Did you know that today is the first day of Spring? I didn't. Not until I was awoken this morning with a pleasant text from Double D--"Happy Persian New Year!" Or, to be more precise, not until I did Wikipedia on "Persian New Year" and learned that it's celebrated on the first day of Spring. Which makes a lot of sense. Certainly more so than celebrating the new year at an arbitrary date in the middle of Winter.
I usually don't track the seasons. Well, with the exception of Autumn. When the calendar flips to September, I start dreaming of Autumn's arrival. The crisp weather and how it heralds the holiday season; that smooth continuous ride from Halloween to Thanksgiving to the Winter Holidays. I didn't bother with Spring, as it was merely a reminder that Winter was gone and the hot, muggy, unbearable days of Summer were soon to invade my personal space.
This year, though, I feel pretty good about Spring, and it's arrival coincides with some pep in my step that I've felt these past few weeks. Part of that may be the work of Daylight Savings and the longer days, but there's something more there. Something that can't be explained by simple human manipulation of the clock. It feels like ice that's been encasing my spirit is slowly starting to melt away. Drip. Drop. Drip. I feel groggy and disoriented, but in a good way. Like a bear coming out of hibernation.
Of course, Spring signals rebirth and renewal, so perhaps that's what's behind my feelings. It is the Year of the Phoenix, after all. An omen of good things to come? Stay tuned.
-KM
"Good morning. On this day we become legendary."
Showing posts with label Double D. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Double D. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Metamorphin' Power Shoppers
Word of Resolution Three spread quickly, and those willing to lend their hand have stepped forward, first among them being Double D. Needless to say, he was excited and thinking big. "Time to jump right into the deep end, my friend." The Internet quickly became his chalkboard as he began to school me in new concepts like "selvedge denim," "shawl collar cardigans," and "wingtip shoes." As all these new ideas went whizzing by, I felt a little overwhelmed. Flashbacks of my engineering days reemerged in my mind--"What the hell have I gotten myself into!?" It soon became clear that I was a deer caught in the bright headlights of modern mens fashion. I politely suggested to the professor that perhaps starting off with the advanced lesson was a bit too ambitious. How about we instead start at the shallow end, complete with little floatie things around my arms?
And so began an adventure to the outlet mall. There are several in the Greater Los Angeles area, but the one Double D chose for my remedial lesson lies in a sleepy little town called Camarillo. From what I could gather, the outlet mall is the focal point of the town. Its claim to fame, perhaps? The outlets are large, the entire complex taking up multiple strip malls and requiring a car to get from strip mall to strip mall. If one were to be so bold as to go into every store, it would probably take a good week. In any case, it's definitely a place of pilgrimage. People had come from far and wide to partake in discount deals for misfit clothing, and Double D and I became part of this motley fellowship.
I should probably mention that I get bored of shopping very easily, which I realize is going to be somewhat of a handicap in accomplishing Resolution Three. Double D does not suffer from this affliction. So, as we'd bounce from store to store, I'd quickly have my fill and then sit around and do some people watching while Double D meticulously perused the racks. Many of the pilgrims were pretty nondescript, but one really stood out to me, a tall, lanky fellow with pale skin and sandy blonde hair. He was on a shopping binge of some sort, holding in each hand three or four bags, all from different stores. He was also distressed, moving from store to store with an urgency more commonly seen in those looking for something recently lost. What stood out more than anything, though, was his gait, left leg moving with left arm; right leg moving with right arm. I found it unusual because we tend to walk with each arm in sync with the opposite leg. The result was something reminiscent of a caveman. Violent and brutish. But oddly enough, when he spoke, he was very soft spoken and polite, at one point even apologizing to me profusely that his bags were hindering my ingress and egress. The juxtaposition of the brutish and the submissive made for an odd pairing but showed the conflict raging in his soul.
I was dying to know what could torment this otherwise nondescript guy and fuel his shopping binge, but societal norms stopped me from making the inquiry. My imagination quickly stepped in to fill in the blanks (perhaps a residual effect of my being an only child). So here was this guy, Jeremiah Jebediah Johnson. His friends call him "Jerry," so we'll do the same. At one point we were in the same store, and I noticed him trying on clothes at an unsustainable pace. I wanted to go over there and tell him to slow down a bit, but the frenzy in his eyes stopped me. A wildness you might see in a starving beast. Obviously something had taken hold of and infected his gentle spirit. What could cause a good man to act in such a way? It had to be a girl (I apologize in advance that my lack of imagination usually results in my people-watching scenarios revolving around dating). Jerry must've just gotten out of a long term relationship. Dumped most likely. His girlfriend since high school had suddenly decided to move to New York. Where she's headed, she can't afford to be weighed down by the past, much to Jerry's misfortune. No room in the Big Apple for anything to remind her of Camarillo; a place she'd always been secretly ashamed of. And that includes you, Jerry. "But I could go with you. . ."
