Musings on Life and Love

Voluntarily insane

By any standard definition, jumping motorcycles is both stupid and insane. Sanity is functionality. It is the wisdom to not be dangerous to yourself or others. It is the ability to swim with the current and stay clear of the undertow. Intelligence is the ability to learn, to assess risk, to choose the most logical and profitable course of action.

Stupid and insane. Words to describe the young men and women who break bones, wind up in wheelchairs, and sometimes die from riding high-powered off-road motorcycles. Though it’s a more acceptable fixation than it has been in the past, we still feel the bite of deviant labels in the stares of passerby as we drive to the local riding spot, ostentatious, brightly-colored mechanical steeds in tow. We can still hear the unanswered question in those stares:

“Why?”

Because. That’s why. It’s as simple as the question.

We do it “because.” It’s innate. Or, if it’s not, it becomes innate as soon as fear is overshadowed by excitement. We hop on a bike at a young age, maybe crash, learn the controls, and before long, we can’t stop. Teach a beginning guitarist a few new chords, and see if he puts down the guitar anytime soon. We see the tools and components that make up the masterpiece compositions we’ve witnessed—the 75 foot backflip combinations, the fourth-gear pinned, all-or-nothing outside pass—and we want to begin composing.

“But the risk, ohhhh, the risk!”

Yeah, we know. Read more…

Photo by flag75 via Flickr

When did the line between genuine and false confidence become blurred to the same level as a faked photograph of indiscernible alien life?

True confidence is out there, but people will just as quickly dismiss it as douchebaggery these days. When I’m out navigating the faux-hawks, faux hos and faux pas that serve as the foundation of Vegas nightlife, I observe all manner of posturing and territorial behavior. I internalize (usually) my amusement and bemusement when such actions pass for successful flirtation, and I ponder what has brought us to this point.

Actual confidence used to be rather simple to identify: a powerful yet relaxed stride, a commanding but courteous tone of voice, eyes which at once act as both as lasers and Zen gardens. Today, however, it seems the pretenders—these airs to the throne of self-assurance—are being mistaken for leaders and real men.

The definition and perception of the alpha male finds itself under fire.

I see the fractures in the once rock-solid foundation of the alpha male castle. Male authors wearing goggles and frilly shirts and calling themselves Mystery… online articles entitled “Secret Dating Tactics Nice Guys Use to Get Women”… reality shows depicting hopeless guys attempting to become attractive to women… “peacocking,” the “negative comment,” flat-out asshole behavior…. Combine any or all of these tactics with a delusional or insecure male, add a completely contrived personality, pour in vodka and Red Bull, splash it all with Acqua Di Gio, and you have false confidence that will assault any sensible person’s senses. Read more…

Photo by pmarkham via Flickr

I decided to do the online dating thing again. And when you’re doing the online dating thing, you get to fill in these little packets of personal information. One self-description that I invariably put down is that I can be a bit of a smart-ass. I put this down because… well, I’ve been known to make girls cry on the first date, so I feel that sufficient warning must be granted to all my potential suitees.

Not too surprisingly, I often get matched up with other alleged smart-asses. What does this mean when I meet up with these women then? Mostly, we spend a large portion of our time barbing back and forth in a proverbial urinating contest to see whose gluteus is more intelligent.

Unfortunately, some people don’t seem to understand the difference between being a smart-ass and being an ass. Hey, I admit it. I’ve had issues with it myself. (Again, I made a girl CRY. On a FIRST DATE.) To be perfectly honest, I still lapse occasionally… er, frequently from smart-ass to plain ass.

You see, there’s a fine line between sarcastic and insulting. Being sarcastic takes intelligence, a quick wit, and some amount of lucky timing. Being insulting is just the clueless person’s substitute for true sarcasm.

Let me tell you about an evening recently spent between two self-professed smart-asses:

We’re hanging out in my room. She happens to have a bottle of Diet Coke with her. She opens the bottle, takes a sip, then drops it and spills a decent amount of soda on my bed. I groan and say, “alright, whatever. Here, get up. I’m gonna change the sheets.”

