Let's get down to business - I love to read. I'll read any time and anywhere, given the opportunity. I'll read dictionaries, encyclopedias, almanacs, web pages, newspapers, pamphlets, matchbook covers, cereal boxes...well, you get the idea. However, I have to admit a certain weakness for magazines.
My love affair with magazines probably started with those "Highlights" magazines stacked in the corner of the classroom near the reading carrels. Back then, it was all about the puzzles in each issue. I'd time myself to see how long it took me to find the boot hidden in the tree, the star in the garbage or the cucumber in the nun's habit. Come to think of it, that sounds like something from a Salvador Dali/Robert Mapplethorpe collaboration. As it was, magazines were portable, flexible, and always had a new issue coming the next month. It was only natural that the next magazine I hooked onto was Playboy. Dad always had them in the basket (yes, you had them, too) shuffled in with the Sports Illustrated, Sears catalogs and Cosmopolitan magazines. Naked women in magazines can have a substantial effect on a boy. Soon, connecting the dots to show a dalmation wagging its tail at a fire hydrant didn't seem as appealing as naked women, party jokes and Annie Fannie. Oh, and do I need to remind you that they were also portable?
Fast forward a couple of decades. I'm still a hardcore reader of magazines, but I can't tell you the last time I bought a Playboy magazine. You know you're getting old when you really DO buy Playboy for the articles. All of the girls look the same - airbrushed to the point of blurring your vision. Fake boobs, idiotic platform shoes, spine-wrenching poses and laughable "come-hither" faces kind of turns me off. If I want to see naked women, I have approximately 100 bookmarked sites on the Internet I can access any time I wish. Pretty much every other man would tell you he has at least that many sites in his "favorites" folder, catalogued by brunettes, blondes, redheads, petites, "naturals", celebrities, and other categories. Then there are those who have a whole fetish thing going, but, I'm circling the drain here, so we'll leave it at that.
I migrated to the ultra-hip magazines that were supposed to speak to me - that's right, the "me" who is supposed to be the prototypical American man, with prototypical American appetites. Apparently, I'm supposed to drink - a lot, know exactly which words to say to a woman to make her tear her clothes off in an elevator, and laugh at everything Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson have ever done. These magazines, such as Maxim, FHM, Stuff, and their other periodical frat brothers started out with promise. There were some interesting articles, factoids, and bizarre photos, but they soon gave way to run-of-the-mill photos of dingbats in bikinis, smug articles that were more about the author than the subject of the article, and sophomoric captions for every damned photo in the magazine. To top that off, after rifling through the first two-thirds of the magazine being told just how neanderthalic, disgusting, and unwashed we men are - and celebrating that fact - we get treated to an entirely too-long section of men's fashion. These are clothes that no man - certainly not a man that reads a frat mag - would ever a) be able to afford, or b) even want to wear. The male models either look thin, reedy and androgynous (hey, solid move, Mr. Advertiser), or they have figures hewn out of marble, wearing clothes that the average overfed, unsophisticated and style-challenged man could never get away with wearing...in other words, the actual readers of those magazines. Don't go trying to push a $200 pocket square or $500 pair of huaraches on us when women prefer men in t-shirts and jeans - especially when that's all we own. We don't look like that. In fact, no men look like that except the models themselves, and I seriously doubt they are buying frat mags.
And don't forget to browse the last pages where you'll be shown how to increase your sexual performance, enhance yourself, talk to REAL horny co-eds, buy t-shirts with edgy sayings, purchase a vial of blood from the REAL Count Dracula, and, if you're lucky, how to buy your own hydroponic device to grow some seriously killer marijuana. They'll even throw in some starter seeds for you! By all means, don't expect to get caught or anything...
This brings me to the summit of Mount(ing) Frustation. Remember when you could open a magazine and within the first couple of pages was the Table of Contents? Remember that? Nowadays, the Table of Contents starts around page 80 because of all the ads. Take a look at a typical periodical and you'll be confronted with a pullout ad welcoming you to Smoking Country USA, then several over-priced liquor displays, jewelry/watch ads, perfume/cologne advertisements with various naked bodies, designer label clothing ads, and automobile promotions. Stir, mix, repeat. By the time I get to the Table of Contents, I've forgotten which magazine I bought. Of course, if I try to flip directly to the Table of Contents, I usually end up flipping right past it, as well as past the articles, and end up squarely in the middle of the fashion section or face-to-face with an advertisement wanting me to tell her all my deepest desires and how she can make those desires come true. Now that I think about it, maybe I should give that number a call.
