It’s part of the nature of my job that I frequently interact with people I’ve never met in person.
So when I do actually meet someone face to face after having only interacted over the phone, or via IM and e-mail, it’s always sort of odd, particularly if I have no idea whatsoever what the person looks like.
It’s especially jarring when the person doesn’t look even remotely like the picture I've developed in my mind.
That happened today at the training session I went to in which I met someone whom I’d only previously encountered over the phone.
Her voice made her sound much younger than what she appeared to be in person, and I would have guessed that she’d be slightly more attractive and thinner, but I was pretty far off.
I usually am when it comes to that sort of thing, though, so it’s hardly surprising.
Years ago when I had a job at a college I used to deal with a woman named Gail on a regular basis.
Gail was my Account Service Representative at the printing company that printed our alumni newsletter. The newsletter was put out on a quarterly basis, so every couple of months I would have to contact Gail and give her the specs on the upcoming issue (how many pages, color usage, number of copies, etc.) and she would get back to me with an estimate for printing and mailing costs.
Beyond that there would be various other details to hammer out, and so for a period of a couple of weeks we would be in regular contact with each other right up until the newsletter shipped, and then it would really only be a matter of weeks before the whole process started over again.
Gail’s company was located hundreds of miles away in Wisconsin, and it was extremely unlikely that we would ever meet.
Still, since we did have to maintain contact with each other we both tried to make the most of it and make things as friendly as possible, so we had a repartee that was lightly flirtatious.
Gail had a very pleasant voice and demeanor, and because I enjoyed talking to her I naturally visualized her as being a very attractive woman.
At some point my boss had to take a trip to a town very near where our printing was done. As no one at the college had ever met anyone there personally, we thought that, while he was there, it would be a nice gesture to have him stop in and meet some people.
The picture of Gail that he painted upon returning (short and stocky with close-cropped red hair) didn’t come close to squaring with my image of her (tall and slender, with shoulder length light-brown hair), and I have to admit that having my illusions shattered sort of put a damper on the over-the-phone flirting.
Of course, I got canned not long after that, so it was fairly irrelevant anyway.
My point, though, is that it’s odd how we can have relationships like this, relationships that sometimes involve a great deal of intimacy, with people that we’ve never met, and in some cases will never meet.
I would say that it’s a phenomenon of our times with the miracles of instantaneous communications that allow us to, relatively anonymously, communicate with people all over the world.
Certainly such a thing was possible with letters, or even messages in bottles, but it was anywhere near as commonplace prior to the last decade or so, even though telephones had previously made it considerably more common.
Consider that some of you reading this have never actually spoken to me or seen me in person. If I were to walk past you on the street (the picture of me in my profile notwithstanding) there’s a good chance you’d never recognize me (nor I you).
And yet, despite that fact you know more about me than, say, the majority of people I graduated from college with, or even people that I went to high school or grade school with.
Honestly, some people in my own family may not know me as well as regular Threshold readers do.
Some people would suggest that this is a bad thing, that these kinds of anonymous relationships prevent intimacy and foster a lack of understanding due to the lack of real face-to-face interaction.
Personally, I think that’s amazingly short-sighted of them, especially since the neo-Luddites who put forth these complaints are following spurious reasoning and basing their opinions on a flawed premise.
I’d like to delve into this topic a little further, but as you may know, even though you may not actually know me, it’s nearly my bedtime, so ideally I’ll revisit it some other time.
In any case, I do need to take care of a few things before I call it a night in preparation for my (extremely) early morning, so I’ll wish all of you (even the ones I don’t know) a good weekend.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Misty Green Vomit-Colored Memories
Unlike the farcical St. Urho’s Day that occurred yesterday, today’s international celebration of drinking is more widely-known and respected, and is at least based on a “real” legend.
So it’s St. Patrick’s Day. I’m sure that throughout the world drunken people will be consuming massive quantities of corned beef and cabbage and washing it down with green beer.
Personally, not being Irish, or even “Irish for a day,” I don’t have much reason to celebrate, or even acknowledge, the day’s arrival.
I honestly don’t remember the last time I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, which, given the nature of the day and my own nature when I would have celebrated the day, could very well be an indication that I had a really good time.
For me, the last St. Patrick’s Day of note occurred in 2001, which would have been after I’d stopped celebrating (and it should be clear that by “celebrating” I mean “getting drunk off my ass”).
The only reason that one stands out for me is the fact that I actually went on a date that day. It had only been a couple of months since I’d arrived in Tucson, and it was the first time that I’d ever been set up on a blind date.
It actually went fairly well, though obviously it never led to anything significant.
I'm assuming that I would have celebrated in 2000, with that being the last time, but as I said, I have no recollection of doing so.
I do recall going out to celebrate in 1999, though having just been fired two days before I had precious little to celebrate.
Of course, as far as I was concerned, that was all the more reason to go out and celebrate.
Most of the details are kind of hazy, thanks to the passing of time and to the amount of beer I drank that day, but I do recall that I started pretty early.
After all, it’s not as if I had to be at work or anything.
So I spent most of the day in my regular bar with most of my friends.
For much of it I was wearing a stupid green plastic hat, as Misty, the beautiful bartender, had forced me to put it on.
How did she force me? She told me to do it.
Hey, as far as I’m concerned a beautiful girl telling me to do something qualifies as coercion.
She gave me the hat and told me to put it on, and when I demurred she said, much more forcefully than you’d expect one so sweet and gentle to be able to, “Do it!”
So you can see that I had no choice.
Speaking of Misty, along with green plastic hats the bar was giving out temporary tattoos as party favors, and when Misty had taken one, a shamrock, and began applying it to the upper part of her left breast most of the guys were tripping over each other to offer their assistance in holding it in place.
Beyond that, my only other real recollection of that St. Patrick’s Day is that someone accused me of “not being Irish” because I wasn’t drinking green beer. The fact that he was drinking Bud Light with green food coloring dumped in it while I was drinking Guinness just didn’t seem to register with him.
Of course, in those days I didn’t need a special occasion to drink Guinness.
*Sigh*
On the topic of Guinness, I did note last week when I was in Costco that it’s possible to actually purchase Guinness in bulk.
There was definitely a time when I would have taken advantage of that.
As I’ve been grocery shopping this week I’ve been forced to walk past a huge St. Patrick’s Day display of Guinness and Killian’s Irish Red, which were my two favorite things in the whole world once upon a time.
I have to admit that it made me a little sad to have to walk past the display without loading up my cart, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how good they would taste after having gone four and a half years without having so much as a drop.
Ah well, I’ll never get to know.
That’s clearly a good thing, but it still makes me a little sad.
In any case, the next time I go shopping the display will be gone, and for many people St. Patrick’s Day will just be another hazy memory of bad food and green vomit, and for me it’ll be a memory of just another Thursday.
I have to head in for a meeting/training session at work shortly. I may or may not be back with more later.
So it’s St. Patrick’s Day. I’m sure that throughout the world drunken people will be consuming massive quantities of corned beef and cabbage and washing it down with green beer.
Personally, not being Irish, or even “Irish for a day,” I don’t have much reason to celebrate, or even acknowledge, the day’s arrival.
I honestly don’t remember the last time I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, which, given the nature of the day and my own nature when I would have celebrated the day, could very well be an indication that I had a really good time.
For me, the last St. Patrick’s Day of note occurred in 2001, which would have been after I’d stopped celebrating (and it should be clear that by “celebrating” I mean “getting drunk off my ass”).
The only reason that one stands out for me is the fact that I actually went on a date that day. It had only been a couple of months since I’d arrived in Tucson, and it was the first time that I’d ever been set up on a blind date.
It actually went fairly well, though obviously it never led to anything significant.
I'm assuming that I would have celebrated in 2000, with that being the last time, but as I said, I have no recollection of doing so.
I do recall going out to celebrate in 1999, though having just been fired two days before I had precious little to celebrate.
Of course, as far as I was concerned, that was all the more reason to go out and celebrate.
Most of the details are kind of hazy, thanks to the passing of time and to the amount of beer I drank that day, but I do recall that I started pretty early.
After all, it’s not as if I had to be at work or anything.
So I spent most of the day in my regular bar with most of my friends.
For much of it I was wearing a stupid green plastic hat, as Misty, the beautiful bartender, had forced me to put it on.
How did she force me? She told me to do it.
Hey, as far as I’m concerned a beautiful girl telling me to do something qualifies as coercion.
