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Discovered this wonderful site. Makes me Smile so i've decided to share it.
http://www.explodingdog.com/
Writing is such a curious bitch. There's no recipe. I've read about all these writers who force themselves to write x ammount during y time and so and so forth and i think its bullocks. I write. There are moments when things take longer to make their way to the page, screen, google blogspot server, etc and yes i am completely full of it and making excuses for the lack of updates. I wonder if there needs to be some filter, or if just the random observations of my day to day are worth sharing with the faceless more often than not commentless few who frequent this patch of internets.
observation: dating a stripper is sort of like dating a nudist or a girl who frequents the French Riviera. You sort of stop making such a big fuss about exposed breasts. I still love breasts but really sometimes we really do get a bit fixated on them as men.
vagina's on the other hand are still beautiful magnificent, delicious, mythical bits
Was it all just a dress rehearsal? Running lines to make sure we nailed our marks and hit the right notes with our “i love you’s” Cause lately, i fear, it’s all been for a performance that doesn’t exist.
Am i the 5 year old boy dressed up as a carrot with no lines because no one cast him in the play.
Will we just keep being slightly better version of ourselves with every guy and girl we find fits a little bit? Do we keep telling ourselves they’re just another dress rehearsal when it all goes to shit? When inevitably, perfection never comes? Always the missing prop, the fumbled line, the cue we somehow missed. All for an opening night that doesn’t really come, because it’s all improv isn’t it? So who ends up with the best version of who? who gets the best version of you? did i?
antiquated romantics:
The noble concept. The Romantic. The dashing hero. Richard Gere riding in on his white limo. These are enduring images. They exist in almost mythical quantities in our literature, cinema, and music. I grew up with these concept driven into my skull by having the misfortune of reading far too much Shelly and not enough Bukowski.
Of having an awful preference for rock ballads. I also grew up frustrated by being labeled as a really nice guy, a proper gentleman, and not getting laid nearly as much as i wanted.
The thing is, the rub, the jux, of it all is that these concepts, the idea of the romantic as its presented to us is surely based on some antiquated concept of women that ceased to exist somewhere after the first bra was burned. Who is this woman who swoons at the gentlemanly courtship, at the outlandish gestures? If this was a lecture i would already see the smiles creeping across some of the female faces, i can picture the many who would say "me, me, me" but ladies, ask yourselves how many very respectful, gentlemanly nice guys you've put in your pockets as "friends"? I think the noble gent existed at some point out of some necessity. Those grand gestures needed by woman who for hundreds of years lived in secondary roles in society. Needed for assurance, comfort, to make tangible the intangible? "Prove you love me" subtext: because i'm insecure and need assurances.
and so we tried and much of our concepts of the romantic were born.
Standing for hours in the rain just to see you. CHECK
walking 500 miles just to see you smile. CHECK
giving up forever to touch you: CHECK and nicely written by the Goo Goo Dolls
Slaying the dragon, knight, evil king, to win your heart? CHECK
So we slay the dragon, walk the walk in the rain, and nod a polite no to forever when it's offered. Expecting i imagine the maiden in distress to tend to our dragon inflicted wounds or massage our tired feet after walking for so many miles, at the very least to offer us a towel to dry ourselves off and maybe wash our soaked clothes. perhaps i lived in New York City for too many years, maybe there is a very particular kind of bird that lives in that city, but somehow i can't imagine the average (and few of them are average) NYC blackberry toting, web-marketing exec, Carrie Bradshaw idolizing woman to meet those expectations. She's probably dating a drummer or a wall street exec who treats her like shit but who's GORGEOUS.
Many of them would no doubt disagree but i think romanticism needs a refresh. It needs a dose of sincerity.
I think romantic is to say yes your thighs look fat in those jeans, which is why i prefer you naked! Or i fucking hate your dog but i put up with it because i love the way you give head.
Would it hurt to say no you're not the most beautiful woman I've ever seen but I'm absolutely fucking delighted to be here with you.
Maybe it would, or maybe I'm just confused. After all I'm dating a stripper who took very good care of me when i was ill and walked to to the pharmacy for me in the rain.
It's early morning. I'm sitting at one of the indoor tables at my favorite cafe "el cafe de la selva". It's my favorite for two reasons it takes less than 5 mins for me to get from this desk to one of their tables and it's cheap. The Cafe has outdoor seating, which offers a delightful view of the fountain in front but which also draws a larger share of smokers.
I'm inside enjoying my breakfast when one of the other customers lights up. I turn and look at the table in front of him that reads no smoking, i then turn and look at mine and see no such sign. At my sisters suggestion i ask our waiter. Excuse me is this whole section no smoking. "oh no just that row" he replies with a smile "you can smoke at this table if you like" From the 14 inches or so seperating the non smoking row from the smoking row i deduced that the proprietors of the cafe had installed one of those cool star trek like force fields that would force smoke to adhere to their rather slim margins of seperation. FUCKING COOL. I LOVE TECHNOLOGY. I mean to have two rows side by side and have smoke completely stay within the confines of the smoking row that's fucking incre..(cough.cough.cough)