So. Apparently, titty bars are a rather popular subject of thought amongst us. And, I must say, a pretty good source of debate and strong opinion. I am curious as to WHY others go? And what others believe to be the reason WHY others go.
I shall start with my own reasons for going.
To begin, the “Gentlemen’s Club” is a place of tradition. Much like twice-a-year Catholics to church, I visit them periodically, whenever the tradition calls. Bachelor parties are the most common reason to go. This is done in order to send off the bachelor in the most debaucherous environment allowed by law. It is more ceremonial than it is a necessity, but that is what the tradition calls for, so that is what we bachelors deliver. As the Best Man for a couple of weddings, I am familiar with the inner-workings of these places in reference to bachelor parties, and I can assure you that there is much more ceremony than there is anything else.
Other traditions include:
1) getting fired from a job
2) getting hired for a job
3) getting dumped by a broad
4) friend getting dumped by a broad
5) won the lotto
6) someone else won the lotto next to you in line at HEB
7) becoming a “Made” man in the local mafia
8) Grand opening of your own titty bar
This is just a short list. There are many other traditional reasons to bother with the cash-hungry coke-heads, naked “on stage two”.
Beyond tradition, there is the comfort level a man can attain while there. Only in a boob-joint is it completely acceptable to do all things “manish”. Scratch whatever you want, whenever you want. Fart as much as you please (the girls do too, see previous post), as the baby-powder all over the place covers up any stench. You can stare at a naked woman, in comfort, with the eyes of a deranged psychopath without fearing the authorities… your entry-fee covered your right to covet such sights. All the chairs are plush and inviting. The waitresses bring you more liquor BEFORE your current cup runeth empty. There is some funny dude in the bathroom that will do anything from shine your shoes to change your fucking oil while you pee, and he always tells witty jokes. Last but not least, the food really is not that bad, and it is usually dirt cheap.
So. To sum up my intentions when entering a boob-vendor:
1) Tradition, happily compels me
2) I can do no wrong while there.
3) Everything is designed to comfort my manhood.
Purposes I HAVE NEVER HAD when entering a ta-ta dispenser:
1) Talk to strippers about their lives
2) Have strippers ask me about my life
3) Have strippers act like they enjoy “the real me”
4) Find a girlfriend
5) Find a wife
6) Find a fuck
7) Find a fucking girlfriend that wants to be my wife
8) Score some good drugs
9) Get rid of that pesky $1000 that won’t go away
Now, WHAT are YOUR reasons for going? Or, WHY do you think OTHER people bother going? Hit me up.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Embarrassed BY professionals? Maybe.
Just as a side note on the embarrassment post made two posts earlier:
Yes, I really did fart on that guy’s neck. It was the back of his neck. He was sitting down at the head of a large table, in a small room, and I had to squeeze by between him and a large wooden buffet/hutch. The room was empty when I had first passed through it to get to the restroom, but when I exited the toilet, a fraternity had arrived for some sort of (Klan?) meeting or beer event. The room was full, but it was my only path to get out from the restrooms. I decided to face the hutch while passing him, thereby rubbing my bum along the back of his chair. The tight space between caused me to pull in breath, and as a result my inner air-pressure spiked up and released itself by way of my ass. On to the back of the guy’s neck. It was audible, and it certainly was relieving, but I initially fancied that the frat bro did not register the hit. There was a-lot of noise in that room, so I assumed that my blast would have been muffled by all the talk of date-rape trials and gay-bashing plans. But my friend was trailing me, and just as he passed through my fumes, he yelped “damn man, did you just fart on that dude!?”
At which point, I began to haul ass down the stairs, busted out the front door, and hit the parking lot at a high huff. There was a-lot of yelling involved. Maybe even some searchlights and a gauntlet of barbed wire. It was like a jailbreak. But they would have skipped the prison time and gone straight for a hangin’ I reckon. I got away clean, but that dude’s red neck did not.
Speaking of passing gas in public, I am reminded of one of my myriad of reasons for not liking “gentlemen clubs”. It will take me a minute to come full-circle on that transition (how “gas” and “gentlemen clubs” are related), so sit tight.
Ta-ta bars are a complete waste of money. Sure, some dudes swear by them, and just as I see religion: not my thing, but that’s fine by me (clubs are comparable to church in most respects: costs money, creates family rifts, can ruin a good weekend, the music sucks, and there is a-lot of sitting involved). They are also highly misunderstood by those who do not go. It is easy to assume that within those windowless walls there is free sex in every nook, and it is a big ol’ orgy for high-powered salesmen and square-jawed politicians. But this is not so. In fact, the idea that there is sex everywhere is just plain stupid. It is the “promise” of sex that sells. NOT the sex itself.
Here’s why there is no sex, by example: two guys walk into a strip club, both with $400. Guy 1 sits down and immediately starts having sex with strange women. Guy 2 sits down nearby and for 30 minutes, no one pays a single bit of goddamn attention to him, but there are provocatively dressed women parading themselves past him in a teasing fashion. After thirty minutes is up, a woman walks over to Guy 2 and asks if he “would like some company”. Guy 2 is practically frothing at the mouth, and desperate for some kind of attention, so he says “sure, that’d be great”. She sits down and immediately orders herself a drink. She makes small talk, and then asks Guy 2 some questions to ensure that he has cash. He does, and he practically tells her how much he has. Now she decides how she must spend her time. At $20 every 4-minute song, she calculates that his cash will last him about an hour and a half. She plans to bleed him dry, and force all her drinks on to his tab, which will have to be settled by his credit card. Are you feeling the sex for Guy 2 yet? No? No surprise. Guy 2, drawn in by the “promise” of some sort of experience blinks his eyes, and an hour and a half has passed. She stands up immediately after the end of some shitty Motley Crue song, puts her gear back on, and says “okay sugar, I need to take care of things. I had a really great time with you tonight, but I gotta go.” She then slyly gives Guy 2 a verbal tab of $400 for 1.5 hours worth of “work”, half of which was spent just sitting on his lap talking about her three-year old boy or her plans to attend med school. Guy 1 got his rocks off within the first 5 minutes, would have paid the going rate for such activities (less than $100 I would guess) and split, leaving a mess for someone to clean and a chick that will need some clinic work done on a regular basis (overhead for owner of club).
Which do you think has a bar tab in excess of $200? Who do you think left broke? Who do you think had an enormous case of blue ball, but will not remember that part of the experience when he considers dropping into the establishment in the future? Are you getting it yet? Do you understand now? Is it not completely fucking obvious where the real business is? Can we just go ahead and say that men going to strip clubs is as useless and pointless as women getting a full makeover now? That is to say: expensive, harmless, time-consuming, extravagant, and completely unnecessary.
