So, as a lot of you know, I write reviews on yelp. And as some of you may know, I absolutely, positively, cannot stand spam reviews. You know, reviews written by the owner of a particular business, in complete violation of yelp's terms of service (which stipulate that reviews come from easily identifiable people who aren't connected with a given establishment). After all, if you want to yelp your own business, how can you legitimately rate it? You want to give it five stars? How can you honestly be expected to rate your business impartially? The answer is, you can't.
Equally noxious are reviews that are written at the request of a business owner. This scenario is a little different. Instead of writing a review of your own establishment, you contact current and former clients and ask them to write a review of your business. The catch is, do you really think such people are going to ask all their clients, both happy and unsatisfied, to write a fair and impartial review? You're damned right they're n0t. It wouldn't make any sense for a business owner to solicit any feedback that was less than 100 percent positive.
It's dirty pool as far as I'm concerned. Yelp shoud be an environment where real people write real reviews. No corporate meddling whatsoever. Yet, every now and then you'll find a business (almost always a beauty salon) on yelp that does shit like this. I can't stand it. Especially because they're not even subtle about it.
Hey, you're the owner of Jim Jones Beauty Salon? And you write one little less-than-honest review? Chances are, no one will even notice. But most places get greedy. They'll write (or sanction) one less-than-forthright review, and they get hooked. They'll want to write more!
Like Glynn Jones Salon. There's been lots of reviews of this place over the past week or two. And that's left a bad taste in the mouths of a lot of DC area yelpers. You see, there's plenty of talented yelpers who spend countless hours, without any thought of payment, who pour their heart and soul into incredibly well-written reviews that honestly describe their experiences. And yet places like Glynn Jones can seemingly write (or authorize) numerous ficticious reviews with impunity, thereby negating all of what yelp and yelpers ("real people, real reviews") stand for. To the point, in the past week or so, yelp has seen over 50 reviews written for Glynn Jones, the vast majority of which look highly suspicious to long-time yelpers. You can see what I'm talkin' 'bout here: http://www.yelp.com/biz/glynn-jones-salon-and-spa-alexandria#hrid:bOXodQi0wdjCFlPj4rZlKw
Enough! It's time to level the god damned playing field. It's time for an unreview. You see, a yelp review should be written by an easily identifiable person, who writes an actual, factual review of a particular business. But if a business wants to cheat and circumvent the system, that's where the unreview comes in. You wanna make a mockery of the rules to pad your bottom line? So be it! Some of us will just have to feel compelled enough to write a particularly snarky unreview to counteract that. So here goes!
*Before I begin, I need to give you some background. My nickname on yelp is "Sheriff John Stone." That'll help you make sense of the following unreview. Enjoy!
Whoa there, pardner! I don’t think we’ve met ‘round these parts. But I been keepin’ my eye on you recently, sure as the Red River lets you know you’re in Sooner territory.
They call me the Sheriff ‘round these parts. Been holdin’ office for a few years now. I like to keep things real peaceful, yunnerstand? But fella? I been hearin’ a lot o’ complaints boutcha lately. An’ sure as ol’ Prezdent Washington has hisself a reputation fer bein’ honest, I got a reputation fer keepin’ things real friendly here.
You see, we like to keep things real honest ‘round these parts. ‘Round here, folk keep their word and speak the truth. Ain’t much use fer dishonesty and bearin’ false witness, yunnerstand, pardner? Even when folk get to disagreein’, folk do it with an open face. No hidin’ behind a mask.
Guess I should get to the point. You hafta forgive me on that. Once a man gets to a certain age, well, he just gets to ramblin’, y’know? Y’mind if I have a sip o’ this here bourbon? A man works up a powerful thirst from honest labor, y’know. You want some? Pre-war. Back before all that fuss ‘bout the North an’ the South.
See, I been gettin’ a lot o’ complaints ‘round my office. Folk come up to me in the general store and say “sheriff, there’s a no good varmint ‘round these here parts!” Now, in other territories, like in Utah, they’d gawtdarn bring a man ‘fore a firin’ squad on account o’ these allegations, sure as the Tuscon sun’ll burn a man ‘fore noon.
