Coffee Is My Aeroplane

This is the longest interval in which I’ve not posted (if one doesn’t count the year between the first post on MySpazz and the second).  This is an unfortunate trend.  I can promise to do better, but really, is that being realistic given my track record here?

Three weeks ago (see, right here is an argument for posting more often!), while I was riding home on the Springwater trail, I was stung (or bitten; Satan insists upon redundancy management and so equipped his special spawn to do both) by a yellowjacket.  I detected a blur of movement on my right and then felt the impact of a small, vicious organism on my left shin about  a hand-span above the sock-line.  Within a second I further detected the signature match-burn that, under ordinary circumstances, would have me gyrating through the motions of what I like to call the Tourette’s Dance. (It’s an ugly dance.  Think Danny DeVito on stilts, on “Soul Train”).

Thing is, it wasn’t ordinary circumstances.  I was on a bicycle and so couldn’t give in to the urge to scream and flail.  Instead, I kept pedaling  as smoothly as I could manage and kept my eyes forward because I knew that if I looked down and actually saw the little winged hellion gnawing on my flesh I’d freak and bale off the bike and add contusions to venomous insult.  All the while, the thing kept munching away like it’s a pasty white boy buffet (or thrusting like it’s coupon day at Madam Shagnasty’s.) and it is somewhat worse than “not fun”.

Oddly enough, although it hurts like Hell and it’s all I can do to stay on and move forward, there was just the slightest twinge of pride in the back of my mind; I was maintaining, not giving in to howling and thrashing and panic.  Ask my wife how I react when one of these evil bastards manages to get into our apartment and you’ll understand from whence that seemingly out-sized pride comes.  In short, yellowjackets fill me with dread.  It’s like any other phobia (non-sensical and useless), but my immediate response to their presence is to flee.  I believe it stems from a childhood incident in Puerto Rico, when I was stung about ten times in one go by paper wasps who took exception to a kick ball lodged in the hedge too close to their nest.  I was nine, and I remember being very proud of myself for not crying.  My mother made me sit with my hand and my foot each in a bowl of ice cubes and water; after about ten minutes of that I was thinking that maybe I’d rather just go back to the hedge and taunt the wasps into finishing me off.

Anyway.  My shin still bears the scars of the encounter on the trail.  The little punk must have been in a really bad mood.

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Recently I was asked by two women I know to defend my sense of aesthetic.  In other words, they wanted to know what I find so appealing about another female acquaintance.

It was really annoying.  Once again I was called upon to prove that I am not, after all, a hog of a male human being.  I briefly (very briefly) considered saying something like “Well, you know what I like in a woman?  My dick!” just to see them spit up their wine, but I didn’t.  Again, I tried to explain that my sense of beauty is holistic, that I try not to see women in terms of generalization, that yes, there are certain fashions of dress that I find sexier than others* but that it’s the person wearing them that ultimately matters, natter-natter-natter-blah-blah-yada-yada, to the point that even I was bored.  So maybe I can put it better here, and from now on I’ll just refer people to this entry when once again this stupid conversation presents itself.

I love to look at women.  It does not mean I want to fuck them.  It means they are very pleasant to look at.  This may surprise you, but in terms of physical beauty there are men I find pleasant to look at (although this is most often in the “I could be that, if I ran ten miles before my regular three hours at the gym every day!” sense).  My criteria for appraisal is individualistic.  Cup size does not matter.  A shaven vulva is not mandatory.  If your idea of my personal aesthetic is that I like big boobs or long legs or luxurious hair, and that I exclude personality and heart, then you are (a) wrong, (b) insulting me, and (c) being very unkind to the women I find attractive who just so happen to possess one or all of these traits.  It’s also somewhat telling of your own sense of self-worth.  Please don’t be that woman, because, you know, that’s unattractive.  I will never apologize for being male, whatever hormonal or historical baggage you perceive saddles that denial.  Thank you.  Can we just move on now?

That felt good.

Today’s quote:  “It’s no use growing older if you only learn new ways of misbehaving yourself.”  – Hector Hugh Munro

*I’ll just say that spring and summer on SE Hawthorne Blvd is a treat for the eyes.

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