Doesn’t everyone enjoy a nice church festival?
That whole vibe: Bingo, booths, paying cash to purchase generic tickets which act as official currency. You know, a French dip sandwich doesn’t cost $4.50, it costs 5 tickets. The whole rigamarole is strangely misleading; you need to suspend your financial sensibilities for a short while because even though you are paying $4.50 for some damn undersized sandwich, it’s really only 5 stupid blue tickets with sequential 4- or 6-digit preprinted numerals. Usually the ticket will be so bold as to announce in Serifed print that it is in fact a TICKET.
Or you can use the tickets to play goofy games behind the booths and win goldfish or chintzy bracelets. The only place you pay cash is in the Bingo “parlor” which is really just a covered tent and tables and benches where all the old people sit and rake in their winnings. There is something strangely eery and disconcerting about the geriatric-endowed ability to win a fucking game of pure chance like Bingo. How the hell do they win that shit every single time?
Some larger and more profitable churches even offer amusement park tyle small scale rides. The church carnival I went to today sadly had no big rides. In fact, it was uncharacteristically small and devoid of the regular trappings…there were no raffle tickets or Bingo. That collective sigh of disappointment from the senior citizens. The main entertainment as I sat at one of the few tables exposed to the humid sun were the MILF’s parading around. Of course, sadly, they were outnumbered by the MINF crowd (fyi, N=”never” ). It was uncomfortable and the saving grace was the attendance by a mother I’ve seen at this festival in years past.
MILF x 10.
How would I describe her?
Hmm…a Latina pixie/waif.
Look, if I’m anywhere in the vicinity of a girl who can easily pass as Hope Sandoval’s twin sister, I am hooked.
Hooked out of my mind.
So combining the ingredients that there is this shapely little pixie Chicana (so ethnic of me) in Alhambra which coincidentally is where Hope Sandoval went to school, you can’t blame a boy like me from getting very excited about the configuration of his romantic and lustful planetary female fixations.
So I sat there in the miserable sun.
I hate the sun.
I hate when the sun hides so well in the morning and then decides it wants to show its glaring face in the afternoon. This morning I looked out my patio door and the sky was shrouded in fog. Damp, thick fog. Apocalyptic and soupy. I love fog. It’s mysterious. It’s like a cosmological blindfold. What is hiding, what is lurking behind the layers of thick mist? Sea creatures, strange beings from another dimension? Did you see The Mist. That movie kicked ass. This morning, my little area of Los Angeles looked like a scene out of that movie.
As my workout progressed from squats to benches to deadlifts in the course of an hour, the fog started to lift. It thinned but traces of moisture lingered in the air and when the emerging sun struck them it created a murky warmth in the air.
So as I sat in the murky sunlight at the church festival this afternoon, the steamy context seemed well-suited to my fixation upon the pixie MILF. Rawr.
A church festival, lots of married couples with children in tow, representing the standard American 3.1-member family unit.
Lots of middle-aged, or aspiring middle-aged, folks.
Fathers and husbands, wives and mothers. Fathers, wow, they’ve become a “husky” breed, haven’t they? Since when did fatherhood necessarily connote such blatant chubbiness? What is the dynamic, what is the physical or biological or hormonal reaction which causes the fatherly archetype to become bloated with bad food and bad drink?
Chubby, flabby, rotund, fat, obese: the overweight categories found in today’s male marketplace are many and varied due to the sheer size and ubiquity of less than stellar physiques which permeate today’s Fatherly specimen.
Guys lumbering about, carting their pregnant beer-fed, couch-fed, pizza-fed pooch around. Homer Simpsons. Nursing their protruding tummies, in extreme cases the dimple of a belly button marking a shadowy indentation in their tucked in shirt.
Got me wondering. Is there anything less masculine than a fat man?
And just how much is too much when it comes to BMI? At what point does a man leap from Tony Soprano to Ned Beatty? Are there any rules of thumb we can default to?
Alpha macho man.
Can he be a lardass?
Does unabashed gluttony and one’s indifference to its physical manifestation demonstrate Alphaness in the least? Is there masculine power found in unrestrained and undisciplined culinary indulgence? That whole mindset that says “I’ll eat what I want to eat and look how I want to look, fuck you.”
I say no way.
I believe the strongest of men have iron wills. And thus, their bodies, their physique, demonstrate their resolute spirit. Chiseled, lean, I believe are true marks of an Alpha male. An Alpha male is in control of his environment (at least those factors that he can influence), and diet and physical activity are merely tools at everyone’s disposal but which only a few utilize with diligence.
I mentioned Tony Soprano earlier; doesn’t it seem there are a host of other figures who possess all the manly power traits we associate with Alpha but who can’t seem to control their caloric surplus? Sure, many of these men can subject others to the whims of their influence and power and they may rise to the top in various social structures. But in my mind, they are ultimately weak, slothful men, for though they are able to control others and dictate certain hierarchical-based commands, they nevertheless display the inability to control the physical manifestation of their mind: the Body.
One of the perks of modern technological and civilized society. Men are not nearly as dependent on physical prowess in order to maintain their Alpha reign. Unlike thousands of years ago when physical prowess was probably the determining factor in the male’s masculine sense of rule and intimidation.
Fittingly, this raises the question. Are pixie women capable of being womanly? They aren’t general voluptuous and they don’t appeal to me on a physical animalistic level. I suspect my pixie fixation is emotional. Do fat men have the same sexual anti-appeal?