So as a promise to the author of my last blog for using his material, I have to publish this. This is not exactly something I had planned on sharing, but after a couple of martinis and a few dick stories later I have decided that you are ready for this. Again this story is unfortunately true and though I will probably regret telling you this tomorrow, tonight its pretty goddamn funny or so I´ve been told. So sit back, read on, and welcome to my world.
Hey
You would have found this out sooner or later. I'm sorry that I couldn't muster up the courage to tell you this story last night but my machismo among other things had been so recently bruised. Anyway, I got a lot of sun yesterday on my face and shoulders so I decided to shave my head with the electric clippers so as to reduce the heat gain and to try and distribute the sun a little better. CAN´T HAVE TAN LINES. Anyway I finished with that and then decided since I already had the clippers out to take care of a few other overly hairy spots.
So I trimmed up my armpit hairs to cool down a little and since I am going to see you soon I decided to tame the jungle of pubic hair that I had going on. Now I wasn't exactly excited at this point, little Kevin was feeling small, there was a slight breeze in the air. I mean it wasn't as though you were there shaving me or something so I was as flacid as I can get, I think you're starting to get the picture. Anyway, to make a short story longer, in that state of ...relaxation so to speak there tends to be an excess of skin that accumulates right in the area that I needed to trim. So I am merrily trying out different hair styles, I can never just cut any hair on my body without gradually trying out different styles along the way for my own amusement,from the affro to the fade to the mohawk...to the Hitler love patch... you get the idea. So I am amusing myself, trimming away, contemplating leaving one of these pubic masterpieces for you to get a laugh out of. Now mind you... I have done this several times before in my life and the relationship that I and my clippers have is one of mutual respect, love, and understanding. We've been through alot together, but I think that I might have called it a name recently in frustration when it bound up from overuse without being oiled. Whatever the reason it had apparently been biding its time (I obviously hadn't trimmed my pubic hair in a while) for the perfect
opportunity to repay me for whatever hurt I had caused it and it was apparently pissed off and bloodthirsty. So scenario set, there I am chuckling to myself at what a card I am for such wackyness, wishing you were here to share in my mood when all of a sudden it lashed out at me. The combination of my underexcitedness and the fact that my guard was down gave it ample opportunity to wreak the revenge that had apparently been festering inside it for weeks now. It caught me right at the base, in one of the folds. I'm honestly not sure you have seen me in a state of complete flacidity because you elicit some form of arousal in me pretty much every time I see you, but what seemed like a little nick turned out to be not so little. The only thing i can
liken it to is cutting out snowflakes in folded paper. Luckily I pulled it away at just the right time because from the looks of it my clippers were going for the ¨John Wayne Bobbit¨ if you know what I'm saying. So there I am astounded at the attack I had just recieved and horrified at the now gushing wound that lay before me and thinking "they didn't cover this in my first aid class". So I then went into survival mode making several possible attempts to stem the blood flow I applied pressure and then thought to myself how the hell am I going to bandage this? That is when genius struck me...a condom. They're made just for containing bodily fluids in just such an area. So grinning to myself at my brilliance and holding my dick wrapped in tissue paper i went to find one. Now the one thing that apparently didn't occur to me was the state of things when I usually put on a condom. Usually... lets say... i'm a little more....proud. All I found was ribbed Trojans, ( not going to be for anyones pleasure today )so I began the unbelievable task of trying to put a condom over the tissue onto my limp, bleeding penis. Here is where the machismo issue comes into play...it wouldn't stay on. After like 5 minutes of wrestling with this thing trying to put it on without causing myself any more pain, it just fell off, like I wasn't even there. I was crushed. I came close to tears, but I had no time to weep there was still a bigger issue or I guess smaller issue in hand. I still had to figure out a way to bandage myself. So i thought "alright i don't want to do this but i think
i'm going to have to put medical tape on myself¨. The mere thought of pulling it off in a couple of days made me cringe as i searched around for some gauze and tape but bleeding to death with my dick in my hand didn't sound all that appealing either. Well for the same reason that the condom didn't work... well let me explain this a little further. I bandaged it tightly confident that I had a secure wrap on things, but then i just got more flaccid. I didn't think that it was possible... but it was yet another crushing blow to my ego. The bandage just fell off like the condom. So close to tears again and feeling betrayed by everything, sitting on the edge of the tub, heads in my hands I glanced up to the medicine cabinet to see the only band aid that was apparently left in the house (I had looked before the condom trial but couldn't find one) in a box with a picture of Darth Maul from Star Wars on it. Unfortunately being the last one in the box it wasn't one of the cool characters... but it worked. So when you called me last night i had just dressed my wound and now not so proudly was wearing a band-aid with a picture of Princess Amadalla on my dick. That is why I couldn't tell about it last night. Having so freshly received a series of crushing blows only to wind up with a frilly little pink bandage on my penis was a little too much to cough up to you when the shock hadn't worn off yet. I think things will be fine if that is your next question, it seems as though the princess is using "the force" and everything is healing nicely.
I hope your day is well.
your loving princess
Kevin
Monday, August 2, 2010
Letters from Friends: Debunking Urban Myths
This letter, dated 2008 made me re-think the word PAIN. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, but be advised that this story is achingly authentic. I have to note that I received permission to post this. Ladies this story is for you, and I guess to some extent Guys this might be good information for you as well in more of a ¨what not to do¨ kind of way. While this is not my work I felt it worthy of this site.
With that all said here we go, get ready to be shocked, amazed and a little bit sick to your stomach. Incidentally the subject of the letter to me is ¨Be careful with that thang¨.
Dear Kevin
Thanksgiving was great. cooked up a big batch of clam chowder (not very traditional i know, but hey,) mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, shrimp salad, yam cakes, and a couple of roast chickens from the bar up the road (not quite turkey, but it's a bird, right?) anyway, worked out nicely, and it turned out that i had thursday and friday off as the client at the job we were supposed to start wasn't ready. had about 6 or 8 people over - including lovely miss (deleted). friday morning (as i had the day off) we slept in quite late, and were in bed quite a bit later, not exactly sleeping. ...here comes the good part, i'll try to keep this as pg as possible. so, in the midst of miss (deleted) not exactly sleeping on top of myself (also rather awake,) ...well - let's talk motors and say that precisely at the moment of change from top dead center (when the piston is all but outside the cylinder) to compression (when the piston is forcefully driven into the cylinder) something similar, but much more painful,to slipping a ring happened to me - that is, the piston came out of the cylinder a bit too much, and upon compression met with the engine block instead of the cylinder, thereby throwing a rod - or in my case, bending me in half like a jacknife. ouch. and i do mean !!!!!!!!!!!!!OOUUCCHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! got myself up (after of while of writhing) and into the bathtub - hoping that once a little more relaxed things would return to normal, as my aparatus had a rather unsettling Z shape to it. when neither the bath nor another spell of writhing seemed to help, and in fact i could see that i was filling with unsightly and uncomfortable bulges of blood (you can puke now,) - i decided it was probably time for a visit to the emergency room. i wasn't in that much pain, but rather uncomfortable, and my system was definitely in a disturbing (still z shaped, but now blue) state. right. so go to the emergency room and tell nice young lady at the admission desk what you're there for. little embarrassing. second door on the left. now tell the nice nurse what's happened, and better yet, let her have a look. embarrassing. go to room 4. explain to the three nice nurses what's happened. let 'em have a look too, just for good measure. good and embarrassing. wait a couple of minutes and the urologist (LA urologista, that is, as opposed to EL,) will see you. 5 minutes and you get to explain to the nice urologist, the three nurses that were there at first, and two more that have shown up for the spectacle what's happened and how. 'nother look-see all around too, gotta be sure. at this point you pass completely on embarrassment, and ask if anyone else (or any of their friends, family, or associates) would like to have a look. turns out - and here i still feel like i'm going to puke - i had to be operated on, a sort of drainage project to get rid of all the blood building up. got me 7 stitches. yes, 7,
and spent the night and next morning in the hospital. luckily they (the docs, that is) say i seem to be recovering well, and that things 'look good'. 'things' still aren't looking that good to me, but i can definitely see that they're getting better (and none of that nasty Z business - makes it confusing to piss.) got the week (or however long i need) off of work, and i've been converted into something of a local hero around here... there's a saying in spanish - 'voy a partirme la polla follando' - (i'm gonna bust my dick fucking,) which although is familiar to all, no one actually knew of anybody who had really done it. that's american grit for ya... we also have a phrase in english, "blue balls," which again, although is familiar to us all, it's possible that i'm the first you know to actually have them. feeling a lot less like i got hit in the nuts with a mack truck doing a buck-twenty down I-90 today, which is a good thing. hope this
thing heals up quick - find myself having to think about baseball a whole lot lately...
anywho... next time you bust yerself a good one on the finger - think of yer pal (deleted), and laugh your fucking nuts off............ if you can!
With that all said here we go, get ready to be shocked, amazed and a little bit sick to your stomach. Incidentally the subject of the letter to me is ¨Be careful with that thang¨.
