Jesus, what are you looking at?
I guess the guys all chipped in to buy Jesus a table dance sense he was reborn as a man but about to die, only to live again. I’m confused. I never did like magic tricks. Especially the primitive ones.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Mixing Sex with Golf
“I don’t know whether to watch them or the game,” he said to his wife..
“For heaven’s sake, watch them,” his wife said. “You already know how to play GOLF !”
Boys and other minefields
So, I haven’t written for a couple of days, I have to admit even though it’s lame, that I am a bit discouraged that nobody seems to be reading the stuff that I am writing, and I am perfectly aware that it is utter crap, and probably not worthy of being read by the large You, and I DID write even, in my initial post, that I didn’t care whether or not people read it, but I guess I lied. I was so psyched there when people actually commented on something! It was a minor high! I guess I need to learn something about the laws of shameless self-promotion here on the interwebs. I just had a strange memory, hahaha, to put this into perspective in a roundabout sort of way: Me, about nine or ten, and my friend Leanna, and we are putting time capsule messages into a newly built rock wall. Basically we are writing things on mini pieces of paper, rolling them up, and shoving them into the cracks and imperfections – we thought – for eternity to find. Of course by now they have disintegrated into their individual molecules and somehow made their way to the sea, like everything else, but anyways, I distinctly remember writing something about the Information Superhighway, as I had just read in a Reader’s Digest (I know, how lame is that! But I would always find them at my grandma’s place, and loved the Disaster in Real Life stories, kind of a sick fascination I suppose, stories of people getting run over by tractors and such. Anyways, back on track here, I had just read an article on how the Information Superhighway was going to revolutionize our lives. (I wish I could read it now, because I’m sure it would be a good laugh!) And I had this image of myself, magic carpet like, floating through this magical land. So I wrote it on one of my little scrolls, “the Beginning of the Information Superhighway is now.” Comical! Anyways, this brings me to another article I read recently, in Psychology Today, one of my favourite reads and one of the few magazines I feel compelled to read cover to cover, because it is totally fascinating! So yeah, this article was all about early experiences and how they shape you in the long run. One of the examples they used was Michael Jordan, and how he scored a major clutch win early on, as a nobody, and how that set him up to perceive himself as the kind of person who does that type of thing, etc etc etc. So that got me to thinking about men in general (Michael Jordan…..men — see my train of thought is not always as illogical as it may seem) and I was thinking specifically about boyfriends. Ladies, have you ever wondered what it would be like to gather together all the men that you’ve been with, into one room, and just spy on them? Or maybe make it like a cryptic clue, like, “You all have one thing in common — figure out what it is,” And then wait and see how long it would take them to all figure out that it is me? Like I wonder if they would get along with one another? None of them have ever met, which would just make it all the more interesting. Ok, Ok, so just in case you are picturing like, an arena here, I am talking about maybe ten guys, c’mon, give me some credit here!) Anyways, this all got me to thinking about what these wierdos all have in common. Other than me, somewhere in their past. And I realized I have been a major SPCA for Men. I have dated losers! Why, you ask? As did I? I think it is inherently tied into your – mine – everybody’s self-perception, and the people that fit into that, just naturally come to you. Me, having rather low self-esteem, especially in high school, never felt like I deserved to date the guys that I really wanted, or was attracted to, and ended up instead with the mediocre ones. Of course, my current boyfriend, who is more than amazing, does not at all fit into the generalization, and has helped me advance leaps and bounds in my own self-worth, but the rest of them, to put in a totally reality-TV way, “Not so much!” And I would like to hereby blame it all on Calen, my first “boyfriend” in grade eight (I think we may have held hands, and kissed, and that was it). Anyways, Calen was quite popular, athletic, listened to Tupac, etc, and I was shocked and awed that he was interested in me, ME! Well, it turned out, after a few months of this charade, that he actually only ever dated me to get closer to my beautiful friend Lauren. Heartbreaking! But it’s funny how these particular archetypal scenarios replay themselves like bad movies on late night TV. Fast forward ten years, and I am 23, head over heels for my Alaskan fisherman/mountaineer boyfriend who was impossibly captivating and good looking and adventurous and all those good things. We are on a