Archive for
July, 2007
July 31st, 2007
First of all, I like the fact that Houston now has a boutique hotel with panache; particularly one situated amidst so much cultural richness and beauty. If handled properly, Hotel ZaZa will give the City of Houston another reason to celebrate its recent upswing in positive press across the nation.
With this said, let’s get down to business.
I’m not going to mince words. Hotel ZaZa is NOT, for example, the St. Regis in New York City…so get that out of your heads. It is a fledgling enterprise in the critical throes of building what every upscale hotel aspires to achieve: A seamless performance with 5-stars at the end of its name.
And no, I don’t think it will take as long as training the Iraqi army, but you never know.
To the seasoned traveler, Hotel ZaZa may feel a little over-the-top, if not a tad afflicted with characteristics of multiple personality disorder. The staff comes across as a bit tentative in the execution of its responsibilities, while concurrently exhibiting an over-zealousness to impress. Any 5-star hotel staff has learned to integrate itself into a single organism; a Championship team, if you will. The players know, for example, the difference between what is – and what is not – appropriate to both say and do…and under what circumstances. At ZaZa, they have the instruments. They have the musicians And now they must rehearse – over and over again until the performance becomes second nature.
Another annoyance is the army of valets standing in front of the property. This may sound a bit trite, but it’s unnerving to anyone not used to such spectacle; particularly after a long flight and 30 mile drive from the airport.
Valets and doormen are any hotel’s first line of defense. It is they who create the first impression of a property. But unless you’re the President of the United States, all the pomp and ceremony is unnecessary. Not that the “why” part of this matters a wit to anyone visiting the property, but the problem is inefficient traffic management. The hotel has yet to figure out how to divide its hotel guest traffic from those dropping by for a drink at its wildly popular bar, situated at an adjacent entrance.
Which, of course, gets back to my initial point: Does Hotel ZaZa aspires to be a legitimate, 5-star hotel with an active social component? Or, say, a glorified nightclub with quick profits from drinkers; “bridge and tunnel” traffic included?
We’ll have to wait and see.
The lobby is dimly-lit and somewhat gothic in tone. I can almost see someone the likes of Marilyn Manson sitting in a corner sipping absinthe after a long concert. But in spite of my personal distaste for anything that is stylistically inconsistent, I think that most of it works relatively well, with the exception of the ridiculous installation at the rear of the lobby. Over a candle-lit water treatment hangs a life- size, female mannequin in a Plexiglas cage. To its immediate left is what appears to be a habitat of sorts for a large peacock, which rests upon a tangled mess of branches. I have no background in hotel installation artistry, but I can PROMISE you that such an exhibit would remain in my dreams…and/or nightmares.
My initial reaction to it was that I’d somehow missed the joke. Then I realized that the hotel was attempting to force a cavalier whimsicality upon its guests, but one exclusively designed to appeal to a younger, affluent, “hip” culture group, obsessed with drawing attention to its self at any and all costs. Miami suddenly popped into my head, but even Ian Schrager’s “Delano” property wouldn’t attempt something this absurd.
This notwithstanding, I entered the bar and found exactly what I was expecting: A zillion people from the Houston nightclub scene making a stand at the city’s newest haunt. Okay, it’s not the hotel’s fault, but it’s also not going to turn away the profits. The bar is nicely appointed and its outside patio is beautifully decorated. Adding to its allure is the surrounding environment; a poetic setting as beautiful as any city in America. I felt a sense of pride as I walked outside, martini in hand, and took in its richness and sophistication.
Now this is the Houston I know…and would like the rest of the country to know.
Across the hall is the restaurant, which is also nicely appointed and, again, quite atmospheric. Unfortunately, the bar was so busy that it sucked up all of the energy from the rest of the hotel and – in a sense – took possession of the place.
Okay, okay…enough about the bar.
My final stop on this visit was the second floor, to visit to the spa and the pool areas. I found the former to be a tad labyrinthine, dark and cramped. However, it was well-equipped and distinctly couples-oriented. And then there was the pool, which I loved, with its surrounding cabanas, accessorized with kitschi flat screens and day beds.
Very sexy, this place…in the sexual sense.
