Do you know anyone who is really good looking? I don’t mean, yeah, you’re okay, I mean “Hey, that person’s cheating.”
Life is hard for everyone, we know that. But the truly pretty? Not as hard. Not even close.
I have a friend, he called me and said, “Let’s go to a club.” For him that means a night of talking to whoever he wants, and getting positive responses back. He says, “Hello” and women are like, “Oh, I love the way you say hello. Who are you? So interesting.” It’s a total cheat. He grunts and they lay out entire lives with him, “We’ll get married in Brussels. Three kids, I’ll still work out, 6 to 9 orgasms a week, me on top so I can get a better view of him, we’ll die in our 80’s.”
I’m not Quasimodo, but I’m in the pool of everyone else, the middles, above the ferociously unattractive, below the over-advantaged. If I think about going to a club I think about a night of mostly sitting by myself, looking around, trying to see opportunities to talk to someone who won’t immediately reject me or close down and give me nothing. I have to convince women, with words, personality, thoughts, flirting, enticing, dancing, drinks, jokes, wit, feigned positivity. Then, if I pry things open in just the right way, it lasts about 3 minutes, I can lose her with any misplaced gesture or off-tone, and she’s thinking, “Maaaybe it would be okay to talk to him, but only for 2 minutes, then back to that guy who said hello. How do I get with that guy? This short bald guy is funny, look at the behind on that dude.”
This is why I think we need to level the playing field. The truly pretty can’t have money. There needs to be a pretty tax. Of 90% of income. It goes directly to the ugly. So when you walk into a bar, you see someone pretty, you think, “Pretty, but I have to buy their drinks. Or, ugly, I’m drinking for free.”
More oddness in our lives
We need more weird randoms in our life. We should build them for each other, just create little things that make people go, "What the--"
On the sidewalk somewhere, leave a single cashew and a syringe. A ticket to the opera and one circled obituary. A broken harmonica and a half-melted candle. A note that when opened says, "Stop reading me."
On the sidewalk somewhere, leave a single cashew and a syringe. A ticket to the opera and one circled obituary. A broken harmonica and a half-melted candle. A note that when opened says, "Stop reading me."
The United States of Argument
People always wonder why we can’t all just get along. Why not give peace a chance? Why so much conflict.
Because human beings never agree – fully – on anything. Even when we agree in principle – ie, sex is good – we break down horribly over details – uh, no, I’m not going to do that.
What was it like for the founding fathers when they wrote the Constitution? Those guys argued about everything.
“Okay, everybody, gather up, we’re going to go over this, sign the damn thing, and get back to the drinking. Half hour, tops. By the way, thanks to Tom Jefferson for writing it, lot of late night back rubs from that slave, eh, Tom? Whatever, here we go. Starts out, ‘We the people –“
“Hold, hold I say! Why only people?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why not sheep? Or horses? Shouldn’t they have a say?”
“Hear, hear. And besides, isn’t ‘We’ the people redundant. Do we need to specify we’re people?”
“Why not jazz it up a bit? How about, we the ‘cool dudes’?
“Fine, fine, we’ll take it under consideration.”
“Who’s ‘we’? Do you mean you?”
“Will some sheep be involved in the consideration?”
“Close your pie hole. ‘We the whatevers of the United States of America –“
“America? I thought we were calling it New Jersey.”
“I told a girl last night at the bar I’d name it Bralessia.”
“We’ve already got t-shirt printed up that say The United States of Not England.”
“And what about the flag? I still say ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ will be huge. People love the snake.”
“That’s it, we’re done here. I’ll be at the bar!”
“By ‘we’re’ you’re including live stock, right? I don’t drink without cattle in the room.”
Because human beings never agree – fully – on anything. Even when we agree in principle – ie, sex is good – we break down horribly over details – uh, no, I’m not going to do that.
What was it like for the founding fathers when they wrote the Constitution? Those guys argued about everything.
“Okay, everybody, gather up, we’re going to go over this, sign the damn thing, and get back to the drinking. Half hour, tops. By the way, thanks to Tom Jefferson for writing it, lot of late night back rubs from that slave, eh, Tom? Whatever, here we go. Starts out, ‘We the people –“
“Hold, hold I say! Why only people?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why not sheep? Or horses? Shouldn’t they have a say?”
“Hear, hear. And besides, isn’t ‘We’ the people redundant. Do we need to specify we’re people?”
“Why not jazz it up a bit? How about, we the ‘cool dudes’?
“Fine, fine, we’ll take it under consideration.”
“Who’s ‘we’? Do you mean you?”
“Will some sheep be involved in the consideration?”
“Close your pie hole. ‘We the whatevers of the United States of America –“
“America? I thought we were calling it New Jersey.”
