United We Stand, Hyphenated We Fall

Why are there so many ethnic groups that insist on being called "_____-Americans?" There are African-Americans, Asian-Americans, Pakistani-Americans, Pre-Americans, Post-Americans, Ex-Americans, and blah, blah, blah. Why? Are these people really African? Or Asian? Or do they just have ancestors from their respectively hyphenated countries? I believe that the latter is true. Many from these groups are third and fourth generation American citizens. So what's so wrong with being just American? Do we really have to identify what lineage you have? If so, be prepared to call me a Danish-Polish-English-Norweigan-Swedish-Apache-Scottish-Irish-German-French-American. Because that's my lineage. And nobody wants to say that. Is it because I'm simply White? Perhaps. But also because that's just a lot to say when refering to me. It seems just downright silly to call me that. The same applies to all hyphenated Americans. Either you're American or you're from some different country. And if you immigrate, then you become an American. I'm not saying that you should forget your heritage. I think that you should hold on to your heritage as much as you can. It's a part of what makes you you. But don't make others refer to you by that heritage every time they reference you. Either you're American or you're not. You're no better than any other American, and it's time that we stop being so politically correct that we can't call somebody anything different than their hyphenated name. Racism would be completely forgotten if we stopped referencing it everytime we talked about someone. Martin Luther King, Jr. dreamed of a day when his children would not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. Race should not have anything to do with the way that people are treated, whatever race they may be. Let's stop all this hyphenation that's killing our unity and start being Americans. Only then will we be the great nation that we could be.

The Banality of Benign

I am a somewhat outgoing young man, and feel that I must speak out against those boring folks I see walking around campus. I understand that not everyone can nor should be as ridiculous as Shaq in a turtleneck, but everyone should at least be open to new things and appreciate the fact that Shaq doesn't really have the physique for a turtleneck. And why is it that so many guys feel that in order to win over a mate, they must be total douchebags? Well, that question was already answered in an earlier post, but still needs frequent reflection. And they are not just douchebags to the women that they pursue, but to their fellow man. They walk around in their Seven jeans and try to hit me with their BMW SUVs. Gay. Which leads me to my next point: the kids who try to not be douches and therefore end up being douches. I'm speaking of course of those kids who try so hard to not fit in, and by so doing fit into the group of kids that tries really hard to not fit in. Ironic? Yes. Romantic? Never. These kids are so concerned with being different that they literally try to put Shaq in a turtleneck, which is like trying to make a milkshake with no pants on: a terrible idea with almost certain negative repercussions. All of these people lead me to believe that being really, truly, genuinely original is the only way to live life. So instead of trying to fit in or trying not to fit in (which is still fitting in), just be who you are. Unless you're boring.

Gas Leaks, Bonfires, and Sugar-free Drinks

Last night we made a bonfire during a gas leak. While this may seem a bit irresponsible, it was. But it was also quite fun. There is something about fire that is mesmerizing and sexy. Much like me. I think that is why I like fire. During the fire, I realized that stars are rad. Rad in the sense that there's a lot of them and sometimes they twinkle. Twinkle twinkle. That sounds like it could be a rap song. Could be and should be. Speaking of rap, what's that all about? Where did it come from? Well, scholars believe that it was started by the Italian Mafia in 1930 as a way to launder their money. It turned out to be such a profitable business that they stopped laundering their money and started pumping resources and manpower into the industry. Soon, others joined. Those others include the CIA, Walmart, The Ohio State University and Krispy Kreme donuts, among others. In 1972, a faction of extremists broke off from mainstream rap and formed hip-hop. From this hip-hop formed other genres, including jazz, pop, bluegrass, and gospel. As you can see, we owe a lot to rap. Almost everything. Thank you rap. Also, I don't much care for sugar-free drinks.

Love: A Four-Letter Word

Love: A Four-Letter Word

Why is it that love seems to elude those who most desperately need it, while being magnetically attracted to those choice individuals who have more than they need? What leads to this migration of affection? For most of my life I have loved and loved hard. This love has been reciprocated on a number of occasions by a few of the people closest to me. I am not, however, talking about this love. The love offered by a close friend or family member can never compare to the romantic love offered by a significant other. It is this romance that seems to so poetically escape me. It is this love that I consider a four-letter word.

