I've worked in radio for about seven years now and most radio personalities, by necessity, are very good storytellers, so I often overhear jocks jabber about their lives, and nothing that they say ever really surprises me. Most radio personalities are wild, entertaining, and flat-out fun to be around.
But one of my female co-workers, who we'll call Caroline, was telling a story the other day that just made me shake my head. There are countless ways to describe her: outrageous, spunky, forward, free-spirited, unashamed. But only one description fully encapsulates her lack of rationale: female.
Caroline has a very vibrant personality which has allowed her to have somewhat reasonable success attracting men despite her very average looks. I'd probably put her at a 4, but she's got a cute chic style which suits her. She isn't what Americans would consider "overweight," but I've never seen an Asian chick her size. As we used to say in college, "she could use a trip to Ping," which was the student rec center, and in her case, maybe a six-month membership wouldn't hurt. She has pale skin, a round, ordinary face with no features that wow you, but a compelling character which usually allows her to date out of her league, at least looks-wise.
Thru multiple promotional gigs, Caroline has worked closely with a girl we'll call Amber. Amber is stunningly beautiful. She's a t-shirt and jeans girl whose genuine modesty and unfounded lack of confidence in her body prevents her from dressing up. She possesses a wonderful backside that would give some lucky man two big handfuls, and as a result, has moderately thick thighs that she constantly hides, no matter what the occasion or time of year. Her legs really aren't bad at all, but they're the only conceivable root of her humility. She's got a tiny waist, a big round perky set of breasts that perfectly fit her proportion and a smooth beautiful bronze skin tone that somehow remains constant year-round.
It would be an absolute delight to see the uncensored complete package in its glorious entirety, but without question, her most seductive feature is her face. She is angelically gorgeous. She's innocent-looking, with soft cheeks and even softer plump pink lips. Her blue eyes, just slightly naturally squinted, jump out at you and crank up your adrenaline six notches when they connect with yours. She's low-maintainence, usually pulling her blonde hair back into a pony tail, but her new 'do keeps a few locks dancing in front of her right eye, just enough to taunt you and deny you that adrenaline rush you're looking for.
Amber's a 9, Caroline's a 4. It is what it is. I like them both. It's just that I only want one of them. Most men only want one of them.
While everyone has their preferences, my synopsis is pretty much a consensus opinion among men. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure every guy in the office has commented on Amber's looks at one time or another. Yet, Caroline was feeling bold. Really, really bold.
Caroline was telling a story about a guy she's been dating for less than a month. That means they've gone on, what, maybe three dates? If it was going well, possibly more. Had they slept together? Who knows. If Caroline's reputation was consistant with this relationship, probably.
She had a photo of herself posed with Amber and Bret Michaels at a "Rock of Love" something-or-other. When she showed the photo to her guyfriend, she decided to put him to the test in a way only women would try.
"This is my friend Amber," Caroline said, pointing to the goddess. "Isn't she gorgeous?"
"Wow," he said, walking right into her vicious trap. "Yeah, she is."
Ballgame.
Caroline fumed. I wasn't there, but I know she did, because she was fuming just by relaying the story to the people standing around the water cooler. What did she expect? Amber could've been locked inside the Mom's Attic of a U-Haul in swealtering 90-degree heat for 72 hours and Caroline could have had the best-looking day of her life, and 100 out of 100 guys would choose Amber. That's just the way it is. Accept it and get on with life.
Every woman has positive traits and negative traits, yet women are set solely on attaining the unattainable. If another girl has a talent, they want to be better at it. If they're not better at it, they want to hear they're better at it. I get that. But I also think there are too many double-standards women have.
They want an honest man. He just can't be honest when the truth hurts. They want a man with confidence, yet they don't have the confidence themselves to realize that no one's perfect, so their individual imperfections aren't a big deal.
