Absence

What do you say readers? Has your heart grown fonder of my stupid blog?

The holidays seem like an appropriate theme for the moment. What to say? We’ll start off hopeful and drift toward cynicism. Here goes.

What am I thankful for? Today I am thankful for my return to health. I am just getting over a cold. Being sick is the worst, and is really easy to take being healthy for granted as a young man. When I was in college and law school I never got sick… ever. I lived in complete filth, ate terribly, wasn’t particularly prone to hand washing, and generally existed in a petri dish with a pseudo agar created out of leftover fast food and stale beer. Yeah, it was disgusting. Despite/Because of this I never got sick. I bragged about my “Wolverine-like immune system.” One time a group of us got all got in a questionable hot tub at a friend’s place on the way back from spring break. Everyone got a staph infection but your’s truly. (Me > Staphylococcus) Gross right? But I beat it. I was practically invincible.

Cut to present day. I can’t endure a five degree temperature change without coming down with the sniffles. I am a pale and sickly shadow of my former self. In the year and a half that I’ve been working I’ve been sick three or four times. (Naturally, this does not include hangovers. Qualifications always tell a story don’t they?) That’s more times than I was ill for the 7 years prior put together. It turns out that sitting in front of a computer all day and not exercising makes you fat and disposed to minor physical afflictions. So anyway, after a week of horrifying Nyquil induced night terrors and a couple of boxes of Kleenex, I am thankful for being able to breathe through my nose. (Nyquil should be a Schedule 1 substance as far as I’m concerned. That stuff is basically over the counter mescaline)

Well, now that we’ve dealt out some thankfulness, cynicism time.

Shopping. I don’t like shopping for the holidays. Shopping is only fun when you know exactly what someone wants and you know for sure that they don’t have it. I got to have that rare shopping moment today. I know that my dad wanted one of those new cordless drills with the lithium-ion batteries. I also know that he doesn’t have one. I have no problem dropping a few bills on that, because I know I will get to see a fifty-five year old fat bald guy jump up and down and squeal like an eight year old with a new Hot Wheels truck. It’s going to be great.

The rest of the time shopping is an exercise in wastefulness. I have no idea what you want for Christmas. I probably haven’t been paying attention if you were dropping hints, and I don’t like spending time at any store that sells candles. So here’s your picture frame/collection of bath salts/sweater. Enjoy.

New Perspectives

A friend of mine send me a link to her blog tonight. Not bad. Mostly it was just really interesting to read a female’s perspective on certain things. Apparently men are pieces of crap. Who knew? Anyway, she wrote several entries in which the guy was cast in the role of villain. The storyline typically goes like this.

1. Boy meets girl.
2. Boy is charming and if you squint looks kind of like Orlando Bloom.
3. Boy gets girl’s number.
4. Boy becomes increasingly creepy/awkward/morally repugnant. Typically boy’s ethical and social deficiencies manifest themselves in the form of paying attention to other girl(s) and/or drinking too much.
5. Girl gets mad at self for allowing boy to trick her.

When I was reading her entries about crappy guys there were definitely a few moments when I recognized myself. “He did this not only once, not twice, but three times. Apparently, I was cute enough to talk to, but not enough to remember.” Oh yeah. That sounds about right.

Men (including your’s truly) often do treat the fairer sex poorly. This is old news though. I might as well tell you that getting kicked in the genitals is unpleasant. The interesting thing about the girl’s perspective (and perhaps I am over-generalizing) was the fact that she blamed herself for a lot of this stuff. Of course the truly outrageous asshole was appropriately mocked, but for any guy that got past the initial bullshit test and got under her skin I think the blame equation changed. Not that the boy isn’t a prick, but the ultimate responsibility for any emotional distress belongs to the girl. (Yikes right? Accountability is for chumps.)

Naturally, I think a completely unsupportable/offensive theory is in order. My thinking is as follows:

The male agenda is pretty transparent. (Approximately the opacity of air)

Females are not stupid. (Ok… Mea Culpa… A subset of females are not stupid).

It follows that when a female ignores her wiser instincts and is “taken advantage of” by a guy she kicks herself for it rather than holding the dirtbag accountable.

This is just a working theorem, plenty of room for improvement. I think it has a certain amount of explanatory power though. This little formula also ignores that fact that men can be decent human beings, but some people also win at roulette, and that’s a sucker game too.

