[rooster]-sure and the Extra Jackson per Month

Dear new readers,

It would appear that there has been an influx of people to my blog, of which I am very welcome of the company. Perhaps after one publishes over 50 entries, Google increases the exposure? Or perhaps I need to write about more seedy topics. Or sex and relationships--that always gets people reading. Actually maybe just sex: So this one time, this girl and I were in...[CENSORED--pick up a dime novel off the racks at Walmart and flip through it until you get to the good stuff, or sit through the unedited version of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence to get to the part where Paul 'bent forward and kissed the two white, glistening globes she cradled'--no wonder it had been banned!]

Anyway, I finished Wharton's The Age of Innocence, and it was far more tragic than Romeo & Juliet could ever be. Had Romeo just thought with his head (no pun intended), he would have just waited until the next pretty girl walked into the picture and fall in lust with her. After all as the Friar said, 'Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts but in their eyes,' which I wholly agree based on personal experience. I love Shakespeare, but the character development of Juliet did not make me fall madly in love with her; it made me feel like a pedophile since she seemed so immature.

But the Countess Olenska... I won't ruin Wharton's masterpiece (which might end up on Oprah's Book Club if it isn't already) by telling you any more than that this piece of art is utterly magnificent. My favorite scene:

She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don’t make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning.

Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us."

Most pieces of literature from the early 1900s are a tad difficult to get into at first because of their circumlocutory prose, but they are well worth the trouble (perhaps excluding Ulysses?), and The Age of Innocence is no different. It is still relevant in modern society as marriage and relationships are still (relatively) influenced by race and religion (instead of the social class in the book). As an example, when I get angry at my parents, I threaten to marry a non-Viet girl, which is pretty effective.

So read the book (or any book for that matter) won't you? And it won't cost you a dime at the library.
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Edith Wharton also shocked me with use of a slang I didn't realize was existent back then: [rooster]-sure. [rooster] is a four letter word starting with a 'c', which I find even more offensive (when speaking in a woman's presence) than the F-word. In my mind, the C-word exists only in pornography and has no place in civilized culture (I'm kind of old-fashioned).

Surprisingly still, Wharton uses the expression in the same way my male friends would use it. But after a quick google search of the term, I find that it has been existent long in the past, and that there is even a Merriam-Webster entry for it (link above). Blah--I thought I was on to something.

When I rented my apartment, there was only one available with the floor plan I wanted, and it happened to be poolside, which costs an extra $20 a month. Whatever, I was banking and I didn't really care either way since my mind was on other things at the time (like getting away from Houston). Though as the winter tolled and the spring came with the pool cleaner (a middle-aged Hispanic man with neatly trimmed 'stache, not a stylized cabana boy--sorry ladies) who used a water hose to pump the pool thus causing moderate gurgling from the pipes next to my apartment building, I grew irritated at deriving absolutely no benefit from the pool which I happened to pay extra to be near by.

That was until a fortuitous Wednesday afternoon. While reading, I like there to be nearly complete silence, with perhaps a bird or two chirping in the background. No human talk--human talk ruins the delicious voice in my head who reads to me with a generic American accent (I imagine my narrator to be like a Mrs. Robinson-type, but with blonde hair). But the incessant noise came from the streets below, and I shook my fist like an elderly gentleman who says stuff like, 'Back in my day, youths kept their mouths shut!'

But being a non-confrontational type, I soon got over it. Being entirely absorbed in my book, I neglected the lunch hour and at about 3 in the afternoon, I became peckish. After shining the Prada logo on my wallet, I meticulously dropped it into my pocket in a 'careless' manner (one mustn't try too hard). And after getting into the stairwell but before locking my doors, I notice the cause of the commotion: a delightful brunette in a bubble-gum-colored bikini, and her quite undelightful significant other. I attempt my best nonchalant walk down the stairs, and gave a shy smile with a, 'Hi.'

The brunette looked distrustful, and her guy friend looked even more so. There's only one thing on a guy's mind when he sees a bikini, and that is who made the swimwear.* They had keyed into my thoughts, and they casually hid their designer's labels.

I came back an hour later, and a pretty blonde had joined the pretty brunette. I smiled and gave a quick greeting while dashing up the stairs, entirely un-C-sure of myself. Believe it or not, I didn't even take a look out my window to ogle the poolside attractions--I was nearing the end of the book.

But as I thought more about the situation, and how I could have done things differently, I figured my approach was far too direct. They knew and I knew that I wanted to meet them and start a conversation, and so the smile and 'Hello' was quickly rejected by their B(ikini)-shields.

What would have been better? Perhaps a smile and a casual, 'Amazing afternoon today, huh?' And then completely ignore them and use all my imagery to describe to them the magnificent weather as if they had been Helen Keller's schoolmates.

And with that thought, I regained my C-sure self, and went on about my evening.

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*That's the real reason why dudes buy the SI Swimsuit Issue--not because of Marissa Miller, but what Marissa Miller is wearing.