Posts Tagged ‘fantasy’
In more affluent demographics, female trainers are the most sought after commodities in the human food chain, particularly for middle-aged men.
Why wouldn’t they be?
A prerequisite for employment at most upscale health-clubs is a college degree in something like Kinesiology.
So they’re educated, which is more than you can say for most strippers.
Second, they’re super ridiculously fit, unlike most wives.
And third, they have healthy lifestyle habits, so [in your mind, anyway] you won’t have to chase them down at nightclubs and pool parties at 3 in the morning.
The fantasy is a supercharged version of the woman you met at Dartmouth 25 years ago. An upgrade from the standard 6-speed to PDK with more horsepower and better suspension.
All female trainers in these environments are keenly aware of this fantasy and leverage it like a hammer of the gods.
This is why the lion’s share of clients for these women are men over 40 — and sometimes women who want to save their marriages.
Postscript: The types of men and women trainers attract has everything to do with presentation.
Trainer Stereotytpes and the Clients They Attract
1] Super hot 25 – 32 year-old female.
Clients: Men over 40
2] Chiseled man of color with attitude.
Clients: Attractive young females who know he knows how to get them in the kind of shape they want to in in to attract men like him…or him as the case may be.
3] Male or female bodybuilder.
Clients: Men and women interested in sculpting and putting on some mass.
3] Older male or female trainers without no other agenda than keeping their clients out of emergency rooms.
Clients: Normal, well-adjusted men and women over 40 who see the big picture rather than a subplot.
Older guys are always kind of giddy when they meet someone at a bar who appears to express an interest in them.
In fact, the magic is so powerful that they neglect to get anything more than a first name after sharing 2 bottles of wine and a shrimp cocktail at their expense.
They call me the next day to tell me that it finally happened: “I finally met someone I’m genuinely interested in who is also interested in me!”
Of course, the later part of the sentence is the key to the whole thing because they’re already interested in anyone young enough and hot enough like most men.
Okay, so now it’s Sunday morning and all they have is a first name and 90 minutes of conversation.
Why do you think this is?
Would it have something to do with the fact that she doesn’t want to be tracked!?!
If she was truly interested in the man she would have given him a business card and/or last name.
But because the world is wired and everyone is traceable, the less information she divulges the harder it is to put the pieces of her life together.
This is academic in today’s world.
There are several possibilities here:
1] She may want to fuck around without being labeled a slut, which means she has to protect her identity from men she may have other interests in, like money.
2] She may not want to be stalked by the guy who just bought the bottles of wine because she enjoys the wine more than the guy who bought them for her.
3] She may be playing several guys at the same time, which means that she has to become several different people. This is why many women use first and middle names, only — or middle then first names and so on when registering with Facebook and other social networking sites…but mainly, Facebook. Then she can close ranks with a few “close friends” who share in her escapades and live their own lives as other people.
4] Women married to very wealthy husbands who travel all the time are prime candidates for this type of activity. While hubby is in Brazil on business she has two or three lovers back home who only know her as “Angelle” from Adultfriendfinder: Its just fragments of data in cyberspace and nothing more.
5] Such women who are members of certain communities, like health clubs, often keep a low profiles for reasons you may not consider. One of them is anonymity. Excuses of shyness or antisocial personality disorder no longer work. Most people already know it’s about stealth.
There is a woman at my own health club who carries on two relationships at the same time — in public. How does she do this? Her husband is from a foreign country, never speaks to anyone, and travels extensively. He is not doing poker night with the boys. In fact, he is not known at all. For her part, she is virtually invisible. No on knows her name, or anything about her. In fact, most people wouldn’t even recognize her at a restaurant because her look changes like the hide of a chameleon. Thus, she is able to pull off the ruse with self-confidence and grace.
She also chooses her dates carefully, which the Internet helps parse.
Now you know why a woman may not want you to find her.
In the old days most people didn’t have access to FBI databases. Now they know your entire ancestry going back three centuries in a keystroke.
No wonder they only exist in your head.
Yes, the woman on the far left is the grandmother.
Yes, the tall guy in the middle is the son of the woman to his left.
See how it works?
I wish I could be more encouraging to you average, middle age, single studs who continue to mine the bars like rats still working the Chernobyl area before heading over to Tunguska.
Bars are about 1] youth and beauty, 2] celebrity appearances, and 3] older men with deep pockets. Period. The rest is just backwash in the scheme of things.
I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve said this, but like your therapist, I’ll just keep repeating it until we’re both blue in the face.
