The "cloud" is the newest catch phrase. The cloud is everything you need. It has all your movies, all your music, and it's yours (sort of).
"Give me everything you own or, um, at least have paid for, all your entertainment content," the Cloud whispers to us, "and I'll give it back to you whenever and wherever you want. I'm your perfect girlfriend. My legs are always open. Finally you can watch porn in church, listen to Hip-hop at work, re-visit your favorite horror movie while being sodomized by the TSA, mmm latexy."
How can I resist?
2 reasons:
1. I downloaded a whole bunch of music from Walmat. Silly me, I got them in the Windows format (.wmv). One day though, a nasty little PC-blurp gave me some problems and I lost a lot of content. Oh, I still had the music. It was on my mp3 player and on a hard drive, but the licenses wouldn't let me transfer them. They'd been corrupted. I went back to Walmart in desperation to see if they'd let me re-download. After all, I'd paid for them, and some of them not that long ago. Surprise! Some them DID let me re-download, but only the mp3s. Walmart had stopped carrying all wmv formats though, so if I wanted them, I'd have to pay for them again.
They'd pulled a switch-a-roo and wanted to soak me for the same money as before.
Some of this music I had on vinyls, then re-bought on CDs, and having lost the CDs, now decided to buy "online".
Question: How many times do I have to pay for the same song?
Question: If I had a record, tape cassette or CD, couldn't I put it on this PC, then put it on that PC, then that mp3 player without problem?
What did I do? you ask (if not, I'll wait for you to ask, and if you don't, I'll come to your house, erase all of your DRM licenses and put a baby alligator in your toilet bowl). What did I do? I got a torrent and stole them. Why? Because I was pissed off at having to buy the same music again that I'd bought a month before.
Now, if I'd broken the CD or lost it, I'd have to re-buy it, right? So isn't this just like that?
No, and here's why. If I lost or cracked my CD, that's my own damn fault. I have all the protection, the anti-virus, the spybot, the backups, but through no fault of my own, things happen with PCs, Microsoft, etc.
A more apt analysis would be if I sold you a CD, then a friend of mine snuck into your house and laid it out in the Sun on your window sill creating a lovely, decoratively warped coaster that would no longer even fit in a CD player, much less play, then I showed up again the next day wanting to sell you another CD with the same music. How many times do you think I could pull this off?
2. It's a cheat. You never really own anything anymore, do you? You own a ticket to come into their store and listen to your music. Granted, their store can be wherever you want to be, but it's still their store. They don't have to worry about building better, more powerful hard drives or smart phones. They only have to worry about creating better, more ubiquitous broadband. But what happens when their system goes down? What happens when they decide you should pay to be in their store to listen to your music? They could, you know? They could change the rules however they like, and you wouldn't have a single hard copy of a single thing in your library, because your library belongs to them.
The cloud is ultra-convenient. It doesn't require anything but for you to have a device and a decent internet connection. You don't have to haul DVDs and CDs around. You will go for it, because of the convenience. We both know you will. I might, too. But it's a ghost in the making, a haunt we can all see as we're nodding with smiling, drooling enthusiasm as we kiss the real estate agent's gloss right off her lips and give her a fat commission.
The cloud is also an amazing database of your likes and interests, so they can do a better, more efficient job of selling you more stuff.
I can't wait for the cloud to come to the clothing stores. I'll call ahead and have the department store deliver to me a jacket and a nice pair of sneakers, but at end of the day, they'll be waiting outside my front door with two bruisers holding aluminum baseball bats, wanting their clothes back. After all, we're not a buy culture anymore, we're a rent culture.
What do you own?
Your house? No. Your bank owns your house until you pay off your mortgage. I'll let you stop laughing or crying about how long that's going to take. But if you're in the lucky .0000000001 % of people who have paid off their mortgage, then your house belongs to the state. Try not paying your property taxes for a year or so and you'll find out really quick who your house really belongs to.
What about your car? Bank again, unless it's paid off. I suppose even if you didn't pay for your license and registration or your driver's license or state mandated auto-insurance, you could still keep ownership of your car. You just couldn't drive it on public roads.
Your pets! Ah, you own your pets. Whew. Wait . . . does the cloud take pets?
read the damn comic.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Thursday, April 29, 2010
There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me...but the Rest of You are Highly Suspect!
I'm over 40. I drink. I fuck. I eat.
Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.
Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.
So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.
But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.
At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.
And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.
But I can still drink. Except. . . .
Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.
Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.
That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!
Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.
Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.
In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.
That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.
I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.
I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.
It's. fucking. beautiful.
Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. Okay...so they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.
Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.
On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.
Read the damn comic.
Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.
Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.
So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.
But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.
At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.
And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.
But I can still drink. Except. . . .
Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.
Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.
That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!
Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.
Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.
In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.
That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.
I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.
I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.
It's. fucking. beautiful.
Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. Okay...so they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.
Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.
On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.
Read the damn comic.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Women who hug
As many of may know, I run an Evil Toys is Us. Run means manage. Evil toys for an evil world. It doesn't bother me much, but as a manager, I have employees. Not many, but enough. Any at all is enough for someone who doesn't like people.
On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.
It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.
One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.
I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).
Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."
The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.
Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.
Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.
I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.
These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.
Huh?
If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.
If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.
If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.
Here's why men don't hug:
We don't have breasts.
Seriously.
You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.
There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.
Plus, the breasts.
Read the damn comic.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
4/4/2010
On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.
It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.
One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.
I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).
Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."
The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.
Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.
Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.
I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.
These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.
Huh?
If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.
If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.
If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.
Here's why men don't hug:
We don't have breasts.
Seriously.
You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.
There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.
Plus, the breasts.
Read the damn comic.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
4/4/2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Blind Kingdom...Part IV (Now with Real Lemon flavoring!!!!)
Smart advice for numb-skulls!
Hate:
It's best to hate someone below you, meaning someone poorer, dumber, uglier, fatter or generally less well-adjusted. Due to the diversity of the human species, pickings are plentiful. If you have not yet found a reason to hate your fellow brother / sister, then you have not been alive long enough nor have you really lived. You think you will never ever ever hate someone? You will. Never underestimate your fellow humans' ability to annoy, betray, hurt or anger you. The lesson of hate, like so many things, is in how you overcome it.
Note: Nothing pisses people off more than being generous and genuinely forgiving when they're busy trying to hate you. Just a tip from me to you because I care . . . you filthy shit-eating bastards.
Tears:
They are the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full.
The economy:
No one responsible and mature and wise gets hurt in a depression / recession. Oh sure, those of us who pay our bills on time and in full, those of us who prefer not to live beyond our paychecks might have to tighten our belts a tad, but not by much. We don't eat in restaurants every night anyway. Maybe once a week, if that. Instead of a trip by plane, we might have to drive, but we've got a sensible car and the low interest rate to pull it off. We're happy with what we have. We're not impressed by the Jones's because we know they can't really afford their new house, and we can afford ours. In fact, we're paid a few months ahead. We know we're okay because the mortgage company keeps calling us in the hopes that we'll refinance for lower payments, but we never do because we recognize it as a thinly veiled attempt to raise our interest rate, which just happens to be low and fixed, and when they call us and tell us it would cost us an additional $3,000.00 to refinance, we laugh in their face and put an additional $3,000.00 on the principal just to piss them off.
For the rest of you: be thankful you live in a country that allows you to go bankrupt with dignity and style. In any other part of the world, you would systematically be thrown into the streets to starve. Blame Darwin, and please, when begging, try to stay on the curb. I can't afford to have my brakes replaced just yet.
Your House:
You don't own it; it owns you. If you put as much time and energy into your relationships (i.e. spouse, children, brother, sister, parent, etc.) as you did into decorating your house, you'd be the happiest person on the planet, surrounded by love, companionship and happiness. But you didn't. Let's just hope the local Home Depot shows up at your funeral and refrains making jokes about how much wood they gave you.
Laughter:
It's the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full . . . or are drunk, stoned or clinically insane.
World Travel:
For Americans: it's not a myth, there are actually other people in the world besides yourself.
For everyone else: We may be idiots, but we're smart idiots; we're litigious idiots; we're idiots with a whole shit load of missiles, a whole shit load of financial and political influence. If you were in our place, you'd behave the same, if not worse. In fact, judging you all by the actions of the Romans (i.e. Italians), British, Germans and Japanese, we're not doing so bad. But by all means, feel free to whine, but when we visit your B&Bs (which are delightful, by the way) . . . A. accept that we didn't take the time to learn the language because our vacations aren't as long yours, and our proximity is not nearly so convenient, and B. don't spit in our eggs, most Americans didn't have shit to do with, nor did we approve of bombing the shit out of the Iraqi people.
