Complex Inferiority

So here I am, friends, two glasses of Malbec to the wind. Panty-waist that I am, I could now be described as "being in my cups" at this point.
Sidenote: Not sure where the term panty-waist comes from, but I must admit I get a giddy little thrill from wearing women's underwear.
Anyway, here I sit. Wedged in a corner of the Thirsty Mind, sipping my wine and listening to the SB Powers Band chirp Bill Withers's Lean on Me. The SB Powers Band is comprised of several teenage girls of moderate musical ability, but one cannot fault them for their choice of song.
Thursdays are open microphone nights at The Thirsty. They are also my one more-or-less guaranteed free night each week. As such, I am making it a habit of coming here, listening to the well-meaning Open Mikers and guzzling mediocre wine. Every so often I haul my lazy hands atop the key-pad and manage to update this rattle-trap blog.
I have made two attempts this week to follow-up my last prosey post with some original fiction, but to no avail. I have decided that in the interests of keeping this peace train a'rollin', it is better to just trot out some gratuitous observations and detail the last few weeks of my humdrum existence. Quantity over quality, for now.

I was driving down the highway a few days ago and I was saddened to observe a dead fox in the break-down lane. The creature was not visibly damaged; its back was too me, but its fiery coat was clean and unmarred and the corpus seemed intact. I was singing aloud at the time -- sans musical accompaniment, for, alas, my car radio is on the blink, and has been for quite some time -- and the sight of this tragedy halted the song in my throat, replacing it with a startled curse. It occured to me that there are far too many people in the world, and far too few foxes.

Of late, I have been watching some of George Carlin's stand-up on Netflix. Hard to believe that the old man's been gone for four years now.
I was never his biggest fan; I found his material either needlessly complicated, as in his dissection of the English language ("She told me to get on the plane. Screw you, bitch, I'm getting in the plane!), or needlessly crude, or needlessly pessimistic. I thought he was an violent, virulent, over-appreciated cynic. I was right about everything save his being over-appreciated. If anything, he gets nowhere near the credit he deserves. Dark and angry though he may have been, he was a necessary voice in the world, and a comedic genius. He drew no lines. Nothing was off-limits or above criticism. He meted out tirades in his gravelly voice, eyes bulging like a Maori war chief, on every subject imaginable. He was anti-theistic and politically non-partisan.
What upsets me somewhat, looking back on his HBO specials, was his audience. I would expect a legion of scowling, black-clad hipsters, cheering raucously at every invective he launched against the establishment. Instead, his audience looks to be comprised of exactly the slack-jawed, overweight, over-privileged dopes he skewers so ruthlessly in his shows. The audience members do not look cool enough to appreciate Carlin.
Then again, in his shows he lambasted the very groups I mention as being his ideal audience. The self-righteous and painfully hip.
By his death, he had become a force, a symbol, to shake people out of their apathy, to make them look around and question the paradigm. He stood for no group in such broad terms, but could be the template for the angry everyman. Each lone howler banging his or her head against mores and customs and blind acceptance.
I got off lucky, never caring enough about him while he lived to be upset at his death, and now coming to appreciate him in hindsight, having already come to terms with his passing.

I started classes today. I am excited for the Fall semester and the Fall in general. It was a decent summer, at least in terms of the weather. We were robbed of both the tail-end of Autumn and the peak of Winter last year. I have such hopes that 2012 will be more archetypically, primally New England.
My first class is a botanical lab science covering the plants native to the Northeast. The professor, Erica Bergquist (which seems a good name for an academic . . . it just came to me why I appreciate that name. There is a journalist in the Dragon Tattoo series of novels by Steig Larsson named Erica Berger. Her lover, and co-protagonist of the series is named Mikhail Blomqvist) is a Department chair. This is her only class for the semester, and it is also her pet project at HCC, something she's been trying to get off the ground for decades. She is obviously excited as all get-out to be teaching it, and this adds a great deal to the experience for me. We had our first field lab today, spent hiking the substantial woodlands which abut the campus, identifying local flora. Very informative, and I found myself thinking of plants by their Latin names on my walk back to the car.

