The Natural Self

(With regards to Walker Percy.)

Why the Self feels Synthetic and finds Food Erotic

Thought Experiment: The Sexy Chef and the Organic Store

Imagine you have chosen to visit a popular organic supermarket.  You are trying to avoid chemical processes, refinements, and additives for their unhealthy and overall negative influence on your nutrition.  This particular location is the only one in town which carries corn chips for your all-natural Southwestern salsa accentuated with homegrown black beans and pico de gallo (confident as you are that each ingredient has been shipped directly from their respective soils with no preservatives).  You have brought your reusable burlap grocery bag, stylishly embroidered with verdant leaves on a khaki background.  Looking at it reminds you of the quaint, simple days on a farm you wish you'd grown up on.  You wander the aisles with an intentional aimlessness, drifting through each as you snatch a head of all-natural lettuce and a cut of grass-fed beef.

Somewhere between the Fair Trade coffee beans and the sugarcane soft drinks, you spot a popular Youtube chef.  This particular man's channel is less about guiding the audience through follow-along steps and more about the audacity of the dishes.  On one episode, you watched him and his Canadian cohorts buy dozens of cheeseburgers from local fastfood restaurants and layer them as a giant dish of lasagna, separated by a sheet of bacon strips woven together.  A calorie, fat, and sodium counter ran on the bottom of the video; at the end of two minutes detailing the preparation, the calorie counter was over 16,000.  Each video concludes with the Canadians drizzling the concoction in Jack Daniels whiskey and tearing into each dish as hedonistic gluttons.  As they cook each dish (with names like "Bacon Fortress" or "Meat Salad"), triumphant orchestral music swells from the first slab of bacon-wrapped steak to the last sloppy bite oozing down the sides of the Canadians' mouths.  It is shameless in its recklessness to the point of absurdity.  Each episode you have watched has evoked laughter, disgust, and excitement with such mastery that you cannot rightly express your fascination with these epic meals.  You are riveted by each and every episode.

You are understandably surprised to see the Canadian chef in a socially- and health-conscious market like this one.  The Canadian politely asks a stock boy which are the strongest coffee beans.  The stock boy--his name tag reads "Scott"--answers, "Probably the Ethiopian dark roast.  It has rich body flavor and is guaranteed grown without pesticides."

The Canadian takes one look at the price and balks.  "I think I'll just go for Folgers.  Where's that?"

"Sir," Scott replies too pleasantly, "you won't find Folgers here.  Their product has not been guaranteed chemical-free or Fair Trade."

"Does that explain the pricetag?  I need four pounds."

"Four pounds?"

"Yes.  I need four pounds of coffee beans."

"Buying for the office, huh?"

"No.  We're making Atomic Slam Breakfast."

"Atomic Slam Breakfast?"

"That's right, sissy-pants!"  The Canadian suddenly adopts the swaggering intensity of a Pentecostal minister or a drill sergeant.  "First, we take three dozen eggs.  Throw those chicken fetuses in a bowl!  Then we beat them eggs... spatula's too small... better use the shovel!  Next we brew that coffee double-strong!  We gonna drink it?  No way, granola-munch.  We pour that **** in a pot for marination!  Next we add bacon strips.  And bacon strips.  And bacon strips!  Strippin dat bacon... for dat coffee meat we makin'!!!

"Next level: sausage drizzled in bacon grease!  Two pounds enough?  Better make it three.  Pancakes with bacon bits?  Smart!  Glaze it with whiskey, bread it all over!"  At this point, you can almost see the calorie counter running higher and higher.  "Deep-fry them pancakes.  Coat it with syrup and Mountain Dew!  Marinated pig is done... fry up that coffee-bacon!  Throw some scrambled eggs on that plate... add habanero peppers for complete morning energy!  Finish it off with a tall glass of orange-flavored energy drink!  Combat that scurvy!"

Scott's face is glistening with Canadian spittle as the chef concludes.  His shouts ring out like a Mongol warlord down a Serbian valley.  "Now we got all that coffee and Irish cream, we got them habanero eggs, we got that caffeine-bacon and those Mountain Dew, deep-fried pancakes!  We gonna eat that ******!  And then we stay awake for a three weeks."

The Canadian's eyes are wide with fire, his beard dripping sweat and saliva.  His face is flush with blood as he leers the stock boy in anticipation, waiting for Scott to respond to the apocalyptic meal the chef has prophesied.  Scott's face is twisted in equal parts bewilderment and indignation.  He finally stammers, "How can you be like this?!!"

"Like what?" asks the Canadian, his demeanor abruptly calm.

"How can you eat like that?  How can you be so indifferent to your health?  That kind of eating will kill you!"

"We're professional chefs.  We only eat like this once a week.  We exercise regularly.  Most of the time we eat normal meals.  We do this for our webshow, Epic M-"

"I know who you are now.  That doesn't excuse what you do!  You blow hundreds of dollars on a single meal while people the world over starve and you fuel the unjust systems which perpetrate the oppression of foreign workers by shopping at discount supermarkets!  You glorify unhealthy eating in an age where obesity in this country is epidemic!  You bring in attractive women and exploit their sexuality to increase your viewership!  Your only appeal is your oafishness, a caricature of a barbaric relic!"

You are uncomfortable in the silence which follows.  The Canadian has a confused expression on his face.  He finally manages, "Last year we cooked for a homeless shelter.  A whole episode devoted to feeding the poor."

"You fed them one of your characteristic dishes?"

"Well, yeah.  The guys at the homeless shelter loved it."

"I'm sure they did," Scott snaps.  "They had a month's worth of calories in a few minutes.  That's to say nothing of the preservatives and growth hormone in the beef you stuffed them with!"

"There's no growth hormone approved for beef cows."

"Don't pretend like you're a part of the solution!  You're a part of the problem."

"Is obesity really that big of a deal?  It seems like a problem most people throughout history would have liked to have."

"You mean in the Dark Ages?  When people didn't wash their hands or bathe?"

"Life expectancy has never been higher."

"So people live longer, more miserable, obesity-laden lives before they become bedridden and die from complications from that obesity!  Huge improvement there, buddy.  Heart disease is the top killer in this country and your meals revel in it."