Toilets:
Some of the best and worst moments of your life will be spent here: you have only yourself to blame.
to be continued
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Hate:
It's best to hate someone below you, meaning someone poorer, dumber, uglier, fatter or generally less well-adjusted. Due to the diversity of the human species, pickings are plentiful. If you have not yet found a reason to hate your fellow brother / sister, then you have not been alive long enough nor have you really lived. You think you will never ever ever hate someone? You will. Never underestimate your fellow humans' ability to annoy, betray, hurt or anger you. The lesson of hate, like so many things, is in how you overcome it.
Note: Nothing pisses people off more than being generous and genuinely forgiving when they're busy trying to hate you. Just a tip from me to you because I care . . . you filthy shit-eating bastards.
Tears:
They are the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full.
The economy:
No one responsible and mature and wise gets hurt in a depression / recession. Oh sure, those of us who pay our bills on time and in full, those of us who prefer not to live beyond our paychecks might have to tighten our belts a tad, but not by much. We don't eat in restaurants every night anyway. Maybe once a week, if that. Instead of a trip by plane, we might have to drive, but we've got a sensible car and the low interest rate to pull it off. We're happy with what we have. We're not impressed by the Jones's because we know they can't really afford their new house, and we can afford ours. In fact, we're paid a few months ahead. We know we're okay because the mortgage company keeps calling us in the hopes that we'll refinance for lower payments, but we never do because we recognize it as a thinly veiled attempt to raise our interest rate, which just happens to be low and fixed, and when they call us and tell us it would cost us an additional $3,000.00 to refinance, we laugh in their face and put an additional $3,000.00 on the principal just to piss them off.
For the rest of you: be thankful you live in a country that allows you to go bankrupt with dignity and style. In any other part of the world, you would systematically be thrown into the streets to starve. Blame Darwin, and please, when begging, try to stay on the curb. I can't afford to have my brakes replaced just yet.
Your House:
You don't own it; it owns you. If you put as much time and energy into your relationships (i.e. spouse, children, brother, sister, parent, etc.) as you did into decorating your house, you'd be the happiest person on the planet, surrounded by love, companionship and happiness. But you didn't. Let's just hope the local Home Depot shows up at your funeral and refrains making jokes about how much wood they gave you.
Laughter:
It's the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full . . . or are drunk, stoned or clinically insane.
World Travel:
For Americans: it's not a myth, there are actually other people in the world besides yourself.
For everyone else: We may be idiots, but we're smart idiots; we're litigious idiots; we're idiots with a whole shit load of missiles, a whole shit load of financial and political influence. If you were in our place, you'd behave the same, if not worse. In fact, judging you all by the actions of the Romans (i.e. Italians), British, Germans and Japanese, we're not doing so bad. But by all means, feel free to whine, but when we visit your B&Bs (which are delightful, by the way) . . . A. accept that we didn't take the time to learn the language because our vacations aren't as long yours, and our proximity is not nearly so convenient, and B. don't spit in our eggs, most Americans didn't have shit to do with, nor did we approve of bombing the shit out of the Iraqi people.
Toilets:
Some of the best and worst moments of your life will be spent here: you have only yourself to blame.
to be continued
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Monday, February 1, 2010
Love Notes For Men and Those Soft Curvy Animals
Valentine's day will be upon us soon, like a scourge, a Hallmark-sponsored virus, a legion of red, chocolatey hearts which if really shaped like hearts would more closely resemble big red blobby fist looking things with blueish veins--not exactly romantic, I know, but accurate. . .
. . . which brings me to the point of men and women.
Let's start with an obvious one:
Falling in love.
For Men, love is a destination. Once we're there, we know we're there, we're usually fairly pleased about having found our way there without having had to pull over and ask for directions or, God forbid, rely on a map. Either would mean we didn't know where we were going, and we ALWAYS know where we're going, especially when we don't.
For Women, however, it's an exciting past time, like free-falling from a plane. It's thrilling, rewarding, and they want to do it over and over and over (picture the Energizer bunny here), even if it's with the same guy.
For your guy, love is a house. You've both made it there. He doesn't feel the need to follow you around from room to room, reminding you that you're both in the house. Every room: "We're in the house, baby!" Jumping out from behind doors: "We're STILL in the house, baby!" Admit it, you'd want to smack him after 10 minutes of this.
