I’m a former to fading theorist. I’m marathon runner used to finding marks and moving towards them so I never hit the wall 5 miles in or 5 years out.
Theory only works in theory though.
It’s a fickle term filled with logic, control, analysis and a healthy dose of neurosis. But as much surface and protective value as this little word might have, it comes ill-prepared to face the inconsistent and unpredictable “spontaneous-es and impulsives” of the world.
So isn’t a theory just a fancy and generally badly dressed cover up for the “what if?” Like the words heaven and hell, they provide comfort for those uncomfortable with the unknown. Sure, Einstein made a living from asking questions his whole life, and while his process might have cured his insatiable appetite for the unsolved, for the rest of us with less than genius brain capacity (only slightly less, I swear), the questions only rape our minds with tension and what feels like an honest to goodness old-fashioned aneurism.
I’m a creative.
An over-analyzer.
A student.
An unsatisfied freak.
A thinker.
A developer.
An unstoppable fucking cloud hopper.
A Samuel L. Jackson circa Pulp Fiction crazy-son-of-a-bitch-self-aware-accepting-forward-pushing-in-your-face-soul-on-legs,
wanderer. (not another word for bum)
Sure, wanderers ask questions. We anticipate scenarios and pick apart our brains and allow the over-analytical tendencies (commonly known as the X chromosome) to thicken our thoughts with oatmeal-style mush and ridiculously ludicrous fodder often used for comics and other men, apparently.
But wanderers are also students. We don’t presume to know the nature of the world or how it will work 5 years from now or even 5 minutes from now. Yeah, we really can’t keep asking ourselves if we step on a butterfly now, will it kill the world in 5,000 years?
We grow.
We learn…occasionally against the stubborn grain.
And in the end, we learn to be better. Better meaning removing the questions and replacing them. Not with answers that wreak with assumption, but with spaces. Gaps. Blanks. Holes that get filled in only as your story does.
How interesting would it be if I knew where I and my life would be 5 minutes from now like a bad film rushing to get to the end with no point in sight? (Uhm, I’m sorry Adam Sandler. Really, I am). I’m not a DVR. I’m not even a Blu-Ray whose clear lucidity rivals some of the best 20/20 vision on the planet. I can’t see that kind of stuff, at least not with the astigmatism and near-sighted gifts my father gave me at the time of conception that one summer night.
I’d rather walk into the dark than walk into the light. The light reveals imperfections and expectations at face value. The dark makes you find them on your own.
It’s all a big question, like broccoli between the teeth when you know you haven’t eaten broccoli in years. You don’t really know where it came from, you just know that you’ll deal with it as soon as you possibly can. Or, if you’re lucky the person sitting across from you will be kind enough not to let you walk through life with a piece of green floret stuck between your incisors.
I don’t live my life in theory. I just live my life.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
A Nipple Idea...Blog circa 10/18/05
My social commentary for the day as well as my revelations...ahem
In concepting for a creative project assignment, I came up with a fucking spectacular idea that did in fact require some research to ensure that the idea was plausible. In short, I came to the histerically ridiculous question of: Why in the world do men have nipples?
Let's take a step back and examine this. Nipples are applicable to females for the obvious reason of nursing their young. The nipples lactate, producing milk for the young/offspring to feed off of. In the case of males, males do not have the ability to become impregnated and therefore having lactating nipples isn't exactly something they would miss should evolution decide that this body part is unecessary to the sex as a whole. I found this the most fucking hilarious concept once I made the conclusion that Men are often useless enough as it is, but now you guys are growing physical body parts that are useless as well. Dayem that shit is hilarious...as if the world isn't already full of unecessary objects, there are now species out there growing objects that take up non-functional space simply because the world made a design defect...God works in mysterious and beautiful ways, doesn't He? Indeed He does. And entertaining to say the least.
Just to clarify for those too lazy to do the research, but too curious to let the cause of this evolutionary curiosity slide, I will inform you of why men have nipples. When a fetus is growing within the womb, the growth spurts the formation of mammary glands which give species the ability to produce milk and lactate. All human fetuses are inherently female to begin with. It is only after the y chromosome and testosterone kick in that the growth of the mammary glands stop in male fetuses. As a result, you have an externally finished body part, but internally unfinished, which explains why the nipples exist but serve no function.
While evolution has yet to fix this design flaw, we can, in the meantime learn to accept the male part as it is. I think people in general hate the idea of feeling useless, which would explain why humans are the only species stupid, creative, crazy, and sexual enough to pierce, tattoo, and stretch their own nipples. Hell, if it serves no primary function, you might as well decorate it right? I would like to think of male nipples as Christmas trees. They already exist in nature, and while physically they don't do much, they serve as palettes for beautiful and exotic decoration.
I myself had considered getting "decorated" for fun once even though my palette is actually useful. However, it would have been a decision made out of sheer boredom and not because I actually wanted a Christmas tree special on my chest. For those brave enough or perhaps bored enough, I applaud you. It's not every day that you can turn something worthless into an artistic medium...
The Theory on God's Hearing Blog circa 01/15/06
In a seemingly endless world of differing hopes, dreams, and blame, the commonality of it all in most cases, is that God plays a part in all 3...at least in many peoples' minds.
Hopes and dreams remain nothing more than spoken, or thought out aspirations from the truly optimistic. In these intangible processes, many have utilized God as a source of answering their hopeful cries. As God remains a colorless, soundless, and mute mentor, as evidence has shown, the hopeful still voice their superfluous dreams to Him, perhaps injecting it all with silent radar. They remain desperate for their prayers to be answered from a being whose main purpose, of the many, is to watch over His billions of children, animal and foliage alike. His omnipresent capabilities have seemed to lead people to the notion that He therefore has an inherent responsibility to help those who request so.
Therein lies the potential mistake, at least in the eyes of this writer. Consider the set-up. Many have said that God indeed has a master plan for all of us. In that master plan could come the pending apocolypse, or the breeding of a new species meant to take over the human race entirely. Who knows? If in fact this master plan does indeed exist, then our fate has been set, and no amount of crying, dreaming, and hoping, will change God's mind that one heartless man should win the lottery, while a pure man should feed off the garbage of others, especially since the world may just explode in a matter of coming seconds. In this life, a master plan may have been set, but the reliance on God brings up a shortcoming.
And what about the blame factor? Why is it that when we fall, we cry, we suffer, we always ask "Why God? Why??????" And yet when a baseball player hits the winning homerun in the world series, suddenly he drops to his knees in thanks to the Big Guy. In our flaws lies the fact that we remain truly thankful only when our happiness and prayers have been fulfilled, but bitter and disdainful when like 2 year olds, we don't get our way. It's funny how even as we age, we are still always stuck in the "Terrible Two's." We never grow up.
As humans, we have sent a man to the moon, created the ability to speak to the entire global population via a single IM, and cloned the fucking guts of one Dolly The Sheep, and yet we still allow ourselves to lean on God's invisible shoulder. He remains our crutch when we have been able to walk on our own for so long now.
A man born without any defects, is born with the ability to hear sound, noise, voices. In growing older, he soon learns to block out the noise he doesn't wish to hear. He can hear you, but he doesn't have to listen. He particularly exhibits this adaptation during prime sporting events on ESPN and broadcast tv. Such is the capacity of God. Simply because He can hearyou, it doesn't mean He has to listen. If in fact He is the creator of all things, heaven forbid He should take a break from being the greatest wonder the world has ever known.
It is in our inherent nature to be selfish for the material things in life. If through prayer you are seeking guidance, a listening ear, or are among the few that fall in the truly "in need" category, then ask away. But using it as a course of action in response to being selfish simply speaks of why God chooses not to listen to the ones that pray for Xboxes, the winning lottery ticket, and a pair of bigger breasts. Can you blame Him for not jumping to His feet at your disposal?
