A Northeasterner’s Opinion on LA Fashion and Style

I was born and raised in New Jersey and before moving to LA last week had spent the last few years in Virginia. For me, decisions such as how to dress have always been based on one very simple question, “What do the ladies like?” In the straight laced Commonwealth of Virginia, this usually meant khaki pants, a button down shirt, and combed hair.

I wore this type of ensemble my very first night out in LA and it did not go over well, for it seems the women of Hollywood have embraced a look somewhere between multi-million dollar rock star and down and out homeless guy.

All night long I could see girls glancing at my hair and thinking, “Oh my God, you’ve gotten a haircut in the past month.” Then they would move down to my outfit, terribly disappointed that there were no visible holes or other indicators that I had slept in my clothes for the previous week.

Finally, they would move in for the ultimate test, getting close enough to realize that the smell emanating from my body was, gasp, soap! I had inadvertently committed the ultimate sin and bathed before the night’s festivities began.

Based on my research there are a few pointers I would give to anybody who wants to dress to impress on the LA club scene:

-Get tattoos. Lots of them. They don’t need to be good, relevant, or even identifiable, there just needs to be a lot of ink covering your arms, legs, and preferably neck.

-Wear an undershirt as a shirt. Once you’ve gone out and bought a six pack of wife beaters at the local Target don’t overcomplicate things by putting on a shirt over them. Keep it simple stupid.

- Stretch your earlobes with hideous metal piercings. A few weeks ago I would’ve wondered why anyone would want to do this. No longer. I now realize this is a great way to meet people. You can have conversations like, “Have you seen my earlobes? Oh, their hanging down by my chin. Thank you so much. It’s so hard to keep track of them these days.”

Those are my best observations thus far for anyone new trying to fit in with the fashion and style of Los Angeles. Rest assured that I will remain vigilant, and keep an eye out for any new trends that may emerge.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I found a guy on Craig’s List who will give me free tattoos in exchange for a couple platonic massages on his futon. Wish me luck.

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Why Presidential Politics & Professional Wrestling Don't Mix

In case you missed it last night, Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, and John McCain all appeared on World Wrestling Entertainment's Monday Night Raw program. As a man of the people and staunch populist, I concede that there is definitely something engaging about multi-millionaire presidential wannabes taking time out of their quest for the most powerful office in the world to pander directly to the unique block of voters who watches professional wrestling. While there was no face paint or spandex-that we know of-each of the three candidates mixed in catch phrases that would be near and dear to the hearts of WWE viewers.

Now, I'm not going to take this opportunity to trash professional wrestling fans as backwoods driving, confederate flag waving, Slim Jim eating, chromosome lacking, meth baking hicks, who would have a far better idea of what to do in their sister's bedroom than a voting booth. Okay, I couldn't resist, but let me confess that I used to be an avid supporter of WWE back when it was the World Wrestling Federation, and I still occasionally watch in hopes of spotting my favorite grappler, Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, who must be closing in on 70 years old.

The problem I have with this situation is the same I have with George W. Bush and the anti-intellectual factions that are quick to denounce any activity that requires one to wear a shirt as being both un-American and not in touch with the real people in the heartland. To me, presidential discourse and debate should be conducted at an extremely high level in terms of the language used, the issues discussed, and the forum selected. Instead of having an election that has devolved into nothing but wrestling promos, Daily Show guest spots, and Saturday Night Live skits, perhaps the candidates could actually spend that time opining on what to do about the plethora of issues facing our country.

Unfortunately, some will label my views as elitist, but I believe that sentiment could not be further from the truth. While I would like to see the quality of the political debate raised, I am also for increasing access to that debate. In a perfect world, it would be nice to see coverage that goes beyond twenty second sound bites, and really allows candidates a chance to lay out their proposals.

Secondly, and let me make this abundantly clear, presidents and presidential candidates are not like you and I, no matter how folksy they try to appear. So let’s end the charade of them pretending to be regular people, and hold them to a higher standard befitting a world leader. Perhaps having to look upwards instead of downwards when listening to our political candidates might raise the rest of us up in the process.

