Archive for
June, 2007
June 24th, 2007
For you women who think that indiscriminate sexual behavior is a-okay, I’m down with that. But make sure that you keep your raunch private; particularly if you have any illusions of finding a man with whom you can share your life. Unlike men who still enjoy the relative freedom to express themselves, sexually, women are held to a very different standard.
In order to find that relationship, their reputations have to be locked in a closet…but they never stay there. Why? Because women tend to play with men and/or boys who are players [like themselves]; guys who tend to spill the beans on their carnal exploits; a trait common in primate populations.
READ MY LIPS: Men talk about women they DO NOT respect, period. They DO NOT openly discuss their sexual relationships with women they DO respect, even if those relationships are long gone. If you play without adequate cover, you pay a heavy price. No matter what anyone tells you, 1] MEN DO NOT RESPECT WOMEN WHO ARE [in their minds] SLUTS, 2] MEN LIKE SLUTTY BEHAVIOR, BUT ONLY WHEN ITS EXPRESSED WITH THEM AND [usually] THEM ALONE, 3] MEN WANT WOMEN THAT OTHER MEN RESPECT AND ADMIRE, 4] MEN NEED TO FEEL IN CONTROL IN ORDER TO FEEL LIKE MEN. So bear in mind that YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS PAST MAY OVERSHADOW THE PROSPECTS OF HIS CHANCING ANYTHING BEYOND WATCHING PORN TOGETHER AND VISITING COUPLES CLUBS.
This is not good relationship material.
Strippers whitewash their pasts, often moving to other cities to do it…and sometimes different continents if their reputations tend to precede them.
You’re no different.
If you happen to meet a man who is genuinely interested in you [as a whole person, rather than a few of your constituent parts], his perception will shift radically once he hears about your past. See, in his mind, you’re this potentially great catch who just happened to fall into his life serendipitously. He doesn’t stop to consider that the bar you met him in is the same bar in which you met 25 other guys/girls in…just last week! Once he discovers the pattern, his interest in you goes from potential love interest to potential fuck buddy - fast. You may wonder why he’s treating you very differently than he did the first time you met. For example, you may ask yourself why his fingers seem permanently attached to your thighs. Stop wondering.
SOMEONE OUTED YOU.
How long do you think it takes for a guy to figure out what you’ve been doing before he met you? Not long.
Yes, its a double standard. But women are asking for a lot more than are men; particularly when they start talking about marriage and children. Men do not want to marry and bear children with their fuck-buddies unless the said fb’S are his and his alone. To clarify, “his and his alone” means “his and his alone” — not just this week or this month, but [in his mind] forever. He wants to think that HE is the reason you’re acting like a nymphomaniac. He is the source of your sexual excitement…not he AND everyone else [both genders included] from the aforementioned bar.
Its tough enough for men to handle Madonna-Whore issues. Don’t make things worse. Your job is to figure out how to be his wife AND HIS WHORE without lingering traces of DNA from half of North America still coursing through your veins.
June 23rd, 2007
As though in a dream, every day that I drive through Memorial Park, regardless of the hour, I see the same 30 to 50 something men and women running themselves into the ground; their faces robotically blank, their bodies shredded to deadly levels of emaciation, their organs almost transparent through the razor thin sheaths of skin — a tenuous barrier keeping what’s inside from spilling out onto the path.
Who are these people?
They’re people you once knew.
Only now they’re doing the death march of a slow-motion suicide with a mortality rate that approaches 90%. It all starts out innocently enough. They begin an exercise program to get some control [the operative word, here] over their weight. Once the weight’s in check, they decide to take it a step further by adding another mile here or there. Or by drinking more water, eating less fat, adding more protein. Now it’s all about WHEN to perform the aforementioned…AND HOW MUCH? After all, one should hydrate every 15 minutes, right? And with distilled water so that nothing weird gets into the body. And, of course, there’s that obligatory 9 ounces of protein every three hours. Did I mention 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep? And zero tolerance for distraction or diversion?
Welcome to the land of the walking dead.
To everyone else, it is obvious that these people are medicating psychiatric problems with endorphins. And when the effects of the endorphins fade, they need another fix. It only ends with a string of black limosines.
