Billy Corgan Is the Cherry on the Shit Sundae That Is the Middle-Aged Man Crisis

Now try dating them.

So yeah, Billy Corgan sucks. But this moment is brought to you by more than the current social media backlash against the Smashing Pumpkins frontman. This is just the latest operatic high note (or low point) in the soaring anthem dedicated to the audacity of aging bruhs everywhere.

The offense? Not the shirtless selfies with backwards baseball caps taken at the gym or in a bachelor-pad bathroom with the toilet seat up, or any of that usual nonsense. That’s child’s play. No, it’s worse than that: this pandemic of smug douchebags who still believe they are the answer to most women’s prayers with their low-effort mating rituals and inflated sense of self-importance. In a word: Ew.

Middle-aged men are in crisis. And for once (maybe once and for all?), women do not give a fuck about helping them get through it. Oh, your feelings scare you? Boo hoo. Hell, if anything, women are encouraging them to blast some Rush, pour themselves another cold one, and dig themselves in deeper, because watching them die on this hill is popping our corn. Put a fork in us. We are done.

Let’s go back to Corgan for a minute, just in case you missed this cringefest. On the New York Times Popcast last week, Corgan sat down with the hosts and explained, among other things, how Marilyn Manson is “almost family” to him and basically underscoring that since he wasn’t convicted in the onslaught of brutal abuse allegations he faced ahead of his canceling, Manson therefore is innocent. So, that’s nice. Corgan added something about being a Christian, but personally, I was too busy screaming at Spotify in my car to hear any more about his relationship with God. Like, Jesus Fucking Christ.

But the highlight of the interview is when Corgan was asked about the 25-year-age gap between him and his wife, Chloe Mendel (they met when she was 19 and he was 44, ahem), and how potentially—I’m summarizing now—it is her fresh and dewy ability to endear/appreciate/nurture him through his own brokenness and not make it potentially worse by bringing in any of her own brokenness, that makes their relationship work. He goes on to say that, wait, let me loop in some other women with their jaws on the floor to explain…

Below, a few slides from Scary Mommy.

So basically, Corgan, who is now 59, thinks women of his own generation are too fucked up by their own politics, feminism, and trauma to be open, loving partners to him. Mind you, he prefaced this all by saying: “I don’t want to make all the feminists mad.” Oopsies.

The Billy slamdance could go on all night, so let’s step away from this trainwreck and get back to my point, which is: For the first time in modern history, men are literally rendering themselves obsolete in the minds of many single women. And we’re cool with that.

Chelsea Handler has been leading the charge for years now, proudly proclaiming that she’s not a “relationship” kind of woman, that she likes the companionship of men “some of the time.” But after a while, she gets bored and just wants to spend time alone or with her girlfriends. We’ve seen endless memes on social media of middle-aged women who wish to be “unbothered”—alone in their clean houses with their own playlists and full ownership of the TV remote, a hearty assortment of snacks, and… peace and quiet.

Look at the early and persistent buzz around the new Olivia Colman and Alexander Skarsgard film Wicker. Women are foaming at the mouth at the idea of a “perfect man,” albeit one made of wood as a satirical and emotional critique of real-world dating and average (sub)standard male behavior.

I get it. Boy, do I get it.

As one of Jenny’s resident dating and sex “experts,” I’ve been sharing stories here and on my Substack regarding my midlife love shenanigans for several years now. Well, it’s time to take stock. I broke up with a boyfriend I did not love back in early 2025 and for the most part, took a deep and cleansing exhale as I stepped off the dating treadmill.

It had been a super fun and sexy ride in many ways for the better part of four years, ever since the fog of COVID lifted and we took off our masks and started kissing again. In that time, I’ve been happily poly, traditionally monogamous, easy-breezy casual, and besotted- beyond-reason in love.

The aforementioned breakup felt like almost nothing, taking a BandAid off a cut that had scabbed over. But I also briefly went back to a man who I adored and—as usual with him and me—the chemistry was over-the-top, but the day-to-day was dismal. I vowed to simply go easy and coast while I reset. “I’ll date,” I said. “Dating is fun!” Famous last words.