rock-climbing road trip in California and Nevada, and things have been going fairly well, although I am far from being a good climber and overly conscious the entire time that I am holding him back from doing the “hardcore” climbs that I know he would rather be doing. Anyways, we are in Yosemite, the last stop on our adventure, I am, to be honest, pretty sick of the whole living out of a truck thing, not to mention it is January and seriously sub-zero. Things have been going downhill, we’re fighting a bit, scrapping about money and stupid things. I decide I’m going to go on a solo hike, up as high as I can, and spend the night up there, so I do it, all the way to the top of the falls in Yosemite, it is incredibly beautiful, and I feel like a legend, sleeping under a rock as the wind howls around me. It takes me almost all day hike back down, and by the time I get there, He-Who-Shall-Remain-Unnamed is loading his climbing gear into a van. This van belongs to a girl named Lisha whom we met the previous day in one of the lame Yosemite tourist stores. Lisha is a super climber. She’s also ridiculously thin, with a perfect complexion, and gorgeous, ass-long black hair. Shithead (as he will henceforth be known) is like, hey, wanna come along? We’re going climbing. What could I do?? I didn’t really want to go climbing, I was fucking sick of it, but was I going to let this vixen disappear with my boyfriend for the day? I think not, ladies. So anyways, the day is exactly as disastrous as you can imagine. I feel totally incompetent, as Lisha spiders up walls in her petite Lulu Lemon perfection. (You might be picturing her as being a bitch, and that’s the worst part — she was super nice). So nice in fact, that she invites us over for dinner. Predictably, that night, Shithead spontaneously is feeling like he “doesn’t really want to commit to a relationship right now, etc etc etc,” So when the sun rises, I throw all his shit out of my truck, and drive home, 3000 miles of bawling.
Sorry people, I really didn’t mean to bore you with this depressing rant, I just thought it was interesting, that I have attracted several similar situations. And my question to you is: do we create this situations for ourselves, somehow? Just by having the expectation that things are going to go that way? I often express this fear to my wonderful, awesome Now Boyfriend and he reassures me that he loves me, etc, and I believe him. But there is still this fear in the back of my mind that some beautiful, competent, nymph is going to come along and steal him from me. Hmmmmm…. I think this could have something to do with – might be one of the keys to – the puzzle of me, one of the reasons I struggle so much with body image and feeling inferior to every woman who is prettier than me. Not a nice place to be! Don’t really know the way out! I’m sure I will get there, somehow, someway, and in the meantime, I’m terribly sorry for having spewed all this on You, but I have to admit it was cathartic.
Regards,
M
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Day [28-29]
Didn’t see missy yesterday, she was sick so we figured it’d just make me sick, so backed out. Then this evening rolled out.
She went to Jaz’s house to chill, (More on Day [33]), and then a friends house party. I was at Cool Runnings Fourways and got called by her to see what I was doing. [New confusion!] I left Cools and missed down the highway to this party where she was. We had a drink and decided movies were in order. Cue mission back to my place. Walked inside and all great and epic. Got coffee, set up the computer and all. Leaned in to kiss her, and she kissed me back.
Fast Forward; and we slept together. Yip. Miss Confused decided to sleep with me. Oh, on top of this there was an accident and we needed to get a morning after pill. *Disaster.* Rewind a few hours… Pillow talk was a disaster. She was stressing about our accident. Which is fine, it is kinda mental for an 18 year old girl to have to take one of those pills that fuck you up so badly. She went home, slightly very angry with me… I spoke to her the next morning and she was now sick. Eventually convince her to at least let us get the pill. Off I go, sort it. She was going to come out to my awesome friends 30th, but, alas, she was asleep.
Oh well, it happens. So at the end of Saturday, we were ok.
Not great, but not bad.
Eish…
JUST NOT HIP ENOUGH FOR JAZZ
I pull into one of the hippest neighborhoods in the city ready for a jazzy night.
After 30 minutes of searching for parking I’m officially ten minutes late and must surrender to pricey valet.
I just love passing the truck’s keys to a man who parks BMWs all night.
He hands me the valet ticket and I race to the door to avoid the rain pelting my wavy locks. Naturally I don’t have an umbrella. I knew it was raining, I don’t know why I don’t have an umbrella. I actually bought a really cute blue and white vintage style umbrella. I just never have the umbrella when it’s actually raining.
Inside is like a 1940s nightclub where Humphrey Bogart would have smoked cigars and drank scotch while sitting at a small round table listening to a jazz band.
