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Going Car-less

Aug 24th, 2007 by

My experiences with the DMV aka double jeopardy tax collection agency, the greatest racket in the history of mankind auto mechanic, and owning a car in a city where your length of residence can be read, like tree rings, by the number of dents and broken sideview mirrors it has, leads me to seriously contemplate selling my car.

It’s no surprise to anyone that cars are money pits.  Even late model cars like mine chew up dollars in gas, maintenance and fees.  On a recent Bataan death march to my mechanic I was given an estimate for $3,000 in general upkeep repairs, including $500 (!) for a replacement passenger side rearview mirror that was damaged from a hit and run collision on one lane wide two lane streets.  I asked him to do the bare minimum that would get me through the state inspection.  We haggled to $350.  I passed inspection after complimenting a female DMV station employee on her sense of shoe style so that she overlooked the mirror violation.

Besides the money, there is the inconvenience.  This is one of those transportation purgatory cities where the public transit options (taxi zone system ripoff) and distance between the neighborhoods are not quite conducive enough to be without a car all the time, yet the limited parking, traffic, road disrepair, and horrid driving skills of the locals make owning a car a perpetual headache.  Halfway between New York and LA is no place to be.

I’m not worried about what not having a car will do to my game.  There are many ways around this.  Since most young single girls are bleeding heart liberals, a simple appeal to fighting global warming should suffice.

Her:  So what time will you pick me up?
Me:  I’m not.  We’ll take a cab to the E Street cinema 7:45 showing of “The not-so-secret lives of gays, gays, gays, and more gays”.
Her:  You don’t have a car?
Me:  No, I sold it to reduce my carbon footprint.  Global warming is the greatest evil in the world, right up there with the 2nd amendment.  I don’t want to contribute to the melting of the glaciers with a selfish, overfed, American lifestyle.  Without the ice, where will the polar bears fornicate?  You’re not an anti-fornicator, are you?
Her:  *swoon*

Thank you, Al Gore, for helping my game.

If the environment doesn’t move her, I can always pre-emptively head off her objection.

Me:  I only date enlightened 21st century women who understand the value of low-impact living and embrace a post-automobile reality.  My last girlfriend, even though she was only 19 and so pretty that people thought she must not be smart, understood why I sold my car.
Her:  Oh, I walk around the city a lot!
Me:  Great.  I’ll pick you up on my skateboard.  It’s a one-seater, so you’ll have to sit on my shoulders.

It’s ironic that getting rid of my car, long an American symbol of freedom, now strikes me as a very liberating choice.  Perhaps one trip on the bus, where an acquaintance once witnessed a shooting that injured the bus driver, will change my mind.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in The Big City Life | Comments Off

Unmanliness

Aug 22nd, 2007 by

If you sit at a sidewalk cafe in DC and people watch you’ll eventually see hints of civilizational decline.


mommy took our allowance

There I was enjoying a manly tap water when something so magnificently wrong assaulted my visual field.  A father carrying a baby in a papoose that he wore across his front.

The front.

It would be bad enough if he were usurping the natural maternal role by hauling around his kid in the traditional style with papoose in back.  But the front?  He may as well have swished his womanly hips while he walked.

Seriously, grow a set and get some self-respect, man.  If you can’t find it in you to do it for yourself, at least think of society.  With the child dearth and populations contracting throughout most of the first world it might help if you weren’t a big flashing negative ad to young men to avoid marriage and fatherhood.  Put that papoose on the mother where God intended it to be.  If you have more than one kid, throw the other one on the dog.  There are big dogs you can fit with a saddle.

Which got me thinking.  Is unmanliness a harbinger of the fall of great powers?  I think it is.  Look around and it’s easy to notice plenty of ominous unmanly trends.

I’m beginning to hear men use trendy truncated miniwords like fab, deet, obvi, fave, vom.  This makes me vom.  My ears can only take so much foppery.  If you are a straight man who doesn’t tuck his junk in between his legs posing in front of the mirror then using these cutesy-isms is very homosex.  I expect women to annoy charm me with baby talk, not grown men.