Once a man hits his 50’s he needs something to leverage. And the first line in the sand is money. Then he needs other things if he wants more than a street prostitute, which I’ll cover in a minute.
At every stage of life men leverage assets. When they’re young, they have youth, but not necessarily beauty. So they go to a gym, or join a rock band or sell pot to cheerleaders.
You do what you have to do to compete.
But eventually, even the guys with “everything” need a good family with enduring assets and unlimited future potential, and god knows what else to keep the fires on the beach alive.
And while some just have game [great deception with a short fuse], they can only pull that shit for so long before it stops working for any woman with an I.Q. above 100.
This is called foreshadowing, which is not a spoiler since everyone already knows the punchline.
Back to the middle-aged guys.
They are well educated, have reasonably successful careers, and are physically fit.
But none of this works because they’re judged on a scale that’s way over their heads.
In other words, by Topeka standards, they’re a-listers with the potential to date anyone.
By Los Angeles standards, they’re paying a dancer.
But quite honestly, this is the way things are supposed to be.
Men at this stage of life are supposed to be out of the game…or in it with someone resembling a matron from a cable ad for the Arthritis Foundation. But, of course, this is not what they’re looking for, which is why they’re always and forever looking.
If you expect more from life than you can deliver, you’re going to be disappointed.
However, you could just shut the hell up about it and wait for the meat pigeons over a joint, a Pink Floyd album…and a third finger in the air.
I know people who can’t distinguish life on the Internet from the other one.
Mass media has become real life, and it is now our job to emulate it.
If a 40-year-old woman in a cosmetics ad has no facial lines, it is assumed that most women her age should have no facial lines.
Let’s just put aside the fact that the model in question may also be a medicated psychotic with homicidal rage.
Men, for example, look at what’s presented and wonder why they don’t have someone with her physical attributes in their own lives — in spite of the fact that she doesn’t even exist.
And women feel the heat and then wonder what they can do to achieve it — in spite of the fact that Photoshop doesn’t work on live human beings!
After a while we all start to buying into the delusion, because with so much surreality delivered round the clock, we get used to seeing perfect imagery couched as human.
1] Resentment can and does lead to the dissolution of relationships that don’t measure up.
2] Plastic surgery bills outweigh 5 year car notes.
3] Psychotherapy is as common as grocery shopping.
4] Anorexia and bulimia are now stylish.
I could go on.
Maybe that’s why some have postulated that we’re in some kid’s future video game.
It makes sense.
Given our propensity to buy into fantasy, we seem better adapted to live in two dimensions.
By the way, I’ll take the real model on the left.
I love this guy.
He’s everything I’m not and I’m jealous.
By “he,” I mean the character I see on Animal Planet’s Call of the Wildman.
I wish I were that person sometimes.
He deals with what’s in front of him without all the intellectual and emotional clutter that complicates life, sometimes to a point of nausea.
He dives into murky, maggot-infested ponds after things that could slice his arms off – and without so much as a hint of fear – and walks out [generally, speaking] unscathed.
The guy looks like he could down a bottle of Jack Daniels and a Whataburger everyday for the next 20 years and be just fine.
He’s never depressed or angry or resentful or overly curious or existential or anything else most of us fight our way through.
He just sort of exists in his own little psychological ecosystem doing what he loves to do without questioning any of it, and appreciative of all the attention and love.
He’s how I get out of my head, and I thank him for that.
I wish him well and hope his show is continued for many seasons to come.
And though I’m sure he would find me a curiosity at best, on some level he would probably know that this city slicker misanthrope was happy he was around.
I’ve been going through a midlife crisis since I was 28.
That was like, um, a long time ago, and I’m still afflicted.
So maybe it’s working for me, like a reminder.
What I’ve learned is that there’s never enough of anything to cover the need for more relevance no matter how much you happen to have.
No matter what any of us choose to do with our lives, when we reach the middle years and aren’t working [say, because we don't have to], the hunger to get back in the game tends to creep up.
And believe me when I tell you there aren’t enough beautiful women in the world, or money in an investment portfolio, or hotel properties on your play schedule to fill in all the vacant space when you’re not doing something you consider meaningful.
Men who accomplish things in their lives, who are driven by nature, must push on to survive. And I’m not talking about a ventilator, though it may come to that at some point.
The point is that we must stay relevant if we are to continue living, because to not do so is to die, usually slowly, over time — and often under the influence of things that determine how long it will take.
So if you mix vodka with enough water, it can take a while.
But while this may sound fine for you, it sucks for everyone around you. So make sure you can afford to do it alone.
