Nice Guy Blues

ROYAL TENNENBAUM (Gene Hackman):  Can I say something to you, Henry?
HENRY SHERMAN (Danny Glover):  O.K. 
ROYAL:  I've always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember.  That's just my style.  But I'd really feel blue if I didn't think you were gonna forgive me. 
HENRY:  I don't think you're an asshole, Royal.  I just think you're kind of a son of a bitch. 
ROYAL:  Well, I really appreciate that.
--from the film The Royal Tennenbaums (written by Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson), 2001

A while back, I was asked an interesting question by a couple of female friends whose anonymity I've sworn to protect.  They asked me "Why are men jerks?"  At the time, I gave what I thought was a semi-educated, semi-scientific explanation into the male psyche (truthfully I just blamed testosterone).  But as the day progressed, the more the question gnawed at me and I realized that there were other elements involved and more questions raised.  What follows is my attempt to make sense of it (at least from a heterosexual male perspective).  I'm not saying that my conclusions are 100% correct, they are only based on my own personal observations over the last 25 years or so.

The first thing I have to do is correct two fallacies in the question itself.  First of all, men aren't jerks.  They're assholes.  And, as the film dialogue quote above hopefully pointed out, it's important to make these kinds of distinctions.  Personally, I've always found that jerks are easier to tolerate than assholes.  From least offensive to most offensive, the scale reads douchebag, jerk, dick, dickhead, prick, asshole.  It's hard for me to determine where sons of bitches fall in that spectrum--I've not met too many (nor have I met their mothers).

The second fallacy I need to correct is that not all men are assholes.  Granted, most of them are, which really sucks because it gives the rest of us a bad name.  And at the risk of sounding conceited, you read that last sentence correctly:  I do lump myself in with the minority of men who aren't assholes.  I will admit to having my moments (many of you, especially if you're related to me, I'm sure can verify this), but unlike most assholes, I can at least admit when I'm being one, which, in my book, puts me at an advantage over your everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden variety asshole.  I try not to be one as much as possible, but as my father once said about being an asshole, "sometimes it's necessary."  It's when "sometimes" becomes "all the time" that problems can arise and people can get hurt.

Which brings us to the newly revised question:  Why are most men assholes?  I do stand by my original statement that testosterone probably plays a big part in that.  But in my pondering of this question, I also realized an important truth.  Most men are assholes because they know that it will get them laid (a desire driven by testosterone).  Being an asshole, especially if you come by it naturally, is much more attractive to the opposite sex than being a "nice guy."  Those of you out there who are nice guys will probably back me up on this.  Even if you're lucky enough to be involved with, or even married to the most beautiful woman in the world (at least for you), you probably lost a lot of women in your day to complete and total assholes, am I right?

Which brings us to the much more important underlying question:  Why do otherwise intelligent women insist on dating assholes?  I asked this of my anonymous female friends (it almost sounds as if they're ashamed to admit they're my friends, doesn't it?).  While the response I got was less than satisfactory, it would appear that most nice guys have some kind of "quirky" quality (that was actually the word used) that keeps them from being attractive to most women.

Blindness (on the part of the woman) also seems to factor into the equation.  Because, let's be honest, when it comes to attracting women, assholes can put on the charm.  And the only one who doesn't see through it is the woman the asshole is trying to seduce.

Again--I'm speaking from experience here.  Most of the women I've been attracted to in my life (at least the ones I've had the courage to say something to), always went for the asshole for one reason or another.  The only time I remember losing out to a decent guy, it was only because he had an English accent.  Clearly there was no way I could compete against that (of course, what does that say about her?).

For all women who might be reading this, let me just go on record as saying that "nice guy" (or, even worse, "really nice guy") is the most backhanded compliment someone can give to a man.  It's just a euphemism for "boring."  You may as well just say, "You will never ever see me naked and I'm going to date morons and assholes and guys who treat me like shit and complain about them to you because their faults make them infinitely more interesting than you can ever hope to be."  That's what "nice guy" really means and anyone who says differently is.... well, frankly, a woman.  Sorry I cracked your code, ladies!