Men (and I use the term loosely) with trendy truncated minidogs.  I’ve gone on about this before. If your dog’s legs are missing a joint and it is shorter from snout to tail than the length of your forearm and lighter than your 10-rep maximum dumbbell weight, then you’ve got creampuff issues.  Trade it in for a pet that’s supposed to be that size, like a gerbil.

Gym “classes”.  No man worth his yarbles should take a spinning, pilates, step or, heaven forfend, stroller class.  Butch up and hit the weight room.  Try not to pee yourself when you see the squat rack.  Yoga is acceptable as long as you understand why you are there and situate yourself in the back row for greatest viewing pleasure.

Lovers’ quarrels.  It’s not unmanly to get into a fight with your girlfriend at 5AM banging on her apartment door piss drunk.  It IS unmanly to do all the above while sobbing “BUT I LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUU!!!” over and over.  What happened to the good old days when drunk guys got into fistfights, not confessionals?

If you order your martini from a color-coded menu you may as well butter up your ass, funboy.  Men’s hard liquor drinks come in two colors — brown and clear.  And don’t drink from the straw.

When you canoodle your girl in public, do not bury your face in her lap and raise your hindquarters in the air like a cat getting stroked.  I actually saw this once.  This is about as unmanly as a man post-coitally resting his head on the chest of his woman.  You should be fitting yourself for a bra.

If you are a man bleating on about how great feminism is please do us all a favor and strangle yourself with your bloomers.  You are not sophisticated, evolved, or intellectual.  You are a sackless tool.

So there you have it.  I’m sure examples of unmanliness abound.  Is it a coincidence that as American women are becoming manlier American men are becoming softer, immature, and vaguely androgynous?  No, it is not.

Update:
Probably the biggest sign of the growing trend of unmanliness is the celebrity blog.  No man should write, read, or even tangentially discuss celebrity gossip, unless it’s to make a point to some hardened feminist how fame and power encourages men turn in their aging wives for young pussy.  Celebrities and the deets of their lives are black holes of irrelevance and idiocy.  It’s enough for one gender to get sucked into eight-balling celebrity sludge right into their limbic systems.  Men have a duty to shun it.  Gay men run the risk of flaming out into a red giant from this wasteful activity.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Funny/Lolblogs, Ridiculousness, Rules of Manhood, Tool Time | Comments Off

Help Not Wanted

Aug 21st, 2007 by

“Zeets, don’t bother.”

“I’m not going to sit here and watch this.”

Zeets and I had been enjoying an evening of camaraderie drinking beers on the trunk of his car in the parking lot.  According to Fodor’s, this particular parking lot was a popular destination for camaraderie and drinking; well, it was for us, until that evening.

A man and woman were arguing vociferously about a hundred feet off.  They looked exasperated with each other.  Lots of aggressive hand motions punctuated their heated row.  His voice quickly got angrier and he grabbed her forearm with great flourish while berating her.

fuck you, cunt! you’re a fuckin worthless whore! you just follow your pussy! maybe you should suck that guy’s dick.

Then the slap.  Right across her cheek, bullseye.  I used to think that face slaps in the movies were way too loud; that the soundman was having fun exaggerating the effect for the audience’s shock and awe.  But this real life slap echoed throughout the empty parking lot like a crack of lightning.  I put my hand to my face in ghost sympathy.

Zeets is normally a guy who takes amusement in the foolishness of humanity.  His philosophy (well, one of his quite frequently contradictory philosophies) is “I don’t care what people do to each other as long as I can sit back and ridicule them for it.”

He wasn’t laughing this time.  This got me worried.  He stood and put down his beer bottle.

“Dude, do NOT get involved with this.  Trust me, it’s pointless.”

“Get my back in case there’s trouble.”

Oh boy.  No time to talk him out of it.  He was dead set on white knighting.

I watched as he marched purposefully toward the fighting couple.  A few words were exchanged.

what’s your deal, motherfucker?
“Leave the girl alone.  Cowards hit girls.”
why don’t you mind your own business and go fuck yourself.

