You know how sometimes you supress moments of humiliation or stupidity because they're just too much to deal with? Me too. So I'm just sitting here at work and the Braid song "Do You Like Coffee?" comes on my internet radio station. I don't even like the song. But the memory floodgates opened. I'm so J. Alfred Prufrock it's not even funny. Listen to this:
It's about 10 years ago, and I'm in college. I'm taking one of these lecture courses in a giant auditorium with like 300 people. I'm almost certainly very high every time I go to class. But I keep noticing this pretty girl who was just the type of girl I liked back then. Shy, pretty, disarming in that Charlie Brown's Little Red-Haired Girl kinda way.
But of course I never walk up and talk to her. I'm just too ineffectual. I sit and stare and then look away when she catches my eye. I don't even have the guts to smile when I look away when she catches me. No, I just give her the creepy, stalker vibe. Sexy.
So one day after class she walks up to me and starts to make small talk about the course. I'm ok once I actually start talking to a girl. Or so I always tell myself. But this girl finally says, "Do you wanna get a cup of coffee?" and gives me this smile that just melts me. Because I wrote the book on being suave, I smile and deliver a classic line. Are you ready? Wait for it...
Wait for it...
I says to her I says:
"I don't drink coffee."
Without a word she turns and practically runs away. And I never saw her again.
Can you see why I blocked this?
I IM'd Baby to tell her the story, and she reminds me that every girl that got away isn't worth the one I've managed to keep:
Me: "and i never saw her again"
(Baby is typing a message)
Baby: "Idiot"
(Baby is typing a message)
Baby: "How did you ever get me in the sack? If she offers you a steaming cup of poop you take it. Are you retarded?"
Me: "i know right? poor girl probably spent all that time building up her courage then went home and hung herself"
(Baby is typing a message)
Baby: "Please, you're not even that cute."
(Baby is typing a message)
Baby: "pwn3d"
Friday, June 30, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Identity Crisis
I've been thinking a lot today about who I am. No really.
While I'd like to think of myself as an individual, I've always defined myself as a member of a group. Throughout my life I associated with particular kinds of people, and they were who I was. I've been, in rough order, a Skateboarder, a Basketball Player, a Slacker, and an Indie Rocker. When I'm in that phase of my life I tend to hang out with those kinds of people, act that kind of way, do those kinds of things. Yet there was always some overlap. When I get bored of my current group I could always go back to the old group. But not anymore.
As I've gotten older, I've grown out of these groups. I'm too old to really skateboard anymore, not without feeling foolish. My body won't cooperate enough to play basketball. I've accomplished too much to really be a decent slacker at this point. And I've lost my desire to seek out new bands. So I'm not connected with these groups anymore, and honestly right now I don't know who to connect with.
I'm resisting the temptation to just be the guy that becomes the male version of his girlfriend. Baby is fantastic, and her taste in music and fashion and life and everything else has really grown on me. But I don't want it to get to the point where people are laughing at me because I've changed into her. At least I don't want them to laugh any more than they already are.
I feel like I should be able to find some group to belong to. But I don't know where to look. I'm stuck in between being too old for stuff that teenagers do and too old for stuff that old people do. I don't have the health to handle becoming an Alcoholic, and I don't have the means to become a Golfer. I can't give in completely to my nerdy urges to become a full-time Gamer or Computer Dork, but I'm not cool enough to work the Aging Hipster angle.
So I'm just sorta lost right now. I'm rapidly losing touch with my friends from my previous groups, and I don't really have any plan in place to find new friends. I'm used to friends drifting in and out of my life- that's happened to me since I was a kid. But I was able to balance that with what was always an influx of new people. These days the number of people I keep in my cell phone seems to keep shrinking, and I seem to get more spam than real emails. I rarely see people I considered close friends just a year or two ago. And worse (although good for them), I see them adjusting to their changing groups and identities with greater ease than me.
I guess maybe this is part of growing up, but it's lousy. I have this fear I'm going to end up like my parents. Sitting at home in the evening and building my life around my TV shows. Maybe the group I'm joining is Old People. Bitter.
While I'd like to think of myself as an individual, I've always defined myself as a member of a group. Throughout my life I associated with particular kinds of people, and they were who I was. I've been, in rough order, a Skateboarder, a Basketball Player, a Slacker, and an Indie Rocker. When I'm in that phase of my life I tend to hang out with those kinds of people, act that kind of way, do those kinds of things. Yet there was always some overlap. When I get bored of my current group I could always go back to the old group. But not anymore.
As I've gotten older, I've grown out of these groups. I'm too old to really skateboard anymore, not without feeling foolish. My body won't cooperate enough to play basketball. I've accomplished too much to really be a decent slacker at this point. And I've lost my desire to seek out new bands. So I'm not connected with these groups anymore, and honestly right now I don't know who to connect with.
