Phallic Narcissism & the Sexting Craze
There’s no question that the internet has changed how we interact with each other. However, I’d go as far as saying it’s changed what we consider normal in our relationships. I’d even stretch this to technology in general.
Sensationalist news items about the teen sexting craze and online predators tell me that this sexxxxy exchange thing is relatively new! It was probably so easy for past presidents to carry on affairs on the DL. For example, expensively set-designed historical drama Boardwalk Empire features a woman with an infant she claims was fathered by Warren G. Harding, right in the middle of the Republican Primary. [SPOILER ALERT] Harding goes on to become POTUS. You know how they kept this pretty severe scandal (see: John Edwards) under wraps? They just shut up about it. And in another historical masterpiece, Titanic, when Leo wanted to see Kate’s tits, he asks, “Can I draw you?” Erotic drawing was the sexting of the 1920s.
But erotic drawing takes time! Shutting up takes self control and a lack of platform for your message. But now in 2011, Facebook, Twitter, the 24/7 news cycle, text messaging, and smart phones provide instant photographic gratification and basically infinite platforms for literally anyone’s message.
This is how some liberal groupie became famous for carrying on an illicit Facebook chat with Anthony Weiner. I sort of wondered why did she do it in the first place? Yes, power is sexy, but Facebook chat is not. So, why did he do it? What struck me when I first read it, was that she was trying to make the fact that he was a politician sexy. And he just wanted to talk about his dick.
Example 1:
Him: i hear liberal girls are very, uh, accommodating of others Her: of course! it is all about taking care of the little guy! Him: little?! ouch. you'd be surprised how big'
Example 2:
Her: I'm about to bang my friend cause ur not here..will call him anthony Him: I hope he has a big c*** Her: huge…u are gonna have obe up him...get here Him: you will gag on me before you c** with me in you
It goes on, it’s gross. Look how into it he gets as soon as his penis is brought up! Then he can’t stop talking about it.
With this except of this crazypants lady, most ladies I know aren’t into this kind of sexytime penis talk! But sometimes dudes insist on having these text conversations, via SMS or IM or email or whatever. If the dude is lucky, his girlfriend is willing to indulge him. If he’s not, then he’s probably paying $8.99 per minute to have someone indulge him.
It appears there are two willing parties here, so you’d think it’d be a two-way street, a sort of “I tell you about mine, you tell me about yours” conversation.
Instead, the conversations are so dick-centric. The dude talks about how hard is cock is, and it’s always worded like that, “hard cock,” and what he wants to do with it. And then he asks his ladyfriend if she likes it and how she likes it. Basically he talks about his dick and she responds to his dick. There is minimal talk from the ladyfriend about big her tits are, and no questions about what he’s going to do to them.
And here’s the thing: he’s getting off on it! He’s getting off on talking about his peen. He’s getting off on talking about a peen. This is starting to get borderline gay.
Maybe the conversation leans this way because it’s pretty obvious that dudes like boobs. Women know that they’re being constantly objectified and it’s rarely a turn on. On the other hand, isn’t it also obvious that straight women like penis? That’s why they have sex in the first place.
But you know what? Dicks aren’t pretty. They serve a functional purpose, not an aesthetic one. This is why most women aren’t huge fans of dick picks. The visual variations from dick to dick are not particularly worth caring about. The only person getting off on the dick pic sharing is the narcissistic owner of the dick in question.
In the end though, I guess if both parties are willing (one party more than the other, but willing nonetheless), and sharing penis pictures and describing your “hard cock” makes dudes happy and secure with themselves, go for it. Just don’t expect an equal level of enthusiasm from your lady.
Fake Threats
Empty threats I’ve made via gchat this week.
- … eat the Lannisters!
- I’m gonna watch a bunch of really fucked up stuff so it comes up on his [Netflix Instant] recommendations
- … so I can be a smug motherfucker and tell a publisher to download it so they can act like a grown up and unzip files on their own
- I want to spend a year doing the Crazypants Howard Hughes World Tour
- if I could have slaves, that’s what I’d make them do for me
- fuck society man, just rape it up!
- 12. Can I be drunk or heavily medicated while I operate the machinery?
- “omg we can go on killing rampages together, it’ll be so romantic!”