She gave me the hat and told me to put it on, and when I demurred she said, much more forcefully than you’d expect one so sweet and gentle to be able to, “Do it!”
So you can see that I had no choice.
Speaking of Misty, along with green plastic hats the bar was giving out temporary tattoos as party favors, and when Misty had taken one, a shamrock, and began applying it to the upper part of her left breast most of the guys were tripping over each other to offer their assistance in holding it in place.
Beyond that, my only other real recollection of that St. Patrick’s Day is that someone accused me of “not being Irish” because I wasn’t drinking green beer. The fact that he was drinking Bud Light with green food coloring dumped in it while I was drinking Guinness just didn’t seem to register with him.
Of course, in those days I didn’t need a special occasion to drink Guinness.
*Sigh*
On the topic of Guinness, I did note last week when I was in Costco that it’s possible to actually purchase Guinness in bulk.
There was definitely a time when I would have taken advantage of that.
As I’ve been grocery shopping this week I’ve been forced to walk past a huge St. Patrick’s Day display of Guinness and Killian’s Irish Red, which were my two favorite things in the whole world once upon a time.
I have to admit that it made me a little sad to have to walk past the display without loading up my cart, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how good they would taste after having gone four and a half years without having so much as a drop.
Ah well, I’ll never get to know.
That’s clearly a good thing, but it still makes me a little sad.
In any case, the next time I go shopping the display will be gone, and for many people St. Patrick’s Day will just be another hazy memory of bad food and green vomit, and for me it’ll be a memory of just another Thursday.
I have to head in for a meeting/training session at work shortly. I may or may not be back with more later.
New Jessica Simpson Picture.
I think this one turned out really well. Not much else to say about it beyond that.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
It's A Sin
Considering how much Sin City is on my mind these days I thought it was odd that I hadn't tried to draw anything related to the stories.
After all, most individual issues of the series featred a "Gallery" section with representations of the various inhabitants of Basin City presented by a wide range of artists.
So I decided to try my hand at it.
Next it was a matter of deciding who to draw.
Granted, I could draw one of the guys like Marv, or Dwight, or Hartigan, but come on, that sort of thing isn't my bag.
Obviously it was going to be a member of Sin City's female population, but again, which one? After all, the streets of Sin City are not only overflowing with muscle cars and trenchcoated tough guys, they also tend to have more than their share of lovely (and lethal) ladies.
Ultimately, though, it was a no-brainer.
I had to draw Nancy, the main attraction at center stage in Kadie's Bar.
Next I had to decide how I was going to draw her. Would I do it in my own style, or pay homage (read: rip off) Miller's starkly contrasted black and white style?
Ultimately I leaned more towards Frank's way of doing things, but I think my own style (and the fact that I'm nowhere near as skillful as he is) managed to shine through.
Be advised, though, that unlike Jessica Alba's portayal of her, mine does show Nancy in the nude (a little, anyway).
So if you're at work, or somewhere that you don't want someone to see you looking at semi-nude ladies, or just personally don't want to see that sort of thing, don't click on the link.
Consider yourself warned.
Anyone who wants to see it, though, can click here.
It didn't turn out as well as I might have liked, or anywhere near as well as something done by Frank himself would, but hey, there's a reason I don't make my living as an artist...
After all, most individual issues of the series featred a "Gallery" section with representations of the various inhabitants of Basin City presented by a wide range of artists.
So I decided to try my hand at it.
Next it was a matter of deciding who to draw.
Granted, I could draw one of the guys like Marv, or Dwight, or Hartigan, but come on, that sort of thing isn't my bag.
Obviously it was going to be a member of Sin City's female population, but again, which one? After all, the streets of Sin City are not only overflowing with muscle cars and trenchcoated tough guys, they also tend to have more than their share of lovely (and lethal) ladies.
Ultimately, though, it was a no-brainer.
I had to draw Nancy, the main attraction at center stage in Kadie's Bar.
Next I had to decide how I was going to draw her. Would I do it in my own style, or pay homage (read: rip off) Miller's starkly contrasted black and white style?
Ultimately I leaned more towards Frank's way of doing things, but I think my own style (and the fact that I'm nowhere near as skillful as he is) managed to shine through.
Be advised, though, that unlike Jessica Alba's portayal of her, mine does show Nancy in the nude (a little, anyway).
So if you're at work, or somewhere that you don't want someone to see you looking at semi-nude ladies, or just personally don't want to see that sort of thing, don't click on the link.
Consider yourself warned.
Anyone who wants to see it, though, can click here.
It didn't turn out as well as I might have liked, or anywhere near as well as something done by Frank himself would, but hey, there's a reason I don't make my living as an artist...
Saints and Sinners
Back home in Michigan it would be noted that today is St. Urho’s Day.
As you can see from the Wikipedia entry, the whole thing was made up as a joke in response to the more widely-known St. Patrick’s Day.
Some might say that it’s demonstrative of a Finn’s desire to one-up people, but I think what’s more likely is that creating a holiday the day before St. Patrick’s Day was designed to give Finns an excuse to get a head start on their St. Patrick’s Day drinking.
Of course, a drinking Finn doesn’t need much more than simply waking up as an excuse to drink…
On this particular St. Urho’s Day I found myself going to the dentist in the morning.
He didn’t hassle me quite so much about having been so long absent as I expected him to, but in my defense I stated that it’s not a matter of me being unwilling to go, but that I just couldn’t afford it before now.
I have to go back next week, and most likely many times after that.
The focus now is less on saving as many teeth as possible, as some of them have broken beyond repair, but there will still be an expensive crown or two.
Beyond making the cheesecake with Kathleen last night, I haven’t done any cooking this week (mostly because I have a freezer full of leftovers), so today I decided to make a vegetarian lasagna.
Rather than use eggplant, as we did when we made one in class a few weeks back, I opted for zucchini. I also decided to use an alfredo sauce rather than a tomato sauce.
Sure, it drives up the fat content, but while I did like the version we made in class, I’ve typically encountered vegetarian lasagna made with alfredo rather than tomato sauce.
Beyond preparing that and throwing it into the fridge for later cooking, I haven’t done much else today, though I did re-read “To Hell and Back,” a Sin City story.
It was, in fact, the first choice for adapting to the screen as the Sin City movie, but, for reasons that are unknown to me, Miller and Rodriguez decided to go with three stories (technically four, counting “The Customer is Always Right,” which is a short film that Rodriguez had made solely for the purposes of convincing Miller to let him make a Sin City movie, and which is included in the movie as the opening footage) in one movie.
“To Hell and Back” is a very cool story (but then, they all are), and ideally it will be made as a sequel, assuming that SC does well enough.
In planning a “Hell” movie, the role of the main character, Wallace, was slated for Johnny Depp, whom I have to say would make a pretty good Wallace.
Hopefully he’ll be up for it if/when “Hell” is made.
This week I started seeing the SC trailer airing on TV, which is very cool.
One thing that I’m a little concerned about, though, is the fact that the film is not yet rated.
It would be distressing if it had to be pared back in order to receive an “R” rating, as an “NC-17” rating would kill its chances at succeeding at the box office.
That's something of a no-win situation. Most of the existing content is essential to telling the stories properly, but if presenting the stories in all their grisly glory prevents it from getting wide distribution, the potential for the creation of a Sin City movie franchise dies on the shelf.
What I’m more concerned about, though, is that the decision on the rating might actually be between getting an “R” or a “PG-13.”
Given the content of the stories being adapted to the screen, it’s almost impossible to think that it actually could be made into a “PG-13” movie.
At the very least it seems unlikely.
Except…
There is the matter of Jessica Alba playing a stripper who doesn’t strip.
Sure, that could just be a matter of the directors really wanting her to play Nancy and respecting her desire to not appear nude.
Except…
Carla Gugino plays the part of Lucille, a role that, in the comics, featured nearly as much nudity as that of Nancy.
As we already know, in the movie Nancy will not be appearing nude.
But what about Lucille?
Gugino has appeared nude on film in the past, so it’s clear that she’s not completely opposed to nudity.
In the raw footage played for convention-goers several months back there was a shot of Gugino as Lucille, intercut with a panel of original art from the comic (in order to demonstrate how faithfully the material was adapted), and, as in the original art, Lucille appeared topless.
In fact, in an interview in “Entertainment Weekly” Gugino made reference to appearing in the film “clad only in a G-string and shadows.”