Women, girls, ladies and the like have always apparently liked me. They have found me funny and clever and seem to trust me. Most of these women feel the same way about their stuffed animals. I do not want to be a teddy bear. I do not want to listen to their complaints of dates gone awry nor “understand” their problems for nothing more than an occasional tea party. I want to be the topic of the conversation between this girl and her trusted animal friend.

Being deemed as harmless as a stuffed object has given me ample time and practice to hone my skills of observance. I have observed the looks of a smitten girl shot at the young man of her desire. I have observed the affectionate kisses shared by lovers. I have observed the careless caresses exchanged on a summer’s eve. This observance has led me to a conclusion about this elusive and unpredictable monster known as love. I have deduced from my various observations that females are attracted to those males that are considered by them to be as close as they will come to the perfect male. This consideration, however, is directly affected by many factors. These factors are seemingly inherent in each and every woman.

When considering her perfect male, a female will first think of all of the physical qualities that constitute perfection: muscle tone, muscle mass, bone structure, hair, teeth, clothes, etc. She will then consider those characteristics that comprise the perfect personality: sense of humor, sensitivity, ability to reason, understanding, etc. After considering these, she will estimate the qualities necessary for her needs to be met, in other words, those qualities exhibited by the successful: charisma, drive, ingenuity, etc. When these traits of her perfect man have been established, the female will then reflect upon her self-image. She will contemplate her own qualities and come to a conclusion of how pretty, smart, and desirable she is. This self-image then influences the caliber of male she will strive for. If she deems herself as attractive, intelligent, and therefore extremely desirable, she will accept nothing short of her idealized perfect man. If she judges herself ugly, stupid, and undesirable, she will expect nothing but the same from her male counterpart. Therefore, those women who are attractive, intelligent and desirable, or in other words perfect, will expect and only accept their perfect man, who is, in 97% of documented cases, a douche bag. On the other hand, those women who deem themselves as unattractive will marry the first moron who shows any interest whatsoever in them.

While the number of women is great, I have found that most women are able to be classified into four basic categories: Perfect, Hot but Stupid, Somewhat Attractive and Somewhat Intelligent, and Sweet Spirit. These categories present us males with a choice of womanly pursuit. We choose the option that we want, which, to be honest, is always Perfect, and pursue a subject from that category. However, being Perfect, this said subject is interested in only one kind of male: her perfect man. Now these women will tell you that that is simply not true. They value a guy’s sense of humor. They just love sensitive guys. Well, as presently stated, I’ve had plenty of time to observe, and all of my observations have only proved that these women like only one category of guys: Douche.

Men, being not so different from women, can also be classified into four categories: Perfect, Douche, Average Joe, and Sloth. As seen from the previous example, Perfect women seem to be attracted to the Douche category. Therefore, the Perfect category of man is generally left to settle for a category of woman less than his merited level. This anomaly presents what I call the JD Syndrome.

The JD Syndrome is simple really. As a young man looks around and observes this unfair discrimination, he concludes that the only way to obtain an appropriately categorized woman is for him to change categories. The logical move in our society is for a Perfect or Average Joe to move to the Douche category. Corporate America is very aware of the JD Syndrome and capitalizes on it, as seen in the increasing number of gyms/steroids and Abercrombie & Fitchs. This move is generally permanent and leads to an asymmetrical society. As more and more Perfects and Average Joes move into the Douche category, more and more Perfect women are unjustly taken. So we that are not Douches are left to settle for a different category of woman. However, as women tend to want to be Perfect, all categories follow the Perfects’ lead, accepting nothing but Douches.

It is this JD Syndrome, I believe, that leads to my estrangement from love. Having not yet given into the contagious disease, I am left with slim pickings. Compounding my dilemma is the fact that I do not seem to be any female’s perfect man. The longer I hold out against this affliction, the farther and farther I fall in my category. I will not be so presumptuous as to assume which category that is, but I know that it is not Douche, and probably not Perfect. And the more I fall the slimmer the pickings.

And so I am left to simply observe. And while I observe I utter many four-letter words under my breath, of which “love” is but one.