Confessions of a Starving Artist

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”  - Sun Tzu

I’m getting older.  I did not say that I was ‘old’, but just that I was getting ‘older’.  I (and I dare say, “we”) were warned full well ahead of time that this would happen; our views on things would change as would our priorities.  I (we) balked at this because we thought that it would also mean a change in values and goals, but I’ve come to figure out, as we all have or will, that these are all inheriently different and tangible aspects of ourselves.  To be a bit more clear, I’m the same cat that walked onto Xavier’s campus in the late summer of ‘98, and while I still hold the same things dear and have the same over arching destinations in mind, things have become clearer and some of the assumptions that I may have taken for fact have fallen to the wayside as triva rather than truth.

What I’m trying to say is that I think that I’ve got women pegged; at least in the initial phases of dating.  There are three phases to a relationship, I think.  Phase one is what I call “the honeymoon”, which is that initial blissful bullshit first couple of weeks where the sex is really good, the time you spent together is a comprehensive show-and-tell of each others lives up to the point you rang each other’s bell, and when you’re apart, you think of the things you can do when you are together again.  Phase three is what I call “the steady” which is that point where you really don’t look at anyone else anymore (other than maybe I sideward glance at dinner… hey, we’re men, its just our nature, and the waitress dress like that for tips on purpose) because we realize that deep-down we are with someone who is all that we really want and need.  Phase two is what I call “a mystery” because I really have no idea how to get to phase three.  Those girls that have somehow bridged that gap, have done so completely without my conscience’s knowledge, and I honestly review those situations near weekly to try and figure out just when I was asleep at the wheel.  Sorry boys, I can’t be more help here.

So yeah, how does this mean that I have women pegged?  I’ll explain.  Now before all you split-tailed readers out there roll your eyes at me and go check out what is happening over on youtube.com, let me first say that I have vetted this line of thought with several of my trusted female friends, and it has on each account it passed the bullshit test with flying colors, further, it was of interest to them, so stay with me a minute.  Just because I don’t know all that much about phases two and three doesn’t mean that I don’t know a great deal about phase one.  To go into all of the minutia that I feel that I’m a resident expert (and I say that tongue and cheek… more tongue than cheek), I am going to preface this little piece of wisdom by saying that it is just that, a little piece.  This is not the whole gospel, rather it is just a psalm. 

And actually, this applies more to the ladies rather than the gentlemen.  Because men, I’ve found, by and large, have this nugget o’ knowledge already in their nugget.  A good jump off point is the female theory that men only want sex.  Ladies, for once, you’re correct.  I’m not conceeding that this is all that we want, but in the short term, yeah, you pretty much got it.  Some of you will think that’s all your need to know, and you’d be wrong… wrong with your legs in the air on most occations, I’d wager.  Some of you try and play it off by saying, “well shit, that’s all we want too - you ain’t all that, player?!”  Those women, which are in the current slang referred to as “bitches”, are also hypocrates, because as I will soon point out, a man is quiet content to have sex without a meaningful relationship for an indefinate period of time.  A woman is not as detached as she might say she is.  After a month or two, sex certain questions and demeanors will start coming up that will ruin everything within the delicate balance that the man had so carefully constructed.  You know this to be true, ladies, so don’t lay none of that boogie-woogie on the guttersnake.

Here’s why we are only interested in sex, and pay attention because this is the lesson!  Imagine that there is a scale from one to one hundred with one being complete-stanger-whom-I-will-not-give-so-much-as-a-light-to-their-cigarette, and one hundred being partener-whom-I-can-see-happily-growning-old-with.  Now, when a man approaches a woman at bar or library or public restroom, he knows that he starts at zero and he must quickly work his way up or shut up.  With various amounts of skill, the man, by words, actions, or a combination of both begins to gain ‘points’ on the scale to work his networth up to a desired break point.  What break point is that?  Well, madam, that is the measure on the scale where the woman says, you know, I’d sleep with this man.  When the man gets to this point in all certainity, that is to say he has slept with the woman, he’s done giving up any points.  Let us say for the sake of a model that break point is twenty-five points for the average woman.  Sure, some men will have to work up to as much as forty or so points because they stop attempting to acquire them, but that is only because they weren’t sure that they had hit that first break point yet; certainty is always da’ booty.  Doesn’t matter, the take-away is the same: all points after the men are having sex are only given up in two ways; dumb-luck or female driven circumstances.  Either way, it’s only in rare occations that the male will push his way into the second break point which is the dating break point, often existing right around fifty points.  After that, ladies, all else points that you get are completely on you.  This is VERY important, but I will discuss this later… 