However, in the latest trailer that same shot is shown, with the exception that she is no longer topless.
Admittedly, they might have done this simply to be able to include a shot of her along with the rest of the cast, and, as we all learned from the Super Bowl in 2004, there is no sight on earth more damaging to the fragile psyche of human beings than that of a woman’s nipple (I often wonder how women manage to get through their days not just having to see the evil things, but actually having them on their bodies).
So sure, maybe they threw a top on her for that purpose.
Except…
The shot could have easily been cropped in such a way as to not show the area of her breast at all, thereby eliminating the need to cover her evil nipples.
Also, the trailer does contain another shot of her, so it’s not as though they really needed to include the no-longer-topless shot.
So the question becomes, have they removed all nudity in order to obtain a “PG-13” rating, and if so, what else has been cut out?
While I am concerned about this, as toning down the content of the stories to achieve a particular rating will undoubtedly detract from the quality of their adaptation, I’m not allowing it to dampen my enthusiasm.
Can Sin City still be a kick-ass movie with a “PG-13” rating? I have no doubt.
Still, the potential for losing important elements of the story because of the more kid-friendly rating does give me pause (As does the prospect of not getting to see Carla Gugino’s fabulous boobs bare on the big screen).
Despite these “suspicious” elements, I sincerely doubt that Miller would be willing to tone things down enough to make it into a “PG-13” movie, so most of my concerns are undoubtedly unfounded.
On the topic of SC and nudity, this month’s Playboy features Sin City as its “Movie of the Month” in the Reviews section. I had flipped past the movie reviews without seeing that, and was then very pleasantly surprised when, after reading the reviews of new DVD releases I thought to look back to see what current movies were reviewed, I saw a big picture of Jessica Alba as Nancy.
I’m still not thrilled about that bit of casting, and not just because she refuses to appear nude. I just have no confidence in her acting abilities.
Fortunately, while Nancy is an important character, her portrayal on-screen doesn’t really have the potential to make or break the movie, so it’s not that important.
In any case, that’s going to do it for this entry.
I’ve been doing a little drawing this week, so maybe I’ll actually finish something and post it at some point.My TV shows are reruns again tonight, so it’s fairly likely that I’ll be back again later.
As you can see from the Wikipedia entry, the whole thing was made up as a joke in response to the more widely-known St. Patrick’s Day.
Some might say that it’s demonstrative of a Finn’s desire to one-up people, but I think what’s more likely is that creating a holiday the day before St. Patrick’s Day was designed to give Finns an excuse to get a head start on their St. Patrick’s Day drinking.
Of course, a drinking Finn doesn’t need much more than simply waking up as an excuse to drink…
On this particular St. Urho’s Day I found myself going to the dentist in the morning.
He didn’t hassle me quite so much about having been so long absent as I expected him to, but in my defense I stated that it’s not a matter of me being unwilling to go, but that I just couldn’t afford it before now.
I have to go back next week, and most likely many times after that.
The focus now is less on saving as many teeth as possible, as some of them have broken beyond repair, but there will still be an expensive crown or two.
Beyond making the cheesecake with Kathleen last night, I haven’t done any cooking this week (mostly because I have a freezer full of leftovers), so today I decided to make a vegetarian lasagna.
Rather than use eggplant, as we did when we made one in class a few weeks back, I opted for zucchini. I also decided to use an alfredo sauce rather than a tomato sauce.
Sure, it drives up the fat content, but while I did like the version we made in class, I’ve typically encountered vegetarian lasagna made with alfredo rather than tomato sauce.
Beyond preparing that and throwing it into the fridge for later cooking, I haven’t done much else today, though I did re-read “To Hell and Back,” a Sin City story.
It was, in fact, the first choice for adapting to the screen as the Sin City movie, but, for reasons that are unknown to me, Miller and Rodriguez decided to go with three stories (technically four, counting “The Customer is Always Right,” which is a short film that Rodriguez had made solely for the purposes of convincing Miller to let him make a Sin City movie, and which is included in the movie as the opening footage) in one movie.
“To Hell and Back” is a very cool story (but then, they all are), and ideally it will be made as a sequel, assuming that SC does well enough.
In planning a “Hell” movie, the role of the main character, Wallace, was slated for Johnny Depp, whom I have to say would make a pretty good Wallace.
Hopefully he’ll be up for it if/when “Hell” is made.
This week I started seeing the SC trailer airing on TV, which is very cool.
One thing that I’m a little concerned about, though, is the fact that the film is not yet rated.
It would be distressing if it had to be pared back in order to receive an “R” rating, as an “NC-17” rating would kill its chances at succeeding at the box office.
That's something of a no-win situation. Most of the existing content is essential to telling the stories properly, but if presenting the stories in all their grisly glory prevents it from getting wide distribution, the potential for the creation of a Sin City movie franchise dies on the shelf.
What I’m more concerned about, though, is that the decision on the rating might actually be between getting an “R” or a “PG-13.”
Given the content of the stories being adapted to the screen, it’s almost impossible to think that it actually could be made into a “PG-13” movie.
At the very least it seems unlikely.
Except…
There is the matter of Jessica Alba playing a stripper who doesn’t strip.
Sure, that could just be a matter of the directors really wanting her to play Nancy and respecting her desire to not appear nude.
Except…
Carla Gugino plays the part of Lucille, a role that, in the comics, featured nearly as much nudity as that of Nancy.
As we already know, in the movie Nancy will not be appearing nude.
But what about Lucille?
Gugino has appeared nude on film in the past, so it’s clear that she’s not completely opposed to nudity.
In the raw footage played for convention-goers several months back there was a shot of Gugino as Lucille, intercut with a panel of original art from the comic (in order to demonstrate how faithfully the material was adapted), and, as in the original art, Lucille appeared topless.
In fact, in an interview in “Entertainment Weekly” Gugino made reference to appearing in the film “clad only in a G-string and shadows.”
However, in the latest trailer that same shot is shown, with the exception that she is no longer topless.
Admittedly, they might have done this simply to be able to include a shot of her along with the rest of the cast, and, as we all learned from the Super Bowl in 2004, there is no sight on earth more damaging to the fragile psyche of human beings than that of a woman’s nipple (I often wonder how women manage to get through their days not just having to see the evil things, but actually having them on their bodies).
So sure, maybe they threw a top on her for that purpose.
Except…
The shot could have easily been cropped in such a way as to not show the area of her breast at all, thereby eliminating the need to cover her evil nipples.
Also, the trailer does contain another shot of her, so it’s not as though they really needed to include the no-longer-topless shot.
So the question becomes, have they removed all nudity in order to obtain a “PG-13” rating, and if so, what else has been cut out?
While I am concerned about this, as toning down the content of the stories to achieve a particular rating will undoubtedly detract from the quality of their adaptation, I’m not allowing it to dampen my enthusiasm.
Can Sin City still be a kick-ass movie with a “PG-13” rating? I have no doubt.
Still, the potential for losing important elements of the story because of the more kid-friendly rating does give me pause (As does the prospect of not getting to see Carla Gugino’s fabulous boobs bare on the big screen).
Despite these “suspicious” elements, I sincerely doubt that Miller would be willing to tone things down enough to make it into a “PG-13” movie, so most of my concerns are undoubtedly unfounded.
On the topic of SC and nudity, this month’s Playboy features Sin City as its “Movie of the Month” in the Reviews section. I had flipped past the movie reviews without seeing that, and was then very pleasantly surprised when, after reading the reviews of new DVD releases I thought to look back to see what current movies were reviewed, I saw a big picture of Jessica Alba as Nancy.
I’m still not thrilled about that bit of casting, and not just because she refuses to appear nude. I just have no confidence in her acting abilities.
Fortunately, while Nancy is an important character, her portrayal on-screen doesn’t really have the potential to make or break the movie, so it’s not that important.
In any case, that’s going to do it for this entry.
I’ve been doing a little drawing this week, so maybe I’ll actually finish something and post it at some point.My TV shows are reruns again tonight, so it’s fairly likely that I’ll be back again later.
Disaster Averted (Only To Occur Later)
So there is a little bit of a story behind the Oreo cheesecake, a story of narrowly averted disaster.
Everything was going fine; the chocolate graham cracker crust had been shaped in the spring form pan, and the filling was all mixed and creamy.
We poured half the filling in, placed a bunch of crushed Oreos on top, then poured in and smoothed out the rest of the filling.
