Work it till it's perfect

Recently, as I was writing on a very remarkable feature that I feel is of great importance to the continued survival and advancement of the human race - my "Ode to Sweat", of course - I realized that I possess a certain trait that is both of great use, and sometimes great annoyance: I am a perfectionist.

Alright, so I already knew that I was a perfectionist regarding certain things, like music - this comes back to that whole passion thing I was talking about earlier. Whenever I care deeply about something, I obviously want to give it my very best, and I just keep working and working on it to the point where it almost becomes an obsession. This is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. In order to become really good at something, one must put in the necessary hours to advance ones knowledge of this subject and improve on the skills required to pull it off. Michael Jordan was a perfectionist when it came to playing basketball, Michael Jackson had it regarding music, and Tiger Woods has it when it comes to banging every woman on the planet who's not his wife.

Because clearly, a handsome man such as himself cannot be held down by an uggo like her.

But here is where I learned something new about myself. I was writing a silly poem to kill time and have fun, but even within that essentially meaningless construct, I found it necessary to adhere to a specific formula, and make it the best I could. As such, what I could've written to be practically the same in about five minutes, took me almost twenty minutes because I was determined to make every single line of the poem be exactly 11 syllables long, because it felt like a good rhythm (the exception being the "my oh my" line, which is 3+5 syllables every time), all the while maintaining a clear narrative that was accessible and not too confusing.

Now, admittedly, I did have fun writing it, and since it is a form of lyricism, I suppose it could be that this perfectionism reared it's head again because it's very related to a huge passion of mine. Certainly, this level of commitment is far beyond what I show when it comes to doing my homework for example, where my favorite strategy is to only do it if expulsion is threatened, and if so, only do it at the absolute last minute possible, as half-assed as I can possibly get away with doing it. Hell, if anything, my commitment to NOT doing homework is almost mastered to perfection at this point.

Pictured: My favorite type of perfection.

Case in point: I am currently writing on this blog while in class. And not only am I blatantly disregarding whatever the hell it is I am actually supposed to be doing, but since we have a special group assignment we're working on, I actively sought out the teacher the day it started, and told him I had to travel a bit this week so I'd rather work alone, then I skipped school last time (though that was actually just a result of oversleeping), and today I loaded up half a dozen pages about the thing I'm supposed to be working on - and when he asked me specific questions, I improvised a whole fact-list worth of BS, about competitors, media management, organisation and so on.

Mind you, I haven't read a single word of homework for the entire semester so far, yet I completely fooled my teacher into thinking I was way ahead of the rest of the class, simply by speaking off the top of my mind. So why is it that when I write songs, in which speaking from the top of my mind is actually a good quality, I can spend hours working on every single 16-line verse? Worse yet, why does the end result not reflect all these extra hours of work? Is perfection even necessary, or is it in fact superfluous?

One last thought: A common problem I have with a lot of my songs, is that they get needlessly complex and convoluted, because I actually work too hard on them. Sure, repeated seven syllable rhyme patterns are nice when they work well, but having an unrelenting sense of perfectionism that just won't quit, tends to turn most lyrics into some quasi-Shakespearean version of rap.

Although you gotta' admit, Funk Master Shakespeare has quite a nice ring to it.

I guess it's both a blessing and a curse sometimes.

Ode To Sweat

Boredom is the father of all creativity... No, wait, that's inspiration. Well, boredom is my inspiration at the moment then. I have nothing to do for once, and so I have elected to compose a little poem, for the first time in my life. Live and learn, right? Anyway, I'm sure most readers ages 3-8 will find it quite to their liking - everyone else, probably not. But that's what's so great about this whole blog-thing, I simply don't have to care what people think! So here, I proudly present to you:

Ode to Sweat

There's nothing like buying an item that's new

Like opening a box of freshly bought shoes

The smell of the leather, the laces and soles

You can't wait to wear them and go for a stroll

But as the time passes, the smell starts to fade

And a stench so foul spreads out from the hallway

The shoes you brought home as the proudest owner

Is now making all your guests want to throw up

My oh my, a nose full of fright

The sweat of your feet has an awful odor

Whenever you're walking and the weather's warm

And you're stuck outside with too many clothes on

It's not just your face that has sweat pouring down

But sadly, your ball sweat it has no way out

You'd pray for a spray or deodorant stick

Cause out of nowhere comes this fly looking chick

You give her a smile, but her face starts to clench

And she's in a hurry to escape your stench

My oh my, it's such a sad sight

The sweat of your balls has your underwear drenched

By now, there's a lesson I hope you have learned

That sweat from your body can make the nose burn

So shower and spray, just with one exception

When sweat from your body is mixed with sexing

The sweat of your balls and your feet is combined

With beautiful parts of a woman so fine

Creating a mixture that's worth more than gold

That you seek to keep long as your breath can hold

My oh my, what immense delight

The sweat of your sex is like sex to the nose

What's up, and why isn't it down?

