I am feeling inspired by an episode of MTV’s True Life that is playing in the background as I grade. It profiles a family in Louisiana – mostly the brood and their crazy antics. And, strange though this may be, I want to be a part of that family. To be a part of a Louisiana, or some other small Southern town, community.

I know.  I know….

But it’s true. I have always had a fascination with small Southern towns, New England towns, and UK shires (no, not the Tolkien kind…though those would be OK as well). I think it’s a quality of quaintness, simplicity, and a just-living-life-ethos that I love about them. I am well aware I would stick out like Kunta Kinte at a 1950s Klan rally. I am also well aware that I probably would not be taken to kindly as just one of the kinfolk. But I don’t care. I think we have been swallowed up by the light-speed pace of modernity that is heavily influenced by capitalism, commodities, and affluence. I think back to the “simple” life and wonder why it is so derided. In said show, a girlfriend pesters her beau to get a better job and how wonderful it would be if he got a job at Ace Hardware – and at first I guffawed.  Then I caught myself and realized: God, how amazing is that? That the apex of employment concern is a chain hardware store. It’s an honest living. It’s something to do to help you just live life free of any other societal pressures.

It’s the same thing for all three of them: These small communities where people know one another (and their business, I know), love their environment, their communities, and are concerned with paying bills, working, and enjoying life (and their neighbor’s business). And what is wrong with that? We often poke fun at these communities, considering them backwards and less fortunate, and I guess by modern societal standards that is true. But it’s also utter bullshit to think they are not living a good life or are living horrible lives compared to those of city folk with their iPhones and iPads.

I often think of just running off and finding a home in one of these communities and just worrying about living life and not trying to achieve the 101 goals and expectations to achieve a lifestyle reinforced in the media. Maybe I am deluding myself that it would be “easier” – each clearly has their own set of complications and roadblocks. But a simpler life is a thing of beauty.

JJ Greive, Home Inspections of Puget Sound 206-295-4330

My roommate, still job hunting two months into our move, was finally blessed with an interview and spent most of the day preening and polishing.  However, after two hours of ablutions he realized that he was incorrect about the interview time.  It was now 2:30, his appointment was at 4.  We live on 147^th and the interview was on Wall Street.  He had 30 minutes to get down and catch the train, no doubt on another erratic train schedule (they never run on time when you have to get somewhere quickly).  Running around in his boxers and white undershirt, water flinging of his still-wet head as he rounded the corners, he screamed for me to help him iron his clothes which sat in a wrinkled heap on his bedroom floor.

When a hirsute gay black man with all the flair of a gaggle of drag queens and suburbanite housewives shrieks a demand, you do the bidding.

The problem is that we only have one ironing board and his suggestion to use the floor bought out a barrage of horrified WASP-y remarks from me about ruining the cheap varnish which had already begun to blister and crack throughout the apartment.  I opted to use the other end of the ironing board (we did, for some reason, have two irons).  There we were:  a Negro and an Armenian sharing ironing duties, divided only by a lone can of spray starch.  I felt the urge to sing a spiritual or don a sweaty handkerchief.

“God.  Can you please turn on a light in here?  I feel like we are in some Asian sweatshop being made to suffer for our newfound independence.”

And that was our undoing.  As soon as the light switch flipped to on, everything died.  It was now 2:45 and the post-shower dew was being replaced by nervous beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Shit!  Fuck!  Great!”  New York eloquence at its finest.

Not a problem, I thought, flip the appropriate circuit breaker and we are back in business.  But we were in for a slight surprise as we opened the circuit box inappropriately located at the top of a wall opposite the front door just out of arm’s reach.  What we faced were not the traditional black switches that could be pushed up and down or left and right thereby resetting the flow of power to our dead outlets.  There, in two columns of four, were colored circles with tiny little windows in the middle of each.  We looked at each other confused.  What fresh New York hell was this?