Dear Kevin
Thanksgiving was great. cooked up a big batch of clam chowder (not very traditional i know, but hey,) mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, shrimp salad, yam cakes, and a couple of roast chickens from the bar up the road (not quite turkey, but it's a bird, right?) anyway, worked out nicely, and it turned out that i had thursday and friday off as the client at the job we were supposed to start wasn't ready. had about 6 or 8 people over - including lovely miss (deleted). friday morning (as i had the day off) we slept in quite late, and were in bed quite a bit later, not exactly sleeping. ...here comes the good part, i'll try to keep this as pg as possible. so, in the midst of miss (deleted) not exactly sleeping on top of myself (also rather awake,) ...well - let's talk motors and say that precisely at the moment of change from top dead center (when the piston is all but outside the cylinder) to compression (when the piston is forcefully driven into the cylinder) something similar, but much more painful,to slipping a ring happened to me - that is, the piston came out of the cylinder a bit too much, and upon compression met with the engine block instead of the cylinder, thereby throwing a rod - or in my case, bending me in half like a jacknife. ouch. and i do mean !!!!!!!!!!!!!OOUUCCHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! got myself up (after of while of writhing) and into the bathtub - hoping that once a little more relaxed things would return to normal, as my aparatus had a rather unsettling Z shape to it. when neither the bath nor another spell of writhing seemed to help, and in fact i could see that i was filling with unsightly and uncomfortable bulges of blood (you can puke now,) - i decided it was probably time for a visit to the emergency room. i wasn't in that much pain, but rather uncomfortable, and my system was definitely in a disturbing (still z shaped, but now blue) state. right. so go to the emergency room and tell nice young lady at the admission desk what you're there for. little embarrassing. second door on the left. now tell the nice nurse what's happened, and better yet, let her have a look. embarrassing. go to room 4. explain to the three nice nurses what's happened. let 'em have a look too, just for good measure. good and embarrassing. wait a couple of minutes and the urologist (LA urologista, that is, as opposed to EL,) will see you. 5 minutes and you get to explain to the nice urologist, the three nurses that were there at first, and two more that have shown up for the spectacle what's happened and how. 'nother look-see all around too, gotta be sure. at this point you pass completely on embarrassment, and ask if anyone else (or any of their friends, family, or associates) would like to have a look. turns out - and here i still feel like i'm going to puke - i had to be operated on, a sort of drainage project to get rid of all the blood building up. got me 7 stitches. yes, 7,
and spent the night and next morning in the hospital. luckily they (the docs, that is) say i seem to be recovering well, and that things 'look good'. 'things' still aren't looking that good to me, but i can definitely see that they're getting better (and none of that nasty Z business - makes it confusing to piss.) got the week (or however long i need) off of work, and i've been converted into something of a local hero around here... there's a saying in spanish - 'voy a partirme la polla follando' - (i'm gonna bust my dick fucking,) which although is familiar to all, no one actually knew of anybody who had really done it. that's american grit for ya... we also have a phrase in english, "blue balls," which again, although is familiar to us all, it's possible that i'm the first you know to actually have them. feeling a lot less like i got hit in the nuts with a mack truck doing a buck-twenty down I-90 today, which is a good thing. hope this
thing heals up quick - find myself having to think about baseball a whole lot lately...
anywho... next time you bust yerself a good one on the finger - think of yer pal (deleted), and laugh your fucking nuts off............ if you can!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Letters To My Male Friends: Dec. 2003
Well I've found it!!!! The Kryptonite for females!!!
I took Lilah out in public for the first time today. We went to the Cambridge Galleria today to return something and to pick up some more bras for Sophie. While she was in the changing room, I found myself in the toy section of Sears, which incidentally is cleverly sandwiched between the ladies underwear department and the infant/toddler section. Simon and I were involved in a deep intellectual discussion concerning the finer points of the weaponry of the various action figures lined up before us, I have a newborn baby curled up asleep up against my chest, and a proud-daddy beaming look on my face. Then suddenly it happened, we were spotted, and there was no where to run.
It was at this point in time that I learned a little lesson about life and I would say that while entertaining, overall it was not an entirely positive experience, nor one that I am sure that I can fully explain. I learned that I am unable to judge how any woman is going to react to seeing a newborn, regardless of age or creed.
We started getting cooed at by almost everything with ovaries. Two different times I was actually surrounded by women with nowhere to turn. Each of them had this sort of "Night Of The Living Dead" look on their face, as though Lilah was the last brain in town and I was hoarding her to myself. Only it was an affectionate, big-eyed, cooing, googley babbily, lip smacking, deliciously uncomfortable sort of experience that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I interacted with women from all walks of life tonight, I heard the gushing, spine-curlingly sweet assaults from almost all of them. There were a few wizened old hags and teenie-bopper girls who were immune to the power I now wield but at least they walked away with their dignity in tact.
The reactions from the rest could almost be broken down into categories. There were "head-tipping, ooooohhhhhhers", which tilt in both directions as though all bones in their neck suddenly disappeared. I witnessed the "koochie coo" (no, really!) maneuver which takes on sort of a mock tickling charade with it. I saw the "isn't she darlin'" which consisted of the addresser keeping their head tilted with their hands firmly clasped to each other under their chin while doe-eyed and staring as though trying to telekinetically float Lilah out of my hands and into their Macy's bag. I witnessed the soft "luh, luh, luh, luh, luh", kind of a creepy one usually done with the persons head and tongue wagging back and forth rapidly, like that's not going to scare the hell out of any kid.
Worst of all, by far, was the " baby talker". These come in usually either the soft or extremely loud variety, there seems to be no happy medium in this lot. It starts with "she's so darlin'" or some semblance of that, which quickly wanes down in volume to something that is utterly illegible. It goes something like this:"SHE"S SO CUTE, isn't she, isn't she yesohwhatacutelittleboobookittysweethoneypiekbaskbvsk.jbn.ajn.asnf.jhnuhwurhkkwjbnrkjbin'tshe". Sounds unbearable until you hear the extremely loud version of that same thing and then it makes you want to jam an ice-pick into your own ears just to make it stop. This reaction, at least three times tonight started off with a squeal, twice from more than twenty feet away with a quick rushing motion toward us with the volume of the woman's voice growing exponentially with each hurried step. I was bracing myself to be tackled as though I was holding the last cabbage-patch kid in the world on Christmas Eve. It was the same sort of full blown gibberish displayed, only it was more like a battle cry for all of the ovaries in a hundred foot radius to come rushing in.
The overwhelmingly astonishing issue of this whole fiasco was that Lilah stayed asleep through the whole trip, nary a peep out of the little one and barely even any eye opening or change of expression to mention. She wasn't even giving any feedback to these maniacal women who came and performed for us their secret baby cuddly tricks. But the variety of women that conducted themselves in this manner was truly a sight. They ranged from extremely homely to very beautiful, young to old, and very reserved to trying to reach for her and hold her ("NO FUCKING WAY, LADY"!).
I was later informing Mike as to this phenomenon, and he came up with a brilliant entrepreneurial solution. We start a daycare and rent the little kids out to bachelors for say $100 bucks an hour to go out and pick up women with. Revenue from both ends and a chance for men to take the power back I say. I could franchise it and make millions. "Chick-Magnet Day Care." We could open one in every mall across the country. Mike is already interested in taking her out for a spin.
Well I need to go try to recover from this revelation, talk to you all again soon. Guard this secret with your lives.
I took Lilah out in public for the first time today. We went to the Cambridge Galleria today to return something and to pick up some more bras for Sophie. While she was in the changing room, I found myself in the toy section of Sears, which incidentally is cleverly sandwiched between the ladies underwear department and the infant/toddler section. Simon and I were involved in a deep intellectual discussion concerning the finer points of the weaponry of the various action figures lined up before us, I have a newborn baby curled up asleep up against my chest, and a proud-daddy beaming look on my face. Then suddenly it happened, we were spotted, and there was no where to run.
It was at this point in time that I learned a little lesson about life and I would say that while entertaining, overall it was not an entirely positive experience, nor one that I am sure that I can fully explain. I learned that I am unable to judge how any woman is going to react to seeing a newborn, regardless of age or creed.
We started getting cooed at by almost everything with ovaries. Two different times I was actually surrounded by women with nowhere to turn. Each of them had this sort of "Night Of The Living Dead" look on their face, as though Lilah was the last brain in town and I was hoarding her to myself. Only it was an affectionate, big-eyed, cooing, googley babbily, lip smacking, deliciously uncomfortable sort of experience that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I interacted with women from all walks of life tonight, I heard the gushing, spine-curlingly sweet assaults from almost all of them. There were a few wizened old hags and teenie-bopper girls who were immune to the power I now wield but at least they walked away with their dignity in tact.
The reactions from the rest could almost be broken down into categories. There were "head-tipping, ooooohhhhhhers", which tilt in both directions as though all bones in their neck suddenly disappeared. I witnessed the "koochie coo" (no, really!) maneuver which takes on sort of a mock tickling charade with it. I saw the "isn't she darlin'" which consisted of the addresser keeping their head tilted with their hands firmly clasped to each other under their chin while doe-eyed and staring as though trying to telekinetically float Lilah out of my hands and into their Macy's bag. I witnessed the soft "luh, luh, luh, luh, luh", kind of a creepy one usually done with the persons head and tongue wagging back and forth rapidly, like that's not going to scare the hell out of any kid.
