when social lives attack
so dave got back into town on monday and yesterday i got together with him and two other friends at an outdoor pool near here. it was awesome fun, we spent an hour splashing around and going down the water slide. we splashed and had breath holding contests; we tried to see who could swim under the water the longest and crashed into each other. it was pretty much like when i was a kid going to donner lake during the summer. except then we went to this great patio restaurant, had dinner and proceeded to get drunk on sangria.
i was up til 1am...which, okay, not so bad. but i've gotta run today and i had to get up early to get dave up from the couch so he could get to his car 'fore it was towed away. or fined. so today i've got running and then i'm joining dave and the same set of friends for a beach BBQ. and tomorrow i ^should^ be going swimming laps, followed by going out for all-you-can-eat sushi.
essentially, until next wednesday i will actually be going places. and doing things. with other people. ahahahahah, WEIRD.
to close, a quite funny short story/essay by bill richardson (a vancouver columnist):
Gals, that is. In fact, "like" is too weak a word. Let's make that "love". I love gals. As a group. Alaways have. I know I risk being pilloried here for invoking sweeping generalities, and I know that someone will say, "Yeah? What about Mrs. Thatcher?" But I don't care. By and large, gals are great. I love them for their intelligence, their subtlety, their sensitivity to nuance, their social ease. Gals amaze me, the way they pay attention to each other, the way they listen between the lines, the easy way they have with ocnfidences, their ready access to emotion, the way they're disinclined to belittle others by bagging on about their own accomplishments.
Of course, one of the reasons gals come off so well when we talk about them as a group is because, of neccessity, we must compare them to guys. And guys are pigs. We'll all be better off if we just acknowledge this as a fact and that the exceptions only serve to prove the rule. Guys are pigs and gals are swell. Period. What's really amazing is that, in spite of the social revolution of the last quarter-century, gals continue to put up with so much from guys. Why should this be? I can only suppose that it's biologically based tolerance. That's great for guys, the group to which I belong. Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself wondering how I'd try to live my life and change the world, if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd stay home from work when I was having my period. I would. Believe me, any guy who woke up on morning and found that he was oozing blood from between his legs would phone and say, "Sorry, I can't come in today, I seem to be bleeding. And I won't be back until it stops." Nor would I try to prove a ridiculous point by plugging myself up with something absorbent and putting on a white tennis skirt. No way! I would stay in bead and read novels by gals, or watch Katharine Hepburn videos. And maybe I'd organize a phone tree with the express purpose of having as many gals as possible call in bleeding on the same day. That's what I'd do if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd spearhead something called National Knee-a-Suit-in-the-Balls Day. Why, even speaking as a guy it makes me crazy to see these self-absorbed, self-important business twits swaggering aorund downtown in their regulation navy ensembles; their Sassooned hair, the cel and gel set. Yeesh! Look at them! They think they own the world, and you cna bet that the sentiment owes its origin in large measure to the fact that they are guys. I sometimes feel like standing on the street corner and passing them leaflets that say, "Has it occurred to you that you've lived over half your life and soon you will be dead?" It would be a kindness to do something to relieve them of their guyish smugness. If I were a gal, I'd capitalize on the fact that they carry their genitalia externally, and it hurts like hell if the equipment gets thwacked, even just a little bit. Ever see a look of pain pass over a guy's face when he crosses his legs too quickly? That's why! It would do these assholes good to get a wee nudge in the groin from a gal, just to remind them of their own vulnerability. That's what I'd do, if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd foment revolution in theatre lobbies. Why should gals have to stand twitching in an intermission line-up that snakes halfway across the lobby, waiting for a chance to pee, while guys can just whistle in and out like nobody's business? Could it be because the facilities were planned by other guys? Maybe! If I were a gal, I don't think I'd be so patient. I think I'd stampede the men's room. And believe me, speaking as a guy, I can say that I'd far rather use a toilet after a gal, since guys as a species think it's beneath them to wipe their own urine off the toilet rim. This is a fact, and no amount of university education can change this or induce more savoury habits.
If I were a gal, I think I'd lobby to have something done about reproduction. Oh, I know, I know, there are some who say that drawing a fully gestated child out of your very own loins is a psychosexual experience and just the greatest thing, but I feel sure that they have bought some fringe party line. I have seen a baby being born, and I understand why it's called labour. It's like trying to get a nine-pound turkey out of an eggcup. Let's tell it like it is. Nature is not all it's cracked up to be. Mistakes were made along the way, and the system is well and truly fucked up. There has to be a better way. So, if I were a gal, I'd campaign to see if there wasn't something that could be done with Velcro implants to make the whole exercise a bit more straightforward. Rip, rip, yank out a baby: what could be simpler? On the other hand, I like gals so much that if I were to be a gal, I'd be a lesbian, and I'd run in the opposite direction whenever someon so much as whispered the word "baster". So for me, it wouldn't really matter.
