TV Shows and Other Things that cause Brain Leakage ( commonly known as drool)

My buddy Jon was gushing about his favourite show 'South Park'. So I went to write him a comment on my favourite show, and my favourite scene in it, and my favourite way to make a smart guy turn into a dumb puddle of hormones. So I'll post it here too.

I too have that endless enthusiasm for a favourite show that still makes me think under all the stuff that makes me laugh . . . I watch 'House' for the joy of seeing lots of shit disturbed. It would be great if I were smart enough to get away with saying what I really think, all the time . . . As it is, people just figure that I'm putting my foot in my mouth because I'm just that dumb, not that I don't feel the need for innuendo.

My favourite scene actually doesn't have Dr House in it though . . . which is odd, considering it is a sexual harassment scene . . . perpetrated by the gorgeous young female doctor!

Ah, now the pendulum of sexual harassment has swung the other way, and women are the only ones who can get away with it and it's funny . . . and in this case, I maintain it still is damn funny.

But really, it seems only fair, because she just uses his own fascination on himself. I maintain that guys can be held responsible for their raging hormones. If I have to be responsible for mine, they can damn well be responsible for theirs.

So the gist is this: Cameron gets sick of her coworker Dr. Chase acting funny around her, just because she RETURNED in kind a joke with sexual innuendo. She purposely goes out of her way to make him either assess how stupid his reaction is . . . or just get it over with and drown in his own drool. She explains how distressing sex is . . . in detail with reference to medical factoids . . . then goes on to say that 'if it wasn't so much fun, the human race would have died out eons ago" which leaves Chase looking like a poleaxed mouthbreathing deer in the headlights.

Teeheehee. I'm sure all women abuse (or wish they would abuse) men's habitual drop in IQ once the topic of sex comes up in conversation with a remotely attractive female. Dude, its like they can only see a person in one category or another: A) Friend, who we pretend has NO GENDER . . . or B) Female, and now we can only think of her NAKED. Mmmmm, she might look okay naked . . oh, wait, she is still talking. Shit, she expects an actual response? Uhhhh, did I just stammer? I hate it when my hormones cause my brain to morph into drool . . . Maybe if I can stop speculating on her rack, I can turn away and surreptitiously check my chin for brain leakage . . .

Is my dearth of specificity specious or especially spineless?

So, although most of you know that when in doubt I say too much . . . someone suggested that my photogenicity was marred by chronic lip-blur, if that helps the rest of you . . . I wonder if I dish too much or too little on my blog.

Blogs are ideal for rants, and most of my blogs are rants of some kind . . . however, I do like to tell stories. The thing is, most of my stories are taken from real life . . . and the people in them often have this blog address.

So, instead of this blog being a nice journal, and a way to discuss and solicit opinions from friends and strangers, I find that often I don't ask for advice or get to pour out the things that bother me most. So, if a friend does something ridiculous, or suddenly an old friend becomes a new date . . . I only write about it in an oblique way that must disguise the real meat of the story, in an attempt to disguise anything too telling or private!

I know that some people write about everything and everyone, and still hand out their blog address freely . . . but that just doesn't make that much sense to me. Either I judge people to harshly, or I'm paranoid . . . or something! My real name isn't even on here, in case my dad googles me. I wouldn't put it past him, to be sure.

So instead, my blog doesn't really update anyone on the juciest aspects of my life, such as they are, even when I would tell 90% of my readers to their face, if I had the chance. Does this make me spineless, or wise?

When I am fighting with myself

When I am arguing with myself, when I’m at my most stubborn . . . this line from some Sarah McLachlan song often goes through my head . . . “What is it in me that refuses to believe . . .” Like when I refuse to believe that I can’t change something just because I so desperately want it to be different. Sometimes I don’t even get as far as refusing to believe in something, I just refuse to acknowledge it despite solid evidence. It would be more like saying “Fuck the world” . . . if it wasn’t just my own situation I usually fucked up.

These flights of irrational fancy get more vivid when I draw up the script around the impeding outcome. I like my hypothetical situations; it’s so great when I have even imaginary control over all variables. I do tons of dry run-throughs when I get myself in a sticky situation. The worse the situation is, the faster and the more horribly bad or over-optimistically favourable the imagined outcomes seem to get. My mood swings up and down accordingly, and I’m more jittery than a bunny on crack.