God is our mentor, not our bitch. If you can walk on your own, you don't need a crutch. It's nice to have for the "just in case" scenarios, but do you really want to go through life using the handicapped sign when the only disability you have is being too blind to see that God isn't the genie in the blasted bottle?
First Date Bible Blog circa 11/20/06
I'm a 23 year-old female, but I tend to think like a guy. Over the years, I think I've learned to mix the over-analytical process of the female with the fuck-everything mindset of the male. As evolution would have it, I've formed the hybrid thinking process of the 2 genders. Asshole+insight=bulletin below
As a result, I have taken the time to write this lovely insightful First Date Bible, if you will. I could be hauling shit manure towards a dry desert that doesn't need it, but eh, what do I care?
So I've been on my fair share of those illusive first dates and from a hybrid's perspective, here are a few tips to get those bodies beneath the sheets a little quicker.
Gentlemen! So you want to get laid??? Well tough shit. It takes more than picking a flower from the neighbor's yard and making a quick stop to McDonald's to get those bodies rolling. However, if you're willing to put in some effort, and perhaps common sense, below are a few tips that may de-mystify the first date concept that many just don't seem to get these days.
Getting Laid
1.) Get the date, not just the "yes."
If you say "hey do you wanna hang or something this weekend?" and presume that she's going to interpret that as asking her out on a date, you might end up hanging out with the boyfriend and 5 friends she decides to bring along because she assumes you meant actually "hanging out". Be obvious kids. Try the old fashioned "I would love to take you out to dinner this weekend" method. You're clear, concise, and obvious, and if you can't get the date, well then there's always Sunset. I hear the women out there always says yes.
2.) Pick her up.
Sorry lazy asses, but if you ask her to meet you somewhere, generally it means you're actually "hanging out" and you obviously didn't understand tip numero uno. And if you followed tip #1 and you STILL ask her to meet you somewhere instead of picking her up, then it means:
a.) your ass doesn't have a car or a mode of transportation
b.) you're lazy as hell
c.) you're sleeping alone tonight, like friends.
3.) Pay for the date, fool.
Okay kids, I know this is the 00s and not the 80s where women may have been less independent than say, Paris Hilton and daddy's money, but that does not mean to say that women don't like a little of the old fashioned. Hilton may be worth millions of dollars, but can you imagine if Hugh Hephner asked her out and then retorted "Hey honey, can you get this? I have an entire empire, but go ahead and get this. Thanks." Uh, honey, no. We're independent and have our own money, but the best way into a woman's pants is not through her pocketbook.
4.) Holding the hand?
Okay, so it's about 2 hours into the date/hanging out (please see steps 1-2 for clarification) and you've decided that you made it this far and now, you find yourself sitting in a dark romantic movie theater, and you're growing some balls. You're gonna reach for it, go for it, go for it, go for it! Wait! Dude, where the hell are her hands? Last time I checked, I thought she had a pair. Oh wait, she stuck them in her pockets. Okay, so note to you: should a girl stick her hands in her pockets or cross her arms across her chest while watching a movie, it means:
a.) she doesn't want you to hold her hand
b.) she's got a wart on her right thumb that she doesn't
want you to see
And that whole "no my hands are just really cold thing?" In my world, that's called bullshit.
5.) The Emergency Phone Call
Yeah, we've all heard about them, and we've all done them, maybe. I'm probably going to hell for the one I made, but I think I only think that because I feel bad for lying. Okay, so you're in the middle of the date, or maybe at the beginning, whatever, and the girl gets some mysterious phone call that causes her to drop her jaw in shock, and (gasp!) have to leave the date early for a family emergency. Okay, so we've all seen this on TV (Sex and The City), and in movies (The Break-up), but despite what critics may say, the media doesn't always lie. It's not an exaggeration because I've done it. I once got away with telling a guy I met up with at the gym, that I couldn't go out with him later because my aunt's car broke down and I had to go pick her up, but not before finishing my workout. Sweet huh? Lies work, but they work better when they help you get out of the date from hell.
6.) The Invite
End of the line. Congratulations! You've made it this far. You passed every single step on the way down and escaped the emergency phone call. You're at her door or in the car, positioning yourself strategically for that pre-emptive strike across her colored lips. She smiles, inviting you to lean a littler closer, or so you think. As you lean in, closer and closer and closer, she cracks a joke and punches you on the arm to see if you get it.
?
Eh, what can I tell you? She's an animal like you, and us animals sense when we're about to be attacked by an unwanted predator. Playfully striking you across the arm like one of the guys does not mean "Hey let's get naked together and involve ourselves in the act of making babies" when she knows you were planning to lay one on her. And in the spirit of the infamous book "He's just not that into you" the role is the same. Sorry kids, the only thing you're hittin tonight is the lonely bedspread you just cleaned in the hopes that you'd be getting laid.
Of course, there is always the possibility that she might invite you in, and then all of the shit I just wrote was totally not applicable.
So the moral of the story is, pay close attention to steps 1-6 and you may end up getting lucky. Of course, this is just one chick's opinion, so I can't say that I speak entirely for the masses. Some chicks may not give a fuck about any of those things and will still bang the crap out of you regardless. The female side of the brain says "fuck that" but the male side says "fuck yeah."
Then again, there's always booty calls. Rules 1-6 can just "fuck off" then.
As a result, I have taken the time to write this lovely insightful First Date Bible, if you will. I could be hauling shit manure towards a dry desert that doesn't need it, but eh, what do I care?
So I've been on my fair share of those illusive first dates and from a hybrid's perspective, here are a few tips to get those bodies beneath the sheets a little quicker.
Gentlemen! So you want to get laid??? Well tough shit. It takes more than picking a flower from the neighbor's yard and making a quick stop to McDonald's to get those bodies rolling. However, if you're willing to put in some effort, and perhaps common sense, below are a few tips that may de-mystify the first date concept that many just don't seem to get these days.
Getting Laid
1.) Get the date, not just the "yes."
If you say "hey do you wanna hang or something this weekend?" and presume that she's going to interpret that as asking her out on a date, you might end up hanging out with the boyfriend and 5 friends she decides to bring along because she assumes you meant actually "hanging out". Be obvious kids. Try the old fashioned "I would love to take you out to dinner this weekend" method. You're clear, concise, and obvious, and if you can't get the date, well then there's always Sunset. I hear the women out there always says yes.
2.) Pick her up.
Sorry lazy asses, but if you ask her to meet you somewhere, generally it means you're actually "hanging out" and you obviously didn't understand tip numero uno. And if you followed tip #1 and you STILL ask her to meet you somewhere instead of picking her up, then it means:
a.) your ass doesn't have a car or a mode of transportation
b.) you're lazy as hell
c.) you're sleeping alone tonight, like friends.
3.) Pay for the date, fool.
Okay kids, I know this is the 00s and not the 80s where women may have been less independent than say, Paris Hilton and daddy's money, but that does not mean to say that women don't like a little of the old fashioned. Hilton may be worth millions of dollars, but can you imagine if Hugh Hephner asked her out and then retorted "Hey honey, can you get this? I have an entire empire, but go ahead and get this. Thanks." Uh, honey, no. We're independent and have our own money, but the best way into a woman's pants is not through her pocketbook.
4.) Holding the hand?
Okay, so it's about 2 hours into the date/hanging out (please see steps 1-2 for clarification) and you've decided that you made it this far and now, you find yourself sitting in a dark romantic movie theater, and you're growing some balls. You're gonna reach for it, go for it, go for it, go for it! Wait! Dude, where the hell are her hands? Last time I checked, I thought she had a pair. Oh wait, she stuck them in her pockets. Okay, so note to you: should a girl stick her hands in her pockets or cross her arms across her chest while watching a movie, it means:
a.) she doesn't want you to hold her hand
b.) she's got a wart on her right thumb that she doesn't
want you to see
And that whole "no my hands are just really cold thing?" In my world, that's called bullshit.
