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| COLUMNS by Ryan Ayukawa |
| What does not kill us only makes us more cynical. |
| I am pleased and honored to have Ryan as regular contributor to our weekly e-zine. His columns will be archived here, every two weeks. I know 3 things about the author of these columns. 1)He is a young male. 2)He hails from Canada. 3) He writes with the kind of humor and intellect that I can only dream of. Braisco "By Any Other Name..." People today have a personal tolerance threshold akin to a D.W. Griffith film. The four actors who lost to Lithgow in best comedic performance had more acceptance time than most of society does. We spend so much time practicing the "Lake Gender Sensitivity" jete, we've forgotten the value of a good fight - which incidentally is, make up sex. I've started to think the blanket of political correctness we cover ourselves in would be too tight for Kate Moss. Now, without all the details, the past week has brought slight insight and much personal acceptance into my life. Beginning with the last column I wrote - admittedly a divergence from my usual idiom. With the acceptance of this, that I can go astray when I want, and that I cannot change what is in the past, I've stepped off my pedestal and onto another. Suddenly, the view's different and even the most topical of events have gone from Black and White to Fuscia for me. I'm no longer deeply entrenched in my belief that God sends tropical storms to Florida to turn over the population. Bill Gates does. It's with that I step back and realize that true self worth begins with acceptance. Perhaps the single greatest acceptance begins with control. Know and accept that you have some control over your life no matter how fractal. You don't have to deny the inevitable or accidental. Once you accept love is merely a transitional state between break-ups, flings will be just that much more meaningful. Seriously though, too few of us take too little time to accept the simple truths that are "out there". I'm not talking global conspiracy, or even the divine forces of the universe. Shuffle that purple dinosaur CD, bookmark Beckett, and stop using the phrase "define". I'm talking about the little things - the personal acceptances in our daily lives that most of us never make. The "what ifs" we linger on. You know the crazy guy standing on the street corner across from the mall? The one who tells you Jesus is your friend. Accept it - If Jesus were your friend, he'd call once in a while. An email. Something... Take back some control. You call him. Here are a few of the many ways life might run more smoothly if we opened our eyes to the truth and just accepted things: Life is too short to spend deciphering the lyrics to a Bob Dylan song. Karpe Diem. Seize the day. Put away that Halliwell vocational magic eight ball, and sign the anti-Waterworld trilogy petition. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again you incompetent fool. Guys, when your team has fewer hits than the Backstreet Boys, stop cheering and start accepting. And it's okay to not feel fresh. Women, men want only one thing. Negotiable Bearer Bonds. (Rent "Die Hard".) 60% of marriages end in divorce. The other 40% end in death. Take it like a man. Pay the alimony. Remember, nothing kills foreplay like a slide rule... except two slide rules... metric conversions... and a T-square. So try to work on something other than the Golden Ratio... Okay, where were we? It's not a perfect world. We're all going to err once in a while. So ease back on the politically correct bit. I'm not going to go lift every cover to see if it's a "man" or "person" hole. Either way, it's a hole. (A hole by any other name...) Acceptance is the yard-stick by which we should measure our own self worth. So let's take that stick and collectively measure ourselves. Because you know, if it weren't for all the parental pressures I've faced, I swear I might be taller. That's why somewhere along the line, I accepted the situation and moved in into my girlfriend's parents' home. Underneath, we're all a little short of that yard. Here in Canada it's a meter. And size doesn't matter in metric. Copyright By Ryan Ayukawa 1999  "Who was Estrada's partner on CHiPs?" Sunday September 5, 1999 Labour Day is upon us. The worker's Sunday. Arbitrarily set aside as the first Monday of September. But why not Tuesday? Wednesday? November? October? Tomato? Tomatoe? With or without the 'o', the pronunciation is the same. Always and forever it will be a day off. Granted, for the select few, it's a genuinely deserved respite from the agony of seeing the reflection of their nametag in the metal of the Giant Slurpee dispenser. But where do the holidays go? What do they get us? We gasp and choke and rage at the pressures of daily life, longing for the briefest of breaks. Then collectively squirm, shift, and gasp and choke and rage from our cars all because some superstitious paranoid thought Route 66 was Satan's highway. Now, I'm so short sighted I can't remember the name the actor, much less the character who was Estrada's partner on CHiPs. But even I can take the occasional long look back. From the days of pre-flint and stone axes, prehistoric man never took a day off. Fred never once called in sick from that gravel pit. So I ask, what's with all these holidays? Easter, Christmas, Halloween, St. Patty's, Mother's Day, Father's Day, All Saints Day, Immaculate Conception Day... Check the calendar. There's an Arbor Day. Arbor is tree en francais. Trees Trees. Trees. Unless you're on day seven of a three-hour trek across the Sahara, trees don't qualify as a reason to celebrate. Oh, and let me know if you find "Shrubbery Day" in that calendar. How far have we strayed from the years of festive auld lang syne and glee filled chocolate egg hunts? Most holidays now are about as honest as a double-overtime goal judge decision. Words