Sex is destiny. We came from, and continue to come back to the same conclusion. Our sex lives chart the flow of our futures. We ooze our desired dreams and drip with the possibilities of dalliances yet to be. Social intercourse dictates our actions as it thrusts forward our advances to the ultimate goal. If it weren't for nudity and friction, I wouldn't be writing this. This is a fact of life.
A man's existence is based on accomplishment and the accumulation of things that make him comfortable.
Men collect experience the same way a prostitute gathers clientele. We wear our badges of distinction on everything we do. Spotty stains of achievement cling to us and invite prospective paramours. Varsity letters scream of camaraderie and male bonding. The savoury delight of men sharing action-packed moments on the sports field. The fluid poetry of athleticism, flexing muscle and stretching towards ultimate reward. Spectators looking on, drooling about 'stats' and exalting with each point scored. All of us living for the pat on the ass that says, "you have spunk, kid".
As a man, I dream of a 'Jiffy Lube' life. As needed, soothing moistness is applied to all my ball joints, in a quick and efficient manner, as often as necessary and as factory warranty allows. Smiling politely as someone busily works beneath us, leaving us both better for the experience and satisfied with the servicing. Best of all we know no one will steal our wallets or complain about our ride being inferior.
I was told I was a 'love child', (I have no doubt a certain amount of chemical enhancement might have been involved). This means, my parents were so hot for each other's bodies, they couldn't wait to legally formalise the agreement. I also know whatever hunger, hatred, or love there was, I am grateful for this unplanned parenthood. Rash as they may have been, I am the satisfaction of a libidinous itch. A burning desire was quenched with the fervent heat of passion, and consumed with relish.
Ultimately, the question remains. Is sex the pulsing, driving, lust powered engine that spins the wheels of our free will... or are we all just screwing around?
DaBuoy
Tuesday 27 March 2012
Sunday 25 March 2012
Who Are You Again...?
Name calling is the world's oldest pastime. We are compelled to label things. Humans even have people whose career and chosen profession is telling others what they are. I have noticed that certain of the monikers they have fashioned have come and gone the way of the 'toe sock' and 'rainbow suspenders'. The most tragic of these extinctions is the loss of certain once familiar and comforting names for people. We are entering a drought of namesakes, and the repercussions are yet to be truly realised.
When I was growing up, I lived in a predominantly 'white' neighbourhood. It was peopled with Irish, Scottish, Italian, Anglican, Catholic, and 'Canadian' folk. I was known as the 'brown kid', my origins muddied by time and a people who travelled. Some might say I am descended from 'Gypsies'. I would like to think they were pirates and explorers. I was told I was better at sports because of my higher levels of melanin. Teachers warned me I would probably be above average, (my people usually are), but that I would never be as good as the Asians when it came to math and science. Their experiences gave them the self-assured notion they could predict my future as accurately as a pendulum held over a pregnant woman's belly.
I lived with that nomenclature for a while and learnt several important facts.
1- I suck at sports
2- There are Asians in the world who hate science and can't add
3- Those people were 'assholes'
Of the the tags they fasten to our feats as we live our lives, most cease to apply after a while. There was a time in all our lives when the only handle that could hold us all was that we were, 'pooping, puking, gurgling, fussy, bundles of joy'. Most of us are now merely bundles of joy and only passingly resemble the other sobriquets on long weekends and holiday celebrations. As with all signage, they are only as good as the landmarks they represent. Oakville must have trees. Iceland must have snow. England must have 'eng'.
It is today I cast a flare to the heavens and hope you heed my warning. Certain names are becoming scarce. I looked about for a Hilda and found none. The world was bereft of 'Iris's and 'Clara's. I had an 'uncle' Adolphe I was very fond of. Is there an entire generation who will never know a Dolph other than Lundgren? Irving and Stanley are now becoming lost ideas. Mabel and Bertha are echoes of a culture that may already not exist.
I am a Robin. A wanderer who is safe and predictable. I am fierce and loyal. I avoid commitment in favour of warmer climes. I am not a Bob nor am I a Robbie. My friends remind me of this constantly. Names help us define ourselves. We lean against them and prop them up. They inspire us and mock us. They help us decode our dreams and write our destinies. There are those who consider them a brand, seared into our souls. Be they epithets or epitaphs, what fate awaits us Tiffany, Dakota?