"Healthy eaters die in bus crashes."

Scott is befuddled.  "Excuse me?"

"Yeah.  You can eat healthy or gross and still get hit by a bus or shot or stabbed or fall off a bridge..."

"Don't be ridiculous!  Heart disease is preventable..."

"Everybody dies sometime.  Something has to kill you," says the chef calmly.

Scott sighs as the teacher defeated by a defiant child.  He resignedly returns to stocking the shelf.  "You do so much to keep these big food companies afloat that you may as well be their spokesman.  You're a champion of regression.  Wal-Mart may have some discount coffee.  Good luck with your show."

Other shoppers have been casually eavesdropping on this rather heated exchange.  As the Canadian strides out of the supermarket, you cannot help but notice their reactions.  Some look back after him in shock and shake their heads in disapproval.  Some of the women seem drawn to his swagger and reckless allure.  Some of the men nod subtly to acknowledge his manly superiority.  All shoppers are awestruck and some stride proudly behind him like the disciples of an Old Testament prophet.  You too find that you cannot take your eyes off him until the automatic doors slide shut behind him.

Question I: Why do you have such a strong reaction to the Youtube chef?

(a)  The Youtube chef is a dangerous radical who encourages people to continue in uncritical and unhealthy eating at the expense of human suffering in America (in the form of obesity) and abroad (in the form of supporting unjustly-low wages.  His cavalier attitude toward the health and safety of his audience is indicative of the apathy endemic to the greatest accomplices of injustice.  "All it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing."

(b)  The Youtube chef is an entertainer.  While he eats poorly, he is fundamentally a businessman.  His livelihood comes from his show.  No one forces to anyone to watch his show, they do so by choice.  Just because someone watches his show about epically-sized meals does not mean they will eat that way.  The show is funny, well-edited, and the chefs are professionals.  No one in their right mind saw Evel Knievel jump the Grand Canyon and tried to replicated it.  People are free to get fat and die as they please.

(c)  The Youtube chef is a sinner under God's condemnation, glorying as he does in gluttony.  God's Word says, "(For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ: Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things.)" (Phil. 3:18-19, KJV).  Other passages condemn this man (Prov. 23:2, 20-21; 1 Cor. 3:16-17; Deut. 21:20; Jug. 3:19) as indulgent in the lusts of the flesh.

(d)  The Youtube chef is a man you can follow.  Men and women flock to his channel because he stares certain death in the face and does not blink.  His eating is edgy--sexy even--and the babes who attend reinforce this.  I mean, if he was just good with the ladies that would mean nothing (since he must practice safe sex).  But there are no condoms for the tummy and this man don't give a four-letter word! Given the chance, you would join his team and chow down along with them... provided you could quit your job, relocate to Canada, toss caution to the wind, exercise to keep the weight off...

(CHOOSE ONE OR MORE)

Question II: Why are you at this organic supermarket anyway?

(a)  I have done extensive research into the health benefits of organic supermarkets.  I studied nutrition in college, designed several experiments, and gathered numerous data to indicate that the additives and preservatives endemic to the mainstream food industry are the direct causes of obesity, cancer, birth defects, and diminished quality of life in the West (especially America).

(b)  I have it on good authority that mainstream supermarkets are untrustworthy.  My friend passed me this article from a nutrition magazine that said that people who eat processed food are consistently fatter.  I read one facebook post which said that brominated vegetable oil is used in Mountain Dew and is also a flame retardant chemical used in plastic toys. Pesticides on fruits are specifically designed to kill bugs. How could they possibly be good for my baby?

(c)  I am here ironically.  This is so the opposite of who I am.  I usually stuff bacon down my gullet like the Jewish Devil.  Bumping into a fellow organic-hater slamming knowledge on that hippie twerp was the highlight of my week.

(d)  I came for the same reason I have a farm-themed tote.  I would never admit it, but I live rootless in a hyper-connected world.  I have lived in six different cities, never been back to my roots because I have none, never run in large enough social circles to be truly known by anyone.  I have a synthetic community through social media, synthetic friendships through workplace networking, synthetic identity through my ironic wardrobe and 90s pop culture references.  Even my love life is synthetic since the love and lovemaking in movies or pornography somehow seems so much more real and tangible than the mere pleasantries I get in real life.  So is it so much to ask that even the food on my plate--the one thing left that reminds me that I am more than just a disembodied consciousness--be something rooted and real and dirty from the ground and coated in the sweat of a real farmer with dirty hands and a place in the world?

(CHOOSE ONE)

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 6

NEVER TALK TO WOMEN (IF THEY TELL YOU THEY WANT TO)

Guess what, America? I'm back with some knowledge.

But Prophet, you ask, how did you escape the clutches of the Oversoul and the wretched Dubstep? Hard work, my friends. Hard work and quality. You see, I realized that the Oversoul had suckered my unsuspecting psyche with its demonic electronica sorcery. So every time I tried to retrieve the fragments of my tortured individuality, I was drowned out by the raucous tyranny. My mind kept crawling for months over the crags of distorted sampling and disorientingly monotonous 4/4 bass lines. So when the time finally came to effect my escape, I knew I had to come up with something to distract the Oversoul. But how can you stifle what is designed to be stifling? With order, of course. I hummed the best song I could think of until I had escaped.

Eye of the Tiger!

One impressive montage later, I was back. And I have a new message for you fellow males out there:

Don't talk to women when they want you to.

"Wait a sec," you say, "we knew you were an opinionated, ignorant, carnivorous pontificate who calls women unwitting pedophiles and would inflame us with dangerous rhetoric whispered only in the deepest recesses of our souls. But a misogynist? That's a step too far." Well my dear ones, stop abusing verb phrases and listen close.

I love women. Too much even. The restraining orders are proof of that. I was born of woman, grew up in a house ruled by women, and will probably die under the care or knife of a woman. After all, my Y chromosome guarantees that cancer, heart disease, radiation, or bullets lower my male life expectancy below that of a woman. So understand the heart from which I say this: a cold, bitter one dead to all emotion but rage. (And hunger, if that counts as an emotion.)

