The 1.2 Rule

They say that a liberal arts education prepares you for "real life" by teaching you how to think. During our time at our beloved Alma Mater, we learned a great deal. However, from Homer to Homi Bhabha, nobody we read and no concept we grappled with has proven quite so valuable and widely applicable in real life as the Rule of 1.2.
The Rule of 1.2, lovingly explained to FAB fairly early freshman year by next door neighbors JC (a physics wunderkind) and SAG (now a neurologist or neuroscientist or something), is simply this: A relationship is unlikely to endure the test of time if one of the parties is 1.2 times more attractive than the other. (However, a relationship can be exempt from the Rule if one of the parties is obscenely wealthy, talented, or otherwise famous. See: Donald Trump and Melania Knauss, Tiger Woods and Elin Nordegren*, Dennis Kucinich and that tall drink of ginger water.) The Rule of 1.2 is actually a pretty basic concept that most of us vaguely or tacitly acknowledge when we think of someone as "out of my league." The difference is that the Rule actually quantifies the difference and locates the exact boundary of where the average Joe or Josephine's league begins and ends, which is 20% more or 20% less attractive than you are.
Obviously, most of us aren't so shallow as to actually choose our partners based on physical attractiveness alone, but what the 1.2 Rule captures is more than just the physical. Let's face it, we are shaped by our experiences. And the down and dirty truth is that the sheer experience of going through the paces of life as someone who is X units conventionally attractive is worlds removed from walking a lifetime in the shoes of someone who is X+10,000 units conventionally attractive. People just treat you differently. Your life experiences and your expectations, conscious are not, are just too different to not, at some point in the relationship, create real and serious baggage. At some point, the awkward suitcase of differential cumulative experience will split open no matter how awesome, confident, witty, and self-actualized you may actually be.
Crass? Yes. But oh so true. So next time you're eyeing that guy or gal across the bar, ask yourself, is he or she in my 1.2? If the answer is no and your name isn't Lebron James, then you might want to consider backing the fuck off.

*Sure, Tiger's not a bad looking dude in the least. But do you seriously think he'd have been able to bag that babe if he was just your average 30-something and not, like, I dunno, maybe the greatest golfer of all time? I mean, really.

My Little Pony

Last week, FAB and Former Roommate D. attended a hoity toity art auction and collection preview at Christie's as part of a benefit for the Arts Alliance. We figured it wouldn't hurt to haul our ass out of darkest Brooklyn and perhaps rub shoulders with moneybags and artists. Hey, maybe we'd snag a husband out of the experience. Silly, foolish FAB.

Behold our crush object of the evening.

Further Google research revealed that our mystery lover is a recovering alcoholic former cast member of the Real World Chicago. And, naturally, a gay*.

Typical.

Way to pick 'em, FAB.

*What should have been obvious at the time had my libido not been blinded by numerous lemon-ginger vodka confections was that straight men do not a)attend art auctions at Christies and b)attend art auctions at Christies in smug, button-down, cable-knit sweaters.

From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. What the Fuck

Setting: Outside the FAB office building.
Dude: I know Kung Fu too.
FAB: Uhuh
Dude: I know kung fu.
FAB: Mhmm.
Dude: Do you know kung fu?
FAB: Nope.
Dude: Why not?
FAB: I dunno. Just don't.
Dude leans in dangerously close to FAB's face.
Dude:I mean the special kung fu.
FAB: Yep.
Dude: I mean I know how to make love to an Asian woman.
FAB: Yeah. I get it.
Dude: Very sensitive.
FAB: Yep.
Dude: Nice and slow.
FAB: You bet.
FAB shuts door in face.

Come to Jesus Meeting with Myself

Is a potential mate's sobriety an absolute deal breaker?

