Category: Men

Doing the Laundry on Saturday Night

I live in a high rise.   As with most things, there are pluses and minuses to living in a high rise. The best part of living in a high rise is the views.   And then there are the conveniences.   There are cleaners in the building, markets adjacent.   Makes life easier in some ways.

You develop a sense of living in a community in a high rise.   That’s often an asset.  But just as often when you have noisy or lousy neighbors, the community seems more like a tenement than a high rise.   Then there are the party sessions and the neighbors who act like they just wandered in from a cave just a few short weeks before.

But one thing about life in a high rise and for that matter any building where the laundry room in centralized and accessible to all.   You get to see who is doing their laundry on Saturday night.   Surely, there are older folk, or middle aged couples who between showings on the pay per view race up and down the elevator to get in a load or two.   But then there are the singles.   You see very few younger couples doing the laundry together on Saturday night.  Just singles.   Single men.  For sure.  And a lot of single women.

Perhaps there is no better indicator that life ain’t exactly rich with romance than someone doing their laundry on a Saturday night.    The only other indicator that life is a drag is eating alone, table for one on Saturday night.   It means the networking efforts have failed, the online dating sites have yielded nada,  and the fix up-blind date schemes and situations have resulted in disillusionment.  So here you sit.  Doing the laundry on Saturday night.   Could be the title of a country song.
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I guess the one advantage of doing the laundry on Saturday night is you don’t have to look your best.   Slop around in those sweats and tee shirts that should have been thrown out when the Chicago Cubs last won the pennant.  And oh those pink acrylic fluffy slippers.   Ironically, perhaps, it is not  just the homely sort who stuff the washers and dryers on Saturday night.   There are attractive men and women, sitting on those molded plastic chairs.   Now some women may not be what you call socially adroit, and some of the men may be geeky enough, so inundated with that lonely guy thing, that finding romance may have washed out of their hopes like a rip tide from Hurricane Ike.

There is something to be said for the fact that the laundry doers being seen doing their laundry on Saturday night.   Maybe they don’t realize that people take notice.  Or more than likely they don’t really care anymore.   They are lonely and miserable, and your sneers or pity won’t change the fact they can’t find a date, and dates cannot find them.    What’s really odd, is upon observation, they don’t seem to talk to each other.   You would think they would somehow form a lonely impromptu and random laundry club on Saturday Night.  Exchange numbers, swap spit.  Do something.  Or at least talk with each other, down in the laundry room.   I guess they don’t want to admit to another human that life has left them wanting.

And because of the funky outfits, the matted and unwashed hair and probable bad breath, the laundry on Saturday night crowd is not even a prospect for the other lonely people wandering in from the movies, bars and restaurants, empty handed.   In a perfect world the laundry room could be the post-closing time episode, the salvation in desperation, where those wandering  or staggering in from the parking lot could pick up on something that looks like Gilda Radner, as the Vick’s Vapo Rub-coated Lisa Lubner, in an old Saturday Night Live sketch.   Maybe smelly and gnarly, but, hey, it’s a heartbeat.

But I guess sometimes the world is a cruel place, and people have to fend for themselves in withstanding the harshness.   Where the rewards are meager, at best.  Where those that come home alone from bars are burdened only with a liquor tab.   And those compelled to do the laundry on Saturday Night never  suffer from a shortage of quarters.

Vegans and the Incredible Shrinking Brain

You would think this is the stuff of Alice and Wonderland, where one pill makes you taller and the other makes you small.   But according to a new study out of the esteemed Oxford University claims that being a strict vegetarian can make your brain shrink.    That’s right, vegans are six times more likely to suffer brain shrinkage than, gasp, meat eaters.  Of course, the study also claimed that drinking more than 14 drinks a week will also make your brain shrink, as will smoking pot or being overweight.   Interesting study.

I have often wondered why people working in health food stores can act like morons.   Witness the one the other day who asked to eat half a chicken and salad if I would need a knife and fork.   “No, chopsticks,” I told her,somewhat sarcastically.  So she gave me chopsticks. Therefore, I would take the study further and posit that eating veggies also reduces greatly one’s sense of humor.   But that is my own individual perception.  But many will agree.  Maybe not the vegans, but all the others who derive their culinary pleasures by feasting on the flatulent, ozone tampering animal hordes that graze our depleted lands.   Think of how many times you have been reminded by your self-righteous friends how your eating habits are ruining the planet.

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I have to think of the online dating sites that specialize in vegan romantic prospects.   Like minded people thinking like minded thoughts, with likely shrinking brains.   No variety desired, not on these dating sites.  And sex with someone who devours those awful, flatulent, ozone destroying bests, well that most be unthinkable to those who register on a dating site.   Or maybe they are more practically minded, and just don’t want to bother cooking the food they really deplore.   I know that varying a menu to fit special needs is annoying at best.   Making two different meals, one for youself and one for your romantic partner has to be a major pain.   It can force you to the market for prepared foods.   It can drive you to drink.  Which can shrink your brain.

What a vicious cycle.  What a vicious web we spin.

Smoke Dope and Go Crazy, Says a New Study

A new study out of Spain claims that young people who smoke marijuana run the risk of experiencing psychotic episodes.   According to the report, featured in Reuters the results can not be a factor of chance, nor are the results specific to any gender.   The report does claim that the results are dependent on how much cannabis was used.   How much is too much, is not reported.