At that point, per the instructions given, Kathleen began banging the pan on the counter in order to drive out air bubbles.
Unfortunately, to our shock and horror, the bottom of the pan was not securely locked, and it came loose, causing the contents to come loose all over the counter.
I stood there stunned, Kathleen nearly cried, and the teacher simply encouraged us to scoop it back up and start over.
We did, and the only “negative” end result was that the cheesecake didn’t have a crust around the sides.
Despite that, it held together well after we removed it from the pan.
Not so once we had to cut it do divide it up, though, as the time constraints of the class meant that we didn’t have enough time to let it set properly.
So once we cut it the center essentially collapsed.
Oh well.
I had to keep restraining myself in class, as did Kathleen, because people kept making various comments about things being “huge.”
In discussing the possibility of the cheesecake cracking, the teacher made reference to having a “huge crack.” I’m surprised that my tongue didn’t bleed from being bitten so hard.
In the course of the discussion, though, Kathleen did manage to say “Just say no to crack,” so that was something, anyway.
What was funny, though, was that when we first arrived there was only one other person there. Right before we got started two others arrived, and we split into two groups consisting of the three of them and Kathleen and I.
Later, one other person, the one who had originally been grouped with Kathleen and I during the first class, and who we subsequently ditched in the second class (there was one person working by herself, so we encouraged her to pair up with her), came in about a half an hour late and immediately went over to join up the other three.
That made us laugh.
We have no class next week, as it’s spring break, and our teacher will be off on vacation.
After class Kathleen and I stopped to eat at “Red Robin” and she called Brian to join us.
I had a “BLTA” croissant. The BLT portion was what you’d expect, but the A was for fresh Avocado slices, which I requested be left out. It also contained sliced turkey, so it was really more in the way of a club sandwich, but whatever.
In any case it was pretty good.
And that was pretty much the evening’s excitement.
Tomorrow I have a dentist appointment, which I’m sure will be the first of many.
As that is fairly early in the morning, and there’s not much else going on, I think I’ll call it a night.
Everything was going fine; the chocolate graham cracker crust had been shaped in the spring form pan, and the filling was all mixed and creamy.
We poured half the filling in, placed a bunch of crushed Oreos on top, then poured in and smoothed out the rest of the filling.
At that point, per the instructions given, Kathleen began banging the pan on the counter in order to drive out air bubbles.
Unfortunately, to our shock and horror, the bottom of the pan was not securely locked, and it came loose, causing the contents to come loose all over the counter.
I stood there stunned, Kathleen nearly cried, and the teacher simply encouraged us to scoop it back up and start over.
We did, and the only “negative” end result was that the cheesecake didn’t have a crust around the sides.
Despite that, it held together well after we removed it from the pan.
Not so once we had to cut it do divide it up, though, as the time constraints of the class meant that we didn’t have enough time to let it set properly.
So once we cut it the center essentially collapsed.
Oh well.
I had to keep restraining myself in class, as did Kathleen, because people kept making various comments about things being “huge.”
In discussing the possibility of the cheesecake cracking, the teacher made reference to having a “huge crack.” I’m surprised that my tongue didn’t bleed from being bitten so hard.
In the course of the discussion, though, Kathleen did manage to say “Just say no to crack,” so that was something, anyway.
What was funny, though, was that when we first arrived there was only one other person there. Right before we got started two others arrived, and we split into two groups consisting of the three of them and Kathleen and I.
Later, one other person, the one who had originally been grouped with Kathleen and I during the first class, and who we subsequently ditched in the second class (there was one person working by herself, so we encouraged her to pair up with her), came in about a half an hour late and immediately went over to join up the other three.
That made us laugh.
We have no class next week, as it’s spring break, and our teacher will be off on vacation.
After class Kathleen and I stopped to eat at “Red Robin” and she called Brian to join us.
I had a “BLTA” croissant. The BLT portion was what you’d expect, but the A was for fresh Avocado slices, which I requested be left out. It also contained sliced turkey, so it was really more in the way of a club sandwich, but whatever.
In any case it was pretty good.
And that was pretty much the evening’s excitement.
Tomorrow I have a dentist appointment, which I’m sure will be the first of many.
As that is fairly early in the morning, and there’s not much else going on, I think I’ll call it a night.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Cheesecake!
So tonight was cheesecake night.
We made two kinds. This no-bake version:
And this Oreo cookie cheesecake (Which may be one of the most decadent things I've ever encountered):
And for the ladies, here's a little beefcake to go with the cheesecake (I know; I disgust myself, too):
We made two kinds. This no-bake version:
And this Oreo cookie cheesecake (Which may be one of the most decadent things I've ever encountered):
And for the ladies, here's a little beefcake to go with the cheesecake (I know; I disgust myself, too):
Beware The Haircuts Of March
So it’s the Ides of March today.
I’ve been aware of the existence of the Ides for quite some time (thanks to Julius Caesar’s famous assassination), but only recently bothered to look into what the Ides actually are.
The end result is that I learned that Ides aren’t really anything special. “Ides” is simply a term indicating the 15th day of some months and the 13th of others.
So essentially when you say that March 15 is the Ides of March you’re saying that March 15 is March 15.
I hadn’t realized that all of the months had Ides, either, and learned that my birthday actually falls on the Ides of April.
Six years ago I would have been well-advised to “Beware the Ides of March,” as it was then that I got fired from a job for the first (though not last) time.
On this particular Ides of March I decided to take advantage of that coupon and get a cheap haircut at the sports place. The place itself wasn’t absolutely horrible, though the overwhelming sports motif was extremely cheesy.
I will say that it was an interesting change of pace to have the person cutting my hair barely speak English with a Mediterranean accent rather than an Asian or Hispanic one.
I also have to say that she certainly was meticulous, as it took her forever to finish cutting my hair. Whenever I thought she was finished she would grab the scissors or clippers again and touch up some area.
Apparently she wasn’t trained on working the register, though, so I had to stand and wait for a long time for the other person working there, a guy, to finish cutting someone else’s hair and ring me up.
Overall I’d say it’s an okay haircut, and the savings made the inconveniences worth it – this time.
I doubt that I’ll ever go back unless I get another coupon, as the regular price is higher than what I normally pay and the cheesy sports motif is off-putting.
Inside the place, along with the various sports crap, there were signs about franchise opportunities that said something along the lines of “Men get haircuts. Men watch sports. All investments should be this simple.”
As I was sitting in the chair, though, it occurred to me that there would be a better formula for success, something more along the lines of “Men get haircuts. Men dig hot chicks in tight, skimpy outfits.”
The end result of that line of thought would be something along the lines of a “Hooters” barbershop.
Sure, you could keep the sports thing if you wanted, but it wouldn’t be entirely necessary.
You could probably have extremely high profit margins, as you would be able to get away with charging at least twice as much as your competitors.
(The overall hotness of the chicks cutting hair, along with the skimpiness of their outfits, would determine just how much you could charge for haircuts.)
As a bonus, none of the cosmetologists you hired would necessarily need to be especially good at cutting hair.
Would I be willing to pay twice as much to get a crappy haircut if I were essentially getting a lap dance from a hot chick at the same time? Well, as I mentioned yesterday, despite everything else, I am a guy…
Honestly, though, it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a haircut from someone I would want giving me a lap dance. Despite what movies and TV shows tell you, the average cosmetologist really isn’t that attractive (same goes for flight attendants).
One of the Asian girls at the place I usually get my haircuts is kind of cute, but she’s not really anything to write home (or a Threshold entry) about.
The girl who cut my hair today was sort of plain, shapeless, and mannish.
The last time I had my hair cut by someone attractive would have been back in Michigan.
She was definitely a cutie, with her thick mane of curly red hair and her pleasingly pear-shaped figure.
Beyond that, though, she was intelligent and probably the funniest woman I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t think anyone has ever made me laugh as hard as she did.
Over the years I’ve had many women tell me about how I’ve made them laugh and smile so much that their faces hurt afterwards (which, given the fact that it never got me anywhere, shows that having a sense of humor is no guarantee of success with women), but she was the only woman to ever have that effect on me.
And when she would lean me back and run her fingers through my hair as she worked the shampoo in…*Sigh*
I did actually ask her out once, though I did so in only the most general of terms (one of those do something sometime kind of things), and she had accepted – in theory.
In practice, though, the next time I saw her after asking her out (which, probably foolishly, was later that same night), she gave me the cold shoulder.
I'm talking absolute zero.
