Your shit smells. It does.


My shit smells too. I know.


If both of us remembered this, life would be better.

This is Nishkegaard's picture. He takes amazing photos, look him up on myspace and he might send you some.

And this is what I think:

Nishkegaard, you are a restless wanderer, sad in a way--seeking, grappling, fighting, hurting, wanting for the answers that dwell in your spirit without respite and with the strength of all your being. Yet, you are a hero--stopping at nothing for those answers, even amidst the banal, the mundane, the everyday, and the trash.

No parking. No stopping. No breathing. No thinking. You ignore the seductions of inauthenticity in favor of reflection and stop.

The world goes on behind you, in its rush and its confusion. The alley extends forever into the nothingness. Yet, you sit, still and calm, focused and intense, not a care in the world for the world you have left, the world that has left you here--in the alley, with the trash, with your fear, with your hope.

You are beautiful my brother--an existential hero and a poster child for the postmodern dilemma. You have made Leroy proud.

Alright children, it is that time.

The school year is wearing on. We have been through the first two and a half stages and now the dawn of the third is on the horizon. We have traversed our way through the Autumn--the fashion show that is the first couple of months of the year coupled with the Darwinian struggle for position on the social ladder. We have conquered the melanchology Winter--occupying the cold by solidifying places in the social scheme of things while simultaneously identifying potential mates. Twitterpation is now upon us--Valentines has come and gone, and the once potential mates have either blossomed into hand-holding friends with benefits or dissipated into the bitter cool air. Either way, the excitement of the New, the Shuffle and the Meeting are now staggering into Spring. What then? This is where it all goes down.

First, we are all tired. Whether you are in primary school, secondary school, etc. it doesn't matter--the routine is taking its toll, the mushy lump of neural connections in your head is weary and worst of all--we have to stare at the same people all day everyday. The little quirky things that used to be cute are now unbearable. The charming boy next door or in one of your classes has been revealed as a player who doesn't call people back. The cute girl you had your eye on is really a headcase which you have had to block on every online community to which you belong and has required the changing of e-mail addresses twice. The people you don't get on with are waring on your patience. Yes folks, it is time.

After Easter, it all goes down hill. This is when the beautiful couples of the Twitterpation stage fracture after a storm of cheating, lack of commitment or just plain annoyance. Yes, children, it is time to wake from the collective romanitc beer goggles, get over the 'what was I thinking?' and move on. After Easter, the fisticuffs will take place over issues that aren't worth stitches. Scuffles will take place over nothing, only because it is that time. You will grow weary and you will want to go home.

And then?

Summer. The freedom and promise of summer. Away. Away. Yes.

But, you know the story, 6 weeks in--bored, broke and missing all those wonderful people you used to get to see everyday.

Next Autumn, we'll do it all again.

I can't wait.

I love living,

Keep it real.

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Animals?

Us Westerners do alot of things each day to convince ourselves that we aren't like the rest of the creatures on this planet. No, we aren't animals--we are more than that. We are separate. We are human beings--we have rational capacities and souls and whatever else we can think of to make us distinct from the animal kingdom. As Bacon said, because we walk on our hind legs--we are 'the gods of the earth.'

How do we do this? Well, you know, the usual--lotions, deodorants, sprays and other fragrant things. A complex semiotic system of clothes consisting of shoes, socks, shirts, jackets, pants, trousers, hats, etc. And then there is the etiquette. manners. How to eat. How to gesture. Spitting? No--barbaric. Drawing attention to bodily fluids (e.g. snot)? Out of the question. We are humans. We are civilized. Think about everything you do every day to think about the fact that you are not a chimpanzee, you are a person.

But, there is one thing all of us do. Most daily. Some less than that. But, all of us do it and so do all the animals. There is something each of us does that is a chance to remind ourselves--to reflect on the fact--that we are basically and essentially animals, barbaric, biological, natural animals that depend upon the natural order for our well-being. Yes, you came from the Big Bang just like the rocks and the snakes and the one-celled entities of this universe. And, when you are sitting and wiping your ass you can't avoid that. It is a second to remember where you came from and not to forget it.