Someone asked me the other day to describe the place in a sentence or two, so I’ll give it a shot: At this point in its history, Hotel ZaZa feels a lot like an upscale swinger’s retreat. My mother, for example, would find it somewhat gaudy, certainly disorganized…and far too dark. On the other hand, I know randy couples who would be more than happy to take up residence in this place; regardless of the cost.
Hotels are an expensive and difficult balancing act, and ownership must decide – sooner rather than later – how to achieve their mission without suffering un-recoverably in the process. This is, after all, the age of the internet.
Bottom line: Hotel ZaZa is a place you just have to see and I wish it the very, very best of luck establishing itself as a Houston landmark. All the tools are in place.
My next visit will include a meal at the lobby restaurant, and a tour of its suites. My fingers are crossed…
July 29th, 2007
Guess what, guys, just because you’re straight doesn’t mean you’re entitled to look like crap. Women don’t find your distended bellies, poor grooming habits and limited wardrobe endearing. Lucky for you, however, most will usually tolerate your primeval qualities as long as you keep coming home at night and paying the bills.
The national media has alluded to this curious phenomena a lot lately, and I think it’s time we address it, head on. Here are a few theories…you decide.
1] Heterosexual men believe that looking like crap makes them sexier.
2] Heterosexual men believe that only gay men are supposed to look good – and that dressing like crap reaffirms their sexual identities to the women they date.
3] Heterosexual men are uncomfortable expressing an interest in anything beyond bass fishing, the stock market and the NFL. Clothing is a no-fly zone relegated to women, who are entrusted with the responsibility of dressing them.
4] Heterosexual men would prefer spending their money on hunting gear, rather than designer shoes.
5] Heterosexual men like keeping the sexual boundaries clear and distinct, because it panders to their intimacy issues.
So why, then, should heterosexual men climb out of their caves?
BECAUSE I’M SICK OF LOOKING AT THEM, THAT’S WHY. BECAUSE THEY EMBARRASS ALL MEN WITH THE PERPETUITY OF A TIRED STEREOTYPE.You slobs need to count your lucky stars that Gay guys don’t have a change of heart and decide to try women, because if and when they do…you’re toast.
Okay, okay, I know that some women actually do like men who aren’t exactly models of fitness and fashion.
But this does require some qualification…
Keeping men in the stone ages deflects any potential criticism of their mate’s less than flawless rear end. Put another way, if a woman isn’t in the greatest shape in the world, but her man always looks worse, she’s still in the driver’s seat.
Are women really this insecure? Or are they just happy to have a man on their arms at all; particularly one who’s paying the bills? Well, what about women who hold the financial cards? Do they also not give a crap about what their men look like…even when THEY’RE paying the bills? Does this not get back to the same damn thing it always gets back to, no matter what?
SECURITY…emotionally, spiritually, intellectually and, in most cases, financially.
Maybe women don’t want men competing with them on what they perceive to be their playing field. Maybe they like being the visual stars. Maybe they don’t want other women looking at their men, and by keeping them under the radar, visually, they get added insurance. Maybe they think their men will wander if the hottie at the end of the bar is checking out their man’s lean physique in that tailored, Black Label Armani?
Well girls, we [men] have to deal with this constantly. If we date a hot woman, we can’t even go to the restroom without men scampering over to deliver their dipshit business cards in the hopes that she may not be entirely enamored with us.
This is routine.
So, did I just nail my point?
In the abstract both sexes would love to be in the arms of a fit, well-dressed, well-coiffed mate, but if the visuals sacrifice one iode of security for women, it just isn’t worth the risk. As I have said time and time again, men care more about the visuals, while women care more about the overall sense of security and comfort a mate bring them. Thus, they are willing to go along with a bad attempt at shabby chic, or something out of a Sears catalog.
July 28th, 2007
Friday night I woke up after a long nap and realized I had over slept — by, like, 2 hours. Instead of 6:30pm, it was 7:30pm…and I was starving. This is a bad place to be in a city like this where everyone dines out on Friday nights at 7:30pm. In a building, blood-sugar frenzy, I drove to five different places hoping to get a quick meal before meeting friends for a semi-private get-together a very short while later.
No luck. The valet’s were out in force and the cars were lined up like a funeral procession for a king. I was fucked.