In Which FAB Breaks Promise to Self Not to Initiate Further Conversation

FAB: How was the [cocktail party I wasn't invited to because you were going as Jonathan Lethem's date]*?
Major Crush Object of the Summer Whom I'm Pretty Much Over: Didn't go. My friend Paul went to jail, and I got bummed.
FAB: Oh my god! What happened?
MCOotSWIPMO: He got into an incident last week, and today he got arrested.
FAB: Is he still in jail or did he bail out?
MCOotSWIPMO: He is in for the night. Maybe longer. Not sure. Waiting to hear about the bail.
FAB: Ugh. I'm sorry. I'm sure he'll be fine, but that really sucks.
MCOotSWIPMO: Yeah. Lame. Kind of a funny story though.
FAB: That preceded the arrest? Precipitated? Or you mean in general? After the fact?
MCOotSWIPMO: He hit someone in the face with a turkey sandwich and scratched a cornea, and they pressed charges.
FAB: Oh.
MCOotSWIPMO: Yeah.
FAB: Wait, was it on toast?

*Fortunately we agreed that FAB has nicer legs and is overall much sexier than Jonathan Lethem but that Lethem is the superior writer. I'll take it.

Dear John Letter, Revisited.

Yesterday's superlative experience on Jewdate couldn't help but bring back fond memories of a certain MySpace near love-match from late 2005. Annotated and reposted shamelessly from Fatasianbaby.

Dear John,
Please don't panic. Despite my failure to respond, I have, in fact, received all ten [Ed. 10!!!] of your emails on MySpace today. Your first email at 4:39 pm was somewhat daft but charming nonetheless:

Subject: hey fat asian
Body: you are so beautiful, you like bacon cheeseburgers too?

I decided not to respond since, I suppose you failed to notice the "status" section of my profile, but I'm actually in a relationship. Can you believe it?? Nonetheless, the lady can take a compliment. Although another lesser man may have dismissed me for being so stuck up that I didn't answer, clearly you are not that man. Half an hour later I received the following email from you:

Subject: those are big asian tits
Body: i love it, an asian girl with big tits, thats awesome.

Again, thank you. I have been complimented on my ample bosom many times, but perhaps the conversation, if we may call it that even though there is only one participant, is getting a bit familiar considering we've never properly met. So again, I chose to ignore you. Yet somehow you seem to fail to appreciate my hesitance at striking up a relationship with you. Half an hour later I received the following:

Subject: do you like big dicks?
Body: you ever had a big dick between those tits?

Now, call me old fashioned, but I'd say that's downright fresh. Although I was tempted, and oh believe me, I was tempted, I decided that if I continued to ignore you, surely you would get bored and go away. And I was right. Or at least I thought. Five hours later you spewed this into my inbox:

Subject: do you like big dicks baby?
Body: i bet you could suck the shit out of a big dick

Which was followed shortly thereafter by this:

Subject: you love to suck cock dont you?
Body: whats the biggest cock youve ever had?

And this:

Subject: where are you?
Body: whats the biggest dick you ever had? you like them real big?

And this:

Subject: you like alot of meat baby?
Body: i bet you fuck so hard, your tits are perfect to titty fuck

And this:

Subject: do you like to suck them hard?
Body: do you suck them hard and make it really wet? do you ever take a shot in the face baby? you ever had your face painted white?

Now this last one actually made me stop and think for a moment. At first I thought you were making some sort of reference to my Asian heritage and how men have historically objectified Asian women with lily white faces. But then it occured to me that you were probably not making social commentary but rather were implying something about semen on my face. Very clever, John, clever indeed. I must say, I hadn't heard that one before and oh boy does it make me hot.
Ten minutes later you emailed me the following:

Subject: is your pussy wet?
Body: i bet you are beautiful on top, whats your favorite position?

And then:

Subject: do you like to lick balls?
Body: i want to feel your tongue against my balls.

