Soapbox of a Shy White Guy

Pick up Etiquette

2011-08-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

I took a day trip to the beach with a few friends a few weeks ago. The drive is about a three hours, but it’s worth it. I love the beach.
Our road trip, though commencing very early in the morning, was spirited and lively- for five twenty-something’s shaking off varying degrees of hangovers. Our conversation eventually landed on the topic of picking someone up. Not literally lifting someone, but approaching someone with some romantic or sexual intentions, smartasses.
As our conversation cultivated, it became clear that we each agree there is etiquette to approaching and receiving the opposite sex. Not necessarily a set of rules-per se, but definitely a code of polite and respectable behavior respecting the societal norms and best preserving individuals’ feelings. We didn’t want to limit the creativity of anyone’s game- because God knows some stupid shit miraculously works sometimes- but accepting (and rejecting) a suitor with respect and class is ultimately indicative of one’s character.
I know a group of women, let’s call them the Wino’s. There are four of them. We’ve known each other for about two years. The Wino’s have a pick up ‘technique’ that I found entirely disrespectful and shady- and is what I think is the exact opposite of what my friends and I mean by etiquette.
The Winos have a habit of soliciting drinks from men. They’re attractive and use their assets when approaching men. However, the extent of their interactions with them ends once they have what they want, a drink. They walk up to random men at a bar or club and simply ask them outright, “Do you want to buy me (or my friend and I) a drink?” Generally, the men would oblige. Upon receipt of the drink, they turn and walk away. Sometimes without even thanking them. How do I know they do this? One of them did this to me before we met. She would deny it, naturally.
Most of them had boyfriends, which I would have thought would curb this behavior, and they would have stopped flirting with men to get free drinks. Nope. Same deal. Walk up to a guy, ask them to buy a drink and walk away upon receipt.
Even when their boyfriends were standing at a bar next to them, they would walk up to a strange man to solicit a drink. Yes, right in front of their beaus.
There’s two issues going on here. The first is the simple act of soliciting a drink without intention. The second is appropriate and respectful behavior to a significant other in social situations. I’ll take them one at a time.
I think we can all agree that buying a drink for someone or accepting a drink from someone is not an indication of entitlement of any kind. However, it is a sign of interest and/or attraction akin to a man bringing a flower for his date. It is intentional. The buyer wants the gifted to spend more time with her or she and uses the drink as a reason to extend their conversation. The creators of Mad Men could probably write a book about this very subject.
Asking someone to buy you a drink is at the very least perceived as interest and/or attraction, and- as we all know and have seen conventionally- if the other agrees that reinforces the interest and/or attraction as mutual. The same is true in reverse if a guy asks a girl if he can buy her a drink and she says yes- social cues say there is some level of attraction or interest. To ask for a drink and have a guy oblige is an acknowledgement that some interest or attraction is implied and linked to the drink. To use that implied interest or attraction for one’s personal benefit with complete disregard of the other is intentionally misleading and manipulative and thus entirely disrespectful.
So a few questions. Why do these broads ask these men to buy them drinks? Because they think they can convince them to buy them drinks they don't have to pay for. Why do they think they can convince these men to buy them drinks? Because they understand that they are attractive (and busty- it has to be noted as an advantage) women who can use the implied attraction or interest for their benefit. Why does it work? Because these men view buying a woman a drink as an action with underlying implications, a fact the Winos even acknowledges.
Now, I understand that the guy doesn’t have to buy the Winos a drink, and it is his choice. The Winos justified their behavior by highlighting the guys choice, which is a fair- though insensitive- justification- one I’m happy to discredit. There is always a choice. Everything we do and say is a choice- even when it doesn’t feel like it or there isn’t an apparent distinction. Saying that the Winos behavior is ethical is dependent on someone else’s choice is absolving them of any need for ethical, moral, or socially accepted behavior. To say that their actions are ethical because a guy chose to buy one of them a drink when asked discounts the choice that they each made to approach these men with manipulative and selfish intentions.
Now, the second side of this: The relationship aspect.
I will readily admit, that in the beginning I wasn’t sure how to react to the Winos behavior and that could have been seen as acceptance. Silence lends approval, right? But at first, I was only hearing about these interactions as hearsay or anecdotally when recapping the night’s events with the Winos. I wasn’t present when I learned of this behavior- is what I mean- and they were portrayed to me as ‘that guy who bought you a drink’. That evolved to ‘that guy you asked to buy a drink’ and eventually ‘that guy you got to buy you a drink in front of your boyfriend’. So as these stories changed and my understanding grew of what the situation was, my distaste for the behavior grew until I finally told one of them I didn’t think it was respectful to their boyfriends to be out soliciting beverages from strange. If they needed a drink that badly, I’d buy a round.
But the fact remained that, if you accept my argument that there is an implied attraction or interest that goes along with the exchange of glasses at a bar, they all intentionally led men who weren’t their boyfriends to think they was interested in them. Further, in doing so, they misrepresented themselves as single women. Sure they didn’t say whether or not they are single or not, but outwardly displaying interest in someone also carries the implication of availability. Married people don’t take off their wedding bands when they go out- well some do, but would you argue that’s right?
After sharing with my fellow beach goers this story, I felt embarrassed for them. None of them made anything resembling an argument in support of their behavior. In fact, they taught me an etiquette rule I hadn’t heard before.
The appropriate time to spend with someone who graciously buys you a drink is the time it takes you to finish your drink, always reserving the right to refuse another.

Without Child

2011-08-16T14:03:00.000-07:00

Though I do eventually want children, I am glad that I don’t have any yet- that I know of. I haven’t had any women come beating my door down for child support so I’ve either not got any or I’ve made such a terrible impression that women no longer wish to have anything to do with me. Regardless, I think it’s safe to say I’m nobody’s baby-daddy.
I am, however, coming to the age where a good number of my former friends and acquaintances are beginning to have kids. I say former friends because all of my friends who have or are having kids are also married, and I don’t know if its me or their wives but those assholes never come out drinking anymore. So, none of my current close friends have children, and I consider that a good thing; I hear kids are a worse wet blanket on your social life than marriage.
Not only are those little guys dependent on you for everything in their lives, but their parents are also primarily responsible for the behaviors and attitudes they will possess later in life. “I’ll never end up like my mother,” is a generationally repeated slogan, and yet every generation maintains certain learned traits inherently given by their parents. I think we all end up, at least in some ways, like our parents. Like it or not their behaviors taught us to navigate this world.
For some people, what they learned from their parents is that they are better off without children. It seems to be a growing trend that young men and women are opting for childless lifestyles. There are plenty of people out there who are either undecided or already know that they don’t want to have children for a smattering of reasons ranging from ‘I don’t like kids’ to ‘I’d rather spend my money on myself’. The reasons for their decision really aren’t for any of us to judge or comment on. What’s important is that they made their decision for their own reasons. They are no better and no less mature or kind or human than any of the rest of us that want (eventually) children, and they shouldn’t be treated any different.
And yet they are.
There are all sorts of ways that people who don’t want children are discriminated against. Take the workplace for example. Pregnant women are afforded –what- 8 to ten weeks of maternity leave from work? Men are even now slowly being allowed to take a small amount of maternity leave. Check that- PAternity leave. As they should be. But those who choose not to have children are not afforded similar opportunities for time away from work.
Is that fair?
As a man who will not be bearing any children, I struggle with this question for two reasons. The first is that if men and women really are equal, they should have equal responsibility and be afforded equal opportunity to take care of their children. The second, is that I’ve long accepted that men and women are not equal-but different. And I for one am thankful for that fact. There is NO WAY I would ever want to deal with the mood swings, hormone fluctuations, gaining weight and carrying around another person in my belly for 9 months, so I’m willing to concede a certain level of fairness in grateful recognition of our differences.
But from what I understand from every couple I know that’s gone through a pregnancy- you women don’t exactly make it a walk in the park for us men, so we deserve at least something for the midnight runs to the store for fried pickles and beef jerky. Hey, somebody had to say it.
To my first point, it seems reasonable that a woman who decides that, for whatever reason, she doesn’t want children should be offered the same opportunities by their employer to engage in activities they believe are personally important as those women who believe that having children is important. Like baking. Why can’t women who don’t want to have children spend a couple weeks away from work baking cupcakes? What if they really love making cupcakes similarly to the way new mothers love their babies? That might be kind of weird to witness, but who are we to judge how people find their happiness?
To my second point, those who decide to have children may not fully understand what they’re getting themselves into with the roller-coaster of emotions, but they’ve at least in principle understood that it will be difficult. Those who choose to forgo having children, might have actually decided that this physical change is one of the reasons they don’t want children. Is it fair to equate the suffering of pregnancy to the suffering of inequality? I think not.
And what about all the free shit? Pregnant women throw baby showers where all their friends come and bring them important shit that nobody wants to buy for themselves; like those little plastic things you put in the electric sockets- which by the way, how many babies ever died from putting their finger in a socket? Maybe that’s Darwinism at work. I’m kidding. Nobody wants a fried baby.
The same argument here can be made for those who never want to get married. When you get married I feel like you get even more free shit. Engagement party, wedding shower, bachelor/bachelorette parties all require gifts.
And what if you’re a poor sap who doesn’t want to get married nor have children? Those people don’t get jack. No extra vacation time. No free shit. No parties in their honor. All they get is the judgmental looks from elitist divorcee mothers- it’s an expression, nothing against divorcee’s or single mothers, and odd looks for playing with the giant bouncy balls at F.A.O. Schwartz alone- not that I’ve ever done that…
Perhaps the world is simply trying to incentivize people to have children (and get married). Between the paid time away from work, the free shit, and all the other benefits like tax credits and getting to play with all the newest cool toys, its as if we as humans just keep coming up with way to keep ourselves going. Have a kid; There’s an iPad in it for you- could wind up on a billboard someday.
But that’s probably about the same time our kids will start complaining about how ardently they profess their desires to be nothing like us. Ah the circle of life.

Eskimo Brothers

2011-08-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

I have, my entire life, been accused of having more close friendships with women than men. It’s not that I don’t have buddies, I do, but my closest buddies are my boys-no questions asked, whereas for the most part my girl friends (notice the space) have significantly less depth and are in and out of my life more cyclically. This, from the outside, makes it look like I have more girl friends when in actuality, while there may be more names, there is also less quality and loyalty. My ex took a long time to understand why she didn’t see me hanging out with my closest buddies that often because most of them don’t live around me. It took her a long time to get comfortable (if she ever did get comfortable) with my relationships with my girl friends. I digress.
I recently decided to leave girls alone for awhile and started hanging out with and making new buddies. It’s been pretty easy. Yet, it never surprises me how small the world is sometimes and how inner connected we all are.
So I was talking to one of my buddies after a pickup game of basketball. He told me about this girl he’d recently taken out that he’d met online. He’s a tall, good looking guy but not exactly the definition of clean cut. He was telling me that he’d exchanged a few emails with this girl before they agreed to get a drink. He described her as short, badly dyed blonde hair, and divorced by 24 (I know, I winced a bit too). I remember him telling me that as soon as he sat down across from her at the table he could tell that she was a sure thing. So, because sure things don’t come around for guys that often, my buddy’s objective changed. It was no longer about getting to know her, if you know what I mean. He went home with her; they commenced with adult relations, and he never called her afterwards. I laughed, knowing exactly what happened, but asked him why he didn’t call her anyway. He said two things. The first is that she acted like a shark with blood in the water. She clung and clung hard. To guys this is a no-no. (take notes here ladies). The second, is that she basically made it a challenge and little more than that. He said as soon as she said something like ‘I’m not sleeping with you tonight’ before he’d even mentioned sex, that she was not only a sure thing, but that it was a challenge.
I get that there’s a double standard here. Guys who get laid a lot are idolized and women who get laid a lot are chastised. Whatever, I get it. But will you let me finish the story, please?
So another buddy of mine and I were talking over a beer a few weeks ago. He’s also gotten online for dates. And he had basically the same story. He met a girl for a drink at a lounge-y bar one night. He wasn’t terribly impressed with her attractiveness but again said she just looked like she was wild in the sack. So he swung for the fences and got a home run.
Now neither of these guys are jerks to women. They’re both above average looking and athletic. Let’s say they’re not the kind of guys that you look at and wonder how they talk to women. They’re also not the kind of guys that women throw themselves at, so when they’re handed King-Ace they stay, let the dealer bust and walk away with their winnings. But what’s really interesting is that neither of these guys is particularly proud of their one night stands because ultimately they know it doesn’t move them in the direction of a steady girl. It’s an unwritten rule that most men know. Nobody buys the cow when they get the milk for free.
The shit is Gospel.
You want the kicker?
I was hanging out with my ex a while back and she was telling me about this girl, Sandra. Sandra is a short blonde loudmouth, whom I do not care for because she seems like and idiot and a slut. My ex was telling me that at a recent girls night Sandra had been outed by the girls for a particular pattern in her dating life (please tell me you know where this is going). She would meet these guys (online), meet up with them to flirt and get to know them, then sleep with them and get completely infatuated only to have these guys not return her calls. She was shocked that this pattern continued even though the girls, including my ex, saw the writing on the wall.
This is the part of the story that I burst out laughing.
When asked why I was laughing, I simply responded ‘She sleeps with all of them on the first date doesn’t she?’ Yup. What’s even more ridiculous? That Sandra is the same girl BOTH of my buddies hooked up with. That makes my buddies Eskimo brothers- a term endearingly given to buddies who both bang the same girl. Don't ask me who made that up.
How do I know this, you might ask. Simple. They both described short, artificially blonde, divorcee’s on the same dating website. When I asked my ex if she’d ever heard Sandra talk about guys with the same names as my two buddies, she said ‘yes’. That’s enough reasonable suspicion for me.
My ex said that these two are not the only culprits Sandra has met in this cycle. ‘Dozens’ was the description I was given by multiple people familiar with Sandra's dating life.
And women wonder why they can’t land a man. Keep your legs crossed for awhile. If a guys really interested, he’ll wait. But just like a child, if you want it to be good during the doctor’s appointment, you don’t give it sucker first. You wait until they’ve earned it. If a mother can teach a 4 year old little boy to sit still while a doctor looks in his ear, there’s no reason women can’t require guys to, I don’t know, remember their name before playing ‘just the tip’.
Think about it like a trail. If you leave a small piece of bread on the trail every so often, you lure the guy to the sandwich while getting to a different place with him while wetting his appetite and growing anticipation (sexy). If you give the guy the sandwich after the first step, he’s satisfied and is no longer hungry, while you haven’t even moved.
So let’s be real here, Sandra. You want to find a guy who’ll respect you and treat you well? Then start respecting yourself and start requiring the guys you go out with to treat you well like more than a booty call.
Sure there are guys out there who are legitimately assholes and only out for the nookie. But to be fair, at least part of the reason assholes exist and haven’t curbed their behavior is because women still allow guys into their panties with minimal (or even no) effort. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. A guy will treat the woman he’s with the exact minimum amount of respect and effort that she clearly demands of him.
Everyone benefits from having friends of both genders. You’re welcome.

Men Who Don't Commit

2011-07-20T14:52:00.000-07:00

Every woman in my life, every substantive woman that is, has told me throughout my adult life that men have a general fear of commitment. Assuming of course they recognize that I am also a man, I must imply that to one degree or another they are saying that I have a fear of commitment along with every other bloke. I am not here to argue.
What I will say, in defense of men, is that the problem isn’t quite what you (women) think it is. This argument that men are all rolling stones due to some primal need to spread our seed is, at best, mildly humorous/insulting, and, at worst, a flagrant fabricated excuse for women to justify why they’ve become old maids. The truth of the matter is, and you’re not going to like this, if we leave you it is at least partly your fault.
How can I make such a statement? Because men (myself included) are apathetic. When we have a good, or even a good enough, thing going-until things become more work than fun- we’re not going anywhere. It’s just easier that way. As soon as you become more of a nag to us than a fun play date (pun intended) you tip the scales against yourself, and raise the curtain on the final scene. While not always directly a result of something women do, something as simple as noticing a flaw to as grand as an abuse could change a men’s mindset and alter the balance from happiness to flight.
And the argument that men don’t commit out of fear is also bogus. We commit to things all the time. I bought a condo recently; I committed to purchase it. Men commit to building companies. Men commit to their jobs and their sports teams, their buddies and their goals. It’s not the commitment part that scares us; it’s you.
In my experience there are two reasons a guy doesn’t commit to a woman. Guys either think they can do better or don’t realize what they’ve got.
What I mean by a guy thinking he can do better is actually a subtle way of saying what he’s got isn’t quite what he really wants. This aspect is highly personalized, trivial and subjective, but it is what it is. If you want nothing more than a pork chop for dinner, but all you’ve got at home is lobster, you can be happy with lobster- it can be very good- but it just isn’t quite satisfying. Sometimes women are just like that; there isn’t necessarily anything at all wrong with the girl or situation, it just isn’t what men want or envision for themselves. This can be a particularly difficult situation for guys, especially since it is entirely possible for a guy to like a woman who isn’t really his type. Some guys are able to, over time, change their type and be completely content with lobster, but not all. For those who cannot overcome the mouthwatering and savory taste of a perfectly grilled pork chop, they are oft riddled with guilt and embarrassment that they have great women at their fingertips but are unable to be fully satisfied. It makes a guy wonder if he’s actually the problem- when the problem isn’t who the guy is-it is what the guy wants being incompatible with the woman who’s chosen him.
I can hear the women shouting, “Why can’t he just be happy with what he’s got?” and my response is, why can’t women be content driving Honda’s instead of Mercedes? Why can’t women be content with the wardrobe they’ve got instead of buying a new dress for any special occasion? Why can’t women be content with the way they look naturally rather than spend money on eyeliner, eye shadow and foundation? Why can’t they be content with how tall they are instead of wearing high heel shoes? Your answer is the same as ours. We all want what is the best for us whether that makes us physically better or emotionally better. Some women are content in Honda’s, with their clothes, without makeup and wearing flats. But not all. The same principle exists with men. If a dude thinks a woman is the very best woman for him, he’s going nowhere. Fucking nowhere.
The second reason guys don’t commit is that they just don’t know what they’ve got. This is especially true in younger men who haven’t the maturity nor the experience to either know or recognize what they want in the first place. I know women say all the time how oblivious men are; to an extent we are completely ignorant to a lot of what women do, say and feel- but that is neither here nor there.
Think about it like you’ve lost your keys. You tear your home apart looking for them. You tear through your couch, your bed, even your garbage. You look under your refrigerator, in the tank of your toilet, even inside every shoe in your closet as if each of those places is a ‘normal’ place to put your keys. Then just as you’re about to give up, you see your keys underneath the mail you just brought in and put on your kitchen counter. It was as if they were watching you look for them the entire time and laughing at you for disregarding the most obvious place you could have ever left them.
Think of the same situation in the context of men. We might think we know what we want, but if we’re looking in the wrong places we’re never going to be satisfied with what we find. We get fixated on finding one specific thing that we completely forget about other things we also like, enjoy or could very well use to meet our goals. Sometimes what we think we need is a hammer, when what we really need is a screwdriver. Eventually we come around to find it, but usually only after all other attempts have failed. Those ‘attempts’ are synonymous with time and growth and we can all agree that sometimes all we (men) really need is to.grow.up.
I have intentionally neglected until now a third option; there are men out there who simply don’t want to commit. That’s cool. That’s their choice. They’ll change your mind. How do I know? Because it’s a lot of work constantly trying to find your next meal. Sooner or later, they’ll realize its in their best interest to break down and buy a refrigerator. I mean...the most beautiful, intelligent, fun and sexy refrigerator there is, of course.

King of Pop

2011-06-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, the world lost one of its best. Despite his tarnished public persona, Michael Jackson was if nothing else an artist. Simultaneously an unparalleled musician and dancer, MJ changed music. Thriller, Bad, and Dangerous are, in this bloggers humble opinion, the best trifecta of albums from a single artist ever.
I remember being young and playing in my basement while my mother would iron the laundry and put Thriller on the record player (yes; vinyl). I would dance and sing for hours. I wore that record out.
I recently saw This Is It, the documentary that gives a behind the scene look at MJ’s preparation for what would have been his last world tour. To say that he was a perfectionist is a gross understatement and displayed an unhealthy looking Jackson still determined to give his fans the best he could.
Now I’m no MJ biographer, and I’m certainly not trying to make any excuses for the guy. There were definitely some, let’s call them questionable, actions on his part. I wouldn’t trade places with him. He started performing at, what? Seven? He had some pretty significant and well documented issues with his father. He had no childhood; he had no privacy. People took advantage of him, extorted him, and now it might come out that his own doctor might have killed him. Dude had problems.
But damn was he a talented musician. Critics lambasted him when Bad came out because it wasn’t considered equal to Thriller. Even if that is the case, Bad is still one of the best albums in history. The public made him a victim of his own success. Has MJ lost his touch? Is he washed up? Can he remain the king of pop? All were the questions in various music magazines. Critics lost sight of the fact that he’s sold more albums than anyone, ever. Remember that little tune ‘Black or White’? That single wasn’t on either Bad or Thriller. It came after on Dangerous.
I recently visited a favorite museum of mine which had a photo journal exhibit of Elvis’ early years. The picture that stands out to me is of Elvis leaning off the stage with his microphone and the women in the front row sobbing with excitement. MJ had that same effect on crowds. I saw a picture once of a crowd at an outdoor festival. In the background was a huge sheet sign reading ‘We (love) MJ King of Pop’. In the foreground was a young blonde woman on the shoulders of someone. Her face was red and you could tell she had been uncontrollably crying with hysteria. Elvis was a sex symbol that MJ wasn’t, yet I can’t remember seeing photos of any concert since or any artist since MJ, that drew that kind of profound emotional experience from fans like MJ got. I would argue that there hasn’t been a musician that has had such a profound effect on the future of music like Michael. Weaving R&B, Pop, and rock into one genre opened the doors for countless artists and a style that is often replicated today. Yet, it is to MJ that we owe the credit.
As a person MJ had issues, and that might sadly be what he is most remembered for. Allegations of inappropriate relations with minors, rumors of elective surgery to change his looks and his skin tone, and the just plain weird things he did like naming his estate after a place where boys never grow up all smeared his reputation and career. I’m not trying to negate those facts; they were weird at-best. I’m just saying take a second to think about how his personal life relates to the music that we love and still belt out when they come on the jukebox.
He’s gone now and the question becomes will there ever be a musician with the same talent, popularity, and profound effect on music again? Can you name one since?

Hometown Assholes

2011-06-17T12:41:00.001-07:00

For the first time in about three years, I was recently in my hometown. I lived in this small Midwestern town from about age five to eighteen. My parents moved to a much more interesting and temperate climate while I was in college.
I always felt grateful for growing up where I did. The town was close enough to a metropolitan area for escape, small enough to have the small town charm but big enough that we didn’t know everyone (or their business), and close to the majority of my family. I enjoyed my town; I think it is the perfect kind of place to have a family and settle down. Eventually.
Growing up, I always felt very unique. I was very shy and had difficulty making friends; in elementary school this often led to being bullied by older boys on the school bus. I was somewhat awkwardly tall and thin and having two younger sisters significantly younger made me protective of them, but also gave me a hybrid of only-child and oldest-child character development traits. My dad traveled a lot when I was younger and while I don’t think he was neglectful, there were some things I distinctly remember wanting him around for that I just didn’t feel I could talk to my mother about. It was a guy thing I thought.
One spring day I was in elementary school, I got on the school bus to go home after school. One of the multiple kids who often bullied me refused to let me sit down by constantly jumping down into whatever seat I was about to sit in and taunted me not to sit down. He gave me grief the entire ride home. I, being shy and timid, didn’t really respond and simply sat there contemplating getting off the bus and walking home in avoidance, which I eventually did. I had always been told that ignoring bullies was the best way to get rid of them; eventually they’d get bored and leave me alone if I didn’t instigate anything. Well, that obviously wasn’t working. When I got off the bus, this kid got off right behind me and followed me home. He caught up to me as I was turning onto my street. He began teasing me again and this time I had lost my patience and shouted back at him to shut up before turning and walking away. I hadn’t turned around and taken a single step when he punched me in the back of the head. Stunned and unsure what to do, I just walked away. By the time I got home I was enraged with anger. I remember thinking the fourth grade equivalent of ‘Fuck ignoring this prick. I want to beat his ass the next time he tries to fuck with me,” which was really more like, “Stupid head. I’m going to talk to my Dad and then you’ll be sorry”. All I wanted to do was talk to my dad and ask him to teach me how to throw a punch so I could avoid getting sucker punched again. I knew Mom wouldn’t help, and would just give me the old homage ‘fighting never solved anything dear’, but that my dad would be considerably more understanding. But Dad was on a business trip and never taught me how to throw a punch; I learned how to on my own a few years later. I came across this bully on Facebook about a year ago; He is divorced, fat, and the assistant manager at a Dairy Queen in town. He may have won that battle, but a long time ago he lost the war.
Experiences with generally unkind, disloyal, and boorish people continued throughout my schooling. I was never a part of the ‘popular’ group or the ‘party’ group. Then again, I wasn’t ever really included in any group; I simply joined in wherever I could, but never really felt I fit in. I had a group of friends, but with only a few exceptions, I knew I was friends with them by proximity rather than a genuine desire to be friendly with them as people.
One of these ‘friends’ turned out to be a complete pervert. He was supposed to be one of my friends as he was one of the very few people I found myself hanging out with regularly. I played sports with him nearly year round and initially considered him to be one of my friends. That was until I caught him trying to solicit sexual favors from my, five years junior, sister. I had let my sister log onto my computer to do a project and she has logged in to her instant messaging account and when I logged in later her profile automatically logged in. He messaged me thinking I was my sister and began what later developed into an incredibly inappropriate and disturbing conversation about him wanting to ‘touch’ and ‘play with’ my sister, who was 14 at the time. Yes it was as bad as it sounds.
I’m not trying to say that everyone in my home town is a bad, there are certainly wonderful people there, but I certainly ran across numerous shady cats. So much so that when I graduated I basically made a conscious decision to leave my high school ‘friendships’ in the rearview.
It wasn’t just people I interacted with who were my age; as was evident when I went back to visit a few weeks ago.
I was staying with my grandparents who I was delighted to have the opportunity to spend time with. On Sunday, I decided to get up and go to my childhood church. I showed up early as they’d changed the worship time (some things do change). As the service was finished a number of familiar faces came up to me to say hello. One such person was a neighbor at my childhood house whom I have never cared for, but kept composed and polite. The conversation began relatively mundane and nostalgic. It was basically a superficial conversation as I know this woman and my mother still communicate fairly regularly as friends.
A little background on Nancy. She lived across the street and down a few doors from my family with her husband and two children, a boy and a girl. She’s always been rude to me but in very mischievous and veiled condescension. She and my mother were friends primarily because Nancy is a gossip and always had her fingers in others business by putting this façade that people, especially women like my mother, could trust her with information or more gossip.
Anyway, as I stood there unhappily making small talk, the new pastor of the church approached me and introduced himself. Relieved to not have to talk to Nancy any longer, I engaged the Father. At one point during our conversation, Nancy interrupted with a comment about how my family had been members of the church since I was little (7 to be exact). Then she made a comment I don’t think I’ll ever forget. In the center aisle of the church I grew up and was confirmed in, and in front of the Father whom I was just meeting for the first time.
“I mean, I remember catching him stare into (name of a girl in my High School Class)’s window trying to get a peak”.
In front of a priest, in my childhood church, this broad had the audacity to erroneously accuse me of being a pervert peeping-tom on a girl I wasn’t even friends with during most of high school. I never watched her through her window, and neither did she live in our neighborhood where Nancy could ‘catch’ me doing so. Throw in how inappropriate and just plain disrespectful it is to make such a comment in front of a complete stranger about the son of a woman Nancy had just professed to ‘love so much’. I understand some people have a different tolerance for crass comments, and I think my tolerance is fairly high; but to say that Nancy crossed the line would be doing an injustice to assholes everywhere.
So while I very much enjoyed visiting my grandparents and staying with them, Nancy very earnestly reminded me why I put that town, and the people there, in my rearview.

The American Gentleman Novelist

2011-06-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

I know I’ve been negligent on my writing lately. Well, actually, I haven’t been negligent of my writing as I’ve been doing plenty of that. However, I’ve been desperately delinquent in maintenance of this blog. While I’m terribly disappointed in myself, I have not been without reason.
Most recently, I had a trip for work that consumed both my time and concentration, but also dried all my creativity; I literally couldn’t think of anything worth sharing. Prior to that was Memorial day and while I should have broken away from writing my boss’ speech for a parade in homage of all who serve(d), quite honestly, I didn’t feel like writing in lieu of spending an afternoon directing a schooner. The week before that was full of stress from having the hardwood floors replaced in my condo; this was one thing I wrote about but never posted and will be upcoming.
Alas, to my readers, all five of you, I aim to rectify. I have unequivocally resolved to be both more consistent with my postings and more inconsistent with their content. To do so, I maintain that inspiration must remain constant, but not simply for contents sake, for quantity-quality does not make. On my part this will at times require excruciating effort to find the interesting from the mundane and the humor from the morbid. I will strive to; even when my personal life seems more like navigating a mine field than strolling an orchard, as-brilliantly-as-capable bring you a refreshing perspective of the normal or otherwise easily understated. I will strive to be the beacon of light on the hill of regularity and the sarcastic retort for the overly serious.
In other words, I want to be Hank Moody.
David Duchovny headlines as Hank Moody in what can affectionately be considered Showtime’s soap opera for people who hate soap operas, Californication. It has all the ingredients of a daytime drama with better actors, writing, and a.lot. more sex. Hank is a struggling writer whose novel has brought him C-list notoriety which he satisfyingly turns to infamy along the road of, ever-present cliché, sex, drugs, and rock and roll (just wait till season 2) in the pursuit of the affection of his young daughter, Becca, and the love-of-his-life ex, Karen.
Hank is afraid of commitment, hence never married Karen; can bullshit his way through everything he doesn’t care about and nothing he does; and is virtually powerless to the advances and musings of women. He is brilliantly insightful of his surroundings with the single glaring exception of his own willful misery.
Yet, despite his continual missteps, Hank is perpetually viewed indisputably as a brilliant writer, a loving father, loyal-to-a-fault friend, and principled-although untraditional- guardian. He has never met a woman he didn’t fall in love with. For a second or years, Hank loves women in the classical sense of the phrase. He marvels their beauty. He admires their aspirations. He canonizes their manipulations while simultaneously respecting their trade.
Hank is a romantic, but only in the sense that he wants happiness though is unsure of its attainability. Unlike most, he knows exactly what he thinks will make him happy, yet like the Greek king Sisyphus who was imprisoned with the task of pushing a boulder up a hill only to perpetually watch it roll back down, cannot attain despite his efforts and good intentions.
Watching Hank navigate the seas of his own improprieties is both gluttonous and masochistic. We all know what it’s like to want something that is continually just out of reach all the while refusing to forfeit in hopes that someday our efforts, no matter how right or how wrong, will deliver us to that wondrous and evasive place we call happiness. It also doesn’t hurt that there are countless topless women throughout the show-all of them utterly beautiful.
In fact, the sex was what initially drew me to the show. David Duchovny’s near disappearance from show business do to sex addiction, and eventual stint in rehab, made playing a often deemed washed-up writer with a key to women’s libido’s nearly the role he was meant to play. In its simplest form, Californication is a down-and-out story. At its best, it is brilliantly written character piece which insights polarizing emotions. One minute you can loathe Hank for his utter selfishness and the very next praise the loving guidance he draws out of his teenage daughter.
What kept me watching however was how easily I could relate to Hank. With the obvious exception of the seeming ability to snap his fingers for a woman to sleep with him, I think I’m a lot like Hank. We are both relentlessly sarcastic, both look at the world through a slightly distorted lens than the norm, and both seek happiness through the love and admiration of a beautiful woman. Beyond that, I marvel at Hanks ability to continually stoop to new lows. I’ve often felt in my life that when it rains it pours, and just when I don’t think things can get worse, I’m reminded of God’s sense of humor.
Through all the self-loathing and irreverence for consequences those around Hank stick by him. Obviously not because, as you’ll see, of his drinking, philandering, or intellectual elitism, but instead because after all other viable options have been extinguished Hank endearingly embraces doing what is right, not just for himself but for everyone important to him. I for one find this idea of selfless sacrifice a markedly absent trait in the world today.
That sense of chivalry in the classical sense is what sets Hank apart from other characters and is something I can aspire to.
Though hooking up with Carla Gugino, Eva Amurri, Addison Timlin would be a welcomed perk.

My Eavesdropping Vacation

2011-05-13T12:59:00.001-07:00

I recently took a much needed trip to Florida for a five day vacation. I was initially nervous, as this was the first real vacation I’d had in years and the first time I’d planned one without my family or surrounding a holiday. What I got from the trip was more than I could have ever expected.
I’ve heard people say before that everyone should take at least one vacation in their lives completely alone. Having just returned from what was intended to be a vacation of relaxation and introspection and ended with a joyous sense of solitary confidence, I would whole heartedly encourage everyone to do so.
In the past, my vacations had always been driven by one of two things; compromise with others and activities. This vacation was different. This time I genuinely didn’t care what activities I partook in. I genuinely didn’t care what I ate or drank, where I sat or who I spoke to. It was as if as soon as I arrived at my beachfront resort my opinion simply became irrelevant, not because it didn’t matter but because it didn’t exist.
I ate exceptionally, relaxed unconditionally, and followed whatever whim came to mind with very few exceptions. The only thing I’d change is to put on sunscreen that first day which was overcast.
My time laying by the pool or on the beach afforded me ample time to engage in one of my favorite activities; people watching. As you can imagine, the diversity of people staying at the hotel was immense, but what was really more striking than what I saw was what I heard. Lounge chairs were plentiful but very close together offering very little privacy both physically and from eavesdroppers, such as myself.
The first day I was laying by the pool next to a pack of eight thirty-something women from St. Louis. Determined to find peace and relaxation, I began getting frustrated with all the squawking these birds were doing. Perhaps it was the overcast skies building gloom on my first day or the immediacy with which I’d hoped to find repose, but my fuse for the gossip and hearty laughter that was littering the pool deck was shortening by the minute. Rather than continue to let the situation get to me, I simply chose to relocate to the beach, but not before overhearing the broads bash one of their ‘friend’s’ new boyfriends. Ruthless.
There was also a couple there I met at the pool bar watching Game 3 of the Celtics/Heat NBA playoff series. They were both from Rhode Island but had a very ‘New Jersey’ accent. She was clearly way out of his league physically, but he was funny and seemed wicked smart (see what I did there). I also caught her giving me eyes at the pool. Trouble in paradise?
Another favorite of mine was a Spanish couple. They appeared to be in their early thirties. Both were gorgeous. The guy was fit and thin- in that David Beckham kind of way. The woman was tall and slender but curvaceous and busty. She was also splendidly pregnant. Something about them just glowed. Unlike most of the couples there, I think I witnessed them say maybe ten words to one another over the course of an entire day. Each day he would always lay her towel on the chair for her and let her sit down and get comfortable before he would put the towel down and sit down himself. She would feed him pieces of fruit for lunch and it seemed as though they held hands always. Usually I’m not a fan of excessive hand holding, but this was cute in that- I want to vomit you’re so in love- kind of way.
But what really made my vacation turn the corner from simple relaxation to rejuvenation actually came about due to this couple. The simple fact that they noticeably didn’t speak to one another yet maintained the appearance of infatuation resonated with me. I have felt for awhile now that our world talks too damn much. We’re always yapping. Yapping at the stores, yapping on our cells, even yapping for a living (I’m looking at you Chris Matthews). Mindless yapping.
At first thought, I had a hard time finding what was wrong with talking a lot. It’s how we communicate and express ourselves. It’s how we transmit our ideas and share our thoughts and emotions. It’s our primary mode of communication unless you’re my texting obsessed sisters. However, the solitude I was able to find laying on the lounge chair revealed that it isn’t that there is anything wrong with talking- in any form it may take- but instead what is sacrificed at talking’s expense. When we talk we aren’t listening. Sure we might be able to physically hear what is being said over our words, but listening is much more intentional and deliberate than simply hearing because listening indicates some level of understanding (or the thought to do so anyway).
As I lay there completely content with my peace and quiet, I was able to listen. There wasn’t anyone to talk to and with this new realization that I didn’t need to talk to find satisfaction, I was completely content not to. After a few hours of simply listening in silence, another nugget of wisdom was revealed to me. When I let myself, it’s actually not difficult to listen to myself. I wondered how much hot air comes out of my mouth on a daily basis (believe it or not, I don’t always have these gems of knowledge). I wondered about how I would like to get the most out of my vacation, and just about the same time I’d realized I was actually listening to my own thoughts was the same time that I’d realized that I already had.

