Obnoxious Opinions

I once made a rude and unfair remark about hating young people with opinions.  I made it after I heard two high school students talk about the “message” in a Hedley song (there was no message, the song was an annoying top 40 hit that no one will remember five years from now).  

I made it again after I offered to buy the friend of a friend’s younger brother a hot chocolate from Starbucks, and he said it was stupid to buy coffee that you “had to take out a second mortgage for.”  One should not criticize a kind offering from a near stranger.  It was a nice gesture on the part of a [relatively] mentally astute young woman, not a creepy enticement from a pantsless man in a 1989 Oldsmobile. 

After browsing a few pro-family (and pro-family always means anti-sex but pro-gun, go figure) websites, I hate at least 60 percent of people with opinions.  

To the “no kissing before marriage” crowd:  You must be joking.  Kissing – the mere touching of mouths – is now considered (by some, not all) to be an impure practice that compromises a couple’s Christian integrity before the bounds of holy matrimony make it okay to have vigorous, unprotected anal sex in the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn?  Tell me it’s not true (it is)!  

Kissing, some people on the Focus on the Family blog argue, is a prelude to sex.  A wet tongued temptress forcing you to tear off your pants and consummate your unholy union, leading to the inevitable disappointment of God, Jesus and your mother.  

Here’s the thing – an act becomes most tempting when it’s naughty.  No one feels a rebellious rush when studying for a test or volunteering at a food bank.  Why?  Because those are things you’re supposed to do, things that society encourages (and for good reason).  When people – particularly people in positions of authority, parents included – start condemning acts and warning of grave consequences, curiosity is peaked and overindulgence ensues.  This is why the cool kids drink too much and smoke too often and drive really, really fast.  It’s cliche behavior, but it’s still a little badass.  All girls still say they want a man who’s “a little bit of a bad boy,” don’t they?

All I know is this, if people have no intention of having sex at a certain point in time, a kiss won’t turn them into rabid nymphomaniacs, unless they’re overwhelmed and enticed by the dastardly immorality of their scandalous actions.  

As far as other young opinions go, I recall being encouraged to “think critically” in my elementary school days by having light ethical questions posed to me and other classmates.  The favourite question, other than “why was the Holocaust bad?”, was “is it right to keep animals in captivity?”  

That’s a stupid fucking question for several reasons.  One, all kids will say it’s bad because they’ll feel that’s the right answer. Second, it’s unfair because all children love zoos, and need not be guilted into relinquishing the joy that comes from an activity not involving sneaking their mom’s cigarettes.  Thirdly, animals in captivity (this includes domesticated pets, by the by) don’t know any different, so they don’t care.  If they’re well fed and cared for, they’re as content as they can be.  

Furthermore, anyone who watches the Discovery Channel knows that while zoo animals may not be free, they’re safe from predators and starvation and habitat destruction and poachers.  You can’t draw some unreasonable parallel between zoos and fascist governments who trade freedom for safety either, because that’s not an appropriate analogy.  Animals have only one “civil” right, and that’s the right to humane treatment from humans.  They don’t vote or protest or write strongly worded letters to politicians.  They sleep, eat, shit and play, and adequately run zoos allow them to do so in peace.  Also, zoos bring people joy, and there isn’t enough joy in the world as it is.  

Zoos, really, are the least of the animal kingdom’s problems.  If I was a tiger or polar bear or shark or lemur, I’d want to live in captivity.  I’d get used to the stares and shrieks and greasy fingerprints on the walls of my spacious enclosure, and I’d likely never yearn for a short and brutal life somewhere in Africa.  

So, the point of this post (I think), is to stop asking kids about the ethical nature of zoos.  It breeds obnoxious opinions that make me angry.

Cosmo and Stuff

I got my hair done last weekend, and with every haircut comes a new Cosmo magazine.  I buy one because my hair appointments are long and I need something to read.  I don’t bring books because I don’t want falling hair getting trapped between pages.  That’s, like, gross and stuff.  

Cosmo is a standard women’s magazine that contains articles about “new” sex techniques that aren’t really new and common sense relationship “wisdom” (i.e. don’t talk about your ideal wedding on a first date).  It’s also less about empowerment and more about fulfilling social obligations (having minimal to no body fat, buying fashionable clothes for the gym, being a key player in work “projects,” etc).  

The magazine assumes its readers are high-income, business-savvy hot chicks with big-dicked boyfriends and downtown condos.  No fat married ladies with kids or  20-somethings with shitty part-time jobs and sexless, martini-free weekends.  

Anyways, one article was about losing seven pounds in seven days without radically altering your diet.  

I’m not a doctor or nutritionist or personal trainer hired for my hot, muscular physique, but I know that you can’t lose seven pounds in a week without radically altering something.  Sure enough, the diet requires women to cut out carbs, sodium and sugar for one week and rely solely on small portions of grilled chicken and plain vegetables.  Also, the dieter must do 30 minutes of “hard” cardio each day and have a half hour of vigorous woman-on-top sex each night.  