Now, you see folk ‘round these parts been getting’ to talkin’. Sayin’ your outfit been bearin’ false witness an’ all that. Sayin’ y’all don’t speak the truth. Them’s real harsh allegations there, fella. Reckon if they was sayin’ all that mess ‘bout me, I wouldn’t sleep well at night. I’d be sweatin’ like a Phoenix whore durin’ Sunday Mass.
Y’see, I been doin’ some pokin’ an’a proddin’. And fella, things look mighty suspicious to the law here. More satisfied folk comin’ outta your business than satisfied folk comin’ outta Madam Le Farge’s House o’ Ill Repute. Mighty suspicious, if’n you ask me, ‘specially if you know Madam Le Farge like I do.
So I’mma offer you a challenge. Call you out, if you will. Pardner, I’m givin’ you what them big city folk call a “cease an’ desist order.” I ain’t take no Latin in school or nothin’. The prairie been the Sheriff’s school ever since the James boys been terrorizin’ the West an’ ol’ Bobby Ford put a stop to that nonsense. But see here. This “cease an’ desist” order means you best stop with the monkeyshines and start straightnin’ up and flyin’ right. Fella, I’m gonna ‘splain it to you’s real simple. Simple, as in that farmhand ‘round the ol’ Johnson ranch, the one that ain’t quite right in the head, could unnerstand what this man’s sayin’. You got ‘till Monday. High Noon. To gather your flock and head on out a’ these parts. Don’t matter where you go. But you c’aint stay here.
And son? I reckon you take my advice seriously. ‘Cause when the Sheriff get to thinkin’, the Sheriff get to thinkin’. An’ then he might have to chase you all the way to the Rio Grande. An’ even then, the Sheriff knows some fine folk ‘round Monterrey. Hombres that live large in tha’ saddle an’ siempre keep true to their word. Pardner… you anger a righteous vaquero from Mexico Way, you stir up one Lincoln County-sized hornet’s nest you never wish you gazed eyes upon, comprende?
Now, ‘fore you think the Sheriff is some kinda no good scallywag, I’ll make ya’ an offer, as straight as the Wells Fargo coach to Flagstaff. I ain’t no Judge Roy Bean. A sense o’ mercy gotta’ account for somethin’. Come High Noon this hear Monday an’ you got a hankerin’ for some talk, you just post yourself a new thread inna Talk section. Man’s gotta right to defend hisself, I ain’t gonna deny. More flags ‘round these parts than General McClellan’s Army of the Potomac or ol’ General Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. So if you take differences with what I gotta say, you just post yerself a Talk thread. Monday. High Noon. An’ you come clean an’ say what it is you’re ‘bout.
Best to clear the air before things get too hairy. Lotta dead ranch hands an’ sheepherders in the past ‘cause o’ some simple misunderstandin’s. So’s I’m givin’ you an offer to speak your piece. An’ if you’ll be so kind, I’ll be wont to speak mine. Maybe we can come to some sorta accommodation. Like ol’ Geronimo. There was an hombre with honor. Said “a man gotta stand proud an’ live free. Man gotta look at hisself in the mirror come sundown an’ rest easy with what he sees” an’ kept his word, even though he was gamblin’ with two deuces when the house hadda straight flush. Gotta respect a man like that.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Who says advertising can't be art?
I hate most modern ads. But this ad is, as the Romans used to say, fucking gorgeous:
I should ever live to be able to represent something with this much style and sophistication.
My favorite painting (probably), bar none!
I'm currently looking up at this giclee of "A Call to Arms" on my wall. It's by Edmund Blair Leighton, and is probably one of my favorite works of art.
I'm a big fan of Pre-Raphaelite art (click here to learn more: http://www.artcyclopedia.com/history/pre-raphaelite.html) as most of my friends know. There's just something that I find to be particularly special about this particular school of art. The romanticism. The beauty. The intangible emotions these works of art stir in me. All this is encapsulated, to me, in "A Call to Arms."
