When you’re facing hundreds and hundreds of pounds packed tightly together at the ends of a steel bar, there is no confusion about where you are in the scheme of things.

Allow me…

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“He’s handsome, fit, stylish, intelligent, attentive, sensitive – and of course, unavailable – which is the only problem I can find. If only I could convert him, I’d have the perfect man.”

……………

Women are always complimenting gay men on their seemingly endless list of desirable attributes.

But this should come as no surprise to anyone given the fact that gay men are also men.

If you consider the demands straight men place on women, in general, this begins to make sense.

I’ll run through the exercise for you. What the hell.

Straight men like women who are pretty, fit, stylish, and sensitive to their needs and desires.

Gay men, conversely, expect the same damn things of the men in their lives.

The only one left standing is the straight man, who’s only requirement seems to be his ability to produce extreme wealth, which apparently acts as a credit for his obvious failings everywhere else.

“Nothing bothers me,” says Bikram Choudhury. “I’m bullet proof, waterproof, wind proof, money proof, sex proof, emotion proof, stress proof, strength proof. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I never get sick. I have 4000 studios, a fleet of 40 Rolls- Royces, a 10,000 square foot mansion…and a global army of devoted acolytes into the many tens of millions. So no, I am not an egomaniac.”

That was then. This is how it played out:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2013/may/14/bikram-yoga-sexual-assault-lawsuit

Bikram Choudhury, like any successful cult leader is charismatic, narcissistic, ego-maniacal, manipulative and abusive, both physically and psychologically. He is also delusion but buys into it under the pretext of love, compassion and unity of purpose by divine provenance or whatever.

So, in other words, he buys his own bullshit and then passes it onto his followers. It’s all really quite spectacular in a deeply perverse sense.

What has this guy tapped into that enables him to pull this off?

He’s obviously aware of the fact that there’s more than enough angst in the world to fuel his movement. So he’s not completely insane.

But all of this does beg the question, Is yoga a religion? If so, would somebody please furnish me an outline of the faith?

I want something like a ten commandments type thing.

I do not want to hear some bullshit about achieving nothingness when you’re still on Match.com and driving a Porsche.

And if you do lay that line on me, please explain how nothingness jives with sexual assault, among other things of equal value in the context of things spiritual?

Thank you.

Caption: What you see here is the state of human evolution. For those of you who wonder why extraterrestrials haven’t shown their faces around here, would you?

In evolutionary terms, we human beings have been on this planet for 5 seconds and this is the result.

Evolution is pure abstraction to our species. We could never live long enough to experience it.

The best we can do is stockpile Selective Serotonin Uptake Inhibitors, Xanax and therapy on flash drives before it’s all over — in maybe 20 years.

Whatever life gives you, it also has it’s hands in your pockets.

Someone wants fame and fortune, but also privacy.

Another wants a woman with a perfect ass, but no drama.

People who have a lot of money worry about preserving it.

But money, for example, is kind of like living matter.

It’s slightly obnoxious when overused, and highly addictive when not used enough.

With this in mind, we’re always comparing our lives with those of extravagantly rich celebrities and wondering why ours are so lacking.

But as I’ve said a thousand times before, all you really need is enough income generating principal to buy a couple of homes, some nice cars, and a hot girlfriend with a Valium addiction.

Why anyone complains is beyond me.

It’s bad out here, folks. Believe me.

…………..

When you get older, you start to notice some really strange things like the interstellar veneers of older women.

Among more affluent circles, plastic surgery is an imperative. It is commonly referred to as “maintenance.”

When you can afford to stay in the game, you’re expected to look the part or it won’t matter how much money you have in the bank.

Women married to affluent men are expected to look exactly the same way they did the moment they received their college diplomas, sometimes decades ago.

In many homes of second and third marriages, it’s a high school GED, but the same applies.

The offspring of these women begin the practice in their teens, and then move on to anorexia and therapy. But I digress.

The point in all of this is that my demographic is flooded with bizarre appearances. Nothing is as it seems, or rather, it is what it seems which is the problem.

Breasts are fake. Lips are fake. Jaw lines are fake. Butts are fake. Hair is fake. Teeth are fake. Bodies are waxed, lasered, polished and bronzed. Products are created.

I once had the occasion to explore an intimate moment with a woman of the aforementioned variety and it scared the living shit out of me.

I will spare you the details, but suffice to say, I have never been the same since.

If you’ve ever attended a wake, you know what I mean.

It makes up a large portion of the shape and appearance of the buttocks.