like "commercialism" and "future market value" are no longer exclusive to NBA drafts. Gone are the years carving turkey, retiring to the den and watching the cousins' hands fail as they tear open gifts while Aunt Bea choreographs. The sight of the last light fading as we hum carols into the morning. It used to be we'd gather 'round with the kids on Christmas and argue over who would win - Superman or Batman. This year we'll lucky if a dozen eggnog shots gets us a number from "Cats". Maybe I'm cynical. Would that I could set aside the beauty of commercialism and marvel at the other redeeming qualities of Christmas, for there are so many. Christmas is a time for getting. No, giving. "Gifting" for the politically correct. It's a time for --- It's a special time when --- It's like --- My fondest memories are of --- Okay, I'm cynical. But gone are the days of giving, replaced by the days of giving back. Boxing Day. And we all have that one special person who every year manages to give the one gift in the world we're simply too afraid to exchange. The sweater with one arm. We've all lived the scenario - the hellish nightmare known as the customer service desk. Where your fear goes from gnawing, while some minimum wage worker pencils in extra zeroes on his paycheck, to stinging as he looks up to the Yoko Ono CD under your arm. Then the laughter. Your neck cracks and there's a bitter flashback as your karma gives out when you fail to conceal the Jerry Springer T that doesn't go with your German fetish footwear. Same old. Same auld. I have hand-me-downs that aren't as worn out as Christmas. Pretty soon "Silent Night" is gonna sound as fresh as the latest Mariah Carey single. As with everything, even holidays need that extra pep. Take the uniqueness that is Boxing Day. A day to follow Christmas, where servant and master once switched roles. Now transplanted to the every-man-is-equal America. It's inspiring to see a nation add something new to the old - where independence and entrepreneurial free spirit are the fabric softener that silently fluffs the British traditions of old. Including holidays. Finally transforming it into a day of returning gifts. An anti-Christmas. From receiving to exchange gifts, all holidays should do as well to be followed by an opposing day. Consider for a moment, an anti-father's day - where full federal support is granted of all 10 million America's Most Wanted watchers. The starter's gun fires. They break from their gates. Fully deputized, armed with stun guns, tazors, and sporty infrared goggles, they pursue a list of child support owing dads as they see fit. Or an Anti-Independence Day. Better still, a co-dependence day. Yeah, let's celebrate everybody who just can't break free. But don't throw away all the old. Maintain the Valentine's Day romantic wining, dining, and the on-the- knees proposal ritual. Keep the night of unbridled passion (or maybe bridled, who am I to judge?) Change nothing. Simply imagine how much more refreshing the day after be to roll over... look into the depths of her eyes... and ask, "What the hell was I thinking?" Then take it all back. Hmmm... NO! WAIT! Let Valentine's be the day of everlasting eternal love. And let it follow that February 15 is "One-night Stand Day". Then there's the senseless, illogic of New Year's. A day to celebrate the Earth traveling around the sun. 4 billion years and we still clock watch with more anticipation than an X-files cliffhanger. You want to know the ironic part? The Julian Calendar's wrong. We missed the millennium. Happened in 1996. Turns out President Clinton canceled the NHSC's scheduled press conference on the subject when he misheard the '96' part. Ultimately, though, it's up to each generation to define the spirit in which they uphold or withhold traditions of old. There will always be the bah humbuggers and Saint Nick's. But a word to the wise. The hoopla, the bigger than big New Year's parties, the buffets that would feed Pavarotti - they're passe. 1228 AD. The Crusades, best party ever. Let's leave some things unchallenged. Like when your girlfriend throws you out and changes the locks and you want your stuff back. Forget it man. It's gone. Sunday August 22, 1999 "Not that just men are lazy..." by Ryan Ayukawa Somewhere along the line we just plain turned lazy. We've slumbered our way into a world of personal shoppers, and E-commerce, where we're more intimate with our love seats than our lovers. Hagen Daas is no longer an impulse buy. It's a five thousand channel existence that still insists on watching the weather network 24 hours a day. Believe me, I know. I can't find the remote. I've seen the future. "The line must be drawn here. No further." The self-flush toilet - evidence enough that society has finally produced one too many luxuries. Unless you've got some excruciating chronic axle rotation of the wrist injury, it's superfluous. For the rest of us, the handle just isn't all that complicated a piece of machinery. It seems like furniture and fixtures can pretty much sum up the modern male existence. A bachelor friend just had the new one-button only model light switch installed in every room in his pad. Because, of course, "on" and "off" both start with "o", making it more than slightly confusing. Then there's the epitome - the Sunday afternoon leather-bound-don't-change-the-channel E-Z chair. At what point did the fundamentals of regular furniture become a difficult concept to grasp? And when did we devolve into a dining room full of simple tables? It's not that just men are lazy. Look around. Since the massive surge of ATMs, the whole bank teller vocation has really started to let themselves go. It's like a casting call for "Deliverance: The Sequel". And there's a pretty fair male-female ratio there. We're all guilty of taking short cuts. Cheating on that diet. Cutting corners. Slightly-askew-angle parking. You know, the last time