Realists, Cubists, Post-Modernists... they don't do it for me. I like to take girlfriends to art galleries, so I've learned to fake my enthusiasm for the Impressionists (I've yet to find a woman that doesn't go absolutely ga-ga over Monet!). But when people say "art," Pre-Raphaelites, along with works from the Late Renaissance, are what pops into my mind first.
Balls of Steel
AKA: All you ever wanted to know about male waxing but were afraid to ask!
I’ve been getting inquires from people about male Brazilian waxing (including, rather surprisingly, a decent amount of women), so I thought I’d write a blog entry about it rather than have painful, awkward conversations with people who were curious about it. You're welcome!
What made you do it?
Like a lot of my more daring decisions, it was borne out of a combination of boredom and the realization that I hadn’t really done anything wild and crazy in a while. Then one day I read a review by Jade R. on yelp where she detailed what it was like for her husband to get a Brazilian. After reading her excellent review (which you can read here: http://www.yelp.com/biz/polished-washington#hrid:UT5k3N71rDBxrZ7F7Dfu0w, I was intrigued enough to give it a go. After all, I reckoned, you only live once, and if I don’t like it, well, I never have to have it done again, now do I?
What’s it like? Honestly.
Warning: the below contains a whimsical description of me getting hair yanked off in the name of vanity. It also contains vivid references to my naughty bits. Continue at your own peril, or at least don’t write me any whiny, pissy emails about tee em aye.
I’m greeted at the front desk by my waxer and led to a small, private room. I proceed to take my clothes off, stow them where wax won’t get on them, and hop up on the table and lie on my back. The waxer then covers my groin with a towel while she gets the wax ready and gets all her equipment together.
It’s go time! Using sticks that look like popsicle strips, she starts to the wax in small amounts starting with the front of my legs and working inward. I’m usually given a very important job to do, which is holding my shaft tight against my stomach so no errant hairs are pulled inadvertently and that the skin is nice and tight for optimal (and less painful) removal. As I do not even want to hazard a guess as to how painful this might be, I assure you I perform this task with great diligence (though when she needs to do more precision work later, she’ll hold it taut while she works around it. There is absolutely nothing sexual or perverted about this).
Okay, now I’m sure one of the burning questions on your mind right now is “how bad is the pain? You know, especially down there?” I’m almost 100 percent positive your next question is “aren’t you worried about getting, ahem, hard, while you’re getting waxed.
In terms of pain, it’s not as bad as you’d think. I’ve pulled Band Aids off my arms that hurt far worse than getting my sweet spots waxed. Surprisingly, getting my balls waxed hurts the least (take a piece of tape, wrap it around itself like you were using it to hang up a sign, and then put it on the back of your hand and quickly rip it off. It’s like that). The only place it really hurts is the fold where the balls meet the penis. I’ve definitely let out a few yelps when that area gets waxed, but that’s the worst. My waxer also uses a spray-on can of numbing agent that helps a little too. You’re also advised to take Motrin an hour prior to getting waxed (the receptionist even suggested having a glass of wine, in all seriousness, when making my first appointment).
In terms of arousal, I honestly cannot imagine anyone getting their rocks off during this procedure, unless you’re a glutton for pain. It’s a completely non-sexual treatment. If you can’t be naked and totally lose your shit because ZOMG WOMENZ, there’s no helping you.
It takes about 15 minutes for her to wax the penis and balls. How much hair, if any, is left on is a matter of personal preference. The first time I got waxed, it all got removed, and it was honestly a bit uncomfortable, since the elastic in the waistband of the underwear would chafe that area. Usually, I ask her to leave the proverbial “landing strip” in place. Once that’s done, she uses a lamp with a magnifying lens on it to check for any stray hairs which are promptly removed with a set of tweezers.
After that, you flip on over to your stomach, where you proceed to have your cheeks and crack made silky smooth. This only takes about 10 minutes and isn’t as painful as having your front waxed. Nothing like having a buttery-soft butt!
