Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2005/10/21/dan_linsalata_clever_with_his_lever.php

Dan Linsalata: Clever With His Lever

Friday, October 21, 2005

Notoriety can have its advantages.

Case in point: for the last several weeks, I have been fighting an uphill battle against karma. Thanks to imbibing a little too deeply from the dirty Keystone can of life, I am now afflicted with a grab-bag of social diseases and am living, to the extent my schedule and willpower allow, in the type of quarantine that such a condition necessitates. This existence is not a happy one, as it allows me plenty of time for the self-reflection that I loathe so very much.

Thus, when a tome entitled How to Be Smart with Your Part arrived unsolicited at The Dartmouth Review's office, I could only consider it to be divine intervention, a message that perhaps I ought to begin doing the same.

Included with the autographed first edition were a copy of the press release and a letter to our editor-in-chief explaining the surprise package. In the letter, the author, writing under the pseudonym "Lords A. Leapin"—the first of many wretched puns—expressed confusion over the composition of the Review's editorial staff; it seems as if Mr. Leapin (though he prefers to go by Lords) wished to send his work to the paper's "Sex Editor," but was remiss when he could not identify that individual. In fact, he had trouble with the most basic literacy functions, boldly declaring "it seems as if The DR [sic] has no editorial positions at all." [See sidebar, page 3.] Thanks to our credibility-salvaging lack of such a post, and Mr. Leapin's glaring oversight, the task was up for grabs, and all eyes in the room immediately fell upon me.

Thumbing through the book, I quickly deduced that the large font format, one hundred-forty-page work, written at an eighth-grade reading level with an equally mature sense of humor, was a challenge that I could tackle, perhaps even while absorbing some of the concise, to-the-point advice that it must surely offer: according to the obverse cover, "Lore, Everyday Maintenance, and Safety For the Male Member is Described in this Both Tongue in Cheek And Serious Guide to Sexual Sanity In the New Millennium." Up to this moment, I was blissfully ignorant of the concept of "sexual sanity," as well as the new rules for proper capitalization. At least one of the two was sure to be explained between the covers.

Or not. The first twenty or so pages, a chapter entitled, "Which Part are We Talking About?" essentially detailed the author's thought process in the selection of his subject matter. He emphasizes that the book is written "for the man on the way up," both in his career field and in his pants. It does not matter in what regard the man may be so elevating himself, so long as he "has one of these [parts] and is interested in learning more about its safety and everyday maintenance." He slowly leads on the reader, dropping hints about what the book is not about, such as the nose ("You will not endear yourself to the opposite sex if you appear to be sniffing them."). He also has to foresight to tell the read that "this is not a book about scrotums. And thank Heavens for that! Can you imagine a whole book about balls?" Well no, Lords, but since you mention it, I really hadn't anticipated ever encountering a book about how to use my penis, either.

So the first chapter was a waste. The reader learns only retrospectively that the first chapter was spared the onslaught of sophomoric puns and euphemisms to which the subject matter lends itself and which plague the remainder of the book. To Mr. Leapin's credit, the work does follow a well-organized path, beginning with a psycho-anatomical analysis of your part, writ large, and working towards specific usages of said part, the balance comprised of a discussion of situations and ways in which it is wise, or unwise, to use your part. And, as promised, the tongue-in-cheek discussion of employment issues is balanced well with a serious, if parental, admonishments of the repercussions of not being smart with your part. Regrettably, one quickly finds the two styles serve only to oppose each other, rather than complement each other. A typical chapter discourses upon some use or another of your part in flippant, pseudo-serious tone, succeeded by an obligatory, dry, and oft-rehashed lecture on the risk of infection or other malady associated with said action. The warnings are uninspiring, to say the least; their inclusion as a requisite for publication becomes excruciatingly obvious.