Perhaps I’m ignorant or unlucky, but I don’t think 30 minutes of nightly sex is feasible.  Also, a half hour of uninterrupted bouncing is unrealistic.  

Well, it is for me, anyways.  I get tired easily, and I don’t like it when my leg muscles ache.  Also, constant thrusting can get tedious for both partners.  And really, how much calories does flexing your thighs really burn? 90? 100? 150, maybe? That’s less than a Weight Watchers whole-grain bagel.  It’s even less than one medium-sized oatmeal raison cookie.  

To be fair, I guess people on the quick-fix Cosmo diet shouldn’t be eating cookies anyways.  

The point I’m trying to make, I think, is that the article is telling readers how to shed water weight in preparation for a big event (wedding, birthday party, a night out at Boston Pizza with friends they haven’t seen in 6 to 8 months).  What the piece doesn’t take into account is that the minute the woman consumes a beer/pizza slice/fry/crouton, all of that water weight comes back and leads to bloating and vicious gas pains.  

I’ve done mild crash diets like that, and nothing ruins the feel-good vibe of super self-control like renegade air ricocheting around your large and small intestines.  It’s both awkward and painful, and forces you to make funny expressions that puzzle other partygoers.  

The next morning you’re 10 pounds heavier and 30 times more  depressed than you were when Cosmo first called you fat and told you to reward yourself for a hard day’s work as a partner in your prestigious law firm or PR agency by eating a low-fat, gluten-free cupcake with the icing scraped off.  

You want to lose a few? More vegetables and less treats.  Oh, and a few long walks and a run here and there.  Don’t hunt down a partner for 30 minutes of work-filled, unsatisfying nightly intercourse had solely to tone your ass.  An ass that, God willing, won’t be seen by fellow party guests anyways.  

I’d rather have random mid-morning sex that has nothing to do with shaping my gluts, and I don’t believe in fat-free cupcakes. Treats aren’t supposed to be healthy, that’s why they’re treats.  If you’re that concerned about losing weight, end your awesome day at your awesome downtown office with an awesome slice of cucumber.

Spoiled?

I had a discussion about upper-class cities today, and it got me thinking about wealth and opportunity.

Opportunity eludes some (perhaps many), and it’s often unfair.  For example, a surgeon who moves from India to Canada is forced to work at Tim Horton’s because his degree is not transferrable and he can’t afford to upgrade.  That’s difficult, because some people assume older people in the customer service industry are there because they can’t get a “real” job.  They just couldn’t earn some marketing degree because they were too busy, I don’t know, failing at life.

This phenomenon is, of course, unfair.  Anyone who’s ever worked a minimum-wage job during their high school/college/university years knows that it’s hard to be intermittently condescended to based on an apron.  Everyone who has to ask “do you want fries with that?” knows that there’s a lot of jokes about imbeciles who have to ask wealthy and accomplished lawyers that question everyday.

On the other end of the spectrum is the obvious disdain some people have for those with comfortable salaries and upper-middle class homes.

This – though perhaps less disagreeable because those on the receiving end may sleep easy with the knowledge that the surly complainer is probably jealous – is still irritating.  

When you’re born with a little more than you need (or a lot more), you must be aware that your circumstances are, financially speaking, sometimes enviable.  Money doesn’t make people happy, but it makes them less worried about survival, which must lead to some increase in overall well-being.

Last year, I held a cushy 9-5 office job and got paid reasonably well for doing nothing.  I usually arrived five to 10 minutes late, took a lot of tea breaks, and played around on Facebook.  When it came time to work, I keyed numbers into a program and sorted invoices.

I hated it.

It made me want to die.

I hated the white walls and the blue carpet and the constant hum of the air conditioner.  I hated the shitty soft-rock on the radio and the swivel chairs and the loud conversations about nothing (most of which I probably started).  

Every afternoon I contemplated a nervous breakdown or a sudden heart-attack, anything that would promise some time off.  

I knew that I should’ve been grateful that I wasn’t serving coffee or bagging groceries or scrubbing bathrooms (all of which I’ve done, and one of which I do now), and I knew that most people thought I was lucky to have a “family business” to go to.  In fact, every time I complained about the rotten cesspool that was my decomposing brain, I’d often hear, “but you’re so lucky, I’d love to get paid for doing nothing.”

I’m telling all of you naysayers and doubters that you’re wrong.  

A promised position in a family company made me feel more useless and lazy than a barista or a grocery store cashier.  When you’re working with your hands and doing something for others, the lowness of your occupation compared to, like, the prime minister, doesn’t matter.  You’re busy, you’re working, and you’re getting something done.  You may not want to do it forever, but maybe it’s good enough for the time being.