I realize my assertion that presidential candidates have no place in wrestling runs into a bit of slippery slope, and one might ask where the proverbial line is drawn. I'll be the first to admit that I cannot say with certainty in all instances whether a TV show or engagement is befitting of presidential politics. However, I can say with the utmost confidence that if the program involves one of the candidates asking the audience repeatedly if they can "smell what he is cooking?," then that is a solid indicator the line has been crossed.

[Hillary Clinton] [John McCain] [Barack Obama] [WWE] [Slim Jim] [Jimmy Superfly Snuka] [Daily Show]

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9 Signs Your Boss Thinks You're An Idiot

If you notice three or more of the following, it is time for you to start looking for a new place of employment. If you regularly experience all nine, like me, then I would skip any spontaneous meetings called by Human Resources.

1). He compares you to Jim Halpert from The Office. A brief description of Jim: "A seven-year veteran of Dunder Mifflin, Jim insists the job is just an extended stop on his career path and once stated that if it were his career, he would throw himself in front of a train."

2). He enters your cube without knocking and simply stands behind you for several seconds with a perverse look on his face, swaying back and forth like a giddy school girl at a Justin Timberlake concert. He breaks the silence by asking, "Whatcha doing?," hoping beyond all hope that it's something not work related.

3). He tells you that you look bored in meetings, and that he knows you care, however you don't show it, and he's just telling you this because he wants other people to know how much you care. Sadly, for the record, you don't care.

4). He'll grow frustrated speaking with you and change the topic of the conversation from the project at hand to sports, leaning back into his chair and letting out a sigh, while asking your opinion of the playoffs, or Super Bowl predictions for 2011.

5). He uses you in analogies to describe tasks that are impossible. For example, with a deadline he believes cannot be met, he'll say something along the lines of, "That would be like asking Bradley to write a Supreme Court brief." After a moment of awkward silence, he'll feel bad, and come clean that he probably couldn't write a Supreme Court brief either.

6). He'll blatantly spy on you and then pretend to have randomly discovered the information in the course of his day. So he might say, "I was just talking with Mr. Smith about an unrelated matter, and you're name came up, and Mr. Smith told me that you need to be more of a presence in the room when you lead meetings." Translation: "I had specifically instructed Mr. Smith to watch every second of your performance before reporting back to me with a detailed e-mail, in which he noted that your meeting lacked the spirit crushing formality and anal reminders that are hallmarks of the legal profession."

7). He tells stories where the "whole team" was working really hard, but stops to point out that you were not present. He then goes on a tangent to describe what you were doing instead of work, ie attending a hockey game, going out to dinner with family, sitting in a room alone while having sexual thoughts about the corporate logo.

8). He vaguely mentions a promotion during a random office conversation, and never re-visits the topic again. When you try to bring up the subject months later, he makes blanket pronouncements about how cost concerns are putting a freeze on advancement for current employees. Two weeks later your co-worker, who has been wtih the company half the time you have, is promoted.

9). He tells you that he foresees you someday in a position with the government, basically saying you are lazy, wasteful, and lacking the intellectual capacity to hold down a private sector job where one can be let go for such shortcomings.

Feel free to add your own signs.

[The Office] [Dunder Mifflin] [Jim Halpert]

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Online Dating Lessons: A Picture Is Worth More Than A 1,000 Words

Between 2003 and 2005, I posted profiles on numerous internet dating sites. From the mainstream cattle call that is Match.com, to the oddball appeal of the Onion personals, to the Hassidic loving goodness surrounding J-Dates, if there was a web site out there where one could insert a picture and a 300 word description, then I was probably on it.

The allure of these sites did not stem from personal desperation or the quest for a soul mate, but rather from my own notions of maximized efficiency. In other words, I liked the idea that while I was working, driving, or even sleeping, there was still a part of me out there trying to pick up women.

During these two years I learned that these women in question are, to nobody’s surprise, a mixed bag of varying quality, both in terms of physical appearance and personality. Being a shallow man, the main tool at my disposal for separating the wheat from the chaff was pictures, as I would generally ignore the written word in favor of time spent gawking at the professional pic, the party pic, and, with any luck, the much cherished bikini pic.

So for those still involved in the online dating scene, here is a little wisdom on interpreting photos from a guy who learned that one person’s “average” can very easily be another’s “morbidly obese.”