After that I think I got my hair cut by her a time or two, and while we still chatted amicably I didn’t bother broaching the subject of dating again.
When I had returned to Michigan from Minnesota briefly for the purposes of moving out of my apartment and picking up my car, my friend Eric, my brother-in-law Dean, and I went out to hit the bars before Eric and I headed back to Minnesota on the next day.
It was a good night, actually, one of only a few that I recall very fondly, and we all had a really good time.
In the course of our bar-hopping that night we went to a place known as the Uphill 41, a bar I was never particularly fond of, but in those days I was willing to go pretty much anywhere if drinking was going to be involved.
Almost as soon as I set foot in the place I heard a noise and saw a red blur hurtling towards me, and the next thing I knew a certain redheaded hairdresser had her arms wrapped tightly around me.
Despite her excitement and enthusiasm about seeing me that night nothing ever developed between us (which isn't surprising, considering that at the time I was moving to a different state).
The last time I saw her was when I’d been home visiting from Minnesota and she was cutting my mother’s hair. She said, “I thought you were gone for good.” I responded, “I am.”
The last I heard of her was several years ago when my sister reported that she’d gotten her hair cut by her and that she’d asked about me. My sister went on to say that she was pregnant and getting married.
So as thing stands she seems to be another one of my marriage success stories.
I never understood her hot and cold interest in me, but I learned long ago to stop trying to explic the often inexplicable behavior of women.
(And no, “explic” isn’t really a word)
As something of an interesting aside, and in order to provide a little more background, the red-haired hairdresser had actually been a student at the college I got fired from six years ago, though she had graduated before I asked her out.
I had noticed her on campus and found her attractive, but hadn’t approached her, as that would have been a no-no.
I do recall that on graduation day I saw her walking to her car after graduating with her daughter (who was like a miniature version of her), and one of her fellow graduates said “Your daughter is so cute!”
Her immediate response was, “Thanks, you want her?”
The response itself was funny on its own, but what made it comic gold, as far as I was concerned, was her perfect timing, and it made her really stand out in my mind.
I’d never really interacted with her, though, until well after graduation when I went in to where she worked to get a haircut (I hadn't known that she worked there ahead of time, in case you were wondering). She recognized me as “that photographer guy” from the college (photography was one of my many jobs), and struck up a conversation with me. She didn’t cut my hair (that time) as she was strictly working the register, but while I was waiting for the person who was going to cut my hair to finish up we talked for several minutes.
It was quite some time later when I went back for a haircut that she did cut it, and in addition to making my face hurt and making me feel like an awkward adolescent again by slowly, gently – yet forcefully – massaging my head as she washed my hair, causing me to drift of into a state of near-total blissful relaxation I was impressed by the fact that she actually remembered the things we had talked about that time months earlier.
Perhaps its a self-esteem issue, but I always tend to be surprised when people, particularly women, find anything I say to be memorable.
As for the other aspects of that first haircut, why only “near-total” relaxation, and why the “awkward adolescent” comparison, you ask?
Well, a specific part of me didn’t relax, and when she finished and said, “You can stand up now,” it was very much like being in school while going through puberty and being asked to stand up and write something on the board at an…inopportune moment.
But back to the topic of my firing on the Ides of March in 1999 (2,043 years after Caesar’s assassination), on that occasion, some months later, when she nearly tackled me as I entered the bar, she excitedly told me about having recently met someone else who worked at the college I’d been fired from. After discovering that he worked there, she’d angrily confronted him, asking, “Are you the one who got my friend Jon fired?”
For the record, he hadn’t been, and, in fact, I’d worked with him pretty closely when I was there and he regretted my absence, but I just found it extremely amusing that her first thought was to attack anyone associated with the college in an effort to defend me.
As I said, there was no explicing her behavior…
Tonight’s cooking class project is going to be cheesecake, apparently, and an extremely decadent-sounding variety of cheesecake at that.
I’ll most likely have pictures to post afterwards.
In any case, that’s it for now. As mentioned, I’ll undoubtedly be back with a post-cooking class entry.
I’ve been aware of the existence of the Ides for quite some time (thanks to Julius Caesar’s famous assassination), but only recently bothered to look into what the Ides actually are.
The end result is that I learned that Ides aren’t really anything special. “Ides” is simply a term indicating the 15th day of some months and the 13th of others.
So essentially when you say that March 15 is the Ides of March you’re saying that March 15 is March 15.
I hadn’t realized that all of the months had Ides, either, and learned that my birthday actually falls on the Ides of April.
Six years ago I would have been well-advised to “Beware the Ides of March,” as it was then that I got fired from a job for the first (though not last) time.
On this particular Ides of March I decided to take advantage of that coupon and get a cheap haircut at the sports place. The place itself wasn’t absolutely horrible, though the overwhelming sports motif was extremely cheesy.
I will say that it was an interesting change of pace to have the person cutting my hair barely speak English with a Mediterranean accent rather than an Asian or Hispanic one.
I also have to say that she certainly was meticulous, as it took her forever to finish cutting my hair. Whenever I thought she was finished she would grab the scissors or clippers again and touch up some area.
Apparently she wasn’t trained on working the register, though, so I had to stand and wait for a long time for the other person working there, a guy, to finish cutting someone else’s hair and ring me up.
Overall I’d say it’s an okay haircut, and the savings made the inconveniences worth it – this time.
I doubt that I’ll ever go back unless I get another coupon, as the regular price is higher than what I normally pay and the cheesy sports motif is off-putting.
Inside the place, along with the various sports crap, there were signs about franchise opportunities that said something along the lines of “Men get haircuts. Men watch sports. All investments should be this simple.”
As I was sitting in the chair, though, it occurred to me that there would be a better formula for success, something more along the lines of “Men get haircuts. Men dig hot chicks in tight, skimpy outfits.”
The end result of that line of thought would be something along the lines of a “Hooters” barbershop.
Sure, you could keep the sports thing if you wanted, but it wouldn’t be entirely necessary.
You could probably have extremely high profit margins, as you would be able to get away with charging at least twice as much as your competitors.
(The overall hotness of the chicks cutting hair, along with the skimpiness of their outfits, would determine just how much you could charge for haircuts.)
As a bonus, none of the cosmetologists you hired would necessarily need to be especially good at cutting hair.
Would I be willing to pay twice as much to get a crappy haircut if I were essentially getting a lap dance from a hot chick at the same time? Well, as I mentioned yesterday, despite everything else, I am a guy…
Honestly, though, it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a haircut from someone I would want giving me a lap dance. Despite what movies and TV shows tell you, the average cosmetologist really isn’t that attractive (same goes for flight attendants).
One of the Asian girls at the place I usually get my haircuts is kind of cute, but she’s not really anything to write home (or a Threshold entry) about.
The girl who cut my hair today was sort of plain, shapeless, and mannish.
The last time I had my hair cut by someone attractive would have been back in Michigan.
She was definitely a cutie, with her thick mane of curly red hair and her pleasingly pear-shaped figure.
Beyond that, though, she was intelligent and probably the funniest woman I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t think anyone has ever made me laugh as hard as she did.
Over the years I’ve had many women tell me about how I’ve made them laugh and smile so much that their faces hurt afterwards (which, given the fact that it never got me anywhere, shows that having a sense of humor is no guarantee of success with women), but she was the only woman to ever have that effect on me.
And when she would lean me back and run her fingers through my hair as she worked the shampoo in…*Sigh*
I did actually ask her out once, though I did so in only the most general of terms (one of those do something sometime kind of things), and she had accepted – in theory.
In practice, though, the next time I saw her after asking her out (which, probably foolishly, was later that same night), she gave me the cold shoulder.
I'm talking absolute zero.
After that I think I got my hair cut by her a time or two, and while we still chatted amicably I didn’t bother broaching the subject of dating again.
When I had returned to Michigan from Minnesota briefly for the purposes of moving out of my apartment and picking up my car, my friend Eric, my brother-in-law Dean, and I went out to hit the bars before Eric and I headed back to Minnesota on the next day.
It was a good night, actually, one of only a few that I recall very fondly, and we all had a really good time.
In the course of our bar-hopping that night we went to a place known as the Uphill 41, a bar I was never particularly fond of, but in those days I was willing to go pretty much anywhere if drinking was going to be involved.
Almost as soon as I set foot in the place I heard a noise and saw a red blur hurtling towards me, and the next thing I knew a certain redheaded hairdresser had her arms wrapped tightly around me.