When you’re sitting in a chair staring at a monitor with a bright blue screen and big yellow letters wearing stupid dress pants and ugly leather shoes (Stacy and Clinton would have died), you feel like a fat-assed, sedentary drain on the system.  A big speckled fish that sucks algae off the bottom of an expensive fish tank.

I wasn’t “lucky.”  I didn’t ask for that opportunity, I didn’t demand that the company make room for me.  But, since it was there and I was fresh out of school, I took the job.  I took it because it was easy, and because I didn’t have to work for it.

I think that, occupationally speaking, that was the worst year of my life.  Other great things happened, but while I sat in that building for eight hours, I felt nothing but disgust for myself.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re given.  You’re not lucky if you’re not happy, and sometimes fortune isn’t fortune at all if you’re better off without it.  

If you think you’ll be happier working in a bakery than at your mom’s law firm, then fill out that application.  Don’t let anyone tell you to appreciate the opportunity to make money while someone else vacuums the men’s aisle at Wal-Mart.  Sometimes, believe it or not, vacuuming is better than slouching over an old PC creeping Facebook all day.

Don’t feel guilty about “not appreciating a great opportunity.”  Monotony just kills the soul.

I’mma’ Gunna’ Pull Yo’ Hair

I’ve changed a lot in recent years.  More specifically, my opinions have changed a lot.

Back when I was young and idealistic and inexperienced, I believed that freedom was achieved through hedonism – controlled hedonism, if you will.  I thought that happiness came to those who poo-poo’d social mores and embraced the more dangerous aspects of life.  The sex, the drugs, the rocks and the rolls, those kinds of things.

I was an aspiring free sprit with a modest collection of formerly banned books (as in books banned in the 1800s that are now available on the bargain shelves at Chapters), a penchant for literature about pornography (not to be confused with pornographic literature, although I do have some of that too), a taste for mild body modifications (all of which are covered by clothing) and a kind of bohemian life philosophy.  

I still have some left-of-center beliefs that I hold dear (i.e. gay marriage is cool, abortion is a personal choice, abstinence-only education is ridiculous, etc), but my belief that all fun is good fun has been tempered by personal experience.  Now I believe that some “fun” things are not fun at all.  For me, anyways, and possibly for you too.

Let me explain.

Sex.

So, on the far right end of the spectrum you have courtship.  Courtship is chaste and non-threatening.  It involves two individuals expressing emotional and intellectual interest in one another, and thus agreeing to spend time together to see if a romantic commitment is a possibility.  It’s about hand-holding and giggling and shy, flirtatious glances.  It’s old-school, basically, and thus dated – mostly because it excludes the possibility of developing a physical relationship prior to a wedding.

However, on the far (left?) side of the romance continuum you have the hook-up, which is, by definition, not romantic at all. The hook-up is a fast and furious self-serving act.  It’s meant to enhance one’s reputation more than his (or her, but mostly his) quality of life.  The term “hook up” is ugly.  It sounds like plugging in a cord or linking paperclips together over a boring lunch hour.  The analogy is fairly appropriate, as insertion seems to be a key component of any real hook-up.

It’s sort of like the Ying Yang twins song that’s alluded to in this blog’s title.  It’s rough and coarse and terse.  

Despite the fact that a hook-up is supposed to be frivolous and exciting, it has rules.  Big Rules.

Rule #1: Don’t get attached after a hook-up.  Getting attached is for bitches.

Rule #2: Don’t expect affection after the hook-up, that’s asking too much.  Affection is for bitches.

Rule #3: You can hook-up again, but if attachment ensues, expect mockery and a long-lasting adversarial relationship with your former “lover.”

I used to think hook-ups were dandy, a good way to relieve stress and learn more about the beauty of human sexuality.  Now, I think they’re a troublesome social trend that’s stunting natural emotional growth.  Sex need not be exclusively reserved for love or commitment, but it should be had for passion.  It should be about desire and, hopefully, a small shred of mutual respect.  It should be about fulfilling the wants and needs of yourself and another person.

When you’re told you shouldn’t – nay, can’t – expect basic respect from your one-time (or part-time) partner because “it’s just sex and clinginess is for bitches,” the fun is gone.  The freedom from archaic, old-fashioned values is gone.  Even the “naughty” aspect is eradicated.  The hook-up, more often than not, eventually becomes about one person’s power over someone else.  One person, free of emotional reservations, sees another as, well, kind of a come bucket or fleshy vibrator.  If the bucket or vibrator gets upset, he or she (usually she) is derided for not following the rules.

Expecting everlasting attachment isn’t fair, but nor is it fair to demand cold detachment from people who are, for all intents and purposes, being intimate with another human being.  

We don’t need to return to an era where kissing was scandalous, but we do need to find balance between austerity and overindulgence, especially when that overindulgence starts to prove more wearying and trying than it’s worth.  

Sex is about the enjoyment of another person’s body, not the cold use of it.  Somehow it’s become cool to forget that, and I think that’s sad.

