November 2008 Archives

jonruh

For some reason, yesterday's post about a bad date brought to mind a particularly duh exchange with a different woman.

Me: "So what are your favorite genres of music?"

Her (after reflection): "I'd have to say movie soundtracks."

q & a part deux

Some time ago, I went out on a date with a romance novel writer. At 29, she still lived in her parents' basement.

Yeah. I know. Clearly, she was cute.

Most famously, it was her driveway in which I parked my car and, my eyes on her as I exited, proceeded to clobber her car's door with my own. It is certainly one of my all-time date lowlights. Another would follow two hours later.

A Portland resident, she wanted to dine at Jake's Famous Crawfish, a choice akin to going to the Space Needle restaurant. Lousy tourist traps, these restaurants. But dine there we did, and during dinner, I asked a fairly standard date question.

"What would your last boyfriend tell me about you?"

Chewing on some—let's face it—bait, she regarded this question seriously. Wow, I thought. I can actually see the critical thought happening in there. That's encouraging. I bet she even—

"He'd say that I have a perfect cervix," she replied proudly, the bait now tumbling in her open mouth like socks in a dryer.

"Excuse me?"

"Paul always said that I have the most perfect cervix he'd ever seen."

Seen? Like with stirrups and a miner's helmet?

"How on earth does one cervix differ from another?"

"I don't know. They just do."

There was no second date.

q & a

The most oft-asked question about last week's survey was about Jane showing me the penis photo at all.

"Huh? I mean...how? WHY?"

Jane has this effect on a lot of people. Here's your answer, such as it is.

She had met the guy through match.com, naturally. During the email phase of courtship where you or I would might write about food or pets or travel, he sent her a photo of his member. Which she still had on her phone the night we talked about his magnificence. So really, in what passes for Jane's thought process, she was simply marshaling evidence to support an argument.

edit

Blondage points out that in yesterday's survey post,

The latest Staff of Perfection, attached to a 33 year old, is said to stay aloft for three hours or more

should be amended thusly:

The latest Staph of Perfection, attached to a 33 year old, is said to stay aloft for three hours or more
When you're right, you're right.

ye ol' fakeroo

Fair warning: this post is not for prudes, either.

Yesterday's survey was the most lopsided in history. Granted, my empirical studies prof's heart would have exploded at the leading way in which I phrased the question, but still. The results:

Fake: 99.47%
Plausible: .53%
For grins, let's put that into pie chart form.

viagra.PNG

What fun!

Sampling of reader comments:

he's 1 hour away from a trip to the ER.

Having sampled more than my share of cocks, none of them "perfect" (although many of them quite delightful in their own way) I would say that not only is "Jane's" latest pestle using pharmaceuticals, I'd be willing to bet Jane is abusing a substance that affects her perception of time.

Fake, but I wouldn't burst her bubble. Well, yes I would; it's what pricks do.

This particular superpower is reserved for 13-year olds, I'm sorry.

possible in the way that its possible for there to be a tiny invisible teapot orbiting mars right now, sure!

His entire life? I bet he gave his parents a shock the first time he did that...

And my personal fave:

BASF doesn't make the cock. BASF makes the cock better.

Dorkass checks in, not realizing that "Jane" is someone she's met and already pronounced nuts:

Not in my experience. She sounds like a nutcase.

P.S. I've been told that I have a perfect cervix.

I'll tell you about the cervix joke on Monday. Or maybe Tuesday. First I have to answer the oft-asked "Why did she show you a picture? Why did she HAVE one?"

up, up and away!

Fair warning: this post is not for prudes.

A semi-friend who I'll call, oh hell, let's say Jane, is the only person I know to use the word "cock" casually. When I use it, it's to degrade, and it's invariably prepended to another word. Not so with Jane. Any time she has a new boyfriend, he has "the most perfect cock." Every single time. To drive this point home, she'll show us a picture of it on her cell phone.

"Honestly, it looks like every other one I've ever seen," I'll say. "Except for the herpes sores, it looks pretty much like my own. I couldn't tell them apart."

"BULLSHIT!" Jane yells. "You're just jealous!"

Mind you, I'm not arguing that Jane is a well person.

The latest Staph [sic] of Perfection, attached to a 33 year old, is said to stay aloft for three hours or more, every single time. He can ejaculate multiple times without it losing any of its blood-gorged glory. Every single time.

"Nah, that didn't come from a pill," I said.

"HE'S BEEN ABLE TO DO THAT HIS ENTIRE LIFE!" Jane yelled.

"And you know this how?"

"HE TOLD ME! OH SHUT UP. YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING. YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS."

"Yeah. Kinda like I'm jealous of how much work Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are able to knock out in one evening."

