I know I joke around a lot about some pretty inane shit sometimes, but something has come to my attention that is too serious to take lightly in any way. I was listening to NPR today, and they had an interview with a fellow from IBM who was discussing a recent project the company has been developing: a robot engineered for the sole purpose of competing on Jeopardy!
Now I have no problems with robots that build cars, defuse bombs, play musical instruments, or dance like an eighty year-old in a pool of jello...hell, I'm that that turned off by the whole "rise of the machines" thing that the Terminator and Matrix flicks warn us about, but for the love of all that is holy...not Jeopardy!
This trivia-bot will be programmed with a cubic fuck-ton of information, and then given a search protocol that determines the best answer based on the context. For example, a category in which all answers begin with the letter "I" may not be obvious at first, after a couple of questions, it will figure out the trick and find the answer. In other words, this monstrosity of science will be like those asshole contestants who wait for the cheap answers to be snatched up and then run the rest of the category like a douchebag. Our only hope is that they don't give this thing a movable arm that it can use to write its response for Final Jeopardy.
Apparently Dick-3PO will be ready to square off against a human opponent in a year. Humanity has only one hope to take this metallic beast down. Sit back down, John Conner. Go back to not being relevant or cool anymore, Neo; neither of you punks have the trivia balls to take this thing on. Two words: Ken Jennings. 74 consecutive Jeopardy! victories; $3,022,700 in accumulated prize money. He is our Kasparov, and I'll be goddamned if he is going to let the Trivia-Tron 2000 cornhole him the same way Garry got it from Deep Blue. Besides, he's Mormon, so he's already half-robot to begin with.
The mechanical menace has to be stopped, both for my sake, and for humanity's...but mostly for mine. I'm not about to let some encyclopedic erector set rob me of my chance to make it onto that show. I have tried out three different times for Jeopardy!, and been shot down every time time by the cold bitchslap of chance. I will not not join the ever-growing line of auto-workers, novelty muscians, and bomb-defusing monkeys and sit by while robots take over my niche in society. More importantly, if I never get onto Jeopardy, I'll never get to play "Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots" with Trebek's throat.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
They're So Cute When They're Little
As much as I love maxims, phrases, chestnuts, proverbs, and other random sound bites of wisdom, there is one that has been bothering me lately:
"Don't sweat the small stuff."
I'm cool not letting all of the little piddly crap in your life get you down; it's generally how I manage to stay sane. However, there is an unintended second meaning to this little goody. I'm sure whoever first uttered it was only coming from a kind and compassionate place, but sometimes bored overthinkers like me have to grab onto something, tear into it, and whip it around like a dog with a new squeaky toy. Again, this keeps me sane.
While it's all well and good to not sweat the small stuff, the side effect is that you give the small stuff hardly any attention at all. The big stuff is what counts; the cataclysms that create the most drastic and instant changes life, but that's not all there is. I think more people would benefit from taking time to celebrate and appreciate the little victories in life.
Case and point: today I helped a young lady work to conquer her crippling fear of heights. She was adamant about staying on the ground, but a little encouragement got her forty feet into the air and ended in her jumping off while being held by a group of her friends on a rope. It was a long and delicate process and my hand is still a little sore from her sqeezong it so tightly, but she made it past the tears and fear and did it. That is really friggin' cool and was big deal to her, and it made me feel good to help create that kind of accomplishment.
But you know what made me feel even better about myself? Two days ago I cleaned all the hair and soap scum and other nasty shit out of my shower drain so that it could drain effectively. I had let it get to the point where I would be showing in a few inches of water, and enough was enough. I ran the water and rooted around with a small handheld declogging apparatus. I was exhuming the occasional soapy clump of my man-pelt, but no improvement in drainage resulted from the exercise. Undeterred, I continued until finally I heard the hollow burp of the drain releasing its prey. The water exited as if I had blown a hole in the bottom of the tub with a shotgun. I felt like a god. I couldn't help but chastise the drain out loud for thinking that it could match wits with the like of me. Punk-ass drain!
