now, i don't have a lot of free time, certainly not enough to read. but i do think i could join not only one of these groups, but several. you see, i need only one book, and that's how to talk about books you haven't read, an instant classic and of course the book to end all books; it is a masterpiece. housed in the appropriate cover, so as not to offend anyone, it will accompany me as i sit and chat and watch the WHALES numbers rise. incidentally, i'm considering group fees.
Monday, December 8, 2008
WHALES recruiting grounds--i mean, book clubs!
years ago i had a roommate who belonged to a book club. she tried in vain to drag me along. i'd see her toting around bottles of wine and anita diamant and shudder. 'there isn't enough wine...' i'd say to myself. but when i read this article, listening to the complaint that these 'clubs' are still mostly women, often what is discussed are things other than the book (surprise, surprise) and they often turn into drunkfests, i began to reconsider--for they sound like the absolute ideal place for WHALES recruitment. (as i've said, only the celibate have the inclination to read.) drunk+horny+warped sense of own intellect/superiority=the most fervent WHALES!
Friday, December 5, 2008
my yang yang
a couple weeks ago, a man was attacked by a panda bear at a zoo in china, and it seems people were less than sympathetic, readily blaming the victim:
The 20-year-old student had ignored warning signs and scaled a two-metre (6.5ft) barrier to get into the pen, hoping to cuddle the creature, who bit chunks of flesh out of the man's arms and legs. Speaking softly ('It hurts to talk,' he said) from his hospital bed, the injured man said the panda had looked so cute, he had just wanted to hug it. 'Yang Yang was so cute, I just wanted to cuddle him,' he whispered. 'I didn't expect he would attack.... I have many bites.' Yang Yang did not seem to suffer from the incident and was not penalized. In fact, the food-guy fed him extra helpings of leaves and stems. 'No need to blame the bear,' he said.*
*edited by ms. c.
i know what you're thinking--what kind of jackass breaks into a bear pen...to cuddle?--but not i. we learn as early as infants to love bears, starting with teddys. and those of us young at heart never lose that reflex. i for example am one of these youthful sort. i even have a yang yang story of my own.
i too was attracted to the panda's reputation as gentle, and its stylized black-and-white/yin-yang look and woeful-looking eyes. and, when i spotted my yang yang from afar, i too 'just wanted to hug it.' but as i drew nearer, i discovered that my yang yang was no panda bear--in fact, it was no bear at all. it was a man--MAN (or a thing very closely resembling one)--and not even one black and white, but a very pale, anemic-looking, fleshy color. i only thank god i had the realization pre-cuddle.
The 20-year-old student had ignored warning signs and scaled a two-metre (6.5ft) barrier to get into the pen, hoping to cuddle the creature, who bit chunks of flesh out of the man's arms and legs. Speaking softly ('It hurts to talk,' he said) from his hospital bed, the injured man said the panda had looked so cute, he had just wanted to hug it. 'Yang Yang was so cute, I just wanted to cuddle him,' he whispered. 'I didn't expect he would attack.... I have many bites.' Yang Yang did not seem to suffer from the incident and was not penalized. In fact, the food-guy fed him extra helpings of leaves and stems. 'No need to blame the bear,' he said.*
*edited by ms. c.
i know what you're thinking--what kind of jackass breaks into a bear pen...to cuddle?--but not i. we learn as early as infants to love bears, starting with teddys. and those of us young at heart never lose that reflex. i for example am one of these youthful sort. i even have a yang yang story of my own.
i too was attracted to the panda's reputation as gentle, and its stylized black-and-white/yin-yang look and woeful-looking eyes. and, when i spotted my yang yang from afar, i too 'just wanted to hug it.' but as i drew nearer, i discovered that my yang yang was no panda bear--in fact, it was no bear at all. it was a man--MAN (or a thing very closely resembling one)--and not even one black and white, but a very pale, anemic-looking, fleshy color. i only thank god i had the realization pre-cuddle.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
that's the spirit
maybe it's the cool weather, twinkly lights or fumes from my radiator, but whatever the reason, december has found me in high and magnanimous spirits (essential to finding success as a WHALES--yay moi!). and when recently i met an art critic at a gallery opening, my new joie de vivre worked like a charm.
a lovely fellow (he slunk around wearing all black and a permanent sneer), i invited him to drinks. as usual, i inquired about his work (men do love to talk about themselves and their work, no?). he said that he'd yet to write an unequivocally positive review. how long had he been a critic? over a decade. i thought this harsh--i mean, curious--and asked him to elaborate, and thus our delightful conversation:
he said, 'you may think it harsh--'
'not at all!'
'but what i aim to do is a community service. all these deluded, wannabe artists--they're wasting their time, they're wasting their lives--i wish to liberate them. they could be doing other things. there's a shortage out there: sanitation workers, truck drivers, teachers. they're always hiring at that home for people with disabilities--and who's better qualified to work with retards than self-deluded artists?'
i shrugged. 'who?'
'think about it: one person's shattered dream is another's ass-wiper. i should start a program; i could probably get some kind of medal.'
he was enterprising; i like that.
he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. 'i just had a thought and want to get it down.'
'work, work, work!' i said. (big smile.)
'no, no, this is my hate book.'
'hate book?'
'book of hate. i write hate lists in it--lists of things i hate.'
'cool beans.'
'like headbands on babies.'
eh?
'those skinny satin things people tie around babies' heads,' he said. 'babies have no hair, or next to no hair--why do they need headbands? it's cruelty; it's child abuse. it's like a tourniquet--it's sick.'
'i don't think they hurt; they're not tight--'
'who cares? they're dumb! form should follow function, and headbands have no business with babies--not unless we're talking the brood de sasquatch.'
'they're...decor, or something--'
'they don't have hair.'
clearly, he cared very much about children.
'and sleeveless turtlenecks!' he said as he scribbled.
'yes, save the turtleneck!'
'what are you babbling about? sleeveless turtlenecks: they make NO sense.'
'the t-shirt?'
'it's not a T-shirt--therein lies the problem. it's like...a worm.'
'well, i don't see exactly--i mean, why--'
'you want cold arms and a hot neck?'
'no.'
we sat there awhile, i with my whiskey, and he with his lists ('eye contact--not all the time, just generally'), then i invited him to a theater reading i was to attend later that evening.
'i don't do theater,' he said. 'theater is just a bunch of dilettantes. i'd almost do ballet. at least with ballet, they're committed: those kids never hold down a meal--and there's no faking a pas de chat--either you look like a cat, or you don't.'
'i LOVE ballet,' i said, then ordered another round and blew off the reading.
a lovely fellow (he slunk around wearing all black and a permanent sneer), i invited him to drinks. as usual, i inquired about his work (men do love to talk about themselves and their work, no?). he said that he'd yet to write an unequivocally positive review. how long had he been a critic? over a decade. i thought this harsh--i mean, curious--and asked him to elaborate, and thus our delightful conversation:
he said, 'you may think it harsh--'
'not at all!'
'but what i aim to do is a community service. all these deluded, wannabe artists--they're wasting their time, they're wasting their lives--i wish to liberate them. they could be doing other things. there's a shortage out there: sanitation workers, truck drivers, teachers. they're always hiring at that home for people with disabilities--and who's better qualified to work with retards than self-deluded artists?'
i shrugged. 'who?'
'think about it: one person's shattered dream is another's ass-wiper. i should start a program; i could probably get some kind of medal.'
he was enterprising; i like that.
he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. 'i just had a thought and want to get it down.'
'work, work, work!' i said. (big smile.)
'no, no, this is my hate book.'
'hate book?'
'book of hate. i write hate lists in it--lists of things i hate.'
'cool beans.'
'like headbands on babies.'
eh?
'those skinny satin things people tie around babies' heads,' he said. 'babies have no hair, or next to no hair--why do they need headbands? it's cruelty; it's child abuse. it's like a tourniquet--it's sick.'
'i don't think they hurt; they're not tight--'
'who cares? they're dumb! form should follow function, and headbands have no business with babies--not unless we're talking the brood de sasquatch.'
'they're...decor, or something--'
'they don't have hair.'
clearly, he cared very much about children.
'and sleeveless turtlenecks!' he said as he scribbled.
'yes, save the turtleneck!'
'what are you babbling about? sleeveless turtlenecks: they make NO sense.'
'the t-shirt?'
'it's not a T-shirt--therein lies the problem. it's like...a worm.'
'well, i don't see exactly--i mean, why--'
'you want cold arms and a hot neck?'
'no.'
we sat there awhile, i with my whiskey, and he with his lists ('eye contact--not all the time, just generally'), then i invited him to a theater reading i was to attend later that evening.
'i don't do theater,' he said. 'theater is just a bunch of dilettantes. i'd almost do ballet. at least with ballet, they're committed: those kids never hold down a meal--and there's no faking a pas de chat--either you look like a cat, or you don't.'