When round, toned and bubbly, it becomes a weapon powerful enough to shape the course of human history. Starting innocently enough with driving accidents, domestic violence, divorce and homicide; it rapidly escalates to regional conflicts, and occasionally, World Wars when withdrawal symptoms become unmanageable after break-ups.

Men will go to any lengths to acquire a woman in possession of such an object, regardless of said woman’s psychiatric profile, criminal history, or interstellar genetics.

The power of the “apple bottom ass,” as it is colloquially referred, is not lost on women fortunate enough to be in possession of one. They leverage it whenever and wherever possible, including employment opportunities that would not otherwise exist – ‘employment’ being the operative, and loosely applied, term.

The irony is that women will absolutely, positively tear your fucking head off if they get the slightest inkling that the primary reason you have extended your hand to meet them has more to do with their butts than whatever else they may bring to the table. 
They don’t appreciate being overtly objectified, in spite of the fact that everything about their presentation suggests otherwise. They want the attention, but want it to feel more like…

“…Yea I notice you, and of course, your figure [never say, your ass!], but you also seem really sweet and your eyes are surreal…”

Talk about scented candles if you want — or the stars. Anything she can’t tie directly to the very thing that dropped you to your knees. And believe me when I tell you she already knows why you’re kneeling.

Yes, it’s convoluted. Yes, it’s annoying. But you will play by her rules – or, of course, you can just walk away. Yea, just try telling that to a heroin addict with a pile of blow on the coffee table. This metaphor in mind, I have witnessed the lives of successful grown men blown to pieces over this appendage.

Over the course of my own life I can count two long-term relationships that existed solely because of this obsession.

I pursued both women with a vengeance, not having the vaguest clue, or interest, frankly, whether or not we were otherwise compatible. At that point I didn’t care. Their bodies were flawless and I would damn well make the rest work.

But it didn’t [work]…and I couldn’t do anything about it.

What happens when you place a woman on a pedestal that high is that you never measure up to the fantasy you’ve created. You simply cannot compete no matter what criteria you use.

These relationships were illusions, wakes in hot, dry sand.

They were never meant to work in the first place, never meant to be. We were together and apart both in and out of bed. We never connected. They were never intended to be in my life in any permanent way. I simply acquired them as objects and then expected everything else to fall into place, which could never happen without all the missing pieces.

Men are particularly bad about this. Our visual obsession is like drug addiction.

I didn’t care about anything else when these relationships started. Nothing was more important than being in possession of that holy of holiest grails. I could make any relationship work with enough motivation and I had enough to last a lifetime.

But those were the most disastrous relationships of my entire adult life.

If only I could make what seemed perfect, perfect.

The really interesting part of this tale is that I have seen both women since those relationships ended and neither one of them any longer fits the profile of the women I once pursued.

And now you know the moral of the story.

When women who resemble 12-year-old boys become the new must-have aesthetic amongst a certain urban demographic, it’s worth a conversation.

………

At my [shall we call it] Health Club, older affluent men [married or otherwise] exhibit a certain penchant for women in their 20′s who could easily pass for pre-adolescents.

This is obviously fetishistic on some level.

Smaller men appear more physically dominant because they are more physically dominant.

Their endowment also increases by a corresponding reduction in pound and stature.

The woman then becomes a sort of plaything, like a Barbie they can twist and turn at will, including emotionally, where they’re particularly malleable.

So on every level they are frail.

What is it about this state of being that these men find so attractive?

Why are there so many such women at upscale health clubs?

Why do so many start out life very differently only to become this way?

It seems like an inevitable progression.

It starts with plastic surgery during their teens; gifts from narcissistic parents, followed by therapy, and then more plastic surgery when the surrealism begins to compete with reality to the point where there is no reality, which is when the weight loss begins and the evidence of plastic surgery replaces the being that once was with whatever materials were used to create her. Now she is “it” and men reward her psychopathology with gifts to further encourage behavior that fuels their bizarre control fantasies.

I could go on I guess.

At some point, every place you frequent will become corrupted by suburbanites.

In New York, for example, clubs and restaurants closed after “bridge and tunnel” traffic destroyed the vibe.

In Houston, business models take this kind of thing into consideration so it doesn’t really matter. I guess people in Manhattan thought they’d be better insulated, but Jersey was just a bridge away.

The divide between Suburban and Urban is much worse than jarring. It’s hysterical and getting worse it would seem.

Frames of reference are light years apart. In fact, everything about big city life sets whatever happens in Suburbia in another star system.

I guess it’s like going to war for the first time. Everything is shocking until it isn’t and then your just as screwed as the rest of us.

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