Wow. I just came across a phenomenal article in the Washington Post (thanks to the Doug TenNapel message boards). It’s by a gent by the name of Conn Iggulden (what a kickass name!) and it’s a few of his reflections on his new book, “The Dangerous Book for Boys.” I hadn’t heard of this book before today (though after checking Amazon.com, I just realized that I saw this the other night at Barnes & Noble and had no clue what it was about), but I want to buy it now. And ten copies for all my friends who are having babies. Though most of them are having girls. Pansies.
Anyway, check out the article. It’s a thing of true beauty. Here’s one of my favorite bits:
“History today is taught as a feeble thing, with all the adventure taken out of it. We wanted stories of courage because boys love those. We wanted stories about men like Royal Air Force fighter pilot Douglas Bader, Scott of the Antarctic, the Wright Brothers — boys like to read about daring men, always with the question: Would I be as brave or as resourceful? I sometimes wonder why people make fun of boys going to science fiction conventions without realizing that it shows a love of stories. Does every high school offer a class on adventure tales? No — and then we complain that boys don’t read anymore.”
I’ve often lamented the wussified nature of our culture when it comes to handling the peculiar tendencies of the male identity. I know, I know…men are evil and we’ve repressed women for far too long…blah blah blah. I’m not excusing the mistreatment of women on any grounds, but as Mr. Iggulden (what a sweetass name!) points out in his article, the effect of trying to tame the male-ness out of boys and teen guys just doesn’t work. Despite what the mainstream might try to do or say, men and women are simply wired differently and we do ourselves (and our youth) a great disservice when we try to get boys to stop running around and making gun shapes with their hands and bang-bang noises with their mouths.
At any rate, I can’t wait to get my hands on this book. Here’s to being a man, with all the risks, dreams, and idiocies that it entails.
So Luke and I were discussing various bodily functions the other day (like we are wont to do). This happened to be on a day when the floods of the deep had unleashed whilst I was at lunch and…well let’s just say I barely made it to the paradise that is the porcelain throne.
At any rate, as Luke and I talked about this joyous occasion, I commented on barely avoiding crapping my pants. And as I reflected on the good, clean fun that such an event would have afforded me (trying to walk out to the car, driving home, sitting in my own filth), it hit me that there was a time in my life when the prospect of pooping myself and then wallowing in it was not a harrowing venture. No, I’m not talking about last week at the zoo with spider monkeys. I’m referring to that period known as infancy.
How bizarre is that? It’s downright unnerving to consider that, at one point in my existence, I truly didn’t care about sitting in my own feces. Is this why much of our memory as a baby is blank? Perhaps our subconscious is doing its utmost to protect us from violating memories that would utterly destroy our self-image and personal esteem. How would any of us function? I believe I may have stumbled upon the thread, which if pulled, would unravel the very fabric of our society!! Just think…that dude all jacked up in his Gold’s Gym shirt? He rolled in poo. As did that hot number over in the Trans Am at the stoplight intersection. She squished around too. Unbelievable! The Horror!!!
On a sidenote, have you ever thought about how bizarre and weird our bodies truly are? And specifically, how strange they behave under certain circumstances? I mean, to me, there’s no greater proof that God has a sense of humor than the fact that the relief valve for gaseous pressure is the butthole. And the fact that it makes noise upon release. That, my friends, is just comedic gold.
I mean, what was that scene in heaven like when Adam first discovered this? He’s walking along, eating some beans and such, and all of the sudden…flaarrrrrntt! God probably grabbed Michael and Gabriel and was like, “Hey fellas…check this out. This is gonna be hilarious.”
Have you ever thought about how you sign off in emails, IMs, even regular face-to-face conversations? Jonathan Abernathy and I were discussing that very thing this morning and it’s made me start to rethink everything. My entire life is being shaken to the core…the foundations…the roots…and even the cores of the roots of the foundations.
Consider this…I usually sign off an email like so: “blah blah blah…I’m totally awesome…blah blah…you suck royally…blah…oh well, take care, jH.” After talking to JA about this, I realized that I’m basically lying on every other email that I send out, possibly more, depending on how much I despise the person on the other end. I say “take care” through force of habit. I used to “care” about people and their general “welfare,” but I find myself not “caring” more and more. I need to change my ways! I’m all about honesty, so don’t get offended. Just be happy that I’m still talking to you.
Forthwith, expect to see sign-offs like “take off you hoser,” “have a horrific day,” “worst wishes for a terrible existence,” “may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your undershorts forever,” and perhaps my favorite, “I’m sorry Dave, I can’t do that.”
Lest you think this harsh, consider that there are some people with whom I correspond that won’t even warrant a sign-off. Their message merely ends.
April and I recently purchased the laser pointer you see above, based solely on my mom’s recommendation that Rocket the Attack Dog would love it. You see, my folks recently got their own dog, Sandrine the Marathon Dog (there’s a story in there for another day). Apparently they got one of these “Miracle Beam Laser Pet Toys” for Sandrine and she goes absolutely bonkers over it, chasing the red dot everywhere. We try it on Rocket, but no dice. He’s way too sly for it. That and he sees something in our hand and assumes that he’s meant to eat it.
Naturally I’m quite disappointed at our misguided purchase…until I took a second gander at the packaging and realized the genius marketing contained therein. Now I apologize in advance that the above image isn’t bigger, so you’re going to have to take my word on all of this. But if you look at the little white boxes around the border of the big, each one of them offers up selling points:
Dogs love it!
Birds chase it!
Great for training dogs!
Drives cats wild!
Fish are attracted to it!
Makes a great gift!
And then (the whole fish attraction thing notwithstanding) the piece of resistance:
Reptiles are intrigued.
QUOI?
Reptiles are…merely intrigued? Not driven to madness? Not given to wanton displays of sexual prowess? Not motivated to vote in next month’s local PTA council elections?And furthermore, where’s my exclamation point, bucko? All your other points are obviously worthy of hype and exuberance. Yet you can’t muster the gumption for our serpentine friends? For shame, Miracle Beam Laser Pet Toy!
Of course, I then wondered what the MBLPT might do for other segments of our society:
Protestants are perplexed!
Democrats are mobilized!
Pennsylvania Union Steel Workers are overjoyed!
Terrorists are blinded.