Worst of all, by far, was the " baby talker". These come in usually either the soft or extremely loud variety, there seems to be no happy medium in this lot. It starts with "she's so darlin'" or some semblance of that, which quickly wanes down in volume to something that is utterly illegible. It goes something like this:"SHE"S SO CUTE, isn't she, isn't she yesohwhatacutelittleboobookittysweethoneypiekbaskbvsk.jbn.ajn.asnf.jhnuhwurhkkwjbnrkjbin'tshe". Sounds unbearable until you hear the extremely loud version of that same thing and then it makes you want to jam an ice-pick into your own ears just to make it stop. This reaction, at least three times tonight started off with a squeal, twice from more than twenty feet away with a quick rushing motion toward us with the volume of the woman's voice growing exponentially with each hurried step. I was bracing myself to be tackled as though I was holding the last cabbage-patch kid in the world on Christmas Eve. It was the same sort of full blown gibberish displayed, only it was more like a battle cry for all of the ovaries in a hundred foot radius to come rushing in.
The overwhelmingly astonishing issue of this whole fiasco was that Lilah stayed asleep through the whole trip, nary a peep out of the little one and barely even any eye opening or change of expression to mention. She wasn't even giving any feedback to these maniacal women who came and performed for us their secret baby cuddly tricks. But the variety of women that conducted themselves in this manner was truly a sight. They ranged from extremely homely to very beautiful, young to old, and very reserved to trying to reach for her and hold her ("NO FUCKING WAY, LADY"!).
I was later informing Mike as to this phenomenon, and he came up with a brilliant entrepreneurial solution. We start a daycare and rent the little kids out to bachelors for say $100 bucks an hour to go out and pick up women with. Revenue from both ends and a chance for men to take the power back I say. I could franchise it and make millions. "Chick-Magnet Day Care." We could open one in every mall across the country. Mike is already interested in taking her out for a spin.
Well I need to go try to recover from this revelation, talk to you all again soon. Guard this secret with your lives.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Letters To Friends: 2003 "Pregnancy"
Hey,
I've been a little busy lately as you may have surmised, but i
figured that I'd take a moment to let you know what I'm up to. I've been
going to Hypno-birthing classes for the past couple of
weeks and have seen more misshapen, contorted vaginas in these
classes then I had ever hoped to see in my life. I guess that is
all part of the life process and all but why do I have to pay to
see videos of large women grunting as though they have been on a cheese-only diet for the past 9 months only to culminate in an event that makes even the most confident of males feel inadequate.
To boot, the instructor is this voluptuous blonde, who, at one point in the class was rubbing her own erect nipples while trying to explain to us idiot guys how to massage our womens' erogenous zones. A little late on that lesson darlin'. We've all gone down that road already. I think that she was just taking perverse pleasure in torturing a group of guys who are sitting next to their pregnant women by doing a lot of deep hip bending, cleavage shots, and nipple rubbing. Like dealing with the misfortune that having a partner in the third trimester plays on our sex lives isn't enough...
That is not really the problem though. The issues that I have been having arise from the fact that my gastro-intestinal tract seems to either enjoy or hate
(I haven't quite figured it out yet) this class. Everything goes
really well until they make us do these little exercises which
involve deep relaxation. That is when things start to go awry. Everything
is silent and the lights are low. The instructor is talking in a
soothing voice, coaching us into a deeper state of relaxation, when
all of a sudden my stomach starts letting out noises that I can
only liken to a large animal going through the immense pain of a
long, drawn-out death. Then my bowels start to churn like a washing
machine, with the instructor soldiering on with verses like "when I
count to three you are going to be twice as relaxed as before".
Twice as relaxed as before!?!? Are you deaf lady ? I'm gritting my
teeth and the guy next to me is giving me nervous sideways glances
knowing full well that I am about to pollute his happy-place, and you want me to relax more? SO, i'm laying on the ground trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as images of this instructor rubbing her own nipples with the burrito I had for lunch keep flashing into my head, and I try to hold back 5 cubic feet of compressed air. Needless to say I'm far from relaxed.
This has happened to me all of the times that I have gone to this class. I start having weird images of the instructor and my lunch, then I get the worst gas I have ever had in my life. I don't really know what to do with myself anymore, this is one of the toughest predicaments that I have encountered thus far with the pregnancy and I still have 5 more weeks of classes. I may not ever know the pain of childbirth but I think that I am coming close.
So how's things with you?
I've been a little busy lately as you may have surmised, but i
figured that I'd take a moment to let you know what I'm up to. I've been
going to Hypno-birthing classes for the past couple of
weeks and have seen more misshapen, contorted vaginas in these
classes then I had ever hoped to see in my life. I guess that is
all part of the life process and all but why do I have to pay to
see videos of large women grunting as though they have been on a cheese-only diet for the past 9 months only to culminate in an event that makes even the most confident of males feel inadequate.
To boot, the instructor is this voluptuous blonde, who, at one point in the class was rubbing her own erect nipples while trying to explain to us idiot guys how to massage our womens' erogenous zones. A little late on that lesson darlin'. We've all gone down that road already. I think that she was just taking perverse pleasure in torturing a group of guys who are sitting next to their pregnant women by doing a lot of deep hip bending, cleavage shots, and nipple rubbing. Like dealing with the misfortune that having a partner in the third trimester plays on our sex lives isn't enough...
That is not really the problem though. The issues that I have been having arise from the fact that my gastro-intestinal tract seems to either enjoy or hate
(I haven't quite figured it out yet) this class. Everything goes
really well until they make us do these little exercises which
involve deep relaxation. That is when things start to go awry. Everything
is silent and the lights are low. The instructor is talking in a
soothing voice, coaching us into a deeper state of relaxation, when
all of a sudden my stomach starts letting out noises that I can
only liken to a large animal going through the immense pain of a
long, drawn-out death. Then my bowels start to churn like a washing
machine, with the instructor soldiering on with verses like "when I
count to three you are going to be twice as relaxed as before".
Twice as relaxed as before!?!? Are you deaf lady ? I'm gritting my
teeth and the guy next to me is giving me nervous sideways glances
knowing full well that I am about to pollute his happy-place, and you want me to relax more? SO, i'm laying on the ground trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as images of this instructor rubbing her own nipples with the burrito I had for lunch keep flashing into my head, and I try to hold back 5 cubic feet of compressed air. Needless to say I'm far from relaxed.
This has happened to me all of the times that I have gone to this class. I start having weird images of the instructor and my lunch, then I get the worst gas I have ever had in my life. I don't really know what to do with myself anymore, this is one of the toughest predicaments that I have encountered thus far with the pregnancy and I still have 5 more weeks of classes. I may not ever know the pain of childbirth but I think that I am coming close.
So how's things with you?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Work
Letters To Friends: 2003 Chapter 1. Work
I came across some old things in my computer and thought "What the hell"
I've been spending a little too much time introspectively lately. Fortunately I have been able to get some of my thoughts on paper for others to understand some of what I deal with on a daily basis.
I was in a store the other day buying duct-work for a range-hood that we were installing at one of my jobs. There I am, having a great day, waiting calmly for my order to be filled (I'm getting paid so they could have taken all day for all that I care) and there is this guy standing next to me waiting for his order as well. He is sort of standing there looking at me as though deciding to impart the meaning of life on my my poor unworthy soul. Then he speaks.
First of all let me describe the situation in a little greater detail. We are standing in this dingy warehouse in South-Boston where there are mountains of metal surrounding us. There isn't a person in sight or any reference at all that could have prompted this train of thought. He is a native Bostonian, barely an "R" to be found in his alphabet (I heard him place his "ordah"). I turn to him and give him the head nod ( the universal greeting of blue-collar workers), which apparently means that is his cue to spew forth his thought-provoking inquiries on the more refined, deeply philosophical points of our existence.
"Dude", he begins. " How come dey don make hookahs legal in bostun".
I was blown away. Here I am minding my own business, prepared only to perhaps exchange platitudes with some schlep that is stuck in the same place as me with a similar job as me.
"Um", was the only utterance of mine before he could continue his amazing thought, although the look of bewilderment on my face must have relaxed him into thinking we were of a similar mind-set.
" Yeah, I know, den deyd be REALLY expensive". He continued, "Shit, if it wah legul I'D be out dere bangin' all sorts a chicks and gettin friggin paid fah it".
"Yeah... right", I said, hoping that Alan Funt would step out from behind a pile of gleaming tin and tell me with a big toothy grin that I was on "Candid Camera". No such luck. This was the real deal.
He then began to regale me with his war stories about what a " great fuckin lay" he was, or so he had been told by the greater Boston metropolis, and how he'd be " a fuckin millionaih if only dose stoopid pricks in dah state house wood make it legul".