Now some might argue that I am making mountains out of molehills, and I say, "sure, why not?" While it is certainly acceptable, nay, encouraged to savor the great sources of joy in our lives, it shouldn't be our sole focus. Why not take a measure of exhuberance in the mundane and the everyday. Enjoy the fact that you did the dishes today rather than letting them pile up and making a much bigger job. Call a person who you think you might take for granted and thank them for being a part of your life. The Grand Canyon was made by wind and water, not an earthquake.
"Don't sweat the small stuff."
I'm cool not letting all of the little piddly crap in your life get you down; it's generally how I manage to stay sane. However, there is an unintended second meaning to this little goody. I'm sure whoever first uttered it was only coming from a kind and compassionate place, but sometimes bored overthinkers like me have to grab onto something, tear into it, and whip it around like a dog with a new squeaky toy. Again, this keeps me sane.
While it's all well and good to not sweat the small stuff, the side effect is that you give the small stuff hardly any attention at all. The big stuff is what counts; the cataclysms that create the most drastic and instant changes life, but that's not all there is. I think more people would benefit from taking time to celebrate and appreciate the little victories in life.
Case and point: today I helped a young lady work to conquer her crippling fear of heights. She was adamant about staying on the ground, but a little encouragement got her forty feet into the air and ended in her jumping off while being held by a group of her friends on a rope. It was a long and delicate process and my hand is still a little sore from her sqeezong it so tightly, but she made it past the tears and fear and did it. That is really friggin' cool and was big deal to her, and it made me feel good to help create that kind of accomplishment.
But you know what made me feel even better about myself? Two days ago I cleaned all the hair and soap scum and other nasty shit out of my shower drain so that it could drain effectively. I had let it get to the point where I would be showing in a few inches of water, and enough was enough. I ran the water and rooted around with a small handheld declogging apparatus. I was exhuming the occasional soapy clump of my man-pelt, but no improvement in drainage resulted from the exercise. Undeterred, I continued until finally I heard the hollow burp of the drain releasing its prey. The water exited as if I had blown a hole in the bottom of the tub with a shotgun. I felt like a god. I couldn't help but chastise the drain out loud for thinking that it could match wits with the like of me. Punk-ass drain!
Now some might argue that I am making mountains out of molehills, and I say, "sure, why not?" While it is certainly acceptable, nay, encouraged to savor the great sources of joy in our lives, it shouldn't be our sole focus. Why not take a measure of exhuberance in the mundane and the everyday. Enjoy the fact that you did the dishes today rather than letting them pile up and making a much bigger job. Call a person who you think you might take for granted and thank them for being a part of your life. The Grand Canyon was made by wind and water, not an earthquake.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Most Unfunny Post Ever
There is a feeling deep within my heart that I have lived with for a long time. It used to be more of a secret, but it has become so strong that there has been the occasional slip to my family or even a friend or two. It is really hard for me to express this into words, especially since it could very well impact some of the most important relationships in my life. I cannot let that possibility deter me though; it is more healthy to just say everything and have it out in the open rather than keep it pent up inside. *sigh* Here it goes...
Charlie the Unicorn is one of the stupidest things I have ever seen in my life.
There, I said it and there's no taking it back. I mean, seriously...have you watched this crap? If not, save yourself the hassle and just live your life knowing that you don't have to endure it. Normally I am a fan of experienceing things for the sake of knowledge, but in this case I'm willing to make an exception. Recently I accidentally stumbled upon the third installment of this inane series. Of course, "Charlie" is one of those rediculous instances in which the thought sequence follows thusly: "Oh, enough people liked the first one, so I'll keep making more by using the exact same formula without any improvement." I call it the Superman Effect because this was the reasoning behind the "Superman" film series, and we all know how that turned out.