WOMEN TO AVOID

The head shot-A close up that extends from the forehead to the chin, usually not revealing anything more than a neckline. If she’s consistently hiding her body that means she’s either tired of men drooling over her flab free curves and ignoring her mind, or she’s got a lot to hide. In the online world, assuming the latter is a pretty safe bet.

The princess shot-Usually these girls will be preening in their most expensive outfits and on occasion they go so far as to actually wear a tiara, just in case you don’t get that they think of themselves as having descended from noble bloodlines, and thus should be treated in a manner consistent with their lofty heritage. Warning: If you ask these girls why a princess studies psychology at the local community college and drives an Accord they can be quick to anger.

The funny face shot-Some women really like to show their personality by making a goofball expression that distorts their features and inspires a chuckle, but sadly they are frequently the only ones amused. If I want a girl to make me laugh I’ll watch Sarah Silverman, otherwise, I would like to know what her face looks like with her eyes pointed forward and her tongue somewhere near her mouth.

The I’m with a guy shot-These lasses will frequently be shown sitting on the lap of that special someone, in a moment of affection probably mere seconds prior to him hauling her into the nearest rest room and ravishing her. This picture on a dating site evokes a common misunderstanding between the sexes, so allow me to clarify: When a woman sees a guy with a girl she is intrigued, when a man sees a girl with a guy he couldn't care less.

The I’m with a baby shot-A lot of girls will pose with children who don’t belong to them, which I’ve always found weird. Call me crazy, but when I first evaluate a girl, in person or online, my mental checklist isn’t hometown, favorite movie, skills necessary to effectively nurture offspring and ensure their sustained growth even in the harshest conditions. Check.

The I’m with my pet shot-These photos normally feature a proud pet owner cradling Fido or Meme the cat against their cheek so tenderly that it resembles an almost filial embrace. This type of girl already has love, which means that you will always be the clear #2 in her life to an animal that spends much of its day scavenging the carpet for crumbs and licking its crotch, behaviors she will surely not tolerate out of you. Think of your role more along the lines of financial support and potential breeding stock.

[Online Dating] [Sarah Silverman] [Match.com] [J-Dates] [The Onion]

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How To Survive A Home Invasion

I live in a supposedly safe neighborhood in the suburbs of Virginia, but on a chilly Saturday afternoon this illusion was shattered. It was 4pm and I was taking a nap, exhausted after having been awake for two hours that day, when I was roused from my slumber by the apartment door being opened. The footsteps grew louder as they moved from the hallway to the living room, the kitchen, and, ultimately, the bathroom, which is located adjacent to my bedroom. I then heard the bathroom door slam shut followed by the ding of the toilet seat being lowered.

At this point most people might start to panic, but my first reaction was more of annoyance at my nap being disturbed. In my groggy state, I probably figured that one of the Mexican laborers employed by the complex just needed a quick bathroom break. After the swoosh from the toilet my confidence in this theory rose before being dashed after hearing the distinctive spray of moisture pelt the tile walls that encase the tub. Using my toilet was one thing, but apparently a shower is where I draw the line, so I got out of bed and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Hey man, what are you doing in my bathroom?" I yelled, until a slew of non-sensical gibberish erupted from the other side. It was at this moment I decided I needed help, so I grabbed my cell phone and ran outside to call 911.

911: Arlington 911 what is your emergency?

Me: There is an intruder inside my apartment.

911: Okay sir. Are you still in the apartment?

Me: No, I'm outside. The intruder is in the apartment in my bathroom.

911: The intruder is in your bathroom?

Me: Yes, he's taking a shower.

911: A shower (mumbles)...What was he doing before taking a shower?

Me: He was...he was using my toilet.

911: Oh.

(Silence)

Me: Can you send somebody?

911: Um, yes, we'll have somebody over there right away sir. Stay calm.

Ten minutes later I was joined by two squad cars in the driveway. Four officers emerged and made their way to meet me. Three of the officers were overweight, middle-aged women, and the other was an elderly gentleman celebrating his last day on the job.

Once I updated the officers on the situation, they decided that "we" should check it out. Following police protocol, I led the officers into my apartment where we encountered a middle-aged African gentleman emerging from my shower, clothed in nothing but one of my towels. In his right hand was a half-empty beer from my fridge. Obviously comfortable in his surroundings, he glanced at us and indignantly asked, "What are you doing in my father's apartment?"