I mention this because it has become commonplace in urban America. In my gym alone we have lost several members to anorexia. These are people who had
it all. Great jobs, families, education. But one soon notices that they are largely friendless, because those relationships are not always black and white. They don’t operate from the same template. There’s lots of gray. And where there’s gray, there a lack of control.
So, have these people decided that life [and middle age] is a fucking nightmare? That in order to cope they have to isolate themselves from the rest of society under the guise of staying healthy? There is fascinating irony here. And I ought to know…I was once one of them; at least peripherally. Exercise addiction, like sex addiction, alcoholism and all the other isms keep life at a distance. Like watching a movie, but never having to be a part of it.
I bring all of this up because, for me, middle age has become life’s most rewarding time. And sharing thoughts, ideas, feelings…and my time, makes everything that came before so worth the trip. I no longer try to control everything. I still struggle with it, but I am now conscious of its debilitating consequences.
Sometimes I slip, but that’s why its termed, “recovering.”
June 20th, 2007
Why does it not occur to people who own [some] upscale restaurants and [most] upscale clothing stores that lighting is crucial to making their customers feel comfortable?
Let’s face it, when you are middle-age, you’re not interested in being reminded of the fact that, visually, you’re middle age — no matter how good you look. Teenagers look great - even in bare flourescence - but teenagers can’t afford your clothing or pay for your 50 dollar entres, which then becomes YOUR problem.
With this in mind, why do stores like Saks Fifth Avenue, Norstrom’s and Neiman Marcus [TO NAME JUST A VERY, VERY FEW] still FEATURE overhead light? You know, the light that accentuates facial lines, hardens shadows and bleaches tans? I never get an answer when wandering around Neiman’s trying to find a mirror that doesn’t blind me. I don’t need white hot light on an article of clothing anymore than I need it in my face. I can see just fine without it. Not only that, but I’m much more interested in HOW I LOOK IN THE CLOTHING, rather than HOW THE CLOTHING LOOKS ON ME. It’s not ALL about the clothing, folks. One more time, it’s about HOW I LOOK LOOK IN THE FREAKING CLOTHING!
Same thing for restaurants. Have you even joined a group of people at a nice restaurant and noticed that the one chair with the hard light on it is ALWAYS VACANT? The only person you will ever find in that chair is your teenage son. Why? Because there is no light on earth that is unflattering to a TEENAGER!
You restranteurs need to GET IT that soft lighting is the key to a nice evening. NEVER POINT A LIGHT DOWN ONTO A CHAIR, EVER. Bounce the light, for god’s sake. BOUNCE IT. CLARO?
COMING UP: Jay’s review of restaurant lighting.
June 19th, 2007
What is it about porn that’s so arousing? Why do countless millions surf it whenever the opportunity presents itself? But more importantly, is porn reality? Or are porn “actors” just that, actors? I mean, do people really have these kinds of relationships over a long period of time? If so, who are these people? Is the cute Colgate graduate in the lavender Vera Wang cocktail dress really just exchanging pleasantries at that office party before peeling away the civilized veneer and submitting to cuffs and cat-o-nines? Is her husband forcing himself down her throat until her make-up runs little black rivers down her chest?
And then there’s the old Madonna-whore thing. Does porn represent the obliteration of intimacy, or does it just make it more accessible? Some people argue that the kinds of sexual acts seen in today’s porn represent nothing less than fear. But fear of what? I mean, isn’t it frightening enough that your partner knows you enjoy submitting to 6 inch stilettos? That your enjoy verbalizing racy sexual fantasies during intercourse? How is this anti-intimate? Some people enjoy the stimulation. Others can’t get off without it…and perhaps herein lies the rub. But so what? We all need something. Some of us need large breasts. Others a perfect ass. And I know at least one woman who cannot achieve arousal unless her lover is well-endowed.
Are we all supposed to fit some established model? Do “proper” women not experience sexual fantasy? Do “proper” men spend no more than five minutes consummating the act [in silence] before rolling over and forgetting it ever happened?
I guess what I’m getting at is, where is the disconnect between porn and reality? And why is porn bad if it is something both partners share and enjoy? Furthermore, if porn represents something that people use to stimulate one another beyond what society at large consider “normal,” so what?
