Disinformation

Intellectualizing relationships makes for awesome dinner party schtick. Two reactions stand out:

I know! That's so true!

or

Silence.

The latter indicates that someone's feeling flushed-out or guilty.

Whichever.

We make mental lists of ideal qualities. She/he should be like this, look like that, think like the other. I'll know her when I meet her, she'll stand out like New York in Las Vegas.

In real life we meet prospects who kinda sorta fit our perfect template, and depending upon our level of desperation, we'll ignore whatever doesn't.

* shrug *

This is real life, baby, it ain't no fantasy. Eighty percent compatibility feels like it's the most we can hope for. That prolly goes for life in general.

However. There's always the however. Because the urge to be with someone (read: continue the species) overpowers everything, we are supremely adept at ignoring warning signs in prospects. He's a drug-using philanderer with a history of unemployment and using prostitutes. But he's my John now.

Settle. Go for it. Go on. But don't then expect your day in court when it doesn't work out.





Bottoms Up Deniers.

The Anvil

Gina Bellman photo credit.

I wouldn't have believed it had I not witnessed it with my own peepers. Some things are too jarring and discordant for contemplation, but here it was in front of me: proof that women are just like men.

Let me back up. In a bizarre twist of life, I find myself involved in an activity new to me, namely car-pooling. A new guy arrived in the pool last week - I hope he showers before donning his trunks just a lame 'pool' joke there but I have to do something to keep my sanity - joining my friend and I for a joyous two x forty minute ride. Every day.

To look at him is to be impressed. He's six-three or four (around .00057 Eiffel Towers for you internationalists) and big...by which I mean he's probably 300 ellbees. He is, man to blogger, blessed with good looks - even I can see that. Somewhere between a corpulent Colin Farrell and a gone-to-seed Clooney. But his looks aren't my point (even if they're his.)

An hour-and-a-half a day sitting in a car with a bloke pretty quickly leads to a character assessment. Is the bloke serious or flippant, calm or emotional, a doer or a dreamer? Conversation leads to conclusions. I'll tell you what this bloke is; he's an anvil. He's heavy, metallic and really not much good for anything. After a week, there's a lot of silence on our commute.

So it was with interest that I observed him out on Saturday night. He likes ladies, and even went so far as to offer that he is picked-up more than he picks, which I am shocked to reveal is true. In the course of a couple of hours I saw two women approach him and flash their interest. He is like an irresistible target for rogue women-cruise missiles. They all want to blow him....up.

Once again I'm faced with having to question my thinking that women are more refined than men. Nope. They want tall guys with looks. That's it.





Bottoms Up, Ironsmiths.

Superpowers for Men

Suzette's Photo Credit.

Complicated as the pursuit of women can be, one Superpower that always works to simplify the chase is humour. A woman laughing is a woman on your side. That's why, if I had my druthers, I'd choose irresistible funniness as my Superpower.

Note that I wrote ...simplify...

not

...guaranteed to have every women within earshot inviting you to get a room right then and there, saying come fuck me 'til I wilt.

No. Although that would be sweet. Irrational spur-of-the-moment anytime hotel sex is as sexy as a wardrobe of La Perla and Agent Provocateur. All I'm saying is that talk that results in the beautiful sound of a woman laughing lowers the drawbridge to the castle.

Naturally, nothing works with all babes. My humour, for example, tends towards the absurdist - it's more about wordplay than anecdotes. Telling stories from real life is absolutely not my forte, and my delivery is deadpan rather than manic. Sadly, this has limited lady-appeal, but at least it's something.

Which leads me to the VERY important point for guys, that FORCING humour never works. All you can do is to demonstrate what you've got, and hope it generates the right, gooey-in-the-forks response.

Notwithstanding, when it does work, and you have the lady convulsing, the road ahead is cleared of many obstacles. You've established an intellectual connection (without the pain of discussing Wuthering Heights) and she's seen that you are good company. Doubts about your ability to hold a job or suitability as a father are cast aside, because she'll want you to make her feel good with more funny talk.

What she might not understand is that you want to make her feel good with both of you naked sharing body parts. But that's the beauty of Superpowers - only afterwards do the recipients of them realize what they've witnessed.




Bottoms Up, Laughers.

Information Age with Larry Flynt

Image credit.

Larry Flynt. I heard part of a Larry interview on BBC radio, an unlikely combination if ever.

The topic was along the lines of the social value of pornography, another unlikely combination.

Questions about (and to) porn stars and their problems with STDs featured along with Larry, a critical mistake by the man from the Beeb. When did porn promoters like Mr Flynt concern themselves porn feedstock's medical issues? Frankly, the Limey's line made him sound like an effete wanker, and Larry effortlessly took him apart at each turn.

Oh, that's right. I have a point. When Mr Elite Reporter asked Mr Flynt about the redemptive value of porn, he replied in the following way: (I'm paraphrasing.)

Sex is the most primal and most direct way by which we communicate with each other. It also happens to be the means of communication we least understand and talk about the least.




Bottoms Up, Communicators.