The Only Existing Synonym For Ambivalence

Few things are more depressing than when I’m in the free weights section of a gym and I see a cute girl wearing tights so low-rising that her thong is almost entirely visible. And, yes, by “depressing,” of course, I mean “hot.” But I also mean depressing.

Because she’s either so lonely she has to hunt for attention at a gym, or she’s in a very unsatisfying relationship. Plus, she’s ten times more likely to have an STD.



Feel The Burn


Now in regards to the second reason, I wouldn’t so much say that it’s her boyfriend that can’t satisfy her. More so that she is just a girl that can’t be satisfied by the affections of a single caring and loving person. She needs the attention of every man in the world, possibly every man and woman. Though even after that she will still find herself incomplete.

So how is only one person supposed to satisfy her? It’s close to impossible. Almost a challenge, even.

And you know Markie’s always up for a challenge.

So please, excuse me, I think she needs a quick spot.

The New Fleming Journal of Medicine

The first time I tore the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee was right after I graduated college. I had recently moved to Los Angeles—also for the first time—and was playing a lot of basketball by the beach. Then it happened.

I went to see a specialist about it, and before any x-rays or arthroscopy he told me that he didn’t think it was my ACL. Already, I was appalled. He went on to explain that there would have been a lot more swelling (“even some,” he added for prick measure), I would’ve been in a lot more pain, and that I would've been unable to leg press 600 pounds prior to our appointment that afternoon.

Like a torn ACL is really that black and white. Like anything in life is. I hate people who deal only in absolutes. Andre Mendez was right when he told me that there were only two types of people in this world; those who dealt in binary terms, and those who didn’t.

Not only did this “doctor” of “medicine” tell me I was wrong, he even had the audacity to suggest that my habit of self-diagnoses was actually counterproductive. Clearly, he had resorted to not only attacking my judgment, but also me as a person.

It was a sad, desperate display. With people becoming more capable in this world, he saw that his charade was soon to reach an end. In short time he would have to pack up his office, with his stethoscopes and fancy latex gloves, and find a real occupation that doesn’t list Omniscience as part of the job specs.



The Thrilla In Patella


But it didn’t end there. He went on to tell me that my knee was fine. That it was probably just a small sprain and I should ice it for a few days. It was a classic move. The placebic diagnosis. The unscrupulous Act Like Everything Is Okay And It Will Be Mind Over Matter bullshit. It was sickening.

Here I am with a clear tear in my ACL, and he’s telling me I can go right back out onto any sandy basketball court my heart desires. That’s insane.

Now, there have been many people in my life who have simply written me off as a hypochondriac; your standard wolf crier. If this is the case, and you believe there are no wolves, then why are you so afraid to let me pull off the sheep’s clothing?

The truth shall, and will, set you free!

The venerated Washington Post essayist and former pen pal Gene Weingarten expresses it best in his undervalued opus, The Hypochondriac’s Guide to Life. And Death. This book documents—with unrestrained hilarity—his struggles through life with what people would classify as his hypochondria. He lived each day convinced that he had a fatal illness, until one day at the doctor’s office he was told he had contracted an incurable liver disease. At which point he felt a great sense of relief, as his hypochondria was “cured.”

Or was it ever there?

Who's imagining things now, bitch?

Hypochondria? No, sounds more like hypocritical. And does this all ring a little familiar? I think the puritans did something similar back in the day when they tied women to fiery stakes to see if they were incombustible witches, only to be left with a charred corpse and saying to themselves, “well, what do you know.”

So careful who you're calling an alarmist while you're talking on your cell phone standing by a microwave sipping on your Red 40 sports drink. I've got two healthy kidneys and you'll probably be begging for one soon.

Point is I think I tore my ACL again yesterday. I came down on it and I thought I heard something snap, and this morning when I was playing basketball it felt kind of funny. So I did some stretching, and it feels better now.

So that’s my point.

Stretch.

It never hurt nobody.

All You Know On Earth, And All You Need To Know

Oft-quoted is Keats for his romantic observation that “truth is beauty, and beauty is truth.” Well, the man must have never seen himself a sweet-ass pair of fake tits.

Honestly though, that doesn’t seem to do it for me. And though I don’t like buying into what everyone outside of Los Angeles says about Los Angeles, I must admit that during these past two weeks I have come across a good many women with less-than-genuine tah-tahs.