Zeets got in his face.  “You’re a fucking loser taking it out on a girl.  I’m not leaving.”

The girl was crying and stamping her feet.  The loser took a step back from Zeets and shoved a hand into his back pocket.  A split second later a metal object glinted from the lamppost light as it slashed a downward arc through the air.  Zeets’ hand went reflexively up to his face.

I ran to them, my veins pumping with delirium.  The girl screamed and the guy jumped in his car and peeled off.  Blood seeped between the fingers Zeets had pressed against his left cheek.

“Jesus, man, are you OK?!”
“I’m fine.” He looked at the girl. “Are you OK?”
She had hysteria in her eyes. “Why did you do that?”
“Huh?”
“You shouldn’t have come over!  This wasn’t your business!”
I spit at her “That’s the thanks my buddy gets?  Go fuck off!  Your loser boyfriend is going to jail.”

At the periphery of the parking lot I saw Knife-Guy’s car idling.  He had driven around and stopped there.  She turned and ran toward it and got in.  They drove away.

Zeets stared blankly at the nothingness in front of him.

“Hey, man, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

We drove in stony silence.  Bleeding face wound or not, Zeets finds it hard to keep his yap shut for more than five minutes, so this was extraordinary.  A little too extraordinary for comfort.

“I guess you were right.”

“Hey, look, you did the right thing.  She was fucked in the head.  Don’t let it get to you.”

“Sure, whatever.”

I wanted to believe my own words, but I couldn’t.

Many police report filings and stitches later, we mused about that night.

“I’m disappointed.”  Zeets did not look disappointed.

“Why?”

“The cut was not deep enough for me to impress the ladies with a cool scar.”

I sympathized.  “Perhaps you can impress them with the story instead.”

“I’m done impressing.”

He was wrong.  The cut was deep enough.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Rules of Manhood, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

Dating Doesn’t Have to Be a Chore

Aug 20th, 2007 by

Late summer afternoons, when I was a young teenager full of innocence, suburban angst, and sappy love poems, I would bike past a certain house to catch a glimpse of the girl who, by dint of having never been corrupted by actual bedsharing, would remain a lifelong figure of purity to me.  Being my first lust object, she set the gold standard against which future girls would unknowingly compare.

Such a vision she was, that even from a non-stalker distance her miniature form made my heart thump like a wet drum.  She stood up from her chaise lounge chair in the front lawn to apply suntan lotion, long sweeping motions up and down her arms, wearing corduroy shorts and a white bikini top.  I stopped my bike to watch her, transfixed.  She sat, laid on her stomach, and didn’t protest her straight dark brown hair when it dropped in silky ribbons across her face as she read a book.  To this day, the memory lingers as powerfully as the smell of my grandparents’ house, or the first time I got a bloody lip in a fight.  Eventually she moved, and the memory is all I have of her.

It’s easy to get the dating doldrums from years of being in the field.  Age tempts the spirit with weariness.  Learning the ropes and becoming proficient at game makes you realize that women respond like automatons to certain stimuli just like men do.  The princess pedestal that men start out putting women on quickly crumbles with real world experience.

Life is ugly like that.  The trick is to live as if the underbelly of life had no authority over your mood.  You understand that it is there, and even use it to your advantage, but you never let the poet in you be subsumed by the machine.  Happiness is equal parts realistic appraisal and self-delusion.  There is indulgent joy in putting women on pedestals — it splashes color into your life that could easily turn monochrome from cynicism.

So many men and women have become irretrievably jaded with the dating scene.  They’ve seen it all, heard it all.  Dating for them has become a chore whose only purpose is to efficiently ascertain the suitability of a person as potential relationship material.  Just the way I wrote that previous sentence pretty much sums up how modern dating feels.  The whole enterprise takes on the flavor of checking off a grocery list.  The sheer giddiness of sharing the company of a date and careening recklessly in the emotional whitewater gets lost along the way.