When you’re done, you get up off the table and check yourself out in a full mirror to make sure you’re happy with the results. Then it’s time to get dressed and pony up for the bill.
How frequently should you get waxed?
My first wax lasted about a month before I needed to go back. For a while, I was going monthly, then every 6 weeks. Since my disposable income has shrunk considerably now that student loans are due, I go every two months. Generally, the more frequently you get waxed, the more likely the hair grows back slower and thinner.
I’ve heard you have to contort your body into some pretty compromising situations. Is that true?
Depends. Not with my regular waxer. The most that’ll happen is that I’ll crook one of my legs so my sole is touching my other leg, or I’ll need to spread my legs a bit when I’m on my stomach. There was another place I went to where I had to raise my knees to my chest, and then sit up on the table on all fours. I didn’t care for that as much. For one thing, there was a wall-length mirror in the room, and I looked absolutely goofy! Also, if you really think about it, you’re in one of the most vulnerable situations a man (or woman) can be in, having someone have access to the most intimate parts of your body. And on top of it, you’re having to do kama sutra poses?
Does it really make you look, you know… bigger?
It honestly never occurred to me to do a before-and-after comparison, and I generally don’t go parading my gland in front of a mirror, so I honestly couldn’t tell you. Frankly, if you’re feeling inadequate, I don’t think removing an inch of hair is really going to help with anything.
Do women like it?
Based on an extremely scientific study of one woman that I dated when I started getting waxed, the answer is (drum roll please)… I don’t really know. She certainly didn’t take issue with it, but I wasn’t exactly trying to elicit feedback (the heat of the moment is not the time you want to be polling someone!). One thing that I happen to like is that, unlike before, I’m not having issues with hair getting caught up on the condom (ouch!).
Do YOU like it?
Enough to have it done on a regular basis for about a year! It’s honestly addictive (the look and feeling, not the actual part about ripping your hair off!). Pretty much everyone my waxer sees says they can’t imagine going back to being a sasquatch.
I’ve been getting inquires from people about male Brazilian waxing (including, rather surprisingly, a decent amount of women), so I thought I’d write a blog entry about it rather than have painful, awkward conversations with people who were curious about it. You're welcome!
What made you do it?
Like a lot of my more daring decisions, it was borne out of a combination of boredom and the realization that I hadn’t really done anything wild and crazy in a while. Then one day I read a review by Jade R. on yelp where she detailed what it was like for her husband to get a Brazilian. After reading her excellent review (which you can read here: http://www.yelp.com/biz/polished-washington#hrid:UT5k3N71rDBxrZ7F7Dfu0w, I was intrigued enough to give it a go. After all, I reckoned, you only live once, and if I don’t like it, well, I never have to have it done again, now do I?
What’s it like? Honestly.
Warning: the below contains a whimsical description of me getting hair yanked off in the name of vanity. It also contains vivid references to my naughty bits. Continue at your own peril, or at least don’t write me any whiny, pissy emails about tee em aye.
I’m greeted at the front desk by my waxer and led to a small, private room. I proceed to take my clothes off, stow them where wax won’t get on them, and hop up on the table and lie on my back. The waxer then covers my groin with a towel while she gets the wax ready and gets all her equipment together.
It’s go time! Using sticks that look like popsicle strips, she starts to the wax in small amounts starting with the front of my legs and working inward. I’m usually given a very important job to do, which is holding my shaft tight against my stomach so no errant hairs are pulled inadvertently and that the skin is nice and tight for optimal (and less painful) removal. As I do not even want to hazard a guess as to how painful this might be, I assure you I perform this task with great diligence (though when she needs to do more precision work later, she’ll hold it taut while she works around it. There is absolutely nothing sexual or perverted about this).
Okay, now I’m sure one of the burning questions on your mind right now is “how bad is the pain? You know, especially down there?” I’m almost 100 percent positive your next question is “aren’t you worried about getting, ahem, hard, while you’re getting waxed.