Anyway, to conclude, for every story a woman tells about the male species failing her I know there is one from some poor bastard that was mistreated by a woman. (Ok maybe it’s not an exact 1-to-1 ratio. I think team dong probably has a comfortable lead, but I made my point.) Males and females hurt each other. Both sides take damage. You take the good, You take the bad, You take them both and there you have the facts of life. The facts of life.

There's a time you gotta go and show. You're growin' now, You know about the facts of life. The facts of life. When the world never seems, To be living up to your dreams. And suddenly you're finding out, The facts of life are all about you. All about you. You-u-u-u, A-ll about you. It takes a lot to get ‘em right, But you're learnin’ the facts of life. Learnin’ the facts of life. Learnin’ the facts of life. Learnin’ the facts of liiiiiiiife.

Stinky Cologne

Long absence. It’s hard to come home from a day sitting in front of a computer and sit in front of a computer. But in the words of Jack London, “Don't loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club.” And with those words of inspiration from the writer of White Fang, who was a dirty socialist by the way, and a little prodding by a faithful reader, I’ve decided to use my own recent life experience as comedic fodder for my own brand of short story. I give you…

Misadventures in Dating

1. For my first anecdote, I thought that something representative of my recent life would be appropriate. Here goes.

So after beginning work I thought it would be a good idea if I attempted to coerce my co-workers into introducing me to women. This has proven to be wildly unsuccessful. My co-workers, along with the remainder of the people that I know in Birmingham, are all either married or in long-term committed relationships. It should have occurred to me early on that all of the people that they know… would be either married or in long-term committed relationships. Needless to say, this has not exactly proved to be a fruitful source of dating opportunities. So anyway, I was surprised recently when one of my friends at work, that I have tricked into thinking I’m a decent human being, offered to introduce me into her new single friend. Not being the type to go on a blind date, I ended up meeting her friend at one of the innumerable fundraisers that one attends as a young professional. Consider my surprise when the young lady was not only very cute but could even form sentences.

I decided to ask her out for a drink. (Wait for it.)

I called; we made plans; she cancelled at the last minute. Weak sauce. (This sucks, but is not the punch line. We’re still waiting.)

We ended up rescheduling the next week or so, for quick bite to eat and drinks. (Here it comes.)

I drove to pick her up, and once we were on the way to the restaurant… (Feel that suspense build. Eat your heart out Hitchcock.)

… she tells me quite calmly. “Just so I don’t lead you on or anything. I have a boyfriend.”

I think further commentary is probably unnecessary at this point, dead horse and all that.


2. For my second trick, I will attempt to mathematically prove that there are only 16.2 datable women in Birmingham. Perhaps a little back story is in order.

I was out a bar not long ago, and I ended up meeting a girl through a friend of mine, very attractive, seemed very fun. For purposes of this story, and because it makes me sound much cooler, lets call her “Adriana Lima.” (As long as we’re protecting the innocent we might as well pretend the innocent are supermodels.) We talked for a while, and I ended up asking her for her number. She even gave it to me. RESULT! After a few days I gave her a call to ask her out. We both had busy weeks so we made plans to get together for a drink when I got back from a trip out of town. SUCCESS! The next day I came home from work and started to make myself some dinner. My roommate stood ironing a pair of pants in the room adjoining the kitchen.

Me: “Those are some flat pants you have there. What’s the occasion?”

Roomie: “Gotta date tonight.” (It helps if you imagine his part in the voice of Foghorn Leghorn: “Pay attention, boy! I'm cuttin' but you're not bleedin’!” or "That boy's bout' as sharp as a bowling ball.")

I puttered around making dinner for a while.

Me: “So tell me about the lucky lady.”

Roomie: “’er name is Adriana Lima.”

Me: “Soooooooo… funny story”

In true sit-com style, we had both, without any overlap, met and asked out the same girl within the span of about two weeks.

MATH TIME!!!

The 2007 Census estimate puts the Birmingham-Hoover-Cullman combined statistical area at 1,188,764. (Wikipedia)

Of which 51% are women, which give us 594,382.

Of which approximately 18% are between the ages of 20 and 30, and we arrive at 106,988.

Of which 1/2 are married, now we got: 53,494

Of which 1/3 are obese: 35,306

Of which 6 percent are gay, 10 percent disabled, 75 percent didn’t go to college, and .01 percent are disabled lesbians with GEDs. This gives us 7,392(ish).

