Don't take that to mean the other half is indecent, or that from the belt down I'm little more than an animalistic being.
I'm the kind of guy that asks girls out on dates - I'll shell out the 50 bucks and a bottle of wine for the sake of entertaining conversation and the potential to get to know someone. Call me crazy since in this tiny little bubbly-filled world I live in that seems like a prohibitive cost. Especially because parties provide academically overachieving but socially awkward kids sufficient lubrication to let their inhibitions out.
The rise of the BOMO. Black-out make-out.
And I'll begin my argument by saying that my gender has thrown chivalry by the way side. Most no longer even consider letting a girl go first, standing on the street side of the curb when walking or offer to help them with their bags. Some, both guys and girls, would argue that this is not a sign of disrespect but merely an evolution of the times - feminism happened. I know, but respect never went out of fashion.
But guys can only get away with what girls let us get away with. See in a world where the Gaga soundtrack blasts and a guy and a girl grind their way into oblivion as they try to fuse their bodies into one while still leaving their clothes on (for now) all the while pretending to have a pseudo meaningful conversation which really involves exchanging first names and numbers so they can hook up later - a guy like me is fighting the odds. They sloppily make out and leave the party wondering if they'll have to be the first to text.
The guy goes home happy he hooked up but wondering if something more could have been. He might text but he'll be nervous about it and pretend to be cooler than he is. The girl goes home happy she hooked up (presumably) but she might only text if she's truly curious. "A guy should be the one to pursue" seems to be one of those tenets the times have not managed to change.
So where does the "date asking" kick in? Post hook-up? Pre hook-up, on the dance floor(That's a story for the grandkids)? Guys and girls are both looking for meaningful, loving relationships, and the notions on how to get to them are the same. But it's easier to put that off when there's a pair of willing lips at the bar.
I'm asking you, girls of the college dating scene, to hold off on the dance floor mating ritual for a week. See how many guys realize that maybe a night downtown, with a bottle of wine and awkward waitress has suddenly become the right approach.
A bientot.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Life Block
A life block should be something like 20 years.
Like the sort of thing that a 40 year old man is told - you've just become half dead.
Though at the rate we're going and with people surviving without sunlight and limited air in gaeas womb for over two months - the number 40 might soon become 55. The French will obviously protest the logical or the sensical in favor of government institutions that bear little resemblance to the needs of a changing world. I tested 90th percentile for openness hence my slight condescension. You'll excuse.
Life block would be as curable as the writing kind. A simple excercise like free-writing for 20 minutes would provide solutions. Picture 20 minutes of free living. Whatever that means it sounds exciting, like you might have to be a tree hugger or a really good faker to actually experience it. The kind of person that has a sherpa story in his repertoire but also cares little enough to only tell it if he's really high and wondering how he's avoiding getting messed down. Messed up is a lot more fun.
Or that we could write an acrostic poem with our life. Something where we wrote a one line pseudocoherent text for every year of our life. The first year would be a one word brilliance - "Gurggle". The second year we would have almost two words "Ma-ma". And so on and so forth increasing the number and complexity until we hit 13. At this point we'd settle for three letters - "nvm" or "w/e". A symbol. I know. Crazy. Then, evolution again until we hit the 18-22 sweet spot where people have no names but instead go by "dude, bro and bitch".
At 40 we'd have some elaborate sentence decoding the socioeconomical, political and cultural demise that our nations youth and government are bringing unto itself. At 60 we'd settle for being quiet and loosening our belt after meals. At 70 we'd make a remark "I remember the good old days". The news organization better known by a delicious food staple would tell us that happened a long time ago and won't ever happen again.
At a 87 we'd say "Who are you?"
At a 100 we'd be quiet.
We can't rid ourselves of this. This writer block. So I'm drinking tea (iced, slightly sweetened) and waiting for it to pass.
Buenas noches abuelita.
Like the sort of thing that a 40 year old man is told - you've just become half dead.
Though at the rate we're going and with people surviving without sunlight and limited air in gaeas womb for over two months - the number 40 might soon become 55. The French will obviously protest the logical or the sensical in favor of government institutions that bear little resemblance to the needs of a changing world. I tested 90th percentile for openness hence my slight condescension. You'll excuse.