Crass? Maybe. Gross? Possibly. But, next time you are have your hand down there remember you read it here first.

i love living,

keep it real.

Karate Kid or Back to the Future?

As a semi-child of the 80s, I have been struggling with something for a long time. I have pondered this subject informally, but never fleshed out my thoughts about it. So, here goes:

Which 80s trilogy is better: The Karate Kid or Back to the Future?

Now, before the haters begin shouting, lets clarify: yes, there are other trilogies which could be considered better than these--Star Wars, Indiana Jones, etc. But, I believe these two hold a special, quasi-comical, quasi-dramatic place which only 9 year old children truly appreciate.

Let the games begin:

1. Main Character
Both Marty McFly and Daniel Larusso share an endearing underdog status which helps us root for them right from the off. Both have family struggles--Marty struggling with the existential, Freudian dilemma of a weakling father, Daniel (absent of father) just moved to a new place with a somewhat aloof, but caring mother.
Both are unassuming and cute. Both have high aspirations caged in very adolescent worlds.
However, the first round goes to Back to the Future. Daniel is an emotionally closed in teenager, unwilling to express his emotions at times. His persistence and boylike facial expressions makeup for this, but . . . No one runs like Marty. Really, watch Michael J. Fox run throughout the three films and you see the heroic underdog embodied in full stride. Marty is open, humble and enduring. He stands up for himself and others. His mission is fueled not only by revenge, but by a hope to set the time-space continuum right.

Winner: BTTF

2. Eccentric mentor?

Both classics. Doc Brown and Mr. Miyagi have reached iconic status and if there isn't a website where you can by t-shirts with their likenesses on them the Information Age is truly a failure. Doc Brown is wide-eyed, excitable recluse with crazy aspirations. His genius is hidden behind a whirlwind of scattered thoughts. But, he got the flex capacitor right. A time machine out of a Delorean, genius. Mr. Miyagi on the other hand is a zen-like master, cool under pressure and always under control. His sage like advice is subtle yet potent. But, these aren't the reasons that KK wins this round. No, it is the sheer amount of times that Miyagi beats ass throughout the trilogy that gives the KK the edge. Miyagi beats Johnny and the gangs ass and the jokers at the beach in the first one, the Cobra Kai sensei in the second, and then has it out in his home town on Okinawa in a family duel.

Winner: KK

3. Girlfriend?

Both are hot. That's for sure. But, there is a definitive answer as to why the KK version is the winner here. BTF contains numerous scenes of Marty kissing, or at least romantically compromised, with his mother. I am sorry. I don't care who is girlfriend is. I don't care what she looks like. The sexual energy has been zapped straight up. On the other hand, Elizabeth Shue is always hot. Always.

Winner: KK

4. Plot?

No doubt, the Karate Kid is an endearing figure. I practiced the Crane Kick for years after seeing the first film and still pull it out in bar fights when need be. Daniel's quest for self-confidence and revenge is great. The way Miyagi works him into shape is classic. But, there is simply no way that BTTF doesn't win here. Throughout the films, we are taken from suburban America in 1985, to the future of flying cars, back to the Wild West and then into an alternative 1985. This is more than teen angst, the fate of the time-space continuum rests in the balance. The sheer drama oozing from Doc Brown's eyes and Marty's numerous run ins with the Biffs, the decision about whether or not to tinker with the future, the interweaving stories of family, love and self-control--this is the stuff of epics.