I know that game works.  I know that women aren’t unfathomable creatures.  I know that the beastly side of life always has its maw open ready to swallow you whole at the slightest misstep.  I know that once women pass that magical age of 26 a part of their femininity morphs into an accountant consumed with bottom line analysis and dreary practical concerns.  None of this stops me from approaching the pursuit of sex and love with anything less than fiery ardor.  When I see an attractive girl in a candle shop or across a club I remember how I felt when I watched that ribbon of hair tumble across the face of the girl sunning herself in her front lawn.  And all is good.

None of the dirty, crusty filth of life has any hold over me.  That memory stays with me for a reason.  It guides my way.  Recall your own sweet memories when you see a girl you want to meet and the feelings anchored with that will show in everything you do.  If your passions are strong enough you can drag an accountant away from her cash flow spreadsheets.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Dating, The Good Life | Comments Off

Sexbots

Aug 17th, 2007 by

Forget flying cars and interstellar travel, the next big thing to radically transform society will be sexbots.  Japanese girlfriend substitutes, lifelike dolls, porn saturation… all signs are pointing toward a technological coalescence of immense implications for relations between the sexes.  It’s a horny new world on the horizon of men having sex with the artificial women of their dreams.  Mein Gott.

Much has been written about the sexbot phenomenon, with the skeptics focusing on the technical limitations (men make this argument) and the insistence that sexbots would not satisfy male sexual desire like real women would (women make this argument).  It’s possible the technical hurdles to creating a sexually pleasing mechanical woman that could compete with real women might be too high, but assuming those hurdles are jumped, I offer the following future scenario.

A robot that is an exact replica of your favorite supermodel and that has feedback to sound and touch (for example, she’ll move her limbs and gyrate during sex as well as talk dirty and respond to commands) would supplant all other masturbation tools as the preferred method of getting off for men who can afford it.  Once sexbots become affordable, internet porn consolidates to one or two websites for spank snobs who insist on “authenticity” and proles who must suffer the humiliation of not only being too poor to afford real women but fake ones as well.  But, outside of self-pleasure and procreation, would sexbots replace real women?

For some men, yes.  The replacement would be total, at least until the dating market adjusted to the new reality.  For other men, sexbots would be a part-time replacement.  The result will be a shift in the mating landscape that will put selection pressures on humanity equivalent to a massive plague or a catastrophic famine.

Sexbots are a very real threat to the established order because men’s sexuality is so visually driven.  Compared to women, it is a rather simple affair to create an alternative sexual outlet for men.  Think about romance novels which are the porn equivalent for women.  It’s a mentally-taxing affair to write a book, even a trashy, plot-by-numbers one.  But displaying photos of naked women for the consumption of men takes a few mindless seconds.  Now imagine a Natalia Vodianova sexbot in every bachelor pad.  The raw visual and tactile appeal of that will keep men holed up in their bedrooms for weeks straight.

Some of the changes I foresee:

Omegas (geeks, nerds, dweebs, trolls, dregs, dullards, bums, street filth, etc.) – will finally have a satisfying release for their pent-up horniness.  Crime will likely drop as a result.  So will rape.  Widely available sexbots are analogous to cheap, legal prostitution, minus the STDs and needle tracks.  On the whole I think it is a social good to distract the losers from their grinding misery.  Since these guys weren’t getting laid anyway, availing themselves of sexbots won’t have much impact on the dating market.  Sexbots could also be compassionate.  Giving a homeless guy a sexbot will do more for his happiness than $5 for liquor or a sympathetic smile from a cute soup kitchen volunteer.

