Dispatches from Nowhere 11.26.05

I know - I'm late.

I received a call from a friend of mine the other morning. He was calling to tell me a mutual acquaintance of ours had died. He had no information on how or why. He passed on the funeral and memorial information and then life intruded and we got off the phone.

I haven’t really stopped to think about it more than to tell my wife and a friend at work that might have known the deceased.

I knew him (the dead guy) in high school – a place I left over a decade ago. I skipped my high school reunion, and have not shown any interest in seeing most of the people I went there with. Those I wanted to stay in touch with, I did. It’s not that he and I were not friends, more like we were good acquaintances. We knew all the same people, hung out with the same people, and hung out in groups together. But were we friends?

I don’t know. I doubt it.

Part of me thinks I should feel bad for being ambivalent about his death. It does not change the fact that I do. I admit to some morbid curiosity as to why he died. It seems that my circle of friends from High School has a habit of dying young. Leave a good-looking corpse right?

I feel bad for his mother.

I’m finishing this dispatch post –thanksgiving. My thanksgiving was full of family and light. This is the first one she has had to spend without her son. I don’t even want to think about how Christmas will be for her.

Family, biological or created, is important. They ground us. Keep us sane (and drive us insane). In mine, I always know that I can come home and they have my back. No matter what happens, they are there for me. Biological or created – that is family.

Holidays are supposed to be a good time with friends and family. Sometimes they drive us nuts. Sometimes they bring the pain into sharp focus. Mostly (I hope) they are about celebration of life and living it well.

Sleep well Wally’s mom. For the rest of you, If you are so inclined, think a good thought for her and for all the other mothers that have lost someone.

Diapatches from Nowhere 11.22.05

There is this woman whose journal I read, and the other day she told us (her readers) that she felt sexy.

Then, she said she realized that she had been wearing the same pair of red lace panties for 2 days. I know you are sitting there thinking:

"eww"

Closely followed by:

"What the hell is depressoboy doing reading a woman that posts about 2 day old panties?"

It's not the panties that are the issue here - but rather, what it is that makes us feel sexy. She talks about it more in her post (which is here incidentally. read the comments.) As a guy - I don't define how I feel as sexy.

I might say that I am a sexy bitch, but that is a play off of a comment I got from a friend once. It comes from the same place as being called a delicate flower. (Don’t ask - or do, if you feel the need. I reserve the right to say nothing.)

Where was I?

Sexy.

Right.

(Hold on sparky - I’m getting to it)

Sexy is not skimpier and skimpier thong panties that require double sided tape to hold in place as Victoria's Secret has tried to tell us. Now, please don't misunderstand me - I like lingerie (on women. perverts) - but that is sort of beside the point. Sexy is whatever that bit of ephemera that often eludes us is. Sexy is a mindset. But we all know this. And if not, we should.

Do men feel sexy? I don't. I might feel attractive and ... whatever. But I don't know that you will find a man that describes himself as sexy. I can feel attractive. I can make myself feel attractive. But I don't feel sexy. I feel alive after a run and... "Awake" in the morning. But I still don't feel sexy. This is not a complaint, but an observation. I see sexy, but I am not sexy.

Anyway, maybe she has a point. Maybe 2 day old panties are symbolic of that nasty side in us all (OK. Maybe not all of us. Shut it.) that occasionally feels ... primal when dirty. I'm not talking like woke up in the morning after sleeping all night, morning breath dirty. I'm talking hard labor, sweaty, funky smelling, and primal urge nasty. It's that part we all try to deny, but pop culture and marketing will help me prove my point.

A few years back there was a diet coke commercial wherein the woman would stop at a particular window at 11 o'clock or so to ogle some buffed up construction worker when he took off his shirt to cool down. The shots of him were soft focus and sweaty, in warm colors. It was like porn without the sex.

And men? I have a friend that once said that his (now ex) wife would "fuck me like she hated me".