'i LOVE ballet,' i said, then ordered another round and blew off the reading.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
brave new world: flaskys
the economy may be in the shitter, but, oh, the sales! yesterday, i found two flasks--TWO--for the price of less than one-third of one. they are fabu.
i hung with both of them last night and realized that they each have a distinct personality. one has bright stripes, the other a floral print, and one is bigger than the other. i recalled my friend 'nabby' had named his flask steve and agreed that names were in order. george immediately came to mind: it is a friendly name. i always liked the names bert, bernice and gerta. willis sounded fun, then phyllis (cool-aunt name), phinneas, raul, javier, archibald, reginald, wesley, ludwig, wolfgang (wolfie for short), humbert (i'd call the other one humbert as well), rusty....
even while in bed, names kept coming to me. i got up to write them down. it was 4am; i was tres fatiguee. i consulted 'jazzy,' my most pragmatic friend. he'd named his el flasko. i said fuck it and settled on flasky--flasky 1 and flasky 2. if i felt fancy, i could say un et deux. i went back to bed. then i thought: if flasky shows me a good time, i could say good flasky, if bad, then bad flasky. if naughty, then naughty flasky! i could punish/reward as i saw fit (e.g., do you want to sleep with me, flasky?). i lay awake, thinking.
today, exhausted from lack of sleep yet excited still, i told my friend about flaskys. she said, 'that's like my son: he named his turtle turtley.' i nodded. 'great minds think alike,' i said. 'he's four,' she said. i have found my inner child. it seems anything's possible in this world of flaskys.
i hung with both of them last night and realized that they each have a distinct personality. one has bright stripes, the other a floral print, and one is bigger than the other. i recalled my friend 'nabby' had named his flask steve and agreed that names were in order. george immediately came to mind: it is a friendly name. i always liked the names bert, bernice and gerta. willis sounded fun, then phyllis (cool-aunt name), phinneas, raul, javier, archibald, reginald, wesley, ludwig, wolfgang (wolfie for short), humbert (i'd call the other one humbert as well), rusty....
even while in bed, names kept coming to me. i got up to write them down. it was 4am; i was tres fatiguee. i consulted 'jazzy,' my most pragmatic friend. he'd named his el flasko. i said fuck it and settled on flasky--flasky 1 and flasky 2. if i felt fancy, i could say un et deux. i went back to bed. then i thought: if flasky shows me a good time, i could say good flasky, if bad, then bad flasky. if naughty, then naughty flasky! i could punish/reward as i saw fit (e.g., do you want to sleep with me, flasky?). i lay awake, thinking.
today, exhausted from lack of sleep yet excited still, i told my friend about flaskys. she said, 'that's like my son: he named his turtle turtley.' i nodded. 'great minds think alike,' i said. 'he's four,' she said. i have found my inner child. it seems anything's possible in this world of flaskys.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
many thanks
i spent thanksgiving with my friends 'tardo' and 'jazzy' this year, and the gratitude flowed like water:
me: happy turkey day--thanks so much for having me!
tardo: so good to see you--it's been ages!
jazzy: it has been a long time, since before my show.
me: whoa, that's right! by the way, how was it?
jazzy: i was awesome.
me: did you play jazz?
jazzy: why do you say that, because i'm black?
me: no. because your name--
jazzy: thanks for reminding me i have a dumbass name.
me: it's not dumbass!
jazzy: it got my ass kicked every day as a kid--
me: that was long ago--
jazzy: are you calling me old? thanks.
me: no! it's just that now you're a big dude and--
jazzy: great, now i'm fat. thanks a lot.
tardo: (to jazzy) oh, pookie. (to me) there's a show on tuesday--come, and bring li'l willy.
jazzy: his name is Little Willy?
tardo: no, he's just got a small pe--
me: thanks, tardo! tell everyone, why don't you?
jazzy: i'm 'everyone'?
tardo: and, what, it's not like you're screwing him anymore.
me: thanks. like i needed the reminder.
tardo: (to jazzy) she hasn't done it in, like, forever.
jazzy: yipes.
tardo: (to jazzy) thank god i have you.
jazzy: (to tardo) ditto.
(tardo and jazzy make out)
me: i brought pie....
(me holds out pie)
tardo and jazzy: (sucking face) thanks....
me: happy turkey day--thanks so much for having me!
tardo: so good to see you--it's been ages!
jazzy: it has been a long time, since before my show.
me: whoa, that's right! by the way, how was it?
jazzy: i was awesome.
me: did you play jazz?
jazzy: why do you say that, because i'm black?
me: no. because your name--
jazzy: thanks for reminding me i have a dumbass name.
me: it's not dumbass!
jazzy: it got my ass kicked every day as a kid--
me: that was long ago--
jazzy: are you calling me old? thanks.
me: no! it's just that now you're a big dude and--
jazzy: great, now i'm fat. thanks a lot.
tardo: (to jazzy) oh, pookie. (to me) there's a show on tuesday--come, and bring li'l willy.
jazzy: his name is Little Willy?
tardo: no, he's just got a small pe--
me: thanks, tardo! tell everyone, why don't you?
jazzy: i'm 'everyone'?
tardo: and, what, it's not like you're screwing him anymore.
me: thanks. like i needed the reminder.
tardo: (to jazzy) she hasn't done it in, like, forever.
jazzy: yipes.
tardo: (to jazzy) thank god i have you.
jazzy: (to tardo) ditto.
(tardo and jazzy make out)
me: i brought pie....
(me holds out pie)
tardo and jazzy: (sucking face) thanks....
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
election day/night
i know i have yet to comment on obama's stunning upset and consequently i've had to face an onslaught of email/messages demanding my reaction, thoughts, further instruction, etc. i don't condone nagging, but have decided it's time i comply. as you might have guessed, i was pained by the outcome (but time heals all wounds, and it's been weeks). here are the three main reasons:
1. i am a not a woman who takes readily to change; i like routine, and predictability. for years, i have had the same breakfast every morning.
and we all know how i regarded sarah palin, what with her uber chic crab motif and tattoos. but even more appealing to me was her promise of a smooth, seamless transition in the white house--to palin's 'never, ever did i talk about, well, gee, is africa a country or a continent?' from w's 'families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.' what could be easier than that? ignoramus a philistine (et vice versa).
obama, on the other hand, has already begun surrounding himself with the 'nation's brightest' (e.g., clinton, volcker). 'smart' people in the white house after close to a decade: it will take some adjusting.
2. i read an interview with the abominable stephen colbert and jon stewart. this is what colbert had to say about the election:
The Democrats are going to change everything. We're going to have gay parents marrying their own gay babies. Obama's gonna be sworn in on a gay baby. The oath is gonna end ''So help me, gay baby."
uggh!
3. i got so hammered on election night reveling--i mean, ululating--that i don't remember much about it. i vaguely recall cancan dancers, masked men in unitards a la borat and kissing booths. my friend tells me, in the end, i laid down on the street to kiss it and praise jesus i didn't have to move to canada--i mean, barf and smash my fabulous updo:
1. i am a not a woman who takes readily to change; i like routine, and predictability. for years, i have had the same breakfast every morning.
and we all know how i regarded sarah palin, what with her uber chic crab motif and tattoos. but even more appealing to me was her promise of a smooth, seamless transition in the white house--to palin's 'never, ever did i talk about, well, gee, is africa a country or a continent?' from w's 'families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.' what could be easier than that? ignoramus a philistine (et vice versa).obama, on the other hand, has already begun surrounding himself with the 'nation's brightest' (e.g., clinton, volcker). 'smart' people in the white house after close to a decade: it will take some adjusting.
2. i read an interview with the abominable stephen colbert and jon stewart. this is what colbert had to say about the election:
The Democrats are going to change everything. We're going to have gay parents marrying their own gay babies. Obama's gonna be sworn in on a gay baby. The oath is gonna end ''So help me, gay baby."
uggh!
3. i got so hammered on election night reveling--i mean, ululating--that i don't remember much about it. i vaguely recall cancan dancers, masked men in unitards a la borat and kissing booths. my friend tells me, in the end, i laid down on the street to kiss it and praise jesus i didn't have to move to canada--i mean, barf and smash my fabulous updo:
Saturday, November 22, 2008
inexplicable optimism
last night, after a grueling workday, i was feeling inexplicably optimistic. dunno why: i was exhausted from my high-stress, executive-type job and have been celibate for years now, and that morning i'd walked in on my old-man flatmate, who stinks of moth balls, sitting in full-lotus position on the living-room floor--naked. even so, i was almost skipping down the street and feeling less and less fatigued with every step-skip. i ran a few spontaneous errands. i met some friends out for a birthday dinner and upon arriving at the table declared: i got a bikini wax--i am feeling VERY OPTIMISTIC!
it made me ask myself, 'are WHALES optimistic? is this (in)consistent with the WHALES philosophy?' then i said, 'that is an excellent, excellent, excellent question.' then: 'wow, me smarter than i thought.'
my quick conclusion? yes, WHALES are optimistic, for optimism and having high/unreasonable expectations and standards are not the same things. and optimism is a fine virtue--i refer you to candide and the teachings of pangloss. um, scratch that. anyhoo, WHALES can be optimistic because dammit i'm president and me say so. (amen.)
it made me ask myself, 'are WHALES optimistic? is this (in)consistent with the WHALES philosophy?' then i said, 'that is an excellent, excellent, excellent question.' then: 'wow, me smarter than i thought.'
my quick conclusion? yes, WHALES are optimistic, for optimism and having high/unreasonable expectations and standards are not the same things. and optimism is a fine virtue--i refer you to candide and the teachings of pangloss. um, scratch that. anyhoo, WHALES can be optimistic because dammit i'm president and me say so. (amen.)