Betas (niceguys with a heart of gold and zero sex appeal) – the more frustrated betas will retreat from the dating scene to be with their sexbots.  They’ll not opt out completely, though.  Having a decent job and a willingness to help raise a family is still a form of buying power.  I see sexbots for betas dissuading them from learning the art of seduction, thus making them even more ineffectual in the field as their already-meager skills atrophy.  He might think to himself, “what’s the point of dealing with the frustrations and delayed gratification of dating mediocre looking women for subpar sex when I have a Rachel Weisz sexbot waiting at home for me?”  A big negative feedback loop could result, where the lower status betas exercise their sexbot option with increasing regularity until they have excluded themselves completely from bothering with meeting women.  This will open up room in the dating market for

Aspiring Alphas (betas who know a thing or two) – As low status betas and omegas retreat from the dating scene to be with their sexbots, aspiring alphas will be more in demand than ever.  It’s a simple numbers game — more women for every man willing to expose himself to the whims of dating and rejection from real women means these men will have an easier time honing their game and achieving sexual satisfaction.  Even a guy willing to put in minimal effort shaping up his game will find the pickings easy.  The consequences?  Less commitment, more casual sex, and more partners.  Not to mention more first date anal.  You can stop taking salsa classes now.

Alphas (guys who won’t have to martyr themselves for 72 virgins) –  will reap a tremendous beaver bounty.  The direct and indirect benefits of the sexbot revolution will flow to the alphas.  The direct benefit?  Although he is the guy who won’t need sexbots because he gets plenty of quality real ass for little investment, he will probably have a few in the closet for those times when his girlfriends have a collective headache.  Plus, the off button is very appealing to the inveterate womanizer.  The indirect benefit?  More women vying for his seed.  I predict that over time the smothering ego-boosting attentions of the fangirls will make the alpha soft, paving the way for lower ranking males to usurp his position in the bangarchy.

Ugly Women – drop out entirely.

Plain Women – put out on first dates.

Beautiful Women – choose harem initiation with a super alpha.

Marriage – uncertain.  Either marriage will take a bodyblow from which it will never recover, or paradoxically divorce will decrease as husbands inclined to stray fulfill their cravings for variety with non-human mistresses.  With the sequestering of betas to their sexbotatoriums, the price of alphas on the market will skyrocket.  They will call the shots in matters of marriage — I see a regression to sanctioned polygamy and overt adultery.  This will herald the end of Western civilization.

Love – The virus in the borg.  Love may save the day.  A man’s need for love will keep him in the game.  But not in the same capacity.  He’ll be roused to go on a few dates but he’ll feel no pressure to get laid and will probably have unrealistic expectations about what kind of women he deserves based on wistful comparisons with the hot robot he fornicates with daily.  Ladies, if you think guys are selfish, egotistical pricks now, just wait until they start showing up to dates basked in the afterglow of sex with their Jessica Alba robots.  It is going to take a lot more to win over a guy who is that sexually satisfied.

Conclusion – The entire market structure of dating will shift seismically in the direction of men becoming choosier and less willing to please and women becoming looser and more willing to please.

The basic premise I have outlined above rests on a simple observation — the more physically satisfying choices men have to sate their lust, the less needy they will be with women.  And non-neediness translates into a slight downgrade in the asking price of single women.  Because women are more loathe to settle than men, there will be a rush to the top as the dwindling number of acceptable male prospects commands the attentions of an ever-growing pool of women.  Polygamy will rush in to fill the need.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Alpha, Current Events, Fashion, Globalization, Self-aggrandizement, Tool Time, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

Bald Man’s Lament

Aug 16th, 2007 by

A friend, who is a good person despite his penchant for finding humor in the suffering of others, trawled one of those sad-sack internet support groups and forwarded me this plaintive wail from a man(?) who is losing his hair and blaming it for his collapsing marriage.  My friend, for purposes of this blog I shall call him Zeets, thinks this tormented ululating from an anonymous balding man is slap-the-knee funny.