Fat Politics

I’ve long been a loyal and devoted follower of Dan Savage (a great sex columnist, and an even greater writer).  I came upon his column while perusing a Now Magazine during an unbearably long lunch break.  

Being a life-long suburbanite, I never had access to an alternative weekly before.  At home, the only papers to hit my doorstep are the Toronto Star and Mississauga News.  Neither publication spends much time discussing obscure sexual fetishes, or advertising for strip clubs and escort services.  I also went to a Catholic high school, where no such reading material was readily available.  So you can imagine my delight when attendance at a notoriously liberal university led to the discovery of salacious material embedded in innocuous newsprint.  

I fell in love with Dan instantly, and shared his divine insight with everyone I knew.  

One day, he wrote about complaints from disgruntled readers.  He had angered them by saying that larger girls look bad in too-tight pants.  Specifically, he was referring to the roll of fat that hangs over a snug waistband.  More specifically, he was commenting on the phenomenon of size 8 women trying to wear size 4 pants, and looking like ruptured sausages because of it.  Now, the sight of strangled skin struggling to free itself from the confines of hip-crushing pants is loveably referred to as “muffin-topping.”  The consensus of the people (fashion experts, casual observers, my mother, etc) is that this trend cannot continue.  Fashionable attire is supposed to make you look better, not worse.

However, the argument was not about what looks good, but rather the “right” to feel good in unflattering outfits.  It seems like that excess flesh is political, a “fuck you” statement to a world that values women’s bodies rather than their minds.  It’s not terribly out of line to wave the finger at the media.  Hollywood likes its women dirty-skinny (and it likes to deride them for it, too).  No two people are built the same, and not everyone is meant to slither underneath closed doors or have legs the width of a man’s wrist.

However, we must be able to agree that a 5′2 person should not weigh 400 pounds.  Yet we can’t.  According to outraged Savage Love readers, being fat is just like being gay – a permanent, unchangeable aspect of one’s being.  To advise a torn man to gently confront his wife about her 90 pound weight gain is to encourage hate and discrimination.  

People counter these arguments with offensive remarks.  They decry the existence of disgusting excess weight, and demand that the whiny fatties hit a gym and stop eating gallons of ice-cream.

Why, I wonder, can people not be reasonable?  Why must things become so political?

It seems to me like excess weight (as in weight that’s close to double what it should be) is not always a product of laziness (God knows that they’re are lazy and inactive skinny people), but rather a product of a culture that’s lost touch with basic health principles.  Our portions are enormous, our cheap food loaded with fat, and our favourite gourmet lattes filled with sugar.  A lot of jobs require nothing more than the use of fingers to punch numbers into a computer.  

It cannot be denied that obesity is linked to health problems, but not a lot is done to curb the problem at a national level.  People would be horrified if the government taxed sugary pops (or sodas, for any American people reading this) like it does cigarettes, or forced restaurants (fast food ones included) to abide by pre-determined health standards (and they wouldn’t, because franchises are generally good for the economy).  Instead, we (sort of) encourage people to make healthy choices.

“Eat an apple,” we say.  ”Go for a walk.”

There’s nothing wrong with making a personal decision to eat less and move more, but it seems like some people don’t know how much they truly eat or how little they actually move.  North Americans have grown so accustomed to platters of pasta and buckets of fries (I’m only using mild hyperbole here) that some would find anything smaller dissatisfying.  Also, does everyone know that one can of Coke contains up to eight teaspoons of sugar?  Do people know that a venti white mocha from Starbucks has almost as many calories as a quarter-pounder with cheese from McDonalds?  

When people hear the word “diet,” they think of deprivation – of raw vegetables and tiny cuts of skinless, boneless chicken breasts.  Really, it can be hard to tell how much is too much, and it’s harder still when the fries that make your hips swell seem to melt off of your skinny (but perhaps more sedentary) friend.  

So, if there was less fast-food, less pop and smaller portions, would people be smaller?  Yes, they absolutely would.  A plump figure was considered attractive in the 18th century because everyone was thin and hungry.  Now we’re more than satiated, and we have the muffin-tops to show for it.  

Instead of arguing over what looks good, and what should look good, and why thinking a certain person doesn’t look good is akin to a lynching, we should be trying to figure out why this debate exists.  Why do some people need two seats on an airplane?  Is it because they’re lazy wastes of life?  Drains on the medical system? Inconveniences in crowded areas?  Or is because we’re a culture that consumes and consumes and consumes?  A culture that wants more food and more TV shows and more electronics?  We want big houses and big cars and big walk-in closets.  We want instant food for low-prices.  We’re too busy to cook and go grocery shopping.  

It’s not right or just or fair to make a thicker person feel like a lazy slob – he or she is no such thing.  However, we cannot, as a culture, over-consume something and incur no ill effects.  Too little food will kill, and it seems too much will too.  

