Repost: What’s the Deal With Celebrity Crushes?

Have you ever swooned over a celebrity? Kept their photos on your walls or your desktop, or (God forbid) on your phone case? I knew someone who had a Chris Hemsworth iPhone case. It was the freakiest thing when they were texting across the table, and Thor himself was staring you down. Speaking of Thor, I have to admit that I have a slight crush on Loki himself, Mr. Tom Hiddleston. So perhaps you should take this post, originally from February 2014, with a grain of salt. Enjoy!

Originally posted February 15, 2014.

Summer camp is the scene of much stupidity, and preteen girls will argue, but no argument perplexed me as much as the one over who was ‘hotter’—Chad Michael Murray or Paul Walker.

It was the early 2000’s, we were in the spring of our youth, and were just discovering boys—my cabin mates more so than I. I had no idea who Paul Walker was, and had only seen Chad Michael Murray in Freaky Friday (not a high point of his career, or his looks). I didn’t think either was hot, so I sat on my bunk bed and kept my mouth shut.

At about the same time, Brad Pitt was in his ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ days, and my companions were equally goggle-eyed over him. “Disgusting,” I thought. “He’s old enough to be my father.”

I don’t understand celebrity crushes. I mean, what’s the point?

I’ve seen footage of the Beatles performing live, while all around young women are screaming and weeping at the very sight of them–not unlike the mania that surrounds any of Justin Bieber’s shows.

Do any of those young girls, screaming and flailing about in the crowd, think that Bieber will give them a second glance? Yet they’d defend his reputation to the death when he’s caught coming out of a brothel. That isn’t the kind of guy they should be with. Fortunately, they won’t be.

Then there was this episode of the Graham Norton Show, in which Chris Pine’s and Benedict Cumberbatch’s fan clubs compared who had travelled the farthest to see their idol. One chick had travelled from Hong Kong to England to see Benedict Cumberbatch. Hong Kong!

Why?

Did she just want to breath the same air as him? Gaze upon his face? What could she possibly hope for? I’m damn sure Mr. Cumberbatch didn’t think to himself ‘Oh, how touching. From Hong Kong? I must sweep her off her feet. She must be mine!’

I admit that, of all celebrities, the closest thing to a crush I have right now is on Benedict Cumberbatch. I think it may be the accent, because other than his fine blue eyes, I’m not much for his looks. He reminds me of my grandfather.

Not that celebrities don’t fascinate me. I watch the Graham Norton Show, read fashion magazines, and catch the Oscars. I’ve seen all the production videos for The Hobbit. I like to hear celebrities talk about their craft, see what they’re wearing, and hear their funny stories about filming. I enjoy seeing the people behind the characters.

But they’re just people—albeit successful, famous ones.

If I boil it down, what I find appealing about famous men is how they handle themselves in public—suave, gentlemanly. And which woman doesn’t like a man who knows how to behave? They’re well groomed, well dressed, and mannerly and that goes very, very far.

Ah!  That’s probably why people think Benedict Cumberbatch is sexy. He looks good in a suit.  There, solved that one.

But what if it’s all a façade? What if these men are just stuffed silk shirts, while inside they’re full of rot and decay? Time eventually tattles and tells us what they’re made of. Many lead lives worth admiring—excellence in their craft, philanthropy, a healthy family life. But others end up collapsing under the weight of their fame. Like a ketchup bottle, what is inside will come out when squeezed.

And that is a problem we all bear. After all, famous men aren’t gods, but mortals.

Just a thought.

What about you? Have you had a celebrity crush? 

How to Make People Talk

I am told I would make a good interrogator.

The other evening, midway through a long shift at the factory, I joined a conversation between coworkers including one, rather eccentric, Russian gentleman.  “I didn’t realize this, but so and so can really talk,” one said, “He came to my house to borrow something, and he wouldn’t shut up.”

“It’s often like that. You wouldn’t suspect [my trainee] of being talkative,” I interposed, “But if you ask him about cricket, he’ll talk for an hour.”

