Women experience love by doing; Men experience love by feeling.
So when I feel completely unloved and rejected because someone doesn't do something for me that I'd try to do for them, it's all mistranslation.
And this could be evolutionary. Men, to most efficiently propagate the species, would have to feel sufficient sexual attraction for a partner to facilitate intercourse, sufficient attachment to her to repeat the act over enough time to conceive a viable pregnancy, and sufficient protectiveness of her to keep buzzards, tigers, and dinosaurs away during the slow, loagy, third trimester. And that's it. If they just do what their emotions make them feel like doing, they're set. Their genes live on.
Women, to efficiently propagate the species, must do things. They've got to keep horrible screaming things alive, in the face of the same tigers and dinosaurs. They've got to feed horrible screaming things. They've got to haul shit and gather shit and maintain the cave. If women don't do things they wouldn't otherwise do, their genes didn't get passed on.
Which explains why we have so much cultural pressure on men to jump through hoops on gifting occasions. It's an attempt to rewrite the evolutionary script. It's retraining. It's an attempt to reconcile the sexes. Unfortunately, there's no profit in telling women that men can love deeply and truly without jumping through hoops; and less profit in telling men that instead of buying things for women, they could figure out ways to make their lives easier, and they'll be twice as happy. So instead we have absurd diamond commercials, 100% valentine's day markups on roses, and a heterosexual romantic culture based on buying.
Buying, by the way, is no real compromise between feeling and doing. It cheats both sides. Current theories of romance insist that thinking+buying=romantic gesture, but there is no substitute for doing or feeling, respectively.
So it's not anybody's fault that I'm feeling like absolute shit right now. It's the dilemma of non-equivalent acts.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Boston Celtics
In order by how much I'd like to see them naked.
1. (Tied)Marcus Banks
(Tied)Tony Allen
Very tough call. But I feel like Marcus won't be a Celtic long. Who knows where he'll go. And who wants to see a Knick or a Net or a Wizard naked? Not me. Not now. But Tony Allen...the arms. The shoulders. The back. The legs. It's obvious what I need to complete this picture.
2. Ricky Davis
I just...need to know. I mean...the dunks. What is the source of his power? Could it be? I think it is. I think, if he is not an alien from the planet dunktron, he must draw his power from somewhere. And a girl has hopes.
3. Delonte West
I already know what model bed he sleeps in; It's hard not to wonder what he sleeps in.
4. Kendrick Perkins
This is really wrong, because he's a million years younger than me. But he's gotten so big over the three seasons. He has stretch marks on his arms. I want to touch them.
5. Marc Blount
I keep a basketball signed by him next to my bed. He looks a little like one of my ex-boyfriends. He's charmingly unassuming. He never looks directly at the camera. The crushness is great.
6. Orien Greene
Again, much younger than me. But oh, the legs.
7. Justin Reed
8. Ryan Gomes
9. Gerald Greene
10. Dan Dickau
I could, after all, squint my eyes and pretend he's Toby Maguire. Or Topher Grace.
11. Raef LaFrentz
12. Brian Scalabrine
Oh, the pastiness. Oh, the doughiness. Oh...the freckles and the firecrotch.
Excluded from the list- Al Jefferson and Paul Pierce. Al Jefferson because he is my soulmate, and thus, I refuse to objectify him. He's also the pure embodiment of the hopes of Basketball. He is our gallant one, our grail knight, our Galahad. Paul Pierce because I have too much respect for him as a human being, for his struggles and his successes. I have a childish adoration of him.
1. (Tied)Marcus Banks
(Tied)Tony Allen
Very tough call. But I feel like Marcus won't be a Celtic long. Who knows where he'll go. And who wants to see a Knick or a Net or a Wizard naked? Not me. Not now. But Tony Allen...the arms. The shoulders. The back. The legs. It's obvious what I need to complete this picture.