Now, I'm no great judge in aesthetics when it comes to men, but this guy looked like he had fallen out of the "ugly tree" and hit every branch on the way down. He was not, what you'd call, a pretty man. I was having a hard time believing that he could get laid in a whorehouse with a fist-full of fifties on amateur night. Yet nonetheless, there he stood, hips in motion, imparting his "Trade Secrets" to me. Now I ask you, what exactly is it about me that would prompt a seemingly normal person to talk to me while gazing off into some other world and gyrating up against the reception desk that we were standing at? I almost felt that he needed to be left alone for a couple of minutes to finish up. The really weird thing was that just as he was really getting into it, (he was spanking the desk by this point) the guy filling the orders came around the corner with his order and he completely snapped out of his little world, received his order, gave me the contractor nod and left without saying a word.
I felt so cheap... so used. I felt as though he had just raped my cheery, sunny afternoon right there in front of me over the reception desk in this dingy,dark warehouse as I stood there frozen in shock. I was slack-jawed and speechless by now.
The guy filling the orders had apparently been listening to this little rant and watching us from around the corner for a couple minutes. He could barely contain his laughter until the guy left, and when he did, told me all about my facial expressions during this whole interaction. He nearly fell on the ground recounting what I looked like, and then laughed even harder when he realized that I hadn't gotten over the shock of the situation and still had the same look of bewilderment on my face. I don't remember much of the rest of that afternoon...
I'm not exactly sure why I am telling you this now, other than to have you try to understand the brand of people I deal with in my life every day.
I came across some old things in my computer and thought "What the hell"
I've been spending a little too much time introspectively lately. Fortunately I have been able to get some of my thoughts on paper for others to understand some of what I deal with on a daily basis.
I was in a store the other day buying duct-work for a range-hood that we were installing at one of my jobs. There I am, having a great day, waiting calmly for my order to be filled (I'm getting paid so they could have taken all day for all that I care) and there is this guy standing next to me waiting for his order as well. He is sort of standing there looking at me as though deciding to impart the meaning of life on my my poor unworthy soul. Then he speaks.
First of all let me describe the situation in a little greater detail. We are standing in this dingy warehouse in South-Boston where there are mountains of metal surrounding us. There isn't a person in sight or any reference at all that could have prompted this train of thought. He is a native Bostonian, barely an "R" to be found in his alphabet (I heard him place his "ordah"). I turn to him and give him the head nod ( the universal greeting of blue-collar workers), which apparently means that is his cue to spew forth his thought-provoking inquiries on the more refined, deeply philosophical points of our existence.
"Dude", he begins. " How come dey don make hookahs legal in bostun".
I was blown away. Here I am minding my own business, prepared only to perhaps exchange platitudes with some schlep that is stuck in the same place as me with a similar job as me.
"Um", was the only utterance of mine before he could continue his amazing thought, although the look of bewilderment on my face must have relaxed him into thinking we were of a similar mind-set.
" Yeah, I know, den deyd be REALLY expensive". He continued, "Shit, if it wah legul I'D be out dere bangin' all sorts a chicks and gettin friggin paid fah it".
"Yeah... right", I said, hoping that Alan Funt would step out from behind a pile of gleaming tin and tell me with a big toothy grin that I was on "Candid Camera". No such luck. This was the real deal.
He then began to regale me with his war stories about what a " great fuckin lay" he was, or so he had been told by the greater Boston metropolis, and how he'd be " a fuckin millionaih if only dose stoopid pricks in dah state house wood make it legul".
Now, I'm no great judge in aesthetics when it comes to men, but this guy looked like he had fallen out of the "ugly tree" and hit every branch on the way down. He was not, what you'd call, a pretty man. I was having a hard time believing that he could get laid in a whorehouse with a fist-full of fifties on amateur night. Yet nonetheless, there he stood, hips in motion, imparting his "Trade Secrets" to me. Now I ask you, what exactly is it about me that would prompt a seemingly normal person to talk to me while gazing off into some other world and gyrating up against the reception desk that we were standing at? I almost felt that he needed to be left alone for a couple of minutes to finish up. The really weird thing was that just as he was really getting into it, (he was spanking the desk by this point) the guy filling the orders came around the corner with his order and he completely snapped out of his little world, received his order, gave me the contractor nod and left without saying a word.
I felt so cheap... so used. I felt as though he had just raped my cheery, sunny afternoon right there in front of me over the reception desk in this dingy,dark warehouse as I stood there frozen in shock. I was slack-jawed and speechless by now.
The guy filling the orders had apparently been listening to this little rant and watching us from around the corner for a couple minutes. He could barely contain his laughter until the guy left, and when he did, told me all about my facial expressions during this whole interaction. He nearly fell on the ground recounting what I looked like, and then laughed even harder when he realized that I hadn't gotten over the shock of the situation and still had the same look of bewilderment on my face. I don't remember much of the rest of that afternoon...
I'm not exactly sure why I am telling you this now, other than to have you try to understand the brand of people I deal with in my life every day.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tiger Woods
Tiger Woods
Heard enough lately? Me too, but here is my take on things. This is a viewpoint that Fox news or People magazine aren’t going to let out to the masses, but I think you are ready to deal with this.
Tangential Point #1: I have come to a point in my life that I have started to keep a mental “boycott list” of manufacturers that piss me off in their advertising practices. It started some 10+ years ago in southern California where I started to notice that most advertising in that region had a very insulting air about it. Market research must have revealed that the major demographic were slack-jawed hippy surfers that needed to be ridiculed into buying specific products. The inanity of some of these campaigns made me think that there was someone within these organizations that secretly wanted to bring it down from the inside. I could almost hear their thinking “lets market to the intelligence level of the people who care the least about our product and couldn’t afford it even if they do.” Brilliant! Now, I’m obviously not saying that I am Mr. High-Brow here or anything, I just don’t like to be talked down to, especially by people trying to get money out of my pocket.
Tangential point #2: Sex Sells. A theory that has been proven in marketing over and over again to the point that scads of companies whose products have nothing to do whatsoever with sex are trying desperately to link the two together to unload product. You know the type of ad where some perky, sweaty, scantily clad woman huskily tells you to buy the product while staring you down with her bedroom eyes. They are all over the place and again not just limited to products involved in sports. Companies scramble to tie sex to their product to the point that I am now getting turned on by cleaning product advertisements while checking my e-mail. Sad.
Now lets talk about Golf. Its Not a real sport. I play golf, and I’ve played real sports and golf is not a real sport. A game that does not require you to break a sweat is not a real sport (frustration sweat doesn’t count). Golf is a game that has become popular as a minimal-energy-expending business medium. If it is a sport then it is the only sport that brazenly involves the promotion of drinking and driving. That wasn’t some pun incorporating golfing lingo, I’m talking about the refreshment cart that follows you around the links haunting your every slice and bunker shot, tempting you into thinking that maybe you just need to loosen up with a couple double Bloody Marys to relax into your game. Which means by hole nine you are most likely not blowing under the legal limit yet still allowed to recklessly drive your cart around to try and locate your ball. but I digress.
So here comes Tiger Woods , young , African-Asian, man taking the world by storm by dominating a typically Caucasian game, surrounded by fame, fortune, and probably countless more propositions for sex than I have ever received in my lifetime. He single-handedly broke through some of the obvious vestiges of racism by forcing the private golfing clubs to support and welcome him into their inner sanctum as their hero. Tiger put golf on the map and has retained his title of reigning superstar in the game. He has made millions of dollars for himself and his sponsors. The very same sponsors who have used some form of sexual appeal in their advertising practices for years before Tiger signed on.
At risk of losing some of you here and while I am not condoning infidelity, I still have to say …“go get ‘em Tiger“. Isn’t he, after all the money and fame are stripped away, just human? He took a game, A GAME, made millions with it, has women throwing themselves at him left and right and now he’s supposed to be like a fat, hungry, kid locked in a candy store who’s told he cant eat anything or more accurately like the one eunuch they forgot to snip at the Roman Orgy. He was thrust, partially at least, into this limelight by his sponsors who are now all abandoning him because he actually went out and finally used his fame to get a little action. So, my question to you is why the hell are the advertisers upset with Tiger? He has mastered a popular game, bridged the huge gap between golf and sex, lived up to the image portrayed in all of his commercials and towed the company line. He did all the work for his sponsors… and they drop him? Hypocrites!! I think that he should get a fucking raise. Why don’t companies just come right out and admit that they try to use sexual appeal to sell their product (as though it is some big secret) , and stand behind the man that they made? Big business is missing out on a giant opportunity to appeal to a wider consumer base. If I were in advertising right now I would be ridiculously open about this and be selling a shit-load of products. Here’s how some of my ads might sound
“TRY PING GOLF CLUBS”
(said in corny old-time announcer voice)
“THEY GOT THIS GUY SUPER-LAID”
pan over to Tiger getting pawed at by scantily clad women while trying to make an easy putt. Tiger looks up at the camera into the eyes of every-day-Joe golf-watching America and gives his best toothy smile while blindly sinking the put at the same time.
