wrinkle in time
December 8th, 1972. That's my birthday. Kansas City, Missouri. That's where I was born. I went to school in Shawnee, Kansas and Twisp, Washington. I am a stand-up comic. I am not married.
That's all I have to remember.
So why, then, was I unable to figure out how old I am yesterday afternoon? And I don't mean just a small little slip of the tongue, "I'm 32... Sorry, 33." It wasn't that simple, I was completely baffled and lost. I was pretty convinced that I was 34.
This would be a great case for seeing a doctor to determine if my head is screwed on tightly enough. However, I think it can best be explained away without CAT scans and long hours sitting on a couch, talking about my childhood.
The best explanation: I'm not 18.
Someone asks you for a photo. They want a photo of you so they know what you look like, or so they can have a photo to look at to remember you, or you need a photo for a profile of this or that. So you start sifting through every photo that has ever been taken of you to try and find the "one" that makes you decent enough, fuckable enough, attractive, thin, not special needs, not bloated, not blotchy and the one that doesn't come with an explanation why you're not perfect. "Oh, that one... I had just woken up from a bad hangover and I had a cold. That's why I am so bloated, blotchy, fat, ugly, unfuckable, indecent and look retarded. Don't use that one." The driver's licesnce photo is so full of anxiety, because it's only taken once, the photographer doesn't seem to worried about lighting, angles or if you are blinking or not. AND this is the photo that most people see of you, so it's important that you have a decent one. (9 out of 10 people say they hate their driver's licesnse photo)
First rule of photography. If you are only attractive in one photo out of two-hundred. You're ugly. But, the smaller that ratio gets, the more attractive you are. Those of you in the, "every photo of me is a work of art" can fuck right off and die - but have dinner with me first and wear something tight and easily removed.
You are never going to be as sexy and as beautiful as you think you are in your head. But photos don't lie and your double chin, fat cheeks, pale skin and wild hair are the way the rest of the world sees you all the time. As a lesson in self-esteem - Take a photo of yourself every hour that you are awake for two weeks. Then look at those photos and discover the way you look to the rest of the world. No posing. Don't fabricate the scene. Notice how your tummy isn't as flat as you thought and it seems to poke out a bit more than you thought. (for you ladies, perhaps you should raise that waist band on those tight jeans and rid yourself of that muffin top look). Notice how tight jeans make your butt look like an upside down 3-dimensional flat trapezoid. Notice that your favorite smile makes your face look like a squirrel swallowing a coconut. Photos won't lie to you and it's a healthy lesson that we all need to learn. It's a good idea to accept the way you look and just deal with it.
Second rule of photography. There is no such thing as the perfect angle or the perfect lighting. Waiting for the universe to align itself so that you can show everyone that you are the living embodiment of perfection is like waiting for the universe to hit a cow with a bolt of lightning, thus butchering it, cooking it to a nice medium rare with rosemary and black pepper and then plating the steak on clean china and having it all land on a table in front of you. (with a baked potato) The universe has given you all it's going to give you and you have to do the rest. Trying to use slight of hand or shadows to make yourself look good is a waste of time. You can't control lighting or the angles forever.
If you are truly desperate to prove that you are sexy or that you take good photos if the conditions are right, they do have a place where you can cheat the universe, it's called, "GLAMOUR SHOTS". In this place of limitless magic, minions will cake on the beauty in thick, heavy coats, and then light you to perfection. In fact, the photos may be taken in the dark with a night vision lens. Then, for reasons that no one has ever figured out, they will place your hands on your chin to make you the greatest beauty in the universe. The more make-up, the more(or less) lighting, the more filtering lens... The less likely it is that you are sexy at all. If you look at your glamour shot and you see the Crab Nebula... Either they pulled that camera waaaaaay too far back or the lighting crew was concerned and got a little too ahead of themselves.
You're old. You're getting older. You're beauty is fading fast and with it, your sense of self. At a time when you should be realizing that what counts is inside and finding that what really turns you on is there too, you seem to get caught on the trappings of youth and the belief system that accompanies it. All things seem to revolve around another time in your life when you had physical perfection. When the tummy wasn't middle aged. There were only sexy laugh lines, not permanent gashes in the corner of your eyes. And now they are there whether you are laughing or not. There was a time when your photo collection was full of you in beautiful cool clothes. Your legs were the right size for your body. Your hair looked perfect(you almost wish you could have that hair back). You had a tan. There was a twinkle in your eye. You were the sexiest person alive for a moment. You were as uninteresting a person as you could be, but you wer sexy as hell. And THIS is the same sentiment that you carry with you as you sift through your photos. Where is THAT photo of me?
