Slutty Donkey, Skanky Jerry

The other day someone said to me, “You like everyone the same.” It’s probably true. And I understood it to be a criticism. True, I tend to follow general laws of conduct rather than carving out exceptions for each person or circumstance. As such, I would tend to extend to everyone the same level of kindness rather than picking and choosing when and whom to love and hate. In some way, I find this to be more just appropriation of my feelings. In short, I’m a total slut-bag - to everyone and no one in particular.

The converse holds true as well. I dislike everyone the same. If I tried, I can probably name everyone I’ve ever disliked in my 25 years. Their names would number less than 8, maybe less than 5. Similarly, I can count the people that I’ve been absolutely enthralled with on a hand and a half, if not less. Most people, to me, fall somewhere in between.

I realized the significance of this when I was watching Seinfeld last night. It was the bubble-boy episode. Jerry and Elaine are in the coffee shop when this guy comes up to them and tells them this sob story about how his boy is in a bubble. The camera is on Elaine and the Dad and they are sobbing. Elaine and the Dad reach for a napkin to wipe the tears from their cheek. Elaine then extends a napkin out of frame to Jerry sitting across the table. We see that he has just taken a bite of his sandwich. He was eating the whole time. He’s not crying like the others. So, rather than wiping his tears, he uses the napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. That’s Jerry. Jerry is like me in that we tend to live in the middle emotionally. It’s a nice, comfortable place to live.

It’s a place where love is found in equal proportion to hate, both of which are short in number compared to like and acceptance or tolerance. From the perspective of a third party, the upshot is that we’re relatively nice to strangers without cause. We don’t often lose our tempers, nor are we found jumping up and down clapping our hands (because that’s what people do when they’re really excited). We’re predictable and stable. We're a good place to go for dis-passionate advice. But with that comes the “downside” that people like us, well, we cant be expected to put down our sandwich.

Name the Fat Guy, Get a Cookie

Be the first to tell me what this guy's deal is and you will win a delicious cookie. For those that need hints, here are a few. This man is no ordinary fat man. He is arguably the greatest fat guy ever. And I dont just say that because he wears shorts. On stage. Without shame. Although, I must admit, that's part of his genius. He brings far more than that to the table. He is the only man on record to have hit a young lady with projectile perspiration from 227 feet away, which, mind you, was propelled solely by the vigor with which he does his job. No camera tricks. No advanced pyrotechnics. We can all learn from this guy because he brings it with all he's got 100% of the time. Tell me what his story is and you will get your prize. Are you with me?

No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited.

267 Jars of Peanut Butter

With greater and greater frequency, I’m finding that I return from the grocery store with the wrong item. It’s not completely wrong, just slightly wrong. Just wrong enough to annoy me, but again, only slightly. Wrong enough to worry me, but not enough to seek help. It’s not like I return from the grocery store with 2 pounds of frozen salmon when I thought I was getting a pack of double A batteries. If that were the case, I would either seek medical attention or be happy for it. Either way, it would be an open and shut case: I’m nuts. But, no, what plagues me is far more devious. I return for the grocery store with fat free sour cream or organic pudding. For this, I cannot locate a cause.

My first thought is that maybe there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Maybe such a thing is happening to everyone, everywhere, all the time. Maybe we’re all just victims of our variety-crazed manufacturing companies. Who can keep track of all 267 varieties of peanut putter these days? I can’t. Obviously. Maybe I’ve just resigned myself to closing my eyes, reaching in, and leaving it to fate. And sure, ‘organic peanut butter’ may be more appropriately labeled ‘tastes-like-crap butter,’ but is my life really any worse for having to ingest it? Not really. I may even be healthier as a result. Perhaps I’ve just chosen to concern myself with more important things (or at least different things). Yes, it was my choice after all; I am the existential hero of aisle 14!

Or, maybe it’s genetics. My dad does the same thing to the Nth degree. Maybe I’m turning into him. And maybe, like him, there will come a time when I will return home with the wrong thing more often than not. But this begs the question, are we just indelible images of our parents? Or can we learn from the past so as not to repeat its mistakes?

Maybe my sub-conscious is saying to me, “Hey fatty, remember when you were 18 and you claimed that one ‘maintenance workout’ every 2 months was all you needed. Well, you’re not 18 anymore. How bout we ring-in your mid-20’s with a sit up or two?”

Freud says there's no such thing as a mistake, so all of the above may be plausible explanations. I've got my money on me being insane. Anywho, I’m off to enjoy some delicious low sodium lactose free soy ice cream with no trans fat or carbs. But first, maybe I’ll go for a run, just in case i'm wrong.

Public Service Announcement

We here at Donkey’s Clubhouse will be shutting it down for the next few days. I’ll be too busy entertaining my crazy family to post anything. Wish me luck! Do enjoy the holidays and the religious and/or secular traditions with which yo’ mama raised you. I’ll be back with a vengeance on Wednesday, December 28th. Do remember to come back and see us then.

Jesus Fails to See the Humor Here

I really enjoy proverbs. Words are most impressive when they are few in number but full of meaning. I like Chinese proverbs best. I like how Chinese proverbs give importance to things that we, as Americans, have forgotten; “When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other.” Let’s be honest, an American would never say such a thing.

I like how simple words allow the counterintuitive to seem obvious, “Deep doubts, deep wisdom; small doubts, little wisdom, ” say the Chinese.

I’m convinced that if a man were born and the only texts he was ever given were the Tao Te Ching and the Confucian Analects, that man would be happy. If he were given a Bible, I’m not so sure. I mean, this artist's rendition of Confucius seems believable enough. Compare that to this depiction of Jesus. Not so believable, is it? Meanwhile, you know that Lao-Tzu is feeling quite the pimp up there on his lotus chair. I think I have proven my point.

I love true wisdom was discovered independently by many cultures: “What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others,” say the Chinese. Christians express the same idea in the golden rule, which finds a corollary in most every major religion. It’s truly amazing.

Lao-Tzu said, “To know that you do not know is the best. To pretend to know when you do not know is a disease.” This is Socratic Wisdom in a nutshell: “Well, although I do not suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good, I am better off than he is - for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows. I neither know nor think that I know." I’m not saying that what makes it true is that lots of people thought of it. I’m saying that it’s amazing that so many were able to discover the same truth independently of each other. And, I wanted to take this opportunity to ask Santa for a Lotus Chair for Christmas.

Rock On People!