Friday, November 21, 2008
scotch comes from scotland
some time ago, i'd gone for drinks with a lad to whose intellectual capacities, e.g., expansive vocabulary, worldly knowledge, were the main attraction. i'd envisioned dense, diarrheal discussing/arguing with head-/chin-scratching and touche!-shouting. i wore my nerd glasses and wallabees; he showed up in a cardigan. i looked at us and thought, the sky's the limit: anything from dubus to debussy, joachim to yuri g, jodorowsky to houellebecq to wollstonecraft--fruit-by-the-foot to fugu!
the night began with pricey cocktails made from fancy whiskey. neophyte drinkers (this was long, long ago, readers), we picked the brain de bartender (we learned that scotch comes from scotland) and in no time were sloshed. we went to his place and, after a few nutterbutters, were ready for intellectual discourse. 'i like your breasts,' he said. hence my love/hate of the drink.
the night began with pricey cocktails made from fancy whiskey. neophyte drinkers (this was long, long ago, readers), we picked the brain de bartender (we learned that scotch comes from scotland) and in no time were sloshed. we went to his place and, after a few nutterbutters, were ready for intellectual discourse. 'i like your breasts,' he said. hence my love/hate of the drink.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
poopie hands
my first love said that communication was the most important thing in a relationship. i thought about this 'most important thing' and that surely love, respect, honesty and the ilk (this was pre-WHALES days) were more essential. but, during the long time since, i've learned that this precocious boy was spot-on, for without communication there can be no building of all that other stuff. and even the most ardent animal attraction can be snuffed out in an instant if further connection is not made and maintained. communication is no easy thing--it requires work, sometimes a great amount of it, and if you don't put forth the effort you may rue it. i have many stories of this sort of regret, and it's with a heavy heart that i share this one.
years ago, while abroad, i fell madly, instantly in love with a feral australian. i'd spent the night in his hut after drunken revelry (full moon?). the following morning i called to him from the toilet for tissue. he replied that he didn't use toilet paper. this was not especially shocking, and i did without. but upon further inspection i discovered his bathroom was utterly bare: no shampoo, no soap, no towel--nada. i told him i had a headache, that i required coffee, and fled. i spent the remainder of my time on the tiny island rejecting his advances, leaving him bewildered and hurt. i felt awful, being that we shared such a beautiful beginning, of passionate, animated conversation, giggle fits and make-out sessions in the sand. and i could have said--i should have said: 'i adore you, i really do--stop touching me--but i can't get past the fact that you have poopie hands.' and, simple, just like that: problem solved, romance resumed. but even when he'd tell funny stories, eliciting guffaws, or bring me cocktails, or when i'd see him dancing all crazy-like about the bonfire, i couldn't do it. i just couldn't see having that convo.
years ago, while abroad, i fell madly, instantly in love with a feral australian. i'd spent the night in his hut after drunken revelry (full moon?). the following morning i called to him from the toilet for tissue. he replied that he didn't use toilet paper. this was not especially shocking, and i did without. but upon further inspection i discovered his bathroom was utterly bare: no shampoo, no soap, no towel--nada. i told him i had a headache, that i required coffee, and fled. i spent the remainder of my time on the tiny island rejecting his advances, leaving him bewildered and hurt. i felt awful, being that we shared such a beautiful beginning, of passionate, animated conversation, giggle fits and make-out sessions in the sand. and i could have said--i should have said: 'i adore you, i really do--stop touching me--but i can't get past the fact that you have poopie hands.' and, simple, just like that: problem solved, romance resumed. but even when he'd tell funny stories, eliciting guffaws, or bring me cocktails, or when i'd see him dancing all crazy-like about the bonfire, i couldn't do it. i just couldn't see having that convo.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
cure for insomnia? UPDATE!
i headed home, tipsy on chimay, having made a decision on a plan of attack, and fully prepared to carry out said plan. but the train ride home was long enough for me to reconsider: masturbate, exercise and binge-eat all at once.... i decided to consult doogie one last time via email before undertaking project (because project it would be).
his response: BAD MENTAL PICTURE. vexed, because that does not help, i replied: okay, but do you recommend, and any suggestions (combos/variations)? i have not heard back from him. in fact, he has not appeared on gmail, facebook, etc., since.
what to do, what to do.... i wait.
his response: BAD MENTAL PICTURE. vexed, because that does not help, i replied: okay, but do you recommend, and any suggestions (combos/variations)? i have not heard back from him. in fact, he has not appeared on gmail, facebook, etc., since.
what to do, what to do.... i wait.
Monday, November 17, 2008
wannabe doctor responds! with cure for insomnia?
turns out doctor-boy (see recent ellroy/gretzky posts) did not find my words offensive, but is merely slow: it took him 8 days to read 2 pages--of dialogue (i.e., 2 minutes of reading, as you know/saw). his response: 'HAHAHA! Did you really write that--for me? Methinks you are a genius!' he then insisted we meet. naturally, i obliged this new fan (one never wants to irk/offend a new fan, to avoid any potential obsessive/crazed reaction).
i must confess here that i had an ulterior motive, aside from the normal man-related. my insomnia (that i've mentioned oft) is being an increasingly intolerable whore, so i regarded this as an opportune time to pick a professional's brain (albeit not bona fide, but wannabe). so, over cheap shitty beer (i'd planned to pick up the tab in exchange for worthy advice), i asked the young doctor his recommendations. his response: 'exercise like really hard, then eat until you think you're gonna barf, and then masturbate.' i totally did not expect this from little doogie, and it caught me so off-guard that i paid for his beers anyway.
the next night, while out for yummy belgian beer, i relayed the story to my friend, who said it was sound advice, in his opinion. he added that masturbation always makes him hungry, so suggested adjusting the order to: masturbating, eating, exercising. i thought it over, and since my case extreme (alas, tis 4am as i write this), i've decided why not all at once. (update unlikely, so to not gross out readership.)
i must confess here that i had an ulterior motive, aside from the normal man-related. my insomnia (that i've mentioned oft) is being an increasingly intolerable whore, so i regarded this as an opportune time to pick a professional's brain (albeit not bona fide, but wannabe). so, over cheap shitty beer (i'd planned to pick up the tab in exchange for worthy advice), i asked the young doctor his recommendations. his response: 'exercise like really hard, then eat until you think you're gonna barf, and then masturbate.' i totally did not expect this from little doogie, and it caught me so off-guard that i paid for his beers anyway.
the next night, while out for yummy belgian beer, i relayed the story to my friend, who said it was sound advice, in his opinion. he added that masturbation always makes him hungry, so suggested adjusting the order to: masturbating, eating, exercising. i thought it over, and since my case extreme (alas, tis 4am as i write this), i've decided why not all at once. (update unlikely, so to not gross out readership.)
Monday, November 10, 2008
dear ndugu
i am not a nicholson fan, per se (though he does not offend me in any way, save for his turn in 'the departed'--barf!), but i love the bit in 'about schmidt' wherein he writes regular, copious letters to his sponsored child ndugu. it all starts out appropriately as an introduction from warren [nicholson], the lonely benefactor, to a 6-year-old tanzanian boy, eg: hi, i'm warren, i send you money, so you can stay alive, i can mention i have you at cocktail parties, etc., etc. soon, warren is unloading in his letters details about his wretched wife and miserable existence, and, if i recall correctly, expletives (but whatever: the dude is tanzanian, and 6). the letters become a journal for this journal-averse sad sack. the movie, readers, is not a good one, but i must note here that also screen siren kathy bates gets naked (and, imo, that's worth a netflix).
ladies, i have had ndugus. i mean, i have not sent relatively negligible sums of my own currency that would make a profound difference to a skinny, naked child in a third-world country--but i did write lengthy, frequent emails to cute boys. and similarly, i expected/received nothing in return and talked about them at parties.
i met my first ndugu during a particularly beautiful autumn in northern california. he traveled most of the winter and i wrote him, fully believing that he would not respond, being on the road, but i cared not. all i endeavored to do was amuse/entertain him, even if a little. he replied on occasion (which i faithfully celebrated with an extra vodka or two), and, since i too traveled, our paths crossed several times. we always had a rollicking time--skiing and partying--he'd even gushed about my witty--yet poignant--emails. so operation ndugu proved a wild success. in the end, i even wrote a story about that winter fling, which was later published in a ski magazine (the editor hailed it as 'the perfect mix of skiing, drinking, and chasing tail'; my friends called it 'ski porn'). ndugu #1 was less pleased by this, but by that time the season had ended and, with it, my affection.
i don't plan ndugus; ndugus happen. i do not meet dudes and say: self, you're gonna barrage this man with emails and messages and, reply or no reply, you're gonna be tenacious like suckling--let the lonely drunken inanities begin! readers, i am not so masochistic, or pathetic. (well....) dammit, the point is: don't be discouraged if a man refuses to acknowledge your existence, for it is not up to him alone: it takes two to commence to tango, two to tango, and two to end the tango. diligence is a virtue, and sometimes men just cease resisting: they fatigue--they can't run (or disregard) forever. sometimes men get so weary they just plain forget they don't find me particularly attractive or likable (yay me). yes--men are no match for us women, with our innate loquacity and predilection for denial. maybe i'd even feel compunction if the act didn't have a slight element of altruism to it, for to give something in order to receive in return, if you ask me, isn't giving at all. when people talk of karma, i say, 'smarmy bastard.'
ladies, i have had ndugus. i mean, i have not sent relatively negligible sums of my own currency that would make a profound difference to a skinny, naked child in a third-world country--but i did write lengthy, frequent emails to cute boys. and similarly, i expected/received nothing in return and talked about them at parties.
i met my first ndugu during a particularly beautiful autumn in northern california. he traveled most of the winter and i wrote him, fully believing that he would not respond, being on the road, but i cared not. all i endeavored to do was amuse/entertain him, even if a little. he replied on occasion (which i faithfully celebrated with an extra vodka or two), and, since i too traveled, our paths crossed several times. we always had a rollicking time--skiing and partying--he'd even gushed about my witty--yet poignant--emails. so operation ndugu proved a wild success. in the end, i even wrote a story about that winter fling, which was later published in a ski magazine (the editor hailed it as 'the perfect mix of skiing, drinking, and chasing tail'; my friends called it 'ski porn'). ndugu #1 was less pleased by this, but by that time the season had ended and, with it, my affection.
i don't plan ndugus; ndugus happen. i do not meet dudes and say: self, you're gonna barrage this man with emails and messages and, reply or no reply, you're gonna be tenacious like suckling--let the lonely drunken inanities begin! readers, i am not so masochistic, or pathetic. (well....) dammit, the point is: don't be discouraged if a man refuses to acknowledge your existence, for it is not up to him alone: it takes two to commence to tango, two to tango, and two to end the tango. diligence is a virtue, and sometimes men just cease resisting: they fatigue--they can't run (or disregard) forever. sometimes men get so weary they just plain forget they don't find me particularly attractive or likable (yay me). yes--men are no match for us women, with our innate loquacity and predilection for denial. maybe i'd even feel compunction if the act didn't have a slight element of altruism to it, for to give something in order to receive in return, if you ask me, isn't giving at all. when people talk of karma, i say, 'smarmy bastard.'