But I put it to you, fair readers. Is this superpower plausible?



what could have been

I spent some 10% of yesterday sitting in the hot tub. It was that kind of day. Of week.

At one point, an eagle circled overhead. In his talons was a snake. "Wouldn't it be something," my very naked self thought, "if he—"

He did. I don't know if the snake bit the eagle or what, but soon the snake plummeted earthward, landing a mere 10 feet from the hot tub.

"You MISSED!" I shouted upward, not toward the eagle but toward the heavens. If one could easily chant "God" to the taunting "air-ball!" melody, I would have at that moment.

But what does it say about me that I was vaguely disappointed, that with the snake mid-air, I was already mentally writing a post about God raining snakes in my hot tub?

w book redux

Blondage shares this suggested title for W's upcoming book: Standing Tall and Talking Good

(From Time magazine)

still The One

Turns out I'm not a fan of college football. President-elect Obama so decreed, in no uncertain terms, on 60 Minutes. Anyone who disagrees with his desire to create a college football playoff is "no serious fan."

Wow, was I ever mistaken. I thought it was my favorite sport. I am chagrined. Dismissed. Humiliated. I'm going to toss all those ticket stubs from the two dozen college football stadiums and two championship games I've visited.

I don't know what I'll do on Saturdays, now. I guess I'll cling to some guns and pray for the price of arugula to drop.

poindexter theme song

Every one of my dogs has had their own theme song, with which I serenade them around the house. Oddly enough, every theme song was from before my time. With Ed, for instance, it was the Beverly Hillbillies theme.

Let me tell you a story 'bout a dog named Ed.
Couldn't find her ass if it wuz stapled to her head.
With Chloe, I crooned "Chloe Jean" (and, to her lament, she danced) to the tune of "Tutti Fruiti." Later I serenaded Webster to the tune of the "Flipper" theme song. And so on.

"Poindexter," I've noticed, sings exceedingly well to the Bonanza theme song.

She's the 'tard who won't shit in the yard,
Poin-dex-TER!

Grab my gun and a rope and that furry little dope, and I'll hang her from Percy's tree.

Speaking of trees, a forest she'll deplete, Poin-dex-TER!

No more paper towels in the house, you shit-stained little louse, so I'll use Sarah's vintage tee.
It's a work in progress.

This post won't interest regular readers, but I wanted people in my boat to find it.

The Monster Cable FM transmitter for iPhones sucks ass like few products I've ever owned. As soon as I got it, I was looking to get rid of it. Opportunity knocked last week.

When I got the new, redesigned Mophie battery pack for my iPhone 3G, the first thing I noticed was that the port on the bottom was USB instead of the old iPod port. One quick test later, and voila, yes, now data (in addition to power) could be passed through the Mophie. This wasn't possible before. Soon I was dreaming about plugging my phone/Mophie combo into my car stereo.

But precious little information was available on the Web, and what I found said it couldn't be done. So I grabbed a USB cable and went to electronics stores. Pairing with most of the car stereos with front USB ports usually had one of two problems: the iPhone didn't recognize the stereo, so I was bonked with the annoying "This accessory isn't compatible" message, or the stereo recognized the songs on the iPhone but wouldn't allow me much control of them.

And then I found the Sony CDX-GT630. So seldom in life do you think "Wouldn't it be nice if such-and-such were possible" and it's actually possible.

It works perfectly, right through the Mophie. I listen to tunes and sort by artist, playlist, album etc. by using the stereo's interface. It charges the Mophie, which in turn charges the phone. When I get a call, the music fades out automatically. It's very nearly perfect. The only cost I've found is that, in that the iPod part of the phone transfers all control to the stereo (and its UI disappears on the phone), I can't watch videos while listening to the audio over the stereo. And I bet even this is possible and I just haven't figured it out. Either way, all I would have to do is use an audio cable. A small price to pay.


iPhone 3G with Mophie battery pack, velcroed to my dash and charging by USB cable from Sony CDX-GT630, which is playing song from the iPhone

and with this, my shitty week redeems itself

I have no idea how Dan Rooney scraped up half a billion bucks, but news that the Steelers won't be sold outside the family that created them is great news indeed.

And thus will there be no cheerleaders anytime soon. Thank the Maker.

straw man

Dear guy in the bar last night,

It's always someone peripheral to my life who springs the Black Superpower on me. It's never a friend. We can be conversing about anything, really, when young black acquaintances like yourself will correct me on what white people really think. This always stuns me. It's rather like correcting me on the pronunciation of my own name.

"The H in John is not silent," I hear.