As an important side note, I realise that no two women have the same break points.  some have third and forth for levels of seriousness in dating.  Some of you may have your first break point set at sixty or some other ludicrous number.  Hey, it’s your libido’s funeral.  Remember girls, sex is a matter of economics nowadays.  Truly, I think it’s unfortunate, but it is.  Its a simple matter of supply and demand.  If supply is up and demand is the same, the cost is low.  So if your happy-ass is changing $12.95 for chicklets, don’t be shocked when you get a dumb motherfucker licking your ass pipe, okay?  You kinda earned that one, dearie.

Is everyone tracking on lesson one?  Really, some no brainer stuff.  Women know this because it’s true, and it’s how they operate.  Men know this, because we have to in order to get laided; or at least, we need a routamentary understanding of the scale, the game, or whatever.  But ladies, here is what you don’t know.  For men, the scale works in the opposite direction!

Listen carefully, it will explain much of what you are your single friends have been discussing, perhaps poorly theorizing, over Krispy-Kreams at four a.m. on Saturday nights gone askew.  When a men approaches a women, that woman unconditionally starts with a hundred points.  Men a very optomistic creatures as well as positive-minded in the dating scene.  When we decide to come and talk to you we are fundamentally hoping, nay, stupidly assuming, that you are going to be Venus incarnate.  Physically, you’re there, and trust me when I speak  for 99.7% of men when I say they we would not be talking to you if you did not satisfy all or at least the vast majority of our physical prerequisites.  …pause.

Really quick, what we’re going to talk about is the rational of the question, “what is your type?”  First off, this is a dumb question to the more mature man.  By mature, I don’t necessarially mean older, but I mean more connoisseur-oriented.  Sure, some men are leg-men and some are ass-men, but this is base.  Most of the time, this type of thought feeds the theoritical minded person who has never trully attempt to ‘get to know’ someone of other catagory, whether it be of own free will or mass alcohol consumption.  But I get off the point.  I’ll leave you with this - ‘types’ are for fags; no excuses, play like a champion.  …. unpause….

…where was I?  Oh yes.  So you’re at one hundred points.  Now what happens is that with various amounts of skill, the woman, by words, actions, or a combination of both, you have the potiential to lose points.  Please understand that just because you spoke you didn’t lose points, that’s kind of chauvinistic; but you are not really rewarded for saying the right thing initially as muc as you are docked when you say the wrong thing initially.  For example if you come right out and say that you love getting spanked, you’re not going to jump up to one hundred and seven points (scale only goes to one hundred, duh), but if you say that you really can’t stand the type of beer that the man is drinking you could find yourself as low as eighty points in hurry, depending upon the gentleman’s affinity for the drink you may have just insulted. 

This might seem like something that doesn’t have any bearing on picking up/being picked up, much less on the long term, but trust me it does when you start taking into account the breaking points.  If you are using the scale backwards as men do, the second breaking point is something that you hit first as a man.  That means when the woman says or does enough stupid shit, whether it is in the first week or the night, and the scale dips below the second break point, the man says, “man, I just can’t stand to hang out with this bitch… but I’d still fuck her.”  Is it getting any clearer to you, girls?

More interesting and perhaps insightful is this!  Men’s second break point is usually much higher (or in effect, lower) than a woman’s, often right around seventy-five points, which means that you have significately less leaway then you think.  If you find yourself undatable, you probably had something to do with it, so doen’t get mad at your boy (that’s just my opinion, but you do what you like).  Also interesting is that the man’s first break point is much lower (or in effect higher) than a woman’s, often right around ten or fiften points.  So that gray area of ‘yeah, I’d fuck her’, is huge!  More interesting still is that if you can maintain yourself in that top seventy-five points area, there is a myriad of break points in the upper echolons that is completely individual and intricate (and often theoretical) to each man, mostly because few ever venture there for very long.  So be warned.