I'm resisting the temptation to just be the guy that becomes the male version of his girlfriend. Baby is fantastic, and her taste in music and fashion and life and everything else has really grown on me. But I don't want it to get to the point where people are laughing at me because I've changed into her. At least I don't want them to laugh any more than they already are.
I feel like I should be able to find some group to belong to. But I don't know where to look. I'm stuck in between being too old for stuff that teenagers do and too old for stuff that old people do. I don't have the health to handle becoming an Alcoholic, and I don't have the means to become a Golfer. I can't give in completely to my nerdy urges to become a full-time Gamer or Computer Dork, but I'm not cool enough to work the Aging Hipster angle.
So I'm just sorta lost right now. I'm rapidly losing touch with my friends from my previous groups, and I don't really have any plan in place to find new friends. I'm used to friends drifting in and out of my life- that's happened to me since I was a kid. But I was able to balance that with what was always an influx of new people. These days the number of people I keep in my cell phone seems to keep shrinking, and I seem to get more spam than real emails. I rarely see people I considered close friends just a year or two ago. And worse (although good for them), I see them adjusting to their changing groups and identities with greater ease than me.
I guess maybe this is part of growing up, but it's lousy. I have this fear I'm going to end up like my parents. Sitting at home in the evening and building my life around my TV shows. Maybe the group I'm joining is Old People. Bitter.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Baby, Why Are We Happy That Britney Is Crying?
My girlfriend is a smart, sophisticated, successful woman. She makes more money than me, has a better job than me, went to a better college than me. She reads the entire newspaper every day while I play videogames. She has traveled to places I could barely locate on a map (who takes a vacation to Croatia?). I ask for and follow her advice about any number of things, because she is as street smart as they come. Baby has her shit together on levels I can't even fathom.
But the celebrity schadenfreude thing makes no sense.
Baby has tried to explain it to me. She hates these women because they're stupid. She resents that they're rich and famous for having no discernible talent beyond perfect skin and a great rack. She cannot stand that the world worships these women as if they're perfection, when on closer inspection they're glorified tramps. So she revels in the stories of their imperfection. She wants to take the piss out of them, because she feels like they get too much attention. In her eyes it's a slap in the face to the hard working women of the real world who don't have the time/money/resources and most of all luck to be starlets. And that makes sense. I appreciate the solidarity angle. Men are pigs, and these women are tramps. I get it. Only here is the thing- you broads are the reason why these broads are famous.
Men don't care. Well, straight men don't. We see these women on TV or in the movies and we think, 'Wow, she is hot.' But really, that's the end of it. We don't care about her favorite food or where she shops or where she puts her baby when she drives. We might fantasize about them, but the fantasy is dirty and short lived and not fit for print. We don't care about the personal details of their lives- we don't want to know. Because that ruins it for us. We know they're fake. We know they're just the fantasy. We're fine with that. You start adding details and it becomes more like real life. Where is the fun in that? Here is proof. I've got no idea how many men are using the internet to look at porn, but I'm willing to venture it's a lot. Do you think we care what these women's names are? Of course not. Are these women household names? No. There is a reason the stories in Playboy aren't about the girls in Playboy. Nobody cares.
So that makes us assholes, because we're treating these women like objects. We've got no respect for their feelings. We're supporting an industry that takes advantage of them, that puts them in a poor light, that degrades women.
Ok ladies, now explain to me how that's different from what you're doing.
But the celebrity schadenfreude thing makes no sense.
Baby has tried to explain it to me. She hates these women because they're stupid. She resents that they're rich and famous for having no discernible talent beyond perfect skin and a great rack. She cannot stand that the world worships these women as if they're perfection, when on closer inspection they're glorified tramps. So she revels in the stories of their imperfection. She wants to take the piss out of them, because she feels like they get too much attention. In her eyes it's a slap in the face to the hard working women of the real world who don't have the time/money/resources and most of all luck to be starlets. And that makes sense. I appreciate the solidarity angle. Men are pigs, and these women are tramps. I get it. Only here is the thing- you broads are the reason why these broads are famous.
Men don't care. Well, straight men don't. We see these women on TV or in the movies and we think, 'Wow, she is hot.' But really, that's the end of it. We don't care about her favorite food or where she shops or where she puts her baby when she drives. We might fantasize about them, but the fantasy is dirty and short lived and not fit for print. We don't care about the personal details of their lives- we don't want to know. Because that ruins it for us. We know they're fake. We know they're just the fantasy. We're fine with that. You start adding details and it becomes more like real life. Where is the fun in that? Here is proof. I've got no idea how many men are using the internet to look at porn, but I'm willing to venture it's a lot. Do you think we care what these women's names are? Of course not. Are these women household names? No. There is a reason the stories in Playboy aren't about the girls in Playboy. Nobody cares.