I'll tell her she can start by tearing out 90% of the pages of my magazines so I can get a little reading done.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Rod
I want to break from my usual form - go ahead, laugh amongst yourselves - and tell you a little bit about a special person. I am abandoning the writing style and whiplash humor that usually inhabit my stories to introduce you to a person who has had as profound an impact on my life as either of my parents. His name is Rodney, but he's better known as Rod. Actually, we (his friends) rarely ever call him that, either. In college and the knucklehead years just after college, a close group of friends rarely escapes without each member of the group being yoked with a nickname. Rod, for his part, had a handful of nicknames draped over him: The Hawk, Dad, The Stain, The Delaware Condor, and the most popular one - The Ripper, which we sometimes shortened to "Rip." He took all of the nicknames in stride, even reveled in them, because no matter what we called him, no matter what divisive cut-ups were lobbed his way, one thing was without question: He gained your respect from the first hello.
I first met Rod in first grade on the school playground in the early 1970s at recess. He had buddied up with some kid named Chris Spring and they both stood out because they had the most bitchin' Converse high-tops. Chris had red sneakers and Rod wore green, if I remember correctly. Rod was your typical Cuban/Irish kid, which, if you know any Cuban/Irish kids, would require no further explanation. He was tall and had a permanent tan, with gangly arms and legs that belied his slick coordination. His hair was curly and wild and large eyes that seemed to pop out of his head. Even then, he was a force of nature. Everyone wanted to be his friend and he made complete strangers comfortable - even at that age. He was also freakishly intelligent. However, Rod's intelligence was not a purely scholastic ability. He was a master of deductive reasoning and savant of common sense.
I don't really remember when Rod and I became close friends. It had to be sometime towards the end of Junior High. When you were friends with Rod, you were swept into a world of seemingly hundreds of people who admired him and enjoyed his company. Rod's sense of humor was sharp and biting, and he could tear an unlucky victim to shreds, yet, five seconds later would make a self-deprecating joke about himself when he realized he went too far. And that laugh... Rod's laugh was infectious and contagious. It was a roiling, rolling, high pitch of thunder that rattled the windows of the surrounding neighborhood. Rod was what everyone who knew him, if they were honest with themselves, aspired to be.
By no means was he the perfect person. He made mistakes like anyone else. But, Rod held people in the palm of his hands - students and teachers alike - even the principal. Ferris Beuller had nothing on him. When Rod ran for Senior Class President, it was no surprise when he won in a landslide. His campaign slogan was "In Rod We Trust". And we sure did. He never smoked, drank, nor ever used profanity. Not even "damn" or "hell". People who never met him still knew about him. But Rod never let it go to his head, and by the time we graduated High School, we were very good friends.
There were never any really significant events during those high school years that emblazoned our friendship, rather, it was the consistent fun we had doing the most innocuous of things; Walking through the neighborhoods late at night singing "Hotel California" or "Stairway to Heaven" (I never had the heart to tell Rod he couldn't carry a tune - sorry, buddy!), taking my little brother with us to see a Benji movie and then sneaking into see Tarzan so we could see a naked Bo Derek, getting into his mom's station wagon in Winter and driving to the icy parking lot of the High School so he could lockup the breaks and do fishtails and spin outs.
When we went to college, I fell in with a terrific crowd of friends that are still my friends to this day. I brought Rod around and he quickly gained favor with everyone. MY college friends immediately became OUR college friends, and Rod returned the favor. We were a big, happy family and Rod was never too far from the center of the storm. He was the single most enjoyable person in any room he was in. He was also my best friend.
But, as much as we were long-time friends, Rod was willing to put our friendship on the line. I had flunked out of college and all of my university friends - including Rod - were continuing on. I half-heartedly took a few classes, took a few jobs, and partied all the time. One night during the summer, Rod was dropping me off at my parents' house after we had gone to see a movie. He said "I'm going to tell you something, and you're probably not going to like it, but I'm willing to risk our friendship because this is important." He then ripped into me for throwing my life away. I balled my hand into a fist and was ready to punch him, but I figured I would give him the benefit of the doubt and let him finish. When he was done, I realized that he was right. I was throwing my life away. My friends WERE moving on without me. To make a long story short, I eventually matriculated back to college full-time and graduated, and I still had my friends. It never would have happened if Rod hadn't risked our friendship that night.