5.) The Emergency Phone Call
Yeah, we've all heard about them, and we've all done them, maybe. I'm probably going to hell for the one I made, but I think I only think that because I feel bad for lying. Okay, so you're in the middle of the date, or maybe at the beginning, whatever, and the girl gets some mysterious phone call that causes her to drop her jaw in shock, and (gasp!) have to leave the date early for a family emergency. Okay, so we've all seen this on TV (Sex and The City), and in movies (The Break-up), but despite what critics may say, the media doesn't always lie. It's not an exaggeration because I've done it. I once got away with telling a guy I met up with at the gym, that I couldn't go out with him later because my aunt's car broke down and I had to go pick her up, but not before finishing my workout. Sweet huh? Lies work, but they work better when they help you get out of the date from hell.
6.) The Invite
End of the line. Congratulations! You've made it this far. You passed every single step on the way down and escaped the emergency phone call. You're at her door or in the car, positioning yourself strategically for that pre-emptive strike across her colored lips. She smiles, inviting you to lean a littler closer, or so you think. As you lean in, closer and closer and closer, she cracks a joke and punches you on the arm to see if you get it.
?
Eh, what can I tell you? She's an animal like you, and us animals sense when we're about to be attacked by an unwanted predator. Playfully striking you across the arm like one of the guys does not mean "Hey let's get naked together and involve ourselves in the act of making babies" when she knows you were planning to lay one on her. And in the spirit of the infamous book "He's just not that into you" the role is the same. Sorry kids, the only thing you're hittin tonight is the lonely bedspread you just cleaned in the hopes that you'd be getting laid.
Of course, there is always the possibility that she might invite you in, and then all of the shit I just wrote was totally not applicable.
So the moral of the story is, pay close attention to steps 1-6 and you may end up getting lucky. Of course, this is just one chick's opinion, so I can't say that I speak entirely for the masses. Some chicks may not give a fuck about any of those things and will still bang the crap out of you regardless. The female side of the brain says "fuck that" but the male side says "fuck yeah."
Then again, there's always booty calls. Rules 1-6 can just "fuck off" then.
My List of 25
1.) My favorite love song of all time is "The Way You Look Tonight" by Frank Sinatra.
2.) I ate boogers (yes, only my own) as a kid and kicked the habit when Mom caught me :O
3.) I regularly hold rock concerts in my car acting as the lead vocals/guitarist in front of a non-existent music video camera. Complete with overly dramatic expressions.
4.) I was born with symmetrically crooked pinky fingers but successfully took piano lessons for 8 years.
5.) When I was 2, I fell 10 feet to the ground through the stair railing. I landed on my head. Mom sued the building and won while I still wonder what it might have done to me.
6.) I naturally befriend men before women and often wonder if that has any connection to #7 or even #5. I personally think it's because of my tomboyish childhood and preference for simplicity.
7.) My Dad passed away when I was 4. I remember both him and the funeral clearly.
8.) I religiously do the "reach over and open driver's side door for your date when you're in the passenger side of the car" etiquette from watching "A Bronx Tale" when I was 10.
9.) My first official nightmare was the bloody alley scene in "Ghost."
10.) I think kids are better than adults, and animals better than people.
11.) I've been in 7 car accidents. Only 2 my fault. I've also been pulled over many times for speeding but been released by every ethnic cop and one specifically because we were both part Chinese.
12.) I befriended a homeless woman in San Francisco while shooting a class project. Ironically she was a graduate from my college 20 yrs prior.
13.) I think interesting people are a result of leading interesting lives. I used to be a supporter of bodybuilding and attended the Mr. Olympia contest in Vegas where I met Chuck Lidell and his mass of muscles. I also attend hip hop dance competitions and use bookstores to meet more interesting people. Hey, it's a start.
14.) I was the heaviest baby born in the hospital that day at a "healthy" 8lbs. 6 oz. A 9-pounder beat me the next day.
15.) My favorite book as a kid was Cat in the Hat. As an adult, Memoirs of a Geisha.
16.) I ditched Senior year of highschool to go to college instead. I got credit and diplomas for both.
17.) I've been to over 40 raves in the past. It's where I learned to dance but not exactly to be sober.
18.) My first concert was Bon Jovi. I was 6. It was the New Jersey album and a blue bandana was the fashion hit.
19.) I don't like absolute silence at home so I fill the air with sounds from the TV when I'm awake. I'll pick re-runs of I Love Lucy over everything else.
20.) I've never been outside the continent.
21.) I've been truly in love once and he knows who he is. I often wonder if changing #20 and keeping #22 would make a difference.
22.) I'd rather cook for a loved one than be cooked for.
23.) I developed my fear of sharks from watching Shark Week on The Discovery Channel.
24.) I'd like to claim my favorite movie is something beautifully dramatic and gut-wrenching like What Dreams May Come, but alas it's The Sandlot. Childhood, mischief, dreams and communal acceptance of the nerdy but enthusiastic new kid in town. It's like reliving my whole life
25.) My mother is my hero. Not because of her struggle or her sacrifices, but because she's the only person who really knows who I am. We used to have to work really hard at our relationship, and now we just enjoy it.
2.) I ate boogers (yes, only my own) as a kid and kicked the habit when Mom caught me :O
3.) I regularly hold rock concerts in my car acting as the lead vocals/guitarist in front of a non-existent music video camera. Complete with overly dramatic expressions.
4.) I was born with symmetrically crooked pinky fingers but successfully took piano lessons for 8 years.
5.) When I was 2, I fell 10 feet to the ground through the stair railing. I landed on my head. Mom sued the building and won while I still wonder what it might have done to me.
6.) I naturally befriend men before women and often wonder if that has any connection to #7 or even #5. I personally think it's because of my tomboyish childhood and preference for simplicity.
7.) My Dad passed away when I was 4. I remember both him and the funeral clearly.
8.) I religiously do the "reach over and open driver's side door for your date when you're in the passenger side of the car" etiquette from watching "A Bronx Tale" when I was 10.
9.) My first official nightmare was the bloody alley scene in "Ghost."
10.) I think kids are better than adults, and animals better than people.
11.) I've been in 7 car accidents. Only 2 my fault. I've also been pulled over many times for speeding but been released by every ethnic cop and one specifically because we were both part Chinese.
12.) I befriended a homeless woman in San Francisco while shooting a class project. Ironically she was a graduate from my college 20 yrs prior.
13.) I think interesting people are a result of leading interesting lives. I used to be a supporter of bodybuilding and attended the Mr. Olympia contest in Vegas where I met Chuck Lidell and his mass of muscles. I also attend hip hop dance competitions and use bookstores to meet more interesting people. Hey, it's a start.
14.) I was the heaviest baby born in the hospital that day at a "healthy" 8lbs. 6 oz. A 9-pounder beat me the next day.
15.) My favorite book as a kid was Cat in the Hat. As an adult, Memoirs of a Geisha.
16.) I ditched Senior year of highschool to go to college instead. I got credit and diplomas for both.
17.) I've been to over 40 raves in the past. It's where I learned to dance but not exactly to be sober.
18.) My first concert was Bon Jovi. I was 6. It was the New Jersey album and a blue bandana was the fashion hit.
19.) I don't like absolute silence at home so I fill the air with sounds from the TV when I'm awake. I'll pick re-runs of I Love Lucy over everything else.
20.) I've never been outside the continent.
21.) I've been truly in love once and he knows who he is. I often wonder if changing #20 and keeping #22 would make a difference.
22.) I'd rather cook for a loved one than be cooked for.
23.) I developed my fear of sharks from watching Shark Week on The Discovery Channel.
