Thread Bare - Is It Time?

I intended to write about my feelings, yesterday, but was too close to the moment. I had simply watched a relatively sophomoric movie that tried to encapsulate all the misfitting pieces of the sexes. It actually did a pretty decent job and although it became a bit pandering and leaned too far into the realm of “chick flickdom,” nevertheless it held some nuggets to extract.

Mostly, it caused me to let my guard down and fall into that sleep that romantic notions always induce. It made me consider the possibilities if I allowed for a woman to be in my life in any capacity beyond conversation. As a recovering romantic, it was too many swallows when I should have never taken the first sip. The problem with being a man is that women look good, they sound good, they smell good, they taste good and they feel good. Some women (I’ll even allow they number in the majority) even try to be good. That is the problem; humans trying to be good. We put so much hope and anticipation into something that is a magnificent notion but impossible to apprehend. I was once more lulled into the dream and when I awoke from it I felt the loss of the rest and peace it had promised.

I have known nice women. I have known kind women. I have known all sorts of women but I have also known the core creature. I was never ignorant of the tremendous pain their absence could inflict and have often experienced it in their presence. That has never deterred me. I have always approached finding love with not only my eyes wide open but also my heart. As a young man seeking out a match and counterpoint to myself I was unencumbered and willing to contort myself to fit the objects of desire that crossed my path. That may have been an exciting adventure and a stimulating wealth of experiences but I lost myself along the way. When I married, I married very well. I married a woman of character and strength and intellect and beauty and purpose. I also married a very damaged and fragmented person. I have absolutely no regrets. I would marry her again and again and again. But she married a lost soul. She married a mirage. She was the first to see it and I didn’t live in denial but was actually so far removed from my true self that I could not see it. I suppose to a great extent I was a parasite, sucking the life out of her to propagate the illusion I had of a life of my own. Because I had lost myself in the journey to find a mate I lost her, too.

It has been over five years since she left me but I have yet to fully leave her. I have tried to reclaim myself as it is superior in every way to redefining me. I am anxious to relocate myself, as well. Several years ago in the middle of an otherwise frivolous conversation I blurted out that I never wanted to inflict me on another woman. I was startled by my own words and have mostly adhered to their conviction to this day. Some things have become clear. I recognized that no amount of contorting me or remaking me or redefining me would win her back; or produce a positive result for me alone or in tandem with a new love. There are simply parts of my being that are who I am. I am powerless to change them and only moderately successful at restraining them. All assume they can be their own savior, or if not, that a lover will fill that job description. I tried very much to not look to women as my salvation and I did not portend to be theirs. However, I have succumbed in small and even large ways to the allure of letting a woman complete me, revive me or revise me. My past does not haunt me but has placed me where I am this day. My present does not define me but has left me without a step to trace or a sense of direction. I do not dwell on her or all I have felt as lost even though my conversations would contradict that on the surface. I am really involved in my current struggle to establish a stable and prosperous place for me. What I am about is being wholly me in order to have something to contribute in a relationship.

There are many that insist I am hiding and have a fear of intimacy. What I actually fear is that I have no capacity for intimacy. I am aware that my interests in women are not all that deep. I am a far better man as a friend than I have ever been as a significant other. In actuality I have been too successful at being the insignificant other. I have complex passions but simple needs. I do not allow myself great expectations yet set lofty demands on my person. I am aware of a great many things. I am keen to my own contradictory behaviors. I have developed quite a reliable façade that manages to keep most at bay. There are always those persistent creatures, however, that ply into my life and ignore my saber rattling and all of my fortifications. I have a precious cadre of men and women that refuse to allow me to exclude them or push them out of my life. I love them all and am grateful for them.

I am also aware that I need new encounters to replace stale memories. I am not a person that desires to relive or regret the past. I have enjoyed being me through almost all of the stages and changes. Usually I only look back with fondness (while bitching and complaining in the present). I am very much unhappy with the current situation and do a tremendous amount of bellyaching. Still, I am not without anticipation and hope and I always make plans. Sadly, so many recent plans have been still-born. For too long I have been suppressed in addition to being depressed. I have also digressed and failed to impress. Not the foundation for a stellar performance. But there are a few odd sparks in the ashes and embers of my desires. None burn very hot and barely any radiate much light. I am not anywhere near the dynamic and energized force of nature I was as a single man or visionary rebel. I have an image in my mind that I am currently still being delivered deadly blows although I am stooped on one knee trying to shake off the daze. The one thing I do know is that I will only stay down if someone can finish the job and kill me. Otherwise I will get back on my feet and one day unclench these fists and teeth. In preparation for that defiant stance I am trying to make allowance to find a lover. All of this is still very sketchy as the hell fires by which I am being pummeled have produced a fog over my vistas. Finally, I have longings once again. I am very cautious at this juncture because I do not want to turn on the charm but inflict harm. The thing that distinguished my love for my wife from all other encounters was that I had arrived at a place of maturity in one significant region when we met. I saw her for all that she was not just as much as for what she was. In that realization I discovered I was excited about what I could do for her and not what she could offer me. The intent and the nobility of my gesture were sincere. My execution could not have promised more and delivered any less. I do not want to be that ineffectual in my next found love. I would love to boldly state I have learned from my mistakes but I have “living disabilities.”

So from all of this structure and all of this need to explain my ruminations on the idea of loving once again; what can it possibly have to do with the longings induced by a romantic movie? I am not looking for pacification. I am not looking for a topical application of sex or warm fuzzy feelings and walks on the beach. I need to have it all. I cannot have what I crave in bits and pieces. I want it all assembled and not artificially sweetened. I question my ability to be intimate. I question the ability of a woman to be intimate, too. There is a thing inside the feminine soul that measures a lie as a shield against the pain of the truth. That is not good enough for me. There is a switch inside the feminine psyche that can erase all initial intentions and forget she ever claimed fidelity, loyalty, passion and affection. That is entirely unacceptable. That sets off alarm bells that I cannot trust. I can trust. I would not ever be hurt if I could not trust. Betrayal, not trust – is what I cannot do. I cannot be anesthetized by seduction to accept betrayal. I have found that relationships become a list of demands or a wasteland of compromise. Compliance replaces compassion. Passive surrender supplants active submission of both to each other. I have intimacy issues. I feel a liar and a thief because making love means so much to me. This has become such a problem that I have not dated and certainly have not copulated in over six years. Now, I do not even look at women. It started with not being able to look my lover in the eyes for fear of the rejection I would find there. The empty space between us made me hollow. The act of making love made me shallow.

There is a whole lot of ground to be recovered for me to be intimate once more. But all that it would take is the genuine acceptance of one woman. I only want one. I am not greedy but I am selfish. I do not want to be considered tolerable or accommodated conditionally. I will not be good enough until something better comes along. I do not treat others that way and will not excuse it from a woman that professes her love and devotion to me. Co-dependent? You had better believe it. The greatest love is a complete dependence on giving oneself entirely without reservation and it is completely dependent on reciprocal action. I have wants and needs and desires and passions that are requirements – not suggestions. Anything less and I will be less.