Empty threats other people have made via gchat:
- kill them, eat their hearts
- if I was there I’d tell the story about how I had to get stitches on the inside of my mouth maybe that would shut her up
- It’s time for New York to invade canada
- My sigil would be a pair of hairy flexing balls
- I wouldn’t take the risk of swimming with those things [whale sharks]
- I will kill them to protect the world
- I’m thinking of making a new OkCupid profile called “BeheadsU”
- and see if she’ll sign it “Mama horny, Michael”
Take Care, Take Care, Take Care
Moments are difficult things to capture. Artists in many mediums have taken different cracks at it. In the world of literature authors like William Faulkner and James Joyce have produced works that, while not the most easily read, are certainly among the most important. Their stories represent an attempt to capture all the subtleties of a moment in time through the written word. Faulkner and Joyce take all the grimy, ugly, and inconvenient details of life that less daring authors sanitize, and throw them right in your face. At times one might be tempted to put down one of their books, not because it’s too sophisticated to enjoy, but because it feels too real. With the turn of every page the reader begins to wonder, doubt, and eventually become convinced that maybe life has no real meaning. We’re born, we live, we reproduce, and we die. Life flows from one moment to the next with little to no regard for what befalls the wicked and the righteous.
That all seems very bleak, but as Explosions in the Sky stated through the title of their most well known album, “Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place,” there is beauty in the world. With their latest work “Take Care, Take Care, Take Care,” they make a strong argument for music as the best equipped medium to capture that beauty.
From the opening notes of the first track of the album, Last Known Surroundings, the band takes hold of the listener’s imagination. Sunsets, fields, deserts, mountains, streams, city streets, cars, skylines, living rooms, bottles, smiles, Explosions have given sonic life to all of these things and more in the musical arrangements present on Take Care, Take Care, Take Care.
Now don’t go getting the wrong idea about this album. This isn’t a cliched easy listening experience. This is rock music. Powerful drums and expansive guitar tones dominate the musical expanse of this record. On this album Explosions in the Sky have finally found the perfect middle ground between shoegaze and head bang. Whenever the band threatens to lull one to sleep with subtle guitar work, a thunderous eruption of percussion and rhythm is never too far behind. The dynamic works both ways. The uncharacteristically short Trembling Hands is possibly the most energetic and bombastic Explosions song to date, but it’s followed up by the subdued beauty of Be Comfortable, Creature.
Explosions in the Sky represent the head of the so called “post rock” movement. A wave of bands who have abandoned vocalists and strive to show the world that a five piece rock band can be every bit as epic, expressive, and important as the symphony orchestras of old. Much like the works of Faulkner, Joyce, and other stream of consciousness writers, the music by bands like Explosions in the Sky is anything but traditional. It takes hold of you and demands your full attention, but the reward for giving one’s ears over to the band are rich indeed.
Me and Carlos Slim Helú
Forbes has named Mexican telecom mogul Carlos Slim Helú (from here on out referred to affectionately as “Slim”) The Richest Man in the World. This is convenient for me, because I am going to Mexico next week, and am now hoping to befriend Slim.
Although Slim has been criticized for being a bajillionaire in a developing country where median income is around $15,000, look at this picture and tell me he doesn’t seem like a decent dude:
So what if he’s wearing a fishing vest and no shirt? Look how happy he’s making that deer!
Need more proof? Well here he is laughing with Bill Clinton:
Apparently their association has something to do with providing loans for small/medium-sized business in Haiti. So there, maybe he is a decent dude. And considering how easy it might be to become an evil dictator in Mexico with that kind of money (his income is 5-7% of Mexico’s GDP. Holy shit.), the fact that he hasn’t is a testament to him being an okay guy. And at least he’s not Muammar Gaddafi.
[For the record, the only reason he’s surpassed Bill Gates as the World’s Richest Man, is that Gates has basically donated half his enormous fortune to African orphans or some shit. Pfft, loser.]
Alright, so he’s a billionaire who kicks it with Bill Clinton – why would he want to hang out with me?
- The man digs baseball – and so do I! I may be jumping to conclusions here, but if the man is Mexican and enjoys America’s Pastime, then he must love the Dodgers. (UPDATE: Turns out he likes the Yankees, which happens to be my second-favorite MLB team. Close enough.)
- “His idea of winding down at home with the family used to be sitting his teenage sons down for an economics lesson.” Perfect! I majored in Economics in college.
- He basically saved the New York Times. I wrote for my college newspaper for 2 quarters. WOW – we have so much in common.