Okay, there was one place I could try…Ziggy’s, a little “health food” joint managed by the same hippified, thought-police found at similar establishments like Whole Foods, Cafe Brazil, and others in lower Westheimer; Houston’s last vestige of terminal victimhood.
In these places one must - first and foremost - win the STAFF’S approval before expecting any level of service, whatsoever. Be very clear about the fact that it isn’t the other way around. In order to accomplish this, it is best to cower and speak softly, while drooping one’s shoulders in order to convey submissiveness, and the obligatory disenfranchised, spaceiness reminiscent of those zombie movies where the afflicted leave you alone if you walk with a limp and look like you’re on a morphine drip.
So in walks this big, self-assured [and very hungry] predatory-looking thing who doesn’t look like he plays by anyone’s rules but his own. In short, their poster-child for all things repellent in this elitist atmosphere of pacificism, conformity and victimhood. I could see their defenses rise as they gathered around one another upon my approach, as if to fortify their defenses - or simply watch - what appeared to be a rapidly approaching storm.
A scrawny, depressed-looking, little Asian guy with a bandana was standing behind the counter as I opened the dialog with a request for a turkey burger. But before I could finish my sentence, he interrupted me with a question:
“What’s your name?” Assuming it was some kind of quick marketing question like the zip codes requested by many other stores to determine the geographic rage of their customer base, I played along. “My name is Jay Basil Rusovich…R U S O V I C H [I spelled it out slowly].
“May I have a turkey burger?”
“Are you here for a pick-up?” he asks as though ignoring my request.
“No, as you can see, I’m trying to order a turkey burger.”
For a pregnant moment, he just stared at me, at which point I asked him if he was okay. Picking up on my obvious sarcasm, the guy bristled as he started typing in the order. I then asked him if he had any soup.
“French onion, only.”
Things were about to boil over…
“No thanks, how about salad?”
“What do you want it dressed with?”
“Uh, wait a second. What kind of salad are you giving me?”
That was it…the guy snapped.
“I think you’re being rude and I have to ask you to leave.”
Are you kidding me?” I countered. “I’m trying to order a turkey burger and get a description of the salad you intend to serve me…” [I placed a heavy emphasis on the word, SERVE, which really pissed him off].
I wasn’t playing hippie 101: Submission, submission, submission. One must honor those who serve us because they are just as good as we are and we should feel honored to have them in our presence. Furthermore, we must prove this to them in order to gain THEIR respect…not the other way around.
Ignoring my rationalization, he asked the Hispanic guy standing next to him if HE thought I was being rude, to which he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The guy looked as though he’d witness this scene one too many times and just needed his job. So, not getting the response he wanted, the Asian guy grabbed the phone and pretended to call the police, while ordering me to leave the premises “immediately.”
This was surreal. However, not in the mood to put up with any more conflict on an empty stomach, I walked very close to the little bastard as though I were going to hurl him through the plate-glass windows and walked out without another word.
In conclusion, places like Ziggy’s are owned and operated by people who simply shouldn’t be in the service industry. For one thing, they despise the very concept of service. It’s about THEM doing what THEY want to do, while the rest of us are supposed to respect the fact that they do anything at all. But life doesn’t work that way. Childhood is a fleeting moment in a human being’s lifespan, and as we get older we understand that things must be earned.
Unfortunately, Ziggy’s isn’t getting the message and they’ll never see another dime from me.
Peace out.
July 26th, 2007
Oh, the lives we live. As men, our sexual organs are what control the destiny of our lives. Women know this, and when predisposed to exploiting it, they usually have their way with us. These women in question are walking vaginas. They craft their bodies, wardrobes and attitude in a distinctly sexual direction, knowing that the results will pay dividends, time after time.
White trash women are particularly adept at manipulating the male organ. They know the difference between a passive, healthy female body, and the fully-armed, locked and loaded “weapon” that screams “I’m going to F— the living s— out of you.