Women will continue to put men in no-win situations as long as they can. I think it's a power thing. They're the inferior gender when it comes to strength, so they try to be the superior gender when it comes to smarts, thus creating a balance of power. What women don't realize is they aren't smarter than men. Men just don't care to play their games. The balance of power comes from their superior ability to nuture, thus keeping the human race afloat. That's it.
Most men don't care, but if they find themselves being bombarded with worthless questions of comparison and want to avoid the occasional headache, they're best served to simply not say anything at all. That's why the Constitution of the United State was written by men. If it wasn't, no one would have ever thought of the 5th Amendment.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Women are nothing like breakfast
Something ruined my breakfast this morning. It's probably ruined dozens of breakfasts for you, too. And the worst part about it is: it seems like it could be fixed so easily. If we can get to the moon, if we can cure cancer, if we find a way to make billions selling products on the internet with a click of a button, then we can definitely find a way to stop thousands of people from having their breakfast experience spoiled on a daily basis.
When you wake up, still groggy, still in a bit of a haze, there is absolutely no way you can have the foresight to anticipate the incredibly unimportant yet heinously demoralizing experience before you. You trudge to the kitchen, open your favorite box of cereal, and you look to the bottom. There, you find cereal. Enough cereal to give you the bowl that you desperately crave. But there's a problem with that cereal. It is littered with former cereal, now mutilated to powder, the weakest in the cereal herd, the remnants which could not survive the brutal grind that is life in a cereal box.
It's a helpless feeling. There's absolutely no way to segregate the powder from the full-fledged flake. Like an apartment that just endured a few strong sprays from a fire extinguisher, the powder at the bottom of the cereal box is everywhere. After about five seconds of game-planning, of trying to come up with a way to outsmart the physics that lie in front of you, you quickly resign yourself to the cold, hard truth: you have two options. Throw away the box of cereal altogether, or play with the cards you've been dealt, turn the box upside down, and commence the landslide of half-snow half-cereal into your ceramic bowl.
In the current state of disappointment, the first option is compelling. When faced with a challenge, I've always been the kind of guy that either does it right, or doesn't do it at all. Knowing my breakfast experience is about to be tainted, I look at the clock and figure out how long it will be before lunch, trying to talk myself out of eating the sand before me, which when doused with milk, will certainly turn into mud. But then, the Catholic guilt kicks in. There are thousands, nay, millions of starving children on the planet desperate for the good parts of the cereal still in the box. I can't, in any good conscience, throw that cereal away.
And thus, the decision has been made. Is the cereal perfect? Far from it. But the B-grade breakfast is still good enough to sustain me, to keep me happy for the time being, and to get the job done.
Then it occurs to me, since the cereal's not so bad afterall, maybe most of the women that I meet aren't all that bad either. I've had a fair share of women to come into my life, and I usually escort them out rather quickly. I have high standards, I'll admit, but higher than the standards is my expectation of immediate sparks of chemistry. If I don't find myself falling for a girl within five minutes of meeting her, my interest plummets. Maybe I need to give them more of a chance. No one's perfect. But if I could look past the immediate shortcomings, I could find someone wonderful for who they are, who, just like the powdery cereal, can sustain me, keep me happy and get the job done.
I'm down to the last bite of real cereal. After this, there's nothing to look forward to but akward-flavored milk with clumps of golden sawdust. This is the part in the relationship where the infatuation wears off. It's the part where you start to notice how annoying her laugh is, or how her eyebrows aren't even, or how she overuses certains words, or how her mom is completely unattractive and that's how your partner's going to look in 15 years. It's time to bail. It's time to throw that little bit of milk down the drain and cut your losses.
I learned something today. Some look at the box as half-dust. I see it half-crunchy goodness. But women, they still need to be perfect.
When you wake up, still groggy, still in a bit of a haze, there is absolutely no way you can have the foresight to anticipate the incredibly unimportant yet heinously demoralizing experience before you. You trudge to the kitchen, open your favorite box of cereal, and you look to the bottom. There, you find cereal. Enough cereal to give you the bowl that you desperately crave. But there's a problem with that cereal. It is littered with former cereal, now mutilated to powder, the weakest in the cereal herd, the remnants which could not survive the brutal grind that is life in a cereal box.
