Well boys and girls, we're in for some fun now. The following is based on a story an old friend once told me. Loosely based, like Stephen King movies are on his books.
You're out at a club. A black guy approaches you and offers to buy you a drink. He's good-looking, charming and a great dancer. As you're chatting, he starts running his long fingers along your inner thigh. He then proceeds to tell you exactly what he'd like to do to you. A forward fellow, this guy.
Now you're not the sort of person who does that sort of thing with strangers. Normally you'd slap his face. But you've heard those stories about black guys and how well-hung they're supposed to be. You're relishing the notion of him splitting you open like a coconut. You explicitly agree to his proposition. You both adjourn to a nearby bathroom stall.
Things progress rather quickly. Before long you're rubbing him through his pants. It is fully erect but barely perceptible. He undoes his belt and lets his pants fall to his ankles. His weiner is about the size of a Vienna sausage. His nuts remind you of chick peas. This isn't at all what you had in mind. You try to resist the urge to laugh.
Hence the dilemma. You no longer wish to be ravaged by this lavatory Lothario. But you're not the kind to renege on an agreement. Nor do you want to be seen as a person who'd lead someone on only to let them down. Plus, you know it won't hurt and it will probably be over in no time.
What to do, what to do?
My romantic life has always consisted of relationships. I meet someone, I like them, they like me (or so they claim), then it’s into relationship territory. I think in my 9 years of active relationships, I’ve been out on three dates total – and one of them I didn’t consider a date ‘cause it was just friends hanging out; another wasn’t a date because the boy and I had had a romantic history together... it was only the third that really counted, and that was a year and a half ago.
Pathetic, ain’t it?
Anyhow, lately I’ve been doing the real, honest-to-goodness dating thing. I met a boy at a party, I met him again at the next party, he asked for my website (yeah, he’s a geek), I gave him the URL and my phone number, and three days later he phoned me to ask me out.
Three days after that, we went out. Three days after that was the phone call for the next date – booked two days later, this time. Ooh, variety!
After two dates, I figured it was my turn, so I asked him out two days after the last date for a date two days later. Two days after that, he called to say he’d had a great time and was looking forward to getting together again, but that he was booked all week and I work Sundays (true). It was at this point that I figured we were likely “dating.”
Oooh, active tense.
Later in the week (coincidentally enough, three days after that phone call), I had a movie pass and no accompaniment, so I called him up on the off-chance that he was free. He cancelled his plans and off we went.
When I hadn’t heard from him four days later, I called him up (this is last night, for those of you who really want to keep track). We chatted for awhile and have since made plans for furniture shopping (of all things) on Thursday – three days from now.
Admittedly, I’ve trimmed out all the salacious bits, but it’s because (for a change), that’s not the part I want to focus on. What gets me about all of this is how structured it is, but not. It’s following all of the rules of proper dating – he paid for dinner the first two times we went out, and got twitchy when I paid the third time (although he didn’t say anything when I bought the movie tickets on the second date). For the most part, there hasn’t been any last-minute plans (although he said he’d thought of doing so at one point, and my movie tickets were last minute), and it’s all been ... well, mostly proper.
And that’s the part that’s thrown me for a loop and a half. I actually had to run something past a male friend of mine for interpretation, and once he explained it to me, I was amazed I hadn’t seen it for myself. See, the last few boys I’ve dated have been the hyper horny little puppy variety – the ones that need a whap on the nose with a newspaper to be dissuaded from my leg. This boy, while in a similar vein, has a different kind of approach – the kind where he says he has to leave, then starts removing more of my clothing.
I didn’t see this for what it was, ‘cause it’s been so long since I’ve been in this type of situation. Usually it’s me saying, “I have to go,” while desperately fighting both the boy and my own knowledge of how much fun I could have if I stayed just a few minutes longer...
But this time around, I’m doing things right. I’m trying out the dating thing, I’m not rushing into the sex thing, and I’m giggling madly at every little aspect of it as I go. It’s a new thing for me, learning someone else like this, and while it isn’t as easy as the last few relationships have been, that’s as much a personality thing as it is a different situation thing.
Where this is going to go, I haven’t the faintest. Maybe in a month I’ll be back, bitching about how stupid dating is and how it’s only cheap sexual flings with skilled men that are worth my time. But it’s been falling for the wrong boys that’s always hurt me in the past, so for now, I’ll just have fun and try something new.
I cleaned my room, at my Dad’s house, two weekends ago. Taking into account my lack of house and all of my travels, Dad let me use it as storage. Over the past five years or so I would open boxes, to see what was inside, and usually find something I had forgotten about. I’ve never been too great at putting things back so, over the course of a few years, my room came to resemble Fred Sanford’s front yard. Did I happen to mention I’m a world class procrastinator? Well, if I didn’t, I am. I digress though. I went through every box and stitch of clothing in the place and came away with two bags of clothes, for the Veteran’s Clothing March, and five bags of old bills and other miscellaneous documents. I also threw away every shred of evidence that Stephanie was ever a part of my life. Let me tell you, it felt damned satisfying. Amy even helped. That’s my girl. I found a paper I had written for a college composition class when I was nineteen. It is amazing what a nineteen year old man will come up to facilitate getting laid. I completely wrote out what must have been my technique for getting past parents and getting them to relax the rules a bit. Did it help? I really can’t remember if the technique was sound, or not, but parents did seem to, usually, love me. My professor didn't give me very high marks for this paper though. He had a daughter who had just reached dating age. Sue me, I didn't know. Below is that paper for your enjoyment or ridicule. Bon Appetit.
How to not make a bad impression on your date’s parents.
Dating can be tricky business and impressing parents without sounding like a self centered idiot more so. Making a bad impression on your date’s parents can be an extremely easy or ridiculously hard task depending on the personality traits of the parents. Parents, usually, fall into two main categories: ones who believe anything you tell them and others who are suspicious of everything they hear. Some parents do fall between these groups but are a rare breed indeed. This paper will be dealing with parents who will believe anything they hear.
The parents who believe anything are usually the easiest to impress and therefore ensure further dates with their daughter. You should start with some compliments, for the Mother, on how nice the décor of the house looks. Mothers are usually the sole decorators of the main rooms and kitchens of a house with the Father being limited to small spaces called dens or living rooms. If this goes well you could also throw in a compliment on how young or nice she looks but have to be careful not to over-step your bounds. You’ll just have to process how the first compliment was taken and make a quick judgment call on how far to take this. If the mother laughs, in a genuine way, after the first compliment and returns one in kind you’re probably safe to move on. You’ll have to be wary though not to seem too interested in the Mother or you’ll endanger your chances with her daughter.
