Sunday Encore! "Don't hate me 'cuz I'm beautiful"

I, for the life of me, can't figure out why this one isn't in my Top 10 most read. It pops up from somewhere around the world at least once a day. I don't know if people google "Ines Sainz" or that memorable line, "Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful." Even though it's not a stats page Top 10, it's probably one of mine. 



I never hated women because they were beautiful. I used to try to sleep with them because they were beautiful.

For years, it was my habit to approach beautiful women in dark bars and ask them straight-faced and in my most sincere voice, “Was it as difficult for you growing up beautiful . . . as it was for me?”

It was this question that led me to conclude that beautiful women share one other appealing characteristic: They love to laugh. Hard.

I’m maybe the last sensitive guy on earth who understands that, yes, it is difficult for a woman to be born beautiful.

Certainly, beautiful women have their god-given advantages.

They can sleep with any shallow man they choose. They can coast through life on their dazzling smiles. Doors closed to the homely swing wide open for them.

Wait a second. Which side am I arguing?

Oh, right.

It ain’t easy being beautiful.

I mention all this because of the furor over the way members of the New York Jets treated bombshell Mexican reporter Ines Sainz in the locker room. Apparently, some of the Jets whistled and made adolescent comments when she was interviewing QB Mark Sanchez.

It was so bad Jets owner Woody Johnson personally sought out the comely Sainz to apologize for his team’s inappropriate behavior -- and, yes, the bones in my fingers are practically splintering to keep from typing a lame joke about a man named Woody Johnson thrusting himself into a discussion about sexual harassment.

Woody Johnson! It’s the greatest unintentional porn name since Andy Roddick.

This set off a predictable round of hand-wringing about whether Sainz’s fantastic looks, tight outfits and playful questions provoke such a reaction in a room full of naked, smelly men who can’t catch poorly thrown passes or skillfully block men like Ray Lewis.

First of all, let’s consider Sainz. I saw her picture and immediately made a snap judgement based purely on her looks. It was: Not my type.

She looks like someone Tiger Woods would date, which means she looks like a hooker or someone who’s undergone extensive plastic surgery to make people think she’s a hooker.

Then I heard her being interviewed on one of the morning shows and did an about face. She seemed comfortable with her beauty and didn’t take herself too seriously.

I appreciate that in a woman. I’m married to a lovely woman who is shy about her beauty. It’s very sweet but like a lot of pretty women the fair Valerie lacks confidence in her looks.

I wish she could see herself as I’ve always seen her. She’d be blown away.

Me, I don’t suffer from such trifling modesty.

Believe me, you don’t want to spend a day mirror shopping with a guy like me.

It’s clear Sainz is the kind of woman who can handle herself in any social situation and that puts the 300-pound meatheads who play professional football at a disadvantage.

I tried to think what I’d do if I was naked, in that locker room and had a status and physique that might be attractive to a woman who in 1997 was Miss Universe.

Here’s what I came up with: Nothing.

I’ve been in locker rooms as player, coach and reporter for huge chunks of my life. It’s not a sexy atmosphere.

If Sainz was in any of them, sure, I’d note to myself her beauty, but I wouldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t clown around and make junior high jokes about her. It’s just not the place for such hi jinx.

Heck, that’s what blogs like this are for.

That some Jets players acted the way they did diminishes them more than even their sloppy Monday night loss to the Baltimore Ravens.

You mean professional football players in New York City needs to making leering comments at busty reporters to get their jollies?

What? Have all the groupies simultaneously danced back to their stripper poles?

I just don’t get it.

Maybe I’m just stupid. That’s yet another pejorative ascribed to women who labor under the burdens of being born beautiful.

People just automatically assume beautiful people are balloon-headed dunces.

Happens to me all the time.

Happy birthday to Bob Dylan & my blog!

(642 words)

You’re probably unaware of the vanity, but for the past two years this blog has been lying about its age.

It says it’s younger than it really is.

By one day.

