El Patrone

I had a talk with a friend today and it kind of helped me out with a problem I've been having in my life.

I was telling her about the various people in my life I feel responsible for. I've felt this way for most of my life. It seemed normal. My mother, amongst her friends, was ah-gai, older sister. She was the person everyone else came to when they have problems. Sometimes she consols, sometimes she problemsolves, other times, the person in the situation already had all the right solutions but just needed a slight nudge in the right direction. That is my mother.

I actually inherited this behaviour at a very very early age. I remember doing this as far back as grade 6.

Today, talking to my friend, vocalizing what I have been doing all these years sound weird. To some degree, it was intrusive. It was also controlling. It was caring. I know everybody always like me beter, some even look up to me afterwards.

Sometimes I wonder though: to what degree am I taking responsibility away from other people, infantilizing them. These patron/client relationships.

Who the fuck do I think I am? Godfather? Dai-lo?

James was telling me a few days ago that I should trust people, or, at least, leave them to their own device. People are more able when you trust them. I think I trust them. Especially to do things for their own good. Couldn't I?

Besides, even if they cannot do these things for themselves better than I could do it for them, the net effect of it ó being done by that person ó will more beneficial for all. Lack of frustration on my part. Sense of success on theirs. Our relationship will be far more equitable.

Not hot at all

Last night, my friend JC and I were talking about his "women problem." He is in-between seeing two different women: the really hot woman he is involve in now and the far plainer, less hot woman he actually likes.

I as making bets with E, our mutual friend, that he will wise up. Dump the girl he is with now and be with the woman he loves. E is more skeptical. "If the sex is as good as he says it is, I don' think he will."

This is compound by the fact tha the current girl is universally acclaimed to be hot.

"People kept coming up to me to tell me how hot she is. Even those who do not know we're dating," JC confided to me.

I realized, right there and then, how useless the concept of "hot" is.

In high school, my male friends andI often hung out at Fairview Mall. Above the food court is a crossbridge to the theatre on the second level. We stood on this platform ot check out chicks eating below.

Every women had a number. From out commanding heights, we jabbed out thumbs and heads at the hotties below. Imperiallydeclaring their hotness using a numerical scale from 1-10.

It was a floaing, consensus-building exercise.
"Dude, check out the 8 in the pink top."
"Nah, she is like a 6. Tits too small."
"But look at the legs on her. I think that counts for something."
"Okay, maybe 7."

So it would go on for hours. I think most of us barely paid attention to the women that we ourselves are allegedly attracted to. If one of us declared the appearance of a 10, we all clamoured like monkeys for a good look. Mostly, we argued. Each giving a diferent weight to different body parts, style, demeanor. The attraction was never the women and the endless parade of hotties never did feed eroticism into our hormon-driven bodies. It was just a big buy-bonding thing to do.

Over the year, I spoke to many heterosexual men about sex. I learned that their sexual preference are diverse. Pleasure of the flesh varied as the bodies of men varied. It is a piece of foolishness to let other men tel you who you should be attracted to.

So, it felt like high school again when my friend presented me with his problem. He was fucking the girl that every one else said was hot and not the woman he is actually attracted to.

But, eternal optimisim shining like the sun within me, I am still betting onmy friend to dump the hotie and date a woman I find physically repulsive and irresistably cool.

Book-brained!

I have too many books. I don't know how it happened. I don't think I
even read most of them. They are kind of just there, sitting on the
shelf and in boxes in the basement.

I don't want to get rid of them because they aren't worth anything.
And they might be useful. Maybe.

So I am in the process of cateloging them. If I can read them, I can
at least track them.

icky

Just realized that I hate Anglo women who like Paris.
It betray a certain ignorance about the city beyond the guided tours
and Fodor's.

I share the same pain as the French guy across from me. Trying to
hide behind his Nintendo DS as two more boring, suburban Ontarians
try to strike it up with him.
Just because they found out that he is from France.... how crass.