Saturday, November 8, 2008
wooing the wannabe doctor (cont'd from 'ellroy/gretzky dedication')
so, did the wannabe doctor i met at the airport and i date? no. and i have a few theories where things went awry. we rapid-emailed for a day or so after meeting, and i daresay it was lovely banter. then, to woo in high gear my objet d'obsession (du jour), i wrote for him a short play--about people stranded on a desert island who find doctors so boring they conclude they'd rather die from whatever ills than suffer such company. i thought it harmless--i felt certain he would love it--after all, he was a lowly student, not a real doctor.
but i'm beginning to wonder if maybe it was a misstep--this elaborate piece i worked on, night after sleepless night, in the name of like/lust for a boy i barely know. in fact, since sending it, i have not heard from him. so...methinks, perhaps yes, misstep. perhaps both feminists AND med students have no sense of humor. BUT, i did it, dammit--i picked up a stranger at a baggage claim carousel. and i'd do it all again (only entirely differently). regardless, WHALES, when pride, or timidity, or reason, tries to stick its shitty, little foot in the door, do not forget the words of the great one ('i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take'). it can't be so difficult to improve upon missing 100% of the time (can it?). 99, i aim for you.
i share with you now my offending toil:
REGGIE: People can survive without many things, Charlotte, but not without entertainment. I know. I was once stranded on an island off the coast of Thailand. It was harrowing, but I survived—
CHARLOTTE: I see that—
REGGIE: Barely.
CHARLOTTE: You almost died, Reggie?
REGGIE: Yes. The crew and I, we were parched, hungry, and without foot scrub. Feet take a beating in the tropics, you know.
CHARLOTTE: That’s hardly life-threatening—
REGGIE: And there were horrible natives—cannibals.
CHARLOTTE: Do tell.
REGGIE: Oh, would my reliving the most traumatic event of my life entertain you? That is, excuse my French, cruel [cru ell´]. You’re a sick bitch, you know that?
CHARLOTTE: But cannibals? Incredible.
REGGIE: You ought to see a shrink. Incidentally, mine is excellent. We do role play, wherein I’m a rabbit and she’s a fox, and I must hop for my life—
CHARLOTTE: I don’t need a shrink; I really don’t give a crap about the island. I was just being—
REGGIE: The island—it was a glorious day. About a dozen other men and I had taken a longtail out to snorkel, sunbathe and abuse each other with makeshift seaweed whips. I remember it like it was yesterday: Big Jack got me good—
CHARLOTTE: (To Bartender.) Beer, please.
REGGIE: (To Bartender.) Yes, another martini, too. (To Charlotte.) Where was I?
CHARLOTTE: After the whipping—way after.
REGGIE: Yes, well we all thought for certain we would die in the hands of the Amazon women. There’s no word for ‘no’ in female Amazonian.
CHARLOTTE: I thought you said Thailand.
REGGIE: Oh, now an inquisition? You know no limits…just like the Amazons.
CHARLOTTE: It’s just that the Amazon is in—
REGGIE: Oh, are you going to barrage me with facts? Facts shmacts—
CHARLOTTE: Well, maybe they were vacationing Amazons.
REGGIE: You want facts? Facts is: they were huge. Huge everything: huge heads and breasts and feet. And their hands...ack!
CHARLOTTE: What was the matter with their hands?
REGGIE: Huge hands. You know, because they’re giant women. And everything they touch looks so…tiny. Oh, it was horrible.
CHARLOTTE: What did they touch?
REGGIE: Everything, Charlotte—everything.
CHARLOTTE: Oh.
REGGIE: Yes. It was like an elephant holding a Twinkie.
CHARLOTTE: Say no more—
REGGIE: Or a tic-tac.
CHARLOTTE: Well, it would have been awful for a lesser man.
REGGIE: Yes, well....
CHARLOTTE: Anyway, on this island, you could’ve used a diversion?
REGGIE: Yes, though those womanly beasts were spellbound even by my relatively mini—
CHARLOTTE: So if you could choose a dozen people to be stranded on an island with you, you’d choose what, a dancer?
REGGIE: Naturally...preferably a tap dancer. Also, singers, storytellers, sandcastle-makers. Don’t tell me—you wouldn’t.
CHARLOTTE: Well, what about a doctor?
REGGIE: Doctor?? Whatever for?
CHARLOTTE: When people get sick, Reggie. Or hurt. Might be useful.
REGGIE: Doctors are boring, Charlotte. I’d be bored to death. So not unless it’s Dr. Kevorkian; if I’m not entertained, then, please, put me out of my fucking misery.
CHARLOTTE: But if you break a leg, get appendicitis—
REGGIE: Right up there with lawyers, accountants and mimes.
CHARLOTTE: All right, all right!
REGGIE: I want lights, camera, action, dueling pianos—
CHARLOTTE: Pianos?
REGGIE: Since when does deserted have to mean uncivilized? Never—that’s when. It’s my hypothetical, Charlotte. If you want your island to be empty, dark and devoid of theater, be my guest, morbid freak.
CHARLOTTE: You said deserted, Reggie—and deserted is empty!
REGGIE: Civilized I say, you hippie.
but i'm beginning to wonder if maybe it was a misstep--this elaborate piece i worked on, night after sleepless night, in the name of like/lust for a boy i barely know. in fact, since sending it, i have not heard from him. so...methinks, perhaps yes, misstep. perhaps both feminists AND med students have no sense of humor. BUT, i did it, dammit--i picked up a stranger at a baggage claim carousel. and i'd do it all again (only entirely differently). regardless, WHALES, when pride, or timidity, or reason, tries to stick its shitty, little foot in the door, do not forget the words of the great one ('i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take'). it can't be so difficult to improve upon missing 100% of the time (can it?). 99, i aim for you.
i share with you now my offending toil:
REGGIE: People can survive without many things, Charlotte, but not without entertainment. I know. I was once stranded on an island off the coast of Thailand. It was harrowing, but I survived—
CHARLOTTE: I see that—
REGGIE: Barely.
CHARLOTTE: You almost died, Reggie?
REGGIE: Yes. The crew and I, we were parched, hungry, and without foot scrub. Feet take a beating in the tropics, you know.
CHARLOTTE: That’s hardly life-threatening—
REGGIE: And there were horrible natives—cannibals.
CHARLOTTE: Do tell.
REGGIE: Oh, would my reliving the most traumatic event of my life entertain you? That is, excuse my French, cruel [cru ell´]. You’re a sick bitch, you know that?
CHARLOTTE: But cannibals? Incredible.
REGGIE: You ought to see a shrink. Incidentally, mine is excellent. We do role play, wherein I’m a rabbit and she’s a fox, and I must hop for my life—
CHARLOTTE: I don’t need a shrink; I really don’t give a crap about the island. I was just being—
REGGIE: The island—it was a glorious day. About a dozen other men and I had taken a longtail out to snorkel, sunbathe and abuse each other with makeshift seaweed whips. I remember it like it was yesterday: Big Jack got me good—
CHARLOTTE: (To Bartender.) Beer, please.
REGGIE: (To Bartender.) Yes, another martini, too. (To Charlotte.) Where was I?
CHARLOTTE: After the whipping—way after.
REGGIE: Yes, well we all thought for certain we would die in the hands of the Amazon women. There’s no word for ‘no’ in female Amazonian.
CHARLOTTE: I thought you said Thailand.
REGGIE: Oh, now an inquisition? You know no limits…just like the Amazons.
CHARLOTTE: It’s just that the Amazon is in—
REGGIE: Oh, are you going to barrage me with facts? Facts shmacts—
CHARLOTTE: Well, maybe they were vacationing Amazons.
REGGIE: You want facts? Facts is: they were huge. Huge everything: huge heads and breasts and feet. And their hands...ack!
CHARLOTTE: What was the matter with their hands?
REGGIE: Huge hands. You know, because they’re giant women. And everything they touch looks so…tiny. Oh, it was horrible.
CHARLOTTE: What did they touch?
REGGIE: Everything, Charlotte—everything.
CHARLOTTE: Oh.
REGGIE: Yes. It was like an elephant holding a Twinkie.
CHARLOTTE: Say no more—
REGGIE: Or a tic-tac.
CHARLOTTE: Well, it would have been awful for a lesser man.
REGGIE: Yes, well....
CHARLOTTE: Anyway, on this island, you could’ve used a diversion?
REGGIE: Yes, though those womanly beasts were spellbound even by my relatively mini—
CHARLOTTE: So if you could choose a dozen people to be stranded on an island with you, you’d choose what, a dancer?
REGGIE: Naturally...preferably a tap dancer. Also, singers, storytellers, sandcastle-makers. Don’t tell me—you wouldn’t.
CHARLOTTE: Well, what about a doctor?
REGGIE: Doctor?? Whatever for?
CHARLOTTE: When people get sick, Reggie. Or hurt. Might be useful.
REGGIE: Doctors are boring, Charlotte. I’d be bored to death. So not unless it’s Dr. Kevorkian; if I’m not entertained, then, please, put me out of my fucking misery.
CHARLOTTE: But if you break a leg, get appendicitis—
REGGIE: Right up there with lawyers, accountants and mimes.
CHARLOTTE: All right, all right!
