Funk Not By The Average White Band

Lately I've been feeling an odd sort of under-the-weather and I'm not entirely sure why.

Last Wednesday I was supposed to drive into Atlanta (which normally sucks) to see Butch Walker (who always kicks brobdingnagian amounts of ass live). Instead, come 5pm at work I feel beyond wiped, decided to go home and change and then find myself dry heaving in the shower and missing the whole thing (and hearing about how great it was later.) The dry heaves haven't been back, but this random sense of weariness (but not a depressive or anhedonic weariness, more something like exhaustion, and tiredness doesn't quite do it justice) has been more or less constant for more than a week now. I'd put a joke about mono here but I'm not sure how many folks even remember Wayne's World, much less the movie.


Tia Carre says "remember me?"

So the remaining obvious culprit is the fact that I have an air conditioner that can only cool adequetly when it's 70 or cooler outside. This being Georgia, in July, you can imagine how well it's been working for me lately. Or you can look for the normally never sweaty guy in the Mercedes with sweat rings down the back of his DKNY shirt and slowly pooling from his Hugo Boss slacks into his Bruno Maglis. (Yes, I can dress myself, and Italian-made stuff rules. Side note: anyone looking to spend money on clothes should go see Brendan at Gucci over @ Phipps)


and remember, they're not Emo if you paid $275 for them

But according to the semi-useless info I obtained over at WebMD if it is heat stroke/and/or/exhaustion, I should have more symptoms (though my non-MD skills and their info say the 102 temp last Wednesday plus dry heaves might have been; meaning yrs truly could've seriously risked life and limb had I ventured straight from work to Little Five in Atlanta.)

The likely answer came to me later, after Of Mirth and Matter rocked the semi-finals of the least pugalistic Battle of the Bands in Athens' history. Being the only single member of an (in our own words) "up-and-coming" rock band should be a great thing. But lately our shows have been weeknight affairs, which means work the next day for me and work and/or class for many of the honeys in attendance. And outside of shows, being in an u/a/c rock band is pretty much the only time that position is going to be a non-cheesy icebreaker. And then there's the bigger issue: I like women, but lately all of y'all have seemed crazier than an alcoholic nympho dating a straight edger. If I had to pick one example, then I'd say it all started when I saw an ad for season 2 of Flavor of Love.



Feminists complain about men treating women as objects and blame the Playboys and Maxims of the world and call us jokes, but why don't they complain about this? Dozens of attractive women willing treating themselves as objects, for a crackhead that happens to be rich and have access to tv cameras and a cable network. Don't get me wrong, I was a PE fan back when Fear of a Black Planet came out (Forsyth county in '89=still pretty racist, so what did kids listen to that their parents would really dislike? Addendum: my parents weren't racist, I just dug the beats, Chuck D's voice and the peer pressure. And in retrospect there's something funny and smile-inducing about 12-year-old kids raised by some nice but very misguided parents singing along with "fight the power.") But Flav as a bachelor worthy of women fighting over him like he's a third rate NFL backup, washed up former UF QB? Sure, he's funny. Sort of. But it's funny in a way that you feel a little guilty for later, like laughing at the antics of a mildly retarded 15-year-old you should really encourage to do better.

Asking "what does he have that I don't have?" is a dangerous line of thinking.
My crisis of self-esteem is mostly long over (much thanks for this goes out to Katy, who paid a high compliment to me a few years back--a compliment bolstered by the fact that, at the time of the conversation, she was happily dating someone else and had no ulterior motive for telling me this. And yes I was so down on myself at the time that that was my line of reasoning.) I mean I'm tall, while I haven't been able to get out in the sun as much as I'd like (see previous post about me and Ma Nature) if you get me in a poorly-lit room I'm dark, and I've been told on enough separate occasions that I'm handsome--and isn't that the chick trifecta? No I don't pull down six figures, but generally that's not as big an issue in Athens as it is in, say, Atlanta. Plus I have it on good authority that I'm occasionally very funny (read down...no, further...yeah, there ya go. Then go read more of Doug's stuff. He, too, is funny.) So there ya go: I'm cute, funny, not rich (but not poor), dress well, in a band, and...get the occasional second look from women whilst a crackhead in a faux-Viking helmet has hoes swarming over him like Tom Ford at a fashion department lecture hall. What gives?

Maybe I should just cut my hair.