Winner: BTTF

5. Lessons Learned?

I credit any moral fibers in my existence to these trilogies. Truly, the stuff of life is contained here. Daniel learns about hard-work (pain the fence, sand the floor, etc.), how to stick up for yourself, what it means to have a mentor that is demanding and compellig, how to hope against hope and to never give up. Miyagi instills in him the virtue of self-control--karate is not about hurting people, it is about balance. Isn't all of life? I mean really.
BTTF is chalked full of it to. Marty is balancing a shaky self-identity made up of rock star dreams, a dissapointing family and an incessant desire to prove himself to anyone that challenges him (Did you call me chicken?). Over the course of the trilogies, he comes to see that people are not static--small, strange events can transform destinies. A bit of self-confidence can bring out the genius in people (like his dad). He stands up to bullies at all costs, especially for the vulnerable (his mother, George, Doc, etc.). There is probably a sermon tied in here for people that do that kind of thing. Anyway, point being, Marty's combination of persistence, cool under pressure and care for the vulnerable leads to the restoration of the time-space continuum with the added bonus of those closest to him becoming what they truly could be--self-confident, talented individuals. This is starting to sound like eschatology.

Winner: BTTF

So, by a slim margin the debate is decided. As always Daniel-san put a good fight, but in the end the cosmos is restored by the only man that could pull off Marty McFly and Alex P. Keaton in the same decade.

In our world--in our time--the only sacred left is the ordinary. The sacred times of life happen in ordinary, unexpected moments in which instead of dissappointed, betrayed, hurt; something unexpected happens--something that takes your breath away.

The Space BetweenThe tears we cryIs the laughter keeps us coming back for moreThe Space BetweenThe wicked lies we tellAnd hope to keep safe from the pain

If you are lucky enough, there will be a moment, or even just a second in which you are left speechless. When the expected turn of events is reversed and on the horizon comes joy, or comfort or closeness. In a world in which community is sipped over a cup of hyper-text, in which our identities are constituted by the flickering images of the screen in front of us and our value is reduced to marketability.

The Space BetweenWhere you're smiling high is where you'll find me if I get to go

It is those moments--filled with inexpressible grief or transcendent joy--which fill the space. The space between you and yourself. The space is mundane, even profane, but here that the sacred happens. Unexpected closeness, kindness received, community formed. And, in those moments--we realize that breathing is worth it. That, the nihilism of the age is overwhelming but not conquering. In the sacred moments, the mundane and the profane are transformed in a way that they 'serve the cause of life.'

The Space BetweenThe bullets in our firefight is where I'll be hiding, waiting for you. The rain that falls, Splash in your heart Ran like sadness down the window into...The Space Between Our wicked lies Is where we hope to keep safe from pain

Sacred moments aren't a given. We can't take them for granted. You can't expect the unexpected. But, when it comes--when it appears--step outside of the space, let it be filled and thank the universe for the chance to continue to hope.

I love living.

Keep it real,

The circle forms as they sit. One offers to gather the potion as the others settle in for what they do not expect. All of them have arrived with worry, tension, joy and monotony. Each of them carries burden, hope, hurt and loneliness. As the first drinks are sipped, a sense of ease begins to set in. The anxiety of existence slowly releases every time the glass is brought nearer to emptiness. As time wears on, the collective worries, burdens, celebrations and hurt each has brought melts into the cool night's air. A community is formed around a wooden table, on wooden benches in a beer garden removed from the swirl of sickness and sadness--from the everyday, the mudane and the hurry. Time is a component removed as the participants--now reminded of why they are friends--laugh and talk story. Conversations too important to be remembered in the morning are experienced in a unique combination of random thought, exhaled relief and imbibed drink. Spontaneous creativity comes to the fore as the conversation ebbs, flows and transcends the subject--instilling a sense of reason, purpose and value to the things left behind. A sense of renewed strength to go back when the circle convenes.

Community? Maybe too strong a word. Fellowship? A bit too much baggage. No, let's leave it at friendship. Let's leave it as a group laughing, smiling, sharing, trying, hurting and most of all being. Shared space. Shared existence. Shared breath. A fleeting moment never caught nor verbalized. A smile wrought from the depths of the 'sickness unto death'. A glimpse of why gardens were created in the first place.

