On the Subject of Male Nudity

Let me preface the blog with a statement: I am by no means anything but an average man, physically speaking. I am not very muscular (although you can see some definition if I stand just so and the light hits me just right), nor am I very large (the last time I checked my body fat percentage, it bordered on anorexic. And Mom hit me).  Not counting my eyes and my boyishly charming smile that somehow never ends up in photographs, I am decidedly average in physical attractiveness.

That said, I have come to notice an odd trend. See, I live with three women. They share a bathroom, so they are frequently wandering down the hallway in a towel. And, of course, two of them occasionally wander around in just a bra or something. I don't think I've seen any of them in just panties (except for one drunken card game best left ambiguous), but I am sure they wander around like that when I am not looking.

Now, I have my own bathroom. This was not a planned decision, I just happen to have the master bedroom, 'cause no one else wanted to pay for it. So I understand that there is little reason for me to wander the house in a towel, and only slightly more reason to wander the house in my boxer-briefs (I like the support of briefs, but the freedom of boxers. Greatest invention ever). However ...

Could I? I mean, could I even get away with it? In the interest of equality, is it okay for me to come out of my room in my pajama pants, "commando style," as the kids are calling it these days, to make a sandwich?

Can I just leave my boxers lying about the house all willy-nilly, as my female roomies are wont to do with their bras? Hell, why do they feel the need to leave these things lying around? How often are these things coming off when I am not looking?

Now, I am assured by one female roommate that such is the case: I am perfectly welcome to wander the house in various states of undress. But am I? Am I really? I mean, sure: if I looked like #BradleyCooperishot, I could probably get away with it all day long.

Hell, my roommates would probably insist on it.

But I do not look like him. Comfortable as I am with by body, I make no allusions to it being some pinnacle of the male design. So would my roommates really be okay with it?

Hell, I probably could get away with it, because I am not hairy, gross, or obese. Just oddly pale. And I am perfectly okay with my body, so there's no doubt when I do it. It just seems like I would be doing it just to do it. I would be doing it just for the sense of equality and support of my fellow man, as Rosie the Riveter took up her jackhammer to make planes for her boys out in Europe! I could do it, even if I would only do it for the sake of the cause.

In fact, this ... this is a perfectly good reason to do it! This has become a call to arms!

Men! Rise up! Take back the hallways of your homes! You are fully in your right to wander about, pants flashing ass crack and hairy chests displayed to the world (you poor, hairy bastards). Tie a towl 'round your waist and grab a beer! And fear not the reproach of your female peers! Stand and be counted as being comfortable with your body, flaunt it as the women do theirs!

Equality now! For the HORDE!

Aside: My pajama pants have pockets in them. I do not understand the logic of this design.

Returning to the Subject: Video Games and Art

Days later, and this incident is still on my mind. Blogging must be done.

First, the scene: I am at work, discussing with a friend two of the things closest to my heart: good television commercials (I'm an advertising major) and video games (I'm a gamer, for those of you just tuning in). Specifically, we were discussing the latest PS3 commercial (those guys are putting out some great stuff, lately). The conversation progressed into the potential superiority of PS3's upcoming Move technology, in comparison to the Wii's MotionPlus. Being educated in the matter, I point out the real loser is going to be Microsoft's Project Nataal, Nintendo always has a handful of first-party titles in any month's Top 20 sold, blah, blah, blah.

This old lady I'm ringing up, she decides to chime in with the following bullshit pseudo-intellectual comment: "Oh, you video gamers always know exactly what you want."

My friend and I do not respond. I won't speak as to why he didn't, but I didn't respond because this is exactly the sort of subject I feel strongly enough about to get into an argument over. And, again, I am at work.

"My generation was so against that stupid Pong game. You should get out and live real life, it's more exciting."

What the shit kind of stupid comment is that? By that idiot logic, no one should bother reading books or watching movies or going to goddamn museums. This silly, uppity old witch was actually arguing not against video games, but against art, but she was so wrapped up in some trendy school of thought from her half-dead generation (baby boomer nonsense, they don't even see what they did, they're so selfish) that she didn't see it.

Anyway. She made a few more idiot comments, all of which went uncontested, due solely to where I was. She walked away, I think, amused at having shut us and our opinions down.

I raged.

Here's the trick, folks. First of all, no: real life is NOT more exciting. It has its own unique offers, but I can't exactly go about in real life slaying dragons, saving princesses, slaying gods, whatever. If I could do any of these things, you can be damned sure I wouldn't spend quite as much time playing Final fucking Fantasy. Yes, seeing an amazing vista or natural feature or building in the real world is something more amazing than seeing it in a video game, but that can be said of all art.

And that's the point: If real life is "more exciting," then why bother with art at all? Why bother with storytelling, why bother with paintings, why bother with learning to write or draw? Nope, apparently, it should be enough to be a mindless automaton (oh, shit, high school anti-society rant incoming!) who works hard at scraping together what meager cash you can, never sparing a moment to independent thought, until a week of vacation rolls around and you go to some idiot tourist spot buried in people who don't belong there. You stand shoulder to shoulder with them, marveling in a beauty that has become entirely artificial - as much a piece of art as the sculptures you ignore - because if it didn't have human hands doing the upkeep, people like YOU would have destroyed it by now. You go ahead, you ogle your lie, and you take some pictures. Some goddamn photos, which you then take back to work and show to anyone who can't politely disengage from you in the break room.

Only, here's a thought: by your own logic, they shouldn't give two SHITS about your photos of someplace they weren't. They should go themselves. Yet here you are, showing 'em off like they're the most amazing thing ever, like you've somehow accomplished something. I'm not saying I've accomplished a whole hell of a lot in my time spent in games and novels, but at least I've learned, thought, expanded my mind. And I didn't do it because some travel guide told me to.

