Sunday, November 18, 2007

COLUMN: When It's Hip to Be Hippy

By Tobin Barnes
It’s the age-old conundrum for men. What’s more important in a woman? Looks or intelligence?

Makes their heads spin.

Believe it or not, men don’t necessarily want both.

That’s if you believe a study on speed dating.

You heard me, a study on speed dating, conducted by two psychologists and two economists. That’s a lot of brain power for a thimble-sized subject. At first glance, whole thing seems like hunting rabbits with a rocket launcher. Must have gotten a government grant.

The lead researcher is Ray Fishman who, according to New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, met his future wife, a doctor, on a blind date. The doctor, Ellie Grossman, was later discussing her prospective catch with her grandmother, who told her, “Never let a man think you’re smarter. Men don’t like that.”

The couple married after she proposed. Apparently, she wasn’t going to hide her brains under a bushel with the coy lassie approach. (Boy, is that ever a mixed metaphor.)

But according to Fishman’s study, Grandma’s perception of men is generally correct.
Fishman and his colleagues conducted their two-year study at a local bar near Columbia University in New York. The gist of his research recently appeared in Slate:

“We found that men did put significantly more weight on their assessment of a partner’s beauty, when choosing, than women did. We also found that women got more dates when they won high marks for looks.”

Now it’s not like men are complete glamour hogs. They prize intelligence, too, according to the study, but only to a certain extent.

“It turns out that men avoided women whom they perceived to be smarter than themselves,” reports Fishman. “The same held true for measures of career ambition—a woman could be ambitious, just not more ambitious than the man considering her for a date.

“We males are a gender of fragile egos,” Fishman concludes, “in search of a pretty face and are threatened by brains or success that exceeds our own.”

Okay, nothing new there. Any guy could have told you that without a two-year study. We’re admittedly a less-than-profound gender.

But what are we male troglodytes going to do if we add the above to the following information:

According to another recent study, women with a lot of curves are not only more intelligent than less curvaceous women but also bear more intelligent children.

This research was undertaken by Steven Gaulin of UC at Santa Barbara and William Lassek of the U of Pittsburgh. A couple more big guns.

Here’s the reason, they say, for this apparent paradox: Curvy women store more omega-3 fatty acids in their hips, and it’s omega-3 that help builds babies’ brains. Evidently, there’s a prime ratio of small waist to expansive hips that works best, and they’ve even quantified it. But, obviously such calculations are too erudite for a column of this stature.

But here’s what I’ve gathered. Curvy mothers have curvy daughters and so on, and that’s where the smarts come from.

What’s important is that this flies in the face Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole Smith, and other such bombshells. Their curves dictate that they were smarter than they put on. And thus, the curvy dumb blond becomes an urban legend, if scientific research is to be believed.

Even more to the point, what about the poor, testosterone-muddled schlub searching for Miss Right? According to the first study mentioned, all this time he’s been trying to find a woman who’s less intelligent and less ambitious than he.

And cripes!

He’s been looking in all the wrong places.

Frank Caliendo - Impressions

THE ETHICIST: Good Grad, Bad Grad

Sunday, November 11, 2007

THE ONION: BS Vote Is up for Grabs


Poll: Bullshit Is Most Important Issue For 2008 Voters

COLUMN: This Is Going To Be Tough To Admit

By Tobin Barnes
Okay, time once again to open the door to the confessional and get down on the kneeler.

This is nothing new.

As you know, I’ve bloodied myself in print many times before. I’m not proud.

For example, I’ve admitted I’m not much fun in a large social gathering, like a wedding, or for that matter, a funeral--kind of a mope, actually. That’s right, I’m dull in a group of six or more. I don’t know, or want to know, how to mix. You know, flit from one conversation to the next. Mingle, in other words. Tell someone I’ll be right back when I have no such intention.

Small talk just isn’t my bag.

My old man could talk the ears off a rabbit, while I’m the rabbit who’ll run and hide when faced with the niceties of such conversational yada-yada.

And just recently, I’ve admitted to at times being a zombie. Uh huh, I’ll zone out and let time pass without any vestige of mental presence. I’ve found it almost pleasant to be there but not there. Perhaps you’ve experienced my undead state and wondered where I was. Sorry. See you when things get more interesting.

Well, as damning as those and other admissions are, here comes my lastest shocker.

Ready? Here goes. It isn’t pretty.

I love the song “Sugar, Sugar.”

"Oh....Honey, Honey. You are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you."

See, I can’t help myself. And admit it. You like that stupid little ditty, too, don’t you?

Confessing your addiction is the most important of the twelve steps. Except, of course, you’ll never recover from this one.

It’s infectious to the point of being sinister. Once the song is planted in your brain, it robs you of your ability to think higher level thoughts, like what’s for supper.

I’ve loved “Sugar, Sugar” from the first time I heard it back when I was in high school. According to Songfacts.com, it was the number one single for 1969, beating out The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, you name them.

I’ve heard it maybe fourteen hundred times since, and I still haven’t gotten tired of it. It’s evil I tell you. It’s what they call a guilty pleasure. And...oh, do I feel guilty.

Here I am, a guy who can make sense out of some of the most arcane lines in Shakespeare. I can read Paradise Lost and pretty much know what Milton’s talking about. And then I’ve got lines like, “When I kissed you girl, I knew how sweet a kiss could be” running in my head, like some kind of mold rot.”

What’s wrong with this picture?