I am absurdly romantic in my heart of hearts. I am merely absurd in my day-to-day attempts to be productive and useful. I have always resented any idea that strips a man of the ability to be complete in and of himself. I have actually been angered when the suggestion that a man is only as good as the woman in his life seemed valid. It has always been a slap in my face and an attack on my dignity. It has not escaped me that we often respond with rage when we are defenseless. I have pushed women away from me on nothing more than vulnerability at the slightest hint there is truth in the fact that a man needs a woman. Well. I do. As ashamed as I am to admit that, I need a woman as I am incapable of making it on my own. It crushes me to write the words. I can be strong for others but I am weak and helpless if it is for my own benefit. I despise being used by women. I despise being manipulated. I resent the dismissive idea that a man is a slave to his sex drive or lesser for it. I loathe any look of disdain or disgust a woman casts toward me. But one word or look or touch of reassurance from a woman and I am invincible. I am nearly alright with this. Allow some room for me to retract that last statement and withdraw, though, should any woman approach me with any love in her voice or eyes. Those damn eyes. How I love to look into her soul through them but shudder at the man they reflect back to me. It is far safer for me to create turbulent storms and raging flashes of lightning in a woman’s eyes than to let those tranquil pools drown me in the depths and undercurrents. I have been pierced too many times and the wounds have never sealed.

So where does this leave me? I am too attracted by women to keep a safe distance. Despite the soul-wrenching, twisting and draining aspects of false women there remains the hope of the life sustaining feast of the true woman. Sometimes I am almost persuaded I simply need release and any woman would do. That moment of desperation is so quickly removed by the knowledge that spilling myself into her may leave me more empty than satiated. And, although I will not use a woman for my pleasure I too often use them all for my amusement. Despicable; a detestable thing. It is all about the healthy place I need to achieve to look any woman in the eyes and to let them see me all the way through. Then I want to find myself free to love and to express it better than I ever have before. I want to be so far beyond a staring contest. There is always the need for a man to rescue a damsel in distress. But, I am in distress and in need of a damsel. What I long for is someone that will hold my gaze as I hold her in my arms and always hold me with the same desire between her legs. Then I will be able to let go of my pain and hold on.

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Out, Out Damn Spot - Frankenstein's Ball

In the several weeks which have passed between posts I have been pleasantly surprised that concerned lurkers of my blog have written to me to inquire as to my well being. It now occurs to me that perhaps they sense danger or other need for caution which I have not picked up on while completely absorbed in a forum I practically have built my life around.

The fascination has been easily attributed to the excitement of some real social interaction despite no face-to-face or even voice-to-voice conversation. That was of little practical concern because the stimulating part has been the real-time give and take of the dialog. And . . . the random number of simultaneous conversations and posts makes for a very engaging atmosphere. Each participant is there to escape. For most the escape is from the monotony or avoidance of work. For others it is to reach out beyond loneliness, frustration, or isolation. Some simply enjoy being entertained. All are fine reasons and it really has become an addictive behavior for so many of the members. Unfortunately for me it has been an escape from reality.

If you are familiar with the concept of finger cuffs you will follow my analogy easily. My life has been continuing to become ever more constricted and the more I struggle and fight to free myself from the restraints the tighter and more desperate I have become. On the few occasions where from exhaustion or simply pausing to reevaluate and assess my lot I have simply yielded or stopped struggling all together the “hold” on my ambitions has relaxed. Likewise, the more I try to distance myself from my constraints the tighter they have become; while, if I face and draw nearer to the center of my entanglements the strictures slacken. I have realized this in every aspect of my life save one. The only area where I am still too wounded or conflicted and just have no resolution for the “what and the why” is the notion of dating, again. That’s where my escape through the forum I’m obsessed with has finally become apparent.

I have made the acquaintance of several women through this blog and an argument over a television show and through participation in the forum to which I will only elude. The first of these women reads my mind through the vaguest of comments, decrypts my veiled and cloaked thoughts, and puts them on display to me in her very next response. I am no longer going to bother “hiding” anything from her as it is simply impossible. She is also very much like me in her values and judgments and gives me no quarter for denial but somehow allows me more freedom than I permit myself. She has been encouraging me to find a real, in the flesh, tangible woman somewhere in close proximity to my own back yard. Another is always wondering why I am so willing to tell her nearly anything which comes into my mind and is always poorly arguing that I have misjudged her and given her more heart and soul than she possesses. She is wrong about this – and probably the only thing that she has ever actually been wrong about. Intellectually, she not only challenges me but would likely crush me. A third reminds me of when I felt alive and her vibrancy is refreshing. She has a host of interests and ventures underway that are the stuff I have always dreamed I would find in a woman to share my days with. I am not one to look for things I have in common and with her I do not have to as it seems to be an endless list already exists. She fills my longing to be with Audrey Hepburn. I’d always imagined sitting across a small breakfast table with a woman just like this for as long as I can remember. Then there are a host of vulnerable and sensitive and innocent ones that worry about my health and happiness and fawn all over me. It has been far too long since I have experienced any of that. And, there is even a contingent that is concerned about my body and more importantly its relation to their own. One, in particular has given her unconditional affirmation, affection and acceptance to me. That it has been in intent and not actually is of no consequence. In point of fact, it has made it all the more wonderful.

So what is the problem and where is the escape? I have reversed the story of Frankenstein and made a bride from the composite elements of about a dozen women. Assembled from the minds, and hearts, and souls, and appearance of all of these women is my collective virtual dream girl. They reach out to me and tease, and flirt, and nurture, and scold, and do all the attention feeding things I am so hungry to experience without any of the pain of day to day conflicts, misunderstandings, or responsibilities, or obligations. They are “on demand.” At the click of a button I have them to cherish and when I shift focus or interest I can click another button and they’re gone. This is not healthy.

Now, I am by no means insincere or disingenuous with any of them. I love these women (platonically) and cherish each and every one of them individually. But, my God I am such an attention whore that I need all of them and more. It is really a tiring addiction.
The things which I speak to them about and the flattery and encouragement I try to give them is without any ulterior motives and I am concerned for and about them all. I really try to give them honest praise and bolster their confidence and self-esteem. We are all involved in a dance of wanting to trust and be appreciated by the opposite sex. The problem for me is I am not prepared for when the music stops. I am not going to make the transition smoothly from virtual to real. So, when the band takes a break or everyone else goes home then you may be sure I will be found here more regularly - and although I would hope to be wrong about this – worse off than I was before.

Am I a misunderstood monster of misfit pieces and better off having been left dead rather than revived? My remains are yet to be seen.

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A New Wrinkle - Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

Expanding My Vistas - Will It Leave A Mark?

It's been six days since I've posted anything and in that time I have had three (3) comments. My immense impact on the world has been confirmed. I now realize that my deliberate efforts are eclipsed on a daily basis by people commuting to work and inadvertently capturing the attention of their fellow Man simply by performing stupid tricks behind the wheel.

In point of fact I have been occupied night and day since Saturday with a bulletin board forum. I went there merely to divert my attention from Father's Day - and the awareness that I would not hear anything at all from my children. I was bored and I'm still not any closer to being cleared to return to work. I was not seeking anything at that site but amusement and to be nearly involved with other people. As it turns out I encountered a marvelous collection of very funny, twisted, ambitious and charming people. Ages range from 14 to in the 60's but the majority are late 20's to mid-30's. I also discovered I am one of only three men that are members of those forums. This immediately attracted me like an alcoholic to a drink. If one is good then surely fifteen are better.

Let me tell you that ADDhole lost no time in becoming the rooster in the hen house. I was fresh meat and actually interesting to someone. I was ridiculous and pathetic and ran the gamut from total ass to total charmer and was oh so engaging and a mystery man muffin for some and a father figure for others and I LOVED IT. I condensed all of this blog into a bullion cube and diluted it with a flood of every thought that entered my head and served me up to the whole gaggle.