From here we have to assume that I will never meet a significant percentage of these women and that some significant fraction will be too good for me. Let’s divide by π, (2352.195) and then by the atomic weight of Promethium (16.2).

Quod Erat Demonstrandum; there are 16.2 datable females in Birmingham. I win.

Thoughts on Preppiness... with Citations!

Admittedly, I’m a very preppy guy. My closet consists of basically the entire color spectrum of polos and four pairs of pants. Still, somebody told me recently that I have a “preppy face.” I’m mostly sure that it was meant as a compliment, but it would also be a pretty thinly disguised way to tell someone that they are a smug prick. "Preppy face..." what does that even mean? I hardly look patrician. If I was forced to guess, I would say that it means I look like every other frat guy that ever existed, slightly unkempt with an overpowering sense of entitlement for no good reason.

Anyway, I like the preppy look. It suits me… mostly. My biggest preppy shortcoming is that I could never pop my collar. I would like to be able to say that the reason is because popping collars is for hose-bags. (I’m pretty sure there is a hyphen in hose-bags.) But really it’s a lack of neck issue; my head merges seamlessly with my chest.[1] A pop collar attempt and a little starch would have probably result in the loss of an ear.

If for some reason I had to abandon team Brooks Brothers I think I would be ironic t-shirt guy. Plenty of upside to that look: dark rimmed glasses, poorly considered facial hair, girls that look like Lisa Loeb.[2] Downside too though; I think they make you wear tight pants. Speaking of which I think my favorite product of the emo movement (besides the emasculating yet extremely enjoyable music) is the fat emo kid. This guy is a comedic goldmine. Stuffing yourself into size four girl’s jeans and layering on the mascara is even more non-conformist when you weigh 200 pounds. This is probably the only sub-specie of emo kid who has a legitimate reason to be melancholy.

For now I guess I’ll stick to the preppy look. Maybe get myself a madras sport coat and some salmon colored pants. That’s a look I can understand. Basically the goal is just to look as much as possible like an Easter egg while keeping a straight face. Whoever can wear a pink bow tie, yellow pants and suspenders without laughing wins. I’m not there yet, but these things take time. You have to build up a tolerance.[3]

I freakin’ love using footnote for evil. Go team WASP!!!

---

[1] Much like a tyrannosaur. Between that and the short arms I think that the T-Rex is probably the animal that I relate to most. At least he was the king of the dinosaurs. Some people are gazelles. Some are apes. I’m an extinct bird/lizard.

[2] I’m bizarrely attracted to this look. Can’t explain it. Makes me want to buy them hello kitty stuff and pretend to like their poetry.

[3] Like Iocaine Powder. What you do not smell!

How's this for misogynistic?

A guy I know had a baby recently. That has got to be one of the more intense things that can ever happen to you. It’s mind blowing. You have produced a human being, a tiny, screaming version of yourself that is completely dependent on you for everything. I’m having trouble conveying my feelings on this point. I shudder as I type.

I think I want kids in theory. But it’s a vague, ambiguous desire that I would only wish on a far future version of myself. Let that poor old bastard deal with that. I’m busy drinking and getting into adventures with my idiot buddies. The fact that people who are much younger/dumber/financially instable than me are having kids is ludicrous.

The only thing crazier than fathering a child has got to be becoming a mother. YOU HAVE A PERSON GROWING INSIDE OF YOU! AAHHHH! That’s some science fiction shit right there. I know… I know… it’s natural and beautiful and all that, but good grief man. That’s nuts. Consider it objectively for a second. That’s a person. It’s inside of you. He/she is going to escape and then drink milk out of you like you were a soda fountain. AAAHHHH!!!

I guess all of life’s processes are pretty crazy when you take a step back and break them down. I mean, the fact that you can take a peanut butter sandwich and use it for fuel to run a mile is pretty darn wacky too. But something about pregnancy just strikes me as a little surreal. It just seems like it should be harder to make a sentient creature. Two people, a couple jagerbombs, and a momentary lapse in judgment should not be enough to spawn something that could grow up to write a novel, play an instrument, or for that matter even just get stoned and play super smash brothers.

When it comes down to it I know objectively that birth is just a natural part of life. Hell, I was even a baby once. Somehow though, I just can’t quite wrap my mind around the whole thing. Oh well, that what I like to call a problem for “Future Michael”.