The Father comes next and will, probably, be very protective of his daughter. You can make this transition smoothly by doing a little homework. Before the night of the date, try to find out some useful things about him. Daughters, more often than not, like to talk about their Fathers and can provide invaluable information. Find out what his hobbies and likes are. Does be watch baseball, football, hockey or does he loathe sports altogether. This information can help to reduce the chances of starting a conversation on a topic he either knows nothing about or finds ridiculous. If he is a sports fan and you can find out his favorite team you can score points by having some knowledge of them. You don’t have to say it’s your favorite team also but you can show respect for them. Since he likes the team and you respect them he will automatically, pride is involved here, think you have some intelligence. This will make him feel more secure in letting his daughter go out with you.
Don’t let the first meeting go on too long though, if you can help it. To disengage you can, respectfully, remind your date that you have to be at a certain place at a designated time and apologize to the parents. You’ll also want to add how nice it was to meet them and that you’re looking forward to talking with them again. Following this formula can result in many happy dates and increased relaxation of parental rules and regulations.
Duly elected Iraqi president Saddam Hussein issued another ultimatum, insisting that embattled American dictator George W. Bush hand over his weapons o’ mass destruction by sundown. He also insisted that his longtime nemesis leave his country and go into exile in Rwanda. Failure to comply with these non-negotiable demands will lead to dire consequences for the Bush regime, he added in a well-received speech before the UN General Assembly. For good measure, he branded axis of evil members America, Britain and Australia as sworn enemies of Islam.
As the sun sunk into the Pacific horizon, Iraqi forces massed in eastern Siberia, poised to rampage into Alaska with guns a-blazing. A flotilla of Iraqi battleships sailed toward the LA harbor. Iraqi marines landed in New York and Seattle. The much-vaunted American military juggernaut proved no match for these crack Iraqi forces. 175,000 strong, they quickly overran the country. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld and John Ashcroft all fled into hiding. Hussein himself flew a MIG fighter onto the deck of an Iraqi aircraft carrier and declared victory. He also vowed to track down all American weapons o’ mass destruction, from ICBMs to germ warfare agents to stockpiles of mustard gas leftover from the War of 1812.
Even his traditional defenders and trading partners in France and Germany denounced the Iraqi invasion of the US as a blatant power-grab. An unfazed Hussein thumbed his nose at his former allies, telling Chirac and Shroeder to freedom-kiss his swarthy ass.
As Iraqi America came under the grips of this occupying army, Saddam produced a deck of cards with unflattering photos and names of the most-wanted fugitives from the toppled Bush regime. The person-hunt intensified as soldiers hauled a furtive-looking Colin Powell from a rundown safe house in Des Moines. Convinced that they’d run a super-secret security service when they weren’t busy partying or attending college, Hussein’s henchmen attempted to collar those evil Bush twins. In a trendy Houston bar, both were shot dead as they fished for mace in their purses. Their mangled bodies were proudly displayed on ABC, CBS and NBC, their private parts coyly blurred. Fox went with a rerun of Malcolm in the Middle.
One by one the fat-cat Bush cronies were rounded up. But W himself remained as elusive as a DVD copy of Gigli. Some said they’d seen him piloting a speedboat with his dad off the coast of Maine. Others thought they saw him alone at a Texas Rangers game. Meanwhile Iraqi forces crisscrossed the American heartland, kicking in doors in hot pursuit their prey. Months went by. An “interim governing council” i.e. puppet government was hastily established. While members promised a quick turnover of power to the beleaguered Americans, delays were encountered when it was discovered that the US lacked a working system of elections. Hussein aides found that rampant corruption and faulty voting machinery had resulted in Bush’s 2000 election. They pledged that the next election, tentatively scheduled for early 2005, would be a fair and honest affair---just as it was in the homeland circa 2002, when Hussein won in a landslide. Defense Secretary Baghdad Bob indicated that whichever sort of leadership the voters chose would rule, so long as it bore no resemblance to the discredited Bush administration.
After what seemed like the longest of times, Bob turned up beaming on the new state-run TV station to announce, “We’ve got him.” He rolled grainy footage of a sheepish, scruffy-looking Bush being plucked from an oil barge off the coast of Galveston, Texas; a hotbed of loyalty to the ousted tyrant and home to some of the fiercest American insurgents. Doctors poked and prodded him, checking for head lice and concealed weapons. It was clear from the look on their faces that he smelled repugnant. Diehard skeptics scoffed that it was either one of W’s surgically-altered doubles or Jeb Bush gone bearded.
In private conversations President Hussein and his top aides express dismay that certain elements of the American populace, notable those residing in the Jewish Triangle, have as yet failed to embrace his troops as a liberating force. But in public they’ve continued to put a happy face on the ongoing occupation. It’s just business as usual, they claim.
Yet, the good ol’ US of IA is indeed a very different place. Animal-drawn carts are a commonplace sight on city streets. Everyone drives a battered cab. Moustaches have grown quite popular and are no longer considered a sign of insincerity. The women’s fashion industry has disappeared from Manhattan and has gone back to Paris where it belongs. All local smoking bans have been lifted. Bazaars sell strange meat with flies crawling all over it. It smells as it looks. There are other day to day annoyances, such as when Iraqi soldiers will bulldoze your home with you still in it. The government runs everything, badly as with all state endeavor. Life under the occupation is like having your face shoved in a steamy pile of dogshit, only less pleasant. But whadaya gonna do?
Normally, I wouldn't bug you guys with this, but it's pretty cool. OK, I lie, OF COURSE I would bug you with this. Are you kidding? DN is Daily Nonpareil ie me. DM is self-explanatory, CHA-CHA! Read on...
Dennis Miller is a denizen of deep thought masquerading as a cocky wiseacre comedian who comes off as a bit of know-it-all. Along with his hipster swagger, foul mouth and curve-blowing vocabulary, Miller is something of a pundit, a wise man who thinks of himself as a comedian first. But not many simple comedians have won five Emmy Awards covering hot-button political and social topics.
Miller has always evolved and starting Monday night at 8 p.m. on CNBC (Cox Cable channel 42), the latest stage in his move up the evolutionary ladder – “Dennis Miller” – will be a four-night a week, hour-long news program he hopes will be as funny as it is informative.
The Daily Nonpareil was able to speak to Miller by telephone about his new show Friday afternoon. And what, pray tell, will be the hot topic of the day?
Howard Dean’s emotional outburst after the Iowa caucuses.
DM: Well, the simple fact is that while we’ve all condensed it down into a funny word, “The Yelp,” the fact is it’s over, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a good reminder that in the immediate 24-hour news cycle world we live in, you can ascend reasonably unscathed quickly over the Internet with funding but it can all go away in one Fred Flintstone moment where you order the large ribs and it flips the car over. With that yelp – short of pulling his pants down and mooning us – he couldn’t have done anything else to look less presidential. And the truth is, that campaign has gone so far off the beaten path that he’s gonna have to install and Onstar button in the middle of his forehead to get back on the road.