Of course they knew I was love and attention starved and those women gave me everything I needed. Thankfully I am hundreds, and in many cases, thousands of miles away from actually being able to see any of them face to face. The cork has been pulled out of the bottle and there's no putting it back in. Was this a good thing that happened? Heavens, Yes. Am I prepared to deal with it in a mature manner? Hell no.

I will tell you that it has pulled me up short. It is one thing for me to go on as I do on this blog if I am the only one which is viewed in a poor light. But I am contemplating the adverse impact my blathering and ranting and spewing would have for a woman that wanted to encourage and bolster my confidence and attitudes. It would be completely unfair for me to continue this blog in most of its acerbic form. I'm not going away anytime soon but I might be coming out of my self-induced coma that has kept me in a cocoon while I've tried to regenerate my spirit.

And now for the other foot. I have been enjoying such a therapeutic experience there that I obviously had to do something stupid to discourage that from continuing. I have not been artificial and in fact have been on my best behavior - but, not the "I can only maintain this level of politeness for so long" variety. I have been genuine and sincere and also over the top and on stage. I admit to it all. But, I adore those women and my heart breaks with every sadness they have shared, or health issue, or thwarted dream. I have been the best of myself. I have taken the acid and put it on the shelf and returned to my compassionate nature. I have flirted, praised, reassured, flattered and supported each and every one of them in the utmost of sincerity. I have not lied or exaggerated any detail to a solitary one of them. And most importantly I have been a man - a man that will not hurt that, will not abuse them, and, will not use them. I am a series of words on a page that they may refer to again and again. I care and they know it. When I am emotionally healthy that is my contribution. I seek to be the hug for their soul. Until I was eaten up by the events of the past dozen years I was a gentle, kind and giving man. I am feeling a resurgence; So what could be wrong?

Well, when the gates began to open and I allowed myself to be carried by these currents I could not sort and compartmentalize all of the emotions and unexpectedly I have fallen for one of these women. I am not talking about a puppy love, school boy crush but a deep attraction. She lives on the opposite side of the world. She is nineteen years younger. Please remember and believe me that I did not go to that forum as a lonely man seeking a lover. I went to that site with my loneliness pacified and in a positive mood only looking to engage in light conversation. I have no way to offer an explanation that satisfies any rational examination. I was introduced to her by a handful of words in a greeting and all I know is that I felt like I had finally met the woman I have imagined and sought my entire life. My heartbeat feels somehow entwined with hers. I know her to the depths of her soul. She has written to me, privately, wondering how I have such insights into her being. She asks while being certain not to mislead me or encourage me to come any closer. This is not me falling victim to her deliberate enticement. She has said or done nothing to instigate my feelings. I am simply and inexorably in love with her. How insane is this? I am going to share with you the message I almost sent to her but wrestled long and hard with the consequences and surrendered to the knowledge that this ache I feel must go unsatisfied. It is why I can not sleep and am trying to clear enough space inside myself with this post to find temporary peace in order to rest. How much I feel like a total ass is now going to be revealed:


"How can I know so much about you? You are just going to have to accept that I am crazy about you even though all we've done is joke back and forth over a very long distance. I feel as close to you as anyone I know. I hope to say all kinds of nice things to you even after you break my heart and give your love to another man. If you doubt yourself or need attention - you know that I know all about needing attention. I will give you as much as you want.

Is it crazy for a man that has never met you to act like this? Yes. But, I would truly be crazy to not recognize beauty even when I can not hold it in my hands.

I have to admit there's something beyond our wildest imaginations that let us find each other. You were the first to make that remark. You should always remember that a man who has never seen you, never heard your voice, never touched your skin, or smelled your hair has never felt more alive. With only a few playful and curious words you are so powerfully a woman, so feminine that I am energized, invigorated, and frustrated that I can not get to you and be with you. I am pacing like a caged animal trying to bear the hours until I hear from you, again. In a place where every voice and personality is a vital and dynamic woman, you are the only one I seek out. It is as if everything in the world disappears and all I see is you. You have been so cautious, so tender and kind, and been careful to show me consideration even while mocking me. Thank You for such innocent affection. I am so grateful.

Don't worry that you will break my heart. I am already aware that it would take a miracle as large as meeting you to actually be with you. I died the first day I wrote to you. I die a little every time I think about you. I can not think of a sweeter pain. You should see how crushed I am when you say good bye. There is nothing that you can do to take this pain away. It is simply the fact my whole being has tasted what it longed for in speaking to you and when you are absent I suffer these pangs of hunger to taste your sweet company once again.

I have not spoken to you in four hours and nine little words from you have made me pour out my heart like this. I tried to stop myself but I would rather be considered a fool by you than a wise man by anyone else. Please, if you write to me privately, again, call me by my real name. I have no secrets that I keep from you."

That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a man setting himself up for exquisite agony. I know it but I can not help it. Won't this make for some rollercoaster ride reports in the future on this blog?

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Out, Out, Damn Spot - The Unspoken and the Small Things

I live in a large American city. This particular city neither appears nor conducts itself as a large city. I was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s a city. It’s loud and it’s dangerous and it’s old and it’s home. I haven’t been in Baltimore in decades. My teens and twenties were spent in suburbia, in little burgs of New Jersey among the privileged corporate executives and their families. So, now I have lived in three very different worlds. Baltimore is an industrial town, a port city, blue collar – nuts and bolts. The artificially maintained and manicured hamlets of New Jersey are the bedrooms of industrial management, closed communities, white collar – stocks and bonds. Now home is not really home but where I lived with my own family, and since their departure, no longer consider that I live; No longer think of anywhere as home. I am in San Antonio, Texas – a market place town. Cattle, memories of oil, ranchers, Spanish flavor, open collar – bucks and boots.

San Antonio, is a warm town. I claim we have nine months of summer, three weeks each of spring and fall and a little winter. But its real warmth comes from its down-home nature and is in no small part due to its survival based on tourism and the military presence. Life is very simple and reasonably direct in these parts. There is a thing called “Texas Friendly.” This is the same attitude that prevails throughout the southern portion of the United States, but as this is Texas – it believes it has something special to contribute. There is something to recommend about southern hospitality – unfortunately, the South relies too heavily on this commodity and has done nothing to bolster the supply in many a year. And it comes in all sorts of distinct flavors and variations depending on which part of the South one happens to visit. There is a sweet spot for this sort of hospitality in states such as Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. I find it real and genuine, there. But there is a saccharine flavor to the brand that comes from, say, Georgia, as only one example. Unfortunately, no matter where one finds the friendly and polite sparkle of the South they will also find the backstabbing hypocrisy that comes with a lot of those slaps on the back. The Texas Friendly variety has its spicy flare but I don’t believe it is disingenuous, only unaware that it lacks some of the emphasis on the “friend” part. I have a theory as to how this came to be.