“I told a girl last night at the bar I’d name it Bralessia.”
“We’ve already got t-shirt printed up that say The United States of Not England.”
“And what about the flag? I still say ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ will be huge. People love the snake.”
“That’s it, we’re done here. I’ll be at the bar!”
“By ‘we’re’ you’re including live stock, right? I don’t drink without cattle in the room.”
Getting Personal, Entry # 1: Water Boy
So I work out in a gym that offer “trainers” who will whip you into shape for only $60 an hour. Unfortunately, to pay that you have to work extra at your job, so you don’t have time to work out, but, hey, make it work, people.
There are a range of personality types that become personal trainers, and I find all of them tres amusing. Thus, this is my first in an ongoing series, “Getting Personal With the Personals.”
First up is Jim. Ah, Jim. He may actually spell it Gym, I’m not sure, because he’s that hardcore.
Jim is in his 20’s, a solid as an oak, he looks like a marine mixed with a pit bull with an irritated anal gland. The only time I see him smile is when someone breaks down in pain. Then he gets an eerie look of glee, like he’s uncovered a world of puppies no one else has ever seen.
My favorite thing about Jim is his unswerving dedication to water. I’ve never heard him speak without mentioning water. A client says she’s been hungry all day? “Water! Drink more water, dissolves the hunger. I want to see a water bottle in your hand all day long.” Someone's got an injury? "That's a water-based injury. Water keeps the ligature loose, supple. His the water, speeds recovery." This guy loves water more than people. And that explains “the jug.”
Jim is a jugger. Plastic converted milk jug. Filled with water. Always dangling from his hand, like he got a very bad choice of a graft after losing his hand in a dumbbell accident.
And Jim is very protective of his jug. He puts it on the floor when he’s training someone, and he is very nervous about it being out from under his personal protection. If you walk anywhere near it, he neck-whips around to protect it.
“Hey, careful, big guy, got a jug there. Don’t want to spill my water. Everybody, listen up, one warning: respect the jug! I don’t come to your house and knock the Egg McMuffin out of your chubby hands. Don’t kick my jug. Come here, juggie, they don’t understand you. Water, people, it’s life’s gift, if you weren’t all so fat you’d know!”
Because Jim drinks so much water, he’s always in the bathroom. Which is also very intense.
“Taking a whiz over here! The jug is still out with the weights, I don’t whiz near my jug. I’ve posted an armed guard, keep it tight, people, keep it tight! The whiz is almost over, I’m coming, Juggie, hold on, Daddy is coming!”
[* Next up, Jim’s Harem]
There are a range of personality types that become personal trainers, and I find all of them tres amusing. Thus, this is my first in an ongoing series, “Getting Personal With the Personals.”
First up is Jim. Ah, Jim. He may actually spell it Gym, I’m not sure, because he’s that hardcore.
Jim is in his 20’s, a solid as an oak, he looks like a marine mixed with a pit bull with an irritated anal gland. The only time I see him smile is when someone breaks down in pain. Then he gets an eerie look of glee, like he’s uncovered a world of puppies no one else has ever seen.
My favorite thing about Jim is his unswerving dedication to water. I’ve never heard him speak without mentioning water. A client says she’s been hungry all day? “Water! Drink more water, dissolves the hunger. I want to see a water bottle in your hand all day long.” Someone's got an injury? "That's a water-based injury. Water keeps the ligature loose, supple. His the water, speeds recovery." This guy loves water more than people. And that explains “the jug.”
Jim is a jugger. Plastic converted milk jug. Filled with water. Always dangling from his hand, like he got a very bad choice of a graft after losing his hand in a dumbbell accident.
And Jim is very protective of his jug. He puts it on the floor when he’s training someone, and he is very nervous about it being out from under his personal protection. If you walk anywhere near it, he neck-whips around to protect it.
“Hey, careful, big guy, got a jug there. Don’t want to spill my water. Everybody, listen up, one warning: respect the jug! I don’t come to your house and knock the Egg McMuffin out of your chubby hands. Don’t kick my jug. Come here, juggie, they don’t understand you. Water, people, it’s life’s gift, if you weren’t all so fat you’d know!”
Because Jim drinks so much water, he’s always in the bathroom. Which is also very intense.
“Taking a whiz over here! The jug is still out with the weights, I don’t whiz near my jug. I’ve posted an armed guard, keep it tight, people, keep it tight! The whiz is almost over, I’m coming, Juggie, hold on, Daddy is coming!”
[* Next up, Jim’s Harem]
Demon Days
So, I’m right-handed. My left hand might as well be someone else’s, for all the use it is. Apparently they grafted a useless arm on my left side when I was young and didn’t tell me, because my left is a complete underachiever.