What makes people so self-conscious? I remember this one time, probably about a year ago, I pulled up to a red light and there was this girl in the car next to me, about my age. She was completely rocking out. I thought it was great. She didn’t have a care in the world that someone might pull up next to her and see her belting out lyrics,bobbing her head to and fro, and tapping the beat on her steering wheel. No, for her, the next two minutes were a time to shine, her own little Carnegie Hall. I was amazed. But then all of a sudden she sees me seeing her and stops. An embarrassment falls over her and she starts laughing. I had caught her in the act. She was flush. And just like that, the record stops, the curtain falls, and all of her adoring fans rush out of the concert hall. Why?

On a dime this girl’s emotional state changed from having a really good time to being really ashamed, all because she thought I was judging her. Sartre claims that judgment and shame naturally arise from the social condition. All’s good in the neighborhood so long as there’s only one person, who has sole power to judge good and bad. But when someone else comes into the picture, the judge herself is potentially under scrutiny. Enter shame.

What made the girl amazing under my initial estimation was that she didn’t take herself so seriously. She didn’t care (or so I thought) what some random person who pulled up next to her might think of her singing. She wasn’t up for promotion. My opinion wasn’t the opinion of someone she loved or cared for. But then all of a sudden, she made the situation out to be more serious than it was.
I think we can all learn from these folks that it’s ok to let loose every once in awhile, and not just when you’re home or at a bar or at a friend’s house for a party, just on a Tuesday in the middle of the day, when you’re favorite song comes on. I'm convinced that singing at the top of one's lungs in a moving vehicle is good for one's soul. Because the only way to make life something more than shame and judgment is to act the fool every once in awhile... and be ok with it.

Hams All Around!

You’re not going to believe this, but I’m in love with you. Yeah, you, right there reading this. Completely, head over heels in love with you. If my heart were a watermelon, you’re that middle-aged balding comic from the 80’s with the sledgehammer. Or would lust be a more appropriate label for my emotions? I'm a hot, sweaty St. Bernard on a sultry July afternoon and you're my fire hydrant. Or is the word I’m looking for 'hungry'? Or is that I’m sleepy? I sleepy you?

What strikes me is that two people with relatively similar social standing, education, life experience, etc could disagree on something so fundamental as the very definition of love. When I use the term, I mean X. But other people seem to think it’s something completely different, say, Y. Granted, I'm a little odd, but c'mon, this is love, people! Surely you know what I'm talking about.

Tolstoy once wrote, “If so many men, so many minds, certainly so many hearts, so many kinds of love.” Maybe he’s right. Still, there is an overwhelming presupposition that we all feel the same thing. For instance, you might say, “I love you.” To which, someone might reply, “I love you, too.” The ‘too’ suggests that there is a meeting of the minds. It suggests that both people are talking about the same thing. It is first affirmative and then reciprocative: yes I understand you and yes I feel the same way.

But if Tolstoy is right, maybe they’re not talking about the same thing. Maybe what’s actually being said is: “I love you” and “I want a ham sandwich, too.” You see, the ‘too’ doesn’t necessarily imply a meeting of the minds.


Or, does it? Maybe next time someone tells you they’re hungry, before you concur, you may want to ask yourself how well you know that person and if you’re ready for that kind of commitment.

The Girl with the Duck

I can’t think of anything to write about, so I’m going to write about the girl sitting across from me in this café. It appears to me that she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s got a tattoo on the small of her back. It’s probably a butterfly or a duck, something that once made sense. But I can tell from her body language that it no longer does. Maybe she wants to relegate it to the past, just like the people she used to hang out with, the decisions that she made, the smell of alcohol and the cool of stainless steel on her skin. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember the boyfriend that took her to the tattoo artist, whose stupid idea it was to get matching tattoos. Of course, by now, he’s changed his duck into a bad-ass yellow dragon, so she’s the only one left with a silly duck. But maybe I’m mis-portraying the duck. Maybe it’s not a silly duck after all. Maybe it’s the duck that’s bad-ass and the dragon is silly. Yes, I think that is so. Maybe she likes the duck and is glad for it. Maybe it’s the shirt that she’s uncomfortable about. Yes, I had it all wrong. The tag of her shirt must be irritating her. I thought it was regret I saw on her face, but it was just an itch. She understands that todays stand on yesterdays and that there can be no other way about it. No, there can be no other way. It must be so. It’s a truism. I thought this story would lead to paradox, but no, it’s led to truism. The duck is a truism. And she is happy for it. Sure, why not. How stupid I was to think it might be silly. Think about it. Most everything about that episode has faded to memory – the weekend in Wilmington, the boyfriend, the tequila, the faint scent of tobacco that made a home in each of the tattoo artist’s words, the reaction her friend Susan had back at the dorm. Susan was silly. Susan didn’t get it, not like us, anyway. We’re in the know. You, the reader. Me, the writer. The girl, with the tat. And the Duck. But not Susan. And not the dragon. Definitely not the dragon, which, as we’ve established, is silly. But the Duck is a miracle. The Duck took a girl who was sitting in a café on a Monday in December and made her the hero of this story. That, my friends, is one bad-ass duck.

Help! I'm a Confused Little Girl

I saw The Chronicles of Narnia yesterday. It was ok, not great, not terrible. The thing that struck me was the portrayal of women. It’s not particular to this story, but all fairy tales really. I’m not sure what little girls (or little boys, for that matter) are supposed to learn from female characters in fairy tales. It’s clear that the male characters are meant to teach loyalty, courage, and sacrifice. These ideals resonate with me. But what lessons are to be learned from the Ice Princess and the two little girls? At one point, one of the little girls was reprimanded for ‘trying to be smart.’ WTF? Maybe I don’t see the moral there, because I’m not female. Maybe I don’t see them, because there isn’t a moral there to be seen. But why? The easy answer is to say that men wrote all the fairy tales. Fine. So what would female characters look like if the stories were written by women? What lessons would they teach little girls? If I were a little girl, values should I be encouraged to prize?

Innie or an Outtie?

Today’s reflection is on the relation of inner beauty to outer beauty. My initial instinct is to say that inner beauty grows in importance with age and in inverse proportion to outer beauty. When I was, say, 14, I think outer beauty was close to being my only concern. I’m not even sure if one knows what inner beauty is at that point in life. However, as one gets older, it grows in importance. I wonder if matters will come full circle so that inner beauty will grow to be ‘close to my only concern.’ Maybe when I’m really old, and everything about me, including my wife, resembles an old grape, it would only humane for nature to strip me of my aesthetic sense, for that, too, to grow dull like taste buds.