In terms of pain, it’s not as bad as you’d think. I’ve pulled Band Aids off my arms that hurt far worse than getting my sweet spots waxed. Surprisingly, getting my balls waxed hurts the least (take a piece of tape, wrap it around itself like you were using it to hang up a sign, and then put it on the back of your hand and quickly rip it off. It’s like that). The only place it really hurts is the fold where the balls meet the penis. I’ve definitely let out a few yelps when that area gets waxed, but that’s the worst. My waxer also uses a spray-on can of numbing agent that helps a little too. You’re also advised to take Motrin an hour prior to getting waxed (the receptionist even suggested having a glass of wine, in all seriousness, when making my first appointment).
In terms of arousal, I honestly cannot imagine anyone getting their rocks off during this procedure, unless you’re a glutton for pain. It’s a completely non-sexual treatment. If you can’t be naked and totally lose your shit because ZOMG WOMENZ, there’s no helping you.
It takes about 15 minutes for her to wax the penis and balls. How much hair, if any, is left on is a matter of personal preference. The first time I got waxed, it all got removed, and it was honestly a bit uncomfortable, since the elastic in the waistband of the underwear would chafe that area. Usually, I ask her to leave the proverbial “landing strip” in place. Once that’s done, she uses a lamp with a magnifying lens on it to check for any stray hairs which are promptly removed with a set of tweezers.
After that, you flip on over to your stomach, where you proceed to have your cheeks and crack made silky smooth. This only takes about 10 minutes and isn’t as painful as having your front waxed. Nothing like having a buttery-soft butt!
When you’re done, you get up off the table and check yourself out in a full mirror to make sure you’re happy with the results. Then it’s time to get dressed and pony up for the bill.
How frequently should you get waxed?
My first wax lasted about a month before I needed to go back. For a while, I was going monthly, then every 6 weeks. Since my disposable income has shrunk considerably now that student loans are due, I go every two months. Generally, the more frequently you get waxed, the more likely the hair grows back slower and thinner.
I’ve heard you have to contort your body into some pretty compromising situations. Is that true?
Depends. Not with my regular waxer. The most that’ll happen is that I’ll crook one of my legs so my sole is touching my other leg, or I’ll need to spread my legs a bit when I’m on my stomach. There was another place I went to where I had to raise my knees to my chest, and then sit up on the table on all fours. I didn’t care for that as much. For one thing, there was a wall-length mirror in the room, and I looked absolutely goofy! Also, if you really think about it, you’re in one of the most vulnerable situations a man (or woman) can be in, having someone have access to the most intimate parts of your body. And on top of it, you’re having to do kama sutra poses?
Does it really make you look, you know… bigger?
It honestly never occurred to me to do a before-and-after comparison, and I generally don’t go parading my gland in front of a mirror, so I honestly couldn’t tell you. Frankly, if you’re feeling inadequate, I don’t think removing an inch of hair is really going to help with anything.
Do women like it?
Based on an extremely scientific study of one woman that I dated when I started getting waxed, the answer is (drum roll please)… I don’t really know. She certainly didn’t take issue with it, but I wasn’t exactly trying to elicit feedback (the heat of the moment is not the time you want to be polling someone!). One thing that I happen to like is that, unlike before, I’m not having issues with hair getting caught up on the condom (ouch!).
Do YOU like it?
Enough to have it done on a regular basis for about a year! It’s honestly addictive (the look and feeling, not the actual part about ripping your hair off!). Pretty much everyone my waxer sees says they can’t imagine going back to being a sasquatch.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
They need to like, improve the Metro (first of what will no doubt be a *sigh* series, I'm sure)
One of the few things that unites all Washingtonians, from hyper-competitive workaholic fucks working for some schmuck Congressslug to burnt-out government cogs who think formal officewear consists of hiking boots and one of those stupidass fedora things, is hatred of the Metro system.
Seething, teeming hatred of the Metro system. It's like a rite of passage. And the greatest thing is you (yes you!) can join in on the hate, even if you've been in DC for all of 40 minutes. Go ahead and vent. We'll jump in with you!* We're pathetic because we have absofuckinglutely NO team spirit, no local pride whatsoever.