“Cricket?  Like the game?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I like finding out what people like to talk about and then getting them going on the subject. You can learn so much.”

“Thats just what the KGB do,” the Russian gentleman said.

I stared at him.

“They get you talking about what you’re interested in, and before you know it you’re telling them everything.”

“That’s not why I do it!” I said in great alarm, “I do it because I’m genuinely interested in them.”

“But that’s what they do,” he insisted, “They interviewed me once.  They’d seen my school files.  They knew I like the sciences so they tried to get me talking about that.” He then launched into a diatribe on Einstein’s theories of relativity, and I was ready to listen attentively, but a coworker interrupted with a question for me.  That was the end of that.

Half an hour later, my coworker and I were sitting in our process room with the tablet coater running and nothing to do but monitor it. I had asked my coworker, a recent immigrant from India, about his native languages and how the looked written.  He proceeded to provide examples.

I had a view of the windows.  As I nodded and asked questions, the Russian fellow walked past.  He stopped and grinned at me.  Then he made wringing motions with his hands.

I giggled, and then had to explain the whole thing to my coworker.

It isn’t a psychological technique for me.  I don’t know any better way of gaining trust and building rapport, especially with someone whom I don’t naturally relate to.  As a trainer, I need the trust of my trainee–both to accept my teaching, and also to like me.  We spend a lot of time together. We might as well be friends.

Dale Carnegie said, “So if you aspire to be a good conversationalist, be an attentive listener. To be interesting, be interested. Ask questions that other persons will enjoy answering. Encourage them to talk about themselves and their accomplishments.”

Sexiest Man Dead?

People Magazine recently crowned Chris Hemsworth the “Sexiest Man Alive.” I can’t deny that the magazine is hitting nearer the mark than usual.  But ‘sexiest alive’?  That’s a pretty sweeping statement.

He was alive last year, right?  What was wrong with him then?

Adam Levine was last years Sexiest Man Alive, and though he was rumoured to be dead, he is still alive and making generic pop music.  What’s wrong with him now?

In fact, if you peruse the list of Sexiest Men Alive from 1985 to 2013, you’ll see that darn near all of them are still alive.  What happened?  Did they gain weight?  Get a bad haircut?  Publicly announce that they hate kittens?  It doesn’t matter.  They’ve lost their mojo.  They’ve lost their crown.  What a demotion that must be.  One day you are the sexiest man in the world, the next… pfft.  You’re just a guy on the street.

Exactly how do they decide anyway?  Do they fill out questionnaires?  Have a swimsuit contest?  Compare bank statements?  I don’t follow their logic.

I propose a sensible solution to both quandaries.  Kill the old sexiest man and instate a new one.  Decide by good, old fashioned duel.  The winner takes the title, and the loser is the Sexiest Man Dead.  Imagine the spectacle, the press coverage, the wailing of women.

Oh wait!  I have a better plan. The newly crowned Sexiest Man Alive goes into hiding, and all eligible candidates have a year to hunt him down and assassinate him.  Winner takes all.

That sounds like the Hunger Games, you say?

We’ll call it… the Handsome Games.

 

 

Outrunning My Idiot Complex

I’m intimidated by my trainees.

They are educated in ways I hope to attain one day–a degree in physics (physics!), a degree in finance, and possibly degrees in business administration.  They’re well traveled, and they’re much older than I am.

But neither of them know how to coat pharmaceuticals, so they’re stuck with me.  I know coating, at least.  I know it quite well.

Calculus = Smart?

I’ve always desired to be the smartest one in the room.  When I was a preteen my Dad told me how much he’d struggled with trigonometry in school.  I resolved to master it.  In high school I did, indeed, become competent in low-level trigonometry and pushed myself to study the highest maths I could.

I can’t tell you how much time and tears I expended on the subject.  Why?  Because Calculus = smart.  I studied advanced physics.  Why? Physics = smart.

