Turn-Ons

Someone recently asked me about my "turn-ons."

A crushing sense of being out of touch decended as I realized: I had no idea how to address the issue.

What, you mean like, things that I find arousing in people? Tricks played by the opposite sex that I fall for? Kinks? The question itself became a turn off, because I instantly thought of Hitler saying: "I really like it when prostitutes urinate on me." For the first time, that little factoid wasn't just interesting dinner conversation. It made me queezy.
By the way, how do we even know that? How is it that History preserves that kind of information? I know for a fact that Hitler was never on the Dating Game, and the Real World was still a few years away when they put his brain in cold storage next to Walt Disney's frozen head. (Assuming they were two separate people. You don't need a tinfoil hat to accept the strong possibility that the Final Solution entailed a well thought out second life as a "creative genius." Come to think of it, the day they thaw out Disney/Hitler's head, the four horsemen of the apocalypse will be in place. Walt Disney, Paris Hilton, Rosie O'Donnel, The Trump of Kenny Rogers summons you forth! The time of purification is at hand!)

Where was I?

Oh yeah. So there I was, a little queezy, and suddenly fearful, trying to wrap my head around the definition of a "turn-on." Once I got past the Hitler problem, my first attempt just made me feel shallow. Things I generally enjoy about the opposite sex: Flanks. Firm, taught, smooth flanks. In fact firm everything. Basically anyone over twenty who lacks an extensive exercise regime is out. Sadly, as waistlines fall and shirt hemlines rise, the fashion world seems dedicated to revealing love handles along with the butt cracks. It's a conspiracy to keep the full figured woman from making a comeback. "I'm big boned!" Oh yeah? I've never seen bones oozing over a belt like that. "Child bearing hips?" Is that what they call those things that bloop out from under your shirt? Never has a flat stomach been such a necessity: either you flout the trend or advertise that you don't know what crunches are. It all came crashing down into my own hips recently when I lifted up my shirt to show off my super sexy appendix scar, and my good friend Tom had the gaul to point out that I had a "muffin top." I was even wearing MAN pants. (Girl pants and man pants now have the same oppressive sexiness. I have to fold the waistline of my undergarments down to keep up.) I didn't want to believe him. But there it was, a little extra flesh protruding over the low slung waistline. Not one of the principle cast of Lost has anything resembling this. How can I go on? I am by no means overweight. But honestly, that muffin top is a turn off. Even more so when you see it on yourself.

Wait--I was supposed to be talking about turn ON's. You see how hard this is?

OK. Let's get past the initial, biochemically involuntary need for brick house hotness. There has to be more to it than that, right? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing a turn-on should be something that excites and captivates beyond the insidious nether regions. So I start thinking: Literature--if you read, understand, and can intelligently talk about Great Books, that really gets my dander up. Housekeeping--yeah, keep a place clean and I'm halfway to heaven. Seriously, who doesn't get excited over a bathroom that is both springtime fresh, and winter white? What could be better? And Sushi--I love to watch a woman enjoy the world's greatest cuisine. Mostly because it usually means that I'm enjoying it with her. This might be the one place where the brick house standards can truly be left aside. I'll eat sushi with anyone. Or alone. Come to think of it, you can leave the hot girls at home, because that leaves more for me. I don't care how sexy you are, I don't want you horning in on the Dragon Roll. Just thinking about it makes me hungry. I mean, food and sex should never, I mean NEVER go together; but Sushi is a sensual experience.
Where did that idea come from, by the way? Food and Sex. It's difficult to think of a more disgusting combination. People used to talk about that "hot" scene in the otherwise forgettable "9 and 1/2 Weeks." The thought of two people taking food out of the fridge and making each other all sticky in the kitchen nauseated me. It's messy enough as it is. Just the image of someone putting any kind of syrup on any part of me almost makes me throw up a little in my mouth. And dairy products!? Don't even get me started.

I give up. I don't understand the turn-on proposition.

And I'm sure the person in question was sorry she asked.

K-Lo J.

Let me digress a moment and recommend a wonderful book by a wonderful man.

Oh Holy Day, by Keith Lowell Jensen, while laced with profanity, is a great read that will make you smile.

You can read more about it on his super cool web site: rockass.net. Or just google his name. You won't regret it.

skn

In-n-Out Burger

New ways to exclude yourself from the realm of intelligent public debate crop up everyday. Tin-foil hat theories about Katrina and 9/11 seem to have subsided. But that doesn't mean we can rest on our laurels and allow people with half-a-brain syndrome sully the sacred arena of ideas. Hence:

*If you think the phrase "military/industrial complex" was a recent invention, designed to either bolster or scandalize the current administration, you're out. You are to congregate in the parking lot with the "pundits" who wondered or worried if the nuclear explosion on the season premiere of 24 would "help" Bush. Avoid high fives and handshakes: You may be allowed back in, if the gate staff can still read your stamp when you come back.

