Time for a very ALPHA post

This is officially my first “post within a post.”
Fascinating concept, isn’t it?

OK, maybe a little. I understand the concept has probably been beaten to death but that is no reason for me not to give it a shot.

How does a post within a post come to be?

Well see, my original goal was to write a post which would allow me to pipe in with my thoughts on the great “alpha debate” I’ve witnessed raging across the internet.

What is alpha and how can a man be alpha and will being alpha get him laid. On and on goes the great alpha debate. My understanding has always been that the “alpha” figure of any pack is just that…a figure. Singular. Little wolf pups don’t order online books or tapes in the hopes they can all be alpha. Wolf pups follow nature and the concept of denoting and mimicking the leader of the pack for any reason other than survival would surely leave the pups aghast, if in fact wolves had the mental and emotional faculties to experience ironic humor.

I can’t take it seriously when every Tom, Dick and Harry in cyberspace self-professes alpha or alpha striving.

If there was a grand shift in the social mechanics of the world (perhaps by a strange Twilight Zonian meteor shower) and all men woke up “alphas” tomorrow, I guarantee you that over time a new subdivision of alpha would evolve, a “super-alpha” of sorts who would reign supreme over all the existing alphas.

Primitive and evolutionary nature is not egalitarian.
Mother Nature doesn’t dole out equal slices of pie.
You are not alpha, I am not alpha, hardly anyone is alpha.

Anyways, the point of my post was going to be how I think all this adulation of alphaness misses the point. Actually, no, the problem is, there is no point. If the goal is to pick up chicks, you’ve instantly disqualified yourself from alpha running right off the bat. To structure your life around the immense procurement of pussy is an incredibly weak and helpless way to live your life.

Not alpha.

My alpha post is almost complete, but it’s very, very long. It’s exhausting. I need to excise a lot of B.S. from the main body. I need to trim it down, put it on a diet. The first step is taking out the beginning portion and let it be a post in itself. The opening paragraph of that post will now be this post. It shall stand alone.

The post:

Back in the early 90s when I was on an art-house/foreign movie kick, I saw a great French Canadian movie called Leolo.

It was one of those great movies that no one saw. It followed the young life of Leolo, a boy growing up in a dysfunctional and poverty-stricken Quebec ghetto. A slightly twisted coming of age story. Well, the first pre-pubescent glimmers of coming of age anyways.

Leolo has an older brother, Fernand. Fernand is about 16 or 17 and as the movie begins, he is easy fodder for a neighborhood bully. The bully is ruthless and it’s painful to watch Fernand mocked and slapped in front of his younger brother. Fernand finally can’t tolerate it anymore. I had visions of those comic books ads from days of yore in which the 90-pound weakling finally decides to take matters into his own hands after he gets sand kicked in his face once too often.

Fernand begins to lift weights and snort protein shakes. As the scenes slowly move forward in time, his rapidly expanding musculature is amazing and obvious. The 90-pound weakling is no more. At home and around Leolo, his confidence is unmistakable. This is not the same Fernand.

One day he lumbers along the street with Leolo by his side when they encounter the bully standing in a door sill. Now it should be noted the bully looks like a twerp. He is skinny and mousy, but he’s got balls of stone. He makes light of Fernand’s fresh muscles and one thing leads to another and Fernand pushes the bully who falls helplessly to the ground. Fernand appears ready to launch into spinach-powered fury.

Suddenly, the bully jumps back to feet and sizes Fernand up fearlessly, and throws a quick punch which catches Fernand squarely in the nose, drawing blood. Fernand is shocked and when he sees his own blood smeared on his hand, he collapses to the ground in a heap of sobbing muscles. The bully laughs and runs off. Leolo watches helplessly as his brother, an enormous mass of ridiculed muscle, succcumbs to his weak heart.

Great scene. And a great lesson for aspiring alphas. “Aspiring alphas.” How can that be so. Does one aspire to such evolutionary status? No, I don’t believe that is possible. Alphas are born, they are not created. Alphas can be mimicked and they can be re-enacted. But alphas cannot be made and shaped from scratch.

That was the beginning of my alpha post.
And my point being that this whole alpha thing is such a slippery concept; it is one of those traits that I feel must be allowed to happen. Hands off. Don’t think about it, don’t force it. Common perceptions of alpha lead us to make many mistaken presumptions. I thought of this while I read this post over on Gucci Little Piggy. Is alpha solely the provenance of the strong and athletic and wealthy and powerful? Hell no. I’ve seen way too many instances where the ostensible superficial qualifiers of alphaness failed to create the Frankensteinian alpha who lived on paper, who possessed all the alpha traits.  And this was a lesson poor Fernand learned the hard way, for he allowed his concept of alpha to take the reigns of his good sense.  And he ended up with a bloody nose.