I know I sound somewhat bitter and resentful about this.  You know what?  I am!  I've spent the better part of my life watching women I care about (both romantically and platonically) get hurt by one asshole after another when there are plenty of decent guys out there who have to wear wristwatches because those women who are dating assholes refuse to give them the time of day.

But that's not even the worst part.  The worst part is when the newly heartbroken woman comes up to me (strictly as a friend, of course) and says something along the lines of, "Why can't I find a decent guy like you?"  And there's a small part of me that wants to suddenly become a (justified in this instance) asshole and say, "What the fuck?  I'm standing right in front of you!  You go all gushy over this downright pathetic excuse for not just a man but a human being, and when he inevitably hurts you (as I predicted he would), you say you want a guy like me?  And all the time I'm right here--and yet, I couldn't even get laid if I were an egg!"

Of course, I don't say that, because I try hard not to be an asshole (even when it's sometimes necessary).  And all I can do is put my arms around her and tell her it's not her fault and that she'll find her Prince Charming someday.  You know... a nice guy just like me... but not.

A word of warning--if any of you nice guys reading this think it's a good idea to adopt the persona of an asshole in an attempt to attract women, don't.  It doesn't work.  You have to have been born an asshole and/or work at it your whole life (with apologies to Fred "August" Campbell).  I've found that women are really only attracted to the genuine article.

And for all the ladies who insist on dating assholes, let me explain a few things to you (not that I expect you to listen, but I'm going to say it anyway).  First of all, you're not going to change him.  Again, he was likely born that way and probably worked at it his whole life.  Secondly, nice guys aren't necessarily boring.  Give one a chance.  You might be pleasantly surprised.  To reiterate, I don't expect anyone to listen to me on this, but I suppose hope springs eternal.

The Questionnaire

For years, I've enjoyed the television program "Inside the Actor's Studio."  I'm always impressed with the research that host James Lipton puts into each actor and I truly relish their responses.  I've even enjoyed those episodes featuring actors of whom I'm not particularly fond.

Like a lot of viewers, my favourite segment of the program is when Lipton asks his guests a series of questions that French television presenter Bernard Pivot asked his guests for many years.  The questionnaire itself goes back to Marcel Proust who answered such a questionnaire in 1890 (thank you, Wikipedia) and has been adapted by Pivot and Lipton in the intervening years.

The ultimate thrill for me would be to be a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio" just to be asked these questions by Mr. Lipton.  This fantasy of mine seems highly unlikely if, for no other reason, I'm not an actor.  And even if I were to drop everything tomorrow and pursue it as a profession (and don't think I haven't thought of it), by the time I paid my sufficient dues and became famous enough to be invited on the program, Mr. Lipton would either be retired or dead.

Consequently, I'm going to use this modern, everyman forum to answer those questions that I'm sure most of you have wondered about me for so long.  Please bear in mind that given my nature there may be more than one answer to some of them.

What is your favourite word?  My favourite noun is "wombat" and my favourite adjective is "groovy."  In fact I think "The Groovy Wombat" would be a great name for a bar.  I don't think I necessarily have a favourite word for any other part of speech.  They're both just so much fun to say.  Go on... try it.

What is your least favourite word?  This is a toss-up between two three-word phrases:  "fire at will" (for obvious reasons) and "really nice guy" (more on this in a later posting).

What turns you on?  There is a combination, and I don't know the proper proportions, but when mixed correctly, intelligence and a sense of humour are damn sexy!

What turns you off?  Dishonesty, deceitfulness... anything along those lines.

What sound or noise do you love?  The sound of laughter... particularly if I caused it.

What sound or noise do you hate?  I know it sounds trite, but I have to say it's fingernails on a blackboard.

What is your favourite curse word?  This is everyone's favourite question.  I've given this a lot of thought and I've realized (and this is something Russell Crowe also briefly touched on when he was on the program) that it's often not the word itself, but the emotion and the attitude we convey when we use it.  My feeling is that if you're going to curse, don't just curse--own it.  This is, admittedly, difficult to convey in print.