2. Ricky Davis
I just...need to know. I mean...the dunks. What is the source of his power? Could it be? I think it is. I think, if he is not an alien from the planet dunktron, he must draw his power from somewhere. And a girl has hopes.
3. Delonte West
I already know what model bed he sleeps in; It's hard not to wonder what he sleeps in.
4. Kendrick Perkins
This is really wrong, because he's a million years younger than me. But he's gotten so big over the three seasons. He has stretch marks on his arms. I want to touch them.
5. Marc Blount
I keep a basketball signed by him next to my bed. He looks a little like one of my ex-boyfriends. He's charmingly unassuming. He never looks directly at the camera. The crushness is great.
6. Orien Greene
Again, much younger than me. But oh, the legs.
7. Justin Reed
8. Ryan Gomes
9. Gerald Greene
10. Dan Dickau
I could, after all, squint my eyes and pretend he's Toby Maguire. Or Topher Grace.
11. Raef LaFrentz
12. Brian Scalabrine
Oh, the pastiness. Oh, the doughiness. Oh...the freckles and the firecrotch.
Excluded from the list- Al Jefferson and Paul Pierce. Al Jefferson because he is my soulmate, and thus, I refuse to objectify him. He's also the pure embodiment of the hopes of Basketball. He is our gallant one, our grail knight, our Galahad. Paul Pierce because I have too much respect for him as a human being, for his struggles and his successes. I have a childish adoration of him.
Ephemera
1. King Kong
Good movie. A wonderful depression era psychological tale about a girl with daddy issues and an ape with abandoment issues.
Watch out for: People telling you the movie is about interacial love. It's not. If everytime you see a 25 foot gorilla, you see a black man, you are a racist. Learn to tell the difference. And, if every time you see a gorilla, you see a black man, does that mean every time you see an orangutan, you see a mick? Ponder.
Also, watch out for people telling you that this movie has nothing to say about race- how about the tribespeople on skull island? Peter Jackson, new zealander most dear to my heart, apparently doens't like aborigines. They are depicted as, well, nothing but an exraordinarily barbaric plot device. If I were papuan, I'd be offended. As a filmgoer, watching a remake of a very racist picture from the 30's, I'm pro. Not every film needs to depict accurately the life, thoughts, culture, and self-representation of every group represented. And I say this not as a cultural critic, I say this as a fat cracker bitch.
2. Squatters
I purchased a small popcorn. The boything, as is his practice, purchased a bucket of soda. We shared both. 25 minutes into the movie, I had to piss like the proverbial racehorse. By this, I mean with a midget wearing satin perched on my back, whipping me. When I got to the restroom (Since when, by the way, has it been general practice for movie megahouses to build 20 stalls per screen? There are more porcelain seats than cloth ones), there were 5 stalls out os service, two in use, and a handicapped stall. Since I'd neglected to bring my insta-gimp kit I headed into the one remaining stall. On first glance, it was clean. Just some floating toilet paper. Water was clear and clean, better than new jersey tap.
I voided my bladder. I completed the transaction, stood up, and, saw-
SHIT ON THE FRONT OF THE TOILET SEAT.
THE FRONT!
This, kiddies, was the work of a squatter. Squatters walk among us. The, in fact, believe they are in the majority. But they are not. If there were no squatters, there would be no need to squat.
There is no better way to spread piss around the entire periphery of the bowl than hovering above and letting fly. I'd always known that I followed a squatter when the toilet seat wore a piss-yellow crown. Worse still, is sitting after a squatter, without checking thoroughly, and standing up to feel your legs driippp. It is an experience like this that turns weak-souled folk into squatters themselves.
I had always assumed, though, that if a squatter had to go bad enough that they were taking a dump in a public restroom, they'd sit like a normal person. (It is an esoteric, yet empirically proven, fact that squatters are also the people who go home to shit) Apparently not.
On the front of the bowl, folks. It was a toilet with the horseshoe shapped seat. This black, shiny, smooth, turd was perched right between either end of the seat, insouciently on top of the rim, as if it were peering into the bowl.
