The 21st Century Bad Boy…a product of female committee

Men should stop letting women dictate what constitutes a “bad boy.” The whole stupid concept of bad boy in this culture has become a polluted, deformed and disingenuous manipulative distortion of masculinity. The bad boy imagery is promulgated by women and reinforced by the naive men who fuel the fire by buying into it blindly. Women have been allowed to culturally define the boundaries of a putative bad boy. I can only laugh at what they’ve painted as the bad boy.

Many men believe the bad boy epitomizes all the seedy, darkly magnetic qualities which trigger women’s primal lusts. It’s accepted that the bad boy must display all the ostentatious garbage that nobody questions. It’s all cosmetic: tattoos, facial hair, skin tunnels, shaved head…all of it is easily adapted to the typical male “looking” to fulfill the bad boy role. It’s all appearances. The cemented bad boy image is a female-driven manifestation he seeks to embody for her sake and capricious demands. Women thrive on emotion and interpersonal catharsis. They are turned on by the sensual and exaggerated. They don’t like milquetoast boys, they aren’t turned on by calm, clean-cut guys. They want the bad boy, but see, they only seek the appearance of the bad boy. They want all the superficial accoutrements of the bad boy image, but most self-respecting, decently intelligent women don’t really want the burden of an adult manchild. These are the women who don’t make a ruckus and escape the cynical glare of the Roissysphere because most worthwhile women don’t actively seek rakes. But they like the image. Women are all about image and the emotional conveyance that image carries with. The bad boy is a fantasy but they are happy if it stops there

The bad boy thing is merely what women envision it is because the image is media-driven. Men have very little to do with modern bad boy portrayals and definitions of the role because men only follow the whims of females. Men will do anything to excite girls and stir them up because this is the gateway to instant attraction and most men are ideally seeking a theoretical one-night stand only. All the bad boy signals are easily attainable. It’s easier to get a tattoo than to grow 4 inches or to get a pair of big black skin tunnels in both earlobes than to lose 25 pounds and hit the gym 3 nights a week for some serious lifting. Men just want to attract female attention anyway they can, and having no clue what is involved, they listen to the media and their female acquaintances. Women have internalized the patented bad boy image in their heads and their economic and consumer power has effectively disseminated this image throughout mass culture.

In fact, it’s crap like this National Enquirer story I saw in the checkout line at my local Meximart today that I’m talking about. Angelina Jolie is secretly hooking up with a bad boy. So the story promises. Brad Pitt is just too pretty.

This is the NE cover:

And here is a close up of the alleged bad boy, Jasson Gellerstedt:

OK, now the thing is, if you read the article, you’ll learn that the NE headline was misleading (SHOCK!!) because the two haven’t seen each other in over 20 years, when they were both 13 and 14. However, I don’t care about Jolie and Gellerstedt. The point I’m trying to make is that the female-oriented National Enquirer is displaying one of the many channels by which femme thought is allowed to perpetuate the stereotypical image of a “bad boy.” Personally, Jasson Gellerstedt looks more like he’s consumed with tattoos than with being a bad boy. I have no idea what constitutes a bad boy. If I were to venture, I think a bad boy first and foremost has no need to play by the rules, anybody’s rules, including any body art subculture’s. I think a bad boy truly does what he pleases, when he pleases. I think the bad boy, because of this, may frequently find that he is cast from society. Perhaps he plays by no rules and does his own thing, the perfect concoction of alienation. Tattoos as symbols of bad boyism are stupid. Anyone can, and does, get tattoos. They are as common as trashy attitudes. Tattoos do not make the bad boy. I would even conjecture that bad boys may have tattoos, but that men who have tattoos are not necessarily bad boys. One thing I don’t understand about tattoos. Who wants to be marked for life by anything? It is like marriage. To ink. Any time you get something permanently etched in your skin you are announcing that you’ve committed the rest of your mortal life to being conjoined with some stupid artwork that will only deteriorate with time. In sickness and in health. You are not a bad boy. You are a conformist. You can’t do it alone. You need to mark yourself up, self-graffiti yourself in order to demonstrate…what? Your commiseration with this formerly fringe society that is now sadly and pathetically mainstream? If women consider this the face of a bad boy (which the National Enquirer seems to assert to its readership), we are guaranteed many, many more male replicas of Gellerstedt, each with an individual aspiration to turn on all the Angelina Jolies of the world. The saddest lesson being that boys now can only deduce an image of masculinity from female-driven mass media outlets rather than inherently or by familial role models. Today’s bad boy is formed by female committee.

Let them have 2 o’clock!