Turns out, our pre-war apartment was still saddled with the pre-war fuse box which used screw-in fuses.  They screw in like light bulbs and have metal threads on the bottom. When a fuse blows an internal metal strip breaks; this break can be seen through the wee peeping tom window.  But, we knew none of this at the time.

So these different colored knobs with various amp markings meant nothing to us.  And what the hell did “Slow-Blow” mean?  I just kept picturing embarrassed men post 5-second lovemaking.  We gathered that one of the fuses had blown, but not knowing how to check for it lead to a game of mix-and-match.  We were not even sure how many fuses had blown.  We had lost power in both bedrooms, in the bathroom, and to the kitchen fridge.  What kind of Frankenstein-ish circuit were these four things connected to?

We proceeded to unscrew each fuse, praying there was not a predestined way to do so without being electrocuted.  The last one proved to be difficult as it would not budge.  Neither of us wanted to turn too violently lest the fuse crack and spew forth a barrage of sparks.  I ushered my roommate to move the iron board to the living room to finish up while I manned the box, completely unsure of what to do next.

I braved a set of pliers and managed to wrest the little red bugger free only to realize that I had also managed to pull out the screw base.  I whispered a novena, or at least my interpretation of one, and took the base off.  I was about an inch away from the box before I realized that screwing the metal base back into a live circuit was probably not in my best interest.  I was working against time and necessity.

2:52 p.m.

I went for it, plying it back into place and playing switcheroo with the remaining red, blue and white fuses.  Nothing worked.  Nothing was flipping on.  A call to the super was useless as he was an hour away doing everything except working on problems in the building, like, oh, say, my possessed radiator.  At one point I screwed in a fuse so tight I heard a sharp crack and yanked my hand away, jumping back a little with my eyes wrenched shut.  I slowly opened my eyes and ungritted my teeth.  I walked back to the wall and funereally closed the door on the box.

3:02 p.m.

My roommate is out the door, sans resume, which is sitting in the dead computer, and I pace the house.  When the super finally does arrive, half an hour later than expected, I am put to shame as he switches out the fuse in one guess and brings life back to our hideous wired progenies under 10 seconds.  He shows me the blue fuse with the broken metal strip and utters something in a form of broken English I have yet to decipher.  But I can tell from the “You bothered me for this shit?” tone in his voice that I am going to be yet another dinner table anecdote of the clueless neophyte in 5A.  I smile.  Usher him out, reminding him about the radiator, and sheepishly walk back to my room where I type.  I type in shame.

Natives of this concrete-washed paradise will often warn newcomers about the crime, the subway schedules, and the pervading smell of summer urine.  But the one thing that gets conveniently left out is a wintry harbinger of aural pollution.  The radiator.  I had the unfortunate luck of moving to the city in the dead of winter.  I rationalized that it would be safer because what criminal would want to rob a moving truck while a zero degree wind chill careened down the avenue.  So my torrid affair with the radiator began on my very first night in the city.

Growing up, I was spoiled by central heat and air.  The joys of moving a little lever left or right to adjust the temperature was now replaced by a metal container that mocked me with drips and hisses.  My experience with a radiator was limited to a standing pipe that ran the length of a wall at a friend’s apartment – she had kindly offered me her extra bed while I hunted for a place of my own. Until that point the only thing I knew about radiators was stored in the back of my head as the scene in Beaches where Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey are bundled up singing Christmas carols as they wait for the heat to be turned on in response to the gentle prodding of Midler slamming a frying pan against the radiator.

Radiators are part of the inescapable charm of NY living.  Unless you are willing, let alone able, to spend six to seven figures, chances are great that the little lever will be M.I.A.    So it is no surprise that I came to share a living space with two floor radiators and three standing pipes – the former split among the two bedrooms and the latter placed in the living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen.

The standing pipes proved to be no annoyance at all.  They did not pop and hiss, but they did present other hurdles.  The living room pipe was a decorating road block as nothing could be placed directly against it for obvious flammable reasons.  But that also eliminated all seating possibilities unless you wanted to suffer burns from the accidental straying of an arm or leg draped over the couch.

