happy birthday to you.

In an unprecedented move, I’ve decided not to talk about sex today. Ok perhaps not really unprecedented in the strictest sense, but I do remember writing about sex for my last 2 postings and I can’t really remember anything before that (except perhaps more sex) and I’m not bothered enough to check if it’s a serious tendency problem. I’m not sure I should be, considering how my brother tells me men think about sex for a third of their waking hours. Howls of chagrin and indignation ensue of course – ‘How can this be true when we also, as an empirical fact, think about soccer/basketball/cricket/the art of tutu manufacture for three quarters of our lives?’ and ‘This is impossible! We think of sex more than half the time!’ – but, fuck! I’m not gonna talk about sex. So there.

What’s in a date? Why do people find it necessary to attach importance to what seems to me to be a purely arbitrary system of ordering our lives? For that matter why do we let that order our lives in the first place? And I don’t mean ‘date’ as in that which is a prelude to sex, because I’m not gonna talk about it. I mean ‘date’ as in that of the ‘today’s Universal Lose Your Virginity Day, otherwise known as Valentine’s Day’ variety. As far as I can see, and as far as anyone should but don’t see for the obvious reason that no one in the right mind ever does think of, and should ever think of; dates under such a critical light as if it’s a nail-biting conclusion to some cliffhanger of an Armageddon-inducing make-or-break all-or-nothing ice-cream (well this constitutes the first contact with a hyphen for me, so) dilemma faced by the masses a la questions such as ‘is blue the new pink this season?’

No, really, I’m making a point. I think. What’re dates but certain configurations of the earth and the moon and/or the sun (depending on whether you’re a poster boy for the lunar and/or solar calendar)? Or, of course, some may argue they’re actually demarcations between the blinkings of a divine eye or something. Me, I can’t ever get with this notion of dates for sure. I mean, how romantic is it when you exclaim to your girlfriend, ‘Hey honey-bunny (I’m sorry Tarantino occupies a place in my heart), happy 2400493024^th blink of Great A’Tuin’s (I’m sorry for the Pratchett reference here as well) right peeper!’ In any case, even the more conventional calendars fail to tell me why it is that the positions of the sun and/or moon can confer magical powers such as sexual tension on this thing they call ‘days’. I mean, why’re numbers like 365.25 (the absurdity, as you can see, multiplies once you take technicalities to their logical conclusion) more important than any other number, so much so that we go out of our way to make fools of ourselves by pretending to be social and civil when we’re never gonna achieve sufficient merit for both; every such period? How’re numbers or, if you wanna stretch it the astrological way, magnetic fields; relevant to this tomfoolery?

Perhaps celebrations should just be that – celebrations. With the relevant factors being those which are being celebrated of course. And it does no good to just say ‘my day’. It’s just fallaciously question-begging. Relevance here will therefore be milestones confined to that individual who’s on the receiving end (I prefer to use the term ‘victim’) of attention and fawning over. Or, as it happens on a more frequent basis, that of wedgies and unfastened bra clasps depending on your gender and/or undergarment preferences. Milestones in this case will mean, of course, expected things which creep up on you when they happen, such as the Instance of Growing My First Whisker and the First Occurrence of the Pimple; as well as totally unexpected events such as What in Fuck’s Name Just Happened THERE?! and Why the Fuck am I Bleeding Here?!!

Fuck dates. Ok ok perhaps only thrice a year. And I’m still not talking about sex, whether you amorously gravitate towards fellow human beings or a type of fruit.

the metaphysics of spandex.

An age-old puzzle/paradox/conundrum/[insert your choice of technical term with which to coax sociologists into bed (with you of course, though some will prefer watching them sociologists having at each other and keeping both and either at safe distances such as buried 20,000 leagues under the sea together with George Foreman in berserk mode with an endless supply of oxygen and a steady diet of asparagus designed to sustain said mode; but I can’t see how anything you say will ever be sufficient for anyone to fuck another person other than you – as it is it’s difficult enough getting yourself shags with only your mouth sans that classified as unnatural to the law and goddamned heavenly to the majority of the human population) here] has been plaguing the definitive personifications of the epitome of knowledge, the extreme gurus of the marriage between epistemology and ontology, the sultans of swing, the piper at the gates of dawn, the master blaster of the plaster duster, etc.:

What’s the metaphysical constitution of reality as we know it and what’re some of the implications of any of the attempted answers to this question with regards to existentialism?

Ok my apologies to current victims of eyeball-rolling and escapement of bodily fluids in foam form from the orifice due to overexposure to, as it is, my day-to-day dealings of shit like that. What the REAL puzzle is:

Why do men look fucked up in spandex and sand together?

I mean, you do gawk (and of course you do more than gawk if you’re camped with the ‘Testosterone ‘R Us’ club) when women don (barely a technically-correct term, considering what little there is, ontologically, on the part of the don-nee) their bathing suits and strut around in the sand, but you do, at the same time, find something inherently wrong with someone stripped down to something the size and shape of panties similarly stepping about on the beach. Is it the legs? The asses? The incredibly long hair sheathing them legs affording a year-round impregnable fortress against ultra-violet rays?

So we can imagine women with said hair, and clean-shaved men (this latter image is more unsettling and will probably fail probability tests and refer to a null set, but for the sake of the argument let’s all be fair and assume its plausibility by imagining it as some sort of a thought experiment), but the problem still exists. The obvious candidate at this point will be the bulge. But what if you’ve got someone who’s victim to a freak accident involving 2 grapes and a half-nibbled banana and the part of the anatomy frequently referred to as 'where the sun doesn’t shine'; who’s also otherwise America’s Next Top Model? Ok bad example about the model; I mean, have you seen the competitors that one’s churning out? But you know what I mean. I conclude by copping out as usual: non-natural properties. That’s as close to a ‘I-have-no-idea-whatsoever-and-I-don’t-really-give-a-flying-fuck’ line of answer if there ever was one. And if only Desmond read this. Hah. He’ll be turning over his proverbial grave, if he even had one in the first place. As it is he won’t forgive me and my smugness for Nagarjuna for years yet, I’ll imagine.

On a totally unrelated note, it seems like shit is approaching critical mass again. And so the cycle starts anew, right on cue, as if operating on clockwork.

I hope I miss the ringing and oversleep.