Music, Seduction and Be-A-Dick Moments

I can be a dick.  It’s true.  Not only is it true but I even enjoy it.  About a month ago I had a “Be a Dick” moment.

Here’s the set-up.  

It is a Sunday night, and I’m hanging out with friends at McAulliffe’s Pub after trivia.  The bar has just the right amount of people.  There is the buzz of conversations, but not so much that it makes it hard to have a conversation.  The music is good and fun, if overly familiar.  “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe”, begins to play, chair-dancing ensues.

“Aw yeah, this is the music you play for the ladies” Okay, so maybe no one said those exact words, I don’t hang out with douche-bags, but that was the general gist of the conversation.  I like Barry, nobody really hates Barry White, but I had to say “No”.

“You wouldn’t put on a little Barry White?”

My next “no” was less polite and more emphatic.

“Why not?”

This is the question that most likely leads to a “Be-A-Dick” moment.

“That shit’s for amateurs”

The conversation vacillated between disbelief and goading, one of the women even chimed in that it’s nice to hear Barry White and know you’re being wooed.  Since no Be-A-Dick moment should stand alone I replied with “If he has to play Barry White to let you know he’s wooing you, then he’s doing it wrong.”

My complaint is not with Barry White, or with Marvin Gaye or with the music of R Kelly.  I do not doubt the powers of communicating seduction of any of this music.  I know there are women for whom that approach works.  The problem is I don’t want them.  I don’t want to need that music, I don’t want a woman who is only soothed and energized by music that is mellow, smooth and funky.

I wouldn’t want it to be the same every time.  I would get bored.  I want to be able to seduce with Medicine’s “Live it Down”, Black Sheep’s “The Choice is Yours”,  The National’s “Bloodbuzz Ohio”.

Jesus Crap, people!, put some effort into it.

Dance and giggle to Ice-T’s pre cop killing “Somebody’s Gotta Do It”, Scream the name “Minnie Pearl” together while singing The Dead Milkmen’s “Punk Rock Girl”.

Anything short of that feels like a mix tape in a plain white case with the words “Seduction Mix” on it in the font that used to be reserved for generic food.

I gotta jet.

Someone just put on the Marvin Gaye.

Genes Are Only Anecdotal Evidence

I have great athletic genes.  According to family lore my paternal grandfather was a strongman for the railroad.  Family lore on the other side states that my maternal grandfather was a Golden Gloves winning boxer.  Heck, even the family that adopted my paternal grandmother included a relative that was a Major League Baseball player.  Yet, here I sit, a husky asthmatic that would be better suited to reading a book than chasing a ball.

These same genes that lean toward athletic prowess also produced men of questionable decision making.  The railroad worker reportedly successfully performed in a feet of strength so impressive that I would hardly believe the family story if that same story didn’t also end in the inability to continue normal work.  The boxer was unable to capitalize on his natural size and incredibly advantageous arm length and lead a meandering life spreading his genetic wealth around the Midwest and being mostly estranged from his children.  The baseball player is not genetically related and at least explained why I do not have a chromosome in me that could care about the sport that was once America’s national pastime.

As the end product of this genetic pool did not wind up with an athlete that could compete in any sport at an elite level. Though, I’m holding out hope for an increase in the popularity of curling.   Still, I enjoy watching gridiron football, or losing myself in the watching of a good fight.  I suppose I could make a case for genetic determination.  That the same determination that lead one grandfather to perform unbelievable, and ultimately self destructive, feats of strength and that lead the other to become a champion academic boxer have somehow found their way into me and fueled me into becoming successful in Higher education and training.

Still, I can’t help but waggle my finger at my genes when I look down at the body that they have formed into and instead of seeing an athlete, I simply see form following function.  Especially when I watch Mixed Martial Arts, a sport I see as the next evolution of the Sweet Science.  So, instead, I participate in the Mixed Intellectual Arts of Higher Education and training.  I get to participate in honing skills, showing off my own prowess and even developing efficient teamwork all without the risks of ever being knocked out or damaging a disc in my back.