Narcissim Vs Self Loathing: Mutally Exclusive or Strangely Compatible

~or~

The Disturbingly Freudian and Masturbatory Nature of Aesthetics

Somehow, I don't think I will sell many tickets with that marquee.

So after the events of today, I think it can be officially called Spaderpalooza. Gmail almost broke from the emailz wut wuz flying back and forth. I will state, again, that I don't care for Gmail's method of tracking a string of messages. I have a backup system that I check, and sure enough there were several threads I missed out on today, all offshoots of the same message. (The email heard 'round the engineering company, as it were).

Anyhoo, some things I was thinking about even before my last post came up several times in various exchanges today.

First, let me establish a few points. Please, this is not an attempt to fish for compliments or garner sympathy. These are simply the facts as I see it and not the interesting part (for me). So let's not argue about the following or anything. Really. I'm fine with this reality. Well, I mean, I accept it. Okay, moving on:

1. I do not find myself to be aesthetically pleasing in any way. I accept than I am not hideously deformed (on most days). However, the features I possess, body and face, are not features I would label as attractive or beautiful. I don't want to list all my flaws, b/c that's a door NOBODY wants to open. But I just don't like my face. The body....jeez, let's not even go there. Really. Nobody go there. Ever.

2. In a separate, but ultimately related development, I find that I am drawn consistently to people who have the opposite of what I consider my features to be.

3. In another related note, I have begun to wonder at the correlation between what I find attractive, and what I wish I had. That is, do I find something appealing because I covet it, and want to be it?

4. To round out the notes, its worth saying that I had no real concept of what I actually looked like until I was about 12 or 13. And even then I didn't realize some things for a few years. Let's just say that three way mirrors are illuminating, soul crushing things. It's also important to point out that my aesthetics were already well on their well to being fully developed--so what I find attractive is not a knee-jerk contrarian reaction to my own visage. You can't imagine my disappointment when I realized I looked nothing like what I thought (which was, of course, that I was in my own aesthetic ballpark).

Okay--so, why establish all this? Because even with this genuine distaste for my own appearance, I have been accused of crushing on people that look like me. Let me use a much funnier explanation from an email I got from a friend:

i.e. I'm afraid that I would have to totally call foul on your Spader obsession... Since he could be your twin brother!!! I swear... you and Jimmy look more closely related than you and any other member of your family that I've met. Now that I've shed some light on your vain obsession I think I've explained my own recurring Spader fantasies ;D He's hot!

Now, my pal is busting my chops here. But he was serious, too. He does know what just about everyone in my immediate family looks like. And he maintained his position under my Inquisition style interrogation. Everyone says I look just like my mom. JUST LIKE HER. (BTW, I don't. Nor do I judge her to be in the same spectrum as me. My mother is much better looking than I am or ever will be. Love ya, moo!):

Yes! I really do think that you bear more resemblance to Spader than you do to yer mum. Something about the eyes, nose, mouth, and chin area... 

WUT? IMPOSSIBLE!

And yet. . . as I peered at the pictures, the profile in particular, I could see it. Grudgingly, but it was there. At my inquiry, other folks chimed in. My favorite is this:

Son of a gun!  It's true.  You even have the crazy eyes!

Funny. But I'm on to you, mister. You just want an excuse to show that picture of me where I really do look just completely insane, round the bend, full blown lunatic with a psycho gleam in my eyes. You are still officially NOT ALLOWED to show that pic around.

In exchange, I will keep my vow of silence on the little matter of the Snuggie Elvis incident that ended in shame and misery for you.

Anyways--so how the hell does that happen, I wonders to myself. I did mention several times that he wasn't my usual type. There is the factor of being swayed by awesome talent and charisma. True story: Christian Bale is a good looking man, but his appeal for me is fueled completely by  his talent. His talent makes him attractive, and therefore I can find him aesthetically appealing. If he couldn't act, I couldn't be bothered.

So maybe Spader, and things like him, dazzle me with their talent and wit. Much like a sparkly bam-pow (that's vampire for people who don't stay up late nights being forced to watch dumb movies with me). HE SPARKLE DAZZLED ME WITH HIS CHARM AND GRACE.

Or, maybe (lookout, here comes the theory), sometimes we seek out better versions of ourselves. How do you draw the line between fascination, attraction, covetousness, envy, and desire? Can you dislike yourself but be self absorbed enough to seek out a better version of you? Drawn to what you could have been, if only the gods had been kinder?