I think for the next 10 months in the polarized electoral climate we have, it’s gonna be the main topic of the show. I mean, it’s kind of fun. Politics is serious, but not SO serious.
DN: Was getting back on television a priority for you?
DM: That seems to be my career up this point. It’s my job to get back on TV as quickly as possible with a tan.
DN: Once on Dennis Miller Live, you said you were more pragmatic than liberal, that always seemed to suggest you were a liberal, but not a wimpy one. Have your politics changed much over the years and where do you see yourself on the political spectrum?
DM: I would say I’m liberal on many things, but conservative on the defense of this country. Quite frankly, if two homosexuals want to get married, it’s none of my business. I’m happy for them. I like it when people fall in love. If some nut case wants to blow up their wedding to make a political statement, I expect my government to step in first and flatten the guy. So I guess I’m conservative to that extent.
DN: Are you concerned about recent perceived challenges to civil liberties through the Patriot Act that some say may be using national defense as an excuse?
DM: All I know is when Woodward and Bernstein wanted to see what Howard Hunt’s library records looked like it was viewed as a seminal moment in the history of journalism. When we want to find out if Ramsey al-Kaboom has taken out a bomb cookbook somewhere it’s thought to be Orwellian. All I ask is that if John Ashcroft wants to spy on me that he be so good at it that I never know.
DN: Politicians seem to open up more on talk shows than on more mainstream news programs. Why is that?
DM: I’m able to get more out of people. For one thing, I’m allowed to say who I like and dislike and it seems to me the sort of Edward R. Murrow dictates of the “real” journalism world preclude anybody from doing anything but a straight, five-W [who, what, where, when and why] interview where they pretty much don’t reveal their bias. But the simple fact is at least I’m telling people up front that I’m voting for Bush. Peter Jennings, over the course of the next year, will tell me he’s liberal in a million ways. There are certain poker tells that I have to figure out over the course of the year. I’m just putting it out front so people don’t have to view me through a prism. They know where I stand. It seems more ethical in some ways to announce what you are.
DN: Do you ask different questions than say, Peter Jennings?
DM: I know I ask a stupider question than Jennings. I needed the Cliffs Notes to follow him last night for God’s sakes. I was sitting there watching thinking, my God, I can’t even follow this question. And from the squint on a couple guy’s faces – John Edwards in particular – neither could they. Pete, get to chase man. Come on. I think people watch Jennings and they think, don’t work so hard at this, just pop a question, let’s get on with it.
DN: What are you trying to accomplish with the new show?
DM: I’d like to get a laugh and I think the guests would like to get a laugh, too. Think about the sturm and drang of being a politician and getting asked the same question every day 500 times and thinking, God I wish I could show my stuff and show who I am as a human being. I think that’s why Jon Stewart is great at this. He doesn’t put people under the microscope of somebody who considers himself to be a hard-hitting journalist.
DN: So you aren’t shooting for journalism?
DM: I consider myself to be something of an entertainer. I read and I’m not ill-informed but I’m probably not as informed as some. I think it gives you an honest bounce on what a politician is like as a guy. I think that at the end of the day, if I can ask a smart question or get some insight into somebody, that’s fine, but that’s secondary to me. At some point, I’d like to make the show entertaining. I come from night clubs for God’s sakes. If you go for 30 seconds without a laugh or reaction from the crowd at a night club, you don’t get invited back to work there. I’m not gonna turn it into the lounge at the Fontainebleau, but I’m Pavlov’s dog. I want to be entertaining. I just don’t want to sit there and be a font of pristine journalistic ethic or a conduit for strict nuts-and-bolts information. I’d like to get a little humor out of it or something.
DN: Your HBO show was only a half hour per week. That never seemed like enough time to cover everything you could cover.
DM: Well, you’re about to see, frankly, that half hour a week was enough time. I’ll run it up the flag pole and see what happens, my friend. Believe me that 27 minutes thing? That went by like a Brahma bull ride in a rodeo. It was like BAM! It started and it seemed like it was over. And it was live. I’ll see how I have to adjust my rhythms to this, but I think I can do it. But I’ve yet to do one so, we’ll see how I feel in a couple of weeks.
DN: You seemed to operate in more of a stream of consciousness style that resulted in a stream of obscenities as well. Any trouble keeping things in check with the new show?
DM: When I did football for two years, I never got close to saying F---. The simple fact is whatever my boss wants, I can do. It’s not like I go to work thinking, Oh God, I hope I can swear here. I worked on HBO, did you want to watch Tony Soprano say, “That frickin’ guy is bugging me?” I could control myself easily, it doesn’t even come to mind.
DN: Besides talking about the issues, will there be anything new added to your repertoire?
DM: Dave Garroway had a monkey on the Today Show and I thought that so weird and so random. I swore if I ever got a news show, I’d have a monkey.
DN: Really? Why a monkey?
DM: You tell me that if you’re watching somebody do an interview about the gross national product or something else you don’t give a damn about that you wouldn’t look at that monkey and think, isn’t that the damnedest thing?
DN: You aren’t worried that some people might protest the monkey?
DM: I’m sure I will receive protests. If the chimps unhappy I’ll let her go. I like monkeys. The monkey is cool. If somebody could come in and show me the monkey’s unhappy I’ll let her go. I don’t want to put the monkey in harm’s way. Somebody wanted to put the monkey in some clothes and I said I thought monkeys operate best nude. I’m trying to think of the monkey. The monkey loves the gig. She just wanders around, looks at me once in a while and get’s paid. They’ve got some nice food for her. MAYBE it’s hell for the monkey, but it sure doesn’t seem like it. We should all be that lucky. I gotta write jokes every day. The monkey just gets to cruise around.
Miller said he owes a great deal of his pragmatic nature to growing up in Pittsburgh, Penn., a city he said takes a man at face value.
“If you’re a nice man, they’ll be nice to you and if you’re not, they don’t suffer fools lightly,” he said. “That’s life in the Burgh.”
Pittsburgh seems to have informed Miller’s comedy, which could easily be described the same way. Miller calls everything the way he sees it without regard for notions of propriety and sensitivity. During an election year, his candor could be the anti-politics that keep candidates real – at least the ones who dare come on his show.
By now just about everyone has seen and heard Howard Dean's arm-swinging, hotheaded rant following his defeat in some sort of election: "We're going to New Hampshire, we're going to South Carolina, we're going to Guam, we're going to American Iraq. And then we're going to Washington DC to wrest the White House away from that smirking SOB George W. Bush! Aaay!"