What’s to blame isn’t bigotry or intolerance, but rather ignorance.  It seems we don’t know why we are the way we are.  We’re bigger than we want to be (and much bigger than we’re told we should be).  It’s hard when you’re tired and busy and want a quick burger before bedtime.  It’s hard when every restaurant serves you a meal that could easily be shared with two other people.  It’s hard when high-fat foods are delicious.  It’s hard when many jobs require that we just sit and stare at a computer screen.  

The problem has more to do with a culture obsessed with size and convenience.  Perhaps we’d all be benefitted by caring less about both.

So, It’s Been Awhile…

Those of you who check this defunct collection of ramblings have likely given up on me.  I don’t blame you, I’ve been gone awhile.  Six or seven months, give or take.  I haven’t been terribly busy, just terribly uninspired.  

I’m torn on the concept of blogging.  I like it, and I like doing it, but sometimes I just don’t feel like it.  I try to talk about greater issues, so as to interest a greater number of people.  No one wants to hear about my mom or my homework or my dwindling bank account.  People might want to hear about my scandalous sexual escapades and wild fantasies, but I feel weird sharing them because a lot of people who read this would know who I’m talking about.  Sharing that sort of thing would be rude, and in poor taste.  That said, I can still say things that are in poor taste.  So here is a random collection of my most obnoxious opinions.

But before that, I should welcome 2009 to…Earth.  

I had a good 2008.  It had its sad moments and unhappy hours.  It had its tears, but it had many, many joys.  On a serious note, I can honestly say that this was one of the best years of my life.  I learned so much, and accomplished things (little things, but things nonetheless).  I outgrew some bad habits and developed some good ones (and a few more bad ones, perhaps).  I met an incredible guy, and made many new and wonderful friends.  I may have lost some too, and I won’t forget that either.  

I lost that 15 pounds I’d be whining about since high school, I got over a startling personal disappointment, and I went back to school.  I wasn’t always in the best of moods, but I was in the best of places.  I spent 2007 nursing disappointments and grievances, and 2008 made up for all of it.  I can only hope that this year as good as the last.

Here’s to good times, good friends, good memories, and great loves.  

As for my obnoxious opinions, here they be:

I hate people with dumb “artistic” opinions.  These people tend to be young, but they can be old.  They can even be me, at times, but hopefully not often.

While traveling on a streetcar back in October, I heard two 15-ish year old girls talking about Hedley.  They were discussing that, “we’re putting out fires and changing car tires” song – things no members of Hedley do or will likely do…ever.  The great top 40 summer hit about being a working stiff reminiscing about high school, it seems, is deeper than meets the…ear.

“I don’t really like the song that much,” said one girl, “but, like, I really like the message, you know?”

No, I don’t know.  There is no “message” in that song.  None.  It’s about nothing.  

None of the members of Hedley are old enough to mourn their youth, and I’d wager that their lives now are far better than the ones they led in high school.  Oh, and they don’t put out fires, nor would they likely have to change their own tires.  

Onto Barack Obama…

I like Obama.  I was glad when he won.  In fact, I was overjoyed.  You don’t need to be American to celebrate this change in American political winds.  He’s young, he’s black, he’s charismatic, he’s eloquent, he’s interesting.  

He hasn’t given anyone reason to believe that he’s a communist, fascist, dictator, child molester, satanist or, as Jon Stewart said, witch.  He’s not even particularly revolutionary as far as American politics go.  He has a relatively socially liberal voting record, but social liberalism isn’t viewed by most first-world nations as all that radical.  A lot of countries pay no mind to abortion and gay marriage, and those countries haven’t been struck by God-sent meteors, nor have they been swallowed up by hell.  I bet you $2 that they won’t be (I’d bet more, but I’m broke, and broke people must be frugal).  

He said, “spread the wealth,” not, “impose upon the people a system that will guarantee no one makes more than $10 an hour, regardless of whether or not he/she sells coffee or operates on hearts.”  

Are these people serious?  Honestly?

I suspect that those who deal with little oppression crave it, just so they can protest and feel heroic – Like Sean Penn or Clint Eastwood.  I’d almost be willing to bet a sum larger than $2 that should real war, violence and oppression settle on North American soil, all of those nationalists would flee, if possible, to the libertine cesspool across the Atlantic.  

Also, that study that linked sexy TV shows to teen pregnancies?

No, the correlation between such things needs to be examined more closely, and other factors need to be taken into account.  The most damning argument is the fact that the teen pregnancy rate in the Netherlands is 5 per 1000, while the United States boasts a 50 per 1000 rate.  The Netherlands is home to the city of Amsterdam, a tourist hotspot with legal brothels, live sex shows, and stores that sell the most disgusting and horrific pornography ever made (women with horses, horses with men, women with armed rapists, women with open wounds, etc).  

Why the disparity?  If a sex-saturated culture guaranteed young parenthood, why aren’t European countries overrun with teenage mothers?  

