Niceties.

There was a time when I simply could not talk to men who were better looking than I was at the time. Let's just say that I was conceitedly humble or humbly conceited, whatever floats your boat! This has changed, now that I inject a healthy vial of Snobbery right into my blood-stream every morning. Snobbery, Caffeine, a dab of Davidoff's Adventure and I am invincible! There were those who told me I wasn't doing right by myself, because, if pop-psychology, hermeneutics and semiotics are to be believed, then I am, on the inside, a big, fuzzy dog looking for love and acceptance, a big, fuzzy dog who is also a comma splicer, seriously. At any rate, these well-wishers of mine requested me, rather sweetly I might add, to be nicer, to be more approachable and thus win friends. But, honestly, tell me, who, with an accent that is indelibly tinged with the taint of British public school affectations is, ever nice? What is this 'nice' anyway? Mrs. Manson-Mingott hated the word 'nice', she would rather go for 'affable', or even 'fuzzy'! At least these adjectives tell you what to expect! I am never nice, thank you. Never completely nice, anyway. As for the comma splicing, I picked that up in my adoptive Spitsbergen.

Move Along.

Once training ended and I graduated to being an R.A. in earnest, I found myself waiting for move-in day with breath that was bated. And when the occasion finally arrived, I went out there in my assigned polo, with a dress shirt and slim tie underneath, Snobbery, Caffeine and 'Adventure' in check and I began to help incoming freshmen check-in. At first, it was good. Drunk with power (and possibly hopped up on, well, caffeine), I issued fluid instructions, perorating every spiel with a crisp 'Move along'- my fellow R.A.'s smiled indulgently while the incoming residents just looked shell-shocked. Half-way through the process, my energy began to flag. Horribly. The rooms were filling up: I had residents now! Oh. My. God. I was on the cusp of hyperventilation when my rational self (thank you, Betty!) led my other self back to my room where I could have a moment to myself and stay the incoming crisis.

I adjusted my tie, refreshed my perfume, straightened my name-tag and went at it again. But it just wasn't quite there: the 'move along' felt soggy and I just wanted to curl up in bed and die. Or at least sleep for a while! I tried to remember faces, names and align the two, but, after a while, all of them blurred into one tall, lanky, Aeropostale wearing boy with a look of absolute beffudlement on his face. I tried to banter with some and that was, as they would gleefully decree, a FAIL. An epic one, even. Maybe they didn't get my jokes, or my accent, or the fact that what I was saying was actually a joke and that no-one was really going to be put in a strait-jacket. In retrospect, I think, the 'Sweeney Todd' references were also a product of bad judgment. Yes, gentlemen, these ARE indeed your files and not the worst pies in London.

I also tried socialising. Oh yes! But that blew up in my face as well. You see, I should have waited for mummy and daddy to have left, because, when they're around only mummy and daddy do the talking, their wards just look on like people who went out to the park for a stroll, witnessed a particularly elaborate brouhaha and are sure to tell all their friends about it. Despite my chagrin, I found the whole mise-en-scene to be rather endearing: falsely chirpy mummy and daddy, trying so hard to alleviate the grief that is going to come crashing down upon them on the ride back home, gawky looking residents who I just wanted to hug, reassure and feed cake to (thanks, S!)...why, I was there! I was right where they all are now, but it seems to have been a long, long, long, long, long time ago...

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

And so it continued. The metal of my name tag coalesced with the fabric of my staff polo and became a load as onerous as a breast-plate. It seemed like a perfect day for banana-fish. Dear heaven! I was drained. I felt so inadequate. I did not deserve this garb, this role: my R.A. apprehensions came rushing back in a wave: Titus, Mrs. Danvers....all of them! Back in my room, 'The Hours' sat smugly in a Netflix envelope and seemed to mock me cruelly. Oh it was a perfect day for banana-fish, alright! Wearily, I turned my computer on and Pandora started up:

'When all you got to keep is strong,
Move along, move along like I know you do.
And even when your hope is gone,
Move along, move along
Just to make it through.'

How I love to hate that obnoxious band! But they sure as hell brought me back from a precipice that I am sure to teeter at many, many times as the year goes on by. What is the answer, after all? Does it lie in the fuzziness of the niceties we've all been to asked to inculcate and cultivate? Or do you just make your own personal blend work? But what if they hate me? Ah but I shan't think of that now. I'll go crazy if I do. I'll think of that tomorrow. Now, I shall go dancing. There is release to be had on the dance-floor.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to the Great Outdoors

I know it has been a long time since I have written, but a lot of crazy shit has been going down! I can't believe I just typed that! I could erase it but, it seems bizzarely commemorative...ANYWAY, this week I found myself receding into the wilderness. A camping trip was planned as a part of R.A. training and I ended up learning a lot about myself. Yes, I feel very Zen right now! The following is an attempt at self-satirization. I had fun writing it and laughing at myself, with myself! I hope you do too!