This could only have been the work of a squatter. Squatters hover above the bowl, either supporting themselves by bracing against the walls or relying on the strength of their thighs. They often miss the bowl while peeing, due to labial interference, instability of position, or improper positioning above the bowl. There is great variance of genital positions vis-a-vis the bowl, due to innacuracies inherent in squatting calculations.
There is no way, sitting on the toilet, to crap on the front of the rim.
Unless you have a prehensile anus. In which case, can I see a picture? Because I'd like to see how that works.
Otherwise, a pussy-ass SQUATTER was responsible for my legs coming closer to someone else's shit than they ever have before. This squatter, so concerned that there might be microscopic ass cooties on the seat, decided to let fly and let lie. Selfish, neurotic fucks.
Friends don't let friends squat.
3. Whiners
Ah, whiners. These folks have some advice for the new owners of Dunkin' Donuts. Apparently, they want English speaking employees, who are warm, professional, and precise, delivering hot coffee precisely the way they want it, and baking donuts overnight inthe back room. All for less than the change in your pocket.
People want everything. They do. People expect absolute facetious solicitation for all purchases requiring paper money. They want their order more precise than they can make it. They want the cream cheese on the bagel. They want the cream and sugar in. They want the coffee to taste exactly the same. No, stronger. They want DD's to focus only on coffee and donuts. No, keep the chai too. On second thought, bring back soup. Bring back chili. Bring back sandwiches. No! Get rid of the steak, egg, and cheese.
The dirty secret about coffee is that it tastes bad. It's not just an acquired taste. It's earned through days and months of choking down something that you can't believe the whole world considers necessary. Chocolate, cocoa, also tastes bad. When something is so raunchy and bitter that entire industries have been built around doctering it up...it doesn't taste good.
I drink espresso, straight. By which I mean I swallow it in four gulps, and chase it with whipped cream, hot chocolate, or water. It tastes like burning. But the effects are lovely. So I believe that I like it. I crave it. I want it. So I think that there is some sensory experience to it that I enjoy. There isn't, really. I'm simply too lazy to drink drip coffee. Espresso is quicker, so it's my preferred caffiene delivery system.
Donuts exist to make people believe they like coffee. So do cream and sugar. Fat and sugar are the drugs our bodies use into tricking us into doing things we otherwise wouldn't. Also, orgasms and laughter. But mostly fat and sugar. (Note to self- Open Regional House of Fried Dough and Oral Sex). And since the effects of cafiene feel good, and we trick ourselves into drinking coffee with cream and sugar until we associate the physiological arousal caused by cafiene with the taste of coffee...we all think we like it.
I don't know where I'm going with this. Later.
Good movie. A wonderful depression era psychological tale about a girl with daddy issues and an ape with abandoment issues.
Watch out for: People telling you the movie is about interacial love. It's not. If everytime you see a 25 foot gorilla, you see a black man, you are a racist. Learn to tell the difference. And, if every time you see a gorilla, you see a black man, does that mean every time you see an orangutan, you see a mick? Ponder.
Also, watch out for people telling you that this movie has nothing to say about race- how about the tribespeople on skull island? Peter Jackson, new zealander most dear to my heart, apparently doens't like aborigines. They are depicted as, well, nothing but an exraordinarily barbaric plot device. If I were papuan, I'd be offended. As a filmgoer, watching a remake of a very racist picture from the 30's, I'm pro. Not every film needs to depict accurately the life, thoughts, culture, and self-representation of every group represented. And I say this not as a cultural critic, I say this as a fat cracker bitch.
2. Squatters
I purchased a small popcorn. The boything, as is his practice, purchased a bucket of soda. We shared both. 25 minutes into the movie, I had to piss like the proverbial racehorse. By this, I mean with a midget wearing satin perched on my back, whipping me. When I got to the restroom (Since when, by the way, has it been general practice for movie megahouses to build 20 stalls per screen? There are more porcelain seats than cloth ones), there were 5 stalls out os service, two in use, and a handicapped stall. Since I'd neglected to bring my insta-gimp kit I headed into the one remaining stall. On first glance, it was clean. Just some floating toilet paper. Water was clear and clean, better than new jersey tap.