27 Dresses Sucked

I had a period of writer’s block recently and I decided to reach out for a little help from my friends. One of the great things about my life is the fact that I have friends that are earnest and truly decent human beings who are eternal optimists, idealistic and open hearted. Another and even better thing about my life is the fact that I have friends that are smart, jaded, borderline evil bastards. Sure, I love the first group, but on the other hand there is nothing more fun than hanging out with my sarcastic buddies who can appreciate the ironic and the absurd and call it what it is. This post idea comes from a guy who is a bullshit artist of the highest order, and who knows it when he sees it. I give you, “women and weddings”.

I’ve often said that women don’t marry men, they marry lifestyles. Of course this is a vast oversimplification. Wait, did I say vast? What I meant was slight. Kaboom. I got you ladies good. Anyway, the premise here is that women are concerned not only with the man, but with his job, his money, his family, etc. Not that you can consider a human being in a vacuum. I’ll acknowledge that. But women often seem more concerned with all the status nonsense that surrounds a guy than whether or not the guy is a piece of shit. Men on the other hand are more concerned with whether or not the girl is thin and has a good butt. You know… important stuff.

Nowhere is the modern, and I’m willing to call it mostly female, fixation on style and status rather than substance more evident than at a wedding. Your modern wedding is a bankruptcy inducing extravaganza where a girl gets to pretend that she is a princess. Weddings are not about ceremony. They are about spectacle… about spending vast sums of money… about a great excuse to show off. I know that your wedding day is an important day in a person’s life, man or woman, but it is not the point of your life. It seems to me that the idea of a wedding is to enrich and celebrate your life, but people act like the point of their life is to celebrate and enrich a wedding.

Men are complicit in all this nonsense, we have tool showers, and best men, and groom’s cakes, and a lot of the other stuff that surrounds weddings, but it seems like the male version of event is just a half-ass copy of the female version. Even the bachelor party, which is absolutely a male artifact, seems to have been swiped and cruelly perverted by the female sex. When, I ask, is the last time you went out and didn’t see a fat girl in a tiara, condoms glued to her shirt, surrounded by screaming harpies drinking out of penises?

Not that weddings aren’t a good time, they absolutely are. It just seems like they have exploded to become slightly monstrous and out of sync with the concept that should be at the center of them. It’s all good though. Please still invite me to your wedding. I’ll come if there is an open bar.

Platonic like a fox

Here’s a conversation that I’ve had with most of my friends at some point or another:

Dude 1: We need a good group of girls to hang out with.

Dude 2: I totally agree. It would nice to have cool females around that we could go out with regularly.

From here we proceed to discuss all the potential benefits that would go along with having a cool group of platonic female friends: (1) they could introduce you to other cool women that you could be potentially be non-platonic with, (2) when you go out with girls you have immediate street credibility because people assume (quite rightly) that being a serial murderer and having good looking female friends are mutually exclusive, (3) they could provide you with valuable insights and perhaps prevent you from dressing like an asshole, and (4) probably most importantly, sometimes it’s nice not to be surrounded by dong. Then the truth inevitable sets in:

Dude 2: Of course you realize that this will never happen right?

Dude 1: Because if they were cool enough to be our friends and were attractive we would try to hook up with them?

Dude 2: Yep.

Dude 1: …and if they were ugly we wouldn’t want to hang out with them.

Dude 2: Yep.

Dude 1: Sounds good in theory though.

Thus, the dream of the hot platonic friend dies.

On a related note. I absolutely never meet women these days. Or if I do they are either horrible or completely wrong for me. At this point I’m actually getting pretty angsty about it. The worst part is this town is full of beautiful girls, covered up with them. I would blame my horribly misogynistic blog… only no one reads it.

Born? Forlorn? Adorn?

So I opened up my computer this morning and there was an unnamed word document on my desktop. I thought to myself, “what do we have here?” opened it up and got these four words:

Nothing rhymes with pornography?

This happens occasionally now. After I starting writing this stupid blog, I started jotting down my topic ideas when they would randomly occur to me. Typically I do this only after I’ve poured a few cocktails down my head, the only time I think blogging is a good idea. That particular jewel of a theme was brought to you by the fine people at Bushmills. So later, I read these things and wonder how I ever thought I would be able to produce a funny article examining how the word “pornography” doesn’t lend itself to the crafting of poetry.