So this is jazz – no singing, just lots of meandering rifts from guys wailing on instruments for hours on end.
I don’t have a clue where to begin looking for this guy. The place is packed with people and I barely know what he looks like. Put more than one photo online buddy.
At least he thought to pass along his phone number.
I text: “I’m here, standing at the end of the bar.”
It’s an odd scene – meeting a stranger hoping he’ll provide you marriage and babies. It calls for alcohol. Dirty gin martini straight up.
A tall, slim, dark-haired man makes his way over.
He has a mug of beer in hand, gives me a hug and asks if I would like a drink. Just then, the bartender hands me the martini complete with two fat green olives.
Now what?
I ask about his job.
He hates his job. He works too much. He travels too much.
I ask where he lives.
He lives in the priciest part of the city (cha-ching – mental cash register bells ring). He doesn’t like his new neighborhood. He used to live in this artsy swank neighborhood. That was better. Why did he leave the artsy swank neighborhood? Because his relationship with some chick fell apart.
So I ask about jazz. Does he play?
He did, but doesn’t have time now because of the lousy job and the lousy commute from the lovely, oh excuse me, horrid neighborhood.
I want to kill myself.
I order another drink.
With two martinis tossed back, the jazz sounds jazzier and Jazz Guy is a little less dreadful. He actually smiled a few times – when he wasn’t complaining about not finding seats, hovering over people with seats or trying to sneak into seats where we shouldn’t be seated. By the way he was definitely on drink number five.
I passed the one hour mark and had enough of Jazz Guy and his jazz club.
Mental note – always, always give an advanced warning for ditching after an hour and a half – dinner with girlfriends, late night drink with girlfriends, movie with girlfriends. Basically fib about any plans so you can escape your date. What if you’re having a great time? Leave ‘em wanting more.
After two hours of a lot of jazz and little talking (the music was too loud for talking, thank god) I hinted about having a work obligation in the morning and suggested wrapping up the night.
Before heading out the door, I excused myself to the bathroom. As I stood up from the toilet and turned to flush, I watched my valet ticket fall out of my pocket and into the toilet.
Great.
I explain the problem to the valet in detail. I simply could have said ‘I misplaced my valet ticket.” But no, I figured the valet would be less apt to suspect me for a car thief if I offered excessive, uncomfortable information.
I tell Jazz Guy there’s no need to wait. I secretly don’t want another guy seeing my dirty pickup. We hug goodbye. He hops into a cab and drives off.
Still waiting for the valet to pull up my truck, I receive a text.
It’s Jazz Guy: “Had a great time tonight.”
I don’t know whether to respond. I don’t want to lead him on. I’m pretty sure he’s not my husband.
My red truck arrives but is barely recognizable since it hasn’t been rinsed with water since the last rain shower.
I pull onto the road and my mind begins to drift. Oh Canada.
Whenever a date fails to excite me the wheels in my brain reverse. I revert to giggling in bed with Oh Canada while watching Reality TV, or riding an elephant together in Thailand where my toes continually, and intentionally, bumped his toes. My thoughts land on any one of the lustful memories of Sunday afternoons where we took hours to get out the door to meet friends.
Oh Canada.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Philosophy, same height and pleasures...
Good day world.
It’s a wonderful day over here.
It’s sunny.
Work has gone so smoothly in one hour I can pack and reach Swifty for doing some horseriding (easily the best way to have amazing legs and mantain them 
Yesterday it has been a calm, cozy night.
Karim and I ended talking about philosophy, life pleasure and then sex.
That was both an ending of talks and starting of practices, true
We started talkin about philosophy because Karim will soon meet Richard David Precht for matter of interwining contacts.
Precht is a philosopher and a scholar and hasa wonderful way of making people connect with my favourite subject.
Why?
Maybe because, beside being good at what he does, he looks like… THIS (you wouldn’t believe is almost 50, would you??):
Precht would be someone I’d love to meet as well, hence I am trying to follow Karim on his trip to Germany for it
No, I won’t be nasty.
Man is married with a plethora of sons.
I am a respecteful gal
We were talking out from the first step about pleasures in life and technique of makin out.
We ended talkin about skin scents and… reciprocal height of lovers.
Being myself quite tall for being an Italian girl (5′9”, where the average here is 5′6”) I have often got partners around my height (here being around 5′10” is quite an achievement for males…), which is in my opinion the best combination for sex.
