Herculodge

Muganda, the Man-Child

The Turkish word, muganda, is the name for the man-child. He is in his thirties or forties and still nestled in some musty room in the back of his parents’ home. It is clear that he has reached a point where he will never grow up, hold a full-time job or have a steady girlfriend. He hangs out with like-minded male friends. They dress similarly. A favorite outfit is Adidas workout sweats with the top’s zipper lowered to the naval to reveal an unsightly thicket of chest and stomach hair. There is the obligatory gold chain necklace and gaudy rings.

Muganda wears hole-ridden loafers with no socks and is too lazy to insert his feet all the way inside the loafer. As a result, his heel crushes the top of the shoe and he cannot walk properly but rather must shuffle around, which causes an annoying, distinctive noise that, as a small consolation, at least warns people of his approach.

As to be expected, Muganda has a shaggy-haired, stale-breath, just-woke-up-out-of-bed aspect about him. He and his buddies hang out in bars and restaurants where they ogle at the young ladies. With bulging eyes and wagging tongues, they gesture obscenely as attractive women pass them by and they go through life having never figured out that their rude antics make them repellent.

Muganda also likes to play sports but not with people his own age who might present a formidable challenge. Instead, he will stumble upon a group of nine-year-old boys playing soccer or basketball and he’ll impose himself into the game, cheating, using his bigger size as an unfair advantage, and enjoying the thrill of triumphing over small children whose game has been ruined by this narcissistic bully.

Of course, America boasts its own version of Muganda.  In our country, he is more likely to be called a SLAM, the acronym for still lives at mom’s. You’ll see this forty-something specimen, stringy-haired and somewhat burly from a steady diet of turkey pot pies and Pop Tarts,  riding an old bike late at night. Usually, he’s running an errand for his mother, going to the liquor store to buy her gin and tonic. There are variations of the Muganda or SLAM, depending on what part of the country he resides.

For example, in huge swaths of America, there is the Muganda who has a particular fondness for large trucks. These are forty-thousand-dollar raised four-by-fours with tractor wheels and flags and poles dangling so high above them that they scrape the telephone wires.  To afford the payments on these bellicose monster trucks, these Mugandas must still live with their parents.

I saw one such Muganda one afternoon while pumping up for gas at an AM/PM in Bakersfield. A nearby truck was especially obnoxious because it was equipped with a novelty horn, the kind that makes dozens of farm animal calls—cows, roosters, pigs, goats.  The truck's owner, a sure Muganda, was standing next to me while pumping fuel into his truck and flirting with a pair of girls whom he saw inside the mart as they swirled chocolate fudge sauce on their frozen yogurt.

This Muganda tried to make eye contact with the girls and tooted his rooster horn. When they didn’t look up, he switched to a pig, then a howling wolf. He went through the entire gamut, playing every farm animal he had, but without winning the favor of the two young women. Frustrated, he drove off, his truck making a belligerent growl, the rage of a man imprisoned by his emotional retardation.

For Many Men, Marriage Is the Final Bastion of the Scoundrel

There is a certain type of roguish gentleman who, after many years of indulging in his tom cat appetites, finally decides to get married. His reason is simple: He has pissed off just about every woman on the planet and he must find refuge by marrying the only lady whom has not yet thoroughly alienated—his current girlfriend.

According to sports writer Rick Reilly, baseball slugger Barry Bonds’ short-lived reality show was a disgrace in part because for Reilly the reality show is “the last bastion of the scoundrel.” Likewise, for many men who have offended over 99% of the female race with their pestilent existence, marriage is the last sanctuary for the shit head who has stepped on so many women’s toes that he is, understandably, a marked man. Therefore, these men aren’t so much getting married as much as they are enlisting in a “witness protection program.” They are after all despised and targeted by their past female enemies for all their lies and betrayals and running out of allies they see that marriage makes a good cover as they try to blend in with mainstream society and take on a role that is antithetical to their single days as lying, predatory scoundrels.

Additionally, marriage’s well-known neutering effect on over-sexed single males makes these men less threatening and contributes, they hope, to pacifying the scorn of their former lovers.

The analogy between marriage and a witness protection program is further developed when we see that for many men marriage is their final stab at earning public respectability because they are, as married men, proclaiming to the world that they have voluntarily shackled themselves with the chains of domesticity in order that they may be spared greater punishments, the bulk of which will be exacted upon by the women whom they used and lied to for so many years.

Because it is assumed that their wives will keep them in check, their wives become, in a way, equivalent to the ankle bracelet transmitters worn by parolees who are only allowed to travel within certain parameters.  Marriage anchors man close to the home and, combined with the wife’s reliable issuing of house chores and other domestic duties, the shackled man is rendered safely tethered to his “home base” where his wife can observe him sharply to make sure he doesn’t backslide into the abhorrent behavior of his past single life.

Indeed, it is assumed that the woman married this scoundrel on the condition that he disavow his despicable past behavior and aspire to be Reformed Man.  The wife therefore in effect becomes a sort of probation officer who closely monitors all of her husband’s activities, keeping a close look at signs of recidivism—hoarding pizza under the bed, refusing to wear underwear, making surreptitious cell phone calls to former girlfriends who work as “professional dancers” by the airport.