In the classroom today, I was seated next to two young girls. I was unobtrusively oogling one girl's delicate ankles, which peeked from above her low-top, bubblebum pink Chuck Taylors, and did not notice her face.
When I finally looked up as she declared herself present for roll-call, I was astonished to see how young she looked -- seemingly barely into her teens. (I have no doubt, based on her subsequent questions and comments, that she was at least eighteen. There is no way that that brain-trust skipped any grades.) But, in addition to making me feel old, it drained all the slowly amassing blood from my weiner. I could not imagine a greater turn-off. I suppose the qualities I look for in a girl come mainly from years spent on this planet: confidence, self-awareness, sense of humor, acceptance of forces greater than oneself. I did not care to imagine her giggling about the newest Jonas Brothers CD or her favorite color of Abercrombie nail polish.

The Holyoke Community campus is cause for much angry divisiveness amongst the faculty, students, and staff.
Built in the 1970's, it is a sterling example of a school of archictecture known as "brutalism." This evolved from modernism, and initially was used for low-cost housing and efficient government buildings, but designers saw some stark beauty in the right angles and exposed, textured concrete and its use expanded. Now, this is not for everyone, and I myself must admit that when used for one, free-standing structure, brutalism is a bit of an obnoxious bore. However, in the HCC campus, the five main buildings are all interconnected by a series of underground tunnels and airy sky-bridges. Indeed, it is possible to get from any building on campus to any other without setting foot outside. The numerous courtyards and tiered walkways create a sense of fluidity to the otherwise blocky layout. (It is also a common complaint that there are far too many sets of stairs. I'll agree, the campus has more steps than an M.C. Escher painting, but I enjoy the tiered structure.)
In short, the complex possesses the sturdy, fortress-like presence of brutalism, but manages a modicum of grace and intricacy.
The whole effect is akin to that of a '70's sci-fi vision of a Utopian society. All tinted glass and beige concrete. Peering out of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the sky bridges down at the shifting masses of brightly garbed youths, walking in pairs or loitering in small groups, one cannot help but feel transported to some (from a 1975 viewpoint) far-off year, like 2012 . . .
It's like I'm going to school in Logan's Run . . . or A Clockwork Orange, depending on my mood.

I found out recently that my ex-girlfriend and forever friend/beloved Rebecca is seeing someone new. He's a goofy-looking individual, but no more so than me, I guess. And he's a strapping lad. She won't tower over him when wearing heels, at least, as she did with me.
Now, I had hoped that she would be the first to enter into a new relationship post-break-up. And so she has. So, despite the fact that I was the initiating party in the termination of our arrangement (read: dumper), I find myself struck by pangs of jealousy and -- completely without merit -- injustice.
(Based on what I've seen on Facebook -- not stalking, mind you. I only reflect on what is plastered across my unavoidable Newsfeed -- they have gone hiking at a State Park I took her too, and visited a historical museum on one of the Boston Harbor Islands that she took me too. Granted, they live in the Boston-Metro area, and the aforementioned destinations are by no means uncommon, but still . . . unoriginal much? What's next, Mike's Corn Maze in Sunderland? can either of you come up with a date plan that she and I haven't explored already? The sheer egotistical part of my addled mind thinks that she has been planning these outings and posting photos of them to needle me.)
(I know this sounds small and frightfully petty, and it is. After the break-up I found myself beset by completely -- blashemously so -- feelings of animosity towards her. As if, though my higher-brain wanted desperately for her to get over me as soon as possible (even before I got over her, which I'm still not sure I am), my lizard brain was outraged that she could continue her existence without me.)
I have a half-suspiscion that she reads this blog (and, true to humanity's fatally, nonsensically paradoxical psychology, would be disappointed to find out that she didn't read it). And as such, I get a masochistic little tingle thinking that she might be reading this now, and will know how she still affects me.
Good for you, babe, if you are reading this.


