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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.'

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.

ellroy/gretzky dedication

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

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

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

weeks pondering: not expecting does not mean not trying

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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%.

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.