Look, everyone knows that porn is edited. People don’t go on for hours and hours, partner after partner, without a break. But like any film, you don’t see the edits. OF COURSE YOU DON’T SEE THE EDITE. IT’S A FANTASY! And honestly, the positions that those guys have to maintain in order to get the cameras where they want them would probably result in a hamstring tear.
Anyway, if your girlfriend [the one outside the mental hospital] enjoys having you beat the crap out of her - physically and emotionally – in order to achieve orgasm, would you mind writing in? The readers here are incredulous.
By the way, check out sandm dot com to find out what Houston’s underground posse have to say about the merits of power exchange/role play …
June 19th, 2007
Listen up, girls…
Like other major urban centers across America, Houston is home to a large number of single and/or divorced men of means [MONEY]. And of course, where there is demand [for money], there is usually a supply — whether or not that “supply” is cognizant of its relevance to a food chain. Most of these guys have paid their dues [and half their adult lives] working for some multi-national public company; many have been married and divorced, had children…and now want to enjoy an unfettered good life. Lucky for you, what got them to the top has rendered them easy pickins for those of you on the bottom.
Put another way, would you train a battalion of U.S. Marines to fight a world war by sitting in meetings all day? Not in my world.
The fact is, when it comes to attractive women, otherwise well-educated, middle-age, successful men are complete idiots. They’re sitting ducks, or, as we affectionately term them [in the trade]: “soft targets…” limping gazelles in the eyes of predators along the endless migration trails. This will be the guiding metaphor for your “professional” lives.
Don’t blow it.
Nailing these men requires a modicum of effort once you’ve achieved the basics outlined in Chapter One. Now it’s time to blend in with the herd. You must now worm your way into a casual, upscale establishment like, say, The Houstonian Club. I don’t care what you have to do to make this happen, just do it. All you need is one invitation. I would suggest going with a “girlfriend” to a happy hour at a place like Flemmings. Dress for sex, girls. But don’t overkill it. You want to convey that you know what the hell you’re doing between the sheets [while reminding your targets of what they’re missing] without looking like a street walker. Just a hint of tawdriness is enough to make them salivate. Physically, you must be tan, very fit and sexy; everything their former wives are not.
Once you get the invitation – and remember most guys that frequent places like Flemmings and Pesce are members of The Houstonian [no matter what kind of shape they happen to be in] – you must carefully plan your attack. Meet your “John” at the club. Do not let him pick you up. You want to appear as available as possible, and you will need your space to stake things out. If the guy is single, you might get an invitation to join him at the pool. All the better, as you can now openly flaunt your physical attributes. Before you know it, the guys will sense that you’re from – you know – the other side, and will start making their moves. Tell them anything you want. I don’t give a crap how many social security numbers or felony arrest records you have, just make up something that sounds interesting. If your ass is round enough, they’ll forget all about your story.
The key here is to pay attention. You must learn to distinguish the posers from the heavy-hitters. You do not want a guy who can merely afford to join the club. You want the guy who can afford to buy the club and still buy you a Bentley and a Gulfstream. Believe me, it’s not that tough. Use the internet. Public Data dot com is a good start. Get their driver’s license numbers if they’re dumb enough to leave their wallet’s on the table while going to the restroom. Drive by their homes. Ask around. If your first date is successful, it won’t take long before you’re invited to the ubiquitous “benefit;” an event where you’ll meet some of the world’s most successful gold-diggers. They will see you coming, so just smile. Be nice. Be polite. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t make a single enemy. There’s plenty of room for newcomers who play by the rules.
COMING UP in Chapter Three: How to spread the word of your arrival…or how to get published in PaperCity.
June 14th, 2007
Men do not have to be hot to date a hot woman. On the other hand, hot women have to be hot no matter who they date.
Men are held to a different standard, physically. A little paunch, a receding hairline, questionable fashion choices…NONE OF IT MATTERS. Look, I don’t make the rules. It’s as though women have some tacit understanding that fashion and beauty are their bailiwick, and theirs alone. Only gay men are allowed to step on their turf.
All of this is ironic, though, given the fact that women hate being objectified. Okay, so they both loath and love the physical thing, but the love part always wins.
Some women argue that they really dress for other women - and to a degree it’s probably true - but they NEVER DRES IN ANYTHING THAT MEN WON’T LIKE, no matter what.