REGGIE: I want lights, camera, action, dueling pianos—
CHARLOTTE: Pianos?
REGGIE: Since when does deserted have to mean uncivilized? Never—that’s when. It’s my hypothetical, Charlotte. If you want your island to be empty, dark and devoid of theater, be my guest, morbid freak.
CHARLOTTE: You said deserted, Reggie—and deserted is empty!
REGGIE: Civilized I say, you hippie.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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!)
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!)
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 13, 2008
scent of a man?
as you all know from 'scent of a woman' (the post, not the movie), bacon (or booze)--not jasmine or lily, or kimchi (trust me)--is the scent that reliably attracts man. and, yes, i've tried toting on my person bacon, to no avail (because bacon is very delicious, hence irresistible to even me). but a while back, i discovered an ingenious invention: the bacon mint.
the bacon mint is a 'mint' that tastes and stinks of bacon. i was so taken by this confection that it leapt to mind when i was brainstorming for a friend's birthday gift idea. and it was a huge success (as are all things bacony). but only after he'd consumed half the tin did i realize what i'd done (whereupon i made my hasty exit). the next morning, my theretofore heterosexual friend reported that indeed a man (a star, he effused) literally did pick him up--and take him home. i'd feared repercussions, but my friend sounded more chipper--and gay--than ever. so, today's lesson: be miserly with the bacon mints.
the bacon mint is a 'mint' that tastes and stinks of bacon. i was so taken by this confection that it leapt to mind when i was brainstorming for a friend's birthday gift idea. and it was a huge success (as are all things bacony). but only after he'd consumed half the tin did i realize what i'd done (whereupon i made my hasty exit). the next morning, my theretofore heterosexual friend reported that indeed a man (a star, he effused) literally did pick him up--and take him home. i'd feared repercussions, but my friend sounded more chipper--and gay--than ever. so, today's lesson: be miserly with the bacon mints.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
you can tattoo a pig. it's still a pig.
i for one am totally offended by obama's remark, 'you can put lipstick on a pig. it's still a pig'--for it has leaked that palin's lip color is actually a tattoo! and while some people are put-off by this, i find it impressive. clearly the woman has lived an arduous life: second-rate education, third-rate 'political' career in a state mostly inhabited by 'men' (my favorite alaska moment: drinking at 'long dick's halfway inn'), and deprivation of lipstick.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
insomniacs, take heed
last week i suffered from a most dreadful insomnia, which prevented me from posting. by the way, thanks for the outpouring of concern, eg, messages, emails, poems (though it must be said, most were godawful; WHALES, i love you all, but it seems you're largely illiterate). at any rate, my apologies for any disruption/related trauma.
dear (aspiring) readers, have you ever had insomnia? there have been studies, comparing judgment, coordination, etc., between the sleep-deprived and the drunk, and the sleep-deprived invariably fared worse, so, essentially, i was very drunk all last week. but--just like drunkenness--it served me well. eg, i found people more attractive, and had less inhibitions and self-control. now it may have been hellish (irritability, eye circles, general misery), and i may have come dangerously close to losing job (not having shown up), but i learned something: poof! just like that, insomnia lowered my expectations and standards (sans booze!). and if that isn't enough to drive you into arms de man, there's evidence that sex is a sleep aid. but, naturally, i needed no convincing, and even at one point became downright giddy, which brings me to my forewarning:
WHALES, if you find yourself in bed with a man whilst sleep-deprived and become giddy, do not laugh at the penis. NEVER laugh at the penis. well, not unless said penis is given name AND comical voice. then by all means, laugh (WHALES 101, ladies--WHALES 101). if you do feel close to laughter, picture something unfunny. do not, as is shown in movies, etc., imagine your grandmother in her underwear. (my grandmother was a hoot in purple briefs.)
dear (aspiring) readers, have you ever had insomnia? there have been studies, comparing judgment, coordination, etc., between the sleep-deprived and the drunk, and the sleep-deprived invariably fared worse, so, essentially, i was very drunk all last week. but--just like drunkenness--it served me well. eg, i found people more attractive, and had less inhibitions and self-control. now it may have been hellish (irritability, eye circles, general misery), and i may have come dangerously close to losing job (not having shown up), but i learned something: poof! just like that, insomnia lowered my expectations and standards (sans booze!). and if that isn't enough to drive you into arms de man, there's evidence that sex is a sleep aid. but, naturally, i needed no convincing, and even at one point became downright giddy, which brings me to my forewarning:
WHALES, if you find yourself in bed with a man whilst sleep-deprived and become giddy, do not laugh at the penis. NEVER laugh at the penis. well, not unless said penis is given name AND comical voice. then by all means, laugh (WHALES 101, ladies--WHALES 101). if you do feel close to laughter, picture something unfunny. do not, as is shown in movies, etc., imagine your grandmother in her underwear. (my grandmother was a hoot in purple briefs.)
Monday, September 1, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
a giant crab complements any space
mayor of wasilla (population ~6,000), governor of anchorage (population ~300,000) for less than 2 years, anti-same-sex marriage, member nra, anti-abortion--if that's not enough to make you love palin, picture the new decor in the white house. i daresay, a new trend: out with shabby chic, in with crabby chic.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
love is a lone, felled tree
if a tree falls in the forest, with no one to hear it, does it still make a sound? (read on to find out.)
last night, i was out with a couple friends and listened as they talked of love. okay, i was out with no one, but sat nearby a couple and eavesdropped as they rhapsodized about love. they were a young couple, i am pretty certain (given their ignorance on the chosen topic of conversation, i can't believe otherwise), though they looked quite old, as in their 70s (i attribute this old-look to a climate of lots of sun, wind, stress--perhaps antarctica). here is what gol (girl/old lady) and bom (boy/old man) had to say:
gol: love makes the world go round.
bom: love, exciting and new!
gol: love, life's sweetest reward.
bom: love is glorious, because it is ephemeral! love doesn't last--and that's why it's beautiful, of course!
gol: yes, it is fleeting--real and true love is FLEETING!
bom: and unrequited love--well, that's the best love of all! it lasts FOREVER!
gol: i say, i'm in complete agreement--unrequited love is eternal!
bom: it seems we're true romantics, gol!
(they kiss.)
hey, dumdums, which is it: FLEETING or FOREVER? yes, that inane chatter necessitated a third martini. today, i am not so much hungover than disgusted by the thought of gol and bom freely roaming about town, possibly corrupting hapless young minds. they ought to be locked up, i say. it's not just their specious/contradictory argument about love that makes the young/old couple so stupid, it too is the way they worship love--i mean, love--as if it were an ultimate acquisition in and of itself. i say, this is frivolous, myopic, solipsistic (ironically!); fundamentally, it's fucked up. it seems antarcticans are quite stupid.
toni morrison said that the function of freedom is to free someone else. i feel similarly about love: the function of love is to free someone else to love. the important thing here is that love have a FUNCTION. without function, a thing is pointless, useless, vain, and (in my highly regarded opinion) has no place to claim in this world. i think the phrase 'intrinsic value' is a contradiction in terms. what a shame, i say, what a waste. to love love or to love to be loved in return, what a small circle--nay, speck!--it is. if it doesn't expand--if it doesn't have further consequence than that, i say it's not love at all. (well, i always say that--but all this love talk is hypothetical, no?) so, love, unless it infects a life in such a way as inspiring poetry or music, saving orphans in malawi, or at least inviting the lone, drunk woman next to you to a menage a trois, it is like the falling tree in the forest: no one hears, no one's the wiser, and, really, who gives a shit?
last night, i was out with a couple friends and listened as they talked of love. okay, i was out with no one, but sat nearby a couple and eavesdropped as they rhapsodized about love. they were a young couple, i am pretty certain (given their ignorance on the chosen topic of conversation, i can't believe otherwise), though they looked quite old, as in their 70s (i attribute this old-look to a climate of lots of sun, wind, stress--perhaps antarctica). here is what gol (girl/old lady) and bom (boy/old man) had to say:
gol: love makes the world go round.
bom: love, exciting and new!
gol: love, life's sweetest reward.
bom: love is glorious, because it is ephemeral! love doesn't last--and that's why it's beautiful, of course!
gol: yes, it is fleeting--real and true love is FLEETING!
bom: and unrequited love--well, that's the best love of all! it lasts FOREVER!
gol: i say, i'm in complete agreement--unrequited love is eternal!
bom: it seems we're true romantics, gol!