The bathroom pipe jutted up against the outside back of the bathtub, and as I quickly learned the first night, a vinyl shower curtain does not make a good partner.  This meant making sure there was at least a half foot of space between the pipe and the curtain at all times.  It did, however, keep the towels nice and warm.

The kitchen pipe was positively useless as it never worked.  This was a minor annoyance until the one night it did kick in while I was preparing dinner using three burners.  Even in the dead of winter, with the windows wide open, I felt like the roasting chicken in the oven and I had much in common.  I have found that I do not mind that pipe being dead.

The radiators, however, were the albatrosses.  My complete ignorance shined through during the first week when I could not figure out how to operate it.  The single valve seemed easy enough – right to close, left to open.  But right to close only led to a condition known as “water hammer” wherein the radiator becomes possessed and violently shakes in harmony with a noise akin to a sledgehammer meeting the pipes in a passionate kiss.  I was afraid for my life envisioning the pipes bursting through the wooden floor or the radiator exploding, spraying shrapnel in every direction, as I slept.  Turning left sometimes produced the same results as all the held back pressure was released in one cacophonous rush.  I would have to patiently wait until the noise subsided only to be introduced to the rattling of the valve which needed to be jiggled to soothe it.

By the second night I took to wearing ear plugs to drown out the noise as it would sometimes begin its John Cage-esque symphony in the middle of the night.  But the noise was not the only problem.  The heat generated by radiators is immense.  I guess I should have taken it as a bad sign that the floorboards underneath and around the radiator were considerably darker than the rest of the floor.  The scorch marks should have warned me not to get near the behemoth, but every once in a while I would foolishly attempt to turn right, knowing full well it would not work, only to be met with a burned hand (because the valve was also cast iron it was not spared from the heating process).

There was no way to avoid the heat, so I slept with my bedroom window wide open.  I didn’t care that the fire escape was just outside leaving me prone to being attacked and raped by an intruder.  At least I would stay cool.  In fact, most of the windows in the apartment remained open throughout the day allowing cross-ventilation to normalize the stifling temperature.  This does present a slight problem when rain or snow partner with wind.  One morning I woke up to find my curtains had been sucked out of the window and soaked halfway up.  The radiator dried them to a starched crispness in 10 minutes.

It took a month before a friendly neighbor, in mocking shock, told me that radiators, no matter the type, should shut off when you turn right.  I consider myself rather well-educated and refused to be bested by a century-and-a-half’s old invention.  Research showed me that there are two basic kinds of old-school NY radiators:  hot water and steam.  Hot-water radiators are made of cast-iron with two pipes that come out of the floor into the base.  One allows hot water which rises to the top via a pressure pump.  As it cools on the way down it is forced through the second pipe.  Steam radiators use, not surprisingly, steam which requires no mechanism to push it along as it operates under its own volatile pressure.  It is this second variety that most often leads to the hissing release of pressure via a blowhole on one end as well as the orchestra bangs as the steam looks for release like a horny pre-pubescent in the back of his parent’s car.

We were blessed with the second variety.

It was not until a raging leak from my roommate’s radiator solidly proved my neighbor’s tip.  His radiator received a new valve with a rubber dial and copper pipe joint.  He was rescued from hissing, water torture, and steamy dehydration.  I was jealous.  I concocted a flimsy lie that would easily pass by our super who had marginal control over the English language.  I claimed that the clanking noise bothered our downstairs neighbor and that I had been burned repeatedly by the valve.  Help did not arrive until four days after the increasingly frantic calls when the super came to my rescue.  But his laziness, the birthright of any New York super, reigned supreme.  I was not gifted with a copper joint and a heat-proof valve.  I was left with only a rubber valve which did nothing to cease the ebb and flow of steam into the pipes.  In fact, the heat managed to weaken and make it so pliable that “turn right to close” became “turn right and can’t stop.” It just spun around the screw in its weakened condition.  I could swear the radiator was laughing at me.

