Some Post-Holiday Crap That I Have Been Thinking About
--I got into this conversation again the other night with a female friend, and I am going to lay down the law on the issue once and for all...
I, as I know is the case for many guys, cannot tell if a guy is "good looking". It is not a matter of embarrassment, feeling as though I might be perceived as homosexual if I "admit" I find a guy "attractive". This is always the first rebuttal you face from a female when this conversation comes up:
GIRL: "He's a really good looking guy."
GUY: "If you say so."
GIRL: "What, you don't think so?"
GUY: "I don't know, I can't tell."
GIRL: "Yes you can. What, are you afraid if you admit he's good looking people are going to think you're gay?"
GUY: "No, I don't care, I just can't tell."
GIRL: "Well girls can find other girls attractive. Why can't guys do the same? It's because you're threatened that it might challenge your sexuality."
And on and on into absurdium. I guarantee that since the inception of humanity, women have nagged men with this intellectually vapid assertion over 600 trillion times.
So, for the broads, I am setting it straight (no pun intended) for you on behalf of men across the world (and myself, because I am most certainly not a man).
I can tell if a guy is ugly or goofy looking outright, no problem. But as far as I am concerned, facially, every "normal" male is just as good looking as the next. If a guy is not fat, decently dressed, has a normal gait and posture, and generally seems not to be a douche, I can easily say, "He's a good looking guy." No problem. But this has nothing to do with "Attractive looks".
Biologically, I have no senses to tell me if a guy is "good looking" or not in a sexual or non-sexual realm. I just don't, and if you don't accept that or can't understand it, then just shut the f*ck up, walk away, and talk to me no further. Aesthetically, I cannot tell you what about Paul Walker's facial features make him more attractive than Seth Green but less attractive than Ashton Kutcher. I know from listening to females and from general appearance that they are all considered good looking in many circles, but what sets each apart from the other is not only a mystery to me, but also a matter of personal preference.
Good enough? I hope so, because it's the damn best I can do. Again, if that's not good enough for you, then shut off, I'm tired of having that conversation.
--I can tell one thing that is decidedly not attractive, and that is the low rise female jeans. There are several reasons for my comment:
1. They just flat-out look unflattering on many otherwise lovely ladies.
2. They make otherwise lovely ladies who are NOT fat look fat by causing a bulging and flaring effect on whatever fat exists around the midsection, and specifically backfat. Concurrently, the trend is for female shirts to be cut higher, exposing a midriff, which is usually fine. The problem arises when the aforementioned bulging/flaring happens, causing FatWings (TM) to explode from the female midsection which, when coupled with the shortened t-shirt, is a disgusting sight even on the most attractive of coeds.
3. This particular cut of jean makes it appear as though the female has more narrow hips which, as far as I'm concerned, is not a good thing. What is with this trend of trying to look like a stick figure (see Paris Hilton or Tara Reid)? Female hips are a good thing, people. I'm not advocating a population boom on Fat Chicks, as there is a massive difference between Curvy (Beyonce Knowles, Kate Winslett) and Straight-up Pudge (fat people), and also between Fit (Britney, Jessica Simpson) and Stickly (Hilton, Reid). But come on.
Let's get to work on this, ladies. Ditch the low-rise, please, or at least wear them without the backfat.
--All that said, I would take the Tara Reid of American Pie I over the Tara Reid of Now any day of the week. Not that she didn't look good in Van Wilder. She did. But the boobies in American Pie, my Christ. And then they were all gone. See, that's the other thing about not going crazy about losing weight if you're a female--your breasts are going to be bigger. And that's good for everyone.
I need to stop before I get off track here.
--I hate the game of basketball. Hate it. I have all the Roundball Aptitude (TM) of a four year-old girl with no arms. I suck. Not that I was ever the most athletically gifted kid ever, but I could hold my own in several sports. Basketball was not one of them. The rim looks to me as though it's fifteen centimeters wide and being guarded by angry Rim Trolls. I'm terrible.
However, one of the greatest Joys of my life is the running competition held between myself and three buddies. The Lower Allen Squad (T. Richardson Brown, Banker and Svelte Princeton Andy) routinely battles Team New Cumberland (myself and the venerable Private First Class Chez) during times of Respite. This used to include all breaks from college and good portions of the summer months, but now that three of the four of us have graduated college and all of us live in different geographic areas, it's near impossible to find time to dismantle each other physically and psychologically.
Fortunately, we were able to meet up twice in the last week. It was somewhat somber, as this will likely be the last installment in the series for quite some time, if not forever. Trevor lives in DC, Andy is still plugging away at Princeton, I leave for Cali in May, and Chez is off to Iraq in February for a year. Though a somber mood threatened to cloud to proceedings on the heels of such, the games were well-contested by both sides, and neither side seemed to be hampered by the fact that, save for Sanders (Chez, don't ask), we are all in truly awful physical shape.
The first series went well for LAS and, accordingly, was pretty much an overall pants-sh*tting for TNC. T. Rock and Andy walked away with a 3 games to 1 victory, as Chez carried our team through my inability to get the ball even close to something vaguely resembling scoring. Also troubling was the indoor venue provided no 2-point demarcation, leaving me without 72% of my scoring game. Watching me trying to drive to the hoop is like watching Christopher Reeve trying to successfully navigate his way through a workout on a Universal Machine.
Fortunately, we were afforded 50+ degree temps in Central PA yesterday and a rematch was pressed. The pairs split the first two games, and then a LAS win was topped by two straight victories by TNC, giving us that day's Best-Out-of-Five, 3-2. All I can say is that, with the game on the line and the 2-point stripe at my disposal, well, my game was stupid fly, yo.
This whole Christmas week reminded me that it really, truly is the small things in life that make you the happiest. Seeing family, making stupid trips to the mall, playing ball with your high school buddies...I'm headed out for a life that is assuredly going to provide with me immense amounts of excitement, intrigue, and financial/personal/professional success. I believe all that, knowing that the things I care about most involve no amount of money, fame, prestige or any other kind of Attained Bullcrap (TM). I can take the Earth to the Moon and back again, but if I can't pick up and hit the courts with some of my best friends, what the hell does it all really matter? That's what makes me happy. To an extent, that's what should drive people, and anyone who can't find some sort of joy in the minutiae of an Average Life has misspent a good portion of their days.