Okay, so this is a topic that I can't possibly approach from any angle whatsoever without being labelled as gay, or at the very least a closet-freak. But this has been on my mind for too long, and it's time that someone asks the question that I know a lot of guys before me have wondered throughout the ages, so here goes:

What the hell is up with hard dicks in the gym shower?

"I think I know what it is that's up!"

Alright, I know what you're thinking: "Christ, that was a horrible pun, and more importantly, why the hell are you looking at other guys' junk, man?!". Well, first off, let me preface this whole discussion by saying that I am as straight as they come. The closest thing I ever had to a gay experience, was admitting to my girlfriend that Matthew McConaughey was sort of cool (even though he does have an unhealthy obsession with getting naked regardless of the circumstances), and that was a painfully hard admission that had to be pretty much dragged out of me over the course of several months. Now, that being said, even I have from time to time engaged in that most ancient of games - the often played, but never spoken about, "who has the bigger one". Yes, all guys really play that game, at least once in their life, but often more.

Mind you, this isn't something that we play deliberately. I don't go around the shower sizing everyone up, and wave my own johnson in their face in hope of approval. Rather, this is something that only takes place in the peripheral spot of ones vision, and in the complete deepest recess of the mind. Why do we do this, you might ask? Well, let's face it: Size matters. And ladies, you can talk all that "motion in the ocean" bullshit you want to, but at the end of the day, would you rather have a shrimp or a whale crossing those waves? Anyway, it doesn't even matter if you have a big one or not, you'll still have times where you wonder whether yours is adequately sized. I'd love to take this opportunity to brag about the size of my own member, but this is the internet; everyone has a 12 inch penis here.

In any case, that's why we all play the game, going about our business showering without even thinking about the fact that you have just glimpsed at half a dozen dicks over the course of the last few minutes. But every now and then, something comes along, something so shocking and disturbing that one cannot help but stop and take notice.

I'm talking, of course, about semi-hard penises.

The Dennis Rodman of showering.

Okay, so maybe once in a while, you happen to be sharing the locker room with someone who's into guys and can't help but get aroused by your rocking hot body (or perhaps he just digs the whole "I'm-so-comfortable-in-my-body-I-don't-need-to-take-care-of-it" look - but then why are you at the gym in the first place, Mr. Smartypants?). But it seems that there is some discrepancy between the amount of times that this happens, and how many gay or bisexual guys there actually are. The latest survey I could find, said that 2,7% of the population in Denmark are into guys. Let's just assume for a second that over the last few years the percentage of gay or bi guys has risen, which would certainly explain the whole metro-fad so predominantly featured in every form of media from music videos to magazines and movies (not counting the Twilight saga, unless you say the word "movie" while raising your fingers to indicate metaphorical quote-signs). Let's also assume that most men are lying bastards - this should be easy.

Even then, if the rate was 10%, you'd have to account for the fact that not every gay or bi guy out there is bound to be attracted to your naked body, no matter how bootylicious it may be, and also, it should be accepted as common knowledge that having a hard-on in the shower makes you liable to get your ass kicked - once you've put back on your clothes, obviously. Nobody wants to touch a naked gay guy, out of fear of somehow becoming gay themselves.

Gayness is apparently the grown-up equivalent of cooties.

So how can it be that almost a tenth, sometimes more, of all guys seem to be sporting a half-baked loaf of bread when washing up? Are they just that attracted to their own bodies (if so, are self-centered guys by definition gay?), or is it in fact a deliberate plot on their behalf - to beef up their volumes, to fool others into thinking they have a larger member than they actually do? Are some guys so insecure that they actually seek to present themselves to other guys as being well-endowed, secretly hoping that the guy next to them in the shower is going to think "hey, what a great penis on that guy"?