She says: “Don’t worry, we’ll just cover it up. You can change them in the morning.”

I say: “Ummm, I’d rather just change them right now. I’m not gonna sleep on a Coke stain.”

[SSSSSKRRRRRRTTTTTTZZZZZZZZZZZZ] Time out. Read more…

Image by SingleParentSpecials.com

For the vast majority of us who’ve had to wade through the proverbial dating pool, it’s tough out there. I should know this. I was a perpetual drowning victim.

But if there’s one lesson that I gained through my experiences, it’s how to put my best foot forward when approaching the opposite sex. I learned how to keep her marginally amused enough to grant me another date. I learned to make myself desirable in her eyes, then attempt to hold that awkward pose for an inordinate amount of time, while she slowly deliberated whether or not she wanted to ravage me.

Though I consider myself somewhere between “Quasimodo” and “not-quite-so-Quasimodo” in terms of attractiveness, I realized early on that looks weren’t all that important (as long as she didn’t scamper away like frightened wildlife). What mattered was what I said and how I acted. I mean, the proof is in the pudding: I’m just your average looking schmuck… who just so happened to score his fair share of second dates.

Of course, I have to remember to hold on to these lessons. I have to remember that they don’t end after the second date… or after marriage… or even after the birth of a child.

I never undervalued the importance of a man’s desirability in the eyes of his leading lady. Not during courtship, and certainly not during marriage. I can’t definitively say if I ever was a ladies’ man: rich, successful, or even modestly charming. I won’t even claim to be any sort of love guru. But despite all this, I was still aware of the thorough evaluations that were taking place inside the mind of every woman I had ever dated (including my wife), while I was just simply sitting there, innocently sipping away at my ridiculously overpriced coffee. Read more…

Photo by Getty Images

I am just one of the hundreds of thousands of travelers stranded by Iceland’s volcano, Eyjafjallajokull, or as I like to call it, “Eyja<expletive><expletive>.” But, I am part of an even bigger fraternity. I am just one of the billions of people who have been stranded, dumped and rejected.

You may ask what these two groups have in common. Well, let’s put it this way, I have spent the last week frantically checking every internet site regarding airports, travel, airlines, volcanoes and weather. I have hit refresh on my web-browser every few minutes with the hopes that new information is available. I have sent countless emails making plans, canceling plans, rescheduling plans, and re-canceling plans. I have checked my email every half hour and updated my Facebook and Skype statuses with each bit of hopeful information. I’m an emotional basket case.

Now, let’s jump back a few years. It’s Easter Sunday, and my boyfriend of two years dumps me. I’m sitting in a puddle of my own self-pity, unable to leave my bedroom because I’ll have to tell my roommates what just happened. So, what do I do? I check my email. Maybe he’s changed his mind and written me a love letter. I check mutual social networking websites. Maybe he’s online, writing me said love letter. I check my cell phone. Maybe he called while I was sobbing in the shower and didn’t hear my phone ring. I’m an emotional basket case.

Hope. It’s one of the nastier four-letter words out there. Read more…

Photo courtesy of the State Library of New South Wales

Grief. It affects us all, in some form or another. Unless you pass through life in a catatonic state, it’s going to hit you someday, and you will be completely blindsided. Whether it’s the loss of a loved one, or a particularly nasty breakup, or even breaking a nail (I don’t know, it could be a really nice nail…), pain is inevitable. Life is pain. Anyone who says different…. *Ahem.*

The point is, everyone hurts. It’s how you deal with it that makes you who you are. I’ve had people tell me that everyone deals with pain differently, and while that may be true to some extent, I don’t entirely believe it. Just from my experience, there are certain modes people fall back upon to deal with grief. Some people deal with it using drugs or alcohol. Some fall into depression. Some people take it out on other people. Some just stop living.