Rod called me yesterday. We laughed and joked just like old times again. We don't get to see each other much - none of us do anymore - but five seconds into any conversation and we were right back where we left off. It's been 34 years since we first met and I could never look back at the good times in my life and not have Rod's presence permeate those memories. He has a wife (Stephanie) whom he loves dearly, and three children who lucked out in having him for a dad. Sometimes, I would wonder why someone who seemingly always had the world in his hands would have me as his friend. Thinking about it now, I'm probably Rod's longest-standing friend - just as he is mine. It doesn't say anything about me that he chose to be my best friend all these years.
But, it sure as hell says a lot about him. Thanks, buddy. Here's to another 34 years.
I first met Rod in first grade on the school playground in the early 1970s at recess. He had buddied up with some kid named Chris Spring and they both stood out because they had the most bitchin' Converse high-tops. Chris had red sneakers and Rod wore green, if I remember correctly. Rod was your typical Cuban/Irish kid, which, if you know any Cuban/Irish kids, would require no further explanation. He was tall and had a permanent tan, with gangly arms and legs that belied his slick coordination. His hair was curly and wild and large eyes that seemed to pop out of his head. Even then, he was a force of nature. Everyone wanted to be his friend and he made complete strangers comfortable - even at that age. He was also freakishly intelligent. However, Rod's intelligence was not a purely scholastic ability. He was a master of deductive reasoning and savant of common sense.
I don't really remember when Rod and I became close friends. It had to be sometime towards the end of Junior High. When you were friends with Rod, you were swept into a world of seemingly hundreds of people who admired him and enjoyed his company. Rod's sense of humor was sharp and biting, and he could tear an unlucky victim to shreds, yet, five seconds later would make a self-deprecating joke about himself when he realized he went too far. And that laugh... Rod's laugh was infectious and contagious. It was a roiling, rolling, high pitch of thunder that rattled the windows of the surrounding neighborhood. Rod was what everyone who knew him, if they were honest with themselves, aspired to be.
By no means was he the perfect person. He made mistakes like anyone else. But, Rod held people in the palm of his hands - students and teachers alike - even the principal. Ferris Beuller had nothing on him. When Rod ran for Senior Class President, it was no surprise when he won in a landslide. His campaign slogan was "In Rod We Trust". And we sure did. He never smoked, drank, nor ever used profanity. Not even "damn" or "hell". People who never met him still knew about him. But Rod never let it go to his head, and by the time we graduated High School, we were very good friends.
There were never any really significant events during those high school years that emblazoned our friendship, rather, it was the consistent fun we had doing the most innocuous of things; Walking through the neighborhoods late at night singing "Hotel California" or "Stairway to Heaven" (I never had the heart to tell Rod he couldn't carry a tune - sorry, buddy!), taking my little brother with us to see a Benji movie and then sneaking into see Tarzan so we could see a naked Bo Derek, getting into his mom's station wagon in Winter and driving to the icy parking lot of the High School so he could lockup the breaks and do fishtails and spin outs.
When we went to college, I fell in with a terrific crowd of friends that are still my friends to this day. I brought Rod around and he quickly gained favor with everyone. MY college friends immediately became OUR college friends, and Rod returned the favor. We were a big, happy family and Rod was never too far from the center of the storm. He was the single most enjoyable person in any room he was in. He was also my best friend.
But, as much as we were long-time friends, Rod was willing to put our friendship on the line. I had flunked out of college and all of my university friends - including Rod - were continuing on. I half-heartedly took a few classes, took a few jobs, and partied all the time. One night during the summer, Rod was dropping me off at my parents' house after we had gone to see a movie. He said "I'm going to tell you something, and you're probably not going to like it, but I'm willing to risk our friendship because this is important." He then ripped into me for throwing my life away. I balled my hand into a fist and was ready to punch him, but I figured I would give him the benefit of the doubt and let him finish. When he was done, I realized that he was right. I was throwing my life away. My friends WERE moving on without me. To make a long story short, I eventually matriculated back to college full-time and graduated, and I still had my friends. It never would have happened if Rod hadn't risked our friendship that night.