So I guess we are back somewhat to the modern version of that old cinema chestnut, “Reefer Madness,” where hopped up teens, I love the term hopped up, get nutty from the weed.    But suffice it say that the younger the person who first downed cannabis the greater chance he or she would experience a psychotic episode.

One thing that comes to mind is what is deemed a psychotic episode?  I am sure the study has validity, but I am always curious to see just what these drug bugged teenagers did for their psychotic experience.   I wonder if it is sort of like a class project, a pantomime show and tell.   Let’s face it, in an often psychotic world it is difficult to separate the normal psychotic from the exceptional psychotic.   For these kids, I suppose it was easier for researchers to recognize the first lapse into psychosis.

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I am not a big fan of cannabis.  At least it has been a long time since I have considered risking any psychotic episodes by huffing on the drug.   I can certainly see it’s medical benefits, and I also see that more than a few people who start to smoke it start to smoke to much.

In the case of this particular study, I am sure we will a few rebuttals with even more statistics, facts, and observations.   I am sure none of this will give pause to weed smokers.   The parlors in Amsterdam won’t go wanting for customers, nor will the medical marijuana venues in California.   But if the findings do bear out, I suppose being forwarned is at least somewhat forearmed.   One more thing to make you crazy.

John Edwards’ Poverty Lesson, When You Get Caught, Raise Your Prices

According to an article in the Chicago Sun-Times, John Edwards has decided to reemerge from his seclusion and go back on the public speaking circuit.  He also decided to raise his speaking rates to $65,000, up from the more previous $55,000.   That’s a lot of money to talk about poverty.   Or maybe the cost of maintaining his own household and that of paramour, Rielle Hunter, is more than he anticipated.   So much hush money and so little time.

I have always been suspicious of Aw Shucks, Self-Effacing people who in every obvious endeavor show nothing but ambition bordering on megalomania.   I mean, how serious can you be about the modesty thing when you want to make a few hundred million and run for President of the United States.   In John Edward’s case, we not only have all the self effacing play acting, we have it out of slick goober boy, the crusader against poverty with the $1,250 haircut.   Must cost a lot to look the part, so people will believe you are really serious about poverty.   In Edwards case, there are two Americas.  Supercuts and his $1,250 newscaster’s special.

Edwards looks bad in his jeans.  I am suspicious of guys who never look right in jeans but persist on wearing them to look hip or young or like one of the people they are trying to win over.   With more than a few,  jeans just don’t become them.  I don’t know if it’s the cut, their bellies, hips and behinds, or if the belt looks wrong with the shirt.  Something.  Always something looks askew.

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But most of all, when Edwards calls for greater accountability and swears he is a man of family values, etc., and all the rest.  When asked during the debates what his faults are.  Does he answer honestly?  Does he tell the world he likes to fool around on the side and there is just something about Rielle Hunter that has so lassoed his stem cells he had a  baby with her?   Naw.   He tells during the debates that this greatest fault is his loving America too darn much.  Well golly.

Then when he is accused of the affair, he denies it.  He pulls a Larry Craig on us.   He then emerges from his inclusion goes back on the stump.   He is ready again to give his all about poverty.  He is ready to get paid for telling us that poverty, indeed, is bad for us.   He is ready to confess, I suppose, about his misdeeds and lack of judgement.   He is ready.   Are we?  Or will we just watch the the rerun on Jerry Springer?

Californication…When Life Imitates Art

Reuters reported that actor David Duchovny has entered a facility for treatment of sex addiction.  Yep, that’s what they said.   As anyone who breathes air must know, Duchovny won the Golden Globe Award for Best Comic Actor for playing a writer with both writers’ block and sex addiction on the Showtime series, “Californication.”

When Californication first appeared on Showtime, the series was pilloried by offended reviewers who found his character particularly loathsome and the show itself mean spirited and exploitative.   I am paraphrasing here, but you get the point.  Later on, at least some of the more broad minded critics saw the merits of the show and changed their minds.   I loved the show from its first episode and thought it the right mix of quirky comedy and substantial delving into human complexity in romantic relationships.   In short, it reminded me of a lot of people I knew, and the show, indeed, mirrored their behavior.

So now I have to wonder in this case did life imitate art or art imitate life.   Was Duchovny nursing this sexual addiction for any length of time, and did it serve to inspire the show.  Or did the show somehow inspire the kind off brain waves that compelled him to become a sexual addict?

While I understand that all things should be measured in moderation, and in the case of sex there should be at least a modicum of restraint.   It’s one thing when you are very young and very frisky, when the hormones are surging and ED and  the relevance ofViagra commercials are the last thing on your mind.    But when you get older, you are supposed to cool it at least somewhat.   Not too much, because as a recent blog attests, if you don’t use it you may use it, meaning that sexual capability.

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We will have sex at the risk of incurring fatal and debilitating diseases.   We will have sex with animals, vegetables and wet sand.  We will have sex at the risk of losing spouse, friends and material possessions.   We will have sex in the face of public humiliation.   We will have sex knowing in the aftermath we may be facing a painfully uncomfortable set of circumstances.   It is our deepest impulse, our greatest urge.

So then, how do you claim addiciton for our deepest impulse?  I realize in the civilized world we should demonstrate restraint and not risk the destruction of our families and our very lives.   We should be restrained enough not to embarrass ourselves and to not appear like sluts and pigs.   We should be coy and mannered, and above all discriminating.   But we are not.

So poor David Duchovny.   He makes a good living from a show about sexual addiction and then finds himself penalized for imitating the character that one him acclaim.   It’s a tough world out there.   And tougher with your zipper open.