Again, I don't pretend beating BioShock was some great fucking accomplishment. It was as unimportant and self-indulgent as any given activity of your idiot, thoughtless workday. The thing of it is, I don't walk around PRETENDING OTHERWISE. And I walked away from it with some interesting thoughts on the ultimate folly of the utopian society you were so damned sure you were working towards, you baby boomer fuck.

Wow. How do you not see how self-indulgent, self-serving, and hypocritical your life is? I know how: It's because you're a trendy baby boomer bitch prone to talking out of her ass. You are the cancer that broke our world.

God, I really hate baby boomers.

Another Year ...

My birthday was yesterday. It's okay you forgot, I don't make much of a deal out of it.

I present a lot of odd bravado about getting older. I don't act my age, I don't very much look my age, so I don't feel much of a need to be my age. I'm a youthful guy, plain and simple. I don't put a lot of stock in an arbitrary need to "grow up." Frankly, I don't see why anyone does.

You can't assign an age to anything, because age is nothing but a number that exists independently of either physical, mental, or spiritual maturity. It boggles me that more people don't see this, but I suppose I'll chalk it up to the need people have to measure, categorize, and limit absolutely everything.

Voting age is 18. It is the rare 18-year-old with the presence of mind and knowledge of law and politics to vote effectively. Hell, it's becoming increasingly rare to find any person with this presence of mind and knowledge.

Age of consent is a nice, murky one. Different from state to state and country to country. I do understand the need for laws protecting youths from fucked-up adults. I guess this one just ends up a necessary generality.

Legal drinking age. Heh. Man, for all our free-will mentality, we are a nation of judgmental prudes.

Age when people "should" have children. Funny, we don't have one of those. And that's one we should have.

My point is, maturity and intelligence and common sense are not things that come from age. They are things that come from living life. Some people live a lot more in a year than others. Then again, many, many people learn and live by very valuable life lessons that simply do not apply to people outside their subculture.

Eh, I'm getting away from my point. I've lived a lot in 28 years. People don't seem to notice it, because people don't notice me until they need me. Also, much of my living is internal. I do a lot of thinking.

I don't sleep well. It's kinda a bitch.

Hey, my web browser's spellcheck seems to have stopped fighting me on the word "kinda." At least my Mac can learn.

Back to my point: For all the thinking I do and wacky misadventures I have (oh, those misadventures), and for all the doing what is needed I do ... I feel young, yet I also feel life is going to be interminably long. I sometimes seriously worry I might live forever.

Ten short years ago, I was counting on being dead by thirty. This isn't a possibility I am prepared to rule out. It's almost a Plan C. I just have so much to do, and so little time to do it.

Another year gone by. I know I did well with it. I just don't know what I did well that I did for me.

At least I had an nice birthday for a change. No surprise parties I didn't want, no "friends" constantly reminding me that they're better than me. None of that. I didn't escape drama not my own, but it's fine. No rest for the wicked (and I am oh-so-wicked). Just a fun movie (with heavy sentimental attachment to the mythology), good food, too much drinking (through the weekend as a whole), a pretty waitress, delicious cake, and great friends. My best friends.

For all the shit people put me through (and, really, you all can feel free to explain that at any time), at least I know one thing: I know who my friends are. I know who my real friends are. And that's a life lesson far too many of us never, ever learn.

Cause and Effect - The Annoyingest Day Ever!

I had been planning on wasting this blog entry on a laundry list of what went wrong with my day today. But that's not what this blog is supposed to be about. Instead, let me sound crazy for a couple minutes.

Cause and effect.

Example: You are running late to work in your 30-minute commute, only by a couple minutes, but you are officially in a situation where Every Minute Counts. Perhaps because you're, like, two to five minutes late to work pretty much every day.

*cough*

Anyway. You come to a red light, the very last red light before you're at work. And this light ends up taking longer than usual. The reason it is taking longer than usual? A single elderly pedestrian. Literally, there is no cross traffic, there is just this one old guy randomly crossing the street right here, right now.

Many people would get upset. I would. I do. Every time. But most people would never take the time to consider the cause and effect of the situation. Of course, you can likely never know the exact cause and effect, the exact chain of events that have led to this guy crossing this street at this moment on this day when you're late a lot, lately.

But do you even take the time to realize there is a chain of effect? Or do you just assume the world is out to get you?

This stuff happens to me. Constantly. I am constantly (and the word is not an exaggeration) effected by things well out my personal sphere of influence. Trick of it is, I understand cause and effect. I have a mind that simply never shuts off. It leaves a lot of time for exploration and interpretation of my surroundings. I frickin' SEE cause and effect.

It's kinda like a super power, and this is the point where I start to sound crazy.

Have you any idea how maddening it is to know that so much of your life, so many of the tiny little meaningless events are directly effected by a myriad of other, unrelated events which exist far outside of your life?

Because I know how maddening it is. We are all slaves to a constant Butterfly Effect, and it drives my frickin' batty. People ask why I never relax and why I'm so prone to locking myself away from the world for days at a time. This is why. I see this Butterfly Effect. I know it's there. Really, knowing it's there is enough to make me wonder if the world IS out to get me. But I know it isn't. This is just random bullshit constantly pouring into my life from outside it, and I'm just stuck seeing it for what it is.

Worst. Super power. Ever.

Okay, it's not without its benefits. It would be MORE beneficial if people would accept that it's there, and realize how often I am right.

But holy fucking HELL, today was an annoying day.