For your girl, she wants you to jump out of the plane with her again. Yes, you just did it yesterday, but that was yesterday. Yesterday you proved you were willing to give it all up for her. Yesterday your grand romantic gesture was recorded for posterity, but that was yesterday. Are you STILL willing to give it all up for her, put her first, make her the number one star that leads your ship on the ocean (and over the edge of the Earth)? You can't just fall in love with her once. She gets no satisfaction, no ongoing thrill from that. There's no drama. She wants you to fall in love with her all over again every day, at least until she's menstruating. Then you just have to prove you're willing to put up with all of the crazy ass things she says, after which you may be rewarded, but only if you never ever bring up all the crazy ass things she said.
Guys, for the most part, want one thing, and that is a naked woman laying on our bed, waiting for us to arrive home. Naked and dry and soft and very very ready.
Oh, we want the other stuff, too, but it doesn't really occur to us that we might need it until we can see the hand of death looming in the distance. Then, and only then, do we really start to think, "Who will really be willing to put with me when I'm an old fart?" and "Who's going to be waiting to tell me that we'll face it together when I get dick cancer, butt cancer, back hair cancer or whatever?" and "Who's going to still let me jostle their fleshy bits and put my cold feet against the back of her warm legs when the old willy isn't quite as ready to salute the magnificence of the female nipple as it used to be?"
It's not just about facing death. That's just the first time it really occurs to us that we might actually need all that love stuff, beyond getting wet and sweaty under the sheets. Plus, at some point our testosterone levels start to plummet, but that's still not the main reason. I'm not by any means suggesting you wait until after he's had his first colonoscopy to hint that he might want to marry you, but it is a viable and frequently over looked strategy, and you get an amazing number of credits once you've driven him there and back (keep a window open on the way home, just a tip from me to you).
I was out of high school before I realized how much women liked to fuck. You could've stuck a live cobra down my pants. That was the extend of my shock. Not that high school girls didn't seem to like sex, but they seemed to attach so much baggage to it, reputation, possible pregnancy, parents finding out, etc. Now, in my forties, I'm surprised at how much difficulty women have with the emotional side of things. In fact, sex for women my age seems surprisingly easy. They're good at it. They want it. They're willing to admit it. Life's short. They don't want to wait forever to find out if you're worth it (physically anyway). But the baggage is all emotional at that point.
It's nice to date women that have had their bad boy flings and now want someone they can trust and that is fairly decent (though a little bad boy still goes a long way). Unfortunately, the bad boys have fucked them over so much that they're still walking around with a bad taste in their mouth. And occasionally the insecurities have reached critical mass. I've dated a woman who loved sex, but who refused to have an orgasm with anyone who wasn't "the one". I wasn't. I've dated a woman who was so hot and who smelled so good, she was simply completely irresistible to me, and even though I could see the fuse being lit, I still lived in hope it wouldn't blow up. It did, but what a ride. I dated a woman who wanted a purely physical relationship, until she got it and then realized she needed more.
And after a life time of women, some fucked up, some not so fucked up, some hot, some hot only to me, I'm still hungry for more.
Go figure.
I think I'll buy a large lump of chocolate shaped like a blobby fist.
Aarron Diaz Hoal
2/1/2010
. . . which brings me to the point of men and women.
Let's start with an obvious one:
Falling in love.
For Men, love is a destination. Once we're there, we know we're there, we're usually fairly pleased about having found our way there without having had to pull over and ask for directions or, God forbid, rely on a map. Either would mean we didn't know where we were going, and we ALWAYS know where we're going, especially when we don't.
For Women, however, it's an exciting past time, like free-falling from a plane. It's thrilling, rewarding, and they want to do it over and over and over (picture the Energizer bunny here), even if it's with the same guy.
For your guy, love is a house. You've both made it there. He doesn't feel the need to follow you around from room to room, reminding you that you're both in the house. Every room: "We're in the house, baby!" Jumping out from behind doors: "We're STILL in the house, baby!" Admit it, you'd want to smack him after 10 minutes of this.