The gay Filipino Jehovah’s Witness club

You see, the sad truth is.

Many times all that separates my most profoundly unprofound thoughts and their shameless appearance on this blog is a mere breakdown in the technological infrastructure, ie sometimes shit really happens.

My mentally effusive goodness is only as good as the integrity of the technological highway which it requires to reach you.

The reader.

Back in the beginning of September, right after I kicked off Phoenixism, a fire broke out at a local SoCal Edison power station. I had no power for almost 3 days. That was a serious breakdown in the technological highway. It was a serious breakdown on many levels.

I had nowhere to turn. I wanted to write, publish, share my witticisms and other amusements. But I had no access. The world was beyond my electricity-deprived keyboard tapping fingertips. My laptop worked off battery power, but the internet was dead. Disconnected from the cyber world and unable to share, I wallowed here in the candlelight.

During the second night of darkness, I typed out a small symbolic blog in Word and saved it to the hard drive where it could live until I retrieved it again after my power returned. Agony man.

Now this morning I crawled out of bed, started the coffee pot and routinely flicked on the modem and powered on the computer. Lo and behold, I couldn’t raise any websites. My Chrome browser flashed the same little message each time I tried to open a URL…resolving host. That message usually blinks by almost invisibly, but if it sticks around long enough for you to read, it means the internet is not in the cards right this minute. As soon as I see those two words refuse to vanish, I feel my little nerdy, asocial heart break. It means that for a minute, or a few hours, I will be thrown into a strange solitary confinement of sorts. Isolated from the world.

Sadly, I’ve now experienced these sporadic bouts of non-connectedness about 3 or 4 times in the past month. I’ve even programmed Time Warner’s customer service number into my phone. When I learned Time Warner was assuming control of my previous Adelphia neighborhood, I was thrilled. Time Warner, at the time, had a great brand and they represented the finest a popular cable provider had to offer. Lately, their internet backbone has been on crack.

You call Time Warner’s helpline and more often than not, you need to cycle through the menus before you reach a point where you’re talking to some customer service agent located hundreds or thousands of miles away while they weakly guide you through a series of steps which concludes with the same result every time…something is broken. And there are times the problem is so dire and widespread that you get the immediate “your cable connection is fucked up, we’re sorry, keep trying” message before you even have the opportunity to descend into the realm of Time Warner customer serviceland.

This was one such morning. After I punched in the number “1” for English, I was immediately treated to this message:

Great. I didn’t plan on posting anything, but I thought I would take a quick morning-after postmortem survey of the disaster I left behind in the wake of last night’s comment blitz.

It’s rather amusing that I take such great pains to maintain a somewhat dignified and intelligent vibe around these parts yet I have no such standards when I whore it up on other blogs where I find myself stringing together globs of comment vomit, some of which I’m really embarrassed about the next day. Your public comments are a reflection of you and your blog, but this little piece of logic goes right over my head, every time.

So that was my goal this morning. Survey the damage.

But Time Warner shut me down man. No surveying for me. I would just have to trust in the fact that my comments would typically prove rather benign and harmless (and slightly trite) when exposed by the morning sun.

The morning sun was shining but it was rather chilly out, and in spite of my strangely boastful post Cold Showers… the other day, I wore a jacket. Yesterday I decided to forgo the jacket but it wasn’t nearly as cold as today.

Yesterday was one of those days that proved quite amusing on the public transportation front. The Red Line, specifically.

When I entered the train I noticed right away that 2 sheriff deputies were sitting at the opposite end of the car.

Sitting, as passengers. They didn’t seem to be patrolling the train as you sometimes see. Nope, these 2 guys were just sitting there, riding along on the northbound train, looking every bit as routine and normal and bored a pair of riders as you and me. Still they were cops. Buff mothers. I don’t know what L.A. County gives those dudes, but they are always bursting out of their olive green shirts. It’s a police force manned by Incredible Fucking Hulks, every one of them.