Enough rant, on to gas story.
So, back in my hazier years, I was at a little strip club in Round Rock called Joy’s. It was a crap hole that had a dick-dancer joint next door called Bad Boys. We knew some of the girls who worked there, so we went every now and again for kicks. One night, while there, I went up to get a dollar dance. For those who do not know, there are two types of dances offered in most strip clubs: The lap/table dance: $20 per song, and the dollar/stage dance: $1 for 15 seconds of devoted attention from on-stage dancer to dudes standing along the edge of the stage. So, I was standing at the edge of the stage, drunk off my ass, waiting for the girl to wander over to me for my 15 seconds. She wandered over, smiled, turned around and got on all fours. Sounds hot, right? Wrong. Keep in mind, while on the stage she is a good three-feet above you. That makes her ass at eye level. You see nothing but butt. No female form really, no curves and supple breasts. No “come hither” stare or gymnastics. Just ass. As if you were hiding in a toilet, just to see butt or something. In all cultures, this is considered foul mockery, and quite rude. Basically, she mooned me, at VERY close range, for 15 seconds. We called this the “damned-ass dance”, and it really sucked to get one, even for a measly dollar. To top off the d.a.d.: while she was thrusting her pimply g-stringed butt in my face, I heard her squeeze a few poots out, in rhythm with the C+C Music Factory bullshit that was playing. Yes, she mooned me, farted in my face, and then had the nerve to request payment with her back still to me, by pulling up the string on her g-string for me to slide the bill underneath.
That must have been karma getting me back for that frat dude’s neck.
Damn you baby powder!
Yes, I really did fart on that guy’s neck. It was the back of his neck. He was sitting down at the head of a large table, in a small room, and I had to squeeze by between him and a large wooden buffet/hutch. The room was empty when I had first passed through it to get to the restroom, but when I exited the toilet, a fraternity had arrived for some sort of (Klan?) meeting or beer event. The room was full, but it was my only path to get out from the restrooms. I decided to face the hutch while passing him, thereby rubbing my bum along the back of his chair. The tight space between caused me to pull in breath, and as a result my inner air-pressure spiked up and released itself by way of my ass. On to the back of the guy’s neck. It was audible, and it certainly was relieving, but I initially fancied that the frat bro did not register the hit. There was a-lot of noise in that room, so I assumed that my blast would have been muffled by all the talk of date-rape trials and gay-bashing plans. But my friend was trailing me, and just as he passed through my fumes, he yelped “damn man, did you just fart on that dude!?”
At which point, I began to haul ass down the stairs, busted out the front door, and hit the parking lot at a high huff. There was a-lot of yelling involved. Maybe even some searchlights and a gauntlet of barbed wire. It was like a jailbreak. But they would have skipped the prison time and gone straight for a hangin’ I reckon. I got away clean, but that dude’s red neck did not.
Speaking of passing gas in public, I am reminded of one of my myriad of reasons for not liking “gentlemen clubs”. It will take me a minute to come full-circle on that transition (how “gas” and “gentlemen clubs” are related), so sit tight.
Ta-ta bars are a complete waste of money. Sure, some dudes swear by them, and just as I see religion: not my thing, but that’s fine by me (clubs are comparable to church in most respects: costs money, creates family rifts, can ruin a good weekend, the music sucks, and there is a-lot of sitting involved). They are also highly misunderstood by those who do not go. It is easy to assume that within those windowless walls there is free sex in every nook, and it is a big ol’ orgy for high-powered salesmen and square-jawed politicians. But this is not so. In fact, the idea that there is sex everywhere is just plain stupid. It is the “promise” of sex that sells. NOT the sex itself.
Here’s why there is no sex, by example: two guys walk into a strip club, both with $400. Guy 1 sits down and immediately starts having sex with strange women. Guy 2 sits down nearby and for 30 minutes, no one pays a single bit of goddamn attention to him, but there are provocatively dressed women parading themselves past him in a teasing fashion. After thirty minutes is up, a woman walks over to Guy 2 and asks if he “would like some company”. Guy 2 is practically frothing at the mouth, and desperate for some kind of attention, so he says “sure, that’d be great”. She sits down and immediately orders herself a drink. She makes small talk, and then asks Guy 2 some questions to ensure that he has cash. He does, and he practically tells her how much he has. Now she decides how she must spend her time. At $20 every 4-minute song, she calculates that his cash will last him about an hour and a half. She plans to bleed him dry, and force all her drinks on to his tab, which will have to be settled by his credit card. Are you feeling the sex for Guy 2 yet? No? No surprise. Guy 2, drawn in by the “promise” of some sort of experience blinks his eyes, and an hour and a half has passed. She stands up immediately after the end of some shitty Motley Crue song, puts her gear back on, and says “okay sugar, I need to take care of things. I had a really great time with you tonight, but I gotta go.” She then slyly gives Guy 2 a verbal tab of $400 for 1.5 hours worth of “work”, half of which was spent just sitting on his lap talking about her three-year old boy or her plans to attend med school. Guy 1 got his rocks off within the first 5 minutes, would have paid the going rate for such activities (less than $100 I would guess) and split, leaving a mess for someone to clean and a chick that will need some clinic work done on a regular basis (overhead for owner of club).
Which do you think has a bar tab in excess of $200? Who do you think left broke? Who do you think had an enormous case of blue ball, but will not remember that part of the experience when he considers dropping into the establishment in the future? Are you getting it yet? Do you understand now? Is it not completely fucking obvious where the real business is? Can we just go ahead and say that men going to strip clubs is as useless and pointless as women getting a full makeover now? That is to say: expensive, harmless, time-consuming, extravagant, and completely unnecessary.
Enough rant, on to gas story.
So, back in my hazier years, I was at a little strip club in Round Rock called Joy’s. It was a crap hole that had a dick-dancer joint next door called Bad Boys. We knew some of the girls who worked there, so we went every now and again for kicks. One night, while there, I went up to get a dollar dance. For those who do not know, there are two types of dances offered in most strip clubs: The lap/table dance: $20 per song, and the dollar/stage dance: $1 for 15 seconds of devoted attention from on-stage dancer to dudes standing along the edge of the stage. So, I was standing at the edge of the stage, drunk off my ass, waiting for the girl to wander over to me for my 15 seconds. She wandered over, smiled, turned around and got on all fours. Sounds hot, right? Wrong. Keep in mind, while on the stage she is a good three-feet above you. That makes her ass at eye level. You see nothing but butt. No female form really, no curves and supple breasts. No “come hither” stare or gymnastics. Just ass. As if you were hiding in a toilet, just to see butt or something. In all cultures, this is considered foul mockery, and quite rude. Basically, she mooned me, at VERY close range, for 15 seconds. We called this the “damned-ass dance”, and it really sucked to get one, even for a measly dollar. To top off the d.a.d.: while she was thrusting her pimply g-stringed butt in my face, I heard her squeeze a few poots out, in rhythm with the C+C Music Factory bullshit that was playing. Yes, she mooned me, farted in my face, and then had the nerve to request payment with her back still to me, by pulling up the string on her g-string for me to slide the bill underneath.
