The · New · Hedonism

Well, well well, if it isn't my favorite time of year.

As per my usual, I've finished most of my serious shopping, which I now do online to accomodate the time my non-serious shopping takes. And I do love my frivolous shopping at Christmas. Not only is it a convenient excuse to buy myself presents*, there's nothing like running across that perfect, last minute gift for someone on your list. Because isn't that the real enjoyment of Christmas? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love getting scads of gifts as much as the next girl, but it's really beautiful when someone opens their gift and is speechless with joy.

I love giving people things that they've always wanted. My favorite present that I gave last year was the Coach bag that I gave to Pookie (J's Mom). She was so happy. Maybe it's a little selfish, but I like feeling like I helped to make someone's holiday magical. I guess because my parents, even though we were totally poor, always managed to make my Christmas's wonderful, and I've always wanted to give some of that to someone else. Barring me having kids, it's friends and family that will get the good stuff. And I don't see any Tickle Me Elmo's in my future, so there you have it.

*A note about buying myself presents. As those of you who know me can attest, this is not just a Christmas activity. 365 days a year I'm on the lookout to treat myself. I have bought myself un-birthday presents, St. Paddy's Day presents, I even bought myself a present for President's Day. Now if only they had a holiday commemorating presents, I'd be set.

My name is Smokin, and I am a shopaholic.

Alright, I'm just going to post this link and be done with it, because if I think about this too long, my head will explode. I love reality tv, but damn.

Warning: The following link can cause serious side effects in some viewers. Please read with caution.

http://www.pajiba.com/youre-so-pajiba-and-you-dont-even-know-it.htm

It's item #5 you want to look at.

Ok, so, someone please explain something to me. I know there are only 4 of you out there, but can someone please tell me what, if any, the appeal of this Jeff Buckley character is?

Yes, I know he's dead, and really, I'm not speaking ill of the man, but frankly, I don't get it. I've heard the music, and some of it is ok in an ambient sort of way, but really! Is it because of the weird suddeness of his death? Is it that like 5 people decided he was cool, and those five people each told a friend, and so on, and so on...

I was first exposed to him several years ago by SeanMC (www.dianto.org) and now, every time I hear him or someone mentions him, I say, "Oh, it's that dead guy." Not out of any disrespect, but simply because I want it clearly stated that I don't think he warrants much in the way of accolades.

There, I just wanted to say my piece. Flame away, good bloggers, flame away.

It's my birthday...Happy Birthday to Me!

Famous Idiots Born on September 26th:

Johnny Appleseed
T.S. Eliot
George Gershwin
Jillian Barbary (Oh Jesus, anyone but her! I hate that hooker!!)
Shannon Hoon
Jim Caviezel
Christina Milian
Serena Williams

Famous Idiots Who Died on September 26th:
Levi Strauss
Robert Palmer

Interesting. Obviously, not all these people are idiots, but anyone appearing on a list with That Hooker (see above) deserves the moniker.

Don't start.

Yes, I took a little sabbatical, but for 4 people out there who read this thing (really, find something better to do with your time), I'm back.

And not so irritated as the last time. Sure, life is just as irritating, but I've decided that it's up to me to ignore the irritations, as people only get stupider as time goes by, and thus, more apt to irritate me. So I've come to the conclusion that certain people are just going to cease to exist in my subjective reality. It's gonna be great. I'll be able to snub to my heart's content, all the while eliminating stress from my life. Shut up. I'm trying to convince myself that it'll work.

On another note, since last we met, my enjoyment of life has increased quite a bit. I'm taking new pleasure in old habits, and it's truly a delight. So my challenge to you is this: Do something you once enjoyed tremendously, but now, for whatever reason (work, school, life in general), no longer do. Smoke, drink, go to a rave, base jump, spend a whole day laying on the beach or by the pool, whatever. Just take a day to remember how much we all enjoyed ourselves, before life got in the way.

I spent my lunch hour in an antique mall.

I love these places. The antique mall is a daydream magnet. Passing the booths, imagining every piece that catches my eye in its place in my dream home.

My current obsession is a dressing room. I long for a room with racks of my clothes, an Art Deco vanity with a small stool, a love seat or a couple of nice side chairs, and a huge mirror.

I found my mirror today. Fabulous piece, good condition, no major flaws in the mirror itself. It's a huge (3' x 7' or 8') rectangular monstrosity, with a simple yet exquisite gilt frame. I think I also found my vanity. French, circa 1930 or so, walnut, trifold mirror. Fabulous.

Isn't it interesting how individual we are? I have a friend who would rather die than have these things in his home. He fancies himself tres moderne. He would rather have black and chrome, which just seems cold to me. But to each their own, I suppose. I'll stick with my way, if it's all the same.

By the way, if anyone sees a good stool that will match a walnut vanity, tell me instantly.

So things have gotten ridiculous.

Giving an estimate of the actual time would not be conducive to sanity, but let's just say it's been awhile since I did the deed.  I know what you're thinking.  How could a hedonist like myself ever have gone this long without sex?  Complicated, and like most complicated things, very simple.  I could spout a lot of platitudes about getting hurt and shutting down, or bad self image, but this is bullshit.  Fear.  Fear is the answer, my friends.

I LOATHE commitment.  At the same time, I can't be a total slut.  Hopping from one bed to the next, while sounding delicious, is not something I am emotionally equipped to handle.  Don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of floozying, but I think I could want something more.  Should we want something more?

