Saturday, August 29, 2009

The Blind Kingdom (Part Three)--Good advice for stupid people


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.


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.


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, 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.


Love'em if you got'em.


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