Let’s get one thing very clear. If we don’t know each other and you ask me for the time in a random public situation, it means you want to have sex with me. Quite simply. If I’m walking along the street and suddenly you accost me and point to your own wrist while asking me for the time, it’s a given. A sure thing. You want to have sex with me. Man or woman, I know this, because about 5 years ago some Hispanic guy in a leather jacket asked me for the time then he followed me and finally gave me his “business card” as we went up the escalator. Men spend money and hours trying to master the art of seduction and reading female body language in order to tell if women are interested. Forget all that. It’s a waste. I’ve solely got the sure-fire secret. The secret of time!

For instance, earlier this evening on my commute, a woman interrupted my music in order to ask me the time. The time. She was middle-aged crusty, dressed badly, crappy hairstyle, so I was not interested, and even less interested in giving her the time. I must have been visibly annoyed as I took my earphones out during Leftfield’s Leftism (one of my top 5 albums of all time, fyi) and glanced annoyingly at my watch. My watch is big and disgustingly oversized and the screen was obviously in her ugly face but she still asked. I think it might have confused her that my watch is set to military time. All my digital timepieces that can handle it are on military time. It’s the only way. Forget this “pm” or “am” crap. It’s rife with misunderstandings. 1400 hours is the clearest manner of saying 2 pm. There can be no doubt whether I’m saying 1400 or 0200. When you tell someone 1400 hours, there’s no way they can sincerely say they thought you said 7:30.

So the lady probably didn’t know what 1826 meant.

I thought about it and told her “6:30.” I slipped my ear buds back on quickly. I heard her laughing with her friends and gladly tuned them out.

I thought about my answer to her. 1830 hours. So imprecise, but good enough for her? Did I subconsciously scale down the accuracy of my super atomic clock-synced watch merely to simplify the time for her since I didn’t judge her worthy of super accurate time? I think I might have slyly deduced that saying “6:26” takes more exertion than saying 6:30 and my brain made an on-the-spot assessment of her type and demand for accurate time. She was kinda trashy, plain looking…surely the extremely accurate time was not beneficial to her. I gave her the poor man’s time quote. I wondered under what situation might have I been inclined to give the accurate time to a complete stranger. Perhaps if the person asking was a hot, young chick or maybe someone who just looked intelligent and had things on the ball. Perhaps I would have reflexively given them the time to the minute since these are the type of people whose self-important existence lives and dies by the span of minutes and seconds.

But if you see someone sloppy, unattractive, impoverished, you automatically deduce that time is not crucially important to them so you tune down the accuracy meter if they ask you the time. Funny thing is that on the Metro, the train schedules are the great equalizer because I don’t care if you’re a top-notch executive from downtown or a poor dark Central American urchin from MacArthur Park, the train arrives at the same time for everyone, so why should I assume that this unattractive lady on the Metro didn’t need an accurate time when trains are judged by the minute, not by the rounded-up-to-5-minutes mark? That was awfully presumptuous of me to not give the poor lady an accurate time. Still, I find that I’m always measuring my response to the infamous “what time is it” query from strangers. Sometimes I don’t want to appear the total uptight nerd, so I won’t say 7:13, yet, there are times I automatically bark out the exact time for no apparent reason other than I feel like it. “Sure, it’s 2:03!” I yell happily! But if it’s that unattractive senior with mottled skin, I’m more like to say “2.”

Super accurate time is a gift of modern technology and not to be squandered on those who don’t appreciate it or utilize it. The poor and slovenly, quite obviously by virtue of their lifestyle, have not valued the accuracy of time throughout their life. Let them have 2 o’clock! Those of us who have our crap together know it’s 2:03. Accurate time is a noble gift, not for the savages.

The Objectified Bitch

I didn’t hear the term “objectified” in the context of women until 5 years ago. Then it seemed the floodgate opened and it was an unending stream of whining and complaining from every breathing woman crying about men’s objectification of women. I grew to hate the word and still do. I don’t hate the substance of the word, I hate the illusion that it conveys when used by crybaby women (sorry for the redundancy). Women claim to hate being “objectified” by men. In other words, to receive treatment based only on their physical attributes. As a “sex object” characterized and judged by physical qualities and biological appendages or divots that men find magnetic. Oh-oh-oh, women cry and bitch about being looked at as purely physical objects by strange men. Hello? Of course they do. If a man has no personal stake in you, why should he care what you have to offer other than some nice legs and tits? Can you blame him? If he doesn’t know you and you have no intention of knowing him, why should he care what your hobbies or talents are? You are a piece of meat, my dear. Even guys who know you still objectify you, whether you like it or not. This is the nature of Man. He objectifies the female. Women are first appraised as sexual goods, and once that fails or proves not so captivating, then they move on to the secondary attraction traits which might be…nothing.