As you may have guessed, Jerry's plea went unanswered. As did all of his subsequent texts and long distance phone calls. It doesn't take that many unreturned voicemails to hammer home a point--"It's over, Jerry." Devastated, Jerry decided that what's good for the goose is good for the gander, so he'd forget this high-school-sweetheart-turned-big-city-harlot much like she forgot him. She'll get wiped from his memory Eternal Sunshine style. The surefire way to do that? Change himself. Leave that hapless sucker Jerry in the dustbin of the past and move forward as Jeremiah, the suave player extraordinaire.
So here Jerry and I find ourselves in the same store in the same outlet mall with the same goal--transformation. That makes us kindred spirits of sorts, but we were setting ourselves up to walk down two completely different paths. Self improvement is my motivator; slow and steady my pace. Jerry's pace is quicker, and his motivation comes from a much darker place. I'm somewhat curious to see what his metamorphosis will yield, but have my concerns given that rage, despair, and spite are its incubators. Will he leave the cocoon as Jeremiah the monarch butterfly; the Man that all women desire? Or Triple J, the twisted demon seeking only to bed as many women as possible?
As I was writing the ending to Jerry's story in my mind, Double D tracked me down. After telling him about Jerry, he responded with a quizzical, "Why are you sitting here stalking that guy, weirdo?" I was going to go into more detail about Jerry's tale but thought better of it, what with Double D being much more of a pragmatist than me. So I quickly gathered my wits and went back to the task at hand; my own little humble metamorphosis. I left Camarillo with something called a "Harrington jacket," a purchase I'm definitely pleased with. Double D assured me that next time he won't let me futz around in the shallow end, but we'll see. I have an upcoming engagement with the Apothecary for another run at Resolution Three. Much like Double D, she also subscribes to the "Deep End" approach, comparing the situation to a bandaid. And what do we do with bandaids?
"Rip that shit off, yo."
Yikes!
--KM
"I bomb atomically. Socrates' philosophies and hypotheses can't define how I be droppin' these mockeries."
And so began an adventure to the outlet mall. There are several in the Greater Los Angeles area, but the one Double D chose for my remedial lesson lies in a sleepy little town called Camarillo. From what I could gather, the outlet mall is the focal point of the town. Its claim to fame, perhaps? The outlets are large, the entire complex taking up multiple strip malls and requiring a car to get from strip mall to strip mall. If one were to be so bold as to go into every store, it would probably take a good week. In any case, it's definitely a place of pilgrimage. People had come from far and wide to partake in discount deals for misfit clothing, and Double D and I became part of this motley fellowship.
I should probably mention that I get bored of shopping very easily, which I realize is going to be somewhat of a handicap in accomplishing Resolution Three. Double D does not suffer from this affliction. So, as we'd bounce from store to store, I'd quickly have my fill and then sit around and do some people watching while Double D meticulously perused the racks. Many of the pilgrims were pretty nondescript, but one really stood out to me, a tall, lanky fellow with pale skin and sandy blonde hair. He was on a shopping binge of some sort, holding in each hand three or four bags, all from different stores. He was also distressed, moving from store to store with an urgency more commonly seen in those looking for something recently lost. What stood out more than anything, though, was his gait, left leg moving with left arm; right leg moving with right arm. I found it unusual because we tend to walk with each arm in sync with the opposite leg. The result was something reminiscent of a caveman. Violent and brutish. But oddly enough, when he spoke, he was very soft spoken and polite, at one point even apologizing to me profusely that his bags were hindering my ingress and egress. The juxtaposition of the brutish and the submissive made for an odd pairing but showed the conflict raging in his soul.
I was dying to know what could torment this otherwise nondescript guy and fuel his shopping binge, but societal norms stopped me from making the inquiry. My imagination quickly stepped in to fill in the blanks (perhaps a residual effect of my being an only child). So here was this guy, Jeremiah Jebediah Johnson. His friends call him "Jerry," so we'll do the same. At one point we were in the same store, and I noticed him trying on clothes at an unsustainable pace. I wanted to go over there and tell him to slow down a bit, but the frenzy in his eyes stopped me. A wildness you might see in a starving beast. Obviously something had taken hold of and infected his gentle spirit. What could cause a good man to act in such a way? It had to be a girl (I apologize in advance that my lack of imagination usually results in my people-watching scenarios revolving around dating). Jerry must've just gotten out of a long term relationship. Dumped most likely. His girlfriend since high school had suddenly decided to move to New York. Where she's headed, she can't afford to be weighed down by the past, much to Jerry's misfortune. No room in the Big Apple for anything to remind her of Camarillo; a place she'd always been secretly ashamed of. And that includes you, Jerry. "But I could go with you. . ."