For your girl, she wants you to jump out of the plane with her again. Yes, you just did it yesterday, but that was yesterday. Yesterday you proved you were willing to give it all up for her. Yesterday your grand romantic gesture was recorded for posterity, but that was yesterday. Are you STILL willing to give it all up for her, put her first, make her the number one star that leads your ship on the ocean (and over the edge of the Earth)? You can't just fall in love with her once. She gets no satisfaction, no ongoing thrill from that. There's no drama. She wants you to fall in love with her all over again every day, at least until she's menstruating. Then you just have to prove you're willing to put up with all of the crazy ass things she says, after which you may be rewarded, but only if you never ever bring up all the crazy ass things she said.
Guys, for the most part, want one thing, and that is a naked woman laying on our bed, waiting for us to arrive home. Naked and dry and soft and very very ready.
Oh, we want the other stuff, too, but it doesn't really occur to us that we might need it until we can see the hand of death looming in the distance. Then, and only then, do we really start to think, "Who will really be willing to put with me when I'm an old fart?" and "Who's going to be waiting to tell me that we'll face it together when I get dick cancer, butt cancer, back hair cancer or whatever?" and "Who's going to still let me jostle their fleshy bits and put my cold feet against the back of her warm legs when the old willy isn't quite as ready to salute the magnificence of the female nipple as it used to be?"
It's not just about facing death. That's just the first time it really occurs to us that we might actually need all that love stuff, beyond getting wet and sweaty under the sheets. Plus, at some point our testosterone levels start to plummet, but that's still not the main reason. I'm not by any means suggesting you wait until after he's had his first colonoscopy to hint that he might want to marry you, but it is a viable and frequently over looked strategy, and you get an amazing number of credits once you've driven him there and back (keep a window open on the way home, just a tip from me to you).
I was out of high school before I realized how much women liked to fuck. You could've stuck a live cobra down my pants. That was the extend of my shock. Not that high school girls didn't seem to like sex, but they seemed to attach so much baggage to it, reputation, possible pregnancy, parents finding out, etc. Now, in my forties, I'm surprised at how much difficulty women have with the emotional side of things. In fact, sex for women my age seems surprisingly easy. They're good at it. They want it. They're willing to admit it. Life's short. They don't want to wait forever to find out if you're worth it (physically anyway). But the baggage is all emotional at that point.
It's nice to date women that have had their bad boy flings and now want someone they can trust and that is fairly decent (though a little bad boy still goes a long way). Unfortunately, the bad boys have fucked them over so much that they're still walking around with a bad taste in their mouth. And occasionally the insecurities have reached critical mass. I've dated a woman who loved sex, but who refused to have an orgasm with anyone who wasn't "the one". I wasn't. I've dated a woman who was so hot and who smelled so good, she was simply completely irresistible to me, and even though I could see the fuse being lit, I still lived in hope it wouldn't blow up. It did, but what a ride. I dated a woman who wanted a purely physical relationship, until she got it and then realized she needed more.
And after a life time of women, some fucked up, some not so fucked up, some hot, some hot only to me, I'm still hungry for more.
Go figure.
I think I'll buy a large lump of chocolate shaped like a blobby fist.
Aarron Diaz Hoal
2/1/2010
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Blind Kingdom (Part Three)--Good advice for stupid people
Love:
If you're thinking about them every night; if you feel like you can't live without them; if you're sure this person is your soul mate; if they "complete" you; if you connect; if you scream for the first time ever during your orgasm; if you know your parents are so very very wrong; if you're certain your friends just need to get to know them to see the real them; if you sit by the phone, carry your phone everywhere you go, wait impatiently, agonizingly, anxiously for their call, just to hear their voice. . . .
You're NOT, repeat, NOT in love. You're infatuated. Infatuation can lead to love, but it should not be confused with it. You cannot find love in an afternoon. You cannot love someone because they've got a gorgeous cock, smile, pair of tits, car, account balance, ambition, etc. Love is about trust. Love is about knowing someone. Love takes years, not seconds, not minutes . . . years. There are people who have been married for 1, 5, 10, 20 years and counting who are not in love. Love is like looking for your lost Ipod: you know you had it; you don't know how you lost it; the harder you look for it, the more flustered you become; the moment you're not looking for it, you spot it out of the corner of your eye.
You know you're in love when you find yourself miraculously putting their needs ahead of your own, and you're not quite sure when you made the decision to do so.
Booze:
If you can taste the oak, the currant and the soil in the latest Chateau Lafite Rothschild, bully for you! If you refuse to drink anything but imported beer, ale, lager, dark, black & tan, brown, etc. . . . Wow, color us impressed! Or just color us shitfaced, because we don't give a damn.
