relationships and mohawks

 This has been another subject that has weighted heavily in my mind .  After a time of withdrawal and playing the field after a past relationship I’ve spend more time pondering relationships with myself, relatives, and friends.  My conclusion, relationships rival the two step that food and wine play on your palate. 

            From the dismal facts I have gathered, being alone can be good but can get lonesome and depressing at times.  Being introverted can only suffice for so long before breaking the mold, showing dashes of an extroverted personality and actually trying to meet new people.  I have been quite lucky in the fact that in those flashes of having an outgoing personality I’ve developed relationships with others.  Once you get the bug and have a good relationship there is no turning back. To actually love someone is a different story.  To mutter those words and to actually mean them inflames your soul and sends shivers down the spine.  Not unlike getting the wind knocked out of you in football.  Assuming the bridges were not burned after a relationship that feeling of love and being loved can be safely locked away into that hand carved trinket box your grandfather made u and can be forever stored in your heart; always a reference point and gold standard for what to seek out in the future.  When the world chews you up and regurgitates you out it’s what keeps you afloat and gives hope, there is no better compass than knowing what love is and what it felt like.  I know and have felt the calming and cooling effects.  But when it ends there is no place for this love to go, in times of adversity if that love is present and has no purge valve it can lead to insanity.  If the loved is unavailable  for an extended amount of time there is no sub for hearing their voice, laugh, and relaxing tone.  It has happened and at times left me blubbering for my mummy.  No one will know or understand this and most don’t bother or care.  

            The greatest philosophers had the ability to see and hear both sides before passing judgment.  Both sides would include seeing that past actions have led to hurting the one you love and being able to cut through the bullshit and examine yourself.  Hopefully coming to the conclusion that you did cause an extreme amount of pain and that some personal actions and reactions should not be set in stone.  In fact some are not realistic when in a relationship.   

            Past relationships have left me baffled and scratching my head not being able to comprehend actions and reactions.  Time has passed but those wounds will not heal, the mere thought shoots a briny solution onto my calloused and kitchen worm extremities.  The most trivial actions can lead to the most hurtful and painful outcomes, where taking certain things for granted have led to feeling like a buffoon and simpleton because feeling were exhibited.               

                   The effects of bachelorhood and relationships are evident, truly rivaling food and wine.  Food by itself can be orgasmic and fulfilling.  As long as reese’s holiday eggs and masticating fluffanutter sandwiches there is no need for another in my life.  The wine is just another addition to the puzzle.  Where the dish was lacking, the wine can balance and elevate it to greatness.  The sum is greater than the parts.  That rich fatty roast pork loin is perfectly balanced and increased to another tier of gustatory greatness by a lemony white.  Once one is found and up to specifications the hunt will begin for that flash of flavor perfection. 

                       At the same time a bad wine/ relationship can ruin a meal/ life.  While it won’t be evident at times upon reflection and hangover there is no confusing the source.  The sulfur in a shallow and cheap wine/ relationship will draw a cheap hangover to no amends to your psyche.  At times I have been led to the effects of a boones or cooks binge.  Imagine a hangover of emotion without the gluttonous or overconsumption of cheap booze at a punk rock show at the mutiny.  (Yeah I remember that Mexican cheerleader show at the mutiny, and may be referencing it here”)  There is nothing more punk rock than a cheap 8 dollar few bottles of mad dog 20/20 but at some point that mad dog becomes boring and tastes will develop into a cheap bottle of yellow tail or rossi.  At that point relationships transform into a meaningful mission where a cute punk rock chick with eyebrow piercing will no longer do.  While this writer may favor them there is nothing for the average man in going after them.  It’s similar to making out with someone upon last call.  Who the hell wants to waste their time on that “let’s make out then never speak again, boy does your breath taste like gyros and garlic” What could anyone get out of this?  A simple hook up upon normal situations seems more like a huge waste of time, I would rather go clothes shopping with vanilla ice and buy the entire puffy pant section at target than have a one night stand.  Although a brawl would ensue after my constant prodding and harassment about him stealing the beat from queens under pressure.  There is no bigger waste of time than making out or hooking up with someone for a one nighter. There is no pompous attitude or pretentiousness on this thought, whose goals would actually include this in a night?  The entire fun of the situation is progressing through the steps.  What fun is it if you skip the bases every time?  Just listen to meat loaf paradise by the dashboard light and you’ll understand where I’m coming from.  This may be childish and lame but so is going on spring break and trying to make out with as many guys or girls as possible.  “omg I just made out with my 18th guy and I may or my not have developed vd” 

