Monday, August 21, 2006
If twenty-five years of existence has confirmed something for me then this is it: I look good, but I’m not good-looking.
The feeble-minded might wonder how that’s possible, to look good but not be good-looking. Aren’t the two the same, they’ll wonder, scratching their heads with confusion. Allow me to explain the difference between the two, sharing one recent example which I hope illustrates my point.
Yesterday morning, I went to a man’s home to test drive a 2005 Toyota Camry, a marvel of Japanese engineering and proof that Asians do have some value besides making white people look good. The car was silver, sleek, perfectly-maintained, and aesthetically pleasing, so of course, the seller wanted much more than it’s actually worth and I drove away in the same crappy vehicle I arrived in. Here’s how it all went down.
I knocked on the guy’s door and he came out, shook my hand, and started showing me the car, running through the various features of the model which I was already well aware of since I did my research and have a flawless memory. Then he asked if I wanted to take it for a drive. “Sure,” I said, and he gave me the keys before turning to go back in the house.
“Don’t you want to come with me?” I asked.
He turned around. “No, you look like a good kid. I trust you.” And then he walked away, leaving me alone with his keys and car, worth $17,800 according to his bluebook, which, by the way, was terribly inaccurate.
If I had any balls, I would have driven away in the car, crossed the Mexican border sometime this evening, and eventually gotten it taken from me at gunpoint in a Tijuana gas station, along with my wallet, clothing, and rectal virginity. But I don’t have any balls, so I drove the car around the neighborhood for a few minutes, trying to look as cool as possible, before parking it carefully in his driveway, knocking on the door again, returning the keys, telling him the price was too high, and driving back home in my powder blue granny car.
Now, why would a man trust me, a complete stranger, to take his car on a joyride without even finding out my last name or insisting on some sort of collateral? Here’s the answer. Because I, in his words, “look like a good kid.” I hear that a lot, and it’s worked out to my advantage several times, but it’s also the reason why I can’t approach strange women anywhere besides the local singles ward, the rare place where looking like a “good kid” is actually beneficial.
Another example? A few years ago, while wandering my neighborhood at one in the morning, I was apprehended by a police officer looking for a burglary suspect. I was innocent of course, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the cop didn’t know that. He pulled his gun and ordered me to the pavement. Since my description matched the guy they were looking for, he called in for backup and I waited with my hands on my head, sitting on the sidewalk, at gunpoint. He carefully looked me over under the brightness of his flashlight. After a few minutes, we started talking. It didn’t take long for him to realize that I wasn’t the burglar. He put the gun away, took my name and address, and told me to go home. The reason? “You look like a decent kid.” Yes, I do.
How could this possibly be detrimental? The physically attractive members of the opposite sex seem to be interested in “bad boys,” something I’ve never understood. What’s attractive about a guy who drives a bullet bike, wears shredded jeans, has shaggy hair, ear piercings, tattoos and a patchy goatee, chews tobacco, and treats you bad? There’s obviously something women like about it, since I never see a bullet bike without a hot chick on the back, clinging tightly to the driver who probably works construction somewhere and donates plasma three times a week so he can afford his precious bike. It must be the attitude or the lifestyle they’re attracted to, since it can’t be the outrageously foul language, bad grammar, and lack of any discernable talent. This is not jealousy speaking, since I don’t covet a single tenet of the bad boy lifestyle, except maybe the company of surgically-enhanced blondes. But I'm sick of looking so darn good. See, I just said darn. Just like any good boy would.
The feeble-minded might wonder how that’s possible, to look good but not be good-looking. Aren’t the two the same, they’ll wonder, scratching their heads with confusion. Allow me to explain the difference between the two, sharing one recent example which I hope illustrates my point.
Yesterday morning, I went to a man’s home to test drive a 2005 Toyota Camry, a marvel of Japanese engineering and proof that Asians do have some value besides making white people look good. The car was silver, sleek, perfectly-maintained, and aesthetically pleasing, so of course, the seller wanted much more than it’s actually worth and I drove away in the same crappy vehicle I arrived in. Here’s how it all went down.
I knocked on the guy’s door and he came out, shook my hand, and started showing me the car, running through the various features of the model which I was already well aware of since I did my research and have a flawless memory. Then he asked if I wanted to take it for a drive. “Sure,” I said, and he gave me the keys before turning to go back in the house.
“Don’t you want to come with me?” I asked.
He turned around. “No, you look like a good kid. I trust you.” And then he walked away, leaving me alone with his keys and car, worth $17,800 according to his bluebook, which, by the way, was terribly inaccurate.
If I had any balls, I would have driven away in the car, crossed the Mexican border sometime this evening, and eventually gotten it taken from me at gunpoint in a Tijuana gas station, along with my wallet, clothing, and rectal virginity. But I don’t have any balls, so I drove the car around the neighborhood for a few minutes, trying to look as cool as possible, before parking it carefully in his driveway, knocking on the door again, returning the keys, telling him the price was too high, and driving back home in my powder blue granny car.
Now, why would a man trust me, a complete stranger, to take his car on a joyride without even finding out my last name or insisting on some sort of collateral? Here’s the answer. Because I, in his words, “look like a good kid.” I hear that a lot, and it’s worked out to my advantage several times, but it’s also the reason why I can’t approach strange women anywhere besides the local singles ward, the rare place where looking like a “good kid” is actually beneficial.
Another example? A few years ago, while wandering my neighborhood at one in the morning, I was apprehended by a police officer looking for a burglary suspect. I was innocent of course, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the cop didn’t know that. He pulled his gun and ordered me to the pavement. Since my description matched the guy they were looking for, he called in for backup and I waited with my hands on my head, sitting on the sidewalk, at gunpoint. He carefully looked me over under the brightness of his flashlight. After a few minutes, we started talking. It didn’t take long for him to realize that I wasn’t the burglar. He put the gun away, took my name and address, and told me to go home. The reason? “You look like a decent kid.” Yes, I do.
How could this possibly be detrimental? The physically attractive members of the opposite sex seem to be interested in “bad boys,” something I’ve never understood. What’s attractive about a guy who drives a bullet bike, wears shredded jeans, has shaggy hair, ear piercings, tattoos and a patchy goatee, chews tobacco, and treats you bad? There’s obviously something women like about it, since I never see a bullet bike without a hot chick on the back, clinging tightly to the driver who probably works construction somewhere and donates plasma three times a week so he can afford his precious bike. It must be the attitude or the lifestyle they’re attracted to, since it can’t be the outrageously foul language, bad grammar, and lack of any discernable talent. This is not jealousy speaking, since I don’t covet a single tenet of the bad boy lifestyle, except maybe the company of surgically-enhanced blondes. But I'm sick of looking so darn good. See, I just said darn. Just like any good boy would.
# posted by RBW @ 10:13 AM 