If it looks like I went way out of my way to do research on the guy, it’s only because I’m trying to figure out where he owns homes, so that I can try and stage an accidental run in, in which I explain that I love the Dodgers Yankees in sloppy Spanish and ask him to teach me how to say things like “diminishing marginal cost” in Spanish, and otherwise charm the guy so that he buys me and my friends drinks for the rest of the night. ¡Olé!
Unfortunately, he is apparently no Russian Oligarch, and only owns a modest home somewhere in Mexico City – which is not anywhere near where I am going. Turns out Mexico’s a big country.
I will keep my eyes open nonetheless. And so begins BILLIONAIRE WATCH 2011.
Valentine’s Day is for single people
Take this opportunity to make your dog some pink pajamas.
When you’re single, there’s no pressure on Valentine’s Day. There’s no one to disappoint, no expectations of flowers and chocolates, no money to be spent on plush hearts, no delaying break ups for a day, no trying to act nonchalant about it, and so on.
No matter what your Facebook relationship status is, Valentine’s Day is a problem. You’re either constantly reminded that you’re single, or you’re basically setting yourself up to be by not sufficiently meeting your partner’s expectations. There are definitely those people who go out of their way to turn Valentine’s Day into a thing and try and “say something” about how they tackle these problems.
First, there are the Singles’ Awareness Day folks. They bother me not so much for the mountains of self pity they heap upon themselves, but for thinking they’ve come up with a really clever anagram.
However, no matter how much these people feel sorry for themselves, it’s nothing compared to the Just Went Through a Break-up crowd. To be fair, whereas it shouldn’t suck to be reminded that you’re not in a relationship, it does suck to be constantly reminded that you’re no longer in a relationship. Instead of telling a friend something constructive like, “Hey, I’m still bummed out and this Valentine’s Day shit isn’t helping, let’s go get tacos,” they spend all day reminding themselves about their lost love. “This was his favorite song!” “She drove a Toyota Corolla too!” “On Mondays we used to snuggle and tell each other how much we wuv each other.” “Last Valentine’s Day we went to the moon.” And so on.
Before they broke up, those people were responsible for Facebook Displays of Affection. Posting shit like “zomg I’m so in love with [name] forever and ever and ever ❤ ❤ <3” is like writing his name all over your Trapper Keeper. They get infinitely worse if throughout the day, they keep updating about all the fabulous things their significant other has done for them, “He sprayed air freshener after he pooped so I wouldn’t have to smell it, awwwww,” “He told me he loved me 2349873209823 times already! Oh, make that 2349873209824!” “He’s boiling pasta for me! Best BF EVER!” It’s like the girl on Tool Academy who, in all sincerity, was so shocked and impressed when her boyfriend made her Caesar Salad.
So what are your alternatives, whether you’re single or in a relationship? How do you avoid being a huge douche-monkey about something that sort of sucks already?
Well, don’t be all “I hate Valentine’s Day, it’s just a Hallmark holiday,” because you sound just as bitter as the SAD kids, and are likely totally in the same boat yourself. If you are genuinely pissed because it’s a holiday that brings revenue primarily to greeting card companies and chocolate peddlers, you probably also think Christmas is too commercialized and that Arbor Day isn’t a perfectly reasonable excuse to get drunk. You’re also probably an asshole.
If you’re single, Valentine’s Day is pretty much the best day of the year to go out and hook up with a stranger. Not because you need to get your mind off being single, but just because it’s the easiest day to get it on. Think about it, all the couples will be spending time together in awkward “romantic” settings, freeing up the bars for the singles-and-ready-to-mingle crowd.
If having sex with strangers isn’t your thing, the holiday is a great excuse to get your friends together to eat candy and watch guilty pleasure romantic comedies. Or porn, whatever your style is. I feel both genres are appropriate. I’m pretty sure softcore porn covers both rom-com and porn genres if you can’t decide.
Spending Valentine’s Day single is, in fact, more fun than if you’re dating someone. You don’t even have to worry about it until, like, the night before, you don’t have to buy anyone anything, and you don’t have to worry about any of the, uh, physiological issues associated with too much wine.
But what if you are in a relationship? It’s not hopeless! YOU’RE GONNA GET LAID! I’m going to assume you actually enjoy spending time with your partner, so just do it. As long as no party is totally insane, you shouldn’t be expected to do anything completely ostentatious. So act like you’re single – make dinner, watch a rom-com or porn or softcore porn – and then get it on.