            Sometime in wine you are surprised at a merlot or cabernet and it piques your interest.  Sometimes a sworn enemy can sneak up on any suspecting taster and surprise.  The same can be said about the opposite sex.  Types are good when describing the opposite sex but when reflection and choices are abounding sometimes a type is not available and an anti type will fall into ones lap.  How odd when one falls in love with an anti type.  Types are meant to be broken; in fact one can assume that falling in love may include developing a relationship with another that runs the opposite example of a specific type that is yearned for.  Irony lies in that the not my type person can get away with the harshness and bitterness that has long been disliked because they are different and somehow manage to pull it off.  The best and most meaningful relationships will fall into your lap when not suspecting it and turn out to be the best.  Similar to searching for a lost set of keys or giant inflatable space docking hands, in that the minute your search ends with no success they end up being under the bed or in the Smithsonian museum, (well, after I retire it will be the final resting place for inflata hands.)  Narrowing the gene pool down to your type is comparable to that a hole we all hate.  The one that has seen sideways too many times and think’s he’s Paul Giamattis older brother, the one who only drinks a certain vintage, year or grand crue.  Some winner and we all know them, only worse are those that follow their tastes to people and only date successful, rich, etc people.  It’s best to keep an open eye in all groups and traits.   I can only conclude that the search will continue for perfection.

Until that perfection is found I will sit longing for when my pleas for Rachel Ray to be mine will turn into a reality.  I keep mouthing, she will be mine oh yes she will be mine to her daytime TV show while my roommate reminds me to “live in the now man”.  But if a lifetime goal is to make out with/ take advantage of someone on live tv how can one rest when this goal goes incomplete?  It could be transferred to other tv chefs but who wants to make out with Mario Batlali?  Don’t include Sandra Day, although very attractive, cooking skill has nothing to do with her hotness, besides, she may use a chef knife to foil any sexual advances.  

            The Mohawk is the last lesson for today.  Whatever that means, long have I forgotten that my haircut can resemble a mullet and or rattail (don’t think that I haven’t been complemented for having these styles before) When down, hats would cover my sisters beautiful creation, now I’m used to looking like an idiot when not spiked up.  Getting dressed up to go out simply entails spiking and putting on either a Dick Tracy or Milwaukee brewers collared shirt.  The best part of a past/present punk haircut is some assume that you embody the late 70’s punk movement among other things.  When golden palace ruled the eating circuit it meant lots of contests at southern state fairs.  Having an assumed extreme haircut is comical and leads to lots of looks.  Although not said it’s obvious by judging eyes that thoughts are similar to invading Vikings and included me raping and pillaging.  An extra eye was put on their young daughters.  I felt like Jack Nicholson in easy rider in front of the diner with all the local girls swooning.  And just for a stupid haircut that has been in and out of style for 40 years.  At times I’m driven to remind them by saying “Hey, I’m down hear” and exposing my areoles.  

                 Having an image that is easily remembered was a deciding factor in paying homage to the Mohegan’s 3 years ago.  Hilarity ensues when it goes forgotten and I find people staring.  My first assumptions, if guys are that they want to kick my ass.  From girls I assume they think I’m hot.  I’m always disappointed when it turns out that they recognize me.  It has happened in Memphis by two fans from Yale as well as in Cancun by some Canadians.  Ironically enough it occurs more often away from Chicago.  The only difficulty is that it can turn from mo to faux in a matter of 1 week.  You can go from sid vicious to a trendy dbag contestant on project runway.  If you’re going to do it you might as well go all out.  What the hell is the point, if you’re going to grow a mustache you may as well not wash it for weeks so it fully ripens and develop into its prime whitetrashness.  Why strive for d bag when Travis bickle is only a clipper cut away?  When I find the line between mo and faux skewed thoughts of a self inflicted wedgies and punches to the back of the head flood my cranium.   

This is more uplifting than the last depressing as hell blog, I think that’s a good thing.

Eat up and eat well 

Ciao,

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