I’ll open up the notepad function on my blackberry and it’ll say something like “Pregnancy is so weird. Babies growing inside of you.” I’ll find myself in some sort of surreal conversation with an inebriated version of myself who leaves strange notes to me to find later. I’m a cross between Sybil and that stupid Keanu Reeves movie “The Lakehouse”. How’s that for bizarre? It’s like having a really stupid but oddly insightful pen-pal who dreams up wacky stuff to write about, and then expects me to do the actual heavy lifting.

I think that writing down creative or interesting things immediately when they happen is actually a good idea though. How often have you heard or thought something that struck an odd chord in you, but then you forgot it because of all the noise and clatter that goes along with being alive? Here’s a few other things that I’ve heard or thought about lately that were very aptly said by people in my life, with a little surrounding context:

Talking about dumb girls with a musician buddy from home: He likes women that “use their thoughts to think things.” (well said damnit)

Asking my bro how he does what he does on so little sleep: “I just hate myself out of bed in the morning.” (Fierce!)

Personal motto of an cool old roommate I had: “You might not like me, but your parents will fuckin’ LOVE me.” (the anthem of WASPy professional types who are total pricks but who are (let’s face it) exactly who your mom wants you to end up with)

Pop Culture and Rational Decision-makers

I hate a lot of things about pop culture. On the other hand, I HATE a lot of things about how people complain about pop culture. Being angry about the fact that Paris Hilton is famous is the equivalent of being angry about the fact that coffee cost 5 dollars a cup at Starbucks.

Some prick: “This isn’t worth five bucks! It’s just water and coffee beans!” (points to the cup of coffee in his hand)

Prick who took intro to microeconomics: “I just watched you hand that guy five bucks in exchange for that cup of coffee.”

Some prick: “Yeah, but….” (awkward pause) “Fuck”

We are what we eat ladies and gentlemen. We are a nation of haters.

Hater: someone who dislikes or resents or disapproves of a player (the term is used to criticize people who are jealous or who don't respect successful people). ~ Urban Dictionary

The reason famous people are successful is not that they have any greater intrinsic value than anyone else. They are not the smartest, or the fastest, or even the best looking. They are the objects of our attention because they are the objects of other people’s attention. We require a frame of reference in order to relate to each other. Famous people provide this frame of reference. Basically, we find it more interesting to talk about who a complete stranger is sleeping with than to talk about something that has a more relevant impact on our own lives.

Relevant isn’t even the right word. Relevant implies that people have better shit to do with their time. Every day thousands of people choose to read People magazine rather than read Shakespeare. This means that either People magazine is more valuable than Shakespeare, or thousands of people make bad decisions every day. And the answer is…. ding, ding, ding… People magazine is more valuable than Shakespeare. That’s right, I said it. By any standard that matters (money, effort or time) people would rather ingest what dress Kate Bosworth wore to the Oscars than find out what Hamlet did to smoke out Claudius. As much as it pains me to say it, this is a rational decision. (See, I couldn’t even do it without italics) Pretending it’s irrational is a paternalistic waste of time. Imposing what I think people should be on what people are doesn’t change anything. Fuck it. Everybody loves Kate Bosworth.

Bo Derek

I read an article recently talking about the old “on a scale of one to ten” ranking system for evaluating how hot a girl is. This has got to be the closest thing we have to a universal system for the evaluation and degradation of the female gender, but despite its ubiquity it has some serious flaws. I therefore taken it upon myself to establish what shall be, after an appropriate time frame for feedback and discussion amongst my distinguished colleagues (i.e. dudes I know), the new standard for the assignment of one to ten numbers to all of the women of the world.

As an initial matter I think that it is important to point out the major weaknesses in the current system. That is, that what is a 7 to one guy is a 5 to another, what is a 9 to one dude is a 6.5 to someone else. Here I am not talking about inevitable differences in tastes and preferences (for example, my bizarre attraction to freckles) that lead people to rate the attractiveness of people differently, but rather the failure of the ranking system itself to establish a consistent method for number assignment. I think that failure can be fairly attributed to three different issues: (i) our underlying conception of the scale itself, (ii) the population which actually makes up the scale, and (iii) those attributes that can be appropriately considered when making a number assignment.