In the technocracy and de-mythologized existence we have created, for those lucky enough, this is the closest return to the Garden we might ever experience.

Stop. Watch. Be. No moving. No creating. No yesterday. No tomorrow. No behind. No forward. No creating. No worrying. Soak in the view and let yourself be enveloped by it. You are not against it. Not over it. Not opposed. You are in and only in. You are you only here. Most of the time we spend moving, thinking, trying, looking, remembering, and eveything else. Movement revolves around purpose--my purpose, our purpose. Intention. Projection.

Give it up for a moment. Focus your attention on something other--realize its existence. Let the primordial reality of our shared genetic heritage--the development of all things from an explosion 15 billion years ago to the diverse array of difference before us--related and other; one and not. There is unity here. There is mystery. The key is to let you--the subject, stop letting it be an object of intention or purpose--and simply be. No worry. No concern. Just.

Why? "I don't have time." What's with the cosmic bullshit? Meditation?

It is in those scarce moments of still recogntion that the mystery creeps in and reminds us that there is more to the universe than ourselves and more to being than everyday bullshit. If there is a reason for living it is found in appreciation of these others and finding our role within this whole strange framework.

Smoke fills the cold air from the cigar in the left hand. As the port is sipped gently in a singular movement of the right hand to the mouth and then down the throat, distant thoughts are lured to the foreground--thoughts lodged somewhere between sub-consciousness, recognized consciousness and the chaos of existence.

The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.

But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are
suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.

And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.

It's all in Genesis 1, just go look it up.

A Haiku:

There is a thin line
between genius and madness
but who the fuck cares?

The most distant things are not the unknown, but the most familiar. However, familiarity doesn't equal nearness; in fact it almost always results in distance and a false sense of comfort.

This is especially true in human to human relationships. In the everyday interactions of small talk, familiar practices--passing people on the street, saying hello to acquaintances, buying things at the store--we see people, acknowledge them and move on. We are lulled into believing that there is no difference between us; no gap separating our seemingly shared existence. We unconsciously assume that our shared world means a universal embodied experience. But, this is simply not the case.

The most familiar things are actually the most distant.

This explains the shock of being--the eruption of notice and focus and alien-ness at the moment when we experience true intimacy with another. Our encounter with what we assumed was Same, is disrupted at its core by the embrace, the coalescence of two different bodies--two Others actually becoming near. In this moment, the utter terror of nearness becomes apparent--the convenience of familiarity is shattered by the utter proximity of another within the self; within the bounds of the normalcy which we assumed was spread beyond us.

True nearness is found only in this absurd moment of meeting; of encounter. This fact drives many to simulate true meeting with the false pretense of mechanical and meaningless interaction with others. But, casual sex does nothing to remedy the distance of the familiar. Rather, it only reinforces the false assumption that nearness is to be found in what is familiar.

Instead, true meeting requires a vulnerability which is simultaneously terrifying and hopeful. Terrifying in that an-other is brought into the sphere which was supposed to not only protect the self from danger, but also which delineates our everyday understanding of reality. When an-other is allowed in, disruption, chaos and absurdity are all genuine possibilities. It is hopeful because it is this chaos and absurdity which drives us toward, beyond and over. We hope that the encounter will bring meaning to the familiarity which is so often empty and void. We hope that the chaos will shed light on the nauseating order which is so familiar.

What is near is intimate. What is familiar is distant. Distance is not overcome by proximity, but only through openess to an-other which is different, powerful and full of potential.

Familiarity is common. Distance is universal. Nearness is rare.

TMNT

I apologize to my UK and European friends in advance for what might be a blog decipherable only to the North American, but we shall see.