To begin with, their clothing is blatantly sexual, with mannerisms and body language that seem to offer the illusion of sacrifice of power to the men around them. They aren’t overly chatty, other than to allude to their bodies, clothing and wild exploits. They don’t opine, period. Their objective is to inspire fantasy; to kick start the predator-prey endorphins. They remain steadfast, much like lions on the Serengeti – knowing that the other women in their company – the soft ones from the “right side of the tracks” - will ultimately lose out at the end of the evening as the man in their crosshairs dumps the egalitarianism – and its attendant emasculation. She knows he wants animal sex, base impulse, an ecstatic struggle of primal dimensions, with its pounding, grappling, biting, tearing, blood-searing mindlessness; the kind of sex he knows he can get from the pheromone-rich predator with her lips moist, her eyes wide open…and her ass up high. He absorbs her innuendo directly into his bloodstream as his fantasies rage; images of savage back-alley copulation, exploitation, risk, and perhaps, ruin all play a role in this perverse passion play.
In all of this, friendships take a back seat. Even their mothers wait patiently by the phone for calls that never arrive. The carnage goes on and on until the predator is sated, and only then do the apologies start rolling in – along with the realization that no one any longer cares. Much like an alcoholic or drug addict, the prey eventually hits rock bottom and comes to the realization that they are utterly powerless.
Like a feral animal, the assignation “white trash female” is generally characterized as a person who comes from a background of base opportunism, moral relativity, intellectual vacuity, and instincts that determine life or death in a world devoid of gray.
Hey, you either pay $20 bucks for the lap dance, or hand your life over something resembling the seductive creature from the Species series. I know, I know. She [it] was hot!
This notwithstanding, I’ve learned that the lap dance is a lot cheaper - and far less damaging - to family and friends…not to mention, livelihood.
July 25th, 2007
At its inception, Bering and James gallery was a hole in the wall, situated in an out-of-the-way retail mall in Rice Village. In fact, the place was so unassuming that one might accidentally walk into the discount sportswear outlet next door. In those days, it resembled a small warehouse piled to its rafters with whatever artwork could be scavenged from the local community; artists that most established gallery owners would never seriously consider…and certainly not without a dismissive snicker.
Unfazed by the carte blanche criticism of their integrity as serious dealers, Blakely Bering and Austin James remained steadfast in their commitment to making art affordable to the masses; even if the art in question wasn’t exactly making it into the history books. In fact, much of the work in the early days gave the impression that any West University housewife could gain representation as long as she was willing to purchase her own paints and canvas.
But that was then, and ya’ gotta’ start somewhere.
Capitalizing on their success in this marginal niche, they decided it was time to move to the next level, which would involve a new space and an upgrade in the quality of work. With this in mind, they opened a state-of-the-art gallery on Taft and West Dallas; a beautiful and spacious environment on par with Houston’s finest independent galleries. Concurrently, the quality of work vastly improved as the prices rose. Nevertheless, their prices are, to this day, consistently lower than what one finds at many long-established galleries.
Unpretentious and unapologetic, Blakely and Austin offer payment plans, home delivery, installation…and just about anything else they can think of to keep the art on the move.
For those of you sick of the attitude and manipulation of dealers trying to sell you “important” art at extravagant prices [i.e., art that has appeared – at least once - in galleries in New York, Chicago and/or Los Angeles, and been favorably reviewed] or, say, 15th generation prints of Marc Chagall for $350K, drop by Bering and James…and exhale.
July 24th, 2007
When men complain about something as basic as the cost of a dinner for two at a nice restaurant [Hell… Bennigan’s!] they haven’t even scratched the surface of what women spend in time and money before sitting down at the table.
I had a photo shoot the other day for my upcoming show in October. In it, my male assistant, Jarred, was dressed as glam rock-star, with all the obligatory make-up and over-the-top accessories. Before we had even started shooting, he made a comment about the “mountain of hell” women have to put up with just to leave the house, referring to the “tortuous” make-up application he had to endure.
He tapped into a universal truth rarely considered by men, which is the inordinate amount of time women spend on their appearance just to pass muster with the opposite sex. This might include you, bud, who look like crap most of the time — but are never called out on it.
Why is this?
1] Because you pay for the meals?
2] Because men aren’t supposed to care about their appearance?
3] Because women don’t want men to care? If this is so, why?
4] Because women are held to a different standard?
5] Because women fear rejection from men if they don’t?
6] Because women fear rejection from other women if they don’t?
7] Because women lose their feminine identity if they don’t?
8] Because women lose their feminine power and mystique if they don’t?