Despite its “charm,” it is also an eyesore regardless of the rather pitiful silver painted disguise the radiator wears.  It seems pointless to try and gussy up something so aesthetically flat with something as absurd as silver spray paint (although there is a company that designs contemporary and designer radiators).  The slip cover disintegrates after a month of direct heat as the paint begins to chip off.  Like the trunk of a freshly cut tree you can guess the age by the many layers of paint that are revealed.

There is an odd pride that swells in your chest when you realize that the radiator you have been saddled with is the same one installed when the building was a newborn.  You feel like you own a piece of history that you can show off to your friends and relatives.  Forget about Kandinsky and Pollock, search for an original SanGalli and put an art lamp above it.  Regale your peers with stories of old New York replete with images of tenement immigrants huddling around the very same radiator that is in your bedroom.

I would trade all of that to get one good night’s sleep without ear plugs or the threat of death from an open window.  I would call the super back, but I am sure I would only get a new screw this time.  Besides, I feel belittled when I register my out-of-town neophyte complaints and he just looks at me like I am insane.  It is the same look he gave me when I called him the second day after I moved in to let him know the heating elements were missing from the oven.  Those in the know are guffawing, those unaware should know that stoves are gas-operated in New York; this includes the oven which requires no coils.

How the hell was I supposed to know?  I can imagine being the gringo anecdote of the evening shared over a plate of puerco asado y arroz amarillo.

So I am consigned to the unhappy lot of sleepless winter nights as I bed with my ear plugs, the comforter over my head, and a spare pillow pinioned on top.  My roommate found me like that one morning and thought I was dead when I would not respond to his “Wake up!”  That is the consequence you pay when you move to a pre-war building in a city like New York.

There is a poetic charm about something as trivially important as a radiator.  After a while you start to learn its habits and predict its moods like a long-time lover.  You recognize the difference between danger and warmth.  Appreciate it when you are so cold your testicles have become ovaries, and chuckle at every “coo” and “goo” it spits out when you’re near.  In a psychologically unsound way, it becomes a member of the family.  The relative that just won’t leave.

Even as I sit here writing this, I am humming along to the diatonic scales played out by the silver water hammer with a syncopated hissing counterpoint.  I may not be able to tune it out, but I will sing a duet and wait for spring to be fully sprung.

I have officially spent 163 minutes – five phone calls combined – speaking with various Dell agents. Included in those minutes were 7 different transfers. And more than half of those minutes ate into my allotted monthly cell minutes.

I was treated to every variation of Southwest Asian accent and every model of complete incompetence as no one was able to tell me where in the hell my laptop was. The fact that I had to service it and get it repaired less than a month after purchasing it should have been a huge red flag.

I realize the necessity for major corporations to outsource. They are clearly so destitute for money and so in need of cheap labor that they would rather marginally train people overseas to handle all customer service issues. Right. However, here are some loops holes:

1) The American culture and mentality is in and of itself unlike anything else on the planet. We have enough problems trying to deal with American consumer rage and impatience. Inflicting that anger on some poor Indian man or woman trying to make meager ends meet is painful.

2) Americans get on the defensive when presented with someone who has an accent. Now, I am pretty good at understanding anybody. I am multilingual and was raised in another country. However, when even I can’t understand what in the hell you are saying then there is a major problem.

3) If your agents can’t speak English…why in the hell have you hired them?

4) The training must be so Pavlovian because I have memorized several of their key responses. They are not actually offering service and solutions, but merely reading from a pre-prepared script. This does not help when troubleshooting technical issues. Either hired people with the proper training or TRAIN them to do more than read from a company bible.

5) American agents are clearly accessible as I was finally transferred to one after running the gauntlet of accents and confusion. Stop being a lazy cheapskate corporation and realize you are losing customers or lowering your public image by forcing people to deal with outsourced employees.

I have zero tolerance for this business practice. ZERO. It’s annoying and aggravating. And while I understand it creates much needed jobs for poverty-stricken countries, how’s about you focus on your OWN unemployed citizens. Cheap labor is not a foreign concept to American soil.

