Glad I Was an Ugly Child, Part II

In the last part of this piece, I wrote that I grew up as an ugly little kid and how this trait led me to take refuge in books. Consequentially I would advance in academia to the tune of 2 college degrees and an MD by my 25th birthday. All initiated because I was an ugly little shit, who’d have guessed?

The concept that intelligence and physical attractiveness have an inverse correlation is an old one indeed. Here are a few brief examples to demonstrate my point. Have you ever seen the cheerleaders at Harvard? Well compare them to the cheerleaders at Florida State. Have you ever taken a peak inside a lecture hall where the speaker is discussing metaphysics or number theory? Contrast that crowd to one attending a lecture on the same campus where the students are learning primary education or sociology. And a final illustration I won’t describe in full detail, but I could write a full entry about: Celebrity Jeopardy.

Men have known this detail for centuries. The “dumb blonde” stereotype is born of this assumption. There was a recent South Park episode that commented on this occurrence. In this transcription, an older character is talking to one of the kids who learns he was voted “ugliest boy in the class” at school:

“You think you've been cheated because you’re ugly, but I am here to show you otherwise. Come! There is much to see. [walks out] I want you to look in here. [they approach a random house and look inside. A bored woman is playing with a pencil and pebble at her small dining table] This woman is Nancy Pinkerton. As a child she was consistently the most beautiful girl in her entire school. Her life as a youth was filled with praises, and everything being handed to her. Boys told her she was special. She was funny. She was interesting. But that's only because she was hot. It wasn't until she reached age 40, when her looks started to fade, that she learned she was actually about as interesting and special as a wet carrot. [they leave her as they found her, playing with a pencil, all alone in her dining room. They move on to the next house] This is the home of your new ugly friend, Yamal. [Yamal is shown playing a piano] Because he's ugly, he gets nothing handed to him. He has to work at making something of himself. But that work is gonna pay off when he's an adult. He will have character, something that kids who are hot rarely develop. Like your classmate, Clyde. [they approach Clyde's house. Clyde is all cool laying on his couch talking to someone on the phone] Now that he knows he's good-looking, he doesn't have to make any effort to be special.

Now his life will be about girls. Chatting with them on the phone and buying them shoes. He will most likely marry very young, and not realize until age 40 that he's a total douche. And so you see, Kyle, it is actually the beautiful kids that are cursed.”

Unattractive people, men in particular, really need to stand out in a specific area of life. Otherwise you won’t have a good job, you won’t have any money or friends, and most importantly to young people, you’ll never get laid. That is the real lynch pin of this whole thing. I won’t get into gender differences here and why I think men are, by most standards, incredibly more interesting and better developed psychologically than women, but you can be sure that the impetus behind it all is pussy.

This relationship is also very old. The popular Revenge of the Nerds series was about a group of ugly, hyper-intelligent college kids who want to fuck very skinny, tan girls with 80’s boobs. In all fairness, it was the 80s, so at least the boobs were decade appropriate. At any rate, the Revenge films weren’t the first but were probably the most prominent film to depict this social phenomenon: Ugly kids have potential to grow up into fascinating adults who can, in very simple terms, do a lot of cool shit.

The Louis Skolnicks and Boogers of yesteryear are today’s leader of industry. Titles aside, nerds are the ones who created the Internet (Not Al Gore or any other asshole politician). Nerds design and build hybrid vehicles. Nerds made the iPhone. Nerds wrote and directed the newest Batman movie. Nerds figured out how to make Coke Zero after previous failures with Tab and many Diet drinks that tasted like cough syrup. You can be sure that most of these nerds, just like the characters in Revenge, weren’t on the Homecoming court.

Another trait that separates the ugly from the beautiful is overall kindness. I’m not saying that all the ugly chodes are nice and all hot chicks are bitches, as would the writers of Shallow Hal. There’s just such a lopsided surplus of assholes in this world that inevitably some of them are unattractive. The average ugly person, or person who grew up ugly, is much nicer than a person who has always been gorgeous. Have you ever noticed that people who have worked as a waiter or waitress usually tip well? That is largely due to empathy they feel for other wait staff. People who grew up ugly are prone to have some empathy for the downtrodden in general. I can’t prove this last assertion, but it’s something that I’ve consistently observed.