Alibis.  First to the ladies: I will allow that there are some men who will be so smitten with your foolish asses that they will willing work for points until you stop allowing it at which point the scale takes a whole different dymanic that I will not bother to got into at this juncture.  Nonetheless, be sure that such cases exist.  Those cases include True Love, Heavy Drug-Based Relationships, and Stalkers.  So enjoy those.  Also, just because you’ve lost points on the men’s scale does not mean that they can not be re-won.  Men, appart from our optomism, are generally dumb creatures who can be easily tricked by stroking our pride or penis, and the degree by which you rise on the scale is directly proportional your ability to raise the our… well, you understand.  Don’t think this makes you better ladies, your equally dumb as well; you’re just hypnotized by shiny objects rather than sexual positions.

Lastly, these scales do not run in tandium, but rather concurrently.  That is to say, that just because one party gains a point, the other does not lose a point.  Actually, the way the scales should look for both parties at the end of the night for both man and woman to walk away feeling a winner is the man should have broken the first break point with a descent point total of near thrity-five (good measure never hurt), and the female should not have dipped below ninety at the absolute worst.  Metaphors and numbers aside, the most sure-fire way for this to come about is the man must be able to talk in a confident, funny, and caring/endearing manner at length, if neccessary, about himself, the world at large, and the woman he is trying to woo.  He must be careful how to spin all that he admits about his opinions, observations, and himself as he has no choice but to offer out said informations; the bulk of the conversation lies upon him!  Remember, he’s the one that has to break points, if you well.

Not her.  Ladies, you will be asked questions by the man.  Answer them however you like, but here’s a warning: don’t be to eager to see if he’s a good listener just yet.  Trust me, at this point, he is listening probably better than he every will.  If you start throwing out shit about yourself, just realize that everything that you say is a potiental for you to quickly descent into the realm where he will not call you later.  Answer truthfully, but let him and the conversation roll on, don’t make it yours.  Rather make him earn his points.  He is very aware that’s what he has to do.  Once you have your points solidly formed in that upper bracket (and they will solidify as well ours), then you can start talking about yourself with relative safety.  Believe it or not, that’s when we want to hear about what a full-of-surprises girl we picked for ourselves.  Hell, you might ever create a new break point for the poor boy!

Before signing off, I’ll give a personal opinion as all of the above is fact.  As noted, once the man has reached that first break point regardless of where you at on your scale ladies, our efforts to effect scale-change is dramatically demotivated and reduced.  Again, as noted above, all real scale-change on both male and female scales falls on the woman or on dumb-luck.  This may seem unfair to the ladies, but as a retort, I offer this, in the history of all your prior boy friends, who made the majority of the effort during that first date, first week, first month?  We did.  If it wasn’t for the men, you would even have gotten into the relationship in the first place.  Equity aside, please, and I mean this sencerely, please realize that men honestly have no idea how to get to phase three “the steady”.  We truly think that we are happy in phase one “the honeymoon” and are very content to stay here, as the scales show.  You, ladies, are directly responsible for phase two “the mystery” because we don’t know how it works.  I know its tough, and we aren’t about to help; not willingly anyway.  But don’t quit on us, okay?  We’ll thank you later. 

See, we aren’t that complicated.   

Let’s face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back

Two days into a nearly eight week French “Blitz” (I find it terribly ironic that it is actually called that) where the work week includes six hours of Saturday training and I am already beginning to realize that this is going to be both incredibly worthwhile and mind-numbingly monotonous.  I could only imagine what those poor bastards who have a fifteen week long Arabic class are going through.  But since I am to submerge myself in French culture as well as language, I might as well lead off with a big “So What?  Screw Them!”.  I am fortunate though, my professors are the same as they have been, and what’s more, they requested my group to instruct again based on our potential.  Both are African and speak several languages, and while I am hardly a judge of lingugistic teaching abilities, I would venture to say that this can only be a good thing.  All in all, I am pleased and prepared to move forward regardless of the daunting task of learning a language to proficiency in a mere two months or so.  

Interestingly, my study habits are not firing on all cylinders as of yet.  Perhaps it is because I am still behind on spring cleaning.  Perhaps it is because we are still in a bit of a review period, and I feel like class time is keeping me on par with my goals, which is being one of the fore-front francophones in the class.  Or perhaps it is because the French and Spanish students go play soccer from 9:30 to midnight a couple times a week after class on one of the Air Forces’s lit fields.  Who knows?  But what I do know is that when I saw this, I was very aware that the truth of my ‘American’ study habits are obviously well known to the world.  Unfortunately, things look like this more often than not, and worse, they sometimes take place in public houses after hours.  If this continues to be the case… well… bon chance, n’est ce pas? 