Two suggestions I often make are to string a bunch of them together (goddamncocksuckingassholelickingmotherfuckingturkeyassedsonofabitch!) or to make up your own (a friend of mine once coined the phrase "son of a Barbra Streisand" which is still a personal favourite).

But if I had to pick one word, I suppose it would be "asshole."  It's just a perfect insult.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?  Entertainer--preferably as an actor or musician.

What profession would you not like to attempt?  If the last twenty years have taught me anything, I would not like to work in retail or food service.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? This may sound weird, but I don't think I would like to be greeted by God.  Sure, I'd like to meet the Almighty, but I need to know that a) my uncle fixed the automatic pearly gate opener (long story), b) Grandma has a bowl of her macaroni and cheese in a pink plastic bowl waiting for me, and c) Dad and Gramps are in the next room playing chess and I get to play the winner.  After that, God can say to me anything s/he wants to say.  One must have his priorities in order.

I hope this has in some small way given you, dear reader, an insight into my psyche (I doubt you need any more).  Given the fact that this can now be read by anyone and potentially everyone, I would invite James Lipton and/or Bernard Pivot to answer these questions.  I've always been curious about their responses.

Do They Know What a Christmas Song Is At All?

"I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was heading for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.
From Pennsylvania folks are travelling down to Dixie's sunny shore.
From Atlantic to Pacific, gee, the traffic is terrific."
--from the song "(There's No Place) Like Home for the Holidays," by Al Stillman and Robert Allen

Unless you're completely oblivious to your surroundings or haven't looked at a calendar in a few months, you know it's the holiday season.  Consequently, everywhere you go, you hear holiday music.  The problem I have with Christmas music (aside from the fact that, since I work in retail, I'm often burned out on it by Veterans' Day), is that even though the songs may be performed by an artist I like, I've already heard that song countless times by a host of other artists.  At this point, there's nothing left for me to do but examine the lyrics.  And when you stop to really think about it, some of these lyrics just make you say, "huh?"
 

Some of these lyrics make no sense to me.  For example, ponder the lyric that I quoted at the top of this post.  I want to know what kind of traffic Stillman and Allen were driving through.  I've never travelled through "terrific" traffic, especially when I'm going anywhere for the holidays.  I dare anyone to try to drive out of Bloomington, Indiana, at 5:00 in the afternoon on any given day, let alone during a weekend or major holiday.  I guaran-friggin'-tee you the word "terrific" is not the first word that will pass your lips.  If you're anything like me, it will probably be a word (or three) that can't be said on network television.  From experience I can tell you that some of the traffic in Bloomington is so gridlocked it makes Congress look functional.  And I'm sure it's even worse in the big cities.  I promise you that no one in their right mind has ever sat behind fifteen other cars that don't appear to be moving and thought, "this is great!"  The only time I've ever been in terrific traffic is when mine is the only car on the road.

The other song that has really puzzled me lately is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written by Edward Pola and George Wyle.  A question comes to mind.  Just out of curiosity... y'know... for my own edification--have you ever mistletoed?  I've never mistletoed.  I've never jingle belled either.  Do you know why?  BECAUSE THESE ARE NOT VERBS! 

 Something else about "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" annoys me.  Every year I ask this question and no one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer, so I'll ask it again.  Aside from Charles Dickens and maybe Tim Burton who in the hell tells scary ghost stories at Christmas?  I have a theory that this must be some kind of weird German tradition kind of like the "Christmas Pickle."  Gotta love those crazy Germans.  Regardless, I believe that Pola and Wyle never worked retail.  If they had, this song would likely never have been written... or if it had, it would be much different.