Now…when can I get my laptop back?

I decided to forgo my typical emotional, whiny bitchy post in favor of what I first founded this damned blog on. Social criticism and pointing fucking stupid ass people….most of whom, unfortunately, I have had contact with in my life.

Two people in particular (actually, several others, but let me start with these and ease myself back into the game) are exemplary of the kind if people that not only fuck up this world, but need to get some serious Lacaanian Psychotherapy. I shall be ambiguous in my naming, but not in my description….because….frankly…I couldn’t give a shit if they read this and knew I was talking about them:
The “New” Christian Teen, or, I Swear I am a Good Christian with Good Intentions who is Really a Two-Faced, Lying, Pathetically Desperate Sex Addict

I have run across a couple of these in the last 7 years, and it is always interesting how completely antithetical they are to what they purport to be and believe. I have come to the conclusion that most of the people in this ilk are simply pure evil. In every single way. I have yet to run across any “good” Xtian who practices what they preach and is an example of what is supposedly the religion that practices the most unconditional love. This person in particular, I have caught SEVERAL times lying, being deceptive, playing mind games, and totally disrespecting and breaking every belief they supposedly have. Needless to say that when confronted, they vehemently deny it and play it off as mere idle and gossip. But….sigh…it’s amazing how useful technology can be in ferreting out the truth. Now, none of this surprises me, especially since most of the people have found the person out to be what they really are. They have no power and respect anymore and they cannot even pretend to exhibit any fraction of truth. It is people like this that give not only religion and theology a bad name, but that make this society a bad one in which to live. Much like a parasite, they fester and feed on everything good about people in some effort of Christian Charity, only to have it explode back in their face and turn the other person farther away. What appalls, and intrigues, me about these people is the tenacity they have in repeatedly going back and trying to mend what is unrepairable, due to their own ludicrous devices. What is sick is that they will use whatever levels of deception and employ whatever pawns they want in the pursuit of what they think is a God-Ordained mission to save people. What is laughable is that the very people who claim to be on missions and who claim to be able to help and change others are the very ones to need help and changing themselves. The ones who have no concrete belief and faith simply because they blindly accept without questioning and because they themselves are simply immature little grub worms. On a final, and somewhat short note, you can;t be pure of heart and pure of soul, and able to preach and convert the masses, if you need a serious bathing in holy water and some serious sin forgiving because you;re a friggin sex addict who “desecrates” their living temple and embodiment of Christ. Excuse me. Order of Hypocrisy and Irony at table one!
The Emotionally Handicapped Braniac with the Arrogant Facade who is Nothing More than A Whimpering Child Seeking Satisfaction through Controlling Others and Putting Them Down, or Why Someone Didn’t Get Enough Hugs as a Child

This one strikes me as a relatively newer category. I have come across very few people who are like this, but the one whom I do have extensive experience with should be the poster child of what happens to the offspring of seriously broken homes. It seems to me that some people who purport to know a lot about “educational” things are totally handicapped when it comes to life. Oh, they seem to be brave and able to handle any kind of problem of or situation, but in reality, they hide behind some clay edifice of arrogance mixed with the fear to get emotionally close to someone. Instead, they waste their emotions on inanimate objects and revel in destroying those people whom they deem as weaker and lesser in both brain power and human capability. Interestingly enough, they are the ones who need the most help and cry out for help in the arms of random sex partners in some weak-minded effort to feel love and comfort; naturally, they portray it as being a “pimp.” In conversations, they seem to be witty and challenge themselves with games of trying to stump and silence people, but it is no sport to prey on those who lack experience and knowledge. It;s like a wolf attacking a dead rabbit and strutting around like he chased it for hours on end and trapped it deviously. How sad and how desperate for someone to turn all their hurt and anger on those undeserving of it, and especially on those who are the ones who care the most. Granted, this may sound like sour grapes, but it is not, I assure you. I stopped caring a long time ago, and while that may seem heartless and cruel of me, I will not waste my time and emotion on those who lack the fortitude to be human beings and compassionate for a fraction of a second. There is something to be said for human kindness, and while I have a lot of it to give all around to people, I simply do not think that this kind of person will benefit from it at all. So, go ahead and surround yourself with those you consider inferiors and feel like the king of the world. Sooner or later, you will be deposed and fall on your ass, and then where will you be?