Even when we were back in high school, we called this kind of music “bubble gum.” We were oftentimes contemptuous of it. But all the time, I secretly liked such bubble gum songs as “Sugar, Sugar,” “Dizzy” and “Hooray for Hazel” by Tommy Roe, and the saccharine, juvenile “Indian Giver” by the 1910 Fruitgum Company, for crying out loud.

Now some bubble gum was fairly respectable, such as “Build Me Up Buttercup,” but nevertheless, you could hardly admit you were a big fan of The Foundations.

And The Archies? God forbid!

After all, The Archies were a prefabricated invention from the Archie comic book series and Saturday morning program. (Remember Archie, Jughead, Veronica and Betty? I’m afraid I do.)

So this was a fictional band made up of studio musicians.

The Archies recorded “Sugar, Sugar” after The Monkees, another prefab band, rejected it, according to Wikipedia. Ray Stevens, the comedic singer who gave us the semi-classic “Gitarzan,” was the talent who supplied those nifty hand claps in “Sugar, Sugar.”

Wikipedia reports that the pedigree of the song doesn’t stop there. It was later covered by Wilson Pickett, Tom Jones, Ike & Tina Turner, Bob Marley & The Wailers (the reggae version?), and The Germs, among others.

Evidently, there’s no accounting for taste.

THE ETHICIST: Garden of Vandals

Of retribution and restitution.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

The Infinite Lateral

In case you haven't seen this weird, weird play. (Sent by Roy Wilson)

EDITOR'S NOTE: Gees Louise!

Alert!

It's not me!

I just noticed that my Google ads have gotten a little racy lately, like "Meet Local Cheating Wives" and "Meet Lonely Housewives" and "Find an Asian Wife." Google automatically, and evidently brainlessly, inserts ads, supposedly based on the site's content.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote a column called "One Wedding: Two Wives." I think the "wives" stuff is prompting Google to insert the ads, assuming my material is of an even lower caliber than it actually is.

Anyway, sorry for the slutty stuff, and hopefully, more highbrow material will soon replace it. Catch you later.

COLUMN: I'm Up to Dull and Feeling Better

By Tobin Barnes
Last time, I was talking about being a zombie. How sometimes I go into zombie mode as a survival technique. You know, like when things become unbearably unpleasant for one reason or another, and I just want to zone out while time passes.

I’ve been feeling better lately, thank you. I’ve had somewhat of a recovery. Now I’m just feeling dull.

It’s November after all. November is a hip season that isn’t all that hip. If there’s such a thing as a bland month, this is it.

Only thing to look forward to in November is the family-enabled gorge-fest at Thanksgiving.
Uh huh, another couple pounds popping the buttons and challenging the seams. I attract weight like a fat globule the way it is. Last thing I need is three thousand calories at a sitting. Ends up being more than one Butterball at the table—me.

Thanksgiving is my brother’s favorite holiday. I can come up with about ten better ones.

So I’ve been feeling dull now that it’s early November. Better than being a zombie, but it’s still not all beer and skittles.

In this state, I need my support group.

I go to Dullmen.com, and I find myself at home.

Haven’t been there for a while, but predictably, not much has changed. After all, change is not what the brothers are looking for.

As the mission statement says, Dullmen.com is “a place—in cyberspace—where Dull Men can share thoughts and experiences, free from pressures to be in and trendy,
free instead to enjoy the simple, ordinary things of everyday life.”

Guys like us are “Born to be mild” because “We don’t get out much.” We remind ourselves that “It’s okay to be ordinary.”

With reassurance like that I start feeling better.

Immediately, I see that at Dullmen.com November is Celebrate the Fig Month. Har! Is this a mildly fun bunch of guys or what? Only time a Dull Man like me has ever been around anything as exotic as a fig is in my Newton, and even that’s been a while.

Feeling all warm and comfy, I now begin browsing around the site.

Being an avid reader, I check out the book recommendations. No rave reviews. They’re a no-no at Dullmen: too exciting.

However, the site’s lukewarm about The Art of Napping by William A. Anthony, Ph.D, and his sequel The Art of Napping at Work. They’re also mildly impressed by How to Dunk a Donut: The Science of Everyday Life by Len Fisher. Finally, they list The Potato: How the Humble Spud Rescued the Western World by Larry Zuckerman.

Books like these will be sure to keep us Dull Men nodding off. Just what we’re looking for.

Next, I check out an article by one of my favorite writers at Dullmen, Grover Click, who’s the Assistant Vice President of the Dull Men’s Club. He’s been checking out Extreme Ironing, like when people choose perilous places to iron such as atop Devil’s Tower. He says the Extreme Ironing Bureau is the home of “the latest danger sport that combines the thrill of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt.”

However, Grover isn’t enamored of the extreme ironers. As he says, “I don’t get it. I like to iron in my basement. That’s where I enjoy ironing—the pure joy of ironing. My basement is quiet and calm. And free from any danger.”

Spoken like a true Dull Man. It makes my heart swell to be an advocate of such a group.

As usual, I topped off my visit at Dullmen.com by looking at their latest jokes. Here’s one you’ll almost enjoy (but be warned, it’s a little racy):

Two brooms were hanging together in a closet. After a while they got to know each other so well they decided to get married. One broom was, of course, the bride broom, the other the groom broom.

The wedding was lovely.

At the wedding dinner, the bride broom leaned over and said to the groom broom, “I think I am going to have a little whisk broom.”

“Impossible!” said the groom broom. “We haven’t even swept together.”