So in the spirit of bitching and not doing anything to, you know, do anything about it, please enjoy this rant (I'm sure it'll be the first in a series) about my gripes with the Metro.
The Ballston station escalator repairs: How many months has this been going on? Are they like antique East German escalators or something? You know what? Don't refurbish them. You do it every goddamned three years (or so it seems) just to do it again. A Metro escalator is kind of like one of those rotating cake trays in a diner. Only instead of rotating strawberry shorcake and cheesecake, it rotates complete and utter failure! Learn to accept when you've been beaten, and just leave them off permanently.
*This usually holds true, but once in a blue moon, you'll get someone who overhears a good old fashioned Metrorail rant and pipes in with "Well, I dunno about that (*scratches chin and looks off into the distance*). I've been to (*rattles off about 20 cities he's been to*), and I must say that I think we've got it pretty good in DC."
Hit him. Hit him hard. And do it again. Think of every setback you've had in life, and imagine that hitting him will rectify all that. That promotion you didn't get? That boyfriend you didn't get because he went out with the pompom slut in high school? It's ALL this guy's fault, and taking a crack at him will feel better than a five minute bowel movement.
Ever see one of those movies where some henchman gets sent to take out the good guy and gets his ass handed to him? And how there's a scene where the henchman just got worked over by the bad guy's bodyguards 'cause he fucked up? And how the bad guy says something like "you've just failed me for the last time"? And how the henchman has that petrified look in his eyes, like he knows for absolute certain he's gonna find out the awful truth about how hot dogs are made?
You need to make this guy tremble like that guy. Only don't tell me about it. I don't wanna be an accessory or anything.
Seething, teeming hatred of the Metro system. It's like a rite of passage. And the greatest thing is you (yes you!) can join in on the hate, even if you've been in DC for all of 40 minutes. Go ahead and vent. We'll jump in with you!* We're pathetic because we have absofuckinglutely NO team spirit, no local pride whatsoever.
So in the spirit of bitching and not doing anything to, you know, do anything about it, please enjoy this rant (I'm sure it'll be the first in a series) about my gripes with the Metro.
The Ballston station escalator repairs: How many months has this been going on? Are they like antique East German escalators or something? You know what? Don't refurbish them. You do it every goddamned three years (or so it seems) just to do it again. A Metro escalator is kind of like one of those rotating cake trays in a diner. Only instead of rotating strawberry shorcake and cheesecake, it rotates complete and utter failure! Learn to accept when you've been beaten, and just leave them off permanently.
*This usually holds true, but once in a blue moon, you'll get someone who overhears a good old fashioned Metrorail rant and pipes in with "Well, I dunno about that (*scratches chin and looks off into the distance*). I've been to (*rattles off about 20 cities he's been to*), and I must say that I think we've got it pretty good in DC."
Hit him. Hit him hard. And do it again. Think of every setback you've had in life, and imagine that hitting him will rectify all that. That promotion you didn't get? That boyfriend you didn't get because he went out with the pompom slut in high school? It's ALL this guy's fault, and taking a crack at him will feel better than a five minute bowel movement.
Ever see one of those movies where some henchman gets sent to take out the good guy and gets his ass handed to him? And how there's a scene where the henchman just got worked over by the bad guy's bodyguards 'cause he fucked up? And how the bad guy says something like "you've just failed me for the last time"? And how the henchman has that petrified look in his eyes, like he knows for absolute certain he's gonna find out the awful truth about how hot dogs are made?
You need to make this guy tremble like that guy. Only don't tell me about it. I don't wanna be an accessory or anything.
I need to play some video games... like, soon.
When I was a pre-teen, nothing came between me and my Nintendo Entertainment System. We were inseperable. I was good to it, and it was good to me.*
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
If your religion explicitly states you're going to Hell for seeing my dick, you should probably major in something other than art!
It's been almost a year since I started doing the modeling thing, and I have to say it's been quite rewarding.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
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