The beautiful people of the world, specifically “pretty girls”, will always have someone to open doors for them and pay their credit card bills insofar as their looks are maintained. But they’ll never listen to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and feel the weight of the world pressed against their head. They will, however, have sex with the person paying the aforementioned credit card bill and probably have a lot of pretty babies, just like they were as kids. That will be the crowning achievement of their life: spawning. But hey, look at the bright side of things. At least there’ll be plenty of open seats at that number theory lecture.

Glad I Was an Ugly Child, Part I

Growing up can be tough. I remember that there were plenty of TV shows to remind me of this as I aged: Different Strokes, The Wonder Years, Family Ties and more. Many of these programs recycled the same predictable plots and dealt with familiar coming of age issues like bullies, drugs and finding first love. Something that these shows didn’t really touch on was growing up as an ugly little kid. From Kevin Arnold to “What you talkin’ bout” Arnold, all the young people in these shows were at least cute back in the day.

Almost by definition, many kids did in fact grow up ugly. I should know, because I was one of them. This isn’t fishing for compliments. This is mainly my reaction to photos of my youth; it’s hard to argue with empiric evidence like that. It didn’t help that my parents were always telling me how handsome I was while they dressed me in clothes that the Salvation Army wouldn’t accept as a donation. Mainly for little boys, it’s also true that many of these ugly children are also not the most athletic. In my case I was short and exceptionally frail. This combination of ugly facial attributes, out of date clothes and complete lack of athletic talent led to a rough upbringing.

At least I wasn’t alone; many of my friends growing up were also unattractive and bad at sports. Incidentally, almost all of my friends were also Jewish, which further isolated us from the rest of the school. Then one day something happened that would literally set us aside from our classmates. Turns out my friends and I did very well on the state IQ tests and the 7 or 8 of us were put in “Special” math and reading classes with different books and everything. Intelligence is no doubt a multifactorial trait with genetics, upbringing and many other features interacting. But I really think that my friends and I were pushed, or in the least nudged in this direction as direct consequence of our ugliness.

Ugliness was the main reason we felt isolated from our peers and it was one of the reasons we found each other in the first place. It makes sense that ugliness enhanced our introversion. We weren’t chasing girls, as they would have nothing to do with us. And we didn’t excel at any of the accepted sports (does Ping Pong count?). But damn we were good at pre-algebra. That’s where most of our focus was concentrated. It wasn’t just about studying either. We developed deep, lifelong interests in a diverse range of subjects from art and music to chemistry and electronics. Luckily we had each other so we could discuss these things and learn from one another. The athletic and attractive kids had no such company.

I’d like to think that at some point Brendan Doyle, the quarterback of my HS football team, picked up T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land after a scrimmage and contemplated the futility of mankind. Instead I’m sure he spent that time honing his skills at throwing a leather ball with great accuracy and speed. Perhaps that skill, throwing the leather ball, will be of huge utility at some stage of life. Maybe in a different state of life altogether, like at the gates of heaven if you have to hit a moving target at 30 yards with a football I’m most certainly hell bound. I have no idea what Brendan Doyle does now, but I bet it has nothing to do with football. And I bet he still hasn’t read The Waste Land. Which is ironic, given the title and what I imagine he’s done with the past 30 years.

Conversation with a Stripper

This is a real conversation that I had with a stripper at Rick’s Cabaret on Bourbon St in New Orleans, LA. This is not a verbatim transcript, but pretty close.
My 2 friends and I walk into the club and quickly make our way to the bar in the back. After ordering some heavy drinks, my friends are assailed by 2 strippers. Soon afterward I’m approached by stripper #1 (S1).