So that makes us assholes, because we're treating these women like objects. We've got no respect for their feelings. We're supporting an industry that takes advantage of them, that puts them in a poor light, that degrades women.
Ok ladies, now explain to me how that's different from what you're doing.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
I Am Only Happy When I Have Something To Bitch About
This is a common misconception. I can't say I blame people for believing it, because I have this habit of bitching about everything that ever happens to me ever. Lately I've come to realize just how much I bitch, and I've taken to bitching about how much I bitch. Everyone is good at something, and I have mastered complaining.
Thing is, I'm honestly not an unhappy person. Really. In fact, I'm strangely happy almost all of the time. I actually don't mind getting up in the morning, don't mind getting ready for work, don't even mind taking the Metro.
Yet if you listen to me, it sounds like I've got the barrel in my mouth and my toe on the trigger.
The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to believe that the bitching is my avenue for letting everything out. I tend to have rotten luck about a lot of things, things that would probably get most people really down. So I complain about them. And after a while, they don't seem so bad. In fact, they usually end up being funny. I tell a story about a bird shitting on my head on the way to the grocery store that has no products on its shelves and I've got a hangover and my medicine isn't ready at the pharmacy and the woman in line in front of us is arguing with the checkout lady like the price of Twinkies is fucking negotiable (this really happened the other day), and I feel better. The person hearing the story laughs, I laugh, and everything is okay.
Or is it? Because sometimes I catch myself complaining and I realize, 'This person just asked you how you've been, and you've been bitching for five minutes and haven't let them get a word in edgewise.' I do this kinda thing all the goddamn time. I forget they don't really want to know how I've been, they're just making conversation trying to be polite. Or they want to hear that everything is good, and how have you been? But I jump all over that question. I honestly answer it. 'I've been sucky, because...and then...which made me...can you fucking believe that?'
So just bear with me. It's my catharsis. Baby noticed from the get-go that when I'm really angry I don't say anything at all. I just sit there and stew, waiting to explode. If I'm complaining, it means I'm just trying to make myself feel better. And it will work. It might make you miserable in the meantime, but then you can just go bitch to someone til you feel better. See? Everybody wins.
Thing is, I'm honestly not an unhappy person. Really. In fact, I'm strangely happy almost all of the time. I actually don't mind getting up in the morning, don't mind getting ready for work, don't even mind taking the Metro.
Yet if you listen to me, it sounds like I've got the barrel in my mouth and my toe on the trigger.
The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to believe that the bitching is my avenue for letting everything out. I tend to have rotten luck about a lot of things, things that would probably get most people really down. So I complain about them. And after a while, they don't seem so bad. In fact, they usually end up being funny. I tell a story about a bird shitting on my head on the way to the grocery store that has no products on its shelves and I've got a hangover and my medicine isn't ready at the pharmacy and the woman in line in front of us is arguing with the checkout lady like the price of Twinkies is fucking negotiable (this really happened the other day), and I feel better. The person hearing the story laughs, I laugh, and everything is okay.
Or is it? Because sometimes I catch myself complaining and I realize, 'This person just asked you how you've been, and you've been bitching for five minutes and haven't let them get a word in edgewise.' I do this kinda thing all the goddamn time. I forget they don't really want to know how I've been, they're just making conversation trying to be polite. Or they want to hear that everything is good, and how have you been? But I jump all over that question. I honestly answer it. 'I've been sucky, because...and then...which made me...can you fucking believe that?'
So just bear with me. It's my catharsis. Baby noticed from the get-go that when I'm really angry I don't say anything at all. I just sit there and stew, waiting to explode. If I'm complaining, it means I'm just trying to make myself feel better. And it will work. It might make you miserable in the meantime, but then you can just go bitch to someone til you feel better. See? Everybody wins.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
I'm In Love With A Man Named Albert Pujols
I'm an enormous baseball fan. I wrote this for another place, but I'm posting it here because I like it. A lot of the numbers will go over your head if you don't like baseball, but you might appreciate the part at the end. Then again you might not. Sorry, but nothing embarrassing has happened to me today. Then again, it's only 10:00Am.
One of the most amazing stats about Albert Pujols is his remarkable consistency. In his first five full (2001-2005) seasons he has the following total number of at bats: 590, 590, 591, 592, 591. Barring injury, I’d venture it’s safe to assume he will get 590 at bats this season.
