Sunday, February 02, 2014


In a discussion several days ago with a friend, we agreed that given a choice between a brainiac and a total bombe, the brainiac was by far the better choice. My friend did indicate that perhaps, for a short-time fling, the bombe would be more desirable. But it would have to be out of town, no real names, in a place you would never visit again.

The brainiac won out, hands down.

For relationship purposes, even if no children ensued, the bombe just didn't cut it. Likely to be dull after a while, and looks would fade.
A brainiac would remain far better company, and you would never be embarrassed to be seen with her. Your friends would respect you for making a wise decision, and no one would ever accuse you of trophy blonde syndrome.

Personally, I have always been of the opinion that the brainiac is by far the better choice, no matter what. But my requirements for a date include conversational ability and a personality that can stubbornly hold its own.

Also, my personal definition of a total bombe would not match the popular image.

I've always thought that Audrey Hepburn was the cat's miao, rather than Marilyn. Ingrid Bergman, instead of Pamela Anderson.

A woman who has bucket-loads of intelligence and mental activity pouring out of her face is, always, much more appealing than a train-load of breasts and bovine lowing. That's just the way it is. Same goes double for men. Even though I am not that way inclined, I find men who can articulate their opinions -- even if all they are talking about is why the twelve egg omelet is not as good as the two egg omelette times six, with the amount of smoked ham, aged cheddar cheese, and chopped chives remaining equal -- much more interesting and sociable than hunks who keep repeating "hey, what about those Seahawks?"

"Hey man, whadda team, huh!"

Given that sports-related chatter often reflects redigested opinions of televised talking heads, and team-sports are by definition probably the stupidest spectacle a thinking person can watch, a discussion about the latest game is more than likely to put me to sleep.

Given my druthers, I would love to have dinner with someone wearing spectacles whose conversation included polysyllabic words, some of which likely derived from Norman French or mediaeval Latin, and opinions which she was willing to defend.

Imagine this third and fourth party conversation:

"Why on earth is he seeing her?"

"Because she makes him think."

"What? What do you mean?"

"She's very bright."

That sounds much better than explaining that the man in question is actually a dreary old sex maniac who found a young blonde bimbo to make all of his golfing buddies jealous, and is spending a fortune on diamonds, a charm-school, and a private tutor to teach her proper diction and when to keep her mouth shut.

Obviously, the conversation above would also need to work if the genders were reversed. Her friends would have to be able to say that she appreciates his insight, and the fact that he admits it when he was wrong and she knew more about something.

This doesn't work for sports. I know nothing about sports.
Ask me about the twelve-egg omelette sometime.

The glasses are essential, in case you were wondering. The eyes have it.
Nice people have glasses.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:

All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

No comments:

Search This Blog


Sadly, the only time we can celebrate Dutch American contributions to American civilization is today. It's 'National Donut Day'....