S1:What are you doing here all by yourself while your friends are busy with those girls?
Then she did that stripper trick where she blows in your ear lightly.
Me:I just wanted a drink.
Drinking heavily at this point and trying to not look like I only have $20 in my wallet.
S1:You have really nice eyes.
I’m not sure how she could’ve noticed given the paucity of light and intense saturation of cigarette smoke in the room.
Me:You’re quite striking yourself.
I didn’t really mean this statement. I guess I just felt I needed to validate her feelings of self-worth. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings is the bottom line. At the end of the day is there really that much I could say to hurt a stripper’s feelings? Read on!
S1:How old are you, sweetie?
And then she kissed my neck.
Me:I’m 29.
S1:Wow, I thought you were a lot younger.
Me:Thanks, I guess.
S1:I’m 38, what I wouldn’t give to be 29 again.
At this point any sexual connection I might’ve felt for her was greatly reduced. It’s not so much that she’s 38, but as she made note of the age discrepancy. Plus she did look a little old after she revealed her age to me, albeit her candor was original.
Me:It’s not so great. There’s a lot of pressure at this stage to kind of.. well, procreate. I’m not sure I even want to go down that road.
S1:I know another road we could go down.
Yes she really did say this and was straddling me to the point where her body partially obstructed the path from my drink to my mouth. This fact didn’t help my mood, either.
Me:You know, I think I’m ok for now. I can get you a drink if you want to sit and relax for a song or two.
I wasn’t trying to be that weird guy at the strip club who “just wants to talk” but I didn’t want a $40 lap dance and I didn’t want to tell her to FOD, so I thought this “buy a drink for a hoe” thing was a comfortable alternative. I was wrong.
S1:Well that was pretty direct. You don’t like me?
Me:No, you’re very pretty. $40 for a dance though? If a song is 5 minutes that’s like $480 an hour and I just can’t justify that wage. I have friends who are brain surgeons who don’t get paid that well.
That was a lie. I know one neurosurgery resident, but no actual licensed brain surgeons. I think I was throwing around the doctor thing out of insecurity.

Anyhow, she proceeded to sit down and have 3 drinks with me, which is apparently her limit. She talked about her “asshole boyfriend” who won’t pay child support and about how nice I was because I wasn’t one of the creeps offering money to finger bang her under the table. All these backhanded compliments and pity traps are standard fare at strip clubs to get more money from stupid men. And although I have made plenty of stupid decisions in my life, and would certainly feel stupid under certain conditions where I felt unfamiliar or out of place, a strip club is not one of these places.

As S1 got progressively inebriated she told me about the epidural she had with her most recent (just 3 months ago, goodie!!!) pregnancy and the painful episiotomy she had endured as result of her macrosomic baby. She didn’t use the term macrosomic, but you get my point. So now I had regressed to the point of at least 24 hr guaranteed flaccidity. She made some comment to my friend about “thinking of her” when he went home that night as a masturbatory allusion. Other than a flaccid penis, she provided me with decent mental material to use if I ever need to not get aroused. She’s like the anti-Viagra. Who would’ve thought the origin of anti-Viagra was a strip club on Bourbon St?

Rupert Howser, MD

Most kids who grew up in the 80's recall the show Doogie Howser, MD. It ran for like 4 yrs and chronicled the residency of a teenage doctor. As a physician myself, I won’t criticize the potential flaws of this scenario actually taking place (not too plausible is all I’ll say), instead I’ll write about what it’s like to be a young doctor now and how that compares to my expectations from the Doogie era of my youth.

To start; medicine is NOT glamorous. Medicine is not driving a Benz, playing golf and having a God complex. Medicine is about blood, shit and vomit. In your head if you imagine your doctor wearing a $300 Italian silk tie and a Rolex, you can bet that image stays in your head. Because no one would wear these items to a hospital and risk getting blood-tinged shit or mucous laden vomit all over his French cuffs. Medicine is very much blue collar. Hell, every boy who’s had a sports physical knows that their doctor literally handles their balls. Maybe it’s just me but I was raised to believe that ball handling isn’t one of the more sophisticated professions.

Next thought is that most people expect their doctors to be very Republican. By this comment I mean old, fat, male and white. Many want John McCain to be their doctor, or at least someone who looks like him. A lot of my female friends have grown accustomed to being called “nurse”, “babe” and “sweetie”. I never dealt with these names myself, but I was asked on at least a daily basis for my age. After the 100th time I began to reply, “How old do you think I am?” Most patients would guess right and say 25-30. Upon learning this some patients would jokingly call me McSteamy or make an ER reference and call me Carter. I guess that should be flattering; that I don’t look like John McCain. I tried growing a beard (to appear older) after internship but much to my chagrin I have the testosterone levels of a 9-year-old boy because it grew in all uneven. And since I didn’t want to go from the Grey’s Anatomy nickname to being called “Patches” the pseudobeard was quickly removed.