Laughing when I’m stressed is definitely less useful in real life than in the movies. Have you noticed how often film heroes are required to laugh off an impending doom, to appear in control as they sneer at their possible destruction? Well, I find that people are usually offended that I haven’t grasped the gravity of the situation. Giggling fits after your friend almost chokes, for instance, or when a teacher demands you to explain yourself. Not quite the thing. Yes, I know I should be sombre and appalled right now, sorry, let me just work myself into it, right after I kick my own ass. No, no, I’m not being sarcastic here, I’m earnestly trying to reform my self, or at least my range of displayed emotion . . .

When I really cock it all up, when I am truly taking myself down . . . sometimes I wonder if I do it on purpose. A little voice in the back of my head logically points out how immensely dense the rest of me is, or at least how dense I’m acting . . . Is this some Freudian thing? Do I want to be miserable? Sometimes I wonder if I create disaster just so I get to deal with it. I either excel at cleaning up my own mess; or crash, burn and wallow. Hey, either way it gets interesting, and I finally get to put that hypothetical situation generator in my head to good creative use. Or do I just want to elicit some real, deep emotion? Sometimes this world seems so damn flat.

That logical voice in my head keeps me away from most obvious mistakes like running out of money, most kinds of bodily harm, and the kind of guys that really aren’t good for me. Also, the prickly and unpredictable overearnest rest of me keeps away most other kinds of guys . . . as well as other assorted people that can’t deal with a different (or often several different) takes on life, and opinions of suitable conduct . . . So I guess I do generate a lot of trouble out of nothing, or find some lesser known way of throwing a wrench in my own works.

Basically, the last thing I want to be is bored. It follows that the last thing I want to be is normal, right? Right?

P.S. My spell checker claims that ‘jitterier’ is the preferred way to label my excitability ranking against that bunny on crack. Does that seem wrong to anyone else?

Door to door salesmen stories . . . the antholoblog

You know that story you have about door to door salespeople or telemarketers? Well, now you can add it to Dru's collection.

Here was my input, because I am currently very very bored.

Alright, stories about people who knock on our door . . . My parents live out in the sticks, around Duncan, BC. To many people, Duncan will also be the sticks. We don't really get that many people going door to door, and I don't actually have stories about them being irritating . . . We find them mildly entertaining, as they break up the monotony. Usually we are the ones that harass them . . . My dad enjoys letting in the occasional perky vacuum salesperson so he can ask her inane or nearly impossible questions. He only lets them in after he insists that he won't buy their products, and of course they come in anyways. I guess most people are less welcoming, or they get overly hot or cold lugging their vacuums around outside in all weathers.

The one time dad topped that was when he glanced out the front window, and said "Someone's about to knock, you get it. It's one of your friends from your (at the time, junior high) class". I bounded down the stairs and threw the door wide, a big grin on my face. The two polyester-suited Jehovah's witnesses on the doorstep though that I looked like ripe for conversion. . . And because one of them was a young guy being taught how to save souls, and seemed very earnest and hopeful as his mentor coached him along, I didn't have the heart to be rude (Canadian, you know). Every polite excuse was cunningly yet politely countered, and I barely escaped without a magazine with articles suited for young people . . . one about ear piercing and tattoos. I almost wish I took it - I have wondered more than a few times how that article read.

A better story would be about telemarketers . . . I have one redneck friend who is so naturally offensive that he managed to make one hang up on him. He let her talk for a while (he also lives near Duncan, must have been the boredom) and argued a bit. When she asked him "Is there anything I could do to interest you in our home insurance plan?" he instantly answered "Are you blonde, about three feet tall, with no teeth and a flat head?"

Comments made elsewhere . . .

Many of my blog posts start out as comments on other people's blogs . . . and the idea, as usual, gets away with me and becomes more like an essay . . . or a rant, if you will. Sometimes, after a day or so, my rant still seems to be valid and almost worth reading, or at least I think it would be if I could only remember where I posted it . . . so here's my answer to that: I will post my comments made on other posts as comments on this article too.

And the party went on . . .

Yesterday I had a party and I'd say it went pretty well. Some of my best and oldest friends came over from Vancouver, and two came from upisland. My other friends seemed to enjoy themselves, though I'd say they were also bemused at the ammount of in-jokes, in-dancing, in-singing, etc. My, can we put on a good show. In particular, the crew of Guy, Jon and Brad were in full force . . . I'll be at their place in Van for their party this friday, so maybe I will have to work on a few gimmicks to impress their friends also.

My neighbours, however, were not impressed last night. They knocked on the door at 3 in the morning, and my roommate apologised and said that she would turn down the music. They said it wasn't the music. She said she would stop the thumping. They said it wasn't the thumping. They said it was the high-pitched singing that really had to stop, the rest was okay. So, the rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" was the real problem.