Let me tell you about TMNT. Initials, hmmm. You know what for? You remember? If you are between 22 and 30 are you going to tell me you can't hum the theme song right now? That's right folks, the phenomenon, the magic, the spectacle of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Love it. Had the actions figures--the Turtles, Shredder, Splinter, April their undeniably attractive acquaintance (side note: To all you ladies out there, how many of you would agree to hang out in sewers all day, with overgrown and adolescent turtles, fighting ancient ninja sects, and probably ending up smelling like pizza and sewage? Who's gonna date a girl like that? Not worth it in my book, but I am not a woman). Anyway, the TMNT craze sparked an endless amount of merchandise, t-shirts, bed sheets, anything you could ask for--I think there were TMNT blenders, workout tapes, and maybe even condoms. I am not positive about a couple of those.

Here is the thing: Think about when you went to school and learned about things: history, literature, art, etc. Think about what you knew about those things before you went to school (4th, 5th, 6th grade and on). Some of your parents may have educated you a great deal about art, Western Civilization, and European history. Most of them did not.

But, how many of you when learning about the Renaissance or about Italy or whatever, heard the name Leonardo or Raphael or Michelangelo and went, "Oh, I get it" Or, even exclaimed out loud in front of the class, "Like the ninja turtle, cool!"

Strange don't you think. How many of you have been to art galleries or museums, knowing nothing of art, and looking specifically for one of those artists? (This happens alot with Americans coming over to London and going to galleries).

What is the problem? Strange don't you think? That it is a ridiculous cartoon that instantiates some of the most important figures in Western history into our collective conscious. How is it that a medium such as television--which creates unreal realities (are the TMNT not real? Of course they are real. They had a symbol--what did it refer to? Anything we could touch, feel, or go find? No. So, unreal realities), be our educator?

What is the integrative force of our society? The thing that brings us all in to the culture at large? TV, and now, the internet. So, if the force among us that makes us part of the group--informed members of society from an early age (sorry to all of you "I went to home school and we didn't have a TV types), do we live in unreality from day one? Do we take part in a virtuality which has tempered our perception to the point that we can't discriminate between ourselves and the unreal realities we are trying to emulate?

Is this blog a second rate philosophy paper? Probably. But, if you heard the name Raphael for the first time while watching a cartoon in which a 6ft turtle says the word "bodacious" then you best back up and give it at least a thought.

I love living.


Keep it real,

The Wait Is Over

Apologies for the tardiness of this post. Blogs were promised, yet undelivered; for that, I am sorry. There were unforeseen circumstances preventing the posting--they involved buses, sweat, passports and alot of curse words--ask me about it sometime; or don't.





Some of you were upset. Some of you wondered how you would face the day without a post from Onietzsche. One man in New Jersey quit his job. A woman in Texas threw her PC through a glass window. The lack of blog was big news cyber-wide, but alas it is time. Take your Prozac, cuz here it comes.











NAPOLEON DYNAMITE





Let me tell you about Napoleon Dynamite. This is old news you say. Worn out. Sick of it. Has any movie in recent memory been so overexposed so quickly? From underground cool to passe faster than Jack Johnson?





Here is the thing: Detractors claim it is a pointless movie, devoid of plot, special effects or anything of interest. Some fans claim it is amazing--funny, original and worth two or three views. But, it is more. Underneath the skin of this Tot are some compelling themes.





1. Teenage Life: Compare ND with Mean Girls or Varsity Blues or 13 or some other movie depicting teenagers are uber-mature, adults with adolescent cleavage, strutting their stuff cell phones in hand and doing nothing but driving fast and shagging like rabbits. Sophistication, communication (cell, IM, e-mail, etc.), consumption (daddy's credit card, nice cars, flashy clothes, plastic surgery)--these dominate. Teenage life is about growing up too fast, staying connected and carving out a niche in the fragmented realm of 21st century techno-life. It doesn't have to be traditional (cheerleader, football player, etc.), but it does have to be unique, up to date and full of alluring aesthetic somehow or another.