All the while, I was destined to be a… writer.  Woe is me.  If only I’d thought classic literature, poetry and writing classes were the thing for smart people to do!

Recreational IQ Testing

I’ve also been known to take online IQ tests for the fun of it.  I’ve been told they only count if they’re administered by a professional, but I still like to be reassured that my IQ is just a little higher than the average Jane’s.  I may in fact be ‘gifted’.

Never mind how many derelict genius’s there are out there.

I don’t know why intelligence matters so much to me.  I don’t know why I have to be “smart”.  Logically, I believe that IQ helps, but hard work trumps talent every time.  In fact, I have this coworker who I’m certain has a high IQ and is technically “smarter” than I am.  But I outwork him every day, and soon I’m going to pass him.  I don’t believe in saying “Oh, I’m just not smart.”

So why the heck do I have to be a genius?

The Book has a Silver Lining

You can’t choose your IQ, but fortunately there are no limits on the knowledge you may absorb.  So since I’m never smart enough, I keep on reading.  Oh yeah, I love to read, but mostly I’m outrunning my idiot status.  Must know more!  Must read classic novels.  Must read books on leadership.  Must read books on history.  Must read Plato.

I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to sit in a waiting room, reading Plato while everyone else is reading tabloids.  If that doesn’t swell my head, I don’t know what will.

If only they gave PhD’s to people who read enough books.

Close Enough?

Nevertheless, I am now a professor of pharmaceutical coating.  I’ve always wanted to be a professor of something.  I asked MY coach if she feels like an idiot the whole time she is coaching trainees.

“Pretty much,” she said.

Well, then I’m on the right track.

 

 

4 Ways to Know if you are in a Slump

The dictionary says that the word ‘slump’ originates from a word meaning ‘to fall into a bog.’  That’s wonderfully accurate.  The kind of slumps I’m thinking of are quicksand-ish things that suck you down and render you, the high-performance machine, into a tire-spinning mess.

They’re kind of dangerous if not diagnosed.  So here is how to know if you’ve fallen into a bog… and possibly my own tongue-in-cheek confession.

If You Refuse to Eat Your Veggies…

If you usually get your five to seven servings, but now you call those green flakes in your bag of sour cream ‘n onion good enough.  If you call the ketchup on your fries and the lettuce on your burger a salad.

You may be in a slump.

If You’re Watching Way Too Much TV…

If when you’re gunning for a goal you don’t give a rip about when Castle and Becket are getting married, but now it seems like a good reason to stay on the couch.  If you’re surfing YouTube at random–for hours.  If the kids who run the video store don’t need to ask for your phone number to process the rental, ’cause they know it already.

You may be in in a slump.

If You Hate Everyone…

If you’re usually Mr. Nice Guy, but now the world is full of idiots.  If even your Mom can’t get a smile out of you.  If you can’t stand to have someone breathing beside you because the noise drives you wild.

You may be in a slump.

If You Can’t Stand to be in the Same Room as Yourself…

If your internal dialogue consists of constant rants, diatribes, and arguments with yourself.  If you can’t muster the will to say no to yourself anymore.  If it’s Saturday and you’ve ticked nothing off your to-do list and you feel like a fat, lazy slob.

You’re not as bad as you think you are.

Look yourself in the eye and tell yourself “I am worthwhile,” because you are.  Your worth isn’t based on what you do.  You are a human, a unique soul, a special gift.  You are the image-bearer of God.  You might be going through a slump right now.  You may be full out depressed, and I’m sorry.  I wish I could make it better.

But you aren’t a waste of space.

I’ve watched so much TV, YouTube, and movies this week.  I ate two whole bags of chips this week (and I profess to eat low-sugar, low-carb).  I slacked off of blogging and tweeting.  I avoided my novel manuscript.  I was a grumpy bear to my coworkers and my family and ranted a great deal more than is seemly.  I’m sure I’ve been annoying as heck.  About the only things I did right were going running and showing up in church on Sunday morning.