The wife was having sex with the new man while I cried to other people that I wanted my wife back. She was having fun and laughing and having sex with her new man and stuff like that while I was crying and confused and being very very depressed. I had no idea why my wife left me and why she was with another man and I was just wanting the nightmare to end. When someone told me it was my hair I actually got a little angry with him and looked at him like he was nuts. I kind of growled at him so he stopped talking to me. I didn’t want to believe that it was my hair. I didn’t get it even though I had lost a bunch of hair but the new guy had a full head of hair. I simply refused to see the light. I cried and told everyone around me that I was imagining my wife having sex with the new man and I said it was killing me. And I was right, she was having sex with the new man. She would lay under the new man and thrust her pelvis into the pelvis of the new man so she could get the new man’s penis as deep into her vagina as she could make it go. She wanted the new man’s penis as deep inside of her as she could get it to go so she would force it deeper by thrusting her pelvis into his pelvis while she was laying under him. She would do this with her new man in the very bed that I helped to pay for. And while she was doing this I was crying and complaining to everyone that I loved her and wanted her back and saying how I didn’t understand. Then I would go to my studio apartment and lay down in bed and masturbate before going to sleep while my wife was in the bed bought by me, her husband, giving sex to a new man who had a full head of hair. And the worse part of this story is that she will take me to the cleaners and leave me no money to pay for hair replacement surgery.

OK, I admit I laughed.  Well done, Zeets, you have shown once again how to lift one’s spirit at the expense of a tortured soul.  What have we learned from this?

The internet is a rain catch for every flavor of tear shed by man.  If you have a malady or a despair, no matter how peculiar, you will find someone else in the ASCII ether who shares your special brand of misery with whom to bond.  This is good for wallowing, bad for personal growth.

Laughing at the misfortunes of others comes disturbingly easy.

This benighted bald man needs an IV injection of Game, starting with deep deep deeeeeep inner game work.  Visualizing in technicolor brilliance your wife/girlfriend/mom boffing another man is the mental equivalent of plucking out your scrotum pubes one by one… slowly.  He should drown himself in tequila or punch brick walls if that’s what it takes to stop hearing the siren call of self-flagellation.

Make your penis go as far into the vagina as it will go, because it is good.

PS: Congratulations to anon for leaving my 1,000th comment.
anon, if you are a woman, i blow you a kiss.  please… keep your window open so that it may find its way to your lips.
if you are a man, i blow you a manly hug with three (and no more!) pats to the back.  please… keep your window open so that my macho hug may find its way to your open arms.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Funny/Lolblogs, Girls, Vanity | Comments Off

Movie Review in Poem

Aug 13th, 2007 by

one trilogy later j. bourne still on the run
can’t figure out where he’s from
walks away from ten car crashes
with just a hollywood cut on his eyelashes
action intense, girls burning in their crotches
who doesn’t dig flawed good guys with kill notches?
matt damon getting a little pudgy in the face
but ladies love him how bout dem apples, ace
he’s rockin’ the CIA black ops guys in style
ps: best BJ lips in the biz on julia stiles
word of warning to those with vertigo
camera shaking make you dizzy avoid the front row.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Escape, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

Bailing on Dates

Aug 10th, 2007 by

I don’t use tricks during dates like having my cell phone ring with an “emergency” call, saying I’m going to the bathroom and then escaping through the window, or telling my date “I think I’m falling in love with you” to give me an out in case it’s not going well.  It’s incompatible with being a man who doesn’t make excuses for his actions.  If a date is bombing I smile warmly and simply tell her “It was a pleasure meeting you.  Good luck with everything.”  No need to wait around hoping for sexual attraction to magically appear.  Walking off like this can even make a girl suddenly hot for you.  Don’t be surprised if you get a conciliatory call from her the next day.

Dating a lot of women gives you a sixth sense to know within minutes whether the girl is connecting with you.  If she’s not, cut the cord — time saved is time earned toward gaming new women.  I once walked away from a bad date and number closed another woman on the walk home.  There is no worse thing a man can do than to continue buying drinks and yapping for hours with a girl who is not warming up to him physically.

When a date is going particularly badly, or the girl is someone of especially poor character, I’ll get a dig in before walking off.  It’s petty, true, but it gives me pleasure to inflict cruelty on a deserving victim.  On a first date with a Desi girl she talked (unprompted) non-stop about her Indian ex-boyfriend and how her father didn’t like him and how he was overly ambitious in his career and yada yada.  After she finally came up for air I asked her a series of seemingly innocent questions about her values and her past relationships.  I then began to psychologically deconstruct her, picking apart her psyche and painting a picture of her personality.  I leaned back and waited for her reaction.  Offended, she snapped “I really don’t like you drawing conclusions about me.”
Pay dirt.
“But you make it so easy.”