24.) I'd like to claim my favorite movie is something beautifully dramatic and gut-wrenching like What Dreams May Come, but alas it's The Sandlot. Childhood, mischief, dreams and communal acceptance of the nerdy but enthusiastic new kid in town. It's like reliving my whole life
25.) My mother is my hero. Not because of her struggle or her sacrifices, but because she's the only person who really knows who I am. We used to have to work really hard at our relationship, and now we just enjoy it.
Head Mush 04/22
I’m not an idealistic person. I understand the idea of perfection is merely a picture painted in our heads. We use faith, hope, dreams and society to help cover the canvas with unrealistic colors and portraits and scenery and disillusionment.
I am the optimistic realist. I see hope and presence and that’s all there is. The future is an illusion and the past no longer exists in the present. It’s just a memory-one that can change slowly over time should your mind begin to bore easily.
I’m also not easy. I’m stubborn and analytical and creative and forever a student whose mind is never satisfied with everything it already knows. I push and fall and get up and fall and leap and fall and leap and…occasionally fly. That’s what I live for. Those few moments of flight when you’re at peace but so far off the ground that the wind beneath your feet is the only semblance of realism in that moment.
Today, I am reminded of what I live for. I’m not drawn to drama or games or talking without intent. Teach me something new and I become a better person each day. I don’t enjoy roads that lead nowhere, to the edge of the world “where the sidewalk ends” as Silverstein puts it. The sidewalk doesn’t end, it just needs to be finished.
I value, for all its uselessness to others, my own personal well being. Yeah, I said it. First comes me, then the rest of the world. It’s not about being selfish, it’s about being healthy. I imagine that the mental health and happiness of myself directly plays into the relationship I have with the world. Right now, the world is calm and collected for me.
I believe in a dance. The kind you have with the rest of the world around where you play and have fun and interact and just…...be. When the dance comes to a halt, who will you be standing with? Will your partners change? Will the music change? Will the dance itself change? Will you dance alone?
All of the above. It’s time for me to change the music, the dance…and me. I am a mover, and you, are not. I take leaps, you take steps. I move left, you move right. I dance, you only say you will.
Maybe sometimes, the best dance move is just to move on.
I am the optimistic realist. I see hope and presence and that’s all there is. The future is an illusion and the past no longer exists in the present. It’s just a memory-one that can change slowly over time should your mind begin to bore easily.
I’m also not easy. I’m stubborn and analytical and creative and forever a student whose mind is never satisfied with everything it already knows. I push and fall and get up and fall and leap and fall and leap and…occasionally fly. That’s what I live for. Those few moments of flight when you’re at peace but so far off the ground that the wind beneath your feet is the only semblance of realism in that moment.
Today, I am reminded of what I live for. I’m not drawn to drama or games or talking without intent. Teach me something new and I become a better person each day. I don’t enjoy roads that lead nowhere, to the edge of the world “where the sidewalk ends” as Silverstein puts it. The sidewalk doesn’t end, it just needs to be finished.
I value, for all its uselessness to others, my own personal well being. Yeah, I said it. First comes me, then the rest of the world. It’s not about being selfish, it’s about being healthy. I imagine that the mental health and happiness of myself directly plays into the relationship I have with the world. Right now, the world is calm and collected for me.
I believe in a dance. The kind you have with the rest of the world around where you play and have fun and interact and just…...be. When the dance comes to a halt, who will you be standing with? Will your partners change? Will the music change? Will the dance itself change? Will you dance alone?
All of the above. It’s time for me to change the music, the dance…and me. I am a mover, and you, are not. I take leaps, you take steps. I move left, you move right. I dance, you only say you will.
Maybe sometimes, the best dance move is just to move on.
Head Mush 04/30
Today I think I’ll be stuck inside a dream. No wait, eliminate the think, I think I’ll be decisive and say I am inside a dream.
As I sit here and channel the twisted genius of Dali for my backdrop with The Fray providing the soundtrack to what can only be described as a dream-aholic’s moment of clarity, I open my eyes. Not with the force of idealism, but with the pensive energy of someone lost in her own translation. I can see actual words as I type for those of you intrigued or bored enough to read this, but can only hear indistinguishable commentary in the background. It seems to sound a lot like Fred Savage circa The Wonder Years with a tidbit of Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I’m a sucker for men with souls and brutal self-awareness. The hot sandals and bad hair are just bonuses. Really.
I was told that dreamers need to be grounded in order to make things come to fruition.
Mom,
I think I failed.
I rarely ever feel the ground beneath my feet. Am I floating or am I oblivious? Are the deep pains beneath my feet a result of scraping my soles along my imaginative playground or am I simply well-traveled? Am I really flying or am I suspended in time?
With the moment in my hand and the aged and un-ending film strip looping itself on permanent replay, I engulf myself in watching what I really believe in.
Dreams are funny that way. Sometimes when we lose sight of them, they repeat themselves to the point of exhaustion, and age until you can no longer remember what they once were. If you’re lucky, from the crumbled images lying on the floor, you’ll find a reason to start piecing them back together…glue, tape and a bit of ego. Sure, they won’t be the same. Sure, they may even smell a little. And yeah, they might even die.
But if they can’t make it into your mind in the first place, how will they ever make it in real life?
As I sit here and channel the twisted genius of Dali for my backdrop with The Fray providing the soundtrack to what can only be described as a dream-aholic’s moment of clarity, I open my eyes. Not with the force of idealism, but with the pensive energy of someone lost in her own translation. I can see actual words as I type for those of you intrigued or bored enough to read this, but can only hear indistinguishable commentary in the background. It seems to sound a lot like Fred Savage circa The Wonder Years with a tidbit of Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I’m a sucker for men with souls and brutal self-awareness. The hot sandals and bad hair are just bonuses. Really.
I was told that dreamers need to be grounded in order to make things come to fruition.
Mom,
I think I failed.
I rarely ever feel the ground beneath my feet. Am I floating or am I oblivious? Are the deep pains beneath my feet a result of scraping my soles along my imaginative playground or am I simply well-traveled? Am I really flying or am I suspended in time?
With the moment in my hand and the aged and un-ending film strip looping itself on permanent replay, I engulf myself in watching what I really believe in.
Dreams are funny that way. Sometimes when we lose sight of them, they repeat themselves to the point of exhaustion, and age until you can no longer remember what they once were. If you’re lucky, from the crumbled images lying on the floor, you’ll find a reason to start piecing them back together…glue, tape and a bit of ego. Sure, they won’t be the same. Sure, they may even smell a little. And yeah, they might even die.
But if they can’t make it into your mind in the first place, how will they ever make it in real life?
Surprises Blog circa 05/01/06
I have always found myself rather unemotional when instances arise that should presumably "shock" me according to societal norms.
When a nameless Indian man masturbating in his parked car to the tune of Orange County traffic crossed my path on a random visit to the local Rite Aid, I greeted him with disgust rather than shock. It was the middle of the day and we were both amid soft fluffy clouds and delightful families out making group trips to the local Vietnamese supermarket.
In another stone-faced instance, I found myself wonderously fascinated at a 90s Bon Jovi concert with my mother when the Jovi fan in front of me decided a change of venue was in order and stood to scout a better seating arrangement. South of her rather fabulous breasts, she wore a thong and fish net stocking "pants." I shit you not. She wondered why everyone was staring at her and I just smiled as she dusted off the loose pieces of grass that happened to get caught in between her "pants" and her superfluous butt cheeks.
I could go on forever about how little things in life surprise me, but I suppose that could take much longer to read than the average 13 hours a day the individual spends on MySpace. I'm guilty of a rather frequent number of log ins myself, but like a man and his ego, I shall remain quiet until absolutely necessary.