That must have been karma getting me back for that frat dude’s neck.
Damn you baby powder!
Friday, November 12, 2004
Jibber-Jabber, para tu?
When I jog in the evenings along Town Lake here in Austin, people tend to make eye contact with me. I never had a problem with this, until I realized that they are staring at me because I am wheezing like an asthmatic, and sweating like a coal miner as I pound the trails. So, to help “train” these strangers to stop staring at me, I have started to stick my tongue out at them. Whenever I meet eyes with anyone, I make a silly facial expression. So far, the slobbering, heaving joggers have avoided responding to this training. Fuck. Them. Sideways.
I have a neighbor, somewhere along my street, who will shriek in the middle of the night, for no known reason. I am aware of this banshee because I step out to smoke on my driveway, and my nic session gets nipped and dabbed with the sound of someone performing self-flatulence. It might be a crazy Catholic, shedding their sins in a nightly, medieval routine, but I doubt it. It is probably some crazy woman who can only successfully avoid stabbing her man in the head by going outside to yell at nothing. I wish she would just stab the guy though.
Someone keeps stealing my outdoor lighting. I have these lights that line my driveway, like a runway, which are solar powered. Some of my cretin neighbors have discovered my use of modern technology, and have also discovered that solar powered means: no pesky cords to mess with during theft. Yet they insist on taking them ONE BY ONE. Fuckers. They keep jacking with my driveway symmetry, and it is seriously grinding at my OCD tendencies.
You ever killed a man? You understand what it is like to take the life of another human being? To see the last gasps of animation seep from the vessel of one human’s entire experience? I bet you haven’t. Can you even fathom the theatre of it all? The shaking, the blood, the insistence of life? The way the body appears to refuse being parted from its soul? Yeah, me neither. And it sounds like a pretty shitty thing to experience too.
I really enjoy Raisin Bran. For those “in the know”, you know the joy of stability it brings. I can set a clock to the rhythm it affords my daily schedule. I love you Raisin Bran, even the knock-off versions you have spawned.
I chew my nails a-lot. Sometimes, I will gnaw my little stubs to the quick, without even noticing it. I’ll be working, and periodically lifting my bloody hand to my mouth for a chomping session. Whenever I wash my hair with Head and Shoulders, the chemicals feel weird on my scarred finger-tips. Kinda like they were being boiled, or crushed under a hot car tire. Don’t pretend you can relate to that kind of sensation. You cannot, unless you allow me to chew your fingers to open wounds, and then sauce them in Nizoral until they poof up like five kolaches attached to a human palm. Then we’ll talk.
I do not like pants that fit. For men, pants should be comfortable, and leave a-lot to the female imagination. Women have great imaginations, and we men should not hamper their intellectual strength by handing them the concept on a platter. Besides, guys look like they’re either a redneck, or a sad fellow who has to borrow his little brother’s duds when the pants fit too tight. Hipsters just need to loosen up a bit.
I like Caucasian jokes. I think it is funny to make fun of honkies. I think it is even funnier to make fun of coloreds. And Messican’ts. Those are funny jokes. You know the ones, involving too many people in a car or something like that? Those are funny. Tell me some of those if you have any. I forget how they go. You know what? Never mind. I always forget how they go because I just remembered that I think those jokes are pretty unoriginal and shitty. Keep them to yourself. Hater.
This post has become its own being. I must abandon it before it bleeds me dry. Damn blogger monster. I must be dehydrated. Happy hour should cure that little problem.
I have a neighbor, somewhere along my street, who will shriek in the middle of the night, for no known reason. I am aware of this banshee because I step out to smoke on my driveway, and my nic session gets nipped and dabbed with the sound of someone performing self-flatulence. It might be a crazy Catholic, shedding their sins in a nightly, medieval routine, but I doubt it. It is probably some crazy woman who can only successfully avoid stabbing her man in the head by going outside to yell at nothing. I wish she would just stab the guy though.
Someone keeps stealing my outdoor lighting. I have these lights that line my driveway, like a runway, which are solar powered. Some of my cretin neighbors have discovered my use of modern technology, and have also discovered that solar powered means: no pesky cords to mess with during theft. Yet they insist on taking them ONE BY ONE. Fuckers. They keep jacking with my driveway symmetry, and it is seriously grinding at my OCD tendencies.
You ever killed a man? You understand what it is like to take the life of another human being? To see the last gasps of animation seep from the vessel of one human’s entire experience? I bet you haven’t. Can you even fathom the theatre of it all? The shaking, the blood, the insistence of life? The way the body appears to refuse being parted from its soul? Yeah, me neither. And it sounds like a pretty shitty thing to experience too.
I really enjoy Raisin Bran. For those “in the know”, you know the joy of stability it brings. I can set a clock to the rhythm it affords my daily schedule. I love you Raisin Bran, even the knock-off versions you have spawned.
I chew my nails a-lot. Sometimes, I will gnaw my little stubs to the quick, without even noticing it. I’ll be working, and periodically lifting my bloody hand to my mouth for a chomping session. Whenever I wash my hair with Head and Shoulders, the chemicals feel weird on my scarred finger-tips. Kinda like they were being boiled, or crushed under a hot car tire. Don’t pretend you can relate to that kind of sensation. You cannot, unless you allow me to chew your fingers to open wounds, and then sauce them in Nizoral until they poof up like five kolaches attached to a human palm. Then we’ll talk.
I do not like pants that fit. For men, pants should be comfortable, and leave a-lot to the female imagination. Women have great imaginations, and we men should not hamper their intellectual strength by handing them the concept on a platter. Besides, guys look like they’re either a redneck, or a sad fellow who has to borrow his little brother’s duds when the pants fit too tight. Hipsters just need to loosen up a bit.