“Character is the ability to follow through with a commitment long after the original motivation has past.”  - Larry Beckham

You know that you’ve crossed into Florida when one day your drinking sweet tea at a truck stop, and the next you can’t find a place that serves the stuff regardless of the establishment.  Yes, Flordia truly is the part of The South that really doesn’t belong, well, south.  I’m fairly certain that if deeply looked into, history would show that Gen. Sherman when preparing to land and begin his epic march north, chose to embark where he did because he honestly thought that Florida had no idea that there was even a war going on… they were far to concearned with fake tanning, fake boobies, and fake senses of reality… even then.

This was my first trip to Florida, and I’ll say this; Tampa is not Miami… at least, not if the real Miami is anything like CSI: Miami.  Miami seems clean… too clean, maybe even transparent; a better word.  Tampa Bay is more dirty, to be frank; the water goes into that bay and doesn’t really come out.  The water is a murky color that is not unlike more rugged shorelines likened to New England or Washington State.  We were actually warned not to swim in the bay, something I found distressing - why would I go to Florida if not for the beaches?  I felt as though I was rooked in one fashion or another, especially sense I bought a new pair of swim trunks for the trip and was unable to use them.  Nonetheless, a few of my party set out to do some swimming and promptly one was stung by a stingray, sending him to the hostipal straight away and, in essence, took him out of the game for the remainder of the trip.  Something to be said for heeding the locals, I imagine.

The city of Tampa Bay is in itself something of strange beast.  It is equal parts modern college town, 1950’s Havana, and pre-bombing Baghdad.  While the walking/running tracks that encompass the bay area are quiet scenic, the inner-workings of the metro-area are designed almost entirely out of concrete with balcony designs that left me with erie feelings of ruined Middle Eastern cities.  The Villas that over look the bay, while terribly saturated along the coastal residental areas, are not unlike the drug palace of Tony Montoya of Scarface, even though that movie was set in the 60s and 70s and these houses where most likely built in the last five years.  There was a bit of a debate at one point whether or not this would be a suitable place to retire, and for my part, I do not think it would be; drug czar or no.  Still, most were entralled to a considerable amount, and with good reason.

But we were not there for sight seeing or partying, though a did my fill, which in the end was not that much.  An expensive steak dinner and a guest past to a private promotional party were my highlights, nothing really coming of either other than a large bill.  No, we were actually down in the area on business, though fairly light work:  three days worth of informational briefings with members of various govermental ogranizations at SOCOM drudged the working day with themes of ’death by powerpoint’.  Still, all in all, the material was highly worthwhile, and what made it all the more pleasant was that this little excursion was the last thing that I will do for this portion of the course.  That’s right, tomorrow is out-briefing from the commander, and then I’m off for a day at the beach.  Not a terrible way to celebrate… because for those of you would didn’t know, today is my five year mark in the United States Army.  Cheers, and all of you abroad and beneath: happy hunting! 

Canada, eh, took my baby away…

My morning routing consists of waking up in a half coherent state, putting on issued (and most of the time dirty) shorts and tee, and wandering out of the house without coffee, pleasantries, and at time, nigh a brushing of the teeth.  Granted, while my hair is hardly long enough to warrent brushing nor is my charming demeanor necessary for the physical activities that I must go to perform; it is, however, important to note that when I return home after an hour or so, all those lost causes of the bathroom are suddenly excited and full of necessity.  A shower, clean uniform, polished pearly whites and cup of Earl Gray are top of the order.  Further, to get the ol’ morning engine running on cruise control, some tunes are completely valid. 

Most of you can guess my feelings on corporate radio, especially in the a.m. hours.  Moreover, there is a saying that does not yet apply to me that is passed around work quiet often:  “You grow old twice.  First time is when you start to listen to country music.  The second time is when you start to listen to talk radio.”  By all respects, I am not old.  I am annoyed at my current musical choices as of late, but that is another blog entry entirely.  To be more to the point, my morning radio station of choice is the television; namely the new music / video network, FUSE.