A Long Story About Falling Down. In Spain.
The summer between 11th and 12th grade, I participated in a student exchange program and spent five weeks in Spain. I stayed with a (fantastic, loving, generous) family in a small beach town called Cullera, about 30 km outside of Valencia for the majority of my stay. The first and last few days, however, were spent just outside Madrid at youth camps with other American students in the program and a few chaperones.
We were all good kids on paper – the exchange program had fairly stringent standards and we’d all been accepted not only based on academic performance, but on personal recommendations as well. With few exceptions, we were good kids IRL as well, and therefore weren’t exactly given strict boundaries by our chaperones. Between meeting a chaperone at the Madrid train station and going back to the airport for our flights home, we were spending the night reunited with each other at one of those camps. We were permitted to leave camp, unaccompanied, to go find ice cream. Or whatever. We didn’t have any “lights out” time or anything like that.
Spain is fucking fantastic all around, but one of my favorite things about it is that you can’t go anywhere without being within walking proximity to both an heladeria (ice cream parlor, more or less) and a bar (that’s Spanish for “bar”). One of my favorite things about Spain when I was 17, however, was that the drinking age was 16 (technically, it’s 16 for wine and beer, and it’s 18 for hard liquor, but I never saw the hard liquor law enforced).
Our plane back to the States was leaving early in the morning, and our trip took us from Madrid to Zurich to JFK. From JFK, we’d all go our separate ways, and I was flying into Long Beach. That’s a 2 hour flight, a 7 hour flight, and a 5 hour flight in 4 different time zones with hours-long layovers in every city.
And so, we decided to blow off sleeping the night before in order to go find a bar.
A group of about 6 of us had noticed a group of buildings a few hundred yards in the distance, down an old road. Despite the fact that the buildings looked like warehouses, I’m still pretty sure there’s some zoning law in Spain that requires at least one bar per three buildings, thus three warehouses = one bar.
The camp was surrounded by a not-very-well-maintained chain-link fence, and outside was pretty much nothing. Just fields. We found a hole in the fence and squeezed through. The road looked like it had been paved some time ago, but the old school way where they just stuck little rocks to the ground with tar. They had obviously not maintained this road, and the little pebbles were all loose. In fact, the road was completely abandoned – it was hardly wide enough for two cars, let alone parking, and there were neither moving nor parked cars
About halfway to our destination, we came across an unoccupied, seemingly abandoned car parked in the middle of the road: a single lone car in the middle of an old, empty road. As we got closer, we noticed that there was a small, strange red light blinking inside the car.
Hesitantly, we pressed on despite being totally creeped out. When we were within, oh, 15 feet of the car, we heard the car ticking. NO SHIT, TICKING.
Tck tck tck tck tck.
We all exchange glances and someone (all of us?) yelled, “RUN!!!” And we all turned around and ran as fast as we could away from what could only have been a time/car bomb.
Except me. I turned as fast as I could, took two steps, and fell face first into the road.
I fell, while sprinting, face first into an unpaved road scattered with pebbles while a car bomb was waiting to go off, in a foreign country, outside of the very clear boundary of where I was supposed to be. This is terrifying and stupid, but also hilarious.
My friends kept running until they heard me laughing. A few turned around to come get me and they helped me to my feet. My knees stung and I had tweaked my hip, but in our haste to get away from the ticking car, I just ran/limped until we got back to camp.
Once we were back in the light, I realized my jeans were completely destroyed at the knees and I was covered in blood. But still, hilarious. Seriously, it’s okay to laugh. I was laughing, my friends were laughing.
But despite the humor, my friends realized that maybe I was in need of medical attention, or at least first aid. My knee was completely split open and if there had been any skin left, I would have probably required stitches. But we really didn’t want to wake up Fernando, our chaperone, since we’d obviously been fucking around and been where we weren’t supposed to.
Instead, my friends decide to wake up this girl we (affectionately, although behind her back) referred to as “Mom” (because she acted like one), because we knew she’d have first aid supplies. Which, of course, she did.
My memory gets sort of fuzzy here, and I can’t remember if we decided we needed to wake up Fernando because my knee was full of rocks and Mom’s first aid supplies proved to be insufficient, or if Fernando just caught on to the commotion and came outside to tend to it. But point is, Fernando came outside to help. I did not get in trouble (unless you count almost seriously injuring myself).