Now John, I haven't heard from you in almost an hour now. Perhaps you've found a way to lick your own balls? Or maybe it was my frigidity that drove you away. I will admit, I was a bit perturbed by your attention. My boyfriend even suggested I email Tom about you, but I'm sure that Tom is a busy man. And besides, according to your Xanga homepage [Ed. Per Xanga: "JohnStud2780's site has been shut down for violation of Xanga's terms of use..." Frankly, we're shocked. SHOCKED.], you live right nearby in Marietta, and Tom, I am sure, lives all the way in California. What can Tom do? So instead, John, I'm writing you this letter. I know a conversation like this would be better had in person, but since our entire relationship has been based upon written words, I hope you won't consider this inappropriate.
John, it is over between us. We just weren't meant to be. I don't think we communicate well or maybe you just don't understand me. But either way, please forget about me. I do feel a bit guilty about ending it so abrubtly, so in an effort to ease the transition, I thought I would share your picture with a few friends.*
Who knows? You make some pretty nice muscles. I'm sure the ladies go crazy for that shit. Maybe one of my friends will look at your MySpace profile and be inspired to email you [Ed. Also no longer in business. Tragic.] Maybe you will finally find yourself that big breasted sex kitten you've been wanting so badly after all.

Wishing you all the best,
Fat Asian Baby

*Ok on re-reading this I suddenly remembered that about eight months later, when giving a Powerpoint presentation about epistemology, hegemony, and poststructural conceptualizations of power to a graduate school class at a major research institution, I actually used that second picture of you admiring your own gun show in what appears to be your parents' wood-paneled basement as the clip art to illustrate different theories of power. So, John, wherever you are some five years later, thank you for that.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Lunacy

As FAB has mentioned in the past, we've dabbled for several years on a dating website we transparently refer to here as Jewdate. Unsuccessfully, of course, or we wouldn't all be here today now would we? From time to time FAB is bombarded with Jewdate emails of an accusatory nature given that some people are devoid of creative thought and probably have very tiny penises indeed. Normally I just ignore those messages in favor of those with which I can actually engage. But today between the hours of 4pm and 5pm was one of those times when I decided a good old fashioned email exchange was just what the doctor ordered to help run out the clock at work.*

AngryJewboy123**: Your account is phony.
FAB: Huh?
AJ123: You are a fake!!!!
FAB: Me, my profile, or my account?
AJ123: All three!!! [Ed. Pleased to see that, like the FABMommy, AJ is quite the fan of buying in bulk.]
FAB: Hmm...well that's a new one. Thanks.
AJ123: Your one week complimentary account doesn't make you real... [Ed. Not sure what he's talking about here. I've been a member since, oh, I dunno, 2001? Stop snickering.]
FAB: So what would it make me?
AJ123: The big "c" word. [Ed. Cucumber? Cantankerous? Cunnilingus?]
FAB: Um, do i know you? Is there a reason you're trying to pick a fight with me?
AJ123: Cause you are not Jewish...you have a misrepresented profile...and you [sic] week trial makes this site not fun...your profile reveals that you are full of it...
FAB: 1. I am not on a week trial. 2. I am Jewish. 3. This site isn't so fun, but that really isn't my fault.
AJ123: And how did you become Jewish??
FAB: I was raised that way. Twelve years of religious/Hebrew school. Blah bah blah. I mean, I suppose my relative "Jewishness" is debatable from the standpoint of my insistence on eating bacon and only going to synagogue about four times a year, but it doesn't really seem like you're in a position to judge on that front either. [Ed. AJ123's profile indicates that he goes to synagogue "Never" and keeps kosher "Not at all."]
AJ123: So you were adopted???
FAB: Yes.
AJ123: Lucky you!!!!...I still think you are on hear [sic] to waste other people's time...you are very stuck up and you need to recognize you are the odd man out here... you have no clue as to what makes people compatible....
FAB: Thanks for your thoughts.
AJ123: "Your ivy diploma"....Is that supposed to intimidate people?...or attract them?........I bet if you get an dates off of here it is because the fellow just wants to f-- you..... [Ed. I feel fortunate the gentleman doesn't want to offend my petal-soft eyeballs with coarse language. Also, yes. I hung my Ivy League diploma over my toilet like it's my office. Get it? Get it? Ok, fine.]
AJ123: It is nice that you stayed very composed during my abuse...I am impressed...I am Todd by the way..
FAB: Wait, so you think we're compatible?

Hey Todd? Costco called. They want their ellipses and exclamation points back.