It was that eerie, almost AC/DC-esque shriek there at the end that flipped people out even more so than his caustic tone and the way he had his shirtsleeves rolled up as if prepared to start a barroom brawl. So he goes into self-effacing mode, allowing that sometimes he leads with his heart instead of his head. He's like, "Yes I can be a bit of a loose cannon but I speak the truth that others shun." No Aaay!
Aaay! I think he's got it all wrong. He needs to adopt the Aaay! as his signature move, like Clinton wagging his manicured finger or Reagan shaking his vacant head as he peered down at his shoes.
"I'd like to welcome both my supporters and thank them for braving the bitter cold. I'd also like to string my detractors up from trees and flog them unmercifully. Aaay! Yet, for all our differences, surely we can all agree that George W. Bush is the antichrist. Just as we can agree that it's foolhardy to allow citizens to maintain any of their earnings for personal use. The government clearly knows best how the money should be spent. Leave you hedonists with any cash and you'll just blow it on fast women, faster cars, booze and betting on ponies. Far better to fork it all over to me so I might oust the true evildoer from the White House. Aaay! I'll then lead us to salvation in lockstep with our pals in France, Germany, Cuba and North Korea. After that I'll commence negotiations with that much-maligned freeedom fighter Osama bin Laden. Diplomacy is the key to winning the war on terror, not brute force. Failing that I'll let him bend me over an ottoman and drill me in the dry-dock. Aaay!"
Aaay! is right. The last time I heard an other-worldly noise like that it was emanating from my roommate's bedroom. Later a disheveled debutante emerged looking a tad worse for the wear 'n tear. "Aaay," I parroted. She glared at me with a look of utter disdain. People are always doing that to me. Aaay!
A recent report has said that most generation X and Yers get their news from comedians. As sad a statement that is about the future, you have to accept that many people learn about the events of the world from completely unreliable sources. As such, I thought I'd share with you some of the biggest news stories of the week:
After spending most of the last few weeks as the front-runner for the democratic presidential nomination, Howard Dean comes in a distant third in the Iowa Caucuses. Jimmy Dean, founder of Jimmy Dean sausages is replaced as the encased breakfast meat's spokesman. If I were Dean Cain or Richard Dean Anderson, I'd keep an eye out for falling pianos.
George W. Bush gave the annual Presidential State of the Union. The UPN network decided it was more important to show a rerun of The Parkers.
In other political news, Dick Gephart announced this week that he was withdrawing from the race for the democratic nomination. Oh wait, this story isn't from this week, it's from four years ago. And eight years ago. And twelve years ago. And sixteen years ago.
In way-too much money with little or no payoff news, NASA has lost contact with the Mars Rover. The Rover abruptly stopped communicating with NASA on Wednesday and hasn’t been able to connect since. Their most recent attempt to retrieve diagnostic information received a cryptic response from Rover: "If you don't know what the problem is, I'm not going to tell you." An average man has trouble decrypting such messages, but the NASA scientists, who've yet to see a non-Internet boobie, are completely befuddled as to what they've done wrong or how to fix it. Might I suggest 1-800 Space Flowers as a good place to start?
Ben Aflek and Jennifer Lopez finally announced the dissolution of their "relationship." The Nobel Prize committee awards them an honorary medal, for finally brining about the retirement of the term "Bennifer." In related celebrity news, Brittany Spears didn't marry anyone this week.
The New Jersey Nets have been sold to a real estate developer intending to move the team to Brooklyn. He might as well move the Nets to the second ring of Hell, since the Nets, and every other Eastern conference team, don't have a snowball's chance of winning a championship any time soon.
In parts of the country, it is very cold. In other parts, it isn't quite as cold. And yet in other parts, it's actually quite warm.
In this month’s (iffy for work) FHM magazine, “award-winning actress” (I swear it says that) Jenna Jameson appears in a photo spread wearing considerably more than she does in her movies. She also fields questions from readers, one of whom indicated that his gal pal had voiced her willingness to go for a threesome. He wanted to know about the etiquette involved. Ms. Jameson graciously sets forth the rules as follows: 1) She gets to pick the girl. 2) You don’t kiss the other girl. 3) The girlfriend gets your come. 4) Make sure she really wants to go through with it. Now, I find rule #4 ridiculous on its face. What guy would do that in real life? I mean, she brought it up or so he claims.
But the other three do raise a host of intriguing questions in my mind. Namely, with all those rules to follow, wouldn’t it leach all the zest out of it? You know, the way a litany of penalties and endless call challenges can ruin a perfectly good football game? Do those same rules apply if it’s two guys ’n a gal? Isn’t it a tad unfair to your invited guest to treat her as you would a common whore? What if your gal-pal picks a dog with oozing sores? What if she kisses you in the heat of passion? Would it make any difference vis-a-vis where you deposit your load if a condom were in use? Are these the real rules for a menage-a-trois or is she just making it all up? And what qualifies this Jameson to promulgate the rules in the first place?
In my humble opinion way too much sex advise gets dispensed these days. Each month, even such staid magazines as Redbook and Good Housekeeping share recycled “new” positions, techniques and alleged hot spots. We’re told how much more our sex lives will sizzle with Durex condoms. Self-appointed “sexperts” write books and go on and on on the radio to promote them. They’re always telling guys how important it is to satisfy their mates every time. Next thing you know they’ll be telling us not to fall asleep immediately afterwards.
I shudder to think how these kiss ’n tell tendencies must be perceived in less secular cultures. Surely it only reinforces their image of Americans as decadent, self-absorbed infidels interested only in earthly gratification. Which, come to think of it, many of us are. I know I sure am.
Now that it’s finally 2004, the overwhelming rage every time I see that “Vote 2004” logo on every ABC news program is subsiding. Sure, the election is still 11 months away, and they show the logo even if the most political moment of the program its shown during comes during an in-depth interview with Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey, but at least it actually is 2004 now.
Speaking of the elections, the Iowa Caucuses wrapped up last night. If you are coming here for news about who won, boy, are you in the wrong place. I’d point you to an actual news story, but why don’t you just wait until the Daily Show comes on tonight.
In my 4 years (6) in college out there, I was only around for one presidential election. That isn’t actually true, but since I can’t remember the first one, I’ll just pretend it never happened (which means I can also ignore President Clinton’s second term).
During the 2000 Caucuses there seemed to be more presidential candidates wandering around town than actually Iowans. My (student) offices were in the building most of the candidates gave their speeches. Sure, it is nice for your community to be the center of national attention, but it was kind of annoying because it made the lines for lunch that much longer.
One day, while I was sitting in my office, a couple dudes in black suits and earpieces starting skulking around outside my door. Then presidential candidate George Bush had just finished a rally in the ballroom directly upstairs from my office, and was going to use the back stairs through our office to leave the building. The secret police were scooping out our office, maybe making sure we weren’t “Students for Medical Marijuana” or something.
