ellroy/gretzky dedication

while we're on the subject of trying: not only do i try, i frequently (some might argue 'invariably') make ass of self. readers, have i shared with you two of my favorite quotes pertinent to WHALES? one is by ellroy, and it is my creed of sorts: 'Any man who won't make a fool out of himself over a woman is a fucking fruit.' (note: i regard man as self--and woman as man--when i recall quote.) words to live by: WHALES 102, ladies, WHALES 102. (i've already otherwise devoted WHALES 101, to laughing at man's stupid jokes; see 'insomniacs, take heed.') the other, equally vital to a WHALES, is the quote by the great one, gretzky: 'i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take.' honestly, it is not usually an issue for me to approach men, at parties, bars, bookstores, coffee shops, subway platforms. after all, i am president of WHALES. and to me it's like throwing spaghetti at the wall: if it sticks, then yay. however, there are times and places where i hesitate, where i question propriety, and when that happens, i ask myself, what would ellroy/gretzky do? (not unlike do parker and stone brian boitano.)

in fact, it was only 2 days ago, upon my return from a soul-searching sojourn (see previous post), at the airport that i spotted an acceptably attractive man. at first, i thought, no, no, no, ms. c, you cannot accost a man at a baggage claim carousel. but then i stood there for a long time (a very long time--which, by the way, gave me an idea of the baggage loader job description: must be small and weak and get stoned out of gourd), considering, and thought that if i didn't say something, for certain later i would want to kick self in ass. (and god i hate that--because it is impossible, to kick self in ass. even i, avid runner (see 'olympics makes me randy'), near-olympian (see previous post), after giving yoga a go and everything, can only touch butt with heel, and without force. readers, show me someone who can kick their own ass--now that's raising the bar--and i'll write him a hate letter that will make the one to jon stewart look like a fucking valentine.)

anyhoo, i went over to mr. luggage-awaiter. i said, 'are you from [western city from whence we arrived]?' he said no, that he was just visiting, and thus began a most animated convo. yes, he used the word 'dude' a lot. he wore his baseball cap askew. his hair was a rat's nest, and the armpits of his t-shirt were torn. i was pleased and agreed to share a cab into town. during that half hour or so, we became relatively well acquainted. i found out he was a badass skier, finishing up med school, and that being so he had no-charge access to all the major museums in the city. i also discovered that he had visited NOT ONE museum. he saw the occasional broadway show when family visited (i gagged reflexively). i was appalled. i said, 'you probably don't even read!' to which he replied, 'i do, too!' i said, 'what--into the wild? on the road?' he angrily pulled out utopia. i rolled my eyes, despite never having read utopia. then i saw it had no bookmark, no dog-ear, no nothing. i called him a liar, that he was not in fact reading at all; otherwise, where was the bookmark? he pointed to a pink paper clip. it was on the back cover. unimpressed i was. i said, 'so, you're on page back cover?' he said, 'i hate you.' unimpressed, yes; unattracted, no. he had said that he worked 80 hours a week, unpaid; so, he was single. i asked him to dinner. he accepted and we exchanged info. (vive ellroy/gretzky!)

weeks pondering: not expecting does not mean not trying

during my hiatus, i pondered much. over the past few weeks, i've mulled over the point of our existence--as WHALES--and the hard work and dedication we've put into this most important assemblage. i've received many letters (incidentally, i apologize that i've been far too busy--pondering and mulling--to answer any of them), and, as i've said before, most suck--but there are a few that contain valid questions. today, i'd like to address one particularly excellent query that has been top-of-mind.

no, dear readers, having low expectations does NOT mean you don't pursue your man-object of desire. (it merely means you endeavor to pursue more than that, or, rather, less.) if you see the golden ring, you grab for it. you hang off that horse--hell, you fall off that horse--let's face it, what have you got to lose? (if you're anything like me: nothing.) to elucidate, i share with you a story:

at university, i was a downhill ski racer. i was never favored to win, ever, and so never expected that i would. but it never stopped me from trying. oh no, that it did not. oh, mayhap i overimbibed mid-season, but i missed nary a practice, never missed a race, and as sick, reeking of booze, as repulsive as i oft was, no one could say i didn't commit, or at least show up. and do you know what, readers? i did win. i--me, ms. c--won. i remember it like it was yesterday: the night prior, i'd gotten so shitfaced off jack and cokes that i'd puked up my pork chop dinner. at the starting gate, my coach sighed heavily, looked at me with sad eyes and said, 'just get down.' nothing, i tell you--nothing makes one haul ass more than fear of barfing whilst racing downhill. it'd have been like peeing in the wind, only vomiting in the face. everyone said i was a blur--a blur! and i know what you're thinking, and i daresay i could've gone all the way to nagano on this whiskey/pig regimen, but i was so serious a student back then... of course, i jest: school is for suckers. but, seriously, pork chops do not come up easily. also, i earned the unfortunate nickname 'porkchop' and soon thereafter fled to the rockies, where i soon became known as 'c-storm.' so, go, WHALES: stand with your big fat faces in the sun for all you're worth. yes, i just summed up a room with a view in a nutshell.

analyze this, part deux

since i endeavor to tell ANYONE my dreams (see 'analyze this: (no) hopes and dreams'), i share with you my latest:

i am on a mountaintop and my little brother wants to ski down a dangerous slope but no one around has the skill or courage to accompany him. i come forward and say i'll take him. i feel very heroic. i go to strap on my skis, but some rascal has taped them together, and he is coming to beat me up, too. incensed--and scared--i beat the crap out of him. (did i mention i have super powers?) anyway, i really beat him to pulp. (it is quite gruesome.) the incident incites an angry mob of rascal-friends, and i have to run away. then, because they are everywhere, i fly away. i am new to flying, but soon i am like a rocket, circling the earth. i land somewhere far away under a humongous tree. there appears preacher followed by preacher, of varying faiths, bellowing an old adage or warning. every time one would arrive, i'd go to fly away, but the tree would freeze over with thick rime. i'd break through the branches and ice, and then the next preacher would appear, everything icing over again. by the time i escape, i'm bruised and bloody. now i'm back at school and i'm a fat little boy, cleaning out the ice box. i think this is what i must have been doing all this time. i tell my mom that my best friend tortured me with his new slingshot to explain my bruises/bloodiness. my friend is not happy about this but understands. i just want to go home and play cards with mom and the neighbor-girl.

now, you may think this dream is about power, responsibility, fallibility, and mining gems in chores mundane--but as president of WHALES, i knew instantly its meaning: give the fat little guy a chance.