*The alternative was gently resting my forehead on my desk, which I initially had tried but was caught facedown by a coworker. Embarrassing.

**Not his real online fake identity.

Born By The River Styx

Dear Internet,

This has absolutely nothing to do with the ostensible subject of this blog but is simply too astounding and upsetting for me not to share. Last week, on my way home from work, I encountered what appeared to be the bedazzled love child of Christian Audigier and Senor Ugg. At first, I refused to believe in the existence of such an unholy matrimony of Holy Fucking Shit. But you know what?

BEHOLD!

Unlike the the wondrous Ozzydog*, this is patently NOT an example of mutliple wrongs coming together to make a very, very right. It is just wrong wrong wrong.**

Now excuse me while I go wash my eyes out with soap.

*For the uninitiated, an Ozzydog is the beautiful marriage of hot dog, potato bun, the sort of all-beef chili you too can purchase at your friendly neighborhood bodega, Cheez Whiz, potato sticks, and both the red and green tobasco sauces. You probably don't want to be eating more than one of those puppies though. I'm just sayin'...

**Dear aesthetes, why don't you throw a little Roberto Cavalli in there and meet me down by the third rail, hmm?

Vignette for the Post 9/11 Era

In which coworker Weez queries FAB about a recent Facebook status update regarding the return of the M4s this morning. Hooray for the internet!
Setting: Gmail chat thingy


::Curtain::
Weez: What are M4s?

FAB: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M4_carbine

Weez: And where were those? In the subway?

FAB: Outside.
Weez: Outside of our office???

FAB: No No. [FAB's local subway station]

Weez: Oh.

FAB: I saw them there a few weeks ago. Outside.

Weez: Frightening.

FAB: But one of the dudes carrying one of the machine guns walked really close to me while i was smoking outside the subway entrance. Like within inches of me. And gave me elevator eyes.

Which I thought was profoundly unfair given that one party happened to be holding a machine gun at the time.

Weez: Did you flick your cig in his face? Ha!

FAB: Um no.

Weez: You had a lit object.

FAB: Did I mention how he was cradling a machine gun in his arms?

Weez: Yes.

FAB: Machine gun > Cigarette butt. As weaponry goes...

Weez: You're tough.

FAB: Not that tough.
::Curtain::

Sexy Times Predicament

How is it that getting laid, much like getting a massage or eating a cheeseburger, rather than ushering in a sense of peaceful satiation merely begets the overwhelming desire to get laid again as soon as possible (or eat another cheeseburger, as the case may be)?

FAB has noticed that after a dry spell exceeding, say, two or three months in duration, gettin' it done comes to resemble a piddling extravagance. But journeying to the other side of the rainbow with greater frequency yet still without any regularity can sometimes inspire shameful and foolish behavior in pursuit of that elusive pot of gold.

So is doing it only once or twice per month actually the worst kind of torture?