It begs the question, are all of us cut out for more?  I mean, take my best friend.  One long term, monogamous relationship after another.  She is a veritable cornucopia of commitment.  She has no problem investing herself in a deep meaningful relationship.  I, on the other hand, am lucky if I get past the first date.  I'm past the "Is there something wrong with me?" thing, but what if it's true?  What if some of us just don't exude the commitment pheromone?

This is where fear comes in.  Fear of not being the 'relationship' guy.  Fear of finding the guy for the relationship, and him not being that guy.  Fear that we won't like the same fucking china pattern.   In the writing, I think I found my answer.  Fear is the expectation of what will happen.  We're so busy projecting what, by all accounts of our friends' examples, should happen in our relationships, that we forget that every time you look at someone across a crowded room, make love, or eat take out, it's the first time.  Every time you kiss someones ear, or wake up before them, or smoke cigars together, it's the first time.

If you look at it that way, commitment doesn't seem so bad.

Well, it seems we've reached that magic hour once again.

I had muffins today. It's odd the things that can perk up your day. I was a little down, not about anything in particular, just because it was Wednesday, I was awake before noon, and I was at work. Then, magically, a huge tray of muffins appears in the kitchen. Poppyseed, blueberry, banana nut. It was like a little piece of heaven made its way into my office and stayed for the rest of the day. I had perhaps five muffins, one poppyseed and four blueberry. I avoid banana nut muffins, as I prefer my banana nut in bread format.

It occurs to me that perhaps this might seem trite to some, but I find that it's little things, like enough mini muffins for an army, and cherry tarts besides, that provide the most pleasure. Think about it. A cool gin and tonic, with the obligatory twist of lime, after a long day of work, skipping a day at the gym or on the bike or what have you, just that tiny joy in the face of an otherwise normal day surrounded by the depravity of achievement.

So let us toast our muffins and gin, and to hell with the overachievers. The husband of a friend of a friend once said, and it holds true no matter how big an ignoramus he might be, "Life is the death of spontenaity."

I've always been fond of that.

I love the night.

It's quiet moments of solitude, or 300 bodies pressed together on a dance floor, night has a certain charisma all it's own.

1 am. I should be getting my beauty sleep, because Benefit Eye-Con doesn't come cheap, but I've found more and more of late that I can't seem to make myself give up this blissful time, when possibilities seem endless. Night casts a certain diffusive light on reality. At night, anything seems not only possible, but hell, I feel like I could go out right now and take what I wanted by the balls, uncaring and exhilirated. I ENJOY the night. As much as I love the sweltering heat of a summer day, I love a warm, sweaty southern night, one's where you sweat as you lay in bed, flipping the pillow every few minutes for a second of coolness before the invasive heat takes over. Hot is sexy, if that makes any sense at all. It's just the feeling of walking onto your porch in your underwear, and still being so hot that the least stirring of breeze is like a lover's touch. I have this dream of moving to an island, just casting all society's chains away and spending my nights on a porch with a thatched roof, or lying on the sand, drinking tequila and reveling, no, that's not the right word. Languishing, luxuriating, being violated by the heat. That's what I want, to wake up at noon every day, write until dusk, and then bask in the afterglow of the day.

I guess a man who shared my insane love of the night, and the heat, wouldn't be untoward.

The world has gone mad.

Since when is hedonism an expunging of bitterness and self-loathing? Not that either of those things are bad. But don't give hedonism a bad name by making people think these things are enjoyable, or making people think that bad feelings of the self = hedonism. Not only is this a misrepresentation, I'm pretty sure it makes you a bad person.

Hedonism = pleasure. Do something because you enjoy it, because it makes you feel good in some capacity. When it stops making you feel good, STOP DOING IT. It's very simple. Now, that being said, some degree of self-loathing can be enjoyable, admittedly. But I'm sorry, you can't tell me that misery = pleasure on any sort of consistent basis.

So to those of you who wallow in the pit of your own despair, knock it off. You give us good-timers a harder row to hoe in the end. And that, of course, is the last thing we want.

Monday.

Mondays are great. If you are lying in bed until at least noon. In any other circumstance, I find them abhorrent.

My neighbor across the hall at work, Ian, is becoming an irritation. I, as we know, am a fairly caustic person. Well, he has taken this as a friendly gesture of sarcasm. In most cases, true. But of late he has been a little abusive about it, in my opinion. He's an educated, cultured man, but obviously he has no idea that I would rather not have any extended converse with people at 10 am on a Monday.

Arg. Oog. Bleorg. This is Monday, expressed in unintelligible grunting.

Well, obviously I've leaped onto the proverbial bandwagon, partially because I'm tired of being the only one who has nothing to say at parties because everyone has already read it on their blog. I demand that I be as pedestrian and pretentious as everyone else! Kidding, obviously. Seriously though, a friend (paytheman) thought it would be a good idea to get me in the writing rhythm again, so this is my attempt.

I am working today, which I do not enjoy. As many complain, I am underutilized, underappreciated and thus, unsatisfied with the lack of pleasure in my current job situation. So I think I will enter a new career while I finish my novel. Hmmm...

I guess I should explain the title of this journal. You are all morons. I, and a select group of others, practice the art and philosophy of the New Hedonism, which I will explain some other time. Sufficed to say that we live to feel good and we feel good to live, in whatever capacity, and most of you, for whatever reason, don't.

Maybe that's another part of this journal. Wanting the world to prove me wrong...