Does anyone know when the song "When You Wish Upon a Star" became a Christmas song?  That's right, "When You Wish Upon a Star," written by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington, and first sung by Cliff Edwards in the 1940 animated Disney classic Pinocchio appeared two years ago on Rod Stewart's Christmas album.  ????????  I was willing to write that off as a UK thing.  After some of the things Susan Boyle put on her first Christmas album including (and I'm not making any of these up) Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" and Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," I just assumed that those lovably nutty Brits had a different definition of "holiday music" than the rest of us.  In fact someone once told me that Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is the biggest selling Christmas song in the UK--even though it's not a Christmas song and was written by a Jewish Buddhist (Jewddhist?).  And, yes, Boyle included that on her holiday album as well.  As such, I was willing to forgive "Rod the Mod" for his inclusion of "When You Wish Upon a Star," until last year when Idina Menzel also put the song on her Christmas album.  Did I miss something?  I don't remember anything in the song relating to any holiday.  I don't even remember anything relating to the winter season.  Is wishing upon a star some sort of thing that non-Christian kids can do instead of writing letters to Santa Claus?  THIS IS NOT A CHRISTMAS SONG!!!!  I know I'm telling the truth about this because my nose didn't start growing when I wrote that last sentence.

I've also noticed certain thematic elements in songs.  A couple years ago, a friend of mine described the song "Baby It's Cold Outside" (which also has very little to do with Christmas itself) as "rapey"--if that even is a word.  The more I listen to it, I have to say it really is.  I found it amusing a year or so later when comedians Key and Peele said the same thing (even using the word "rapey") before presenting their own take on this holiday standard titled "Just Stay For the Night" (which you can view at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qc_F0zP9usU if you're so inclined).  Even my own sister once referred to "Baby It's Cold Outside" as a "rape anthem."  In retrospect, I suppose it's not as bad as the Crystals' 1962 (non-holiday) recording "He Hit Me (and It Felt Like a Kiss)," which I'm sure Carole King now regrets co-writing, but it's still something we might want to sing less and less as time progresses.

I'm also trying to figure out how I never noticed it before, but "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" is incredibly sad, isn't it?  It was originally written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine and introduced in the 1944 Judy Garland film Meet Me in St. Louis.  Over the years, I noticed that there are alternate, less depressing lyrics.  Depending on who is singing, you may hear it sung "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough."  This line was written at the request of Frank Sinatra who recorded the song in 1957 for his album A Jolly Christmas From Frank Sinatra.  The Chairman of the Ol' Blue Eyes felt that the original lyric, "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow," wasn't exactly in the spirit of the title of the album and asked Hugh Martin if he could "jolly up that line."  Today, you can still hear both versions.

Further research indicates that the situation is worse than I originally thought.  According to Wikipedia, many of the song's original lyrics were thrown out before filming of Meet Me in St. Louis even began.  Originally the song opened with:

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last.
Next year may we all be living in the past.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, pop that Champagne cork.
Next year may we all be living in New York."

Well, at least it rhymed.  Fortunately Judy Garland, her Meet Me in St. Louis co-star Tom Drake, and the film's director Vincente Minnelli, all agreed that this was too depressing and asked Martin to write something a bit more upbeat.  This has got to be rough on a songwriter.  You pour your heart and soul into the lyrics and the people you write the song for ask you to write something else.  After you've done that, someone comes up to you nearly a decade and a half later and asks you to make another alteration because it's not "jolly" enough.  If I were Hugh Martin, my first instinct would be to tell Frank to record another song if he didn't like it, possibly "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

This holiday season, before singing along with your favourite Christmas tunes, I beg of you don't just sing along because you know the words.  Think about the true meaning of the lyrics and whether the song you're singing is even fit for the holiday season.

Thank you and have a Happy Holiday Season!

Let's Begin at the Very Beginning...

I've been writing a story.  It's coming along in bits and pieces over time.  Rodgers and Hammerstein once said that the very beginning is "a very good place to start."  So here's the very beginning of my story and the only part of the story with which I'm completely happy and/or comfortable sharing here:

Prologue—1979

It was story time. Dustin was still trying to figure out what he was doing in this asylum. Why had his parents abandoned him to be with these other five-year-olds? The adult woman who seemed to be in charge led them to the center of the room where they were all told to sit “Indian style” on the floor. Dustin had no clue what that meant, but he saw a few of the other kids sit down and cross their legs under them, kind of like the girl on the butter box. He awkwardly tried to position himself the way the children around him had. He noticed the adult woman in charge seemed to have the presence of mind to sit in a chair. He wondered what made her so special that she didn't have to sit on the floor.