First, we have different conceptions of the makeup of the scale. Does it represent a bell curve, with all of the women of the world regularly distributed? Or alternatively, is it purely a substitute for what percentile of the population the person happens to fall into?

Second, who makes up the population that the girl is ranked against? Is it simply the entire female population of the country/world? Is it a local standard? What about old ladies and children? Wouldn’t including these people artificially inflate the numbers of the skanks to which we apply the system? Is this in fact a good thing, so that we might be less embarrassed when we tell “that story” about the time we were in a bit of a slump and drank all that jager/tequila/Irish car bombs, etc.

Third and finally, is it in fact appropriate to consider non physical attributes when making a number determination. I don’t think anyone would deny that certain non-physical characteristics can go a long way towards making someone more attractive: a sexy accent, a great laugh, an original sense of humor, a Victoria’s Secret Angel Halloween costume. All of these things can make a girl more attractive, but is it better for the system to make the number award in the metaphorical vacuum, only considering a person’s concrete and tangible features?

In order for the scale to be useful, then we must all have the same understanding of what constitutes an appropriate score in every case. After considering the current application of the system, and what would be the most efficient and economical method for its usage, I feel that the following is the best resolution to the current problems with the scale. I will address each issue individually, in each case advancing my reasons for the final decision.

First, the scale itself must be considered as a representation of a bell curve. To look at it otherwise would result in the award of far too many very high and very low numbers. Average should be a five, and therefore most girls should receive fours, fives, and sixes. I think there are far too many sevens and above being awarded currently. We must not allow grade inflation to creep into our skank rating systems. The business of objectification and debasement of women must remain pure. Note that as a result of using a regular distribution concept, tens should only be awarded to statistical outliers, truly outrageous female specimens.

Second, I think to maximize our system’s utility the population considered must be universal. A seven should be a seven whether you are in Boston, New York or Miami, if this results in there being nothing but threes in New Jersey, then too damn bad. Fuck New Jersey. I also think that the system should take into account only women of certain ages. For purposes of me not being arrested, let’s call that age range 18- 45. Any older or younger and you are outside the scope of the system’s applicability. From now on, any assignment of a one to ten number to a female outside of this range must be qualified with a “for her age” disclaimer.

Third, non-physical characteristics must not be considered when making a number assignment. If your homely girlfriend is funny, rich, and has a sweet Australian accent, then you can just explain that shit after you finish admitting that she is a four. Suck it up. Introducing more subjectivity into the scale can only weaken it’s usefulness for communicating hotnessness and cheapening women. So from this point forward, no docking points on evil bitches, and no charity points for cool chicks. It’s a pure meritocracy… a hotocracy, if you will. Footnotes and asterisks are fine, but no fudging the numbers.

There you have it folks. Wow, that turned awkwardly long and serious.

I Gotta Eat More Candy

Let me tell you about the best part of my week this past week. I went to the dentist to get a checkup finally. It had been borderline disgustingly long time since I had been. Seriously, homeless people are more diligent about their health care maintenance than me lately. So regardless to say, I was not entirely shocked to find out that I had a cavity. Weak sauce. But don’t worry dear reader, ‘cause this particular bedtime story has a happy ending. I’ll give you my half of the conversation (try to imagine her half of the dialogue in that voice they always use for adults in Charlie Brown cartoons):

Me: “A walkman huh. You guys keep it pretty old school around here.”

Chubby Hygienist: “WHAA WHAA WHAA WA WA WHAA”

Me: “That’s cool. I don’t really like Kenny Chesney. How about that Clapton greatest hits.”

Chubby Hygienist: “WHAA WA WHAA WHAA”

Me: “What’s that you say? You have nitrous oxide that you want to give me?”

Chubby Hygienist: “WA WA WHAA”

Me: “How much do I weigh so you can tell how much nitrous to let flow? I’m actually about 250.”

Chubby Hygienist: “WHAAA?”

Me: “No, that’s about right. I’m not tall but I’m very dense. I do yogalates.”

Tank O’ Awesomeness: HIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Suddenly Attractive Hygienist: “WA WA WHAA WHAAAAA WHHAAAAA”

Me: WHEEEEEEE!!!!

This is going to sound really sad, but sitting there in my comfy chair, with a wicked buzz, under a bright light and listening to “Before You Accuse Me” I was magically transported to the beach. It was awesome.