Because people aren’t as uptight about sex.  They don’t shriek about the dangers of comprehensive sex-ed (which does not include teaching five year olds how to give blowjobs, trust me), they don’t call bare breasts “obscene,” and they don’t promote puritanical values while using erotic ads to entice people to buy drain cleaner.  The hypocritical disconnect between actions and theories, and the denial of the importance of supplying teens with adequate knowledge of contraceptive options leads to teen pregnancies.  Let’s not blame HBO.  

Speaking of pop culture, here’s my take on quality entertainment:

Good TV shows:  I’m flighty about TV, I have a hard time committing to shows.  However, my favourites for this year were True Blood and Summer Heights High.  One’s a vampire drama (one with hot and graphic sex scenes) and the other a hysterical satire of life at an Australian high school.  It’s not as over-the-top as it seems, and that’s what’s great about it.  Everyone has met a Ja’mie or two…or three.  

I don’t have much to say about movies, but I will say that this year re-invigorated my interest in literature.  I read a lot, which was nice.  I didn’t read much upon graduating from university, probably because I was temporarily tired of learning.  My favourite book(s)?

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.  An entertaining and engaging look at circus life during the Great Depression.  It has cliche dramatic elements – an affair, a cruel husband, a gang of tough workers hailing from the school of hard knocks, betrayal, suspense, etc.  It also has insight into an exciting industry struggling to thrive during tough times, and those who survived and those who did not (and those who did not deserve to).  

As Forrest Gump would say, that’s all I have to say about that.

Enjoy the New Year, everyone.

Muurrrdeer Hiiiiimmmm!!!

So, I’ve been thinking about social politics again.  Social politics are probably the only politics I think about, because I’m a shallow and superficial person.  I articulate myself well (sometimes), but I’m not overly intelligent (a fact I’ve come to accept).  I have a limited understanding of complex facts and figures, and I still count on my fingers.  What’s 10 per cent of 127 dollars?  I don’t know, I stopped doing math after grade 10. 

However, I do like a hot discussion about a hot topic – like, say, an attractive politician’s affair with a sultry blonde subordinate.

I moreso like reading people’s reactions to it.

There’s a lot of indignation regarding politician’s sexual indiscretions.  A lot of titillation and fascination too, granted.  Still, when news of an affair breaks, people decry the immorality and some (not all) lament the decline in family values and God-fearing personal integrity. 

In the case of John Edwards, a certain degree of disappointed head-shaking is called for.  His wife is terminally ill and has been battling cancer since 2004.  A woman who has lost a son and her health is now being forced to deal with the humiliation of having the world know her charismatic husband fucked around on her with a woman he may or may not have impregnated (the jury is still out on that one).

I feel for her, we all feel for her. 

However, what’s most fascinating about this incident (and others like it) is that in the United States, sexual dalliances – when revealed – are always career-killers (unless you’re Bill Clinton).  However, to be fair, Clinton suffered a fair bit once the world found out about his little on-the-side BJ.

I’m not defending people who cheat.  Cheating is hurtful, harmful and destructive.  It is not, however, a political issue.  It’s a personal one, involving several people – not millions or billions.   Some would argue that infidelity is indicative of poor character (and it can be), but it probably doesn’t affect how a person does his or her job.  People behave differently in their interpersonal relationships than they do in their professional lives (generally speaking, anyways).  Also, there’s probably no one cause of unfaithfulness.

In the case of Edwards, living with a terminally ill woman may have compelled him to seek carefree sex elsewhere.  That’s not to say what he did was excusable, but it puts the situation into perspective.  What he did was probably more careless and weak than malicious.  People seek different kinds of sexual fulfillment for vast reasons, most of which cannot be understood by themselves, let alone a gossipy public. 

I’ve become inclined to think that the public prefers to focus on small, scandalous issues because they’re easier to understand and discuss.  Understanding economics and public policy can be trickier. It requires more study and concentration, and a deeper understanding of the subject matter.

Any asshole can spout opinions on matters of social significance.  Even politicians will choose to debate frivolous issues that affect small pockets of people instead of major issues with world-wide implications.

Why talk about a failed war, plummeting economy and escalating environmental damage when you can incite rage by shrieking about the grave danger inherent in allowing the state to sanction and condone men marrying men?  People are more likely to get uppity about trivial issues that affect their emotions rather than their lives.  The idea of gay people marrying disturbs some people psychologically.  Yet, when these marriages start happening, the lives of numerous naysayers won’t change overmuch.  They’ll work the same jobs, make the same salaries, eat the same foods, live in the same houses, etc.

People will rally against things that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t matter all that much.  Similar logic can be applied to the abortion debate.  The idea of abortion causes emotional unrest, but doesn’t affect people all that much.  Abortions are, at the end of the day, between women and their doctors.  No one ever need know that a fetus was unable to develop.  The world hasn’t spontaneously combusted, nor will it. 