*If you get your news from the Daily Show and then dismiss out of hand the millions of people who get theirs from FOX, then goodbye. Don't return until you have recorded yourself and can hear the condescension in your voice. You don't have to watch FOX news (I don't) unless you're going to scoff and deride people who do. You are not enlightened because you avoid or stereotype people who disagree with you. The fact that conservatives have adopted the ages old liberal mantra of "I accept and respect people from all walks of life . . . unless they disagree with me" is not an excuse. Note: There are some tailgaters barbecuing out there who were dismissed after refusing to watch CNN because Rush Limbaugh called it the "Clinton News Network." Go ahead and hang out with them. They've got some really delicious treats (if you like meat) and they are really nice about sharing.

*If you think the Iraq war is going well, then your ticket is permanently revoked. There may be some room left on the departing bus of people who think Iraq has been an unmitigated disaster. Good riddance to all of you.

*While it isn't new to state that protesters (flag waving, sign carrying, or otherwise) are excluded, management is excited to offer them the opportunity to return after attending "Protest Camp," where you will be allowed to scream your angry, impotent vitriol into the faces of counselors who will patiently wait until you've gone hoarse, and then sing Kumbaya around a fire made from your stupid pro or anti whatever signs until you can interact without shouting and venom.

*If you have ever uttered, printed, or agreed with the phrase "STOP GLOBAL WARMING" you are out. But because you have a good heart, you can be let back in after engaging in a little non-political research. While it is understood that "STOP CONTRIBUTING TO AN INEVITABLE CYCLICAL PROCESS" is a little cumbersome, telling mankind to "stop" a warming trend that has been ongoing for 8,000 years (7,800 of them pre-industrial) represents an ignorance that devalues environmentalism. If you accepted without research every claim put forth in Al Gore's movie (many of which, it turns out, are spurious), you are likewise excluded. It wouldn't be fair to send you home on same bus as the willing polluters, unconscious consumerists, and idiots who used the term "TREE HUGGER" to dismiss people who care about the environment. In fact, it wouldn't even be possible. They left so long ago we can't track them. Simply wait in line at the "Science Is About Facts and Should Not Be Railroaded by Partisans from Either Side" kiosk. You can get a new pass there.
P.S. Keep caring. And keep in mind that someone who doesn't hop on the corn plastic bandwagon doesn't necessarily despise their Mother Earth. They might have just done a little research and found out what people with corn plastic brains mean when they say "compostable."

While it would be delusional to hope that someday all people can participate in the ideological melee, it is hoped that the above dismissals will at least make the debate worthwhile to an increasingly jaded republic.

A New Acronym

Keith, who saw the show ages ago, said that I "got wood." Right there on stage in the middle of the scene. He said he could see it clearly. No question about it.
I questioned it, because I have no clear recollection. You see, I was acting. I was in character. Whatever happens when I'm in the World of the Stage comes from beyond. So it might be more accurate for him to say "Your character got wood." To which I could only respond with pride: "Why yes, it was a powerful moment in the life I was trying to create. The physical realities added depth to the performance."

This would be a lie. I think. Like I said, I don't really remember. The fact is I'm not THAT good of an actor. The other fact is that when something like that happens (or NOT!) the non and half truths are always going to be infinitely preferable to the simple truth: that males are cursed with an Awkward Physical Manifestation that has a mind of its own.

Certain questions should be asked. When Keith pointed out my alleged APM, why should it have to feel like an accusation? Why couldn't I put the stigma aside and say "Damn right I did!" Shouldn't I, as a liberated man with nothing to hide or be ashamed of, be able to own that moment? (Hypothetically speaking)

I mean, this is all academic, but what if I did? What makes it a significant event (if it even happened)? Since the Dawn of Time, men with thoughts and intentions as pure the snows of Everest have suffered the blight of the involuntary APM. I don't see people making fun of the fact that I pay taxes and will someday confront death. So why shouldn't I heft the serene weight of History and proclaim: "I don't know exactly why you were so focused on that particular area, but let's just say I'm glad you could see it from that far away."

Or, "I don't even care if you're making it up. Go ahead. I'm glad I could make such a pedestrian, even quotidian event something special for you."

Or, "Keith, I respect you and don't want to hurt your feelings, but I'm married, and even if I wasn't I'm a dedicated metro."

Or, "That wasn't a rabbit in my pocket. I was just glad to see you."

Or, "Hey, what can I say, Free Willy was my favorite movie."

Or, "Dude, there was a hot actress tracing circles around my belly button as I reclined in her lap on a table. I'm a professional, but I'm also a man. Things happen. I can only pity the fact that you seem to derive such a prurient and puerile satisfaction from it."