Thing is—outside of the fact that they are visually incongruous, have the texture of swollen goiters, and are decidedly lethal—I’m not really sure if I am a fan of them. Maybe it has to do with the fact that every woman I’ve seen attached to a pair of these counterfeit hoohaa’s has a ravaged, yet curiously preserved face not unlike the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut.

Sure, we see them in Playboy and Hustler with rather inviting facial features, but I am now convinced that this look isn’t achieved without some heavy spackling.

(Wow, saying that almost adds to the experience.)

Anyway, these girls I see walking down the street or serving drinks behind bars always have these gigantic racks that hang over rippling six-pack abdominals. Their skin is tan and taut over their muscles, which was likely the goal they set when first entering their weight-training regiment. Unfortunately, there is very little muscle contained in the actual face of a person that can be built upon. That combined with a push for zero body fat is how you end up with this:

So maybe Keats was on to something, although his subtle message is now lost in the archaic word form that was once known as The Poem. So I would like to translate it for a more contemporary interpretation:

Pay close attention to this one remarkable fact: that the more a girl makes you laugh, the better her ass looks in jeans.

An Ironing Board For The Next Generation of Fleming

Tonight I learned with blinding certainty that one should never aspire to impress another with anything, ever.

My roommate—whose cocaine habit has made her paranoid of saying anything around me for fear that I will "blog her"—and I were leaving a club tonight, and we loitered out front with a small crowd of people when a young male pulled up to the curb in his late model Mercedes AMG something or other. It was all sparkling and decked out, and he got out of the car and stood by the driver’s side door with a pimp-like air about him.

Then down the street rolls a beautiful Lamborghini, brand-new. It pulls to the curb in front of the Mercedes, and a dude steps out of the vertical door and stands by his quarter-million dollar ride in a similar fashion.

Mr. Mercedes looked like an ass.

I drive my parents’ Saturn sedan with Pennsylvania license plates, and even I felt the right to mock him.

It made me quite content with my lot. So what if I have to put a little air into my mattress each time before I go to sleep. It’s queen-sized, and I only dished out forty bucks for it. Plus, I sleep great, which is more than can be said for Mr. Lamborghini over there, what with all the models that got into his car and will later be hogging his sheets.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m usually quite satisfied not possessing all the household luxuries most people in our country have, but last night I tried to iron my pants while I had them on.

That’s going to have to change.

A Moment of Deep, Serious Mark

Pay attention to the people in your life that you actually do trust. You'll find that more often than not, they are always right.

Wholesome and Responsible Mark

Maybe the condom the lady at the California DMV saw me carrying was the determining factor in getting my license today. They don’t just hand those things out, you know.

Yes, it’s my birthday, which happens to be the day that I need to renew everything because I’ve always waited until the last second. As you’ve been told, I did pass what I feel is the equivalent to the State Bar of California. Funny how a few weeks of really achieving nothing can skew any sense of accomplishment; no joke, when I was told that I passed my written examination for the license, it felt like I had received my first MacArthur Fellow.

That’s one for me, and none for you. Try to keep up, Moo.

The night before I was warned that getting that license was no small feat, so I buckled down and studied the California Driver’s Handbook. This morning when I walked into the DMV, I understood that a solid grasp of the information in The Handbook was imperative, but so, too, was my presentation [though mesh shorts were acceptable with everyone situated behind a tall desk]. So if I greeted the person cordially, she would see before her a responsible and exemplary young citizen whom under no circumstances she would deny a permit. I met the lady at the counter with a polite greeting, hoping to put my best impression forth.

I had on a clean shirt and carried an inoffensive messenger bag. But since I wore mesh shorts, I had to keep my wallet and other day-to-day accouterments in a small, seldom-used flap of the bag.

It happened to be the same bag I had taken to Jamaica this past summer for a wedding. There, as a member of the groom’s party, I felt it appropriate to cull small items together for a gift bag to each person in my assembly. Being the wholesome and responsible person I was, and still am, I put prophylactics in the gift bags in the event that my friends found themselves fast in love, unable to wait any longer to consummate their affections. There ended up being an odd number of condoms, so instead of assaulting the good tastes of the hotel’s cleaning person by leaving the surplus in the litter, I placed it in my carryon bag to dispose of it back home.

Half a year later as I stood at the DMV counter applying for my license, the lady asked for my old Maryland permit and I went to retrieve it. I pulled my wallet from the bag and brought it to the counter, but there, predictably, between the fold of my wallet and in front of the lady, was the stowaway I had long forgotten about.