Within a short period of time Dubya himself was walking through our offices. I got to shake his hand. I didn’t notice, but one of the gals later remarked he was wearing a lot of make-up. He was shorter than he seems on TV.
It always seems as if shaking the hand that shakes the world is one of those moments you’ll remember all your life, but except for the rare occasions, such as today, I completely forget about this event – and I voted for the guy.
Now that the Iowa Caucuses are finally over for this election cycle, the rest of the country can go back to ignoring Iowa for another four years. “Iowa? Isn’t that in Ohio?”
As most of the people who frequent here have undoubtably seen, I haven't been posting much since being granted author status. Thankfully the other author, Lajoie, who came on at the same time has been similarly unprolific. At least I don't think I look too bad in comparison.
Mostly I haven't been prolific because I have been busy. Not so much with work, but mostly spending time with my girlfriend, Erin. Happy times for the most part.
I do find though that from time to time we spend less time with each other, and not necessarily when I would like us to spend less time together. Oops published teh beginning of the rambling. If you're reading this in a previous post, and it trailed off unexpectantly just before here, its because I got called away after trying to save and then delete this post. Not quite up to speed with this entry system yet. but I digress...
Anyway, back to Erin...
I met Erin back in March of 2003. I met her in a place I didn't expect to meet a future girlfriend in. A job interview. Not as a fellow candidate, but a interview panel member, namely the Human resources girl. She is a cute looking redhead girl, and I definitely found myself attracted to her. Of course, being a job interview and all, I wasn't able to flirt or otherwise explore whether anything would come of my attraction.
While I commented to my co-workers about the cute redhead, I didn't follow up at all, at least not until I ran across Erin at my then new office building in mid-June (having started in the new office at the beginning of June) Anyway, we went for lunch, she talked way too much, and it was almost over before it began. That is until she sent me a e-mail a week later, and I decided that she might be worth pursuing a second date with... Women who talk too much on first dates are not generally girls I go on second dates with... Glad I made an exception in this case.
We've been dating since that time, and things have started to get more serious here, with us talking about co-habiting etc... This has caused me to re-evaluate where thngs are with her, and has left me at a bit of a crossroads...
I've definitely fallen for this girl, and she seems to have fallen for me even more than I for her. I do however see some issues largely because our personalities are quite different (spender v saver, carefree v. worrier, messy v. fanatically tidy, good enough v. perfectionist). (in case you're wondering, its me v. her throughout the above)
These various issues have led me to question our basic compatibility in the longer term... I've already been divorced once, and I don't care to go through that wringer again.
What predictors are there that a relationship will survive and thrive on difference versus those relationships that degenerate into the the realm of divorce and messy disputes over the house and dog... Any sage wisdom from the BS community?
Asses Hollywood's Nancy O'Dell seems bright enough. The former Miss North Carolina still fills out an evening gown pretty well. How then did she wind up with her head so far up celebrity ass?
Someone had to fill the vacancy left by the departure of John Tesh.
I've grown awfully tired of that "Can you hear me now" fellow. What can be done about him?
Verizon is unveiling a new ad campaign in which unseen parties will fire automatic weapons at his feet and make him dance. It's expected to be wildly popular.
When Bill Clinton used to give speeches, I always envisioned that he had Monica wedged into the dais. Now, on the rare occasion when W speaks, I envision Dick Cheney behind him with his hand up his back, like a puppeteer. Which is worse?
Well, I wouldn't want Cheney's face that close to my ass.
What does W hope to find on Mars, Saddam's weapons o' mass destruction?
Either that or Cheney.
Behind door number one is Michael Jackson, with his bathrobe slightly parted. Behind door number two is a roiling snakepit. Where would you send your 13 year old son?
What's behind door number three?
Jackson is accused of having "consensual" sex with a 12 year dude. R. Kelly is accused of having "consensual" sex with a chick about the same age. Why is there so much more uproar over the Jackson case?
Girls grow up faster than boys.
Howard Dean's wife intends to continue practicing medicine after he's elected president? Will that work?
It should be fine so long as she doesn't bake a batch of cookies in a show of false femininity.
I sometimes feel as if Dean's talking down to me. Does this mean he's like, smart?
No it means you're stupid. Smart people are too busy talking down to others to feel that way. And they use words like "counterveiling" and "auspices."
NBC will put Frasier out to pasture after this season. Long overdue?
What was once Must See TV is now Must Flee TV. Maybe they should bring back Jerry Seinfeld to star in I Will Steal Your Wife.
How do you suppose Martha Stewart and Enron's Andy Fastow will fare in the rough 'n tumble milieu of prison?
I don't know but it sure is fun to think about it.
What ever became of Jazzy Jeff?
You know how sometimes you're driving along and you fish this huge booger out of your nostril and you aren't sure what to do with it?
Is there any point to this rambling, disjointed Q&A session?
No. If you want depth and insight, tune in to Asses Hollywood.
When I was at Ft. Bragg I had a roommate named James Gravely. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Actually, I always thought he was mildly mentally challenged. How he got through basic training I’ll never know. I used to have to inspect every aspect of his uniform before he left our room. Something was always amiss from buttons not buttoned to lacing his boots wrong. We had to have our boots highly shined, uniform starched and pressed, pants bloused in the tops of our boots, and berets shaped just so. Well, these things were too many for Gravely to get right all at one time. I couldn’t let him get chewed out every day so I helped him out. Well, I wasn’t alone. It took a concerted effort by all of us that hung out together to keep Gravely straight. Right Dutchy? We all took him under our wings and tried to make him feel better about himself. Sometimes this backfired.
We would take him out with us to party and one time we took him to A local strip club. Everyone was having a great time and I realized that I hadn’t seen Gravely for a while. I looked around and there he was seated in front of this one dancer. I walked a little closer and saw him reach in his wallet and pull out a tip. He gave it to the girl and continued to watch her dance. After a couple of minutes he went back in his wallet and removed another bill. He put this one in her stocking also. I got a bit closer and saw that he was giving this dancer twenty dollar bills. Holy Shit! That girl had made forty dollars off of him in five minutes. At this point in my life twenty dollars isn’t a whole lot of money but back then, on an Army salary, twenty dollars was significant. I went over and told Gravely to walk and talk with me. I explained that he didn’t have to tip so much or so frequent. I told him a dollar at a time was sufficient and that he didn’t have to give her money every two minutes but to try to draw it out a little more. I also added that if he wanted to give her a twenty then wait until she got off stage and ask her for a lap dance. He nodded understanding and went back to the same dancer. The night progressed and Gravely came over and said he needed to go to the ATM. What? We all went to the ATM before we went there and I personally watched him pull out $100. I still had sixty left from my $100 and he was already broke? We’d only been there for about an hour and a half. Well, I took him back to the ATM and he pulled out another $100. We went back to the club and finished our night there. On the way back Gravely asked if we could stop by the ATM again. It seems he had spent the other $100 on the same girl. Dumbass. We took Gravely to the club quite a few more times and he always went to the same girl. Anyway, in the weeks to come, he always referred to this dancer as his “girlfriend” when we talked about going back to the club. Girlfriend!? All she was doing is siphoning money from his pocket as fast as she could and he was going for it. We humored him though until things came to a head one day. We had been to the club on payday and the next day Gravely asked me to borrow some money. “You just got paid yesterday Gravely” I said. “I know” he replied “but I’m broke.” “Did you give all of your money away to that stripper?” I asked. He hung his head and answered “Yes.” I explained to him that she wasn’t his “girlfriend” and was just using him to take as much money from him as possible. He wouldn’t accept that. He actually though that this girl gave a shit about him. Yea, right. Well, Gravely didn’t have a car and we were his only source of transportation so we all agreed not to take him back. He could’ve called a cab but, as I pointed out earlier, Gravely was a little slow.