You're an Adult Now; Act Like It

2011-04-22T12:46:00.000-07:00

I have a birthday upcoming. I’m not the kind of person who has to be the center of attention for a week surrounding my birthday. I’m also not the type to advertise. I also don’t see the big deal about birthdays. Sure it’s an excuse to go out and party. Sure it’s a get-out-of-jail (but not real jail) free card to act afool for a night of debauchery.
Unfortunately for me, my feelings regarding birthday often makes mine easy to get forgotten or missed. The squeaky wheel gets the oil right? I’m not squeaky about birthdays, so I don’t get no oil.
This is usually okay with me. I say usually because as soon as I say always, I’ll be out at a bar tonight and come across some dumb drunk twenty-three year old slut who just can’t help but drop ‘it’s my birthday’ into every conversation she has as if it were somehow an excuse for boys to give her attention or to justify why she’s being carried out by the bouncer- or some nice.guy friend of hers who’s volunteered to take care of her and get absolutely blue-balled when she passes out with her chin holding her head in the toilet.
But ultimately, we excuse floozy’s like this, if for nothing else, because they’re young. Young, immature, and green. We’ve all been there. Completely naïve to the world of post-graduate adulthood. We also accept that there’s a- sort of- grace period between the footloose and fancy free lifestyle of early twenties to the responsibilities generally associated with being an adult. And that grace period is growing.
I recently came across an article on the Wall Street Journal’s website explaining this phenomena of ‘extended adolescence’ where men and women are going to school longer, waiting longer to get married, and waiting to procreate. All things that essentially delay the entrance into what’s traditionally referred to as adulthood. This article points specifically to men as the culprits, but I argue that neither gender smoothly transitions from college student to adult.
The article argues that recent delays to the ‘watershed’ dates in men’s lives (graduation, financial independence, marriage, children) have left a gap in men’s development into, well- Men. The author attributed this mostly to the rise in women’s independence that has essentially created an identity crisis for men. As she puts it, ‘cultural uncertainty about the social role of men.’ Because men don’t fully understand their role in an increasingly diverse workforce (traditionally men’s bread and butter) and the introduction of technology that essentially allow men to remain content; playing video games, watching sports, surfing the web; they simply haven’t needed, nor wanted to grow up. But maybe more importantly, nobody’s making them.
The guys I used to live with are near perfect examples of this. At any given time, one of the four guys in the house is either playing video games, rocking out on guitar/bass/drum/keyboard, or browsing a plethora of instantaneous ‘news’ sources. What do they need to grow up for? They’ve got everything they like to do at their fingertips, so there’s really no problem.
For all the discussion and rational behind the existence and reintroduction of extended adolescence with passing generations, I disagree with the author about the reason it continues. We can all agree that the reason for the gap between youth and adulthood is a result of primarily three things; the prevalence of higher education, the introduction of technology, and the deteriorated role of men in society. The dynamics between these three could probably warrant a post of its own, but let’s save that for another time. Now the first two effect men and women equally, but the final point effects men and women differently.
This shift in society’s views of women’s behavior has simultaneously empowered them to seek what they want and decreased their expectations and standards.
We no longer live in a world where the guy knocks on the door and has a conversation with the girl’s father prior to a date. Men and women meet and socialize in an abundance of much less traditional ways. It is even acceptable for a woman to approach a man, if not encouraged.
While women have certainly been empowered to be more active in their professional and social lives, they also don’t demand of men what they used to. Women all say they want a guy to treat them nicely, yet stick it out with assholes. They say they don’t want to be treated like sluts, but continue to engage in ‘booty call’ dates. They say they want a guy to open the door, but regard chivalry as a perk rather than a necessity.
Let’s be honest here. If a guy could bang a girl in the back of his Ford Pinto, he wouldn’t buy an Escalade. Men operate in sync with the lowest common denominator. Whatever is the least they are expected to do is what they’ll do. In other words, whatever a woman’s lowest demands are is the behavior men will exhibit. When men are expected to do more, they do more. When the demands on them are lower, they perform less.
So when women complain that quality men are lacking, they need to thank their girlfriends who’s standards have been training men since puberty just as much as they complain to men. Granted men deserve their share of the responsibility as well, saying there aren’t any good men out there really just means you haven’t required men to uphold a standard that suits you.
So ladies, you want a quality man? Take some responsibility upon yourself and don’t settle for less. Fellas, you want to keep your video games and your girlfriends (of find one in the first place), take some responsibility to treat her like she expects, (and for christsake clean your bathroom). Talk to one another. Quit pointing fingers. Know what you want and settle for nothing less. You’re a grown up now; act like it.

Date Me, D.C.

2011-04-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

My friend Beth, is everything most guys want in a woman. She’s fun, she’s stable, and she’s beautiful. . She loves to cook, is incredibly maternal, and walks the line of how a woman should be sexy without seeming slutty. She’s what I’ve classified in a previous post as an ‘Andy Warhol’.
I’ve been attracted to Beth, since I first met her a few years ago. The reason I didn’t pursue anything romantic with her is because we worked together. I wasn’t about to shit were I eat. But because of this attraction, I wanted to get to know her, and over the course of the last two years we’ve developed into wonderful friends. Despite what Harry told Sally, it is actually possible for men and women to be friends, and I think Beth and I are a living example.
She and I have become the kind of friends that can talk openly about our relationships. Sadly for both of us, we’ve both run into some difficulty, though Beth does have a new prospect she feels has some serious.potential. I hope so.
Yesterday, Beth forwarded me a link to a blog called Date Me, D.C. Katie, the author of the blog, is a late twenty-something who chronicles her dating successes (and blunders). Hmm, sounds familiar.
The particular post Beth sent me concerned a conversation Beth and I have had almost verbatim to a conversation Katie had with her friend Brian about a boy Katie (and Beth) were perpetually over-analyzing. I’ve heard women tend to do this. In both cases, the man had strategically pulled away, the women had effectively over-thought and analyzed their way into a justification that springs optimism.
Optimism that was unjustifiable and ultimately lead to demise.
Though I found Katie’s writing style and description of her realization thoroughly humorous, I was left with a single impression that doesn’t quite match the rhetoric I’ve read over the handful or so posts on Date Me, D.C. I’ve read.
In each of the posts I’ve read thus far, I read a glimpse of Katie’s desire to find a suitor. Despite her own ‘vow to leave no happy hour unattended, no date un-taken, no hottie un-chatted-up’, Katie’s real goal is to find a man.
Each of the posts I read, featured a different fella and nerr’ a mention of a previous, unless to remind readers of a failure. It’s clear that Katie’s gallivanting affords her plenty of opportunities to meet eligible bachelors. Whether she’s on a date with a fella five years her junior, a politico trying to impress with his handi-skills, or a poker playing publicity whore all of Katie’s dates sound very diverse.
Yet for all the dating she does, I got to thinking about why, and how it’s possible, Katie remains single.
Let me be clear, I don’t know Katie. She doesn’t know me.
From what I can gather from her writing, Katie is a flirtatious and charismatic woman. She’s undergone a physical transformation that she’s becoming more confident about, which correlates to a continual desire for attention from men.
But truth be told, I’ve seen this type before.
In my own experience with dating in DC, some of which I’ve chronicled here, I’ve come across a plethora of women who sound, at least on the surface just like Katie. Interesting, motivated, and flirtatious. I would say attractive, but honestly I can’t say this for Katie, as we’ve never met. But I can assume that if so many guys are willing to buy her a drink, she’s not struggling for attention for physical reasons.
I can’t tell you how many women I’ve taken out who say they want the relationship, the romance, the man. But truth be told, I didn’t buy it with them and I don’t buy it with Katie.
The simple fact that Katie goes on five dates in five days with five guys, is evidence to my point, as is the fact that, from what I’ve been able to read thus far, guys introduced on Date Me, D.C. rarely make the second Act. How do you cultivate a relationship when your next date is a new guy and the very next day?
In this Shyguy’s (un)professional opinion, Katie’s continual single-dom is a result of one singular reason. She’s not ready for a man. She’d much rather continue tantalizing the attention of guys she herself admits are fatally flawed. Subconsciously or not, Katie enjoys the attention and breadth of her calendar.
She’s not looking to settle down. If she were, why would she be going out with so many guys? Quality is rarely found in quantity. And why wouldn’t she be putting more scrutiny on the men she does go out with. In one particular post, she literally asks, open endedly on twitter, for a date. Of the millions of people on twitter, I'm not sure its a good place to find what you're looking for, but hey, it worked for her (at least on the short term) so maybe I should borrow her playbook. Nah.
Maybe I’m old school, but I can sense a woman’s confidence similar to the way women can sense something’s wrong. While I’m sure Katie is a confident woman in most aspects of her life, her dating life isn’t one of them. The simple fact that she over-analyzes her crushes is evidence of at least some cracks in her armor.
Further, Katie isn’t available for a relationship. She’s emotionally unavailable. She lets her dates in just far enough, then finds some flaw in them, or pushes them away with her continual (actual or perceived) floozy acts.
Men can sense this, and either the guys she’s dating eventually turns out flawed, or the men she goes out with understand that they’re wasting their time trying to get serious with her-because she’s got a date the next night with somebody else. The guys that want relationships aren’t going to waste their time with a girl who’s actions are more like speed dating than couples night at bingo. And why should they.
In fairness, I don’t mean to be critical of Katie. I just think she’s probably taken too much advice about men from other women.
If she wants a man, she’s got to act like a woman (more on this concept next week).Though I know that will lead to the end of her blog, or at least necessitate a change in topic.
While I have no doubt my blog is much to small time for Date Me, D.C. I'm confident she might learn a thing or two about dating from a Shyguy like me. Maybe I'd even talk her into buying me a drink- but that wouldn't be very manly would it.

Check you out.

2011-04-08T15:08:00.000-07:00

My commute to work, like many who use public transportation, is not-lets say-the highlight of my day. Most mornings I’m up before the sun so I can get to the gym before work. I’ve always got my headphones in my ears. This simultaneously helps me wake up and motivates me for my upcoming workout- or just the day in general.
This morning started just like most other Monday’s. I rocked out a little. Read a little news in the free paper they give outside the stops. I was feeling lethargic but good. As I was coming out of the subway and about to board the escalator to the street level, I saw a very attractive young woman.
How did I know she was attractive?
Even the blind dude checked her out.
She was walking right in front of me. I saw a blind man walking towards me. He had dark sunglasses on and was using a walking stick. A stick out in front of him, not like a walking cane. I moved out of his path as soon as I saw him to be polite and because of his disability.
As I walked towards him with the attractive woman in front of me and between us, the ‘blind’ man put his chin down and let his dark sunglasses slide down his nose. We all know the move. You drop your chin so you can see whatever you’re looking at in full light above the rims of your sunglasses without the darkened tint of the lenses. Why do we do this move? Why, to get a better view of course.
Not only did he try to get a better view, his eyes head and shoulders actually turned with the young woman as she passed. Totally checked her out.
Now, could it have been a coincidence. Sure. I suppose she could have been Christ-reincarnate and any who layeth their eyes on her beautiful skin shall be healed of their sins; the deaf shall hear and the blind shall see. But I saw this broad. She was hot, but not daughter-of-God kind of hot. That’s a whole different level.
I really couldn’t believe what I had just seen. A guy, I’d put him around 30, with all the accessories of a blind man, checked out a broad coming out of the metro. Is nothing sacred? Now men are posing as disabled just to catch a peak as some decent T&A?
I’m actually not sure which is worse: That this guy faked a disability, or that he felt he had to to check out women.
The premise behind the later is a concept I don’t fully understand. As a boy growing up, I always felt really embarrassed when I got caught looking at Carol or Jill on the playground. I think of it as one of those adolescent phases of confusion. But as I’ve grown up and become a man, I’m no longer embarrassed about looking at women with admiration, yet I feel some societal pressure to disguise or otherwise limit my ‘wandering eye’.
Absent a commitment to another woman, what’s so wrong about a guy checking out a woman? Is it disrespectful? Rude? Perverse? I don’t think so, assuming I’m not climbing trees outside of homes with binoculars.
Does my gape make women feel objectified? Certainly for some women. All women want to be seen as equal to their male counterparts; not as a piece of meat. But then there are women who strip for tuition. I’m sure they don’t mind being objectified so long as the Benji’s still make it to their thongs. There’s no accurate or effective way of determining the difference between a woman who will feels objectified and one who won’t when we’re just walking on the street, so how can we (men) be held responsible for the way women will take our gaze? We can’t be.
So here’s the deal. We can compromise.
All we ask of you from this deal is to change your perspective. When a guy you pass on the street looks you up and down, take it as a compliment. If you’re at a restaurant and you continually catch the guy at the other end of the bar looking at you, be reminded that a man’s stare is a sign of he liking what he sees. This should be empowering to you. It should make you confident that men find you attractive. Yes, even the ugly and unattractive men. Those men may not have a snowball’s chance in hell with you, but they still create competition for the man you do choose. Competition increases quality. I learned that in Econ. 101.
In return, we men will agree to concede that it is inappropriate for us to use cheesy pickup lines or cat calls. Our actions will be limited exclusively to sight, even with our buddies- until you are reasonably out of audible range. We are not to say, gesture (other than smile), or add sound effects in your direction. When appropriate as indicated by you, we will approach in a polite and chivalrous way. Further, when we are with you, we will restrain our gaze from any other woman- but you of course will understand that it is in our nature to want to look and will graciously and gracefully remind us when we slip up- keeping in mind that if you’re on our arm it’s because we don’t want anyone else there.
Men find women attractive. Men rely heavily on our sense of sight. Even when we ‘can’t’ see at all.

Wedding Season

2011-03-18T13:48:00.001-07:00

My friends have informed me that very soon, Wedding Season will be upon us. I had no idea there was an actual season for weddings. Are there playoffs at the end?
I have spent about a grand total of five minutes thinking of my wedding. It’s just not something I think about. I know women are a totally different story and most have been planning or envisioning their weddings since they were little girls. I certainly want to get married, I just don’t want to put the carriage before the horse.
Let’s see, in order to have a wedding, I’ve got to find a fiancé. In order to find a fiancé, first I’ve got to have a serious girlfriend. Before I can have a serious girlfriend I’ve got to have a girlfriend in general. In order to get a girlfriend in general, I’ve got to go on multiple dates with the same woman. In order to make it multiple, I’ve got to find a woman who’s willing to go out with me a second time. Here’s the kicker. In order to get a woman to go out with me a second time, I’ve got to convince her on our first date that I don’t like to lick feet or climb trees to watch children undress, AND the woman’s got to walk that fine line of just-crazy-enough and just-crazy very delicately. Needless to say, the odds are long.
I’m getting to the age where I’m starting to get the ‘Why are you single/What’s wrong with you’ questions more and more frequently. They honestly offend me sometimes. Just because I’m single and in my mid-twenties doesn’t mean I’m reprehensible or fatally flawed. There are plenty of single men and women in their twenties and thirties. Some of them are single for a reason, but I’m sure not all of them.
But I also acknowledge that I’m getting to the age where there is quickly coming a shift in the makeup of my friend-group. Currently, I have more single friends than married friends, but it’s not by much. I fully expect this year might be the tipping point.
I grew up in the Midwest. A medium sized town surrounded by farmland. I knew in High school that where ever I ended up for college, upon my completion I was not returning to that town. But for a significant portion of my friends growing up, that was either what they wanted or was simply just what they expected would happen. Most of those friends are now married. In contrast, a very small percentage of my friends in the Capital city have taken the plunge of matrimony. Is this to be expected? I’ll let you decide.
All I know is that sooner or later, friends will be getting married. I’m not particularly upset about this, although it does bring me to an unusual aspect of nervousness. I’ve never been to a wedding. Of the friends I’ve mentioned who are married, I was either not invited to their weddings or not able to attend. I guess there have also been a few along the way that I simply didn’t want to go. I really don’t think it’s all that unusual, but everyone I’ve told that I’ve never been to a wedding has been really surprised.
I’m really indifferent about weddings. I like the idea of getting together with friends and family to celebrate a couple’s commitment to one another. But I also see a lot of really absurdity that surrounds weddings.
I’ve got a number of girl friends who have multiple wedding invitations this year. Most of them are in the wedding party for at least one or two. One thing they all have in common: They all hate their assigned bridesmaid’s dresses. I assume this is a trend, and I just don’t get it. Certainly I’m talking in generalities and I’m sure there are some bridesmaids dresses that are great (if you ask the bride). But assuming the stigma is true, I just don’t get it. Why would a bride want her bridesmaids in ugly dresses? Are they so neurotic that all brides must be the most beautiful person at their wedding? I get that the bride is the center of attention, but after the actual ceremony isn’t there always a party, otherwise called a reception?
From my perception, when I’m the groom, I’ll definitely want the bridesmaids to be looking hot. Not for me obviously, but for my groomsmen. Just because I get locked down doesn’t mean I think my buddies shouldn’t get to have some fun with the co-eds. Yes, I mean exactly what you think I mean. I will want all my buddies hooking up at/after my wedding and reception. Does it hurt that the bridesmaids aren’t in the hottest or most flattering dresses? Not really for guys, but I’m sure it would matter to the women if their dresses make them feel sexy. If the bridesmaids are expected to shell out a couple hundy on these dresses, they should at least be able to look and feel good and, should both parties be consenting adults, get a little ass.
And can we dispel one thing. Weddings are more about the bride than they are the groom. If it were up to the guy, weddings would happen in one of two ways: either with two tickets to Vegas or before a witness at the courthouse. Guys don’t really care about the flowers, the seating arrangements, or the photographer. All of that stuff is for the bride; so the bride can feel special and care-free.
When men think about marriage they think of three things and three things only. The bachelor party (I can’t tell you), the vows (cause we all know it’s easy for guys to communicate how we feel), and the wedding night (bow-chicka-bow-wow).
So as wedding season approaches, I can’t help but wonder if this will be the year I finally get to a wedding. Not my own of course, but in general. I think I might like weddings since I’m a romantic at heart and hope that everyone finds love, I hear the receptions are fun, and I genuinely hope all my friends find happiness. If I do make it to a wedding, even if the bridesmaids have terrible dresses and the photographer insists on pictures that belong on awkwardfamilyphotos.com, I’m sure some, if not most, of them will be sadly redone. I just got an email from one of my High School buddies; He’s getting a divorce.

Shutdown Vacation

2011-03-04T15:07:00.000-08:00

As some of you may have heard that there was a recent potential for a federal government shutdown. Obviously it costs money to run the government and pay those people who are running it, and if action by Congress hadn’t happened by March 4th when the current appropriations law expires, the government would shut.down.
As a federal employee, this means two very meaningful things. The first would be that I don’t get paid. Now to dispel what rumors may have amassed, just because I work for the federal government does not mean that I’m rollin’ in the dough. Quite the contrary. I’m actually closer to a starving artist in net worth than the President’s cushy 400k salary and numerous untaxed benefits.
This leads me to the second meaning. Since I won’t be getting paid if the government shuts down, which I think slash hope will happen, and I may not even be legally able to, I will not be coming into work. This amounts to an unpaid vacation. The unpaid part really hurts the vacation part of the equation, but hey, isn’t that what credit cards are for?
So if and when the government ever shuts down, I’m telling you (and my boss) right now, you don’t have to bother calling me to tell me I don’t have to come to work because I’ll be on my way to some glorious and warm location.
I’m not going to lie to you. I work hard. I, however, have no delusion that the general public fails to acknowledge this. My job is often thankless and sometimes full of citizens who take their frustrations with their government out on me. I’ve been called heartless, soulless, Marxist, degenerate, anti-Christian, anti-women, anti-gun, anti-fun, and my personal favorite ‘just like Mel Gibson’.
So excuse me if the idea of time off, even unpaid, excites me. Sometimes I get worn out, and this guy could really use a trip. The only question is where to go. Obviously, since I’m not getting paid, I have to be somewhat frugal. I found a $500 trip to Cozamel that really peaked my interest, so I kept digging. Some of the highlights around the same price range for this weekend were Porte Viarta, Nassau Bahama, Bermuda, and Barbados. Wow that’s a lot of B’s. All of those sound pretty sweet for a last minute trip right? I thought so too.
I was even sharing the news with my co-workers and friends who work for the government trying to recruit others to join me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to jet-set alone, but life is about the memories, right? And what’s better at bringing people together than fond memories?
Ultimately though, searching for last minute vacations gave way to fantasy vacation planning. Obviously not for this weekend, but just to figure out a ballpark of how long I’ll have to save (2 years) to be able to afford what I want to do.
Sure enough, I’ve found it.
I’m going to sail the Greek Aisles. Much like sailing throughout the Caribbean, I’ll hop from island to island exploring Poseidon’s sea and Zeus’ Olympus. I’ll fly into Athens to check out the acropolis for a day and head to the coast to charter a sailboat and head to Mykonos, Santorini, and hopefully all the way to Rhodes. But mostly the cities only serve as a guide. What I’m really excited about is being out on the Mediterranean with incredible weather. I hope to stand behind the helm of the boat shirtless and shoeless with only the wind to worry about. It would be great to have a cold beverage and all the grapes and pita’s I can eat, too. I cannot even begin to imagine how beautiful the sunset is on the Mediterranean. It is after all, where, enlightenment happened right? And the birthplace of modern civilization; where we got this idea of democracy. I'm not really sure how they connect to sunsets, but I digress.
There’s something innately peaceful about the water for me. Being on it, being in it, being near it are all some of my favorite things in the entire world. It’s almost as if all my worries and distractions just go out with the tide or float calmly past like a drunk and shipless pirate on a piece of wreckage.
It’s so easy to forget how peaceful places like that can be with our chaotic 9-5’s. I don’t ever want to lose that feeling of detach-ability.
And for now, I won’t have to. Congress passed and extension to avoid a government shutdown. Thanks. A lot for ruining my vacation. It was fun to dream.

The Facebook Dump

2011-02-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

I was watching TBS the other day while making myself dinner. The Office was on when I started poaching the chicken but Sex and the City was on when I finished the asparagus (mother would be so proud I like it now that I’m an adult; hated it as a kid). My hands were covered in raw food and ingredients, so instead of getting my brand new Sony remote dirty, I just left it on Kerri and her girls.
In the episode, Kerri has just been dumped by a guy named Burger. Yes, like the delicious sandwich. Anyway, the reason this is so weird is that he left her a post-it note breaking up with her. It read: I can’t. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Who does that? Later in the episode Kerri is arrested for smoking pot on the sidewalk, but got out of it by showing the officer the post-it who didn’t believe it was actually true.
Now I know men can be passive aggressive sometimes with women, but leaving a post it note is more than a little ridiculous. Trust me, as someone who’s seen some of the more creative blow off tactics; I get how frustrating it must be for women who are never afforded closure. And we men wonder why women are crazy. We make them that way.
I know I write fairly frequently about the crazy women I’ve encountered over the course of my single life. This will not be one of those stories, but it is a story of a woman I was interested in and her, rather creative, way of telling me she wasn’t interested in dating me.
I met The Southern Divorceé (TSD) and went on one date with her before she told me that she was still hung up on her ex. Classic. I’m not interested in dating someone who’s not ready or in a good place to date me, so I moved on. I shouldn’t even say moved on since it was just one date and there really wasn’t anything to move on from.
So a number of months later TSD reaches out to me. She asks me to hang out with her again and grab a drink. I don’t think anything of it as I’ve previously written off all romantic interest in her as a result of her dragging her ex’s skeleton around. That is a metaphor.
So I agreed to grab a drink with her, but she rescheduled on me three times before it actually happened. I think she could sense my mounting frustration, as I was minutes from telling her to forget it all together. I was not down for the silly games she be playin.
So when we finally met for a drink, I had my guard up. I was myself and conversational, but made sure I didn’t seem like I was picking up what she was laying down with all the fickle planning. Let me be clear. TSD is really hot, very friendly, and easy to talk to so I’m sure I did a shitty job of disguising my attraction. We had a good time. We talked about what was new and she told me how she was finally over her ex (phew). Anyway long story short, we started hanging out a little more regularly. Honestly, I thought I was killing it. I was making her laugh, leaving her notes, calling just because I was thinking about her. I was doing all of this because I thought I genuinely liked this girl and was interested in her. She was verbally reciprocal of her attraction to me and I thought things were going at a slow and healthy pace, which I was all together comfortable with.
We hit a little speed bump when I felt like I was constantly competing against her memory of her ex. She took my reaction as a step away from wanting to hang out with her and pursue a relationship with her. That was very short lived however as one night she sent me a slew of text messages telling me how highly she thought of me. “You’re such and amazing guy. Like soso amazing”. Vom.
So fast forward to a weekend she decides to head back to her hometown in the South. She and I had made plans to go on a date the following Tuesday upon her return. I got up Sunday morning, the day she’s supposed to come back, and do some chores around my condo. I hop on my computer, bored, and load Facebook.
At the top of my news feed is a posting by TSD. Pardon that this is not a direct quote, but the gist is that she’s so glad she was patient in waiting for such an incredible man to come into her life, and blah blah blah. She had obviously been playing for multiple teams, hedging her bets. Even though she had told me how amazing a person she thinks I am just days prior, it was obvious she wasn’t talking about me but some other guy who probably had no idea there was more than one guy in the picture also. Plus I’d be a little creeped out if she mentioned me in her Facebook status, not gonna lie.
So upon my discovery of being mislead, I make a comment on her status simply saying, ‘Interesting. Do tell.” I’m not kidding, no more than ten minutes later my phone rings and guess who it was. She gave me the standard, it’s not you, it’s me bullocks. The simple fact that she posted on Facebook that she’s ‘soo in love’ before giving me the courtesy of a heads up, is what I would consider the new-age of post-it note breakups.

The Vagina Manologues

2011-02-11T14:34:00.000-08:00

A very dear friend of mine will be participating in her third performance of the Vagina Monologues. The purpose of the monologues and the performances is to raise awareness raising money for violence against women prevention and awareness.
The Vagina Monologues a series of readings from interviews conducted with all types of women from all sorts of backgrounds. These interviews shared one common theme. The interviewer's aim was to ask women, who probably hadn't ever been asked to talk before,about their vaginas. I have no idea how many women were interviewed, but having witnessed a few of these performances, I can tell you that they're all colorful. Some are graphic, some funny, some sad, but all are candid and real. One thing that is never in any of these performances is men.
Yea I get that men don't have vagina's, but I would argue that there are men who like vagina's more than some women. We all came from vagina's. Not a lot of women have had a face-to-face with vagina's like most men have. I'd like to think men could be a constructive addition to the conversation. Yes, I'm sure that there would be men who's sole response to vagina's is sexual, but I'm also sure that you'd probably get some pretty good insight into the minds of men, just as the monologues give a glimpse into the minds of women.
So, I wrote one of my own:

First of all, the only time I ever call it a ‘vagina’ is when I’m around women. I’ve learned along the way that twat, or cunt, or the more colorful terms used by some of my buddies, aren’t terms for mixed company. Especially if in that mixed company is a tight little number I’d like to take home.
Now don’t take this the wrong way, but in my experience with vajayjays, I’ve learned that there are as many types as there are women. Smooth ones, hairy ones, tight ones, moist ones, dry ones, smelly ones, Ones that look like a little crease in the skin between your legs, and ones that look like roast beef fresh off the slicer.
Every Cookie is unique. And, just like electronics, every one of them comes with a unique set of operating instructions. The problem is Pink Taco’s don’t come with instruction manuals. Not that we’d read it before we started anyway, but at least then we’d be able to find the on switch, something I know women have never complained about.
Try to see if from our perspective. When it’s time to go to Best Buy for a new television because the one I’ve got has a broken mute button and it won’t let me watch football, it is confusing enough trying to figure out the latest and greatest without being constantly distracted by the large ‘screens’ you love to dangle in our faces. How are we supposed to know how to make them work? Sometimes the power button is on top, sometimes its on the side, sometimes on the front, sometimes in the back. The only way for us to figure it out is a little trial and error…usually with a lot more of the error part.
Not only does your Bearded Clam have its own set of instructions, but the instructions change constantly depending on your mood or what’s going on. When we’re out and you’re dancing and feeling sexy, you let us skip a step or two, and if you’ve had a drink or two the routine disappears. If we’re at home on an ordinary night, not only do we have to hit all the right spots, but before we even get a one-on-one with Kitty we also have to bring flowers, cook dinner, clean up after dinner, light candles, be groomed, and ask you about your mother. And if you’ve already put on sweatpants by the time we get home, we know not even to try.
It’s not like this for women. You’ve got it easy. All it takes to get us turned on is a cool breeze.
But if you promise not to say anything, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I secretly love that women don’t make it easy on me. I love that I have to work for it. The challenge makes the juice worth the squeeze.
Plus I look at the work as an investment. As a hopeless romantic, I know that jumping through the hoops only brings us closer on an intimate level. The more intimate we get, the more likely we are to fall in love, if I’m lucky, and love is ultimately my goal.
But in the meantime, I’m happy to work for it because I know one thing will be true once Ms. Daisy and I do meet: She comes first.

The Lineup

2011-02-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Imagine you’ve gone on several dates with an individual, but not enough to have settled into a relationship. You know you’re interested, but trying to let things evolve and grow naturally. Without pressure, or assumption. You see no signs of problems or deal-breaking concerns, but don’t want to fall into something prematurely. It’s too soon for you to go changing Facebook relationship statuses.
You’ve got plans for the next date. You’re looking forward to the date-night, maybe you even bought a new shirt. But a few days prior you hear from your date and they have to reschedule. Their boss is under deadline, thus they are under deadline. Major let down.
So what do you do now? Get bummed and accept your fate of spending an evening on your couch with a pint of Mint Chocolate Chip (and a package of Double Stuff) over analyzing the situation and second-guessing your date's interest level?
Please.
You consult The Lineup.
The Lineup is a little different for everyone, but its generally a prioritized list of your romantic interests. I like to keep a four woman lineup but I’ve got a buddy who’s Lineup has been as many as eight. Here’s my template.
1. Whatever person you’re most interested in pursuing. This is the objective. The one you want. The one you need. No it cannot be George Clooney or Jennifer Aniston. Yes, you have to know them.
2. This is the ‘next-best-thing’. For whatever reason he/she just isn’t your preference but you still enjoy hanging out and having fun. This can also be someone with the potential to be #1 while you get to know them more.
3. This is the best girl.friend. This is the one you trust. The one you go to for date ideas or to get a good female perspective.
4. This is the fun-friend who’s also down for some (or a lot) casual physical action. This is the person you call when you want to go out for a low pressure – high fun time.
You can customize your Lineup however you like. Some people may want more than two potential romances, while some might want more casual friend-with-benefits types. You can change the people who occupy these positions as frequently as necessary. Mine is usually in constant flux. So when you get rescheduled for a date(which happens and doesn’t always mean you’re being blown off) you’ve got other options. However, two hard and fast rules: If any of the people on the list ask you what position they are the only answer is #1. Do not sleep with more than one of the women on The Lineup at one time. The only allowable exception is the monumentally rare occasion that two women on your list actually want to sleep with you together. You lucky bastard.
The purposes of The Lineup are plentiful. It keeps you from ever spending a date-night at home alone. It prevents you from investing too much time and effort into one person too soon. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you from being terribly let down when and if things go south with your #1. You just slide #2 right in there and, boom- all better. If Cee-Low Green had a Lineup he’d never have written ‘Fuck You’. But I think most importantly, it lets you have fun without stressing about relationships, or the lack-there-of.
I’m sure there are some who will read this and say, ‘How can you advocate dating four people at once. That’s cheating’. It’s dishonest and misleading to go on dates with someone when you’re also going on dates with someone else. They’ll argue that you can’t hope to get into a relationship if you’re constantly dividing your time, and thus your attention.
To those people I say, “Get over yourselves.”
We need to get over the idea of only dating one person at a time. This isn’t the 50’s. There’s no such thing as courting. There’s no dance cards, no implied exclusivity. There is absolutely nothing wrong with dating more than one man or woman at a time. So long as you’re having a good time, being honest and safe what could you be doing wrong?
Where you have to be careful is when things move from ‘dating’ to ‘relationship’. Dating is causal. Relationship is investment. Once the exclusivity conversation takes place, The Lineup is put to rest, cause that is called cheating, boys and girls, and cheaters deserve to be lonely.
Some might also say, that The Lineup is a subconscious reaction to some sort of intimacy issue or commitment phobia.
As true as that may be, I’d much rather try to have relationships, even four shallow uncommitted philandering ones, than sit around analyzing them.
How’s that ice cream?

I'm the Bachelor

2011-01-28T14:55:00.001-08:00

I have, on more than one occasion, expressed my affinity for (somewhat) trashy reality TV. I’m not really sure what I like best about it; seeing people embark on these scripted ‘train-wrecks’ or the seemingly endless supply of drama stemming from forced human interaction and the promise of fortune and fame. Though I do have my favorites, the show I’m going to discuss today, is a bit feminine. I say a bit, when I actually mean it’s almost entirely focused on the female viewers. I must say that I don’t watch this particular show as regularly as I catch other (read: trashier) reality TV shows (the Jersey Shore), however, I know this particular show has a much larger following for two reasons: it’s been on longer (15th Season is airing now) and its been marketed by ABC as a ‘fairytale love’ type of show. Chicks eat that shit up.
I’m of course refereeing to The Bachelor.
Perhaps the fact that I’ve just become a full-fledged bachelor again has increased my interest in finding ‘the one’ which is, of course, the show’s main premise. Or perhaps I’ve become completely enthralled by the intricacies of dating and the drama this show manifests surrounding having multiple women live together while competing for the love of one man. But probably more likely, is that I’m entirely jealous that this guy, Brad Womack, has his pick of 25 mind-blowingly attractive women.
It’s worth noting that this seasons bachelor, Brad, is actually on his second go-around on the show. In 2007 he took two women to the final rose and rejected them both. Burn. I didn’t watch the season, but the beginning of this season made a big deal of the fact that he’s purposely burned both of these women.
So let me paint the scene for you. Women are picked and screened to participate in this competition, where the winner gets, presumably, engaged. They are competing for the love of a guy who’s already proven he’s got commitment and vulnerability issues. The women go on a series of ‘dates’ both in groups and individually and the bachelor shows his favor by bestowing on them a single red rose. Those who are not awarded a rose are eliminated until only two remain and the bachelor chooses one to be the winner, where he will, presumptively ask the woman to be his bride.
Now I could be reading this all wrong, but I’m not sure I could think of a situation that seemed less likely to facilitate ‘real’ love. With camera’s watching everything and awkwardly staged interactions seem to make having genuine conversation almost impossible. Of the fourteen bachelors, only one has ended in marriage, and even he isn’t married to the woman he chose as the winner. He married the runner up. Woops. But maybe that’s why women like it… it’s entirely unlike real-life.
One of the reasons this is entirely preposterous to finding love is that the men they choose are of basically one type. Rich. If not utterly wealthy, they are all financially better-than-stable. This is not most men. They are also all very handsome and eager to show off their near-flawless bodies. Lastly, there is no way a man of any sense would willfully throw himself into a situation to be ‘dating’ twenty five women. I have a hard enough time keeping one around. To think that there are men out there who can actually juggle the emotions and maintenance of multiple women is obviously either a glutton for drama or simply ignorant to all that it takes to really build a relationship. Assuming a guy is capable of the juggling, there is no possible way he can be completely genuine with all the women. You can’t have more than one ‘favorite girl’.
This leads to my second point. Ladies correct me if I’m wrong here, but don’t you want to feel special? How does watching the guy you think you’re dating go on dates, kiss, or bestow gifts on make you feel special? ‘Oh but when we’re together….’ Yea, you may feel like when it’s just the two of you things are great, but all the broads here believe that. So either you’re all having great time with him, or he’s misleading you. But sure, keep telling yourself that what you’ve got is special. This guy is kissing and taking out not just one other, but multiple other girls, or he’s taking you out on dates with five other women allowing you only minutes of actual conversation time. That shit would fly in the real world for about a drink before a guy is wearing it.
So here’s what I’d like to see. A Bachelor who’s real. A guy who doesn’t mislead these women by acting like he doesn’t have something special with five other women she’s living with. I’d like to see a guy who’d not as financially stable, attractive but won’t be seen in any Calvin Klein underwear ads, and not so many rules about dates, roses, and interactions. I’d like to see a Bachelor who left all the roses on the table, but had to tell the women he was eliminating to their faces instead of the passive aggressive ‘if you did not receive a rose’. What could be more dramatic than a show where at any minute the bachelor could say ‘peace out’ to any of the women. Isn’t drama and confrontation what drives ratings. There you go.
And just once, I’d like to see a woman tell the bachelor exactly what she thought of him when she gets rejected, or vice versa. These bachelors literally put some of these women through the emotional ringer and I’m supposed to believe that ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’. Sure you want to keep your head up as the door hits you on the ass, but do you really think he’ll remember you if you don’t put him in his place?
This is probably the most telling aspect of this whole thing. The Bachelor is supposedly forging these great relationships with these women, only to eliminate them and forget about them. As a guy who’s just experienced a break up, I can tell you that forgetting is often the hardest part when you genuinely care.
But for all the bad scripting, cliché comments, and awkwardness of the staging of the Bachelor, it would still be really sweet to have my pick of 25 gorgeous women. Hell, I’d settle for 5 gorgeous women in my lifetime.
Some guys get all the luck.