Add all these weird contradictions to hormonal fluctuations and things begin to make sense…
June 14th, 2007
Before I launch into Chapter Two of my Gold-Diggers diatribe, I want to touch on a subject that is near and dear to all men: A woman’s inability to delineate physical beauty from emotion.
When a woman sets a guy up on a blind date - describing said date as ‘cute and smart’- watch your ass. You’re about to be duped. Women are unwilling to objectify physical beauty. They resent the fact that men are drawn to beauty first and foremost, and before anything else, no matter what. The way men see it, once a woman passes muster, physically, he will then [and only then] pursue her emotional and intellectual qualities.
Women despise this irrefutable fact of life.
They are so blinded by their loathing of what they perceive to be superficial, shallow, crass and demeaning behavior on the part of men, that they are willing to lie about a person’s physical attributes, hoping that once you meet the ‘her friend’ you will ignore her fat ass, and instead, focus on her endearing personality.
It won’t happen. Give it up.
Female modeling agents and casting directors certainly know what constitutes physical beauty, so don’t tell me that the person setting up the blind date doesn’t know as well. Just ask her to rattle off a few of their favorite male athletes. Does Rafael Nadal come to mind?
It should also be noted that hot women are rarely set up on blind dates because they can barely go to Kroger without being propositioned and/or followed by throngs of men willing to commit hara-kiri just to get a card in her hands.
By the way, I know of only one guy who was set up on a blind date with a gorgeous woman, and 5 years later he’s still with her. Go figure.
June 11th, 2007
Ladies, please pay attention.
As most of you are well aware, successful men will not be seen in public with an unattractive woman. First, they’re men. Second, they’re successful men, which usually means that they expect to succeed at winning trophies for their efforts. This is not an uncommon phonomena. In certain regions of the world, people parade around with their goats to showcase their wealth, and that wealth always gets them the hottest chick in the village…whether she likes it or not. The same psychology applies here. The guy with the most “goats” will not tolerate an outsized ass because he deserves one that is tighter and rounder. A fat one is simply not acceptable under any circumstances. Remember, you are WORTHLESS [in this context] without a perfect body. Don’t even think about arguing with me on this one.
Okay, so YOUR workday begins when you hit the gym. This is where you do what you have to do to get that home in Aspen.
In addition to your physical training, you must also stay on top of your manicures/pedicures, hair, skin, teeth…and clothing. And did I mention education? No, I didn’t…and for good reason. You don’t have one, so you have to pretend. There are men who will see through a loosely veiled veneer, and though some will find this compelling on a base level [a good way to earn some extra money], the real whales won’t bite unless you have more polish. See, they assume if THEY can’t out you, their idiotic business acquaintances won’t be able to, either. However, if you happen to have an ass from hell - AND can talk a good game - you may get a slight pass on the polish.
Okay, do NOT bleach-fry your hair. If it is not smooth and silky, make it smooth and silky. If your skin looks like hell, find a dermatologist and lock yourself in your apartment until you can get a handle on it. NEVER EVER chew gum in public. Men will just assume you’re a stripper. NEVER EVER overkill a fashion statement. If you’re wearing black Chanel evening dress [courtesy of a successful score], don’t garnish it with some tacky sunglasses, with angels carved into the temples. Believe me, the dress is enough if the rest of your game is down. People from “nice families” NEVER have to try to look like they came from the right side of the tracks, BECAUSE THEY DID. You DIDN’T, so be very careful about coming off as a wanna be. They’ll spot you in a second if you flinch. This is war, girls, and you can’t afford to screw up; particularly when you’re at an important event attended by the people you want to attract. One fuck up and you’re history. Finally, watch your language. Do NOT curse under any circumstances and NEVER bad-mouth a socialite. If she finds out, she will make it her business to destroy you before you’ve had a shot at fame…AND BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU SHE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE UP TO. Be nice. Do not show even a trace of envy. No discissions about the high price of ANYTHING. You’re supposed to be used to high sticker prices, remember? Smile. Sublimate the anger that fuels every cell in your body. It’s tough, but do it no matter what.
