Bread

Sometimes… before I go to bed now… I look at pictures of bread.

I think its because I’m old now. And masturbation seems like a chore.

 

Musings of a Neckbeard

I had this profound feeling earlier (which unusually did NOT manifest itself in my loins) that I should tackle my proliferate unread email concern. Perhaps spurred on by a sudden sense of self preservation… I’ve let my inbox grow wild and unkempt and now strange faceless creatures inhabit its deeper shadows. I’m scared to go crawling around in there alone. Unless accompanied by an adult (preferably wielding a baseball bat with nails driven into it). But now I’ve decided to blog instead (albeit outside on the deck). Which to all concerned is a much safer undertaking. And potentially one that requires less grownup supervision.

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The sum total of my achievements today was going phonograph shopping. I was hoping to get there before it became uncomfortably dense with skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts. Alas, it was not to be and soon the claustrophobia of too many immaculate beards packed into too small a space overwhelmed me and I abandoned my hallowed attempt at LP consumerism.

The fact that I am now growing a beard (and was wearing an ironic t-shirt) is completely discounted by my mind. Besides I am in the early (itchy) neckbeard throes of facial hair while everyone else is already a hardened veteran of some months/years with an entrenched high end grooming regime. Also, mine is a protest beard. Ha ha. Which makes me laugh, because I never really took umbrage when Gillette felt the need to moralize to me through their commercials. But decided to stop shaving from that point on anyway…. because well… I am enigmatic.

However. I have since decided there may be something to this toxic masculinity thing. (I’ve always just explained it away, that some percentage of people are just bound to be assholes and this is then distilled into some sort of phenomenon)

I’ve changed my gym routine recently, hitting the gym early before work. Which means I’ve been showering at gym… and using the steam-room (which has stoked to my already high levels of misanthropy into a previously unknown stratum… seriously guys are disgusting)

In any event. Having been privy to shower room banter and hijinks once more… I have come to the following… eh… observations.

  1. Black penises are definitely bigger than white penises. (the fact that I put this as my number one should likely underscore that while I claim some moral and ethical high ground most of that is just posturing)
  2. While a top tier gym… I feel the average IQ of a locker room (to paraphrase Terry Pratchett), is the IQ of the dumbest person divided by the number of people in the  locker room. Its a pretty low figure. Keats and The Republic are definitely not on the cards.
  3. Misogyny still, despite what people claim, feels quite rife. Which I find strange, since most of these guys are married (and presumably like their wives) and some of them have likely sired girl children.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot. Gyms are weird places where men from various strata are thrust together into an environment and this seems to be an easy commonality that they resort to get by in a social context. The more I thought about this the more I’ve decided that this is some sort of self-esteem thing. Stripped bare and exposed… a lot of these guys are not the shining embodiment of Adonis. (some of them definitely are… but that’s also part of the problem) so I think there might be some insecurity thing going on here.

My only other experience of locker room culture has been post boxing (which I did for 15 years). But after five rounds of sparring… there was never… and I mean never, any desire to impress your fellows with witty repartee. You just wanted to get clean and leave (and my my case lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself). You wouldn’t necessarily expect that with the (assumed) barbarism that is involved in blood sport. I’m also only speaking from my unique experience, this might be the exception to the rule. Anyways, it got me thinking… and this is still very raw… maybe its a lack of masculinity that makes some of these guys act out the way they do. There is some biological thing that goes on in the male of the species which is evident across most of the animal kingdom. We deny our animal instincts through our reasoning… but that stuff finds a way to bubble through… stuff that is not stated by golf and a spinning class.

Anyways, I’m wandering off piste. And I am not necessarily cerebral enough (an argument could be made that this state of being will never happen) to consider this for much longer.

Also I’m hungry.

Tsundoku

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tsundoku (n) Japanese, buying books and not reading them; letting books pile up unread on selves or floors or nightstands.

I seem to have stumbled on the word for my particular psychosis. In my defense I mostly intend on reading/finishing them… one day… when I’m big. Unfortunately when characters were drawn up I took Carnal prowess instead of the Mindfulness perk. Of course now that my virility is seeping away (both with age and the frightening realization that sex may equal more children) I’m thinking maybe I chose incorrectly.

I am still hopeful that I may be able to absorb the knowledge of eons past through osmosis.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Drum roll… crash.

‘At least I’m not as bad as this guy…’, I confidently assert, handing my wife my MacBook so she can have a look…

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Of course in the pop quiz that follows I only get two right. Bass and Toms. (My wife is a drummer)

I should learn just to keep quiet.