(they kiss.)
hey, dumdums, which is it: FLEETING or FOREVER? yes, that inane chatter necessitated a third martini. today, i am not so much hungover than disgusted by the thought of gol and bom freely roaming about town, possibly corrupting hapless young minds. they ought to be locked up, i say. it's not just their specious/contradictory argument about love that makes the young/old couple so stupid, it too is the way they worship love--i mean, love--as if it were an ultimate acquisition in and of itself. i say, this is frivolous, myopic, solipsistic (ironically!); fundamentally, it's fucked up. it seems antarcticans are quite stupid.
toni morrison said that the function of freedom is to free someone else. i feel similarly about love: the function of love is to free someone else to love. the important thing here is that love have a FUNCTION. without function, a thing is pointless, useless, vain, and (in my highly regarded opinion) has no place to claim in this world. i think the phrase 'intrinsic value' is a contradiction in terms. what a shame, i say, what a waste. to love love or to love to be loved in return, what a small circle--nay, speck!--it is. if it doesn't expand--if it doesn't have further consequence than that, i say it's not love at all. (well, i always say that--but all this love talk is hypothetical, no?) so, love, unless it infects a life in such a way as inspiring poetry or music, saving orphans in malawi, or at least inviting the lone, drunk woman next to you to a menage a trois, it is like the falling tree in the forest: no one hears, no one's the wiser, and, really, who gives a shit?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
scent of a woman
last night, i had the misfortune of running into an old friend who coerced me into staying out til all hours of the morning. you know the type: bibulous, loud and sloppy, insistent on both paying and ordering, arm tight around shoulder (to make sneaky getaway most difficult). today, i had tickets to a noontime matinee and, waking late, had to go straight from bed to theater, hair a bird's nest, reeking of booze. and what do you know? i met a scraggly musician dude. he'd looked about himself, sniffing like a dog, and when his eyes met mine, he intuited right away that it was i who reeked! at first mortified, i was pleasantly surprised when he took the seat next to mine. afterwards, we got gelato and walked in the park. so, today i learned that it's not just the smell of bacon that attracts man. and what a relief, for whenever i've carried said meat in pocket, i've aways caved, consuming it before ever running into man, for i am only human, and bacon yummy.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
crazy like a fox
dear night-owl WHALES, though it be 3am, i have behaved very well tonight, barely finishing my third martini, and getting in at a most respectable 11:20pm. in fact, i was in bed by midnight. (or is this in fact very, very bad behavior? oops.) anyway, what got me out of bed, you ask? seems i went to bed still wearing my glasses. first time i've done that. although, lately, i have been a wee confused. as you know from an earlier post, i lost a shoe a few weeks ago. got into a cab with both shoes, exiting with one. i mistakenly thought we were in the month of july, sent a message referring to this year as 2007, left my apartment in my slippers--on three occasions, and have been making up lies in bars--for no reason (i cut hair! i'm tall!). it all elicits giggles from moi, followed by a 'fuck!' except for the shoe incident--because dammit that was not funny. anyhoo, when i began to worry that perhaps my mind was drifting into crazyland, i asked my friend if i'd seemed strange lately. she said, 'dude, there's a whale on your head.' so...she'd rather talk about my hats.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
analyze this: (no) hopes and dreams
women often write me with their lists of desiderata regarding men (which always vexes me, given that i've written extensively on the ills of making/having such lists (see WHALES conception); at times, it's like i'm talking to a brick wall!), and more often than not, 'someone with whom to share my hopes and dreams' appears. the first thing, hope, is something that i endeavor to completely squash in all of you, for there is no place for hope in WHALES. in fact, my first idea for the group's name was WHALESNOH ('and NO Hope') but, the H being silent, it would've sounded anti-whales, which would not have been good (not that i'm particularly attracted to whales, but i have nothing against them, either). however, the second thing, i can relate to, i really can. but really won't anyone do in this regard? to illustrate this, today i shall candidly share--with YOU--a dream of MINE:
i was in a helicopter over a mountainside. it was a scary ride. we came dangerously close to the ground many times heading to the valley. once on the valley floor, we bobbed and swayed in one place for a long while. i almost puked. turns out we were at a mcdonald's drive-thru. after all that, we parked and went inside. i spilled my coke on a big skier-dude. pissed, he followed me into the ladies room and demanded i give him my panties. i thought, sure why not have my panties (freak). but my panties had developed polka dots, such as they would measles, so of course i couldn't give them to him. he called me a tease. when he said it, it boomed throughout mcdonald's and beyond. mortified, i stayed in the bathroom and ate french fries. (i couldn't stomach a burger.)
i was in a helicopter over a mountainside. it was a scary ride. we came dangerously close to the ground many times heading to the valley. once on the valley floor, we bobbed and swayed in one place for a long while. i almost puked. turns out we were at a mcdonald's drive-thru. after all that, we parked and went inside. i spilled my coke on a big skier-dude. pissed, he followed me into the ladies room and demanded i give him my panties. i thought, sure why not have my panties (freak). but my panties had developed polka dots, such as they would measles, so of course i couldn't give them to him. he called me a tease. when he said it, it boomed throughout mcdonald's and beyond. mortified, i stayed in the bathroom and ate french fries. (i couldn't stomach a burger.)
Monday, August 18, 2008
olympics make me randy!
invariably, the olympics inspire me, and yesterday i went running for the first time since my last olympics. that was a long time ago, especially since the last were in sydney, having skipped the 2004 games.
and i'm going to take this opportunity to preach the word of exercise. i know it's obnoxious when exercise junkies (eg, myself) talk of the importance of getting/staying fit, but i demand you hear me out. well, after my run, i felt more awake, perky, and aroused. this made me curious. so i decided some hardcore scientific research was in order. i found this on 'go ask alice':
exercise leads to the release of endorphins, which leads to a release of hormones that make you horny. Even low-intensity activities, such as yoga or tantra, may do a little somethin' somethin' by increasing blood flow to the genitals, making you randy. Exercise may also offer a lift to men who experience erectile dysfunction (ED), which can be caused by poor blood flow to the pee-pee.
*edited by ms. c.
there you have it. and nothing better contributes to the efforts of a WHALES more than a raging libido.
and i'm going to take this opportunity to preach the word of exercise. i know it's obnoxious when exercise junkies (eg, myself) talk of the importance of getting/staying fit, but i demand you hear me out. well, after my run, i felt more awake, perky, and aroused. this made me curious. so i decided some hardcore scientific research was in order. i found this on 'go ask alice':
exercise leads to the release of endorphins, which leads to a release of hormones that make you horny. Even low-intensity activities, such as yoga or tantra, may do a little somethin' somethin' by increasing blood flow to the genitals, making you randy. Exercise may also offer a lift to men who experience erectile dysfunction (ED), which can be caused by poor blood flow to the pee-pee.
*edited by ms. c.
there you have it. and nothing better contributes to the efforts of a WHALES more than a raging libido.
Friday, August 15, 2008
cybersonals (TM!): a playground for singles, swingers, studies
we're hi-tech people, living in a hi-tech world, which makes it possible to perform numerous tasks without ever leaving home, including meeting people, dating, generally socializing (those things were such nuisances, so thank god for this). naturally, i have perused online personal ads--what sort of relationship expert would i be otherwise? (explore all paths, one must, to call oneself an expert.) and today, i share with you two main thoughts/snap judgments regarding dating via sites like nerve, match, craigslist, etc.
1
though i have never met a dating potential online, i have two friends of greatly differing opinion who have. my friend 'robin' met his girlfriend of 3 years via craigslist; but my friend 'robyn' swears that there are nothing but dorks/pervs to be found on such. let's for the moment put robin aside, and rather concentrate on robyn, because for whatever reason i find her more trustworthy. and the ads that i've seen were clearly written by dorks/pervs--not that dorks/pervs are less human, only less desirable. also, the people who 'cruise' cybersonals (TM!)--save for robyn--are dorks/pervs (i imagine, and so will present as fact). this is terribly problematic, and i shall tell you why.
only one person per couple should be the dork/perv. it is like the yin-yang, black-white, potayto-potahto law of the universe. 2 dorks/pervs, and the balance, the chi, is fucked. yes, cybersonal (TM) world is just a cesspool of dorks/pervs cavorting with other dorks/pervs. i say to you academics: what an opportunity to observe/study in the wild this pure and dense population of dorks/pervs!
note: since no WHALES is either dork or perv, we are free as birds to trudge as we wish through the mire of cybersonals (TM) and couple with a dork/perv.
2
though we love the convenience and ego-preservation (no more facing rejection) that cybersonals (TM) afford, my second concern is one grave and consequential. of course online dating sites have their flaws, and believe it or not disappointment is not unusual when/if people actually meet--live. now, i may be the founder of WHALES, but not as a result of fear of disappointment, but of celibacy. and trust me, WHALES, you will experience disappointment answering cybersonals (TM) (or you are one muy fortunate bitch, or so says robyn).
however, the real danger lies in the way in which people will largely begin--and simultaneously cease--communicating with one another. i've known many a man who can type up a witty line or even two but in person, if this line be spoken, loses all verve. and this will only worsen with more time online and less practice, live. thus, my growing, gnawing fear: prevalent social retardation in the future--culminating at anthropophobia. there ought to be a study conducted on this, too: the correlation between diminishing social faculties and increase of elationships. this is a call to action. personally, though not a sociologist, my recommendation would be that elationships not constitute more than 80% of one's relationships, the absolute limit at 90%, plus or minus 10%.
Monday, August 11, 2008
pret a manger: genii, or dolts?
pret a manger: we support dozens of charities helping the homeless by offering our unsold sandwiches to them at the end of each day.
WTF? do i buy, then, or do i leave for the homeless? i've stood many a noon hour bamboozled in their doorway.
WTF? do i buy, then, or do i leave for the homeless? i've stood many a noon hour bamboozled in their doorway.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
he could steal your heart, too:
a month ago, in front of rockfeller center, i promised to watch 'gouging grandma' in order to get a free snickers bar. but realizing then that it wasn't really 'free,' i gave the candy away to someone who said he'd check it out.besides, i once met a dude in soho who said he made a decent living stealing from old people (i kid you not), and i'd found his candidness...refreshing.