(Tighten camera in on Tiger and putter only)
As he hears the sound of the ball hitting the bottom of cup he throws his head back in laughter then looks up at the camera again holding his putter in front of him and says:
“I DRIVE MY BALLS INTO THE HOLE…WITH PING CLUBS”
Tiger then bursts into laughter again as women’s panties rain down all over him and all you can hear is dozens of women excitedly squealing and calling out his name.
(zoom into the club barely seen under a pair of pink lacy underwear)
(announcer’s voice again)
“BUY PING CLUBS NOW…THEY’LL TURN YOU…INTO A PLAYER”
Or how about this one for Nike:
Scene: (close up of Tiger) Tiger Woods drives a nice straight shot straight down the fairway then begins effortlessly jogging down the fairway with a club in his hand (pan camera out to include crowd of scantily clad women that breaks through the tape and chases after him screaming his name)
Cut camera to front shot of tiger, grinning from ear to ear, jogging toward the camera and women frantically catching up with him in the background.
(same over exaggerated announcer voice)
“NIKE SNEAKERS…BECAUSE SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO LOOK LIKE YOU ARE PLAYING HARD TO GET”
Cut to women catching him and dragging him to the ground while tearing off his clothes.
(close camera in on Tiger’s still grinning face)
(Tiger says while laughing) “OK, OK, LADIES” as all the women freeze “DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH ME BUT LEAVE MY NIKES ALONE”
(pan camera out while Tiger again throws his head back in laughter and gets rained on by panties as the pawing continues)
(announcer voice) “NIKE SNEAKERS…JUST KEEP DOING IT”
There is even room for new advertisers to get on board with this style campaign:
Scene: Tiger squatting on the green, lining up his putt. He stands, walks over to where his ball marker is, puts his ball down, picks up what he thinks is the marker and is surprised when it turns out to be a condom with a phone number written in woman’s hand writing on it. Tiger looks around him at the crowd and notices a scantily-clad, perky, young, female caddy standing right next to him staring at him lasciviously. Tiger throws his head back and laughs
“TROJAN CONDOMS…WE WON’T COVER YOUR ASS FOR YOU, BUT….
Anyway you get the idea. Where was I going with this again? Oh yeah, So WHY are we demonizing this individual? He did what they wanted. I see nothing but stories about how bad he has it and bullshit about how he is going to give up golf. We should all boycott the advertisers that dropped Tiger until they re-endorse him and give the man a raise, for he alone is the inspiration of golf-watching sofa-jockeys everywhere who can now muster the energy to get out of the house and actually play the game with the hope that maybe it will improve their chances in the gene pool. As a matter of fact that’s all I have to say… I am going to go hit a bucket of balls now.
Heard enough lately? Me too, but here is my take on things. This is a viewpoint that Fox news or People magazine aren’t going to let out to the masses, but I think you are ready to deal with this.
Tangential Point #1: I have come to a point in my life that I have started to keep a mental “boycott list” of manufacturers that piss me off in their advertising practices. It started some 10+ years ago in southern California where I started to notice that most advertising in that region had a very insulting air about it. Market research must have revealed that the major demographic were slack-jawed hippy surfers that needed to be ridiculed into buying specific products. The inanity of some of these campaigns made me think that there was someone within these organizations that secretly wanted to bring it down from the inside. I could almost hear their thinking “lets market to the intelligence level of the people who care the least about our product and couldn’t afford it even if they do.” Brilliant! Now, I’m obviously not saying that I am Mr. High-Brow here or anything, I just don’t like to be talked down to, especially by people trying to get money out of my pocket.
Tangential point #2: Sex Sells. A theory that has been proven in marketing over and over again to the point that scads of companies whose products have nothing to do whatsoever with sex are trying desperately to link the two together to unload product. You know the type of ad where some perky, sweaty, scantily clad woman huskily tells you to buy the product while staring you down with her bedroom eyes. They are all over the place and again not just limited to products involved in sports. Companies scramble to tie sex to their product to the point that I am now getting turned on by cleaning product advertisements while checking my e-mail. Sad.
Now lets talk about Golf. Its Not a real sport. I play golf, and I’ve played real sports and golf is not a real sport. A game that does not require you to break a sweat is not a real sport (frustration sweat doesn’t count). Golf is a game that has become popular as a minimal-energy-expending business medium. If it is a sport then it is the only sport that brazenly involves the promotion of drinking and driving. That wasn’t some pun incorporating golfing lingo, I’m talking about the refreshment cart that follows you around the links haunting your every slice and bunker shot, tempting you into thinking that maybe you just need to loosen up with a couple double Bloody Marys to relax into your game. Which means by hole nine you are most likely not blowing under the legal limit yet still allowed to recklessly drive your cart around to try and locate your ball. but I digress.
So here comes Tiger Woods , young , African-Asian, man taking the world by storm by dominating a typically Caucasian game, surrounded by fame, fortune, and probably countless more propositions for sex than I have ever received in my lifetime. He single-handedly broke through some of the obvious vestiges of racism by forcing the private golfing clubs to support and welcome him into their inner sanctum as their hero. Tiger put golf on the map and has retained his title of reigning superstar in the game. He has made millions of dollars for himself and his sponsors. The very same sponsors who have used some form of sexual appeal in their advertising practices for years before Tiger signed on.
At risk of losing some of you here and while I am not condoning infidelity, I still have to say …“go get ‘em Tiger“. Isn’t he, after all the money and fame are stripped away, just human? He took a game, A GAME, made millions with it, has women throwing themselves at him left and right and now he’s supposed to be like a fat, hungry, kid locked in a candy store who’s told he cant eat anything or more accurately like the one eunuch they forgot to snip at the Roman Orgy. He was thrust, partially at least, into this limelight by his sponsors who are now all abandoning him because he actually went out and finally used his fame to get a little action. So, my question to you is why the hell are the advertisers upset with Tiger? He has mastered a popular game, bridged the huge gap between golf and sex, lived up to the image portrayed in all of his commercials and towed the company line. He did all the work for his sponsors… and they drop him? Hypocrites!! I think that he should get a fucking raise. Why don’t companies just come right out and admit that they try to use sexual appeal to sell their product (as though it is some big secret) , and stand behind the man that they made? Big business is missing out on a giant opportunity to appeal to a wider consumer base. If I were in advertising right now I would be ridiculously open about this and be selling a shit-load of products. Here’s how some of my ads might sound
“TRY PING GOLF CLUBS”
(said in corny old-time announcer voice)
“THEY GOT THIS GUY SUPER-LAID”
pan over to Tiger getting pawed at by scantily clad women while trying to make an easy putt. Tiger looks up at the camera into the eyes of every-day-Joe golf-watching America and gives his best toothy smile while blindly sinking the put at the same time.
(Tighten camera in on Tiger and putter only)
As he hears the sound of the ball hitting the bottom of cup he throws his head back in laughter then looks up at the camera again holding his putter in front of him and says:
“I DRIVE MY BALLS INTO THE HOLE…WITH PING CLUBS”
Tiger then bursts into laughter again as women’s panties rain down all over him and all you can hear is dozens of women excitedly squealing and calling out his name.
(zoom into the club barely seen under a pair of pink lacy underwear)
(announcer’s voice again)
“BUY PING CLUBS NOW…THEY’LL TURN YOU…INTO A PLAYER”
Or how about this one for Nike:
Scene: (close up of Tiger) Tiger Woods drives a nice straight shot straight down the fairway then begins effortlessly jogging down the fairway with a club in his hand (pan camera out to include crowd of scantily clad women that breaks through the tape and chases after him screaming his name)
Cut camera to front shot of tiger, grinning from ear to ear, jogging toward the camera and women frantically catching up with him in the background.
(same over exaggerated announcer voice)
“NIKE SNEAKERS…BECAUSE SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO LOOK LIKE YOU ARE PLAYING HARD TO GET”
Cut to women catching him and dragging him to the ground while tearing off his clothes.
(close camera in on Tiger’s still grinning face)
(Tiger says while laughing) “OK, OK, LADIES” as all the women freeze “DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH ME BUT LEAVE MY NIKES ALONE”
(pan camera out while Tiger again throws his head back in laughter and gets rained on by panties as the pawing continues)
(announcer voice) “NIKE SNEAKERS…JUST KEEP DOING IT”
There is even room for new advertisers to get on board with this style campaign:
Scene: Tiger squatting on the green, lining up his putt. He stands, walks over to where his ball marker is, puts his ball down, picks up what he thinks is the marker and is surprised when it turns out to be a condom with a phone number written in woman’s hand writing on it. Tiger looks around him at the crowd and notices a scantily-clad, perky, young, female caddy standing right next to him staring at him lasciviously. Tiger throws his head back and laughs
“TROJAN CONDOMS…WE WON’T COVER YOUR ASS FOR YOU, BUT….