See, my very first blog was posted on May 23, 2008. But two years ago, the blog started declaring its birthday was May 24, 2008.

Really, I shouldn’t blame the blog. It was all my idea. I was scratching around for a topic when I noticed Bob Dylan’s birthday was the day after the blog’s. I thought it would be fun to co-opt the coincidence. It resulted, I thought, in a good birthday blog in 2011 (all links listed below).

So I’ve been blogging for five years. This is my 956th post and I’ll likely hit a milestone 1,000 sometime in August.

Let’s say each post takes about two hours to write, polish and present. That’s about 2,000 hours or 83 days.

I enjoy blogging so much I figure I could probably blog for 83 days straight without taking a break to eat or sleep. But by the fifth day keyboard-clogging drool puddles would probably render the experiment moot.

I once compared blogging to having a goofy imaginary friend with multiple dependency issues. You can’t abandon it for too long or it might die from lack of attention. But like having a needy friend, you spend a lot of time wondering if the damn thing’s holding you back from more productive pursuits and wondering if, geez, would anyone really care if the SOB just up and died?

I now understand that’s untrue.

Many people I know would be very upset if this SOB just up and died. They love reading the blog, which is now getting about 5,000 unique page views a month and is enjoyed all over the world in more than 146 countries.

Those are healthy numbers for an enigmatically titled blog that flits from topic-to-topic with whimsical indiscretion.

Cruel experience and natural disposition lead me to come at every self-analysis from self-deprecatory grounds. The blog and my book, “Use All The Crayons!” are changing all that.

There’ve been many, many times over the past five years when I’ve wondered if this is all worth it. I now conclude that, yes, it is. I say this even though the blog remains a perennial deadbeat in earnings. 

Cornerstone advice we give to all our children is that they should spend their lives finding something to do that makes them happy and then dedicate themselves to getting good at it.

I believe I’ve reached that point with my otherwise pointless blog musings.

I cherish every compliment, but one from an influential British writer was the kind I’d craft about myself for purely promotional purposes. Out of the blue and unbeknownst to me, she wrote on her Twitter account: 

“Very few undiscovered gems left, but the writer Mr. Rodell (@8Days2Amish) is one of them. He’s odd, but he’s hilarious. And he can really write.”

It’s the kind of thing that leads me to believe I’ll someday evolve into a discovered gem and I hear there’s real money in that kind of thing.

Either way, we’re not going anywhere. If anything, the blog might become even more robust with plans progressing for a podcast and -- who knows? -- perhaps a best-of book down the road after the appearance of post no. 1,000, as good a time as any for a compendium.

I promise I’ll try and keep the blog fresh and lively and deserving of your scrutiny. I ask in return you refer it to friends whenever you find it worthy. That kind of word-of-mouth promotion is priceless.

And because I understand no one comes here for mawkish sentiments, here is an entirely random sampling of 10 of my favorites from the past five years. 

Related . . .

Happy Birthday to Bob Dylan & my blog! -- From May 2011. 

Miss America & me -- In May 2011, I was getting regular calls from Miss America Teresa Scanlan. Was I going to keep that to myself? Hell, no.

Cigar store ambiance enhanced by breasts -- I went for a friendly Saturday cigar smoke and lo and behold breasts appeared. From April 2009.

Now they’ve ruined jukeboxes -- Includes my ten favorite jukebox songs. From August 2011, I’m still sad over what’s happening to old tavern jukeboxes.

It’s a bobblehead world -- I hear from so many people who say they love it when I write about the bar. The Pond’s great, but I’ll bet there are bars just like it in every town in America. Go see for yourself. This is from April 2012.

Arrivederci, Ann Curry -- People have been writing about Matt Lauer’s sinking popularity all year. I stopped writing about it since this one from June of last year when I think I nailed it.

A galling story on useless body parts -- Stories about anatomical oddities always fascinate me. This one’s about my friend Joe coming back from his Oct. 2012 vacation without his gallbladder.

Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful -- Still gets a bunch of hits and a lovely picture of Ines Sainz. From Sept. 2010.

Mime, all mime -- I liked this one from Feb. 2012 if for no other reason than it includes the line, “Careful mimes can be safe, but never sound.”

My gay friend John -- Google “My gay friend John” and this is the first thing that pops. It didn’t have much of a readership when it first ran in Oct. 2011, but is now on track to be one of my most popular. Just about every hour, someone somewhere is reading this all over the world.

Don't hate me 'cause I'm (still) beautiful

Scorn's being heaped upon British journalist Samantha Brick for daring to reveal the difficulties she faces because her face is lovely (she thinks). My instinct is to jump to her defense, as opposed to jumping her bones.

But as I've already covered this ground before and it's Friday, I'm going to re-post this September 2010 offering which I think pretty much says it all. I've noticed a rush of traffic to the blog from people who found it based on the search term, "Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful," the original post's title.

Please excuse the occasional re-run. I'm trying to balance accommodating new readers with keeping things fresh and lively three to five times a week. Who knew doing something for free would cause so much professional angst?

I never hated women because they were beautiful. I used to try to sleep with them because they were beautiful.

For years, it was my habit to approach beautiful women in dark bars and ask them straight-faced and in my most sincere voice, “Was it as difficult for you growing up beautiful . . . as it was for me?”

It was this question that led me to conclude that beautiful women share one other appealing characteristic: They love to laugh. Hard.

I’m maybe the last sensitive guy on earth who understands that, yes, it is difficult for a woman to be born beautiful.

Certainly, beautiful women have their god-given advantages.

They can sleep with any shallow man they choose. They can coast through life on their dazzling smiles. Doors closed to the homely swing wide open for them.

Wait a second. Which side am I arguing?

Oh, right.

It ain’t easy being beautiful.

I mention all this because of the furor over the way members of the New York Jets treated bombshell Mexican reporter Ines Sainz in the locker room. Apparently, some of the Jets whistled and made adolescent comments when she was interviewing QB Mark Sanchez.

It was so bad Jets owner Woody Johnson personally sought out the comely Sainz to apologize for his team’s inappropriate behavior -- and, yes, the bones in my fingers are practically splintering to keep from typing a lame joke about a man named Woody Johnson thrusting himself into a discussion about sexual harassment.

Woody Johnson! It’s the greatest unintentional porn name since Andy Roddick.

This set off a predictable round of hand-wringing about whether Sainz’s fantastic looks, tight outfits and playful questions provoke such a reaction in a room full of naked, smelly men who can’t catch poorly thrown passes or skillfully block men like Ray Lewis.

First of all, let’s consider Sainz. I saw her picture and immediately made a snap judgement based purely on her looks. It was: Not my type.

She looks like someone Tiger Woods would date, which means she looks like a hooker or someone who’s undergone extensive plastic surgery to make people think she’s a hooker.

Then I heard her being interviewed on one of the morning shows and did an about face. She seemed comfortable with her beauty and didn’t take herself too seriously.

I appreciate that in a woman. I’m married to a lovely woman who is shy about her beauty. It’s very sweet but like a lot of pretty women the fair Valerie lacks confidence in her looks.

I wish she could see herself as I’ve always seen her. She’d be blown away.

Me, I don’t suffer from such trifling modesty.

Believe me, you don’t want to spend a day mirror shopping with a guy like me.

It’s clear Sainz is the kind of woman who can handle herself in any social situation and that puts the 300-pound meatheads who play professional football at a disadvantage.

I tried to think what I’d do if I was naked, in that locker room and had a status and physique that might be attractive to a woman who in 1997 was Miss Universe.

Here’s what I came up with: Nothing.

I’ve been in locker rooms as player, coach and reporter for huge chunks of my life. It’s not a sexy atmosphere.

If Sainz was in any of them, sure, I’d note to myself her beauty, but I wouldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t clown around and make junior high jokes about her. It’s just not the place for such hi jinx.