I like Caucasian jokes. I think it is funny to make fun of honkies. I think it is even funnier to make fun of coloreds. And Messican’ts. Those are funny jokes. You know the ones, involving too many people in a car or something like that? Those are funny. Tell me some of those if you have any. I forget how they go. You know what? Never mind. I always forget how they go because I just remembered that I think those jokes are pretty unoriginal and shitty. Keep them to yourself. Hater.
This post has become its own being. I must abandon it before it bleeds me dry. Damn blogger monster. I must be dehydrated. Happy hour should cure that little problem.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Embarrassment is best left to professionals
The other day I was talking to a friend of mine about embarrassment, and that I generally feel resistant to it. Feel free to read my Drink Stories if you disagree.
So I got to thinking on the subject, and decided that without the feeling of embarrassment, an individual shows more potential to be a psychopath. This scared me a bit, so I thought long and hard about times that I have honestly been embarrassed. Luckily, I found a few. Well, four. But that’s a good start along the road to recovery from potential psycopathdom! Don’t you think? Yes.
Things that I have done where I have actually felt some level of embarrassment:
1. Farted on the back of a frat-guy’s neck while “squeezing” by his chair, upstairs at Boar’s Head (now Opal Divine’s). I ran out of that mutha like it was an AIDs factory. I don’t approve of fraternities, but that gives me no right to blow dirt on a man’s jugular. Even if it was an accident. I am not completely sure whom I feel most embarrassed for…
2. Carried out an aerobics routine in the 5th grade, in front of the whole elementary school and faculty.
Those of us in the advanced classes, or Super Outstanding Students (S.O.S – lord help the retards) as we were called, somehow got charged with the duty of entertaining the school by showing off our physical abilities. Even though it was supposed to be our brains which set us apart from the rabid masses of pre-pubescents, the powers-that-be wanted us to showcase a workout routine. We were to set an example for the rest of the school because, just like the youth of today, no self-respecting kid willingly did exercise. We were expected to turn that tide, and convince everyone through a brilliant show of art and physique that staying fit was somehow cool.
Yes, a stage full of sweaty nerds should do just that, neatly. Marketing genius, I tell you. Genius. Why they chose the geeks to do this, I will never understand.
Jane Fonda had some tapes at the time, so we set out to copy her technique, stretch for fucking stretch. Being poor, my family did not have the cheddar to toss at workout clothing, so I had to use my summer cut-offs. In order to ensure maximum flexibility for the rather challenging sets a-la Fonda, those cut-offs had to be cut higher, and higher. Eventually, the cloth pockets could be seen, tongueing out from underneath the frayed denim edge. If my balls had any hair at that time, it would have been seen by all. They were entirely too short for a boy, and it was entirely beyond disappointing that they were my only pair. The end result was beyond gay, totally unnecessary, and the fitness craze did not “catch on” the way our instructors hoped. Face it, nerds DO NOT influence anyone by showcasing talent. They do it by exacting revenge on the population that ignored them throughout their miss-treated lives. Not by sweating and prancing around on stage in daisy-dukes. Fucking irreversible embarrassment.
3. When I was in third grade I used to get chased by this crazy 6th grader at daycare. This fucker was nuts. He ate the sewage-mud on the playground (H-town reprezent with the filth!) and made shanks for fun.
One fine afternoon, he was chasing me around the playground, threatening to puncture my vital organs with a sharpened tree branch, when I saw my mother walk out on to the cement landing by the door. She started up a conversation with the feather-haired Dokken-lover we had for a “counselor”, as I continued to dodge my mud-frothed pursuer. I managed to work the chase around to where my mother was, and hid behind her. As soon as the stick-wielding lunatic closed in on us, I began pointing up at my mom, from under her shadow, yelling “you have to stop chasing me now, my mommy is here and she will protect me!” Me: smiling triumphantly as the future inmate slowed up a bit, reluctantly looking up at my mother. The loon-ball: darting his eyes up and down, between my mother’s face and my own, his grin starting to reappear. My Mother: completely oblivious to her son standing next to her, in her shadow. She continued to talk about absolutely NOTHING while the murderer-in-training reached in, yanked me from my mother’s side, dragged me over to a tree in the corner of the playground, and beat me against the trunk like a rolled-up carpet. I was not afraid of the beating, or his penitentiary knives (they never penetrated the skin anyway, he always picked low-quality sticks). I was embarrassed for my mother when I finally broke free, and the raging bag of hormones she was gabbing with was the first to ask me my reason for crying, while my mother simply asked where I had been “this whole time.” I would have sold my mum for $2, Canadian, right then, to the nearest band of Gypsies. I mean, even the head-banger chick asked... The shame runs deep.
4. Seventh grade, Phys Ed, dodge-ball, in the boys’ locker room. We were split up evenly between guys and girls to make it fair. There was no way, however, to use the same method of “fairness” along the age-line. We had some old-ass 7th graders, with full-beards and kids of their own in the neighboring elementary school. Well, maybe not any children in the neighboring school. Their kids probably went to school wherever their baby’s momma’s grandparents lived. Bygones… Coach passed out balls for the beginning volley, and I caught one! It was yellow, previously recognizable as a Nerf product that had since been chewed to a lumpy-fuzziness, and smelled the way you would expect a hippo of similar size to smell. It was a biohazard, but it was mine. Until the potentially 32-year old classmate next to me decided that my happiness was just too much to take. He started by asking for the ball, which was met by my proud denial. I mean, would he resort to violence, right here in front of the whole class? Over a funky-ass post-Nerf product? Yes. He would. And he did. It came in the form of a right cross that caught me over the mouth. I say “over” because his fist seemed to eclipse half of my face. The impact caused three unfortunate events: 1- I fell backward off the bench, 2- I dropped my stinky ball, and 3- I started to tear-up and looked across the way to see the most popular cheerleader staring right at me, shaking her pony-tailed head. Fuck me. Why couldn’t one of the seemingly endless army of mongoloid half-wits occupying the distant ends of her bench witness my fleecing instead? I never figured out what she was shaking her head at. Embarrassing, either way.
That’s all I can think of off the top of my head.
What about YOU and YOUR embarrassing moments? Whatchu got?
Damn you previously-Nerf products!
So I got to thinking on the subject, and decided that without the feeling of embarrassment, an individual shows more potential to be a psychopath. This scared me a bit, so I thought long and hard about times that I have honestly been embarrassed. Luckily, I found a few. Well, four. But that’s a good start along the road to recovery from potential psycopathdom! Don’t you think? Yes.