Anyway you get the idea. Where was I going with this again? Oh yeah, So WHY are we demonizing this individual? He did what they wanted. I see nothing but stories about how bad he has it and bullshit about how he is going to give up golf. We should all boycott the advertisers that dropped Tiger until they re-endorse him and give the man a raise, for he alone is the inspiration of golf-watching sofa-jockeys everywhere who can now muster the energy to get out of the house and actually play the game with the hope that maybe it will improve their chances in the gene pool. As a matter of fact that’s all I have to say… I am going to go hit a bucket of balls now.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Interpretive Dance
Interpretive dance. Need I say more? Apparently I do, because, while everybody I talk to about this topic gets the same sort of glazed-over, forced look on there face whilst trying to respond, everyone sneeringly tries to show their support in the name of art. The look people give me is what I would imagine them to have if I told them they could have a $1000 bill, but they had to first dig it out of a pile of dog-shit with their bare hands and lick it clean. The look that is displayed when they think that their pasted on smile is going to be enough to fool those around them but merely looks painful with a hint of revulsion. When everybody can obviously see the disgusted feelings that are lying just below the surface, mixed with the moment between pleasure and pain when their face is contorted in unabashed bewilderment.
Most people want to say what is on their mind about interpretive dance but feel it a betrayal to art as a whole. Don’t feel that way folks… it isn’t art in the first place. It is the bastard cousin of art, the worthless family member that serves no function in the art world at all yet it poses under the name “Art” to attempt to seek an audience. The origin of this unwanted offspring of dance, to me, looks as though it was something that was started during an acid induced, four-day “ freak out”. I bet it was fun to do and watch when everybody was on lots of drugs, but while trying to relate it to the rest of the world, something is drastically lost in the translation. For you jocks out there it’s similar to what synchronized swimming is to sports. While performed in the same venue as some real sports there is no quality involved that could ever define it as a sport. Its like watching someone warm up for a real sport and then take a bow walking away with a cocksure swagger as though they already dazzled you with feats of magnificence.
THE DANCE:
It usually starts off with some Tolkien-esque ethereal music. It often makes me think of fairies and elves dancing in the morning dew of a moss-covered forest, but today it was the Allman Brothers which kind of caught me off guard. There were times while watching this performances that I “interpreted” the “dancers” to be a bunch of frantic drunk people that have just been told that both exits are being guarded by Godzilla. There was also a manic frenzy that looked like everyone was caught in an avalanche or some other such cataclysmic event. Then there were the moments of acted out death mixed with some attempted (geriatric) eroticism (eeeewww!), then another frenzy, and lots of flailing while being dragged around the stage. Almost inevitably everyone falls down together in some intertwined orgy of body parts, as the seemingly endless music draws its last breath. But unless the house lights go completely down then you are in for yet another treat…. Yup you guessed it another ridiculously long song, re-mixed to ear-bleedingly unbearable lengths. Probably by the over-enthusiastic front man of the group who’s passion for drama obviously outshines the others‘…I said passion not talent. I’ll never hear that 25 min. version of “Tied To The Whipping Post” again. Shit, I’ll never hear the original version of that song without lapsing into that same homicidal daydream I had tonight of…well…you can imagine. Minutes number 21 - 25 took some REAL will-power to get through. And then I find myself like a damned fool, clapping enthusiastically loud when the song/fiasco reaches its end. Not for the genius of the performance but out of passionate relief that it is FINALLY FUCKING OVER. I almost gave a standing ovation.
Now for those of you that are thinking to yourself , “Why the hell is Kevin putting himself through this torture?”, let me explain myself. My son is in a dance class that performs once every six months at the local community theatre. Lumped in with his 10 minute routine is three hours of other local musical performances and dance numbers. I have been pleasantly surprised with most of the local talent. For the most part, I would say that just to see community members show off a different side to themselves was almost worth the 50-something dollars in tickets we spent to see Simon’s 10-minute dance. No that’s not true, it was worth it just to see him dance, he owned the stage.
I learned an important lesson early, to never sit in the front 6 rows during one of these performances. This lesson was taught to me the hard way. I was a rookie. It was in my first 30 seconds of witnessing local interpretive dance that I realized that there was a woman in the group of “performers” that reminded me of a co-worker in drag. There were a few slack-jawed, bewildered moments when I actually thought it was said co-worker letting his weekend freak-flag fly. She was VERY dramatic and took the medium of interpretive dance seriously as a chance to show her passion to the world. She was also a burly woman who looked like she had been baling hay by hand for the last fifty years and had forearms the size of my calf-muscles. The clincher was the first (of many) dramatic, Shakespearian, arm over the forehead, interpretations of death. She fell into the awaiting arms of three fellow performers who did a very convincing job of “interpreting” the allusion of lifting something very heavy, down to every knee-buckling, vein-popping, eye-bulging detail. I'm not exactly sure that there was any actual acting going on at that moment. Either way, it sent me into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. I felt as though I were a child again. It was as though my father had just finished yelling at me and while he is waiting for my acknowledgment of his rant, in the immediate, second-long, pregnant pause that follows before I could answer, my brother rips a fart. It was the type of giggling that you know shouldn’t be escaping but you can’t help it. You know...the giggles that might get you a good ass-kickin‘, but they have to come out anyway because any attempt to stifle them would be akin to trying to sneeze with your eyes open. Even repeated elbows in the ribs by the ladies on either side of me did nothing to stifle my poorly suppressed laughter during that performance. Pain could not overcome hilarity. If the whole dance troop came down off the stage and started hitting me with sacks of hammers it would have been somewhat of a relief because at least I could have released the volcano of guffaws (that I had been trying and failing to suppress) while they were gang-beating me. I could have laughed right into a coma, unable to defend myself. I was helpless. Lesson learned...all 75 minutes of it, which incidentally was the cumulative total time I bit my lips watching the same dance troop that night perform... again and again.
So here is my disclaimer. I feel a little guilty every once in a while when I let my true feelings out to people who aren’t ready to hear them, so here it is. If you are an interpretive dancer don’t take offense when I say that I don’t respect your “art” and that I'm actually a little offended for real artists out there that produce actual art. This is merely my opinion. Really, in the grand scheme of things what does that matter. Do your thing by all means, but if I have to deal with your performance, then you have to deal with me dealing with your performance, with one of my own… here. The advice That I would give you would be not to try to go too far over the audience’s head with your deeply passionate expressions. We don’t get it. Also, don’t take up too much of my time and ask me to pay to watch something that I can watch my kids do in the living room every time a song comes on the radio. Enough said.
I feel like I could write forever about this subject, but I guess I’ll just sum up this little rant by relating the feeling of undeniable irony I had listening to Gregg Allman belt out his chorus over and over...while feeling little fragments of my soul flake off and blow away. “Like I’ve been tied to the whippin’ post, oh Lord I feel like I’m dying”. Yeah...me too Gregg...me too.
Most people want to say what is on their mind about interpretive dance but feel it a betrayal to art as a whole. Don’t feel that way folks… it isn’t art in the first place. It is the bastard cousin of art, the worthless family member that serves no function in the art world at all yet it poses under the name “Art” to attempt to seek an audience. The origin of this unwanted offspring of dance, to me, looks as though it was something that was started during an acid induced, four-day “ freak out”. I bet it was fun to do and watch when everybody was on lots of drugs, but while trying to relate it to the rest of the world, something is drastically lost in the translation. For you jocks out there it’s similar to what synchronized swimming is to sports. While performed in the same venue as some real sports there is no quality involved that could ever define it as a sport. Its like watching someone warm up for a real sport and then take a bow walking away with a cocksure swagger as though they already dazzled you with feats of magnificence.
THE DANCE:
It usually starts off with some Tolkien-esque ethereal music. It often makes me think of fairies and elves dancing in the morning dew of a moss-covered forest, but today it was the Allman Brothers which kind of caught me off guard. There were times while watching this performances that I “interpreted” the “dancers” to be a bunch of frantic drunk people that have just been told that both exits are being guarded by Godzilla. There was also a manic frenzy that looked like everyone was caught in an avalanche or some other such cataclysmic event. Then there were the moments of acted out death mixed with some attempted (geriatric) eroticism (eeeewww!), then another frenzy, and lots of flailing while being dragged around the stage. Almost inevitably everyone falls down together in some intertwined orgy of body parts, as the seemingly endless music draws its last breath. But unless the house lights go completely down then you are in for yet another treat…. Yup you guessed it another ridiculously long song, re-mixed to ear-bleedingly unbearable lengths. Probably by the over-enthusiastic front man of the group who’s passion for drama obviously outshines the others‘…I said passion not talent. I’ll never hear that 25 min. version of “Tied To The Whipping Post” again. Shit, I’ll never hear the original version of that song without lapsing into that same homicidal daydream I had tonight of…well…you can imagine. Minutes number 21 - 25 took some REAL will-power to get through. And then I find myself like a damned fool, clapping enthusiastically loud when the song/fiasco reaches its end. Not for the genius of the performance but out of passionate relief that it is FINALLY FUCKING OVER. I almost gave a standing ovation.