ND? Different messages. Think of the main characters--we all know Nap is an unassuming dork just trying to make it through the day. But, where is the sophistication, consumption, and communication? Nowhere. That is the charm of ND, you say, he is the anti-hero we all cheer for, the underdog that is hilarious along the way to glory. Maybe. But lets take the supposed hip, cool protagonists of this teenage drama. Don, Summer, Tricia. Can they keep up with Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls? No. Surprisingly simple (Summer works at the store, Tricia's mom has surprising control over her social life, and even Don doesn't emit the untouchable coolness of the Alpha Male, but a boyish false-confidence symbolized by his mono-coloric white wardrobe. They wear PE clothes like dorks. This isn't the Gods of Campus we are used to.





Think about it: the kids actually look like kids. Their problems are kid problems--not blown out of proportion into matters of world politics, but simple, boring, teenage worries about dances, body-image (why are you drinking 1%?), friendship and dealing with parents.





2. Rural American Life: There is a subtle but prevalent myth about small-town American life held by many urban and suburbanites. This myth, probably partially based in reality, speaks of a slower pace of life, community, friendship, beautiful surroundings, and an overall sense of serenity in contrast to the fragmentation and schizophrenia of the postmodern melee we call 21st century urban living.





ND works against this myth in an equally subtle manner. I've talked to some who feel that the movie was almost too sad to watch. This, I believe, derives from the image it paints of rural life, in this case, Idaho (2005, look at Nap's ID card at the beginning of the film). Where is the community? Nowhere. Instead, loneliness. Kip is 32, or somewhere close, and stays at home all day chatting. Rico throws footballs to no one. But, look even deeper. Look at the people Rico sells Tupperware too--sad, bored, alone. The camera angles accentuate the vast space in between houses--demonstrating just how much land is out there in between all those people. This isn't an automatic fellowship of human beings, but a dilapidated conglomerate of people looking for a connection with others. Time drags here. Every scene moves at a place of almost maddening delay. Ten seconds could be cut off of some scenes. We are left, somewhat reminiscent of the pace of Lost in Translation, with a feeling of the weight of time which is a disorienting vertigo from the rush of lights, neon, pastels, noises and voices we are used to in films and RL (real life).





Yes, you do root for Napoleon. But, this isn't motivated by revenge (the mean kids aren't that mean), it isn't a plot for world domination (everyone involved doesn't take themselves that seriously), no, it is cheering him on just for connection--to feel, to be, in a way that connects with others. His dance is a resolution to a plot that is self-aware enough to know that it isn't resolving anything but some loose ends of de-centered lives. And, finally at the end, he gets his wish--sex with the pretty girl? No. Win the big game? No. Hang with the cool kids? No. Just tetherball with Deb--finally someone that will play him.



I love living.


Keep it real,

International Correspondnence: What is this animal?

Little survey for you all. What do you call the animal below?



Shout me an answer and soon I will explain why it is a matter of international controversy. You need to know this, believe me.




Media Revolution Week begins tomorrow. Don't wet your pants.

I know you are waiting . . . be patient. Don't worry, knowledge will abound.

Media Revolution!

You think I am kidding don't you? Don't make that mistake. Enlightenment hovers at the dawn, just don't miss it.

Media Revolution

Media Revolution

Next week . . .


That's right. It's coming. It will change your life. It will change the internet. You will be a better person. You will never lose your patience, never lose your car keys, and maybe never have to go to the bathroom ever again. You will be happier, sexier, never sick, full of fertility, energy, and vitality. Your hair will grow back; your stomach will shrink. This is when it gets serious. No, really.



Watch for it. Expect it. Hope it. Think it. And, then take part in the revolution.

Nightclub II

Let me tell you more about Nightclubs. A couple of days ago we talked about the concentric circle which make up the Darwinian dream which is the nightclub. We left the picture unfinished, however. There are two circles remaining--the widest and saddest two circles in the whole realm. In fact, these two could be compressed into one, but . . .