Heck, that’s what blogs like this are for.

That some Jets players acted the way they did diminishes them more than even their sloppy Monday night loss to the Baltimore Ravens.

You mean professional football players in New York City needs to making leering comments at busty reporters to get their jollies?

What? Have all the groupies simultaneously danced back to their stripper poles?

I just don’t get it.

Maybe I’m just stupid. That’s yet another pejorative ascribed to women who labor under the burdens of being born beautiful.

People just automatically assume beautiful people are balloon-headed dunces.

Happens to me all the time.

Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful

I never hated women because they were beautiful. I used to try to sleep with them because they were beautiful.

For years, it was my habit to approach beautiful women in dark bars and ask them straight-faced and in my most sincere voice, “Was it as difficult for you growing up beautiful . . . as it was for me?”

It was this question that led me to conclude that beautiful women share one other appealing characteristic: They love to laugh. Hard.

I’m maybe the last sensitive guy on earth who understands that, yes, it is difficult for a woman to be born beautiful.

Certainly, beautiful women have their god-given advantages.

They can sleep with any shallow man they choose. They can coast through life on their dazzling smiles. Doors closed to the homely swing wide open for them.

Wait a second. Which side am I arguing?

Oh, right.

It ain’t easy being beautiful.

I mention all this because of the furor over the way members of the New York Jets treated bombshell Mexican reporter Ines Sainz in the locker room. Apparently, some of the Jets whistled and made adolescent comments when she was interviewing QB Mark Sanchez.

It was so bad Jets owner Woody Johnson personally sought out the comely Sainz to apologize for his team’s inappropriate behavior -- and, yes, the bones in my fingers are practically splintering to keep from typing a lame joke about a man named Woody Johnson thrusting himself into a discussion about sexual harassment.

Woody Johnson! It’s the greatest unintentional porn name since Andy Roddick.

This set off a predictable round of hand-wringing about whether Sainz’s fantastic looks, tight outfits and playful questions provoke such a reaction in a room full of naked, smelly men who can’t catch poorly thrown passes or skillfully block men like Ray Lewis.

First of all, let’s consider Sainz. I saw her picture and immediately made a snap judgement based purely on her looks. It was: Not my type.

She looks like someone Tiger Woods would date, which means she looks like a hooker or someone who’s undergone extensive plastic surgery to make people think she’s a hooker.

Then I heard her being interviewed on one of the morning shows and did an about face. She seemed comfortable with her beauty and didn’t take herself too seriously.

I appreciate that in a woman. I’m married to a lovely woman who is shy about her beauty. It’s very sweet but like a lot of pretty women the fair Valerie lacks confidence in her looks.

I wish she could see herself as I’ve always seen her. She’d be blown away.

Me, I don’t suffer from such trifling modesty.

Believe me, you don’t want to spend a day mirror shopping with a guy like me.

It’s clear Sainz is the kind of woman who can handle herself in any social situation and that puts the 300-pound meatheads who play professional football at a disadvantage.

I tried to think what I’d do if I was naked, in that locker room and had a status and physique that might be attractive to a woman who in 1997 was Miss Universe.

Here’s what I came up with: Nothing.

I’ve been in locker rooms as player, coach and reporter for huge chunks of my life. It’s not a sexy atmosphere.

If Sainz was in any of them, sure, I’d note to myself her beauty, but I wouldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t clown around and make junior high jokes about her. It’s just not the place for such hi jinx.

Heck, that’s what blogs like this are for.

That some Jets players acted the way they did diminishes them more than even their sloppy Monday night loss to the Baltimore Ravens.

You mean professional football players in New York City needs to making leering comments at busty reporters to get their jollies?

What? Have all the groupies simultaneously danced back to their stripper poles?

I just don’t get it.

Maybe I’m just stupid. That’s yet another pejorative ascribed to women who labor under the burdens of being born beautiful.

People just automatically assume beautiful people are balloon-headed dunces.

Happens to me all the time.