What has struck me in life and is a direct reference to the "I love the things in life that catch me offguard" in my "About Me" section, are the events in life where an explanation cannot be found...at least not while you're alive. It is the mystery and not knowing that throws me for that wonderful loop. I swirl around until the adrenaline is so strong, I feel like my brain has been injected with asking questions about the "unspeakable."
They say advertising is like injecting information to the brain with a needle. A long, silver, corporation-type needle. So what about the questions that arose pre information? What about the effort it took to get to the answer? Are we not supposed to question the question anymore and simply aim for the answer?
I question life all the time. When the questions course through my veins mid dream and mid night, I can feel myself smiling.
Let's just cut to the chase because by now, if you're still with me, you must really jock my writing, be one hell of a curious cat, or just really love me THAT much.
What exactly are the things I question that inevitably throw me offguard when nothing else does?
In no particular order:
THE DEATHS OF PEOPLE ABOUT/AROUND MY AGE.
I know life is what it is and things happen for a reason, but it never fails to surprise me in the deepest way when the young suddenly leave. There is a general "supposed to" sequence of events that I have applied to life, and when the supposed order is thrown off sequence, I cry.
RACISM BY 70 SOMETHING YEAR OLD WHITE MEN LIVING IN A PURELY ASIAN COMMUNITY.
Yeah, I shouldn't be surprised. The man was a war vet that insisted upon bragging about how he killed my people in the Vietnam War. I told him to take a good look around at where he was living before he dared tried to pull his eyes apart in the "fuck chinks" demonstration. With hands shaking about ready to kick some butt, I found the strength and sanity to let him go.
It had started because he had wanted my gas pump at the station.
WHEN SOMEONE TELLS YOU THEY LOVE YOU.
It's not that I don't believe in love. Anyone who actually knows me knows I've been a real patron of the emotion since somewhere in Summer of 2003. I know myself better than anyone, so naturally I believe myself when I say the notorious 3 syllable/word phrase to another. But when someone else says it, I remain the critic. Who knows you better than you? I won't know that you really love me until God grants me the power to read minds, or at least until I die and get to ask Him for myself. I think I'd rather do that. He IS going to be my cloud hopping buddy, after all.
WHEN I COME ACROSS A CORE SHAKER.
Definition of a core shaker according to MOI: The people in life who change you. Who scare you, shape you, MOVE you. The ones who arise from the smallest or largest of crevices and push you over the edge to make you fly. The ones you never forget because you can't. My homeless friend in Frisco would be exhibit A.
WHEN I COME ACROSS PEOPLE THAT CAN ACTUALLY READ ME.
I've been called an onion. Think you got me figured out and you realize that it's only one layer amid an inevitable 50. The person who truly gets me in this life, will be my ultimate core shaker. If it means never, it means never. Sorry, I don't know how to be 3 dimensional. Too narrow a range.
60+ YEAR OLD COUPLES STILL RIDICULOUSLY IN LOVE.
I've seen it once and only once. He dared to call her a dork for getting a sheepskin boot stuck on her foot while she was trying them on, so she swatted him as they laughed histerically while trying to tug the trendy item from off her size 7 foot. They'd been together for over 30 years. It was their laughter that made me look forward to getting old.
WHEN PEOPLE TELL ME I GET THEM BETTER THAN ANYONE.
People never like to admit that they're vulnerable. If someone truly understands all of you, you show vulnerability to them. I've been told by a friend whom I never talked to (at that time) more than once a week, that I simply "got him" and that I was one of his closest friend. It simply surprises me when I play such a weighting factor in a person's life.
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST FOR NOW...(CUZ SHIT I'M GETTING TIRED AS I'M SURE YOU ARE TOO)
WHEN I SEE PEOPLE WHO DON'T JUDGE THE PEOPLE SOCIETY BREEDS YOU TO JUDGE.
I've seen it more than once, but less than 2 recently. A regular at the gym and a Down's Syndrome kid to boot stood by my side lifting 10lbs dumbells in a mimicking movement of the numerous male meatheads surrounding him. With uncomfortable glances and steps to avoid his presence from society-bred children, the kid regular continued to throw his dumbells up and down in an innocent and uninformed manner. One guy about my age walks towards the kid and offers him advice on correct form so as to avoid injury from the exercise. Further initiating his admirable angel wings, he asks the boy if the weights are too heavy. Close up, the act may be simplistic and quiet. Farther back, the act is vociferous and complex. The angel exhibits a rare characteristic lost on much of the world's population. To not judge those we have been bred to judge takes an opening of the eyes. There was no incentive for him to act. He wouldn't win a medal or brownie points for helping. He simply did it because he wanted to.
THAT'S A CORE SHAKER.
If ever you surprise me kids, I'll be thrilled. Life's become too predictable I suppose. Much like blockbuster film. Or the cheesiness of an Adam Sandler film
When a nameless Indian man masturbating in his parked car to the tune of Orange County traffic crossed my path on a random visit to the local Rite Aid, I greeted him with disgust rather than shock. It was the middle of the day and we were both amid soft fluffy clouds and delightful families out making group trips to the local Vietnamese supermarket.
In another stone-faced instance, I found myself wonderously fascinated at a 90s Bon Jovi concert with my mother when the Jovi fan in front of me decided a change of venue was in order and stood to scout a better seating arrangement. South of her rather fabulous breasts, she wore a thong and fish net stocking "pants." I shit you not. She wondered why everyone was staring at her and I just smiled as she dusted off the loose pieces of grass that happened to get caught in between her "pants" and her superfluous butt cheeks.
I could go on forever about how little things in life surprise me, but I suppose that could take much longer to read than the average 13 hours a day the individual spends on MySpace. I'm guilty of a rather frequent number of log ins myself, but like a man and his ego, I shall remain quiet until absolutely necessary.
What has struck me in life and is a direct reference to the "I love the things in life that catch me offguard" in my "About Me" section, are the events in life where an explanation cannot be found...at least not while you're alive. It is the mystery and not knowing that throws me for that wonderful loop. I swirl around until the adrenaline is so strong, I feel like my brain has been injected with asking questions about the "unspeakable."
They say advertising is like injecting information to the brain with a needle. A long, silver, corporation-type needle. So what about the questions that arose pre information? What about the effort it took to get to the answer? Are we not supposed to question the question anymore and simply aim for the answer?
I question life all the time. When the questions course through my veins mid dream and mid night, I can feel myself smiling.
Let's just cut to the chase because by now, if you're still with me, you must really jock my writing, be one hell of a curious cat, or just really love me THAT much.
What exactly are the things I question that inevitably throw me offguard when nothing else does?
In no particular order:
THE DEATHS OF PEOPLE ABOUT/AROUND MY AGE.
I know life is what it is and things happen for a reason, but it never fails to surprise me in the deepest way when the young suddenly leave. There is a general "supposed to" sequence of events that I have applied to life, and when the supposed order is thrown off sequence, I cry.
RACISM BY 70 SOMETHING YEAR OLD WHITE MEN LIVING IN A PURELY ASIAN COMMUNITY.
Yeah, I shouldn't be surprised. The man was a war vet that insisted upon bragging about how he killed my people in the Vietnam War. I told him to take a good look around at where he was living before he dared tried to pull his eyes apart in the "fuck chinks" demonstration. With hands shaking about ready to kick some butt, I found the strength and sanity to let him go.
It had started because he had wanted my gas pump at the station.
WHEN SOMEONE TELLS YOU THEY LOVE YOU.
It's not that I don't believe in love. Anyone who actually knows me knows I've been a real patron of the emotion since somewhere in Summer of 2003. I know myself better than anyone, so naturally I believe myself when I say the notorious 3 syllable/word phrase to another. But when someone else says it, I remain the critic. Who knows you better than you? I won't know that you really love me until God grants me the power to read minds, or at least until I die and get to ask Him for myself. I think I'd rather do that. He IS going to be my cloud hopping buddy, after all.