The four officers looked at me until I took the opportunity to remind them that this was in fact my apartment, and they should probably apprehend the intruder. They moved in to corner the invader and were met with resistance. A struggle ensued and the result was the four officers and the now naked intruder rolling around on my carpet until they could restrain him minutes later.

Still naked, but handcuffed, the perpetrator was escorted into the hallway while the retiring officer cracked penis jokes (My favorite: What does a man with a twelve inch dick eat for breakfast? Answer: I normally eat bacon and eggs). One of the female officers then re-entered the apartment with a camera to survey the damage.

She took photos of the used towel and the empty beer bottle left behind on my white rug. We moved into the bathroom, finding that the man had mangled my shower door and used my toothbrush, which created two more Kodak moments. Then the officer's face froze, and I could see her eyes reluctantly move down to my toilet, at which point she hesitantly asked, "Is that from you?" I looked down and my toilet seat was completely black. I dejectedly replied "no," and stood with shoulders slumped as the officer snapped the photo.

I signed a couple a papers and answered some standard questions before the officers decided it was time to escort my new best friend to the station. Along with memories, they left me an empty beer bottle, used towel, broken shower door, a shared toothbrush, a rug dry humped into submission by a naked African beneath a thousand pounds of sweaty cops, not to mention a toilet seat that all the bleach in America couldn't whiten.

Next time I'll probably just lock the door.

[Home Invasion] [Police] [Toilet]

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A Straight Guy Reviews Dancing With The Stars

I know I'm a little slow when it comes to keeping pace with the latest TV juggernauts, or the "water cooler" shows that people are always discussing, dissecting, and downright obsessing over. For example, I've never seen more than a few minutes of 24, The Wire, House, Entourage, Sex and the City, The Office, Friends, American Idol, and, to my great embarrassment due to my Italian American heritage and Jersey roots, The Sopranos.

Part of the reason might be that I still love 80s TV. To me, the greatest show ever aired was Airwolf on NBC from 1984-87. The premise was brilliant, revolving around a top secret government super weapon that was part helicopter, part jet. And who is the perfect person to pilot this expensive and lethal piece of state of the art equipment? Why none other than Stringfellow Hawke, a role capably managed by raging alcoholic Jan Michael Vincent, only a few short years before he started crashing his car into private residences.

Vincent's right hand man and co-pilot on these adventures was Ernest Borgnine. In my humble opinion, you can keep Maverick from Top Gun, Borgnine is the greatest co-pilot in entertainment history, and there is nobody I'd rather have letting me know there's a heat seeking missile on my tail at twelve o'clock then the stout former McHale's Navy star and current 91 year old AARP member.

In spite of this nostalgia for 80s TV, I felt the need to expand my horizons, to branch out and soak in the sweet nectar that is a modern television hit. So I decided to tune into Dancing with the Stars on Tuesday night for the ladies competition. Being secure in my masculinity, and having taken a free salsa class from the world renowned dancer Rosa De La Hurricana at the Landmark Mall in 2005, I felt confident that I could handle watching an hour of one of ABC's hit programs.

In reality, I struggled through fifteen minutes, and finally shut off the TV in disgust after a close up of Steve Guttenberg, who was either an enthusiastic audience member, or one of the male contestants.

On the positive side, there were a lot of exposed nipples throughout the show, unfortunately, they all belonged to dudes. I am not a homophobe, but for the sake of diversity is it to much to ask for there to be one straight guy on the program. All the men were either clearly flaming, or had an indecipherable European accent, which in my mind also makes them gay.

As far as the ladies themselves, I caught the performances of former Olympic figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi, deaf Academy Award Winner Marlee Matlin, and rock royalty Priscilla Pressley. I have no idea what dances they did or what music accompanied them, however, I do know that I would probably have sex with all three, even Priscilla, who at 64 remains a definite GILF.

Looking back upon the experience, I am glad that I got at least a brief glimpse into the world of modern entertainment, where lavish sets and high resolution pictures are buttressed by non-stop hype machines saturating the market. That said, I don’t think I'll go back anytime soon, since I can always catch a show from the 80s on re-runs or DVD. Say what you want about the quality of Airwolf, outside of the occasional shot of Ernest Borgnine in a wife-beater, it’s always nipple free.