The other matter is definition. I don’t have a physical type, per se. I’m having a hard time identifying characteristics key to inner beauty, as well. I wonder if these two are related. That is to say, for people that have well-defined notions of physical beauty, I wonder if they have equally bounded senses of inner beauty.

Life's Bottom Decile

Don't know if this'll work, but I'll try to steal from Dunn again for life's worst from the same poem...

“When I betrayed, I loved chaos, loved my crazed version of the sane. When I betrayed, I loved fidelity, home. I love more carefully now. But never to have betrayed, admit it, is a kind of lethargy or rectitude, a failure, pure.”

“I love the way my cat Peaches brought the live rat to the door.”

“I love that there’s a secret behind every secret I’ve ever told.”

“Who isn’t selfish enough to love zoos? Flamings, baboons, iguanas, newts. Surely evolution has a sense of humor. Surely the world would be something to love if it weren’t for us, insatiate, our history of harm.”

“So rarely do I raise my voice, what a pleasure to rant. How seriously I’m taken then! Words as bullets, emblems of the heart… language every woman understands.”

“I love that the casinos are open and near, and sometimes after midnight too, for indulgence or danger’s sake… I love taking my place among the prodigal escapees screaming for sevens, and one big time when everything went my way, I loved placing all that cash on my wife’s sleeping body, loved come morning, to see her waken like that, covered with luck.”

“To give succor to the dying and to kiss the diseased. To put a coin in a leper’s hand, and to hold that hand. I love such love, and am its failure.”

Life's Top Decile

Building from last night’s post, what is the best 10% of life? This is a difficult question that I don’t think I can answer in the hour I a lot myself for lunch and blogging. But that is sufficient time to steal from other people. I’ll use Stephen Dunn, my favorite poet, as my guide. In his poem “Loves,” he rattles off about 6 pages of things that he loves. Here are 10 that I think belong in life’s top 10% (or at least the top 20%).

“I love abstractions, I love to give them a nouny place to live, a firm seat in the balcony of ideas, while music plays.”

“I love love, for example, its diminishments and renewals”

“I love being the stupidest happy kid on the block.”

“I love the game winning shot that isn’t an accident, the shot prepared for all one’s life, practice and talent metamorphosed into a kind of ease.”

“Something else in me loved the blue jay who all summer dive bombed my cat, the only justice it could deliver for many blue deaths.”

“I love the good home clichés can find in an authentic voice.”

“After I asked my wife to marry me, I hid behind a bush the next day, and was thankful to Poe and his Imp of the Perverse. Thankful as it were for a colleague. Later I loved telling her this, laughter the sweetest agreement, more conclusive than any yes.”

“I love the thing chosen and I love the illusion of choice.”

“Once in Chicago at the Hilton I slipped an “I quit” note under my boss’ door, took a night flight home. Whatever I love about my life started there.”

“I love how familiar bodies drift back to each other wordlessly, when the lights go out. Oh we will die soon enough. Not enough can be said for a redemptive caress.

Good stuff, but probably outside the top 10%:

“I love the ferocity of certain dreams, boulevards I’ve walked at midnight, vulgarities made holy in the mutual church of our bed”

“I love what we must forgive”

“I love that the normal condition of the soul is to be starved.”

“I love that the shy ones sometimes grow wings and that the peacocks disappoint when they begin to speak.”

50% of Life

My favorite bit on NPR is the segment called “This I Believe.” It’s a re-creation of a 1950’s show where people – some famous, some not – read an essay on the beliefs they hold dear.

Of the ones I’ve heard so far, I liked “Finding Prosperity by Feeding Monkeys” best, but it’s nothing I can write about. Instead, I’ll talk about “The 50% Theory of Life.” (You can read or listen; I prefer listening.) The basic idea behind the essay is that 50% of life will be better than normal and 50% will be worse than normal. It’s a simple enough idea.

On one end of the spectrum he puts sickness and death, obvious enough. What I found interesting is the stuff he considers the counter-pole to these: romance, marriage to the right person, being a good dad. Is that as good as it gets? I mean, is that really what life has to offer to combat death and sickness?

There is some empirical evidence to back up the position. I had heard as much and a quick google search turned up that the chances of death spike immediately after the death of a spouse. A Finnish study concluded that the likelihood of death for a male within 6 months of the death of his wife was 30% in excess of the norm and 20% in excess after 6 months. For a woman, it was 20% and 10%. I can only imagine that these numbers would be higher for “good” marriages. Maybe that is as good as it gets. And maybe when that's gone, there's nothing left to offset the worst.

What else would you consider in the top decile of life?

Vote for Me in '08

If you know me reasonably well, you'd know that I am as non-political as they come. However, our nation's current political climate is making me question what the heck is going on around here. I was listening to NPR today and they were doing a bit on accusations that the military was torturing detainees. This guy calls in from central Ohio and talks about how everyone in his town thinks the soldiers should be able to do whatever they need to do in order to protect this country, which presumably includes torturing detainees that have yet to be put on trial. He also noted that a popular bumper sticker around his parts: "Jesus Lives. Mohamed is dead." WTF? Is this what our country has become?

The worse part is that this guy's town is not alone in its thinking. Half way across the country, where I live, there was news the other day of yet another cross burning. I don't often watch the news, because it's filled with such negativity and I do not think it presents an accurate portrayal of our world, but something like that should never, ever happen. What's to say of our society that we produce such thinking? And what's to do about it?

I mean, how could so many people have fallen off the school bus to have never gotten an education? Or is this the kind of education people receive in schools? I still dont believe the solution is to be found in the political process. Maybe society should be restructured so that our best and brightest do not only become doctors and lawyers, but school teachers, too. Maybe that's a place to start. That, and hugs. More hugs.

Aristophanes’ Speech in Plato’s Symposium on Why Tom Cruise May, in Fact, Complete Us

Briefly, some background. Plato wrote this dialogue called The Symposium (Greek for ‘drinking party’ ha!). Basically, a bunch of people from different walks of life, including Socrates, got together and discussed the nature of love. One of my favorite stories was told by the comic Aristophanes, who was quite drunk at the time. For the full text, visit http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/symposium.html

In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and the word "Androgynous" is only preserved as a term of reproach. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;-and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained.