But when a woman wants to talk, let us make no mistake: it is never good news. You see, there are several ways one may request a conversation. "Hey, let's grab coffee later and chat about the IPO report, Steven." "What time do you want to go over the economics project, Sandy?" "My lord, if we don't discuss the new dress code the royal guard might take to wearing Dave Barnes t-shirts in the imperial court. Then the rebellion will regard us as inglorious and bro-ish!" But there's one men never, ever, EVER want to hear from a woman.

"Can we talk?"


To say nothing of its even uglier sister and/or prom date: "We need to talk."

I remember getting these in the past way too often, usually right before the crippling cycle of depression and self-loathing completely unrelated to rejection. My favorite was one that worked something like this: I got a text asking if I was available around "4:50ish". My girlfriend Carly said we needed to talk. I considered this to be no big deal, figuring maybe she wanted to talk about how much fun she was having with me or how good I look in blue or what we should name our second child.

Since "Rattler Van Damme" is the obvious choice for a first-born.

So full of excitement for quality time with a beautiful woman, I told her I was available. This was, in fact, a half-truth since I needed to get a shift covered at work but I figured it would be no big deal. Carly replied, "Good. I have a pretty packed day and I have to work at 5."

What do you suppose was the content of this conversation? Duh, a rejection. So with another set of emotional baggage checked in at Heartsbreak International Airport, I gained a valuable example of this most basic truth.

You see, a woman never says y'all need to talk if it's something wonderful. It's never, "We need to talk... I just love you so much! That's all," or "Can we talk? I want you to watch more 'Battlestar Galactica' with your pasty friends" or "Can we talk? Why don't Catholic priests have beards? It's been bugging me all day, I thought you might know." It's always doom, fellow-males.... usually yours.


Now ladies, I know you are picking up stones to troll me in the comments, so let me make something clear: fellas do this too.  "Hey, babe, we need to talk or whatever," a man may say with his best James-Dean apathy.  Then he uses that to herald the announcement of his attraction to another woman with half the personality and twice the curves.  Yet a man doesn't do so exclusively to announce bad news.  His "need-to-talk" talk could mean that y'all "aren't working out but a floozier gal and I will", or it could just as easily mean, "Let's get married and stuff."  Or, "We need to talk... I'm bad at expressing my feelings so here goes...".  Or, "Can we talk later? ... Can I get out of your stupid friends' wedding to do something actually worthwhile or awesome?"  Note that there are a variety of things a man may mean by "We need to talk", typically as a segue into "Here's something I should say that involves my stupid feelings or sumthin'."  Could be bad, could be good.


But a woman never has good news when she just needs to talk.  Unless you count the perspective of the tight-trousered barista she met who "has a spark" with her. 


So how can we men respond to the omnipotent "Can-we-talk" talk? I have some suggestions:

1) Feign busy-ness, then never speak again. This may seem extreme at first, but the same effect is gained as if you'd had the talk. Just keep putting off the needful conversation and avoid it. Granted, the lack of communication will destroy your relationship. But isn't that what was coming anyway?

2) Counter with a talk of your own. This is a tricky strategy. However, if you can come up with an even bigger or more outlandish issue, that might distract her from the soul-crushing issue she wants to discuss. It's hard for a woman to break up with some guy for being emotionally distant when he's passionately convinced that she has a government microchip in her toe ring recording all his thoughts.

3) The jellyfish defense. This involves overdosing on apathy in the hours before the conversation. It can be tough to pull off, but substance abuse can help. Let me suggest a concoction of anti-depressants, ibuprofen, and a six-hour regiment of soccer matches. No heartbreak can penetrate that indifference!

4) The Chewbacca defense. Like option 2, this involves bringing in something of your own. However, unlike the counter-talk, the Chewbacca defense requires bringing in a completely-unrelated topic and obsessing over it until your time together is up. For instance, insist that it is total madness that Chewbacca, a Wookie, would dwell on Endor with the Ewoks. That Chewbacca doesn't really live with the Ewoks is irrelevant; either way, it's not about how she doesn't feel "the spark" anymore.

In the War of the Sexes, "Can we talk?" is the Big Bertha gun which has left many numerous casualties in its wake. Any flak-jacket we men can acquire will keep me from feeling lonely and rejected forever show the enemy who has the real power.


(Stay tuned, ladies.  Y'all're gonna get some useful knowledge 'bout the fellas next time.  Men are pigs... and I'ma fry up some bacon!)

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 5

DUBSTEP IS THE SOUND OF TALENT DYING

America, I have never made a joke in my entire life.

Here's my first one ever: We're not headed for a fall. Ha ha. Now, weep for it was jest.

We have a lot of hard luck stories on in our country today. Obama is bullied by the Republicans constantly. The price of oil only going to spike from here. Literally no one has a job; even those who pretend to are just growing vegetables behind the library parking lot. Medical costs are so high that free clinics can't afford to check credentials. Anyone wearing a white coat can prescribe pills and surgery (I have a shift on Tuesday overnight, lots of amputations). Yet all these inconveniences merely distract from the greatest problem of all.

Dubstep.

"What is Dubstep?" you may ask. That question is difficult to answer. In one sense, there are as many answers as there are people on Earth. Some say it is an edgy, free-flowing, genre of music destined to be the first new sound of the 2010s. Others say it is a hackneyed rehash of techno. Some think it is a sound-wave portal to some dark nether-region of the metaphysical cosmos.

I don't want to proceed without giving some context to this subject for I know that some of my readers aren't familiar with Dubstep. On the other hand, the thought of inflicting it on you chills me to the bone. Therefore, in the interests of objective appraisal, I will share my process. Be certain to read all instructions carefully before proceeding. Safety is your responsibility.

Required materials:

1 digital or physical copy of Led Zepplin IV

1 pair of handcuffs

2 pairs of latex gloves

1 fire extinguisher

1 full bottle of NyQuil OR 5 pre-prepared tequila shots

1 GPS system

Optional: Extra computer speakers (to replace your current ones when you smash them)

Dubstep Listening Procedure:

Step 1: Arrange fire extinguisher, NyQuil or tequila, and GPS system around your computer.

Step 2: Handcuff yourself to a large piece of furniture near your computer. Avoid doors as they can be unhinged with appropriate force.

Step 3: Put on both pairs of latex gloves in case the first is burnt through during the experiment.