[Dancing With the Stars] [The Wire] [Entourage][Sex and the City][The Office][American Idol][The Sopranos] [Airwolf] [Jan Michael Vincent][Ernest Borgnine][Maverick] [Top Gun] [Marlee Matlin][Priscilla Presley][Kristi Yamaguchi]
[Steve Guttenberg]
[GILF]

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I Got Beat Up By Pauly Shore

I was in Los Angeles over the weekend for work. It's a hazy twilight, and before the sun can disappear beneath the downtown smog one of my co-workers suggests grabbing a drink. Being tourists, we decide to go to the only place we've heard of from TV and Motley Crue videos; the Sunset Strip.

Although Google Maps says the trip will take 15 minutes, we get there in an hour, which we would later learn is actually decent. I get out of the car and am quickly bombarded with the aroma of posh restaurants serving tiny plates of intricately laid out cuisine to groups of effeminate guys in sports coats and incredibly hot women in fuck me heels. I am starting to like it here.

My co-worker and I walk, and the further we walk, the more the Strip starts to change. Slowly the trendy boutiques and bistros are replaced by grimy rock clubs and leather themed clothing stores. Joe Cellphone and his sport coat are no more, as punk rock kids with pink Mohawks and socially conscious t-shirts now own the territory. The women are still incredibly hot.

Being two lawyers in ties, we glance at the surroundings, and then quickly retreat back to yuppyland. We are standing outside of a bar called the Saddle Ranch when I notice a comedy club next door. As my eyes scan the ascetics they stop on a small, mousey figure in a blue shirt leaning against the railing of the club's deck.

"Is that Pauly Shore?" I blurt out.

My co-worker gives me a look that suggests he doesn't give a shit, but I am determined to confirm my initial impression. I begin walking towards the deck and my co-worker follows me. When I get to within a couple feet the figure by the railing turns to face me.

I will never forget that look. He was definitely older, with a receding hairline and large black circles under his eyes, but he still had the same smart ass smirk. There was no longer any doubt, I was in the presence of the original Weasel himself. Soon Pauly is joined on the deck by a tall, incredibly beautiful blonde in a tight top. Call me slow, but I'm starting to see a theme in LA.

My co-worker and I stand and stare. Pauly and his gal pal finally notice us, and they don't look pleased.

"Is there something I can do for you?," Pauly says, his voice lacking the exuberant tone and syllable stretching inflection of his MTV days.

"No," I reply.

"Then why don't the two of you stop staring and turn around," Pauly says.

My co-worker starts to leave, however I stand my ground in an aggressive posture. I’m not sure whether it was the stress of adapting to a new environment or being told off by the star of Bio-Dome, but Pauly’s words leave me incensed.

"Fuck you, you no talent has been," I say, stunning myself and my co-worker, who is now about three feet behind me.

And this is when Pauly goes from mildly peeved to straight ballistic.

"Okay, now we have issues," Pauly says while hopping over the railing and running towards me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see my co-worker take off. I begin to raise my fists in a defensive posture, but I’m too slow, as Pauly leaps high in the air and brings his foot crashing down into my chest.

The force sends me straight onto my back, and I can see Pauly standing over me. Without any wasted motion he grabs my collar, lifts me up over his head, and then slams me against the brick wall of the comedy club, where he begins punching me in the face with lightning fast jabs and devastating right crosses.

I grow increasingly dazed, and blood starts entering my field of vision. Every once in a while I can see a sadistic smile on Pauly's face, or hear him ask me in profanity laced language whether I've learned my lesson, whether I've learned that the Weasel is far from a 90s novelty act.

At this point, I am no longer trying to defend myself. I am simply in survival mode. I finally fall to the ground, where Pauly's starts kicking me.

"Alright, he's had enough Pauly!" the blonde from the deck shouts.

"Shut up bitch, or you'll be next," Pauly retorts, as he continues pummeling my ribs with his size 5 Men's shoe.

“How do you like that buddy-y!?” “How do you like that!?” Pauly howls, as his words usher me to unconsciousness.