At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way. He said: "Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg." He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn in order that the man might contemplate the section of himself: he would thus learn a lesson of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, like the purses which draw in, and he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel); he also moulded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state. After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they were on the point of dying from hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them, being the sections of entire men or women, and clung to that. They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man.

Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men: the women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them. And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saving. When they reach manhood they are loves of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,-if at all, they do so only in obedience to the law; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded; and such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him. And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover's intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment. Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side, by side and to say to them, "What do you people want of one another?" they would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said: "Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night to be in one another's company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into one and let you grow together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead of two-I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you are satisfied to attain this?"-there is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need. And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not obedient to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the profile figures having only half a nose which are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies.

Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may avoid evil, and obtain the good, of which Love is to us the lord and minister; and let no one oppose him-he is the enemy of the gods who oppose him. For if we are friends of the God and at peace with him we shall find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious, and therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion in what I am saying to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both of the manly nature, and belong to the class which I have been describing. But my words have a wider application-they include men and women everywhere; and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next degree and under present circumstances must be the nearest approach to such an union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love. Wherefore, if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us happy and blessed.

Also in the Running for Clubhouse Mascot:

Many Chanukah Gifts for Me!

To me, receiving comments on my blog is like getting Chanukah gifts. Of course, I’m not Jewish, and never having received a Chanukah gift in my life, I’m certainly not an authority on Chanukah. Still, from what I know about the tradition, I’m sure that little Jewish children feel just like me! My last four posts have gotten at least one comment. I’m rolling. For awhile there, I thought that no one was logging on. But my hit counter says that I’m getting steady flow, so I guess people have just been silent observers. That, too, is cool, because I do find my own voice soothing in a sort of pre-pubescent Garrison Keillor kind of way. But I do love opening up y’all’s comments, so keep ‘em coming. I really do look at them as little tiny gifts.

In other news, I’ve decided to try and find some like-minded blogs. So far, no luck. I’ve tried to use that nifty “next-blog” function on the top right, but after clicking it a million times, I’ve only come to the conclusion that blogs fall into 4 categories. They are either (1) in a foreign language, (2) journals, (3) porn, or (4) written by certifiably crazy people. For all I know, the ones in foreign languages are journals, porn, or written by crazy people, or all of the above, which would mean that there are actually only 3 categories of blog. Granted, I’m still not sure what exactly I’m doing here, so maybe my blog will end up being one of those three. Maybe it already is. Maybe, in the end, I’ll find that whatever a regular person has to say will never be as interesting to anyone else as it is to that person. But what is our lot if we are left only to such self-service?

I say ‘regular’ people, because the extraordinary people know they have a gift and charge people for it. The rest of us, it seems, fall prey to some force like gravity that drives us to insanity, pulls us down to publishing the monotonous details of our every day lives, makes us post pics of naughty ninjas or some such, or pushes us to describe the world in Mandarin or Portuguese. Maybe we can’t stop this.

The end may be near for us, but until then, I’ll try to make this less about me and more about us human beings, the lives we lead, and the choices we make. And if in trying to talk about “us,” I fall into bad habits and end up just talking about “me,” then remind me, reader, that that is not what I sought out to do. But if we fail, maybe it will show us that people will only suffer to refrain from talking about themselves for a short period of time, if at all. Or, maybe we can only be interesting (or stay interested) for so long. Maybe there’s something to learn if we treat this like a relationship and see how long we can last and take care to notice what drives us apart and after how long…

Zen and the Art of Home Maintenance

Finding a good book isn’t just about finding a talented author with a good story to tell. It really has to do with the reader that you happen to be at the time at which you encounter the book. Some books are able to transcend time and circumstance in such a way that they’d be enjoyable to all at anytime. These are the appropriately named ‘timeless’ classics. They are few in number. They speak to the universal in such a way that they overcome the particulars of the who, where, and when of the reader. I don’t know if I’ve ever found such a book, but they exist, at least in theory. But most books are like meals or loves: they have to hit you at the right time to be fully appreciated. Otherwise, they’ll satisfy you very little, if at all.

I’ve started reading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I’m only 66 pages through a 500 page book, so it’s probably too early to comment, but I’m going to comment nonetheless. I think what the author will eventually get at is that there’s a certain pleasure in learning how things work. For the author, the subject is motorcycles, but even that, I assume, is just a clever allegory for the human condition as a whole. It seems that this book has found me at just the right time - just as I’m learning to tear down and rebuild my house and as my interest in the human condition persists.

I’ve always been interested in figuring out how people work. It can be said that my studies of psychology, philosophy, and ethics was largely about taking myself and others apart (deconstruction) and trying to figure out how we should be put back together (ethics). I never really thought about it in such rudimentary terms, but it’s a useful analogy. The book is suggesting, at least so far, that my learning to fix things around the house is not completely unrelated to understanding humanity.

When I told a friend what I was doing with my life, she suggested that I was, at the very least, improving my stock on the Life Boat. That is, when they were deciding who to throw overboard on a sinking ship, let’s face it, my degrees in psychology, philosophy, and law weren’t doing much for me. But, now that I know a thing or two about plumbing and electrical work, they may decide to keep me around for a bit. (And by the time I bang around long enough to figure out what the heck is wrong with the boat, help will probably have arrived. Phew) What she says is true, but I don’t like thinking of myself in such utilitarian terms. However, I did, admittedly, have difficulty coming up with another illustration of how my new career was making me a better person.

Enter Zen and the Art’. Fixing things has a lot to do with having the right tools. That’s what Home Depot will tell you, anyway. This is an oversimplification. Yes, it’s important to have the right tool, but what’s more important is identifying what tool to use. On this point, I have found that you are largely on your own. Instructions generally only apply to ideal conditions, which exist next to never. In most circumstances, you will have to improvise. This is true in life, too. I’ve found that “instructions” from Freud and Kant rarely, if ever, find direct applicability in life. Rather, one has to improvise. My new career is honing this ability. And I’m getting the sense that fixing a broken relationship might not be all too different than fixing a broken carburetor (or sink)…? Whether or not this is actually the case, I will find out in another 434 pages or so. But I’m getting the sense that these two things are related. Maybe (1) the sensitivity to notice when things are not functioning at their best and (2) the ability to determining what steps should be taken to fix it are habits that will generalize to other aspects of my life.

Of course, by the time I explain this to the relevant parties, they long since will have thrown me off the boat.