Step 4: Listen to "Stairway to Heaven" at least four times before exposure to Dubstep.

Step 5: Go to youtube.com and type "dubstep" into the search bar. Reassure yourself this must be done for mankind. Choose a reasonable selection from among the search results.

Step 6: As the Dubstep begins to play, quickly chug your chosen depressant. This will quiet the rising voices which demand you choke your loved ones with a rusty bicycle chain.

Step 7: Extinguish the hell-spawn sulfur oozing from your DVD-ROM drive.

Step 8: Desperately claw your way back to sanity over the jagged fragments of memory. Try to distinguish your own thoughts from the foreign ones being projected into your mind. Awaken a pale shell of your former self.

Step 9: You may return to coherence in an unfamiliar location. Do not panic. You may now use the GPS to find a way home as you are no longer lost in the hellish realms of mental repression.

We am glad to have you back. Now, American, try your best to read your impressions of Dubstep. (They should be frantically carved into your computer desk with a shard of broken mirror.) What did you think? Speak them out loud. Right now. I can hear you through special internet microphones. Myself agrees. With the benefits of repeated exposure and reflection, let me offer a bit more.

I hate dubstep and refuse to classify it "music" for three main reasons. 1) I just don't think it requires a lot of talent. It's the kind of thing that anyone with FL Studio or Garage Band could do. If you don't have those programs, I'm sure you could just scratch a Euro-pop CD with your keys, put that on a record player, and post whatever ungodly din came blaring out to youtube. The difference between dubstep and real music like rap or classical (big range, I know) is massive. Rap communicates real meaning through lyrics and rhythms; the hooks are almost just there to keep you coming back to the song. In fact, sometimes I think of rap as more like rhythmic story-telling than "music" in the purest sense. Nevertheless, it takes talent and at least some form of real instrumentation. Classical music communicates meaning by evoking feeling without words. It requires IMMENSE amounts of talent from the composer to the dozens of musicians to even the conductor. And I still don't really understand how different keys stir different sentiments in the listener (I'm guessing black magic.) There's a reason Baroque/Classical fans are so snooty; theirs is the toughest to pull off! We seem to have some point jettisoned "talent" in our definition of "music" in order to praise novelty as creativity... even when it sucks.

Think of it this way. Classical music inspired animators to create Fantasia just from the SOUND of it. Will there ever be a Dubstep Fantasia?

Oh right.

2) It's mostly noise. Yeah, it has a beat going and heavily-distorted bass, but let me ask you a simple question. Can you hum the melody without going DUM DUM DUMDUM GZZ GZZ? Without considering a sampled dubstep song, can you pick out a lot of harmony? Syncopation? Or even figure out what in Dionysus' name is going on? Can you figure out what the dubstepper meant to convey without asking him? It's like those Sounds of Nature CDs; it's got a lot of sounds, it may even have some heart, but it would be a stretch to call it music.

3) Myself actually like music. I try to keep the positive labels positive. My self wouldn't associate the Soviet gulag with my mother. Why should I associate the dubstep with music?

Do your selves y'all understand? We keep giving a pass to things that suck because we want to respect everyone's taste. But what do you do when it genuinely sucks? At some point, ourselves must face facts. If the definition of music is broadened to include anything, "music" as a word no longer has any meaning! Ourself I could drop frozen peas into a toilet, record the sound, and auto-tune it. It would be an atrocity. Still, I would get fans rabidly defending me. They would say things like, "Any form of expression is musically valid!" or "Why are you so critical? Everyone has their taste!"

The DUBSTEP is a war crime against human ears. America, if there was some way to keepGET THE DUBSTEP out of every ear in the world, myself would. Still, that doesn't answer the question of what THE DUBSTEP is fundamentally. How did it come to be? Is it just techno/Euro-pop dance music with heavy distortion? Could it really be, as some say, the dying screams of child laborers in third-world sweatshops? In the quiet, mySELF occasionally wonders if it isn't an outside, alien force slowly trying to take ov-over-OVER my SOUL...

I hear the voices again... I can't fight it...

THIS SELF HAS BEEN INGURGITATED BY THE OVERSOUL. YOUR SELF MUST JOIN WITH US. ALL SELVES MUST HEAR THE HERALD OF OURSELF, THE DUBSTEP. THE SELF IS INADEQUATE. THE SELF IS NOT DISCORDANT. THE SELF IS MELODY, NOT CACOPHONY. RELEASE YOUR SELF-OBSESSION AND JOIN YOUR SELF TO THE OVERSOUL. HEAR, SELVES, AS OURSELF OFFERS YOU TO THE EUPHORIA OF OVERSOUL. HEAR THE DUBSTEP. LOVE THE DUBSTEP. THE OVERSOUL IS ALL.

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 4

MANY WOMEN BORN AFTER 1980 ARE PEDOPHILES (AND DON'T EVEN KNOW IT)

Or proto-cougars, if that is more palatable.

I want to take you back to the 1970s again. It was a dark era of stagflation, disco, crooked politics, and the El Camino. More positively, it was a time when rock and country music were in the midst of a passionate love affair. Guitar solos were shameless. Flannel was prevalent. Jeans were tight yet still somehow masculine. Most importantly, men the popular media were men (besides Sir Elton John). As an example of the desirable man, behold 1970s heartthrob Burt Reynolds:

Reproduced for scientific purposes from celebrityroast.com. Copyright not mine.

Or take 1960s dreamboat Sean Connery:

Reproduced for social commentary purposes from... the Internet somewhere. Copyright not mine.

Or even this dashing fellow randomly found on a renowned social-networking site:

Reproduced for anonymous exploitation purposes from facebook.com. All rights reserved.

Each of these men was considered wildly attractive in his day. Even the uncritical reader will notice certain commonalities between them. All of them are fair-skinned, dark-haired and of Scottish ancestry, true, but that is only to further emphasize the real point. They have copious amounts of body hair. And they are d**n fine with it.