Things that I have done where I have actually felt some level of embarrassment:
1. Farted on the back of a frat-guy’s neck while “squeezing” by his chair, upstairs at Boar’s Head (now Opal Divine’s). I ran out of that mutha like it was an AIDs factory. I don’t approve of fraternities, but that gives me no right to blow dirt on a man’s jugular. Even if it was an accident. I am not completely sure whom I feel most embarrassed for…
2. Carried out an aerobics routine in the 5th grade, in front of the whole elementary school and faculty.
Those of us in the advanced classes, or Super Outstanding Students (S.O.S – lord help the retards) as we were called, somehow got charged with the duty of entertaining the school by showing off our physical abilities. Even though it was supposed to be our brains which set us apart from the rabid masses of pre-pubescents, the powers-that-be wanted us to showcase a workout routine. We were to set an example for the rest of the school because, just like the youth of today, no self-respecting kid willingly did exercise. We were expected to turn that tide, and convince everyone through a brilliant show of art and physique that staying fit was somehow cool.
Yes, a stage full of sweaty nerds should do just that, neatly. Marketing genius, I tell you. Genius. Why they chose the geeks to do this, I will never understand.
Jane Fonda had some tapes at the time, so we set out to copy her technique, stretch for fucking stretch. Being poor, my family did not have the cheddar to toss at workout clothing, so I had to use my summer cut-offs. In order to ensure maximum flexibility for the rather challenging sets a-la Fonda, those cut-offs had to be cut higher, and higher. Eventually, the cloth pockets could be seen, tongueing out from underneath the frayed denim edge. If my balls had any hair at that time, it would have been seen by all. They were entirely too short for a boy, and it was entirely beyond disappointing that they were my only pair. The end result was beyond gay, totally unnecessary, and the fitness craze did not “catch on” the way our instructors hoped. Face it, nerds DO NOT influence anyone by showcasing talent. They do it by exacting revenge on the population that ignored them throughout their miss-treated lives. Not by sweating and prancing around on stage in daisy-dukes. Fucking irreversible embarrassment.
3. When I was in third grade I used to get chased by this crazy 6th grader at daycare. This fucker was nuts. He ate the sewage-mud on the playground (H-town reprezent with the filth!) and made shanks for fun.
One fine afternoon, he was chasing me around the playground, threatening to puncture my vital organs with a sharpened tree branch, when I saw my mother walk out on to the cement landing by the door. She started up a conversation with the feather-haired Dokken-lover we had for a “counselor”, as I continued to dodge my mud-frothed pursuer. I managed to work the chase around to where my mother was, and hid behind her. As soon as the stick-wielding lunatic closed in on us, I began pointing up at my mom, from under her shadow, yelling “you have to stop chasing me now, my mommy is here and she will protect me!” Me: smiling triumphantly as the future inmate slowed up a bit, reluctantly looking up at my mother. The loon-ball: darting his eyes up and down, between my mother’s face and my own, his grin starting to reappear. My Mother: completely oblivious to her son standing next to her, in her shadow. She continued to talk about absolutely NOTHING while the murderer-in-training reached in, yanked me from my mother’s side, dragged me over to a tree in the corner of the playground, and beat me against the trunk like a rolled-up carpet. I was not afraid of the beating, or his penitentiary knives (they never penetrated the skin anyway, he always picked low-quality sticks). I was embarrassed for my mother when I finally broke free, and the raging bag of hormones she was gabbing with was the first to ask me my reason for crying, while my mother simply asked where I had been “this whole time.” I would have sold my mum for $2, Canadian, right then, to the nearest band of Gypsies. I mean, even the head-banger chick asked... The shame runs deep.
4. Seventh grade, Phys Ed, dodge-ball, in the boys’ locker room. We were split up evenly between guys and girls to make it fair. There was no way, however, to use the same method of “fairness” along the age-line. We had some old-ass 7th graders, with full-beards and kids of their own in the neighboring elementary school. Well, maybe not any children in the neighboring school. Their kids probably went to school wherever their baby’s momma’s grandparents lived. Bygones… Coach passed out balls for the beginning volley, and I caught one! It was yellow, previously recognizable as a Nerf product that had since been chewed to a lumpy-fuzziness, and smelled the way you would expect a hippo of similar size to smell. It was a biohazard, but it was mine. Until the potentially 32-year old classmate next to me decided that my happiness was just too much to take. He started by asking for the ball, which was met by my proud denial. I mean, would he resort to violence, right here in front of the whole class? Over a funky-ass post-Nerf product? Yes. He would. And he did. It came in the form of a right cross that caught me over the mouth. I say “over” because his fist seemed to eclipse half of my face. The impact caused three unfortunate events: 1- I fell backward off the bench, 2- I dropped my stinky ball, and 3- I started to tear-up and looked across the way to see the most popular cheerleader staring right at me, shaking her pony-tailed head. Fuck me. Why couldn’t one of the seemingly endless army of mongoloid half-wits occupying the distant ends of her bench witness my fleecing instead? I never figured out what she was shaking her head at. Embarrassing, either way.
That’s all I can think of off the top of my head.
What about YOU and YOUR embarrassing moments? Whatchu got?
Damn you previously-Nerf products!
Friday, October 29, 2004
Saturday: Gettin' my BOO on!
Party Saturday. Costume thing. Booze, pool, music, peeps off the streets, and disguises for to hide them identities. I LOVE throwing house parties. So much more relaxed than your standard bar or stuffy-assed club. One can really let loose at a house party. It is inviting by design: everyone has something in common with everyone else there, and you’ll more than likely see the same people in the near future. So nothing about it is Strangers-in-a-Hotel-Bar-ish, and no one there is truly able to lie their ass off about anything (a mutual friend will call them on it). Besides, the booze and debauchery are always free at our parties. Un-fucking-beatable.
I really enjoy Djing at parties too. Maybe I enjoy adding to an atmosphere of fun. Perhaps I aim to help people “let go” for a bit. Maybe it is just because I want to control the music. Maybe it is because when I DJ, I avoid drinking/smoking/passing out too much. Maybe it is the power over an environment. Maybe it is the fact that I have been doing it for almost fourteen years and it makes as much sense to me as breathing.
Who knows.
But while I really do enjoy spinning at parties, there are some drawbacks to consider. It is not all fun, some things which routinely occur are downright morale killing (“dude, this music totally sucks. And so do you.”) while other occurrences are simply obnoxious. I’ll let you in on some of what I consider irritating behavior perpetrated against the DJ at your average house party, Anytown, USA.