Nicknames

Maybe it's a guy thing, but I just love nicknames. I hardly ever call anyone by their given name. If you're female, I've probably called you 'babe' on many occasions. If you're male, you've probably been 'dude' a time or two. Sometimes, I'll refer to you by your last name. Sometimes, it will be some perversion of your first name - the first letter standing alone, maybe the first syllable. Of course, there are times when someone's name won't lend itself to a nickname. In such instances, I've noticed that I don't call them anything at all. It's amazing how much time you can spend with someone without ever giving them a direct address.

But this tendency extends not only to people, but things I do. In poker, I talk about holding 'Cowboys' or 'Ladies' or 'Jakes' or 'Bullets.' In basketball, I shoot the 'trey' or a '3-ball.' Of course, I didnt come up with these nicknames, they were given to me by guys like me. It says something about one's familiarity with a person or topic or pastime to use the right name in the right situation. It's as though there were a whole underground language only understood by insiders.

Of course, we find this to be the case not only with our personal lives, but also with our professional lives. Indeed, doctors and lawyers often get criticisms for having a secret language. It's thought to be a kind of conspiracy of elitists, designed to keep 'the others' out. I tend to agree. Latin and Ancient Greek are dead languages, except in professional school. It's a little ridiculous.

Still, it's the cat calling the kettle black. I am guilty for using language to suit my own needs. But sometimes it's ok to refer to things in your own way. But like any Kantian will tell you, the rightness or wrongness of the act will come down to intent. Know what I'm saying, Dude?

Mystery Lurks In Your Own Home

Real Estate is an absolutely fantastic trade. I love every aspect of it so far. The research. The hunt. The negotiating (those who've seen me in action know I love this the most!). The closing of the deal. The rehabbing. And though I have yet to experience it, I imagine the marketing and eventually the sale will grow to be my favorite parts. It seems like a perfect fit for my personality and talents.

I suspected that I would like all of those aspects when I decided to go into the field. What was a surprise is how much I enjoyed the 'getting to know the house.' It's not even a necessary step of the process. What I'm talking about is the process of familiarizing yourself with the circumstances and conditions under which your home was built and understanding the chain of people and personalities that resided your home before it arrived in your hands. 9 out of 10 times, I wont make a dime on the hours I spend finding this stuff out. But, there's something that can be said for being true to the framer's intent! Ha! (C'mon, as pun's go, you must admit that's a pretty good one.) And to be honest, in a much less noble fashion, it quiets the curios cat in us.

I paid a visit to the university library and the county's register of deeds. It's remarkable how much of our history is preserved through real estate. I know the name of everyone who's ever lived in my house. I know where they moved to. If I wanted to, I could even trace the life of their children by seeing who they willed their house to when they died. It's all there in public records which date back hundreds of years. Remarkable. But the records not only provide you with names, but the personalities that brought these names to life. For instance, you can use these leads to find out what these people did for a living, if they were ever divorced, how many times they remarried, how deeply they were in debt, and any number of other things. If you're lucky, you can even get full narratives of their lives in obituaries. Even better, if they were affiliated with a university, you can even get a hold of their collected papers. Everything is saved somewhere. You just have to know where to look and care enough to go there. I have no doubt that I was the first person to ever look at some of these documents.

I felt like a detective piecing together the facts of a mystery. You follow one story to its end and pick up the next. You never know what you're going to find next. You never know how far back in the past the scent will take you. But at some point, all of a student, it stops. History will only let you go so far.

I was lucky enough to have some relatively famous people live in my home. There's lots written about them. The most interesting "story" is of the first guy that owned my home. There is absolutely nothing preserved about this guy's existence, nor his wife. He's never been mentioned in a newspaper, magazine, or book. No one wrote an obituary for him. None of his offspring reached a level of fame that you would know him through association. Nothing. The one loose strand that ties his ghost to the real world is that his name is scribbled in pen on a deed filed away a dusty leather-bound book at the county's register of deeds. That's it. In a way, it's sad. But when you think about it, suppose he never bought my house in the first place? Well, then there would be nothing. For this guy, or any guy really, buying a piece of property not only buys you the house but guarantees you some level of notoriety long after you are dead.

But even this notoriety is only in theory. In practice, title companies are now only required to search title back about 30 years. It used to be that they would have to go back as far as they could. Back in the old days, our good friend would be remembered every time the house was sold ad infinitem. As far as he knew, that’s how he would be remembered. But try as he might to live in modest fame, congress, a much greater force than one man in the grave alone, has relegated him to obscurity, as his statutory 30 years are up.

In a sense, I brought him back to life when the rest of the world was done remembering him. And is this what our ancestors meant when they said that the soul lives on long after the body expires? And don’t you think he appreciates it? And when I sell this house, I will tell the new owners his name and hope that they will tell their kids and his story can find new life in oral tradition. And just like in the old days, through imagination and embellishment, his mere name will grow wings and ascend to legend. Mr. John Charles Kouns, fear not, my friend, you will soon live amongst gods and giants.

Dog Park

If you dont have a dog or if you've never been to a dog park, you may not be able to fully appreciate this post. Trust me when I say that aside from penicillin, the number zero, and the fried twinkie, the dog park may be man's greatest invention. For owners, you can take your dog there for an hour or so and he's done for the day. In fact, he may run around so hard that he very well may sleep for two straight days. For dogs, I cant imagine a better place. What happens at a dog park? Well, let's just say that if they had a dog park equivalent for humans, it would be illegal everywhere but maybe Vegas. I'd tell you more, but what happens at the dog park stays at the dog park.

One more thing...

In other news, it appears that my puppy is largely over his excitement pee problem.

Today's Poetry Recommedation

In The Desert

Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter—bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

and

http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4352/

Self-Bloggeration

In this episode, my blog will talk about itself. It will be like the snake eating itself. It will be like the Seinfeld episode when Kramer gets lost in NYC and ends up at 1st Ave and 1st St. It will be like that trick when someone turns around, wraps his arms around himself, and moves his head from side to side, and it looks like he’s making out with someone, but he’s, technically, only making out with himself. That’s what we’re shooting for this morning. (Oh how my standards have changed in four days!)

I’m quite happy with the way this has turned out. Honestly, I thought it would be a complete and utter failure. I gave it two days. It’s been twice that and I still have a head of steam. I think I can last at least two weeks now! Great success!

And think of the topics we have covered, you and me. We talked about love and sex, death, beauty’s place in the modern world, societal constraints on self-expression through language, and now you’re watching me make out with myself. I think that covers everything!