Dustin tried hard to concentrate on the story. It was a good story, but the tingling in his right leg was incredibly distracting. He began to wonder how Indians could abide sitting in this position for extended periods of time. Suddenly, the story that the adult woman was reading became irrelevant. As the tingling in his leg turned to numbness, further distracting him from the story, he looked around the room for something to distract him from the tingling and numbness.

His eyes landed on the little girl seated next to him. There was something about this girl. Dustin didn't know what it was. Had he been any older he might have worried that he was staring at her. Fortunately for Dustin, he was only five and most five-year-olds don't have the most developed sense of social etiquette. Consequently, he stared at the little girl. Even more fortunately for Dustin, the little girl didn't notice that he stared at her. Had he been any older, he might have interpreted that as a sign of things to come.

Dustin couldn't figure out why he was suddenly fascinated by her. Maybe it was her red hair. Maybe it was her glasses—she was the only person other than his sister and grandmother who wore bifocals. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed as disinterested in the story as he was. Staring at her had caused him to forget the numbness in his leg—maybe that's why he was entranced by her. He decided it was the bifocals and tried hard to resuscitate his leg.

The only thing he knew about her was that her name was Kathy...

Random Thoughts

Did you ever notice that, when you're walking down the street, drivers are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

Gloria Estefan freaks me out.  I spent many of my formative years living in fear that the rhythm was going to get me.

I've given this a lot of thought and, after much careful consideration, I've determined conclusively and unequivocally that we must bring back the flapper... as soon as possible... right now if we can.

I recently realized that all of my coat hangers are secretly gay and ashamed to admit it.  Although, personally, I think they belong in the closet and I'm really sorry I outed them here.

Every Christmas tree angel I've ever known seems to have a giant stick up her ass.

Did you ever notice that, when you're driving a car, pedestrians are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

I think it would have been really cool if Jesus had turned the water into wine as he walked across it.  Think of it--TWO miracles for the price of one!  Clearly efficiency is not a Christian value.

If history has taught me anything, it's taught me that if you're name is "Richard" and you go by "Dick," there's probably a good and justifiable reason for it.

Ever since I saw the movie A View to a Kill thirty years ago, I've been wondering where on the female anatomy the "Tchaikovsky" is.  If anyone knows, please contact me.  I think it would answer a lot of questions I have about women.

If an English person is gay and not open about it, is that person said to be "in the cupboard"?

Adjusted for inflation, how much would the Six Million Dollar Man cost if we were to rebuild him today?  Conversely, how much has the Six Million Dollar Man depreciated in value since 1974? 

I once saw a bumper sticker that read, "Try Jesus."  I gave it some serious thought, but then I realized that the Romans beat me to it.

I would rather actually sail away on the River Styx than listen to Styx sing "Come Sail Away."

I have a theory that those who don't pay attention in school to science, math, or history will one day grow up to become conservative political pundits.

I've always felt that Jesus Christ had a severe messianic complex.

If I Can't Believe It's Not Butter is now new and improved, does that mean that the original stuff actually was butter? Or does it mean that I now officially can believe it wasn't butter to begin with? Wow--this conundrum might keep me up at night.

The more I think about it, the more I firmly believe that Samantha should have ended up with Farmer Ted.

A treadmill is nothing more than the human equivalent of a hamster wheel.

I can't hear "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" without picturing Madeline Kahn brushing her hair.

One morning the sun rose and turned every vampire to dust.  From that day forward, no one was ever able to write another teenage romance novel ever again.  The End.

Restoration of... What Again?

My friend Ben recently suggested I watch a new program on Netflix called "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" in which the great Ellie Kemper plays a member of a kooky, religious, doomsday cult that had been living in an underground bunker, where they were taught that the Earth had been destroyed and they were the last living people on the planet.  After fifteen years, law enforcement breaks in and frees the members, many of whom had been forcibly inducted into the cult as children.  After being featured in national news programs and seeing that the world is still very much in existence, Kimmy decides to stay in New York City and try to make sense of the last decade and a half that she missed.