Just outside of the Oh-My-God-Get-A-Room-Couples, lies the Enthusiastic-but-Perpetually-Hunting-Single-Male. Yes, that male, that came with a friend or two, or maybe not, who has decided that this is his night. He is going to score, pull, insert hunting phrase here. What does he look like? Let me paint a picture. Giving it a go on the dance floor. Probably not the best dancer, probably not the most coordinated. Moving. Moving, always moving. In and out; scouting, gazing, looking for new prey. One bottle of beer. One bottle of beer in three hours. If one hand is occupied with a beer he has less a. one less limb to coordinate with the rest of his body and b. a momentary means of looking busy. Now this sort of guy doesn't always have to be a total loser, but there is a good chance. It is not easy being male on the dance floor. Dane Cook is the master on this topic, check this out to be enlightened on the male and female art of dancing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0s16iusy2g

This brings us to the final concentric circle. This breed hovers on the outskirts, stationary. They are the most depressing lot and the most resigned to not having a good time. Yes, the I-am-going-to-stand-here-tap-one-foot-bob-my-head-and-pretend-I-am-having-fun males. They want to meet a potential mate. They want to be the Alpha male. But, they are stuck. Yes, just as their cousins in the previous circle, beer in hand they scour. Watch them--always pretending to be intensely looking at someone or something, like they are occupied or busy or cool.

Notice, now that we have reached the outside of the Futileship of the Ring of concentric circles that the nubile, available, albeit angst ridden, females of the species are huddled in the middle. The single, hunting males on the very periphery. The sociology of it all is stacked against them.

But, sometimes, on those magical nights, when the stars are aligned, the beer cold, the music way too loud, and the sweat intoxicating, it happens. And that is why they keep going.

I love living.



Keep it real,

The Nightclub

Let me tell you about Nightclubs (or discotechs for all my Continental peeps). Sociologically, it is a Darwinian jungle made up of concentric circles. Designed to be a venue for self-expression, pleasure and meeting fellow nubile individuals looking for a good time, the nightclub is usually an overpriced commodified matrix of noise, sweat and awkward and often distance social interaction. Remember: the key to understanding the night club is deciphering the concentric circles which dominate its social structure. Let us begin from the innermost circle:

a. In the smallest, tightest circle, way out in the heart of the dance floor, huddled together in a cohesive weave of protection are the No-Men-Women. Yes, ladies, you have all been a part of this circle at least once--the group of women who are in the tired-of-anything-with-a-Y-chromosome-we-don't--need-men--all-we-want-to-do-is-dance tribe of femininity. Greasy men stroll up trying it with anyone in one of these estrogen hives and they give quick scowl and ejection, followed by the women looking at one another and then rolling their eyes, as to say, "ughhh; men!"

b. Then there are the Let's-have-fun-and-dance-in-a-group people. This is the second concentric circle, allowed to be in close proximity to the No-Men-Women because of their safety and seemingly harmless nature. Usually it consists of 4-6 people, men and women, on the younger side, and full of pent up drunken thoughts about trying it with someone on the other side of the circle. You see these types often in Oxford, mainly in the form of young Americans shocked that they are allowed in a club and not sure what to do next. Of all of the groups, this one is of least interest.

c. Moving on to another group which does not so much participate in the geometrical symmetry of the concentric circles but rather floats freely and unpredictably throughout the dance floor. That's right, the Drunken-oh-my-God-go-get-a-room-Couples. You know they met tonight; maybe they know each other's names, maybe they will actually speak to each other after the night is over--but we all know this group is characterized by their sloppy, sticky and usually uncoordinated attempts at what one deft observer calls "humping with your clothes on." Love it. It is a sight that reminds you of the mystery of human dignity; or not. Akin to picking a scab--it seems okay at the time, is relatively physically gratifying, and at least something to do--when you are bleeding and the wound stings, you wonder "what was I thinking?"

There are two more circles, but we will leave them till tomorrow.

I love living.


Keep it real,