When asked a few weeks ago what I would change about my life, I said that I missed the intellectual exercise that school has always provided for me. This blog allows me to be teacher and student. It’s great. I don’t mean to say that the content is great. I mean to say that the function it performs in my life is great. It’s exactly what I needed.

Nietzsche says that the highest ideal for man is ‘the eternal recurrence of the same.’ That is, the best we can hope for is to live the kind of life that we would choose to will again over and over for all eternity. Think about it. How good must things be for you to want to do them repeatedly forever? But really, why should we settle for anything less?

The incredible thing about the Nietzschean idea is that it shifts our present focus from the past or the future to both at the same time. It is easy to lament the past. It’s easy to stay the course, feeling as though you’re tied to the past, no matter how unfulfilled it left you, to feel that somehow, our pasts give us identity, meaning, and sustenance. Conversely, it’s also easy to rest on one’s laurels. On the other hand, it’s equally easy to hope for the future without doing anything to effectuate it. All three of these positions are the enemy of change. With the Nietzschean principle, by focusing on the past and future simultaneously, one is motivated to change one’s past so as not to let it become one’s future. I feel like Dr. Phil saying this, but one does really possess the power of change. There’s nothing about your situation that you cannot change if you want to. And if you don’t change it, it will not only be your past, but it will also be your future.

I feel like I’m getting preachy, so I’m going to stop writing.

Camp Donkey: A Return to The Simple Life

The last few months have been something of a distillation process for me. A lot of the things that added a complexity and flavor to my life have been boiled out. Some things were lost due to circumstance, others to habit, and still others to necessity.

Of circumstance, I’m speaking of the fact that people graduate and move away. I simply do not see the same people that I used to see on a daily basis. Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone in person since a little after graduation. It’s easy to keep in touch with people when circumstance delivers them to you daily. It’s equally difficult to keep in touch with people when circumstance keeps them away from you. It seems that after grad school, even more so than undergrad, people move really far away. People I used to see every day are now as far away as England, China, New Hampshire, Alaska, California, New York, Texas, etc. Basically, all four corners of our country and the world have representation. In addition, most of my friends from school are busy trying to start a new life for themselves. This, of course, requires a great deal of both time and attention, leaving little of each for keeping in touch and flying out to have lunch with me twice a week, or whatever. It used to be the case that I could hardly go anywhere without seeing someone I knew. Now, the faces I see every day belong to people whose names I do not know, whose stories I have yet to hear.

Of habit, I’m speaking of the fact that I’m just not very good at keeping in touch with people far away. It’s not that I don’t care. I’ve just never been good at remembering people’s birthdays or sending out holiday cards and such. It’s a really good way to keep in touch with people but nothing something for which I have the knack.

Of necessity, I’m speaking most of my living condition. It’s said that what I do these days is very similar to camping. This is a big change for me. I wouldn’t have said that I was high maintenance before (maybe others would have, I dunno), but I did take a certain pride in having a place that was well put together. My furniture wasn’t the best quality, but everything was coordinated. I had tons art on the walls – paintings, photos, sculptures here and there. My entertainment center had a billion feet of wires connecting a dozen or so pieces of electronics. And my four poster bed was pretty pimp if I may say so myself.

Now, I pretty much only have the things I need to survive. Warm clothes. Basic food stuffs. Internet. A dog. Tivo (watching commercials literally kills you). I only have five pieces of furniture – (1) the bed that I sleep on, which is just a mattress and a box spring on the floor, (2) a rubbermaid four-drawer cabinet which serves as my nightstand, dresser, and safe (more against my dog than thieves), (3) a side table, upon which my tv is precariously balanced, (4) a coffee table, which also acts as a side table, an ottoman, and a dining room table, and (5) a couch, which isn’t really a couch at all, but a futon mattress draped over two air mattresses, one of which is propped up against a built in bookshelf, and depending upon the angle at which it’s propped, it may also be a recliner, or a death trap.

I no longer view cooking as an avenue for artist self-expression, but the meager act of removing everything from a shopping bag and placing it into a crock pot. I’ve even buzzed my head so that all my facial hair is at uniform length so as to simplify grooming. I used to be an aspiring attorney (not really) who worked with his brain (though this, too, is debatable), and now I work with my hands, which have grown rough and calloused.

The point I’m trying to make is twofold:

First, to those with whom I have not remained in contact, it’s nothing personal. Should we ever cross paths in real life, I promise you a monster hug and lunch. Forgive me though, I’m not really good at the occasional call to say hello. Your loss was due to circumstance, not choice nor necessity. Certainly, if I’ve chosen to invite you to the clubhouse, I want you in my life.

Second, it amazes me how much of one’s life can change without changing one’s life. I’m still the same work in progress I’ve always been, just without the frills. And it’s really amazing to stop and see exactly how much of one’s life is only dressing. (Yes, I realize that the counterpart of that analogy is that I'm a turkey and I'm comfortable with that.) It’s probably a good for the soul to move every once in awhile, change jobs, graduate. These things allow you to return, however briefly, to the simple life. But before one scrambles to re-amass everything they once had, one may be advised to take a leisurely walk to no place in particular and maybe stop and enjoy the quiet for a minute or two.

Team Mascot

We here at Donkey's Clubhouse are considering getting a mascot. While the dog has personality, this kid seems to have the early edge.


We'll keep you posted on any developments and feel free to make suggestions.

The Tyranny of the Majority

Incorrect

I be/You be

I ain't/You ain't

I got to

I seen

I done

Correct

I am/You are

I am not/You are not

I have to

I have seen/ I saw

I have done/I did

(Copied out of the back of my marble notebook)

Adventures of Donkey Boy and Friends

Donkey Boy: "Hey Sticky, how come you only see stars at night?"

Sticky: "Well, Donk, the stars always there. So I guess that people just don't notice them during the daytime, because they're all worried about the day's problems and stuff. But at night, when they're done worrying, that's when they notice."

Donkey Boy: "But what about those people that never stop worrying - even at night, Stick?"

Sticky: "...Guess they never see stars, Donk."

Ok, I'll try Harder

I know I took the day off yesterday, and I'm catching some flak from my loyal readers. I thought my audience was 6, but this number has ballooned to 8. 8 confirmed readers is pretty good. I mean, surely the Washington Post cant have THAT many more readers than that, can they? Heck, I've been alive for 25 years and I havent read that rag once. Not once. I've got EIGHT readers, baby! Take that Bernstein! What's more, I can personally confirm that at least 3 of them are actually literate.