I have to be honest.  I've only watched one episode.  I do plan on finishing the series.  It's terribly funny, well acted, and well written (the show was co-created by Tina Fey, on whom I've had a serious crush since Kimmy Schmidt went underground), and frankly, I'll watch just about anything with Carol Kane in it.  My only initial complaint of the show is that the cult in question was based in Indiana and those who were rescued were referred to in the press as the "Indiana Mole People."  As a proud Hoosier, I get the impression that the rest of the country regards us as a bunch of backwoods rubes, which frankly agitates the shit out of me.  And then along comes Kimmy Schmidt to reinforce that negative stereotype.  However, in the last few days, I've come to the grievous and lamentable conclusion that the rest of the country may be right about us. 

This week Indiana passed the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, or SB101.  In spite of what the bill's sponsors (including Governor Mike Pence) claim, the bill essentially allows for business owners to refuse service to certain customers on the basis that doing so violates their religious principles.  This is a broad overview with potentially broad results and repercussions, but let's just say what it really does.  It allows business owners to discriminate against and refuse service to same-sex couples because they find homosexuality an abomination.  I know, I know... it's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.  In moments like these, I really wish Eve's name had actually been Katherine... or, better yet, Kelly.

Needless to say there has been an immediate backlash not just from forward-thinking Hoosiers, but from the rest of the country.  Indiana has become a pariah to out of state companies who at one time considered investing in this state.  GenCon, the largest gaming convention in the country, has threatened to leave Indianapolis.  Marc Benioff, the CEO of the San Francisco based cloud computing company Salesforce--which, last year, purchased the Indy-based email marketing firm ExactTarget--wrote on his personal Twitter account, "Today we are canceling all programs that require our customers/employees to travel to Indiana to face discrimination," adding that he would "dramatically reduce" how much his company would invest in the state of Indiana.

Even the media was offended.  During Friday's broadcast of the CBS Evening News, the person reporting about the passage of the bill was reporting from Chicago.  That's right--CBS News was so offended by the passage of a bill in Indiana that they reported it from Illinois!

Personally, I've been having problems because I've been confusing SB101 with SB150, which is the celebration of South Bend's sesquicentennial.  I also don't like the name "Religious Freedom Restoration Act," just because I don't believe anyone's religious freedom was ever in jeopardy.  So I don't know what else to call it other than "This Fucking Bill."  There are some other even more politically incorrect terms I can use, but they're probably even more offensive than this fucking bill.

Like a lot of people, I'm appalled by this travesty of legislation (hey, there's another good term).  I realize that you have the right in this country to believe whatever you want to believe.  And I'm fine with that.  I'm even willing to engage in a discussion about your beliefs and I will even go so far as to respect them and you and agree to disagree, and all that.  But I draw the line when you publicly discriminate against people and treat them as second class citizens.  This is the twenty-first century, for Christ's sake!  When are we going to realize that just because a person is "different" (and damn I do hate that word), that doesn't mean that they are bad, evil, or unrighteous... or whatever.  People are people and they should be treated as such.  And for those who like to quote scripture and, consequently Fox News (or "Faux News" as I've suddenly found myself calling it--thanks for that, Jake), let me just take this moment to quote some myself: 

"Do not judge lest you be judged.
"For in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you."(Matthew 7:1-2, NAS)

So by that logic, I found the bright side of this whole farkakte thing (that's right--I said "farkakte").  There is a very simple solution to this.  Any business owner who opposes SB101 (and I'm sure there are many) can now legally deny service to any state legislator who had anything to do with enacting this law, including Governor Pence, on the grounds that serving them violates their religious beliefs regarding bigotry and intolerance. I realize this sounds somewhat hypocritical, but so does using the names of God and Jesus to justify any type of discrimination. I challenge all Indiana business owners opposed to this bill to deny service based on religous beliefs to those who supported it for the same reasons. Let's see how they like it. If we can all do this, I have a feeling the law will be overturned sooner rather than later.

A Poem by William Allen

Reflections in a Blank Piece of Paper

 

--William Allen, 13 February, 1992