Looking at the new strictures that Reformed Man must adhere to, it is apparent that marriage is in many ways a probationary compound for the man who is trying to turn from his reckless past and that marriage contains all the necessary constraints, which will, hopefully, protect the shit head from his past female enemies, prevent him from straying too far from the home, and monitor his post-marital behavior to insure that he is no longer the anti-social predatory single beast that was once so damaging to society.

Many men will see the above analysis of marriage as proof that their fear of marriage as a prison was right all along but what they should learn from the analogy between marriage and prison is that they are more productive, more socialized, more softened around his hard edges, and more protected, both from the outside world and from themselves by being shackled to their domestic duties. With these improvements in their lives, they have actually, within limits, attained a freedom they could never find in single life.

McLaren Vale Kangarilla Road 2005 Shiraz Is a Winner

Yesterday at Costco I purchased the Kangarilla Road 2005 Shiraz, which usually sells in the low $21 range, for about $14. After breathing for a half hour, the Kangarilla proved to be a winner--an explosion of black cherries, blackberries, and black licorice, complex, supple. Highly recommended.

Do You Suffer from iPod Playlist Anxieties?

Hipsters and their wannabe counterparts have started a new trend to stir the anxieties of the insecure, needy, and paranoid--iPod playlist parties. A giant salad bowl is passed around as participants put in their iPods. The host or hostess then mixes up the iPods and guests randomly pick an iPod and listen to the others' playlists. If the listener is impressed, the playlist-creator is rewarded with being deemed cool and is considered hot dating material.

This matter of being judged and having one's identity defined on how cool or not one's playlist may or not be has spawned a new industry--playlist consultants who help wannabe hipsters stay up to date on music trends and insure that their clients always appear to be "in-the-know." These iPod posers don't listen to music they truly like; rather, they create playlists that might impress others at these giant salad bowl extravaganzas.

I heard one report of a man who was ridiculed and mocked at work because it was discovered he had the Eagles Greatest Hits on his iPod, a selection that rendered him hopelessly square. Now he can't walk past the water cooler without hearing someone sing, "The New Kid in Town." He tried to make amends by erasing the Eagles from his iPod and only featuring music that he has deemed would increase his social standing but to no avail. His co-workers still call him the "Desperado."

After 3 Weeks, My Kaito 2100 Goes on the Fritz

Now sold as the C.Crane CSW for $139, the Kaito 2100 (purchased at Universal Radio for $99), has gone bad on me. This morning there was no problem as I ate breakfast. But at lunch, I turned on the Kaito 2100 and the speaker sound was seriously compromised--warbled, muddy, muted. I fiddled with the buttons. Nothing happened. I worried that the speaker was blown out, but this didn't make sense because I never pushed the volume at high levels. I did a headphone check and the same abysmal muddy sound was evident.

Luckily, I still have the original packing box with the packing slip. I e-mailed Universal Radio, but don't know when I'll hear from them. I'll probably call them on Monday and see if I can exchange the now discontinued Kaito for the aforementioned CSW. The bummer is that I'll have to cough up an extra 40 dollars for the replacement.

I'll keep you posted.

The Tecsun BCL-4000 Boom Box

Imagine a radio with all the excitement of the Grundig Satellit 750,  but bigger and with a more exciting sound system. Tecsun is making such a radio. This huge dual speaker shortwave radio updates the Tecsun/Eton/Grundig S350. Check out this photo of the Tecsun BCL-4000. A close-up reveals an analog tuning dial, but notice the 5 buttons. Are those presets buttons? Will this radio become available? I don't know, but I do know I want the BCL-4000 even more than I want the Satellit 750. Photo Source is VK5VKA's Receiver and Radio Scanner News.

 

I'm 3 for 3 with My iPod Speaker Systems

Since I bought my 40 gig iPod in March of 2005, I've bought 3 iPod speaker systems. I've been lucky so far. I can give all of them the highest recommendation:

Number 1: I bought a first generation model of the JBL On Stage over 3 years ago for my bedside. The cost was $120 or $130. Now the new generation model is cheaper, about $90. I think the intense competition is keeping the prices down. The thing is as small as a donut and produces crisp, full, bright sound. It surprises me how well this tiny system can fill my living room, bedroom, or kitchen. The dock recharges the iPod automatically. I've never had any problems. I'd buy one again.

Number 2: I bought a used Altec Lansing inMotion iM600 for about $40. This is an incredible deal. The thing retails for about $120. My used one came as good as new. The sound is similar to the JBL On Stage. It's a bit bigger. I think the radio is a waste of time. The AM/FM tuner works well below average. But who cares? I never use the radio. (If you want a real radio, do yourself a favor and get a  C.Crane CSW.) I've never had any problems with the iM600. Between the On Stage and the inMotion600, I think the On Stage is a better deal in a smaller package without the superfluous radio.