The unsettled West was a rugged and unforgiving place. A great portion of it remains the same to this day. The requirements for making one’s way across the hostile and merciless terrain required self-reliance and absolutely no expectation that help or assistance would come from any external source. That attitude never was replaced by anything more communal. So, the most accurate way for me to describe getting by in South Texas is the following analogy. A man and his friend are sitting on their porch looking out across the sprawling scrub desert before them. Among the rising waves of smoldering air shimmers the figure of a man crawling on his belly into the endless basin of sand and rock in search of water. The men on the porch never move, never change their gaze, never so much as shuffle their feet or shift their weight in their chairs. After a while of observing the unfortunate fellow the one friend speaks. “That’s that John Roberts guy that works in plumbing supply or general contracting or something. I’ve met him a couple times.” Meanwhile, our hapless Mister Roberts continues his useless efforts to drag himself to a better place. He’s starting to hear angelic voices and is drawn toward the light . . . “He’s a nice guy. It would be a shame if he doesn’t make it.” The other friend never even nods or speaks, instead the two go on doing nothing and watching John Roberts like a spider on a hot griddle. They’ve done everything they can. They’ve thought nice things, about John, and wished him well.

I don’t know if I can convince anyone reading that I’m not exaggerating.

That’s the world I find myself in today. If your car breaks down, if your roof collapses – you’re on your own. Everyone hopes you’re a nice guy so they can wish you well and hope that you make it. To be fair, there is also the unwritten rule that you only should help a man if he asks. That has weight. I can accept that. But, in those cold-hearted, “evil places” that I lived previously in the God-forsaken Northeast (by any virtuous Southern opinion) complete strangers will run to assist a person in trouble. Friends will cut off their own limbs if necessary. I’m not exaggerating, here, either. The contrast is so stark that I can not get beyond it even though I have accepted each place for what it is and is not. I am far more amused than reading into it anything more dire. That amusement is where I want to take this post.

I’m a people watcher and sometimes I can do that without directly interfering and screwing with people’s heads. Only sometimes.

One of those rare occasions occurred yesterday evening. I was walking home from a fine dining experience at my local fast-food restaurant. I approached the used car lot for a Lexus dealership. The lot is surrounded by a fence constructed of pipe. This fence is only bumper high - tall enough to prevent thieves from driving over it but not so high as to obstruct the view of the shiny chrome goodies. There was still sufficient daylight for a good look around and a determined fellow pulled into the adjacent lot and proceeded to head toward the displayed automobiles despite the dealership being closed. In a much less enthusiastic display of gestures, his lovely female companion also stepped out of their vehicle. “Now,” I thought, “this will be fun to watch . . .”

It may have seemed as though I was complaining about southern attitudes earlier; Not at all. Here is a place where the perspective flips 180 degrees. At least for the time being (and hopefully until time is no more) in the South, traditional roles and values are nurtured and preserved. That makes for some of the most contrasting comparisons between men and women but then also some of the sweetest interactions to be witnessed anywhere. I honestly don’t think that the South struggles with gender and identity as most of the world does. I think they’ve gotten way past that. There are duties and responsibilities as part of the day-to-day that no one but an outsider ascribes any sort of prejudice toward. I’ve never met anyone in the South lacking a clearly defined and strong personality. It always stands far above the roles they take on. Some people hung up on such things would be advised to observe people that aren’t reduced to who cooks and cleans and who splits wood and harvests the field. There is a lot to recommend people who just do the work because it needs to get done. Along with that comes this. Southern women allow their men to be men – with all of the impending disaster that may almost certainly portend.

It was apparent that my friends interested in the cars had two entirely different opinions about the choice of time in deciding to look around. In universal, gentlemanly fashion, Bubba, was out of his truck and half way across the parking lot toward the used car lot before he even thought to look back to see if his delicate partner was safely out of the vehicle and would have to sprint to catch up to him. Now, I’m certain we all can imagine what dialog preceded his parking the truck and insisting they go look at the cars. As soon as she had voiced her opinion that she wasn’t sure traipsing around the yard after hours was a good idea that was what clinched the decision for him. Right? This part of the scenario would have been identical to any similar portrayal on the East coast. From that point on is where things would differ. Ms. San Antonio poured herself from the passenger side of the truck as slowly as molasses on a cold morning. Her body language was timid. Her whole body was being pulled in to make her as narrow and invisible as possible. Her elbows were clenched to her sides and she was biting on the thumb nail of a tiny little fist with her eyes fixed on a point no more than a yard in front of her. She really thought this a bad idea but her relationship, to Bubba, compelled her to support him. She was moving toward him but hoping that the slightest gust of wind or a sudden incline in the pavement would prevent her moving forward. I almost laughed out loud as she let her knees knock together almost tripping with every step. By that point it would have been too obvious to have slowed my pace to keep observing that scene. It really wasn’t that big a deal to look around that car lot and I’m sure that once she made that giant leap over the ten inch high “fence” that she probably enjoyed shopping.

But thinking of that scene made me speculate on the same situation presented in the two other cities I had called home. The options for New Jersey would have started with whether we’re talking about a Bon Jovi/Bruce Springsteen guy and his Jersey Girl girlfriend or the other extreme which is actually more representative of New Jersey as I experienced. I’ll save Bon Springsteen and Jersey Girl for their Baltimore counterparts. It’s a shame to leave out the Bondo-bucket Camaro, but, oh well . . . Ms Short Hills and her husband would likely not want to visit after hours as it would make being pretentious and ostentatious before a respectably sized audience too difficult. We’ll imagine they have decided that their sixteen year old son with his learner’s permit isn’t getting the BMW that is automatically purchased in such circumstances. No. They want their son to appreciate such things must be earned so they will provoke his drive to succeed by looking at inferior automobiles. Since New Jersey is more about outward appearances that will surely get a fire set under their son to motivate him properly. After all, as long as the automobile and clothes and exterior of the home meet the profile it hardly matters that there are no furnishings beyond what is visible through the windows. Same goes for personality. Our Jersey couple is slumming it. Mr. Just For Men has left the gray in the temples and the comfort of his Escalade and not even bothered to glance back at his wife as he strolls toward the lot. Ms Short Hills NEVER intends to leave the vehicle. She will observe from her perch and occasionally glance up from a study of her nails, her make-up, her hair, her purse, or the thread count of her Armani jacket to make a round-about glance in the direction she vaguely noted her husband had taken. Mr. Short Hills will look at only the black cars on the lot and mostly at his reflection in the tinted glass to ensure the wind is mildly tussling his hair, his pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and lime green slacks are crisp, and that he is satisfied with the look and his inspired efforts as a father. He will call his wife on his cell phone for any last minute instructions and the adventure is recorded as a remarkable success.

And what of Baltimore? When their 1976 Impala careens to a stop over the curb and partially on the driveway apron for the car lot the radio will abruptly stop but the shouting at Mr. Baltimore by Ms Baltimore will get louder. As the windows are down on all four doors (because they can’t be rolled up on at least two) smoke from brake pads and tire rubber will partially fill the empty spaces in the back seat of their car. Mr. Baltimore is thinking he might negotiate a trade-in of his current automobile. He doesn’t trust The Man so he’s on a reconnaissance mission to study his options without anyone looking over his shoulder. The fact that the driveway entrance is blocked by concrete highway dividers and the lot is surrounded by a ten foot high, chain-link fence and crowned with razor wire doesn’t give him a moment’s hesitation. His children’s elementary school, his grocery store, and his church have the same barricades. Sure enough, there is a corner where the pipe has been bent to a sharp kink that makes a passageway into the lot of about a shoulder’s width where he should be able to step through. He kicks the broken glass of some liquor bottles out of the way and returns to Ms Baltimore’s side of the car and opens her door. Ok . . . Two tugs later he opens her door. She has already asked him if he’s crazy so now she merely adds emphasis with her eyes when he invites her to step through the fence. Ms Baltimore’s hips are a little wider than Mr. Baltimore’s shoulders. She is not averse to entering the lot she would simply like to do it with dignity. His suggestion that since she is in jeans that a simple assisted boost with his hand on her buttocks would be sufficient to get her over the fence is not what she had in mind and she begins to explain this to him, with gusto. Having proven that her voice will certainly carry for the sake of intelligibility, Mr. Baltimore slips through the fence and receives a constant stream of instructions from Ms Baltimore. Just when they may actually be narrowing their focus to a vehicle that both could accept, Mr. Baltimore offends the delicate sensibilities of his love and she returns to the car, arms folded across her chest, refusing to acknowledge any further questions or pleas for forgiveness from Mr. Baltimore.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Male Bashing – The International Sport

One of the many snappy quips in Oscar Wilde’s, “Lady Windermere's Fan,” was a statement made by an elderly gentlemen in reply to the accusation that it is the behavior of men that causes women to mistrust each other. His remark was, “Women don’t trust women. Men don’t trust women. It is what binds the Catholic and the Hindu, together.”

