Dharma Bum

by Jaysen Buterin

Irish diplomacy - "The art of telling a man to go to hell so that he looks forward to making the journey."

In case I've fooled some of you into believing that I have any inkling as to what it is I'm doing here with this column, well I offer my apologies, because I really don't know how all this happened. I never claimed to be a writer, I'm really not that smart, I have no grandiose plans to gain throngs of adulatory fans with the sagacious prolificacy that emanates from the very brilliance that is my train of thought.

While it seems the idea of a column is generally to stick within a certain thematic spectrum, I usually have no bloody idea what I'm going to write about until one or two in the morning the day after my deadline. I've just been fortunate enough to have this monthly soapbox and at least one idea every 30 days to fill it.

You see superfriends, it all boils down to this simple fact, I really have no idea what I'm talking about, I've never claimed to. I embrace with Steve Perry-like open arms that if all I know is all I know, then I don't know a damn thing. Around the time that I think I begin to gain a little wisdom I usually do something dumb enough to bring me back down if I'm by myself, or if I'm with my dearest Kindal, I'll get "the look." You know "the look," I don't have to explain it to you, but I will. It's that look that makes me feel like I'm wearing a big scarlet "I" on my forehead for idiot. That beatific visage of hers, the most pulchritudinous of countenances, with the regarding look of utter blankness as she tries to comprehend whatever it is I'm doing or saying that's earning me the look in the first place.

The look has been chronicled as one of the most powerful utilizations of the ubiquitous force known as feminine wiles. Most of the great Western literature is predicated upon either having received the look, or in recalcitrant fear of receiving the look once she reads what you spent so long laboriously slaving away at writing. The look has weaved its tangled web into everything from pedagogy to politics, from art to academentia, from

Every man fears the look at one point or another, for the look, like those most charming of creatures that produce it, can be easily interpreted a thousand different ways and it's up to us, despite our badges of idiocy worn proudly with honor, to interpret all in one instant: the exact nature and sentiment of the look; the impetus for the look having to be brought forth in the first place; the most gratuitous and expedient way for us to make amends for having to get the look; and our own often misguided addendum of "I wonder why she's looking at me like that? She must really love me, she must want me to do this again."

And so the cycle repeats itself in perpetual surrealism. The look will outlast all conceivable reality so that whatever ontological, metaphysical or preternatural entity that decides that we as a race have screwed up enough and proceeds to wipe the slate clean and start over like the big daddy of all etch-a-sketches, will have to do so under the unbearable scrutiny of receiving the look from the smarter, wiser and more intuitive ontological, metaphysical, or preternatural entity, which will more than likely be feminine oriented because the feminine perspective is more insightful than its male counterpart, to whom destroying something to get it to go away and start over, would probably seem like a good idea.

As much as it may shock you boys and girls, even I myself get the look, usually on a daily basis, from my beloved who has no reservations about letting me have it at any given instance. For example:

Me: Honey, honey, I have found the perfect encapsulation of our union as we search for out first apartment together! Her: And what would that be? Me: They have the Bat Signal at the comic book shop, and holy geez, we have to have it for apartment! Can we please? Her: Why would we want the Bat Signal for our apartment? Me: Because it's the Bat Signal! Her: [The blank, unresponsive, "You don't get to touch anything in the apartment outside of your man room" look.]

Or for instance:

Me: I really need to get another tattoo. Her: You just got one a week ago. Me: And your point is? Her: [The "As soon as we move in together I'm taking his wallet and calling the tattoo studios to have him banned" look.] Followed subsequently by: Her: And what are you going to do when you run out of room and you're all covered in tattoos hmmm? Me: Well, that's what we'll have kids for, right? Followed subsequently by every lad in the coffeehouse letting out a collective "DOH" in sympathetic response to me being a silly sod. Her: [The "He is never going to be left unattended with any child of mine. I wonder how much two babysitters will cost...remember to call the tattoo studios and have him banned" look.]

In my defense, I was really just being jocular, I mean, I'd wait until they were at least 9 or 10, unless they really wanted a tattoo of course. Besides I would never do that anyway because I know the inevitable transformation my beloved Kindal will make when we have our own children. She already gives me the look now and is usually cognizant before I ever am, if what I'm about to do or say is really stupid or not, even if she's not in the room. Just imagine how powerful she's going to be when she gains the divine and omnipotent omniscience that motherhood elucidates. My god, she'll be unstoppable. It's already bad enough that my mum will instantly look up from whatever she's doing, wherever she is and automatically know the second the tattoo needle hits my skin, at least she's 12 hours away before I get the look. Don't even get me started on the extensively limitless gamut of Mum "looks." And in case anyone is keeping tabs, I'm up to 26 now with the most recent addition being one of Salvador Dali's melting clocks from "Persistence of Memory" on my left wrist as a watch. Hey it's not my fault, I'm the victim here. I'll only get another one or ten and then I'm done...I promise Mama.

So that, my dear superfriends, is that. The tattoos will accumulate, the looks will perpetuate, I will keep doing stupid things, and through all of it, she still loves me. Blessed be. So at this point I shall take my leave of you - and as OFF! is planning a little summer sabbatical - I shall miss you. But just think of all the fun stories and adventures (and tattoos) I can write about when we get back. "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" by Jaysen Buterin. I would like to give big-ups and mad love to DJ Josh Lee who is graduating this semester and to the rest of my homies in Cell Block 6...I mean Cape Girardeau - sorry, some silly sod just drove by playing Kid Rock...who says we're easily influenced by the media? So boys and girls, as the sun sets slowly in the West, I bid you a fond and tattooed farewell, where I can already feel the look I'm going to get for this.