Another night we took Gravely with us again. It was my birthday and we decided to get funky. We hit a bunch of bars, strip clubs, and ended the night at one of our favorite establishments, Bottoms Up. This was, by far, one of the most awful strip clubs in Fayetteville, NC. The strippers were well past their prime, the building was run down and all they had on tap was Old Milwaukee. Classy joint, no doubt. Well, we didn’t care and always had a blast there. We were already plastered so the Old Mil was going down about as smooth as possible. A little while into it my boy Nigel came over and said he’d paid one of the dancers ten dollars to give some attention to Gravely. I looked over and this old and not very attractive stripper was dancing in front of him. She then sat on the bar in front of Gravely, spread her legs, and grabbed his head pushing it towards her uncovered crotch. I don’t think anyone was prepared for what happened next. Gravely shot his head forward and started eating this old chick’s box. We lost it. My boys and I fell all over the place laughing. Then Gravely lifted his head from between the old stripper’s thighs, slowly took his glasses off, laid them beside him, turned his head and proclaimed to anyone within earshot “I’m the pussy monster!” Indeed, he sure looked the part the way he was going at it. At this point I was laughing so hard I had to step outside. Over the music and through the walls I could hear my buddies howling laughter. I thought my boy Dave was going to vomit when he came through the door trying to escape the hilarity. This was a legendary, with us, house of ill repute and no one, in the establishment, seemed to mind the fact that Gravely had his head buried in this old bat’s crotch on stage. This fact made things even funnier. Well we went back in and the dancer had managed to pry Gravely’s face out of her box and he just sat there smiling like a Cheshire cat. We laughed about this for months. Hell, my buddy Dave and I work together and still laugh about it sometimes. Gravely was one cool cat. I miss that kid sometimes.
Tell you what, let's combine the two:
Monkey helpers for Masturbation!
Monkey helpers for Masturbation is a non-profit organization dedicated helping those individuals too goddamn lazy to... help themselves. By training capuchin monkeys to assist...
Eww. Probably not where I want to be going.
Focus your thoughts and energy towards love and peace.
Not normally what does it for me...
Encourage others to do the same.
Like you people need encouragement.
Also, please fill out the petition below and tell us how you intend to...
Hey, HEY, HEY! Private Time! Sheesh.
Been gone some time, no offense to all present, but I got a bit wrapped up in me own life fer a bit. What with congestive heart failure and the new diet and taking about 9 or 10 pills a day for depression, the heart, the diabetes and now apparently I have an iron deficiency. My doctor wants me to wipe crap on a card three times in a row and give it to him. This is to see if I'm shitting enough blood to account for the massive iron loss. I think my doctor has Munchausen by Proxy. Either that or the government magnets are finally depleting my blood of its precious iron. Oh and I've got bronchitis too. Plus I am surrounded by massive tools all day.
I haven't shaken salt on anything since the middle of November, which is the least of my concerns because come to find out, I don't really care about that as much as I thought. Sure, I'd like to dig into a trough full of cottage cheese some time or order a pizza. But this salt restriction is about the only thing keeping me honest. I eat a lot of chicken spiced to the hilt but minus all salt. It's amazing what kind of difference salt makes in everything. Luckily, Chef Paul Prudhomme invented this Magic Salt-Free Seasoning that rocks hard-core.
The entire experience has been one I can only compare to turning down the volume in your mouth. It's like when you watch TV real loud, you don't even notice how loud it is until a commercial comes on and then you think, "Damn, that was loud." So you turn it down just to make your mom proud and you realize you are much more comfortable watching TV at a lower volume anyway instead of getting blown out the back of your La-Z-Boy.
Except that in your mouth, you begin to appreciate the subtleties of flavor. I found myself munching on Romaine lettuce the other night. No dressing. No salt. Thinking, wow, this lettuce rocks. Deprivation of one kind always seems to lead to opening the lesser used senses.
Still, I'd fuckin' murder a plate of nachos about now.
I just finished reading Have You Seen Me? It's a mindless tale of this girl who gets seduced by her dad's pal and contracts a mean case of Hep A. Thus begins a downward spiral into stripping, drugs, prostitution and kinky porn shoots. While it may sound sexy on paper, the detached way she relates the story borders on clinical.
The club where she works fires her after a patron complains that she infected him with the dread disease (as if he played no role in the transmission.) A former dancer invites her to join this commune up in the hills. She bonds with her housemates, particularly one named John. He bangs her but won't sleep with her, claiming it would be hypocritical. He turns out to be an FBI snoop investigating the eco-terrorists who make up the rest of the group. She mulls a return to the wild life but her love for John prevails. As Fabio used to say, that's ni-i-i-ce.
This is the sort of escapist fare I've come to relish. I used to slog through such weighty tomes as Pat Buchanan's scary Death of the West, but no more. I no longer have any use for Serious Screeds with all their cumbersome footnotes, indexes and analysis. Give me a breezy novel over that any day.
I'm real picky when it comes to fiction. Hardbacks are too expensive. I don't like anything that isn't set in these times. But most of all, I don't go in for used books. Reading a used book is like being a Muslim who commits an act of martyrdom only to be presented with 72 whores instead of vestal virgins. Yes, to me nothing compares with the crisp pages of a new book; except maybe clean ***** hotel sheets. Certainly online books will never be able to duplicate that.
Though I'm not one of those leisurely people you see with their noses buried in books at Starbucks. First off, I could never relax enough to do that. Plus, I don't read that much. But when I do, it's with a vengeance. I pick up a book and devour it like a hyena. I could plow through War and Peace in a weekend if it were set in 2004. (Maybe Tolstoy could retitle it War Forever.) Never mind that I'd probably miss the entire point.