Nothing was said of the condom. Either she gracefully chose to ignore it while I put it away, or, as I believe, she silently applauded the overwhelming burden I had put upon myself to make this world a safer and more responsible place. At that point I believe she felt there wasn’t reason to assess me any further, and she simply sent me off to take the written test out of habit [for she had processed my new license and approved it before any news of my score!]. But even if the test was only administered out of formality—a hollow showing of fairness to the others hopelessly biding for their permits—it does not in any way curb my personal achievement.

So I’d like to thank all those who supported me from the start; my family, friends, and, of course, the legendary and uncompromising integrity of Mr. Durex.

One love,

mdf

No. I Am Into You. Just Not All The Time.

Alright, I’ve heard it for the last time. It’s been coming up everywhere for the past five months, and it’s completely absurd and inane. Last night I sat in on a discussion about the book and just a few moments ago a girl I am/was seeing pulled out on me her paraphrased version of He’s Just Not That Into You.

Fuck that.

The application of Ockham’s Razor into the psychological quagmire that dictates a male’s approach to relationships—romantic or otherwise—is wholly irresponsible, misleading, and just plain bullshit.

Don’t listen to any of the nonsense in that tawdry, exploitative bestseller or whatever advice that charlatan imparted on Oprah. He was a consultant on Sex and the City. Of course he’s not going to be that into you. He’s gay.

A male can tell you he cares a lot about you while still not wanting to be with you. What’s so wrong with that? He has a firm understanding of his real and substantial feelings [in “caring about you”] while eschewing such banal ambiguities [as in “being with you”]. Part of why you probably like the guy so much is because he does make a stand against such hollow abstractions as “dating,” or “going out with,” or “husband.”

Men are not that simple. We are rather complex, and by complex I mean very, very easily confused. And who can blame us? You wish us to be ambitious, while humble. You want us to be well-read, but with a six pack. You want us to be smart, though dumb enough to date you. Give it a break. Try all you want to deconstruct us, tightly tying together our actions and our intentions in hopes of wringing out some comprehension of where you “stand.” To a guy, you stand wherever you’re fucking standing, unless of course you’re sitting or trying a variety of other poses.

So why do we waver? Why do we appear so indecisive and inconsistent?

It’s pretty simple, sometimes I feel like a hamburger, sometimes I don’t. It’s basic physiology. And funnily enough, the same part of my brain that controls my hunger also controls my sex drive.

We were talking about sex, right?

Of course, this generalization is not intended to encompass every man, it just applies to all the men that you’ll ever meet.

So that’s pretty much it. My whole point is that we aren’t that simple. Or was I saying complicated...?

Whatever. Let’s go back to talking about sex again.

Park It Like It's Hot

So this past Wednesday morning I woke up and walked out to my car. My roommate and I have tandem parking in the building, which is a bitch, so I decided to park on the street whenever I found the chance, and for some reason, the night before, there was plenty of street parking in front of my building, so I took it as good fortune.
The next morning, however, I walked out to my car to find a parking ticket tucked under my windshield wiper. It was for 45 dollars. Yes, 45 motherfucking dollars for parking in front of my own apartment building. The only way I could get a 45 motherfucking dollar parking ticket in Virginia is if I parked in front of a fire station driveway, on top of a small child. What warranted such an incontinent penalty? I walked around and found a No Parking sign that did not apply save for the three hours of the week it stated there was Street Cleaning; Wednesday, 8am to 11am. Granted, I really woke up at noon and got to my car at 1pm, I still felt this to be entirely unfair. I don’t have a job. So how the fuck am I supposed to know what day of the week it is? Who the fuck do they think I am, Nicolaus Fucking Copernicus? It’s hard enough to find a styling wristwatch that has numbers along the face, and here I’m supposed to know what day of the week it is?
Damn was I one angry, unemployed Los Angelino. But I looked down the street and saw that I wasn’t the only car that was ticketed. This brought silent consolation. There were two or three other cars with similar tickets, and nothing perks you up more than seeing a parking ticket on another car. What fools they must be for trying to escape the all-seeing eye of Justice.

Things to check out:

I saw a girl perform this song tonight, and it stopped me cold. Check out a song called "Heaven" at http://jennialpert.com/sound_bytes.html.
You’d think that with a name like Jennial Pert, she would be friendly or something, but it’s really Jenni Alpert. She was still nice enough and all.