As I’ve aged and gotten more and more clear on what I will and will not accept in welcoming another human into my home, my bed, my heart, and my vagina, I’ve realized that most of the men I’ve met barely warrant a lukewarm “see ya” at the end of date—if we even get to a date. Most of them fail miserably at all the things that lead up to making meeting in person actually happen. But unlike generations of women before me who sobbed into their handkerchiefs when Prince Charming failed to materialize, all I did was yawn, put on a clean nightgown, and get into bed with my dogs and the crossword puzzle.

For the record, I am a catch. I have my own business, make my own money, can cook up a storm, am attractive, and love to fuck. My child is happily launched and my ex-husband is a doll. I have plenty of friends and lots of hobbies (pulling tarot, playing drums, being a smart ass) that keep me busy. I require very little to keep me amused.

Here’s what I’ve discovered over the last few years in the outrageously underwhelming world of dating middle-aged men:

Inability to text or call with any consistency

I don’t need or want a new man in my life to be in constant communication, particularly ahead of a first date. Maybe a few texts to warm things up, set a time and place, and then no big whoop until we figure out if we want to get to know each other better. That said, not one man I’ve dated in the last few years can text or call me with any consistency. I’ve had two men make dates with me, and confirm those dates, only to blow off the plans not long before we meet up. “I got stuck in the office” or “I’m super tired, can we reschedule?” And then, they disappear for days. Are you fucking serious? This is your best foot forward? Next!

Constant need to mansplain

Mansplaining is at an all-time high. It’s sometimes hilarious to burst their little bubbles and ask, “Dude, what the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re talking about?” But it still boggles my mind. Last spring, I went out with a guy my friends and I nicknamed the Phishhead. It was a reasonably good first date: our coffee turned into lunch followed by a walk. He mentioned Phish. I blanched, but managed not to say “blech,” because, as we all know, you do not yuck someone’s yum on a first date.

But then he sent me a Phish video. Okaaaay. So, I mentioned Phish wasn’t my thing but that I do enjoy someone who’s passionate about music. From that moment forward, he took it upon himself to teach me why Phish was a superior band. And he wouldn’t stop. He insisted that Phish’s version of “Loving Cup” was better than the original by the Stones. When he asked Siri to play it so he could talk at me about its brilliance (and the errors of my thinking) in real time, I just started laughing. Shortly after that, he said goodnight and disappeared into, I dunno, a pond or aquarium or something.

Delusional laziness

It seems middle-aged men have some inane notion that there are a billion women out there who are dying to fold their laundry, pick up their socks, suck their dicks, or hang out with their kids. It’s called dating. That means, we go on dates. I don’t want to chill at your house, get ice cream with your kids before you take them to their mom’s place, or sit around while you do a few chores before we grab a pizza. If you can’t make it even a touch more compelling than an average evening at Joe Ordinary’s house, why invite me out?

Resentment with a touch of anger

With a lot of the men I’ve sketched out above—the ones exhibiting minimal effort and bad manners—we’re also seeing a simmering resentment, or even anger, that their every word is no longer being fawned over like a veritable diamond tumbling out from between their lips. So, let’s see… we’ve got laziness, arrogance, and men who want their mommies to clean up after them or breastfeed them into oblivion—or else they’ll throw a tantrum? No thanks.

Before I sign off, perhaps it’s time to revisit this gem: When Hole played the Jools Holland show in 1995, Courtney introduced the song “Violet” with a reference to when she dated Corgan in 1991 before taking up with Kurt Cobain. “This is a song about a jerk. I hexed him and now he’s losing his hair.”

As it’s just ahead of Halloween, here’s to more hexes on these fools. Corgan, the coven is coming for you and your kind.

---

Want our stories delivered to you? Sign up for our newsletter, then follow us on Instagram, Threads, and Facebook for regular updates and a lot of other silliness. And if you’ve liked what you’ve read and want to help us keep bringing stories your way, please consider a small donation.