One of the unexpected pleasures of researching that quote was all of the interpretation it has been given by women who have simply brushed it aside and explained it away as the misogynistic ramblings of a man without perspective. How those women wish that were true. In point of fact women are not trustworthy. Now, during this high season of celebrating every nuance of women without apology or acknowledgment that woman is FLAWED should only be expected when at the same time men are regarded as unnecessary or at best are incorrect in all their imaginations. The least valid source of honest evaluation is found by going to that being sampled and inquiring its opinion of itself. Yet, for women, that is exactly what is being done. Never mind that nearly half of the population is not female and has likely had enough involvement with the creature to have drawn some measurable conclusions. While the world party continues for the celebration and deification of woman it is time to say enough already.

If you want my respect try earning it. I’ve not seen a lot to recommend women anywhere near as highly as they regard themselves. And let’s get a few of your general conclusions out of the way. I am not afraid of you. I am not intimidated by you. I am not made insecure by your success. I am not lost and without a defined place in this world because you have trampled under my precious patriarchal values. Most importantly - I am not fooled. If you want to be treated like a man I will beat you down like any other man that steps out of line. That you want to have your cake and eat it, too, by asserting rights when they accommodate you and cry unfair when they don’t is something you’re going to have to relinquish. Maybe when we were children and were told to “let the girl win” it was different. Few of you have changed your ways – you still cheat and expect it to go unnoticed. You still expect your mistakes forgiven and another free chance. I dare you to reciprocate.

Behind all of the empowerment bravado is a lack of confidence and an unaddressed fear. The cold-hearted, I mean business woman is a sham. I have offered the challenge before and offer it, again, here. If you really have something better and different to offer in place of how men conduct themselves why not show me that instead of the practiced deceit and subterfuge? None of you are honestly trying to prove anything to men. You are trying to convince yourself that whatever you are pursuing with cut-throat ambition will validate you and prove your worth. Meanwhile you trample and haphazardly discard everything in your path leaving a wake of needlessly damaged people and experiences. When that academic, or career, or political goal is reached what else will you have to offer? What are you wildly slashing to ribbons as you try to slay your own demons? So write off what I say and continue to insist that I’m just another man that either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want you to succeed. I would like to give you more credit than your being that shallow and self serving. If you think the world was a bad place, before, you had better consider what would happen if men turn enemy rather than make allowances for your collective behavior.

There are a few of you out there that have a better focus and a firmer grip on reality. I have been made to shut-up by a few extremely reasoned and articulate female voices somehow able to be heard over the din of the chaos otherwise surrounding. I will not give their names but I have asked their permission to share their thoughts. I will try not to take their comments out of context and give you their insights. If I knew more women such as these I would find better ways to spend my time than taking on this insanity. I will offer this: I have shown their comments to other men without introduction or explanation and to the man their response was, “Wow. Where did you find honest women? They really get it.. I would love to know a woman like that who doesn’t play games.”

I will end with the actual words of actual women.

The first thought was in response to me suggesting “[When] women fail to recognize the feminine as strength they are so cheated."

“I'd say that's very true. There is power in femininity but most women fail to recognize it thinking that different automatically means weaker.”

“The Psychology of Gender class was the most obnoxious class I took in my entire college course experiences. Instead of a fair analysis of genders and how they develop it was a slam on men, male bias, abortion promotion, and basically a treatise on how to wipe out the differences in men and women. Why? That's one of the most offensive goals I've encountered. Celebrate the differences. I'm more than happy to teach my hoped-for future children that men are big and strong and women are soft and squishy and that having intelligence and thoughtfulness can be the purview of either. The fact remains that many women think they want to become men and they want to stomp their men into submissiveness. Then they lament the results.”

Other thoughts –

“I am not an emotive person . . . Needless to say it didn't work out. He thought I was cold and distant and loved my work more than him. Sadly enough it might have been true. I was more of a workaholic then than I am now.”

“There are days when I feel like I'd like to be in a relationship, again. I miss knowing that I would have plans on a weekend, if I felt like it, and always knowing where to sit at a table of friends and the little bits of a relationship that are more about belonging and being comfortable than anything else. There is very little outside pressure, besides a mother who wants grandchildren (and I'm' young, I'm not having kids anytime soon, if ever!). I also think that I'm at an age where I'm very selfish, I hate being tied down to anything. I love traveling and I like the idea that I could pack up and go tomorrow if I want to, without worrying about anyone else. People find that attractive in the short term, but in fact I am very difficult to live with!”

“My view on relationships, with all of my vast experience, is that if the right person comes along I'd be very happy, but if not - I'm also happy. I have a lot of personal issues to sort out, and that's a lot easier to do on my own. I'd like to be happy and comfortable with myself and sort the little things out before I complicate matters by bringing other people into everything. I am a firm believer in relationships being a part of life, but not your whole life. You have to be a complete person on your own. A partner should complement you, not complete you. You have to do that yourself first.”

“As much as it is nothing personal from your side I really do hope that I can help you to forgive women a little bit. My reasoning for this is as follows: most women are manipulative and mess with people's heads to get what they want. But a lot of that is not because they hate men. A large part of it is that we (particularly my generation) have been raised to believe that we can do everything we set our minds to, so in essence, No we don't need men. And so we're forced to stand alone and cope with everything life throws our way because we're expected to right all the 'injustices' of the past. Feminism has long since passed equality, and is focused on the superiority of women over men. That is as narrow-minded and prejudiced as all the pre-feminist ideas! So yes, women can be nasty and make men feel as if they aren't needed. But if you look into it you may find that that stems from women battling to cope with everything expected of them - if there comes an occasion when she can make a man feel like he's not needed, it means that she's accomplishing what is expected of her - on some level, anyway!

Humans are totally messed up.”

“I remember a woman who always used the quote, "We should be strong enough on the inside that we can be gentle on the outside." As much as I found it intensely irritating and clichéd, I seem to be thinking about it a lot!”

“I think women know what they really want. In some cases it's independence and a career, but not always, and not only! The problem is that the world still sees things like cooking, housekeeping and childrearing as 'women's work" - I'm not blaming men for it, it's as much as women taking on responsibilities that we've been trained for. A little while ago I went to visit my father, where I automatically shopped, cooked, and generally looked after him, while still having meetings and other business both personal and professional. It's seen as special when a guy cooks a meal, and not a regular occurrence. So basically, women are faced with a huge dilemma - we can be lonely and independent, which is often the easy option, or can we balance a career and a family with all of the responsibilities of both.”