Huge disarmonic heights are not fine for some of the finest sexual plays (not that it matters fully.. once laid down, heights count less…), but then Karim argued that we match more then well together (and he’s 6′3”).
To re-enforce the concept, look at the Shakira-Nadal video for Gipsy: she’s a midget compared to him, but laid down, really.. who cares? They are awesome in this video (song’s not really any of that, but the video compensate a lot for its lukewarm effect…)
There are ways to overcome the disarmonic compenetrations, but I still love the look in the eyes sight, probably because I have always been used to it.
We ended finding tantra tips on that. And practicing them.
And listening to Billy Idol while.. practicing
No.. seriously.
We did.
In that practice I lost traces of latest Maroon5 blog post (awwww), and I also had to wait till this morning to admire the pic Jesse tweeted from their practice in the afternoon…
Isn’t he adorably lost on that carpet?
Divine Adam in Morpheus hands yesterday afternoon
If their mastering the mixes, it can take around two three weeks before the work is properly done.
I try to cross fingers: late April release?
Sounds a bit soon with all the PR duties, but ehi, can’t we hope?
Talkin about Adam’s sleepy mood, who can’t understand why he needed some rest?
I mean…
*sure* he has been taken these past three weeks, hasn’t he?
One more of Adam and Lenny talkin at the Lakers game, with Anne in between..
There’s one more pic from last Lakers game (we play again today… but versus a nobody team…), and I will post it again cos ehi!!! it’s another one of the Lenny’s chit chat
See folks?
This picture explaines some of the points of today’s blog post.
First of all, it explaines why Adam had to sleep a bit in the previous carpet shot.
Ehi… have you seen Anne?
Do you really think they rest that much while together?
LOL.
They sure don’t
Then Anne and Adam are pretty much the same height: she’s 5′10”, Adam’s in between that and 5′11”.
But the best thing for the mere “tech tips of lovemaking” is that Anne’s legs are as long as a highway.
Evidence here:
Well, the disproportion of their legs actually makes the reciprocal baricenters perfectly matching in… *certain moments*.
Result: HUGE FUN.
Trust me.
HUGE.
I can be a scientist in every field, but I am particularly good in *some* fields, ya’ll.
And in this specific field, I am like Galileo Galilei: I study my subject, I come up with a theory on it, I practice it and out of experiments I validate it.
When I said this Karim laughed for about an hour, yesterday.
No, I am lying. He smirked and then proved me that people disequal in height can have still LOTTA fun.
I am sure after riding Swifty today, he will be all up to keep prove me that again and again.
And if it sounds like a call out…
Well, it is
Have a wonderful day everybody
Yesterday I finally remet Marghe after her honey moon to Brazil (for the Carnival as well.. the bitch
Literally (she’s got also a marv tan!!).
We had such a great time lunching together.
I love her.
She’s my best best best pal.
Why I'm here
I’m sick and tired of the witnesses the wussification of American men. For the entirety of human history, men have run the show. That’s not coincidence. It’s not specific to any culture, but has remained a steady fact for thousands of years across the globe. There are many reasons for this, and I’ll delve into them as appropriate.
To begin with, we need to all understand a truism: Men are men, women are women. Men can not, by definition, be women, and vice verse. If you think you’re a “woman trapped in a mans body”, you’re an idiot. An idiot who is too scared of the world to face it like a man.
What is a man? A man is a dominate force that faces reality head on. A man protects what matters to him no matter the cost.
What is a woman? A woman is a submissive force. They bring tranquility and balance. If a man is a storm, a woman is a calm breeze. A woman is to be protected by her man (whether husband, boyfriend, father, etc) and in exchange must (yes, must) respect and obey him. It’s a symbiotic relationship.
Right now, that relationship is completely out of whack. You know what happens when you have 2 people trying to drive the same car? People. Die.
So, over the next however the hell long it takes, I’m going to teach men how to garner their woman’s respect and obedience.
What I’m not here for: To be a hatemonger. I do not, I repeat, do not, hate women. In fact, I love them. And, it is as much for their benefit as for men that I’m doing this. They deserve to be respected, cared for and protected. But, they have to know their place. A ship can not have 2 captains.
Feminism is a scourge, a failed experiment that has benefited no one. It’s hurt women immeasurably, and it’s time for everyone, man and woman, to rise up against it.
Let the counter revolution begin!
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