And now is the part where I get lambasted for attacking something simply because I don't think it's funny. I can only respond with the fact that it is funny. The thing is, when I watch Charlie the Unicorn, I want to laugh, but I cannot in good taste allow myself to do so. It is simply too stupid to justify its existence with laughter. It is the lowest common denominator of comedy; the Big Mac of humor. It's a cheap way to make someone chuckle. Shouldn't we be better than this? Am I saying don't laugh at it? No, no one can control what others find funny; it's part of the nature of humor. I do however request that nobody say that Charlie the Unicorn is, "the funniest thing ever," because it's not. It's like saying Burger King is the greatest food ever, and anyone who says that is in desperate need of some horizon expanding, but this should probably be done after Mommy gets you to use the grown-up potty successfully.
Charlie the Unicorn is one of the stupidest things I have ever seen in my life.
There, I said it and there's no taking it back. I mean, seriously...have you watched this crap? If not, save yourself the hassle and just live your life knowing that you don't have to endure it. Normally I am a fan of experienceing things for the sake of knowledge, but in this case I'm willing to make an exception. Recently I accidentally stumbled upon the third installment of this inane series. Of course, "Charlie" is one of those rediculous instances in which the thought sequence follows thusly: "Oh, enough people liked the first one, so I'll keep making more by using the exact same formula without any improvement." I call it the Superman Effect because this was the reasoning behind the "Superman" film series, and we all know how that turned out.
And now is the part where I get lambasted for attacking something simply because I don't think it's funny. I can only respond with the fact that it is funny. The thing is, when I watch Charlie the Unicorn, I want to laugh, but I cannot in good taste allow myself to do so. It is simply too stupid to justify its existence with laughter. It is the lowest common denominator of comedy; the Big Mac of humor. It's a cheap way to make someone chuckle. Shouldn't we be better than this? Am I saying don't laugh at it? No, no one can control what others find funny; it's part of the nature of humor. I do however request that nobody say that Charlie the Unicorn is, "the funniest thing ever," because it's not. It's like saying Burger King is the greatest food ever, and anyone who says that is in desperate need of some horizon expanding, but this should probably be done after Mommy gets you to use the grown-up potty successfully.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Cat's Out of the Vag
So I went on and on about the penis in my last post, and just when you thought you couldn't get any more uncomfortable, it's time to talk about the female equivalent. What started me thinking about vaginas (more than usual that is) was a news story I read about the state of New Jersey banning full brazilian waxes from all spas. For those of you who are not initiate on the ways of professional hair care, let me explain what a brazilian wax is. Think of every hair that exists between your beltline and your thigh; now imagine each one of those hairs being ripped out with wax by a tiny, but surprisingly strong Vietnamese woman. I know it sounds more like a P.O.W. flashback than a beauty procedure, but apparently many women undergo this procedure every time swimsuit season rolls around. I'm not here to debate the virtues of waxing. I personally do not care how much hair you ladies have on your cooter as long as you feel sexy. This is within reason of course; I need to be able to find my way around without needing a machete and Satipo to guide me.
You may have found the Raiders metaphor to be a tad exotic, but the truth is that for some reason, most guys regard the vagina as some mysterious location that is impossible to fully understand or experience. Some of this may spring from maternal issues. After all, this orifice was also the way by which we entered the world, but the female reproductive system isn't the same thing as Stargate SG-1. I refuse to believe that the twat is that mysterious. Make no mistake, male and female genitals aren't simply a case of inny versus outy; there are significant physiological differences between the two, like apples and oranges (or probably bananas and passion fruits).
This train of thought of course inevitabley leads to the golden idol at the center of the temple: the female orgasm. Some people sound like it's easier to dismantle an atomic warhead with your feet than to satify a woman. Seriously? A little logic and the ability to listen are really all it takes to figure it out. There are two major things to leep in mind, fellas.