Fake Boobs

2011-01-21T12:43:00.001-08:00

About a year ago, I went on a few dates with a woman named Haley. Haley was southern, blonde, and had really, really big fake tits.
Now usually, I’m an oh-natural kind of guy, but I thought Haley was fun and flirtatious when I first met her, and since I’d never had any hands-on (pun intended) experience with fake fun-bags, I decided to go with it.
The first time we got together was very causal. We sat and sipped hot chocolate as we chatted and got to know each other. Very innocent. The second time we hung out I went to her place and we watched a movie.
Everyone who’s ever hung out with the opposite sex since high school knows that ‘come over to watch a movie’ is basically the green-light for at least a make-out-sesh. It’s about as automatic as Larry Bird from downtown. Second hangout ended, not so innocently and I got my first up-close-and-personal with the fake mams. With consent of course. Relax, it didn’t go that much further than that.
The third and final time we got together was at my place. We hung out and chatted in the kitchen as we put a simple dinner together. I had asked her over to watch a basketball game. Note that the same rule previously mentioned for movies does not apply to sports, at least in guy’s minds.
After the game we got back to the making out. This time with fewer articles of clothing. Things are getting a little hot and heavy when she stops, pulls away, and says to me, ‘just don’t break my heart, okay?’
Buzz kill.
I pull away further, and ask her to repeat what she’d just said. I thought that line was used exclusively involving sex. Since neither of us had talked about sex, nor were we disrobed enough to physically pull that off, I was confused. I was more enthralled with her artificial cans than getting laid. Did she find making out coupled with some heavy petting to be intimate enough to warrant such a disclaimer? I think not.
So I said to her that I thought it was a better idea if we slow things down so neither of us gets hurt, my intentions with her were honorable and I didn’t want her to think otherwise. Especially since I still hoped for some more time with her pair of inflatable tah-tahs. You know, for research. I’ve learned enough about women to know that if they get uncomfortable in any, even remotely, self conscious situations the likelihood of a guys return to that juncture is slim.
But that was the wrong answer for her apparently as she took it upon herself to take the remainder of her clothes off with me sitting next to her. She explained that she didn’t want to stop, but that she’d been burned before for jumping into bed with a guy too soon.
And this isn’t too soon? Umm, yea. It is. Especially after she asked me not to hurt her, then strips down while telling me she’s been burned. Something’s not right with this logic. So I told her that I think her having to ask me not to hurt her is evidence that maybe we don’t know each other well enough to be taking our interactions to that level.
You would have thought that I hand just called her the C-word or something because she, flipped out. Like off the hinges flipped off. She couldn’t comprehend that a guy could actually say no to her, or sex. Sorry Charlie.
In her mindless babble of anger and sexual anxiety, it becomes very clear that she and I aren’t going to work out. I literally sat there for fifteen minutes while she babbled on about liking me and being comfortable with me and wanting to have sex with me.
Normally, I’m flattered when a woman confesses a desire to hold my hand as we walk (or run) to bonetown. This time, not so much. This broad was literally breaking down right before my eyes.
Did I mention this was the third time we’d hung out? Yeah, something’s not right there.
Haley flies off the handle for at least another hour before I just can’t take it anymore and tell her that she and I aren’t going to be seeing each other again and that it’s time for her to leave. Getting her out the door was another struggle, but what’s really crazy are the text messages I got once she’d left. I’ll give you some of the highlights.
501: You’re going to pay for how you treated me tonight. And you call yourself a gentleman.
Me: I’m sorry you feel that way, I tried to be nothing but polite, but it was difficult to even get a word in with you while you were yelling at me.
501: I was so stupid for thinking you were a decent guy. You tricked me.
Me. I didn’t trick you. I am a good guy. Just because I didn’t want to sleep with you doesn’t make me a bad guy.
501: You’re a dick. You’re going to pay for this.
I’m getting a little annoyed at this point. I hadn’t done anything mean or maliscious to this broad and I certainly didn’t feel like engaging in her little tantrum, no matter how big her knockers were.
501: How’d you like to meet my brother. Then you’ll be sorry. That’ll teach you to throw out a lady.
Me: I didn’t know ladies stripped naked after professing to be vulnerable. But please don’t make empty threats.
501: They’re not empty. He’s a marine and I’ll have him bring his buddies up to kick your ass.
Me. Okay, it’s clear this isn’t going anywhere.
501: Does your office know about the cocaine you did today?
Me. Okay, now you’re just making shit up. I’ve never done cocaine.
FACT.
501: Good luck finding a job after they fire you for cocaine use after an anonymous tip
Me: Alright, you’ve gotta stop with the threats. I’m sorry your feelings have gotten hurt and I’m sorry that you blame me. It’s very clear now that neither of us really want anything to do with the other, so lets just stop talking.
After that, I’d get random text messages from her with various rude or semi-threatening comments. Some as long as three months after this incident. Fortunately she’s stopped.
So the moral of this story is that of the women I’ve met and taken out with fake breasts, 100% of them have been emotionally unstable. I’m one-for-one.
What do I do deserve these crazy broads!?

No Years Resolution

2011-01-12T12:24:00.000-08:00

As we begin another calendar year, I can’t help but think back on 2010. I’ll make this short because I’m usually the kind that hates people who dwell on the past. I’m more of the ‘do-something-about-it’ kind of guy. I had a particularly difficult 2010 and coupling that with the fact that I’m nearing the close of a quarter-century of life, I feel deserving of some grace to bitch a little.
Some legal trouble, losing my job, and a seemingly endless supply of drama with women would lead the ShyGuy Journal-Gazette-Post-Chronicle’s New Year’s edition to ring in the headline: SHYGUY CAN’T BUY A BREAK. I will likely look back at 2010 as one of my worst years of life; a fact that caused me some distressed and prompted a fair amount of introspection as twenty-eleven began.
Instead of describing the details of the shit-storm that was two-thousand-ten, I think I’m just going to tell you what I’m going to do about it. Before I do, make no mistake, this is not a resolution. New Years resolutions are a big fucking waste of time. Not only am I already sick of hearing about other people’s resolve to eat better, work out more, spend more time with friends – bewshit, bewshit, bewshit – but the same assholes who professed their fortitude are already bailing. You know why? Because making a resolution at New Years is about as dumb as stepping into a boxing ring with Mike Tyson after a night of partying with Lindsey Lohan. It’s just not going to end well. Is giving up coffee really going to make your life better? No, its just going to make you a crabby bitch.
If you want something in your life changed, first, don’t wait until New Years to make a change. Second, unless you really believe it should change, it won’t change, and even if you do want to change, habits take 28 days to break. You think you’ll be irritable without your coffee, what about the woman in the cubicle next to you will be like after giving up The View? And your boss who’s giving up expensing his call-girls? And what do you think the guy in the corner cubicle will be like as he’s trying to kick his coke habit. Sounds like your office is going to be bundles of fun. I give it a week, tops.
Not me. I’m not making any resolutions. Instead, I’m changing jobs. A fresh start with a new group of colleagues who know absolutely nothing about my work habits, pattern of showing up fifteen minutes late every day, affinity for inappropriate music in my headphones, and clear favoritism for interns with short skirts and heels (to look but not touch).
As I see it, changing jobs in lieu of a New Year’s resolution has two specifically targeted benefits. The first, the obvious benefits that come from a promotion and a raise is simply motivation to make my new situation last for awhile. How many people can say they’ll maintain their resolution as long as their resolution will have them? This way I know I’ll stay motivated to stay on track! The second substantial benefit is that this new job enables me to continue all the destructive, unhealthy, or otherwise inappropriate behaviors the rest of you will try, and fail, to abstain from. The difference is that I won’t feel bad about failing…

Packing Light

2010-12-17T14:43:00.000-08:00

My office recently moved into a new space. What was a cramped but open office space has given way to a very industrial looking cubicle with excessive space. While I’ve noticed my daily productivity increase as a result to the increase in privacy, I’ve also noticed that I speak considerably less to my coworkers. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t get along with my coworkers as well, or if some of my coworkers acted more like interns; read: idiots.
Don’t get me wrong here, my coworkers and I aren’t besties or anything vomit educing like that, but I like to think we have a healthy balance between work and amusement. I make a considerable effort to maintain a heavy distinction between work and everything else in my life, so the office gossip stays relatively mundane.
We (my coworkers and I) were asked to have everything we wanted moved from our desks in the old office packed before we left for Thanksgiving break. We weren’t given a specific date for our move so it behooved us to be prepared in advance.
Yet when the day came to move all our shit out, some of my coworkers were still packing as the movers were taking boxes away. I shit-you-not that someone moved more than one box that hadn’t been unpacked from our last office move two years ago. Seems to me that if it wasn’t important enough for you to take out of the box after the first move, it’s still not important enough to save from the incinerator. As of today (a full week after the move), those same boxes remain cluttering this particular person’s cubicle. I really understand why he went through all the trouble to move boxes he obviously uses so often.
As my coworkers packed up their personal items, files, paperwork, and reference materials, everyone needed multiple boxes in order to transport these items. Everyone but me.
Of all the things that care currently covering my desk, and all the things I needed to take with me, I needed just one box. It’s called packing light. The biggest thing in my box was a two-inch wide binder that holds all of my printed writing.
Now I don’t really consider myself a minimalist, in fact, I have on my desk a whole host of things. A water bottle, stapler, cup of pens, file organizer a few notepads were packed and brought to the new desk, but that’s about it. While some people, okay everyone, needed multiple boxes to move their things, I was unpacked and playing solitaire before many of them had even finished moving their boxes.
When I think about it. when I take trips and pack a suitcase, I don’t pack much then either. A few shirts, a few changes of underwear, and a toothbrush are about all I need. Who needs pants?
Recognizing this, I began to wonder why I seem to have made a habit out of carrying a smaller amount of stuff with me. And I had two thoughts.
My first thought was that I’m simply lacking the part of the brain that, by chemical stimulations in conjunctions with electron firing, results in emotional attachment to stuff. I’m not a minimalist in the sense that I only have the things I use immediately or that are directly impacting my life. I have things that I’ve had for awhile; shoes and clothes as an example.
As I explored this thought, I tried to think of some material things that I would be devastated if I lost or got ruined in an accident like, say for example, if aliens come and blow up my house with a photon gun. What I came up with was, to be perfectly honest, embarrassing. I would be devastated if I lost my movies, portfolio of writing, and my original Air Jordan 1’s, and 11’s. Of all the things in my life that I’m supposed to treasure, those are the only things that I can think of that are at my house that I’d be genuinely upset if I lost. I would include my baby blanket, but that’s still at my parents house thus didn’t make the list.
Then I began to wonder if this vacuum of connectedness that exists in my soul extends beyond just physical stuff. Most of the women I’ve been involved with romantically have told me that they understand that as soon as I make the decision to move on, I am finished like landing on Boardwalk with a Hotel on it. It’s as if, though little acknowledgement of my own, I am able to just flip a switch, the lights come on, and the band begins to sing “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here”.
This conclusion actually kind of scared me. I don’t want to be void of any emotional connection to anything or anyone. I was legitimately distraught over the idea that, for a guy who is such a hopeless romantic, I may never feel that deep burn of desire and connection to something. I felt like Scrooge. Who wants to be Scrooge. He gets the shit scared out of him by three ghosts who wake him up in the middle of the night and show him all the shit he’s done wrong! I felt like a robot who’s only understanding of emotion is based on a computer programmers ability to effectively code a definition into my mainframe giving me the emotional understanding of a nine-iron. I mean, I was really bummed about this conclusion.
Then I had another thought. What if the reason I’m able to pack light has nothing to do with my emotions at all? What if I am actually very emotionally balanced and connective to people and the things around me. What if the sole reason I pack light is quite simply because I didn’t want to deal with the hassle of multiple boxes. Packing and unpacking box after box of rarely used trinkets and devices, doesn’t sound very appealing to me at all and sounds like a lot of work I just don’t want to do. Yeah. That’s it.
The reason I pack light, is just the I’m fucking lazy.

You Have Been Rejected

2010-12-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving weekend is notoriously the worst travel weekend of the year. Motorists clog the highways, causing hours upon hours of delays at-best. Flyers populate airport security lines like college kids at liquor stores.
This year, I purposely planned my one-way flight out of Reagan National Airport for the Tuesday before Thanksgiving in the hopes of beating most of the holiday rush. I printed my boarding pass at home to avoid the lines at the airline counters and arrived at Reagan about 45 minutes prior my flight. Usually this is significantly earlier than I would usually arrive. I’ve mad a habit of walking up to the gate as they are calling last call. However with all the horror stories on the news about the touchy TSA agents, I figured I should allow a little more time.
I walk into the airport and head for security, which is actually less crowded than any other time I’ve ever seen it. I pull out my ID and hand it and my boarding pass to the drowsy looking TSA agent at the end of the line. He gives me the ole’ thumbs up to proceed and I walk to the x-ray machine belt. I’ve flown enough to know the stupid little things you have to put through the x-ray machine. I’ve learned to leave my computer at home so as to avoid putting it in its very own bin completely separate from all the rest of my belongings. But never mind that I can put my shoes, cell phone, belt, and carry-on bag in just one tub. As if somehow putting my MacBook in its own tub will somehow negate the fact that I still haven’t been caught with a pocketknife on my keychain, after 5 years flying with it. Safety first huh?
So I figured out TSA’s little system with these pervert-enabling see-through-your-clothes scanners. The only people who were asked to go through the scanners first set off the regular metal detectors. I had already decided that if I was asked to go through the scanner I would ask for a pat-down instead, just to see what all the fuss was about. But I really didn’t want to break my streak of not putting out before a first date. I took off everything that could have possibly set off the metal detector. Shoes, jacket, belt; everything.
And I made it assault free!
The woman behind me, however, was not so lucky. As I waited at the end of the x-ray belt waiting for my other shoe to come down the pike, I had a direct view of the screen for the whole body scanner. Curious, I wanted to see how invasive these photo’s really are of people. Even though the screen was no bigger than a laptop screen, the image it displayed is what I would imagine porn was like before color photographs. Every contour of this person’s body was visible. And what’s worse is that the TSA guy operating the machine made no effort to conceal the picture from the general public. If I knew the whole world was going to see me naked, I might have done some pushups after I got out of bed this morning.
Per usual, I get to the gate right as boarding is concluding. I jump right on and find my seat. Great. The bitch seat. It could have been worse, instead of realizing my nightmare of being squished between two sumo-sized women, I was between two professionally dressed women. I put my suitcase in the overhead, and take my seat.
Almost immediately upon my settling in, the blonde fairly attractive middle aged woman on the aisle, says to me, “I hope you don’t mind the smell, I brought some food.” I said, “Not at all as long as it’s not Indian food. That might be bad for all of us,” implying the disgusting smell of curry that permeates your nostrils like vomit after five too many shots of tequila. Gross.
She looks at me and immediately removes the ‘fuck off’ look from her face and replaces it with the ‘oh heeeeyyy’ look that obviously hasn’t been used on her obviously inattentive but jewelry endowing husband.
Of course I checked the finger. This ain’t my first rodeo.
“Thanks for making me laugh. It’s been a rough day.” She gushed at me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply, trying to play the strong sensitive type, “but at least you’re headed home right?”
“And I get to see my daughter when I get home.”
Fuck, did I just walk myself into a ‘fix up’. I hate when that happens. This isn’t the first time a mother has thought I would be ‘so perfect’ for her daughter.
“Yeah, I’m headed to see my sisters myself. I’m excited to see them. You are too, I see. “
“Oh yes. But I’m nervous. It’s the first time she’s coming to my house since her father and I separated and we started…..” I stopped paying attention after ‘separated’ as I was now confused which avenue she was taking; the lonely cougar or the matchmaker mother. I think she kept talking for awhile as I zoned out wondering how I must look like the kind of guy everyone can talk to, because women seem to always want to share their secrets with me. Yes, even strange women on airplanes. It’s a curse. My attention snapped back into focus when I heard her say, “... and I stole some mini-bottles from the USAir club to muster some liquid courage. You want some?”
This flight just got a whole lot better.
She opens up her purse and I see at least, AT LEAST 12 mini bottles of booze in her bag. Someone wasn’t looking for liquid courage. Someone was looking for reasons to forget!
“Who would I be if I let you drink alone this holiday season?!” I reply with a twinkle in my eye. ‘This is going to get good’ I think to myself.
She pulls out what looks like a mini-Absolute. I couldn’t tell the type though because about the time I saw it, was about the time she’d downed it. She then hands me a mini bottle of bourbon and dares me, “Let’s see it hot shot.” Not wanting to look like this woman is showing me up, I take the bottle and think that one won’t hurt.
The rest of the flight was spent watching this woman pound these bottles. I think she probably had three before we even went wheels up. I sat nursing the second bottle she gave me as she progressively got more and more drunk over the course of our seventy five minute flight.
I heard about her shitty day, which actually wasn’t that shitty. Really the only reason she said it was shitty was because she broke the heel of her Jimmy Choo’s (I’d have been pissed too if my thousand dollar shoes broke). As the flight went on, the topics got more personal. I heard about her separation and her husband’s mistress.
“I’m still hot!” she slurred to me with about twenty five minutes left in the flight, “Don’t you think I’m still hot?”
Any man knows there is only one acceptable answer in the eyes of a woman to that question. So I gave the standard response we’ve been programmed to give, “Yeah. You’re still hot. I’d bang you.” It wasn’t true, but I thought a happy drunk was better than a pissed off drunk, especially when you’re sharing an arm rest.
At this point, I thought she had made her avenue clear and that this lonely cougar was trying to get me drunk, and doing a fairly good job of it. Until she started yammering on about how her daughter is so hot. It was like I was on a bad episode of Days of Our Lives. I again zone out as she starts describing her daughter.
Not that I’m against meeting hot women, but seriously can you imagine the story. How’d you guys meet? Oh, her mom got drunk on an airplane, hit on me, then passed me along to her daughter. That has Maury Povich written all over it.
She pulls out a picture of her daughter to show me how ‘hot’ she was and I don’t know what this woman was smoking. I don’t know whether the maternal instinct completely overwhelms the sense of reason, but the woman she showed me was not attractive. I’m sure she’s got a great personality, but she looked like she was 17 and was being dressed by a blind woman who’s sense of fashion stems directly from Pretty In Pink only two sizes too small.
Pass. Big time, Pass.
Not wanting to be rude, I continue the banter with her for another few minutes until we land. As we’re pulling up to the gate, she says to me, obviously thinking this is appropriate, “I’m sure Amanda (her daughter) would love to meet you. Could you give me your number so I can give it to her?” I was trapped. There is no way I wanted to give her my number and potentially a stage-five-clinger, so I try to delay hoping I can get off the plane. No dice. She’s persistent and not picking up my subtle hints that I don’t really want to give her my phone number.
I see this as the perfect opportunity to give her a fake number. Not just any fake number. The Rejection Hotline number. If you haven’t heard of this, it’s basically a number you can give out that has a recording basically saying the person who gave you the number really had no desire to see you again.
But there’s a snag in my plan. This woman’s got her phone out and ready to save my number, when I ask her if she could just give me hers. “No, it’s fine, just give me your number, and I’ll call it right here so you have mine and I can set something up for you two. I know a great sushi place. Do you like sushi?”
Thankfully at this point I’m in the aisle with my bag out of the overhead and am about to step out onto the jetway. I’m left with no choice, but do see a way out.
As we are walking up the jetway, I pull out my phone and pretend to check my messages. What I’m really doing is going through my phonebook to find the number.
212-660-2245.
She presses it in and as she’s putting her phone to her ear, I say quickly, “I’ve gotta run. Have a good night.”
I hear once I’ve turned my head and am already five yards in front of her I hear, “Okay dear, I’ll have Amanda call you” fade into the background of a busy airport as I rush to get lost in the crowd before the she hears the recording.
And you have been, Rejected.

No Thanks

2010-11-23T10:39:00.000-08:00

As Thanksgiving quickly approaches, we all look forward to delicious meals, time with family and friends, and, best of all, two paid vacation days.

My family has a tradition at the Thanksgiving table. Before anyone goes through the line for Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing (regular and oyster), green bean casserole, corn, Hawaiian rolls, gravy, cranberries, and, most importantly, wine we all must say at least one thing we are thankful for. The responses are generally what you would expect: family, friends, health, blah blah blah, you get the idea. I am one that really enjoys this tradition both as a remembrance of the good we have in life, in a world that is tirelessly negative, and as an opportunity to tell those I care about how important they are for me. There is plenty of banter once the meal starts, but it really is nice to start off on a positive note on such a holiday.

That is not what this post will be about. Quite the contrary actually.

This is a very incomplete list of the things I am in no way thankful for. A list of things I could absolutely do without or people who’ve done me wrong. I believe in being thankful, but I also believe in being real. Ain’t no way I’m thankful for everything in life.

So without further adieu, here’s my list of shit I would love to do away with.

1. Tourists. Don’t stop in the middle of the road to take your pictures. Don’t ask me for directions. Don’t stand on the ‘walk’ side of the escalators. And take off that silly I (Heart) DC shirt- if you had any sense you would know that those are knockoffs from NYC. And no, that white stone building with the columns is not the White House; it's the Lincoln Memorial.

2. Speed walkers. If you’re that worried about your health, start running. Can’t run? Stop eating.

3. Roommates who don’t clean up after themselves. Can’t find any dishes? Check the fucking dishwasher that you haven’t run.

4. Cancer. You’re getting it. I’m getting it. We’re all getting it. I wanna kill it.

5. Meth. If (and that’s a really big if) I ever decide to use drugs I’m sure as hell not going to pick the kind that’s made in a single-wide in the forest of West Virginia from battery acid and baking powder by a guy with three first names and teeth.

6. Women who try to explain men to other women. The reason women are so fucking misguided with women is because they’re trying to take advice about men from women. Oh really, you know what it’s like to have a penis? You do! Well, that’s gross.

7. Old women drivers. If you have to sit on a phonebook to see over the stearing wheel, chances are you can’t check your blind spot. You’re closer to death than the rest of us. Please stay home. Or take the bus.

8. Elevator talkers. It’s 8am. I don’t care that your daughter painted you a finger painting of a ‘turkey’ that really looks like her mother. How’s the divorce coming?

9. Service industry workers. Serv-ice. Noun. An act of helpful activity; active work being helpful. Your job is to help me not to make what I’m trying to do more confusing/annoying/troublesome. When I say I want extra cheese on my sandwich it means put more on and when I’d like to return something with the receipt it means you’re selling pieces of shit.

10. Crazy Ex’s. I don’t think I need to explain this to anyone do I? Yeah, fuck that noise.

11. Cops. I’ve never met an honest or decent one and am generally tired of seeing them camped outside the 7-11 or directing the traffic into the Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Yes, I'm glad they are around in the general sense, but is it really necessary to waste both of our time because you're too lazy to do real police work; i.e. chase/catch bad guys. Here's a tip. I'm not the perp.

12. Meter maids. About a year ago I parked in front of a restaurant for lunch. Fed the meter and came outside with about 2 minutes left. Because it’s generally dangerous and illegal to use my cell and drive at the same time, I was sitting in my car, engine on, with my phone at my ear for maybe ten minutes. As I’m hanging up and about to pull out, I check my mirrors and see a parking cop’s little buggie coming up behind so I wait. The woman stops right next to me so I can’t get out of the parallel spot, then proceeds to write me a ticket because the meter is up. Rude.

13. Keith Olbermann and Glenn Beck. News. Facts. Sources. Calm. Objective. Terms neither have any working understanding.

14. Indian givers. I'm really glad you came over to watch football, thanks for that. Did you really have to take the beer you brought with you when you left? I mean are you really strapped for cash that 6 Natty Lights are going to make that much difference?

15. Cats. Everyone says that their cat is more like a dog. Well, it's not. It won't play fetch. It wont protect you from an intruder and it won't help you pick up chicks in the park. What will it do? pee and shit in a designated area. There's more than one reason nobody wants to be the cat-lady.

So there you have it. A short, concise, and nowhere near complete list of things I'm not thankful for. Have more to add to the list? Lets hear em'.

How Many is Too Many?

2010-11-17T14:47:00.000-08:00

Our society generally accepts that men are more promiscuous, sexually, than women. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that men generally have more sexual partners than women. A study I read in college stated that men have an average of three times as many partners as their female counterparts. I wanted to ask the authors of this study if they’d ever been to college fraternity parties as the end of the night was drawing near. I think three-to-one might seem to be a rather conservative estimate in that sense.
As I interpret that study now, if I end up marrying a woman that has had ten sexual partners, just to put a round number on it, if I’m average I would have had thirty conquests. Thirty sounds like a lot to me.
However, I have a girlfriend who just celebrated her fiftieth. Yes, you read that right. Five-zero. Yes, she’s in her twenties. By celebrated, I literally mean we went to the bar and had a rather festive conversation about her fondest and not-so fond memories of one through fifty. I think at one point there was talk of making a list or some sort of plaque with all of her suitors names on it. If that impressive list exists today, I’m pretty sure, based on the topic on everyone’s mind and the number of drinks throughout the night, number fifty-one was made that merry night.
My favorite story of those we laughed about was the most recent, number fifty. As she told us, this young sailor had not yet graduated from the prestigious Naval Academy. Once he was finished standing his post, my friend promptly declared that his commanding officers would be proud as he had just become the fiftieth to ‘throw the anchor’. His prompt reply, and perhaps my favorite post coitus act of encouragement was to throw up a hand for a ‘high-five’ as he exclaimed, ‘Way to go.’
I was always told one of those non-stated rules of dating was to never high-five someone you want to bang. That rule must become null and void after the banging happens. Good to note.
Anyway, a revelation of this combined with the constant reminder of my single status, got me wondering how many sexual partners is too many?
As a guy, I constantly feel pressure, socially, physically, and emotionally, to pursue women to curb sexual desire. I think women feel this pressure too but in a very different way (see: social double standard) but since I am not one, I cannot speak to what that’s like as a firsthand experience. Sorry to disappoint you.
Like all things, different people have different feelings about sex. I know some guys out there who literally would fuck anything that talked. I also know some guys who are waiting until their married to have sex. I’m sure women are no different, though their thought process is surely markedly different.
The difficulty for women seems to stem around a contradiction of emotions. For example, society tells women that if they sleep around they will be branded a slut, yet I’ve never met a woman who could honestly tell me they don’t desire physical attention from someone else. The misnomer of the past that women do not possess sexual desire, yeah, let’s just put that one to bed, thank god. Traditionally women were taught to be the object of sexual desire instead of the pursuer. While women are no longer taught to sit around until a gentleman comes calling, I’m not sure many mothers are telling their daughters to go ‘get you some’.
Nonetheless, a delicate balance must be struck for both men and women between what their bodies tell them they want to do and what their heads tell them is right. In the case of my friend, her personal feelings about sex trend towards the more casual ‘hook up’. Her personal feelings about it have reconciled the idea that what she’s doing is okay, and in that sense, it is. On the other hand, a buddy of mine is very anti-random hook-ups. Knowing this eliminates the surprise that he’s waiting until he’s married. In his case if he told me his number was even one, I’d be surprised (though I concede that something in his past could have completely altered his thoughts on the matter (see: donkey show (not on work computer))). So, these two people have polar ideas about sex. Is one more right than the other?
My buddy would say that two people is too many to have slept with (one more than his wife-to-be) where as I don’t know that my girl friend would say there’s such a thing as too many partners.
Certainly age would greatly affect someone’s number, but another aspect to consider is attractiveness. I feel pretty good about my number when guys who are more attractive than me have a higher number, not that I’m going around asking all my better looking buddies their number. The opposite is also true. If a guy who’s really unattractive has a higher number than me, I sort of think, ‘If this guy can get more girls to go to bed with him, what the hell am I doing wrong?’
I think we can all agree that there is such a thing as too many, but I don’t want to be in charge of figuring out what that number is. Maybe some sort of formula could be developed that takes into account the level of likeliness for a random hookup, age, gender and attractiveness.
But of course, we all know where the real limit is. The one before the one that made you have to visit the doctor.

The Story of Goldie

2010-11-05T12:26:00.001-07:00

So last year, at my annual NYE party, I met a girl we’ll call Goldie. She showed up in a Supremes-style glittery gold dress. And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know her name until this past weekend. Little-Guy Roommate’s (LGR) girlfriend is best friends with Goldie.
The reason I bring her up now, eleven months after the fact, is because animosity has risen to my attention, from Goldie. This enmity has apparently been brewing since last spring, the last time I saw Goldie.
I was sitting in a chair, brew in my hand, playing a game in preparation for our Halloween plans. The plan was to tag along with LGR's girlfriend and her friends to a Halloween party at the Zoo. I know. Be jealous.
Curious why none of her friends decided to come early to have a drink with us, I posed the question to LGR's gf. Her response was essentially that Goldie is afraid of me. Why, you might ask. Well, kids, it’s story time.
As mentioned earlier, we threw a house party for NYE last year. LGR’s gf had warned us about her friends a few days prior. She told us that she was bringing two friends who were, quote, “down to fuck” or DTF to the perpetual abrev-ers. I know right. Klassy. But she knew what she was doing.
So the two friends show up. Goldie and a girl wearing a green dress. Goldie is tall with long curly red hair and her eye-popping gold dress. Hard to miss her. So I start talking to her in a group, and basically ask her point blank which of the guys she will circle as her prey. Her response to me: “The big guy who looks like a lumber-jack”. That would be Big-Guy Roommate (BGR). Good choice. She then asks me for tips on sealing the deal. To which I tell her she’s got to be aggressive and not take ‘no’ for an answer. Am I a good wingman or what?
That was all she needed to hear. Just as we were about to celebrate the New Year in Central time (one a.m. eastern standard time), BGR is laying on an oversized, white arm chair with Goldie’s ass on his lap and tongue in his throat. She came. She saw. Later that night, the house heard her conquer.
So, as expected, when the morning came around, the girl who’d set no standard for whom she’d bang, was treated as if she had no standard of how to be treated. In guy terms that translates into the least possible effort to set his conscious at ease. In this case that amounted to, basically a ride home and a sweatshirt. Had she required more effort, maybe she could have gotten breakfast, or even a fucking shower.
So a few months later, LGR and I went out to LGR’s girlfriend’s parents house for her birthday. I was told to play nice. So I maned the grill. That’s nice right? Goldie, shows up. I had no idea what her name was, so I call her ‘Goldie’. Gf had been calling her that in conversation all evening, so I thought since they’re friends it would be okay if I called her Goldie too. She, apparently, didn't like this.
So there we are, in LGR gf’s kitchen bantering back and forth, I thought playfully, recounting what a great time we had NYE. Not so much. She didn’t really like my description of the events either. Something about making her look like a hoe. Which she’s obviously justified in being upset about since a hoe would never go to a party with the sole purpose of finding someone to bone. They would never dress in a Cher costume meant for a nine year old, and give lap dances in crowded rooms.
I didn’t call her a hoe. That’s fo.sho. I think she did plenty of describing herself without any of my help.
So come to find out, at Halloween, Goldie is still pretty upset with me. Upset enough to make opposite and more inconvenient plans than to hang out with LGR gf (her best friend) before the Halloween party. Not only did she avoid hanging out before hand, but LGR and gf totally blame me for her tension.
Now, I don’t remember exactly what I said to her last spring (believe it or not-I’ve had some things go on in life since then) but I can promise it wasn’t anything like “you’re a skank hoe” or “Please get tested before we shake hands”. In fact, I’m nearly positive whatever she’s upset about me saying was intended to be teasing, light hearted fun, or even mild flirtation. I must, however, concede the fact that there is a possibility of misunderstanding and the she actually was insulted by my jokes. I know that my humor often takes to the sarcastic and that isn’t always easy for the rest of the world.
So because of that, it is with the utmost sincerity that I say, I’m sorry you are ashamed of your actions last NYE and are embarrassed that your actions were the basis for jokes. I’m sorry that no one forced you to act as you did and make the choices that you did. Finally, I’m sorry you didn’t think I was joking when I teased you, and I’m sorry your reaction to those jokes was childish.
However, I do have some buddies coming to DC for NYE this year and I’d really like to show them a good time. Are you free?

Hello Civility, Have We Met?

2010-11-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

Can you believe it is almost November? It feels like it wasn’t that long ago that I was making my New Years resolution (which I didn’t keep) and telling myself, ‘This year will be different. This year I’m going to change.’
Nothing was different. Nothing changed.
But in my defense, change doesn’t come easy. More often than not, changing anything is more difficult than just learning to deal with whatever needed to be changed. What I mean is it is often easier to find ways to circumvent the problems than to actually correct them.
Winston Churchill, the British Prime Minister during the Second World War once described the American way of decision making as follows:
The United States invariably does the right thing, after having exhausted every other alternative.
Initially, I think this quote is hilarious. Mostly in a ‘it’s funny cause it’s true’ kind of way. After every possible alternative (read: wrong decisions) has been tried, we Americans will do the right thing, but only as a last result. The condescension and mockery runs thick, which also makes this quote slightly insulting.
It is as if to say that American’s are averse to doing the right thing. Sure we’ve fucked up along the way. Sure other countries have benefits that America or Americans don’t boast, but I think America is still pretty effing cool.
Why are we so cool? Because of all the countries in the world, Americans are the freest people on the planet. We are free to start multi-billion dollar companies that attack underperforming European companies by hostile take-over, or we can sit on our fat asses eating Mickey-D’s (you’re welcome world) sipping kool-Aid (again, you’re welcome) while watching Bevis and Butthead (you don’t have to thank us for that one). We can yell at our government, preach the teachings of Kermit the Frog, and shoot tin cans in our back yards with bazookas if we so choose. We defined muscle car, put a bunch of dudes on the moon, and invented the airplane. Rocky beat the shit outta the Russian, France isn’t speaking German, football is a contact sport.
Living in America is a pretty sweet deal. I sincerely hope that, at least on some level, everyone here believes and understands the fortune they’ve received by being here.
But every day has a night. For all the good that America represents, we have a great deal of dysfunction. Two of the most important societal institutions for America, seem to have completely lost touch. The media has basically turned away from responsible journalism in favor of a hate and fear driven agenda. The government has lost sight of the founding principle of our country; working together. For all of the things America does right, when it comes to disagreements, the media and our government typically act like a dickheads.
Turn on the television to any ‘news’ channel or show to find unveiled biases, irresponsible journalism, and unsubstantiated punditry. If you were having a conversation with Bill O’Reilly or Chris Matthews and either of them said the things to you that they say about you on camera, you would want nothing to do with them, and would probably want to take things outside. Yet millions of American’s watch them call other Americans some pretty terrible names. Names like bigot, racist, sexist that really undermine the real bigots, racist, and sexists who’ve actually earned those titles. The media twists, contorts, and fabricates arguments to their benefit without giving any merit to real discussion or debate.
The government as a whole is clearly divided based on which side of the isle you find your seat. Republicans are uncompassionate and Democrats are illogical- as the stigmas go. The amount of substance that comes out of our government can basically be measured based on the size of the ruling party. Turn on C-SPAN any legislative day to find the back and forth arguments about politics, not policy. It seems to be generally accepted that campaign promises rarely get fulfilled, and, possibly more surprising, politicians are rarely held accountable for their inaction.
And yet, we as a public act nothing like this on a daily basis. Republican’s live in neighborhoods with Democrats. White people work with Asian people who work with black people. People of all different backgrounds, beliefs, and dreams cohabitate and somehow make life work. We have dinner parties, go to happy hour, and see concerts together. We disagree with our friends and fight with our neighbors, but very infrequently are these qualms not repairable with a 6-pack of beer and a good football game. We show empathy, compassion, and respect that the media and government have largely forgotten. Perhaps an etiquette book would be a thoughtful gift to your local news anchor and candidate for City Dog Catcher.
The good news is that we have a choice. It might be, at its core, wholly romantic, but I believe we can all make a change. As American’s we are afforded the luxury, some might call it the right while others call it a responsibility, to change both our government and the media when they are no longer benefiting us. Changing the government happens every two years. Changing the media might be as simple as changing the channel.