There are the people who use it for good, who take their grief and turn it into something that helps others, and then there are the people on the opposite end of the spectrum who take it and hold onto it, using it as an excuse for their bitterness and lash out at anyone and everyone who comes near them. Read more…

Jake, Dennis, Lisa, Evan, and Krista, circa 2001

After Jake’s death, his family and friends were left in shock. (Although… that last sentence could probably be filed under the category of “excruciatingly obvious.”) In the months that followed, I found myself grasping for lessons I could learn from all that had happened. It was my way of finding therapy.

That was when I had to face the truth. That was when I realized I hadn’t been completely honest with myself. Because, when I said “that guy was my friend”… well, that wasn’t quite the case anymore.

Yes, Jake had been my friend… years ago. But the truth was, we had drifted apart. In the year leading up to his death, I spoke to him maybe five or six times. When we talked, it felt just like the old days, and I never stopped referring to him as a friend. But, we were nowhere near as close as we had been.

It was only months before he died that I started seeing Jake out swing dancing again (that’s how we knew each other). I remember thinking how cool it was to catch up with him. But I never made much of an effort to renew the friendship that we used to have. That was the extent of our reconnect: we saw each other at the random swing dancing venue, and we hung out and we chatted. Read more…

Katie, Dennis, and Jake, circa 2000

Today would’ve been Jake’s 30th birthday. As a tribute, I’d like to share a lesson I learned five years ago….

On April 4, 2005, at approximately 1:00 AM, my friend Jake Faust was pulled over by police officers while driving past the Golden West Hotel in downtown San Diego. What happened over the next few minutes remains a controversy to this day, but somehow, Jake ended up getting shot three times in the chest. The incident was reported all over the local news.

Two nights after he was killed, Jake’s friends arranged a candlelight vigil in front of the hotel. Unfortunately, I had been out of town, and by the time I found out about Jake, I had already missed the vigil. Still, I wanted to pay my respects, so I raced back to San Diego and headed downtown on my own the next afternoon. As I drove past the hotel, I could barely make out the small gathering of flowers and candles on the sidewalk. They seemed an almost insignificant speck in front of that massive building. Even after I parked, even as I walked towards the memorial, it all looked so small and trivial. Many of the candles still burned, and there were plenty of people walking along the sidewalk. But no one gave those flowers and candles more than a passing glance. Read more…

This past year, I had an opportunity to move to Petersburg, Alaska, located on the small island of Mitkof in the southeast part of the state. I quickly decided to go, knowing it would somehow change my life. It did. I also learned some valuable lessons I may not have learned had I stayed in beautiful San Diego.

1. I learned about finding love

I learned that love experiences are like snowflakes, each experience intricate and unique. To follow some kind of love-finding formula is naive. So who’d have thought Facebook would be valuable in my love life? About a month before I left for Petersburg, I found myself being teased by an intriguing, facetious man via comments on my friend’s page. Immediately this man and I became friends, this friendship evolved into becoming very good friends, and now that I am back in San Diego, we are really good friends, if you know what I mean? *wink wink* Read more…

Image by Clipart.com

Have you ever wondered if other people think you’re annoying?

We humans have this innate desire to classify things. We like to pigeonhole each other and make snap judgments. We segregate into extroverts versus introverts. Right-brains versus left-brains. Movers versus shakers, crazy-haha versus crazy-cuckoo, innies versus outies, prongs versus sockets. We have Rorschachs and Kierseys and Meyers and countless ways to catalog each other. Even online dating sites have started pinning their matches on personality typecasting.

I, for one, am concerned that the Stereotype Express is about to barrel itself over a cliff, sending us all to a fiery, prejudiced death. Of course, I still want to hop aboard. So I am hereby announcing my own system of human classification to the world. I call it the Dennis Hong Annoyance Scale (DHAS). Using this ingenious assessment, we can now quantify how annoying people are based on two simple factors: how hot they are, and how hot they think they are. Read more…