It's a helpless feeling. There's absolutely no way to segregate the powder from the full-fledged flake. Like an apartment that just endured a few strong sprays from a fire extinguisher, the powder at the bottom of the cereal box is everywhere. After about five seconds of game-planning, of trying to come up with a way to outsmart the physics that lie in front of you, you quickly resign yourself to the cold, hard truth: you have two options. Throw away the box of cereal altogether, or play with the cards you've been dealt, turn the box upside down, and commence the landslide of half-snow half-cereal into your ceramic bowl.
In the current state of disappointment, the first option is compelling. When faced with a challenge, I've always been the kind of guy that either does it right, or doesn't do it at all. Knowing my breakfast experience is about to be tainted, I look at the clock and figure out how long it will be before lunch, trying to talk myself out of eating the sand before me, which when doused with milk, will certainly turn into mud. But then, the Catholic guilt kicks in. There are thousands, nay, millions of starving children on the planet desperate for the good parts of the cereal still in the box. I can't, in any good conscience, throw that cereal away.
And thus, the decision has been made. Is the cereal perfect? Far from it. But the B-grade breakfast is still good enough to sustain me, to keep me happy for the time being, and to get the job done.
Then it occurs to me, since the cereal's not so bad afterall, maybe most of the women that I meet aren't all that bad either. I've had a fair share of women to come into my life, and I usually escort them out rather quickly. I have high standards, I'll admit, but higher than the standards is my expectation of immediate sparks of chemistry. If I don't find myself falling for a girl within five minutes of meeting her, my interest plummets. Maybe I need to give them more of a chance. No one's perfect. But if I could look past the immediate shortcomings, I could find someone wonderful for who they are, who, just like the powdery cereal, can sustain me, keep me happy and get the job done.
I'm down to the last bite of real cereal. After this, there's nothing to look forward to but akward-flavored milk with clumps of golden sawdust. This is the part in the relationship where the infatuation wears off. It's the part where you start to notice how annoying her laugh is, or how her eyebrows aren't even, or how she overuses certains words, or how her mom is completely unattractive and that's how your partner's going to look in 15 years. It's time to bail. It's time to throw that little bit of milk down the drain and cut your losses.
I learned something today. Some look at the box as half-dust. I see it half-crunchy goodness. But women, they still need to be perfect.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Kerouac gets it
I started reading "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac today. I think one statement early in the book sums up the funk I've been in.
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
That's me. I want to be around those people, and I want to be one of those people. Bottom line.
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
That's me. I want to be around those people, and I want to be one of those people. Bottom line.
10 Daily Rules of Coney
My ten indefinite rules of life, in no particular order
1. No internet at home, unless it's to get my shit together (which includes this blog, paying bills, reading news of the day, or acquire generally neccessary information)
2. Strive to be a better person today than I was yesterday.
3. Read something
4. Write something
5. Pick a Bible passage to comtemplate and pray
6. ADDRESS MAIL. NO MORE PILES LAYING AROUND
7. Workout DAILY (pushups, situps, run, weights, abs, whatever)
8. Eat healthier and cheaper (cheaper than fast food and chicken wings)
9. Try something new and write about it, or at least set plans to try something new
10. Never correct others without first correcting yourself
1. No internet at home, unless it's to get my shit together (which includes this blog, paying bills, reading news of the day, or acquire generally neccessary information)
2. Strive to be a better person today than I was yesterday.
3. Read something
4. Write something
5. Pick a Bible passage to comtemplate and pray
6. ADDRESS MAIL. NO MORE PILES LAYING AROUND
7. Workout DAILY (pushups, situps, run, weights, abs, whatever)
8. Eat healthier and cheaper (cheaper than fast food and chicken wings)
9. Try something new and write about it, or at least set plans to try something new
10. Never correct others without first correcting yourself
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