Over-the-counter availability of the morning after pill?  That chaps the ass of a few people – and why?  Because the knowledge that people are having sex outside of the confines of a child-wanting marriage bothers some people.  Yet, that pre-marital sex isn’t a world issue.  It’s a personal issue all around. 

STDs – well, most are preventable and almost all (with the exception of AIDS and herpes) are curable.  They’re social problems in so far as they’ll be dealt with by certain individuals at some point, much like other diseases.  In fact, STDs are less problematic than cancers, which are prevalent and far more difficult to treat and cure. 

I’d even go so far as to say that HIV is not a crisis in the West.  It  was a crisis back in 1987 when no one knew what it was or how to prevent it.  People know more now, and can – if they choose – protect themselves.  Condoms and routine testing are easily accessible.  Collective social crisis averted, I’d say. 

Still, it’s easier to dismiss someone based on their sexual proclivities or tolerance of sticky social subjects.  It’s harder to think of big issues, issues that can and will affect the world at large.  Issues that will, inevitably, affect one’s life.  Instead, people debate subject matter close to their hearts.  There’s nothing wrong with passion or thoughtfulness, but it shouldn’t dominate political discourse.  In the end, a lot of hot topics don’t really matter. 

Gay people getting married?  A good thing, because nothing particularly bad can come it.  It can make you uneasy, but everyone has to deal with things that make them uneasy. 

It’s easy to call for someone’s head when he does something wrong in his personal life, but it’s not particularly healthy or affective.  Someone else’s blowjob is someone else’s blowjob.  Your life wont be any different tomorrow because of it.

You’re All a Bunch of Dirty Hookers!

No, but for real – you are (and that’s okay).

Despite the fact that I haven’t updated in about a month, I had 15 hits yesterday (I usually average 2-5 a day).  I am able to see the words people type into search engines that lead them to my cozy neck of the Internet woods (a nifty WordPress feature, to be sure).  Today, I saw the following:

	2
naked vacation photos	2
hot slutz	1
there a feeling i get when i look to the	1
squeeze heavy sweaty balls	1
thoughts of a wayward nature	1
slob on my neck like corn on the cob	1
religion + kink	1
very hot nacked picture in nature	1
jump on the bed and give me head dont ha

I like “squeeze heavy sweaty balls” the best.  It’s not something I would ever think to punch into a search engine.  I haven’t much interest in sweaty balls, or heavy ones.  Balls, I think, are utilitarian rather than ornamental.  The same could be said for any body part, but most people think of breasts as decorations rather than biologically-necessary appendages.  I’d wager a guess that testicle fetishes are almost entirely exclusive to the gay community (but I could be mistaken).

I like that someone searched for “Religion + Kink.”  Those two tend to walk hand in hand on occasion, ironically enough. 

I’ve come to a realization recently.

I have achieved nothing in my life.

I possess a worthless and meaningless degree that’s been given to mass numbers of people stupider and less motivated than myself.  An arts degree is like a happy meal – if you can afford it, you can have it.  You can have six or seven, if you’re feeling peckish enough.  It’s a shame, really.  The arts do mean something.  They are, indeed, important. 

It’s a disheartening how few career academics take them seriously enough to guard them from flagrant idiots who fail – time and time again – to understand them. 

I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but I did appreciate what I studied.  I did, at times, care enough to try.  I could have, instead, written essays so horrific they bordered on obscene.  I would still have that $20,000 piece of paper hanging on my wall.

So yeah, I’m going back to school.  I’m a hypocrite, I guess.  And, well, I’m getting a little desperate for gainful employment (and easy access to a potential job). 

I’m happy to be going back, because I really do hate my job.

Being here depresses me.  I feel very hopeless and useless and devoid of passion.  The heavy fog of circumstantial depression tends to lift on the weekends, so I attribute my general  malaise to my off-white surroundings throughout the week.  If I stay here for too long, I’ll only be able to talk about the mysterious picnic at the bank last Wednesday.  And the various health complaints of the aging courier with a penchant for peanut M&Ms (we have a candy machine). And the difference between Tazo and Tetley teas.  And the horrible pain of pricking yourself with an industrial-size staple that’s come loose within its papery confines.

I can’t do this for much longer.

And I won’t be.

I hope to spend many of my luscious Friday nights in a semi-far away city come September.  A cute basement apartment with a tiny bathroom will be a nice change of scenery (despite my love of big, roomy bathrooms).

I’ll also look forward to uninterrupted “prviate time.”  You know, the kind free of intruders who gasp and giggle and say that they’ll leave once they use the bathroom “quick-time.”

On an unrelated (yet sad) note, I’ll bid a great man adieu.

George Carlin, it seems, has left us.  He was funny, but truly brilliant.  He was one of the few who told us all to stop caring about shit that doesn’t matter, and to care about shit that does.

A wise man, indeed – and one who will be missed.

