Ryan from More Rants than Raves recently sent me GQ's latest guide to men's style, no doubt as a subtle reminder that I increasingly allow myself to look like a vagrant during any break from teaching. It answered such mysteries as whether brown shoes really are essential with a blue suit (so long as the brown is darker than the suit's blue), whether it's acceptable to forgo a belt with your suit (yes), and what the third button of a three button suit is for (decoration, or a hidden camera for the creepy demographic that finds long range crotch photography from the comfort of your own van too impersonal).
As much as I appreciated Ryan's gesture, both because I do care about the finer points of men's style and because someone needs to let me know I look like I warm myself at a barrel fire, I find these lists tend to miss the true quagmires that dandyism confronts us with: how do I wear an ascot without looking like a douchebag / Jeremy Piven at the Emmys (not being Jeremy Piven is a great start)? Must I wear my monocle at all times, and if so, how do I prevent my cheek and brow muscles from not seizing up (no--only wear your monocle when leveling additional contempt at your subject, as if unaided sight would fall short of fully appreciating their failure as a human being)? Why does my wife feel that every time a man walks by with an awesome mustache with upturned ends she must turn to me, make eye contact, and firmly say "No" as if chastising a miscreant dog (because she is a woman of refinement and class who made a mistake a decade ago and saddled herself with me, a man who aspires to lush mustachios but in reality can barely muster the thin, patchy mustache reminiscent of a convicted sex-offender).
What we must remember, however, is that style is also a matter of how we conduct ourselves in our daily lives, how we interact with our peers and the innumerable strangers whose lives intersect with our own for minutes or hours of the day. Or, in the case of Derek Jeter, the innumerable strangers whose genitals intersect with his own for minutes or hours (who knows? he's a professional athlete, after all) of the evening. Specifically, I refer to the recent revelation that Jeter has a penchant for gifting his sexual conquests with personalized Derek Jeter sports memorabilia when he kicks them out at the end of the night. No wonder this guy wears a pin striped uniform: he is all class. How better to remind a former fling of just how awesome you are than by signing something that they can then sell? There's a special kind of narcissism at work here that lesser men like myself can only admire. Indeed, I just stood up and did a slow, methodical clap by myself in a Starbucks. Sadly, no one else joined in.
And so, as you prepare for your holiday and New Years celebrations, save a few of the stocking stuffers that you were planning to give to your beloved and tuck them away with a Sharpie in a safe place. Then, a few nights from now, bust them own while the post-coital glow is still upon you both. What better way to say "You just had sex with someone awesome" than by rolling over and giving them a signed Unicorn calendar, Panda Express gift card, or Gold Toe sock three pack? No need to thank me, dear reader. This is my holiday gift to you.
Just pretend I signed it and kicked you out of my house immediately afterward.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ewe Bris
The CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Report last week warned that castrating lambs with your teeth may make you sick. I know. I'm as shocked by all this as you are.
I think it goes without saying that this convoluted and frankly surprising discovery needs to be parsed a bit. First of all, let's note that the operative word here is "may." Just because you use nothing more than a few incisors, an almost preternaturally strong jaw muscle, and a sturdy grip to forcibly remove the testicles of every sheep you can douse with ether and toss hoof-first into your van does not mean you will definitely get sick from a Campylobacter jejuni infection, symptoms of which include "diarrhea...abdominal cramps, fever, nausea and vomiting." On the other hand, the halitosis and the distinct impression that people are avoiding you, I would imagine, are pretty standard across the board, but you're castrating lambs with your teeth, so what the fuck do you care? Life's already a party.
