Let's do a simple think experiment. Regardless of your sexual orientation ask yourself this question: Given the opportunity would I date myself? A yes or no will suffice.
Now, regardless of the answer ask yourself this: what percentage (1-100%) do I think I'm compatible with myself?
Many adults have self-diagnosed themselves with ADD, at least most of the ones I know. Often someone tells me they have a hard time focusing on anything for more than a couple of seconds. Multitasking is the way of life; if you're not being interrupted by at least three different things at once you're probably not being (or being seen as) productive.
In order to keep the split-second attention span of this growing
number of adults the media has to summarize everything. A few friends,
who I went to school with, use their creative writing degree to
condense information into single sentences for news readers or magazines. There's no room for
evocative descriptions like the ones I enjoyed in their short stories at school.
Some of them even get paid to make up top-ten lists instead of writing articles. "Top-ten Ways to
Kill Your Imagination By Writing Mundane Lists for People Whose
Attention Can't Be Held." Even that title would be too long for most
ADDults to finish nowadays.
Last weekend I was sitting in the shade outside a neighborhood coffee shop reading some Susan Sontag. A woman came out of the shop, popped open her cell phone and sat down near me. Whomever she was calling did not answer so she left a brief message of "Hi, it's me. Call me back."
I flipped the page in my book and took a sip of tea. I knew this
woman's type-- she can't be left alone by herself. She needs the
distraction of her cell phone or interaction with people around her. I know many men and women like her.
"You're reading?" she asked-- as if holding a book in front of my face wasn't the only clue she needed.
"Yep" I replied.
"Ah reading. I don't read anymore, I mean besides Us Weekly and People, and I only read the captions." She laughed.
A few years ago I would have openly balked at such a revelation. I'd have grimaced and begun admonishing her for her moronic choice of reading material, if those magazines could even be called reading material. She would have known I was intellectually superior and that I've read a great number of books by writers from all over the globe without my interest waning once. But in today's climate, where the browsing of entertainment news has become the de facto past time of most of the US population, I figured: what's the point? I'm just happy with the fact she is literate.
Gosh, that last paragraph makes me sounds like a pseudo intellectual asshole. Because honestly, if I were at a party I rather talk about the frivolity of "Project Runway" instead of the works of Goethe. But why are people so complacent with things that don't matter? Where have all the intellectuals gone? There's a wealth of knowledge in the world that can be accessed my most Americans, yet they're happy to numb their brains day in and day out by watching "Entertainment Tonight" or reality TV. Why don't they pick up a book and learn something new? Are they proponets of anti-intellectualism or just lazy?
The whole reason for this post is because I came across a website today called 10,000 Reasons Civilization is Doomed. It isn't your typical Dispensationalist or Christian Zionist list of reasons like I thought it would be. The first entry made me laugh, seeming very apropos, but reading through more and more I kept nodding my head in agreement as the list oscillates between the lighthearted and the polemic.
Check it out and let me know what you think.
Over the past few weeks I've written several blog entries. Yet all of them have turned into essays and I haven't much felt like publishing them. Inbetween entries much has happened. I've seen crazy things and participated in crazy things. But none of it seems all the interesting in retrospect.
I have an entry I'll be eventually posting about my crazy Asian landlords, who have earned the portmanteau of "Crazians", and the dramatics that have besieged my building. My roommates and I are at our wits end-- yet cheap rent keeps us staying there. More on that, later.
The most iconic monument that dominates the south-west corner of Ukiah's cememtary depicts Jesus on the cross along with the Marys (should that be Maries?) It is on the plot that belongs to a group of Catholic nuns.
Juniper trees flank the monument. One of the boughs has come to rest on his head. As if he didn't have enough happening to him already!
What I didn't notice at the time of taking the photo but discovered after uploading was the addition of a rose. Can you see it in the picture?
At eight years-old I was pretty convinced I would become a sex therapist after finding my father's copy of The Joy of Sex, which might as well be entitled An Illustrated Guide to Hairy Hippy Humping or What Not To Look Like If You Want To Get Banged Nowadays. For what it's worth, even though I fear the chiding of my lesbian friends, I don't think hairy armpits on women look good. Thank goodness I got that off my chest after all these years; I'll sleep easier at night.
I studied the text of The Joy of Sex religiously. I would sneak it out of the bookcase and take it into the bathroom to learn about such positions as "The Wheelbarrow", where the penetrating partner enters standing while the receiving partner has his or her back to the penetrating partner and is on the bottom lifted by the thighs, and "Threading the Needle", where the receiving partner places both hands and one foot on the floor and the penetrating partner stands behind with the receiving partner's foot above the shoulder, or a leg around the waist. The penetrating partner is in control of the intercourse.
Having never experienced masturbation I read the text carefully to learn what would subsequently become my favorite hobby a couple of years later. JoS is where I learned that semen smelled like "fresh cut grass" though my mom later likened it more to Purex.
I should mention at eight years of age the fascination with sex was not sexual. While I read about how amazing the acts where supposed to feel, I had no desire to start practicing. I felt much more like a young anthropologist than a prepubescent pervert. In my household sex was discussed quite openly. Why I felt I needed to sneak around with The Joy of Sex I'm not sure-- other than being sneaky for sneaky's sake. Though I do remember once telling my sister that our father's penis was surrounded by little boobies and my mom punished me for saying as much.
As I hit puberty I was constantly giving my mother sex tips on how to improve her and my father's sex life. In fact to this day I still do. A few months ago I gave my mom a lecture on how to give a good hand-job. She's still quite apprehensive about fellatio-- but as the years wear on, she wears down... to my father's groin that is.
But even with all I've read or experienced over the years, on occasion, I learn a new term. Like a few days ago I heard the word "tribadism". Now I've only heard of it as "bumping uglies" which is a slang term for female-to-female genital sex where two women rub their vulvae together to stimulate each other's clitoris to orgasm. I'm utterly fascinated by this-- but in no way does it make me aroused.
Bumping uglies seems to be a pejorative term. There are several other colloquialism that I've come to discover. Whether these are pejorative or not, that's for you to decide. A few of my favorites are:
Hilariously, well at least for me, I've been told that Latina lesbians sometimes call it "making tortillas" because the physical act is reminiscent of the motions used for hand-flattening tortillas (and Latina lesbians are sometimes called "tortilleras" though I have no idea if this is offensive-- and I don't really care because I think it's funny).
Wikipedia says a less common term from ancient Chinese text call it "polishing mirrors" mó jìng (磨镜), which explains why our lesbian house keeper Linn Pu Yong always carried around a soft cloth and a bottle of Windex.
After 2+ years of anticipation and because I have no other way of working this into conversation without it being awkward, I've written an equation for those who care:
FYI: (SUN) STJ + ME = BOINK BOINK
Oh and it was good. Real good.