“You also get women who get married and stop working and become devoted housewives and mothers. I've met a lot of them, they put their own pursuits on hold . . . And as much as I don't understand it at all, I can see that they're really happy. But seriously, women aren't as cold-hearted and calculating as we seem - most women, anyway!”

“Women are scared to admit it, but deep down, we all really want a big strong guy to protect us and have deep emotional insight, of course. But primary to all the companionship and repartee and everything else, a girl just wants to feel safe and secure, and wanted.”

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Friends Don't Let Friends Perform Sailor Dives Into 4 Feet of Water

Alright . . . Since yesterday’s Evan story was so popular I am going to treat you to another. Evan loves boats. He is particularly fond of kayaks, squirt boats, and C1’s. For those unfamiliar with a C1: picture kneeling like the Land O’ Lakes Butter, Native American squaw brand icon and then picture someone compressing your thighs until your heels disappear into the back of your lower legs. Got it so far? Now, paddle around like that with a goofy smile on your face through jagged rocks, white water rapids and near freezing air and water temperatures while the circulation completely ceases to your lower extremities and that’s Evan’s idea of heaven.

He is a master craftsman, especially in wood. He once bought me a set of traditional Japanese, hollow ground wood chisels. I have lost my marriage, my immediate contact with my children, my home, my career and what passed for self respect but I still have those chisels. I build guitars among other amusements. Evan builds wooden boats and occasionally prostitutes himself and repairs fiberglass hulls. He can hand plane a board over twenty feet long which will perfectly sit along the line of the bucks he has intended for it. He marvels at my skills. I have none in contrast to his. Both of us are fanatical in our devotion to the “old ways.” The shipwright is all but gone but there is still my friend Evan to prevent its demise. I love the sea but he would live on it if he could. Where I have a passing interest he has a devotion that borders on unrequited love.

As a consequence of our tireless longings to do beautiful work with our hands we had worked on many projects, together. We still spend a lot of our conversations detailing our latest wish lists for projects. I have a tendency to not suffer such distractions as concerns for my safety which makes the project ever so much more interesting. For Evan, it makes the projects ever so much messier when he’s preparing bandages and tourniquets for me. There was a particular incident when he rolled up in front of my house in a 1965 Mustang Coupe. We were in our mid-twenties and so although the Mustang was just fine as it came from the factory, obviously we could improve it. Work began. I sketched out and then completed the casting dies for the new aluminum valve covers. We got the green sand for the casting molds and Evan finished those after I rechecked my draft angle calculations, checked wind speeds, etc. etc. . . . over-analyzed everything as usual. Those valve covers were so good we just couldn’t wait to start tearing down the engine and rebuild it.

Well, I couldn’t wait.

I started wrenching on all of the fasteners and got down to a few head bolts that were a little stubborn after roughly twenty years of high engine heat. “Wait,” said Evan., “Rather than do something stupid why don’t I just go get something like WD-40 to free those seized studs.” “Eh?. Something stupid? Nonsense,” said I with my usual pluck and assurance, “I’ll just slide this length of pipe over the end of the ratchet to increase the fulcrum and my leverage [grunt, strain, minor internal bleeding . . .] and . . .” CRACK!!!

As I write this, I’m looking at the scar on my left thumb. I had both hands clenched around that pipe and put everything I had behind it. In a demonstration of Newton’s Second Law of Motion, when that bolt loosened, there was barely any resistance to the force I had exerted. Not only had the length of pipe increased my leverage but it also increased the mass. Mass multiplied times acceleration equals force (F=ma). It certainly does . . . Picture the position a thumb is in when making a fist and then picture that bent knuckle making contact with a sharp corner on a cast iron chunk of engine. I split that puppy wide and deep. There was some concern the wound might never actually close, since it could not be stitched and I had to rely on butterfly bandages as my only recourse.

This all occurred during Evan’s search for the solvent so imagine the look on his face when he returned to find spurting blood and me trying to stem the tide with an oily rag. In jubilation I proclaimed, “Got that bolt loose . . . “

But that story was just the setup for the real story. Because each of us was so convinced that our personal interests were superior sources of enjoyment over the other one’s hobbies and ambitions we were always trying to provide opportunities for each to experience the real deal. Evan’s turn came at the community college swimming pool. I am an excellent swimmer. I had been trained as a life guard at only twelve years of age. I know pool safety. No. Really – why are you smirking like that? I do! But, Evan is the water baby. He was teaching me some techniques used by sailors and among those was the Sailor Dive. The Sailor Dive, as successfully demonstrated to me by Evan, looks like a normal dive except that instead of extending your arms over your head and pointing your hands to form a sort of spear with your entire body you instead dive with your arms at attention against your sides. (As in the T-Shirt graphic for this post). “I can do that,’ I said, and off I went.

The Reason I Grew a Beard
The guy famous for calculating the volume of a gnat’s anus didn’t even consider that he was six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Evan. Springing gleefully into oblivion and only four feet of water when you are six feet, two inches tall presents difficulties. It also presents a brilliant display of intense red flashes across your entire field of vision. My chin, nose and forehead all made contact with the bottom of the pool at the same time. As my face detached from the grout and tile I paused to assess, “Hmmm. Not good.” I had recently learned of the means to kill a human being by shoving their nose into their brain. I figured I had just succeeded in testing that knowledge. The expiration was supposed to take no more than thirty seconds so I stood up in the pool and counted to thirty-six and determined it was likely I would live. It was also good that I had not forgotten any numbers along the way; two good signs. I turned to face Evan who was ghostly pale. “That was a sickening thud.” I asked him what was wrong. “You’re bleeding.” “Oh, Yeah . . . I know” I said calmly. Evan wasn’t so calm, “NO. Y-O-U A-R-E Bleeeee-DING!?!” Now, you medically inclined know that there are so many willing capillaries and such in the skin of the face that love to bleed. Mix that with a lot of water and it looks like hemorrhaging. So, I trotted off to the showers to rinse off and then get a look-see in the mirror for myself.

In the shower I could not figure out why as I ran the jet of water across the bridge of my nose that blood poured from my nostrils. When I got to the mirror I understood. The reason I had not died was because the cartilage in my nose had come out rather than gone in. It was sticking out of the top of my nose just below my eyebrows. The gouge in the flesh of the nose around the protruding, white, rubbery stuff was purple, and blue, and red. I spread and pulled up on the wound, the guy standing nearby watching me fainted, and the cartilage popped back inside my nose. All better.

The tile used to cover the swimming pool had left a reverse imprint in my face. My chin and forehead had what I was later told is called “Swimmer’s Cross” by competitive swimmers that dive too deep and scrape bottom. I headed out to locate Evan and then went to file an accident report. (I told you I was a trained life guard) I was the picture of loveliness with my red, criss-crossed gouges, punctured nose, and purple bruises under my eyes as I assured Evan that I was just fine. The staff turned out to be two women the same ages as Evan and myself. I do not think that “life guardettes” is the technical term but this was pre-Baywatch. The Blonde took immediate compassion on me and her nurturing, Florence Nightingale, genes kicked into overdrive. The Brunette must have been interrupted from her snack of lemons and persimmons and did not care for me - at all. As the rescuing angel began to ask me questions from the report form and apply bandages to my wounds the other stood rigidly with arms crossed and her weight cocked to one hip tracing the inside of her lips with her tongue. This was a marriage made in heaven for both of us. Guardette Sweet asked what happened and as I attempted to answer, Evan interjected, “Dummy hurt himself while performing stupid tricks at pool.” I laughed as did Evan and even Guardette Sour but Guardette Sweet shot Evan a look of death such as I have never seen. Several outer layers of his skin melted away . . . maybe I’m exaggerating . . . but, not by much. Evan continued to make insulting pokes at me to the delight of Guardette Sour and the glares of Guaredette Sweet and a good time was had by all. If Evan and I hadn’t been such morons we would have asked those two lovely ladies out. Ce la vie.