<-- cute!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
avoided headline: dalai lama botches beijing
being the appreciator of comedy that i am, i love filmmaker zhang yimou, whose older films (pre-kung fu spectacles) make funny china's cultural revolution. consequently, they were 'banned' from china. every yimou fan knows (because he has said as much) the director gives not a toss about politics. my hunch is that his real passion lies in commanding/tormenting multiple lovers and smoking dope (see raise the red latern if you doubt it) and merely wanted a rise out of his comrades, not to mention a little free publicity. those zany chinese--they really do do things on a grander scale--including tomfoolery. but i digress.
last night, though i hadn't planned on watching the opening ceremony (i can't remember when i last watched the olympics), i was--atypically of course--free on this friday evening, so said what the hell. i've never enjoyed spectacles such as these, so i had very low expectations. i expected at most dragons, lots of bicycles and dim sum. as everyone knows by now, it was much more hi-tech than all that. i for one was stunned. i mean, does anyone remember bjork in athens? i actually do not, but i googled it and imagine it was awful.
people cannot deny that the ceremony in beijing was the ceremony to end all ceremonies, but it has its critics. eg, i heard someone say, 'why not a dalai lama chase scene--where's that, yimou?' that's unfair, i say. the dalai lama has no acting experience and could have RUINED EVERYTHING.
last night, though i hadn't planned on watching the opening ceremony (i can't remember when i last watched the olympics), i was--atypically of course--free on this friday evening, so said what the hell. i've never enjoyed spectacles such as these, so i had very low expectations. i expected at most dragons, lots of bicycles and dim sum. as everyone knows by now, it was much more hi-tech than all that. i for one was stunned. i mean, does anyone remember bjork in athens? i actually do not, but i googled it and imagine it was awful.
people cannot deny that the ceremony in beijing was the ceremony to end all ceremonies, but it has its critics. eg, i heard someone say, 'why not a dalai lama chase scene--where's that, yimou?' that's unfair, i say. the dalai lama has no acting experience and could have RUINED EVERYTHING.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
QIFAM (questions i frequently ask myself), cont'd
A: sorry. it's just the frequency with which those questions are asked--it's exasperating. can we start again--pretend like that ugliness never happened?
Q: you mean, like a virgin?
A: precisely. i do that all the time, by the way.
Q: you act like you're a virgin?
A: well, i don't stand up and declare it so; i just allude to it.
Q: oh?
A: oh yeah. or, in the least, i pretend there have been very few, and very far between.
Q: how do you pretend--?
A: oh, ow! sorry, it's just i'm not used to--oww!
Q: good grief.
A: hehe.
Q: um...
A: i know. it's awesome.
Q: can we--if you don't mind--get on with the q & a?
A: yes, LET US PROCEED.
Q: all right. this is a question that actual people have asked: would you say WHALES are feminists?
A: okay: WHALES are feminists.
Q: no, i mean, would you call them feminists?
A: sure, if i ever met one.
Q: no, i mean--
A: yes, whatever do you mean? it would be nice if you would prepare yourself for these things a little. you know, i have a soul-crushing day job, that i happen to be at--and neglecting, as we speak--and as you know i have this time-suck, i mean blog, and you've heard in past posts about the bourbon and the unruly hairdo--
Q: all right, all right!
A: just sayin. you could put a little more thought into the QIFAM.
Q: ....
A: well?
Q: i'm thinking.
A: oh.
Q: ....
A: ....
Q: what--?
A: this better be good.
Q: never mind.
A: do you want to hear more of my 'virgin' act?
Q: no! well, i just thought of a question: what happened that's made you so cynical?
A: i say, good question. and it reminds me of one of mcnamara's rules in 'fog of war': don't answer the question you were asked, answer the question you wish you were asked. so, my answer to your question: no, not much. i like fish, but i try to stay away from red meat.
Q: you mean, like a virgin?
A: precisely. i do that all the time, by the way.
Q: you act like you're a virgin?
A: well, i don't stand up and declare it so; i just allude to it.
Q: oh?
A: oh yeah. or, in the least, i pretend there have been very few, and very far between.
Q: how do you pretend--?
A: oh, ow! sorry, it's just i'm not used to--oww!
Q: good grief.
A: hehe.
Q: um...
A: i know. it's awesome.
Q: can we--if you don't mind--get on with the q & a?
A: yes, LET US PROCEED.
Q: all right. this is a question that actual people have asked: would you say WHALES are feminists?
A: okay: WHALES are feminists.
Q: no, i mean, would you call them feminists?
A: sure, if i ever met one.
Q: no, i mean--
A: yes, whatever do you mean? it would be nice if you would prepare yourself for these things a little. you know, i have a soul-crushing day job, that i happen to be at--and neglecting, as we speak--and as you know i have this time-suck, i mean blog, and you've heard in past posts about the bourbon and the unruly hairdo--
Q: all right, all right!
A: just sayin. you could put a little more thought into the QIFAM.
Q: ....
A: well?
Q: i'm thinking.
A: oh.
Q: ....
A: ....
Q: what--?
A: this better be good.
Q: never mind.
A: do you want to hear more of my 'virgin' act?
Q: no! well, i just thought of a question: what happened that's made you so cynical?
A: i say, good question. and it reminds me of one of mcnamara's rules in 'fog of war': don't answer the question you were asked, answer the question you wish you were asked. so, my answer to your question: no, not much. i like fish, but i try to stay away from red meat.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
FAQ, or rather QIFAM
okay, people don’t really ask questions–and i understand, really i do. it must be very intimidating, addressing the president/founder of WHALES. but fear not, for i shall answer the questions you daren’t ask.
that’s right, here are questions i frequently ask myself, or QIFAM:
Q: does WHALES have an agenda?
A: you mean, like a day planner?
Q: what hobbies do you enjoy?
A: i don’t have hobbies per se, but i do spend an awful lot of time interviewing me. one has to prepare oneself for the windfall that is inevitable in this case of WHALES. in my mind, i’ve already granted larry king first dibs–i mean, did you not see the marlon brando interview?? (’kiss my foot, larry; go on, larry, kiss it.’)
Q: do you hate men?
A: good grief–do you even read my fucking blog, you fucking idiot? god!
Q: which is better representative of your brain: swiss cheese or a teeny, tiny raisin?
A: can i say average-sized raisin, aerated?
Q: are you a lesbian?
A: you know... okay, that’s it. go fuck yourself; this interview is over.
that’s right, here are questions i frequently ask myself, or QIFAM:
Q: does WHALES have an agenda?
A: you mean, like a day planner?
Q: what hobbies do you enjoy?
A: i don’t have hobbies per se, but i do spend an awful lot of time interviewing me. one has to prepare oneself for the windfall that is inevitable in this case of WHALES. in my mind, i’ve already granted larry king first dibs–i mean, did you not see the marlon brando interview?? (’kiss my foot, larry; go on, larry, kiss it.’)
Q: do you hate men?
A: good grief–do you even read my fucking blog, you fucking idiot? god!
Q: which is better representative of your brain: swiss cheese or a teeny, tiny raisin?
A: can i say average-sized raisin, aerated?
Q: are you a lesbian?
A: you know... okay, that’s it. go fuck yourself; this interview is over.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
rum and cock
before i get to the meat of the today's matter, this topic reminds me of an otherwise upscale bar my girlfriends and i visited in korea (the country notorious for english running awry), whereupon the drink list appeared 'rum and cock.' we asked them to hold the rum.
today, i received this message regarding 'what can $5 get you?':
today, i received this message regarding 'what can $5 get you?':
reminds me of this one time i had a dispute over the price of a blowjob, or portion thereof. i don’t know whether it was because her technique, so to speak, sucked, or whether it was just that i‘d had one too many cuba libres, but whatever the reason it took such a long time she got tired and quit. now here’s the thing. i was perfectly willing to give her a little extra for her effort if she’d managed to bring it off. but what I refused to do was to pay her for half a blowjob. what the fuck, I ask you, is HALF A BLOWJOB?
yours faithfully,
popeye
my response to 'popeye':
just for drinking cuba libres, you should expect nothing more than a fleeting brush of the lips to the cock, no matter what the price. everyone knows real men don’t drink rum and cokes.
Friday, August 1, 2008
but, dude, it's a hyundai!
when i moved down to nyc from upstate ny, i got pulled over doing 87 mph--in my hyundai accent. dear readers, are you familiar with the hyundai accent? if not, they are fabulous on gas but not otherwise. i'm no automotive expert, but i'm gonna guess that my accent, whom i affectionately call 'goldie,' has, like, 2.25 cylinders and 24.5 hp. don't quote me on this, just a guess. regardless, i love goldie and miss her.
when the officer questioned me, the only defense i could manage was: 'but-but-but it's a HYUNDAI! i never knew it could go so fast!' turned out my reaction wasn't completely nonsensical, and the pig gave me a ticket for running a stop sign. even so, just the thought of diminutive, benign, typically 30 mph-moving goldie being charged with a crime--any crime--was something i never could have imagined. i guess this is a rare instance of low expectations fucking with you.
in the end, goldie racked up $400 in parking violations her first month in brooklyn. consequently, i drove her back upstate, parked her at a relative's, stripped her plates and took the train back to nyc. i haven't seen her in 16 months.
when the officer questioned me, the only defense i could manage was: 'but-but-but it's a HYUNDAI! i never knew it could go so fast!' turned out my reaction wasn't completely nonsensical, and the pig gave me a ticket for running a stop sign. even so, just the thought of diminutive, benign, typically 30 mph-moving goldie being charged with a crime--any crime--was something i never could have imagined. i guess this is a rare instance of low expectations fucking with you.
in the end, goldie racked up $400 in parking violations her first month in brooklyn. consequently, i drove her back upstate, parked her at a relative's, stripped her plates and took the train back to nyc. i haven't seen her in 16 months.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
what can $5 get you?