I like how they used to consider lefties to be demons. Because only a demon would throw like a girl with his right hand.
“Dude, you call that a curve ball? What are you, possessed?”
Whatever happened to demons? They were everywhere back when Jesus was around, now, they’re mascots. That would be awful if you were transported from the Middle Ages when everyone was possessed, to a Duke v. Wake Forest basketball game.
“Aiiiiii! A Blue Devil! Aii, a Demon Deacon! With huge heads. Defiling the game at every time out. Get thee back, spawn, let me concentrate upon sport without thy distraction. Oh, pulling down the pants of the rule-keeper, thy name is legion!”
Every once in awhile a demon will pop back up in a movie and scare the bejesus out of us. The Omen. The Exorcist. Anything starring Ashton Kutcher.
But, for the most part, demons went the way of the buffalo. Just a bunch of demons and buffalo, hanging out at a bar somewhere, bemoaning the day.
“There was a time,” says the demon, sipping his Jagermeister, “When we possessed half the Middle East. You couldn’t throw holy water without hitting a freaking world class demon.”
“You think that’s something,” grunts the buffalo, drinking his wheatgrass beer. “We were the most plentiful animal in North America. Ruled the place. Not a day went by when I didn’t have ten, twelve lady buffaloes ready to make more little buffaloes. It was heaven. Sorry for invoking the competition.”
“I have a cousin who once possessed a buffalo. But the taste of grass drove him into a raccoon.”
“There’s a rumor your people inhabit the white race. The ones that shot us? Ring a bell?”
“No comment.”
“Stupid demon.”
“Grass-breath.”
Ah, the good old superstition days. When you could publicly condemn someone for having red hair.
“Friends, countrymen, does this, this Carrot Top, look normal to you? Does this many freckles seem safe? Angels don’t have freckles. And, and, what’s worse, I’m told the carpet matches the drapes!”
I like how they used to consider lefties to be demons. Because only a demon would throw like a girl with his right hand.
“Dude, you call that a curve ball? What are you, possessed?”
Whatever happened to demons? They were everywhere back when Jesus was around, now, they’re mascots. That would be awful if you were transported from the Middle Ages when everyone was possessed, to a Duke v. Wake Forest basketball game.
“Aiiiiii! A Blue Devil! Aii, a Demon Deacon! With huge heads. Defiling the game at every time out. Get thee back, spawn, let me concentrate upon sport without thy distraction. Oh, pulling down the pants of the rule-keeper, thy name is legion!”
Every once in awhile a demon will pop back up in a movie and scare the bejesus out of us. The Omen. The Exorcist. Anything starring Ashton Kutcher.
But, for the most part, demons went the way of the buffalo. Just a bunch of demons and buffalo, hanging out at a bar somewhere, bemoaning the day.
“There was a time,” says the demon, sipping his Jagermeister, “When we possessed half the Middle East. You couldn’t throw holy water without hitting a freaking world class demon.”
“You think that’s something,” grunts the buffalo, drinking his wheatgrass beer. “We were the most plentiful animal in North America. Ruled the place. Not a day went by when I didn’t have ten, twelve lady buffaloes ready to make more little buffaloes. It was heaven. Sorry for invoking the competition.”
“I have a cousin who once possessed a buffalo. But the taste of grass drove him into a raccoon.”
“There’s a rumor your people inhabit the white race. The ones that shot us? Ring a bell?”
“No comment.”
“Stupid demon.”
“Grass-breath.”
Ah, the good old superstition days. When you could publicly condemn someone for having red hair.
“Friends, countrymen, does this, this Carrot Top, look normal to you? Does this many freckles seem safe? Angels don’t have freckles. And, and, what’s worse, I’m told the carpet matches the drapes!”
It’s hard to know how much of what is spun toward them to actually expose your kids to. You don’t want them growing up entirely out of sync with the dominant culture, but you definitely don’t want to leave them defenseless to consumption capitalism, with its superficiality, over-stimulation, delayed development, and unhealthy foods and activities. But that culture is also fun, stimulating, and unavoidable. So you look for balance.
Like we know a kid who has never watched TV. He has no idea who a super hero is. My son is constantly amazed by him. “You, you don’t know Ben Ten? El Tigre? Avatar? 500 variations of pokemon. Okay, but you know Batman. Superman. Flash. What? What’s wrong with you? There are all sorts of mythical figures out there that are way better than us!”
No, this kid only knew one superhero – Jesus. And sure, Jesus has the power to water ski, raise zombies, and destroy the earth, but he’s not a very good fighter. Hulk v. Jesus? Go green, the big guy is going to crush Johnny Robe.