There's lots of Evolutionary Psychology (don't ever read any it's sofuckingdepressing) texts that speak to a biological hardwired preference for similarity, for known and familiar things. (There's also a whole thing about how we're hardwired to avoid incest, but I'll be honest, I think the Evo Psy guys are reaching with these two points that seem to contradict each other. That's just squicky though. Unless they are at least your second cousin. Then it's okay. In certain parts of my family. I'm just saying. . . )

Whatever the case, it doesn't change the fact that Jimmy Spader is smoking hot and intensely lovely. I have Secretary on the DVR and Supernova on order, and Stick Up came in the mail today. Just lucky, I guess.

All of which means that some people *cough craigyferg cough* are safe. For now.

But be wary. Tick tock, Ferguson. Your time draws nigh. I know where you work. Sort of. You're within my reach, if I can make it through traffic. Enjoy your freedom while you can. I will hold onto my sanity and my desire to stay out jail for as long as I can, and leave you be.

But a reckoning surely cometh.

 I should probably take this time to mention, per my attorney's constant nagging advice, that this entire blog is completely fictional. There is no truth to it whatsoever. I am not a danger to society or any of these people I would appear to be stalking. In fact, I'M NOT EVEN A REAL PERSON.

And as long as I'm being lascivious, oversharing, and all that stuff, I offer you examples of people I find extremely amazingly incredibly stupefyingly beautiful and dead sexy who look nothing like me at all. Not a whit. And bless them for it.

A Note On Commenting

I think I have adjusted my settings so that ANYONE can comment now. You don't have to have a gmail account or whatever the hell else it asks you for.

You should be able to choose "anonymous" as a profile option, and post there.

I would appreciate if somebody would test this out.

Come No Further, for Death Awaits Ye, With Big, Nasty, Pointy Teeth

Not really. But I thought that a little of Tim the Enchanter would be a good lead in for a disclaimer to this type of post.

So, sooner or later some the real me had to seep into this public posting. That's why you are all bound by a code of honor and blood not to reveal my true identity. (All 1.5 of you who read this thing).

But writing is an inspired, if not inspiring, pursuit. Id est, one writes when one finds inspiration, often/mostly disregarding whether that point is of any interest to anyone else.

And so, the things that inspire me. . .

Again, if you are uncomfortable in your male heterosexuality, disinterested in beautiful things, non-desirous of knowing my desires, or already bored, READ NO FURTHER. Many will think I put this up for my family. HA! They don't read this thing. My sister might. But she's just as tweested as me. Wonder where she picked that up. . .

Anyhoodle, here's the juice. I don't consider myself a superficial person. I don't consider myself a connoisseur of beefcake or cheesechake. And yet, when the OCCASIONAL person catches me fancy, I guess I'm just as base as the next fellow. There's a whole meditation on attraction, tragedy, blah blah psychobabblecakes. THIS IS NOT THAT POST. This is post about The Pretty.

I offer on the altar of beauty Jimmy Spader. James, to you plebes. Most of you know him, and probably think of him in this way:

                                        

Proto-yuppie asshole, snorting coke, sabotaging his friends, and having the most fabulous 80's hair outside of any pop band at the time. There is something fecund and slightly effeminate about this era Spader. Surely some of it is the Pink Polo nightmare that was Preppie Hell, but some of it is Jimmy. There's a sensuality to the mouth, the slight sunburned aspect of the oddly turned nose. And here, of course, is also the bloom of cherubic youth. The gaze is arresting, but deceptive. Do we trust the angel's lips or the judge's eyes?



Ah, here he is again. Groomed and coiffed. Truly great hair. Again we have an almost Baroque or Rococo embellishment of the lips. And yet, something of Michelangelo in the eyes, and the piquant nose---not a feminized nose, but carrying something that hints of both the regal and the quirky. Think I'm being unctuous and excessive? Maybe. But look at this and tell me there is no fearful symmetry:

 Goodness, that's an awful lot of pretty. Pretty not a term I usually associate with men I find attractive. But day-um. If Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Van Rijn all got drunk and did a sketch, I'm thinking it might look a lot like the above.

Or maybe like this:


You'll have to forgive me, but I'm fascinated by my own fascination with this visage. There are so many things here that Are Not My Type. And yet. . . there is something so compelling about it. Which takes us from obsequious prose to the aforewarned perversion.


Jimmy has this quality. The French probably have a word for it, because they have words for all the uncomfortable things we don't like to say. Germans, too, but German usually have 72 letters in their words. Whereas the French will have a lovely word like deja vu, or  jolie-laide: someone who is pretty in their ugliness. Aesthetically out of joint, but compelling or attractive nonetheless. The quality I am trying to desribe is the compelling and disturbing attribute of looking enticing in a battered state.

Look, I'm not condoning anything here. I'm not saying you should go out and bitch slap James Spader. I'm just saying that he has the unfortunate gift of looking lovely when a little bruised. It reminds me of a Japanese style of pot throwing, wherein the glaze is baked on almost to the end of the piece, but a jagged and uneven edge is left, exposing the natural and flawed clay. The idea, as I was told, is that the little intentional flaws highlight the perfection of the rest of the piece.