They scared off one person, that’s for sure. There is a woman who takes the train almost every morning. I’m guessing she’s in her mid 40’s, but man, she looks like she’s been around the block a million and one times. Her face is thrashed. The hard life; she looks oh so hard. She has a nice body, one of those instances where the body catches your eye quickly and fills you with a short-lived excitement before your hopes are dashed in a ball of fire once you see the face. She is a paper bagger, simple as that. Anyways, when the train stopped, she was standing right outside the window where the cops were sitting. Skillfully and streetwise, she saw them and nonchalantly acted as if she was waiting for the next train, maybe the next week. Evidently she didn’t mind her schedule being pushed back 10 minutes (the next train), not when having to share a car with some of LASD’s finest and scariest waited for her. The train took off and left her little rap-sheeted, coke-snorting ass behind.

Eventually the sheriffs exited at Wilshire/Western, and I think this is where the older Filipino gentleman boarded and sat next to me.

Dressed neatly and primly, I barely took notice of him. I was too busy zoning, listening to my music, disconnected as you gotta be when you’re stuck in a tin can underground with a bunch of scary and smelly strangers. Disconnected and oblivious. We drove on for a while. At Sunset/Vermont, I began to get ready since I would be exiting in two stops and there is nothing I hate more than rushing to run out the doors before they close. That kind of thing can set you back a 1/2 hour…I know, it’s happened to me before.

So suddenly Filipino man pulls out a Watchtower from a bag and attempts to hand it to me. Now I’m an atheist but I still treat those who attempt to pawn their religion off on me with respect. Polite smiles, “no thank you’s,” I have it down now. I’ve learned to escape their pitch quickly and efficiently without being too offensive.

Not so with the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I save all my anti-religious rancor in a special place where it waits to burst with each painful JW encounter. Maybe it’s because they’ve found a way to enter my apartment building or that they come knocking at the most inopportune times with their damn Sunday suits and Laura Ingalls frumpiness. Damn it they bother me!

So I was taken aback when Filipino man suddenly decided to proselytize here on the train! Watchtower my arse. I never accept the Watchtower. I see a lot of JW’s handing that shit out at bus stops or on trains or buses…I guess their breed of religionism flourishes when they have captive audiences. Although dealing with a pushy Jehovah’s Witness can make anyone want to walk off a moving bus…

The Watchtower invariably becomes trash. I think most people take it simply because they are bored and have nothing else to do while they are on the bus, not because they seek God or whatever lunatic sense of worship these trespassers have.

Oh, and I also noticed as he attempted to hand me the propaganda that the dude was gay as a pack of a wild Chihuahua’s. You could just tell. He had that curly smile and sweet expression, and the slightly limp wrist as he put the Watchtower away after I rebuffed him. Eeks! That changed the whole dynamic. I never knew the JW’s were so…open.

Hey that means I can title this post “Invasion of the gay Filipino Witness.” How does that grab ya?

One lesson that has stuck with me from Journalism school is that your story’s opening paragraph and headline need a “hook” to draw the reader in. A boring headline will easily deter or lose the casual blogreader who is pressed for time.

Blog posts follow many of the same guidelines that newspaper stories follow.

Succinct. My high school journalism teacher, Ms. Wang, was big on that quality. You must be succinct!

God, that is one lesson that never stuck.

A drowning pigs Moment in Time

I had a very strange dream about 9 years ago.

I’d estimate that in the past 10 years, my dreams have lost a sense of familiarity and vividness. Most of my dreams now are left behind in the fog of sleep. Very few accompany me out to daytime lucidness any longer. Because of this, those rare dreams which I do remember upon waking are memorable and I don’t forget them for a long time.

In this case, 9 years.

The dream.

I must have had it in the early morning hours just before I woke up, because the dream segued into bright sunlight as my eyes flew open in the wake of the drowning pigs.

The drowning pigs.

My dream.

I think an enticing preface would be to throw out this small anecdote about what I witnessed my father do when I was a young child.

Our house had been plagued by mice. Mice running and darting around through cracks and doorways. Some weren’t wise enough to escape the jaws of the mousetraps, but many were. One wily mouse even left his paw behind. For the longest time I wondered if he chewed his paw off or if it simply fell off in his struggle to be free.

Anyways, my dad found a whole nest of little baby mice once. I watched as he pulled them out, the whole mass of them, and flopped them into a tall pail which he proceeded to fill with water. I watched sadly as they tried to swim to safety but the rims of the pail were too high and their battle consisted of which one could tread the surface longest amount of time before succumbing to gravity and certain death. It was pretty awful and I was affected.