This is Why I Don't Date

2010-10-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I went through a spell when I first moved to the Capital City where I was attracting all the wrong kinds of girls. Sure at some point there was some sort of hook or attraction, but none of them turned out to be anything that I was looking for. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say most of them were instrumental in teaching me what I do not want. What is to follow is the story about a young woman I met in the kickball league I joined when I first moved here.
Before I start, some pertinent information must be shared. The first is that kickball leagues, or the one I joined anyway, is about 5% kickball and 95% drinking. Some people drink socially, most binge. Hey, don’t get mad at me for society’s problems. I admittedly fell into the latter category on this fateful night. Second, this story is the capstone on what had become a string of similar stories with this girl. In other words, it is the most embarrassing and thus will be the most entertaining to my readers. Thirdly, if either of my parents read this, I will deny.deny.deny.
Here goes.
NB and I had gone out a few times. We’d made out a few times on the dance floor at our post-kickball-game bar. We’d fooled around a little after a couple such encounters.
At first NB seemed cool. Down to earth, southern, and funny. All of these were my thoughts at.first. To save some time, I’ll edit out all the stupid ‘relationship’ jargon and just say, it didn’t work out between us. Like I said, we’d gone out a few times, but I really just wasn’t interested in her for reasons unrelated to the story. The problem was that she just couldn’t get the clue.
So for about four weeks the following situation happened every night at kickball. My team and I would play kickball (and win) then go to the bar for our flipcup game (and win again).
TIMEOUT: I guess I should have said this earlier. Your Kickball teams score is divided into two categories; the kickball game and the flipcup game. Every team played one game of kickball and one game of flipcup against their opponents every game-night. TIMEIN
After the flipcup game, the DJ would spin dat shit and we’d all dance until we wanted to leave. I love to dance, so I usually stuck around.
At the time, I was living in one of the suburbs that required me to catch the metro in order to get home. So I’d leave in time to catch the subway and walk the 6 blocks to the station. Four weeks in a row NB followed me out of the bar and to the metro station. Which means she was basically bird-dogging me from across the bar incognito, then as soon as she saw me head for the exit, she’d roll out right behind me. I’m pretty sure that’s also how serial killers stalk their victims. I’m just saying, this isn’t sane behavior.
Once she caught up to me she would ask me questions along the way like, ‘why didn’t we work out’, ‘why don’t you like me’, and ‘can we be together, I really like you’.
No.no.no. I wasn’t about to lose my cool with this girl, but I certainly wasn’t all Mr. Rogers either. A couple of times I tried to pretend to be on my cell phone before she caught up to me so she wouldn’t talk to me, but would just hover until she knew I saw her. NB was a stage-five clinger. No doubt about it. I was beyond annoyed. But whatever-whatever-just-get-me-outta-here was my strategy.
So for the first three weeks I managed to get away from her long enough to get on the subway alone and escape to my abode in solitude.
Now this is where it gets interesting.
Week four was a particularly fun night at kickball and I had too much to drink, so I left earlier than I had previous weeks. Like clockwork, NB followed me out of the bar and towards the station. The same conversation we’d had each of the three previous weeks ensued. This time, instead of trying to ditch her I thought I’d try a new tactic and put her on a train towards her place. Which, after repeated attempts, was finally successful.
Eureka. I thought I was safe to live another day! Key word there being ‘thought’. I jump on my train going in a different direction and head for home.
Fast forward to sometime early in the morning. Let’s call it 4am. As it happens, sometimes after a night of indulgence, I awoke, still in the kickball uniform I’d come home in, and in need of a glass of water and a toilet. Not to puke though, lets not be rash here. I flip on the light in my bathroom, do my business, and then stick my head under the faucet. I take a few gulps and as I look up I notice there’s a reflection in the mirror of lump in my bed that’s moving.
Partly out of fear and partly because I was still in a bit of an inebriated haze, I walk in and grab the sheets and rip them off the bed. NB was laying there, naked in my bed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I exclaimed waking her up, but furious at her being there. I was entirely confused as to why she was at my apartment, let alone why she laid in my bed, naked no less.
I had very muddled memories from my return home after putting her on the train, but I had no recollection of any invitation. Her response to my inquisition about why she was here was something like, ‘I thought you’d like waking up next to me.’
AH! That’s so creepy! It was beyond just creepy, it was terrifying and psychotic. No, I don’t want to wake up next to you. And by the way, who fucking does that? Gets put on a train towards home and thinks that means ‘come over and snuggle’? WTF.
So I threw her out. As far as I was concerned she broke into my apartment.
Once she was gone, I was too riled up to go back to bed. I started to doubt myself. I started wondering if in my drunken haze I hadn’t summoned her for a late-nite booty call.
I head for my cell. I go through my calls. No out going calls since before kickball. Pshew. That was close. But what about texts? My stomach dropped as I could think of no other rational explanation for her invasion.
Sure enough. I had a new text message. Actually, I had seven. Here is the conversation:
(931): Thx for getting me on the train. You’re such a great guy.
(931): I really want to cuddle tonight. Is it okay if I come over?
(931): Just got off the train
(931): Jumping in cab. See you soon!
(931): Outside ur building. come let me in.
(931): On your floor, is your door open.
Notice what you don’t see in this conversation? A response.
That means that all on her own, she sent me these texts without verification or affirmation and somehow concluded that I wanted to see her. Shhhh-nope.
How do I know they weren’t responded to? Fair questions since I don’t really remember going to bed in the first place. I’ll tell you how. All of them. All.of.the.text.messages. were unopened. I hadn’t seen a single one of them until my fear compelled me to second-guess myself.
My roommates had constantly gotten on me about leaving the door unlocked, so once she was in the building (which is supposed to have a guard stationed at the front desk(thanks for that asshole)) it would be simple to get into my room, and thus my bed.
Also the fact that I was still fully clothed was a relief. For obvious reasons, yuck.
So let it be known that NB is henceforth known as the acronym, CC. We call her Cray-Cray. Just don’t show her where you sleep.

Va-Cay

2010-10-15T13:03:00.000-07:00

Vacations are essential. Throughout my short professional career, I had not fully realized what it meant to go on a real vacation. By real vacation I mean, take more than a week’s worth of time off, totally disconnect from everything work or stress related, and go somewhere that not only allows relaxation but basically makes anything else nearly impossible. I had not taken a vacation until about a week ago. I went to Hilton Head, South Carolina.
Not only did I not check in with work, I didn’t check my work email until I was on the plane to go home. I only checked my personal email twice. It felt a little dangerous. I had previously always been tethered to work via blackberry or cell phone. Not this trip, sucka’s.
My days started with a refreshing bowl of Rice Crispies. At home, I never have time to sit down and actually eat breakfast so I always carry a bagel or something with me as I walk to the subway. I had forgotten how much I love cereal.
After cereal, I’d play a set of tennis. Again, I had forgotten how much fun tennis could be. I also forgot that it is a viable form of exercise. I hadn’t played tennis in months and hadn’t played back-to-back days in years. I noticed how easily improving is when you play every day.
The rest of my days were spent on the beach. I read a lot. I taught my friends a Midwestern card game called euchre, and sipped margaritas. Okay, maybe a little more than sipped, but hey, I was on vacation.
When I got back to work, out of pure curiosity, I did a little research about American’s and vacations. Did you know that the average amount of days American’s take for vacation is among the least in the world? I also found out that of developed nations the U.S. is the only country that does not mandate any paid time-off.
No wonder people are pissed off all the time. No wonder people get in fights on the subway. No wonder dealing with people who are supposed to be in service industries is often more painful and difficult than an alcoholic leaving an open-bar. No wonder American’s favorite sport is also one of the most violent. People ain’t got no vacay time to chill!
We turn on the TV after dinner and it’s murder stories followed by assault stories followed by accident stories because in an ad-driven industry getting people to watch is how television companies make money is by getting people to watch. Misery loves company and overstressed, overworked people will always want to be reminded that they’re shitty lives aren’t as bad as they could be.
Now I know a barrage of excuses will begin flying sometime shortly. I can’t afford it. It’s too much trouble. I don’t like vacations.
Bullshit.Bullshit.Bullshit
Vacations don’t have to be expensive. Hell, put on a flowered shirt, set up some tiki torches, make some pina colada’s and have a little vacation in your back yard.
Too much trouble? How about instead of sitting your fat-ass in front of your television you walk your fat ass to the bus station and sit your fat-ass there and have a little sight-seeing vacation of your own city.
Don’t like vacation? Ok Scrooge. Guess who’ll be visited by the ghosts of vacations past soon. Hope you’re not afraid of the dark.
The point is that its not so much about the vacation as it is finding some time for yourself. You don’t need to go to the ends of the world for that, you could do that on your walk home if you really wanted to. The point is to disconnect for a little bit. Most people need to be physically far from work in order to be considered vacation, but mentally far away could be just as good, though significantly less beneficial for your tan.
To close, I leave you with words of the great Ferris Bueller, “Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out alive.”

Careless Cabbies

2010-10-06T10:55:00.000-07:00

It’s official. I hate taxi cabs. Actually, it’s not so much the cab itself as it is the drivers.
When you’re in the cab, you feel like you’re in a death trap.
When you’re on the street you feel like the drivers want you splattered on their windshield like a junebug.
Just last night I was in a cab after dinner and a movie and was giving the cab driver directions to my home. I had to repeat myself at least four times. Not just because of the language barrier, but because the cab driver tried to tell me how to get there.
Um. Excuse me sir, I think I know how to get to my place. You think you know better? Oh. Well you must be right, since you and I are BFF’s and you’ve been to my house hundreds of times for tea and crumpets. What? You didn’t understand what I said? I said turn right mothafucka.
I was in a cab a few weeks ago where the cab driver didn’t start the meter. He drove about half the way to the destination when I asked him to turn the meter on. He came back at me with, “No need meter. Is all same price.” Obviously wrong. Why would you have a meter in your car if everything were the same price? Not to mention that I was curious why this fat black guy was speaking in an obviously fake Chinese accent.
When we got to where we were going, the driver said, “twenty dollar, please”. I don’t think he liked that I laughed in his face. It wasn’t my fault that he didn’t start the meter. I tried to tell him. But I handed him a ten dollar bill and said, “keep the change”. This amount was comparable to the price I’d paid before for the same trip, with a generous tip. I got out of the car just as he started yelling.
Obviously this guy was trying to hose me. How did I know? His once terrible Chinese accent had vanished when he started yelling at me. Now, I know I’ve never been to the Orient, but I’m pretty sure that raising and lowering the volume of their voice maintains the accent . But, since I’ve never been, so I can’t say for sure.
He tries to tell me I didn’t give him enough money for the fare.
I retort by asking him how much his meter says I owe him. He’s flabbergasted.
Here’s a hit- like a MasterCard commercial- zero dollars.
He starts yelling that he’s going to call the cops waving my ten dollar bill around.
Right buddy. A fat black guy who initially had a terrible Chinese accent and is obviously in the wrong is going to call the cops. Ha.
So I do him one better. I swiped the bill out of his hand and I pull out my fancy mobile and start to dial the number for the cab Commission in charge of licensing. “Fine, go for it.”
“Hello, is this the DC Taxicab Commission?” I say. Cabbie perks up and stops yelling his Chinese-less-Ebonics at me. “Yeah, I’m interested in some information and to possibly file a grievance against a cab driver. What is the punishment if a cab driver fails to start, or run his meter? Oh, suspension of his license?” I start to increase my voice so he hears me, “and possible revoking of his drivers license? Possible jail time? That sounds pretty serious. What’s the license number? Of the cab driver you mean? Hold on a sec.”
I put my phone on my shoulder, look at the cab driver and say, “Hey buddy, what’s your license number?” but before I could get the whole sentence out, the cabbie is back in his ride and buckling up. Rather than sticking around, homie rolls out. Peace.
I look down at my phone and see the Tetris screen I was playing in the cab. I wasn’t calling anybody.
Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son.
But the point still remains, cab drivers are a conniving bunch. If they pull this sorta shit on locals, what do you think they pull on tourists. I bet they’re getting hosed like a new prisoner with lice.
My solution has been to tip cab drivers as little as possible. The way I figure it, for all the times they rip people off, me not giving them a sizable tip is just retribution and karma coming back to them. As Justin Timberlake says, “what goes around-goes around-goes around- goes all the way back around.”

A New Kind of Man

2010-10-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article in Newsweek about what some have called the “decline of men”. They argue that the traditional definition of masculinity has been all-but abandoned by modern society. Further the article suggests men should update their views and reinvent themselves to conform to ‘the contemporary’ man; a ‘New Macho’ as they call it.
The basic principle behind the article is that as women’s roles in society have expanded, men’s have, at best, has remained stagnant. It goes further than just to say the roles have changed. The article stresses that because of the expansion of feminism, the way men think of masculinity hasn’t adapted to match the new role that men are forced to play in the workplace and at home.
In its conclusion, Newsweek tries to argue that it is not trying to degrade or otherwise insult masculinity, but simply to pragmatically illustrate a need for an invigorated update to what being a man really means. The authors argue its time for a make-over of masculinity.
And I couldn’t agree more. Let’s develop a definition of what it is to be a ‘modern man’.
But first, let’s realize why we are in need of a solid definition. For hundreds of years the fundamental structure of the family, and thus the society, revolved around-to oversimplify- the idea that the man was the provider and the woman was the nurturer. Up until about the last hundred years, this is the way the world ‘worked’.
I’m not making judgments here, chill out.
This ‘new society’, that was creating places for women they hadn’t previously maintained, focused primarily on women.
Women deserve this…
Women have the right to do that…
Men only inhibit woman’s ability to go here…
This emphasis, with the goal of gaining power for women, simply took the conversation away from the point that in this new world, men’s position was not only changing, but also not given any direction for where it should end up. So we’re left with men who don’t know what their place is, don’t understand this new role they’re supposed to play, and are constantly made to feel like the bad guy, as if fault for thousands of years of patriarchal history rests squarely on the shoulders of each individual man.
Men were basically left to define masculinity however they interpret it in conjunction with their understanding of new societal pressures on behalf of women. As a result we’ve got a society where there is no consistency among men.

But the problem isn’t that men think they’re better than women (although there was a time). The problem is that men and women play by a different set of rules. Women were telling other women “You go girl”, when she earned her way into the boardroom, and rightfully so. But men were not celebrating to their buddies how many loads of laundry they did. Women are encouraged in pursuing their dreams in a ‘man’s world’ but men are not praised for delving into what is seen as ‘a woman’s place’. Our society obviously holds men and women to different standards, so why are men being told that being a man, in the traditional sense of the word, is in decline?
Because it’s not really in decline. Women still want men to make the first move romantically. Women still want to be provided for and pursued. Women still want to be the object of man’s desire.
Women still want men to be men.
The problem is that men aren’t born, they’re made over time by other men; too few boys are being taught to be men. You wouldn’t expect a history teacher to teach a class if he or she didn’t know what the American Revolution was would you? So how can you expect men to teach their sons what being a man means when we as a society haven’t landed on a specific definition? Men who are never taught what it means to be a man, have no hope for passing those attributes on to their sons.
Now that we have gone for generations without teaching our boys how to be men, society is realizing just how beneficial it is to have men around and the pendulum is swinging back. There are too many fatherless thugs out there trying to be hard; too many deadbeats skipping their child-support payments; and too many boys learning how to be ‘men’ in prisons. These are not role models.
I can remember playing basketball with my dad in our driveway. I didn’t always win, but I did learn what it meant to work hard to be better. I learned that a foul is still a foul even when there’s not someone with a whistle. It’s principles like this that make a man.
Being a man isn’t in decline, if anything it’s in a resurrection. Our society is recognizing that fatherless boys just create more fatherless boys. That’s why the emphasis on ‘redefining’ masculinity. Our society is realizing that a man without principles is not a man at all.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what it means to be a man.

The Irish Exit

2010-09-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret among anyone who’s ever met me that I’m a huge football fan. I played in college and it is without a doubt my favorite sport. I think fall is my favorite season solely because of the gridiron.
I grew up in a part of the Midwest where the big university in the area was an almost exclusive basketball school. Yes, it had a football team, but I use the term ‘team’ very loosely. They’re basically an after-thought for the student body somewhere behind ‘where am I sleeping tonight” (read: who with). So I couldn’t justify cheering for a team that would win maybe, maaaybe two games all season. Obviously I couldn’t cheer for this school’s rival because of my allegiances during the basketball season and the only other big-time football program in the state generally maintains arrogance because of a prestigious history (but nothing in a generation or two). Not to mention all the people I knew associated with this third university, frankly suck-ass. So I became more of an NFL football fan, in particular the Indianapolis Colts and my college football allegiances became more fluid.
Last spring, a girl I’ve previously written about (Emma), invited me to go with her to the Colts game when they come to town. In my previous post, I talk about how this girl is certifiably retarded when it comes to men. Emma is a cute and energetic young woman.
And I just spent about five minutes trying to think of something else nice to say about her…no dice.
When she asked me if I would go to the Colts game with her, I hadn’t seen her in months; not since the end of football season. Initially I was surprised I had even heard from her, but was planning on buying tickets to the game anyway, so I was happy to find tickets so easily. I did feel awkward agreeing to this having not seen her in months, and because her (lack of) maturity with which I have become accustomed to, so I suggested we meet for lunch. I primarily wanted to find out if I’d be able to stand her, but also want try to give her the benefit of the doubt. But instead of benefiting from the doubt, she erased any doubt, whatsoever, that she is anything but a immature sociopath desperate for attention from any male that will throw her a bone, in the form of attention.
Ladies, no matter what you think or your girlfriends have told you, there is no such thing as a lunch ‘date’. Men who ask women to have lunch with them have no interest in them further than a friendship. This is a hard and fast rule. Every girl hopes they are the exception…
I get off the subway where we had agreed to meet. I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and look like I obviously had just rolled out of bed--it was the look I was going for and I wore it well. She however is dressed for the club. She wore tall shoes and a short dress. From jump this girl was all.up.on.me. We sit down to eat and she dives right into what has now become her very clear agenda, to get me interested in her. Her methods however were very odd. She constantly tries to hold my hand from across the table and with every conversation topic we start we seem to always circle around the fact that she had just broken up with her boyfriend.
She didn’t seem to be telling me because it was on her mind and she was still hurting from the breakup. Her tone and body language very apparently display she choice to tell me as if expecting me to say “Well now that he’s out of the way, you and I can…”-which never crossed my mind. She asked me repeatedly if I was interested in dating her. By the end of the meal her desperation was starting to depress me, and it might have worked had I not just finished a really good meal.
I mean really. Who asks a guy, she hasn’t seen in months, if he wants to jump right into a full blown relationship? I wasn’t going to play into her obviously unstable, obsessive, and addictive personality, so I told her I’m sure she’ll have no problem finding someone that’ll want to date her.
Hey- there might be a guy out there that likes girls with the dating IQ of a stack of nickels and the desperation of a prostitute in a morgue. Who am I to judge?
But I did really want to go to this game. If I don’t get to go, it’ll be at least four years until they come back. So when she texted me the other day, after another few months of silence, I played nice (but not too nice) and told her I am still interested in going (TO THE GAME) with her.
Or maybe I should say I was still interested in going with her.
This past Sunday was the first week of the 2010 NFL regular season. My Colts weren’t on cable, which meant I had to find someplace to watch it. It seemed all of my regular football buddies had other stuff going on or didn’t want to go anywhere, so in a moment of weakness I reached out to Emma and asked if she’d be interested in watching the game with me at a bar. She agrees.
We met at the bar, which was not crowded in the least. In fact, she and I were at one of maybe four or five tables with people at the bar. I actually really liked it because I could watch the whole game without major interruption from oversized crowds. We get a few beers. We get a few pizzas. We didn’t really talk much. I purposely kept my distance both physically and in conversation. The game isn’t going well for us Colts fans, but it’s still fun because the Colts are notorious for being good in the 4th quarter.
So about midway through the second half, a certain female friend of mine came by (she and I had been texting throughout the game and she was just around the corner with some girlfriends at brunch). She came in and sat across the table from me and started chatting with Emma (I joined in during the commercial breaks), and they seemed to be getting along well enough.
When asked what she does, Emma said that she’s in a graduate program at a prestigious university in the city, and goes on and on about how good of a school it is. She’s basically bragging about still being in school, this is her third year of a two year program. Then she starts making some pretty general assertions about the kind of people who go to said university and some anecdotal comments trying to impress us about her institution in a know-it-all manner.
Little did she know, the woman who had just joined us actually went to this prestigious university and is working on her second Masters degree. Once Emma is done on her soapbox, she told Emma that she actually has multiple degrees from this university, and, very politely, defended her university and added some needed credibility to the conversation.
Insert foot into mouth.
Then, about half way through the 4th quarter, Emma, noticeably still embarrassed from her humbling, proclaims that she is going upstairs to the bakery on the floor above the bar. It was odd because she said it three times. I walk upstairs about 20 minutes later so we can split up the bill. Nope. She made an Irish exit and skipped out on the bill entirely. This left me with the entire $85 bill. I was beyond pissed.
But I wasn’t surprised. I half expected her to pull some sort of classless move, hell she’d done it every other time we’d hung out.
I left her a rather condescending voicemail as I left the bar. I haven’t heard back and don’t expect to. I was almost so mad I didn’t know what to do.
I know I pose rhetorical questions at the end of posts from time to time, but in this case, I’d love some feedback.
What, if anything, is an appropriate response for me to find retribution for such a dick move? Just of fun, let’s get creative here.

What's In a Name?

2010-09-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

Names have always been of interest to me. Names are the simplest and most apparent way that people define themselves, even if their name really doesn’t give any sort of insight into who that person is. A person’s name is uniquely theirs. Even when two people share the exact same name, there are plenty of other ways of distinguishing individuality.
The phrase, ‘He looks like an Andrew’, has always confused me. Does that mean all Andrew’s look alike? Or that they share some rudimentary feature? Of course not. Certainly nobody would say that a newborn has the ‘look’ of a particular name. Why? Because all newborns look the fucking same. They’re pink and slimy. Sometimes they have hair, sometimes they don’t. Eh.
They certainly don’t come out of the womb with a smoking jacket on, or I would understand naming that particular child Hugh. I doubt very seriously that Tina Knowles took one look at the size of her precious baby girl’s ass and said “That’s a big beautiful black ass! I shall call her Beyoncé!” And yet, the names Hugh and Beyoncé have become synonymous with who these celebrities are not only by their name but by their demeanor also. Could you imagine Hugh Hefner the individual with a name like Tom or Ed? Would Beyoncé be who we know her if her name was Mary or Jane?
I for one, really believe that someone’s name really affects who they are. There’s no real scientific way to prove this since there are soo many different names and combination of names, but I resort to simple observations.
Take, for example, the name George. It’s rooted as an old fashioned name, but not as old as a name like Abraham. Think of all the George’s you can, and what do you get? George Washington, Curious George, George Orwell. All certainly easily recognizable figures, and all with drastically different personalities, yet the name George seems to fit for all of them. Is their name so intrinsically tied to them that the simple fact that it is their name makes it consequently impossible to imagine them with any other name?
I have a friend who is a school teacher. It never fails to humor me the names of some of her students; La-a (pronounced la-dash-ah), Female (pronounced fa-mal-ey), and my personal favorite, twins named Orangejello and Lemonjello (pronounced Oh-ron-jell-O and Lem-On-Jell-O). Where do these parents come up with these names? I would not be surprised if La-a grew up and couldn’t spell ‘dash’, Female grew up to realize she’s actually a confused transgender, and Orangejello and Lemonjello grew up and became diabetic at the age of 25 from all the sugar they consumed.
Obviously this is an exaggerated explanation of what I mean, but you see what I’m saying about someone’s name playing into their personality.
This brings to mind one of my favorite comedians; George Carlin. He did a stand-up bit about names. As much as I’d like to plagiarize what he says (because I think it’s hilarious) I’ll give credit where credit is due:
I’m getting really sick of guys named Todd.
It's a goofy fuck’n name. Hi what’s your name?
Todd. I'm Todd. And this is Blake, and Blaire and Blaine and Brent. Where are all these goofy fucking boys’ names coming from? Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn. These are not real names.
You wanna hear a real name? Eddie. Eddie is a real name, what happened to Eddie? He was here a minute ago. Jackie and Johnny and Tommy and Bill. Danny, Larry, Johnny, and Phil. What happened? Todd.
And Cody, and Dillon, and Cameron, and Tucker.
Hi Tucker, I’m Todd. Hi Todd, I'm Tucker. Fuck Tucker, Tucker sucks. And fuck Tuckers friend Kyle. That’s another soft name for a boy. Kyle.
Soft names make soft people. I'll bet you ten times out of ten, Nicky, Vinnie, and Tony would beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle, and Tucker.
See, George Carlin agrees with me. A person’s name matters for how he or she is perceived and how the person relates. How many Irish guys in Boston named Ron do you think are in the waiting room of Dr. Lets-talk-about-feelings psychiatrist’s office? My guess is tops-TOPS three or four (and probably only that many by court order for anger management). Now how many Carson’s are there in Laguna Beach blubbering their eyes out on a fainting chair? Well, how many Carson’s are there in middle school in Laguna Beach?
So now we’re faced with a developmental question; nurture or nature. Do people’s personalities develop as a result of the way the world perceives their name? Or, do individuals develop into their names based on their own contextualization and internalization of what ‘personality’ is associated with their name? Am I Shyguy because I’m inherently shy, or am I shy because my name says I am?
Anyway, my point is that names matter and I’ve always wondered to what degree our names shape who we are.
Ultimately though, I like my name. I think my name fits me (my real name that is, not my blog pen-name) and my personality. I couldn’t imagine myself with any other name. But damn, naming someone becomes a lot of pressure now. To think that whatever name you choose for your little boy or girl will ultimately shape who they are as a person and not just as a label. Choose the wrong name and your kid could be the victim of years of playground abuse. That’s a lot of pressure on parents who already have enough to worry about to avoid fucking up their kids.
Talk about great birth-control.

Oh, The Terror

2010-09-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

Some buddies and I went to see The Last Exorcism on Friday night. I am always reluctant to watch horror movies. Not because I’m chicken-shit or anything like that, I can take the scary part. What I dislike is the tremors of thoughts post-movie, that generally lead to an unhealthy level of paranoia.
This particular movie’s context was particularly unnerving if you believe in ghost and demon possession of human bodies. The movie centered around a young girl, Nell Sweetzer (played by Ashley Bell- a relative unknown who’s performance blew me away) and a faux-exorcism performed by the non-believing preacher Pastor Cotton Marcus who has set out to disprove, documentary style, that exorcisms actually involve removing the devil’s appointed from human bodies.
My point in writing this post is not to give a commentary on the movie, nor is it to review the actors’ performance. My point is to highlight things you should not do if ever put into a real life situation where you’re being chased by demons, dealing with evil spirits, or even being chased by huge vampires or crazy masked men with chainsaws, please use this as a list of things you shouldn’t do.
The first twenty or so minutes set up the background of Cotton Marcus. He is the son of a preacher man (the only boy who could ever reach me), who became indoctrinated into preaching at a young age, and as more of a ploy to fill the offering than as an Evangelical. Through personal experience, Cotton’s faith erodes and the point of the documentary is exposed. He claims to make this documentary as a behind the scenes look at how to ‘perform’ an exorcism. By perform, he really means trick people into thinking there is a demon inside of them and that Cotton is the way to exile the evil spirits, thus filling his pockets. He goes through a number of tricks he uses that include tying fishing line to wall hangings and a cross that emits smoke. Basically he’s a con-man under the guise of a preacher.
He and his two companions (a camera man and a female producer who’s often seen carrying a sound boom) travel to rural Louisiana. I mean like rur.al. Louisiana and find the possessed girl has killed a number of farm animals in rather brutal fashion. On the way to the Sweetzer residence they pull the van over to ask a boy, who turns out to be Nell’s brother, in a truck for directions. This brings me to the first rule. If you’re ever in a remote area and a creepy guy warns you that you should turn around and go the other way, go the other way. At the beginning of the time when somebody’s gonna get killed, there’s always some sort of warning.
So the van ignores the warning and continues to the Sweetzer residence, where they find Nell. Apparently she has these spells where the demon, named Abalam, comes out and kills these things and the girl has absolutely no recollection.
Slight tangent: I found it interesting the resemblance of Abalam to Alabama, Louisiana’s neighbor and state seemingly most often associated with really poor and ignorant people. Poor and ignorant people who might be taken advantage of by bible-toting con-men—like the one in this movie. Brilliant.
Insert rule number two. If a man comes to your house and says he can cure all your problems, he’s probably full of shit. Only two things can happen in this case, either he dies or you both die; neither is really a good deal.
So our morally questionable faux-hero performs his faux-exorcism and guess what? It doesn’t work! No-shit Sherlock. Broad is still going around cutting things up (her brother’s face, a white cat) and acting all weird. Actually this is where shit gets really weird.
Post exorcism, young Nell shows up at their motel with a creepy blank stare and a non-responsive demeanor. How did she get there? What is she doing there? Oh, and why is she covered in blood? Woops. Cotton et.al, take Nell to the local hospital, which is the obvious action. From that visit they find out that Nell is pregnant.
As is only natural, Cotton and the group conclude that Nell has been raped and impregnated by her father. I know they’re in Louisiana, but come on. This seems to be slightly jumping to conclusions, yet this steers their actions for the rest of the movie.
Number three: If you suspect a young girl is being raped by her father, who is now holding a shotgun, don’t hang out. Get in the car and leave.
So they come back to the house and as predictable, more weird stuff happens. From weird sounds of multiple voices in a locked room, to the girl ending up on top of the furniture well above her height; to her body contorting in unnatural ways. There is a scene where the apparently possessed Nell takes the video camera from the sleeping visitors and videotapes herself butchering a white cat.
Rule number four: If you think something bad might have happened while you’re sleeping, check your video camera for evidence.
So fast forward to the end of the movie when all hell is breaking loose. It is discovered that almost all of the characters are lying. Which leads me to my final rule: If there’s weird shit going on and you’re scared and people are getting cut up, chances are… you’re next.

Online Dating

2010-08-15T21:10:00.000-07:00

The world, she is-ah-changing. Everything around us catalogues the differences in yesteryear. No longer are the days of drying our clothing on lines out our back doors. Now we buy specialized dryer sheets to put in our high efficiency dryers to replicate the smell of wildflowers that once clung to our grandmothers sheets. No longer are the days of putting on our Sunday best while father hitches up the carriage for a trip to the general store. Now we can buy anything we may desire from our underwear on the information superhighway with Little House on the Prairie reruns playing in the background on our oversized flat-screen televisions. And no longer are the days that young men and women entrust (or abide by) their parents to arrange their matrimony.
Now we have online dating.
Any man or woman can find someone to spend their entire lives with though various web portals, all of which promise the potential of finding true love.
As I wrote that sentence, a commercial for Match.com came on the television advertising that one in five relationships started on an online dating site. Twenty percent of all new relationships are started by a digital wink that ends up in someone’s email inbox.
How do we feel about this?
Does it seem awkward to think that the person of your dreams might be found based on a compatibility test you filled out with your profile?
Does it seem unnatural to have a first real conversation with someone after having vetted them by their grammar, spelling, and email etiquette?
Can you call it fate, if you actively log into your site to see who’s ‘winked’ at you?
If you answered yes to any one of these, then we agree. Perhaps I’m old fashioned and perhaps a little too much of a romantic, but there is something about online dating that throws me.
I always had this idea in my head that some day when I was least expecting it, I would meet the love of my life in a way I could have never expected. I would be shopping at the supermarket in the produce department with a basket full of unhealthy food and I would drop a tomato. As I knelt down to pick it up a cart would run it over, spraying tomato guts all over me. Displeased with the new need to visit the dry cleaners, I stand up and there she is, the woman of my dreams, overly apologetic and just as beautiful as imagined in my dreams. I would ask her for coffee adding some cute joke about putting a lid on hers to avoid spilling (in these daydreams- I’m funny), and the rest, as they say, is history. That’s a story I could tell my grandchildren.
But fifty years from now how could I possibly understand what is socially, or even personally acceptable to my grandchildren. Certainly things I have done in my youth, my grandparents wouldn’t have dreamed of. Hell, refrigeration was a new concept when they were my age.
Now I’m not here to make the argument for or against the direction our society has taken, but I can say that standards have changed with every passing generation. So, I must inquire, would my grandchildren enjoy this story of their grandparent’s meeting because of it’s romance, or would they enjoy it for the same reasons we enjoyed sitting on Grandpa’s knee listening to him telling us of his one-room school house and how different it was back then. When my grandchildren are in their twenties, will online dating have become the norm?
Lets think about it. Online dating allows a unique opportunity to ‘meet’ multiple like minded or similarly interested people without the pressure (or expense- for the fellas) of going on multiple first dates. You get all the basic information out of the way before you even meet someone, so you have at least some idea whether or not you’ll click with someone. With our perpetually-busy, always-on-the-go schedules, online dating lets us ‘date’ when its convenient. We can even do it remotely from our cell phones. Sure, eventually you have to meet, but by the time you get to that point you already know you have something in common and thus something to talk about. From there, its just a question of chemistry; either it’s there or it’s not.
There is one obvious hurdle before the online dating pool can be considered as viable an option to finding love as say, the corner bar. It is still publicly, though I’m guessing not-so much privately, largely ridiculed by the non-singles of our society. The idea that online dating is for the ‘desperate’ or the ‘creepy’ largely keep people away.
But guess what, you walk into a bar and you’re just as likely to run into the ‘desperate’ and ‘creepy’. Yet there is not mass exodus from the bar scene as a mating ground. So by stereotyping those who partake in the online dating world, those people are left either embarrassed about their pursuit or constantly on the offensive to defend or justify why they’re love-life has gone digital. Neither seems particularly good for the individual.
But the question really is, when did pursuing love become subject to public approval? My parents were set up by a mutual friends, my grandparents were essentially high school sweethearts. Would it really be such a travesty for me to say that I met my wife (when I meet her), the woman I adore, love and cherish, online?
I guess I tend to think it’s not so much how you met that’s important, but that you met.
But maybe I’m still stuck in yesterday.

Climb the Mountain

2010-08-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

What was the last truly valuable thing you did? I mean like really benefitted either yourself or someone else that you completed all by yourself. Something you had to work for. Something you had to struggle through and sacrifice for; something that’s changed a life, including maybe yours.
As I reflect on another failed attempt at courting a young woman, the existential cloud planted itself squarely above my shoulders. It’s rain poured inquisitions that saturated my thoughts. What was I doing? Who am I becoming? What do I want? Blah, blah, blah. I won’t bore you with the inner workings of my usually incomprehensible mind.
We hear stories of people with miraculous determination or incredible resolve who accomplish remarkable feats. I was recently at the Walter Reed Army Hospital in their rehabilitation unit where I met a Navy Seal who had lost both legs above the knee as a result of a combat related incident. As I spoke to him, I was shocked to learn that he wasn’t actually working out as rehab, but instead he was weight training to keep in shape for a triathlon.
Here I am philosophizing what I can do to get my love-life back on track while this guy is training for a triathlon. A triathlon that would be a difficult feet for even some of the more fit and athletic, let alone someone who has yet to relearn how to walk on prosthetic legs.
As I looked at the soldier, I knew without really having to try, that he would someday accomplish his goal. I believed in his resolve even though I was just meeting him. Something about the way he was carrying himself or perhaps the tone of his voice when he said it. Part of that feeling stemmed I’m sure from the fact that this guy is a Navy Seal. I mean, hello! They don’t let just anybody become a Seal. Have you seen G.I. Jane? They kicked Demi Moore’s ass and she was viewed as entirely unqualified and took it easy on her. But mostly I think I believed him because I wanted to believe he would do it.
I want to be a guy like that.
There was a time I think I was.
When I was about 15 years old my grandfather came to my sisters, cousins and I with a deal. I can’t really say I know exactly why he came to us with this deal but I can only assume it is because he very much wanted all of our lives to start with a solid foundation.
Here’s the deal. Upon our 21st birthdays’, if we had, individually, abstained from using drugs, alcohol or having sex, my grandfather would gift us with a substantial nest-egg to start our adult lives. The deal was purely based on the honor code. He would take our word, obviously barring any obvious mess up.
Read between the lines here. I could have completely gotten away with any of the aforementioned prohibitions. Hell, I was in college for three years of this deal. I even joined a fraternity, so obviously alcohol was never around, right?
Right……
And obviously living right next to sorori-tutes, I mean sorority house, never allowed the opportunity for extramarital fornication, right?
Right…….
Not to mention my school was made up of yuppie, entitled people who have so much money the only way to get rid of it is to put it up their nose, right?
Right…..
My point is there were opportunities. I don’t need to rub it in.
Yet, I obtained. I had two serious girlfriends cheat on me because I wasn’t willing to sleep with them because of my dedication to keeping my word. I wasn’t considered ‘part of the group’ by my pledge brothers because I was a non-drinker. I got taken advantage of as a sober driver on party nights.
But when I visited my grandfather’s house shortly after my 21st birthday, I looked him in the eye and shook his hand knowing that I had upheld my end of the deal. I was proud of myself, and I hope he was proud of me.
For the first 21 years of my life, that deal; that challenge was part of what shaped who I am and who I want to become. Before I turned 21, I think I was the guy who people could count on to be the guy with the resolve to keep his word for the things he’s determined. Since then, I’ve struggled to find another challenge to throw myself at, and I think it’s shown.
Isn’t it important to set and reach for goals? I’m speaking generally of course, but isn’t that something we find attractive in someone else. The idea that we can find something to be passionate and devoted resonates into a number of other aspects of our lives.
Doesn’t the climb towards these goals both test and solidify our resolve? Think about what the opposite of that is; a lack of direction or wavering. Does anyone want to be described like that? Achieving goals takes hard work. Does anyone want to be considered lazy? Aren’t these attributes of someone’s disposition and moral fiber.
Here’s the short of it; actions describe character, but consistent actions define it. Climb a mountain; it’ll make you a better person.