I Wanna Make it Wit’chu!

This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first. 

A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne.  I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before.  His description of the music?  

“It’s jokes.”

Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer.  It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).

 “Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”

The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself.  Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant.  It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.

However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant – and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” – lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs. 

Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:

“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,

 Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg

 Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train

 Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”

I don’t think a eating corn on the cob – an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ – is an adequate comparison to a blowjob.  Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex). 

The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line.  Run a train?  Isn’t that illegal in most instances?  Is this a consensual train-running?  Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”

Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:

“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”

Sweaty balls.  Nice.

It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive.  They instead opt to be crass, overt, and – as my brother said – “jokes.”  Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary. 

I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content.  In fact, I often embrace it.  Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context.  It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic.  However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either.  The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.

Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t – and don’t – pull it off well.  When did subtlety become overrated?  When did creativity fall to the wayside?  When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn? 

A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it.  Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.”  “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone.  Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy.  To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust.  You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful. 

People have lost touch with sexiness.  Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left). 

People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it.  They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities. 

In layman’s terms:  Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine).  Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.

Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.

Kia asked men to lick:

“My neck,

My back,

My pussy,

and my crack.”

She lost at me at, “crack.”  An unsexy word, to be sure.  It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.

A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy.  They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy?  Not really – at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.

“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists.  They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat.  Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics.  However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:

“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”

And:

“My saddle, is waiting,

Come and, jump on it.”

The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones? 

Intent.

Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify?  If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths).  Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea – daring, but not necessarily commendable.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours. 

It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think – for two to three minutes – that sex just isn’t all that sexy. 

 

$10, 000 or More for Sex?

Seriously.

There’s no sex act - nor sex partner - worth 10 grand.  There are so few things in life that are free.  Free things are generally cheap things, and cheapness often leaves one feeling unfulfilled.  Sex can be done for free, and still be vigorously enjoyed.  That’s one of its many charms.

Yes, I understand some men’s (and perhaps some women’s) desire for prostitutes.  Some people are awkward, ugly and devoid of social graces.  Some cannot form long-lasting relationships or pick up at bars.  Some fail at acquiring a desperate or curious partner via Craigslist. 

For these people, sex is $20 – $50 away.  I won’t condone or condemn prostitution, but rather point out that it does serve a purpose.  Sex is a highly sought after entity, and some people simply cannot get laid by enthusiastic volunteers.  Do I think monetarily-influenced, back-alley intercourse is pleasant?  Not really – but I haven’t had it, so perhaps I’m mistaken. 

While I understand the (dare I say it) “need” for sex workers, I don’t understand the need for monstrously expensive prostitution rings that run wealthy clients upwards of $10,000.  What do these women do?  What do these men expect?  What kind of outrageous acts are being committed in the penthouse suites of the Washington Ritz-Carleton?

Furthermore, why agree to spend such a staggering sum on sex?  Sex can be obtained relatively easily by rich and powerful men.  Power, even when wielded by a portly,  balding man, can seduce almost anyone.  People crave prestige by association.  People love being embroiled in hot scandals.  Well, some people do.  Others are truly content – and happy – to live cautiously (and yes, such a thing is most certainly possible). 

The point is that rich and powerful guys – particularly rich and powerful public figures – can have sex with hot, young things for free.  Or for the price of a steak or lobster dinner (and to be fair, she’s probably just going to order a Greek salad anyways).  They don’t need to import foreign women like furniture, they don’t need to join high-end organizations dedicated to fulfilling the sexual fantasies of bored socialites, they don’t need to drop thousands of dollars on pussy.  Period.

There must be a motivator at work here, a deeper motivator than mere the desire to fuck hot women.   A man like Eliot Spitzer could sleep with a hot woman without spilling the contents of his wallet into her $5,000 panties.  Easily.

Perhaps the acquisition of wealth and status carries with it a heightened sense of sexual entitlement.  It makes sense, really.  People who have a lot often want more, such is the nature of the beast.  In a way, a constant need to strive for betterment is a positive thing.  Sometimes, however, it grows exponentially larger than it should or ought to. 

I suppose that, for some, there comes a point where sex itself becomes a status symbol.  The best sex, some must assume, costs a great amount of money.  Sex with a hefty price-tag is top-notch and of exceptional quality – like Dom Perignon and Persian carpet.  It’s completely removed from the emotional spectrum of human experiences.  It’s not about genuine passion, but rather detached lust that transcends base sexual desire. 

That seems shallow to me, empty even.

Sure, one might witness extreme spectacle bordering on Olympic sport.  That, however, could probably be witnessed in Amsterdam for 50 Euro.

Risking marriages, jobs and reputations is dangerous.  I can only hope that the over-priced fornication is more than worth the potentially devastating consequences.  The sex had best be akin to a religious experience, rendering one a deeply enlightened being capable of breaking glass with the intensity of his multiple orgasms.

Somehow, I doubt that’s the case.