Or maybe I'm just a sicko who gets rocks off on beaten up people. Only Judge Wapner can decide. Anyhoo, James wears his bruises well.

Which brings me to the other psychologically disturbing and revealing part of this--the appeal of Crazy!Spader. Sure, he can look all charm and sneezy goofiness in a shaggy turn for Stargate. But Kurt Russell better watch his crew cut azz, cuz Spader is batshit insane:



Quoi? He asks. Por moi? To which I respond, Oui, monsieur. Remember how you body-sniffed Michelle Pfeiffer from crotch to sternum in this scene?

Ah yes, I see that you do recall that scene. You crazy, loathsome, homicidal, sexy beast, you.

And as disturbing as this whole thing has been for you, here is the most shameful part for me. While JSpade wears many looks well, a look he sports quite stunningly is nothing at all:

I know, you are thinking "So what? I've seen 300. It takes more than that." To which I reply:

EGADS MAN! WHAT KIND OF HAVOC ARE YE TRYING TO WREAK? Look at that hip to shoulder ratio. Is that even possible? Look at those lats. He's got freaking wings, he can freaking fly! I have to stop looking at it, because it actually makes my brain malfunction. I think Angela Bassett is in this photo too. BUT WHO FRIGGIN CARES? She a fine woman, but the thing with the pants and the shirt and the delts and those are really big biceps you have grandmamama....afesoifhe09f0efhaewovhr8y948r7q932r1382

Okay. Sorry about that. I'm not going to bore you further with sonnets about his dulcet tones or odes to the subtle nuances of his facial expressions. (Just barely, I'm really restraining myself here). 

Summary: One James Spader. Too pretty by a half. But saved from banal and vapid attractiveness by good hair, crazy eyes, and an alarming combination of simultaneous psychosis, vulnerability, suavity, and something disturbingly angelic. Though your mileage may vary.

The Jukebox In My Mind

It's a funny thing, this soundtrack in my head. It's smarter than me. Here's the lyric that stuck in my head today:

You spend your life waiting/wandering round in a trance
You hang out forever/but still miss the dance

Now, the funny thing about this is that verse isn't the reason that song was in my head. It's something in the refrain. My brain is a terrible, horrific place to be sometimes. But it's endless in its abilities to self amuse. It's the kind of the inside-inside-inside joke. So much so that I don't often get it, unless I focus very precisely.

I had a bout of sinusitis this morning. Got all the way to work before remembering that I had meds at home for it.  God, that is some excruciating shit. I always imagine small gnomes with plastic cocktail swords, stabbing at my delicate nasal passageways.

The meds work great. However, they also hop you up. Not the best for anyone prone to insomnia. Meds to get up. Meds to get down. I am both grateful for and hate modern chemistry. I cannot imagine what people did to get through the day before medication for migraines or sinus problems. I'd throw in menstrual cramps and endometriosis, except that I know what you do to get through the day without relief for that stuff. At the worst part, you literally curl into a ball and pray for the cessation of consciousness.

Well, I exaggerate a bit. You usually are clear headed enough to actually pray for anything at that point.

But why waste time on such maudlin musings? I have a more fun post to make. Probably equally ill advised as this one, but whateffinever.

Side note: does anyone have any particular feelings about David Mamet? I find that I like him, but I don't know why. Further investigation is called for.

How I Spent My New Year's Vacation (HISMNYEV) Part The One

For the end of 2010, I was invited up north aways  to hang with some groovy folk I don't get to see that often. I must warn everyone about the graphic imagery to follow. Documentation of the my pre-party is amazing to behold. Thou hast been advisedetheeheheheth.

Here's the charming house my friends live in. It's called a craftsman style or something. That just means it's cooler than your house, with lots of neat rooms. Total fluke that I captured this vagrant hanging out on the porch when I snapped this picture.

 Inside is kind of crazy, because it looks like real grownups live there. Healthy dose of irony provided by the fact that about 1/5 of the house space is dedicated to games and toys. But there are lots of grown folk things too, like a lovely little front room library space:
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And they are like, crafty and artsy and stuff, so they display their objects d'arts around the place. They think they are so fancy:

And in total envy, may I present the most Kickass Sink, Ever. So badass, I took pictures. Lookit that thing!

 It's like, COMPLETELY FUNCTIONAL. The backsplash is BUILT IN. The drainboards are BUILT IN.

It's almost as if someone designed the device with the idea that water, soap, and other cleaning detergents and activities might be carried out within its cozy steel confines. Brilliant.