1. I won't go far as to say that one thing will work on every chick, but here's a novel thought, why not try finding out what your lady likes? You're not psychic, and a healthy relationship is based on communication, both verbal and nonverbal (if you know what I mean). If you do something right, she'll let you know.
2. Foreplay. I'll leave it at that. If you don't know what it is, just go ahead and turn in your gun and badge now and save women the hassle of having to explain it.
My goal in these last two posts is to try and bring the two sexes together, or at least bring their genitals together...then apart...then back together...then apart...then back together...then...oh, god!...*snore*
You may have found the Raiders metaphor to be a tad exotic, but the truth is that for some reason, most guys regard the vagina as some mysterious location that is impossible to fully understand or experience. Some of this may spring from maternal issues. After all, this orifice was also the way by which we entered the world, but the female reproductive system isn't the same thing as Stargate SG-1. I refuse to believe that the twat is that mysterious. Make no mistake, male and female genitals aren't simply a case of inny versus outy; there are significant physiological differences between the two, like apples and oranges (or probably bananas and passion fruits).
This train of thought of course inevitabley leads to the golden idol at the center of the temple: the female orgasm. Some people sound like it's easier to dismantle an atomic warhead with your feet than to satify a woman. Seriously? A little logic and the ability to listen are really all it takes to figure it out. There are two major things to leep in mind, fellas.
1. I won't go far as to say that one thing will work on every chick, but here's a novel thought, why not try finding out what your lady likes? You're not psychic, and a healthy relationship is based on communication, both verbal and nonverbal (if you know what I mean). If you do something right, she'll let you know.
2. Foreplay. I'll leave it at that. If you don't know what it is, just go ahead and turn in your gun and badge now and save women the hassle of having to explain it.
My goal in these last two posts is to try and bring the two sexes together, or at least bring their genitals together...then apart...then back together...then apart...then back together...then...oh, god!...*snore*
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Keeping Up With the Johnsons
Genitals. Everyone has them...well...everyone who hasn't been the sad victim of some sort of industrial or farming accident has them. Use the clinical terms, your own cutesy lingo, or give it a proper name and identity, but there is a special bond that exists between a person and his or her happy parts. This week I'm feeling very equal-opportunistic, so both male and female fun-zones will be discussed in two seperate posts.
First, there has been something that has been bothering me as of late. A big, blue, glowing problem. Recently, I went to see Watchmen, the highly anticipated film adaptation of the graphic novel of the same name. I'm not here to critique the film in any way; there are plenty of other whiney fan-boys on the internet to do that. The only thing from the movie that I will speak about is Dr. Manhattan's portrayal. Not his acting though; his penis. In case you're not familiar with Watchmen, Doc Manhattan is a blue superhero with the ability to manipulate all matter and has grown increasingly distant from humanity. To this end, he spends most of the story as naked as the day he was born. After all, the man of the future doesn't need to wear clothes, so the reader/audience is in full view of his Übermensch dong on more than one occasion.
My issue is not with the showing of his radioactive package. If a character wants to flash a little wang-chung in a movie, I'm cool with it as long as it serves the film's overall purpose. I understand that the Doc is meant to be a superhero...but c'mon! I cannot in good taste post an image of the cerulean wonder, but I suggest you Google it and see for yourself so that I'm not discounted as some kind of raving idiot. I shudder to think if this is what women expect of my gender, or if this is the standard to which many young boys aspire. No wonder we men are so wrapped up in the never ending game of dick comparison. I'll admit to my own fits of wanker inferiority, but that swinging azure schlong made me realize that something needs to be done and clear the air of any misconceptions about the male member.
Ladies: don't expect a slithering trouser python when you meet a guy. Think about it, does the idea of a massive kielbasa pounding into your cervix sound like a good time? If it does, "a salud' to you, but for the rest of you reasonable women out there, be kind to your man's little friend. I know that there aren't as many size queens out there as we men fear, but we need to know that. Remember, it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. To prove my point, there are some sex toys that you could hide in an easter egg (a great idea for this Easter by the way). Also, not every weiner looks the same on his off time as he does when he's on the clock. In case you haven't heard of the case of showers vs. growers, take a minute to enlighten yourself.