I did try to write last night. I figured that if I could write every day for 10 days, it would be habit and I'd be compelled to write every day for the rest of my life. Of course, this doesnt mean much, because I probably wont make it much past 30 what with my hard living and all. Ha!

Anyway, so I tried to log on last night with no luck. I could connect to blogger, but not my particular site. My only guess is that the moral police pulled my site for review because I included the term 'sex scene' in my previous post. Fascists. (I'm only kidding Blogger folks. Please dont can my site. Think of my three literate fans! And how will the other five ever learn to read without me?)

I was going to write about how I thought poetry was an under appreciated art form, but who cares about that? I'm not sure I care enough to write about it, let alone subject you to having to read it. I did, however, come across some poem I wrote last year. I'm not posting it because I think it's good, but rather because I can post whatever the heck I want. This thing is awesome. You, of course, dont have to read it. If you dont like my poem (or think that poetry sucks in general) feel free to stop in the middle and do something else. Might I recommend that you visit www.washingstonpost.com They could use your support.

The poem is about death. Well not really. It's about my sense that death is overrated.

Why do you lament death?

Is it because you are a theist,

Who believes that life is a sacred gift,

Given to the Earth as a cure

For its otherwise monotonous existence:

The predictability of the ocean’s ebb and flow,

The perpetuity of solstice after autumnal equinox:

the Great Hunter, a stoic Prometheus,

a dutiful Lazarus, returning to work

from an afternoon’s siesta, his endlessly faithful dog in tow.

If so, do you, then, grow angry at your Father,

For reaching His long, thin fingers

Across the great expanse of the Cistine’s ceiling,

The black of His fingernails scratching

And tearing the pale blues and puffy whites,

That lay between Him and your life’s only friend,

Adam, who grew up just three houses down,

Who saved your life in 4^th grade when you fell

Into the deep end of Mrs. Johnson’s pool,

Who never failed to send you a birthday card,

Not once,

and who now unwittingly reaches for this caress,

Gentle, cold and Malignant?

Do you fault Him for reclaiming His gift?

And if so, will you burn His house and slaughter His animals,

Rape His children and drive Him into the barren West,

The only appropriate punishment, as History teaches us,

For those guilty of treason or Indian-giving?

And if so, will you then erect

A gilded figure, one hundred feet tall,

Crafted in your own likeness,

Having grown lonesome after the loss,

First of a friend, then of a Father?

Or, is it because you are a young artist,

A portrait painter, who believes every subject,

But man, an unpersuasive reason to pervert

The pristine white of a virgin canvas?

And if so, do you visit auction houses under the cover of night,

Cloaked in black and armed at the hip

With stolen credit cards and forged checks,

Drunken and lustful, bidding on every Picasso and Caravaggio,

Until you have monopolized the world’s supply?

Do you fault them for what has happened?

And if so, will you rip canvas from frame,

With each of the broken and splintered pieces

Piled in a heap, doused with gasoline, and peppered with gun powder,

And will an inaudible cackle part your lips,

As you paint, in your mind’s eye, the looks on their faces,

As they bear witness to a funeral pyre appropriately large enough

To honor the loss of such a great man,

A man,

And will you be contented, having rid the world

Of all evidence that beauty is to be found in lines and light?

And if so, will you then collapse into bed that night,

Arms heavy, eyes stinging from smoke, carbon caked

Around your nose and mouth, which has broken into smile,

As you dream of the eight days to follow,

With tomorrow’s pyrotechnics being sponsored

By a Frenchman you’d never met, who you understand

Went by the name of Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin.

As you hope that, after tomorrow, beauty will no longer

Be assigned to wretched bowls of fruit?

Or, are you a computer scientists, an astute observer

of the binary nature of systems all around you,

who, from your air-conditioned cubicle, prefers the noon-day Sun

to the cold, desolate light of the mid-night’s crescent,

the latter a respite for sinners and poets,

who never do anything useful?

And if so, do you, ever economical with your emotions

Quiet the shudder that almost occurred when your cerebrum

Imparted meaning to the soft blue luminosity that radiated

From the curt, one line email you are reading, one letter at a time,

And which resulted in the sudden reuptake of serotonin-

That delicious chemical which formerly resided in your synaptic gaps-

Which is thought to cause, in most, the emotional state of bereavement?

Do you blame mathematics?

And if so, did your ever-stoic, almost robot, heartbeat hasten,

Upon the realization that, given the probability algorithm and the variables at hand,

That, in a short time, your one would also devalue into

A zero,

Which would also result in the rampant production of strings

of alpha-numeric symbols, each barely one-line in length?

And if so, did you conclude that your sadness was a virtue

Or merely a sin, as to a cosine, a yin, as to a yang, a one, as to a zero,

And just as the dying dutifully meet their expiration, so too, do

Those left behind, bound by some cosmic obligation, dutifully shed a tear,

And that funerals and headstones are as much for the living as for the departed?

If you do, then what will you think, if you could so think, when we all have forgotten your name?

I'm sorry

I've run out of stuff to say.

Should I start with a sex scene or a joke? And is there a difference?

The Greek god Eros (and his roman corollary, Cupid) is depicted as a young winged infant carrying a bow and arrow. One arrow was made of gold and dove feathers. Upon contact, this arrow would make its target fall madly in love. The boy also carried a second arrow, made of lead and owl feathers. Depending on the version of the story you hear, this arrow either made its ‘victim’ indifferent or hateful.

Every once in awhile (and especially in February), we are reminded of the presence of Cupid in our common mythology. But never once did I give pause to consider the implications. Our ancestors felt it appropriate to place the fate of our most prized emotion in the hands of a pudgy, snot-faced rug rat. Think about it. Without experience to temper his judgment, Cupid would take aim at passersby in a willy-nilly fashion. He didn’t so much care about what would “work.” He was just having fun, playing a game. Meanwhile, we were the hapless actors on the stage of life providing entertainment to the gods above in their cushy balcony seats in the clouds. Tragedy was almost sure to ensue.

Suppose this is an accurate description of our human condition. What then? We might expect to see that relationships fail far more than they succeed. This is the case. We already know that in the United States marriages are slightly more likely to end in divorce than death. But consider all of the loves that people have before they actually get married. All but the last of them fail as well. It sure does seem that there may be a baby at the wheel after all. So, what to do?