No wonder The Stones keep touring, and Letterman keeps showing up night after night, and all those news anchors never seem to go away.
And have you ever noticed that famous actors tend to spend more time in rehab when they’re not working?
It doesn’t end with an award or more money or a trophy wife. It ends when the fight dies, and you know when that is.
There’s only so much beach to cover on foot, or cocktails at sunset with a French hooker — or Craps in Vegas with a vacuum cleaner in your side pocket — before you know it’s time to check back in and prove to yourself that you still exist, that you still matter.
And don’t tell me you don’t give a shit what the world thinks about you sitting on your ass all day long, because you know it isn’t true.
We all need a reason to go on living.
It can be anything, really: organic farming, writing a book, family, love…
Whatever the hell it is it better be a reason beyond survival itself.
There must be a challenge, a struggle to overcome something…FIND IT.
I have friends who were musicians who now work in the film industry. Others were brokers turned screenwriters. I even know one guy who opened bed-and breakfasts across the State of Texas.
Sitting still too long is to die from the inside out. And while people in yoga have been known to sit still for centuries without food or water, I don’t do yoga.
So when we find ourselves fantasizing about what it might have been like to act, or produce, or play in a band, or whatever the fantasy may look like, perhaps this is the time to explore it.
And no, the chances of becoming a rock star at middle age aren’t particularly good; but neither is writing the Great American Novel at any age — or becoming a leading man in Hollywood with 500,000 guys in their twenties standing in line in front of you; many of them with relatives in the business.
The point is to find something that makes you feel like you’re contributing something to the world, that you are still relevant, or it’s time to check out of it altogether because no one wants to hear your whining.
Get a grip.
We all face adversity at every age.
We all get sick.
We lose jobs.
We feel depressed.
We live with memories we wish we didn’t have.
And we experience these things throughout our lives, not just at middle age.
Maybe it’s time to start counting the blessings. Write them down on a piece of paper, then tape them to you computer monitor – or post them on a blog so others can see they’re not alone.
See, you’re still here after all.
When I was a kid I had dreams of becoming an archaeologist.
I would collect plastic dinosaurs and make them kill each other.
So in this sense, I was a normal, well-adjusted kid.
The truth is I was born the moment my father died on July 3rd, 2003, which makes me a 9-year-old in spite of the fact that I’m in my middle 50′s.
No wonder I’m playing catch-up on everything I didn’t do when I was immortal, and why relevance is something I can never get enough of.
My father was a very bright, charismatic and domineering man who would eat his own young if they drew lines in the sand.
So I was muzzled if I wanted love, and what kid doesn’t?
By late adolescence I was a fledgling artist with clinical depression and a half-hearted commitment to a life I wasn’t sure even existed, if only because I couldn’t find myself in it.
But while many souls are lost forever in someone else’s fantasy, mine was stronger. It had a life of its own that went straight to war with everything I knew.
But as strong as it was, it wasn’t enough to kick me out into the light alone, outside the hard lines of my father’s shadow.
Nothing was that strong. Nothing, but death. One of us had to die. It would be me from the inside out, or it would be him from the outside in …which is what happened.
Propping up the heavy veneer finally caught up to him and it was over.
At that moment, I cried. Not for him, but for me.
I was an adult child suddenly turned loose on the world. Mine were tears born of emotional freedom, something that should have happened during adolescence so many decades ago.
I felt naked and exposed in a way I had never known. How could I stand without him? Who would prop me up when I stumbled? Who would fill the gaping cracks in my own life?
Dear God, it was me. I would do it. Alone. Without him.
All the pent up ideas and feelings and repressed dreams flew out of my heart like bats on earth’s last sunset.
So this was what life was supposed to feel like. Now it was tangible, real.
I no longer questioned it because I was finally in it. But now I felt like a child in an adult world where I had to play catch up at middle age.
As I see it, families are where big dreams begin and end.
In theory at least, they are supposed to build the structures that enable us to feel whole and complete, and thus, well adjusted to life on this planet. It is not the responsibility of the rest of the world to play stand-in parent at it’s own pace and discretion.
Unfortunately, we’re often left hanging by the former, which is one reason every famous name from my old neighborhood struggled to find a receptive audience.
This lack of affirmation fueled our struggle for recognition, which we got externally, since there wasn’t a damn thing inside to sink our teeth into.
Those scars never fully heal.
But they are a reminder that we’d rather be torn to ribbons than ignored, which suggests an upside, depending on your point of view.
In the end, though, there’s never enough affirmation to fill in all the cracks, which are in constant need of repair.