People fucking with the DJ’s records. People have NO idea what records cost. They think: “oh, that Milli Vanilli is soooooo gay, and you can like, get it off the Interweb for like, free and shit. So, why is such a big deal if I walk up and just start scratching on it?” Errr… because they DON’T MELT THAT WAX ANYMORE. They made X copies back in 1988 and then shut down the press. So, unlike the great digital universe of shitty-sounding MP3s, there is a FIXED number of older vinyl in existence. No more. EVER AGAIN. So, any that are available are valuable to whoever might want them. What one person hears as kitsch, a DJ/collector will properly recognize as a brilliant rarity, which should be cared for and protected. For fucks sake.
Requests for current top-40 music. Yeeeeaaaaaah… turn on the radio if you simply must hear that new Blue 7 Maroon Novemberbox 20 song. Why would a DJ buy it when it is played for free, on seven different stations, all the damn time? Request that caca in ten years, when it will be interesting and nostalgic to hear. Today, it is obnoxious and you know it.
Requests for slow or depressing songs. Sure, everybody enjoys a little Morrissey every now and again. We all have our dark moments. But when you approach the DJ at a party, and give the DJ your pitch: “hey man, did you bring ‘Everybody Hurts’? Or anything Nick Drake,” you are basically saying: “hey DJ, I hate everyone here who is enjoying themselves and I want them to suffer and suck like I do, are you with me?”
People who use the DJ's turntables as their personal tabletop. At every party I have Djed, invariably someone during the course of the night decides that their drink must be set down on one of the turntables. Not usually while it is in use, mind you, but during a break in the mix, when I am absent. Someone simply decides that the trashcan (five feet away) is just too distant a depository for their booze vessel. So, a solo cup of backwash, foam, and perhaps some semi-rotting fruit ends up perched atop my wheels o’ steel. Thanks.
People asking the DJ really vague-ass questions. I believe they do this in an effort to start a rapport with the DJ, trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. They want to ask a meaningful, insightful question, but it just ends up sounding dickish. “You got any good music?” No fucker, I only brought the absolute garbage you’ve been hearing for the past hour and a half. “Is this the only kind of music you brought?” What the hell does that mean? “Kind” of music… eh? “Man”-kind of music? Are they looking for a visual “kind” of music? Here’s a nickel, buy a clue. And my favorite: “You have anything cool to play? I want to hear some cool music.” Don’t we all, you dumbass. Don’t we all.
Oooooohhh… after my little tirade here, this might be the last time I am ever invited to DJ. OH NO!
Anybody want to buy some Technics 1200s, 3-way mixer, and a bunch of extra needles and such? I just might have some for sale…
Damn you Milli Vanilli!
I really enjoy Djing at parties too. Maybe I enjoy adding to an atmosphere of fun. Perhaps I aim to help people “let go” for a bit. Maybe it is just because I want to control the music. Maybe it is because when I DJ, I avoid drinking/smoking/passing out too much. Maybe it is the power over an environment. Maybe it is the fact that I have been doing it for almost fourteen years and it makes as much sense to me as breathing.
Who knows.
But while I really do enjoy spinning at parties, there are some drawbacks to consider. It is not all fun, some things which routinely occur are downright morale killing (“dude, this music totally sucks. And so do you.”) while other occurrences are simply obnoxious. I’ll let you in on some of what I consider irritating behavior perpetrated against the DJ at your average house party, Anytown, USA.
People fucking with the DJ’s records. People have NO idea what records cost. They think: “oh, that Milli Vanilli is soooooo gay, and you can like, get it off the Interweb for like, free and shit. So, why is such a big deal if I walk up and just start scratching on it?” Errr… because they DON’T MELT THAT WAX ANYMORE. They made X copies back in 1988 and then shut down the press. So, unlike the great digital universe of shitty-sounding MP3s, there is a FIXED number of older vinyl in existence. No more. EVER AGAIN. So, any that are available are valuable to whoever might want them. What one person hears as kitsch, a DJ/collector will properly recognize as a brilliant rarity, which should be cared for and protected. For fucks sake.
Requests for current top-40 music. Yeeeeaaaaaah… turn on the radio if you simply must hear that new Blue 7 Maroon Novemberbox 20 song. Why would a DJ buy it when it is played for free, on seven different stations, all the damn time? Request that caca in ten years, when it will be interesting and nostalgic to hear. Today, it is obnoxious and you know it.
Requests for slow or depressing songs. Sure, everybody enjoys a little Morrissey every now and again. We all have our dark moments. But when you approach the DJ at a party, and give the DJ your pitch: “hey man, did you bring ‘Everybody Hurts’? Or anything Nick Drake,” you are basically saying: “hey DJ, I hate everyone here who is enjoying themselves and I want them to suffer and suck like I do, are you with me?”
People who use the DJ's turntables as their personal tabletop. At every party I have Djed, invariably someone during the course of the night decides that their drink must be set down on one of the turntables. Not usually while it is in use, mind you, but during a break in the mix, when I am absent. Someone simply decides that the trashcan (five feet away) is just too distant a depository for their booze vessel. So, a solo cup of backwash, foam, and perhaps some semi-rotting fruit ends up perched atop my wheels o’ steel. Thanks.
People asking the DJ really vague-ass questions. I believe they do this in an effort to start a rapport with the DJ, trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. They want to ask a meaningful, insightful question, but it just ends up sounding dickish. “You got any good music?” No fucker, I only brought the absolute garbage you’ve been hearing for the past hour and a half. “Is this the only kind of music you brought?” What the hell does that mean? “Kind” of music… eh? “Man”-kind of music? Are they looking for a visual “kind” of music? Here’s a nickel, buy a clue. And my favorite: “You have anything cool to play? I want to hear some cool music.” Don’t we all, you dumbass. Don’t we all.
Oooooohhh… after my little tirade here, this might be the last time I am ever invited to DJ. OH NO!
Anybody want to buy some Technics 1200s, 3-way mixer, and a bunch of extra needles and such? I just might have some for sale…
Damn you Milli Vanilli!
Not ALL dogs go to heaven
But if there is a heaven, then this furry dude gets VIP treatment. (Jesus's Champagne room? Wha?)
THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME DOG. EVER.
And he looks almost exactly like my friend Carol's dog: Indiana (an awesome dog in his own right).
Just wanted to highlight the pooch. He rocks like granite.
Word.
THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME DOG. EVER.
And he looks almost exactly like my friend Carol's dog: Indiana (an awesome dog in his own right).
Just wanted to highlight the pooch. He rocks like granite.
Word.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
She has arrived, and I am in vent-mode
Here is a good start for this post.