Any of these would have been better than stammering and staring. Why couldn't I say them when the finger of judgement was in my face?

Probably because it never happened.

Finnigan, Begin Again (or, No Pun Intended, Dammit)

I'm changing my name.

I'm not ashamed of who I am, and am only slightly ashamed of my family, but my name is flatly unacceptable. Even when pronounced correctly, the nasality of the opening letter and the subsequent tendency to give the vowells a midwestern shortening makes the whole thing rather unattractive. Nobody can say it right without hearing it. It's a great way to weed out telemarketers, but sadly when people finally say it right, I realize I wish they hadn't.

It is an uncommon name, to be sure, and you would think the particularity advantage would overrule the sonic defects, but it doesn't. I've always hated the sound of it. (I'll admit that for two years in Quebec, I loved the way the French said it. But I can't get people to say it that way here. I can't even bring myself to ask people to say it that way.)

Everything else aside, my father was adopted. We are grateful to the people who raised him, but their name gives us no indication of where we are from, or what genetic predispositions we may have. I feel no connection to it. People hear it and say "Interesting. Where does a name like that come from?" I always want to say, "I actually don't care." But I can't bring myself to say that. So now the name has a multiplicity of distinct disadvantages, number one being the constant reminder of my conversational impotence.

A certain amount of excitement prevailed when Dad found his birth mother. Her family name was Tosch. I instantly thought: "Now there's a name I can use." It's authoritative and efficient. Crisp even. Say it with me: Tosch. See what I mean? It's infinitely better. So at the big reunion, I asked her where it was from, hoping to introduce the idea of me acquiring the name. She didn't know. She was adopted, too. She had kept the name out of gratitude and had a healthy disdain for the idea of seeking out her birth parents. When I asked her if she had any idea of the birth name, she said: "I've always been a Tosch." Easy for her to say. I instantly formulated Plan B: the bio-dad's name. Surely she must remember the last name of the man who fathered her first and newly discovered child. "I try not to think about him," she said, "he had no honor."
Such are the petty depths I've achieved. I crave the name of a man with no honor, convinced before even hearing it that it has got to be better than the one I've been stuck with.

Friends don't get it. They put the topic in the same reject bin to which they relegate my regular explorations into breaking my legs to increase my height. But I mention it to them anyway.
"What if the guy's name was Buttkowski?" they ask, "or Humperdinck, or Balzac?" I don't dignify their rhetorical nay-saying with a reply. I know there is a better name for me out there, and until a reliable source tells me that his name was Skidstain, and that he was adopted anyway, my hope will spring eternal. Just need to find a way to get my new Grandma to talk, or remember.

But in the meantime, we get by with a little help from our friends, even when they are just trying to make a point. "I've got an idea," says JayDiggity over lunch, "You should change your name to Dammit."
He had my attention.
"Think of the possibilities!"
My mind was instantly whirling. I mean, it had no connection to my family line, but neither does my current one, and think fo the Pizazz!
"Who wrote this?" I could hear people asking. "What do you mean who wrote it? It was Scott, Dammit!" or "He was a rather pleasant fellow, what was his name again?"
"Scott."
"Come again?"
"Scott, Dammit!"

I could go on. Like what if I joined the Army? "NAME, RANK, AND CEREAL NUMBER!" the Sargeant would shout.
"Dammit, Sir, Private first class, 14526371!"
The possibilities are endless. It's a name with a party in it. I was ready to draw up the papers.

Until I realized my initials would then spell "SKiD". As it is, "SKiN" is accepted as my current acronym. (My initials giving the SKN, with an "i" for "idiot," or "insert affectation here.") SKiD is OBVIOUSLY, SUPREMELY unacceptable.

So here I am back at square one. A name I don't like; legs two inches shorter than God, the Universe, or Mother Nature intended; and no foreseeable way out of either unacceptable situation.

Luckily, I long ago stopped asking when I'm gonna catch a break.

Borat

I caught myself.

On the verge of writing about the way Billy Ray Cyrus seems to have ressurected himself (sans mullet) through the surprise hit Hannah from Montana, the realization struck me that three posts about country music stars in a row would give the reader a wrong impression. (And when I say "the reader" I mean the one person reading this--but it still matters)

Luckily the greatest comedy genius of our time came along and put us all back on track.

Mark my words, Borat is going to become the seminal cultural/comedic experience of the decade. And everyone I ask gives me the same comment. Essentially: I feel dirty and violated, and I don't think I could sit through it again--but I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED LIKE THATat a movie.

I know I have to see it. However (and this will surprise "the reader") I am trepidatious, because the "dirty and violated" aspect is something I try to avoid. Has there ever been a movie that repulsed and beckoned, sickened and satisfied to such extremes, and simultaneously?

Does that make it a work of Art, or a train wreck?