As you may have guessed, Jerry's plea went unanswered. As did all of his subsequent texts and long distance phone calls. It doesn't take that many unreturned voicemails to hammer home a point--"It's over, Jerry." Devastated, Jerry decided that what's good for the goose is good for the gander, so he'd forget this high-school-sweetheart-turned-big-city-harlot much like she forgot him. She'll get wiped from his memory Eternal Sunshine style. The surefire way to do that? Change himself. Leave that hapless sucker Jerry in the dustbin of the past and move forward as Jeremiah, the suave player extraordinaire.
So here Jerry and I find ourselves in the same store in the same outlet mall with the same goal--transformation. That makes us kindred spirits of sorts, but we were setting ourselves up to walk down two completely different paths. Self improvement is my motivator; slow and steady my pace. Jerry's pace is quicker, and his motivation comes from a much darker place. I'm somewhat curious to see what his metamorphosis will yield, but have my concerns given that rage, despair, and spite are its incubators. Will he leave the cocoon as Jeremiah the monarch butterfly; the Man that all women desire? Or Triple J, the twisted demon seeking only to bed as many women as possible?
As I was writing the ending to Jerry's story in my mind, Double D tracked me down. After telling him about Jerry, he responded with a quizzical, "Why are you sitting here stalking that guy, weirdo?" I was going to go into more detail about Jerry's tale but thought better of it, what with Double D being much more of a pragmatist than me. So I quickly gathered my wits and went back to the task at hand; my own little humble metamorphosis. I left Camarillo with something called a "Harrington jacket," a purchase I'm definitely pleased with. Double D assured me that next time he won't let me futz around in the shallow end, but we'll see. I have an upcoming engagement with the Apothecary for another run at Resolution Three. Much like Double D, she also subscribes to the "Deep End" approach, comparing the situation to a bandaid. And what do we do with bandaids?
"Rip that shit off, yo."
Yikes!
--KM
"I bomb atomically. Socrates' philosophies and hypotheses can't define how I be droppin' these mockeries."
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
It's What's On the Inside That Counts (Sort of).
I feel like when we were kids, the world bombarded us with stories meant to teach us the importance of looking beyond the superficial and judging people by what's inside their hearts. My favorite was about this fellow named Goro who lived in medieval Japan. Goro was short, fat, ugly and just plain grotesque, real freak show stuff. But despite lacking in the looks department, Goro had a gift for pottery. Now, there was this hot girl in the village who all the men desired. Even Goro. For although he was grotesque, he was still a man. At some point he works up the courage to talk to her, but his advances are met with laughter and derision, for freaks are not permitted to court hot girls. This is known. Now, I forget a large part of the middle of the story (I imagine it's a lot of Goro hemming and hawing about what to do and the hot girl realizing that all her attractive suitors are douchebags) but I do recall that in the end Goro gives the girl one of his cups as a gift. The cup is badly misshapen and just plain weird-looking, so the hot girl is like, "This cup is grotesque like you, Goro!" But, when she takes the lid off and looks inside, she sees the most beautiful artwork---cranes and tigers and other creatures delicately painted on a golden background (I think it was real gold!). Upon seeing this, the girl finally realizes what the audience knew all along--you can't judge a Goro by its cover. I forget whether Goro and the girl fall in love and live happily ever after (looking back on it, I hope not because the girl was kind of a bitch--you can do better, Goro!). But I do remember the moral of that story--It's what's on the inside that counts.
So since the days of Goro "It's what's on the inside that counts" has been the Mantra, a sword to pierce through society's unjust and superficial darkness. I wielded this sword with great care, making a conscious effort to get to know someone before judging them (Well, except for those people with vacant, soulless eyes ::shudder:: ). The extra effort's served me well in that I befriended people I don't think I would've without the Mantra. For example, the kid in elementary school who ate crayons and spoke in a weird accent. The consensus in the class was to shun him. Shun him and his crayon-eating ways! But as it turns out, his weird accent was just British, and he ate crayons because the box advertised them as "non-toxic" (who could argue with that?). So we became fast friends until his family moved back to their side of the Pond. Or how about the crazy lady in Japan with the creepy foreigner fetish? Shun her! Shun her and her creepy stalker ways! As it turns out, she was the sort of lady who sends letters with Dragon Ball stamps. Just a few of the many friendships attributable to the Mantra.