Of Wheat Allergies and Men

It probably does not come as much surprise that FAB does not look kindly upon people with dietary restrictions, whether socially constructed (vegetarians, kosher keepers), medically indicated (lactards, celiacs), or the just plain obnoxious (I'm looking at you, vegans). It's not that I object to them as people or won't hang out with them, but I find them incredibly tedious to eat with and am loathe to cook for them. What can I say? I like to eat what I want to eat when I want to eat it. So imagine my horror when I discovered that not just one but BOTH of the guys I've been "talking to," from a dating website we'll transparently refer to here as Jewdate, are gluten-impaired. Wheat-free. Bagel-handicapped. Pizza-averse. Beer-disabled. Whiskey-phobic. Seriously?
On the counsel of numerous friends, I managed to suppress my initial instinct to run for the hills (how could I possibly have a lasting and loving relationship with someone who cannot eat tacos?) and give these poor digestionally challenged fellows a try. [Ed. Numerous people have pointed out that celiacs can eat tacos. Let me specify, we're talking soft tacos. My favorite kind. Or double decker tacos. Either way, FAB tacos involve delicious soft flour tortillas.] Who knows? It could be love, right?
In order to keep things straightened out, I've begun lovingly refering to these two gentlemen as Gluten 1 and Gluten 2, based on the order in which they first disclosed their status to me (which, conveniently enough, is also the order in which I went out with them). And here's where the universe starts to collapse on top of me.
Saturday night I meet up with Gluten 1 and end up back at his place (shut up) on a rather charming block in Park Slope. Gluten 2, meanwhile, emails me three options for our date on Monday (aka last night): 1. a pasta restaurant (hello, gluten?), 2. an awesome sushi restaurant I've been dying to try, and 3. a very cool establishment but one where the FABbro also happens to be the manager. Um, no. So FAB selects option dos. Obviously.
As I'm readying to leave for dinner with Gluten 2 last night, I quickly do a Google Map search to see exactly where the famed sushi restaurant is located. And my heart grinds to a screeching halt. Sushi restaurant is somehow located on the same block, same side of the street as Gluten 1's apartment. And that's just the beginning.
Dear internet, is it possible that the two guys currently on the table, so to speak, who couldn't possibly be more different in personality, appearance, and style, are essentially two iterations of the exact same person? Ghosts of gluten-free past and gluten-free future perhaps? Because as the night with Gluten 2 continues, I learn that, in addition to sharing a digestive issue, both Gluten 1 and Gluten 2 work on the account management side of advertising and both grew up in central Jersey. In towns 6.9 miles apart.
I've always been taken to believe that this here is a rather large-sized city I live in, so how do these things happen?

Wondering:

Is Ben Bridwell married? Do you think he wants to marry me?

The Young and the Shameless

Recently, FAB has encountered an entirely different breed of dude, a seemingly exotic bird: He Who Does Not Embarrass. At all. Ever. FAB is plagued with a chronic condition characterized by constantly turning wheels inside the head, wheels taxed with the difficult yet all-important work of overanalyzing even the tiniest minutiae. I've always been a bit envious of people who just seem so effortless and carefree, like they just don't give a fuck. So you can see why, at first blush, that brash swagger of unwavering self assurance can charm the pants off of those of us who suffer from paralyzing self-doubt and a self-destructive affinity for the cocky and just slightly out of reach.
At first blush.
But you know what, folks? Embarrassment exists for a reason. There is a threshold past which not feeling embarrassed by a situation no longer inspires awe but rather induces a special level of cringe and ick coupled with escapist fantasies. And once you cross over that line, things go downhill fast and hard.

Exhibit A:
Last week I paid a business visit* to Major Crush Object of the Summer in his place of employment. The moment he cheerfully emerged from his office my eyes widened. Nestled in the scraggly beginnings of a beard, sitting proudly right in the middle of his cheek, was the most majestic specimen of a zit I've ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on. While MCOotS seemed happily oblivious to the monstrosity that had set up shop on his face, I couldn't help but gawp in horror at this inflamed and infected bullseye much the way the human eye is naturally drawn to flame. Now, maybe I'm vain, but surely I would've popped and drained that sucker days earlier. And now I can't seem to scrub the image of Mount Etna from my brain.

Exhibit B:
A very conservative but strangely intriguing hedge funder pursued me heavily during the first part of the summer. Normally anybody who identifies their favorite author as Ayn Rand gets an immediate red flag from this camp, but dude was unrelenting and I was feeling a bit reckless so I agreed to a first date. And surprisingly things went ok. So on the second date I agreed to go back to his place for a glass of wine. Huge mistake. I soon found myself sitting on a bed in a sterile yet somehow still smelly studio in midtown while a very conservative and now horrifying hedge funder sat on a yoga ball and proceeded to play the keyboard for me. And sing. An original composition. All composure is lost. FAB shifts uncomfortably in her "seat."

Exhibit C:
Crazy But Sweet Then-boyfriend comes into the bathroom while FAB is taking a shower and proceeds to take a dump. Really? You couldn't wait, like, I dunno, 5 minutes? Dude. Really.

*This was an actual business-related visit, folks. Not a "business" visit. Get your mind out of my pants.