It was with a tinge of annoyance that I heard the story of 23-year-old Courtney Scaramella, a waitress at O’Hara’s restaurant in Westwood, in the shadows of UCLA. She is a pretty hot babe who was offended when the restaurant owner, after she had worked there 4 years, changed the dress policy in October and required all female employees to wear short plaid skirts. Scaramella instantly recruited the first blood-thirsty up and coming Gloria Allred knock-off Filipino lawyer she could find, Toni Jaramilla, and they promptly filed a lawsuit against the restaurant complaining that female employees were “objectified” and humiliated. O’Hara’s Restaurant’s lawyers claim she quit her job. This remains to be determined during the trial, but Scaramella has made some serious allegations against the restaurant.

From CNN

I hate the word objectify. It is stupid and useless. Of course you are objectified, especially when you look like Scaramella. A woman that looks like that will quickly rise to the top rungs of the sex object heap and she will only elicit the endless series of sexual pangs from repressed men in her vicinity. Get used to it. Another thing…we are all objectified. That is a damn hard truth. Even the unattractive among us, babe. We are all objectified, we all are the means to an end for someone. Very few people value us other than our parents, perhaps our children, and a significant other. Every one else…doesn’t give a crap about you insofar as what you are able to bring to the table which rewards their ego or livelihood. My employer objectifies me. The federal government objectifies me. Hell, Obama objectifies me in every damn speech he makes. He is Obama the Objectifier. Advertisers objectify me. I’m only here to be coldly useful to these people. My humanity is irrelevant, sweetheart. And your humanity and brains and soul are irrelevant because you have a hot bod, a pretty face. and you’re young. ARE an object. Live with it. Even as you get old and withered and lose all that youthful allure, you’ll still be objectified, but just for different reasons.

We are objectified, it’s the nature of the beast. We are all tools, we are all a means to an end for others more powerful than us.

Hey, your lawyer? Guess what. You’re her client. She stands to make a lot from this case if you win. She could be grooming herself to be the next Gloria Allred. And she needs you. She is objectifying you too. Life is sweet.

The boasters and their boastologues

One of the reasons I dislike people so much, in general (not YOU!) is that they are such shameless self-flatterers. I am in awe at the extent to which most people willingly pull the wool over their own eyes when it comes to their accomplishments/qualifications/contributions/devotion. I see it happen quite often in the workplace. There are situations (theoretically, let’s say) where the department is undergoing a “structural transition” and a new “boss” is coming aboard, and the outgoing boss might call a quick sit-down to introduce the new boss and perhaps there’s a point where the outgoing boss asks everyone to tell the new boss something about what they do, to explicate on the wonder that is them. Or perhaps the HR dorks conduct a touchy-feely workshop in which employees are encouraged to “talk” and emote and act like a bunch of hysterical broads because we all know that the department that talks is the department that feels. That’s what HR is all about in 2012. They are corporate channels of female expression and mores, and the canal by which the detritus of female values washes out onto the heads of all employees like a sewage shower. In such excruciating group contexts when people are urged to talk about themselves briefly, they turn it into the most nauseating self-congratulatory monologue of pure BS drivel. People, given the mike, will speak endlessly about what they do, how much they do of it, how well they do it, blah blah blah. When I hear this (and I hear it way too often) I just want to say “you’re all words.” People who talk too much about their accomplishments invariably have proportionately little to show for it.

For the most part, people won’t shut up about themselves and their supposed stellar accomplishments. They do it out of fear (to justify their position/job), false pride, competitiveness, or just plain ol’ insecurity. It’s sickening because there are likewise many management class who invariably judge people by their words alone rather than by their actions. The people who rely on self-professed worth are usually the immature and socially unintelligent managerial class who lack the ability and expertise to read people well, and thus, practice a questionable dependence on self-reported positive attributes, which anyone with a modicum of intelligence realizes are garbage. It’s the Dating Site Syndrome in which the apparent self-described quality of people is generally 8-10 times their actual quality. Who ever tells the truth about themselves? Other than me on this stupid blog?

So the routine began thus. I was one of the first to speak. I looked at the new boss and simply told him, “I do the ____ ____.” That was where I left it. No need to expound. My immediate boss stepped in and began volunteering for me since I wasn’t very forthcoming about my wondrous accomplishments, “Oh, yes, and David also ______ _____.” I nodded and wished they would move on to the next person, which they did, and sure enough, the next person kicked off an agonizing series of “boastologues” during which people commenced to speak tirelessly of how much they did wile making sure to embellish and exaggerate unspectacular self-facts into grandiose importance. People love talking about themselves. I don’t. I hate it. I’m the worst salesman of myself. I’m terible about verbalizing my strengths, real or not. I refuse to. In fact, I look down on those who rely on self-professed announcements of excellence. I’m not like that. I just want to tell people, “I don’t talk, I just do. If you want to know about me, study my work.”