But the clock is at three minutes past midnight.  It’s Tuesday morning, and I have twenty-four hours to try again.

The Week Without Running

This week I took my second sick day of the year, and the third of my lifetime.  Yes, I consider myself to be indestructible, and when I do get sick I go to work anyway.

Last Saturday I woke up with burning lungs, like the feeling you get after you’ve inhaled caustic cleaner (been there, done that).  “No!” I said, “I can’t be sick.  I have a 5K.”  Cue browsing articles on ‘should you run while sick,’ of which there was no unanimous conclusion.  So, I said ‘to heck with it,’ went to the drugstore and bought the highest-powered lozenges I could find.  Back in the car, I popped one in my mouth.

My tongue went numb.

“What the heck is in these things?”  I flipped over the box.  Hmm, Benzocaine.  Isn’t that what they use to freeze your mouth at the dentist?

Well, you don’t need to feel your tongue to run.  So off I went to the race.

I almost burned out in the last mile.  My lungs hurt so bad, and I had to force my oxygen-deprived muscles to keep firing.  My time was lackluster, but I made it.

Monday, I went running again.  Tuesday I was still sick, and on Wednesday I was dragging myself around work like a zombie.  I decided to call it a day and go to the walk-in clinic.  Chest X-rays and EKG’s and blood work couldn’t tell the doctor what was wrong with me.  “You have a virus,” he said.

I could have told myself that.  At least I wasn’t dying.  I’d already been imagining the end of my running ‘career’ because I had scarring of the lungs, or a hole in my heart, or something (just making up stuff, here).

So this week has been one of extra sleep, extra writing, and extra Harry Potter watching.  After much self-lecturing, I’ve decided I’m sick.  No speed-work midweek.  No long run on the weekend.  I’m getting antsy.  Based on the way my chest feels right now, I might collapse midway.  But it’s autumn in Manitoba, and that means six months of winter are almost here, and if I don’t enjoy the snow-free roads now, I won’t get to!

Argh.

Someone tie me down, or hide my sneakers.

3 Videos to Lighten up your Tuesday

I don’t feel like being serious today.  I am being serious.  But I don’t feel like it.

Face it, it’s been a long week and it’s only Tuesday.  I’m in the thick of publishing my first novel, We are the Living, and this is only one tiny problem in the sea of troubles this world is in.  I’m not here to discount those.  I’m just hoping to give you fifteen minutes of relief.  Here are three videos that give me the giggles.

1. Thunderstruck, Redneck Edition.

Admit it, you’ve always wondered what AC/DC would sound like with banjos.

2. I’m My Own Grandpa

And speaking of rednecks… one of the most convoluted family wreaths… er, trees you’ve ever seen.  This song has entertained my family for hours.

3. Seth MacFarlane does the ‘Taken’ phone call as Kermit the Frog

“I don’t have any money, but what I do have are a specific set of skills…”  This makes me giggle like a maniac every time!  Kermit starts around 5 min, but the first half includes other voices, including Tom Cruise imitating Donald Duck.

And there you go.  I hope this gladdened your heart.  I’m always looking for hilarious YouTube videos.  If you have ideas for me, please comment.  Keep them clean please!

Have a wonderful day.

Must We All Grow Up to be Humbugs? 5 Fun Things Challenge Wrap-Up.

Will I eventually become a boring adult?

I fear it is inevitable.

You know the ones.  They spend 80% of their lives on their butts.  The other 20% is spent shopping or mowing their front lawn.  They go to work via the Tim Horton’s drive through, and then come home through the same coffee-filled avenue.  They spend the evening in front of the TV, or on better days, at their son’s hockey game.  They’d never lift a finger to play a game.  They’d rather die than run.

They probably would die if they tried to run.

They talk about their deteriorating health and bash their bosses, and they think Tim Horton’s makes good coffee because they haven’t had anything else in two years.