We (i.e. you, me and everyone on the planet) drink booze to get drunk, to get tipsy, to have our inhibitions ripped from the anal-retentive grip of our cramping fists. It gets us strange bedfellows, strange bargains, strange children, strange visions, but no matter how expensive, how pompous, how snooty, how knowledgeable you are, you're still getting sauced, shit-faced, three sheets to the wind like the rest of us.
And as a side note: I personally think spitting out the most gorgeous velvety tasting wine into a bucket is a travesty. If I can't make a spectacle of myself at a wine tasting, underwear on head, wrists in cuffs, shrieking lyrical poetry that would make the members of the Doors blush, including the Lizard King himself, then it's not worth the price of admission.
Parenting:
Your children have several purposes. Let's name them: 1. To fuck things up. 2. To grow up 3. To drive you fucking nuts 4. To drive everyone else fucking nuts 5. To play and make you smile 6. To teach you what you forgot you learned 7. To make you toss and turn and awaken at three in the A.M. because you hear them hot-wiring the truck to go buy cases of toilet paper at the all night Walmart, possibly getting drunk and or stoned on the way, pausing only long enough to impregnate or be impregnated.
You can't stop it. You can't prevent it. No matter how skilled you are.
You can love them and lead by example, which is easier said then done, and that's it.
Good luck.
Remember: If you fuck them up, you're fucking us up as well.
Music:
Music, rock, pop, country, the blues, jazz, classical, world, zydeco, tejano, etc. is not about buying albums, concert tickets, Tee shirts, downloads, or anything else. It's about feeling something indescribable; it's about connecting with a part of yourself that even the great Bard couldn't describe. It's masturbation for the soul, and every now and then, it gets you laid.
Pets:
Love'em if you got'em.
Masturbation:
You have a hand. You have genitalia. Any God who is so wicked, so tempting, so malicious as to give you a match and a can of gasoline and tell you NOT to set things on fire is not a God worth following. Stone me if you must, but masturbation is the best tool (heh, heh, I said "tool") for discovering your own sexuality. You MUST know yourself before anyone else can. You MUST love yourself before anyone else can. It does not take the place of the human heart or of human to human interaction, but it is like batting practice. Learn what you need to learn before the big game or it'll be a washout.
(to be continued)
Aaron Diaz Hoal
If you're thinking about them every night; if you feel like you can't live without them; if you're sure this person is your soul mate; if they "complete" you; if you connect; if you scream for the first time ever during your orgasm; if you know your parents are so very very wrong; if you're certain your friends just need to get to know them to see the real them; if you sit by the phone, carry your phone everywhere you go, wait impatiently, agonizingly, anxiously for their call, just to hear their voice. . . .
You're NOT, repeat, NOT in love. You're infatuated. Infatuation can lead to love, but it should not be confused with it. You cannot find love in an afternoon. You cannot love someone because they've got a gorgeous cock, smile, pair of tits, car, account balance, ambition, etc. Love is about trust. Love is about knowing someone. Love takes years, not seconds, not minutes . . . years. There are people who have been married for 1, 5, 10, 20 years and counting who are not in love. Love is like looking for your lost Ipod: you know you had it; you don't know how you lost it; the harder you look for it, the more flustered you become; the moment you're not looking for it, you spot it out of the corner of your eye.
You know you're in love when you find yourself miraculously putting their needs ahead of your own, and you're not quite sure when you made the decision to do so.
Booze:
If you can taste the oak, the currant and the soil in the latest Chateau Lafite Rothschild, bully for you! If you refuse to drink anything but imported beer, ale, lager, dark, black & tan, brown, etc. . . . Wow, color us impressed! Or just color us shitfaced, because we don't give a damn.
We (i.e. you, me and everyone on the planet) drink booze to get drunk, to get tipsy, to have our inhibitions ripped from the anal-retentive grip of our cramping fists. It gets us strange bedfellows, strange bargains, strange children, strange visions, but no matter how expensive, how pompous, how snooty, how knowledgeable you are, you're still getting sauced, shit-faced, three sheets to the wind like the rest of us.