I wrote the cable company a letter recently asking if I could down grade my basic-as-hell and over-priced-as-fuck cable package to just three stations; FOXNews, Comedy Central, and FUSE… I’d pay a bit extra for Sports Center in the morning as Comedy Central just runs Paid Programing for those hours… seems fair, I think.  I haven’t got a response yet, and I’m in the process of drafting another, but that is kinda where I’m at with my affinity for this music station - Top 3 all the way.  Anyway, this morning I was listening and getting dressed when I got a rift and a melody of some new catchy pop song, something which is not this stations usual MO.   I came out to see none other than miss Avril Lavinge doing her thing… only it really wasn’t really her thing.

I’m not sure if any of you all know this, but your ol’ pal Guttersnake is completely and hopelessly addicted to all forms of celebrity gossip… if you hadn’t guessed.  Its a guilty pleasure, I know, and it completely goes against many moral and social inequities that I preach ad nosium.  It can’t be helped. 

Anyway, a few months ago, though it may have been a bit longer, Avril was in a bit of a pissing contest with teen queen, Hillary Duff, one of Disney’s prize cash-cows.  To note, while Hilary creates pop-fluff albums, she is getting ready to release number 3 (or is it 4?) some time this month and she’s not even nineteen years old!  Avril, twenty-two, is only on number two… boo-hoo.  Regardless, the pissing contest was something like, Arvil is too punk to be pop, and Hilray is a slut, blah, blah, blah.  Diamond Dallas, you probably deal with this same hairless tawt nonsense in the highschool hallways, so really, who needs Hollywood, right?

But after seeing that video, Avril should really appologize to Hilray, and then they should both go to an under-21 club, get hammered, and do a scandlous sex video on their cell phone video recorders, cause really, that’s about all they are good for at this point.  Avril - you sold out.  And it makes me sad.

I’m not saying that Avril was punk when she put out that candy-stripper album back in 2003.  But hey, she was what?  Seventeen?  Bitch had potential.  And I’ll give her credit.  It’s not like she’s Brody Dalle who grew up in the bad part of LA with a broken home and drop-out, drunk / drugged friends, and it not like she was married to Racid frontman Tim Armstrong by age eighteen.  Naw, Avril is from the mean streets of Toronto, Canada.  So that means she drank Starbucks and those ties she sports are probably from the mall.  Still, she gave punk a whirl, and for the state that punk music is in with respect to music in general, that’s noteworthy.  Further, she marries Deryck Whibley, the lead singer of Sum-41, another Canuck punker who’s albums get progressively better and better.  But then this.

For those of you who haven’t heard the song, don’t fret (and I know that you are), because it will show up on every “PG” rated family movie made for pre-teens and Christian families in seach of wholesome entertainment for the next ten to twenty years.  It’s catchy pop crap that features our young heroine bouncing around, pining about all manner of things bitchy, shallow, and “One Tree Hill”.  Overall, its just kinda sad, though it’s not as if she is in poor company.  Avril follows in the footsteps of such great female punks-turned-posers as Gwen Stefani and Pink and Courtney Love.  So much for the afterglow, eh?

What truly makes this concerning, not just for Avril (’cause in the grand scheme of all things glam, who cares about one more twenty-something blonde with a pop song), but for the state of music in general.  Considering the volitale status of politics, especially American politics, as of post 9-11, I am continually shocked at how punk music is more than just lacking, it is completely absent.  If the western world was in the state it is in now during the late seventies and early eighties, The Clash would still have material for albums… which would be fine, because we all know they are the only band that matters, right?  Nevermind.  Point being, American youth, even those who are rebellious enough to rock, well, aren’t.  Rock isn’t about rebellion anymore - its about being cool or hip or making money.  Its sad, its really really sad.  The lyrics to almost all these songs are, to use the current term, “Emo” driven.  We should all take note that this is the focus of our youth -  self-centered greed and emotional wallowing.  I’d be cool if it was lustful, but our culture is so overtly infused with sex that its not even worthy of words in a song - shit’s gotten trite, believe it or not.

Take note, America:  this is what we have left, whinny pappy crap more concerned with being an image than breaking one.  Keep liberating yourself at the expense of  societal duty and identity, and see what the end product is… a crappy blond Canadian verision of yourselves.