I’m painting with a brush as wide as a football field.  I know.  But that is who I fear becoming.

When I was a kid, it bewildered me why the adults I knew only wanted to sit around and visit with each other.  Why would they never, ever participate in the fun game that we had going?  I realize now that adults are tired folk.  And why not?  Many work a minimum of forty hours a week and then come home, cook dinner, and do laundry.  Most of them eat absolute garbage, and don’t have time to exercise, and can’t sleep because they’ve had too much Tim Horton’s.  They spend every evening taxiing their kids to soccer and ballet and piano lessons.  I know this is because they want to give their kids the best shot at life, but I fear they’re living their lives vicariously through their kids because they gave up on their dreams long ago.

If that’s what it means to grow up, I don’t want to do it.

I’ve come to the end of my 5 Fun Things Challenge.  I ended the challenge on an 11 hour work day, which admittedly makes fun a little more difficult.  It’s fitting.  Most of my days are work days, so I need to learn to make them fun.  I’m a grown-up now.

Day 3, Monday:

I went to Folklorama and visited the Chilean pavilion.  I enjoyed lively music, sublime singing, and dancing that was a mix of courtly and all-out love for life.  The empanadas and drinks were good too. 🙂

Day 4, Tuesday:

I had to wear a respirator to spray caustic cleaner, so I breathed like Darth Vader.  Disclaimer: laughing under a half-mask respirator may break the seal.

I caught a ride on a pallet as it went by.  Then I got scared and jumped off.

I watched this video and giggled like a maniac in McDonalds.  If you don’t have time to watch the whole thing, skip to about 5 minutes in and see Seth McFarlane do Liam Neeson’s Taken phone call in Kermit the Frog’s voice!

To sum up the experience…

Why end now?  Tomorrow I’m going to try to make it a fun day.  I know that tomorrow will have just as many adult experiences–a work day, important business stuff, cooking dinner, and going for a run.  But I’m grown-up, not dead.

And I’ve got a dream, and thus, a lot to live for.  Why not have fun–BE fun while doing it?

5 Fun Things Challenge

Why do people keep telling me to have fun?  Why does the idea of ‘rest’ keep coming up?

I think God is trying to tell me something.  Be it Kristen Lamb’s fabulous article “The War on Fun” or LIFE Leadership’s The Serious Power of Fun (a whole book to persuade me to have more fun), and even workaholic UFC fighter, Georges St. Pierre’s book are telling me to rest more and, for the love of Pete, have more fun!

My coworker saw me on my run last night and this morning she commented on my self discipline.  I said I might just be a chronic overachiever, which is my term for someone who couldn’t lighten up if they tried.

I theorize that if I took more time to rest (yes, even nap) and do fun things, I would have fewer slumps.

So, I propose a challenge.  I like challenges.

For five days, starting tomorrow, I must do one thing purely for enjoyment.  5 days, 5 fun things.

As a warmup exercise I parked Strawberry, my Toyota Yaris, beside a smart car so that Strawberry could feel big.  That gave me a giggle.

Does anyone have suggestions?  Anyone want to join me?

C’mon.  It’ll be fun!

Now, I realize that on the cover of this blog I am laughing.  Yes, I do have fun.  I flatter myself to be a fun person.  But in this case my cousin was telling me a funny story so I would laugh while my sister took the picture.

 

3 Pet Peeves About Romance Novels

Or Romantic Comedies, for that matter…

This Sunday, I watched a romantic comedy because the TV was on and I was too lazy to get off the couch and turn it off. Hugh Grant starred as a bumbling art auctioneer who fell in love with the daughter of a mob kingpin. Before I knew it, people were staging a wedding and faking their deaths, and I was thanking God that life isn’t like romantic comedies.

When I was a teenager I’d haul romances out of the library by the stack. Now I’d rather read the Encyclopedia Britannica or Crime and Punishment (which is both a crime and a punishment). The movie got me thinking: what about romance novels ticks me off the most?

