LOVER

High and Low Relief

(Evie eats my pancakes)  A sudden and clear urge to run on a beach just consumed me.  Was it the memory of the beach with Jonuel, misty and water-swept, resurfaced, that triggered this?  Or a photo of Matthew McConaghey (sp?) running his idiot body with his dogs on some tropical sandy shore?  If so I really must stop visiting E.com because it's only making me want things I cannot have.  I mean I could go run on the Lake Ponchatrain beach but when I was there last week all it did was depress me with it's fenced off sand and creeps creeping piles of trash.  So there's that, wanting something while not being able to attain it and what am I going to do about that?  First a morning with Odem at our Blue Fence and then a drive to the country to hang out with the Donaldsons particularly Evie whose youth and beauty are like a beach to me, I'll run on her if she'll let me.

Feel like a movie?

I think most people drive around all day being vexed by images of mortality and vitality.  All they're wondering about is how they're going to die and who they're going to sleep with, or variations on that theme - what job they're going to have, whether they're tall enough or skinny enough or smart or fast enough or make enough money, all of it plays into these two bookends.

Our culture is the first in a couple generations that attempts to have funerals with no bodies.  We just disappear them.  If you read the death notices in the paper today you'll notice that most of them are going to involve some type of memorial event, sans body, sans corpse.  Also most likely without the gloomy stuff that comes with having a corpse in the room.  But the way to deal with mortality is by dealing with the mortals.  And you deal with death, big notion, by dealing with the dead thing. 

We're very good when it comes to cats and dogs, we just don't have a clue when it comes to our people.  We have them disappeared without any rubric or witnesses or anything like that.  And then we plan these "celebrations of life", the operative words du jour.  These celebrations are notable for the fact that everybody's welcome but the dead guy.  This, to me, is offensive and I think perilous for our species.  There is an intellectual - an artistic and moral - case that can be made for not only fruit and flowers in a bowl on a table but also a dead body in a box. 

You cannot trust

men who will treat you differently than they do women they don't want to fuck.  Or vise versa.  These are the men who do not know how to be a friend to women and no matter which end of the spectrum you're on ultimately a man who can't be our friend can't be trusted as far as you can toss him.  On top of that they're usually pretty dumb as they think they're actually putting one over on us - thinking we don't notice how attentive and kind they are to girls they think are hot, how preoccupied and short-tempered with girls they don't.  It doesn't matter how kind you are to him, how connected you are, how much in common or how compatible - if he doesn't want to fuck you you won't be his friend.  

Women, I dare you to purposely make yourself unattractive and see how different the world is, see which of those "pals" of yours stops calling, stops telling you how amazing you are, stops coming to your gigs or posting flirty shit on your Facebook wall.  I dare you to gain weight, be poor and unable to buy new clothes, be angry, be tired.  Of course you won't - who wants to live in a world where men don't curry to our needs?  But the dynamic is toxic, it's transparent and depressing and it will catch up to all of us and men, they'll just keep on with the artifice and pretty women will keep catering to it, happy to be on the winning end, and less pretty women will suffer and the game will never end.  This is even true of "ugly" guys too, by the way - they ALL think they're god's gift and they all treat women in accordance to how fuckable they think we are.

Of course there are exceptions.  Gregory Good is one, Andrew Donaldson another.  I know a few more here and there - men who really listen, who truly care.   The rest?  Silly boys, women of merit won't ever trust you and what that means is you'll get your heart broken because frankly those hot chicks?  They're as base as you are and if you fall out of favor, well - you're out.   Unless of course you look like Brad Pitt and they'll all fall all over themselves to get to the top of your list so it works both ways, doesn't it?  Sad ...