I particularly appreciate how the article frames the situation as if it were some big mystery. The two workers who came down with C. jejuni insisted that they hadn't eaten the types of foods typically associated with the infection, it explains, nor had they shared food or drink. "Hm...what do we have in common?" they must have asked themselves. "My horoscope did say that...no, but you're a Scorpio and I'm a Capricorn." His coworker starts to raise his hand, then slowly lets it drop, brow furrowed in frustration. "No, no...we both know not to eat Shirley's egg salad sandwiches." The silence must have hung then between them, palpable and thick, as when Hannibal Lecter waits for young Clarice to put together the pieces for herself. "You don't think it had anything to do with using our teeth to castrate those lambs with diarrhea, do you? I mean, I flossed after and everything..."
You must forgive my weakness regarding the title. I realize just how inaccurate it is, both regarding the gender and religious denomination of the species in question (sheep traditionally trend toward Buddhism, I'm told), as well as the specific nature of the genital manipulation, so to speak. But come on. How am I supposed to resist that kind of word play?
I think it goes without saying that this convoluted and frankly surprising discovery needs to be parsed a bit. First of all, let's note that the operative word here is "may." Just because you use nothing more than a few incisors, an almost preternaturally strong jaw muscle, and a sturdy grip to forcibly remove the testicles of every sheep you can douse with ether and toss hoof-first into your van does not mean you will definitely get sick from a Campylobacter jejuni infection, symptoms of which include "diarrhea...abdominal cramps, fever, nausea and vomiting." On the other hand, the halitosis and the distinct impression that people are avoiding you, I would imagine, are pretty standard across the board, but you're castrating lambs with your teeth, so what the fuck do you care? Life's already a party.
I particularly appreciate how the article frames the situation as if it were some big mystery. The two workers who came down with C. jejuni insisted that they hadn't eaten the types of foods typically associated with the infection, it explains, nor had they shared food or drink. "Hm...what do we have in common?" they must have asked themselves. "My horoscope did say that...no, but you're a Scorpio and I'm a Capricorn." His coworker starts to raise his hand, then slowly lets it drop, brow furrowed in frustration. "No, no...we both know not to eat Shirley's egg salad sandwiches." The silence must have hung then between them, palpable and thick, as when Hannibal Lecter waits for young Clarice to put together the pieces for herself. "You don't think it had anything to do with using our teeth to castrate those lambs with diarrhea, do you? I mean, I flossed after and everything..."
You must forgive my weakness regarding the title. I realize just how inaccurate it is, both regarding the gender and religious denomination of the species in question (sheep traditionally trend toward Buddhism, I'm told), as well as the specific nature of the genital manipulation, so to speak. But come on. How am I supposed to resist that kind of word play?
Friday, December 2, 2011
Old Man Fight Prompts Ambivalence, Giggles
As is not uncommon with a leisure class that has known no real suffering, I tend to derive significant pleasure from the misfortune of others. Not genuine misfortune of real people, mind you--I'm not a dick--but I will confess that such plights in the abstract, when distilled to the slithering miasma of their vile essence, do make me smile. As fellow connoisseurs of this debased form of pleasure (after all, dear reader, you continue to peruse my literary tripe despite its clear lack of a moral compass), you too are aware of that special mixture of the taboo, the unexpected, and the absurd that the best of these evince. Exempli gratia: What do you get when you put a baby in a blender? An erection.
I'll give you a moment to let that one sink in.
Particularly when one takes into consideration the nature of my previous post, one wonders whether your dear author has indeed "gone off the reservation," a figure of speech I'm not entirely comfortable using, both because I'm not entirely sure I'm using it correctly, and even if I am, my white guilt makes me feel like I should contribute to a Native American scholarship program or something each time it's deployed, like putting nickels in a swear jar. Clink. There's your five cents, kid.