Despite her excitement and enthusiasm about seeing me that night nothing ever developed between us (which isn't surprising, considering that at the time I was moving to a different state).
The last time I saw her was when I’d been home visiting from Minnesota and she was cutting my mother’s hair. She said, “I thought you were gone for good.” I responded, “I am.”
The last I heard of her was several years ago when my sister reported that she’d gotten her hair cut by her and that she’d asked about me. My sister went on to say that she was pregnant and getting married.
So as thing stands she seems to be another one of my marriage success stories.
I never understood her hot and cold interest in me, but I learned long ago to stop trying to explic the often inexplicable behavior of women.
(And no, “explic” isn’t really a word)
As something of an interesting aside, and in order to provide a little more background, the red-haired hairdresser had actually been a student at the college I got fired from six years ago, though she had graduated before I asked her out.
I had noticed her on campus and found her attractive, but hadn’t approached her, as that would have been a no-no.
I do recall that on graduation day I saw her walking to her car after graduating with her daughter (who was like a miniature version of her), and one of her fellow graduates said “Your daughter is so cute!”
Her immediate response was, “Thanks, you want her?”
The response itself was funny on its own, but what made it comic gold, as far as I was concerned, was her perfect timing, and it made her really stand out in my mind.
I’d never really interacted with her, though, until well after graduation when I went in to where she worked to get a haircut (I hadn't known that she worked there ahead of time, in case you were wondering). She recognized me as “that photographer guy” from the college (photography was one of my many jobs), and struck up a conversation with me. She didn’t cut my hair (that time) as she was strictly working the register, but while I was waiting for the person who was going to cut my hair to finish up we talked for several minutes.
It was quite some time later when I went back for a haircut that she did cut it, and in addition to making my face hurt and making me feel like an awkward adolescent again by slowly, gently – yet forcefully – massaging my head as she washed my hair, causing me to drift of into a state of near-total blissful relaxation I was impressed by the fact that she actually remembered the things we had talked about that time months earlier.
Perhaps its a self-esteem issue, but I always tend to be surprised when people, particularly women, find anything I say to be memorable.
As for the other aspects of that first haircut, why only “near-total” relaxation, and why the “awkward adolescent” comparison, you ask?
Well, a specific part of me didn’t relax, and when she finished and said, “You can stand up now,” it was very much like being in school while going through puberty and being asked to stand up and write something on the board at an…inopportune moment.
But back to the topic of my firing on the Ides of March in 1999 (2,043 years after Caesar’s assassination), on that occasion, some months later, when she nearly tackled me as I entered the bar, she excitedly told me about having recently met someone else who worked at the college I’d been fired from. After discovering that he worked there, she’d angrily confronted him, asking, “Are you the one who got my friend Jon fired?”
For the record, he hadn’t been, and, in fact, I’d worked with him pretty closely when I was there and he regretted my absence, but I just found it extremely amusing that her first thought was to attack anyone associated with the college in an effort to defend me.
As I said, there was no explicing her behavior…
Tonight’s cooking class project is going to be cheesecake, apparently, and an extremely decadent-sounding variety of cheesecake at that.
I’ll most likely have pictures to post afterwards.
In any case, that’s it for now. As mentioned, I’ll undoubtedly be back with a post-cooking class entry.
Monday, March 14, 2005
From Metrosexual Back To Asexual
If there’s one thing in life that I hate (and we all know that there is a lot more than just one) it’s hangnails.
They piss me off to no end, particularly since they seem to be inevitable.
For a long time I’ve wondered if there would be any value in getting a manicure in order to avoid hangnails.
Today I found out.
As I said, I’ve often wondered, but though there seems to be some sort of nail salon everywhere you look in these parts I’ve been reluctant to try finding out, for what should be fairly obvious reasons.
One day at work Kathleen was talking about getting her nails done, though, and I decided that I would tag along with her the next time she went, and so I went today.
I have to say that it was a weird experience, in particular when she was just chopping away at my cuticles with what looked like some sort of esoteric torture device.
It wasn’t painful, just slightly unnerving as I watched the skin clippings piling up.
I’ve heard some people, including men, talk about how relaxing it is to get a manicure, but while I didn’t find it to be entirely unpleasant, neither did I find it particularly relaxing, even though she did perform some sort of massage on my forearms while the paraffin wax dried on my hands.
I suppose the fact that I’m not entirely comfortable with being touched didn’t really help with the whole relaxation thing.
Overall I’d say it was an interesting experience, but it’s not one I’m likely to repeat often, if ever.
So there’s no danger of me turning into some sort of metrosexual with perfectly manicured fingers or frosted highlights in my hair (other than the “frosted highlights” that age keeps putting there in the form of gray hair).
After we were finished Kathleen and I went to a pizza and sub shop next to the nail place for lunch and she told me about a dream she’d had last night in which she’d gone to a sort of grown-up slumber party that was “just for the girls.”
In the dream, she’d brought me to the party.
I suppose it’s hardly surprising, considering that today we got our nails done together, and that every week we take a cooking class in which I’m (usually) the only male, but even so, it’s a little disheartening.
After all, despite the aforementioned activities, I’m not an especially effeminate person.
Sure, I’m no macho, NASCAR-loving, beer-guzzling redneck, either, but I think that I definitely put forth a masculine energy.
(And for the record, while I’ve never liked NASCAR, or considered myself a redneck, I did spend a good portion of my life guzzling beer. Also, it’s worth noting, that Kathleen said that in the dream all the girls liked me.)
Still, this is hardly anything new, and it’s actually something I’ve had to contend with many times over the years.
As should be apparent, in a lot of respects I tend to stray pretty far from the basic patterns of behavior of the “typical guy.” I hate sports, I tend to be quiet most of the time, I actually listen to people when they talk, and, until I’m fairly comfortable with people at least, I tend to keep my cruder comments to a minimum.
Even in the presence of other males I’m reluctant to engage in much in the way of “locker room” talk, and in general if I have to spend time with anyone, I’d rather hang out with women than with other men.
That being said, I do still have all of the same basic desires as any (straight) male, and when I see an attractive woman I’m just as likely to be thinking nasty, perverse thoughts as the next guy.
But I don’t think that the fact that I might want to do all manner of naughty things to a woman prevents me from still liking and respecting that woman as a human being.
Nor do I think that I need to obnoxiously broadcast the exact nature of the naughty things that I may want to do to that woman for all the world to see and hear.
Essentially I pay attention to what one “brain” is thinking, but I live my life based more on what my actual brain tells me, trying to find a proper balance, though I suppose that I err a little too much on the side of caution, which is why I so often end up stuck in a place known as Friendsville.
Friendsville is an imaginary town populated by guys like me. We’ve essentially been assigned to live there on the orders of the female population of the world.
The population of Friendsville is rather varied. Some of us are there because we’re nice but unattractive, or are simply lacking that “spark” that could lead to something other than friendship, or because our sometimes sexually ambiguous behavior has made it impossible to see us belonging anywhere else.
Years ago when Craig Kilborn was hosting “The Daily Show,” they used to run an ad featuring a female comic (I believe it was Liz Winstead) singing his praises to the women of America. She summed it up by saying that he’s “like your smart, funny guy friend. You know, the one you don’t want to sleep with.”
That describes the population of Friendsville pretty well.
Once you’ve been relocated to Friendsville it’s very difficult to get out, as it tends to be something like a roach motel: guy friends get in, but they don’t get out.
Years ago a (male) friend of mine had a female friend who was having a conversation with someone about guys. In response to her comments (I wasn’t there for the conversation, and if I ever knew exactly what it was about I’ve since forgotten), someone asked her how my friend fit into her view of things. She responded that in her view of things my friend was not a guy.
She went on to explain that she had essentially castrated him mentally, recognizing that he wasn’t female, but refusing to fully accept the notion that he was actually male, as his behavior did not follow the rules of male behavior that she had come to expect.
At the time, being married and therefore not having to concern myself about the consequences of such a thing happening to me, I thought this was funny as hell.
Since that time, having gotten divorced and subsequently mentally “snipped” on numerous occasions, I no longer find it quite so amusing.
In the particular instance of Kathleen, it’s not really a problem, as I have no interest in being anywhere other than Friendsville when it comes to her (she is a married woman after all), and to be perfectly honest I’ve performed an equivalen mental procedure on her that prevents me from really thinking of her as a woman.