Don’t get me wrong, I am indeed excited that my girlfriend has arrived, and is living with me now. But there are some elements of cohabitation which require some getting used to. I’ve never shared the EXACT same space with any of my previous girlfriends. Sure, we would stay over at each other’s place and co-mingle some items. A special pillow here, a second toothbrush there, some dishware swapping… but nothing too invasive. When neither person has ANYWHERE else to hide from the other, and NOWHERE else readily available to stash their “other” crap, then you have the true article. Then you have something beyond periodic-spending-the-night-with-respite-in-between, or that quasi-couple roommate-ish type of arrangement that young pairs mistakenly label “living together”. If a man and woman have alternate places to live (two rents, abodes, whatever), then they do not “live together”. Rather, they “kick-it at one-another’s crib”. Big difference.
On top of this distinction, I want to make it clear that I believe those couples who moved into a new place together (bought a new house, rented a bigger shared apartment, whatever) will have only a veneer comprehension of my current situation. The versions of compromise are for all intents and purposes: incomparably different. Let me try to explain.
Before my wonderful girlfriend (for those who know her, she IS truly wonderful) moved in (a whole two days ago), I had the run of my place. I called the shots. I owned the thing, and that was that. I decided what went where, and whether or not changes of any sort were in order. I was comfortable with that arrangement (made with myself). And in a very real way, I still am. I wish there was a way to make a woman comfortable in her man’s place without disturbing the relative calm of organization and the peace of arrangement/color therein. But alas, I am fully aware that a guy’s place is just that: his place. As soon as she arrives, it needs to change into: their place. And that requires her to exert as much influence in design/arrangement as would be necessary to make it: her place. This push and pull is not as prevalent when a couple parachutes into a brand new environment together (the majority of compromise and precedent setting will occur at the outset of the move by verbal negotiation, not as a result of turf-war or passive-aggressive maneuvers of the unilateral variety).
So here I am. In the process of making an honest effort to provide an environment in which my girlfriend will feel “at home”, as this is her only place to label as such. And I truly want her to be comfortable, not just to have a “feeling” of comfort. I do not want her feeling like an encroaching visitor, because that is the furthest thing from what she actually is. I invited her into OUR home, and I want that welcome to remain.
That being the case, there are some things that need to be understood. And perhaps in my effort to understand, I can help others who are (will be) in a similar situation. The main part, as it currently stands, is for me to be able to clearly define what matters to me and what matters to her. Healthy compromise can occur after that.
List time. Just a general tacking of things, to help me get the topography of the thing. I’ll make this general, and not necessarily aimed at my girlfriend (although it will all be inspired by her). I refuse to say anything against my lovely lady, but I can vent in a general sort of way. If she ever reads this, she will know what may apply to our situation.
1. The bathroom is hers, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you are allowed to store your own grooming accessories there, then you are “afforded” some slight space. That means: you and your five hygiene necessities are an organizational afterthought, not a pillar of consideration.
2. She wants to repaint the bedroom, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you left the paint the same color it was when you moved in, then this is a given. She is much more sensitive to such things, and will require color enhancement. If you painted it, well then… that’s the problem right there. Get out the brushes and head to Home Depot to color match something.
3. Her couch is better, and there is no ambiguity about it. This is more than likely true. Your couch is somewhat comfortable, sure. But hers has an academic aesthetic to it that yours never had (even when yours was new). Hers has a “style” that is referred to in architectural books. Your couch’s only redeeming qualities are: it reclines; the color hides dirt; it was free. Hers is comfortable AND attractive. Besides, you’ve probably let your stankin’ drunk buddies pass out on yours, and she knows it. Cuddling in the same divot where your sweaty friend passed gas and puked into a trashcan before lulling into a piss-staining coma, simply won’t do for her. Can you blame her? I am tired of typing that there “is no ambiguity about it,” because there NEVER is. Even when things appear negotiable, it should be understood that the fact that they are being discussed means that a decision to the contrary of yours has already been reached (in which case, there is an easy way… and a hard way to deal with any “ambiguity”).
4. She prefers all the dinnerware be both matching and “cute”. Hers happens to be both, while yours is questionable at best. Aside: you will be smart never to question what qualifies as “cute”. Because this is a term of cruel vaguery, chucked in your direction in hopes that you will nibble the bait and become justly informed that everything “hers” is unquestionably “cute”. Your trip to the hospital resulting from an unexpected aneurysm will be your only mulligan for bothering to question the “cuteness” of her things. They are all “cute”, they all match (yours: neither), and they should all be in regular kitchen use. Leave it be before you become a neurological statistic.
5. Your clothes can live outside of the closet. Get used to this, or prepare to inhabit a hall closet (or perhaps a ramshackle construct in the corner of some secret room you have successfully hidden from her). Just pile them in a quiet corner somewhere and move on. Soon, she’ll be picking all that crap for you anyway (and she’ll find a good home for the stuff she buys you). A note concerning clothing bought for you by your woman: all other women will comment at how nice it looks, and will immediately pick up on some strange pheromone signal that your woman stitched into the fabric, warning them to “dig elsewhere, this one is taken. See how he wears whatever I throw at him?”
6. I bet you never knew there were so many contraptions designed to help ease the burden of owning 6,000 pairs of shoes. Oh yeah, that’s a real problem for today’s active ladies. The sorting, indexing, referencing, and locating of a single pair of ivory, bow-tied, strappy-medium-heels can be an arduous task, requiring specialized equipment and database technology. There’s torture-device looking bracket-things that drill on to the back of a door. Some are hangar-based, with crazy tic-tac-toe pockets over every square inch, or the cubby-holed variety so she can view them in their natural pose (upright). Or she’ll just jenga-stack them in the closet with some sort of number-method to catalog their location, perhaps using Polaroid photos of them in “cute” positions (or even ON her feet) to give a visual aid in future shoe-searches, presented in a flip-ready binder.
But you know what? As I type and read what I am typing, it all sounds like a big ol’ load of bullshit from a territorial dude who simply wishes that his woman would approach things with the same level of logic that he does. Of course, that idiot is flawed in several ways. The two main ones being 1) his “logic” is only logical to him and 2) he would no doubt be less interested in a woman who thought about things the way he does.
So this list ends with me deciding to stop being such a baby about the whole thing, and promising myself to make a better effort at seeing the forest for the trees. There is a bigger picture here, and it (luckily) will not be affected by her shoe mongering or the fact that we now have a (“cute”) serving tray, yet no table to serve anything to. These things make her comfortable, and that is what I want more than anything else (even more than a better corner to stack my underwear, or cleaner space behind the toilet to stash my deodorant and razors… kidding! Kind of.).
Damn you “cute” dishware!
