but until you tell me what you think the neighborly thing is, I can't read minds. I don't want to be disrespectful of anyone, including myself: how would -you- prefer I showed respect?

Yeah, I know. I should have asked that one forty years ago, but I didn't have words direct enough.

This is an old story, but it does show an active father's involvement in the "higher" beauty culture.

When I was 15 or 16, my mother and I must have gone nuts or something, because we thought it might be a good idea if I went from dark brunette to blonde. (It's an impulse, I've decided, roughly similar to a balding guy buying a convertible, which my father did about that time.) We very painstakingly went to my mother's hairdresser and got the dye test to see if I'd react badly to it, in which case, no go.

We also tried wigs on me. NOT a good idea. I looked like Ophelia after they pulled her out of the water. But we didn't throw out the dye, for some stupid reason.

My father saw it. "What's that?"

Uh oh. Busted.

"It's hair dye."

"For whom?"

"Well, we thought that the Kzin..."

WHAM! He hit the ceiling. "Throw it out. Now. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of."

Dad mostly didn't care about things. When he cared, however, he CARED. So we threw the dye out.

He won the battle on wheat colored jeans, lost the one on pierced ears, but he was always involved. These are memories I cherish.

Dick, my father was a man of his generation, but if he had wanted a yesdear, he would have married someone other than my mother, and they would have brought me up very differently.

AND, if he'd been trying that kind of stuff, I'd have known it.

I regret now that Mother stayed home; it would have been easier for her if she hadn't, later on, when Dad died far, far too young.

My father was the sort of man who, when I marched in the November Moratorium, lost a fight with my mother (who would happily have gone) about my going, sent me our Congressman's home address and that of his assistant, and money "to subsidize your subversion." And signed it "love and peace, your fascist father," (and he was a WWII infantry captain, so he knew what the word really meant) and added with a peace sign that he drew upside down because he'd never drawn one before.

Go pull wings off flies, Dick. I'd believe the Earth is flat about as quickly as I'd believe Dad was the kind of troll I've seen around here. He's the standard by which I learned to tell the difference.

If any of the men around here have daughters, all I hope is that they're able to say the same thing about their fathers. The way you're going, I suspect they won't.

But they'll probably love you anyhow.

As Lisa said about herself, I'm happy.

But I don't like smug. I don't like bad logic. And I don't like people attempting to psychoanalyze me so they can win a game they should never have started.

Now, what about that bothers you?

If I were caught up on MacKinnon (I once was), why wouldn't I say something? Granted, that comes from privilege. I have the chops to do so (although I'm not a lawyer), and I know it.

I was afraid that was it: that it's too much of a pain in the ass to answer the questions. That's fair enough. Why should people answer me?

I don't see any real reason except that we might be more powerful together than separate; there are people who'd like us to remain separate and adversarial; and I asked respectfully.

I'll flame anyone who doesn't treat me with respect. But given the slightest hint of being asked nicely, I stand down.

As you know, I talk a lot. I'm shutting up now to listen.

If you wanted breast augmentation, would you feel comfortable going to a doctor who would play along with this?

I'd had to lie down to zip them up, and Dad considered the tight, light fabric immodest. So I put on darker ones, and he was just fine.

Go figure. My mother and I told him he was being silly, but he persisted and, as I said, I changed.

You're probably right.

No fun, but right.

Can Haz Trollz?

That was my inept attempt at LOLSPEAK.

Do you know LOLCATS?

Click on www.icanhascheezburger.com

Don't be drinking anything while you check it out.

Trust me.