My point (oh, I have one), is that my frame of reference may have been inevitably skewed over the course of many, many years immersed in this sort of inappropriate tom-foolery. I know what I find funny, but of late, the better angel on my shoulder seems to be absent. Sure, I'll still laugh, but should I also feel guilty for laughing? Case in point:
I'm leaning towards not, but it's so difficult to be sure. The life-long grudge element of this fight (the two were rivals in the Canadian Football League roughly half a century ago, a league devoted primarily to moose hunting and being polite, I'm told) warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart. I'm Irish, after all, and grudges are one thing we do very well; my father, for instance, never liked the British and held a personal grudge against Pope John Paul II for the better part of thirty years. Then there's the irony of the olive branch offering instigating violence, and most obviously, the fact that they both clearly have one foot in the grave already. No disrespect to either combatant, though--I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the first punch from Sir Olive Branch would have cleaned my clock (clink goes the nickel into the scholarship for watchmakers' children).
But, yeah, old men fighting on stage at public event, which then goes viral on the internet...I can see how maybe I should feel a twinge of guilt for giggling at their misfortune, at least in the abstract. But I'm tapping the glass of the instrument on my moral dashboard, and it's not responding. I think I bought a lemon.
As is so often the case in my life, I find myself torn and unable or unwilling to make a final decision. I turn to you, dear reader, to guide me from this maze. Should I find this funny or not? The suspense is killing me.
I'll give you a moment to let that one sink in.
Particularly when one takes into consideration the nature of my previous post, one wonders whether your dear author has indeed "gone off the reservation," a figure of speech I'm not entirely comfortable using, both because I'm not entirely sure I'm using it correctly, and even if I am, my white guilt makes me feel like I should contribute to a Native American scholarship program or something each time it's deployed, like putting nickels in a swear jar. Clink. There's your five cents, kid.
My point (oh, I have one), is that my frame of reference may have been inevitably skewed over the course of many, many years immersed in this sort of inappropriate tom-foolery. I know what I find funny, but of late, the better angel on my shoulder seems to be absent. Sure, I'll still laugh, but should I also feel guilty for laughing? Case in point:
I'm leaning towards not, but it's so difficult to be sure. The life-long grudge element of this fight (the two were rivals in the Canadian Football League roughly half a century ago, a league devoted primarily to moose hunting and being polite, I'm told) warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart. I'm Irish, after all, and grudges are one thing we do very well; my father, for instance, never liked the British and held a personal grudge against Pope John Paul II for the better part of thirty years. Then there's the irony of the olive branch offering instigating violence, and most obviously, the fact that they both clearly have one foot in the grave already. No disrespect to either combatant, though--I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the first punch from Sir Olive Branch would have cleaned my clock (clink goes the nickel into the scholarship for watchmakers' children).
But, yeah, old men fighting on stage at public event, which then goes viral on the internet...I can see how maybe I should feel a twinge of guilt for giggling at their misfortune, at least in the abstract. But I'm tapping the glass of the instrument on my moral dashboard, and it's not responding. I think I bought a lemon.
As is so often the case in my life, I find myself torn and unable or unwilling to make a final decision. I turn to you, dear reader, to guide me from this maze. Should I find this funny or not? The suspense is killing me.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Perambulator Chaser
The longer I cling to life, the more the distinct patterns and arcs of our existence come into focus, perhaps as some sort of poor remuneration for the shame and disappointment such lingering engenders. Having largely survived the wedding season (a season which, much like the Westeros of Martin's Song of Ice and Fire, lasted years and years), our playground taunts prove prescient once more: first comes love, then comes marriage, and wouldn't you know it, then comes baby in a ridiculously expensive baby carriage designed to optimize cognitive development by, I imagine, not dropping them on their soft little heads.
In other words, my friends are having babies now, and as the phenomenon has spread from my fringe acquaintances ever inward toward and into my inner circle, I find that some of the myths surrounding parenthood bear some qualification. One very good friend nicely described it as genuinely falling in love with one's son or daughter, and I see as much in the way they describe their boys and girls, the iPhone quick-draw with the latest dozen photos of baby, the catalogue of the week's firsts. I confess, however, that is has been refreshing to also hear the ragged edge to which each parent has been pushed, be it the gruff admission that (x) "can be a little fucker" or (y) being held at arm's length and passed to mother to prevent daddy from burying baby in the backyard.