You can see it in this kid’s eyes when Zeke talks about superheroes, it’s like he can’t quite get it. Unless you have been raised on comic books and cartoons, that whole world makes no sense. You don’t know how to suspend disbelief and enjoy the art form.
For example, I read Hulk for years without ever thinking about some of the hugely illogical elements of the story. The Hulk emerges from Bruce Banner, but they wear different color pants. And, somehow, Hulk’s pants fit him. In logic world, there would be a big green naked guy rampaging through the city. Which would be an entirely different story experience.
Or this: Batman is the most technologically advanced superhero ever, but he gets to his Batcave by sliding down a stripper pole. That’s the best he could do? And are there girls somewhere on a stage with nothing to do because Bat boy took their pole the last time he dropped in?
See, these are the types of nuances that make the Big Culture kind of palatable. And my kid will get these jokes some day. As he sits on the couch. Munching Cheetohs. Still watching El Tigre at 35.
Like we know a kid who has never watched TV. He has no idea who a super hero is. My son is constantly amazed by him. “You, you don’t know Ben Ten? El Tigre? Avatar? 500 variations of pokemon. Okay, but you know Batman. Superman. Flash. What? What’s wrong with you? There are all sorts of mythical figures out there that are way better than us!”
No, this kid only knew one superhero – Jesus. And sure, Jesus has the power to water ski, raise zombies, and destroy the earth, but he’s not a very good fighter. Hulk v. Jesus? Go green, the big guy is going to crush Johnny Robe.
You can see it in this kid’s eyes when Zeke talks about superheroes, it’s like he can’t quite get it. Unless you have been raised on comic books and cartoons, that whole world makes no sense. You don’t know how to suspend disbelief and enjoy the art form.
For example, I read Hulk for years without ever thinking about some of the hugely illogical elements of the story. The Hulk emerges from Bruce Banner, but they wear different color pants. And, somehow, Hulk’s pants fit him. In logic world, there would be a big green naked guy rampaging through the city. Which would be an entirely different story experience.
Or this: Batman is the most technologically advanced superhero ever, but he gets to his Batcave by sliding down a stripper pole. That’s the best he could do? And are there girls somewhere on a stage with nothing to do because Bat boy took their pole the last time he dropped in?
See, these are the types of nuances that make the Big Culture kind of palatable. And my kid will get these jokes some day. As he sits on the couch. Munching Cheetohs. Still watching El Tigre at 35.
My Way or the Highway
Yesterday – I swear on Vincent Price’s grave that this is true – I had to out-race a school bus while trying to merge onto the highway. Wait, what I meant to say was that I had to race a short school bus while trying to merge onto the highway. The bus was already on the road, and when the driver saw I was about to get in, he gunned it and tried to cut me off. And, just from the corner of my eye, it looked like the kids were cheering him on.
This came at the end of a run of odd experiences I’ve had at high speeds recently. A couple of weeks ago I witnessed two garbarge trucks racing on the highway. Same company, exact same trucks, weaving in and out of lanes at, oh, 85 – 90 mph. My first thought – and I don’t know why it was this but it’s an indictment of our culture – was, “Has reality TV sunk this low? Here are the keys to two garbage trucks, whoever gets to the dump first wins a date with Penelope Cruz, go!”
I saw two kids having a fist fight in a mini-van (and the mom doing nothing to stop it – a true believer in natural selection).
I saw a pickup so loaded with watermelons that the front tires left the ground at one point (watermelon, nature’s ground sponge).
And, finally, my favorite, I saw a truck driver and a motorcycle cop standing together behind the driver’s truck, each having a cigarette. As if they were enjoying a post-ticket smoke, after having just completed their transaction, now basking in the afterglow of a ticket well-done.
This came at the end of a run of odd experiences I’ve had at high speeds recently. A couple of weeks ago I witnessed two garbarge trucks racing on the highway. Same company, exact same trucks, weaving in and out of lanes at, oh, 85 – 90 mph. My first thought – and I don’t know why it was this but it’s an indictment of our culture – was, “Has reality TV sunk this low? Here are the keys to two garbage trucks, whoever gets to the dump first wins a date with Penelope Cruz, go!”
I saw two kids having a fist fight in a mini-van (and the mom doing nothing to stop it – a true believer in natural selection).
I saw a pickup so loaded with watermelons that the front tires left the ground at one point (watermelon, nature’s ground sponge).
And, finally, my favorite, I saw a truck driver and a motorcycle cop standing together behind the driver’s truck, each having a cigarette. As if they were enjoying a post-ticket smoke, after having just completed their transaction, now basking in the afterglow of a ticket well-done.
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