The thought of losing one's looks is hard enough. It's even harder to imagine a time when your age would be such a challenge. I'm 33. Two years younger than my brother. Twelve years older than my sister. Thirty-three years older than anyone born today. I know this. So why, then, have I forgotten it? I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT. I can't be wasting time trying to figure out my own age, when the battle for my tummy is in full swing. Each square foot of tummy space is being contested. I don't have the time to casually remind myself that I will be 34 next winter.
I can look back on old photos and see the progression of my beautiful decline. What really grabs me about the photos I am looking at is I remember the other photos that were taken with these particular photos and how they didn't make the cut and are gone forever. The ones I hold in front of me are the best of the best of what was taken that day. So I am sifting through a mound of photos that are basically self-produced propaganda. I am trying to convince myself that I was an object of beauty for all these years and in reality, the decline might have started back then!!!!!
You hear it all the time, "The healthier you live your life, the slower the decline into unfuckableness." I say, bullshit! Health is just the slowest way to die. That's all that is. Beauty is just a luck of the draw. Some people just had the right look for the right time in the right place. For others, they would have been in big in Albania back in 1430. Beauty is just a gift from the gods, like the ability to run real fast or the ability to sing. You are just born beautiful, or you're ugly and someone has to make a mental compromises to sleep with you. (Perhaps you're really funny or you're rich. Those seem to make up for wandering eyes and back hair.)
This compromise is not shared with the sexes. Men will sleep with ugly women for various reasons. Most of the same ones what women use, but we have others like... We're horny. She puts out. She's a deviant freak that does things that other girls won't. How bad can it be?(yes that is a reason)
I'm old, the photos show it. My mind may not remember my age, but the photos do. My wrinkles are my own special crop that have been growing since that first laugh 33 years ago. I have fed them, watered them(or not watered as the case may be), smoked, stressed and sunburned just enough, so I can have those beautiful little lines in the corner of my eyes.
I am sexier now than I have ever been. It just takes a special type of freak to want to fuck me, that's all. Abusing my body only made me sexier to those women with a Charles Bukowski fetish.
I'm 33.
That's all I have to remember.
So why, then, was I unable to figure out how old I am yesterday afternoon? And I don't mean just a small little slip of the tongue, "I'm 32... Sorry, 33." It wasn't that simple, I was completely baffled and lost. I was pretty convinced that I was 34.
This would be a great case for seeing a doctor to determine if my head is screwed on tightly enough. However, I think it can best be explained away without CAT scans and long hours sitting on a couch, talking about my childhood.
The best explanation: I'm not 18.
Someone asks you for a photo. They want a photo of you so they know what you look like, or so they can have a photo to look at to remember you, or you need a photo for a profile of this or that. So you start sifting through every photo that has ever been taken of you to try and find the "one" that makes you decent enough, fuckable enough, attractive, thin, not special needs, not bloated, not blotchy and the one that doesn't come with an explanation why you're not perfect. "Oh, that one... I had just woken up from a bad hangover and I had a cold. That's why I am so bloated, blotchy, fat, ugly, unfuckable, indecent and look retarded. Don't use that one." The driver's licesnce photo is so full of anxiety, because it's only taken once, the photographer doesn't seem to worried about lighting, angles or if you are blinking or not. AND this is the photo that most people see of you, so it's important that you have a decent one. (9 out of 10 people say they hate their driver's licesnse photo)
First rule of photography. If you are only attractive in one photo out of two-hundred. You're ugly. But, the smaller that ratio gets, the more attractive you are. Those of you in the, "every photo of me is a work of art" can fuck right off and die - but have dinner with me first and wear something tight and easily removed.
You are never going to be as sexy and as beautiful as you think you are in your head. But photos don't lie and your double chin, fat cheeks, pale skin and wild hair are the way the rest of the world sees you all the time. As a lesson in self-esteem - Take a photo of yourself every hour that you are awake for two weeks. Then look at those photos and discover the way you look to the rest of the world. No posing. Don't fabricate the scene. Notice how your tummy isn't as flat as you thought and it seems to poke out a bit more than you thought. (for you ladies, perhaps you should raise that waist band on those tight jeans and rid yourself of that muffin top look). Notice how tight jeans make your butt look like an upside down 3-dimensional flat trapezoid. Notice that your favorite smile makes your face look like a squirrel swallowing a coconut. Photos won't lie to you and it's a healthy lesson that we all need to learn. It's a good idea to accept the way you look and just deal with it.