Now for those of you that are thinking to yourself , “Why the hell is Kevin putting himself through this torture?”, let me explain myself. My son is in a dance class that performs once every six months at the local community theatre. Lumped in with his 10 minute routine is three hours of other local musical performances and dance numbers. I have been pleasantly surprised with most of the local talent. For the most part, I would say that just to see community members show off a different side to themselves was almost worth the 50-something dollars in tickets we spent to see Simon’s 10-minute dance. No that’s not true, it was worth it just to see him dance, he owned the stage.
I learned an important lesson early, to never sit in the front 6 rows during one of these performances. This lesson was taught to me the hard way. I was a rookie. It was in my first 30 seconds of witnessing local interpretive dance that I realized that there was a woman in the group of “performers” that reminded me of a co-worker in drag. There were a few slack-jawed, bewildered moments when I actually thought it was said co-worker letting his weekend freak-flag fly. She was VERY dramatic and took the medium of interpretive dance seriously as a chance to show her passion to the world. She was also a burly woman who looked like she had been baling hay by hand for the last fifty years and had forearms the size of my calf-muscles. The clincher was the first (of many) dramatic, Shakespearian, arm over the forehead, interpretations of death. She fell into the awaiting arms of three fellow performers who did a very convincing job of “interpreting” the allusion of lifting something very heavy, down to every knee-buckling, vein-popping, eye-bulging detail. I'm not exactly sure that there was any actual acting going on at that moment. Either way, it sent me into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. I felt as though I were a child again. It was as though my father had just finished yelling at me and while he is waiting for my acknowledgment of his rant, in the immediate, second-long, pregnant pause that follows before I could answer, my brother rips a fart. It was the type of giggling that you know shouldn’t be escaping but you can’t help it. You know...the giggles that might get you a good ass-kickin‘, but they have to come out anyway because any attempt to stifle them would be akin to trying to sneeze with your eyes open. Even repeated elbows in the ribs by the ladies on either side of me did nothing to stifle my poorly suppressed laughter during that performance. Pain could not overcome hilarity. If the whole dance troop came down off the stage and started hitting me with sacks of hammers it would have been somewhat of a relief because at least I could have released the volcano of guffaws (that I had been trying and failing to suppress) while they were gang-beating me. I could have laughed right into a coma, unable to defend myself. I was helpless. Lesson learned...all 75 minutes of it, which incidentally was the cumulative total time I bit my lips watching the same dance troop that night perform... again and again.
So here is my disclaimer. I feel a little guilty every once in a while when I let my true feelings out to people who aren’t ready to hear them, so here it is. If you are an interpretive dancer don’t take offense when I say that I don’t respect your “art” and that I'm actually a little offended for real artists out there that produce actual art. This is merely my opinion. Really, in the grand scheme of things what does that matter. Do your thing by all means, but if I have to deal with your performance, then you have to deal with me dealing with your performance, with one of my own… here. The advice That I would give you would be not to try to go too far over the audience’s head with your deeply passionate expressions. We don’t get it. Also, don’t take up too much of my time and ask me to pay to watch something that I can watch my kids do in the living room every time a song comes on the radio. Enough said.
I feel like I could write forever about this subject, but I guess I’ll just sum up this little rant by relating the feeling of undeniable irony I had listening to Gregg Allman belt out his chorus over and over...while feeling little fragments of my soul flake off and blow away. “Like I’ve been tied to the whippin’ post, oh Lord I feel like I’m dying”. Yeah...me too Gregg...me too.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Why I will never put the toilet seat down again
Men in today’s society are expected to play every role that they did in previous generations ie. breadwinner/protector and also take on the role that was typically the woman’s role as well in previous generations, the sensitive nurturer adept at all domestic chores, raising children properly and keeping harmony in the household. As a man in my late thirties I am thankful for the training that my mother, sister. and other influential strong women, have given me to be able to round out my personality and be self-sufficient in my decisions on how to live comfortably on my own and make decisions regarding my kids that take into account both male and a learned female perspective. I feel that my generation is the first that have been educated this way from birth since the women’s movement in America in the 60’s. We men of this generation are Warrior/Poets, the strong ass-kickers that can cry with our kids when we watch Bambi. So having said that as part back-round story / part disclaimer, I will continue.
I was taught to be a gentleman and that chivalry was not dead but changed , that you must now just have respect for people and not offend them in your attempts to assist in any way or assume that anyone is inferior by attempting to help. In my mind it is still acceptable to hold a door open that might otherwise close on someone or offer my assistance to someone who has taken on an obviously heavy burden. I don’t make it a point to pull out chairs for every woman at the table or throw my coat in a puddle to keep someone’s ankle dry. By that definition, I am as “chivalrous” to both sexes as are a lot of people. Some of the old definitions of chivalry are merely part of polite human nature now in society. The over the top expressions of men being the macho dominant sex and women being just a fragile little flower, are over. Society now, wouldn’t and shouldn’t accept that. As a man who actually believes in equality, I applaud the fact that women have as equal an opportunity as men to chase their dreams in whatever area they choose. Women can achieve anything I can, and I look forward to my daughter growing up in a society that respects that.
SO why the fuck do I still have to put the toilet seat down!!
When I was a kid you put the toilet seat down as a matter of hygiene my mother told me. Having lived with several women and men and observed the lifestyles of countless other people, I realized that this just wasn’t the case, because I have observed that maybe 20% put down the toilet “lid” after using the facilities. Now take into account the “Green” movement that has been happening and in people’s effort to conserve water the phrase “if it’s yellow it’s mellow, if it’s brown then flush it down” keeps popping up in various needle-point forms in bathrooms everywhere in my life. So now we have a society that leaves urine in the toilet and, from my acute observation, doesn’t try to contain the sight or smell of it by even putting the lid down. That blows the “hygiene argument” Mom, as far as I’m concerned.
Yet still in today’s day and age, for reasons foreign to me until recently, men are still expected to put the toilet “seat” down. Why? I think i’ve finally figured it out…. it really boils down to the point that women want to perpetuate chivalry only in certain areas so as to ultimately make us men somehow responsible for them falling into the toilet in the middle of the night and getting their ass soaked because the were too lazy to check before they sat down to take that mid-night bleary-eyed piss.
There are times when I am too lazy to turn on the light to aim at a target in the middle of the night. When the time it would take for your eyes to adjust to the light exceeds the time it would take to relieve myself. So…. In my haste to return to sleep, I sit down. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve had conversations with male friends and some of them have fallen into the toilet in the wee hours of the morning while sitting down to piss, but they just laughed it off because they knew they were to lazy ,drunk ,etc. to remember to put the toilet seat down. They weren’t blaming anybody else for it though, and the recounting of these stories was usually a source of laughter for everybody , including the storyteller.
Now let me paint another entirely different picture for the ladies. As any man will tell you , when we men wake up in the middle of the night “needing” to take a piss , the insanity-inducing, bladder-ripping feeling is usually accompanied by our good friend “the raging hard-on”. Our good friend, while usually welcome in our life to experience thrilling adventures together, is here this random night to perform both an act of mercy and ultimately…betrayal.
First and foremost, the merciful act it is performing, is to stand guard over our late-night-working bladder. Defending us from a potentially embarrassing ,definitely messy situation whilst the rest of us is in the throes of deep REM sleep (alcohol induced or not). But after standing at attention for so long our friend starts to get angry with us for making him stand guard alone against our bladder. Things get tense between those two and it turns into an ugly predicament, one that sneaks up and attacks you when you least expect it. I liken it to waking up the prisoner in an armed hostage situation, only you have taken yourself prisoner and you need to carefully negotiate your own release or get riddled with hot urine. I usually prefer to run outdoors into the cool night air with my friend in those situations to relieve ourselves in a giant, moon-lit, silvery, arc into the back yard, shaking my fist in the air and laughing at my victory over nature’s cruel curse that makes us get angry with each other for those few seconds…but sometimes weather doesn’t permit it. The indoor solution however, requires speed , delicacy and a bit of acrobatics to overcome. We are not talking about some lazy Sunday walk in the park to the bathroom, taking time to smell the flowers and feed the birds bread-crumbs. This procedure is more like a tactical military operation that requires precise timing, pinpoint accuracy, not to mention the ability to maneuver around whatever obstacles may be in your way during your sprint toward destiny….. with your friend looking threatingly at you. He is armed, pointing right at you, and is too painful to man handle into position to accommodate, whether or not you are standing up or sitting normally, for even if you could achieve the correct aim at that point the flow gets cut off similar to a kinked garden hose.
The indoor way that I’ve found that works best for me, requires a near one-handed handstand in front of the toilet whilst resting your ass-cheeks on the toilet , pointing your “self” into the toilet, pivoting your body so that most of your weight rest on your hands on the floor in front of you, lifting your legs off of the floor and then relieving yourself . This ensures proper flow by not bending anything too far, and at the same not pissing in my own face or all over the room. Having done this “maneuver” several times I have become quite adept at it. Even though there is usually only mili-seconds with which to perform this acrobatic feat in the dark, I always take the time to check to make sure fucking toilet seat is down! Otherwise my plan is ruined and it results in total failure, with complete loss of control trying not bash your head off of the floor. It can be catastrophic ladies. In addition to dunking parts into the toilet, we are now fighting for our lives, the cleanliness of the bathroom, and the ability to dodge our own golden shower all at once. You think that you women have it so tough. This ”man’s predicament” is something that most women have never even give consideration to unless they happen to at some point bear witness to this late-night anomaly…this natural joke on men. This is something that most men aren’t even going to discuss with you, ladies…probably because of how humiliating it must look to perform, but it happens all of the time, in every household that men dwell.