9] Because women don’t want to be treated like men?
10] Because women enjoy the attention, as it panders to their culturalized narcissism?
To put things in perspective, women are not only expected to earn a living, but they must also, concurrently, be perfectly coiffed at all times no matter what. They must match every stitch of clothing on their bodies – and it can’t be the same clothing all the time, which means that they must purchase new clothing on a regular basis. They must also do something reasonable with their hair, which may include expensive coloring and cuts. Then we get into all the crap they face just getting ready; like mascara, base, eye shadow, concealer, moisturizer, shaving – there’s no end to it. Now that they’re ready to present themselves to the world of men, they have to deal with “fat-ass,” the onerous abomination of a boss who has a penchant for leering obnoxiously at her chest during management meetings.
Men, on the other hand, roll out of bed, put on the next white shirt in line, run a comb through their hair, and hit the door – with or without brushing their teeth. And “fat ass” doesn’t give a crap what the hell he looks like as long he doesn’t look like the guy under the bridge with the sign in his hand down the street..
So what’s the point of all this?
Women are held to different standards; standards they generally accept…and men expect of them. Does this make women objects of desire?
On a certain level, yes.
Pardon my redundancy, but the answer is simple…MEN ARE VISUAL!
1] IF MEN ARE GAY, BOTH PARTNERS WILL BE HELD TO THE VERY HIGHEST STANDARDS, VISUALLY. THIS IS WHY GAY MEN LOOK BETTER – ON AVERAGE – THAN STRAIGHT MEN.
2] IF WOMEN CHOOSE TO DATE MEN, THEY MUST DO WHAT THEY HAVE TO DO TO LOOK THE VERY BEST THAT THEY POSSIBLY CAN.
3] IF WOMEN ARE GAY, THEY TEND TO LOOK A LOT LIKE MEN! THIS IS HARDLY AN ABSOLUTE, BUT THAT’S WHAT GENERALIZATIONS ARE FOR – TO ILLUSTRATE A POINT. WOMEN ARE NOT AS VISUAL AND GAY WOMEN OFTEN RESENT THE DOUBLE STANDARDS.
This is life. Deal with it. It’s not that complicated.
So, the next time you take a woman out to dinner, try keeping some of this in mind. She’s probably put a lot more into the evening than you would ever dream of enduring…so count your blessings as you casually notice her flawless nails, perfectly-aligned and whitened teeth, moistened lips, alluring eyes and exquisite scent.
July 22nd, 2007
When it comes to dating, men are often surprised by the choices women make. But on closer examination, it all begins to make sense.
What draws people to one another is a complex set of cultural dynamics that can be broken down to a rather simple equation. The following is, admittedly, a gross simplification, but the overall point remains.
If you’re a well educated guy from a family of affluence and sophistication, the women you can expect to attract will – in all likelihood – share your circumstances. This is a natural and healthy segue based on commonality.
Conversely, a woman from less-than-stellar circumstances will choose a man who is reflective of her own particular history. She’ll might, for example, feel uncomfortable with the first guy as he casually speaks in what appears to be Chinese, while the guy from down the street - the one with the pit bulls chained to a tree in his front yard - will carve a fortress around her porn star ass as he bounces shooters of Jack Daniels off her perforated navel. Hey, since her ass is where she derives the majority of her validation – everyone’s happy.
Hell, they might even launch a career robbing Stop and Go’s.
But whatever they end up doing, you aren’t part of the plan. Get over it. It doesn’t matter how attractive you are [or how much you want to bend her over the hood of your Porsche] ; how much money you may have; or how big your office is downtown. What she wants, you can’t give her; not without dragging her back in time and forcing her to grow up in your family. And by the way, you’ll have to get rid of a bunch of weird genetic material while you’re at it.
The exceptions are as follows:
Shocking as this may sound, there do exist women who want what they never had growing up [i.e., education, background, etc…], and are willing to do, frankly, anything to acquire it. This means that the tables are turned on the guy with the pit bulls as she places the “Fund Manager” in her cross-hairs.
She is either 1] an adult entertainer with performance skills on and off the stage, 2] a stealth gold-digger who’s read all of Georgette Mosbacher’s books on trapping men of wealth; or 3] or, perhaps, a marginal crack whore who’s sick of getting the shit kicked out of her by ex-cons who also like screwing her [out-of-wedlock] teenage daughters.