The disjunction between the frivolously-treated common sense sections and the stern lectures come in two forms: a full chapter of advice followed by a brief paragraph stating why one shouldn't adhere to the aforementioned advice, due to risk of STDs and other issues; and a specific, if explicit, account of a proper part employment, with a brief warning following. The second chapter uses the former structure. A detailed treatise, supported with logical deduction and falsified scientific studies, it delves into the likelihood of the penis possessing its own brain. Leapin observes that "actions taken by the body are often different from those suggested by the traditional brain." Empirically, I'd have to say he's right. Extrapolation of this observation yields the conclusion that the penis does, in fact, posses its own brain, but, as a caveat, it is not a brain that should necessarily be listened to. The next chapter offers suggestions of ways one can draw attention to one's "thingy," which Leapin incessantly uses as a callow euphemism, if the inferior brain must be listened to. It is all for the best that he advises strongly against all suggestions, as they include such ingenuity as "Make your thingy a media event," "Join a [penis] puppet show," and "Artfully blend your thingy into a recognized holiday celebration."

By the fourth chapter, Leapin finally gets to the thrust of the piece. Focusing on your part and drinking, he begins with the blunt declaration that a number of factors "enable" the dominance of the penile brain over the cranial one, alcohol first among these. "Alcohol," he explicates, "and your [horrid euphemism too egregious to mention] exist in a vague continuum of alliance and conflict." An astute observation, to be sure, but certainly preaching to the choir. On the conflict end of this continuum, as delineated by Leapin, are "Waking up with people you don't know," and "Trying to sleep with people you shouldn't." In a separate category, he mentions the possibility of "Putting your part where it shouldn't go." However, as I have oft been reminded of, this latter problem frequently seems to be intimately tied to, or a manifestation of, the first two. Also included, on that ambiguous line between the tongue-in-cheek and the serious sections, is an exhaustive list of "Other places it just shouldn't go." Among others, Leapin kindly includes noses, ears, microwaves, wood chippers, and animals of any kind, for the benefit of any who may be inclined that way.

Finally getting to the necessary minutiae for those who are smart enough with their part to keep it well clear of household appliances and wildlife, the fifth chapter essentially comprises a rather graphic how-to guide for everyday use of your "thingy" (read: typical sexual situations). Though, as can be expected by this point, the section is nearly unreadable for a host of reasons. The incessant reminders about infection risk, pregnancy, and other minor inconveniences chop and dice the narrative like an onion at a hibachi restaurant. Leapin's reference to the female vagina as "her thingy" presents a two-fold weakness: the reader quickly gets confused as to which "thingy" is being discussed, where it's going, and the like; and reading the piece itself resembles little more than a conversation with a hormonally-charged twelve-year-old boy (or twenty-year-old, depending). But what hinders this chapter most is that the advice served up is so generic and stale, without getting into detail, that if the reader has not heard it before, he probably is not getting much opportunity to use his part anyway, either wisely or unwisely. Once one knows the basics, however, it would seem that just about anything goes, when done properly. Or, in Leapin's own words, "Successful sex is never having to say you're sorry." He fails to specify if this refers to an apology to one's partner, or to oneself.

Two chapters devoted to using your part while in transit (think planes, trains, and automobiles) and in divers iterations of gentlemen's clubs are redundant, dull, and uninformative—unless, of course, the reader needed to be told that paying a dancer for oral sex is neither dignified nor sapient. The book ends with three consecutive chapters of "serious stuff," seemingly culled from a middle school sexual education class. Midway through the first of these, Leapin intones that "if I catch a disease, I'll take my medicine and not complain" is not a healthy attitude when becoming intimate with a partner. "A man will not always have perfect knowledge of his companion's health history. Even if she claims she is a virgin there is a strong chance that she has been intimate with a number of companions. There's no great payoff for a woman to advertise that she has been around the block a number of times. So to protect himself, a man must assume his friend is bending the facts."

While such a claim may be self-evident, many men will often overlook it voluntarily. And therein lays the key to this book: every man knows how to be smart with his part, but actually doing so presents a fresh set of obstacles. After reading thoroughly from cover to cover, and gleaning very little new information from it, I am now resigned to the fact that my karma is unlikely to reverse course simply by virtue of having done so.