Don’t get me wrong, I am indeed excited that my girlfriend has arrived, and is living with me now. But there are some elements of cohabitation which require some getting used to. I’ve never shared the EXACT same space with any of my previous girlfriends. Sure, we would stay over at each other’s place and co-mingle some items. A special pillow here, a second toothbrush there, some dishware swapping… but nothing too invasive. When neither person has ANYWHERE else to hide from the other, and NOWHERE else readily available to stash their “other” crap, then you have the true article. Then you have something beyond periodic-spending-the-night-with-respite-in-between, or that quasi-couple roommate-ish type of arrangement that young pairs mistakenly label “living together”. If a man and woman have alternate places to live (two rents, abodes, whatever), then they do not “live together”. Rather, they “kick-it at one-another’s crib”. Big difference.
On top of this distinction, I want to make it clear that I believe those couples who moved into a new place together (bought a new house, rented a bigger shared apartment, whatever) will have only a veneer comprehension of my current situation. The versions of compromise are for all intents and purposes: incomparably different. Let me try to explain.
Before my wonderful girlfriend (for those who know her, she IS truly wonderful) moved in (a whole two days ago), I had the run of my place. I called the shots. I owned the thing, and that was that. I decided what went where, and whether or not changes of any sort were in order. I was comfortable with that arrangement (made with myself). And in a very real way, I still am. I wish there was a way to make a woman comfortable in her man’s place without disturbing the relative calm of organization and the peace of arrangement/color therein. But alas, I am fully aware that a guy’s place is just that: his place. As soon as she arrives, it needs to change into: their place. And that requires her to exert as much influence in design/arrangement as would be necessary to make it: her place. This push and pull is not as prevalent when a couple parachutes into a brand new environment together (the majority of compromise and precedent setting will occur at the outset of the move by verbal negotiation, not as a result of turf-war or passive-aggressive maneuvers of the unilateral variety).
So here I am. In the process of making an honest effort to provide an environment in which my girlfriend will feel “at home”, as this is her only place to label as such. And I truly want her to be comfortable, not just to have a “feeling” of comfort. I do not want her feeling like an encroaching visitor, because that is the furthest thing from what she actually is. I invited her into OUR home, and I want that welcome to remain.
That being the case, there are some things that need to be understood. And perhaps in my effort to understand, I can help others who are (will be) in a similar situation. The main part, as it currently stands, is for me to be able to clearly define what matters to me and what matters to her. Healthy compromise can occur after that.
List time. Just a general tacking of things, to help me get the topography of the thing. I’ll make this general, and not necessarily aimed at my girlfriend (although it will all be inspired by her). I refuse to say anything against my lovely lady, but I can vent in a general sort of way. If she ever reads this, she will know what may apply to our situation.
1. The bathroom is hers, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you are allowed to store your own grooming accessories there, then you are “afforded” some slight space. That means: you and your five hygiene necessities are an organizational afterthought, not a pillar of consideration.
2. She wants to repaint the bedroom, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you left the paint the same color it was when you moved in, then this is a given. She is much more sensitive to such things, and will require color enhancement. If you painted it, well then… that’s the problem right there. Get out the brushes and head to Home Depot to color match something.
3. Her couch is better, and there is no ambiguity about it. This is more than likely true. Your couch is somewhat comfortable, sure. But hers has an academic aesthetic to it that yours never had (even when yours was new). Hers has a “style” that is referred to in architectural books. Your couch’s only redeeming qualities are: it reclines; the color hides dirt; it was free. Hers is comfortable AND attractive. Besides, you’ve probably let your stankin’ drunk buddies pass out on yours, and she knows it. Cuddling in the same divot where your sweaty friend passed gas and puked into a trashcan before lulling into a piss-staining coma, simply won’t do for her. Can you blame her? I am tired of typing that there “is no ambiguity about it,” because there NEVER is. Even when things appear negotiable, it should be understood that the fact that they are being discussed means that a decision to the contrary of yours has already been reached (in which case, there is an easy way… and a hard way to deal with any “ambiguity”).
4. She prefers all the dinnerware be both matching and “cute”. Hers happens to be both, while yours is questionable at best. Aside: you will be smart never to question what qualifies as “cute”. Because this is a term of cruel vaguery, chucked in your direction in hopes that you will nibble the bait and become justly informed that everything “hers” is unquestionably “cute”. Your trip to the hospital resulting from an unexpected aneurysm will be your only mulligan for bothering to question the “cuteness” of her things. They are all “cute”, they all match (yours: neither), and they should all be in regular kitchen use. Leave it be before you become a neurological statistic.
5. Your clothes can live outside of the closet. Get used to this, or prepare to inhabit a hall closet (or perhaps a ramshackle construct in the corner of some secret room you have successfully hidden from her). Just pile them in a quiet corner somewhere and move on. Soon, she’ll be picking all that crap for you anyway (and she’ll find a good home for the stuff she buys you). A note concerning clothing bought for you by your woman: all other women will comment at how nice it looks, and will immediately pick up on some strange pheromone signal that your woman stitched into the fabric, warning them to “dig elsewhere, this one is taken. See how he wears whatever I throw at him?”
6. I bet you never knew there were so many contraptions designed to help ease the burden of owning 6,000 pairs of shoes. Oh yeah, that’s a real problem for today’s active ladies. The sorting, indexing, referencing, and locating of a single pair of ivory, bow-tied, strappy-medium-heels can be an arduous task, requiring specialized equipment and database technology. There’s torture-device looking bracket-things that drill on to the back of a door. Some are hangar-based, with crazy tic-tac-toe pockets over every square inch, or the cubby-holed variety so she can view them in their natural pose (upright). Or she’ll just jenga-stack them in the closet with some sort of number-method to catalog their location, perhaps using Polaroid photos of them in “cute” positions (or even ON her feet) to give a visual aid in future shoe-searches, presented in a flip-ready binder.
But you know what? As I type and read what I am typing, it all sounds like a big ol’ load of bullshit from a territorial dude who simply wishes that his woman would approach things with the same level of logic that he does. Of course, that idiot is flawed in several ways. The two main ones being 1) his “logic” is only logical to him and 2) he would no doubt be less interested in a woman who thought about things the way he does.
So this list ends with me deciding to stop being such a baby about the whole thing, and promising myself to make a better effort at seeing the forest for the trees. There is a bigger picture here, and it (luckily) will not be affected by her shoe mongering or the fact that we now have a (“cute”) serving tray, yet no table to serve anything to. These things make her comfortable, and that is what I want more than anything else (even more than a better corner to stack my underwear, or cleaner space behind the toilet to stash my deodorant and razors… kidding! Kind of.).
Damn you “cute” dishware!
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