WHEN I COME ACROSS A CORE SHAKER.
Definition of a core shaker according to MOI: The people in life who change you. Who scare you, shape you, MOVE you. The ones who arise from the smallest or largest of crevices and push you over the edge to make you fly. The ones you never forget because you can't. My homeless friend in Frisco would be exhibit A.
WHEN I COME ACROSS PEOPLE THAT CAN ACTUALLY READ ME.
I've been called an onion. Think you got me figured out and you realize that it's only one layer amid an inevitable 50. The person who truly gets me in this life, will be my ultimate core shaker. If it means never, it means never. Sorry, I don't know how to be 3 dimensional. Too narrow a range.
60+ YEAR OLD COUPLES STILL RIDICULOUSLY IN LOVE.
I've seen it once and only once. He dared to call her a dork for getting a sheepskin boot stuck on her foot while she was trying them on, so she swatted him as they laughed histerically while trying to tug the trendy item from off her size 7 foot. They'd been together for over 30 years. It was their laughter that made me look forward to getting old.
WHEN PEOPLE TELL ME I GET THEM BETTER THAN ANYONE.
People never like to admit that they're vulnerable. If someone truly understands all of you, you show vulnerability to them. I've been told by a friend whom I never talked to (at that time) more than once a week, that I simply "got him" and that I was one of his closest friend. It simply surprises me when I play such a weighting factor in a person's life.
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST FOR NOW...(CUZ SHIT I'M GETTING TIRED AS I'M SURE YOU ARE TOO)
WHEN I SEE PEOPLE WHO DON'T JUDGE THE PEOPLE SOCIETY BREEDS YOU TO JUDGE.
I've seen it more than once, but less than 2 recently. A regular at the gym and a Down's Syndrome kid to boot stood by my side lifting 10lbs dumbells in a mimicking movement of the numerous male meatheads surrounding him. With uncomfortable glances and steps to avoid his presence from society-bred children, the kid regular continued to throw his dumbells up and down in an innocent and uninformed manner. One guy about my age walks towards the kid and offers him advice on correct form so as to avoid injury from the exercise. Further initiating his admirable angel wings, he asks the boy if the weights are too heavy. Close up, the act may be simplistic and quiet. Farther back, the act is vociferous and complex. The angel exhibits a rare characteristic lost on much of the world's population. To not judge those we have been bred to judge takes an opening of the eyes. There was no incentive for him to act. He wouldn't win a medal or brownie points for helping. He simply did it because he wanted to.
THAT'S A CORE SHAKER.
If ever you surprise me kids, I'll be thrilled. Life's become too predictable I suppose. Much like blockbuster film. Or the cheesiness of an Adam Sandler film
The Species In The Gym Blog circa 07/13/06
It was a Monday. I found myself walking without a destination. Treadmills often make for the most optimal set-up during sessions of people watching. However during these sessions, I don't simply watch people, I see them.
The Media's Child
The Media's Child
2 treadmills down, I see the girl who envies who the media tells her to. She's the one who is tall, beautiful, and whose figure is the envy of many of the sweating and potentially eating-disorder-stricken around her. But like those who posess the disorders, she will never feel satisfied. I watch as she strives to be confident, strong, everything Cosmo told her she could be or buy once she turned of ripened age. Her sleek midsection is bared much the way her thin model-esque heroes are. As she strides across the treadmill at full force,her hands shake, her shoulders remain tense and her arms are clipped tightly to her sides like a teen with a bad case of BO. Her eyes shift from side to side. Nervous. Unsure. Careful of her movements so as not to make a mistake in front of people that she will probably never know. She's lying. She'll never be free because she holds back. No, she doesn't want the attention. She doesn't want the world to think she's perfect. She isn't looking for perfection. She's looking for self-acceptance that can't be found by watching America's Next Top Model. She's a child of the media.
The Attention-Whore
The Attention-Whore
2 rows up on the elliptical machine, I see the Media Child's arch nemesis. She is the source of increased levels of testosterone and pheremones in the cardio section of the gym. Around her, women seem to blush, and men seem to pull their shirts down just a little lower. She's the one who the secure ignore, and the insecure hate. I see the girl who's strategically worn tight spandex across her hardened physique, and the low-cut top atop her over-sized breasts. But she's not the confident girl her face and body claim she is. Watch her. Her eyes shift from side to side, but not in the manner of her arch nemesis. As the male population of the gym pass her, her expression begins to change. For the gorgeous men that look like page 3 of my Muscle & Fitness magazine, she offers the soft, almost angelic smile. And for the men who look like Jack Black in Nacho Libre, she presents them with "your abs aren't tight enough to be looking at me" expression. She's the bitch the Media's Child loves to hate because while one strives for confidence through self-acceptance, the other aims for such a goal by collecting the attention of the opposite sex. She's the attention-whore who really doesn't want attention-unless you look like an extra from Bay Watch.
The Meathead
The Meathead
7 rows up and 150 lbs. away, a large figure grunts. As he struggles to push the dangerously heavy dumbells over his head, beads of sweat drip down his mishapen expression, his back curls as a sign of his over-ambition, and his throat bellows in a thunderous and overly-dramatic sound as an exhibition of supposed strength. He finishes his set and begins to walk across the floor. Chest carried about 3 inches above his neck, he saunters towards the weights like a cowboy who's ridden the horse a little too long. His feet stand so far apart, his testicles have remained strangers for the past 23 years. As big as he walks, as small as his thoughts. He's the clueless guy the rest of the males love to mock. He resembles something of a fish-not bad to look at but hasn't got a clue. He walks like he's on top of the world, but comes across as overly dramatic, and boastful. He's the one that grunts the loudest, boasts the proudest, and carries the title of The Meathead.
The Hero
The Hero
He's beautiful. The one you're supposed to bring home to mom. He's not the most handsome guy in the place, but he's the one that gets all the looks, both male and female alike. As he lifts the bar overhead, he breathes-controlled, relaxed, and barely audible. Rather than slamming the bar down in a show of masculinity, he places it gently back into place. When the Media's Child and The Attention-Whore pass in front of him both wishing for his attention, he looks off into the distance at nothing. When The Meathead strides directly in front of him disobeying the rules of gym ettiquette, he lets him pass without a sneer and without judgment. He's the confident one whose vocabulary has never encountered the likes of "ego," "cocky," and "insecure." His body isn't tense nor nervous, his clothes aren't strategic, and his walk doesn't leave his jewels like strangers in the night. He's the one you stare at because you wonder how he could have gotten to such a secure place in the throws of society. He's The Hero.
The species in the gym are not gym-specific. They're creatures among us on the street, in your house, and under your sheets. But more than creatures, they are our teachers. If we're lucky enough to understand who we want to be, we can look out into the world to see examples of who we don't want to be. What better way to strive to be an asshole, by watching someone be the nice guy?
Then again, I watch them because sometimes, it really is hard not to watch The Meathead attempt to swing The Attention-Whore.
The species in the gym are not gym-specific. They're creatures among us on the street, in your house, and under your sheets. But more than creatures, they are our teachers. If we're lucky enough to understand who we want to be, we can look out into the world to see examples of who we don't want to be. What better way to strive to be an asshole, by watching someone be the nice guy?
Then again, I watch them because sometimes, it really is hard not to watch The Meathead attempt to swing The Attention-Whore.
Martians and Venutians Blog circa 02/20/07
They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Well it's no wonder the 2 sexes never seem to understand each other beyond simplistic hand gestures, suggestive facial expressions, and sounds of the sexual variety. Martians trying to speak Venusian, and vice versa, is like visiting a foreign country whose country and language you might have heard of and might sound similar to your own, but can't comprehend nor speak if your life depended on it. Think American versus Brad Pitt's Mickey O'Neil in 'Snatch' albeit the subtitles.