And as a side note: I personally think spitting out the most gorgeous velvety tasting wine into a bucket is a travesty. If I can't make a spectacle of myself at a wine tasting, underwear on head, wrists in cuffs, shrieking lyrical poetry that would make the members of the Doors blush, including the Lizard King himself, then it's not worth the price of admission.
Parenting:
Your children have several purposes. Let's name them: 1. To fuck things up. 2. To grow up 3. To drive you fucking nuts 4. To drive everyone else fucking nuts 5. To play and make you smile 6. To teach you what you forgot you learned 7. To make you toss and turn and awaken at three in the A.M. because you hear them hot-wiring the truck to go buy cases of toilet paper at the all night Walmart, possibly getting drunk and or stoned on the way, pausing only long enough to impregnate or be impregnated.
You can't stop it. You can't prevent it. No matter how skilled you are.
You can love them and lead by example, which is easier said then done, and that's it.
Good luck.
Remember: If you fuck them up, you're fucking us up as well.
Music:
Music, rock, pop, country, the blues, jazz, classical, world, zydeco, tejano, etc. is not about buying albums, concert tickets, Tee shirts, downloads, or anything else. It's about feeling something indescribable; it's about connecting with a part of yourself that even the great Bard couldn't describe. It's masturbation for the soul, and every now and then, it gets you laid.
Pets:
Love'em if you got'em.
Masturbation:
You have a hand. You have genitalia. Any God who is so wicked, so tempting, so malicious as to give you a match and a can of gasoline and tell you NOT to set things on fire is not a God worth following. Stone me if you must, but masturbation is the best tool (heh, heh, I said "tool") for discovering your own sexuality. You MUST know yourself before anyone else can. You MUST love yourself before anyone else can. It does not take the place of the human heart or of human to human interaction, but it is like batting practice. Learn what you need to learn before the big game or it'll be a washout.
(to be continued)
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Female Conspiracy
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date teenage girls (and in most states are forbidden from doing so) and having to suffer through long hours of conversation where she patiently explains the way she'd like to be only to leave you the next day for someone who is exactly everything she told you she didn't want.
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date twenty-something girls (not that you ever stop wanting to) with killer bodies and a party attitude who you find drunk as a skunk in a back room sucking the cock of a gentleman with a nicer car than you.
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date thirty year old women who are dedicated either to their career (around which your time and energy must be scheduled) or dedicated to having children RIGHT FUCKING NOW and if you can't deliver she'll find someone who can.
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you get to date 40 something year old women. These women have dated assholes, both successful and unsuccessful, men who still lived in their parents' basement, men with no futures, no jobs, no steady income, no energy, no ambition, and no indication of every wanting to improve. They've been through the "I can change them" syndrome, and they're ready to settle.
Many of the these women are ready for Mr. Right, but have certain "needs" (sex) and are willing to hang out with someone who is halfway decent like yours truly. I have a steady income, a car that doesn't belong to the bank, an easy, relaxed non-judgmental attitude, a sense of humor and a healthy libido.
This woman becomes the "friend with benefits", at least until Mr. Right comes along. This woman is willing to settle for a man like myself who is a little bit of an asshole, but not so much that he's unbearable, and at other times is generally sweet, encouraging, but is honest about not wanting a relationship. Many of these women have joined yours truly in not wanting a long term commitment, because they (like me) value their independence and freedom, but it's awfully damn nice to have someone to sit with at the movie theater, to smack strawberry jelly with at the Poteet Strawberry Festival, and finally return home to shed clothing and inhibitions for no less than thirty minutes, but no more than forty five, unless I'm drunk and can't get it up, but she gets around this by making me drive . . . but I digress.
If all you sisters stuck together, I'd be in a pretty bad pickle, an extra sour one. It's because women give into the "friends with benefits" theory of life that men like me get to keep on keeping on in life without having to get married . . . or having to hire prostitutes.
The problem with abstinence and celibacy is it defies the basic human programming. God, Mother Nature, Life and/or the Universe wants us to fuck. You want to fuck. I want to fuck. If we met, we might like to fuck each other. Granted, I don't have as much stamina as your pink buddy with the double A batteries, but I'm human, warm, funny, unpredictable, sweet, tender, brutal and I pay for dinner and a movie without complaint (including gas). I also smell nice when I'm really being considerate.