Life block would be as curable as the writing kind. A simple excercise like free-writing for 20 minutes would provide solutions. Picture 20 minutes of free living. Whatever that means it sounds exciting, like you might have to be a tree hugger or a really good faker to actually experience it. The kind of person that has a sherpa story in his repertoire but also cares little enough to only tell it if he's really high and wondering how he's avoiding getting messed down. Messed up is a lot more fun.
Or that we could write an acrostic poem with our life. Something where we wrote a one line pseudocoherent text for every year of our life. The first year would be a one word brilliance - "Gurggle". The second year we would have almost two words "Ma-ma". And so on and so forth increasing the number and complexity until we hit 13. At this point we'd settle for three letters - "nvm" or "w/e". A symbol. I know. Crazy. Then, evolution again until we hit the 18-22 sweet spot where people have no names but instead go by "dude, bro and bitch".
At 40 we'd have some elaborate sentence decoding the socioeconomical, political and cultural demise that our nations youth and government are bringing unto itself. At 60 we'd settle for being quiet and loosening our belt after meals. At 70 we'd make a remark "I remember the good old days". The news organization better known by a delicious food staple would tell us that happened a long time ago and won't ever happen again.
At a 87 we'd say "Who are you?"
At a 100 we'd be quiet.
We can't rid ourselves of this. This writer block. So I'm drinking tea (iced, slightly sweetened) and waiting for it to pass.
Buenas noches abuelita.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Borrowed
A new blue sweater that's both expensive (literally) and cheap (trashy).
I'm going to share a story.
Picture to friends racing each other across the northeast but one is predetermined to win because of his advantageous position. He sits on a train. She sits on a train. But he's on the 9'o'clock and hers was delayed.
But that's not a borrowed story, that's my own. Next to me on the train sat a Connecticut girl who could have been from Europe and giggled at the ad-campaign textbook she read. Face scrunched up in concentration I tried reading about thefacebook.com in the awkward weeks before the "the" was dropped. Someone should tell Betty White that "thetwitter" is no more.
A fraternity house where the floors are so sticky flip flops are lost all the time. A fraternity house lacking beer pong, beer bong and with a plethora of toilet papers and cleaning supplies. The kitchen is not a second grade science experiment on growing mold and the couches are shockingly clean - lacking all good things that come hither from human beings when they are their finest.
We made pancakes in all sorts of lovely forms - letters, swirls, mickeys and snowmen. ALL PG13. But best of all wasn't the plethora of chocolate chips or the brief game of "let me toss candy at your mouth and see if you catch it". I did.
It was a nice morning. One that felt familiar for a first time and one that allowed for jokes, inappropriate and witty and viceversa. A morning with an awkward encounter and lite cough syrup. A couple of "aw's" later I realized that it's one of those random college memories that make it an entirely unique experience.
Now shotgun a beer.
I'm going to share a story.
Picture to friends racing each other across the northeast but one is predetermined to win because of his advantageous position. He sits on a train. She sits on a train. But he's on the 9'o'clock and hers was delayed.
But that's not a borrowed story, that's my own. Next to me on the train sat a Connecticut girl who could have been from Europe and giggled at the ad-campaign textbook she read. Face scrunched up in concentration I tried reading about thefacebook.com in the awkward weeks before the "the" was dropped. Someone should tell Betty White that "thetwitter" is no more.
A fraternity house where the floors are so sticky flip flops are lost all the time. A fraternity house lacking beer pong, beer bong and with a plethora of toilet papers and cleaning supplies. The kitchen is not a second grade science experiment on growing mold and the couches are shockingly clean - lacking all good things that come hither from human beings when they are their finest.
We made pancakes in all sorts of lovely forms - letters, swirls, mickeys and snowmen. ALL PG13. But best of all wasn't the plethora of chocolate chips or the brief game of "let me toss candy at your mouth and see if you catch it". I did.
It was a nice morning. One that felt familiar for a first time and one that allowed for jokes, inappropriate and witty and viceversa. A morning with an awkward encounter and lite cough syrup. A couple of "aw's" later I realized that it's one of those random college memories that make it an entirely unique experience.
Now shotgun a beer.
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