The Intelligent Metrosexual is no outdoorsman. This makes sense, since only a particularly foolish metrosexual would put himself at the mercy of the outdoors without knowing what to expect. The Intelligent Metrosexual does his research before hand, maybe takes a few notes as well. A few notes that are memorised and burnt before anyone else can find them. Why? Because Alphas do not take notes, and, while no-one really expects you to turn in a brauvura performance to the extent that you may find yourself made an honourary Alpha (dream on!), you will be expected to pass for someone who might, on the eighth day of any random week, develop that potential.

The following is a list of rookie mistakes that are easily avoided. If you are an Intelligent Metrosexual, of course!

1) Packing, if I may say so plainly, is going to be a bitch. For starters, you are to carry ugly clothes. As inconceivable as that may sound, it is entirely possible. Any mulling over that you do about which of your clothes you think pass for ugly must be done in private. You may find, at some point, that you have reached an impasse i.e. you may find only a single set of clothes that is 'ugly enough' for the trip, and if you are valiant enough to take only that one set with you, you will find that, at the end of your trip, you will loathe that one particular set more than you ever thought possible. Even after washing those clothes thoroughly, will you detect find a faint whiff of perspiration everytime you approach said set of clothes.

2) You will not perspire; you will sweat. Alphas sweat. They do not perspire.

3) Do not even attempt to plan an 'outdoors look' for yourself. Who do you think you are? Ralph Lauren? Oh and, if I may just add, (rather ruggedly so!) I pity the fool who goes through a Ralph Lauren Polo catalogue to get ideas: this is not a production of 'Brideshead Revisited'. It may prove to be just as traumatic at times, but seriously, THIS IS NOT A PRODUCTION OF 'BRIDESHEAD REVISITED'.

4) It is a good idea to pack sparingly. You know, like the Alphas: just bare essentials. But just like you're not supposed to over-do the aforementioned, over-doing this bit is also abysmally stupid. If you go over-board on economy, you will find yourself without a tooth-brush, showering essentials and most of your bedding. Never mind the fact that you want to douse yourself in Purell as a result of what you think is something that will help stretch your limits and challenge your resourcefulness-such negligence is a sign that you're trying too hard to ingratiate yourself with the Alphas and that, good sir, is just silly! You are not Grizzly Adams.

5) Oh and do not carry hand sanitizer with you. Ever. Especially if you obsessively sanitize your hands. Let's face it, it IS the outdoors, and no amount of hand-santizer is going to make you feel good about yourself.

6) Avoid sleeping aids at all costs. You will get loopy and word-vomit will result. Do you really want to talk about your feelings when you have other things to worry about? Like bugs? At any rate, why would you want to talk about your feelings anyway? Do you really have any? Hmmm, I thought not.

7) The buzz-word is PMA (Positive Mental Attitude), not PMS.

8) Self-satirising your situation is very, very therapeutic. Deadpan wittily and everyone will think you're a riot and you will not want to bust out the shortbread.

9) Do things you wouldn't normally do: yes, I speak of physical activity. The Alphas will be more than happy to help you out. Minimise the drama, please. Keep a stiff upper-lip throughout. Remember, YOU ARE FINE. Anyone who tells you any different, even if it is yourself, is a whiny little bitch. You will be better for the experience if you finally allow your testicles to descend.

10) Seriously, stop whinging about how hard this is for you. We get it. You've never done this before. So do it now! Remember Bernice from Fitzgerald's 'Bernice Bobs her Hair'? Erm, never mind that example, it is probably not the best one... The point, however, is that you are not special. Yes, say that to yourself a few times. You are not special: the grime sticks on you just the same as it sticks on others, the mosquitoes relish your war just as greedily as they relish that of others. Sure, you may be unsightly at the end of it all, but think of the possibilities! Somewhere there is probably a picture of you, getting prettier by the minute!

11) Do not high-five anyone. Seriously. You'll give the whole game away.

12) The Alphas are probably in better shape than you ever will be. Saying that you have been 'working out a bit', or 'really should start working out' is a piss-poor defence mechanism. Everyone knows that you do not, have not and will not work out. They are just too polite to say so.

This above all: to thine ownself be true...

Actually...never mind!



Until the next time,
GossipGuy!