Rod called me yesterday. We laughed and joked just like old times again. We don't get to see each other much - none of us do anymore - but five seconds into any conversation and we were right back where we left off. It's been 34 years since we first met and I could never look back at the good times in my life and not have Rod's presence permeate those memories. He has a wife (Stephanie) whom he loves dearly, and three children who lucked out in having him for a dad. Sometimes, I would wonder why someone who seemingly always had the world in his hands would have me as his friend. Thinking about it now, I'm probably Rod's longest-standing friend - just as he is mine. It doesn't say anything about me that he chose to be my best friend all these years.
But, it sure as hell says a lot about him. Thanks, buddy. Here's to another 34 years.
Friday, February 03, 2006
40
"How long...to sing this song? How long...to sing this song?..."
"40" - U2
I turned 40 today. For those of you who have had the pleasure of experiencing this milestone already and have come to terms with it - hell, even revel in it - this may seem like some melodramatic navel-gazing to you. For me, it's like putting on a new pair of jeans. No, not those trendy "broken-in" jeans that you just HAVE to have. I'm talking about the stiff, itchy bulletproof denim jeans. Remember Toughskins dungarees? Yeah, like them. You'd walk around like Frankenstein's monster the first several times you wore them until you broke the spirit of the unholy molecules in the fabric. After that, they became your favorite pair of jeans...just in time to watch them develop holes, scuff the hem, or dislodge a belt loop.
See, that is how I am approaching my new decade of life. By the time I'm used to my 40s, I'll be receiving brochures for how wonderful my 50s are going to be. Hey, I still have a few good years from my 20s and 30s in a savings account. I'd like to cash those in before the market drops out - or my teeth. 40 was always a mythical number for me. Noah was adrift for 40 days and nights. Moses was on Mount Sinai for the same length of time when he received the 10 Commandments. And how could I possibly forget the 40 oz. bottles of King Cobra Malt Liquor Scotty and I used to polish off in college before heading out to heap even more abuse onto our livers? If I'm correct, Edgar Allan Poe was 40 years old when he died. He wrote some of the most arresting literature in American history. He practically invented the crime story, was a master of the macabre, and still celebrates a cult status around these parts. Me? I just turned 40 and can barely write a bawdy limerick The only way I'll ever be remembered is if I get drunk, belch "Amazing Grace" and whistle a whiskey bottle between Simon and Paula's heads. Then, I'd have to rub marshmallow fluff all over my chest and scream, "Is it sexy in here, or is it just me???"
Hell, after that, the television studios would be shoving blank checks into my clenched fists - after I finished my 60-day stretch in the hoosegow.
Lately, I've been hearing all this delusional, say-it-enough-times-and-I'll-believe-it pile of steaming horse turd sunshine about 40 being "the new 20." Want to run that by me again? So, does this mean I can't buy beer until I'm 41? Do I have to date bimbos with big hair and stirrup pants again? Do I have to witness the stomach-churning ascension of Julia Roberts in the Hollywood community yet one more time? What about my resume? Will I have to put fry cook, paper boy, and grocery clerk back to their former positions of prominence? On the flip side, can I go back to Spring Break, drink from the keg, and smoke reefer on the roof of my house? And who decided that 40 is the new 20? Is 83 the new 63? Is 19 the new pre-natal? I mean, for 40, I don't look bad for my age. Many people guess that I am in my early-to-mid 30s. But, if I'm supposed to be 20, well then, I look like someone who spent a long, hot summer underneath the foam couch cushions of a round-the-clock team of unwashed, chain-smoking mountain men who farted and spilled tobacco juice every time they took a seat. The people who decided to declare that 40 is the new 20 are probably the same people who sneer at others who just order a "plain" coffee, have (or wish they had) a drag queen as a best friend, and gossip breathlessly until 4:00 in the morning about people in Hollywood who have absolutely no bearing on their lives and who wouldn't think twice about blowing their nose into the hair of their adoring public. 40 is not the new 20, it's not even the new 39. 40 is 40, so stop hypnotizing yourselves into trying to feel better about your age. You are what you are. If you feel 16 inside, so be it - you're still 40 on the outside. However, if you're 16 on the outside and feel 40 on the inside, I'd say that you're too young for premarital sex and someone is going to get 10-20 years in County Jail.