The Race Card

2010-07-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

The news lately has been overcome with allegations of racism. It seems no one, even the President, who in case you hadn’t noticed-is a black man, is safe from accusations of preferring or promoting a particular race.
Most recently, two stories of race-related rage have become heated at the forefront of the daily news. The first concerned a federal lawsuit concerning two members of the New Black Panther Party who were videotaped intimidating voters on Election Day 2008 with a nightstick. The second concerned a Department of Agriculture official who was fired as a result of an edited video depicting the official as giving less favorable aid to a white farmer. In both instances accusations of racism flew in all directions.
There is a simple fact in America that race matters. Unfortunately, because we let race matter, we’re all racists to some degree. Because race even inters the equation the result is inevitably tainted in one way or another by individuals’ perception of race, on any level. We may not all value race in the same way, but the simple fact that there’s a box to check on applications, means that information could matter. Certainly there is scientific value in the information of how people identify their race in conjunction with any societal or economic surroundings. That information can be used for a number of well-intentioned programs and proposals. Not surprisingly in the statistics there are discrepancies; you guessed it, among racial lines. You already know what they say, so I don’t need to recant them, but they highlight the injustice or unfairness rampant in our culture.
So the powers that be see these disparities and say, “OMG, like. That’s not fair! We, like, Tooootally need to fix it, fer sur!” Their fix inevitably is some sort of program, or incentive, or initiative that is aimed at leveling the playing field. Unfortunately, whatever fix is implemented with the goal of making things more equal, does just the opposite on an institutional level. In an effort to create equality, these programs segregate in favor of the race, usually black or Hispanic, that it is geared towards helping. Giving something to a specific group and not to another is by definition unequal.
The people who don’t get the incentives or benefits say they only reason the people do get it is because of their race, which is mostly true. In turn, those benefactors call those outside of the programs racists. This doesn’t exactly create amiable relations between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’. So while these programs are well intentioned, they ultimately create more injustice, but institutionally and within the hearts and minds of society.
But, hey, the road to hell is littered with good intentions.
Programs like Affirmative action aim to level the playing field for women and minorities who have been faced historically with discrimination. The core of the idea is making things equal for everyone. Who doesn’t agree with that?
Okay so maybe there are some people who don’t believe that things should be equal, but golly, this indoor plumbing must seem like a real luxury.
Unfortunately, policies like this require that race, color, sexuality, religion, etc. are considered in selection processes ranging from just about anything, but mostly concerning employment or education.
So the question becomes which is more important; equal representation or equal opportunity? Equal representation could be defined as an equally proportionate workforce and societal demographic. If the population is 50% women, the workforce should be 50% women. Inevitably, this would lead to quotas as a way to mandate the equal representation. Oh. Wait. That’s already happened.
So is it more important for the workforce to represent the public, or that the workforce that feels fairness in the workplace? Let’s say an Indian woman (IW) and a black man (BM) are both applying for an IT position with xyz corporation. Let’s say that the BM is more qualified. He’s got a better degree, better references, and better experience. Let’s say, also that the IW’s father is an executive with the company. Who should get the job? Do you need more information? Okay, let’s say that the IT department already has 5 black men and women employees but no Indians. BM’s background is blue collar. He was raised by a single mother and worked his way through college. IW’s parents are upper class and she is only applying for this job after a failed attempt to become an actress. Okay, now who should get the job?
With quota’s designed for equal representation, neither of their backgrounds would matter. So long as both candidates were qualified (used very loosely), all that would matter is their self identification. Because the company doesn’t have any Indian employees, the HR department wouldn’t really have a choice. IW would get the job.
How fair does this seem? How well do you think this would promote equality?
The only way to transcend race is to make it transparent. The only way to really make race a non-factor is to take it out of the equation all together. That means stop throwing the race card around. This means teaching our kids that ‘all men are created equal’ mumbo-jumbo really amounts to the amount of sweat dripping from your brow, not what color your brow is. That means we stop using race as an excuse, a crutch, and a punch line.
Only when our society is truly color blind, can equal opportunity begin to take shape and exist. Only once we have accepted this will we view low-income housing where the projects stand now and see a failing school where inner-city schools stand today.
Unless you are just hate people of other races, and then I can’t help you.

You Got Iced

2010-07-16T13:00:00.001-07:00

In the midst of the World Cup, my roommate and I went early that fine Saturday morning to a new beer garden a few blocks from our house to watch the USA vs. England match. The place was legit, but packed even though we got there a solid three hours before the game. When our lazy-ass friends showed up only about an hour prior to the game, they were sadly denied entrance. So we collectively decided to hit the grocery and go back to our place to watch the match.
I got there a little bit after most everyone else and walk into the kitchen to get the beer in one of the many cooling devices that we had present. As I open the refrigerator, I find a piece of paper hanging from one of the shelves that read:
Fuck you, you got ICED.
Damnit.
For those of you who are not familiar with what getting ‘Iced’ means here is a brief explanation. As a rule, when any of a guys buddies (bro’s) gives him a Smirnoff Ice, the recipient must chug the contents from one knee. A bro can block an Icing by having an unopened Smirnoff Ice on his person to negate the Icing. Basically, it turns into a game where bro’s try to Ice each other in creative ways or at embarrassing times.
So I had to chug this warm (someone had obviously gotten iced before me and kindly replaced their Smirnoff with another that had yet to be chilled to a bearable temperature) Smirnoff Ice as my friends laugh in mockery.
Yes, Icing is funny, even when it happens to you. Yes, Smirnoff Ice is still not an acceptable bottled beverage for a man to be carrying or sipping at any reputable function. Yes, drinking one Smirnoff Ice is similar to snorting a line of pure sugarcane. Yes, Icing is a fad that needs to die.
Let me tell you a story of what could happen.
Tim is the father of two young kids. Tim’s wife Jane has been reminding Tim about his two young kids’ school play for weeks and Tim has been excited as any good father would be. Tim’s buddy’s also have children in the school play and as Tim pulls his mid-sized, over-priced SUV into the school parking lot, they’re waiting for him with a cold Smirnoff Ice. Boom. There in the parking lot of his children’s elementary school, Tim takes a knee and takes the Smirnoff to the face.
Tim walks into the auditorium and finds his wife. Tim slips out before the show and goes to the men’s room, where his buddies are again waiting. Boom. Iced. Take a knee.
Guess who just happens to turn the corner into the men’s room just as Tim is reaching the bottom of the glistening clear glass bottle. The school’s principal. Who has obviously never heard of Icing before, nor does he find humor in the fact that Tim is drinking alcoholic beverages in the bathroom of an elementary school. Principal calls security who escort Tim to the exit for breaking the ‘no alcohol on school grounds’ law.
As he’s walking out of the school, one of Tim’s bro’s is pulling up running late. Tim stops and tells his bro what just happened. His bro laughs and mercilessly Ices him again. Boom. Quit your bitchin’.
“Oh hello, Officer”, his bro says as Tim is pounding overly sweetened alcohol. An open container ticket later, Tim walks to his car, only to find a parking enforcement officer writing a ticket because Tim couldn’t find a ‘real’ parking spot due to the crowded parking lot and found a makeshift spot in the back of the parking lot in the grass. Tim tries to get the meter maid to give him a break, but no dice. So Tim gets in the car to move it. As he’s driving around the parking lot, the same officer who ticketed Tim for and open container, flips on his lights and pulls Tim over. You guessed it. Driving While Impaired.
So to summate; Tim’s wife is pissed because he missed his children’s school play, his kids are disappointed that their father missed their performance, he must now pay an open container fine, a parking fine, and will be spending the next few hours in the slammer. All at the expense of his buddies and a stupid game involving an emasculating beverage. Thanks a lot Bro.
So can we all please agree? It was fun while it lasted, but it’s time to let Icing die. If not for the sake of disappointing our loved ones by the unforeseen consequences, let’s do it for the delay of impending diabetes that claws closer with ever swig of the Ice

King James

2010-07-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

If you’ve followed the sports world at all lately, or so long as you know what basketball is (specifically professional basketball), then you have undoubtedly heard of Lebron ‘King’ James.
King James was drafted first-overall by the Cleveland Cavaliers in the 2003 NBA draft; he was 18 years old. Before he was even drafted, King James signed a $90,000,000 deal with Nike, potentially making him the wealthiest 18 year-old in America. He has spent seven seasons in a Cavaliers uniform and as of 12:01am on July 1, 2010 he became a free-agent, basically opening himself up to play for the highest bidder. Who can blame him? A $90 million contract before he even earned a dime playing the sport of basketball is hardly enough to feed his family let-alone put a roof over their heads, right?
So, tonight at 9pm eastern standard time, ESPN is hosting an hour long special for King James to announce which teams scorers bench and front row is lucky enough (and has deep enough pockets) to have King James throw baby powder all over prior to every home game for the next few seasons.

The President only needed about twenty minutes to talk about the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, one of the worst environmental disasters in America’s astute history of purging and pillaging natural resources, on June 15th. Is King James forty-minutes more important than the President? If so, when do I get to see my cut of his $90 mil. as part of the redistribution of wealth? And that’s just what he made from one endorsement, and excludes the $60 million deal the Cavs gave him in 2006.
It just goes to show that the circus that is now known as the NBA, is nothing more than a shameless promotion of individuals whose sole contribution to our society is to whore themselves out for millions of dollars and entertain the rest of us.
Oh, but wait.
King James did donate $20,000 to the election of Barack Obama (who will now raise the amount King James pays in taxes (wait… aren’t king’s supposed to collect taxes, not pay them?)) which is a mere two hundredth of a percent of his Nike endorsement and much less considering his entire wealth as a whole. Gee, he really made a sacrifice. What a civil servant!
Last I checked, basketball was a team sport. Five players per team. Yet every time I turn on an NBA game, which is extremely rare, all I see is individuals wearing two different jerseys working against one other for the best stats- so they can get a bigger contract- so they can drop another C-list rap album- so they can get out of a domestic violence charge- thing. And it’s not just me that thinks that. I am very hard pressed to find a person who actually enjoys watching the NBA. The one I did find only watches the NBA for one particular person (the irony is thick). You guessed it; his allegiances are to the Cleveland Cavaliers. He grew up in northeast Ohio and until the crowning of King James in Cleveland, didn’t have much to cheer about in the sports department, but as he says he stayed loyal. The last seven years have been hopeful instead of disgraceful as they had previously been.
But what happens if King James leaves Cleveland?
This brings me to my second point. In the NBA loyalty is spelled E.G.O. Despite the fact that King James grew up in Akron, Ohio, began building his legacy in Cleveland, and has been embraced if not worshiped by the city of Cleveland, an almost unanimous number of sports reporters are reporting that King James will make his debut of his new number (6) in a jersey other than Cavaliers wine and gold.
What is odd about this is that Cleveland can actually offer King James about $125 million over six years, which is more than anybody else can afford with current salary cap rules. So maybe money isn’t the most important thing. Then what is?
Surely a twenty-five year old would relish the life of a superstar in New York or Miami, or the chance to share a stage with Kobe in L.A. Or perhaps Chicago, who was a competitive playoff team without him, has the best chance of getting King James his first NBA title.
If he goes to NYC or Miami is King James’ profile going to get any smaller? Of course not. We will see his billboards of him in Times Square or draped over some South Beach high-rise, which ultimately only adds money to his stacks and fame to his persona. If L.A. becomes his home, King James will be competing with Kobe for hottest athlete in the city, a challenge I’m sure the fashionato relishes. In Chicago, if he is able to deliver a championship that will only mean more money for him in endorsements and comparisons to the best player in the history of the NBA (in my opinion), Michael Jordan. Being compared to the greatest is rarely a humbling comparison…
But leaving Cleveland will have some consequences. Do you remember Art Modell? He was the long time owner of the Cleveland Browns, who revolutionized how the NFL promotes itself and should be in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, has been consistently stonewalled by the Cleveland media for moving the Cleveland Browns to Baltimore in 1996. What would King James’ leaving spell? I don’t even want to know, but it’s surely to be hateful.
I don’t know how any of this will play out. I don’t have any inside sources that are telling me where King James is going, and frankly I don’t care. I gave up on the NBA soon after His Airness Michael Jordan retired for the last time and haven’t looked back since. This whole hour-long press conference has about as much appeal as the Brett Favre saga did last year. Let’s just get on with it.
It seems every time I hear about the NBA it’s about some player who’s signing some outrageous contract, some player starting a fight, or is just being a selfish prick. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a single story about a player giving either his time or his money for anything worthwhile, yet I hear about NFL players building houses or visiting hospitals all the time. Sounds to me like either the NBA has a PR problem, or its players really are just selfish egotists.
Either way, I watched a grand total of about a full game of NBA basketball during the regular season and most of the Eastern Conference Finals and NBA Finals, but I have a feeling, no matter what King James does, I probably won’t even watch that much next year.

Robbed

2010-06-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

Had a minor heart attack at work last week. Wednesday to be specific.
The day started off really well. Came in to work. Got some work done while watching team USA play Slovenia in the World Cup.
Did you see the soccer game? It’s interesting that normally, in this country, soccer TV ratings rank somewhere between reruns of Saved by the Bell and Red Stripe commercials. But while the World Cup is going on, miraculously everyone turns into a soccer aficionado. Imagine that.
It was a good game. ‘Merica was down 0-2 and amazingly came back to tie. With only a few minutes remaining USA had free kick just outside the goal box. The ball flies in and a USA puts the ball in the back of the net! GOAL!
Just kidding.
The referee calls some phantom penalty and negates the goal. The official had made some pretty terrible calls earlier in the game, but still-that would have been the game winning goal. I learned later that FIFA, the governing body over international football (what the rest of the world calls soccer), has almost no reliable review process for referees performance during games. Anyway, this particular call was totally bogus, but five minutes later I had forgotten about it, similar to the way I forget about the outcome of most other mildly relevant sporting events.
So I go back to work.
Then I grab some lunch; I had some delicious homemade pasta I made with a spicy tomato sauce I concocted. It was delicious, if I do say so myself. I start a writing project on a new tax bill, so I won’t bore you with the details. I’m about knee deep in my research when my phone starts blowing up. It was my Big Guy Roommate (BGR). It is unusual for him to call me at all, let alone during the work day. I answer and the conversation goes something like this:
Shyguy: Hello
BGR: Hey, its BGR Have you heard from Little Guy Roommate (LGR)?
Shyguy: No. Why?
BGR: Well, I just looked at my phone and I got a text message from him a few hours ago that said ‘call the cops, we got robbed’…. I’ve been trying to call him but he’s not answering.
Shyguy: Really? What should we do?
BGR: I’m going to drive home and check it out. I’m sorta freaking out.
Shyguy: Alright, I’ll try to leave and head home too. I’ll try calling LGR, let me know if you find out anything.
Click.
So I get up and go straight to my supervisor and explain that I think t my house got robbed and that I need to take the rest of the day off to figure stuff out. I’ve never been robbed before. I didn’t know what to do. So, I jump on my bike, like a bicycle, and sprint home. As I turn the corner onto my street what’s the first thing I see, a cop car.
Super. They're already here, I think. This can't be good.
Roll up to the front of my place, drop my bike on the grass and walk up the front steps.
Time out.
As I’m sprinting home on my bike, there are a million things going through my head, cause you know... who doesn't love getting robbed?! But the thing that stands out is how come LGR didn’t send me a message? Wouldn’t he have called? This is weird. Something’s not right. As in I'm missing something here- not right, not- I think we just got robbed- not right.
Time In.
I put my key in the door like I usually do.
If we got robbed wouldn’t the door be unlocked?
BGR’s dog Brody greets me at the door.
Wouldn’t a large boxer deter anyone from robbing the house?
As I walk into the living room the LCD TV is still sitting on the stand.
Wouldn’t robbers take a flat panel TV?
I go upstairs. My computer is sitting on my desk, my piece of shit laptop computer still sitting on the floor.
Wouldn’t someone robbing the place take both computers?
We didn’t get robbed.
I walk back outside just as BGR is pulling up in his truck.
... And it hits me.
The asshole was talking about the soccer game.
He was talking about the USA getting robbed out of a goal in the fucking World Cup soccer match. BGR and I race home, are worried about our stuff, all the while LGR didn’t even think twice about sending a text to his roommate about the burglary of their domicile. What a dick.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

2010-06-15T09:43:00.000-07:00

Breaking up is hard to do.
It seems everywhere I turn, I hear about someone breaking up with their significant other. This is not an area I have any particular experience with as every girl I’ve ever been in a relationship with has cheated on me. Ain’t life grand?
I know a lot of people think breaking up is really sad. One or both halves of the couple probably feels sad about the loss of someone meaningful from their lives. Sometimes circumstances surrounding the break-up deliberately lack closure for one person prompting numerous questions about adequacy, intention, and/or, future. It really sucks feeling like you’ve wasted time on someone whom, for whatever reason, no longer wants you in their lives in a romantic capacity. You can’t really just stop caring about someone in an instant and nobody should expect you to.
Dealing with the simple notion that now you have to find something else to invest and spend your time on, is one of the daily reminders of the change in your life. There is a void where that person used to be that extends to parts of your life that you didn’t even realize.
I don’t want to sugar coat it. It’s tough and, more often than not, it gets worse before it gets better. I think we, as humans, are inherently social and loving beings. I think we all want to find someone to spend our time and our lives and ourselves with. So, losing something that we naturally seek is difficult for us and the only remedy is time.
Unfortunately, sometimes it feels like we’re fighting the clock. Women are fighting a biological clock as well as a socially created clock to avoid being an ‘old maid’. Men fight our own patience as the stubborn creatures we are, but sadly all this does is prolong the time needed for reconciling. We all fight the clock for our own manufactured reasons of children or vanity, but anyone who wants to get married still feels the pressure with every passing tick and tock.
On top of the clock, we fight fear. Fear of never finding someone to share life with and fear of being alone. We’re afraid that we’re somehow defective and that nobody will ever want us again. We’re afraid that we won’t ever find anyone who will treat us well (enough) again, and we’re afraid to spend a lonely night because it’s just easier and more comfortable to swallow all the bad for the momentary moment of good.
Our fear is what perpetuates these problems. Ladies think about it, if you weren’t fearful of being alone, would we really put up with the (insert any barrage of reasons he treats you poorly)? And fellas, would you really put up with the (again insert any one of the plethora of things men complain about) if you weren’t afraid of being seen as an asshole? I put up with a girlfriend who did very little besides make me feel continually inadequate. Why didn’t I leave? Because it took me a long time to realize that being afraid in a shitty relationship is actually worse than being afraid out of one.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
Say it with me. Everyone deserves to be happy.
Yes, ‘everyone’ includes you, and there are no exceptions. ‘Everyone’ also includes your boyfriend/girlfriend. What are the chances that you’re unhappy but your significant other is completely happy? I would skip over ‘slim-to-none’ and go straight to Zero (with the understanding that the other person actually cares about you). So isn’t there some aspect of selfishness in your decision to stay or inaction out of fear? There must be some level of responsibility you undertake for the happiness of the person you’ve invested in, and doesn’t that responsibility include recognizing that you’re not what make them happy, or most happy?
This of course refers to situations where you already know you want out. But you may be thinking to yourself, “Shyguy, what about me? I got dumped!” Don’t sweat it, the answer to your problems is just the same.
Whether you’re broken up about someone who just tore out your heart, or tired of being unhappy in a relationship or with a person one thing is consistent. You’re limiting your own happiness by your active decision to stay or indolent decision to accept the status quo.
This broad just dumped you, brotha. She doesn’t want to love and care for you anymore. Do you really want someone in your life that doesn’t want to love or care for you the same way you’ll love for her? Yes? Well then you’re either a glutton for punishment or a coward.
This guy is a drunk who hits on girls right in front of you. He only calls you late night after he’s exhausted the talent at the bar or when he needs a date to his buddy’s wedding so he doesn’t have to go alone. Come on girl, is that the kind of respect and love you deserve? Yes? Then I wanna know what kind of bitch you were to the first guy to align the kosmos against you. Not the case? Then get some confidence in yourself and go out and get you a man that’ll make you happy.
Happiness isn’t just a feeling. It’s also a decision. Sometimes decisions are tough and they all have consequences. But when given the option to choose between being unhappy, or apathetic, and the potential to be happy, this Shyguy will take the potential every time.
Now quit your bitchin’ and go out there, make yourself happy, and make me proud.

It's Risky Business

2010-06-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite movies of all time it Risky Business. Tom Cruise stars as an unsure teen feeling the pressure of being accepted to a prestigious university. When his parents go out of town and his friends jovially call an escort service, Tom’s character, Joel Goodsend, gets involved with a prostitute named Lana. Through a series of misfortunes with Joel’s dad’s Porsche, Lana’s pimp, and Joel’s mother’s prized mantel ornament, Joel acts as any high school boy would do; he turns his house into a brothel! After, of course he gets some ‘Old Time Rock and Roll’ in his underwear.
Tom Cruise (pre-Scientology) is arguably at his best. In my favorite scene Joel is having a ‘party’ at his house for his male classmates to ‘mingle’ with Lana’s ‘friends’.
Did you follow that?
Joel introduces his friends (horny high school boys) to Lana’s friends (prostitutes- or for the layman- women who have sex for money) so they can be friends (really I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you).
In the middle of this party, an admissions officer from an Ivy League school shows up for an interview with Joel (imagine the awkwardness). The man begins reciting Joel’s education and extra-curricular achievements and as he concludes praises Joel for his ‘respectable’ qualifications.
Respectable?
Then follows up with, “but it’s not quite Ivy League now is it?”
What an elitist! Joel sees this immediately and his demeanor changes from nervous boy to confident man as he pulls his oversized Wayfarer sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, buts them on and with a sly, yet defiant smile says:
“You know Bill, there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years. Sometimes you’ve gotta say, what the fuck, make your move”
At this moment Lana walks in and asks how things are going to which Joel responds, “Looks like the University of Illinois” with a shit-eating grin on his face.
This immediate transformation to confidence is something I’ve always found fascinating. Never mind the pressure that Joel feels from his parents to get into a prestigious university. Never mind that Joel has lived a sheltered and fairly privileged life. In that very moment Joel realized that he’s not going to live up to his parents’ hopes. He’s got certain attributes that he has at his disposal and certain limitations that disallow certain things.
We are all given a unique set of skills both physical and mental. Associated with those are a unique set of limitations. I hesitate to give examples of this because for any example I illustrate, surely there is an exception. Just yesterday I saw a sports story about a guy who was born without arms or legs who is training for an Ironman triathlon! Example dismantled.
The point is not about ability or disability. The point is about playing the hand you were dealt. That instant where you accept who and what you are can be a powerful tool. There are a lot of things in this world that are out of our individual control. But there is also a lot that is. We have control over more than we sometimes acknowledge. We control our decisions, or words, and maybe more importantly our attitudes. So, while those things that are out of our control effect us, how much do they control us?
Zip. Zero. Stingy with dinaro.
Joel understands that sometimes you just have to roll with what’s before you and not worry about what you can’t control. He’s not getting into the Ivy Leagues so he can either be disappointed about what he can’t control, or he can make a move and take control of his destiny with the cards he’s got.
I think it’s easy for us all to say we’d do the later, but if we’re honest with ourselves, how much do we actually worry about what is out of control. Why worry about the shot you haven’t taken yet? Why worry about what the weather will be like on your wedding day? Why worry about who will win American Idol? Think about all the time we spend worrying. Now think about all the other things that we could have been doing instead. Imagine your life without worry. Imagine being in touch with what you really can control. Imagine living your life fully within the means of your natural talents and restrictions.
Think about all the people who’ve come before us. Look at those people who’ve created some really great things, with significantly less than we have at our disposal today. Just think about what we can accomplish with the tools at our fingertips. Isn’t that empowering? Think you’re ready for that kind of responsibility?
So stop worrying. Wake up and live.
Now that’s Risky Business.

In God Do We Trust?

2010-05-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

When recently looking at a five dollar bill, I realized how long it had been since I looked, with any interest, at these pieces of cotton we use as currency (yes, our bills are printed on cotton, who said blogs can’t be informational). I noticed the words ‘In God We Trust’ written on a banner above the picture of the Lincoln Memorial on the back of the bill. This phrase is our national motto. When I looked up the definition of motto I found it to be defined as: a sentence, phrase, or word expressing the spirit or purpose of a person, organization, city, etc., and often inscribed on a badge, banner, etc.
I thought to myself, ‘Is the phrase In God We Trust really the phrase that expresses the spirit or purpose of our country?’ My initial reaction was ‘no’, but after thinking about it for a few minutes my thought was ‘hell no’. When I think of the way that our country acts, both on an individual and collective levels, trust in God would not be how I would describe us. Not even close.
Flip on the news to find countless stories of murder, infidelity, and immorality. And that’s not even scratching the surface of the entertainment industry that glamorizes train-wrecks like Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears. If we really trusted in God would this be the case?
But my question opens up the discussion riddled with even more questions. Who is God? Are we talking about the Christian God? Muslim’s Allah? And what does trust mean? Does it mean we trust Him (whoever he is) to protect us? Trust him to deliver us from evil? Guide us into the afterlife?
But stop. Think about these questions and what they really mean. We are actively acknowledging that our beliefs are not necessarily the beliefs of everyone. So this term ‘In God We Trust’ could mean a hundred different things if asked of a hundred different people. So why not have the national motto read ‘Believe What You Want’?
When the national motto was adopted, there’s no doubt that America was an overwhelmingly Christian nation. Over time our society has, for one reason or another and for better or worse, moved away from orthodoxy and in the direction of individual determination. There are some who argue that this is a step away from God by no longer praising His glory in the ways the Bible outlines. Others argue that this is a step in the direction of a relativity diocese that allows individuals to build a personal and wholly unique relationship with God, or whatever supreme being they choose.
But why can’t both be right? Though these two doctrines seem drastically different, they do at least one very important instance of similarity. Whether you subscribe to the school of more orthodox religion or the more relative individualistic doctrine, both require dialogue and communication with your god, that as Christians we call praying.
In the traditional sense, praying is simply a discussion with God. I could involve asking Him to supply you with something, keep you safe, or guiding you through a difficult time. Whatever it may be, it’s between you and Him. I’m not asking.
Now take a step back for a second. Let’s think about the purpose and intent of religion. Every major religion on Earth has some set of rules, or codes, that guide us in what is right and wrong. So it’s safe to say that religion plays an integral, or at least influential, part in developing our moral compasses otherwise known as our conscious.
Even those who don’t have religion must adhere to the socially accepted laws and norms, so to say that having a conscious is a religiously based idea discounts the idea that we must all cohabitate. Therefore, I don’t feel I’m reaching when I say that everyone has a conscious. Whether or not it works or is heard is a completely separate issue, but everyone still has one.
What if prayer is reduced to simply evaluating how your conscious would dictate your behavior through meditation? For the spiritual and faithful, this is simply evaluating our circumstances in comparison to what we know God wants for and of us. Those who do not subscribe to a religion still have the inner dialogue about what is right and wrong. From these standards we all pray to some degree. Some may call it meditation. Some may call it centering. But we all evaluate our consciouses; it’s just that some of us prefer to do it from our knees.
So think about this.
What if the phrase ‘In God We Trust’ is both conformist and relative? To those who believe in God it means that literally God is entrusted to guide us (our conscious) to do what is right. To those who develop an individual doctrine, the phrase means following and trusting that a supreme being, even if that supreme being is just the laws of the land, allow us to better ourselves.
This idea covers everyone, not just in America. I believe regardless of where you sit on the spectrum of religiousness, the phrase ‘In God We Trust’ can be assimilated with following something bigger than ourselves, be it God, some other deity, or the simple rule of law, for the goodwill of all.
Just imagine what America would be like if the spirit or purpose of our country really was ‘In God We Trust’. Just like you have to kneel before you stand, maybe if we, collectively spent more time on our knees (literally and figuratively), when we did stand, we could do so with conviction.

Disney Men

2010-05-06T13:23:00.001-07:00

Last August, I wrote a post entitled Women as Art in which I categorized women based on the paintings of seven well-known artists. The idea was to classify women (I know, I know, it’s not really possible) based on their subjective beauty and inherent depth as perceived by the world. In other words, just because I see a woman as a Van Gogh doesn’t mean to someone else she is not a Da Vinci. Capiche?
Well I think it’s high time I even the score. What is to follow is the classification of men, as they appear to the world. I initially chose to classify men as different types of animals, and actually made quite some headway down that road before I stopped; thought to myself ‘how do I relate real animals to be the equal and opposite of the paintings I used to characterize women?’ I had hit a wall. So I set it down for a few days and as I write today, I believe I’ve found the solution. Men can’t be classified as animals. We are animals.
So think about it. If women are these masterpiece paintings, each of which exude depth and beauty in their own unique ways, then what could possibly be used to classify and encompass the different sorts of guys there are out there? Easy. Cartoons.
What else would epitomize the contrasting similarities of men to women? Exactly, nothing. And since I’m the writer, we’re gonna go with this.
Now you’ll notice these are not just any cartoons. Each and every one of these cartoons come from one of Disney’s epic animated adventures. You’ll know all of them if you had any sort of childhood. So here goes.

Aladdin
Aladdin (the movie) is set in the desert of the Middle East, most likely India-ish. Aladdin (the man) is essentially a pan handler who with the help of his pet monkey and the genie, becomes Prince by marrying his beloved Jasmine and defeats the evil Jafar. Men who are classified as Aladdins are heavily dependant on their friends, either to get them to where they are, or to keep them there. These are the guys who often don’t have the natural ability or resources to become great, but surround themselves with people who can help get them out. Think of these guys as the epitome of the saying ‘sometimes its better to be lucky than good’. These guys are often dreamers but sometimes a little too suave for their own good.

Eric
Though Eric has a very small role in The Little Mermaid, he plays a significant role in Ariel’s story. In the Little Mermaid, Ariel (the beautiful daughter of the king of the sea) dreams of being able to walk on two feet so that she can be with her beloved Eric, who falls in love with Ariel’s beautiful singing voice. Ariel makes a deal with the Ursula, the underwater witch, to become human in exchange for Ariel’s voice. Men who are classified as Eric’s are easily enchanted by women. Often a bit aloof and easily distracted by other women. Eric’s also prefer to let the woman drive (literally and figuratively), and tend to be hesitant to make the first move; you remember ‘Kiss the Girl’ right?

Simba
The Lion King is about a young cub who is born to be the next king of the pride. Simba, the young prince, leaves the pack because he feels guilty for the death of his father Mufasa (I just love saying the name, moooo-fah-sa). He eventually returns to Pride Rock and fights Scar, the evil brother who has assumed power. Simba’s are men that may make a lot of mistakes, be really immature, or run away easily. These are the guys that are really young at heart. Sometimes they grow out of it, but mostly they just pass on responsibilities and remain content with neglecting to grow up.

Beast
Surely Beauty and the Beast is a favorite to many. Beast was cursed by a witch for being vain, unfriendly, and uncharitable which made him reprehensible looking and resentful for having once been physically attractive. The curse is lifted once Beast and Belle, the movies maiden, fall in love and kiss. Beasts have baggage. They’ve been burned and they have no problem showing you that, while having extreme difficulty opening up. Rugged on the exterior, Beasts often repels people which really only perpetuates their depression because they really are lonely and use their physically or emotional intimidation to keep them from getting hurt.

Baloo
In Tthe Jungle Book, Baloo the bear is friends of Man-Cub (Mowgli). In their first encounter, Mowgli is alone in the jungle as Baloo walks buy singing. Baloo then tries to teach Mowgli how to ‘fight like a bear’. You might remember this:
The bare necessities of life will come to you
They'll come to you!
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
That's why a bear can rest at ease
With just the bare necessities of life
Baloo’s are carefree and minimalistic. They also tend to be simpleminded and irresponsible. They’re often very funny in their mannerisms and uncomplexity. Baloo’s get along with everyone and possess great kindness, but don’t get tied down or stay in one place too easily.

Buzz Lightyear
Toy Story was one of, if not the, first computer animated movies by Disney. The story, about a family of toys that belong to a young boy. Woody, the favorite toy is a cowboy, gets jealous when Buzz Lightyear, the latest and greatest astronaut toy, is added to the collection. Initially Buzz shows off his great, high-tech new devices like a ‘laser’ and retractable wings, but is confused that he is not destined to save the world and is just a toy. Buzz Lightyears are the guys who are all talk and no action. They love their toys and gadgets. These guys clean up well and are flashy with the way they look, but have very little substance. Buzz Lightyear’s have a hard time listening once they’ve got an idea in their head, regardless of factuality or feasibility.

Sully
Monsters Inc. is, in this humble writers opinion, one of the most underrated Disney movies. It’s the story about the monsters in your closet. The children’s’ screams are an energy source for the monsters and Sully is one of the best at scaring. When a child sneaks into the monsters world, Sully has to take care of it and keep it away from the other Monsters until he plots how to return her and save the factory from a shortage of energy. Sully’s aren’t much to look at but they have big hearts. They’re shy and quiet, but hard workers. They were never the most popular and are often seen by others as push-overs. These are the guys who’s physical appearance doesn’t match their personality, for good or bad. They aren’t used to the spotlight and prefer to help others in the background.

What Men Want: Christina Hendricks

2010-04-26T08:10:00.000-07:00

The May 2010 issue of Esquire Magazine dons the classically stunning Christina Hendricks of Mad Men. While I do not subscribe to the print version, I often find myself on the website. This morning, I ran across an article Mrs. Hendricks penned herself which she entitled ‘A Letter to Men’. Please read it for its elegantly insightful yet flirtatiously saucy glimpse into the mind of the type of woman this Shyguy would love to land.
As I read it however, and understanding that Esquire decisively targets the male population, I would offer the following letter to women’s magazines:
Ladies,
We, men, are really not as complicated as you, and your over-analytical group of girlfriends, think. Promise. The reason you don’t know how to react to us is because men and women are simply wired differently. That difference is easily apparent, and you know it.
You know that we default to reason and that you default to emotion. We understand you have them, but we don’t understand how they affect things for you. Likewise, you know we have emotions but just relate to them differently. If we care, we want to know how you feel. (And no, I'm not saying that women don't have any rational or reason)
You know that we think your bodies are the most beautiful thing God ever made. The curve of your hips, the softness of your skin, the tenderness of your hands. But you also know how to use it all against us, to get exactly what you want. That is simultaneously the most erogenous and irritating aspect of being men that we acknowledge we have, at best, minimal ability to control (ourselves).
You know there are times that we just want to be the man and have you be the woman. Sure, it’s a world of equality, we get that. But the things that make us different are also at the top of our lists of what attracts us to you (see: boobs). You talk all about wanting a gentleman to open doors, stand when you enter the room, and pull out your chair, but why the hesitance to be Jane to our Tarzan? We don’t want you to be submissive, but part of what you like (hopefully) about us is that we can be strong, rugged, dangerous men; just let us feel that way.
So let me tell you a few things that you may not already know. A few things that along the road of human evolution should have been expressed to women and passed down from mother to daughter like jewelry and wedding dresses. These are relatively simple, but as I’m sure you can agree, it’s the small things that make the difference.
The way to our heart is through our stomach. It is an indisputable fact that we are happier when we are well fed. We don’t really care much if you do the cooking, but if you are on top of facilitating our grazing, I can assure you the points are adding up. Of course cooking, or even an attempt at cooking is ideal. Apron and heels: necessary. Clothing: optional.
We are visual. What we’re looking at doesn’t always have to be skin for us to be attracted. But our staring is a compliment. Be flattered. There are lots of other beautiful women out there, and yes, we’ll look, but be assured that as we do it is your hand we hold and your happiness we seek.
Every man already has a mother. We neither need, nor want another. There are qualities about our mothers that we seek in a partner; nurturing, selflessness, affectionate. There are also some things about our mothers that we run away from. You want to find out what those things are and act accordingly and oppositely. You’re allowed to dislike mothers, but you’re not allowed to make us choose between us and her. No man wants a nag.
Have confidence; it is one of the sexiest things about women. We don’t care that you’ve never thrown a football before, if we’ve asked you to toss it around with us it’s because we enjoy football and want to share something we enjoy with you. We don’t care if we spend the entire time chasing the ball, we just care that you have the confidence to try.
Don’t underestimate the power of positive reinforcement. There are a lot of things we may not like to do; dishes, taking out the trash, cleaning the sink after we shave. We know these are not difficult tasks, but we still hate doing them. However, with a little reward every once in a while we’ll hate them a lot less and in the process you’ll have strengthened the trust in our relationship while simultaneously keeping the place a few steps above a frat house.
The bottom line is if we love you or are interested in you, we’ll want to make you happy, and we will actively, yes actively, try to do so. Whether or not you’re able to recognize that action depends on how well you’ve translated our rational actions into your emotional understanding. Or in other words, how well you’ve listened to us all this time (you didn’t actually think there was a double standard did you!)