Combine that and trying to hook up with anyone outside your own country and you're pretty much near screwed and can guarantee yourself a relationship that consists of nothing more than great sex and no conversation. Wait, why the hell am I writing this blog again? Maybe I should have married that lovely Frenchman who asked me last week.
Sigh.
In the midst of evolution, or perhaps adaptation if you're a non-Darwinism believer, what if the 2 sexes were to evolve somehow? What if the world suddenly produced women who looked like women (hot, breasts, legs, small waist, booty, and all the rest of the decipherable attributes) BUT who spoke and thought like men? Allow me to clarify.
The Hybrid:
She measures a 34C; her legs longer than her back, with a butt that looks better than 2 scoops of double fudge chocolate chunk brownie ice cream
She walks down the street with a quiet confidence-lacking the "Hi! You don't have money? Bye!" attitude that Martians seem to hate so much.
You see her-decide she's hot, obviously. So you walk over to her and say hi. She opens her mouth to speak….
and says…
"You're hot. I checked you out and your butt looks better than 2 scoops of double fudge chocolate chunk brownie ice cream."
OMG, your dream girl! You realize the following:
a.) she's freakin hot
b.) she's like a guy, but freakin hot
c.) she must have been a genetic experiment gone terribly wrong
Alas you are wrong. These hybrids are not the results of some test tube created by a pimpled young man named Bernard. You've seen them before, even befriended them before. They've simply been beneath a different guise this entire time. We commonly call them tomboys. Explain, you say?
Okay, so I've often heard men complain-height, male patterned baldness, sex, and above all, women.
"They shop too much."
"If they think they're fat, then they're fat."
"She's not prettier than her, but I want sex tonight."
In the Martian world, the majority of Venusians don't generally come packaged in the "tomboy" wrapping. Instead when they go shopping for their other half, guys seem to have a knack for bringing home the variety that complain too much, possess insecurity complexes, shopping addictions, and loquacious overly-dramatic verbal skills. Let's face it, when the packaging looks that good, you never really notice what's inside until you've taken it home. At the end of the day, you wind up taking the dayem thing back to the store so someone else can waste his time and money buying it-making you wonder why you ever brought the blasted thing in home in the first place.
Wrong purchase. Keep shopping. Browse. Nah, too fat. Eh, too skinny. Where are the breasts? Are they in another box? Wait, this one's pretty hot. Never seen it before.
Hmmm, looks familiar though. Packaging's different than the last one...
Advertisement says:
"Burps like a male, jokes like a dude, drinks like a man, and kisses like a lady! Try now!"
Okay, so comparing a woman to a store-bought toy is a little crass, as is the exterior advertising. Real question is, does the advertising, the packaging design, the whole shabang, scare him from taking her home just because it's not what he's used to?
Put it back and go with what you're used to even though it hasn't worked in the past and the models you've tried don't come with manuals? Or try a new variety that comes with a manual written in your language?
In all my rantings and wasting of your precious time dear reader, I still agree that men and women are most assuredly from different planets. We speak the same language, but we don't. We think the same, but we don't. We walk the same, and yep, you got it, we don't.
As difficult as all this inter-galactic confusion is, does it mean we should all accept the fact that we may never understand eachother? Should we stop trying because it's become increasingly difficult due to media influences, societal rules, and outcomes of relationships like Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston's?
I'm Venusian but I speak Martian. Since when did it become taboo to be bilingual?
Combine that and trying to hook up with anyone outside your own country and you're pretty much near screwed and can guarantee yourself a relationship that consists of nothing more than great sex and no conversation. Wait, why the hell am I writing this blog again? Maybe I should have married that lovely Frenchman who asked me last week.
Sigh.
In the midst of evolution, or perhaps adaptation if you're a non-Darwinism believer, what if the 2 sexes were to evolve somehow? What if the world suddenly produced women who looked like women (hot, breasts, legs, small waist, booty, and all the rest of the decipherable attributes) BUT who spoke and thought like men? Allow me to clarify.
The Hybrid:
She measures a 34C; her legs longer than her back, with a butt that looks better than 2 scoops of double fudge chocolate chunk brownie ice cream
She walks down the street with a quiet confidence-lacking the "Hi! You don't have money? Bye!" attitude that Martians seem to hate so much.
You see her-decide she's hot, obviously. So you walk over to her and say hi. She opens her mouth to speak….
and says…
"You're hot. I checked you out and your butt looks better than 2 scoops of double fudge chocolate chunk brownie ice cream."
OMG, your dream girl! You realize the following:
a.) she's freakin hot
b.) she's like a guy, but freakin hot
c.) she must have been a genetic experiment gone terribly wrong
Alas you are wrong. These hybrids are not the results of some test tube created by a pimpled young man named Bernard. You've seen them before, even befriended them before. They've simply been beneath a different guise this entire time. We commonly call them tomboys. Explain, you say?
Okay, so I've often heard men complain-height, male patterned baldness, sex, and above all, women.
"They shop too much."
"If they think they're fat, then they're fat."
"She's not prettier than her, but I want sex tonight."
In the Martian world, the majority of Venusians don't generally come packaged in the "tomboy" wrapping. Instead when they go shopping for their other half, guys seem to have a knack for bringing home the variety that complain too much, possess insecurity complexes, shopping addictions, and loquacious overly-dramatic verbal skills. Let's face it, when the packaging looks that good, you never really notice what's inside until you've taken it home. At the end of the day, you wind up taking the dayem thing back to the store so someone else can waste his time and money buying it-making you wonder why you ever brought the blasted thing in home in the first place.
Wrong purchase. Keep shopping. Browse. Nah, too fat. Eh, too skinny. Where are the breasts? Are they in another box? Wait, this one's pretty hot. Never seen it before.
Hmmm, looks familiar though. Packaging's different than the last one...
Advertisement says:
"Burps like a male, jokes like a dude, drinks like a man, and kisses like a lady! Try now!"
Okay, so comparing a woman to a store-bought toy is a little crass, as is the exterior advertising. Real question is, does the advertising, the packaging design, the whole shabang, scare him from taking her home just because it's not what he's used to?
Put it back and go with what you're used to even though it hasn't worked in the past and the models you've tried don't come with manuals? Or try a new variety that comes with a manual written in your language?
In all my rantings and wasting of your precious time dear reader, I still agree that men and women are most assuredly from different planets. We speak the same language, but we don't. We think the same, but we don't. We walk the same, and yep, you got it, we don't.
As difficult as all this inter-galactic confusion is, does it mean we should all accept the fact that we may never understand eachother? Should we stop trying because it's become increasingly difficult due to media influences, societal rules, and outcomes of relationships like Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston's?
I'm Venusian but I speak Martian. Since when did it become taboo to be bilingual?
The Invention Of Hate Blog circa 07/30/07
I learned to speak when I was 1.
Perhaps my first word was idealistic and sounded like something to the effect of "Me" (think "Met" but without the "T" sound-means Mother in Viet). Perhaps my mother was mighty impressed at my pre-mature Vietnamese/English bilingual skills.
Then I grew up. We all do. And in that span, we lose the fragile innocence we all have before humanity defines for us what our words are supposed to mean.
Life, time, experience, and age changes those words we learned to speak during those tender ages. We see things and have this inherent human need to remember them...to freeze time in our minds forever for those singular moments-the first time we try to make love, the first time we actually make love, the first time we make good love, and the first time we understand how dayem fucking fantastic practicing baby-making can really be.
This illusion of frozen time forces us into a state of panic. Brains don't last forever and therefore neither do our memories. Since most of us paint like we're holding the brush with our feet (but without the recognition or credibility of Picasso during his cubist period), we tend to use language as a more digestable form of making memories last.