A friend recommended that I read C.S. Lewis’ “The Four Loves,” in which he discusses the nature of Eros among the 3 other human loves (affection, friendship, and charity). He proposes a solution for coping with this fact of our existence. He first distinguishes Eros from Venus, the latter being the sexual urge which is often present at the same time as Eros, though each is capable of existing without the other.

Of Venus, he writes, “She herself is a mocking, mischievous spirit, far more elf than deity, and makes a game of us. When all external circumstances are fittest for her service she will leave one or both the lovers totally indisposed for it. When every overt act is impossible and even glances cannot be exchanged…. She will assail with all her force. What pother this must raise – what resentments, self-pities, suspicions, wounded vanities and all the current chatter about ‘frustration’ – in those that defied her!” While everyone can relate to the above at an anecdotal level, this point is most evident at the macro-level as male potency peaks at around18 years of age and steadily declines thereafter. Female potency, meanwhile, comically grows in inverse proportion to a peak at around 40.

Still, it appears that such is for our own “good.” Imagine the over population problem that would result if the potency and virility of both men and woman each came to a head at the same age of, say, 22. It would be a lost year indeed.

Lewis suggests that in the face of this problem we invite laughter into the bedroom; “Banish love and laughter from the bed of love and you may let in a false goddess” (Aphrodite being a laughter-lover). He advises, “Sensible lovers laugh. It’s all part of the game; a game of catch-as-catch-can, and the escapes and tumbles and head-on collisions are to be treated as romp.” He concludes by saying that your sex lives are a joke and that “it’s a bad thing not to be able to take a joke.” Ha!

Remarkably, Lewis suggests that the act of sex itself is a play or buffoonery. Indeed, the word ‘naked’ is the past participle of ‘naking’ which means to stripping or peeling. For ancients, this did not mean taking off your clothes, but rather suggested taking off your ‘self.’ “Nudity emphasizes common humanity and soft-pedals what is individual. In that way, we are “more ourselves” when clothed. By nudity the lovers cease to be solely John and Mary; the universal He and She are emphasized. You could almost say the put on nakedness as a ceremonial robe – or as a costume for a charade.” What parts do we play? Well the man is the sky-father and the woman is the earth-mother, of course.

(Time out. Do you think Lewis got anywhere in 1950’s bars, claming to be an aspiring Hollywood director and encouraging young ladies to come back to his place to try out for the part of the Earth-Mother?)

The point he’s trying to make (I think) is that sex has little to do with the individual participants but more with the ancient forces of masculinity, femininity, creativity, and sexuality that find form in these individual actors. The actors just keep the myth going. This stinks of Hegel and I don’t like it, but I’m floored by the paradigm shift nonetheless. How different would your sex live be if you didn’t think it was about you and yours but about primeval forces and fat babies?

Now turning our attention back to Eros. He suggests that “Eros, or himself, will never be enough” to sustain a relationship but that it must be “chastened and corroborated by higher principles.” Basically, we promise ourselves to each other out of love, but that’s not the reason we stay together. This too makes me question the whole system. If love (and by ‘love’ here I mean that spark, that first drunken 2 or 3 months of a relationship) is not central to the success of a relationship, why does our society glorify it so? First, you have the suggestion that the spark is random as if fallen from the sky or a bow. Second, you have the suggestion that the spark will not carry you very far. Third, you have the proposition that one needs to rely on humor and higher principles to make a relationship work. So why not dispense of the spark altogether? That’s it, I’m proposing to the next funny, high principled girl I find. Who cares if I’m attracted to her. If in the end, it’s about high principles, why not make it so from the start?

And I think it’s this realization that led ancients to invent arranged marriages and such. If young people are left to their own devices, they may haphazardly fall in love with random people for no good reason and their relationship will fall apart when they realize that all they had was Eros, which over time has decided to opt for the lead arrow, which I’m led to believe may happen to us all in time. Why not make humor and higher principles the foundation from the get-go? And can’t that be agreed to, by contract, between any two willing parties? You wouldn’t need to wait for “the one.” Anyone will do, so long as they agree to sign the dotted line and their principles are in line with yours (and they laugh at you in bed! Ha!) Have I deconstructed the dating scene? Maybe Eros is a bad matchmaker. Maybe the baby shouldn’t be driving the bus. Should this duty be outsourced? Every relationship that I’ve set up for others has lasted longer than any relationship I’ve set up for myself. Maybe there’s something to that. Am I missing something?

Why I've finally decided to blog

Peer pressure. Everyone has a blog these days, so why shouldnt I? I want to fit in. I want to be "cool," or at the very least, not "uncool." I realize that I'm getting older, slower, and, most importantly, that I'm losing my boyish good looks at a precipitous rate. I once had noble goals but no longer. The best I can hope for these days is just to blend in. It all started 2 years ago when I became the last person on the North American Continent to get a cell phone. It was my last stand in the struggle for individuality. Gruesome and humiliating. Now look at me. I'm passenger number 11,987,268 on the blog-train. I'm a reality TV show. And on this premiere episode, let us state our modest goals. I hope that you will log on every day to find ideas that will enlighten and inspire you. You will come upon fantastic tales, one after another, lined up as far as your mouse will scroll, that will each take you to places you've never been, that will warm your heart, and that will, on occasion, reduce you to a chewy-gooey mess of a man or woman. Here, I will publish treatises that will unite nations and end wars. I will cure cancer, juggle chainsaws, and save furry woodland creatures out of trees, regardless of whether or not they need saving, and all the while, I'll be hopping in a potato sack. This blog will render pollution and pestilence things of the past. They will be replaced by hymnals around campfires and those yellow smiley-face, helium-filled balloons, which we will boldly tie around our wrists. All of us, even our most esteemed congressmen. Yes! Especially our congressman. Great writers of the past will be reincarnated as modern day teenage net-surfers for the sole purpose of posting comments on my site. It will bring back the Dodo bird, just because it can, and also those platform shoes with the goldfish in the heel. Styrofome peanuts will no longer be a mark of privilege, as starving children in Africa will be given them by the bucket full. This small, electronic pocket of Nirvana known as my blog will have the magnetic force of a black hole and it will swallow the entire universe and bring joy and good fortune to all of God's creatures, great and small. C'mon, is that too much to ask? Maybe. How bout if I drop the part about the potato sack? With the formalities out of the way, welcome to the program. Do stop by and post hello.