I know there's a philosophy out there that says, "Ladies, don't give him sex until you're sure you're in a relationship, committed or otherwise". It's good advice, and it works like gangbusters when women can stick to it, and many can and have. But at the first stumble, the body, male or female, will always default to . . . fuck it, let's find someone to have sex with to accomplish any of the following goals:
Get back at him.
Feel desirable again.
Get crazy to relieve stress.
Relieve the loneliness.
Relieve the pent up libido.
And so on. . . .
I've done a lot of things I wouldn't otherwise have been tempted to do because of the shape of a particular woman's ass, breasts, smile, eyes, and so on, because I wanted her to smile, because I wanted her to like me, because I wanted her to part her thighs, because I wanted her.
It's okay. I'm comfortable with being manipulated, because I know women are also being manipulated by men, by women, by moms, by peer pressure, and by their own libido and ticking biological clock.
Thank God most conspiracies fail. If this one had succeeded, I'd be married again, and I'm enjoying being single too much right now.
Of course, the girl with the right smile, the right glitter to her eyes, and the right dirty joke on her gleaming, wet lips could change all that.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
August 9th, 2009
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date twenty-something girls (not that you ever stop wanting to) with killer bodies and a party attitude who you find drunk as a skunk in a back room sucking the cock of a gentleman with a nicer car than you.
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date thirty year old women who are dedicated either to their career (around which your time and energy must be scheduled) or dedicated to having children RIGHT FUCKING NOW and if you can't deliver she'll find someone who can.
The nice thing about being 40 and single is you get to date 40 something year old women. These women have dated assholes, both successful and unsuccessful, men who still lived in their parents' basement, men with no futures, no jobs, no steady income, no energy, no ambition, and no indication of every wanting to improve. They've been through the "I can change them" syndrome, and they're ready to settle.
Many of the these women are ready for Mr. Right, but have certain "needs" (sex) and are willing to hang out with someone who is halfway decent like yours truly. I have a steady income, a car that doesn't belong to the bank, an easy, relaxed non-judgmental attitude, a sense of humor and a healthy libido.
This woman becomes the "friend with benefits", at least until Mr. Right comes along. This woman is willing to settle for a man like myself who is a little bit of an asshole, but not so much that he's unbearable, and at other times is generally sweet, encouraging, but is honest about not wanting a relationship. Many of these women have joined yours truly in not wanting a long term commitment, because they (like me) value their independence and freedom, but it's awfully damn nice to have someone to sit with at the movie theater, to smack strawberry jelly with at the Poteet Strawberry Festival, and finally return home to shed clothing and inhibitions for no less than thirty minutes, but no more than forty five, unless I'm drunk and can't get it up, but she gets around this by making me drive . . . but I digress.
If all you sisters stuck together, I'd be in a pretty bad pickle, an extra sour one. It's because women give into the "friends with benefits" theory of life that men like me get to keep on keeping on in life without having to get married . . . or having to hire prostitutes.
The problem with abstinence and celibacy is it defies the basic human programming. God, Mother Nature, Life and/or the Universe wants us to fuck. You want to fuck. I want to fuck. If we met, we might like to fuck each other. Granted, I don't have as much stamina as your pink buddy with the double A batteries, but I'm human, warm, funny, unpredictable, sweet, tender, brutal and I pay for dinner and a movie without complaint (including gas). I also smell nice when I'm really being considerate.
I know there's a philosophy out there that says, "Ladies, don't give him sex until you're sure you're in a relationship, committed or otherwise". It's good advice, and it works like gangbusters when women can stick to it, and many can and have. But at the first stumble, the body, male or female, will always default to . . . fuck it, let's find someone to have sex with to accomplish any of the following goals:
Get back at him.
Feel desirable again.
Get crazy to relieve stress.
Relieve the loneliness.
Relieve the pent up libido.
And so on. . . .
I've done a lot of things I wouldn't otherwise have been tempted to do because of the shape of a particular woman's ass, breasts, smile, eyes, and so on, because I wanted her to smile, because I wanted her to like me, because I wanted her to part her thighs, because I wanted her.
It's okay. I'm comfortable with being manipulated, because I know women are also being manipulated by men, by women, by moms, by peer pressure, and by their own libido and ticking biological clock.
Thank God most conspiracies fail. If this one had succeeded, I'd be married again, and I'm enjoying being single too much right now.
Of course, the girl with the right smile, the right glitter to her eyes, and the right dirty joke on her gleaming, wet lips could change all that.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
August 9th, 2009
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