I’m only guessing here but when people see a very young looking doctor they can either think:
1.He’s very young and inexperienced so he’s probably a bad doctor or
2.He’s very young so he must be very smart if he’s already a doctor who’s given these patient responsibilities and literally making life or death decisions on a regular basis.
It’s kind of up to the individual to sell himself as #2. When a patient sees a kid who could be an extra on Dawson’s Creek if you gave him a Jansport backpack and a pair of Skechers instead sporting a white coat there are already 2 strikes against you. That being said, it does help to wear nice ties and an expensive watch.

Even the finest imported suit could not compensate for this lesser known tidbit: most people aren’t grateful for their care. When I worked a local grocery store at age 17, I would occasionally give an apple or bag of cherries to a local if he/she were checking out the produce. Customers would act like I gave them a sip from the Holy Grail for a bite of Granny Smith. Now I treat bacterial meningitis with expensive, cutting edge antibiotics and I don’t even get a smile. Don’t get me wrong, some people are really sweet and bake cookies or give Spurs tickets, and I didn’t pursue medicine for “thank you” notes any way. I’ve found that recognition is the red cayenne of compliments; a little bit can go a long way. This sentiment is reflected fairly well in the Doogie series, and even more accurately in later dramas like Chicago Hope and the popular Scrubs show.

But the only real similarity between my current life and Doogie is the closing. I sit here typing in my journal with 80’s keyboard music that adequately reflects my mood playing in the background. I even have my own Wanda now. The 12-year-old version of me would be so proud, and above all grateful.

Old Orleans and Anthotime

My good friend Anthony recently moved to New Orleans for a retina fellowship. Being the awesome friend that I am I went along for the road trip (with Jon) to assist in the move. I’d been to NO before, most recently in ’04 to interview for a residency spot, but this was the first I’d been there since Katrina. Immediately noticeable was the collection of homeless (unless you count the tents) vagrants huddled beneath the highway. It was like the scene in Dune where Paul Atreides discovers the desert wanderers.

While in NO, I did everything from eat etouffee, gamble and even see some entertainers of the exotic school of dance (strippers). One of the more salient qualities of NO is the extremes. It’s like the line the alien says to Jodie Foster in Contact, “…capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares” at the same time. That said here’s my brief review of “The Big Easy”, focusing on the positives.

1.It’s very warm and has a tropical feel to boot. This can mean heavy rain throughout the day but comfortably temperate at the same time. As much as I like watching the Bears play November football in the snow, it royally sucks driving to the sports bar in a blizzard.

2.Lots of neat French and Creole restaurants, also plenty of quality seafood given the close proximity to the gulf. I ate at Mr. B’s, Emerils and many others. As fantastic as these places are, I bet it’s tough to get a satisfying pizza in NO. Or good Thai food. How about White Castles? You feel like a gyro? My point is that the food there is excellent but the genre is too narrow in scope. And I could never live in a place without decent pizza for very long (like my 3 yrs in Texas).

3.Lots of great entertainment, particularly live music and jazz. My friends and I found a cover band that could’ve been called, “Rupert’s iPod Playlist”. It was mostly 80’s rock, stuff like Journey and Boston. The lead guitarist was Hendrix reincarnated as a stubble-chinned, white guy with a potbelly; which was awesome. And the $0 cover charge made it even sweeter.

4.There’s a surfeit of strip clubs on Bourbon St. Initially I wasn’t sure if this was really a plus, but after some thought I decided to leave it this way. It’s not that I like strippers so much, but it’s oddly comforting to know that there’s such variety of skank within walking distance of the hotel. Maybe I’m just a perv.

5.Cheap alcohol. No real explanation is required.

6.Legalized gambling at Harrah’s. Again, I’m not a big gambler but it’s kinda cool to have access to a casino that’s not on a riverboat or located on a reservation in the middle of Arizona. Note that this mixed with #5 and #4 can be a potentially lethal combo.

I won’t describe in detail the garbage in the French Quarter, massive mosquitoes and consistently racist graffiti scrawled on the bathroom walls. And I know this was a very narrow assessment of such a big city, but I was only there for a few days. Anthony is there for at least a year. I’m clearly biased as his friend but I think he’ll be great at exploiting these bright spots and avoiding the dark ones. He gets a one-year break from the cold, the traffic and all things that make Chicago an occasionally tough place to love. And in one year he’ll appreciate the pizza that much more.