This is what I'd do, if I were a gal. Which I plan to be in my next incarnation, scheduled for the year 2137. And believe me, if by then things aren't a hell of a lot different for gals on earth, then there's gonna be big, big trouble.
i was up til 1am...which, okay, not so bad. but i've gotta run today and i had to get up early to get dave up from the couch so he could get to his car 'fore it was towed away. or fined. so today i've got running and then i'm joining dave and the same set of friends for a beach BBQ. and tomorrow i ^should^ be going swimming laps, followed by going out for all-you-can-eat sushi.
essentially, until next wednesday i will actually be going places. and doing things. with other people. ahahahahah, WEIRD.
to close, a quite funny short story/essay by bill richardson (a vancouver columnist):
Gals, that is. In fact, "like" is too weak a word. Let's make that "love". I love gals. As a group. Alaways have. I know I risk being pilloried here for invoking sweeping generalities, and I know that someone will say, "Yeah? What about Mrs. Thatcher?" But I don't care. By and large, gals are great. I love them for their intelligence, their subtlety, their sensitivity to nuance, their social ease. Gals amaze me, the way they pay attention to each other, the way they listen between the lines, the easy way they have with ocnfidences, their ready access to emotion, the way they're disinclined to belittle others by bagging on about their own accomplishments.
Of course, one of the reasons gals come off so well when we talk about them as a group is because, of neccessity, we must compare them to guys. And guys are pigs. We'll all be better off if we just acknowledge this as a fact and that the exceptions only serve to prove the rule. Guys are pigs and gals are swell. Period. What's really amazing is that, in spite of the social revolution of the last quarter-century, gals continue to put up with so much from guys. Why should this be? I can only suppose that it's biologically based tolerance. That's great for guys, the group to which I belong. Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself wondering how I'd try to live my life and change the world, if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd stay home from work when I was having my period. I would. Believe me, any guy who woke up on morning and found that he was oozing blood from between his legs would phone and say, "Sorry, I can't come in today, I seem to be bleeding. And I won't be back until it stops." Nor would I try to prove a ridiculous point by plugging myself up with something absorbent and putting on a white tennis skirt. No way! I would stay in bead and read novels by gals, or watch Katharine Hepburn videos. And maybe I'd organize a phone tree with the express purpose of having as many gals as possible call in bleeding on the same day. That's what I'd do if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd spearhead something called National Knee-a-Suit-in-the-Balls Day. Why, even speaking as a guy it makes me crazy to see these self-absorbed, self-important business twits swaggering aorund downtown in their regulation navy ensembles; their Sassooned hair, the cel and gel set. Yeesh! Look at them! They think they own the world, and you cna bet that the sentiment owes its origin in large measure to the fact that they are guys. I sometimes feel like standing on the street corner and passing them leaflets that say, "Has it occurred to you that you've lived over half your life and soon you will be dead?" It would be a kindness to do something to relieve them of their guyish smugness. If I were a gal, I'd capitalize on the fact that they carry their genitalia externally, and it hurts like hell if the equipment gets thwacked, even just a little bit. Ever see a look of pain pass over a guy's face when he crosses his legs too quickly? That's why! It would do these assholes good to get a wee nudge in the groin from a gal, just to remind them of their own vulnerability. That's what I'd do, if I were a gal.
If I were a gal, I'd foment revolution in theatre lobbies. Why should gals have to stand twitching in an intermission line-up that snakes halfway across the lobby, waiting for a chance to pee, while guys can just whistle in and out like nobody's business? Could it be because the facilities were planned by other guys? Maybe! If I were a gal, I don't think I'd be so patient. I think I'd stampede the men's room. And believe me, speaking as a guy, I can say that I'd far rather use a toilet after a gal, since guys as a species think it's beneath them to wipe their own urine off the toilet rim. This is a fact, and no amount of university education can change this or induce more savoury habits.
If I were a gal, I think I'd lobby to have something done about reproduction. Oh, I know, I know, there are some who say that drawing a fully gestated child out of your very own loins is a psychosexual experience and just the greatest thing, but I feel sure that they have bought some fringe party line. I have seen a baby being born, and I understand why it's called labour. It's like trying to get a nine-pound turkey out of an eggcup. Let's tell it like it is. Nature is not all it's cracked up to be. Mistakes were made along the way, and the system is well and truly fucked up. There has to be a better way. So, if I were a gal, I'd campaign to see if there wasn't something that could be done with Velcro implants to make the whole exercise a bit more straightforward. Rip, rip, yank out a baby: what could be simpler? On the other hand, I like gals so much that if I were to be a gal, I'd be a lesbian, and I'd run in the opposite direction whenever someon so much as whispered the word "baster". So for me, it wouldn't really matter.
This is what I'd do, if I were a gal. Which I plan to be in my next incarnation, scheduled for the year 2137. And believe me, if by then things aren't a hell of a lot different for gals on earth, then there's gonna be big, big trouble.