There was a recent outbreak of haterade in response to my comments on the futility of wearing suits in an attempt to appear juiced on status.  Haterade is just fine.

The commentary went a ways to examplify my weaknesses, noting my choice to live in an RV, traveling around the U.S., choosing alternate means to deal with a broken laptop hard drive, and ‘running away’ to SE Asia – saying it’s the easy way out, as opposed to living a stand up life.

Here’s what’s important about this perspective, and a way to highlight a notable life fallacy:

Easy is to live in the status quo.  You find out nothing about yourself if you don’t self impose hardships.  Living in an RV?  Look up Roadtrek and see what it costs to buy one, even used.  So you spend about 10x …

This comes courtesy of a comment that made me think about it.

I know a few guys I would consider to be real players.

For example … the very eccentric older dude, SB.  First time I met him, in Tampa, Florida, he was introduced to me by a mutual friend.  It was back before I even thought about ever getting into this category.  Or that it is even a category.

So this guy shows up at my friend’s house, visiting in town for a few days.  Stopping by to come out for drinks that evening.  I come outside to meet him.   Unassuming.  Nice enough guy, maybe early 50′s.  The immediately odd thing about him, his sport coat.  It’s white, and it’s … painted.  Like, I don’t know, finger paint.  It’s not stupid looking, just a bit, you know, odd. …

I’m doing some work at a local coffee shop frequented by travelers.

There’s this young dude from the U.K. having lunch.  And this Asian chick from Hong Kong having lunch at the next table from him.  I missed the beginning, caught it just as the guest house owner tells the girl of how the dude fights in local competitions, Thai boxing, and of how he kicks everybody’s ass.

Meanwhile, this guy, super polite, no attitude, friendly.  British accent.  Chilling in his wife beater, having lunch.  Answering her questions.

I wish I had video of this.  The girl is just short of ripping off her pants and begging to ride on his cock right here in the coffee shop.  She’s asking one pointless question after another, there’s probably drool on her shirt.

What more could one say to illustrate the value …

There are no original ideas.

The world does keep changing though, so the translation of idea to reality is a moving target.  Also, ideas become more tangible and relevant through experience.  In my daily life I’m the strange one.  I said ‘no’ to the packaged story-oh-life.  The blogs I follow are the few people who fit that same category, not buying the society BS we’re being fed (specifically when it comes to women).

And then, being quoted and whatnot, by people with real insight, nice.  Maaah head … !

http://theprivateman.wordpress.com/2012/05/02/dating-2-0-selection-active-and-passive/

 …

There’s a coffee shop I like to go to.  Run by Muslims, headgear and all, they make the most awesome Thai tea.  It’s close to my house, the Internet is fast, chairs are comfortable.  I go there all the time.

Thing is, there are no cute girls there.  Ever.

Still, I go there.  Because it’s easy, familiar.  And I’m lazy.  And I’m getting laid plenty.  Going out, finding new coffee shops, stuff, just seems like a pain in the ass.  I’ve hit a plateau.  Finally the other day I made an effort to go out and find new hangouts.  Which means riding the motorbike around the neighborhood and stopping into coffee shops.  Death defying, I know.

Now I’m in this coffee shop at the local university, it’s got chandeliers and awesome couches, the Thai tea is half the price, no …

It’s not for lack of options, for sure.  Phone beeps, another girl asks about tonight.  Too late for me though.  I’m already solidly headed down the drain, again.  A little earlier casino man’s daughter had sent a text.  ”You know where to find me.”

I do.

She’s in the process of getting wasted.  I get how drug addicts happen, going for the bad thing no matter the consequence.  I solidly want to be here, where it’s just all bad.

She’s talking about being ready to take over the family business.  I doubt that daddy would let this little lunatic psycho alcoholic near the reigns, but hey.  Whatever.  Topic slides towards her affinity for hurting people, and the dark, intense gleam in her eyes is really not leaving that much room for interpretation.  Fucking little lunatic.  I’ve never shared that preferences …

Here it is, a reason to do stuff even if you don’t assume it’ll be a good idea.

The other day I almost blew off the shy girl from this story.  It’s Songkran, meaning every street is littered with people throwing water at you, traffic is jammed up, I just spent days in mayhem. But I’d been blowing her off for weeks, so I finally decided to just stick with it and go.

Shy thing, I’d only met her once, it was enough of an impression on me to get her number.  Honestly though, I didn’t even quite remember what she looks like.  One of those no make-up types, wearing jeans, not like Thai girls who are always half naked and sexy as fuck.  This girl is from Burma, much more conservative.  On second look though now, she is …

“You are very strange.”  This coming from casino girl, who is a certifiable little psycho.  I know why she says it.  She can’t figure out my motivation or erratic behavior.  It’s also the only reason, I think, that she keeps calling me.  Because, she’s an emotional shipwreck.

I’m not that strange though.  I’m moody, mostly just because I easily run out of patience for social settings dominated by small talk and sheeple.  Why do I want to, for the forty thousandths time, tell some random chump where I’m from and what I do to pay my bills?  I don’t, really.  I could give a fuck less what anybody thinks of the weather or Thailand or whatever other inane drivel.  Honestly, I can’t figure out how some seemingly intelligent people muster the patience to have these interactions.

My good local friend comments on …

…

This isn’t even getting posted.  Where is the line?!

It’s too, just, weird to not mention.  Last night, this girl, profusely apologizes after the bus drops her off in villagio boom-boom.  For … being so tiny.  Which she was.  Girl parts, tiny.  But as far as I know, as guys we like this.  Yes yes?  Well anyway, she’s so embarrassed about it.  Mostly, partially, because apparently she hadn’t encountered  the full scale of male anatomic possibility before.

She tells me that the girlie magazines here (Cleo?) tell them that men want large boobs, large asses, and large … girl bits.  I’m going to some magazine stands to see if this can be verified and photographed.  Because really, that’s just cruel.  And funny.  And … terrible, all at the same time.

It’s a nation of tiny pussy.  Why, really, would any editor be …