What did I learn from that experience?

1. Friends will be there to put the proper spin on your death.
2. Absolutely nothing about proper conduct around a swimming pool.
3. Practically nothing about my own mortality.
4. A woman’s attention makes everything all better.
   

A sidebar would be that when I went back to work I wanted to make the cuts and gouges less hideous for my co-workers. I found that by going for the humorous angle I learned something about the people around me. I used Snoopy and Woodstock comic strip bandages on my face. I thought that it would get a chuckle and the girls would find it cute. Nope. I found out the hidden feelings of the women I worked with by wearing those stupid things. The ones that secretly liked me were furious when they saw me wearing those! Who knew that something so simple could flush them out of hiding??! That was the event that defined my forever screwing with people’s heads. So, I guess you could say that dive knocked some sense into me.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Out, Out Damn Spot - Pony Tail (Hair) Dos and Don’ts

All Hail the undisputed champion of the hearts and souls of men – the Pony Tail.
Never has such a simple element so weakened the knees, elevated the blood pressure, and inebriated the mind. It is the most organic form of Kryptonite, yet, so few women understand its power or how to wield it. For us men this is a good thing.

The Ancients knew and marveled before this wonder of Nature. Its source of power was beyond their finding out but they passed their warning down through oral tradition, generation after generation and tribe upon tribe; through every civilization to have risen or fallen.

In the late twentieth century, an American scribe put it to music in hopes of reaching a far greater audience. His words are humbly recorded here:

"Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
A wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round
There ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl
That makes me act so funny, make me spend my money
Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose
Like a girl, oh baby that's what I like"

Thank You, J.P. Richardson, aka. The Big Bopper, for such eternal words of truth.

I wrestled with revealing the secret power of the pony tail but I have realized that modern times require that I must intervene. Although it may at first glance appear that I am betraying my gender by calling attention to its use I am in reality doing this only for myself. As there is no more noble pursuit I am therefore vindicated as well as justified in my actions. That there is the danger that women may usurp the influence of the pony tail and take my words to form weapons against my kind is really only a slight risk. Women seldom if ever believe what men say much less have any compulsion to act in accordance with our instructions. Therefore, I argue that it is entirely safe to dispense my secret wisdom of the pony tail because I am in essence hiding it in plain sight.

Let us begin.

Originally, the pony tail was intended for good – not for evil.

Rather than focus on the infinite counterfeits I shall endeavor to lead you in the pony tail path of truth and purity. The pony tail is a beacon. It is used to signal invitation as well as warning. In the picture above is found the mother of all pony tails. It is a glorious cascading waterfall of feminine power. Watch as it flips in opposition to the direction the female turns her head. This is the constant seeking of balance in nature. The wearer’s head may contain all sorts of vain and useless fluff but the hair of the pony tail has weight and substance and roots. It always returns to a neutral stance with its desire always to be grounded.

The pony tail hikes up the hemline around a woman's face. It both reveals and teases at the same time. It calls attention to the line of her neck, the secret places for nibbling behind the ears, the graceful features of her bone structure, the curve of her lip, the infinite depth of her eyes. The pony tail is the drawing back of the drapes and the race of light to caress what is no longer hidden. It shouts with only a whisper.

The pony tail expresses the mood and approachability of the woman that wears it and has as many voices as well. Our example above is known as the high pony tail. It projects an upbeat and confident emotion.

This is the low pony tail. The positioning changes the "vibe" being transmitted. The lower the pony tail placement the more sultry and seductive it becomes.





The example worn here, by Maria Menounos, is above the ear in a middle ground between the two extremes. It provides a confident but engaging aura. Also important to note is whether or not bangs are allowed to roam free of the pony tail restraints. The very orderly appearance modeled here shows control and a more serious, "I mean business" declaration. Loose, falling bangs instill a more animalistic response from men. They can innocently ask to be noticed or as in this next example . . .

. . . the very loose amount of hair held in the pony tail as well as the extremely low placement offer a conscious or unconscious request of, "Ravish Me!"

That this is also the look of harried women cleaning up after a man is really not important - except, for her to understand that both of these imply the same thing.

There are also actions taken by the wearer of a pony tail which may diminish or enhance its affect and she should clearly understand each and its impact for maximum effect.

The most subtle change in pony tail style also offers the greatest impression in adding or subtracting from "the look." When one dares to increase the number of pony tails worn it would at first seem logical that it would multiply the power. This is never actually true.

Something is not working in this pony tail. It lacks definition. It lacks strength. It is still only one pony tail but it has been divided. It seems indecisive and timid. The pony tail should never be taken so lightly. This is a mockery of its vitality and energy. Without question this is an example of where less is not more. And you thought a pony tail was just a way to avoid bothering with styling your hair?! I must move on. Such disregard is too sad . . .

Ahh! this is the proper lay of a pony tail across only one shoulder. Behold the dignity befitting the glory of a well executed side pony tail. The reader may note there was the bold application of a scarf by this strong-willed wearer. One should be cautioned against such but that will be covered later.



Multiple pony tails are best left to the innocent and the young. Those who imagine adopting this look otherwise will gain back neither.

Unless you are one of these adorable dolls . . .










Or, are an actual anime cartoon, please do not attempt the "cute look." That being said, if your name is either Carrie Ann Inaba, or, Diane Mizota - KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!

t-t-TWINS!!!














. . . Excuse me. Seemed to have gotten distracted for a moment. Where were we? Oh Yes, the mistakes to avoid. Always remember: Respect the power of the pony tail. Never dismiss it just because you do not understand it. You must become one with the pony tail. Disrespect and disregard lead to things like this -

No,

. . . NO and,


. . . Hell No!


If you do not know it by now, men, are visually stimulated. It does not matter whether you accept this fact or not it remains forever true. Men will not only undress you but dissect you with their eyes. You will be evaluated as pieces and not as a whole unless you direct the path of their gaze. (Gaze/stare . . . whatever) A woman's wardrobe and her hair and makeup should comprise a continuous smooth path along which to carry his wandering eye. There should not be abrupt juts and things sticking out to cull focus. Showing more reveals less. Have you seen a man with a television remote? He gets easily bored with visual stimuli. Do you want him to do the same with you? So, too, with the pony tail. The fall of the hair directs the trace of a curve from head to toe. Be very careful about abrupt transitions from stem to stern. You want your hull to bare a smooth, sleek line. The method of securing the pony tail or anything applied to it must be unobtrusive. Wearing a ball cap over a pony tail has enjoyed some popularity.

This has a certain attraction but the use must be discreet. Too often it is used to merely mask a "Bad Hair Day" and even men know this. Instead of being sexy like a woman wearing a man's shirt it becomes a repellent to warn off men. Some women favor the look to send just such an advisory to "Back Off." But most just look like a shampoo is way overdue. The look is choppy and doesn't have an organic flow.


Now, compare the above cap and pony tail to the cap and simple drawing of the hair behind the ears. Uninterrupted bliss. The pony tail must deliver on its own. Scarves, hats, and over-sized ornamentation are an affront to the finely-honed male senses.