Hindsight is alwasy 20-20

2010-04-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Shyguy circa 2005,
You won’t want to hear what I’ve got to tell you, but having lived what you’re about to go through, you should listen up and listen good.
There are gonna be some things that happen to you over the next five years that challenge the very fabric of your character. Things that will test you unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. You’ll wake in the middle of the night from the stress of what seems like the world collapsing around you. You’ll develop an isolationism that you won’t realize completely inhibits you from getting what you want. You’ll push away or let fall by the wayside some people who you’ll really miss when you become me, your five year older self. You’ll make a couple choices that completely pivot the direction of your life, and then you’ll question, analyze, and seek approval for your decisions.
You’re gonna fuck up and I’m not writing this to change what happened. You need it.
You thought getting hurt in Football and having to quit was hard on you? Ha! Just wait until you have to sit in front of the woman who’s supposed to love you and hear her tell you you’re not good enough.
Pretty soon the girl you’re dating, Michelle, well she’s gonna do a number on you. There’s just no soft way to say it. Your confidence and self-image will be slowly chipped away until, in their fragile state,they shatter. That’s just what happened, man. You are going to feel as empty as a bottomless well. You’re gonna blame yourself.
At about this time, you’re going to have an alcoholic roommate who can’t be supportive of you without a bottle of Jose. Keep a fire extinguisher in the kitchen.
At one point, you’re going to hate your job and you’re going to know exactly when you should get out, but you won’t be able to and you’ll feel trapped. So when you finally do, you’re going to take a pay cut and a demotion. Trust me, that was a good decision, even if initially it neither seems nor feels like it. Keep your nose down and get your shit done.
You’re also going to make a monumental mistake. Like wow-monumental. You deserve what you get for it. You’re going to stress out about it, as you should, and it’s going to push you to reevaluate everything and everyone in your life.
You’re going to feel abandoned by your friends during your darkest hour. You’re going to feel alone, ashamed, and embarrassed and going to take it out on those who you feel should have given a shit. Well buddy, they aren’t writing you a letter right now, and I am. So what does that tell you about who’s willing to put in the work? But don’t mistake exclusion for carelessness. There are people who care, but just don’t know how to show it.
As life goes, you’ll have to deal with multiple things at once. When it rains it fucking pours, right? To be honest, you won’t really know when you hit rock bottom until you’re already climbing out of it. And once you do start climbing remember that your heart is your strongest muscle.
Let me repeat that. Your heart is your strongest muscle.
The Disney movies lie to you. You won’t have this epiphany that marks the turning point of when you grow sick and tired of being sick and tired. You’ll just know when it’s time to add some shit to the ‘ex-box’ and tape it up again. You’ll just know when a job opportunity comes along that you can’t pass up. You’ll just know what to do to rectify your mistake. You'll just know who has your back. You’ll just know because of who you are.
You’re going to be pretty hard on people. You’re going to hold other people to a standard of integrity that is higher than most expect. But you’re a fucking hypocrite about it sometimes, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. Take it easy on those you really care about. They’re going to disappoint you, and you’re going to disappoint them. But when you think you need them the least, they’re going to come through for you.
Don’t wait so long to start writing. Your writing is the single most influential factor to who you become. Those long- hard to decipher notes- you scribble in your cheap-ass notebook are going to offer you a glimpse into your soul and that soul is gonna need a pep talk every once in awhile.
Well here it is my friend.
At your core, you’re a good dude. But you’re not going to believe anyone who tells you that until you’re ready. At 21 you sure as hell aren’t ready.
There will come a point when you start seeing improvement. Start feeling improvement. You won’t get to where you think you’re going when it’s you writing this letter to your younger self, but you’ll very soon realize that what you think you want at 21, doesn’t quite seem as fantastic as you think it’ll be. You’ll be happy you didn’t go there, even if it’ll be a fight with yourself the whole way.
The last thing I’m gonna say you really already know. Some things, some people, some actions really don’t matter. The things that matter aren’t going to tell you that they do until it’s too late for you to do anything about it. So care about what you control and the rest will take care of itself.
I should know. I’m around to write you this.
Shyguy circa 2010

Now Drunks, Don't Play with Fire

2010-04-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to The District, I lived in a three bedroom apartment with two girls. Going in, I thought being the only guy would have its advantages: cleaner place, potential for some easy introductions to attractive girl-friends, comfort that they wouldn’t drink my beer, etc. Not a bad situation for a guy fresh out of a relationship trying to blaze his own path in a new city. It seemed like a good place to start, emphasis on seemed.
We signed a yearlong lease, so good or bad I had to live with them for a year. Naturally, it all started out fine. We didn’t have any disagreements and everyone seemed accommodating and happy with the arrangements. Needless to say, as the year passed, our living conditions deteriorated.
The first deterioration came in the form of roommate Chloe’s boyfriend. Honestly, we’ll call him Dick because that’s what he is (and I’ve since forgotten it). Well Chloe and Dick had been dating on and off since college. He was in DC without a job and without a place to stay for a period of 1-2 months, so he stayed at our apartment. Initially not terrible, but when the guy wants to watch Euro-trash soccer during the NFL playoffs I have to draw the line. If he had wanted to watch the Premier League I could at least laugh at him, but no. He and Chloe also constantly fought. We could hear them in her room screaming at each other. So… not cool when you’re trying to have a beer with the buddies.
But the story to be told here is about my other roommate, Mindy. Mindy and I have known each other since high school. We weren’t best friends, but we ran in the same circles. We got along, but weren’t BFF’s. I thought that was a good thing going into this living arrangement. Anyway. Mindy had some interesting little habits.
She would often prance around our apartment wearing just a T. Usually with a glass of wine while getting ready for a night of festivities. I was sitting in our family room with a beer one night watching something on the tube, when she came out in said T. and bent over the stereo.
Hello underwear, have we met? Apparently not that day.
She also had an affinity for leaving different types of men’s shoes by the door when she comes home after a night out. Sometimes they were nice leather shoes, sometimes tennis shoes, sometimes flip flops, but they were always men’s and much too big for her to reasonably wear. I’m not sure why she had such a thing for men’s shoes, but they were always gone when I got up in the morning. She must have been embarrassed that she left them out.
Then there was the time she wanted to play Martha Stewart. I was awoken one night to the sound of the smoke detector going off. Confused and groggy, I walk into the hall where I find Mindy standing in front of the fire detector. This was not unusual as the smoke detector is right above the door into the hall bathroom that the two girls shared. It would seem that anytime they used a hair dryer for too long, the alarm would sound. Oh. Except that this time the apartment was full of smoke. What is Mindy doing you ask? She was wafting the air away from the smoke detector in an effort to stop the loud alarm.
Correction: she was wafting the SMOKE away from the smoke detector in order to get it to stop the loud alarm.
I asked her what she was doing. I know, dumb. Then walked down the hallway to find the source of the smoke. As I turn the corner into the kitchen, I find the source of the smoke.
What’s that old saying, where there’s smoke there’s fire. Yup. True. There was a pot on the stove currently containing a grease fire. Still groggy and in my boxers, I do my best Backdraft imitation and put out the fire with a nearby fire extinguisher. I mean, I fought the blaze with the only materials I could reach, just man versus fire, a fight to the death.
I exaggerate.
It really wasn’t a big fire, but definitely a prime example of why you tell your kids, or in this case, your drunks not to play with fire.
I’m sorry, Mindy, that the smoke detector was doing what it was made to do. You can stop wafting now.

Kindergarten or Old Married Couple?

2010-03-24T09:37:00.000-07:00

I know I have said I don’t like to let politics control my time away from work. Working in Washington often makes that very difficult.
If you haven’t heard about the health care reform debate, you really haven’t been paying attention. The President has made health care the marquee issue of his term. I won’t get into an argument about the legislation itself, what’s right or wrong about it, but instead give what I hope is an alternative perspective.
Over the weekend, landmark legislation was passed by the House of Representatives that will significantly change the administration of health care in America. Regardless of how you feel about the issue, it is safe to say that it got ugly. Allegations of protesters spreading hate, backroom deals and bribes, and fear-mongering were apparent from every angle of this debate. I just couldn’t help but notice from both political parties (three if you count the Tea Party) and incredible amount of hatred for opposition.
I’ve found that sometimes the best way to resolve a problem is to grasp the big picture. I tried to take a step back and look at America from afar; see America from outside of this debate. You know, I’ve heard before that the best way to tell if a couple is happy and in a solid relationship is to observe them fight. Are they respectful of the other's opposition and tolerant of their point of view, or are they argumentative and dismissive? Disagreements happen all the time in relationships (I note the divorce rate as prime evidence). They’re not always big deals but they’re also not always rectifiable immediately. Sometimes it is best to just take a minute and cool off.
When I took this step back in observance of the health care debate, I’ve noticed that our country has turned into a bitter married couple. They live and thrive for the fights. They’ll call each other names, bring up past disagreements, and skew each other’s words. But more importantly they never make up like they did in their youth with a passionate on-the-kitchen-table release. They just move on to their next disagreement about their petunia garden or whether to watch Murder She Wrote or 60 minutes. We look at these people from afar and admire their loyalty to stay married for so many years, but really pity them for spending so much time with someone they don’t like, and may actually hate.
Does anyone actually want to be one of these couples? While I recognize that our society has devalued loyalty, don’t we all ultimately want to end up happy? Maybe not with a ‘soul-mate’ but with someone who can make you happy as you grow old?
Well if nobody wants to be one of these couples, why do we allow ourselves to get into this behavior as a society? I understand that health care is a big deal to a lot of people and an inspired debate is exactly what the Founding Fathers would have wanted, but wouldn’t they have ultimately wanted the debate to turn so disrespectful and intolerant? I don’t think so.
I haven’t heard anyone say they think health care reform is a bad thing. So there shouldn’t be a problem. Everybody has the same goal, so working together for positive reform should be easy, right?
Nope.
Instead of working together, the debate became a war of words. Common sense gave way to talking points and compassion gave way to fear-mongering. And I’m just talking about the politicians; I haven’t even scratched the surface of the public who chooses their ignorance, as far as I can tell, according to which daytime news organization they watch.
With both sides of the political spectrum believing improvement necessary, passage of legislation should have been a celebratory moment for our entire country not just one political doctrine. As it turned out, passage furthered the divide.
Sometimes I think the further in age we get away from Kindergarten, the more difficult it is for us to share our marbles, and say we’re sorry for spilling Susie’s juice box. It probably doesn’t help when those teaching the class are the equivalent of mid-puberty sixth graders. Confused, awkward, and more conscious of whether they wear cool Nike’s than they are about their math homework that might teach them to, oh.. I don’t know, pay their taxes…

Let the Kids Play

2010-03-22T10:20:00.001-07:00

Is your bracket busted yet? If not, you must be in the slim minority of people who did not pick Kansas, the overall number one seed, to win it all. My desk at work proudly displays each and every one of my colleague’s brackets as I volunteered to manage our office’s contest. Each bracket is marked for winners and losers. The opening day of the tournament, last Thursday, is nationally known as the most unproductive day of the year.
It was sunny and warm. Take a deep breath. Do you smell that? Ah. It’s March.
The last four days have been absolutely perfect weather. Seventy degrees and sunny. I couldn’t help but want and need to be outside. So right after work on Friday, I went for a run down the National Mall. The beautiful sun gleaming down and the temperature just warm enough to warrant shorts and a T. but just cool enough to refresh your fatigue as the wind cools your sweat.
My runs are usually fairly introspective and reflective, but Friday was different. Something about Friday turned my run in the shadow of the Washington Monument into a jog down memory lane. I remember being fourteen and spending the entire first day of nice weather outside shooting hoops in my driveway. My mom had to come outside and yell at me three or four times before I actually came in. Then I remember being twelve and borrowing my neighbors roller blades to play street hockey for the first time of the spring. Then there was when I was nine when my friend down the street and I took turns driving our Red Rider wagon down his hill. I ended up almost needing stitches from running into a bush.
Throughout my childhood, I was told to go play outside, to go play with my friends and to get out of my mother’s kitchen. Once I was old enough, I was always outside playing organized sports in the spring and summer. I loved (and still love) being outside and being active.
On my run last Friday, I noticed a lot of people outside. People were running, playing Frisbee, and playing football just to name a few. Noticing people only made me notice things in even more detail, and do you know what I noticed? People looked fit and happy.
Our First Lady, Michelle Obama, has undertaken a campaign to end childhood obesity. Obviously, she (and countless others) believe that childhood obesity results in unhealthy, both physically and mentally, lifestyles. She has begun orchestrating a campaign aimed at “getting parents more informed about nutrition and exercise, improving the quality of food in schools, making healthy foods more affordable and accessible for families, and focusing more on physical education.”
Nobody wants to be the fat kid on the playground, but some people are simply predisposed to be. If a child’s parents are obese, the child is almost certainly to become obese, if not even more overweight than his or her parents. To call this an epidemic might be a little premature, but it’s certainly worth some attention, but to me seems easily fixable.
In an age of video games, thousands of television channels, and the internet kids aren’t being forced to be outside and active any more. So while I do not undermine the value of nutrition I wonder how, for two thousand years, kids even survived without the sodium content on the back of their after school snack. How did students ever become fit and active individuals after eating the mystery meat all through elementary school? How was that possible?
I’ll tell you how.
Kids weren’t allowed to play video games or channel surf their television, because TV’s and video games didn’t exist. Kid’s parents kicked them out of the house until dinner time so kids had to go outside to have anything to do. They played cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. They ran around, hoped fences, and skinned their knees. Sure there were chubby kids but there were no projections of half of Americans being obese. Also, you weren’t allowed to leave the dinner table until your green beans or broccoli were gone and you couldn’t get dessert until your carrots and asparagus had been eaten. I remember sitting at the dinner table for almost an hour after everyone else was finished until I finally caved, plugged my nose and took down my Brussels sprouts followed by a prolonged gulp of milk.
So you wanna fight childhood obesity? Let the kids play…outside.

A Role Model Named Eldrick

2010-03-12T13:15:00.000-08:00

Is it me, or have there been an incredible number of public figures caught in their infidelities lately. John Edwards cheated on his wife while she was undergoing treatment for cancer. Dick. Governor of South Carolina Mark Stanford got caught traipsing thru South America with his ‘soul-mate’. Idiot. David Letterman cheats with a production assistant. Not funny.
All, however have been completely eclipsed by the news that golf prodigy Tiger Woods cheated on his wife of six years. The news broke in incredibly shady fashion. I remember watching football on Thanksgiving day and being so pissed that the news kept interrupting to tell me that Tiger Woods was involved in a single car accident in his driveway. I laughed when I first heard this. The guy can drive a tiny ball four hundred yards but can’t drive his Caddy out of the driveway. (wah wah).
I won’t go through the whole story because we all know what happened, even though at the time we couldn’t help but guess at what happened. Drunk driving, temporary insanity, attempted murder with a golf club, whatever.
So as the days and weeks passed the truth of Tiger’s infidelities came to surface. As more and more women came forward, more and more sponsors began to drop him. Porn stars, models and nightclub owners all came forward some with outrageous stories of text messages, wild romps and even a pregnancy or two. On my last count, a total of fourteen women had come forward claiming to have seen what Tiger does with his Woods.
Fourteen women, my God. I have trouble with one.
At some point, he had to have known that he was gonna get caught putting from the rough (you like that golf reference) Cheating is one thing, but fourteen women just makes him a whore. A very wealthy and sponsored whore, but a whore nonetheless.
What I do have a problem with is the commentary that followed these indiscretions about how Tiger is a ‘role model’. Yes, he’s very good at golf. Yes, he’s on pace to win more majors than anyone. He is (or was) sponsored by some of the most recognizable logo’s in the world. Nike. Gatorade. American Express. Tag Heuer. AT&T.
But he never asked to be your kids’ role model. A fact that he made very clear at his recent feux-apology. He doesn’t want to be a role model and have people, especially young people, look up to him (probably because deep down- he knew he would let them down). And that fact is fine with me. Truth be told, I didn’t think he’d make a very good role model, even before his sex-capades came out. His constant and well documented temper and use of foul language violates the gentleman’s decorum of golf. His arrogance borders on rude during interviews with the media and his recent infidelities are only icing on the cake.
Some will undoubtedly argue that since Tiger leads such a high-profile life, he has no choice in the matter. He has an understood responsibility to the game of golf to be a role model. Role models don’t volunteer, they’re chosen by those who look up to them. Think about how many role models you’ve had that actively campaigned to be. Sure some people step up and welcome the opportunity to positively shape lives, but volunteering isn’t a requirement.
Tiger’s been deemed the best golfer of modern times. He’s completely changed the landscape of golf both by his own successes and sponsorships, but also for the PGA who have significantly reaped the benefits and seen significant sags in television ratings when Tiger isn’t in the field. Why wouldn’t young golfers dream of being successful? Isn’t that what ambition is? As a parent, why would you want to encourage your son or daughter to strive to be second best? You wouldn’t. You’d want your child to be the best, or even be better than the best.
If anything Mr. Woods’ loose morals has left himself with obvious room for improvement, which could give parents ammunition for a teaching moment. Be a better person than Tiger. You can be just as good as Tiger on the golf course, and even better than he is as a person. He’s left himself open to being de-throwned, if not necessarily on the green, in the court of public opinion.
He’s simultaneously given other golfers motivation to work hard to play better because he’s seen as the best and motivation to build a stronger character. Tiger’s shown an immoral side that is potentially ruining his life outside of golf and made an example of what-not to do.
So he’s set the bar high for performance in the fairway while also guided young athletes to avoid his mistakes and become better people in the clubhouse.
Hmm. Maybe he’s not such a bad ‘role model’ after all.

President of What?

2010-03-02T13:29:00.000-08:00

I tend to be fairly optimistic about the future. While sometimes I get bogged down with the ‘here and now’ I generally have faith that each generation will somehow improve on the generation before them. I think we, as Americans, have a responsibility and a duty to secure the rights and liberties our parents and grandparents enjoyed for those generations to come. I’ve never really struggled with the possibility of regression until an ordinary day in the summer of 2008. Since that day, I began to question the likelihood that America remains the beacon of democracy.
There was a time, when I had first moved to the Capital, when part of my responsibilities at work were to give tours of the Capitol Building to my Congressman’s constituents.
One such tour started off as many of them did. The families met at our office until all of the expected guests were in attendance and we proceeded into the Capitol. This particular day there were two families, both with younger children. One of the families comprised of three young girls. If I had to guess their ages were 10, 8, and 5 (sorry fellas, too young).
As sisters tend to do at that age, the girls were constantly prodding one another with the purpose of getting a reaction that will make their mother scold the other. I’m sure none of you did anything like that to your siblings…right!?
So throughout the tour one of the three girls would do something disruptive as a result of something her sister did to her. Their mother was minimally helpful at preventing these distractions and outbursts, but hey, my job is to give the tour, not to parent these kids (or parents as seemed appropriate in this case).
I was almost through the tour and walking into the last room which is lined with statues of various Americans. I walk into the room, post up at my usual spot and turn around to face the incoming group. As I’m waiting for the two families to make it to me, the oldest of the girls has a mischievous look on her face as if she is about to do something to her sister. Apparently she thinks her sister is coming up beside her so she takes a hard side step to her right thinking she would cut off her sister, thus inciting chaos. Instead, however she cut off the Speaker of the House of Representatives. Horrified by the potential fallout (the speaker’s rage has been rumored throughout the Capitol complex), I could only watch as the speaker ran into the back of the young girl as she was reading. The speaker initially looked furious but upon noticing a young girl before her (who legitimately didn’t know any better (as I’ll soon tell)) she simply composed herself and continued walking, this time without her nose in her notes.
Once my terror subsided, I took the opportunity to have a teaching moment.
“That woman you just cut off,” I began to explain, “is the Speaker of the House.”
“What house?” the youngest girl responded.
Okay, reasonable question from such a young girl.
I explained very generally how the legislature is set up in the Constitution. I explain the two houses and very briefly how laws are made. As I’m coming to the end of my explanation and am preparing to give the history of the room we were standing in, I make the final comment, “She is third in line to become president should anything happen to the president and vice-president.”
The question I heard next quite literally left me speechless and dumbfounded. I’ve heard stories of people’s ignorance before, but not anything that could have prepared me for the question that was to follow. Had this question come from one of the three girls, okay; they’re still in school. Maybe they haven’t gotten past the 50 states in their social studies class. I can excuse someone in school not understanding a basic American institution on its most basic level with the understanding that at some point our broken education system would give these girl at the very least a basic understanding of the government heirarchy. A tall order I suppose for some schools, but like I said, I like to have faith.
But I’m not talking about anything the young girls said. The question was posed by the girls’ mother. A mid-thirties somewhat well put-together woman who is supposed to be raising three girls to become productive members (maybe) of society.
Ha. Isn’t productive such a funny word. There are so many different ways for American’s to be productive members of society. There are people with all sorts of occupations, beliefs, and backgrounds and what they do with their lives is their liberty. Their freedoms are afforded to them by a two hundred plus year old document that really only asks that they pick someone to represent them and protect their rights in elections every couple years. This is, like, the most basic and rudimentary responsibility of citizens of democratic governments. This might be a radical idea, but is it too much to expect people know the basic makeup of their government. You know, like who’s the leader of the country?
It’s funny how such a simple question can totally unravel the very fabric of faith you have in your fellow countrymen. Her question, you ask? Take a deep breath.
After I made the comment that the Speaker of the House is third in the succession to become president should the unforeseen occur, the mother looks me square in the face and without missing a beat asks me, “President of what?”

500 Days of Summer

2010-02-23T10:22:00.000-08:00

At the insistence of my friend Kristen, I saw the highly anticipated Sundance film 500 Days of Summer over the Christmas break. Now you may be asking yourself, ‘Christmas break? Dude. That was soo two-thousand and late.’ You’re right. I am a little behind in writing about this, but it really took me some time to be able to put my thoughts into words.
Before I get into that mess, when I saw previews of this movie, I thought it would be a qwerky, Indie Rom-Com. What I got was completely unexpected.
The movie starts with this quote from the Narrator:
This is a story of boy meets girl. But you should know up front, this is not a love story.
Not a love story? Is it possible this might finally be the anti-romantic comedy I, and other men like me, have been waiting for? The anti-Jennifer Aniston dude- friendly chick flick? No such luck.
Tom, played by the handsome and effervescent Joseph Gordon Levit, works at a greeting card company. Yes, really. Someone’s got to write that sentimental kindling and Tom seems to be fairly good at his job coming up with cutesy haiku’s and sweet nothings. Tom is portrayed early and often as a romantic soul. He’s looking for the one. The problem is that he thinks Summer is the one.
Summer, played by the adorable-at first Zooey Deschanel, is somewhat of a cynic on love. She’s bubbly and emo and does absolutely nothing to dissuade Tom from falling hopelessly for her. Read that again. It’s important.
The majority of the movie is filmed with a slant to Tom’s perspective. The viewers (Kristen and I) get a heavy dose of what Tom sees and is thinking/feeling about Summer and very little about how Summer feels, until the end when the slant is revealed through a juxtaposed scene at a record store.
Because Tom wants love so badly and because that is inherent in his nature, he has blinders on to some of the subtleties. He sees the obvious signs (Summer spending time with him, sleeping with him, etc) as signs that she likes him but not the subtle ones (Summer refusing to acknowledge their ‘status’, not laughing at his jokes, etc.). Summer isn’t intentionally cruel to Tom, its more of an apathy and a selfishness. She knows very well how Tom feels about her as he repeatedly tells her he likes her and is in love with her. She also knows clearly that her feelings for him are not on the same level, and does nothing about it.
Herein lies the conflict of the movie, and the similarity to my life. Summer says to Tom, “You weren't wrong (about love), Tom. You were just wrong about me.” As Tom (shyguy) thinks in his head, ‘I was wrong about you but maybe you could have helped me out a little. You know, maybe told me you had no intention of falling in love with me. Or maybe dropped some hints that wouldn’t have shattered my heart and/or confidence instead of proposing we fuck in the shower. I’m just saying. Might have been nice to get a heads up!’
It’s fair to say that Summer told him she didn’t want anything serious. But that was after Tom got pissed at her for acting like a girlfriend without actually being one. Immediately after she went to his apartment to apologize to and bang him.
Mixed signals? I’ll say.
That was the most frustrating part of the movie. Summer never gave him reinforcement for liking her so much, but also never gave him any apparent reason to pull away. What’s that book? He's Just Not That Into You. Yeah, don’t think that women don’t play those exact same games to men. Summer would make a great protagonist in that book.
Everywhere I go, and everywhere I turn, I hear and read about women who are ‘sick and tired’ of men’s game playing. We don’t call back. We wait three to five days to follow up on a date. We don’t commit. We don’t share our feelings. Yea there are men who treat women as disposable or just revere the conversation expressing disinterest so they take the passive-aggressive road. But for everything ‘men’ don’t do, there are men who do. But the point seems lost that there are women who don’t do those things either.
I know a girl, who is so obviously into a guy who, publically anyway, doesn’t seem to show the same attraction or affection. Yet when he does something that displeases her, she lets it ruin her night. It’s no secret that the guy likes the girl, but doesn’t like the girl.
I myself, since moving to the District, have found myself in more than one situation where I was pursuing a woman who put off mixed signals. We would IM or Email daily, sometimes hourly, only to eventually be disappointed by not hearing back. Some of them even would say things to me like ‘I really love hanging out with you’, or would stay over, or would hold my hand or my arm when walking places. But they all ended the same. They all stopped and they all disappointed me.
So now, I feel myself being defensive about it, probably similar to how female victims of game playing feel. I don’t want to continue this cycle. I’ve seen myself investing less and less of myself and my personality into these women for fear that inevitably I’ll be disappointed, but that's not going to lead to the sort of relationship I'm looking for, and I don't think I'm the only one that feels this way. It’s certainly a defense mechanism, and it’s not who I am. I’ve always been hesitant and nervous about and around women, especially ones I like, but never thought of myself as closed off as I’m beginning to feel. I always prided myself on being the guy who would say it like I felt it.
A few days ago, though, I made a mistake. For the first time in my dating life I was reminded that I, myself, forgot (honestly-though the reason doesn’t matter) to follow up with a woman. And I felt awful about it. Yes, I did the same thing that I got frustrated about happening to me. Maybe I'm a hypocrite. Or maybe I just fell too easily into the passive aggressiveness. But either way, I recognize now that the road to hell is littered with good intentions, just as the road to love is littered with disappointments.
In this little game called love, women will kiss a lot of frogs before she finds her prince and every knight will slay a few dragons before rescuing his maiden.
I just hope the frogs and the dragons don't dissuade the princess and the knight from taking a chance.
Even Tom had to get through Summer to get to Autumn.

Quit Hatin'

2010-02-12T13:17:00.000-08:00

Sunday February 7th was very similar to many football Sundays with one major exception. There were only two teams left and one of those two was my beloved Indianapolis Colts. It is far from secret that they are my favorite team. I donned my Peyton Manning jersey to work the Friday before and (don’t tell my boss) was terribly unproductive due to the plethora of analysis covering the game.
The Colts were the slim favorite just as they had been 3 years earlier when facing the Chicago Bears. It seemed (and actually was if you look at ESPN polling) that outside of Indiana everyone wanted New Orleans to win. A conundrum Indy had never faced before. Indy had never been the ‘bad guys’ before. They’ve never been the most popular, but being led by a no-nonsense workaholic quarterback, playing with their actions and not their mouths, and leaving all drama outside of the locker room, up until this Sunday meant compassion and affection from fans across the country.
Yet with New Orleans, this was a different story. Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans. In the weeks following the devastation in 2005 resulted in an outpouring of support from across the country, not unlike that of the Haiti earthquakes of recent weeks. The daily news portrayed the destruction and chronicled for all to see just how poor this city and its inhabitants really are. From “George Bush hates black people” to the dismissal of FEMA director Michael Brown, the countries collective heart bled for New Orleans. And it still bled on Super Bowl Sunday. Their story is so uplifting, so full of promise, hope, and determination that it was as if Peyton was not only facing eleven defenders on the field, but also the cosmos. While I won’t get into the details of the game, the Colts lost and Drew Brees, the All-American quarterback was deservingly awarded the MVP award. I was sad that my Colts lost the big game, true, but what I was not ready for the trash talking that found its way to my phone.
Perhaps because of my obvious love for the Colts, or simply to get a rise out of me, I was the recipient of multiple text messages shortly after the Saint’s win. All of which were showing (in some cases rather rudely) excitement for the result of the game. Fine. I’ll take my shots to the chin as a Colts fan. If the Colts had won, I would have undoubtedly sent text messages to friends who support the Colts in celebration (as I had after numerous games this season).
But wait a second. When did cheering for the Saints transform to hating on the Colts? I must have missed that memo, but that’s exactly the sort of messages I received.
For example, I received text messages from two female within seconds of each other. Neither are from New Orleans and neither have any obvious reason to be cheering for the Saints. Oh, excuse me I misspoke. Neither of them were cheering for the Saints. They both were cheering against the Colts, or against me, however they choose to distinguish it.
Just last year, there was news about the verbal abuse visiting basketball players endure during pregame warm-ups from student sections. Digging up dirt and coming up with the most degrading sign or phrase to shout has become an art form.
Hmm. Sounds a lot like politics.
I digress. Doesn’t the world have enough hateful messaging without translating a feel good story into a reason to hate all over a perfectly good football game? Or perfectly good sports event?
I mean, come on ya’ll. I’m all for cheering for sports, but while the occasional witty snark can be funny if well placed and avoids maliciousness, do we really want to be known as the society that cheers for people to fail? If you’ve gotta hate on somebody, pick the commentators. They all blow and it’s almost too easy to hate on them.

Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m too idealistic. Or maybe I just don’t like the taste of hater-ade. Either way, I think sports would be much better enjoyed with a cold beer, good guacamole, and a heavy dose of ‘shut the fuck up until the commercials’.

But really, I work in politics. I’m around people whose job it is to hate on each other, usually without remorse. And one thing I can tell you, this world does not need any more politicians… er… haters.

The boyfriend

2010-02-01T13:33:00.000-08:00

I have waited for some time to write about this particular topic.
While I was at home for Christmas, actually the first day I was home, my sisters and I were planning to visit my mother for lunch. My oldest sister woke me up to go and within ten minutes was in the car rolling. Almost immediately, my youngest sister announced that we needed to go pick up her boyfriend, Frank, and take him to his dad’s work because he didn’t have a car.
Initially, this aggravated me. I don’t like this Frank character and don’t think he treats my sister with any sort of respect. My sister knows I don’t like this clown, but because she likes him, I always kept my commentary to a minimum.
When we pulled up in front of his parents’ house, Frank came out and got in the car. My sister and he were talking about why he needed to go to his Dad’s work. He needed to get his dad’s car so he could go get a haircut.
Yes, my sister agreed to take him to his Dad’s work, which in the process made us late for lunch with our mother, so ole Franky can get his racing strips touched up.
While in the car, Frank got a call. Actually a number of calls, from his mother, his neighbor and his niece and nephew.
Here’s the little bit of back story you need to know. Frank is 19. Frank’s niece and nephew are between 3-6. Both of Frank’s parents work.
So as it turns out, as I discovered by listening to the conversations he was having, rather loudly, in the back seat of my sister’s car, Frank had left his niece and nephew unattended at his house. Yes, in his infinite wisdom(err… what), he thought that going to get a haircut was more important than the safety of his niece and nephew.
Oh, it gets better.
The reason that Frank was blowing up was that his niece and nephew had locked themselves out of Frank’s parent’s house. They didn’t have coats or shoes, and obviously no supervision.
As shocked as I was by this, I was even more appalled at his reaction to his mother on the phone. She was obviously upset and I assume asked him to go back to which he responded, “No, I told them not to go outside. They should learn their lesson.”
Really dude? Two very young children should learn their lesson? I think you, sir, need a lesson. So here’s a news flash for Franky boy:
Young children cannot take care of themselves and should not be left unattended for long periods of time. I guess some things really aren’t obvious anymore. What I think is equally atrocious is that he tried to blame them for his leaving. ‘They shouldn’t have left the house like I said’ was his response. I’m sorry Frank, are they your children? No? Didn’t think so.
I don’t really think I need to write much more about Frank for anyone to read this and realize he’s a fuck-tard. The evidence is clear. He’s dumb and irresponsible, but what I think is most troubling is that he’s selfish. If he treats his own family with such disregard, how is he treating my sister when we’re not around?
Obviously as an older brother, I want to be protective of her, but also let her live her life and make her own mistakes. So I’ve stayed out of the way, talking about him only on select occasions with her. I’ve never wanted to seem judgmental, but made it clear that I don’t think he’s good to her (or a good person in general as I think I've shown).
With girl friends, I usually have no problem telling them succinctly that the guy’s no good. But with my sister it’s different. She means the world to me and it bothers me when she’s not happy and when someone isn’t making her happy, because she deserves so much better than him, if she’d only realize it.
I just hope she realizes it sooner than later. I really don’t want to have to go to jail for kickin this kid’s ass for breaking my sister’s heart.
Next time I'm home maybe I'll conveniently spend some time cleaning my gun when he comes over...

The bucket list

2010-01-29T09:48:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been thinking a lot at the beginning of this year. This is not unusual for me, but I have been thinking considerably more this year than in years past. Call it a quarter-life-crisis. Or some other bullshit title to try to categorize it.
The fact is that I’ve been struggling on a number of fronts at the end of the year with perspective. What am I doing? Where am I going? What am I good at? What am I looking for?
These questions are among the more frequent thoughts that flow through my mind in recent weeks. So when the new year came around I thought it the appropriate time to put pen to pad about all the things I want to do during my life. It also didn’t hurt that I saw a commercial for ‘The buried Life’ (MTV’s new bucket list type show) at every commercial break of The Jersey Shore the other night.
So without further adieu this is my in-no-particular-order bucket list.
1. See the Pyramids. By see I mean visit.
2. Find the love of my life and hope she’s not married—that could be awkward
3. Sail the Greek Aisles
4. Buy a car with a briefcase full of cash
5. Drive 200mph
6. Jump out of an airplane (preferably with a parachute)
7. Visit Times Square on New Years Eve
8. Write a book
9. Get said book published
10. Climb a mountain
11. Get arrested
12. Earn a Ph.D.
13. Visit all 50 states
14. Visit every NFL stadium (I haven’t even been to my beloved Colt’s Lucas Oil Field yet)
15. Swim in every ocean (Arctic might be a little chilly)
16. Drop everything to go somewhere (as in another country) spontaneously
17. Raise a family
18. Hit a home run
19. Finish a triathlon
20. Adopt a child
21. Add at least one new stamp to my passport every year
22. Teach a college course (preferably not anything science related)
23. Teach a high school course (again not science)
24. Gut and rebuild a house
25. Save someone’s life
26. Teach someone to swim
27. Jump off a cliff (into water)
28. Own a Ferrari
29. Get married once (emphasis on once)
30. Sell a painting
31. Run a half marathon without stopping
32. Run for an office
33. Burn the ‘ex-box’
34. Buy my Dad a boat
35. Sing karaoke (nope, I still haven’t)
36. Learn to surf
37. Witness a disaster
38. Learn to snowboard
39. Cook everything in my Betty Crocker cookbook
40. Win a fight
41. Quit a job
42. Sail in the Caribbean unassisted.
43. Go to a Bruce Springsteen concert
44. Visit the 5 biggest cities in the world
45. Learn another language
46. Go on a big game safari
47. See the Trans-Siberian Orchestra Christmas concert
48. Attend the Kennedy Center Honors
49. Attend the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain
50. Attend a pope’s election in St. Peter’s Square (I’m not catholic)

So that’s a good start. Some of those things I’ve already done, but I’m not telling which ones. In the past, I’ve had a little difficulty with follow-through. Hopefully now that this list is written down, not just floating arbitrarily in my head, I’ll be able to hold myself more accountable.
I don't expect you to want these same things. In fact, I hope you don't want these things. I don't really care if you read this for anything more than a list, so long as you come away with one simple thought. That we only get one shot.
And you miss every shot you don't take.

What’s on your list? I’d love to plagiarize your good ideas…

Faking Your Funeral

2010-01-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

A new year is full of empty promises of betterment we like to call ‘New Year’s Resolutions’. Rarely are these resolutions kept. We promise to work out more or eat healthier; to stop smoking or drinking. Yet inevitably as soon as things get tough or life gets in the way, most people either give up or rationalize their way out of their resolution, ‘When you kids leave the house…’ as my mother used to say.

Even the most noble of resolutions face some obstacles. If it weren’t difficult, you probably would have done it a long time ago, don’t you think? So what’s the point? At the heart of the matter, why are resolutions important? Certainly it’s not being able to fit into a six instead of an eight or being able to spend an extra hundred dollars a month on your son instead of on your Marlboro’s. I don’t mean to under-emphasize these goals, it is definitely important to maintain a healthy self image and a healthy lifestyle. My point is that the reason most people make resolutions is for the intended result without fully understanding the unintended results.

Setting a goal and seeing it through takes discipline; it takes motivation. Most importantly though, I think it takes accountability; not only internally but also externally by a person’s support system. The power of shame is a powerful motivating factor, and not always in a bad way. Shame has become one of those bad words in our society of ‘it’s not your place to judge’. Shame comes from one’s internal disappointment and is often realized through accountability. If someone does something wrong and isn’t held accountable, what is to say they won’t do it again, or that they understand why what they’ve done is wrong. I’ll give you an example:

My friend Kristen and I were driving back to the District after the Christmas holiday. It was a long drive. I don’t recommend it. Kristen hands me her Blackberry and asks me to read an email from our mutual friend Blair:

Hope y'all are having a great week! I wanted to let you all know that I have accepted a position down here in our district office starting in January. I will be back up for a short time to pack up to move, so we should all have a drink when I get back. Talk soon.