DaBuoy
When I was growing up, I lived in a predominantly 'white' neighbourhood. It was peopled with Irish, Scottish, Italian, Anglican, Catholic, and 'Canadian' folk. I was known as the 'brown kid', my origins muddied by time and a people who travelled. Some might say I am descended from 'Gypsies'. I would like to think they were pirates and explorers. I was told I was better at sports because of my higher levels of melanin. Teachers warned me I would probably be above average, (my people usually are), but that I would never be as good as the Asians when it came to math and science. Their experiences gave them the self-assured notion they could predict my future as accurately as a pendulum held over a pregnant woman's belly.
I lived with that nomenclature for a while and learnt several important facts.
1- I suck at sports
2- There are Asians in the world who hate science and can't add
3- Those people were 'assholes'
Of the the tags they fasten to our feats as we live our lives, most cease to apply after a while. There was a time in all our lives when the only handle that could hold us all was that we were, 'pooping, puking, gurgling, fussy, bundles of joy'. Most of us are now merely bundles of joy and only passingly resemble the other sobriquets on long weekends and holiday celebrations. As with all signage, they are only as good as the landmarks they represent. Oakville must have trees. Iceland must have snow. England must have 'eng'.
It is today I cast a flare to the heavens and hope you heed my warning. Certain names are becoming scarce. I looked about for a Hilda and found none. The world was bereft of 'Iris's and 'Clara's. I had an 'uncle' Adolphe I was very fond of. Is there an entire generation who will never know a Dolph other than Lundgren? Irving and Stanley are now becoming lost ideas. Mabel and Bertha are echoes of a culture that may already not exist.
I am a Robin. A wanderer who is safe and predictable. I am fierce and loyal. I avoid commitment in favour of warmer climes. I am not a Bob nor am I a Robbie. My friends remind me of this constantly. Names help us define ourselves. We lean against them and prop them up. They inspire us and mock us. They help us decode our dreams and write our destinies. There are those who consider them a brand, seared into our souls. Be they epithets or epitaphs, what fate awaits us Tiffany, Dakota?
DaBuoy
Monday 19 March 2012
Spotting The Norwegian Bachelor
Spring is fast approaching and the skies are filled with the flutter and flap of plumage. Lately, however, a new creature has been seen walking amongst us. Weaving amongst the slowly strolling undead, and stepping lightly through the traffic of endless minutiae, the Norwegian Bachelor brings a song of home and hearth.
Normally socially averse to interaction, warm weather has him seeking the commonality of community whilst respectfully declining the lures of the mundane. A contradiction of civility and feral tendencies, he is often heard in the wee hours lamenting a past he seldom talks about.
Rumours as to his true nature abound, however the reality of his flight is obvious. The life experience that has enabled him to take wing and thrive makes for a solitary soul, always searching and seldom desiring other than what he already possesses.
The feeding habits of the Norwegian Bachelor are as systematically chaotic as his mating rituals and vary from individual to individual. All that is known for certain is that each encounter is deeply satisfying and leads to commitment avoidance behaviours.
Though once common throughout North America, sightings of the Bachelor are becoming infrequent and some anthropologists fear, the once verdant fields that they call 'habitat' may be insufficient to sustain the current population.
If you meet a Norwegian Bachelor, encourage his idiosyncrasies and remember to account for his nesting instincts. You will not be disappointed.
DaBuoy
Normally socially averse to interaction, warm weather has him seeking the commonality of community whilst respectfully declining the lures of the mundane. A contradiction of civility and feral tendencies, he is often heard in the wee hours lamenting a past he seldom talks about.
Rumours as to his true nature abound, however the reality of his flight is obvious. The life experience that has enabled him to take wing and thrive makes for a solitary soul, always searching and seldom desiring other than what he already possesses.
The feeding habits of the Norwegian Bachelor are as systematically chaotic as his mating rituals and vary from individual to individual. All that is known for certain is that each encounter is deeply satisfying and leads to commitment avoidance behaviours.
Though once common throughout North America, sightings of the Bachelor are becoming infrequent and some anthropologists fear, the once verdant fields that they call 'habitat' may be insufficient to sustain the current population.
If you meet a Norwegian Bachelor, encourage his idiosyncrasies and remember to account for his nesting instincts. You will not be disappointed.
DaBuoy
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