Just What I Need

I went out to my usual Indian food haunt a few weeks ago and I met a nice sailor from DLI. After he returned to work I was left with the talkative older man that had been sitting next to him at the bar.

This presumptuous creature proceeded to tell me that I was carrying too much anger and that he could make it go away forever. He also said he could make me "more feminine." You'd have thought I was dressed in men's slacks, sporting a mullet and speaking of my eternal passion for K.D. Lang. Even if I was, that wouldn't mean I was less feminine- just that I worked at a mining camp in the Northern Territory of Canada.

There is nothing quite like having a perfect stranger (and a man no less) tell you that he can make you more "feminine."

I don't know what sort of New Age hogwash he's into but I imagine it involves "healing crystals" and an overly tactile form of chakra alignment.

First of all, I like my anger. It reminds me not to go near certain people or pay heed to them when they start spouting nonsense. It has allowed me to take four years of wanton abuse against my person by the U.S. Coast Guard and channel it into a scathing memoir that will hopefully shame the organization into making several much-needed reforms.

Second, I'm not about to let some man tell me how to behave acceptably within my own gender. I spent my formative years having the Southern Baptist try unsuccessfully to do the same and I have zero tolerance for this sort of thing.

Where does this asshat get off?

Did I saunter up to him and say, "That mala hanging around your neck smacks of a Caucasian desperation to appear enlightened?" No. I didn't. I merely thought it to myself while he was rambling on about "working with me to cure my ills."

Another day, another snake oil salesman.  

Watch Out For Those "Nice Guys"

A recently created Tumblr page called "Nice Guys of OkCupid" drew my attention to a particular flavor of passive aggressive misogyny that tries to pass itself off as something wholesome.

These pages are filled with the musings of self-proclaimed "Nice Guys" who all seem to have a poor command of the English language and a huge sense of entitlement.

What are the habits of a Nice Guy, you ask?

Here are some highlights:

He tells anyone who will listen how nice he is.

He whines about holding the hand of Girl X when she is weeping over some other guy who dumped her or hasn't noticed her existence.

He wonders why, even though he's never said anything directly about it, Girl X just can't read his mind and see that he's the one  it she should be with.

He pretends to listen and be concerned when Girl X is talking, all the while looking for a chance to initiate physical contact.

He thinks that being "nice" entitles him to certain things-like having sex with Girl X at some point.

If Girl X rejects him outright, she turns into a slut, whore or bitch. Also she is stupid.

He lumps millions of "girls" into the same category saying, "they only want to date assholes." He concludes that he should just "become an asshole", not realizing that he already is one.

He has a never-ending supply of self-pity and a serious victim complex.

The parts of this Tumblr page that are particularly disturbing are the ones where the "Nice Guys" respond to the questions OkCupid has given them.

One actually wrote that "A 'No' is just a 'Yes' that needs a little convincing."

Another one answered in the affirmative to the question, "Do you feel there are any circumstances in which a person is obligated to have sex with you?"

Several others said they felt that the man should be the head of the household.

Reasons for the singleness of the "Nice Guy" have never been more clear.

For more classy "Nice Guy" moments visit:

niceguysofokc.tumblr.com

Tommy Triangle: Champion of Percussion

This post, like many I have written in the past on other blogs is largely a bunch of nonsense. There. I've admitted it. Let's get on, shall we?

The NPR and I were headed down the highway the other day when a song from Carmen blasted out from the radio. I was suddenly amused by the persistent tinkling sound of a triangle that I had never heard before. "Listen to that," I said, "Someone is playing the hell out of that triangle!"

From my imagination, I crafted an entire life narrative for a young triangle genius I named "Tommy." 

He had been plucked from Mr. Snerdly's 6th grade band class by a visiting youth orchestra director who declared that he had "perfect timing." 

From there he would be catapulted to International stardom, playing with great orchestras around the world. 

He would stand in the back with the other percussionist, wearing a tuxedo and following through sheet music composed almost entirely of rests until the peak moment came. He would then ding his triangle with uncanny skill. 

The fierceness of his gesture would cause his carefully shellacked hair to fall forward into his eyes and require a strong head toss to settle it back in its original position.

The NPR and I giggle at the thought of this. 

I took my inspiration from the following image that I saw on Failblog a long time ago:

Not all at once ladies.

Happy Holidays Y'all!

I'm not a fan of Christmas- that's why I always try to run away when it comes around. However, there are other festive moments that have been made more delightful by the company of good friends.

Last night I had a party at my place to celebrate the conclusion of my U.S./Mexico Relations class. It was lovely.

My good friend Soleil also invited me and some of our classmates to do Thanksgiving at her house. I love parties where I'm not required to cook.

In a few weeks I'll be in Mexico getting a tan on a white sandy beach. Hope your holidays are nice too.

Two Turntables

I bought myself a couple of early Christmas presents

I got an original Abbey Road album and more modern selections

The sound of vinyl is amazing.

A Word on Cheap Umbrellas

It was raining heavily here the last few days and the NPR made off with my only umbrella so I had to nip down to the pharmacy and buy a new one....along with a small bottle of Tequila (to cure my chest cold.)

They had a selection of small black umbrellas for $9.99 and I bought one.

The cheapest umbrella I've ever bought was in China and it lasted a few days before the fabric separated from metal bits and it started turning itself inside out at the slightest breeze.

This new cheap umbrella was particularly insidious because it inspired a certain confidence in its rain keeping-off capabilities and lulled one into a false sense of security.

There is a seasonal ice rink that opens each year in town and I like to get there early so I can have the ice to myself before other people come out.

In an act of true dedication, I made my way through the dripping city to buy a season pass. It was there that I first experienced the unpleasantness of getting rained on whilst standing under an umbrella.

My umbrella was apparently designed to soak water through to its underside and allow the moisture to collect in large drops that then fall on the unsuspecting user.

After a brief skate on the barely-solid ice I decided to head home. I stopped by a corner market on the way home and pondered dumping my useless umbrella for a new one.

Instead, I bought another small bottle of Tequila (for medicinal purposes) and sulked home in a soaked wool sweater.

Lesson leaned: Cheap umbrellas are worthless. 

The Resume

I thought I would apply for a journalism fellowship being offered by National Public Radio.

One problem keeping me from moving forward with this is the need to update my resume.

As it stands my resume is heavy in two areas: journalism (good) and military action (weird).

A casual perusal would leave one with the impression that I am extremely skilled at shooting at things and writing stories.

With very little stretch of the imagination one might even conclude that I am the perfect candidate to shoot at things and then write a story about it.

I'm sure Guns and Ammo Magazine will be ringing me up any day now....