Anyway, I guess this whole Mantra thing's been on my mind recently because I'm starting to find it less and less effective in the realm of romance. Of course I continue to judge girls based on substance, but I'm starting to wonder if that's being reciprocated. Chemistry with the ladies flourishes over the phone, email and text, but then suffocates and dies upon meeting face-to-face. And the one holding the pillow is usually not me. So why? I mean, the face-to-face conversation goes well enough--we laugh; we cry. But at the moment of truth, she insists we split the check--the death sentence!!--and we go our separate ways.
Now, those who know me know that I'm definitely not some kind of player or anything, but I must say that this did not occur in the past. Or at least not at the frequency it does today. No, back then the hard part was always everything before the face-to-face meeting, overcoming my social awkwardness to convince a girl over the phone to meet me in person. The face-to-face meeting was usually the victory lap. So what's the deal now? Don't girls still value a man of substance?
Enter the Persian sage, D.D. (I guess we can call him "Double D" for ease of reference). Me and Double D were friends in high school (another pairing attributable to the Mantra). We lost touch over the years, but recently reconnected through the power of the Internet. So anyway, Double D has been acting as something of a swagger coach for me, for I'm sure as many do he wishes to see me happily paired up with some lovely lady. At the very least he wishes to be rid of my incessant bemoaning of singledome. Anyway, I presented Double D with the conundrum that'd been occupying so much of my time, and his response was . . . well, read for yourself:
"Bro, of course girls value a man of substance. But they also value a man who looks sharp. Yeah, superficially clothes are about looks--of course a guy who can dress himself well is going to be physically attractive to a girl. But that same well-dressed guy also signals to the girl that he has his shit together (a plus) and provides her one less thing to worry about (a double-plus). In essence, it's a tool to accentuate what's on the inside; an augmentation of your Mantra, my friend."
And there you have it. A simple solution to what turned out to be a simple conundrum--get some new clothes, buddy. And truth be told, this is some advice that was sorely needed. In the past three or four years I'd taken the Mantra to an unhealthy extreme by investing zero effort into maintaining any wardrobe apart from what I needed for work and what would keep me from falling too far below societal norms should I need to venture out of the house for non-work purposes. I guess I can blame a part of that on letting myself become somewhat of a recluse over that time period, my existence consisting of an infinite loop of: apt --> work --> apt --> work --> apt. And, while caught in that loop, I wielded the Mantra not as a sword, but as a crutch--"It's not me, it's them! Damn the world and their judging ways!" Now that I've reentered the world of the living, I see that it's time for some tweaking to the wardrobe.
"But what of the lesson of Goro?" you may be asking. Well, I guess it's become clear that the Mantra needs a slight adjustment. Perhaps something to the effect of: "It's what's on the inside that counts after what's on the outside has been counted." Meaning, if you can't get someone to notice you, it doesn't really matter how damned golden your heart is. And I suppose even with Goro that was obvious. I mean, the hot girl only liked Goro because he made her a badass cup; not because she suddenly realized he wasn't grotesque and disgusting. The cup was his foot in the door to her heart, and his golden personality was what ultimately swung it wide open. But he needed the cup.
Unfortunately, I can't catch a beautiful girl's eye by handing her a hand-made cup brimming with metaphor, so I must do so the old-fashioned way: plumage. After all we're just very complicated animals, and evolution and indecency laws having robbed us of any natural means to present ourselves to the opposite sex, we must use clothing as a substitute. Part of me feels a bit strange modifying the Mantra, but I suppose it was inevitable, especially with age. The vitality of youth can go a long way toward covering up minor superficial blemishes, but as you get older and those blemishes become more noticeable--droops getting droopier and sags getting saggier--more care to plumage can help tip the balance.
So there you are--Resolution Three: Fashion More. I think of the three--write more, cook more, fashion more--this resolution will be the hardest for me to keep, but I am relishing the challenge, despite what I anticipate is a slow and painstaking process ahead. Whether I will end up as some type of fashionista is unknown, but I will at least strive to bring myself back to where I used to be. Well, maybe a bit past that ;)
--KM
"Turn up the lights in here baby. Extra bright, I want y'all to see this."