I voided my bladder. I completed the transaction, stood up, and, saw-
SHIT ON THE FRONT OF THE TOILET SEAT.
THE FRONT!
This, kiddies, was the work of a squatter. Squatters walk among us. The, in fact, believe they are in the majority. But they are not. If there were no squatters, there would be no need to squat.
There is no better way to spread piss around the entire periphery of the bowl than hovering above and letting fly. I'd always known that I followed a squatter when the toilet seat wore a piss-yellow crown. Worse still, is sitting after a squatter, without checking thoroughly, and standing up to feel your legs driippp. It is an experience like this that turns weak-souled folk into squatters themselves.
I had always assumed, though, that if a squatter had to go bad enough that they were taking a dump in a public restroom, they'd sit like a normal person. (It is an esoteric, yet empirically proven, fact that squatters are also the people who go home to shit) Apparently not.
On the front of the bowl, folks. It was a toilet with the horseshoe shapped seat. This black, shiny, smooth, turd was perched right between either end of the seat, insouciently on top of the rim, as if it were peering into the bowl.
This could only have been the work of a squatter. Squatters hover above the bowl, either supporting themselves by bracing against the walls or relying on the strength of their thighs. They often miss the bowl while peeing, due to labial interference, instability of position, or improper positioning above the bowl. There is great variance of genital positions vis-a-vis the bowl, due to innacuracies inherent in squatting calculations.
There is no way, sitting on the toilet, to crap on the front of the rim.
Unless you have a prehensile anus. In which case, can I see a picture? Because I'd like to see how that works.
Otherwise, a pussy-ass SQUATTER was responsible for my legs coming closer to someone else's shit than they ever have before. This squatter, so concerned that there might be microscopic ass cooties on the seat, decided to let fly and let lie. Selfish, neurotic fucks.
Friends don't let friends squat.
3. Whiners
Ah, whiners. These folks have some advice for the new owners of Dunkin' Donuts. Apparently, they want English speaking employees, who are warm, professional, and precise, delivering hot coffee precisely the way they want it, and baking donuts overnight inthe back room. All for less than the change in your pocket.
People want everything. They do. People expect absolute facetious solicitation for all purchases requiring paper money. They want their order more precise than they can make it. They want the cream cheese on the bagel. They want the cream and sugar in. They want the coffee to taste exactly the same. No, stronger. They want DD's to focus only on coffee and donuts. No, keep the chai too. On second thought, bring back soup. Bring back chili. Bring back sandwiches. No! Get rid of the steak, egg, and cheese.
The dirty secret about coffee is that it tastes bad. It's not just an acquired taste. It's earned through days and months of choking down something that you can't believe the whole world considers necessary. Chocolate, cocoa, also tastes bad. When something is so raunchy and bitter that entire industries have been built around doctering it up...it doesn't taste good.
I drink espresso, straight. By which I mean I swallow it in four gulps, and chase it with whipped cream, hot chocolate, or water. It tastes like burning. But the effects are lovely. So I believe that I like it. I crave it. I want it. So I think that there is some sensory experience to it that I enjoy. There isn't, really. I'm simply too lazy to drink drip coffee. Espresso is quicker, so it's my preferred caffiene delivery system.
Donuts exist to make people believe they like coffee. So do cream and sugar. Fat and sugar are the drugs our bodies use into tricking us into doing things we otherwise wouldn't. Also, orgasms and laughter. But mostly fat and sugar. (Note to self- Open Regional House of Fried Dough and Oral Sex). And since the effects of cafiene feel good, and we trick ourselves into drinking coffee with cream and sugar until we associate the physiological arousal caused by cafiene with the taste of coffee...we all think we like it.
I don't know where I'm going with this. Later.
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