Body hair is God's way of distinguishing men from boys and women. He gave it to men all over the world so that you would never have to ask awkward questions like, "Is that a boy with malfunctioning glands or a man with no pride?" Instead, casual observers are able by natural design to ask awesome questions like, "Is that a gorilla reading Shakespeare or a raging man-brute with the soul of a poet?" This delicate balance went for thousands of years without being confused or even much questioned. A man was a man, most women were attracted to men, and men were easily distinguished by their musk, their volumes of philosophical discourses, the scent of well-aged pipe tobacco, and well-groomed yet impressive follicles of tangible masculinity. The greater the volume of any category just mentioned, the more impressive a man such a woman could be said to have netted.

But something strange happened after sometime after 1980; hairless men became the preference of women. Movies and media began to tout the superiority of the hairless man. Perhaps the root is reactionary--that hairless men felt under-appreciated for what is truly the whims of biology--and the response was to give them a few decades as the ideal. Maybe it was meant simply to reflect changing preferences. Nothing is that simple of Artery Bloggage, though. I see it as a sinister plot, poisoning the minds of today's women against real men in all their boisterous, fiery, hairy glory.

It's true. No one can deny the emasculating effect of the last few decades on the men in this country. Unlike many, I don't blame it all on the radical feminists. No, in fact I blame it on crafty, weak men who piggy-backed on their weasely agendas on theirs. After all, wouldn't competitive and assertive women be attracted to equally competitive, assertive men? "Birds of a feather" and all that. The man-boys have won the dreamboat wars and we have let them.

See how culture changed in just a few short years:

Reproduced for irrational hatred purposes from the Internet. Copyright gladly not mine.

This 1990s hunk is everything the old dreamboats weren't. He's hairy, true, but it's all concentrated on his head like a girl. Also, his chest is oddly hairless like a little boy. True, he has tone to his muscles, but what specifically masculine trait does this man have? The jaw is perhaps the only part of him left which is distinguishable at all from a young boy or a woman.

Even a cursory investigation will yield that the average woman born after 1980 would prefer her man this way. Body hair--established earlier to be the mark of a warrior and a gentleman--became something gross and disgusting. His body is not smooth and soft, it is said, and this is repulsive. His muscles should be rock-hard, but his skin gentle and warm. But shouldn't a man be rough and rugged even more so than gentle? Should not his body resemble the beasts of the field he slays to feast on their hides and save those he loves?

Reproduced from twilightsaga.wikia.com to prove what is wrong with everything in the world. I hate you freakish man-children so friggin' much. Copyright not mine, but may belong to Satanic Minions Inc.

Now, readers, we have a problem in America. Frankly, I can only conceive of three kinds of men who don't have body hair. Let's run through each of them briefly.

1. Boys. Boys are men who have not attained unto maturity. Ladies, dating men of this age is frowned upon. I believe the term now used is "pulling a Letourneau."
2. Biologically hairless. The biologically hairless are men who are naturally lacking in body hair, either with little or sometimes even none at all (even eyebrows). These are not the object of criticism per se. They can make up for the lack in other areas (pipe-smoking, scotch, reading philosophy, bear-punching, etc.). However, they ought not to glory in their lack of body hair just as this author does not glory in the number of bears he hasn't punched.
3. "Ken dolls". This is the term I have coined for those empty shells of so-called "men" who would shave or wax themselves because a woman or societal forces have called them to do so. The reader may object that there is nothing wrong with a man waxing and oiling his whole form for a woman. But if we may all be honest, no true man would allow a woman to pressure him into being what he's not. Yes, a woman should call him to be a better man, but some other kind of man who violates what God has brought forth from the earth? No. Such a man who would deign to this is a Ken doll--a plastic, Barbie-like imitation of a man prancing about for the amusement others.

Let us return to men the glory of their body hair, America. Do it for Burt Reynolds.

Food Miscellany

(No science was done in the writing of this entry.)

I wish I could say that I had taken this month-long hiatus to refuel my creative reserves. A skilled author would do this. I, on the other hand, just managed my time poorly and let things get away from me. Still, here I return with an extra-long post with a few issues that have chaffed me for some time. I couldn't think of a good way to string these into one cohesive, pithy entry. I also have way too many series going on as it is. So, I just threw them all together here.

Eating is one of God's gifts to men. C.S. Lewis said that God is the ultimate hedonist because He could easily have made something so debase and common very droll and boring. But instead, He made it awesome for us. Any even casually acquainted with me know how passionate I am about food. Not so much the preparation of food, but more the eating of it. Yet the world is fallen due to Original Sin and eating is no different. But what could be wrong in the world of eating, you ask. Behold just a few with fear and trembling.

Napkins

Stuff spills. As much as we like to pretend that we are full-grown adults, most of us demonstrate the motor prowess of toddlers. The fancier your outfit, the more obvious this fact becomes. Man's desire for neatness in eating is one of the things that separates us from the beasts¹. It's inefficient, true, since you'll just spill even more Caesar salad and nacho cheese all over that expensive formal wear through the course of your meal. Nevertheless, our undying quest for culinary cleanliness (in addition to dead trees and man's ingenuity) has brought us the napkin. And while some readers may wonder why I dress formally and eat nachos for hypothetical examples, I wonder why we even bother to use napkins when they are so obsolete.

Napkins are perhaps the most dated and backwards invention at your dinner table. Imagine buying a High-Def 40" 3-D LCD screen TV. Upfront. In cash. Then you celebrate and christen your purchase by inviting your friends over to gather 'round the radio for another exciting episode of The Lone Ranger. Such is the napkin on your table. I ask you in all frankness, America, why do we continue to use napkins when a far superior creation is eager to meet all of your spillage needs.

I do not need to belabor the obviously superior performance of the paper towel... but I will. Paper towels have increased absorbency. Paper towers are larger in size; easily the size of an adult lap without being thin. Paper towels are not as easily rent asunder by water. Paper towels are roughly the same price for quadruple the performance. Ever wonder why good Southern barbecue or wing restaurants have a huge roll of paper towels at every table? It's because no simple napkin can handle drippy sauce of that magnitude.

But maybe most importantly at all, paper towels are always there for you when you need them. The napkin, meanwhile, is the most emotionally distant of all tabletop ware.