Do I need to say more?

Maybe it's not the funk that is attractive - but rather what it means. Do you follow what I'm saying? It's a throwback. It is something that grabs us on a baser level. It awakens something in us. It awakens something primal, sexual, and in some respects, an animalistic desire. Maybe something we forgot. At the very least, it is something that makes us feel alive. Something that is so completely out of sync with societal expectations and completely in touch with our humanity.

Now go take a shower you dirty hippie.

Dispatches from Nowhere 11.17.05

I’ve done a lot of reading lately on “Racial Science”. I know – weird right? One of the fun things about being an academic is sometimes – rather serendipitously – you end up studying areas that dovetail. All the work you did in one class is now making you look either:

A: really smart in your other class

Or

B: a total asshat in your other class.

I vote B. (However, that may just be my self-image talking.) I am that guy and I don’t care! I get to rant in class and pick apart arguments by people that are just like me! My professors love me. (Well, that is what I tell myself. I’ll bet they really think I am choice B.)

Ha!

The joke is on them. I’d bet that back when they were me, they were choice B. I know it. We can smell our own. Deep unto deep and all that jazz. They argue with me, making me defend my off the wall comments and generally having to defend what ever I said. After class I always apologize for being a jerk in class. They tell me that it is ok, they appreciate it, but could I try not to say “Fuck” so much.

(Seriously. I forget that I am in an academic setting and that really, saying “fuck” - while it gets everyone’s attention – is sort of rude.)

We laugh and the day moves on. I try to remember to not say “fuck” in class anymore. Some days I win, some days I lose.

The joy of this is getting to talk smack and put a point of view out there that the zombies… sorry, “my classmates”, are missing. I see it as shaking them out of their stupor. I get to wake them up as it were.

I mean - so what if I make my arguments using words like “Penis”, “Pills”, or “Dysfunction”?

At least I get them talking. That is the point isn’t it? That we keep talking?

Dispatches from Nowhere 11.15.05

I don't think I'm alone when I say I hate traffic. Nor do I think I a minority of one when I say that I hate commuting. I believe that all of us share a common hate that a 20 minute drive will take an hour and twenty minutes to drive on any weekday morning. Add sunshine, rain, or other weather to the mix and you can watch your gas needle drop. It is mind numbing and rage inducing. I mean - even car-singing doesn’t make it better. (You know what I’m talking about. Everyone does it. It is ok.)

These people drive like teenagers exploring sex for the first time. There are a lot of fumbling, tentative, awkward movements, and lots of accidents, (some one saying "you are on my hair") and everyone is making mistakes. Sometimes it hurts. Someone is getting angry. No one is having any fun. They just want to go faster and get it over with.

That is my morning commute. Everyone is so impatient. There is no finesse to how everyone drives. Everyone is just thinking of themselves. Just a lot of grabbing and twisting, trying to cram large objects into spaces that are just way too small (come to think of it - maybe it isn't so different from adult sex...)

ANYWAY. Back to my analogy.

Instead of having to deal with inexperience and maybe some embarrassment, let me tell you what I want.

I want people to drive like porn stars.

No, really. Like porn stars.

No. Not with their eyes closed, legs spread, and screaming "Stick it in my ass". (Pervert. I can't believe you said that.)

Seriously.

Stop laughing.

I want them to drive like professionals. It's a job. No one needs to get hurt. No one needs to be embarrassed. Damn it, we’ve got a job to do. We are all in this together. I'm not saying we can't enjoy it and take our time. Sometimes we need to slow down and take out time. Sometimes we need to go fast. But let’s drive with some finesse. Lets drive with some courtesy, some pizzazz! Think of your partner before yourself, and think of how much happier we will all be. Instead of arriving at work full of impotent rage to quietly take out on our co-workers, everyone will be happy and civil - maybe a little sleepy - but happy and civil.

We have our mission. Drive like porn stars. Get to it.