Alas, I failed to capture a good picture of Calliwicious at work, but rest assured, its a mellow little place. The doctor did her magic mojo on my back. It was sort of like the kinder, gentler version of chiropractic. Very interesting. And I'm really interested in anything, whether its meditation or acupuncture needles or manicures or massages, that make you slow down, stop, and hold still.

But wait, I hear you cry, surely there is more to tell?!

Oh yes, babbies. How does one prepare for a high class NYE blowout? What goes into the prep for a party like that? What levels of depraved indulgence can one sink to?

Never one to disappoint, I went hog wild and. . . opted to walk around the deserted Berkeley campus. Oh lord, I just heard a thud. Somebody get gramama the smelling salts. I see I've shocked her into unconsciousness with my unconscionable ways once again.

Berkeley is kind of like somebody took a slice of Maine or Massachusetts and wedged it into the California countryside. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this.

This is the famed Golden Bear of Berkeley. Every Friday they sacrifice a picanic basket to it, and burn a park ranger in effigy. It is the source of all the school's power, and the reason they consistently make the nationals in their sports clubs. Berkeley lore says that if you kiss the bear at midnight on a full moon, within two years the California congress will recognize, reject, and then recognize again your rights to full bear/human domestic partner equality.

I think this is the main gate to one of the several roads that lead to Berkeley. (Note to self, make addendum to that aphorism about roads and Rome).

Old Sather Gate here was first erected during the Moorish invasions of the 14th century. St. Sather was a local Lakota who some traveling French furriers titled and tossed in front of the invading hordes in the hopes of evoking holy terror. They say his ghost can still be seen roaming the campus on misty evenings, often moaning softly, "One minute you're hanging out in your sweatlodge, the next the bastard French are sticking funny hats on you. I hate whitey."

This building is where smart people think about smart things. 

This is a clock tower. I am too refined and tactful to make a joke.

Ever smarterer people sit here, and think about math and stuff. I can't help but feel that the jokes on the engineers and mathematicians, though. They got the second crappiest building on campus. 

If I had to walk into this door to go to class, I think I'd take it kind of seriously. I'd also expect to learn some alchemical tricks. And how to run an apothecary. Just me?

This is the amphitheater that was chained up, so we couldn't get in. Not a terrible thing, but information that might have been useful BEFORE we climbed the highest hill on campus to find that out.

This one of the 3 main ways a library should look. I bet I would get real smart in there. 

But in the end, folks, it's still just a college. Another institutionalized learning facility. Not that much different from the others. To wit, I give you our parting shot of Berkeley. And I ask to consider: couldn't this be a picture from just about any campus anywhere?

Next episode, wild NYE hijinks exposed!

It's Not You, It's Me.

 Really.

I think that's a distillation of the basic human condition. No matter the destination, the inescapable companion is you. 

Maybe that's why so many disciplines focus on the sublimation or disregard of the self. Maybe that's why so many activities are geared towards obliviating consciousness. 

Practices based on at least the superficially positive, such as religious experiences or transcendent states of meditation are often described as being "one with god/earth/higher power." Isn't that just another way of saying you've hung the coat of your identity by the mudroom door? Isn't it all the same appeal?

What if we are not searching for unity with a greater force, but escape from our inner workings? What if it's not a sense of community, but anonymity that we seek?  

This isn't what I came here to say, but that's not very different from the usual routine. 

The Human Condition is vexing and perplexing, and some days it wears me out more than others.

Occupational Hazard

Of traveling? Of jet set lifestyle?

Nopers. Just the oc or OCD of being me. I never sleep. Yesterday I flukes it and awoke early but managed to pass back out.

With the melodious porcine squeals of s two year old in the background, punctuated by sobs and arguments from a four year old, I doubt today will follow suit.

I wish I was more techno savvy, so I could post a pic of the view I have right now. Spent last night with family of my friend, Pandaman. Calliwicious and I hung out, drank Dom Perignon and really good Jamesons, and I quit behind my evil ways of partying around 3 am. A pretty mild night, though those that know me will be glad to know that even as a guest in another's home, I still played music Nazi. I just had to buy my time and wait for the right moment to strike. . .

I don't know what your hopes are for the new year. I'm not sure what my plans are myself. But I can say to anybody reading this, that if your dreams are pure of spirit and free of malice, I wish you unlimited success and rapidity in their realizations.

And I wish everyone a life lived a little slower, a little sweeter, and just a tiny bit quieter.

Mad props to our hosts for donating their lovely home for this event. Heated marble floors, yo. I shit you not. I think I'm going to go offer my services to the unlucky designated parent this am.

The view from this back room is 12 shades of green, with a powder blue mist creeping over the hills to kiss the edges of this slice of the universe. Light is coming from nowhere and everywhere, but it's not bright out. The sky threatens the white of snow, but the temperature has kindly declined.

Happy New Year. Especially to moo. No one deserves it more than you.