Number 3: I bought a new JBL Radial in white for $99. The thing towers a good 12" high and looks like a piece of architecture. The sound, as expected, is fuller and louder than the smaller On Stage. I use it in the living room. 

To be tested soon: I just bought a refurbished Griffin Technology 1200 Amplifi for $85 with free shipping. I like the look of this system better than the ones I currently own. If it sounds as good as all the raving reviews I read during my research, I'll probably take the Radial to work office and use the Amplifi in the living room. I'm confident it will sound good but only time will tell.

Let's Hope the Much-Anticipated Grundig Satellit 750 Doesn't Have a "Dull" Sound

One of the more anticipated radios I've heard about in recent years, the Grundig Satellit 750 is a very attractive package with a rotating AM antenna that swirls above the radio like a satellite dish. One concern is sound. As Mike Walsh reports: "I was in touch with someone close to the designers of the S-2000, as the prototype for the Satellit 750 was called, last August. He wrote that the sound was 'dull' and they were working to improve that."

I've never been comforted by reports of last-ditch efforts to improve a product. But we'll just have to wait and see. It's reported that the 750 will be on sale in mid June.

The Fate of a Paul McCartney Look-Alike

I used to know a Bakersfield man, a Paul McCartney look-alike, who was fated to live in the shadow of the great celebrity. He had the same nose, mouth, chin, ruddy jowls, sad-shaped eyes, and arched brows. He has the same hair, which he kept groomed the way McCartney did in the 1970s and 1980s, long in the back and feathered in the front.

However, Bakersfield McCartney was a tad shorter, stockier, and most noticeably had acne scars peppered on his cheeks. I first noticed him “trolling” himself at clubs, standing by himself in his black sport jacket, his “Beatles jacket,” and patiently waiting for an attractive woman to approach him and “break the ice” by commenting on how much he looked like Paul McCartney, as thousands of past successes had taught him. At clubs he would wear a stupid half-grin since his brain didn’t really have to be active in any sense as he simply used his resemblance as bait. The whole pick-up sequence must have been a rote, perfunctory affair.

Perhaps his biggest challenge was trying to show that his heart hadn’t become too calloused by this routine and that the woman fawning all over him was one of a few to make the brilliantly observant connection between him and the real Paul McCartney.

I later saw Bakersfield McCartney at my health club, where he had the same dumb half-grin on his face. His expression betrayed a certain expectancy, as if he knew it was only a matter of minutes before an attractive woman approached him and commented on his celebrity resemblance, a precursor to greater pleasures ahead.

Not surprisingly, I later found out that Bakersfield McCartney was a salesman—of cars and cell phones mostly—and that his resemblance worked to his advantage in the sales arena. All he had to do when people gawked over his resemblance to the great Beatles legend was act coy and “Ah-shucks,” and he could remain effective in the realm of sales—whether it be cars, cell phones, or, at the clubs, himself.

You could tell by looking over his life that he had no real challenges other than feigning good-natured surprise when the 99% of people he met commented on his striking resemblance to Paul McCartney. Otherwise, he was content to live in the shadows of the Liverpool crooner. Last I heard, he had never married, had never carried a long relationship, had never really put much effort in anything he did at all. He was a man content to live off a one-note gimmick and he had no shame for being so easily satisfied. Lacking any rigorous struggles to become a real person, he had become somewhat of a cipher, a hollow man with nothing to say about anything. His mind was simply full of the expectations of receiving “goodies”—accolades, sexual attention, strangers’ obsequiousness as they become elated in the presence of a mock celebrity.

His life lost its cheap glory in middle-age when his facial features distorted—bigger ears and nose, a reconfiguration of jowls and chin—so as to significantly obscure his face so that he no longer looked like the Beatles legend.  With no more celebrity connection, his posse of friends and lovers abandoned him and his sales dwindled. Sullen and bitter, he moved back with his mother, a widow, where he now resides. I imagine him now introverted and chubby from a sedentary lifestyle, his bedroom cluttered with Beatles souvenirs, as he languishes in his bedroom where he daydreams of his past glory.

Beware of the Juice Man

One of my students, an employee at a Trader Joe's in Hollywood, California, told me a bearded, bespectacled middle-aged man, whose stale armpits and anti-social demeanor gives him an unsavory Unabomber vibe, tenaciously sneaks into the store’s cold box to gather several quart-sized papaya, tangerine, and mango juices, all of which this juice monger argues have “fresher” dates on them than the juices that are accessible to the customers. The store management has assured the disgruntled gentleman repeatedly that they only put fresh juice on the shelves, but the Unajuicer believes they are trying to “sell off old juice” and he will only buy the “hidden” juices stored in the back cold box.

Several times a week, an employee will enter the cold box and find the Juice Fiend tearing apart boxes and spewing paranoid diatribes about the conspiracy to deny him fresh juice as he searches for the choicest expiration dates. He is escorted out of the store and threatened with arrest if he continues to trespass into the cold box, but these threats go unheeded as the Man in Quest of the World’s Freshest Juice will not be deterred.