This isn't some new iteration of my affection for inappropriate humor, I assure you. Rather, it's the comfort in knowing that having and raising a child is as everything else: goods and bads, highs and lows. It makes it seem more possible, more attainable, which right now is something I need, I think.
I hadn't even held a baby until about six months ago. The experience was one fraught with self-consciousness, cradling the little man's head and body tentatively as I arched the rest of my body forward, so that should howling Dothraki on horseback burst through the back door, my torso would shield the child from the onslaught of arrows. Now I get it when I watch my friends hold their babies at a strange angle in the crook of their arm, sometimes askew or even upside down, and while I would never do so with someone else's kid, I'm already developing sketches of the obstacle course I'll construct around the house when my little one is strapped to Hurley's back and wearing a Batman / Batgirl outfit.
But I want the other stuff, too, of course. The iPhone quick-draw, the novelty t-shirts that fit for the majority of a single afternoon before outgrown, the garbled utterance that, if you think about it, must have been "you're right, Dad, the Oxfordian theory of Shakespearean authorship is a bunch of bullshit rooted ultimately in classism."
I joke regularly about the carnival of humiliations that emasculate me on a virtually daily basis, and I wonder if having another, utterly vulnerable human being to protect might be my last shot at the 'big time,' seeing as my glandular predispositions bar me from a luxurious pelt of chest hair or a Selleck-esque mustachio, those most recognizable and hallowed signs of masculinity. Then again, to even think so makes all too clear that I am not yet a parent. If there's one thing I've gleaned from my friends, it's that it isn't about you anymore. As an unrepentant narcissist, I find that a harrowing thought.
Still, I'd like to think I'm up to the challenge.
In other words, my friends are having babies now, and as the phenomenon has spread from my fringe acquaintances ever inward toward and into my inner circle, I find that some of the myths surrounding parenthood bear some qualification. One very good friend nicely described it as genuinely falling in love with one's son or daughter, and I see as much in the way they describe their boys and girls, the iPhone quick-draw with the latest dozen photos of baby, the catalogue of the week's firsts. I confess, however, that is has been refreshing to also hear the ragged edge to which each parent has been pushed, be it the gruff admission that (x) "can be a little fucker" or (y) being held at arm's length and passed to mother to prevent daddy from burying baby in the backyard.
This isn't some new iteration of my affection for inappropriate humor, I assure you. Rather, it's the comfort in knowing that having and raising a child is as everything else: goods and bads, highs and lows. It makes it seem more possible, more attainable, which right now is something I need, I think.
I hadn't even held a baby until about six months ago. The experience was one fraught with self-consciousness, cradling the little man's head and body tentatively as I arched the rest of my body forward, so that should howling Dothraki on horseback burst through the back door, my torso would shield the child from the onslaught of arrows. Now I get it when I watch my friends hold their babies at a strange angle in the crook of their arm, sometimes askew or even upside down, and while I would never do so with someone else's kid, I'm already developing sketches of the obstacle course I'll construct around the house when my little one is strapped to Hurley's back and wearing a Batman / Batgirl outfit.
But I want the other stuff, too, of course. The iPhone quick-draw, the novelty t-shirts that fit for the majority of a single afternoon before outgrown, the garbled utterance that, if you think about it, must have been "you're right, Dad, the Oxfordian theory of Shakespearean authorship is a bunch of bullshit rooted ultimately in classism."
I joke regularly about the carnival of humiliations that emasculate me on a virtually daily basis, and I wonder if having another, utterly vulnerable human being to protect might be my last shot at the 'big time,' seeing as my glandular predispositions bar me from a luxurious pelt of chest hair or a Selleck-esque mustachio, those most recognizable and hallowed signs of masculinity. Then again, to even think so makes all too clear that I am not yet a parent. If there's one thing I've gleaned from my friends, it's that it isn't about you anymore. As an unrepentant narcissist, I find that a harrowing thought.