Conclusion

While it may seem that I am being a hardened asshole in defining these kinds of people and passing judgment on them, understand that passing judgment usually infers some kind of ignorance to it. I have spent more than enough time being around these individuals to make an intelligent summation of their character. They have been found wanting and life will soon deal to them what they have tried to deal to others. You see, I have always believed Karma is a bitch. And when you fuck with fate, people, and lives, in a effort to bolster your ego and make you feel better about yourself, you get it back three times harder and worst. I have seen it happen time and time again, and I just choose to sit back and watch it happen. Revenge is best served in life’s restaurant. Again, it may seem heartless and unkind of me to feel or think like this, but there are people in this world who are undeserving of any kind of sympathy because they bring the shit upon themselves and are responsible for making this word the dump that it is to live in sometimes. True, you have to have grit to go with the gravy, but even life has a strainer of some kind to separate the wheat from the chaff (talk about your mixed and extended metaphors). So I leave this post with one final comment: Get a fucking clue.

It’s good to take control back of your life and emotions.

Well, at 1 this afternoon, my boo, CJ, left to go to college in Scotland. As if it was not hard enough that he is leaving; I barely got to spend any time with him or say goodbye in person. Granted, I did spend 7 days in New York with him, but I wanted the chance to say by face-to-face and he waited till the night before to call me back. In any case, it really sucks that he is gone. But, I know he is going there to become better than he is now and to get an education. I am really going to miss him. He is one of the very few friends who have lasted so long. I first met him when I was a senior in high school and he was in middle school, just a strange kid whose coffin I borrowed for a party and whose mother’s car I drove…and I had no clue who the kid was. I got to see him grow into his teen years (THAT was harrowing) and to see him become a fine young adult. I am so proud of everything he has accomplished and for the person he is, has become, and will become. I know he;ll probably never see this post, but I am so thankful for his friendship and for all the laughs. He has been a constant companion to me and I am sure I will see him again soon. I mean, he IS coming back during XMAS. Nevertheless, thanks for all the laughs and caring, CJ. You always be my boo, boo.

This is just depressing….

On the way home from a rather frustrating rehearsal, I came across three interesting sights:

1) Taking the off-ramp to my street I notice a car basically on top of another as if trying to push them off the road. I had no friggin clue what was going on. We get to the light at the end of the CURVED ramp and I look over and notice that one of the cars is pushing the other because, I assume, the other is not working. They actually did a damn good job of maneuvering it.

2) I had a craving for a taco so I pass by Taco Bell and behind the order thingie is a barrel with no lid and a label on it that said “Nondigestible Oil.” even scarier was the woman behind the window with the red vaselined hands. Shudder.

3) A car heading down the road with the driver door ducktaped shut..

I just have no clue….

On another note, I am enjoying my new part time job. Carrying three is fun fun fun. But I get to do what I love and i get to practice and hone my skills…even if the material is…interesting. Oh you don;t even know.

School is going well. I love my students. Very sharp and astute and willing to learn anything. Got a couple of whiners, but I suspect they will be weeded out soon enough.

Tomorrow night is the big night. The Elf and I are going to hang out with Sara, Ana, and Harmonie. God help the Elf because those girls are a handful. It will be a lot of fun and I think this is something that will do him good. He;s been in a wee bit of a slump. I really feel for him because I totally understand how he feels and where he is coming from. This is will sound really bad, and it is not meant to, but it feels really weird to be close and connected with someone again. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it is taking some adjusting from my end.