Fernando was very proficient in English, but struggled a little with medical terminology. And the first thing he did when he saw my knee was stick his fingers in the open wound and move them around. This is when everything stopped being hilarious and really started to hurt. However, it was necessary because he did manage to get the rocks out, pour peroxide on my leg, and apply a large band-aid.
A few hours later, I had 3 international flights to catch over a 2-day period. If this were today, and not 2002, someone would probably have an iPhone video of me hobbling around airports trying to make my flights, and it would be awesome.
Have you ever let an open wound sort of just hide under jeans while you’re walking around airports and riding planes for 2 days? It was yellow and oozing pus through the bandage and through my jeans by the time I got home. Fortunately, my dad fancies himself an EMT, so with his medical attention I did not lose my leg. However, I totally get why all those amputations were necessary before the days of readily-available peroxide and sterile band-aids.
8 1/2 years later, I still have a pretty visible scar on my left knee. As well as a hell of a story about falling down.
Pet Stores: the new farmers’ market?
Bruce lets me know that his hay is so insufficient that he will only rest his feet on soft towels.
I sent the boyfriend to Centinela the other night for bunny pellets and hay.
He came back thrilled because women talked to him, and thus “totally hit on” him.
It sounded like another customer noticed him with her eyes and the clerk asked him friendly questions about his rabbit. His storytelling sounded like normal, friendly pet store banter to me.
Are pet stores the new farmers’ market when it comes to picking up harmless men?
(Incidentally, I had a male employee from that same Centinela insist on carrying the hay I’d just purchased to my car once. Figured it was store policy or something.)
Nick Swardson’s Pretend Time: Dumb
I like Nick Swardson, more or less, so when his show came on after the Colbert Report last night, I left it on.
It was dumb. And not just, like, not funny. It was like the show’s writers didn’t really know what they were talking about and didn’t bother to fact-check. I get that it’s a sketch comedy show, but for me to be correcting really stupid things that I’m not an expert on is just sloppy television.
This came up in a Google image search for "archaeologist". The guy in the sketch was wearing this same hat.
For example, they reenact the discovery of King Tut’s tomb and someone says something along the lines of, “I didn’t get into anthropology for this!”
Anthropology? I may have an advantage discerning the differences between anthropology and archaeology, having taken Anthropology 2* in college, but it only takes one viewing of Indiana Jones to be able to identify an archeologist.
Example two, which is a bit more serious: Guy goes into the Amazon and learns about voodoo.
Funny, because voodoo was brought to the Caribbean and French diaspora by West African slaves. I’m no cartographer, but I’m pretty sure the Amazon is in South America. I did, however, take a “Francophone Narrative” class in college where, oddly, I learned about this stuff. (And what the word “diaspora” means.)
Even without a Comparative Literature college minor (because why else would you take a class called Francophone Narrative?), the writing staff probably could have figured out the basics with their available resources. Like, I dunno, Google. Or Wikipedia. In fact, a Wikipedia search for “voodoo” produces these results:
Pretty sure “Amazonian Voodoo” is not an option. And it’s not like the actual people of the Amazon aren’t pretty prevalent in the news and a frequently studied group of people (hey! this is where anthropology comes in!). This would almost be racist if it weren’t so willfully ignorant and lazy.
And on top of it all, the show is boring and not funny. Sorry Nick, better luck next time.
*UC’s denote lower-division classes as single-digit numbers, instead of 100-level classes like most other schools I’m aware of.
Grandma goes to the Getty
A few years ago, my grandmother came from New Jersey to visit us in California. I had her to myself one day, and decided to take her to the Getty Museum, where their traveling exhibition was Rembrant’s Late Religious Portraits. I thought, “This is great! My Irish-Catholic grandmother will love this!”
She spent a significant amount of time at each portrait. About half an hour into it, I really thought she was enjoying it. I stood next to her while she stood between two of the portraits. I asked her, “What do you think, Grandma?”
In a huffy voice, “Well, I’ve never heard of this saint.” Yeah, Grandma, I’m sure Rembrant just made up a saint.
Then later, “Why is this one’s frame so much bigger?!”
And again, “Why is this frame gold?!”
That was all she had to say. I took her to see a renowned artist’s religious work, and all Grandma could comment on were the frames.
Sick on a Sunday 
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