Now, fellas: did seeing that movie make you uncomfortable? Did it make you feel like less of a man? Well knock it the hell off! This is probably exactly what most women feel every time a big ol' set of boobies goes bouncing across the silver screen, and there is way more T&A on celluloid than there is C&B (Cock & Balls). Stop worrying about the status of your petzl, because you know what? Every guy lies about his junk. Really. Don't let the well-endowed end of the bell curve dissuade you from digging who you are as a man. After all...all he wants for you is to be happy; the least you can do is be happy with him in return.
Next time...the vajay-jay gets stripped bare.
First, there has been something that has been bothering me as of late. A big, blue, glowing problem. Recently, I went to see Watchmen, the highly anticipated film adaptation of the graphic novel of the same name. I'm not here to critique the film in any way; there are plenty of other whiney fan-boys on the internet to do that. The only thing from the movie that I will speak about is Dr. Manhattan's portrayal. Not his acting though; his penis. In case you're not familiar with Watchmen, Doc Manhattan is a blue superhero with the ability to manipulate all matter and has grown increasingly distant from humanity. To this end, he spends most of the story as naked as the day he was born. After all, the man of the future doesn't need to wear clothes, so the reader/audience is in full view of his Übermensch dong on more than one occasion.
My issue is not with the showing of his radioactive package. If a character wants to flash a little wang-chung in a movie, I'm cool with it as long as it serves the film's overall purpose. I understand that the Doc is meant to be a superhero...but c'mon! I cannot in good taste post an image of the cerulean wonder, but I suggest you Google it and see for yourself so that I'm not discounted as some kind of raving idiot. I shudder to think if this is what women expect of my gender, or if this is the standard to which many young boys aspire. No wonder we men are so wrapped up in the never ending game of dick comparison. I'll admit to my own fits of wanker inferiority, but that swinging azure schlong made me realize that something needs to be done and clear the air of any misconceptions about the male member.
Ladies: don't expect a slithering trouser python when you meet a guy. Think about it, does the idea of a massive kielbasa pounding into your cervix sound like a good time? If it does, "a salud' to you, but for the rest of you reasonable women out there, be kind to your man's little friend. I know that there aren't as many size queens out there as we men fear, but we need to know that. Remember, it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. To prove my point, there are some sex toys that you could hide in an easter egg (a great idea for this Easter by the way). Also, not every weiner looks the same on his off time as he does when he's on the clock. In case you haven't heard of the case of showers vs. growers, take a minute to enlighten yourself.
Now, fellas: did seeing that movie make you uncomfortable? Did it make you feel like less of a man? Well knock it the hell off! This is probably exactly what most women feel every time a big ol' set of boobies goes bouncing across the silver screen, and there is way more T&A on celluloid than there is C&B (Cock & Balls). Stop worrying about the status of your petzl, because you know what? Every guy lies about his junk. Really. Don't let the well-endowed end of the bell curve dissuade you from digging who you are as a man. After all...all he wants for you is to be happy; the least you can do is be happy with him in return.
Next time...the vajay-jay gets stripped bare.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hair to Stay
I know we all just recovered from celebrating the first birthday of my blog, but there is another birthday today that deserves recognition (I guess this time of year is my time for change and personal growth). This time, it is even more personal, because I am celebrating something that is literally a part of who I am. St. Patrick's Day also happens to be the birthday of my rockin' beard.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Why, is one missing?
I just took the greatest shower ever. Maybe to say "ever," is a bit hyperbolic, especially at my young age, but I would at the very least include it in the top five. The only other one that even comes close is when I was twelve and realized that I could masturbate in the shower as well as my bedroom. This time lacked as erotic a context, but that in no way made it any less memorable.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
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