I Don’t Care who you Banged unless you’re Cash Warren

At this point in my life most of my friends are 25-35, my own age being in the middle. If you’re still a virgin by now and not a Steve Carrell character, it’s probably not going to happen. This is not an issue for most people I know. And boy do I know. Many tell me every dripping detail of each sexual encounter they have. I guess I should clarify:Most of my male friends tell me about every one. Let me clarify again: Most of my single male friends tell me about every one if it’s with someone who is socially valuable (ie:attractive).

My close friends could tell me that they had sex with a girl scout who sold them cookies and I wouldn’t blink. You guys are cool. It’s these extraneous people I’m talking about; people who have last names I can’t even pronounce correctly. And they’re telling me about the Swedish model that they got head from in South Beach last weekend in the men’s room of Borders. Did they mention they met on Myspace? There are a few reasons that this has become a pet peeve of mine.

Firstly there’s no way to verify the truth of anything you say. Who knows, you could be completely full of shit. In fact, I’m fairly confident that the over/under for bullshit sex stories I’ve heard is somewhere around 40%.

Second is the fact that sex and beauty are such personal, subjective qualities that your glowing appraisal of the events that transpired may be completely different than mine. It’s not like you’re describing a restaurant with really good cheesecake and I can just go there next week and order a piece to compare my dining experience with yours. Not only will I not sleep with the person in question (probably because I know they slept with you) I will probably never even meet her.

As a corollary to this reason; just because someone is dressed in a pilot’s uniform with a plastic, winged nametag doesn’t mean they know how to fly a jet. When you point out the young coed you somehow convinced to sleep with you last Friday, mere visual inspection gives me little insight as to her sexual abilities. Some of the most attractive women I was lucky enough to sleep with in my college days can’t hold a candle to the women I met as I approached 30 y/o. In other words I can see the cheesecake, but I have no clue if it’s really good or if it just looks good.

Another reason I react to this behavior with a punch to the groin is that most of the stories just aren’t interesting. Don’t get me wrong, if you bag Jessica Alba, pull off something like in Cruel Intentions or sleep with a close relative of one of my friends: I want every detail. I’d even send $3 in check or money order to Burbank, CA for a complete transcript of that shit. But most of what I hear is boring, uninspired and generally uncreative sex with partners who share personality traits that’s I’d use the same 3 adjectives to describe.

In closing, bragging to me about the multitude of “hot chicks” you’ve fucked will not make me think you’re cool. I’ll certainly never introduce you to any of my close female friends who you might dick over one day. If anything it makes you look like an amateur and a tool. A quote attributed to Joe Paterno as he addressed an inexperienced team before the championship game was, “Act like you’ve been there before”. Listen to Joe Pa, he’s been around the block a few times.

Final Feliz

Note:The following is a true story told to me by a close friend that I am stealing and slightly embellishing. The embellishment is kept to a minimum for the sake of accuracy but is necessary as I was NOT witness to the actual set of events described herein.

My friend had been working at a Chicago hospital and each day would observe the sign on the beauty parlor across the street that read: “Pedicures $10”. In Chicago that’s as good a deal as any. After one particularly shitty day at work she decided to give the place a try. On entering the small, poorly lit building she was greeted by a thin, Asian woman who brought her into a larger atrium where 5 other equally thin Asian woman awaited. Each woman was in their late 20’s or early 30’s, wearing very short skirts and mesh, see-through tops. This should’ve been a warning sign, but as my friend is also of Asian heritage I suppose there was some level of intra-demographic pity or at least cognitive dissonance.

She requested the pedicure and was taken to a poorly padded chair where the procedure commenced. Shortly after it began, my friend began to doubt if this woman had ever given a pedicure in her life. No tact, no technique, no nothing. Then a young man walked in and he was approached by one of the awaiting scantily clad women. “I’ll have the massage.” He declared without even being asked. He was escorted to the back of the establishment quickly. Then another young man came in requesting the same massage. And another followed him. All the meanwhile, my friend is getting the shittiest pedicure you can imagine. The first man returns to the front room and gives one of the Asian masseuses a wad of crumpled green bills from his pocket.

It was at this point that my friend stood up, assembled her personal belongings and promptly exited the Whorehouse, I mean beauty parlor. Talk about getting a facial. I better stop now before this gets worse.