So having hopefully expressed my sentiment on exactly how much men’s situations can be equally, if not significantly more difficult during our late night episodes, why is it my responsibility to take the time to continue to enable this out-dated expectation from women. Equality….remember? I don’t ask that women lift the seat up for me so I can take a piss like a normal human male, standing there scratching my ass, as waves of spine- tingling relaxation consume me, the worries of the day ebbing away. I am however responsible for lifting the seat up so that I don’t perhaps drip on it and have to wipe it off myself afterwards. So why am I also responsible for making sure that women don’t dunk their taint in the bowl-water. How is it my obligation as a mostly upright urinator to predict the gender of the next toilet user and ensure ease for the next person, by leaving the seat up or down, much less defer to some outdated concept that says that I should automatically assume that the next user is female. To quote my Dad,“What am I a fucking mind reader?” So I leave the seat up because I figure that everybody is responsible and able enough to adjust the toilet parts on their own, to best suit their needs.
This whole circumstance of men being expected to put the toilet seat down reeks of chivalry and I think that it is demeaning to women to assume that they cannot achieve something so simple as checking to see if the toilet seat is down before they relieve themselves. I won’t take part in it anymore. I will not insult women’s intelligence or capabilities like that, and as a matter of fact I think its time that we men take back equal authority over our thrones, for the ability to piss mostly standing up, without having to wipe our legs off afterward… is ours …and ours alone. We deserve the right to practice it.
Sexist? Hardly. If I started demanding that everyone leave my toilet seat up, then that would be sexist. That is why, in the name of equality I refuse to put the toilet seat down ever again for anyone.
I was taught to be a gentleman and that chivalry was not dead but changed , that you must now just have respect for people and not offend them in your attempts to assist in any way or assume that anyone is inferior by attempting to help. In my mind it is still acceptable to hold a door open that might otherwise close on someone or offer my assistance to someone who has taken on an obviously heavy burden. I don’t make it a point to pull out chairs for every woman at the table or throw my coat in a puddle to keep someone’s ankle dry. By that definition, I am as “chivalrous” to both sexes as are a lot of people. Some of the old definitions of chivalry are merely part of polite human nature now in society. The over the top expressions of men being the macho dominant sex and women being just a fragile little flower, are over. Society now, wouldn’t and shouldn’t accept that. As a man who actually believes in equality, I applaud the fact that women have as equal an opportunity as men to chase their dreams in whatever area they choose. Women can achieve anything I can, and I look forward to my daughter growing up in a society that respects that.
SO why the fuck do I still have to put the toilet seat down!!
When I was a kid you put the toilet seat down as a matter of hygiene my mother told me. Having lived with several women and men and observed the lifestyles of countless other people, I realized that this just wasn’t the case, because I have observed that maybe 20% put down the toilet “lid” after using the facilities. Now take into account the “Green” movement that has been happening and in people’s effort to conserve water the phrase “if it’s yellow it’s mellow, if it’s brown then flush it down” keeps popping up in various needle-point forms in bathrooms everywhere in my life. So now we have a society that leaves urine in the toilet and, from my acute observation, doesn’t try to contain the sight or smell of it by even putting the lid down. That blows the “hygiene argument” Mom, as far as I’m concerned.
Yet still in today’s day and age, for reasons foreign to me until recently, men are still expected to put the toilet “seat” down. Why? I think i’ve finally figured it out…. it really boils down to the point that women want to perpetuate chivalry only in certain areas so as to ultimately make us men somehow responsible for them falling into the toilet in the middle of the night and getting their ass soaked because the were too lazy to check before they sat down to take that mid-night bleary-eyed piss.
There are times when I am too lazy to turn on the light to aim at a target in the middle of the night. When the time it would take for your eyes to adjust to the light exceeds the time it would take to relieve myself. So…. In my haste to return to sleep, I sit down. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve had conversations with male friends and some of them have fallen into the toilet in the wee hours of the morning while sitting down to piss, but they just laughed it off because they knew they were to lazy ,drunk ,etc. to remember to put the toilet seat down. They weren’t blaming anybody else for it though, and the recounting of these stories was usually a source of laughter for everybody , including the storyteller.
Now let me paint another entirely different picture for the ladies. As any man will tell you , when we men wake up in the middle of the night “needing” to take a piss , the insanity-inducing, bladder-ripping feeling is usually accompanied by our good friend “the raging hard-on”. Our good friend, while usually welcome in our life to experience thrilling adventures together, is here this random night to perform both an act of mercy and ultimately…betrayal.
First and foremost, the merciful act it is performing, is to stand guard over our late-night-working bladder. Defending us from a potentially embarrassing ,definitely messy situation whilst the rest of us is in the throes of deep REM sleep (alcohol induced or not). But after standing at attention for so long our friend starts to get angry with us for making him stand guard alone against our bladder. Things get tense between those two and it turns into an ugly predicament, one that sneaks up and attacks you when you least expect it. I liken it to waking up the prisoner in an armed hostage situation, only you have taken yourself prisoner and you need to carefully negotiate your own release or get riddled with hot urine. I usually prefer to run outdoors into the cool night air with my friend in those situations to relieve ourselves in a giant, moon-lit, silvery, arc into the back yard, shaking my fist in the air and laughing at my victory over nature’s cruel curse that makes us get angry with each other for those few seconds…but sometimes weather doesn’t permit it. The indoor solution however, requires speed , delicacy and a bit of acrobatics to overcome. We are not talking about some lazy Sunday walk in the park to the bathroom, taking time to smell the flowers and feed the birds bread-crumbs. This procedure is more like a tactical military operation that requires precise timing, pinpoint accuracy, not to mention the ability to maneuver around whatever obstacles may be in your way during your sprint toward destiny….. with your friend looking threatingly at you. He is armed, pointing right at you, and is too painful to man handle into position to accommodate, whether or not you are standing up or sitting normally, for even if you could achieve the correct aim at that point the flow gets cut off similar to a kinked garden hose.
The indoor way that I’ve found that works best for me, requires a near one-handed handstand in front of the toilet whilst resting your ass-cheeks on the toilet , pointing your “self” into the toilet, pivoting your body so that most of your weight rest on your hands on the floor in front of you, lifting your legs off of the floor and then relieving yourself . This ensures proper flow by not bending anything too far, and at the same not pissing in my own face or all over the room. Having done this “maneuver” several times I have become quite adept at it. Even though there is usually only mili-seconds with which to perform this acrobatic feat in the dark, I always take the time to check to make sure fucking toilet seat is down! Otherwise my plan is ruined and it results in total failure, with complete loss of control trying not bash your head off of the floor. It can be catastrophic ladies. In addition to dunking parts into the toilet, we are now fighting for our lives, the cleanliness of the bathroom, and the ability to dodge our own golden shower all at once. You think that you women have it so tough. This ”man’s predicament” is something that most women have never even give consideration to unless they happen to at some point bear witness to this late-night anomaly…this natural joke on men. This is something that most men aren’t even going to discuss with you, ladies…probably because of how humiliating it must look to perform, but it happens all of the time, in every household that men dwell.
So having hopefully expressed my sentiment on exactly how much men’s situations can be equally, if not significantly more difficult during our late night episodes, why is it my responsibility to take the time to continue to enable this out-dated expectation from women. Equality….remember? I don’t ask that women lift the seat up for me so I can take a piss like a normal human male, standing there scratching my ass, as waves of spine- tingling relaxation consume me, the worries of the day ebbing away. I am however responsible for lifting the seat up so that I don’t perhaps drip on it and have to wipe it off myself afterwards. So why am I also responsible for making sure that women don’t dunk their taint in the bowl-water. How is it my obligation as a mostly upright urinator to predict the gender of the next toilet user and ensure ease for the next person, by leaving the seat up or down, much less defer to some outdated concept that says that I should automatically assume that the next user is female. To quote my Dad,“What am I a fucking mind reader?” So I leave the seat up because I figure that everybody is responsible and able enough to adjust the toilet parts on their own, to best suit their needs.
This whole circumstance of men being expected to put the toilet seat down reeks of chivalry and I think that it is demeaning to women to assume that they cannot achieve something so simple as checking to see if the toilet seat is down before they relieve themselves. I won’t take part in it anymore. I will not insult women’s intelligence or capabilities like that, and as a matter of fact I think its time that we men take back equal authority over our thrones, for the ability to piss mostly standing up, without having to wipe our legs off afterward… is ours …and ours alone. We deserve the right to practice it.
Sexist? Hardly. If I started demanding that everyone leave my toilet seat up, then that would be sexist. That is why, in the name of equality I refuse to put the toilet seat down ever again for anyone.
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