I write a lot about the differences between men and women. So what. Some of the greatest works of art and a lot of wars have been based soley on this difference and the complex interplay that exists therein. Works such as Fellini's "8 1/2" which contains a striking scene towards the middle that I found readily (and uncomfortably) relatable to life. The scene begins as the main character, Guido, returns home from work to a large house (or barn) and finds all the women he's ever been romantically (or otherwise) involved with engaged in some over-simplified feminine action; primping, cleaning, chatting, whatever. As the vignette unfolds, the women proceed to give him a bath, reducing him to a child, all the while fawning, flirting, pampering, and near the end, becoming jealous but ultimately remembering that they exist only for him. The way he controls them is interesting - he allows them personality, intelligence, and self-preservation but excludes any motivation other than to serve him.

And this way he keeps them, all of them, for himself, for his amusement, without any of the qualities that would tend to make them complete human beings. Fellini knew what it was to be a man, for, I'm embarrassed to relate, this is exactly what men want. Have any man watch this scene and tell me they don't want to be Guido. What's mildly more pathetic is that a few of us actually think we can bring it about. Please, women of the world, understand this fact and try to respect it, because this its pretty near universal for our species. If at all possible, continue working on a clever fix for our retarded version of the perfect existence. I'm not entirely sure its something that we can do for ourselves until we actually grow out of it, the theory being that we either do and settle down, or become the product of our own egotistical fantasy.

So why do we do this? I'm way too close to the issue to be able to answer with any kind of objectivity, but I can compare it to something more understandable: peanut butter and jelly. You have peanut butter. You have jelly. They go together. They just do. It's kind of a given, something you know for a fact, it's settled, and it's simple and beautiful that way. You would never think of messing with it or arguing over it because if you DID (and this is where most men's minds start warning them) you pretty much have to reconsider the entire grand scheme of existence, something we're pretty happy with and proud of. We hold things like peanut butter and jelly very close because there is no need to be unequivocal about them. It doesn't need a reason - a thing that exists like this would tend to be a super thing, perhaps even magical and definitely unclassified (and yet classified as "higher" than everything else). And, as of right now, I think deep down, men don't feel like we need a reason to think the way we do.

How many times have you heard this - over dinner on a first date, at a party, in an internal narration of someone's online profile, whatever - "I enjoy watching people"? If you say that, especially to me, you are all at once communicating:

A) You're uninteresting...
B) You have too much time on your hands...
C) You think way too much of yourself to assume you can learn something by simply looking at it (like TV)...
D) You feel the need to tell everyone that you learn better a certain way (because you're so clever - note: no one really cares except your mother who figured it out when she saw you put legos in your ear for the 15th time) and
E) You're creepy and follow random people with your eyes, probably while trying to sketch them. That makes me uncomfortable.

My reaction to this is about the same as when someone deliberately mispells a word to be original or says, "duh" - I imagine myself as the person doing it, realize how lame it really is, experience a brief moment of utter self-loathing, vow never to do it in real life, recognize that this process never took place within the person who actually did it, and finally, realize that I am disgusted that the person couldn't have been just a little more reflective (I originally broke this down to its discrete parts to make sure that I wasn't being completely ridiculous, which, of course, it turns out I am).

Tonight, I was waiting for Kyle in Dupont circle and a memory of this girl who once told me she liked to "watch people as a way to understand herself" came to mind. In this instance she was trying to tell me how in love she was with the idea of people thinking of her as some kind of researcher or scientist when really she was just normal.

Purported "people watchers" use this phrase (and others) as a way to describe themself without describing anything in particular. Kind of like how when you ask about someone's trip and they tell you about the weather. "People watching" seems like it could be one of those arbitrarily popular activities that makes you reflective, modern, spiritual, and deep. They could just as soon say, "I really enjoy doing nothing. The mental stimulation I'm kidding myself that I'm experiencing is not removing me further and further from reality in the least bit. I'm reaching new heights of inner awareness. Please like me."

Tell you what - you can people watch all you want, just don't make a point of telling everyone because we all do it. It's an activity that's part of a larger class of unavoidable actions, like smiling ("I enjoy smiling"), talking to your parents ("I LOVE my parents") or making change. These sayings are designed to make you think there's something seriously wrong with you that you don't share the same empty sentiments. When I'm around someone like this, I feel like an ass that I can't honestly say something emphatic at the drop of a hat. I think sometimes people just want to hear themselves speak.

Writing this blog makes me kind of guilty of that last one. The difference (I hope) is that I actively try to recognize when I'm being shallow and seek genuine conversation when at all possible.

Oh, vile disgusting, unforeseen adventure
Repeatable, certainly, if one does not learn
the nature of your concealed hell
And of the suffering endured by all
who enter the shared fridge at their place
of business

Whispers of how preservatives preserve food
in appearance only; folly, thou art
the disconnect 'tween olfactory sense
and Gray matter

What, then, oh Goddess of intestinal fortitude is my course
Having so greedily and without regard
engorged over 6 ounces of expired spread?
How I long to level Philadelphia with a force
as great as the organisms excavating
my stomach lining

Yeah, you heard me, you're not getting me without a fight. About a year ago, some random person at some random bar in some random bar district in DC told me the following: "Yeah, so, in DC or rather the New England area, your problems just pile up - you worry, you work hard, you worry more, you try not to lose, then you wake up one day and you're 40. The best years of your life are gone. Welcome to DC!" I didn't fully understand the implication of this tid bit of advice masquerading as a silly stereotype until this week. This week, I found my voice of worry, and you know what? It's been there all along - we all have it, it's what drives us, and it is suppossed to be there. But in New England, that voice carries a megaphone and you are taught to assume if your voice is carrying a megaphone, the person's voice next to you is in possession of a subwoofer, and so on, until the whole point of the voice is no longer useful. In fact, you are in the middle of cold war over whose maniacal inner monologue will be heard. This demonstrates the ridiculousness of where I live.

So bump that. My point of moving here was not to be made into clam chowder. I have a feeling that the rat race is no more than a learned, convenient behavior that men (as a sex) latch onto due to our soft spot for anything repeatable and categorical. Which is why this will be a fight, make no mistake. In this corner: my intense desire to compete with everyone (because I'm a man) while at the same time attempting to beat my own nature (because I'm stubborn). In the other: a soul crushing, brain-liquefying, fun-sucking social epidemic and we're best friends. I don't want to swing first, but I can certainly recognize we're in the same ring together.