Oh, I'm sure that this is only a passing phase. I'll laugh this off as just another silly hiccup of vanity. No more gray hairs sprouted up overnight - no more than usual, that is, no liver spots moved into town, and I can still read without glasses. Of course, I'm going to need to buy a leather jacket, pick up a sports car, and date cheerleaders and Hooters girls. Hey, I'm 40 now. I'm OWED that.
Well, at least I thought I was. Apparently, I have to wait another 20 years.
"40" - U2
I turned 40 today. For those of you who have had the pleasure of experiencing this milestone already and have come to terms with it - hell, even revel in it - this may seem like some melodramatic navel-gazing to you. For me, it's like putting on a new pair of jeans. No, not those trendy "broken-in" jeans that you just HAVE to have. I'm talking about the stiff, itchy bulletproof denim jeans. Remember Toughskins dungarees? Yeah, like them. You'd walk around like Frankenstein's monster the first several times you wore them until you broke the spirit of the unholy molecules in the fabric. After that, they became your favorite pair of jeans...just in time to watch them develop holes, scuff the hem, or dislodge a belt loop.
See, that is how I am approaching my new decade of life. By the time I'm used to my 40s, I'll be receiving brochures for how wonderful my 50s are going to be. Hey, I still have a few good years from my 20s and 30s in a savings account. I'd like to cash those in before the market drops out - or my teeth. 40 was always a mythical number for me. Noah was adrift for 40 days and nights. Moses was on Mount Sinai for the same length of time when he received the 10 Commandments. And how could I possibly forget the 40 oz. bottles of King Cobra Malt Liquor Scotty and I used to polish off in college before heading out to heap even more abuse onto our livers? If I'm correct, Edgar Allan Poe was 40 years old when he died. He wrote some of the most arresting literature in American history. He practically invented the crime story, was a master of the macabre, and still celebrates a cult status around these parts. Me? I just turned 40 and can barely write a bawdy limerick The only way I'll ever be remembered is if I get drunk, belch "Amazing Grace" and whistle a whiskey bottle between Simon and Paula's heads. Then, I'd have to rub marshmallow fluff all over my chest and scream, "Is it sexy in here, or is it just me???"
Hell, after that, the television studios would be shoving blank checks into my clenched fists - after I finished my 60-day stretch in the hoosegow.
Lately, I've been hearing all this delusional, say-it-enough-times-and-I'll-believe-it pile of steaming horse turd sunshine about 40 being "the new 20." Want to run that by me again? So, does this mean I can't buy beer until I'm 41? Do I have to date bimbos with big hair and stirrup pants again? Do I have to witness the stomach-churning ascension of Julia Roberts in the Hollywood community yet one more time? What about my resume? Will I have to put fry cook, paper boy, and grocery clerk back to their former positions of prominence? On the flip side, can I go back to Spring Break, drink from the keg, and smoke reefer on the roof of my house? And who decided that 40 is the new 20? Is 83 the new 63? Is 19 the new pre-natal? I mean, for 40, I don't look bad for my age. Many people guess that I am in my early-to-mid 30s. But, if I'm supposed to be 20, well then, I look like someone who spent a long, hot summer underneath the foam couch cushions of a round-the-clock team of unwashed, chain-smoking mountain men who farted and spilled tobacco juice every time they took a seat. The people who decided to declare that 40 is the new 20 are probably the same people who sneer at others who just order a "plain" coffee, have (or wish they had) a drag queen as a best friend, and gossip breathlessly until 4:00 in the morning about people in Hollywood who have absolutely no bearing on their lives and who wouldn't think twice about blowing their nose into the hair of their adoring public. 40 is not the new 20, it's not even the new 39. 40 is 40, so stop hypnotizing yourselves into trying to feel better about your age. You are what you are. If you feel 16 inside, so be it - you're still 40 on the outside. However, if you're 16 on the outside and feel 40 on the inside, I'd say that you're too young for premarital sex and someone is going to get 10-20 years in County Jail.
Oh, I'm sure that this is only a passing phase. I'll laugh this off as just another silly hiccup of vanity. No more gray hairs sprouted up overnight - no more than usual, that is, no liver spots moved into town, and I can still read without glasses. Of course, I'm going to need to buy a leather jacket, pick up a sports car, and date cheerleaders and Hooters girls. Hey, I'm 40 now. I'm OWED that.
Well, at least I thought I was. Apparently, I have to wait another 20 years.
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