Speaking of pointless matters, I had an odd experience while stuck in traffic. The Howard Stern Show was on. Ever determined to skirt FCC rules, Howard was playing this cheesy tape of a chick simulating sexual sounds and ultimately an earth-shattering, Meg Ryanesque orgasm. As she cooed, "Oh baby, you got it all over my neck," I happened to glance at the car next to mine. Therein was a girl laughing hysterically. I knew why. Our eyes met ever so briefly. We both knew what the other was listening to in our little private Idahos. Talk about an uncomfortable moment. Thank god the light changed.
Or at least I thought what I heard was laughter. Then again, her hands were nowhere in sight. Interesting fact: At the haircut place I read an old issue of Glamour. I learned that 45% of guys responded that they'd masturbated while driving. Think about that next time you're stuck in traffic.
I’ve absolutely no regard for my own safety or well-being. I still smoke a little and drink like a fish and then I smoke more. From age 13 to 30 I did every drug known to man. I didn’t “stop” for health reasons but only because it started to make me feel all paranoid and isolated. I don’t wear a seat belt. Although of pale Nordic descent, I eschew sun screen. I haven’t a clue what my cholesterol count is. I tune out whenever those discussions of “grams of fat” ensue. How much could a gram amount to unless it’s coke?
I made no New Year’s resolutions. I exercise but only in the context of competitive sports like tennis and soccer. I play on a team despite the fact that it’s not a sport suited to brittle old men such as myself. I’ve torn my quadriceps, fractured my patella and developed a dependence on painkillers as a result of all my soccer injuries. (Eventually the doctor slapped the drug-seeking behavior label on me and that was that.) It’s my dream to water and snow ski in a single day. My will specifies that my body should be hurled into a ditch from a moving vehicle. I think grand mal seizures are fun.
This reckless bent spills over into the way I conduct my home life too. Confession: I haven’t balanced my checkbook in ten years. We routinely deposit all our money into a checking account. Every month a statement comes and we glance at it as you might a cooking show. Mainly we look at whether income exceeded outgo or vice versa. Usually it’s about equal but no worries, since I get a bonus every February. It’s only a few thousand dollars, but it provides a cushion so we don’t need to fret about an unexpected expenditure (orthodontia, yikes!) breaking the bank. Plus, we’ve got overdraft protection at the mom ’n pop bank I’ve dealt with for 30 years.
But now it’s been taken over by one of those huge banking conglomerates. When I mentioned it to meticulous, checkbook-balancing, coupon-clipping, 401k, price check people, they warned me to keep a close eye on my statements because they’re prone to mistakes over in Indonesia or wherever these things are keyed in. I figured it probably all evens out in the end. And besides, after all those years of ignoring my finances, there’s no way I could begin to reconcile it all.
Enter me, Christmas shopping tipsy and in the holiday spirit big-time. I’m scrawling checks like there’s no tomorrow: An antique 78 record player/CD player for my mom finished in a handsome mahogany, consider it done. Snap. Faux fur and fine perfume for the wife, check. Snap. A snazzy computer and desk for my son, it’s all good. I silenced the tech salesman with all his talk of memory, megahertz of ROM and CD-burning features with a curt, “I’ll take it.” New Year’s Eve we enjoyed the traditional surf ‘n turf ‘n champagne by the magnum. If we’d had any firewood we’d have thrown our fancy flutes into the fireplace. We won and lost $1,000 gambling online. Hoo-fa! Ring in 2004, a banner year.
Or not. Nancy makes a rare appearance at this bank to cash her monthly stipend from her dad. The teller is like, ma’am you’re $950 overdrawn. We can’t cash your check. Hell, you’re lucky we don’t sell you into prostitution. She is mortified by reality’s rude intrusion into our insular dream world. Talk about a post-holiday downer.
So I go to the bank to investigate this fiasco. Mohammed pulls up the month of December. It’s three pages and I’m getting this awful sinking feeling like Ron Jeremy pushing your face into an ottoman. I recall that I’d left my paycheck on my nightstand. It’s for $1,700, for all the good it does us now. Turns out the goddamn reason we’re so far in the hole is that with this overdraft protection they cover your check alright---and then whack you with a $30 charge---per check. So far there’ve been twelve of those. More are coming but we have no clue how many as we never record our checks. You do the math. We are so fucked. And we have nowhere to turn for funds. There are no markers to call in. I just learned that there’ll be no February bonus this year. Sperm bank here I come.
Though it didn’t exactly inspire confidence in my new bank’s veracity when I asked Mohammed to show me November. He clicks “previous month.” The screen shows nothing. He says, “You had no transaction in November month.” I tell him that’s impossible as this is my only account. He is adamant. The computer doesn’t lie. Oh well, it all evens out in the end. Doesn't it?
Apparently it’s 2004.
The year has started off well enough. My Christmas haul was pretty respectable, I didn’t get everything I wanted, but I did get something I didn’t even know I wanted. I realize Christmas was technically last year, but since Jesus may very well have been born in June, who are we to quibble with dates?
Amongst my gifts came some frankincense and myrrh delivered to my door by the three wise men (FedEx, UPS, and the USPS). I’ve so far received presents from MrBlank (Pop Gun War was fantastic), and something from someone I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t recognize by their “real” name. Phil, if you are reading this drop me an email so I can thank you in person. Well, email.
I can tell I’m getting old because I spent New Year’s Eve with family. Family who were in bed around 9:30. And I wasn’t really bothered by that. It wasn’t too many years ago that I’d be out drinking until 2 on an average Wednesday night, much less on New Year’s Eve. Yet, I was very contented to hang out with the family at home. Even still, I did sneak into the bathroom every couple minutes to do shots of mouthwash and rubbing alcohol (since they were the only things in the house a higher proof than some over-ripe potatoes).
After a nice relaxing holiday, we returned back to the city to begin a new year. I flew through Pittsburgh, and had contacted Linz about getting together in the ‘burghs airport, but the timing wasn’t right, so we’ll have to save that introduction for another time (hopefully before the calendar turns over on another year).
Arriving back at Laguardia, I must admit it was good to be home. There were no flight delays, all of my luggage arrived in tact, and it was nearly 60 degrees in January. I called up my usual car service and what to my wondering eyes did I see, but a stretch limousine, to pick up me!
I didn’t go to prom, haven’t been to many funerals, and my love affair with Liza Minelli to cash in on any palimony. So, I’d never ridden in limo before. I’m sure if I’d had an entourage of strippers with me, it’d have been much better, but it was still pretty kick ass rolling around in my white stretch limo. I’m sure it made quite a sight to anyone seeing me pull up to my ghetto apartment building in a limo. All in all, this was a pretty damn cool parading into the New Year in a limo, but that was all about to change.