You see racism everywhere, and not without good reason. Had I dealt with racism, overt and subtle, every day of my life, that would be my predisposition too. Yet even that bit o' critical thought is challenged. Like all white people, you tell me, I think racism isn't a problem anymore. And then you'll pointedly disprove an argument I never made. And when I correct you on what I think, I'm told I'll "never get it."

Infuriating. And counter-productive.

Now you tell me that I think that Obama's election proves that racism no longer exists in this country. I know this because you correct this misperception. The argument you just put in my mouth is utterly asinine, you harp, and on this we can agree. But no, you remind me: I'll never get it. No white person could.

Is it too audacious to hope that at this moment in history, we can drop the pretense of mind-reading and actually listen to one another? I'll give you plenty of material about which you can criticize me. Lots of dumb ideas spew out of my mouth. I really don't need yours, too.

reason to live! reason to live!

(AP) Bush said he plans to return to Texas after he leaves office January 20. "I may write a book," he says.

askew

When I was in New York, I drove out to Red Bank, NJ, to check out the convenience store where they filmed Clerks. It's vastly smaller than I imagined, about the size of my living room. While in town, I stopped by writer-director Kevin Smith's store, where I picked up a copy of his aptly titled book "My Boring Ass Life."

It's not every book that details bowel movements. And sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a pretty good reason. Huge stretches of the book are excruciating, and I've taken to "reading" at a blazing pace. What he watched on Tivo, bowel movement, sex with his wife, playing online poker, another bowel movement, phone call from Quentin Tarantino...

Yep. Just when you think you're never going to read a page again, the man writes "Quentin returned my call." And they discussed their movies for an hour. I want this part of his life, if not the rest.

Watching Zack and Miri is kinda like reading the book. There are moments. The first half of the movie rates among his finest works. And then the movie goes utterly, uninterestingly limp. It's tempting to fault the plot device where the title characters, desperate to make ends meet, decide to make porn. It's when they start filming their crap-film-within-a-crap-film, after all, that the wheels come off the latter. But that's not the problem.

Smith gives us Miri, embodied by Elizabeth Banks, who for the first half of the movie is a marvelously appealing character, a girl guys immediately want to marry. Pure male-fantasy girl, a la Natalie Portman in Garden State. Miri's bright, sparkly, caring, hilarious, and an amazingly single loser. She and Zack are best friends, and it works.

Along comes the bowel movement. She devolves into cliche. Halfway through the movie, she falls for Zack and becomes yet another stupid female character pining for some unrepentant loser who fails all of her scheming little tests. Doe-eyed, she looks at him meaningfully, and he's oblivious. It's constant. And the woman you liked becomes a weak woman you dislike, or, if you're me, a bitter embodiment of how men simply cannot write female characters. By the movie's predictable ending, I didn't like her very much, and I was rooting for Zach to flee.

So was it with me and the movie. By its end, I didn't like it very much, and I had one eye on the exit.

post-racial, my shiny white butt

Alternative title: "presidential race." More clever, but I figured no one would read it.

I've heard the concern several times, usually from white liberals. They fear for Obama's safety. Some crackpot redneck racist is going to take a shot at him, they say, as if presidents aren't already stalked by countless legions of terrorists and crackpots and thus could somehow be in more danger. Okay, so instead of merely 4 million people lining up to kill the U.S. president, there's 5.

More interesting to me is that these folks never for a minute stop thinking of Obama as a black president. Whether it's talking about how enlightened we look to the world for electing a person of color, or talking about the historical momentousness of his election, or whether it's, yes, these racist crackpots clinging to their guns, race is always at the forefront. And perhaps this should be so. Perhaps our country has reached a point where we're so weary of the strains of racism and we're going to deal with them overtly.

I'll bet five bucks against. Any takers?

New presidents enjoy about a 200-day honeymoon. Sometimes it's less. Clinton was carved up immediately, as was W., until 9/11 anyway. Sooner or later, though, every president is publicly hatcheted. They're viciously mocked. They're blamed for things that presidents do not control. We love us a scapegoat.

I watch with interest to see how race affects this. Minority readers are probably thinking the nastiness is already more intense. White liberal readers are probably thinking it will be only white racists who so indulge. White conservative readers? They're thinking "I daren't open my mouth." Me, I think all of the above.

Think back to the early days of Bush 41, Clinton, and Bush 43. The popular ridicule of their early presidencies was, in order, he's inarticulate, he's a philandering horndog, he's a moron. Now imagine the reaction in the press if anyone said such things about Obama. They'd skip right over the obvious—him? huh? how so?—and launch right into a competition to see who could breathlessly use the r-word most often in their coverage.