8 hours later I wake up in the hospital. The doctors tell me I've got a bruised sternum, 2 broken ribs, a concussion, and a nasty gash over my left eye. According to their medical expertise, I'm going to be released in another day or two.

The cops also pay me a visit. The Chief is the first fat guy I've come across out here, which makes me think he's from the East Coast. He asks me to tell him my story for a report. When I finish recounting to him everything I've said to you, he looks at his note pad in disgust and shakes his head.

"Pauly Shore again," he mumbles to himself before slowly heading out into the hallway.

I lie back into my morphine induced bliss and close my eyes. I love LA.

[Pauly Shore] [Sunset Strip]

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Why Do Old Black Women Love Me?

I love the ladies, but my relationship with the opposite sex has been notoriously rocky. From my long period of forced celibacy-some people refer to this period as the 90s-to the good times that stretched from October to November of 2006, I have always tried to maintain a positive attitude during both moments of bounty and need.

This attitude includes being open to different types of women, regardless of race, ethnicity, or religion. When it comes to maintaining this spirit of opportunity, I find that among my friends I fall into the middle of a pretty wide continuum. For some of my boys, they will reject a girl based on an exhaustive set of criteria that Heidi Klum would have difficulty meeting. For others, a pulse and feminine gender seem to be the only key factors, as these walking Ellis Islands are loathe to turn away a willing partner, and should wear shirts reading, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses."

While my experience has taught me to avoid stereotyping, I can't help but notice that there is one group of women who really seems to love me, and that's mature black women. Over the last few years, smitten black beauties with some extra miles on their tires have bought me free drinks at restaurants, snapped my picture for holiday cards, and giddily squeezed my biceps as though they belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his pre-Last Action Hero Days.

The fervor is such that if you locked me in a house with Della Reese, Oprah, Toni Morrison, and the cast of Waiting to Exhale, there would be so many cat fights and hookups that Flavor Flav would be embarrassed. Thus far, no other girl, much less group of girls, has come close to matching this level of affection.


Even after years of observation, the reason behind this infatuation remains a mystery. If I had to speculate, I would say that the source might be my very fair, milky white skin tone combined with my clean cut, conservative attire. I think this look may be highly appealing to black women who grew up in an era before rap impresarios and moguls, when white men in suits were considered the epitome of wealth and success. Or maybe I'm simply mistaken as being albino, its hard to say.

Whatever the cause, I sincerely appreciate the attention, and hope the phenomena continues well into my nursing home days, so that I can at least get some senior center action prior to the great beyond. Until then, my only wish is that women in other demographics start taking notes on how I should be treated, because while black is beautiful, there's still a whole rainbow of girls out there.

[Waiting To Exhale] [Toni Morrison] [Della Reese] [Flavor Flav] [Last Action Hero] [Ellis Island] [Heidi Klum]

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I Beat People Up In My Sleep

The period when you first start sleeping with someone is a fascinating time in any blossoming relationship, and I'm not talking about just the sex. I'm talking about the actual sleep. The reason being that when you’re sleeping, you have no idea what's going on, and no control over what you’re doing. In some ways, falling asleep beside a person can be an act of greater intimacy and trust than the sex itself.

In my current relationship with Mandi, we are now at the point where we spend two to three nights a week in the same bed. What is it like sleeping with me you ask? Well, according to Mandi, I have a few quirks.

One is that I like run in my sleep, as I will lie flat on my back and vigorously move my legs in a cylindrical motion for ten to twenty minute intervals. If that weren't enough exercise, she has also informed me that I occasionally throw punches while running, some of which have actually hit her in the head and arms. Although I was initially skeptical of this claim, Thursday morning I saw the fresh welts with my own eyes.

While I am sprinting and engaging in nocturnal fisticuffs, Mandi is not exactly lying motionless beside me. She has this habit of turning her body every five minutes, starting on her back, moving to her side, re-positioning to her stomach, before finally returning to her back. The problem is that she frequently takes the covers with her, wrapping them around her body like she was in her own little cocoon. I know this because I frequently wake up freezing in the middle of the night, and will look over to find her in the midst of a rotation, as the blankets that used to be mine tightly coil around her frame.

The two of us sleeping together must be quite a sight, and I've considered shooting a video. It might not be as raunchy as something from the Pam/Tommy Lee or Paris Hilton genre, but it would have all the elements necessary for internet success, including violence, theft, and a hairy, half naked guy running in his sleep.

