“I quote others only in order the better to express myself.”
– Michel de Montaigne
“By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote. In fact, it is as difficult to appropriate the thoughts of others as it is to invent.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
“The ability to quote is a serviceable substitute for wit.”
– W. Somerset Maugham
“The kiss originated when the first male reptile licked the first female reptile, implying in a subtle, complimentary way that she was as succulent as the small reptile he had for dinner the night before.”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald
Seeing as how I consume movies on a rather regular basis (an occupational hazard, I suppose), and seeing as how I’m full of opinion on those very movies, I’ve decided to start adding mini-reviews to the “salmagundi” sidebar. Reviews will be in the form of “Movie Title: Letter Grade”, with a sentence or three about the film in the link title (i.e. hover your mouse over the link and it should pop up). Bon app
For whatever reason, we guys often form bizarre attachments to pieces of clothing, strong emotional connections that effectively prevent us from noticing their increasingly well-loved condition. Favorite t-shirts yellow at the armpits, favorite jeans fray at the hems and zipper, yet we can’t possibly imagine actually retiring them. And nowhere is our love more apparent than with underwear; given the choice, we’ll keep washing and wearing a trusty pair of boxers until it’s disintegrated to nothing more than a waistband and a few hanging threads.
As women rarely hold such forgiving opinions of overly scruffy clothing (and underwear in particular), it behooves any guy with an eye towards impressing the ladies to (at least occasionally) view the contents of his closet (or, at least, his underwear drawer) with a cool and dispassionate eye. This very morning, I did so myself, examining each pair of boxer-briefs, and I’m afraid the results were not good:
Total Pairs: 11*
Pairs in Good Condition: 2
Pairs in Acceptable Condition: 1
Pairs with Weirdly Ruffled Waistbands (ed. note: due to elastic losing it’s stretch after too many washings): 3
Pairs with Small Holes: 3
Pairs with Holes in Front Large Enough that the Proverbial Mouse Might Escape the Proverbial House: 2
As much as it pains me to say it, I think it’s time for a serious drawer cleanout and underwear shopping spree.
* This is nearing the bare acceptable minimum number of pairs. Guys mainly do the wash only after running out of clean underwear, re-wearing all the cleaner looking pairs inside out, and then sometimes even wearing bathing suits as underwear. Clearly, then, the more pairs owned, the less frequent the need to do the wash.
“The intellect is not a serious thing, and never has been. It is an instrument on which one plays, that is all.”
– Oscar Wilde
Two days back, spending several hours too many catching waves and practicing longboard tricks (nota bene: the classic headstand-on-board can cause serious board-wax-in-hair), I managed to pick up the best sunburn I’ve had in years, a burn that carried well past lobster red and deep into fire-engine. Flying home today, however, some 48 hours later, I barely look pink.
For whatever reason, I’ve always been an unusually fast healer. At a one week post-op checkup after some minor surgery a few years back, for example, the surgeon literally had to check his files against his appointment calendar to convince himself that he had really sliced and diced just one week prior – the scar, he said, appeared to have been healing for nearly a month.
Sure, I’m grateful for that quick-fix abilitiy – given the frequently injurious nature of full-contact martial arts, it’s one I often put to good use. But, taken together with a fast metabolism (two hours after a big dinner and I’m ready to repeat the meal), it makes me worry about how long my body can keep up the pace. If all my cells are sprinting along, how will they ever be able to stick around for the marathon of a life I’ve got planned?
Underwater:
Above Water:
While most people would let the tropical locale throw off their workout routine, I’ve managed to keep my nose to the grindstone, sticking to a strenuous circuit training program: beach, pool, hot tub, pina colada, repeat.
Having arrived earlier this afternoon in Hawaii (or, more specifically, on the southwest coast of Maui), I’ve by now had chance to reconfirm at least one highly functional life skill – within seconds of entering, I can consistently and precisely estimate a hot tub’s temperature, to the exact degree. Impressive, sure, but that’s just the sort of ability you can hone if you’re willing to subject yourself to the hard work of years and years of vacationing on tropical islands across the globe.
Running a fast-rising indie production company, I get to meet movie stars on a fairly regular basis. And, by and large, it doesn’t faze me at all. After all, despite what Us and Entertainment Weekly might imply, even Oscar-winners are just people; granted, exceedingly talented people whose face you and millions of others have seen blown up to forty feet across and projected onto a wall. But people none the less.
Still, earlier today, I met a star who turned me instantly into a mouth-breathing, autograph-chasing, slack-jawed yokel. Today, I met none other than Wally Shawn, inimitable Sicilian of Princess Bride fame. Shaking his hand, I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from saying aloud: “inconceivable!”