So let’s review things one more time. A flawless body with a nice ass is the template from which you will launch your assault. Remember, “nice” girls value things other than their bodies, which means they are usually not as sculpted as you will be. This is an easy advantage to achieve, so watch your diet and go to the gym every single day. Do what you have to do to polish the rest of your look. Since your moral boundaries are relative, you figure it out. Just make sure you do it. Hair, skin, teeth, nails, attire. Express yourself without cursing and keep that smile plastered on your face.And throw away the damn gum!
Now that you’re in shape - and the other aforementioned items are checked - you have to find a way in. Your best bet is to find someone to invite you to,say, The Houstonian. You’ll need no more than a week or so to get the ball rolling [since the place is so full of soft targets - discuss later], but you’ll have to wait for my next post for to get more information on how to pull this one off.
June 7th, 2007
The short answer is, no. There is a longer answer, but that’s another subject. I can hurl a can of latex at a canvas in my garage and call it an expression of art, regardless of what anyone else thinks of it. But if I want the “fine” part in front of the noun, I have to earn it.
It seems to me that fine art begins its life when it is seen. It cannot exist in a vaccumm anymore than its greatness can be proclaimed by its creator. There have been many great works of art discovered after someone has died, but the work in question did not exist until someone discovered and validated it. Yes, validated it. In addition to discovery, it must also be considered great by the noted art critics of the day. It is they who determine the value of the work, whether those who paint like it or not. Once it receives their blessings [as nauseating as this may sound to some of you], the work then enters the public domain as a viable commodity with intrinsic value.
By the way, art critics, dealers, brokers, curators, etc., believe that they can quantify what constitues great art. And without getting mired in boring academia, just know that they take into consideration an artist’s full body of work, among other things. This means that the artist in question must have the inspiration to produce more than one painting.
Put another way, there must exist an undeniable passion to create, the perserverance to continue creating, and the intestinal fortitude to tolerate criticism; even when it gets personal…as it usually does when someone begins to rise above the fray. And by the way, not all artists look like vagrants who live under bridges. Some are actually HOT, which further aggravates their visually-impaired competition, who mistakenly believe that a true artist is ALWAYS a haggardly breath away from electro-convulsive therapy.
In the end, the real struggle is putting oneself out there to be judged in the first place. It’s not for the faint of heart…no matter what the medium.
Multiple kudos for trying.
June 3rd, 2007
Shit! They’ve landed!!!!
Walking among us - and waaaay outside Hollywood [aka, Roswell] - is the growing presence of middle-age, plastic surgery mutants who inspire Lovecraftian notions of alien-human hybridization, or more generously, horrific body dysmorphia.
Stretched to a semi-translucence not dissimilar to rubber balloons over chiseled two-by-fours, these individuals walk the planet bug-eyed, with that other-worldly look about them; a look that is usually punctuated by appendages resembling human lips, but appear to have a more genetically in common with the Amazonian Piranha.
The balance of their physiques often appear disconnected, frail and thin, as though they fell down an elevator shaft and had to be reconstructed from the ground up. How they eat - or move - without great effort is a complete mystery to me. Expressionless, they seem oblivious to their terrifying visages, which makes matters even more perplexing. Does one not look in the mirror [when no one is around] and concede in hysterics:
“I fucked up…big time.” Or better yet… “I am really fucked up, now what?”
I guess it all starts when there’s nothing of any perceived value on the inside. The subject, instead, focuses exclusively on what’s on the outside. Devoid of any perceived emotional, intellectual or spiritual value, they are reduced to nothing more than a series of perpendicular lines on a facial matrix; an object that can be carved, balanced and perfected while the rest of the organism rots. Now the blood’s in the water and the dance of the ubiquitous plastic surgeon [and I use the term loosely] begins; slicer and dicer to the emotionally non-existent…aka, crab bait.
Ya know, at some point society is going to have to take some responsibility for this. A multi-cultural society is one thing, but now we’re talking about multiple species. Perhaps all the physicians who were once, like, Urologists should be required to earn a degree in Psychiatry before staging Botox parties in their back yards.
The fact is insects don’t run the show on this planet anymore than do primates. People actually contribute more than drool and defecate remains. And, yes, this would include the poor souls who just can’t get past the obsessive compulsiveness that feeds their tragic death march.
I wish that I could get through to them, but I know it’s a waste of time and energy. That’s what psychiatric hospitals are for.
These days, psychiatric hospitals should be as common as Stop-and-Go’s.