Remember, WATER SEEKS ITS OWN LEVEL, so whenever appraising relationships, just apply this acid test and all will be revealed.
Final note: For those of you who think you’ve outsmarted me one this one, rest assured that I realize even Catholic School girls from the right neighborhoods occasionally date guys with more than one social security number, but they usually end up on the couch with prescriptions for serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, benzodiazepines or thorazine.
July 21st, 2007
In an effort to drum up business, fast, The Tasting Room in Uptown Park tore down some walls and installed a massive rectangular bar in several thousand feet of new space.
The strategy worked.
As most people who’ve visited Houston’s Tasting Room locations know, they’re not exactly singles scenes. The bars are very small, and the seating tracks in the direction of no-nonsense and/or academic. From my perspective, the primary focus was supposed to be on the wine, and the stilted seating was meant to encourage discussion, rather than flirtation. It was also far less expensive - and given today’s conservative business models - it was a consistent - if dicey - strategy.
The truth is most people are more interested in social interaction – with or without the wine – so The Tasting Room had to take lessons from its money-making stepchild, Max’s Wine Dive. This hot, little gold-mine on Washington Avenue features a short-order menu, a massive bar, and padded seating in its booths. As a result, it also boasts more customers than it knows what to do with.
In the end, academia is fine, but most wine connoisseurs don’t routinely hang out all night long drinking wine and scamming dates, which is precisely what bars require in order to keep their doors open. Put another way, more people have less money for expensive wine, which is why [pardon the analogy] Wal-Mart is bigger than, say, Gucci.
So, back to Uptown Park.
I was there on Thursday night and god-almighty-help-me if my nose didn’t start bleeding from all the gold-diggers, suburban husbands “out for a drink” before pounding the freeways back to hell, middle-age rednecks of means out for a little rabble-rousing, multiply-divorced men of affluence in their canary yellow Ferraris [decked out like corpses in open caskets, their shiny accoutrements, sleazy cologne and platinum cards a testament to their perceived value as determined by the leaches who enable them]…and then, of course, there were the cadre of well-known men-about-town who are young enough to know better, but who, nevertheless, continue disappointing their mothers with the women they marry…time and time again.
With all this said, the place was busting at the seams. They got the business they wanted. Now what? Is it a bar? A wine bar? A bar, bar? What? Please define this place for me? Is the Tasting Romm experiencing a bout of Multiple Personality Disorder? The geezers from Arturo’s are there. The international set from Uptown Sushi are there. The strippers from Richmond Avenue are there. And nobody has a clue - or gives a damn – about WINE!
Does it matter?
In the end, it does to me. I like the intellectual banter. I like the rarefied vibe. But I also like the comfort. So putting it all together, I’m looking for 1] comfortable seating, 2] good lighting, and 3] a very knowledgeable, intelligent, attractive, well-dressed and customer-friendly staff [think Tasting Room, West Alabama].
Staff is GOD.
Consciously or unconsciously, the staff – given the right environmental tools - will carve out the clientele. It is they who make or break the long-term prospects for an enterprise like this. As we used to say back in New York, every new club eventually succumbs to “bridge and tunnel” traffic, but the staff determines whether or not they make it back a second time.
July 18th, 2007
Last week my dress watch finally crapped out [the cheaper ones always last the longest- and keep the best time], so rather than sending it back to the manufacturer and spending hundreds - if not thousands - having it repaired, my editor and producer, Sarah, suggested that she run it over to The Little Watch Shop on South Shepherd to see what they could do for me.
“The what? Where?” I was admittedly, incredulous. Brand name jewelers were running through my head and none of them were anywhere near that location.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t 30 minutes after Sarah’s return that we received a shocking phone call. It was the aforementioned establishment informing us that – upon examination - my watch simply needed a new battery and that it was ready for pick up.
Could I be hearing things? Life was not supposed to work this way. I was expecting something more along the lines of…”whatever the hell this thing is, we can’t fix it.” Instead, I felt jettisoned back to a simpler place in time wherein what mattered most was service with a smile.
What a concept, I thought. I needed to know more about this place.