So since the days of Goro "It's what's on the inside that counts" has been the Mantra, a sword to pierce through society's unjust and superficial darkness. I wielded this sword with great care, making a conscious effort to get to know someone before judging them (Well, except for those people with vacant, soulless eyes ::shudder:: ). The extra effort's served me well in that I befriended people I don't think I would've without the Mantra. For example, the kid in elementary school who ate crayons and spoke in a weird accent. The consensus in the class was to shun him. Shun him and his crayon-eating ways! But as it turns out, his weird accent was just British, and he ate crayons because the box advertised them as "non-toxic" (who could argue with that?). So we became fast friends until his family moved back to their side of the Pond. Or how about the crazy lady in Japan with the creepy foreigner fetish? Shun her! Shun her and her creepy stalker ways! As it turns out, she was the sort of lady who sends letters with Dragon Ball stamps. Just a few of the many friendships attributable to the Mantra.
Anyway, I guess this whole Mantra thing's been on my mind recently because I'm starting to find it less and less effective in the realm of romance. Of course I continue to judge girls based on substance, but I'm starting to wonder if that's being reciprocated. Chemistry with the ladies flourishes over the phone, email and text, but then suffocates and dies upon meeting face-to-face. And the one holding the pillow is usually not me. So why? I mean, the face-to-face conversation goes well enough--we laugh; we cry. But at the moment of truth, she insists we split the check--the death sentence!!--and we go our separate ways.
Now, those who know me know that I'm definitely not some kind of player or anything, but I must say that this did not occur in the past. Or at least not at the frequency it does today. No, back then the hard part was always everything before the face-to-face meeting, overcoming my social awkwardness to convince a girl over the phone to meet me in person. The face-to-face meeting was usually the victory lap. So what's the deal now? Don't girls still value a man of substance?
Enter the Persian sage, D.D. (I guess we can call him "Double D" for ease of reference). Me and Double D were friends in high school (another pairing attributable to the Mantra). We lost touch over the years, but recently reconnected through the power of the Internet. So anyway, Double D has been acting as something of a swagger coach for me, for I'm sure as many do he wishes to see me happily paired up with some lovely lady. At the very least he wishes to be rid of my incessant bemoaning of singledome. Anyway, I presented Double D with the conundrum that'd been occupying so much of my time, and his response was . . . well, read for yourself:
"Bro, of course girls value a man of substance. But they also value a man who looks sharp. Yeah, superficially clothes are about looks--of course a guy who can dress himself well is going to be physically attractive to a girl. But that same well-dressed guy also signals to the girl that he has his shit together (a plus) and provides her one less thing to worry about (a double-plus). In essence, it's a tool to accentuate what's on the inside; an augmentation of your Mantra, my friend."
And there you have it. A simple solution to what turned out to be a simple conundrum--get some new clothes, buddy. And truth be told, this is some advice that was sorely needed. In the past three or four years I'd taken the Mantra to an unhealthy extreme by investing zero effort into maintaining any wardrobe apart from what I needed for work and what would keep me from falling too far below societal norms should I need to venture out of the house for non-work purposes. I guess I can blame a part of that on letting myself become somewhat of a recluse over that time period, my existence consisting of an infinite loop of: apt --> work --> apt --> work --> apt. And, while caught in that loop, I wielded the Mantra not as a sword, but as a crutch--"It's not me, it's them! Damn the world and their judging ways!" Now that I've reentered the world of the living, I see that it's time for some tweaking to the wardrobe.
"But what of the lesson of Goro?" you may be asking. Well, I guess it's become clear that the Mantra needs a slight adjustment. Perhaps something to the effect of: "It's what's on the inside that counts after what's on the outside has been counted." Meaning, if you can't get someone to notice you, it doesn't really matter how damned golden your heart is. And I suppose even with Goro that was obvious. I mean, the hot girl only liked Goro because he made her a badass cup; not because she suddenly realized he wasn't grotesque and disgusting. The cup was his foot in the door to her heart, and his golden personality was what ultimately swung it wide open. But he needed the cup.
Unfortunately, I can't catch a beautiful girl's eye by handing her a hand-made cup brimming with metaphor, so I must do so the old-fashioned way: plumage. After all we're just very complicated animals, and evolution and indecency laws having robbed us of any natural means to present ourselves to the opposite sex, we must use clothing as a substitute. Part of me feels a bit strange modifying the Mantra, but I suppose it was inevitable, especially with age. The vitality of youth can go a long way toward covering up minor superficial blemishes, but as you get older and those blemishes become more noticeable--droops getting droopier and sags getting saggier--more care to plumage can help tip the balance.
So there you are--Resolution Three: Fashion More. I think of the three--write more, cook more, fashion more--this resolution will be the hardest for me to keep, but I am relishing the challenge, despite what I anticipate is a slow and painstaking process ahead. Whether I will end up as some type of fashionista is unknown, but I will at least strive to bring myself back to where I used to be. Well, maybe a bit past that ;)
--KM
"Turn up the lights in here baby. Extra bright, I want y'all to see this."
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