That's an extreme example, but I think it's what we can expect. Can we mock a black president in 2008 America? No, certainly not. But I also fear we're not mature enough to fairly criticize him, and that would be a shame.

sedaris

I saw David Sedaris read last week, my first time seeing him live. No matter how many of his CDs you've listened to, nothing can brace you for the shock of hearing that first, flaming syllable spill out of his mouth. I recovered, though, and it was the best time I've had in memory.

The best writers connect with their audiences, of course, but Sedaris was downright eerie. That day, my friend and I had discussed 1) how I refuse to dress up on planes and instead wear sweats for comfort and 2) she was still undecided about her presidential vote. Sedaris ridiculed both types of people at length. I'd say it was an astounding coincidence, but I somehow doubt it. I think perhaps he's just that insightful, that good.

Whichever. I loathe him. Deeply.

dork pride

I was standing with two friends when Dorkass called. I answered my phone as I have on this occasion for 11 years.

"Dork."

A wounded Blondage turned to the other friend. "Well. I thought I was the dork," she sniffed.

Dorkass overheard. "I DON'T KNOW WHO THAT IS, BUT TELL HER TO BACK THE HELL OFF, 'CAUSE I'M THE ORIGINAL AND ONE AND ONLY DORK."

Yep. These are my friends.

• • •

A recent visit with Dorkass included a ritual with which I'm very familiar: my friend disappearing in order to put her spawn to bed. What made this occasion special were the twin presences of 1) a baby monitor and 2) my phone's recording app.

Here's Dorkass, taking away her child's "Lovey" in order to extort cooperation. Ladies and gentlemen, Stank is very proud to present to you its Mother of the Year.

From the AP this morning, about Obama's election:

Bush said turning over the White House to Obama "will be a stirring sight."

"I know millions of Americans will be overcome with pride at this inspiring moment that so many have waited for for so long," Bush said.

missing me

I was meeting remotely with one of my writers, which means that even though we were in different locations, she was watching what I was doing on my computer. Mail from a longtime troll came in, which was perfect, because we would rather look at anything other than the crap on which we were working.

"Did you read my post today?" I asked first. She had. "Okay, check this out. I just got mail from someone who will have completely, utterly, psychotically missed my point."

I brought up the mail. Its author had completely, utterly, psychotically missed my point. She instead refuted at length some point I had not even known existed, let alone made.

"Holy cow."

"Yeah."

"Did she even read it?"

"I think she angrily writes while skimming."

"She's nuts."

"These are my readers."

ripping the vote i just cast

Last week I voted for Obama by absentee ballot.

I say this purely for rhetorical credibility. I actually detest political endorsements on sites like this, so I shall refrain from belaboring why. It did, however, have as much to do with Palin's negatives as it did Obama's positives. Perhaps more so, come to think of it.

I do not share the masturbatory fervor of the louder Obama supporters. I find their exuberant hope to be most audacious, indeed. I cannot join the fervor. I am instead cringing a bit. Perhaps he'll be a great president, the right man at the right time. I hope so. I just have no reason beyond hope to believe so. He supports asinine, thoroughly discredited positions like windfall profits taxes and a capital gains tax hike (yeah, an impending CGT hike will surely slow the Wall Street sell-off). He's accomplished little except 1) running for president and 2) not coincidentally, voting for positions as-written in the DNC platform 100% of the time. That's not a leader; that's an algorithm. I want more.

W created Obama. Contempt for the present president has led us to select his exact opposite, and frankly, I can think of worse methods for choosing his successor. Obama is curious, cautious, well-read, thoughtful, cool under fire. W is none of these things, and it cost the country and the world. So I get that. It appeals to me, too.

But Jesus, just listen to some of the Obama supporters. Listen to the vapid zeal. I distrust zeal. Zeal helped elect W twice, and zeal now makes Obama an empty vessel in which we see whatever we want. "You have to be impressed with his online fundraising!" squealed one fan. Huh? She grabbed my arm urgently. "No one else is doing that! It's revolutionary!" With respect, I don't particularly consider politicians whoring for money from their groupies a qualification for high office. Many more Obama fans have responded to my concern about his lack of qualifications with a chilling All we are saying/Is give an utter lack of qualifications a chance. I don't even know what to do with that. I thought we had in 2000.

The latest issue of Discover magazine has an article about how advertising affects the brain. Someone did MRIs while showing people pictures. Obama's picture caused the exact same part of the brain to fire as gold-standard advertising icons like the Nike swoosh and the iPod. I thought that the perfect metaphor for my fears until I arrived in Times Square and saw the street merchants pushing cheap stuffed animals with "Obama" stamped all over them. That's when you know your brand has arrived.

Into the audaciously hopeful abyss.

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