As we drove up to what looked like an old homestead still occupied by some eccentric recluse who refused to leave, we walked over a fractured, 3-space parking lot and up a few concrete steps into the Twilight Zone. No glitzy, state-of-the-art, halogen-fired cases of precious metals surrounded by people in expensive suits, with armed guards at the door. In fact, nothing was even remotely reflective of anything from this century. How could this place still exist? And then I thought about those prehistoric fish scientists occasionally find down in Florida - or India - and it started to make sense.
There were metal desks that looked as though they had been passed down for generations. Old screw-top fluorescent lamps clung to their edges as though they’d taken root in the metal. And then there was the massive safe. It is over a hundred years old and about as thick as a Volkswagen.
Who were these people and what was this place? They smiled. They were eager to help me with whatever I needed. No one pressured me to purchase anything, in spite of the fact that there were a few cases filled with watches and jewelry.I don’t know what it was about it all exactly, but I wanted to explore its offerings, and even ended up purchasing a new watch.
The Little Watch Shop was established in Houston in 1947, and has operated continually from the same location since then. It is currently owned and operated by Ben and Jan Conner, who purchased the store in 1980.
If you’ve never been, treat yourself to this fascinating little place. If nothing more, it’s a break from the mall twit in the Armani who would sell you a nightmare if he could get away with it.
July 16th, 2007
Here we go again.
MSN’s homepage today features another - in a long series of - articles on how we’re supposed to handle middle-age; a profitable topic, given the fact that most of us are [based on census bureau statistics], middle-age. When one reaches this mythological point [I still can’t peg either its beginning or end], there are certain perspectives and behaviors that society wants us to adopt.
One of them is to accept the fact that we’re no longer young. By young, I assume they’re referring to the 18-35 demographic. Ok, done. I’m no longer “young.” Now what? Do I stop attending weekly boot camps? No. But I’m supposed to accept the fact that I don’t recover as quickly as I did at 25. And that I need more rest. Ok, got it. Furthermore, I should hang up my jeans in favor of Dockers, start dating age-appropriate women and contemplate my existence on a golf course.
All of this written from the perspective of the 31 year old.
What’s even more hysterically ironic is following article’s headline: “A User’s Guide to Plastic Surgery.”
Ok, let’s get things in perspective. How many 18 year old girls undergo plastic surgery procedures every year? Check the statistics. They’ll blow you away. How many 18 year old guys commit suicide? Die in drug-related car accidents? Suffer debilitating depression? I could go on.
My point is…this is a time to celebrate! The fact that you made it through your youth at all is cause to pop the Louis Roederer Cristal (1993). How I got through mine is utterly beyond me. I was interested in nothing - and no one – but myself. I was broke. I had little direction. I commanded zero respect…AND I was depressed. But I was, nonetheless, young, which is about all I could say for myself.
Since that time, things have changed…a lot. And yes, with those changes came some sacrifices. You can’t be at all places in life at one time. In other words, no matter where you are, there’s always someplace you aren’t.
BFD.
If I want to drive a Porsche [something I couldn’t afford when I was “young”] I’m going to drive a Porsche. If I date someone society considers too young, I’m not going to be the one complaining. If I spend what society considers an excessive amount of time taking care of my body [the thing in which I reside – and the only place I’ve ever called home]because it seems a bit narcissistic, my response to them is, AT LEAST I CAN STILL USE! ALL OF IT!
My existence alone is a kind of natural altruism, which society needs to get down on its knees to. We run the freaking world, you idiots. And if you don’t believe me, subtract those you consider “middle-age” from the economy and you’d be just as well off with a nuclear winter.
I’m going to continue focusing on this topic because the media is having a field day with it. Middle-age is the best time in a man’s life. Accepting certain realities that come with requires only a modicum of introspection and self-awareness. Most of us don’t grow up like droids, devoid of consciousness, throughout the passage of time.
Repeat after me:
1] I will whatever the hell I choose to drive [I’ve never heard anyone at a sports car dealership complain].
2] I will date whomever I choose, regardless of age.
3] I will wear whatever I choose to wear, even if it makes me look like Marilyn Manson.
4] I am proud to have made it through my youth in one piece.
5] I am at the most rewarding point in my life.
Peace…