My dream.
Nine years ago.

Dreams are slippery. To describe them is like trying to describe the oceanic depths to someone who has been blind for life. They are elusive and the task of relaying them accurately is further hindered by the fact that even you, the dream owner, can’t really make sense of them.

My dream took place in an old church.
Old meaning there was wood, old faded wood, old motifs, the wood was not polished or glossy like in most newer churches. The church was crowded. A hoard of devoted worshippers huddled, dressed bleakly and heavily, like some biblical Nathaniel Hawthorne novel.

Here to witness a strange event. Taking place up front, for all to see, at the altar.
A malignant sort of ceremony.
A ceremony which all were here to witness. Certain to bring them an ecstatic sense of Godly oneness.

On the altar there was a large bath. Constructed of old rickety wood, just like the rest of the church.
Where was I?
Who knows. I was there. I was a witness, not part, but not apart.
A watcher.

And I watched as all the churchgoers, this gathered mass, bowed in respect for what was about to commence in the bath.
It was filled with water.

And this is the specific part I forget.
Little piglets materialized out of nowhere.
Suddenly the church was filled with little pink piglets, cute curly piglets.
And the ceremony was begun when the first piglet was thrown in the water.
By who, I don’t know or remember.
The piglet was tossed in the water and I remember watching as it swam futilely for it could not escape or surmount the tall bath walls.
Then another piglet was tossed in.
And another.

Soon the bath was filled with tiny piglets, struggling to stay afloat.
But they were doomed.
For the walls of the bath were too high and as the piglets tired, each fat little pink one gave in and sank heavily into the water.
And the crowd prayed.

When I woke up, I was not frightened, but I was very disconcerted.
Such a strange dream.

I climbed out of bed and performed my usual morning ritual at the time. I put on some shorts and a t-shirt (it was a warm time of year. September 11, to be exact).
I stuck headphones in my ears and began my 2-mile walk. It led me through the golf course where the radio talk show announcers were not rattling on with their usual nonsense. No nonsense today. They were serious. Somber even.

As I walked, chills ran down my spine as I listened to their descriptions of airplanes flying into the World Trade Center.

I dreamed of drowning pigs the morning of 9/11.

Tales of perfection

 

Yeah, so check it out.
Sunday night rambling anew.

 

Sunday night thoughts, streaming, and cooling down because they’ve been rattling around in my head all day.
Let’s see if I can rekindle the ember. Stoke the flame of an idea. Get my thoughts flowing. My brain is muddy. Sunday muddy.

 

I’ll relate 2 short incidents I experienced this weekend. They share a common theme, a common message.

 

Do you see it?

 

If so, perhaps you think much like I do.

 

In which case you should be frightened.
Or flattered.
Jury’s out.

 

#1:

 

Friday night, after work, I had a hankering for some greasy, fattening food. So I stopped and grabbed dinner at a place in nearby Montebello at a burger joint called Arry’s. You know it. One of those places you go to comatize, to swim in puddles of fat and saturate your taste buds in heavy saltiness. Even amongst these type of burger stands there is a hierarchy. Meaning that if you’re going to accelerate the heart-clogging process you might as well enjoy the process to the fullest. That is Arry’s.

 

Why do I bring Arry’s up?

 

It’s a burger joint. Burger joints are renowned for flunky employees and mildly repugnant “customer service.” Right?

 

Not Arry’s. You walk in and the employees, mostly men in their late 20’s and 30’s, greet you immediately. They ask you how you are doing in a confident barking tone. They are’t smoozingly corporate phony or corny. It’s not some bullshit script the corporate office handed down to all its soulless franchises. These guys are the real deal, they take your order, they scream it out loud.

 

If your nerves are overwrought, this might not be the place for you to dine. There is no peace to be found here. Your order is called, they hand it to you with a genuine sense of pride, and if you ask for anything, they will bring it to you promptly and unfailingly. The dudes work and they work hard. I’m sure they don’t make a fortune and the work is not L.A. glamorous, but it is what they do, and they do it well. It’s Zen. Living strictly in the moment and devoting themselves to their task. There is no superfluous or distracted teenaged bullshit from these guys. They are here to serve you. And they do. Do they enjoy it? Who knows. The point is, they do their job, they fulfill the role, they take it seriously and they dish it out. Like adults.

 

Arry’s is always a pleasure.