The NYC updates and normal blogging will resume this weekend…I hope. Just having a rough time with getting stuff ready for school and dealing with artistic differences and dealing with people and their unmitigated egos. I now understand how Bob Fosse felt when he said he hated collaborating and preferred working alone. I know theatre is all about collaboration, but not with people who have NO FUCKING CLUE what in the hell they are doing. This has gone from a labor of love to whoring myself out for the money. I am not just not happy and not enjoying myself and the only thing that gets me going is the people I am working with in the cast whom I love dearly. I guess in a way this is a good lesson about just sitting back, doing my job, and letting others control everything else. Also works out nicely when it comes to people pointing fingers, as long as my ass does nothing else but choreograph, I am only responsible if the people think the dances look like shit. I know it sounds careless of me, but I am tired of of not being heard and I am tired of this level of bullshit. I know it probably isn’t better in NYC, but I would rather deal with it on an AEA level then a think-i-know-it-all level. ARGH! I am so frustrated…

I had an interesting revelation at 2 in the morning was I was watching Robin William;s latest comedy special for the fourth time. I was intently listening to his rant on fundamentalists, especially the reasoning behind the Muslim jihad and the whole 71 virgin thing in the Koran (which some scholars are finding is incorrectly translated). My observation: Men are even stupider than I once thought.

Men really ARE led around by their dicks in all matters of everyday life. When it comes to relationships, the “winning” girl is the one that gets them erect the hardest. When it comes to business, it is all about who has the bigger dick and can mark their territory the fastest. And now, with religion, people are willing to die and kill others because they are promised 71 virgin boxes. This should be no surprise to me, and it is not. I find both funny, stupid, and absolutely insane that guys are led by their dicks. Granted, the male fetus is a retardation of the original female fetus (which is what all babies start out as), and this just reinforces the stupidity of men.

I see the same behavior in some of my male friends who are both literally and figuratively led by their dicks in any and everything they do. They let go of their relationships, sacrifice themselves, and stupidly lash themselves to women because of one simple thing: sex and getting off. You would think that they would have better things to do that trying to service their dicks. That to me is nothing more than a waste of valuable time to be doing something important. I don’t even give a fuck about the “we’re young” argument. Fuck that shit. Make it meaningful or leave it alone. That “experience” bullshit is simply that. I have yet to meet anyone in their young years, or even their early 20s to have the kind of maturity needed for this kind of stuff. They lack both the understanding of themselves or life. Now I am not touting or preaching celibacy, but my god, be a little discriminating and have enough of a fucking backbone to make a decision without having to worry about what your dick is going to get out of it or lose from it.

And people wonder why I have such few male friends….

I have nothing profound to blog about; however, I was watching Martha Stewart this morning. She was at the Iowa State Fair; I tuned in as she was observing the Angus cow competition and she was talking to some 4th generation Angus raiser. What was funny about him was the way he was talking about the cows and his family tradition of raising them. Now, I am all for tradition and what not but this guy came to tears about three times talking about the “heifers.” Are people in Iowa THAT lonely?

Next she goes on to the food tents where her guest was an Indian guy dressed in jeans, plaid, and a neck bandanna with a half beard…with an accent…talking about pies….near a COW competition. Oh, but it gets better….we go back to the cow competition and all these girls in the youth division are talking about their heifers/bulls and this one girl’s cow started mooing loudly in the middle of her talking and she backhanded the thing across the face. I was laughing so hard; I was waiting for her to call the cow “Susan.” And finally, the last segment featured some seed farm with rare and endangered plants and produce. Part of the piece focused on extracting seeds from tomatoes and fermenting them to get the membrane off the individual seeds. Well…Martha cannot control herself from tasting one of the juicy red tomatoes she is handling so she takes a piece then another one, and her guest, who runs the farm, says, “I’ll try a piece of that,” and reaches for one and she eats the piece and he keeps trying to get in on the action and she keeps scarfing down the tomatoes.

And that is how my day began….exciting isn’t it? I am sure I will have something more intelligent to say later.