For one, I was locked out my apartment. In my time away the landlord had replaced the front door. Unfortunately, this move was a bit of a surprise, which is usually the case when someone down something without telling anyone about it. Luckily the super was around, and let me in. Next came the much bigger, colder surprise.
The buildings boiler had broken down on New Year’s Eve, and hadn’t yet been fixed. Apparently it was on the verge of explosion, and if left to its own device, probably would have burned down the entire building. I that regard, I suppose I’d have reason to be much more depressed if I returned home to a smoldering pile of rubble than what I did return to, a living room only a couple degree warmer than the inside of a refrigerator.
The temperature got as low as 50 degrees, which doesn’t’ seem that cold, but let me tell you, when you lube up and your hand freezes to your junk, it’s pretty damn cold. It was three days between when I got home and when the heat got fixed. It is now a nice toasty 72 degrees in here, things are moving nicely, and I can once again say, 2004 isn’t so bad so far.
I found it a tad unsettling to learn that pop tart Britney Spears wed in a spur of the moment Vegas ceremony, since annulled. I always thought marriage was supposed to be serious business. Indeed, I’ve been faithfully married for fifteen years. Before that I had a series of long-term girlfriends, none of whom I cheated on. I had no one night stands. I guess I’m what you’d call a serial monogamist.
Now I don’t mean this as boasting. Nor am I claiming the moral high ground. Truth is I never played the field because it’s too much bother to juggle multiple mates. I’m lazy and self-satisfied. I never cheated in part for the very same reason, in addition to fearing the inevitable consequences. See, cheating or mate-juggling requires sneakiness and that’s not in my nature. I hate sneakiness. Even as the sorrow of Sept 11 engulfed me, I decried the terrorists’ sucker-punch tactics.
Many people believe the oft-repeated factoid that says 50% of marriages end in divorce. This statistic was derived by comparing the number of divorces and marriages in a given year. It doesn’t take Ask Marilyn to see the fallacy in that. The true figure is probably closer to 25% and most of those couples remain faithful to one another throughout.
Part of the reason is purely logistical. Most spouses don’t have large blocs of time that can go unaccounted for. Nor do potential cheating partners materialize too often. Even when the opportunity does arise, people tend to flinch. Example: Once I was cutting through the woods on the way to my girlfriend’s house. From behind a tree I heard all this frenzied moaning and panting. As I approached the scene I caught a glimpse of two pals (both quite attached at the time) riding the town bicycle tandem-style. One was in front and the other behind, she on her hands and knees. They beckoned me to join them, as in the more the merrier. But I just couldn’t handle it. I strode purposefully by as if I had somewhere important to be. I told myself that it was because there was no orifice readily available. (Double anal wasn’t on my agenda. Ditto for sloppy thirds.)
Then again, a lot of my friends have gotten away with cheating on their wives and girlfriends with alarming regularity. Oftentimes they’d cheat with ladies who were far less attractive than their mates. I always had the sense that they did it strictly for the thrill of risk-taking. Myself I am averse to risk. Besides, so long as my lovin’, ego-stroking and companionship needs are met, what use have I for sordid side action?
So you’ve got to wonder about a guy like Ethan Hawke. Here he is married to Uma Thurman, arguably one of the most sultry women around---and one who wields a mean Samurai sword that would put Lorena Bobbitt’s puny steak knife to shame. So what does he do? Takes up with some scrawny-ass slice of Canadian bacon, that’s what. (Note: This homewrecker’s name is Jennifer Perzow. She is supposedly an established model, described in print as leggy, 36-24-36, blonde and all of 22. Yet I’ve searched for any image of her to no avail. A clear shot of Mullah Omar is easier to find. So we’ll just have to imagine what sort of stunner would tempt a man to cheat on Thurman.) Ethan Hawke’s lucky his greasy dick isn’t discarded in a gutter somewhere.
In searching for a shot of the elusive Ms. Perzow, I chanced to read a number of stories about the breakup. Oddly enough, Ms. Thurman could live with the idea of her hubby having humped the hottie. But what irked her was the fact that there was an emotional component to his fling. They enjoyed romantic dinners, canoodling, pillow talk and everything. By contrast, Bill played tonsil hockey with Monica whilst he chatted on the phone. He didn’t even offer to reciprocate, a major breach of casual sex etiquette. He and Hilary are still wed if in name only.
Call me a prude but it’s the same way with sundry permutations of kinkiness. I’ve never had any earthly desire to tie somebody up or to be tied up and treated like a human pinata. The only aspect of porn I find amusing is the stilted acting beforehand. I am not itching to fist anybody. I’m not adventurous that way. But even if I were so inclined, dude, it would never happen. I mean, how might one go about broaching such a touchy topic without risk of rejection, mockery or both?
He: Hey darling, lookie here. What say I shackle you to the bedpost and torture you with a feather duster?
She: What say I impale you on the bedpost?
He: Heh-heh, just kidding. Now where were we?
She Nowhere. I am so out of here.
in the inimitable words of my daughter, "you should just be all, whatever". and she is, as usual, absolutely right.
and 'whatever' was indeed my first response, although it came with some rather judgemental thoughts tacked on, words that ran though a few uglinesses at first and settled into the least judgemental phrases i could manage, since unconditional nonjudgemental is a personal goal of mine, it's the person i want to be, although i am a realistic individual and understand there is no such thing as unconditional.
there are always conditions.
i can tell you i will accept you no matter what, but what i mean when i say that is 'i will accept anything about you that i have a reasonable expectation of finding'. it is an expression of trust, really: i am saying that i do not expect to find any deal-breakers, that i won't discover you are a serial killer or a child pornographer or a person who drowns sacks of kittens for sport. i am saying that i believe you are the kind of person who may have any number of strange or difficult issues, just none that i can't handle, and having said that, i will endeavor to handle whatever.
and if you tell me the same thing, i will have some expectations, even though expectations are their own sort of conditions. i will hold you to a similar standard as the one i hold myself to as regards unconditional acceptance, that is, i will expect you to handle more than you expected to find, as long as none of the things are deal-breakers. and before this acceptance is put to the test i will do my best to offer full disclosure, everything you need to know to put together a picture of what it is you are saying you will accept, before expecting you to do so.
what becomes difficult then, is when i run up against my expectations of acceptance and find i'm disappointed. i will run through words like 'wussie' because that is one of my most scathing criticisms (expressed in spiteful childish terms for maximum ... whatever)
i will accept all manner of whatever from you but i expect a certain level of resilience and flexibility from you in return. so the best i can do in a case where i sense wussiness is to settle on 'so you bailed. whatever.'
and then i can and will slip back into my traditional self-deprecating analytical mode and go back over everything i did and said to figure out where i fucked up, what i did to make you bail. if i find it, then i can accept the bailing as the inevitable outcome of our interactions and place the disappointment and blame where it feels most comfortable, squarely upon myself.