 

 

#2:

 

My son, the future rock star, found out that there is a Guitar Center located in nearby Pasadena. I was surprised too. I never paid attention to guitars until he immersed himself in this…hobby. This passion. The only Guitar Center I knew was the one on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood I saw when I was younger and cruising or hitting concert spots every week. Guitar Center seemed to have a special renown for musicians and fans alike…I always thought of it as a hardcore musician hangout. The store had regular artist appearances and signature signings. I knew nothing about guitars and it wasn’t my thing, so I never stepped foot in the place.

 

And then came along my rock star heir. The future Jimmy Page or Jimi Hendrix, who knows. But stages and bright lights are firmly ensconced in the self-laid path that is his future.

 

So today we made our way up to Pasadena.

 

 

Special note…drivers were very aggressive today. What the hell? I was being tailgated all the way up and all the way down. I even drew a honk and a “fuck you!” from some dude in a Pathfinder. All because I slowed down for a bicyclist. Ah…it was football Sunday. Explains the reduced IQ and bloated impatience of the day.

 

 

Anyways, we arrived at Guitar Center on Colorado about noon, just an hour after opening. The place was laid back and there were guitars everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

 

I saw stars and glitter in my son’s eyes.

 

Heaven on Earth.

 

We received a friendly greeting. We strolled back and forth for it was basically a hands off visit on our part. This was a scouting expedition only. No toy-buying today.

 

Checked out the picks, the distortion pedals, listened as a couple of customers test drove a couple of guitars. “Sweet Child O’ Mine” from Guns N’ Roses. Dude was pretty good and my son felt in over his head. I told him everyone was a beginner at one point. Those who excel in a field, the “veterans,” are the most supportive and helpful to the youth who aspire to their level.

 

No need for shame.

 

We wandered into the acoustic section and —- tells me he likes this “acoustic electric” by Ibanez. First of all, I hadn’t heard of such a thing until recently. Acoustic electric? The man working that section, a middle-aged guy, maybe in my demographic, greeted us calmly, asked if we needed help. I told him, no, thank you. —– and me roamed around. So many damned acoustic guitars.

 

The room smelled of wood. Pleasant and musical. Music in the raw? That’s how I think of acoustic guitar. The man watched us. He walked over finally and asked —- a few questions, then presented us with a few acoustic options. Really no plans to buy anything but I could sense the excitement level rise.

 

As I said, the man was about my age and the way he handled one of the guitars he pulled down showed he was very used to the Art of Guitar. He answered a couple of questions skillfully, but he held back, didn’t swamp us with sales schmooze. He was comfortable in his passion, and though it was obvious that of course he wanted me to buy, he wasn’t dependent on it. We could walk out that very instant, empty handed, and he would still be in the place he wanted to be. With strings and frets and curved wood. The passion which brought him here and which completed his life, or at least fulfilled much of it, was probably his guiding force.

 

I was helpless. I’m a man of consumptive passion as well!

 

In the face of such sincere and unadulterated passion on the part of my son on one hand and from the salesman on the other, the coalescing of 2 ends of the spectrum, how could I just walk away?

 

He showed us an Ibanez that was marked down 10 bucks and my mouth said yes before my brain comphrended what had just happened.

 

Sold!

 

___________

 

 

Two stories.

 

Folks doing what was right and pure, for them.
Living life to the fullest. Following passion, following duty; an unblinking commitment to achieving perfection.

 

And driving through Montebello, later, driving by a McDonads restaurant. I was reminded of imperfection.

 

A McDonalds franchise, that even by vast international corporate standards, left you feeling cold and impatient. Workers reciting rote passages over drive-thru speakers, a franchise which seemed to get your order wrong about 1/2 the time. A corporate franchise where the employees, bored-looking and unfriendly kids, seemed to wish they were anywhere but there.

 

Imperfect.

 

Worse yet, the casual indifference to perfection.

 

 

Cold showers and the culture of comfort

 

Almost every morning, after showering but before stepping out to dry myself, I do something which lasts for a few minutes and which leaves me breathless, groaning, and if no one is home, grunting loudly.

 

It’s obvious, isn’t it?

 

I turn the hot water off completely and aim the arctic cold spray directly at my shivering body. It’s a manic exercise in self-abuse and I’m addicted to it. In the summer months, it’s uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant. During the winter (such as 5:25 this morning when the thermometer read):

it can be a grueling experience. Yet, like a madman, I welcome the feeling.