Still, I'd like to think I'm up to the challenge.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
A Latin Lover
Honestly, I don't even know why I try to keep up with this blog anymore. Maybe I'll be able to settle into a regular posting schedule once the school year is over. Maybe.
In the meantime, let's talk language, shall we? Do you find yourself watching Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo antagonizing each other in Latin in Tombstone and say to yourself, "Golly, I wish I could do that." No? Um...well, then I got nothing. But I'll pretend you responded enthusiastically in the affirmative.
While my own abilities with Latin have atrophied to the point where anything beyond a preposition or the name of a logical fallacy is pretty well beyond my grasp, I did recently stumble upon a site that compiled a number of "Handy Latin Phrases," the most pertinent of which I humbly offer so that you too may speak in the language of Caesar, Livy, Cicero, and Horace.
Mihi ignosce. Cum homine de cane debeo congredi.
Excuse me. I've got to see a man about a dog.
Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?
Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?
Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant!
May barbarians invade your personal space!
and perhaps my personal favorite:
Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris.
If Caesar were alive, you'd be chained to an oar.
Don't say I didn't ever do anything for you.
In the meantime, let's talk language, shall we? Do you find yourself watching Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo antagonizing each other in Latin in Tombstone and say to yourself, "Golly, I wish I could do that." No? Um...well, then I got nothing. But I'll pretend you responded enthusiastically in the affirmative.
While my own abilities with Latin have atrophied to the point where anything beyond a preposition or the name of a logical fallacy is pretty well beyond my grasp, I did recently stumble upon a site that compiled a number of "Handy Latin Phrases," the most pertinent of which I humbly offer so that you too may speak in the language of Caesar, Livy, Cicero, and Horace.
Mihi ignosce. Cum homine de cane debeo congredi.
Excuse me. I've got to see a man about a dog.
Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?
Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?
Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant!
May barbarians invade your personal space!
and perhaps my personal favorite:
Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris.
If Caesar were alive, you'd be chained to an oar.
Don't say I didn't ever do anything for you.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Internet: Long, Hard, and now Full of Sea Men
It's not easy finding someone to love. Or being green, but mainly the love thing. It certainly doesn't help that our culture perpetuates the idea of "the one," that wandering somewhere among the approximately 6.9 billion people on this planet is the single person with whom you are destined to bump uglies in perpetuity, not to mention the problematic assumption that they even occupied the planet at roughly the same time as us. What the hell are you supposed to do if your one true love was a thirteen year old French prostitute who died in 1843 after a brief engagement to a haberdasher? You cock your velvety chapeau at a jaunty angle, by god, and you soldier on.
In recent years, the interwebs have offered the would-be creepy uncles and cat-ladies of the world some succor in the form of dating sites. With a few clicks of a mouse, a scanned portrait of the pretty person whose picture came in the frame, and just the occasional descriptive liberty (like saying you're 'outgoing' as you prepare a website to do the "out" and "going" parts for you), you can make a love connection. Indeed, for every yin there is a yang (or so a cryptic and elderly Chinese gentleman told me, right after he refused to sell me a mogwai), and these sites promise to finally give you a win for your...even I'm better than that.
Ah, but what happens if you have a specific "type," one these cookie cutter dating sites just don't cater to? What if a man who wears Old Spice isn't enough, if instead you crave the hoary beard and seamanship of an old salt eye, a man whose rugged existence and long voyages from home breed certain, unspeakable predictions that dare only be indulged in the murkiest of international waters? Well, ladies, look no further: I give you Sea Captain Date.
Too good to be true, you say (no doubt between salty tears of joy)? Just watch this entirely authentic testimonial, and prepare to finally say "ahoy" to your heart:
In recent years, the interwebs have offered the would-be creepy uncles and cat-ladies of the world some succor in the form of dating sites. With a few clicks of a mouse, a scanned portrait of the pretty person whose picture came in the frame, and just the occasional descriptive liberty (like saying you're 'outgoing' as you prepare a website to do the "out" and "going" parts for you), you can make a love connection. Indeed, for every yin there is a yang (or so a cryptic and elderly Chinese gentleman told me, right after he refused to sell me a mogwai), and these sites promise to finally give you a win for your...even I'm better than that.