I wanted something done right, I subcontracted a perfectionist. Okay, maybe the picture isn't quite that bad. Once employers replace their employees' name tags with salaries, then the paint will have dried. So perhaps, society as a whole isn't completely lost. And maybe men in general are not totally effortless. After careful reconsideration, I've come to realize not all men drink from the rusty old L-E-P (Least Effort Principle) grail. There are those select moments when we do invest our energies for the greater good. From the first time the words, "Where were you last night?" were spoken, men have spent countless hours devoted to the pursuit of truth altering. Lying has grown into a time- tested art. Honed and refined through the generations. It's like the E-Z chair. Anyone can tell the truth. It's effortless. The meticulously constructed lie takes effort though. There's time spent planting evidence. Briefing one's alibi... To lie is to say I care about you enough, and respect you enough that I'm willing to hide the truth. So let's ease off on the two-timing accusations. We only lie because we don't want to see anyone hurt. And who says chivalry is dead? There's a fine line between selfless and selfish. The attack of contemporary critics on the self-involved is like Tyson in a corn field. They chastise them for putting too much effort into the way they look. Everyone should take a minute, stop, and compare all the "high maintenance" people to the "low maintenance" ones. We all need some sort of maintenance. High or otherwise. We need to spend those cumulative hours of self-speculative reflective observation in front of those seven multifaceted mirrors. Without them, we'd let our eyebrows grow into sideburns. It's all a matter of how much maintenance. And maybe we should judge everyone solely on the basis of physical appearance. We do it now. We just don't do it aloud. Imagine the honesty. Let's be frivolous. Relax and consider ourselves lucky that some of us are vain. Admit it. Looks do count. Forget love. Forget gravity. Manicures make the world go round. Style. Style. Style. Set that narcissistic bar as high as it'll go. But if you can't be bothered, well, I know where you can get a great deal on a bottom-half-only bunk bed. And for any men who miss the point - I think you've just validated my first article. 8/8/99 "NOT THAT ALL MEN ARE SIMPLETONS" The battle of the sexes has always been an unbalanced war. Our natural weapons - our bodies - are unevenly matched. Grace vs. Brawn. The true test, the sudden death of the sexes, will be intellect. Where women will stride from the podium in a victory that as sweet and overdue as Susan Lucci's Emmy win. The proof? The deciding contest? Accessorizing. There's no finer challenge of intellect, constructivist ensemblism, lapel re-arrangement, and eye-to-button coordination than accessorizing. Except, perhaps, "Celebrity Jeopardy". Through centuries, fashion as a whole has always served as a prime indicator of intelligence. Women articulate their inner intellect, and sense of aesthetic refinement, with every well chosen pleat. Men don't know what the hell a pleat is. When a woman's slip shows, it's a faux. When a man's socks don't match, men call it "stylish". And then there's the morning ritual. The "Dance of a Thousand Decisions". The Claiborne/Klein no-holds-barred lycra-spandex match. Blouses. Shirts. Sweaters. Halters. Midi skirts. Mini skirts. Micro skirts. Dresses. Jeans. Suits. Pants. Pantsuits. How do women do it? (And that's only outerwear.) For men its: slacks or jeans. Okay, maybe Dockers. Our selective skills are about as sound as David Caruso's filmography. We like things simple. The "least effort principle" is our Holy Grail. The hardest decision a man makes in a day is whether to go with laces or velcro. Men cringe at decisions that involves choosing between more than three things. The male brain lacks the cognitive acuity to process complex choices. A man walks into a burger joint and sees ketchup, mustard, relish, tomatoes, onions, sprouts, pickles, peppers, mushrooms, salt, pepper, "special sauce" and seventy-six kinds of domestic looks-like -cheese, tastes-like-cheese, his mind shuts down faster than an off-off-off-off Broadway play. The choice is as painful as interpretive dance. That's why we invented the phrase "the works". Least Effort Principle. L-E-P for the polysyllabic phobic. Don't get me started on salad bars. They're an anathema. We avoid them like daytime talk shows. That's why we love thumbs up. Thumbs down. True or false. Not that all men are simpletons. It's not all pretense. We've made our mark. Shown our genius. Einstein, Beethoven, Mr. Spock. Hey, remember that cool coconut radio the Professor made? But put Mary Ann and the Movie Star in charge and they'd have been off the island before Bob Denver's shirt was colourized. Still, women seem to possess extra senses and powers of discernment beyond those of conventional sight, smell, taste, hearing and touch. Beyond those of men. A woman holds two identical whites dresses in front of a man. He sees TWO IDENTICAL WHITE DRESSES. She sees white and... Nordic off-white. If the male mind were a book, the first page would be blank. And the ten pages after that. And guys, if you didn't know, all the time women spend in the bathroom? Trust me, only four minutes are spent getting ready. The rest of the hour she's laughing her ass off having a flashback to the morning she caught you moving your lips as you read the directions on the shampoo. If you look closely, there's a toll free number for assistance after lather... rinse... damn, where's the phone? Face the facts. Women are more intelligent than men. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Just six or seven guys. Ryan's page 2 copyright Ryan Ayukawa 1999 Ryan can be reached at rayukawa@accessv.com |
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