 

Oh, yeah, that’s another thing. I shut the wall heater gas pilot off about a year after I moved into this place, and even in Los Angeles, it’s not unusual for the overnight temps to fall below 55 during the winter. That’s where blankets come in handy. Lots of ’em. And sweats, and sweatshirts…and socks.

 

I originally planned a “cold shower” post until I read this over on Half Sigma and realized my cold fetish is not confined to the shower. And perhaps indicative of a larger social phenomena.

 

Half Sigma links a NY Times article which follows the frigid exploits of several people who have chosen to live in non-heated dwellings, which is decidedly uncomfortable for just about anybody reading in January, especially those living in the Northern latitudes or upper elevations.

 

The subjects cited by the Times each had their own reason for living without artificial heat. Primarily made up of artsy, environmental types, the practice was predictably ridiculed on Half Sigma as a sheepish march into icy oblivion. They ascribed such notions to “Gaiast” thinking. Gaiaism as they refer to it is the worship of Mother Earth, a harsh version of environmentalism and typically the antithesis to much of the grounded, statistical and utilitarian theme of Half Sigma.

 

In fact, Half Sigma refers to this unheated lifestyle as “really weird” and one of the commenters states, “people who would prefer to be cold possess an almost perfect convergence of personality traits that epitomize the gaian mindset…”

 

I’m not familiar enough with the Half Sigmian model to understand, in this case, if the source of skepticism is owing to the belief itself, or to its practitioners. I suspect it is a combination of both, and I fully sympathize and agree with their leeriness of the latter.

 

Every now and then an intriguing idea surfaces, a concept which deserves further critical examination. Unfortunately, the idea falls into the hands of some urban Bohemian types who run with it blindly and parade it around like an absurd affectation as only they are capable of.

 

In fact, nearly all the Times’ subjects inhabited overpriced urban lofts and involved themselves in the Arts to one degree or another. The person with perhaps the least pretentions was

 

…Janet Smith, an engineer and landscape designer living in nearby Ridgway, Colo…inhabits a one-room rubble-stone house built in 1894, one of three buildings she bought in 2001 for $149,000. Poetically lovely, they are also impossible to fill with heat, presenting Ms. Smith with a living choice she has embraced with gusto, throwing open windows and doors year-round, and using her own body as a solar panel when the sun shines.

 

“The best thing about living in a non-isothermal house” — isothermal means “constant in temperature” — “is that you’re able to walk from indoors to out of doors all the time,” she said. “What limits us is only our fear of the cold.”

 

Interesting point.
Our fear of the cold.
That’s exactly what it’s all about.
Fear.
Fear of physical sensations.
Same as hunger. People are terrified of hunger. Hunger serves its purpose and does not require satiation each and every instance it’s experienced. Same with cold. Cold is a sign that possibly deadly environmental conditions exist, but more often than not, in the context of our modern world, it’s merely a sign that it’s…cold. A natural sensation that does not require extensive action on our part. The same goes for hunger. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s rarely deadly when you have a McDonalds on every corner.

 

I’m a cold freak. I love the cold. I welcome the cold, for I feel it strengthens and it toughens the body and the mind. Unfortuantely cold has become something, like hunger, that must be extinguished the instant we experience it.

 

Sometimes I’ll walk around on a very cold day in a short-sleeved shirt and invariably I will be asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

 

That’s a dumb question. Of course I am. Can’t you see the goosebumps? Hell yeah, it’s cold. The difference being I can accept the fact that I’m cold. I don’t allow myself to be troubled by the sensation or view it as a something that needs to be “fixed.” It’s 53 degrees, yeah, that sucks, but I won’t freeze to death.

 

Embrace the physical sensation as only that. A sensation. Discomfort is natural and it’s up to our cognitive senses to determine whether or not our life is in danger. If we determined it is, then we should proceed to deal with the discomfort if possible.

 

I have found that ending each shower with a few minutes freezing my ass off under a cold spray actually lifts my spirits each morning. The state lasts most of the day, it’s a wonderful jolt of endorphines. It may very well be psychological. In the time that I’ve done this I have only caught one minor cold and had no other physical problems owing to this “weird practice.”

 

Cold and hunger are but just a few of the many primal physical reactions we experience as a result of environmental cues. We’ve structured a scientifically marvelous world of technology which gradually succeeds in its increasing ability to insulate us from such elements. In the process we have become weakened as an Earthly species. Exposing ourselves to such stimuli, thoughtfully and carefully, in a controlled manner, can only serve to expand our physical and mental durability in this culture of comfort.