So there's this barista at The Thirsty Mind who I rather fancy. I have had several flirtatious exchanges with her, but never worked up the courage -- or found the right moment -- to ask her out. I am hindered in my romantic machinations due to the shifting schedule of the coffee-maestros at this cafe. I have only a vague sense of when she will be working. I came here tonight because she had had this shift in the past. While she was not this night engaged in dishing-up espressos, she was in attendance, as a member of the clientele. We said hello, and she joked about having taken my spot in a nook near the door.
I thought Fate had given me this opportunity, the two of us, meeting on neutral ground, without the awkward barrier of the counter, so that I could finally make my proposition. Unsurprisingly, Fate allowed me to sit and watch her -- with an uncluttered view -- meet a fellow in a blazer and proceed to go out to dinner.
Now! I know some of you, imagined audience, are thinking, "poor, Richard." I thank you for your sympathy, but give me a goddamn minute to finish!
I was hesitant to ask this strumpet out because I thought she was currently involved with someone. And when I saw this horse-faced bounder enter the cafe and escort her out, after laughing way to loud at her jokes, my first thought was, "I was right, she is in a committed relationship."
However, my normally non-existent powers of deduction made a rare appearance, allowing me to notice several key factors of their dialogue.
One, they were both dressed way too nicely for anything other than a first date or an anniversary. Based on their lack of displayed affection and their general unease around one another, it was the former. Backing this up were the bounder's obviously faked laughing at her minor jokes, and their stilted banter. The lady remarked to her co-worker as she left that this marked the first time she'd been out in a month.
I left shortly after them to look for my headphones in my car, and noticed as they walked away that they did not hold hands, nor rub elbows, and maintained a thick bubble of no-man's-space betwixt them, despite sharing an umbrella (out of necessity, due to rain).
Now my practice around other males is usually avoidance. I step out of the way if another fella makes a move on a girl I like. I divide most other men in my age group into several categories: unknown quantities, equals, or superiors. Equals, people I know well enough to have a grasp of their strengths and weaknesses, are mostly friends of mine. Unknowns are men whom my short-bus-riding perception denies me adequate details to shift into the other two columns, and superiors are men who in three human qualifiers (physical, mental, emo-spiritual) are recognizably better than me. I remain quiet around the three aforementioned groups either due to natural submission or a desire to avoid confrontation (even if I'm sure I'd emerge triumphant -- recall several posts ago, my mention of garnering the attention of a contested female, only to stop short of consumation due to apathy.)
Anyway, there is a rare fourth category: Inferiors.
You'd think that for someone as narcissitic as m'self, this would be the biggest category. But, recall, gentle, imaginary reader, that I am the most unobservant person I know. There might very well be a greater population of males I consider inferior, but I am too dimwitted to recognize them.
What I'm driving at is, this fellow who took the barista out to dinner was that rarest of males: an inferior. It takes someone special to make me feel like a suave he-man, and this bloke did so in spades.
(I often feel like a supporting character in my own life, but this guy made me feel like a leading man).

(I know, that all this analysis makes me sound crazy and obsessive, and maybe I am, but keep in mind how fast the human mind -- at least my human mind -- operates. All the above nonsense, which took you minutes to read and me a quarter of an hour to write, occurred in seconds.)

I was able to further discern from the barista's dialogue with her co-worker that her next shift will be Saturday morning.

Now, recall the last post. A certain lady I was courting was . . . shall we say, entertaining other offers on the side. At first this came as a shock to me, so unfamiliar with the dating scene as I am. But now I am glad my eyes were opened. It made me see how insubstantial a mere "date" is to the majority of my generation, God bless their attention-deficient, morally-lacking souls.

In the past, this revelation of Barista's involvement with another guy would have queered my pursuit and sent me into a minor depressive state of binge-eating and Netflix-induced stupidity. On the contrary, this time. It has only served to strengthen my resolve. I will continue with my current fitness regimen and on Saturday will make my intentions known!

Stay tuned for further details.