Renaissance Duderguy

The worst part about working all the time is that you don’t have time to pursue all the other stuff that you used to do. Seriously though, if you are going to do well at your job it’s difficult to still be very good at anything else. I started this blog to help with my writing and maybe entertain a few friends. It’s pretty clear from the posting frequency that this experiment has suffered from my gainful employment.

I find myself half-assing (verb!) a lot of other things pretty badly lately too. By way of illustration, my dresser fell apart a couple of weeks ago. I was cramming some t-shirts into the drawer and pushed the bottom right through. Not surprising anyway, all of the furniture I own is pretty much shit. It would take a determined meth user with a hex wrench about half an hour to disassemble everything I own. This is a symptom of the fact that I’ve bartered for most of it with old fraternity brothers; home furnishings in exchange for bourbon and a couple twenties. So anyway, I found myself in need of a new chest of drawers, which I purchased, drove and picked up from the warehouse, and dragged into my bedroom. It’s been sitting next to my busted old one for the past two weeks, and considering the state of the drywall I started hanging in my basement last month I’m likely to have dual bureaus in my bedroom for the foreseeable future.

Back before I was working I would actually accomplish things out of shear boredom. I think this is the secret of the true Renaissance man. Ben Franklin and those guys weren’t so great. They were just wealthy guys, i.e. guys without jobs, who didn’t have a television or the internet. Sleep until 10, brush your wooden teeth, drink beer and “experiment” with lightning and your kite, maybe write a letter to my homeboys in Philly. Sounds like a pretty good gig to me.

Anyway, I’m quite the dilettante at this point. I’m apathetic about writing. I’m lazy about the gym, and my yard is having a negative effect on the neighborhood property values. My pursuit of competence in my chosen field has left me as about as well rounded as a (totally blanked here… what’s the opposite of well-rounded? Poorly-squared? Or is that a synonym? I’m thinking roughly hewn.) Jobs are rough, unless you actually make the effort to pursue a life outside of work you can find yourself robbed of any creativity.

Outta retirement like Jordan.

AAANNNNDDDD WEEE'RRREE BAAACKKKK!! Apparently I’m doing requests now. I’m the prose equivalent of a cover band. Dig that. Anyway, if any of you readers have any ideas for entries. Just shout ‘em out and I’ll freestyle on that mother! WHOOO! THIS ONE GOES OUT TO THE SOCIAL CHAIR!!!!

(note: CAPSLOCK IS CRUISE-CONTROL FOR AWESOME!!!)

When it comes to birthdays, there are two types of people in this world. First, you have those that feel the need to advertise the fact that they were born exactly X number of years ago. We’ll call this type “Attention Desperates” or “Girls.” They will, ever so casually, drop the fact that their birthday is next Tuesday into every conversation that they have for a week preceding it. “You’re voting for Obama? That’s so funny because my birthday is next Tuesday. Weird!” We can only assume that this is because they are empty inside and feel the need to have other people shower attention on them so that can feel worthwhile.

On the other hand, you have people who will in no way hint that they are having a birthday. Instead, they choose to rely on “considerate” people who “care about them,” to remember a date that is really only important to 1/365.25 % of people in the world. We’ll refer to these assholes as “Stealth Agers.” This type of birthday celebrator is secretly hoping that no one will remember their birthday. That’s a best case scenario for a Stealth Ager because this tactic is essentially a passive aggressive way to inflict guilt on the people in their lives[1]. We can only assume that this is because they are empty inside and feel the need to have other people shower attention on them so that can feel worthwhile.

This is what is known in the biz as “the fallacy of the excluded middle” or a “false dichotomy.” I’m like Mr. Wizard. You don’t even realize you’re learning. I should be on Nickelodeon.

And while were on topic. I’d like to take this opportunity to talk about gifts. Gifts are silly. There are only two things in this world that I want that can be given gratuitously, money and sexual favors. (ok, and consumer electronics) Sure, I want love and respect and world peace, but you can’t give me those things for Christmas. Anything else you give me I would honestly rather have the cash value. There, I said it. I’m crass.

---

[1] Technology has pretty much gutted the effectiveness of this tactic for the facebook generation. What the longbow was to the mounted knight, facebook is to the Stealth Ager. It’s the cyberspace battle of Agincourt. Kaboom!! Now that, my friends, is a nerdy analogy.