Still, it serves as at least a minor irritation to be thought of as almost being “one of the girls,” when you’re not.
I would not be foolish enough to suggest (or to believe) that all women are the same, but they do tend to be remarkably similar in a lot of respects, so when one woman views you as a eunuch, the odds are pretty good that most other women will as well.
This obviously doesn’t help matters much when you’re already running into dozens of other roadblocks on the path to finding true love (or even a one-night stand).
That is, of course, the most obvious problem of living in Friendsville, but there are others.
For example, Friendsvilleans tend to be held to a higher standard of behavior than most other guys.
Because most of the time we don’t behave like the rest of the male population, it suddenly becomes a big deal when we do, which we will from time to time, since, after all, we are men.
The best example of this happened when I was living in Tucson working with two other guys and a girl named Jenny.
After work the four of us had agreed to got to a local strip club. For $25 you could get the dancers to take someone up onto the stage and essentially torture him (or her) for everyone else's amusement. This was typically done to grooms during their bachelor parties, or guys who were having birthdays.
After midnight it was going to be Jenny’s birthday, and a scheme was hatched to pool our money and do this to Jenny because…well, I shouldn’t have to explain why.
In any case, we ultimately decided against doing this simply because we really didn’t know Jenny well enough to know how she’d respond.
While we were at the strip club one of the guys admitted to Jenny what we had been planning and that we’d decided against it. At some point during our time there some random guy got hauled up to be tortured for his birthday. Jenny leaned over to me and, in an amused tone, said “That’s what they were planning to do to me.” I said, “I know; I was in on it.”
The look of amusement faded, and she responded, somewhat angrily, “You knew and didn’t tell me?”
It was funny when it was the other guys doing it, but somehow there were different expectations placed on me.
I’ve run into that kind of thing a lot over the years.
“Friendsville” is, of course, a very clumsy, imperfect metaphor, and it’s essentially the standard complaint of dateless wonders the world over who whine about how women don’t like nice guys.
There’s no disputing that there’s a great deal of validity to that complaint, and obviously I’m just as likely to utter it as the next loser, but honestly there’s little point in carrying on about it.
The only real solution to the problem lies in the hands of the population of Friendsville. We’re the ones who have to change our behaviors if we ever want to escape. It’s not the women of the world who create the giant bubble that drags us back whenever we try to make a break for it (yes, that was a reference to “The Prisoner”). It's us. We do it to ourselves by continuing to not act the way the way women think that guys ought to act.
A lot of Friendsvilleans think that one day they’ll meet that special girl who will appreciate the special qualities they have to offer and will help them get beyond the Friendsville city limits.
I say, “Good luck with that…but don’t hold your breath for too long.”
If you really believe that all you have to do is “be yourself” you’re pretty much an idiot. You have to be who she wants you to be, and if “yourself” were that person, you wouldn’t be stuck in Friendsville, would you?
So, like George on “Seinfeld,” your best bet is probably to think about whatever you would normally do, then do the exact opposite. You’ll probably get a lot further ahead, and be able to reclaim your missing masculinity.
As for me...well, I’m one of those people who complains about being stuck in this dead-end town but does nothing to actually get out.
Why? Well, in part I sort of am that idiot who thinks that continuing to be myself will eventually pay off. And I’m not just talking about someone who will appreciate all of my good “guy friend” qualities and recognize them as good boyfriend qualities.
After all, I may seem like a nice guy, but once you get to really know me you’ll see that I can be as much of an asshole as the next guy, and maybe even more than the next guy, and we all know that chicks dig assholes, so…
Seriously, though, the reality of the situation is that I’m lazy and defeated. As lonely as I may get at times, it just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the effort it would take to try to do something about it.
Maybe that would change if I were to meet someone who made me want to get out of Friendsville, but given the circumstances of my life I don’t see that happening.
So in the meantime ladies, feel free to mentally snip away and I’ll be sure to send you postcards saying “Greetings From Friendsville.”
Anyway, I didn’t actually mean to go off on that particular rant.
On the topic of not being a typical guy, though, I need to get a haircut soon, and today I got a coupon in the mail for a $7.95 haircut at the place that just opened up across the street.
As that’s just a little more than half as much as I normally pay for a haircut it would seem like quite a bargain, especially since it’s just across the street within easy walking distance.
The problem, though, is that the place is called Sport Clips.
One of the “features” of the place is that they have TVs on playing sports all the time.
It’s supposed to make guys feel more comfortable, but for me it sounds like a nightmare.
Still, a cheap haircut is a cheap haircut, so I may have to overcome my distaste.
Not much else is new or exciting as I start my weekend. As I demonstrated earlier, I’m still having fun playing around with my new monitor.
Speaking of which, I think I’ll make some use of its cool features now and do some drawing.
They piss me off to no end, particularly since they seem to be inevitable.
For a long time I’ve wondered if there would be any value in getting a manicure in order to avoid hangnails.
Today I found out.
As I said, I’ve often wondered, but though there seems to be some sort of nail salon everywhere you look in these parts I’ve been reluctant to try finding out, for what should be fairly obvious reasons.
One day at work Kathleen was talking about getting her nails done, though, and I decided that I would tag along with her the next time she went, and so I went today.
I have to say that it was a weird experience, in particular when she was just chopping away at my cuticles with what looked like some sort of esoteric torture device.
It wasn’t painful, just slightly unnerving as I watched the skin clippings piling up.
I’ve heard some people, including men, talk about how relaxing it is to get a manicure, but while I didn’t find it to be entirely unpleasant, neither did I find it particularly relaxing, even though she did perform some sort of massage on my forearms while the paraffin wax dried on my hands.
I suppose the fact that I’m not entirely comfortable with being touched didn’t really help with the whole relaxation thing.
Overall I’d say it was an interesting experience, but it’s not one I’m likely to repeat often, if ever.
So there’s no danger of me turning into some sort of metrosexual with perfectly manicured fingers or frosted highlights in my hair (other than the “frosted highlights” that age keeps putting there in the form of gray hair).
After we were finished Kathleen and I went to a pizza and sub shop next to the nail place for lunch and she told me about a dream she’d had last night in which she’d gone to a sort of grown-up slumber party that was “just for the girls.”
In the dream, she’d brought me to the party.
I suppose it’s hardly surprising, considering that today we got our nails done together, and that every week we take a cooking class in which I’m (usually) the only male, but even so, it’s a little disheartening.
After all, despite the aforementioned activities, I’m not an especially effeminate person.
Sure, I’m no macho, NASCAR-loving, beer-guzzling redneck, either, but I think that I definitely put forth a masculine energy.
(And for the record, while I’ve never liked NASCAR, or considered myself a redneck, I did spend a good portion of my life guzzling beer. Also, it’s worth noting, that Kathleen said that in the dream all the girls liked me.)
Still, this is hardly anything new, and it’s actually something I’ve had to contend with many times over the years.
As should be apparent, in a lot of respects I tend to stray pretty far from the basic patterns of behavior of the “typical guy.” I hate sports, I tend to be quiet most of the time, I actually listen to people when they talk, and, until I’m fairly comfortable with people at least, I tend to keep my cruder comments to a minimum.
Even in the presence of other males I’m reluctant to engage in much in the way of “locker room” talk, and in general if I have to spend time with anyone, I’d rather hang out with women than with other men.
That being said, I do still have all of the same basic desires as any (straight) male, and when I see an attractive woman I’m just as likely to be thinking nasty, perverse thoughts as the next guy.
But I don’t think that the fact that I might want to do all manner of naughty things to a woman prevents me from still liking and respecting that woman as a human being.
Nor do I think that I need to obnoxiously broadcast the exact nature of the naughty things that I may want to do to that woman for all the world to see and hear.
Essentially I pay attention to what one “brain” is thinking, but I live my life based more on what my actual brain tells me, trying to find a proper balance, though I suppose that I err a little too much on the side of caution, which is why I so often end up stuck in a place known as Friendsville.
Friendsville is an imaginary town populated by guys like me. We’ve essentially been assigned to live there on the orders of the female population of the world.
The population of Friendsville is rather varied. Some of us are there because we’re nice but unattractive, or are simply lacking that “spark” that could lead to something other than friendship, or because our sometimes sexually ambiguous behavior has made it impossible to see us belonging anywhere else.
Years ago when Craig Kilborn was hosting “The Daily Show,” they used to run an ad featuring a female comic (I believe it was Liz Winstead) singing his praises to the women of America. She summed it up by saying that he’s “like your smart, funny guy friend. You know, the one you don’t want to sleep with.”