Scrunchies are popular and rightly so. Hair does not suffer damage when scrunchies are used. However, harm is done to the visual appeal.

An otherwise exemplary application of pony tail power is ruined by a too bunchy scrunchy. Instead of fetching his eye he is only catching that knot on the back of her noggin. If you absolutely must add something to the already perfect form of the pony tail there is one acceptable alternative. It will step up your game but beware. If you are already offended by his eyes then you should not resort to the ultimate man bait or you will be slapping away his hands.


Curly hair pony tail. Encoded in the primordial strands of our DNA is the tactile attraction to curly hair. It waits deep in our genes and other places and if you have curls men will want to run their fingers through them. You may not have natural curls but as long as he believes they are natural then the lure is all that more alluring.



If you have poker straight hair - not to worry. You have another curling option that will get just as much attention.

The flip and clip pony tail. Obviously this works best with very long hair which is usually the way poker straight hair grows in the wild. The loosely tossed hair over one eye has been enough to make men blind with desire. No matter what delicious blend of herbs and spices your ethnicity has made you never doubt the power of the pony tail.



If you're more comfortable with processed hair; weaves and extensions, flat irons and crimps, there's pony tail magic to spare. Sure men are suckers for the sleekest new thing but they never lose interest in the real thing.

If you want to go with the natural afro you won't be disappointed. I know I never am.


If you want to feel like a natural woman there's no better way than to know that a man wants to feel you, too. The poofy pony tail is irresistible. It's soft but resilient - two very feminine qualities.





Wow. This takes the natural poof to its most honest conclusion. I love this look because everything about it shows a friendliness and warmth. There is just a feeling of ease and comfort. It projects the attitude of taking life as it comes and what you see is what you get. How can you not want to play in those spongy curls? What would happen if a woman was content to be herself? I think this answers that question, well.


Here's the black version of the high pony tail for natural hair. It is every bit as lovely and just as sophisticated. Again, the high placement shows confidence and positive energy.

This is approaching a lot of the attributes of a bun.



A bun is really a conservative pony tail. It is discreet and modest but suggests there's so much more underneath.

This is a fine example. This bun is strong, modest but set lower suggesting more sensual tones. This look makes a man measure himself before approaching. He needs to know he is able to match the energy being deliberately held back in public that will be released in private. Posers and players need not apply.

But what of real sophistication?

Can a pony tail equal the style and grace of a French Braid? Simply because the pony tail is an every day occurrence does not mean it is common. This is the misconception that makes so many women not consider the pony tail merits.

No style is ideal for every application but the pony tail has the versatility and the poise of a courtesan.

These two examples are a rather persuasive argument that a pony tail can be the heart of a stunning expression of class.

The first is more youthful but the look has only a little sultry flavor to the frosting. Otherwise, it has an understated elegance.

The second is a look worth every expense necessary to have that much loveliness in my company.

Which brings me to an example that ties all of this together.

This has it all; a fairly high pony tail allowed to fall naturally over the shoulders. What a tease. How dare that hair be caressing those shoulders and tickling that neck that my lips long to brush with kisses. The hair is pulled back securely but with a relaxed hold that reflects her calm demeanor. The slight fall of bangs leaves the door open for possibilities that the eyes and lips refuse to betray. So much revealed and yet so much more concealed. The art of mystery.

The impact of a well considered pony tail can not be denied. Women, Are you able now to see what men see?

Carmen Electra obviously gets it. Her reputation for comprehending and perfecting her attractiveness to men may not always win her favor with other women or even all men due to some of her exploits but her grasp of the visual keys is unquestionable.

Men do not only want one thing. They want everything.


I have tipped my hand. I have let you in by one of the universal doors that men have never had any real desire to lock. What have you learned and what will you do with the information? A grateful reader would take this to heart and exercise due care in presenting the pony tail with its rightful glory. If not for yourself then do it for me. Otherwise you are simply being selfish and rude. How dare You! I can not possibly be those things after so thoughtfully providing this pony tail primer.

Hopefully you have come to see the ordinary pony tail as something extraordinary. You would have to go to great heights to give your do more lift. Don't believe me? Here's your proof.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Fits Me to a "T"

Here I was going along all righteously indignant and mad at the world and one of those curvy critters with the squishy bits got in here while I wasn’t looking. Now the whole plan to hold a grudge and incite riot with my inflammatory posts is in serious jeopardy.

She was here for one afternoon and now all of my stuff is being boxed up and tossed out in the garage. All of my sulphur and brimstone has been reupholstered in pastels and frills. (Is that Fabreze in her hand . . .?)

See what happens when you listen to women? As the bumper sticker so aptly remarked - “God, made Man, and rested. Then, He made Woman and no one has rested since.”

Man, she blind-sided me! She caught me off guard with her feminine wiles by flattering me with a comment on one of my posts. Next thing I know she’s making helpful suggestions about improving my site and I end up spending the next day and a half totally overhauling and renovating the joint. Even put a room addition on, the left margin column with the greeting and labels and stuff to “Let a little light in this place so someone might visit.” She thinks this blog ought to be warm and inviting. The Nerve!!!

You know what I say? IT’S ABOUT TIME!!!

Surely, anyone reading my blog knows it’s a pitiful attempt to get attention. My one friend has assured me my blog will either bring in women to try and fix me or women that really want to kill me. He is very smug in predicting that either result is exactly what I’m after. Of course, he’s right but what’s that got to do with anything? Now, this still doesn’t make the world a perfect place. I am grateful for a friendly feminine touch in my life but my overall lot in life remains the same. The woman in question is going to prove to be a wonderful sounding board for some creative projects and I hope to be the same. But, I’ve still got the “single for life” syndrome to contend with as I try to establish relationships that don’t cross any boundaries or send false signals. Right - Lots of luck.

The problem with the squishy bit critters is they’re so darn hard to ignore. Thank God this is a medium without face-to-face interaction. A smile or tear from one of those double X chromosome things and I’d be lost. If they continue to actually participate in my posts with comments I’m liable to forget myself and write a lengthy entry on how wonderful a woman can be. The thought sets my teeth on edge and makes my spine cringe.

I must remember my mantra: “Women are evil, Women are bad . . .”

. . . Where . . . did this ring in my nose come from?!?! What the . . .?

I’m really losing the battle, now. I don’t know if my heart is in the fight to stay away from them anymore. My friend is getting re-married in two days and I’m more excited than he is. (OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration.) The woman he is marrying is wonderful and I’m equally pleased for both of them. In some ways this will alter our friendship and I will have to suffer the loss of monopolizing his time. You know what? It’s so worth it to see what a difference having her share his life is making. I love that guy and to see him happy, again, doesn’t make me jealous or envious it just makes me glad that the right thing can still happen in this world. I just don’t have a map for the world I find myself in at this time.

So, I keep looking at that pink silhouette on the above T-shirt. Am I not supposed to desire someone standing there with me like that? Is there a reason for me to remain alone, but somehow not lonely? Is there a fit for me with a new love and a woman whose form is only a shadow to me now? I have no answers. I know how I feel. I know what my longings are. I know I could easily chase after the first woman willing to stop and talk to me. That’s so pitiful. I also know that I won’t indulge myself and that I will spend a good deal longer hemming and hawing and watching time run away from me because I’m too unsure where to place my next step. Even getting lost is so much better with someone by your side.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!