Since single girls, like guys, act to hide their personality flaws when out on the town looking to hook up, and since it is hard to discern all of a person’s unsavory traits in fifteen minutes over gin and tonics in a dark lounge, I always try to insta-date the first night I meet a girl.  Bouncing with her from the club to the bar down the street to the pizza place or pool hall gives me a better opportunity to learn about her without putting in the extra effort to arrange a future date at a specified location.  This ultimately saves time and feels more natural.  Plus, same night multiple venue changing operates on the principle of time distortion, where you two feel like you’ve shared more time together getting to know each other in different environments than you actually have.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Dating, Game, Psy Ops, Rules of Manhood | Comments Off

Separate Species

Aug 9th, 2007 by

I recently heard this story about two girls, good friends, who were spending time together catching up.  They decide to help each other rub on self-tanning lotion (not the spray kind, but the wipe-on kind).  So what did they do?  Why, they stripped naked of course!  Two heterosexual girls sat butt naked together and rubbed self-tanner all over one another, including those hard to reach nooks and crannies, like it was no big deal.

Now, a quiz for the guys reading this.  Think of your best guy buddy.  The guy you get drunk with and wing for when he makes a sloppy pass at a chick.  The guy you discuss baseball stats with or bust on for throwing a football like a spaz.  Now try to picture sitting naked with him in extremely close proximity rubbing self-tanner on his hairy dimpled ass, making sure to get an even application.  Maybe he lifts a cheek so you don’t miss a spot?

Not happening, is it.

Two separate species.  There isn’t a better explanation.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, Ridiculousness, Rules of Manhood | Comments Off

Window Stories

Aug 8th, 2007 by

When I was a teenager, I kept in shape running along the boulevard-wide streets of my placid suburban neighborhood.  Unlike my runs around the city, I never had to look over my shoulder to make sure a car or bike messenger wouldn’t careen into me.   A car drove by once every half hour, tops.  There is nothing like running in such quietude that all you can hear is the slap of your feet on the asphalt and the chorus of late-August crickets rising from the manicured lawns.  IPods didn’t exist back then, but if they had I would’ve used them and been robbed of a cherished memory.

Running can be boring, especially to a teenager with a hyperactive mind fueled by supercharged hormones, so I had amused myself by pondering what was going on behind all the windows with their lights on.  Passing by my next-door neighbor the living room bay window glowed yellow through the curtains.  I wondered if this was the night they talked in hushed tones about divorce.  She was a horrible nagger and he always looked unhappy.  A block later I might see the bedroom light shine through the window in the house where the cute girl I had a huge crush on lived.  I was innocent back then so I imagined her writing in her diary about waiting impatiently for me to ask her out.  One late evening I caught a glimpse of her silhouette peering out from her window as I ran past.  I thrust out my chest and ran a little faster.

Now I entertain myself the same way when I run past urban apartments and condos.  The difference this time is in the density of windows.  So many more scenarios to dream up.  The suburbs hide secrets, but the city vibrates with them.

There’s a path I like to run, one that eventually takes me down a bridge and then over another bridge, where I pass by a lot of stately apartment buildings, their randomly distributed window lights flickering like cats’ eyes in the twilight, framing the stories of anonymous lives.  I mentally sketch out vignettes.  Here is a couple arguing about kitchen utensils… there is a guy blankly watching TV with his dog laying in his lap… and three floors up is a girl who starts her first job in two days just noticing the stain on her new skirt she’s modeling in front of the mirror.

Down the street more glimmering windows pop into view.  In one of them, maybe that one over to the right with the old silver-handled white refrigerator I can see through it, an ex is being slowly lowered onto her bed, unknown hands pulling up her shirt, a flash of skin followed by a moan.  She arches her neck and pulls up a leg.  Her nail polish color hasn’t changed.  For a second I wished the light would go out.  Another window and maybe I’ll see my silhouette girl.

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