There’s just more and more plastering, which my father did until he could no longer get out of bed, and I continue to do to this day.
It’s like recovery from drug addiction. You’re always in the process.
Healing is a dream. A really big one.
People have many identities; including job titles, marital status and reputation.
But there are often many more we don’t know about, including job titles, marital status and reputation.
We are so tangled up.
You meet someone and the first thing you do is run a background check.
Then you check logins and usernames and whatever fragments of Internet data you can skim off the top just to get through the first layer of revelation.
So what kind of world is this?
It’s a hit and run kind of world where people are very loosely connected by everything except DNA, which still surprises me.
Your Match date could be a federal agent running surveillance on a neighbor; or a scam artist after your social security numbers and banking information under the pretense of a hook-up turned set-up.
Months and years can pass without so much as an inkling of anything amiss. And then, BANG! It blindsides you.
A shocking revelation.
Something completely unforeseen.
Of course, we’re all guilty of some form of “treason,” even if it’s withholding information other people don’t need to know, like the fact that you’re not a federal agent on assignment, or fresh out of prison because you just broke out of one.
With the explosion of keyboard access to potential deception, blind inhibition – and sooner or later – delusion [particularly for you narcissists with an affinity for Adobe Photoshop], our world has skewed even the most endangered among us – the “normal, well-adjusted” demographic.
No wonder I don’t know any.
I’m not sure things were much different when I was a kid, because therapy wasn’t as common as grapefruit juice, and we didn’t walk around with Iphones recording every square inch of a world that today is nothing more than a handful of undocumented memories and scattered photographs we should really do something with.
So hell if I know what it was really like.
These days, people know exactly what’s happening everywhere at any given moment, including blow-by-blows on why it’s happening, but are we any closer to the truth?
In 50 years, when all is said and done, will we really know anymore about the world – or the people in it – then we did back when Led Zeppelin released its 3rd album?
By the way, I have no still or video proof that I actually saw Led Zeppelin perform.
So did I see them perform?
I mean if you can’t validate my past through Internet searches, then maybe I’m the federal agent…or just another ex-con living under an alias.
So we’re back to square one, as usual.
Writers, actors, musicians, dancers, models, stand-up comics, reality show stars, talk show hosts – no matter which angle you choose, there are literally tens of thousands of others trying to do the same damn thing — with more tenacity, passion, focus – and, yes – talent…no matter who the hell you are.
And while I know this is irritating, you have to admit it is an effective way of weeding out the sane.
These and other questions finally answered as we enter 2012 with a Big Bang…or whatever metaphor suits you.
As we enter 2012 many people find themselves wondering why they’re not celebrities like everyone else?
See, if everyone else weren’t a famous celebrity they wouldn’t wonder this. But because they are, they do.
Taking this a step further, people wonder why – and how – children are “randomly” chosen by people like Angelina Jolie to become a part of celebrity family?
Or why Tori Spelling’s father is one of the most famous movie producers in the world, while theirs is an auto mechanic at a Shell Station in Burbank?
How did all of this happen?
Scientists are always trying to explain the nature of consciousness, but it never makes sense, even if we have no idea what they’re talking about.
So we make it up.
Here’s the most popular theory:
People like Tori spelling are chosen, which makes them special in an inexplicable sort of way, and thus, better than everyone else.
If it were just random coincidence, there would be no magic in it. People have to believe there’s more to the process of how some people get to be famous, in her case, by default.
So what exactly does “THEY” mean?
It means someone’s in one body while you’re in another.
But how did they get into that particular body?
Is there a way of throwing them out and then possessing it yourself?
Demons have been doing this for centuries, but with mixed results.
And while the argument could be made that you could work your way to the top of something, like a reality television show, you still don’t get to choose your parents.
So who does?
What I’m getting at is the possibility that we all have souls.
Yoga people can explain this better than I can. But as I see it, they’re the raw “us” in another form awaiting assignment to a particular body, which someone else chooses.
On what grounds the choice is made is beyond me, not to mention who is responsible for the choosing.
So now we’re talking about some form of consciousness before biology, which is in line with people who believe in ghosts, even if the process is backwards.
It’s still a “you” wandering around outside a body, which people from places like New Orleans learn to live with.
Nonetheless, if it is true that someone chooses where we go, you now know why Tori Spelling is not her goat.
Of course, it still leaves open the question of why this particular goat was chosen by Ms. Spelling to enjoy the benefits of her famous father who was declared the highest earning dead celebrity in 2009?
I wonder how many people would choose to possess the body of her goat rather than the body of a gas station attendant?
I don’t even want to think about it.