Once upon a lunchtime dreary

..while I sat wondering, meek, (and not at all) leery…

img_2560.jpgIf a Hadeda really wants your left overs.. maybe you should just let him have them. Seems like a silly thing to loose an eye over. On the plus side I’m glad this happened to the table next to us… which meant I didn’t have to shrilly express my alarm in falsetto at the sudden addition of a plus-sized avian into my personal space… and then (potentially) inexpertly tumble backwards off my chair. All of which may have cast doubt on the (toxic) masculinity I’ve been at great pains to cultivate lately. I’ve actually never seen a Hadeda be this brazen before.

The guy who was seated at the table handled it with enviable poise uttering, ‘You cheeky bugger’… which I’m inclined to believe, is potentially the most British thing he could have said (under the circumstances) and I am unbelievably jealous of his cool factor. Is that an innate cultural thing? Like a German feeling serious physical discomfort when he’s running thinks he might be running late? In any event, I was impressed by his nonchalance. He then self deprecated even further post event (underscoring his Englishness) by telling me that it was nothing, and that the Gulls in Brighton (or maybe it was Bristol… something with a B) were especially predatory in relation to your takeaway dinner and he was quite capable of handling their antics. Which leads to me believe he has experience in matters such as these, possibly getting pugilistic with an impudent seabird in the past.

In any event, well played sir.

Great openers

I need to pee. Which, as opening lines go, probably won’t be counted among the greatest of all time. I was going to go with ‘Call me Ishmael…’, but apparently that’s been taken.

It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation – Herman Melville

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… and while not a white whale of mythical proportions and foul temperament… It is a whale, snapped mid breach, with an iPhone, while (somewhat) inebriated. Which has to count for something.

In any event. I was just about to launch into a self-involved tirade about my day… heap some scorn upon those who vexed me… maybe break out some self pity, while seeming just sad (but not pathetic) enough to evoke some concerned comments…. you know normal blog stuff.

But now my bladder has laid waste to all these machinations and I am forced to tack against the wind. I use a sailing metaphor. And likely use it incorrectly. But since we are channeling Captain Ahab … and since this is my blog… I can decide to use an obtuse nonsensical analogy, as is my right, as granted to me by Matt Mullenweg and the power of Greyskull. Slash WordPress.

*Joey bounces off to go use the facilities*

Is it satire or sarcasm that’s the lowest form of wit? (the things I think about while vacating my bladder) I can’t remember…

I’m guessing sarcasm, but don’t they broadly mean the same thing? I feel I should probably know this. I have huge gaps in my tuition. (Most likely caused by brain damage)

My eighth grade English teacher, a diminutive (but violent) nun called Sister Mary-Joseph, used to punch me because I couldn’t identify clauses in a sentence… or the conjunction that joined them (still can’t). Likely a motivational technique that would be frowned upon in modern climes.

Under duress I would randomly point to non specific part of the sentence in the hope that I had guessed correctly and that I could sit back down. Unfortunately for me Sister Mary-Joseph recognized my duplicity and negatively reinforced me accordingly (with her fists).

This is my clergy abuse story. Fortunately I didn’t have go down on anyone…  and by association shallow a warm, viscous load of the ‘Holy Spirit’. So pretty mild really.

For the most part I think I turned out okay…

*someone in the peanut gallery starts laughing*

Except for knowing anything technical about the English language I mean.

And maybe some other ‘stuff’

Relationship advice

I fell asleep on the sofa… supine with my MacBook precariously balanced on my burgeoning midsection and my coffee fast approaching room temperature. I wish I could claim that I was doing something profound with the one hour of free time allotted me per day… that magical interval that spans wrangling your progeny into the bath (and then into bed) and your own personal REM sleep experience. But I wasn’t.

I woke up discombobulated and closing my laptop rampaged off to bed with the stealth like poise of a baby rhinoceros, navigating by iPhone light (so I wouldn’t fall over an errant German Shepherd sprawled out in the passage like some sort of Dinner For One-esque booby trap). After that I tried (unsuccessfully) to unfurl the blanket that my wife had (with advanced mathematics) somehow established herself in. (you know, so I could get just a tiny corner of warmth) After thirty seconds of furtive probing I gave up and the did married couples version of when someone tries to pull the tablecloth out from underneath all the crockery.

As you might imagine… that didn’t work out so well for me.

After a slew of cuss words that would make a submariner or death-row inmate blush and the hi-jinks of having to navigate the domestic version of Ninja warrior back into the living room… I wasn’t sleepy anymore. And so here I am, back where I started, not only more awake, but also wiser…

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I feel uniquely disposed now to offer (unsolicited) relationship advice. You know, having survived a situation where the outcome was not entirely clear cut.

Also you’re welcome.