youmightfindyourself:

“The next real literary ‘rebels’ in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the ‘Oh how banal.’ To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows.

youmightfindyourself:

 

Dear gentleman blow-drying his balls in the gym locker room,

You’re actually doing it. I mean, we’ve all dreamt of blow-drying our balls out in the open, but you’re actually doing it in front of me and at least sixteen other people that just finished exercising at this pricey sports club. Some of us will do it in private in our homes, or in a hotel room using a hairdryer a stranger might have just used to style their hair for that big business meeting in Denver. But not you. You are not confined to such social norms, norms that usually keep flapping, flag-like balls out of my eyes.

Does the courage to do this in public come with age? Perhaps it’s something a young man like me can’t understand. But you, you are on in years; gray and spotted like a ham in a paintball fight. Your scrotum reminds me of boardwalk taffy. Maybe you’ve been building up to this day your whole life and I’m witnessing the birth of a phoenix. You are no longer a man that blow-dries his balls in secret. You have transcended that station and now fall into an elite group of Spartans that blow-dry their balls wherever they God damn please. If caterpillars emerged from their cocoons as butterflies with heavy, sagging testicles I’d imagine they’d feel the same as you might right now.

Maybe you’re making up for the fact that you no longer have any hair on your head that requires blow-drying. Is grabbing a hairdryer a rote, preening response from your earlier years when you and your majestic mane would say things like, “bees knees” to fresh-faced nurses at the pool hall while discussing the Teapot Dome scandal? Did they have hairdryers back then? I think my ability to correctly recall history is being affected by the sight of your twin sperm fountains.

I especially appreciate the way you’ve got one leg up on the counter. Not only does this allow the hot jet stream of air a more direct passage to your gene-carrying duffle bag, it also gives me an intrusive view to the white fields of pubis covering your taint and beyond. It almost makes me think of Santa Claus, but I was not sexually abused by Kris Kringle as a child. Speaking of Christmas, were the Adidas soccer sandals you use as shower shoes a gift from a grandchild?

Your actions disturb and inspire, and I can’t look away. I’m either swelling with physical repulsion or the joy a parent feels watching their child take their first steps. Only in this case the child is an 84-year-old man with a hairdryer aimed at his balls. Whatever the case, you’re an exemplar of bravery. So, please, shine on you withering diamond.

Thanks!
Ross Beeley