My first thought reading this email was, ‘That sucks. He was always a lot of fun.’ My second thought was, ‘What a dick. Who sends an email to tell his or her friends that he’s leaving?’ Then I thought suspiciously, ‘How long had this been brewing?’ I, nor anyone in our circle, knew Blair was looking for a new job or planning to leave D.C. All I knew was that someday Blair would need to move back to Texas, because Texas is the only place where a guy like Blair has any chance of achieving his personal goal of being elected to govern.

Blair is a good looking Texan. He exemplifies the mindset that there is nothing, yes nothing, bigger or better than Texas—to a Texan. He drinks a lot and says often grossly inappropriate things, but not in a judgmental or hurtful way (okay maybe sometimes). In short Blair’s life is a continuous game of what-will-he-do-next hilarity.

Once, during a card game we were playing with a group of friends, the game dictated that Blair make a rule for all the other participants to follow for the remainder of the game. His rule you ask? ‘Everyone has to compliment me before their turn.’ He basks in his own self importance.

So when it came out that Blair’s email was a stunt to get himself attention, people were hurt. “He wanted to see who would care,” I was told by a mutual friend, obviously closer to the situation. He wasn’t moving. Blair told a small group of friends, presumably because they would tell others, that he was abruptly planning to move (as in leave the city potentially never to return), just to see who would care. He wanted to toy with people’s emotions. He wanted people to be upset for him. He wanted the attention.

It was as if he was faking his funeral just to see who would come. It was an act of emotional masturbation, and it was of poor taste and selfishly wrong.

He should have been held accountable. Scratch that, he should have known better, but since he obviously did not, someone should have told him why what he did was wrong and held him accountable for hurting people’s feelings and betraying their trust.

Sadly, that isn’t what happened. The same people involved threw him a birthday party and only jokingly scathed him. I attended the party, and in retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have. I’ve left myself open to objection as a hypocrite because I went to and essentially supported his birthday without the accountability, I believe his act deserved.

But the point of this post is not to shame him into feeling badly about his actions, nor is it intended to scathe those close to him who did nothing to reprimand him for his actions. The point is to highlight that we all can do better.

We can all work harder at holding ourselves and those close to us to a degree of integrity we’d hope to live our lives with. I’ve certainly seen times where I should have been reprimanded for my actions (actually writing this post was one such instance), but there will be missteps and there will be relapses. It is the response to those adverse situations that change a person and make them grow.

So this year, I’ve decided to have two New Years Resolutions. The first, while not particularly relevant here, is to write out my own ‘bucket list’ (look for it as my next post). The second is to be a better person; simple and attainable. Yet in order to accomplish it fully, I will need to have discipline and principle as my guide and my friends and family to hold me ‘between the lines’.

Happy New Year.

Some (Lacy) Holiday Cheer

2009-12-25T21:19:00.000-08:00

Well it’s Christmas. Another year has past and once again I found myself in the annual quandary of not knowing quite what to give to my parents and sisters. I tend to procrastinate things like this, mostly because of my own indecision. I tend to worry about these things because I try very diligently not to be one of those people that gives very impersonal, thoughtless gifts. But for some reason, this year my creative gift giving juices were frozen.
As is usually the case, I got bailed out. After fretting about my gift selecting, I was given excellent advice. I was told that the secret to giving good gifts is not to give someone something you think they want, but something you think they should have.
So thinking of my parents first, I decided I wanted them to go on a date. It had been a long time since I’ve seen or heard of them acting like a real couple, and thought since both of my sisters and I are no longer living at home, they ought to get back to it. So I bought them theatre tickets and got them a gift certificate to their most frequented restaurant. That was easy.
My sisters were a little more difficult. How do you shop for two college girls? I knew I wanted to give each of my sisters a painting I had painted (painting is more of a hobby of mine than a talent), but I thought I should supplement the painting. I thought back to when I was in college in hopes I could uncover something timeless that was universally sought after by college women. That timeless piece, as I found out from a friend, is sweatpants. Not just any sweatpants; Victoria’s Secret pajama sweatpants.
So after some deep breaths and relaxation techniques, I ventured into the uncharted territory that is known as Victoria’s Secret. The extent of my experience with Victoria’s Secret was learned either through ex-girlfriends or from the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show (aired December second this year and can be viewed in its entirety here)(Not that I was excited for it or anything)
Mostly the later.
Thankfully all the pajama and sweatpants were right up front so as to allow me to avoid walking through some of the more risque sections of the store and thus exponentially increase my discomfort.
I picked out what I wanted for my sisters. The same sweatpants in two different colors; the softest ones I could find. I took them to check out.  The lines were expectedly long. It was two days to Christmas after all. So I stood in line and waited my turn, trying not to let my eyes wander, I was in a lingerie store. Did I mention that? My effort was all for not.
The woman who stood behind me in line was not one of the women men hope to see in lingerie stores, if you catch my drift. She was bubbly but overweight. She must have thought I was approachable because she tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I would mind giving my opinion of what she had picked out.
“I’m really nervous. This is the first time I’ve ever bought lingerie for my boyfriend.” She said in a very sweet but cautious tone.  Initially I was a little put off that she was asking me, possibly the most visibly nervous and out-of-place person in the store. But once that initial reaction subsided, I was happy to help. After all, I hope, if ever I have a girlfriend who’s unsure about buying lingerie, that a guy would tastefully (NOT in the dressing room) steer her in a direction I would enjoy.
I obliged and she held up what she’d picked out.  A black sheer nighty, that looked a bit small for her full figured body, and a pair of bright yellow lace panties. A bold combination, no doubt. Not one I would pick out, but certainly more conservative than some of the things on the models on the catwalk...
Not wanting to offend her I chose to focus on the panties. “Yellow is a bold choice. It will show through the black,” I said.
Without so much as a batted eyelash, the woman replied, “Oh good. Honey that is just what I’m going for.”
Excellent. That was easy.
But not so fast. This woman decides to continue talking in a very sweet, very twangy southern accent.
“Thanks for your help. This is the first time I’ve ever bought lingerie for a guy I’ve been seeing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like to play dress-up with the rest of em...”
Umm...
“But I’m just new to this. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m a little curvy...”
Like a mountain road.
“And so I don’t usually feel comfortable doing things like this, but my boyfriend said this is what he wants for Christmas. He says to me, ‘baby, why don’t you head down to that secret place in the mall and pick out somethin’ real nice to show me on Christmas mornin’.”
Is this woman really telling me this?
“So I thought I’d come out and see if I can spread some Christmas cheer, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t hurt to browse for my man right?”
Mostly right.
“I knew I wanted something classy and sophisticated, cause I’m a lady.
Well thank goodness for that.
“So I figured since I was getting a top, I’d probably be wrong not to get some bottoms!”
Spoken like a true female shopper.
“But I couldn’t just get the matching black thong. The model in the picture wears that and since I’m not a model I just as soon not be compared to her by wearing the same thing.”
Excellent point ma’am. It would be tragic for that image to forever be branded in my mind.
“I thought yellow was good cause they yell at you. Like ‘hey, take me off’ which is the whole idea, right?”
Oh.my.god. I didn’t know what to say.
Why was I in the slowest checkout line in the history of the world?
After a pause for me to collect my jaw from the floor, I simply said to her. “Yellow does scream 'take me off'. Good luck with that.”
As I stood there for a few more moments before being rung up, I thought to myself, is this what ‘holiday cheer’ really is? Women so excited to be buying lingerie for their man that they’ll strike up conversation with complete strangers?
If so, God I hope to be on the receiving end of some Christmas cheer next year.

Get Out the Way

2009-12-16T13:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was driving back to my home after a lovely Hanukkah party at a good friend from college’s home (I was supporting, not converting). It was about a quarter after ten in the evening and my two-door Civic, I call Stella, and I were cruising. The streets seemed more crowded than normal for a Monday late-evening. As I pull up to a light behind a flashy black Mercedes, I could see the lights of an emergency vehicle approaching. An ambulance, as it turned out, was driving towards me with all the bells and whistles.
As I was taught in my adolescent years of driving, I pulled my car further over towards the curb to allow more room for the ambulance to pass. It seemed, nay-it was- the right thing to do. Yet to my surprise, I only saw a few (3) other cars make similar maneuvers. Everyone else, including the expensive Mercedes before me, kept their line.
It got to the point that the ambulance had to stop.
STOP.
I think the ambulance may have actually turned UP the volume of its sirens (if that’s even possible) and honked its horn repeatedly before anyone took notice. What if the person in the back of the ambulance was in critical condition and needed attention beyond that of an EMT in order to stay alive? Wouldn’t you want to get out of the way then? What if the person in that ambulance was someone close to you? Or someone famous? Or your boss?
Okay, maybe your boss doesn’t exactly inspire sympathy, but you get what I’m saying.
If it were someone you knew, you would definitely want to get out of the way and give that person a chance at getting the medical attention he or she needs. God forbid anything had happened, you would be enraged and call it a tragedy if you found out that someone had obstructed the ambulance’s route to the hospital. I like to think everyone would frown and object should that story ever end up on the six o’clock news.
In the scenario of someone dying on their way to the hospital due to a prolonged ambulance ride, our lawsuit-happy society would have immediately looked for someone to blame. The EMT whose fingers were plugging the gunshot wound could have taken more care, or done more to stop the bleeding. The driver could have taken a different route, perhaps through an area with typically less traffic. The ambulance mechanic could have made the sirens and horns louder or better prepared the vehicle for stop-and-go traffic. The hospital could have sent a helicopter instead of an ambulance. Blame could have been spread all over the place. But who’s really to blame?
Certainly the assassin who pulled the trigger bears the responsibility, but is the black Mercedes completely innocent of that person’s fatality? It might be hard to prove responsibility in a court of law, but I doubt anyone would struggle making that case that the black Mercedes should have gotten out of the way on moral and humanistic principles.
So why didn’t the black Mercedes get out of the way? What about all the other cars who didn’t make any effort to make room for the Ambulance to pass? If everyone knows it is the wrong thing to do, it doesn’t make sense for most people to remain obstructionists, as I observed.
But hold on a second.
We know what’s going on here. Have you ever gotten annoyed for having to stop longer at a stoplight because a funeral procession is passing by? Or how about gotten stuck behind a tractor on a country road? Or stopped at the railroad tracks? I know I have.
It’s all the same thing.
We get annoyed when things don’t go the way we want them to, as fast as we want, or on our schedule. Are we really so important that we can’t show compassion for a family who is buried a loved one, patience for those who grow our food and ship our goods? I certainly hope not, but we damn sure act that way sometimes. There is something to be said for feeling compassion and acting on a mutual respect for others. But I hope, sincerely hope, that most people realize for themselves those times they are acting utterly selfish and self important.
If not, then maybe their ambulance should get stuck behind a black Mercedes.

I'm an Asshole

2009-12-08T11:35:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I posted an entry entitled ‘Just a Little Bit Crazy’. In this entry I wrote of my friend Diane whose behavior I used to enlighten my thesis that all women carry a morsel (or a truck load) of senselessness, I consider to be crazy.
Well here is the flip side. There always is one.
Let me first admit that I’ve been working through this post in my head for some time, but with the recent ‘transgressions’ of Tiger Woods, I felt it the appropriate time to put pen to paper, er finger to key. I stand by my previously expressed belief that all women exhibit behavior that, for lack of a better way to classify, is a little crazy. However, what I purposely neglected in my analysis of women is the reason for their insanity. While I will not concede that men are the sole reason for woman’s neurosis, I will accept that men do carry some responsibility, and here’s why:
Men are assholes.
Not all men are jerks. Not all men are mean. Not all men are insensitive. But there are glimmers of each in all men. I don’t think I’ve said anything earth-shattering here.
When you ask a girl for her number and don’t call, asshole move.
When you gawk and judge a woman for her appearance, asshole move.
When you lie to women about your job/car/salary, asshole move.
When you disregard their feelings entirely and take them for granted, asshole move.
I wouldn’t even begin to say I could catalog how many ways men are assholes but, really, do I have to?
The explanation is as simple as differences between men and women. The difference are plenty, but inherent in their differences are the way they think. Women are, cut me some slack here ladies, more emotional. Men are more rational. So because men think more with their reason we end up making decisions that make us look like cold hearted- emotionless dicks.
Let’s face it guys, when it comes to relationships we are anything but innocent. We play games which cause women to over-think, over-react, and over-analyze, and we often make decisions based on what’s ‘best’ for our short appendage.
I’m not apologizing for it; in fact I think it is something that makes us attractive to women. Some of the same qualities that make men assholes, arrogance, stubbornness, competitiveness, also are, in the right dosage, consistently attractive attributes to women. Just like men like a little crazy, women like a little brash, unkempt, masculinity. Women want their man to be both passionate and a little reckless because it is exciting and it is sexy. Just open Cosmopolitan or GQ magazines. Advertisements litter the pages of these publications displaying rugged men with the right mix of handsome features and glimmer of reckless abandon.
But let’s take a step back for a second. The main objectors to my thesis are most likely men; primarily men who consider themselves ‘nice guys’. However, their defenses tend to sound more like justifications. ‘Men act like assholes because women…’ or ‘Well, if we weren’t assholes sometimes then….’ The simple fact they try to rationalize their behavior is a passive admission of guilt. Rather than asking for permission, men tend to ask for forgiveness for their thoughtless or selfish behavior.
So, while I stick to my previous comments about women all being a little bit crazy, I add that men are all also a little bit of an asshole. Neither is particularly harmful in small doses and both can be points of attraction by the opposite sex. However, matched with the wrong people, crazy can become psycho and asshole can become total dick. It’s all a precise equilibrium. But deep down, men and women both enjoy the balance (and chaos) that derives from these differences. Without fights, there would be no making up. And who doesn’t like making up?

Tough Love

2009-12-01T10:17:00.000-08:00

It’s come time for me to confess something to my readers (if there are any). A secret. A shameful secret that I’ve been carrying around for many months now. A burden to bear as I float through life hiding my dishonorable obsession. A secret so embarrassing, I expect any readers I do have to immediately un-bookmark this blog. Are you ready? *Deep breath* Okay.
I am entrapped by Vh1’s reality dating show Tough Love.
There I said it.
I feel so liberated!
The premise of this show, now in its second season, is to take nine women of diverse ages and backgrounds and transform them into hot temptress’, irresistible to men. The catch: all of them are totally jacked when it comes to their dating lives. There’s the party girl, the stripper, the gold digger, the southern belle, the self-conscious, the rocker, the over-achiever, the chameleon, and the repeat offender who is back after being cast on season one.
When I say these girls are jacked up, I mean most of these girls have absolutely 1) no idea what they want 2) deranged ideas of how to get what they want 3) misguided reality about what men want and how to get it from them 4) all or some combination of points 1, 2, and 3.
To give you an example. The rocker chick has obnoxiously huge fake boobs and a superficial persona to match. On the very first episode the host, professional matchmaker Steve Ward, puts the women in a situation to test the first impressions they give men. This woman is falling out of her, already barely there, top and was surprised when the men she talked with only commented about her cup size. Really lady?
So while this new season is only 2 episodes in (I watched the entire 1st season start to finish), it is already trite with drama of male illiterate women, infighting when women with strong personalities live together, and an already healthy dose of ‘tough love’ from Steve.
There is a short, yet probably inappropriate story of how I got into these reality TV shows that involves early morning romps, of which I was not involved, but my life has been ever changed. I have had to hide my love of such entertainment from my two roommates, Big Guy Roommate and Little Guy Roommate. Should they ever catch me watching said show, my masculinity and sexuality would be brutally investigated. So, until today, I kept my passion a secret.
But secret no more.
I recently found myself engaged in conversation with a fair dame we’ll call Emma. Emma is new to the city and is attending classes of further education (i.e. she’s going to grad school). Emma is above average looking and as energetic as a beagle puppy. Emma’s problem is that she’s socially inept. Inept may actually be too gracious.
I first met Emma through a mutual friend. Our mutual friend was then dating a guy that she seemed pretty smitten with. As things in their courtship began to hit the rocks and spiral downward, Emma began flirting with our friends soon-to-be ex boyfriend. Minus five points.
At the time, Emma had expressed to me an interest in another boy, who’s name I honestly can’t remember but holds little necessity. Hitting on boys who are not the boy you’re dating: Minus five more points.
As a few weeks go by, my roommates and I move into Emma’s neighborhood. Quite literally six blocks away, and invite her to our housewarming party. To which she says she’ll attend then no-shows. Minus two points.
All the while it turns out Emma is actually dating our mutual friends ex tarnishing their relationship in the process. Minus ten points and a friend.
I was recently talking to Emma and she expressed some frustrations to me. Being new to the city is certainly a difficult spot, especially when you don’t know anyone. I can sympathize with that. But Emma was having trouble making girl-friends.
DUH! What girl wants to be friends with the girl that dates her friends’ exes immediately after they do? Aside from the idea that girls stick together (chicks before dicks and all that other crap), there is an unwritten rule about dating someone’s ex. It exists among men too (and was featured in Bud Lite’s ‘man-laws’ commercial campaign. Yes I like beer.) Should our mutual friend be upset that Emma started dating this boy almost immediately after she ended things with him? Maybe not, but shouldn’t Emma, as a ‘friend’, have kept her distance at least until they have the ceremonial give-back-the-other’s-stuff? I think so.
But it gets better.
As I was talking to her, she confessed to me that he was too much for her. He was talking about serious relationship stuff that she isn’t ready for. So in an attempt to get him to back off, she told him that she has a history with drug use, which is completely false. When this didn’t work at repelling this guy, she decided she would just take a gift from him in the form of tickets to a football game of her (and my) favorite team and try to deal with it later.
So basically we’ve got Emma dating a friends ex immediately after the breakup--causing the friend to distrust Emma-- while Emma isn’t that interested in the guy she just spoiled a friendship for-- lied to him about drugs to get him to leave her alone --and acted like a gold digger to get expensive football tickets from him, the guy she’s not interested in and the former boyfriend of a girl-friend.
Does this broad sound like she should be on Tough Love? To me she does. I’m filling out her application now.

My Skeleton

2009-11-17T09:43:00.000-08:00

Nostalgia is something everyone experiences. I’m certainly no different.
I had a rather nostalgic weekend, mostly foreseen, but one particularly unintended and unwarranted case.
This past weekend my small liberal arts university’s football team was on TV. It only happens once a year for our biggest rivalry. To anyone who doesn’t know either of these schools the game is meaningless, but to those who actually lived the once-a-year big-time-football atmosphere this game was THE weekend in the fall. I played football for two years before being injured and being forced to give up a sport I love. Wow.is.me.
I joined a fraternity where I met and lived with some really great guys, two of whom came to the city for the weekend to enjoy the festivities. It was great catching up with them and hanging out since it had been some time since I’d seen these guys.
Football game and fraternity buddies. Is the idea of nostalgia starting to become clear? No? Well how about a conversation with a gentleman at the viewing party of the game who graduated the year man first walked on the moon. I sat there and listened to his description of his experience and realized how much has changed, yet how much is still the same. The same building is still at the center of campus, the same tradition of running to the boulder, the same football game. I was getting nostalgic just listening to his reminiscence. Going into the weekend it was primed to be a fun and happy weekend, which it was sans one seemingly minor event.
As the old saying goes, ‘everyone has at least one skeleton in their closet’. Presumably, whomever said this wasn’t referring to a literal skeleton, although that would be one way to end a relationship.
*Kids, don’t try this at home*
We all have certain people from our past who we would rather not talk about. I don’t limit these relationships to romantic but mine certainly was. Certainly we learn from every accomplishment and learn more from every mistake, but once we’re past them we put them in the closet of our mind to let their memory slowly fade away. My skeleton’s name is Michelle.
Michelle and I dated for two years at the same liberal arts university I was excited to watch on TV.
Justly explaining the complexity of our relationship is impossible in a short blog post (at least not this blog post), but I’ll give you the nutshell.
1.) We dated in college.
2.) I was selfish and scared. She was manipulative and had a temper. We were the Bundy’s of dysfunctional cookie-cutter relationships, but one thing our relationship never lacked was passion.
3.) It ended poorly.
I’ll leave out the sappy details about how she was the first woman I actually loved. Like-punch-you-in-the-gut-painful love. She knew I loved her but like many men; I had a hard time showing it (I feel like this might be built into our DNA meaning there’s really little we can do to stop it, sorry ladies). So what I will tell you, is that when it did end, for.good, I had a really tough time. She was less than helpful or compassionate about this, and looking back, it took me a long time to think about her and not have the –I love you, I hate you, I miss you- emotions.
But I got there.
And about the time I realized I had put her in my closet for good, I get this:
(765): Sort of wish you were here.
What.the.fuck.
What is she doing? What would ever prompt her to think that, after nearly two years and all the terrible things she said and did, it would be well received? Screw well received. Why would that be even okay to do within loosest of standards?
No pun or judgment intended.
Ending relationships, especially long term, is never easy and carries the gamut of emotions. Nobody wants to be the half of a former couple that sees the other in a happy relationship when they are alone and discontent. This adds a natural competitiveness that comes with break-ups and the first one back into a relationship isn’t always the happiest one.
But really. What’s the point? The last time I spoke with her she was waiting tables and dating one of her busboys (questionable immigration status included). If she’s happy, I’ll be happy never hearing about it. If she’s unhappy, I’ll be happy never hearing about it.
Not to take anything away from her or from our relationship. Despite our problems she is a wonderful loving person. I recognize that there must have been something I liked about her to warrant fighting for her like I did so, I certainly wouldn’t change our relationship or how it ended. It allowed me to see and make the changes I needed in my life. There was a time in the not-so-distant past that I decided I wasn’t going to let her, action or inaction, dictate my emotions like she had in the past. I put my foot down and I lived my life.
So after years hiding this skeleton in my closet, when it finally came down to it and I heard from her, I wasn’t nostalgic. Our relationship was so two-thousand-and-late.

Humility Is a Funny Thing

2009-11-10T11:16:00.000-08:00

Religion is something I’ve struggled with nearly all my life. About a year ago I decided my life would benefit from going back to church regularly. I visited a number of churches until I finally landed on one that fit what I needed: friendly, young, convenient. So when I was invited by a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, Samantha, to visit a new church I jumped at the opportunity. Samantha and some colleagues planned to go out to dinner to celebrate one of their friend’s baptism that night at the service. I was very kindly invited to attend, and although hesitant due to my unfamiliarity, felt welcomed by Samantha.
I remember sitting at the table thinking these strangers I was with were very nice and though not all together warm and welcoming, not exactly exclusionary or awkward either. Whatever, I was meeting new people.
As we ate our appetizers and conversation flowed, I learned some really fascinating, though not surprising, facts about Samantha’s past.
Before I continue it needs to be said that Samantha is quite possibly one of the most interesting and gracious people I’ve ever met in my life. On top of being knock-you-on-your-ass beautiful, she is also headstrong and successful. Knowing these things about her explain why I wasn’t surprised by the story.
It came out more as an aside than an actual story, but it turns out my friend Samantha was actually a guest on Oprah.
Yes, that Oprah.
Since Oprah has been on television for- what- twenty years now and has had countless episodes dedicated to the humility and sincerity of others, I feel comfortable telling this story.
As she told us, Samantha used to be (is) a documentary wonk. She was watching a documentary at one point in her adolescence about the prevalence of AIDS in America that showcased a little girl who had contracted AIDS at birth from her drug addicted mother. The girl had been evaded and ostracized by her classmates. She struggled to fight the public ignorance about the contagiousness of the, at the time, esoteric disease. The story Samantha described was of a birthday party to which only a small few of the invited guests came. This was a little girl just looking for friends so she didn’t have to feel as lonely in public as she felt with her disease.
So Samantha looked her up. And Samantha called her up. If just to say, that Samantha would be this girl’s friend where those closer to her wouldn’t.
The details of how this got Samantha on the Oprah show weren’t discussed at the table, but the two girls finally met in Chicago so many years after the simple yet powerful act of kindness by Samantha. I’m sure this was only one of the several astonishing acts of kindness that were showcased my Ms. Winfrey, but at least to Samantha it was a spectacular event of which she should be so proud, not only because of her appearance on the beloved Oprah Winfrey show but also because of the unusual compassion and kindheartedness she displayed that would be admirable in adults, let alone a young girl.
My first reaction was to simply look at her and say, “That is excellent.”
Yet, as Samantha told the story everyone else at the table began to laugh. Perhaps this story was so typical of this heroine that the expectation for her to do something like this wasn’t a surprise. As if by their laughter they all said, “You would.”
But it seemed to this observer that she was a little embarrassed by her friend’s reaction. Perhaps embarrassed isn’t the right verbiage. Maybe I mean that as she told this story that she was rightfully proud of she felt their laughter deflate her pride and humility.
I couldn’t help but be confused about why they were laughing. As I sat there, quite literally in awe of Samantha, I realized that these people weren’t laughing at her maliciously but at the fact that none of them-and most people we all know- would have done anything like this. What does it say about us as a society that acts of benevolence and genuine selflessness are so unusual and rare that they insight laughter as extraordinary.
Think of how much better our lives would be if everyone actually cared enough to put in minimal effort. It didn’t cost much for Samantha to reach out to this girl and yet surely made a measurable impact on one little girl’s life.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll walk to work without my headphones in and simply compliment those people I pass on the street. If for nothing else, but to start their day with something positive. Something sincere and kind. And perhaps that one little compliment will make the difference in their day. I think I’d like that even if I didn’t see it.
But then again, what if I get laughed at?

The Move

2009-11-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

Nobody likes to move. It sucks.Just this past weekend, yes I know it was Halloween, my two roommates and I moved into a new townhouse. Interestingly, up until the day before I started moving in, I hadn’t even seen the house I was moving into.
Yes that’s right. I signed a lease and dropped a sizeable security deposit on a house that I’d never seen before. Not my wisest financial move, admittedly, but in this case it seems to have worked out, so far (more on that in a moment).
When our previous landlord refused to extend our lease because of his plans to sell the property, we (two roommates and I) were in a bit of a bind. We needed to find a 3 bedroom place that was convenient to commuting, reasonable in rent, and sizeable enough for three growing boys in a very short period of time.
Nonetheless, my two roommates went and saw this house and came back raving about it. They said it was exactly what we wanted and that we needed to move on it, immediately. So after some reservation, they convinced me to fill out application with the idea that I’d go see the place within the next few days. Well, the next few days turned into weeks and that never happened. I walked into my future home less than 24 hours before I was to move in.
This brings us to last Friday, move-in day eve. I was told my Big Guy Roommate (BGR) that we would be able to get the keys a few days earlier to start moving smaller things over, so that’s what I planned on. I took the Friday off to begins shuttling all my shit over to the new place. The problem: BGR and Little Guy Roommate (LGR) hadn’t packed a thing, not.a.thing. My stress level was elevating.
I woke up on that morning only about thirty-minutes after the time I normally would have for work (not a typically good way to start a day off). I began packing and organizing my things. Most everything I had was already in boxes. Those stragglers ended up in heavy duty trash bags once I ran out of boxes. As the day continued, and the level of mess increased exponentially while the level of my roommates packing remained flat-lined. My stress level increased and I began thinking to myself, “I don’t need this.”
I don’t need worry about whether or not my roommates will get their stuff moved in time.
I don’t need to worry about cleaning roommates’ dirty dishes in order to keep a clean kitchen.
I don’t need to delegate when we take showers in the only upstairs bathroom.
I don’t need to live in a frat house any longer.
It was as if Terry Tate, office linebacker, knocked me on my ass for spending too much time at the office water cooler.
I suddenly realized that I want to be a real person, with real furniture and real personal space. I wanna be a real boy like Pinnocio!
There comes a time in everyone’s life that they just decide it’s time to grow up.
If I want to leave dishes in my sink, I know I’d be cleaning them eventually. If I want to take a shower, I would know where the bathroom is and wouldn’t need a reservation to do so. Hell, if I wanted to walk around in my birthday suit or watch Lifetime movies (which I of course… umm… never do…) I wouldn’t have to hide from anyone but my own conscience.
Now don’t get me wrong, I like my roommates. We all get along pretty well, and for the most part I enjoy their company and living with them. But there are times.
Times when I just want to throw their dirty dishes or leftover food that’s been left out for three days against the wall to shatter.
Times where I just don’t want to talk to anybody and not feel obligated to.
Times (although few and far between) that I actually want to be responsible, clean my room, change my sheets, fold laundry (the worst). Stop laughing.
But for now, I’ll have to deal with what I’ve got; a pretty sweet setup with a private deck with a newly installed hammock and a view of the Capitol Building, just perfect for a sunset with a beer and a cigar, and maybe a female companion should the right one come along. For now this’ll do.
I guess this is what growing up is all about, slowly growing away from the carelessness and anarchy that used to rule your youth and into a sense of personal responsibility that is all together comforting once you’re ready for it. I imagine this feeling is similar to the first time I stood up and walked. I no longer needed to be carried and where I went was totally up to me.
But the dawn of independence is on the horizon. Part of me wants to run from it with the fervor of zombies running from the light. But part of me wants to tell Gappetto at the top of my lungs ‘I’m a real boy.’

Rules to live by.

2009-10-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

Cover your cough. Slower cars drive in the right lane. Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey. Turn off your cell phone at the movies. Men put the seat up, women put the seat down. Tip your bartenders. Shine your shoes. Don’t eat the yellow snow. If you’re going to kill the coffee, make a new pot. Don’t burn your bridges. Women are a little crazy and men are sometimes assholes. The ketchup goes on the bun, never the cheese. Men open doors for ladies. The man pays for the first date. Don’t interrupt or speak with food in your mouth. Jeans don’t need to be washed after every wear. Brunch is on Sunday’s. You don’t take the beer home you brought to a party. On escalators, the right is for standers and the left is for the climbers. Bacon makes all foods better. You don’t date your friends’ ex’s right away, instead you consult a ratio of attractiveness-to-wait time. Boys like video games. Wear your watch on your non-writing hand. If I can see your underwear, your outerwear isn’t doing its job. Always compliment the cook. Women are never fat and never wear clothing that makes them look it, or you didn’t hear it from me. Green means go; red means stop; yellow means accelerate thru. It’s five o’clock somewhere. When it rains, it pours. The ice cream truck that drives around after dark with the music on, isn’t selling ice cream. Lunch dates are.not.dates. Talk during the commercials not while my favorite team is playing. Turning your underwear inside out does not mean you get to wear them for another day unless it’s your last clean pair. The same goes for socks. Men do not like to be called beautiful and women do not like to be called handsome. Bullshit is more about proving the other person wrong than proving yourself right. For men, it is not okay to get caught with Backstreet Boys, NSYNC or Barbara Streisand on your iTunes. No means no, unless a woman is speaking in which case ‘fine’, ‘okay’, and ‘yes’ also mean no. Men are obliged to temporarily hold the purse of the woman they’re with, but not her Chihuahua. Yes those heels do make your legs and ass look better. Facebook stalking is not equivalent to conversation. Adult sports are meant to be fun for all non-professional athletes. Southern accents make even the dirtiest and most offensive things sound better. Daddy makes the best spaghetti. ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ wait’s until the end of the night. Honestly is usually the best policy. After exhausting every other option, most people will do the right thing. Men should walk on the street side of women. If you get called, call back; if you get texted, text back. Take the stairs if you’re only going up one floor; not the elevator. Hand write your ‘thank you’ notes. Socks are meant for shoes, not sandals. It is unnecessary to dress up for the gym; we all sweat. There’s a sucker at every table; if you don’t know who it is, it’s you. If you can’t say something nice, keep your trap shut. Shake what your mama gave you. Losers make excuses. Stop and smell the roses.

Want What You Can't Have

2009-10-09T12:39:00.000-07:00

The grass is always greener on the other side. Or so I’m told anyway, as I live in a rowhouse that is ill-fitted for any sort of greenspace.
When I think of this aphorism, I picture a middle aged shirtless man (not the good kind ladies, settle down) watering his yard in his bathrobe on a Saturday in late spring. Maybe he’s even got a cigar in his mouth. It is in this moment, and similar ones like this, that he can find a few minutes of tranquility from his nagging wife and demanding kids. With his cigar in one hand and the hose in the other, he methodically meanders through his yard watering his foliage. He’s a simple man with simple dreams.
As he approaches the edges of his property, he pokes his head over his fence and notices his neighbor, whom he’d met in this similar circumstances dozens of time. His neighbor is walking his hose out to the middle of his yard with some contraption on it. As the water begins flowing through the hose, the contraption, otherwise known as a sprinkler, begins shooting water in every which way. The neighbor steps up on his newly painted deck, a deck in which the cigar toting man had yet to check off of his honey-do list. The man’s tranquility quickly subsides. His neighbor seemed to have it all. Or at least, more than his hose clutching neighbor.
“Why don’t I have a sprinkler to water my lawn?”
“Why don’t I have a wooden deck adorning the rear of my home instead of a simple concrete slab decorated by two rusty chairs and a near-collapse charcoal grill?”
As envy grows, the man begins to question how he got to where he is and begins being critical of himself for the choices he’s made.
If he had only done a few things differently, he might have been more successful, made more money, been more like his neighbor across the fence line. “If only I could be in his shoes, then I’d have it made.”
What he doesn’t realize is that his neighbor has his own set of misgivings. That deck had cost him significantly more than he could afford had created a wedge between he and his wife. That sprinkler became essential when an old Vietnam wound had made standing and walking extremely painful. No, the neighbor didn’t have it all; not even close. Yes, the grass is always greener on the other side, but only because we haven’t walked a mile on the other side.
It is in most men’s nature to be competitive. To have a yearning desire to be the best man he can be. At our core, men want something to challenge then and something to fight towards. It’s not enough for us to have the greenest lawn, best deck, or prettiest wife. We want it all. But what a lot of us fail to recognize is that all of the things we have and have worked for were chosen.
Yes, chosen.
Some things are unexpected and out of our control. But we, and this is men and women now, have a choice.
We can choose our attitudes, determination, integrity, and reactions. No one can take those things away from us. We choose, metaphorically speaking, how green our grass is. Or perhaps more telling, is the choice of how green our grass appears, to us.

The Hitchhiker

2009-09-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things happen to you that are so completely unbelievable that you can’t help but laugh at the situation. I’m going to share one such story with you today. This story took place at a small rural Midwest university.
Enter Brandy.
Brandy was from a well-off family from the St. Louis suburbs. She was very prim and proper but didn’t possess what most people consider common sense. Up until college, she had lead a very sheltered upper-middle class adolescence that afforded her very little, if any, insight into the lifestyles and cultures of anyone different from her own.
Brandy and I were friends. One afternoon after class she decided that she wanted to go for a drive in the ‘country side’ and asked that I go along. I obliged.
After a few minutes getting out of this small college town and into the rural pastures and farmland it became obvious that Brandy had never seen life like this.
It also became clear that she had absolutely no regard for these people who are obviously not as well off and had a significantly different definition of ‘work’.
As we drove down the country roads, Brandy began asking me questions. Having grown up in a rural town in the Midwest, these landscapes were not new to me and Brandy knew it.
The questions started simple and relatively benign.
“What do these people do for a living?”—Anything. Most of them are farmers of some sort but some people just like to live away from the bustle of cities and towns.
And gradually got less intelligent.
“How do these people get their food? Do they hunt for meat and grow their own food”---No they go to the supermarket just like you and I.
Until the questions got a little belittling.
“Do you think we can go tour their house?”—Tour their house? As in-- knock on the door and ask them if they’ll let two strangers, one of whom has very little sense of what is polite, into their house--just because? Umm. No.
With each of these questions my amazement grew. I began teasing her, initially very playfully, for her questions and with every question my teasing grew and it was clear she was getting offended. I certainly didn’t mean to offend her but I simply couldn’t comprehend how someone could possibly think that farmers play fetch with their cows to give them exercise (seriously, I couldn’t make this up). For whatever reason, she ignored the good humor of my teasing and at a stop sign, uttered words that will forever be with me.
“You can get out, you know.”
I guess it really didn’t sink in to me quite where we were when she said that to me. I was a bit tired of her always-right attitude, and, being annoyed, felt like calling her bluff. So I stepped out of her new black Audi. I don’t think my feet were on the pavement for more than a minute before she was nearly out of sight.
She wasn’t bluffing.
She left me.
There I was. In the middle of nowhere. I had no idea what road I was on or even the general direction I needed to go in order to get back to school. I couldn’t just stand there and hope something would come along, so I looked in all directions, sighed quite loudly, and just took a guess as to which way I needed to go. So I started walking.
After only about five minutes I remembered I had my cell phone and began calling all of my friends at school. I spoke to all of them and for each of them the story was about the same. I would tell them roughly what happened, and what I was doing. Then the question would come about my location so that they could come get me, to which I had no idea. I was downhill from a big red barn with a corn field on my right and a wheat field on my left. This could have literally been anywhere in the rural Midwest. So I told them I’d call back once I figured it out.
I had been walking for close to three hours when God decided to test me. And by test I mean laugh at. He opened up the sky and sent me one hell of a rain storm. Fortunately there was no lightning, but I couldn’t see much more than a few feet in front of me. It was one of those rains that seemed like it was coming in all directions.
This is awesome.
So I walked for another hour or so until I came to a ‘T’ in the road. Again I had to choose a direction. So I chose and within a few minutes an old Chrysler pulled over next to me and ask that I get in. It was a young man in his early 30’s and his little girl, probably about 5 years old.
Now I know, that this was probably not the safest of all decisions I’ve made, but I really didn’t have much of a choice, plus I figured if this guy was going to cut me up, he probably wasn’t going to do so in front of the little girl. From the time I got picked up to the time they dropped me off, about fifteen minutes had ticked off the clock, indicating to me that to walk would have taken me hours.
I didn’t make you get out of the car—which is true, she didn’t. But I didn’t make her drive away. I was very sympathetic to her argument and even offered a simple way for us to even the score so that bygones can be bygones.
Quite simply, I offered to drive this pretty blonde through areas she is familiar with and let her try to find her way home. For some reason she didn’t think getting left in inner-city St. Louis was amiable reconciliation. Who’d ah thunk it?