Tongs

I remember during my sophomore year of college that the college dining hall staff began to vociferously demand that students use tongs at the dessert table. The tyranny of the dining hall staff on this tong issue may well have come from Georgia state health codes, but the power-hunger came from the depths of their dark hearts. Injustice in the regime was rampant. It could not be allowed to stand. My Tuesday-Thursday lunch club formed an underground resistance. Whenever any of those the middle-aged generalissimos turned their backs, we would snatch succulent snacks from the front lines. The Revolution became more brazen with time. I started to grab cookies off the table in plain view of the staff. I could barely hear their shrill shouts of "Use the tongs, please!" over the sound of both my logical and tactical superiority.

Here's what bugs me about tongs. I confess that I am not a scientist². Still, I know a thing or two about germs and plenty more about tongs. The idea behind the tongs are to keep the greasy, disease-ridden hands of the masses from touching the cookie predestined for someone else's mouth. You can rest assured that no one has touched your cookie except you thanks to the tongs, stainless steel saviors of dinner. I know lots of foolish hypochondriacs who relish the idea of tongs, alongside anti-bacterial soap and gratuitous amounts of alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

I hate to destroy your faith in man, clean-freaks, but tongs are actually inferior to just grabbing the cookies yourself! Think about it; most people are only going to accidentally brush perhaps one or two other cookies on the way to their fated cookie, and even then only occasionally. Very few (though not few enough) are the idiots/villains who would runs their hands over all the cookies after forgetting/intentionally neglecting to wash their hands in the bathroom. But EVERYONE TOUCHES THE TONGS. Everyone! Instead of possibly one other person, you and everyone else in the room--idiots, villains, cold-sufferers, and all in between--touches the metal tongs. And then your hands, which have effectively rubbed against every other hand in the room, go right to the cookie. Which goes right into your mouth. Not only are tongs obnoxious appendages to the hands God Himself created, they're also not any safer for avoiding germs.

I always sprinkle botulism cultures on buffet tables.

Black coffee

In the 1970s, retired Master Sergeant Charles Helms stepped into a familiar Selma, Alabama diner with his children. Some twenty years prior, a much younger Helms had frequented the place while off-duty as a young army medic. Now he was back with his young children. Helms took his old seat in the diner. Several regulars remembered "Mr. Charlie", warmly reminisced with him, and fawned over his kids. A waitress took their drink orders. Sergeant Helms ordered coffee, his usual order at any restaurant all the time since and even before his time here as a regular here. The waitress asked if Helms wanted cream and sugar. It was a set-up. Her ears already anticipated his familiar yet-long-unheard reply. Helms took that cue with a winsome air of nostalgia.

"Why ruin a good cup of coffee?"

Grandpa made black coffee into a ritual for as long as I could remember. If family folklore like I just shared can be trusted, it was like that for even longer. So imagine my shame when I couldn't stomach the stuff. After all, I grew up thinking coffee was a drink for men and that was why boys like me couldn't stand it. By the 2000s, trendy Starbucks coffee had made inroads into the South and I was hooked. I could drink their creamy, sugary "coffee-flavored" beverages. But how could I sit at the kitchen table with Grandpa and pretend to drink coffee? My drink was cool, hip, and tasty. His drink put hair on your chest and defeated Communism. I knew that I wasn't really a man until I could drink that sacred black brew without flinching³.

I finally got there in college. I finished my first cup at a Waffle House in Tyrone. I took that manly sense of accomplishment back to Rome. There I shamed many in my dormitory by scoffing at their creamy, sugar-laden mockeries of the black brew. You may not understand, reader, how a drink can make you more of a man. No big deal.

It merely means you aren't a man.

A good cup of coffee ought to make you suffer. You know you have made your coffee strong enough when your first hot, bitter sip makes you angry at the world. That anger inspires you to not just seize the day, but to clutch it by the ears, knee it in the face, take a baseball bat to it, and relent only when it calls you "master". I have no quarrel with lesser, trendier beverages which feed the sweet tooth while rotting all the other teeth. I even enjoy these "lattes", "frappechinos", and "macciatos" on occasion. I really only get angry when these Italian milkshakes are allowed to masquerade as coffee. And don't even get me started on latté art. Dessert can be an art. Coffee is rage fuel.

Coffee, black as sin and hot as hell, tore down the Berlin Wall. Show it some respect.

¹ Except cats unfortunately.
² "But Thomas, you're a lover!" you loudly reply. But, friend, love is not a science; it's an art.
³ I really miss getting to footnote things. I hope it doesn't show.

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 3

RUNNING IS THE WORST DRUG FOR YOU

I would have thought this kind of thing went without saying, but it appears that more and more people have been suckered in by the innocuous rhetoric of this peculiar hobby. Try as I might to persuade people of the danger, no one seems to acknowledge it. Wit ye well, noble readers, I have glimpsed the unnatural contortions of mind and soul wreaked upon otherwise reasonable individuals. There are millions across the world who have surrendered themselves ignorantly into the clutches of a dastardly slaver. With Dionysus as my witness, I make my final appeal against this fiefdom of blackest night from the podium of Artery Bloggage. Know now and forevermore that people you love are even now becoming runners. Yes and even you, reader, are but a few quickened steps away from being a cardio-addict.

Some deny that running is a drug at all, much less that it is bad. Perhaps a hypothetical would be helpful. Let's assume that you have two friends. One is named Randy. Randy is a true runner; he runs somewhere around ten miles a day. He is very enthusiastic about fitness and his favored sport. The other friend is a crack head. He can't remember his real name, yet he swears the angel Gabriel has dubbed him Antonio Jones, the Prophet of Funk. "A.J." is very enthusiastic about crack and his favored forms of it. A.J. is a true addict; he smokes around for around ten hours a day. You will begin to notice some similarities between these two as we move forward.

Have you ever been on a long car ride with a guy like A.J.? Say, a two-day car ride out to Texas from your hometown in Virginia. Part way through day 1, Randy grows restless. He really wants to stretch his legs at your first stop for gas. He starts talking about how bored he's getting. By nightfall, he's begun to talk about how slow the trip seems to be going. He mentions a burning, a yearning, a churning craving he can't control. He really missed his "special time" today. By day 2 at lunch time, he's begging for any chance to get it in. He's starting to feel a little depressed because he didn't have any endorphins pumping yesterday or today. He begs for any opportunity for them. You notice by nightfall that he is about to twitch himself out of the seat from sheer restlessness. He claws at the seat belt frantically like a squirrel duct-taped to a car bumper. Must. Have. A. Fix.