my friend from san francisco is considering a career change, and asked me what he should charge for handjobs. i told him five dollars. he said that sounded low. he may be right, but for myself i wouldn't be comfortable charging any more than that. i reasoned that, for that much, it wouldn't have to be a job well, or even completely, done--what do you expect for five bucks?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
knight in matte kevlar--and his jackass butler, too
as you well know (see WHALES conception if you don't), WHALES was borne out of resentment for jon stewart and his multi-faceted maleness. but, jon, i'm considering a replacement. what say you, WHALES?:
while i'm at it, alfred may be a worthy contender: butler, confidant, crime-fighting assistant, caretaker of wayne manor, guests and batcave, medical/technical/computer expert, actor (with strong ability in makeup, disguise and vocal mimicry!), fully trained chauffeur, 4-star chef, and all-purpose mechanic. not to mention, alfred's accent is muy sexy. what an asshole:
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
in hammett's eyes
anyone reading hammett, as low as my expectations are, i never thought i'd read: His eyes burned yellowly.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
how to dump a man, WHALES-style
today, i broke up with my.... today, i emailed the boy i obsess over and told him i was no longer interested. i wrote: 'you fatigue me.' you know, because of the obsessing, which is quite draining, and with a full-time job, a blog (with a most demanding readership), and an oftentimes unruly hairdo to contend with, i simply could not keep up with such, eg, reading his favorite books, watching his favorite movies, painting his portrait from his facebook profile pic, etc. i then spread the word to my friends, saying i broke up with 'jean-luc,' to which they replied, 'i didn't know you had a boyfriend.' that is because, fools, i didn't. my friends looked at me befuddled. i don't see the cause for confusion. i didn't have a boyfriend--so what? i ask you this: must one have a boyfriend in order to break up with...someone? i say an emphatic no.
and really isn't that the beauty--or one of the many beauties, i mean--of WHALES? you don't need rules; you don't heed the status quo. you drag home men you don't give two figs--nay, even one fig--about, and you break up with people who've no idea who the hell you are.
it's glorious anarchy, the life of a WHALES.
and really isn't that the beauty--or one of the many beauties, i mean--of WHALES? you don't need rules; you don't heed the status quo. you drag home men you don't give two figs--nay, even one fig--about, and you break up with people who've no idea who the hell you are.
it's glorious anarchy, the life of a WHALES.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
picking on phil collins for no reason
forbidden fruit:
express yourself
(come on, girls! do you believe in love?)
no
(don't go for second best, baby)
that's right: third, fourth, tenth, whatever
i want love
i don't care that rdj is in the video
in your eyes
(i see the doorway to a thousand churches, in your eyes the resolution of all the fruitless searches)
in your eyes a sharpened pencil
(can't get no) satisfaction
antithesis of WHALES philosophy
s-s-studio
i dunno, it just sucks
express yourself
(come on, girls! do you believe in love?)
no
(don't go for second best, baby)
that's right: third, fourth, tenth, whatever
i want love
i don't care that rdj is in the video
in your eyes
(i see the doorway to a thousand churches, in your eyes the resolution of all the fruitless searches)
in your eyes a sharpened pencil
(can't get no) satisfaction
antithesis of WHALES philosophy
s-s-studio
i dunno, it just sucks
eric carmen makes the cut
essential WHALES music:
making love out of nothing at all
i wish i had written this
(if you can't be with the one you love) love the one you're with
my mantra
love hurts
(love is just a lie to make us feel blue)
making love out of nothing at all
i wish i had written this
(if you can't be with the one you love) love the one you're with
my mantra
love hurts
(love is just a lie to make us feel blue)
sing it, hair helmet!
(can't find a) better man
title says it all; how else do you think vedder gets laid?
what's love got to do (got to do) with it?
trick question
all by myself (don't wanna be)
i frequently find myself humming this, unawares
don't wanna soulmate, just someone i can tolerate
okay, i made this one up
(can't find a) better man
title says it all; how else do you think vedder gets laid?
what's love got to do (got to do) with it?
trick question
all by myself (don't wanna be)
i frequently find myself humming this, unawares
don't wanna soulmate, just someone i can tolerate
okay, i made this one up
Monday, June 23, 2008
vive houellebecq!
today, my good friend (and for this i love him even more) sent me a great article on the french novelist michel houellebecq. an excerpt:
Houellebecq -- who maintains an open marriage, frequents swingers' clubs and estimates that he sleeps with 25 women a year -- said that he couldn't imagine anything nicer than ''having clitorises all over your body.''
as a WHALES, i say: would it kill a few dozen of us to gather round this (obvious) genius to make his dream come true? i can think of worse things than convening clitorises in the name of literature.
incidentally, 'clitorises all over your body' sounds like a job for photoshop.
Houellebecq -- who maintains an open marriage, frequents swingers' clubs and estimates that he sleeps with 25 women a year -- said that he couldn't imagine anything nicer than ''having clitorises all over your body.''
as a WHALES, i say: would it kill a few dozen of us to gather round this (obvious) genius to make his dream come true? i can think of worse things than convening clitorises in the name of literature.
incidentally, 'clitorises all over your body' sounds like a job for photoshop.
Friday, June 20, 2008
he only wanted erotic mayhem
in response to gabriel's comment on 'the real deal with compatibility,' who thinks he should try reading anais nin with a bad french accent since all else has failed to lead to the 'erotic mayhem' he desires:
gabriel, honey, my point was that UNLESS the guy is reading anais nin with a bad french accent, there is NOT a problem--thus if the guy IS reading anais nin with a bad french accent (gabriel, darling, read: pretentious clown), i could see how even a woman with very low standards might be repulsed.
case in point, WHALES: men, even if they see a string of letters, recognize them as words, and have an adequate understanding of the language, it doesn't mean they can read (make sense of the reading).
gabriel surely has other talents (perhaps knot-tying? i've known many a man who can tie a truly excellent knot), but reading is clearly not his forte.
OH SHIZ! gabriel is swedish. hmm, but the swedish people i've met have had better english than most americans. SO, my conclusion still stands--for being from sweden does not excuse a misconstrue of my blog.
regardless, as an exemplary WHALES, i say this to gabriel:
my tangy little meatball,
sorry; me didn't know english not first language.
gabriel, honey, my point was that UNLESS the guy is reading anais nin with a bad french accent, there is NOT a problem--thus if the guy IS reading anais nin with a bad french accent (gabriel, darling, read: pretentious clown), i could see how even a woman with very low standards might be repulsed.
case in point, WHALES: men, even if they see a string of letters, recognize them as words, and have an adequate understanding of the language, it doesn't mean they can read (make sense of the reading).
gabriel surely has other talents (perhaps knot-tying? i've known many a man who can tie a truly excellent knot), but reading is clearly not his forte.
OH SHIZ! gabriel is swedish. hmm, but the swedish people i've met have had better english than most americans. SO, my conclusion still stands--for being from sweden does not excuse a misconstrue of my blog.
regardless, as an exemplary WHALES, i say this to gabriel:
my tangy little meatball,
sorry; me didn't know english not first language.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
the real deal with compatibility
in this times article about literary preferences possibly making or breaking your romantic attractions, note what (future WHALES) levy says:
Compatibility in reading taste is a “luxury” and kind of irrelevant, Levy said. The goal, she added, is “to find somebody where your perversions match and who you can stand.
naturally i concur. vive levy! but being somewhat more of an expert on the subject, as it relates to lowering standards, i think levy prematurely desisted, leaving the lettuce, so to speak, somewhat damp: i would spin this baby out and say that compatibility--period--is a luxury. vive moi, aussi, levy--VIVE MOI.
and besides, as long as the dude isn't reading anais nin--aloud and with a bad french accent--then i fail to see the problem. and if the mere sight of who moved my cheese? makes you vomit in your mouth, be progressive: yank the book from his hands and seduce the literate bastard. after all, reading is for celibates.
Compatibility in reading taste is a “luxury” and kind of irrelevant, Levy said. The goal, she added, is “to find somebody where your perversions match and who you can stand.
naturally i concur. vive levy! but being somewhat more of an expert on the subject, as it relates to lowering standards, i think levy prematurely desisted, leaving the lettuce, so to speak, somewhat damp: i would spin this baby out and say that compatibility--period--is a luxury. vive moi, aussi, levy--VIVE MOI.
and besides, as long as the dude isn't reading anais nin--aloud and with a bad french accent--then i fail to see the problem. and if the mere sight of who moved my cheese? makes you vomit in your mouth, be progressive: yank the book from his hands and seduce the literate bastard. after all, reading is for celibates.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
jon responds!
today, i received THIS:
Dear Ms. C.,
On behalf of Jon Stewart and The Daily Show I am compelled to write after reading the description of this WHALES group. Before you and your subscribers become too dismayed, what may be the cause of the demise of your group I believe will ultimately leave you, well, happier.
Let me preface by saying that we at The Daily Show do peruse facebook/myspace/etc., to keep abreast of what our fans/foes are saying about us. It is a type of research. We have never before interacted with these groups—not unlike a wildlife observer crouches in the bush—to ensure said groups/interactions remain candid. We have decided to make an exception with WHALES due to the potentially serious danger it poses to impressionable, young women.
After I presented to Jon your letter (upon which WHALES is based, according to 'WHALES conception'), although flattered, he agreed that disclosure was in order:
Furst of all, I do not have meaty soccer-player calves. From the waist down, I am very Nicole Ritchie.
2. Whut does incendiary mean?
3. Sometimes when I fart, I poo a little.
4. A cock of steel?! I’ll have you know that phrase kept me up for days.
5. I DO like satyrs.
6. So…can I preorder some of those shit-brown undies? (see #3)
7. Are you insane, woman?—Colbert is so fuckable.
8. I was going for ten things, but I can only think of ate.
Now you see, and it does young women a disservice to belong to a group based on lies. There are no men out there with wings and fins and legs (Jon: Whatever the fuck that means). There are only men with calves in states of varying atrophy and shittypants.
I advise you take down your page and disband…unless I’m making your point? Uh….
Anyway, sincere regards,
R. A.
Writer, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Friday, June 13, 2008
waxing WHALES
my friend once said to keep your wallet neat, clean and containing only the essentials. she said that in this way your wallet will be a welcoming place money will want to occupy and, once there, will be reluctant to leave. this made abundant sense to me--and i see no reason why we can't apply this theory to the bikini area. so, be sure to wax: keep it neat, hospitable, occupiable.
*WHALES may have low expectations but should still wax before a first date.
*WHALES may have low expectations but should still wax before a first date.
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