That describes the population of Friendsville pretty well.
Once you’ve been relocated to Friendsville it’s very difficult to get out, as it tends to be something like a roach motel: guy friends get in, but they don’t get out.
Years ago a (male) friend of mine had a female friend who was having a conversation with someone about guys. In response to her comments (I wasn’t there for the conversation, and if I ever knew exactly what it was about I’ve since forgotten), someone asked her how my friend fit into her view of things. She responded that in her view of things my friend was not a guy.
She went on to explain that she had essentially castrated him mentally, recognizing that he wasn’t female, but refusing to fully accept the notion that he was actually male, as his behavior did not follow the rules of male behavior that she had come to expect.
At the time, being married and therefore not having to concern myself about the consequences of such a thing happening to me, I thought this was funny as hell.
Since that time, having gotten divorced and subsequently mentally “snipped” on numerous occasions, I no longer find it quite so amusing.
In the particular instance of Kathleen, it’s not really a problem, as I have no interest in being anywhere other than Friendsville when it comes to her (she is a married woman after all), and to be perfectly honest I’ve performed an equivalen mental procedure on her that prevents me from really thinking of her as a woman.
Still, it serves as at least a minor irritation to be thought of as almost being “one of the girls,” when you’re not.
I would not be foolish enough to suggest (or to believe) that all women are the same, but they do tend to be remarkably similar in a lot of respects, so when one woman views you as a eunuch, the odds are pretty good that most other women will as well.
This obviously doesn’t help matters much when you’re already running into dozens of other roadblocks on the path to finding true love (or even a one-night stand).
That is, of course, the most obvious problem of living in Friendsville, but there are others.
For example, Friendsvilleans tend to be held to a higher standard of behavior than most other guys.
Because most of the time we don’t behave like the rest of the male population, it suddenly becomes a big deal when we do, which we will from time to time, since, after all, we are men.
The best example of this happened when I was living in Tucson working with two other guys and a girl named Jenny.
After work the four of us had agreed to got to a local strip club. For $25 you could get the dancers to take someone up onto the stage and essentially torture him (or her) for everyone else's amusement. This was typically done to grooms during their bachelor parties, or guys who were having birthdays.
After midnight it was going to be Jenny’s birthday, and a scheme was hatched to pool our money and do this to Jenny because…well, I shouldn’t have to explain why.
In any case, we ultimately decided against doing this simply because we really didn’t know Jenny well enough to know how she’d respond.
While we were at the strip club one of the guys admitted to Jenny what we had been planning and that we’d decided against it. At some point during our time there some random guy got hauled up to be tortured for his birthday. Jenny leaned over to me and, in an amused tone, said “That’s what they were planning to do to me.” I said, “I know; I was in on it.”
The look of amusement faded, and she responded, somewhat angrily, “You knew and didn’t tell me?”
It was funny when it was the other guys doing it, but somehow there were different expectations placed on me.
I’ve run into that kind of thing a lot over the years.
“Friendsville” is, of course, a very clumsy, imperfect metaphor, and it’s essentially the standard complaint of dateless wonders the world over who whine about how women don’t like nice guys.
There’s no disputing that there’s a great deal of validity to that complaint, and obviously I’m just as likely to utter it as the next loser, but honestly there’s little point in carrying on about it.
The only real solution to the problem lies in the hands of the population of Friendsville. We’re the ones who have to change our behaviors if we ever want to escape. It’s not the women of the world who create the giant bubble that drags us back whenever we try to make a break for it (yes, that was a reference to “The Prisoner”). It's us. We do it to ourselves by continuing to not act the way the way women think that guys ought to act.
A lot of Friendsvilleans think that one day they’ll meet that special girl who will appreciate the special qualities they have to offer and will help them get beyond the Friendsville city limits.
I say, “Good luck with that…but don’t hold your breath for too long.”
If you really believe that all you have to do is “be yourself” you’re pretty much an idiot. You have to be who she wants you to be, and if “yourself” were that person, you wouldn’t be stuck in Friendsville, would you?
So, like George on “Seinfeld,” your best bet is probably to think about whatever you would normally do, then do the exact opposite. You’ll probably get a lot further ahead, and be able to reclaim your missing masculinity.
As for me...well, I’m one of those people who complains about being stuck in this dead-end town but does nothing to actually get out.
Why? Well, in part I sort of am that idiot who thinks that continuing to be myself will eventually pay off. And I’m not just talking about someone who will appreciate all of my good “guy friend” qualities and recognize them as good boyfriend qualities.
After all, I may seem like a nice guy, but once you get to really know me you’ll see that I can be as much of an asshole as the next guy, and maybe even more than the next guy, and we all know that chicks dig assholes, so…
Seriously, though, the reality of the situation is that I’m lazy and defeated. As lonely as I may get at times, it just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the effort it would take to try to do something about it.
Maybe that would change if I were to meet someone who made me want to get out of Friendsville, but given the circumstances of my life I don’t see that happening.
So in the meantime ladies, feel free to mentally snip away and I’ll be sure to send you postcards saying “Greetings From Friendsville.”
Anyway, I didn’t actually mean to go off on that particular rant.
On the topic of not being a typical guy, though, I need to get a haircut soon, and today I got a coupon in the mail for a $7.95 haircut at the place that just opened up across the street.
As that’s just a little more than half as much as I normally pay for a haircut it would seem like quite a bargain, especially since it’s just across the street within easy walking distance.
The problem, though, is that the place is called Sport Clips.
One of the “features” of the place is that they have TVs on playing sports all the time.
It’s supposed to make guys feel more comfortable, but for me it sounds like a nightmare.
Still, a cheap haircut is a cheap haircut, so I may have to overcome my distaste.
Not much else is new or exciting as I start my weekend. As I demonstrated earlier, I’m still having fun playing around with my new monitor.
Speaking of which, I think I’ll make some use of its cool features now and do some drawing.
Yes, I Really Am That Much Of A Dork
One of the cool things about my new monitor is that it has multiple inputs: DVI, VGA, S-Video, and Composite. It can be connected to more than one video source at a time, and can then do Picture In Picture (PIP) or Picture By Picture (PBP).
So, for example, I could hook up my cable to the monitor and watch TV in a window while I'm working on other things.
Of course, inputs on my monitor notwithstanding, I can do that anyway, as I have an ATI All-In-Wonder card, which acts as a TV tuner and lets me display content from external video sources (Cable, S-Video, and Composite) on my computer.
The advantages that the AIW has over the PIP feature on my monitor are that I can more easily scale the window displaying the video content, move the window around, capture still images, and record the video directly to my hard drive.
Another feature of the AIW is that it has a "TV Out" feature, which means that I can pipe video from my computer out to a secondary display (through S-Video or Composite).
Because I'm a dork, a thought occurred to me:
Here we see a shot of my monitor, with the DVI connection from my AIW hooked up and providing the primary display, while simultaneously connected via the Composite input from the AIW's TV Out and providing the PIP.
Due to differences in resolution, the PIP can't display a full copy of my desktop, so when I play a video file the TV Out is set to have the video scaled to full-screen on the external (or in this case, internal) source.
So yeah, I really am that much of a dork.
In any case, I have a few things that I need to do today, but I'll be back later.
So, for example, I could hook up my cable to the monitor and watch TV in a window while I'm working on other things.
Of course, inputs on my monitor notwithstanding, I can do that anyway, as I have an ATI All-In-Wonder card, which acts as a TV tuner and lets me display content from external video sources (Cable, S-Video, and Composite) on my computer.
The advantages that the AIW has over the PIP feature on my monitor are that I can more easily scale the window displaying the video content, move the window around, capture still images, and record the video directly to my hard drive.
Another feature of the AIW is that it has a "TV Out" feature, which means that I can pipe video from my computer out to a secondary display (through S-Video or Composite).
Because I'm a dork, a thought occurred to me:
Here we see a shot of my monitor, with the DVI connection from my AIW hooked up and providing the primary display, while simultaneously connected via the Composite input from the AIW's TV Out and providing the PIP.
Due to differences in resolution, the PIP can't display a full copy of my desktop, so when I play a video file the TV Out is set to have the video scaled to full-screen on the external (or in this case, internal) source.
So yeah, I really am that much of a dork.
In any case, I have a few things that I need to do today, but I'll be back later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