Punk'd by Smithsonian

2009-09-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve lived in DC for almost two and a half years now. When I first moved to the city, I told myself I would visit one new attraction every weekend. I visited numerous museums, monuments, concert halls, and landmarks. I wouldn’t tell you that I got to see everything D.C. has to offer, but I made a good run of it. Over time my schedule filled up and the number of interest points decreased and I just stopped spending a couple hours a weekend exploring my city. A few weeks ago I was on the National Mall and realized there was a Smithsonian museum I hadn’t visited. So, with a friend of mine, I visited the National Museum of American Indians.
The building itself is quite a sight. The cylindrical building, made of tan stone, sits next to the National Air and Space Museum.
Having never been to this museum before, I was excited and interested in what I was about to see. Sadly, my excitement was overcome with bewilderment within the first few moments.
What do you expect to see when you visit a museum dedicated to American Indians? Ti-pi’s, totem poles, feathered head dresses, bows and arrows, disgruntled cowboys. You know, all that Indian stuff.
But as we walked up the stairs to where the museum begins and what did we find? Skateboards.
Now you may be thinking, what do skateboards have to do with American Indians? I know I was. I’ve played Tony Hawk Pro Skater on XBOX and I can’t tell you I recall seeing Sitting Bull or Pocahontas as characters to choose. I’ve watched the X-games on ESPN; still no Indians. In fact, I’m fairly certain when Chris Columbus stepped off the boat in 1492, his first interactions with Indians was not to grind a rail rip a kick-flip. So what gives?
After a few minutes of confusion, I thought to myself, “Shyguy, you’re being closed minded.” So I spent some time looking through the exhibit looking for ties between this relatively new sport and those who settlers had killed by disease and banished from land they first inhabited. To my surprise, I found absolutely nothing directly explaining the purpose of this exhibit. The best I could gather was that American Indian’s culture liked skateboarding.
You read that correct. The best tie that I could find between American Indians and skateboarding, in the National Museum of American Indians, was that they liked it. Not that they invented it. Not that they adapted it. Not that they even had an icon good at it. But that their culture liked it.
This skateboard exhibit was the first thing in the museum my friend and I saw. We were both bewildered by it and I made the comment that if they’re putting something like this in the National Museum of American Indians, they must be leaving something out. Something big. I joked that they probably left out ti-pi thinking that they are such an important icon related to Indians that they would never leave it out. Plus, Indians seemed to like ti-pi's, which apparently is the sole criteria for curating exhibits.
Now I have no problem with a museum dedicated to particular cultures or traditions, but I should think there is some standard of relevance. Or if the relevance is somewhat trivial, that it is at least acknowledged and clarified. I wouldn’t expect to find an exhibit about light shows at a museum dedicated to the blind.
Did the museum need to find something, even if arbitrary, to fill the space? Did a donor make a huge contribution contingent on the existence of this display? Did I just miss this Indian-skateboarding phenomenon? Did the curator of the museum accidentally put up the wrong display?
I have honestly no idea why it was there. The more I think about it the more it frustrates me. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that its sole purpose in that museum is for people to go through the exhibit and say, “Why is this here?” It is a conspiracy. Some sort of belittling joke that is giving someone in a room full of monitors quite a laugh. There is no way to explain the exhibit, other than to say that Ashton Kutcher must somehow be involved to ‘Punk’ us all.
And yet, the Joke’s on me again. As I went through the rest of the museum I didn’t see a single ti-pi. Not even in a photograph.
I got Punk’d by the Smithsonian Institute. Twice.

Worth Fighting For.

2009-09-13T16:11:00.000-07:00

September 11th is certainly a watershed date in American history. We all know what happened. We all remember exactly where we were when the events took place just as our parents remember exactly where they were when Neil Armstrong took those first steps on the surface of the moon and just as our grandparents remember where they were when they heard about the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor.
There is no doubt that our children’s history books will be filled with the descriptions of the four horrendous plane crashes, two in New York, one into the Pentagon, and one of the brave souls who tried to take their plane back in Pennsylvania.
Instead of looking back at those events, I’d like to highlight the aftermath of those events.
There was patriotism unlike anything I’ve seen in my lifetime. Not just a patriotism that requires a flag be flown outside of my home or an apathetic patriotism that is often the punch line, but instead a passionate remembrance of what it means to be American. The country found that the drastically different cultures and backgrounds come together to form one collective ‘melting pot’ with a common belief in ourselves and the resilience of our country.
We found what is worth fighting for.
In 2006, I was an intern in our nation’s capitol for a summer. It is not unusual to find protestors at any given place or time in the city. I was walking with a few friends on our way to get some pizza at what remains my favorite pizza place. We came across a group of three or four protestors from the organization ‘Code Pink’ who protest war, and more specifically the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. They were chanting something to the effect of ‘War is not the answer’. Of all the times I’ve seen and passed protestors, I have never once initiated conversation or debate with one of them.
Until…
One of them began shouting their pacifist chant in my face. I don’t mean to sound dramatic here. This woman, for whatever reason, came right up to me and began yelling her protests directly to me.
I don’t know why this woman singled me out. I don’t think I look like an overly aggressive or barbaric person. I whole heartedly support that woman’s right to protest as protected in the First Amendment. But something inside of me required a rebuttal. So I said what I meant.
‘If it weren’t for war, you wouldn’t have this right to protest our government, which you obviously hold so dear.’
What happens next is not important as the principle underlying.
That some things are.worth.fighting.for.
I can certainly understand the sentiment that the current conflict, and conflicts of the past, did not warrant American military involvement. In certain instances I agree, and in others I disagree. But I’m not talking about whether or not fighting is justified, I’m talking about having a reason fight that is necessarily justified.
Freedom is one word that comes initially to mind. Love is another.
I, someday (don’t worry Mom, not any time soon) hope to have a wife that I love with every ounce of my being. Someone that will challenge me and cause me to strive to be a better person both for her and for myself. Someone who’s love I will not only crusade for but also require not unlike our need for the very air we breath and the food in our bellies. Essentially, I hope to one day find a woman who is worth fighting for with the passion not only to save her, but also because she will be as much a part of me as the most essential elements of life. Fighting for her will not require justification because fighting for her, for me, will be necessary.
Fighting the British was necessary to achieve independence.
Fighting ourselves became necessary to free slaves.
Fighting an attacker becomes necessary when ones life is threatened.
But also, fighting for the passions of your heart is necessary to live with fidelity to oneself.
But I’m not everyone. I acknowledge that wholeheartedly and welcome it as human nature to be individualistic and unique. However, I cannot imagine living life without at least something for which my passion requires action. Something that the simple thought of losing sickens the mind, and motivates the heart. Something worth fighting for.

The Judgement on Bluetooth

2009-09-03T13:11:00.000-07:00

Today, we salute you Mr. (or Mrs.) “I wear my Bluetooth to be fashionable.” Without your inflated self-importance, I would have very little to feel proud about that distinguishes us as we pass on the street. Without that little bud in your ear, making you look like a fool, the general public might mistakenly think you and I are similar.
And how is anyone around to be sure you’re talking to them when you’re wearing one?
I was walking home the other night, my usual route. I stopped at a crosswalk next to a well dressed gentleman who was also waiting for the walk sign to illuminate. We both stood there in silence until out of nowhere he shouts, “I want some sausage.”
I look at him in utter confusion as it is just the two of us standing on that corner. He was neither looking at me nor anyone else.
I thought to myself, ‘what is going on here?’
‘Who is he talking to? There’s nobody here but me. He must be talking to me. Why would I care that he wants sausage? Oh-my-God, I’m being picked up by this guy. I think I’ve seen something like this on Real Sex. Flight, Flight, Flight!
“Yea, you should get some potato salad also,” he said next as he stepped off the curb and just beneath his fedora was a shiny silver Bluetooth in his ear opposite of me.
Ah, I sighed in relief that I was not, in-fact the prey of a same-sexual predator. But then I realized, I would not have felt that way had the gentleman been doing what the rest of us do and held his phone to his fricking ear. That is the socially acceptable cue to the rest of the world that you’re talking to someone on the phone. This Bluetooth thing is just confusing the rest of the world and obviously toying with our fears.
But really that doesn’t really get to the heart of the issue for me. You see, it’s not the fact that you wear a Bluetooth headset to talk on at inappropriate or unnecessary times, it is that you continue to wear it even when not talking on the phone, as if to tell the world, “I’m so important, I MUST be connected at all times. You know, cause people know me.” You don't see me walking around with my phone to ring on the off chance that someone will call me, do you? What makes wearing a Bluetooth so cool anyways?
I mean besides the obvious display of elitism, which I know everyone loves, their aesthetic value is somewhere in the ballpark of fanny packs. They’re not sleek, as they awkwardly protrude out of one’s head. They’re not stylish, unless you considered slap-bracelets and shoulder pads stylish. They’re not even all-that functional, unless your mouth is somehow situated closer to your ear than the rest of ours. So why leave it in when not on a phone call?
The only three explanations I can come up with are lethargy, importance, and egotism. For the people who are too lazy to reach up to your ear and grab the 8oz electronic, I say ‘I can’t help you’. If you’re too lazy for that, I imagine there is a short list of things you aren’t too lazy for. For those who think they're so important that they have to have one, I say 'have you ever seen the President wearing a Bluetooth on the golf course? No you haven't. And if he's not so important or busy to require the constant connectedness, you definitely aren't so important to require it be in your ear at all times. For those egotists, I figure it must give certain people some sort of boost of confidence to know that they think they present themselves as more important than the rest of us as displayed by the device in their ear. To that I say, ‘That really hurts my feelings.’
I’d like to think the world is not a hierarchy of people; good, better, best. But instead, that we can all choose how we contribute to the world or simply choose not to contribute at all. While I recognize this post is mostly judgmental of people who wear Bluetooth headsets in public, I argue that this self-inflicted hierarchy of worth to society is utterly undermining what it is to be a social being. For example, how often do you pass and acquaintance and ask how they’re doing, then not pay attention to how they’ve responded. Or how many times have you been introduced to someone, had them tell you their name and you forget it mere seconds after they’ve said it? I’m certainly guilty of it as I imagine most people are, but how can we get so wrapped up in our own lives that we don't even have time to listen to someones name!? Is my time more important than that person (hopefully single and female)? Absolutely not.
The old adage of ‘leave things better than you’ve found it’ is something I take very seriously. I don’t believe that decreasing the value, either perceived or implied, of other humans is, in any way, beneficial to those who are to come after us. There will always be strong and weak, leaders and followers, but the true judgment of our society will rest in how we treat those who are perceived to be below us.
When we start cutting people down as less important then we're really no better than the guy with the Bluetooth.

The Ugly Truth

2009-08-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

I recently saw the new movie The Ugly Truth staring Katherine Heigl and Gerard Butler. It wasn’t my first choice of flicks to see, but The Hurt Locker wasn’t playing at my nearby cinema. Essentially Katherine Heigl’s character is a single woman who is struggling with her singledom. Gerard Butler is the crass, foul-mouthed alpha male who sets out to help Heigl shed her uptight, overly controlling persona and find the man of her dreams. He trains and coaches her about how to act and what to do to hook the attractive doctor she’s set her sights on.
While this chick-flick was entertaining and had glimpses of humor and truth, it really made me think about relationships through a different perspective, a female perspective. Let me first say, this is not a world I delve into often, nor is it one I’d particularly like to return, nonetheless I think I learned a thing or two. While I do not claim to be a connoisseur about relationships or women, I believe I may have figured out one of the biggest relationship missteps single women make.
Before I could be sure I needed to do some research independent of my new found perspective. Without being overly general and stereotyping, I feel it is safe to assume that most women have either read or have some depth of knowledge into the marvelous publication known as Cosmopolitan. I myself have found humor and entertainment within its pages, and no-I’ve not questioned my sexuality. Since I didn’t have the paper copy handy, I punched in my little firefox search engine C-O-S-M-O. Upon reaching for the homepage the ‘Sex & Love’ section was very neatly and promptly found on the header, second from the left. One click and sure enough, I found what I was looking for.
The first article on the home page was entitled “10 Signs You Are Way Too Good for Him” by Niki Evans. The second, “First-Time-Sex Bloopers” by Korin Miller (assumably pronounced K-uh-r-in). And the third “What He Thinks When He Walks Through Your Door” by Jennifer Benjamin. I could keep going down the list, but I can make my point with these first three.  Notice what each of these articles presumably have in common. They all deal with the relationships between men and women, but more specifically, they all presuppose some sort of insight into the male psyche. They all hold a sexual connotation or undertone. And they were all written by women. Let me repeat that for effect.
They were all written by women.
I know what you must be thinking, “How dare they! Women are writing articles for a women’s magazine? Some nerve they’ve got.” I couldn’t believe it myself!
Nonetheless, this trend exemplifies my point.
Women take too much advice about men from other women.
For one, how much sense does it make to ask single girlfriends what to do about relationships. Obviously if they’re single they haven’t got it all figured out. Even if their happily married they probably don’t have it all figured out. Secondly, we all know the old homage ‘men are from Mars; women are from Venus’. I’ve already made the case in an earlier post that men have no idea how to speak Venusian. Why would the reverse not be the same?
In fact, there is a multi-million dollar industry in the form of therapists, online dating sites, and publications such as Cosmopolitan solely dedicated to advising women on how to deal with men.
Why would women need help dealing with men? Because they just don’t get us. The industry wouldn’t exist if women knew what to do, now would it?
What’s worse is that the conventional wisdom of two-heads-are-better-than-one-three-heads-are-better-than-two is just backwards when it comes to women advising other women about men. I’ve never been privy to a ‘man-bashing’ session before so I wouldn’t begin to hypothesize how they take place, but I can tell you that four hens sitting around the coup aren’t going to understand why the rooster crows at sunrise.
There’s nothing wrong with the fact that men and women think, feel, and act differently in situations. In fact, most often it is our differences that are most attractive.
Side-note: I think this might also explain man’s fascination with boobs. We (mostly) don’t have them, but we all like them.
Sure, sometimes women can give good advice, just like sometimes men can remember anniversaries and ask for directions. But I think I’m safe in saying that on the whole, women should be consulting men about questions about men. I don’t ask my barber how to take apart my carburetor, so why should women ask other women to explain something they have no first hand experience being?
Here’s my advice.
You want to know what your man wants? Ask him. You want to know how your man feels? Ask him. You want to know why men don’t show interest? Show more boob.
Boys will be boys, but if we really are into you, we’ll tell you what you want to know.

Women as Art

2009-08-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

For some time now, I have been thinking of the most effective way to classify women. Classify isn’t the right word for exactly what I mean, but for the sake of argument, let’s just pretend that I understand all women are unique and one of a kind.
Nonetheless, I wanted to utilize some medium of explanation that most people could understand without necessarily being an expert. I wanted this medium to fully encompass the beauty, individuality, and diversity of women while simultaneously being interpretive to each individual classifier. In other words, I wanted to come up with a mode of classification that is as ambiguous and arbitrary as possible while seeming to compliment all women so as not to upset any women whom I may now, or in the future, be pursuing for romantic reasons.
I landed on paintings.
What is to follow is my best first attempt to utilize famous painters as a means for classifying women. These classifications are based solely on a woman’s appearance, as paintings are visual and preferences are based on the appeal aesthetically. So is also true, at least initially, with attraction. It is admittedly a working progress but here goes.

Michelangelo
I start with one of the two Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on this list, Michelangelo is most famous for having painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. If you have ever been to the Vatican and have seen his work (I sadly have not seen in person) you will undoubtedly notice one thing that will stand out at you. For being the center of Catholicism, this Chapel is ordained with an awful lot of naked people, predominately dudes. For Michelangelo, painting was not of primary importance. He much preferred sculpture.
Women who are categorized as “Michelangelo’s” are the women who catch your eye, mostly because of the skin they like to show. I hesitate to call these women beautiful because, as in Michelangelo’s paintings, most of the attention is drawn to skin as opposed to beauty.

Leonardo da Vinci
Perhaps the most famous of all painters incorporated in this list. Da Vinci was the alpha male. There seemingly wasn’t a thing he tried that he wasn’t exceptional at. He was even perfect in his imperfections. His most famous painting, the Mona Lisa, is surrounded with artistic criticism for having a number of inconsistencies such as the horizon level on the left of the woman is lower than on the right. Yet it is possibly the most celebrated painting of that or any era. The Last Supper, which portrays the last meal of Jesus before being taken away to be crucified, has been damaged greatly because of da Vinci’s insistence of techniques that cause the paint to crack and peel.
‘Leonardo’s’ are women who just look too perfect. You know the women who are always put together, never have so much as a hair out of place, yet something about the way they look makes you think, ‘she’s hiding something.’ From close up or far away, Leonardo’s are very attractive, but very rarely have substance that makes any sense.

Vincent van Gogh
Van Gogh is notorious for cutting his own ear of and supposedly sending it to his girlfriend. Creep. He spent the last of his days in an asylum where he produced most of his most famous works, including Starry Night. When you look at his works, color is utilized to an incredible degree. His painting style is not clean like Michelangelo or Da Vinci, instead it uses brush strokes to enhance the painting.
‘Van Gogh’s’ are women that are opposite of Leonardo’s. They covet the casual and are the eternal hot mess. They look just as good rocking a pair of jeans and a tank as they do a sundress, but are never perfectly put together. These women have that intriguing aura that comes from a slightly disheveled look. Unlike Leonardo’s, Van Gogh’s only get better the longer you look at them and more you get to know them.

Pablo Picasso
Of all the painters I chose to represent in this list, I think Picasso’s work depress me the most. A great deal of Picasso’s portfolio center around the gutters of society. Prostitutes, homeless, otherwise decrepit make up the majority of his subject matter. He seems to have quite the affection for the dark and mysterious while distorting and abstracting reality. Also notice that the subjects are very detailed yet the background says almost nothing, leaving the viewer to wonder, what is going on in this painting?
Everyone knows the ‘dark and mysterious’ fem-fatale. They are the ‘Picasso’s’. They’re the women with the seductive looks and even more mysterious demeanor. These are the women with ‘the look that kills’. For Picasso’s, the name of the game is ‘you want what you can’t have’.

Salvador Dali
Salvador Dali’s paintings often seem random and perplexing upon first glance. He was the leader of the surrealist movement. Dali was the perpetual bad-boy, never wanting to conform to the norms of society which explains some of his unorthodox paintings and the depth of thought invoked by each piece.
Women who are ‘Dali’s’ are the women you often just can’t stop watching. Not because of their beauty necessarily, but because something about them is so unique or unconventional. These are the women that you look at and think, ‘I bet that girl is crazy’. Maybe crazy fun, maybe crazy interesting, maybe just plain crazy but, I’m not going to lie, what woman isn’t (refer to my last posting) a little crazy? Dali’s just embrace it to the fullest.

Claude Monet
Claude money has made himself famous painting nature. It’s safe to say landscapes are his thing. Sadly, Monet struggled with deteriorating eyesight, a family disowning him for having a child out of wedlock, and a sometimes unprofitable career. You wouldn’t know by looking at his colorful and peaceful paintings that Monet struggled most of his life. From up close, Monet’s paintings are a cataclysm of brush strokes and color. But from further away, the paintings are beautiful and serene.
‘Monet’s are the women who from far away look great. They’re the women you see walking towards you on the sidewalk that look great, only you’re disappointed once you see them up close. These women aren’t always unattractive but more of not what you were expecting. There is still a lot of beauty to be seen in these women it just may need to be seen through a different perspective.

Andy Warhol
Last, but not least is Andy Warhol. He is my favorite artist. Warhol broke down artistic barriers and brought art into the realm of pop-culture. His work of Campbell’s soup can’s are some of the most celebrated and famous artwork of American History. Warhol started as the quintessential ‘starving artist’ and the paradox of the New York art scene, unpretentious and shy while still being visible.
Women who are ‘Warhol’s’ are classically simple. The little black dress that is plain and not flashy. These are the women who present themselves as confident and assertive without really advertising. It is easy for Warhol’s to be overlooked because they don’t seek attention like Dali’s do and aren’t as complex as Van Gogh’s. Though they are simple, they are anything but ordinary.

And there’s my list. Seven artists, seven different types of women.

Just a Little Bit Crazy

2009-08-04T11:48:00.000-07:00

***REVISION***
I made a mistake. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. I made the mistake of telling “Diana” that the previously posted material was about her.
Foolishly, I thought my posting would not hurt her feelings. I suppose I assumed my comments would be taken as jovial and sarcastic. I never wanted to hurt her feelings, in fact, I even tried to calmly and rationally explain myself and defend what I was saying to no avail. To her, I am truly sorry.
And to anyone else who may have been offended by the previously posted material, I am truly sorry. My intent was not to insult but to highlight certain things that women do that are interesting reactions to, or different from, men.
Let me be clear. I do not find the word, nor do I use the word crazy as a derogatory term. Perhaps it was a poor choice of words, but with my limited middle school vocabulary, I was unable to muster a better fit. I simply meant crazy to mean enthusiastically different as opposed to requiring psychiatric care (my comments to those effects were made simply for humor).
In fact, I find it quite endearing that women be a little crazy. I personally, nor do any of the men I associate with, want a female companion who is not enthusiastic, unique, and passionate. I think we are excited by some of the ‘crazy’ (enthusiastic not stalker-ish).
While I stand by my statement that ‘all women are just a little crazy’, I do not think of that as a bad thing. I was actually shocked at how 'Diane's' reaction to my blog only solidified and exemplified exactly what I was saying. If she hadn't been offended I would have said,'this is exactly the type of behavior I am describing.' My execution of these facts were, unfortunately, poorly exercised and, sadly, poorly received. While I do still believe women are crazy, I certainly proved that men are assholes or at least easily made to feel that way.

The Kid Who Cried Drunk

2009-07-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

What was intended to be a low-key and relaxing weekend, turned into a frenzy of PLC’s (poor life choice’s). I knew it was going to be trouble when a girl-friend’s parents wanted a group of friends to meet for Margaritas and queso dip, free of charge.
Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. It was decided among friends that we would try to stay low-key that night by having some friends over to my house and just sort of hanging out with friends. This after Friday night got a little, how shall we say, ridiculous. Just a quiet night in with some friends, I told myself. Nothing crazy.
Now let me introduce my friend Pat (name changed to protect the innocent). Pat was in town visiting for the weekend and is consistently a really chill guy, fun to hang out with and pretty funny. Pat had set for himself one goal.
Pull. Tail.
He failed but not without going down in a heap of flames fueled by the fury of a drunk pyromaniac with gasoline, aerosol cans, and Roman Candles. Needless to say, it was amusing to watch. From Thursday thru Saturday Pat chased skirts up and down and all-around. Inevitably each of the girls had substantially better stamina than Pat had, and Pat left for home before achieving his goal.
Saturday was the pinnacle of this failure.
Let’s say that it started with Pat having a bit too much to drink. Then the flames were fueled by Pat and my roommate retiring to our neighbor’s balcony.
Side note: This Balcony is right outside of my bedroom window, and subsequently my pillow. There have been more than one morning I’ve woken up late with a—how shall we say… bad case of the munchies from the aroma of a burning herb. You picking up what I’m laying down here?
Well Pat had a rather bad experience. He found himself in the wee hours of the morning lying on my bathroom floor, sick as a dog and paranoid as a conspiracy theorist. Yes he was sick. Yes he shouldn’t have drank/smoked as he did. But did he require immediate medical attention? No. I am not a doctor but I have had extensive training through my previous volunteer and work related positions to, at the very least, be credible enough to distinguish who needs care and who deserves the headache in the morning.
Pat deserved a headache. He was fully conscious. Fully responsive. The only thing he was not was calm. He honestly probably felt like shit. But he kept saying things like, “I’m going to die,” and “I need some help.”
All of which elicited the response, ‘no Pat, you’re not. Just drink some water and have some crackers.’
“NO. You don’t understand! I’m really going to die.”
On and on he went about how much help he needed while there were always at least two people in the bathroom taking care of him. This sort of circular conversation continued for probably about an hour until he finally calmed down. Big thanks to the maternal friends I have who babysat him.
He didn’t need any help. He needed to learn a lesson. He needed to learn his limits.
Personal responsibility seems to get more and more muddled the older I get. I was taught as a small child to clean up after myself and take care of myself. I was under the impression that one day mommy and daddy weren’t going to be there to bathe and clothe me forever. I had to learn how to take care of myself. I had to learn responsibility. I had to learn my limits. I don’t care if we’re talking about liquor, or money, or talent. If I know I can only have ten beers before I get sick, then I’ll only have 8. If I know I make 45K a year, I’m not going to buy a half million dollar house. If I know I’m a linguist, I’m not going to teach mathematics at a deaf school.
This just comes from knowing my strengths and weaknesses. Oh, and taking responsibility for myself.. I consider this part of being true to myself. Sure we all fuck up sometimes, but at least I know I deserve the hangover when I chose to have that 12th beer and don’t expect anyone to take any sympathy on me for my irresponsibility.

I Was Born But Not for the DMV

2009-07-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

Since moving out of my parents house, I have slowly but surely cut myself off, financially of course, from my parents. I've done this not because I particularly want to, who doesn't like freeloading off their parents while they are a struggling young adult, but because my parents were struggling financially. As part of this financial independence came a responsibility for maintaining my adult life. Like it or not, world, here I come.
As part of these adult responsibilities, I went to the DMV to transfer my drivers license to my new residence. I had looked online and had all the necessary paperwork (I thought). I went in the morning like the website suggested and waited in a long line. Apparently at the DC DMV you have to wait in line in order to wait in line, in order to wait on someone to process your request. It is a beacon of efficiency.
So when I finally got to the front of the line, the woman behind the desk was instantly impolite. She was a heavyset woman with ill-fitting clothes and an unjustified and opposite Napoleon complex. I told her that I was here to exchange my drivers licensee, she then asked for the appropriate materials, which I handed to her. My drivers liscence, my Social Security Card, a copy of my lease proving residence, and a letter verifying my employment. She looked at the materials and said, "I need proof that you were born." Proof that I was born? Is standing here talking to you not enough proof that I was born? Is there some question as to the reality of this interaction? Am I dreaming? Is she dreaming? I was overcome with epistemological questions, and quite nearly broke down questioning my own existence. After multiple pinches and recognition from an attractive woman behind me in line, I came to the conclusion that I was, in fact, born as is stated on my drivers license.
This did not phase the woman at the desk however. She asked that I provide proof that I was born. I asked her what the drivers license was for and she responded that it verifies my ability to drive a car. Clever. I then asked her why I would need to provide my Social Security Card and she said that was to prove my citizenship. I then asked her if the government was in the business of giving citizenship to the unborn.
And Yahtzee!
Before she was able to come back with anything, I cut her off. Realizing that she wasn't going to help me, I collected my things back from her and put them back into my envelope and asked, "Does being unhelpful come naturally to you, or do you just really hate your job?"
Of course I understand the need for documentation. I even understand some need for bureaucracy, but to be as cold and unhelpful as this woman was simply disrespectful, both of me and of the job she was doing.
After my irritation subsided for the rude and unprofessional temperament, I felt genuinely sad for this woman. She probably hates her job. She probably feels in a tight spot about it because of the economy and the difficulty finding work. But I guess I just wanted to give her a hug and tell her that she chooses her attitude. She doesn't have to be mean and grumpy all day long. She could choose to see the benefits and blessings, whatever they may be, in her life.
So next time someone blows you off, isn't helpful, treats you like you don't matter, just give them a hug and tell them,'It's OK, at least you don't work at the DMV.'

What do you want?

2009-07-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Is there life on other planets? How were the pyramids built? Who really killed Kennedy?
Questions like these may never be answered sufficiently. But one thing that will forever escape my understanding is the same question every man has been asking since Eve chomped into the Red Delicious.
What do women want?
As a single male, I am constantly pondering what makes up the female psyche, admittedly for my advantage (chivalrously of course!). I’m sure every guy has wondered this at some point and has probably either grown frustrated to the point of bashing his head against the pavement, or given up hope of comprehension. I have posed this question to many of my female friends all of whom gave either completely random and insignificant answers or wholly vague responses that lend no help. So in my own frustration, I throw in the towel with this factual and irrevocably accurate conclusion.
Women have no fucking clue what they want.
One of my best girlfriends, we’ll call her Kristin, and I went to lunch this week and while we were on our way there, Kristin made multiple comments about her clothes not fitting her properly. I took the bait and asked why. It turns out Kristin has been thinning out and it has been this shrinking that has caused her clothes to fit poorly.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked in confusion as I had previously understood that women could be neither too thin nor complimented enough.
“Well, yes. But… now my clothes don’t fit,” she said grumbling. The obvious question to respond with would be, ‘would you rather be skinnier or have your clothes fit better’ but that would have been a false question. Neither option suffices. If she gets thinner her clothes don’t fit and if her clothes fit then she’s not getting thinner. So she wants to be thinner and have her clothes shrink with her. Not so sure that’s possible with a wardrobe full of dry-clean-only pencil skirts. It was in that rare instance that I saw a glimpse of what it is like to be in the mind of a woman.
I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like it because it is nearly 180 degrees from the way I think. When I say that I want something (Mexican food, Xbox game, flat screen plasma, etc.) that’s what I want and I can get it. When a woman says she wants something (to be thinner, prettier, smarter, change her man, etc.) what she wants is measured only by her mind, regardless of possibility, rationality, or the laws of science. Thus setting herself up to not only be disappointed by her expectations but also to waiver in what it is they actually want. Kristin’s example is a perfect example. She, along with most women, wants to be thinner for whatever reason, but when she actually gets thinner, the unintended consequences are unfavorable. Now I know to you women, it makes sense. But I’ve got to say, as a man, that shit is confusing. I suppose it is the burden we bear for your companionship. Yea, you’re right that sometimes you don’t make it easy. But in my few years, I have found a few things that are unmistakably true.
I like chicken and don’t care where it came from.
I like this planet just fine.
I did not build the pyramids.
I did not kill Kennedy.
I will never understand what women want.

Airport Security

2009-06-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

While recently traveling home for my baby sister’s high school graduation, I spent some time in two of our country’s airports. A fear of flying coupled with a staggering economy certainly doesn’t make things any easier for commuters and airlines alike to continue on business as usual. But neither does the laughable excuse for airport security. I mean does airport security really have to seem as pretend as two little girls having a tea party? No doubt there have been changes in airports--post September 11th, and rightfully so, but I really think I could train my beagle to do the job of airport security, and she could probably do it more effectively.
Without incriminating anyone, I have witnessed two occasions in which items that were prohibited on flights were overlooked by the Transportation Security Administration officials at airports.
I submit to you exhibit A.
Sometime last year I was flying out of Washington, DC’s Reagan airport, and know that a small pocketknife attached to a key chain was allowed through the security screening. The key chain was placed in the large plastic tubs just like the standard practice at all airport security. The key chain wasn’t purposely hidden yet was unambiguous on this key chain. It went through the x-ray machine just like everyone’s belongings and was ‘screened’ by TSA officials, then picked up and taken into the terminal without even a word from the security.
Now I submit to you exhibit B.
This past weekend I was in a different Washington, DC area airport with a backpack full of clothes and a water bottle, nearly empty, through TSA security. When I got to the front of the line on the x-ray machines, the TSA official said to me that I couldn’t take liquid through the security and that I had to pour it out. I was surprised by this since the contents of the bottle was simply water but didn’t want to start commotion. So I simply unhooked it from my bag and walked to the nearest trashcan. When I got to the trashcan, I noticed that the same TSA officer who’d told me to pour out the liquid was no longer paying the least attention to me. So, hoping to continue my thorough hydration, I simply put the lid back on and reattached the bottle to my backpack and sent the bag through the machine. I went through the metal detector and picked up my bag from the conveyor belt and continued on to my terminal with my water bottle, contents maintained.
These are two separate instances in which persons of absolutely no threat were able to get prohibited items through airport security without really even hiding anything. I can’t speak for others, but that certainly eases my nerves about flying. I feel much safer on airplanes knowing the stringent level of security patrons are subject to catches not only the real threats but also the unintended items that are prohibited.
Um. Not.
Lets for a second overlook the fact that both of these instances took place at airports close to our nations’ Capitol (arguably one of the country’s most likely targets), and instead assume that airport security is equally diligent at every airport regardless of size, location, or likelihood of threat.
I don’t care if someone is carrying something as arbitrarily as a tube of toothpaste (which is prohibited in carry-on bags I recently learned) or as serious as plastic explosives. If it’s prohibited for a reason then there’s a strong enough reason to catch it in peoples stuff, unless the US government has gotten into the business of making unnecessary or ominous regulations.
Oh wait…
The fact of the matter is that airport security hinges on the illusion of security, not actual security. I mean is it really necessary for me to take off my Pumas to get through the metal detectors? No. But why do they do it? Because it makes it seem thorough. And who came up with the 8oz or whatever-it-is rule. You can’t tell me that 9oz of liquid explosives would have a noticeably different effect than 8oz. I know my forensics experience is equivalent to a handful of CSI episodes, but I have a feeling that if any size explosion were to take place on a plane at twenty thousand feet, that plane is probably going to need to come down. But what do I know?
So my advice to you if you’re contemplating flying somewhere is this: Either fly knowing you’re not as safe as you know you should be or save the money, go to Blockbuster and rent a movie about the destination and have a cold beer while you live vicariously through the characters from the comfort and safety of your own living room, no TSA required.

For the Love of Sports on TV

2009-06-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

Sports are great. That’s no secret. We watch sports at my house constantly. Football, baseball, hockey, basketball, and even racing are viewed by my two roommates and I from our two overstuffed couches. Last night was game 1 of the NBA finals. Orlando and L.A. I will shelve my distain for Kobe for just a moment to make a simple and seemingly universal request.
Can we please get sports announcers who aren’t completely void of entertainment qualities?
I am so sick of watching and listening to sports personalities ‘analyze’ what’s going on, when I can see for myself what’s going on. You don’t need to tell me that Kobe just bricked a three point shot. I just watched it.
It would be so much better for sports if the analysts actually contributed somewhat to the aspects of the game. Now, I’m not suggesting that Mark Jackson actually suit up and commentate from the floor of the NBA finals, but what’s wrong with a little trash talking between commentators. What’s wrong with the commentators showing a little favoritism (I’ll get to Dick Vitale in just a second)?
I’ve been saying for some time now how much I would like to see commentators talk about games just like one of the guys talk about it from the living room. “Yo, Mark. Pass me another beer so I can drink away the embarrassment of watching the Eagles get pounded by the Rams.”
“I could find five girl scouts that can pitch better than the Mets starting rotation.”
“Why does Tyler Hansborough constantly look like he hasn’t been laid in years?”
Think about how much more enjoyable sports would be to watch if two of the announcers where just talking trash to one another throughout the game! Can you imagine Marv Alberts sitting between Magic Johnson and Larry Bird as the Celtics play the Lakers? It would be epic. They’d make fun of each other, the players, other commentators; the possibilities are endless! And most important of all, it would add a new dynamic to the game. New dynamics equal more buzz and more buzz means more money. The monotone, emotionless sports casting just doesn’t cut it for me anymore.
And can we please bar Dick Vitale from talking about Duke? I mean Jesus dude. I really appreciate his enthusiasm but he’s too much and needs to leave. I’m just talking about average guys with sailors’ mouths sitting around watching the game. They could even take the stage at the arenas that are used for post game and halftime analysis and put a couch there so the dudes can watch and talk about the game in what would resemble a living room. They could still have all the cool statistics and trivia but it would sound a little more like this:
“Dude, you know who has the most career doubles in the 5th inning of a 4 game series when the team has flown cross country?”
“Your mom gets a double dose of lumber every fifth inning!”
Now that’s the kind of sports commentators I’d like to see.
But of course someone would make fun of the wrong target and regulations would come down and fines would have to be paid for obscenity or swearing. Basically the Fun Police, in the form of an overprotective annoying mother would complain, then get her book club involved and make such a huge deal about it until the only thing for Congressmen and women to do is say, “Okay, we’ll make laws changing this if you’ll just shut the hell up about it!”
But what could make the announcing even better, is if you put one of those anal moms on the sidelines with the dudes and just let the dudes push the envelope with her until she just goes off in fits of rage.
See, you’re more entertained already!