Second rule of photography. There is no such thing as the perfect angle or the perfect lighting. Waiting for the universe to align itself so that you can show everyone that you are the living embodiment of perfection is like waiting for the universe to hit a cow with a bolt of lightning, thus butchering it, cooking it to a nice medium rare with rosemary and black pepper and then plating the steak on clean china and having it all land on a table in front of you. (with a baked potato) The universe has given you all it's going to give you and you have to do the rest. Trying to use slight of hand or shadows to make yourself look good is a waste of time. You can't control lighting or the angles forever.
If you are truly desperate to prove that you are sexy or that you take good photos if the conditions are right, they do have a place where you can cheat the universe, it's called, "GLAMOUR SHOTS". In this place of limitless magic, minions will cake on the beauty in thick, heavy coats, and then light you to perfection. In fact, the photos may be taken in the dark with a night vision lens. Then, for reasons that no one has ever figured out, they will place your hands on your chin to make you the greatest beauty in the universe. The more make-up, the more(or less) lighting, the more filtering lens... The less likely it is that you are sexy at all. If you look at your glamour shot and you see the Crab Nebula... Either they pulled that camera waaaaaay too far back or the lighting crew was concerned and got a little too ahead of themselves.
You're old. You're getting older. You're beauty is fading fast and with it, your sense of self. At a time when you should be realizing that what counts is inside and finding that what really turns you on is there too, you seem to get caught on the trappings of youth and the belief system that accompanies it. All things seem to revolve around another time in your life when you had physical perfection. When the tummy wasn't middle aged. There were only sexy laugh lines, not permanent gashes in the corner of your eyes. And now they are there whether you are laughing or not. There was a time when your photo collection was full of you in beautiful cool clothes. Your legs were the right size for your body. Your hair looked perfect(you almost wish you could have that hair back). You had a tan. There was a twinkle in your eye. You were the sexiest person alive for a moment. You were as uninteresting a person as you could be, but you wer sexy as hell. And THIS is the same sentiment that you carry with you as you sift through your photos. Where is THAT photo of me?
The thought of losing one's looks is hard enough. It's even harder to imagine a time when your age would be such a challenge. I'm 33. Two years younger than my brother. Twelve years older than my sister. Thirty-three years older than anyone born today. I know this. So why, then, have I forgotten it? I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT. I can't be wasting time trying to figure out my own age, when the battle for my tummy is in full swing. Each square foot of tummy space is being contested. I don't have the time to casually remind myself that I will be 34 next winter.
I can look back on old photos and see the progression of my beautiful decline. What really grabs me about the photos I am looking at is I remember the other photos that were taken with these particular photos and how they didn't make the cut and are gone forever. The ones I hold in front of me are the best of the best of what was taken that day. So I am sifting through a mound of photos that are basically self-produced propaganda. I am trying to convince myself that I was an object of beauty for all these years and in reality, the decline might have started back then!!!!!
You hear it all the time, "The healthier you live your life, the slower the decline into unfuckableness." I say, bullshit! Health is just the slowest way to die. That's all that is. Beauty is just a luck of the draw. Some people just had the right look for the right time in the right place. For others, they would have been in big in Albania back in 1430. Beauty is just a gift from the gods, like the ability to run real fast or the ability to sing. You are just born beautiful, or you're ugly and someone has to make a mental compromises to sleep with you. (Perhaps you're really funny or you're rich. Those seem to make up for wandering eyes and back hair.)
This compromise is not shared with the sexes. Men will sleep with ugly women for various reasons. Most of the same ones what women use, but we have others like... We're horny. She puts out. She's a deviant freak that does things that other girls won't. How bad can it be?(yes that is a reason)
I'm old, the photos show it. My mind may not remember my age, but the photos do. My wrinkles are my own special crop that have been growing since that first laugh 33 years ago. I have fed them, watered them(or not watered as the case may be), smoked, stressed and sunburned just enough, so I can have those beautiful little lines in the corner of my eyes.
I am sexier now than I have ever been. It just takes a special type of freak to want to fuck me, that's all. Abusing my body only made me sexier to those women with a Charles Bukowski fetish.
I'm 33.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 11:00 AM
<< Home