If he continues at his current pace, Pujols will hit 82 home runs, score 169 runs and drive in 215 more (numbers rounded down). In addition to breaking the home run record of 73 set by Barry Bonds in 2001, he will also demolish the RBI record of 191 set by Hack Wilson in 1930. He will not eclipse the single season runs scored record, set by Billy Hamilton in 1894 with 192. Pujols would end up third on the all time runs list, scoring the most runs since Babe Ruth’s total of 177 in 1921.
At the risk of sounding too partial, I should also point out that Pujols’ batting average is down considerably this season. If he continues at his current pace he will only hit .315. His steals are down as well, as he is on pace for only 6 this season. He can perhaps be forgiven for that one, as there is no need to steal second base when you’re jogging past it on your way toward home.
I’m not naïve enough to suggest that Pujols will continue his torrid pace. But I do think he is a legitimate threat to the hallowed Hack Wilson RBI record and the steroid-inflated Bonds home run mark. The runs record may be out of reach, but Pujols is lined up to smash the record for the modern era.
Buster Olney’s column from the June 5th ESPN Magazine raises the suspicion that Pujols’ numbers are the product of steroids. It’s a reasonable assumption given the apparent widespread use of steroids in professional baseball. There are currently no tests for human growth hormone (HGH), and it’s certainly plausible (probable, in fact) that professional baseball players have merely switched to HGH and other steroids that are undetectable under MLB’s laughable drug testing program.
My question to Olney is: Who cares?
Which would you prefer, Sosa and McGwire dueling for the home run crown in 1998, or Mike Schmidt swatting a league-high 31 in 1981? Chicks aren’t the only ones that dig the long ball. If we’re going to assume a large number of baseball players are dirty (and honestly, isn’t it time we do?), then it’s safe to assume they’re not going to change. As Olney points out, we’re not beyond the age of steroids in baseball- we’ve only just begun. I, for one, am not disappointed. If steroids are helping Alfonso Soriano hit home runs in cavernous RFK Stadium, then more power to him. If Albert Pujols’ numbers came from a lab, how can you blame him? He’s no more tainted than anyone else, he’s just got the right combination of ability and chemical engineering. So keep swinging Albert, we will all keep watching. We’re all in this together and we’re all guilty. My advice to Olney and the other critics is to come down from their high horse, because this is pretty exciting.
One of the most amazing stats about Albert Pujols is his remarkable consistency. In his first five full (2001-2005) seasons he has the following total number of at bats: 590, 590, 591, 592, 591. Barring injury, I’d venture it’s safe to assume he will get 590 at bats this season.
If he continues at his current pace, Pujols will hit 82 home runs, score 169 runs and drive in 215 more (numbers rounded down). In addition to breaking the home run record of 73 set by Barry Bonds in 2001, he will also demolish the RBI record of 191 set by Hack Wilson in 1930. He will not eclipse the single season runs scored record, set by Billy Hamilton in 1894 with 192. Pujols would end up third on the all time runs list, scoring the most runs since Babe Ruth’s total of 177 in 1921.
At the risk of sounding too partial, I should also point out that Pujols’ batting average is down considerably this season. If he continues at his current pace he will only hit .315. His steals are down as well, as he is on pace for only 6 this season. He can perhaps be forgiven for that one, as there is no need to steal second base when you’re jogging past it on your way toward home.
I’m not naïve enough to suggest that Pujols will continue his torrid pace. But I do think he is a legitimate threat to the hallowed Hack Wilson RBI record and the steroid-inflated Bonds home run mark. The runs record may be out of reach, but Pujols is lined up to smash the record for the modern era.
Buster Olney’s column from the June 5th ESPN Magazine raises the suspicion that Pujols’ numbers are the product of steroids. It’s a reasonable assumption given the apparent widespread use of steroids in professional baseball. There are currently no tests for human growth hormone (HGH), and it’s certainly plausible (probable, in fact) that professional baseball players have merely switched to HGH and other steroids that are undetectable under MLB’s laughable drug testing program.
My question to Olney is: Who cares?
Which would you prefer, Sosa and McGwire dueling for the home run crown in 1998, or Mike Schmidt swatting a league-high 31 in 1981? Chicks aren’t the only ones that dig the long ball. If we’re going to assume a large number of baseball players are dirty (and honestly, isn’t it time we do?), then it’s safe to assume they’re not going to change. As Olney points out, we’re not beyond the age of steroids in baseball- we’ve only just begun. I, for one, am not disappointed. If steroids are helping Alfonso Soriano hit home runs in cavernous RFK Stadium, then more power to him. If Albert Pujols’ numbers came from a lab, how can you blame him? He’s no more tainted than anyone else, he’s just got the right combination of ability and chemical engineering. So keep swinging Albert, we will all keep watching. We’re all in this together and we’re all guilty. My advice to Olney and the other critics is to come down from their high horse, because this is pretty exciting.
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