Ah, but what happens if you have a specific "type," one these cookie cutter dating sites just don't cater to? What if a man who wears Old Spice isn't enough, if instead you crave the hoary beard and seamanship of an old salt eye, a man whose rugged existence and long voyages from home breed certain, unspeakable predictions that dare only be indulged in the murkiest of international waters? Well, ladies, look no further: I give you Sea Captain Date.
Too good to be true, you say (no doubt between salty tears of joy)? Just watch this entirely authentic testimonial, and prepare to finally say "ahoy" to your heart:
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Stay Classy, Laguna Beach
I realize I've been neglecting my blog for the better part of six months, but in my defense, it would have been longer if not for the good behavior and the knife fight I lost in the prison laundry last week. But now that I'm a free man again I can happily return to sporadic blog postings scattered across multiple weeks of silence.
I'll keep this one short, as I'm still easing back into the vacuous and glib persona you know and tolerate so well--it involves a knock-off Insane Clown Posse mask and a handle of gin, but that's neither here nor there. What is both here and there, so long as you live in Laguna Beach, CA, is this somber and pointed invocation of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s legacy:
Now, I realize it may not seem like it at first blush, but there are actually a number of things wrong with this advertisement. First of all, who the hell surfs that close to a tree? I call shenanigans. Secondly, isn't the shameless misappropriation of a Civil Rights leader's memory on the very day named for him worth a little more than 20%? I mean, we're talking Laguna Beach here; they can afford to shave a little more off the top.
Perhaps most egregious, though: All Black Products? Can't we be a little more specific than that? Especially because, closet racist that I apparently am, "black product" and "Surf shop" aren't really inhabiting the same patch of real estate in my mind. But maybe this is just because of my advancing years that I'm still sensitive to the lingering presence of institutionalized racism and broader, even defiant pockets of discrimination that are sadly alive and well today. After all, "The shop's young employees and patrons, [the shop owner] Cocores said, come from a generation that is beyond historical racial tensions." Phew! *wipes brow in an exaggerated fashion* Thank God that problem's past us. Now we can all just float in the surf holding hands on our new boards. Isn't this what King's dream was all about? Wet suits, black products, and 20% off. The respect is just the icing on the cake. Or, you know, ironic.
I'll keep this one short, as I'm still easing back into the vacuous and glib persona you know and tolerate so well--it involves a knock-off Insane Clown Posse mask and a handle of gin, but that's neither here nor there. What is both here and there, so long as you live in Laguna Beach, CA, is this somber and pointed invocation of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s legacy:
Now, I realize it may not seem like it at first blush, but there are actually a number of things wrong with this advertisement. First of all, who the hell surfs that close to a tree? I call shenanigans. Secondly, isn't the shameless misappropriation of a Civil Rights leader's memory on the very day named for him worth a little more than 20%? I mean, we're talking Laguna Beach here; they can afford to shave a little more off the top.Perhaps most egregious, though: All Black Products? Can't we be a little more specific than that? Especially because, closet racist that I apparently am, "black product" and "Surf shop" aren't really inhabiting the same patch of real estate in my mind. But maybe this is just because of my advancing years that I'm still sensitive to the lingering presence of institutionalized racism and broader, even defiant pockets of discrimination that are sadly alive and well today. After all, "The shop's young employees and patrons, [the shop owner] Cocores said, come from a generation that is beyond historical racial tensions." Phew! *wipes brow in an exaggerated fashion* Thank God that problem's past us. Now we can all just float in the surf holding hands on our new boards. Isn't this what King's dream was all about? Wet suits, black products, and 20% off. The respect is just the icing on the cake. Or, you know, ironic.
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