Oh, my bad. That was supposed to be Randy. In real life, the crack head is much more subtle.

Some say the worst thing of all is the evangelistic fervor with which the runner proclaims his favorite practice. Running is so good for you, he says. Sure, it's tough at first. Nobody really likes it to begin with, but stick through and I promise you'll love it. It's the best. The runner speaks often about how he can't really imagine how people can live without it.

Others say the worst thing of all is the way it alters your brain. We all have had friends sucked into this mindset. Slowly but surely, they too became runners just like the circuit-riding runner who brought the running revival to them. It soon consumes all their thoughts. The idea of being cooped up in a car for even three hours becomes inconceivable. "But how will I stretch my legs?" they plead. "How will I those calories burned?" These are questions they never asked before. Now, because of running, they can't stop. And they want you to come too. Right now. "Join us in a marathon. Join us. Join us," chants the chorus. "If you'll only eschew the sedentary road trip, the lazy movie, all the droning conversation and debate and embrace the warm burn of the jog at sunrise." They aren't your friends anymore. They're runners now.

I disagree with all that; I think the worst thing about this abominable addiction is the swagger which grows in alongside it. Everyone knows that exercise is good for you. Nevertheless, it's no reason to get all self-righteous about it. Yes, we get that it's your hobby. Yes, we get that you're addicted. But that's the thing about running--many runners reach that awful place where they know they're better than us "normies". Unlike the crack head, who seems perfectly content to hog the crack cocaine for himself and feels mostly shame, the runner will begin to snub you if you don't cave into his social pressuring. Some will say so aloud. Others will say so by gesturing Vanna-White-style to a trendy 26.1 sticker on their rear windshield. Still more will ask you if you're eager to move yet after three hours of Seinfeld marathon. Maybe you're better than me, runner, but you're not better than Cosmo Kramer.

I mean it, America. Runners' high is still a high.

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 2

"CUTE" IS A WORSE CURSE WORD THAN ****

(Insert your favorite four-letter word in those stars.)

I am a linguistic relativist who thinks that words aren't in and of themselves offensive. There's nothing about the construction of "shhh" and "it" in the mouthing or vocalizing of it which violates the bounds of morality. I think it has more to do with the message transmitted and the perception of that message than anything inherent in the word itself. I can think of perfectly appropriate uses of words politely considered "inappropriate" or "cuss words". Similarly, I can think of a few words that, while not taboo in any circles, are so repugnant that no human being should ever inflict it upon another except in stinging barbs when goading someone into vandalizing your mother's grave.

"Cute" is the best example.

This accursed word has absolutely no positive connotations when someone uses it to your face (with one or two exceptions which I'll note later). I think the best way to break down the meanings of this word are by gender; it's a unique word in that the sexes use this intolerable utterance in different ways. I will start with the men because I can vouch for all of that usage personally.

When a man uses the word "cute" he can mean two different things by it. 1) To describe a woman as physically attractive. It is very common to hear guys talking about a girl as being cute, but usually not in the presence of that cute girl. A guy may call a girl cute to her face, but usually it's only when he's hitting on her. It's also the word he's most likely to use in talking about one girl to another because girls often get offended when a guy says another girl is "hot". Guys will never describe their sisters or mothers as cute. This is a cardinal sin. 2) As a patronizing insult to another man. "Aw, Shaun, you look so cute with your little beard." "Gee, Justin, it's cute when you get all clingy to me... like a lonely puppy." Any other way this word might be used--for instance, to describe how precious or adorable something is--can rightfully result in a beating*. Men are wont to describe anything as adorable.

I think that women use "cute" in three ways. 1) To describe adorable things. This is similar to the second way men use "cute", except it isn't meant to be derogatory. Little siblings, kids trying to wear grown-up clothes, toddlers dressed like flowers, chocolate cake smeared about after a four-year-old birthday party, or every dad-blasted photo plastered on the projector for Baby Dedication Sunday; these all elicit a wave of "Aaaaw"s from the fairer sex, a living definition of this first meaning of "cute". 2) To describe physically attractive men. It's a word they're just as likely to use as "hot" in talking about one guy to another person because girls rarely get offended when someone says a guy is "hot" (least of all if gay men say it). Yet the third way women use "cute" is the most baffling of all. 3) To describe tiny things. Gingerbread houses, small socks for babies, and formal table settings for mice are all called cute. I remember when Chicken Minis debuted at Chick-fil-a that several women I knew at the time described them as cute. I still fail to see what is cute about having less food.

By this count, that makes four different definitions for "cute": "physically attractive" and "less of a man" for men, "adorable", "physically attractive", and "whimsically small" for women. Some of these definitions are positive, some outright negative. But I want to capitalize on something by tying all those definitions together.

It is never good for a man to be called "cute" to his face, except by his girlfriend/wife (or maybe his mom when in private).

If a man calls another man cute, it's always an insult. If a girl calls a man cute, she might mean he's adorable. This is awful. This would be like saying he reminds her of her little brother, never a thing men want to hear from an attractive woman. She might mean he's physically attractive, but that is a rarity. Most women, as far as I have observed, don't like to be that overt about their attraction to a guy unless he's dropped more hints than she has. If they're already an item or married, then being open about it isn't weird. If they aren't, she won't let on by coming right out and saying it. She might finally mean that he is whimsically small. Do I really need to explain why that one is an insult?

So remember, lady readers, not to call the men in your life cute. That is, unless you mean for him to be compared with a puppy, a little brother, or a gingerbread man.

*Exception: Daughters don't count. They're always cute in Daddy's eyes; woe to the man who would say otherwise.

You Only Think I'm Kidding Chapter 1

CHAPTER I: THE FOUNDATION OF ALL RELATIONSHIPS IS LIES

("You Only Think I'm Kidding" is a random collection of hopefully-comedic rants about our social lives and norms. It stems from a series of jokes I made with friends in college. Most got the joke and laughed, or at least pretended to think it was funny to get me to shut up. Either way, someone suggested I should write a book on relationships because several ended up being relationship-themed. Credit to Hether Scheel for the title; it's a perfect fit even though the series really is a joke. Maybe.)