We write poetry, create stories, and loquaciously blog about our thoughts and memories, (yours truly guilty as charged), in an effort to make our voices heard and our moments last "forever." Through language, we fall in love with the illusion that the word "forever" can mean infinite.
We use language to express ourselves. We use language to love, to show emotion, to show care, to show faith.
But aren't all of these words of our own invention? Didn't we create them because we felt we had to in order to communicate life?
By that ration, does that mean the creation of "love" spurred the invention of "hate?"
Did we feel the need to produce direct opposites for every word we invented?
Did we feel uncomfortable with "love" and feel the need to juxtapose it because good cannot possibly exist alone?
Had we not invented language, would "hate" and "cruel" and "malicious" still exist if there was no one to speak the words?
They say if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If we were to elimate hate from our language, would we still be able to feel it if we never knew how to define it?
We speak as a species because we can, but it doesn't necessarily mean that we should.
If undefinitive silence were to rid us of our hateful inventions, I'd happily be a deaf mute.
Perhaps my first word was idealistic and sounded like something to the effect of "Me" (think "Met" but without the "T" sound-means Mother in Viet). Perhaps my mother was mighty impressed at my pre-mature Vietnamese/English bilingual skills.
Then I grew up. We all do. And in that span, we lose the fragile innocence we all have before humanity defines for us what our words are supposed to mean.
Life, time, experience, and age changes those words we learned to speak during those tender ages. We see things and have this inherent human need to remember them...to freeze time in our minds forever for those singular moments-the first time we try to make love, the first time we actually make love, the first time we make good love, and the first time we understand how dayem fucking fantastic practicing baby-making can really be.
This illusion of frozen time forces us into a state of panic. Brains don't last forever and therefore neither do our memories. Since most of us paint like we're holding the brush with our feet (but without the recognition or credibility of Picasso during his cubist period), we tend to use language as a more digestable form of making memories last.
We write poetry, create stories, and loquaciously blog about our thoughts and memories, (yours truly guilty as charged), in an effort to make our voices heard and our moments last "forever." Through language, we fall in love with the illusion that the word "forever" can mean infinite.
We use language to express ourselves. We use language to love, to show emotion, to show care, to show faith.
But aren't all of these words of our own invention? Didn't we create them because we felt we had to in order to communicate life?
By that ration, does that mean the creation of "love" spurred the invention of "hate?"
Did we feel the need to produce direct opposites for every word we invented?
Did we feel uncomfortable with "love" and feel the need to juxtapose it because good cannot possibly exist alone?
Had we not invented language, would "hate" and "cruel" and "malicious" still exist if there was no one to speak the words?
They say if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If we were to elimate hate from our language, would we still be able to feel it if we never knew how to define it?
We speak as a species because we can, but it doesn't necessarily mean that we should.
If undefinitive silence were to rid us of our hateful inventions, I'd happily be a deaf mute.
A Childhood Game Blog circa 08/20/05
The games we play...
I often wonder if the childhood games we play at the impressionable ages of 3-13 are merely preparations for the games we continue as adults. Are we doomed as a species to forever widdle the truth so far from its original form, that everything in life becomes a "version of the truth?"
Just think. As kids we played Monopoly...we learned to race around the real estate walk all hoping to land on that infamous boardwalk in order to feed our own greed. We learned greed and selfishness through a vicarious boardgame. We learned to demand things from other people, to bargain with the "lives" of our opponents by trading in personal possessions and assets defined through mass produced 3x3 cards. It was the world according to Parker Brothers Incorporated.
We played "Sorry." We learned that in life, it was okay to crush those that stand between us and our ultimate goals. We can push, walk over, and instill vengeance upon those that stand in our way. Another life lesson brought to you by Parker Brothers.
And when did we learn to lie? When did we learn that it is okay to hide the truth? To keep that which is most important, hidden from the world. To manipulate others to follow our every whim. Perhaps "Uno" remains our devious culprit. We maintained secrecy as kids, we hid our cards, we plotted in secret. We hid the blatant truth that at any moment, those who had viciously forced us to draw more cards and to venture that much farther from victory, would suffer the consequences by our secret "draw 4 cards," our ""Skips," and our "Reverses." We hid these truths only to reveal them at the end when it was to our benefit to do so.
Ah these games we play. So many still play them long after they have left the confines of grade school. From relationships, to friendships, to even those we run into over these blasted online networks, we play. We lie, we manipulate, we "attempt" to make jealous, we scam, we covet, we hide, and worst of all, we make those around us walk away.
Be sure that the game you play results in the right victory. Who is victor in the game, if you are the only one left playing at the end of the day?
To those who think they are the victors, I'm sorry. I only play games for entertainment or money these days. Life games do not interest me :)
I often wonder if the childhood games we play at the impressionable ages of 3-13 are merely preparations for the games we continue as adults. Are we doomed as a species to forever widdle the truth so far from its original form, that everything in life becomes a "version of the truth?"
Just think. As kids we played Monopoly...we learned to race around the real estate walk all hoping to land on that infamous boardwalk in order to feed our own greed. We learned greed and selfishness through a vicarious boardgame. We learned to demand things from other people, to bargain with the "lives" of our opponents by trading in personal possessions and assets defined through mass produced 3x3 cards. It was the world according to Parker Brothers Incorporated.
We played "Sorry." We learned that in life, it was okay to crush those that stand between us and our ultimate goals. We can push, walk over, and instill vengeance upon those that stand in our way. Another life lesson brought to you by Parker Brothers.
And when did we learn to lie? When did we learn that it is okay to hide the truth? To keep that which is most important, hidden from the world. To manipulate others to follow our every whim. Perhaps "Uno" remains our devious culprit. We maintained secrecy as kids, we hid our cards, we plotted in secret. We hid the blatant truth that at any moment, those who had viciously forced us to draw more cards and to venture that much farther from victory, would suffer the consequences by our secret "draw 4 cards," our ""Skips," and our "Reverses." We hid these truths only to reveal them at the end when it was to our benefit to do so.
Ah these games we play. So many still play them long after they have left the confines of grade school. From relationships, to friendships, to even those we run into over these blasted online networks, we play. We lie, we manipulate, we "attempt" to make jealous, we scam, we covet, we hide, and worst of all, we make those around us walk away.
Be sure that the game you play results in the right victory. Who is victor in the game, if you are the only one left playing at the end of the day?
To those who think they are the victors, I'm sorry. I only play games for entertainment or money these days. Life games do not interest me :)
Wakened without a cause 05/04
Time is an illusion that unfortunately we have to comply by according to life, living in it, playing by the rules so we don't get fired, broken or forget to not let life pass by. Without this illusion, how do we manage what's actually going on?
I'm up, dayem it. Awakened from a deep sleep without intent or cause. Left to enjoy the now non-silent recesses of my brain and music softly playing via iTunes. The Soul Rock 1 playlist has played in its entirety as I sit here struggling to close my eyes and get some much needed rest before work.
But like walking to the edge of a cliff, it's my fault. Mine for obliging to the schedules of others, the whims, the pointless banters that I should avoid for my own physical health. An engine running on half a tank of gas is like a countdown with a climactic explosion sure to ensue.
The excuse? Does it really matter at this point because it's in the past and was obviously a choice? It's where we choose to do things that we end up closer and closer to that cliff's edge. Eh, I'm the stupid one. I stand on the edge because the breeze feels nice.
Am I really writing this shit at 4am???? I'm worse than a drunken poet. Way worse. Courtesy of a very specific episode of Law & Order: SVU, I learned that over 17 hours without sleep is like walking round with a blood alcohol level of 0.08%-enough to legally get you pulled over for a DUI. So what am I drunk with right now? Prior to a 330am cigarette? Anger. Post cigarette, indifference and only mild annoyance.
I'm going to let the playlist run through and attempt to fall asleep amidst all this bullshit energy. Elvis is leaving the fuckin building.
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