Sunday, April 20, 2014

For most of Saturday, I was tapping away my thoughts about the digital age and the democratization of fine arts. I find it a very engaging topic, and wish to give it further study before I submit it to my blog. After a last-minute night of empty bars, I come home to a laptop and my thoughts… a dangerous situation indeed.

In a fit of tittering schoolboy, tabloid-esque humour, I decided to peruse the love advice columnist for the “perpetually single man.” Why would I do such a odd thing? That is me, you see, and with the aid of a finely etched, leaded crystal tumbler of Maker’s Mark I digest the salient point noted in more than one article:

Never-married men are questionable.

How lovely! It’s nice to have confirmation. At least you people aren’t telling me it’s all in my head, which is the gaslight programme of my foul, contemptible existence upon this absurd crust of rock. Thank you for being honest! It means the world to me.

It’s bad enough to deal with that “man of a certain age” poppycock, but to be faced with such acute judgment is just the thing I need to dismiss the human race in total. Out of my house! Out of my house! You confused my punch bowl for a bidet, and now it tastes like society. For shame. How many times have I wiped those cheeks without complaint?! Several, I tell you and I even used two-ply.

As I sit here in my home office, I’m left to contemplate my life and its owner-given meaning. What doesn’t sound so ridiculously unattainable right now? So, nothing. Not potential but rubbish thoughts for a rubbish life. Jessica, Shylock should dance to know my worth and your eyes.

With that in mind, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Nate the Skate and his Butcher’s Block Orchestra’s anthem: Giuseppe Verdi’s “Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore

 

Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?

I ASK YOU!

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Monday, December 23rd, 2013

I saw this over the weekend, and while I laughed, I realized it was for someone else. It was for couples and not singles. That’s always a wet blanket.

I’m back from my parent’s house with newly-scented red onion fingers. That’s right, I cook. Not only that, but I clean, do laundry, tend to plants, and sometimes mend my clothes. This is set in juxtaposition to the construction I’ve done on my house, the walls repaired, the woodwork laid. I’ve tacked shingles on a roof and put up stud walls for additions. As I spread this all over the table, I don’t consider myself feminine but those roles have been assumed. I’m quite a masculine figure, which isn’t as popular as it was in the early 20th century, however I’ve come to experience that the converse isn’t either.

When I was at uni, the 100-level psych/humanities class preached a blend of masculine and feminine traits. While I didn’t intentionally plan it this way, I could feasible say I’ve done so. What’s disappointing is the seeming rejection of that notion in the real world. I have to get this out, as my mind’s on fire, but it’s almost as if I’ve been set up for failure by trying to cooperate. I’m sure that’s hard for some to either accept or even believe, but why is it I always get the “well, you’re an exception” when I hear women moan about men? If I’m the “exception,” or “safe” as one woman so eloquently put it, wouldn’t that make me more valuable? It hasn’t in my time. I should have have more opportunities by now.

Maybe the reasons are meant to be tentative? It always feels like submitting a resume. I know HR is looking for any mistake to fling it in the trash can. There’s always the possibility I’m simply not attractive enough for many women. I thought we weren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, but it happens. Doesn’t it?

And the band played on…