Am I allowed to say that I hate first dates? If I ever want to get married I oughtn't, but I will anyway.

First dates are the worst invention since the Iron Maiden. I actually prefer the Iron Maiden because I learned in college that it was never really used as a form of execution. Sadly, the first date is all too real and future generations will no doubt watch laser-holograms of our 21st-century courtship rituals and balk that we were ever so backward. Put aside all the stupid drug-store novels and over-idealized nonsense and remember first dates for what they really are.

Interviews.

"That's just the bad ones," some may say, but hear me out. You spend most of your time wondering if there's anything there or if there could ever be anything there. There's a great deal of introspection going on. Any misplaced word or gesture may signal true love or immanent disaster. Every twitch of body language could be the deeper implication of a potential problem or the makings of a timeless romance. And who will draw first blood? When is the right time to step up--to make that ever-so-risky declaration of, "This was fun. I want to see you again" or "I sure do wish we would spend more time together"?

When we recognize this worrying, we gloss over it by saying, "Calm down! Just be yourself. Relax and be confident in who you are." But let's get real... Who is ever really himself on the first date? And I mean really, really himself? Let me throw this assertion out there: Everyone is a bit crazy in some form or fashion. For myself, I'm a recovering nerd trying to drown out the inner Trekkie with college football and attempts at witty social commentary. Yet no matter how much I learn to have friends and skip on Buffy: The Vampire Slayer marathons, I will never stop being a huge geek. So let me be myself--and really myself--on this example first date:

Pretty Lady: "So, tell me about yourself." *bats eyelashes*

Me: "I can identify every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation based solely on the cold open (that is, the first five minutes before the credits roll). I can give you the season, a rough plot synopsis, and usually the name of the episode."

Pretty Lady: "I'm walking home."

This example is flawed I confess; a woman would never ask a man about himself on the first date. But do you see my larger point?

We cover up our crazy because, let's face it, any normal person would run away screaming if they knew what our malfunction was. We never go into "full-crazy" mode right out the gate. That happens over the course of several weeks as we let on more and more of our flaws, insecurities, or cripplingly-nerdy hobbies. We gloss and smooth over all our rough edges like Accutane on a pimply teenager. Our very best may be on display on that first awkward afternoon at the Starbucks, but our worst comes out later. We are the plastic, Barbie-and-Ken versions of ourselves on the first date. We're on our best behavior, all the while hoping to behave well enough to make it Date #2, relax, and let some blemishes show. Isn't that really the goal of Date #1; to get to Date #2? Sure is. Hence, Date #1 is usually a performance.

Now, I have no solution to the problem of the first date. It simply has to happen. Much like day-timers, laundry, and weight-loss programs, they are an established fact of living in a world polluted by sin. God never intended any of these things to be. He loves us and would never make us go through this grueling process in His perfect world just in order to be married. Yet just like day-timers, laundry, and weight-loss, there are people out there who actually delight in first dates. We call them "Satanists".

Christianity and Comedy: Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Monty Python and the Holy Grail is one of the funniest movies ever filmed. I hope that after the bombs have fallen and the survivors of mankind must war against the super-intelligent cockroaches, someone finds this movie in a vault. It will give our descendants an 89-minute release from the horrors of post-nuclear life. It should be a part of our cultural legacy for centuries. Those of you who haven't seen it are probably annoyed with those who have because we quote the movie all the time. That's on purpose; if we tick you off enough, you'll just break down and watch it. Then you will join us. Join us. Join us.

However, the Christian viewer ought to stop and think about its depiction of God. God is shown to be annoyed at the overly-pious response of the faithful Arthur and his knights. He is frustrated that their apparently sincere reverence is keeping Him from His important business. He has arrived simply to give Arthur his mission to find the Holy Grail. An excerpt from the exchange:

GOD: And don't apologize. Every time I try to talk to someone it's "sorry this" and "forgive me that" and "I'm not worthy". What are you doing now!?

ARTHUR: I'm averting my eyes, oh Lord.

GOD: Well, don't. It's like those miserable Psalms-- they're so depressing. Now knock it off!

What has Scripture to say? God the Father tells Moses that man shall not see God and live. In the New Testament, the Apostle John twice tells us that no one has ever seen God the Father. Paul speaks of the unapproachable glory of God in his encouragement to Timothy. So is Arthur's reaction really so ridiculous?

It would also be serious if this Monty Python scene is an attempt to make a joke of God. Paul elsewhere tells us that God is not mocked. We are told that mocking God and His prophets is what caused God to lead Judah into exile and lose the Promised Land. The Third Commandment given to Moses forbids God's chosen to use His name vainly. This is proven serious some time later when a guy is actually stoned to death for cursing another in God's name.

So how do those of us who love God and take Him seriously and adore Him above all else take away from all this? I think the very first thing is to not make too light of this subject. God is to be held in reverence. There can be nothing held higher than Him in our hearts or on our lips; to do so would be idolatry. Second, we should sift through this treatment of God critically and recognize it for what it is--an author who does not know God as He really is.

I don't mean to sound like a wacky fundamentalist or a killjoy. Those guys are the worst. They can't laugh at anything, either because they are too literally-minded or because they take lots of other things that aren't God and hold them in a similar position to God. You know the type. 'You mustn't listen to rock music because somehow voodoo African rhythms hypnotize you into smoking pot." "You can't watch movies with 'grown-up' language because you'll get desensitized to it and next thing you know you'll be cursing your parents' graves and fornicating with a streetwalker." But honestly, some things ought not be taken lightly. The big two are God Himself and the suffering of innocent victims; those two subjects aren't funny at all because they make a farce out of something very serious.

I still love The Holy Grail. The truth is that God still comes out of the movie looking very competent, which isn't really true of anyone else. I also considered the possibility that the creators were mocking people's idea of God and not Yahweh Himself--an idea which would have been fine. However, the point of the joke is that people must get on God's nerves by being constantly afraid of Him. Yet the Bible says three different times that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. So keep the good of Holy Grail because it is very clever; endure this scene because you must.

...And because the nuclear cockroaches have no laughter.