Words do not help me, they only mar me. I eschew words. I’m a terrible seller of David. This is all resumes are. Resumes are a bunch of hollow bullshit filler that people parade out to stand in for their fantastical self that they advertise, mostly falsely, to the world. Resumes are just words, garbage, and they have sadly earned this perverted sense of currency in today’s business world. Hell with resumes.

Screw words. Words are overrated. I work, I do a job, a rather good one I like to think, but I do not flap my lips about it. Don’t ask me to talk about myself. Ask me to show you and perhaps you’ll see something you like. Boasting is cheap but it’s rewarded by society, isn’t it? Why? Can people be so gullible as to believe every idle boast they hear? I refuse to take anyone’s word for it.

I’m such a bad salesman that I can’t even sell myself!

The thread

Sometimes, for no reason, a thread to my distant past will suddenly materialize, dangling in my mind and, depending on my sense of commitment or curiosity, I may spend an inordinate amount of time rekindling the incident even though it may have happened a long, long time ago or I’ll amusingly dismiss it. This happens as you age. Distant memories really do become very distant, subjectively in your recollection, and objectively as measured in the march of years as they slowly accumulate. I realize as I sit here that if I talk about a memory thread that visits often (this is one thing about memory threads…they tend to resurface for no obvious reason), most people will be amazed simply because my recollections hark back to a time before they were born. This says something of your age when you run into more and more people who can’t relate to your memories because they predate the person’s life.

So if I sit here and recall this memory that regularly drops in for visits, people will relate to it as a museum piece because it occurred sometime during the period of 1970 through 1972. I can’t be precise as to when, but it was in that window because I was in elementary school. Our schoolyard was bordered by a chain link fence and the surrounding neighborhood was lined with well-groomed houses. It was a quiet neighborhood except for the yells and screeches of the children playing on the playground on this weekday afternoon.

Of all the memories I experienced during that early period in my life, this one has never strayed far. It was not special, it was not particularly memorable. Nothing happened of note. But still, it repeats its narrative over and over in my mind. Why is it old memories like this seem to revisit you through a foggy haze of warm electric shrouding? It’s as if all that existed in the early 70s was defined by a gray, diffuse state of existence. Everything I remember seems blurred into a mishmash of smoggy incomprehensibility. It’s as if my childish immaturity defined my recollections, the haze of unawareness and grade school obliviousness. We used to play kickball in the playground. We used one of those large reddish/violet rubber balls that seemed to be full of air more than anything. They were squishy and pliable and they could never really hurt you because they felt like large beachballs with more leathery skin. We played kickball out by the fence that lined the rear perimeter and overlooked a pleasantly quiet street.

They were a group of young men. I can’t visualize them well, but I would guess they might have been 18-20. At that age, everyone looks older and the guys looked old to me. Thinking of them now, they just looked like some young, barely-out-of-high school guys, can’t remember their race. As they passed, one of us kicked the ball over the fence accidentally and it went careening to the street. It was 1970 and these guys were just walking along a residential street in the middle of the day. One of them scooped the ball up. He had blonde hair and a mustache, I believe. He looked very much a product of his era. The style, the hair, so 1970. He picked up the ball (he was barefoot) and kicked it sky high right back into our playground and then he continued walking with his buddies.

This scene, this specific scene, continues to rehash itself in my mind. Just this slice of reality involving the teenaged boy kicking our ball back for us, and then his continuing to walk away with his friends down the middle of the street.

I’m fixated on this meaningless distant scene from over 40 years ago. Why? What did it portend, why is it engraved in my mind?

They continued walking. Randomly appearing and randomly disappearing.

Where were they coming from? Where were they headed as they passed the school? Had they just smoked a joint or were they on their way to get a 6-pack? Were they going to the store? I remember marveling at the guy’s barefooted kick and its accuracy as the ball arched lazily in that blurry early 70s sky. Where are they now? Alive? What brought their lives to intersect with mine in such a haphazard and inconsequential manner, never to return. I wonder if I’ve run into any of them now that they are much older. At the store, maybe in a fit of road rage, maybe that funeral procession I saw last week was for one of them.

Where are they now?
I can still see and breathe that sunny afternoon though it seems distant and hazy gray and smoky.

I know where I am now. Sometimes that doesn’t seem enough.