1. Perfection Beyond that of Mortals

Not ALL of us can fall in love with a ripped highlander who has flowing blond hair, or a gorgeous billionaire businessman, or a cowboy with abs that roll like the prairies. Where is the hero who lives in his mom’s basement and plays four hours of video games every day (in the real world you can hardly move without meeting one of those)? How about the guy who’s working his butt off to pay off his student loan? And the only man with an average face and a slight potbelly is the hero’s best friend.

Not ALL of us ladies have a cataract of black curls, lips like spun scarlet silk (Listen to me. I’ll make a romance novelist yet) and work as marketing executives, fashion designers and fitness trainers. When will they write romances with women who drive beater cars, waitress on weekends to pay the bills, and wear Wal-Mart jeans? What about a girl who carries extra pounds with grace and doesn’t let her weight stop her from looking gorgeous?

Sidebar: I’ve yet to see a romance novel with a hipster man on the cover. Have you?  

2. The Ultimate Betrayal

You know it’s coming. The highlander is from the wrong clan, a sworn enemy. The billionaire is caught with another woman. The cowboy succumbs to the scars of his past and pushes his cowgirl away.

Will the heroine give her man the benefit of the doubt?

HECK NO!

Will they talk it out like mature human beings? Will they communicate so that the billionaire can explain that he was just taking his sister out to lunch, and they hadn’t seen each other in weeks so he was giving her a hug?

That would be too easy.

For all their professions of true love, trust isn’t a priority in romance novels or movies. “Love” will conquer the two hundred lies they’ve told each other. Love will magically make their clan rivalries disappear. True love conquers all.

Well, yes. But true love means hard work, baby. To love someone means to accept their big bad flaws and serve them and edify them even when you’re pretty sure you hate them. Storming off stage and plotting crazy revenge doesn’t come in to play.

3. The Sex

I’ve got to say it. I hate, HATE the sex scenes. Call me a prude if you will. I read mostly Christian fiction as a youngster, but I stumbled upon my first mainstream romance novel when I was young—eleven or twelve, I think. It didn’t take long for me to find the obligatory steamy scene. I can still remember it in vivid detail.

If I’d been an adult, would it have been better?

I don’t want my real, human, lover to have to compete with a hundred fictional highlanders, billionaires and cowboys. I’m no expert, but wise people have told me that, like anything else, intimacy takes work. It’s not mind-blowing the first time. But that’s not what the romance novel will teach you.

Those scenes feed our selfish desires and fantasies.  They’re porn in written form.

“Oh, but it advances the plot.”  Okay, I’ll give you that.  Generally I’ll accept small amounts of sexual content because they are necessary to the plot.

But play by play in meticulous detail?  Absolutely unnecessary!  Entire books devoted to ‘erotica’?  I don’t see how any good can come from that.

Brainwashing. Ack!

The rational mind knows the difference between fiction and fact, but the subconscious believes what it sees or projects upon the screen of the imagination. Though I thought they were just ‘harmless entertainment,’ the stacks of romances changed how I thought of love, myself, and men–and not for the better. In spite of years of reading and studying healthy relationships, I still haven’t expunged them from my brain.

I Still Love Romance

Ultimately, what makes me angry about these romance novels is the ‘something for nothing’ mentality. They give the idea that love is an accident. You ‘fall’ in love, and bam! Fireworks! Happily ever after!

It would be hypocritical to say that I hate romance.  On the contrary.  I can’t write a story without it.  But I’ve tried to build two things into my stories: sacrifice and uncertainty. What begins in attraction progresses to shared experiences, setting aside pride, conquering fears, and putting the other person above their own comfort. There is no perfect circumstance. Life is not fair, and at the end of the story, the characters are not riding off into the sunset. They’re standing side by side, staring into the face of the next storm.

I’ve got no judgement for you if you love romance novels.  I believe humans (ladies, especially) are hardwired to enjoy a good love story.  Just ask yourself.  Is this story really good?