Perhaps I'll never find the answer I'm seeking here. Ultimately, it comes down to human nature, an obscure entity that will never be fully mapped with all of its intricacies, regardless of scientific advances into the field. But then again, if no one ever asks these types of questions, requiring us to look into the deepest recesses of ourselves, then how would we ever progress as a race? Maybe I am just an early pioneer, boldly going where no man has gone before (without having his sexuality put under increased scrutiny). Or maybe, and far more likely, I'm just kind of nuts.

Deliberately missing from this extensive survey, are all the people who shower with their underwear on, the vast majority of which are Muslim. Now, whether this is a religious thing, or the threat of gay-cooties is just taken far more seriously in the Middle East, I have no idea.

My knowledge of Islam's stance on this is... shaky, at best.

In any case, I've seen plenty of Muslims who didn't bring a pair of boxers into the shower, so even if it is in the Qur'an, I guess it's up for debate/personal interpretation like their whole thing with drinking, or like Christians with whoring around. But that's a question that doesn't even need to exist.

After all, Jesus' lover was described as a whore - what more approval could you possibly need?

Passion

So, I thought I'd start out with an easy topic, something light for the sake of easing into this, both for me and whoever might be reading this. Therefore I asked myself "what is the most predominant feeling in my life at this very instant?" and the answer was simple:

Passion!

Now, there are a lot of different forms that passion can take. It can be the passion that one holds for another human being, whether it be family, friends or a life-partner (or even an animal for that matter - I'm looking at you, PETA); it can be the passion one holds for work, hobbies or sports; or it can be passion of the sweaty-baby-making variety. In any case, passion is what makes the world go round. Some say it's money, some say it's people...

This guy says it has something to do with falling apples.

... but the fact of the matter is that if passion didn't exist, the world would be a hell of a lot more boring for all of us. I mean, think about it: If you never had anything to look forward to, never had anything to be excited about, you would most likely be declared clinically depressed (or worse, emo). So it is in fact passion that keeps us going, passion that makes it worth getting out of bed even on a horrible day, because you know that sometime down the road you will be enjoying one of your passions yet again.

So what are my passions? Admittedly, feelings can be a bit of a mess to sort out, but I do know that my primary passions in life are love, learning, food, exercise/sports and music! The order changes somewhat according to my immediate needs and mental state, but overall, those are the things that keep me going. I may not always feel passionate about them, depending on my mood as well, but the passion is always there. And today, what sparked this whole introspective glance into passion itself, was music!

A little backstory here is required: As far back as I can remember, I've always loved music.

Pictured: World's youngest MC.

Of course, most people from around the world tend to love music in some form or another, or at least tolerate it (as long as it's not the Spice Girls), but I've always found myself to be drawn to the creative side of music. In most of the home-video recordings made by my mom, I'm found, like most other videos of small children, either in the bathtub or in the living-room, my tiny baby-penis proudly on display for the whole world to see (parents' creepy obsession with filming their kids naked is a whole other discussion for another day).

But by the time I got a bit older, the videos started featuring a less naked, but intensely more dancing, singing, and piano-playing boy. This was a trend that continued onwards throughout the years, warping itself through various twists and turns. There was my brief experiment with techno around age 10 (which I am still convinced is the approximate maturity-level of all techno-listeners), then around 11/12 to 13 I was in a cover-song garage band, which culminated in my first musical stage-performance in front of a roaring crowd of 18 people. And by age 14, I started rapping.

Like all the cool white kids do.

As luck would have it, I ended up becoming one of the few who didn't completely suck at it, and later on I branched out to start producing as well, plus doing the occasional singing here and there once I rediscovered my love for 50s-70s music.

As you might have guessed by now, if you bothered making it this far, is that music is indeed one of my big passions, and has played a significant part in my life because of this. Sometimes it's been therapeutic, other times it's been thrilling - I've performed for crowds of up to hundreds of people, which is quite a rush - but most of all, it's just there for me. Like a good friend that you might not always be able to reach, but that you know will always stick around to help you out when you're in a tight spot or just need to have a good time. That's what passion means to me. Companionship, even when you're alone. It's a sense that there is something out there other than yourself to care for, and whether your passion is chasing girls, collecting Pokemon cards or watching every single episode of Days of our Lives, at least you have a reason to get up in the morning and keep living your life. And that makes it all worth it.

Just as long as your passion isn't the freaking Spice Girls!