[Pamela Anderson] [Tommy Lee] [Paris Hilton]

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Mom Told Me To Visit A Psychiatrist

I called my Mom yesterday for one of our bi-weekly chats. The conversation normally follows a pretty standard format, where Mom checks to make sure that I am fulfilling the basics laid out in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, from eating to sleeping to avoiding laying on the couch while wallowing in my own filth. I then dutifully respond to her queries with a quick, monosyllabic answer along the lines of “yes” or “fine.” At this point, Mom will embark upon a ten minute tirade over the house’s chronically leaky roof, cursing my father who designed the roof, our comically incompetent Indian roofer Ganesh, and God in his role as the creator of moisture.

Apart from the fact that conversations with my Mom have changed little since I was sixteen, the call yesterday was interesting because after complaining about the roof, she took the discussion in an unprecedented direction.

Mom: Do you think it would be helpful if you talked to someone?

Me: I am.

Mom: No, I meant a psychiatrist, like Frasier.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Their not just for crazy people anymore. Maybe you’d feel better.

Me: Hmm.

Mom: Believe me, I’m going to have to visit one if this stupid roof keeps leaking…

Mom’s suggestion was disturbing because, like most parents, she has always viewed my idiosyncrasies through a rose colored prism. This meant that when I was growing up, my weight problem was attributed to “husky genes,” my deficiencies in school were the result of “not being challenged,” and the many stains that appeared on my bedspread during puberty were simply “toothpaste.” These past denials tell me that if she came right out and mentioned a shrink, she must think I’m pretty fucking nuts.

It also hurt because I really don’t want to let her down. As her only child, I am the sole measure of whether or not she was competent at child rearing, a task our society regards as an adult’s most important responsibility. Conversely, if a family has ten kids, and three are a success, then the parents would be batting 300, a percentage normally sufficient to have a player enshrined into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For Mom, I’m her one swing, which is why I’ve actually considered her proposal.

My personal assessment is that I do not need to visit a psychiatrist, a conclusion I reached after a day of self reflection and a few moments staring at my WWTCD bracelet (What would Tom Cruise do?) However, I do need to change the way I communicate with Mom.

In particular, I am going to try to listen to her inquiries, and respond with thoughtful and complete answers that actually stretch into sentences. I am going to ask her questions, and move beyond topics such as my eating habits and laundry status. I am also going to fire Ganesh, and replace him with someone who can actually fix the roof, which will hopefully help both Mom and I maintain our sanity for a long time to come without the need for professional intervention.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

[Frasier] [Tom Cruise] [Abraham Maslow][Baseball Hall of Fame]

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Tale of the Tape: David Hasselhoff vs. Roger Clemens

Today I was sitting in the cube thinking about two of my favorite people, Roger Clemens and David Hasselhoff. In particular, I spent an hour going back and forth over which one of them is the bigger star. For newcomers to my blog, you should be aware that, yes, I hate my job, yes I have too much free time, and yes, these are exactly the types of pointless issues I struggle with on a fairly regular basis.

I tried to compare both men based on an impartial set of criteria, and these are my findings.

NICKNAME

Hasselhoff: The Hoff

Clemens: The Rocket

Edge: Clemens

BELOVED BY

Hasselhoff: Tone deaf Germans

Clemens: Texas rednecks

Edge: Even

ASSOCIATES

Hasselhoff: bouncy blonde lifeguards, a talking car, puppies

Clemens: Brian Mcnamee, Andy Petite, lawyers

Edge: Hasselhoff

MORE MEMORABLE QUOTE

Hasselhoff: “There are many dying children out there whose last wish is to meet me.”

Clemens: “I think he misremembers”

Edge: Clemens

LESS EMBARASSING MOMENT

Hasselhoff: Videotape of being drunk eating a cheeseburger

Clemens: Accused of letting another man stick needles in his ass

Edge: Hasselhoff

BRIGHTER FUTURE

Hasselhoff: Vegas stage shows and Knight Rider cameos

Clemens: Prison

Edge: Even

According to my count there’s a tie, which is admittedly kind of weak. If anybody wants to cast the deciding vote, be my guest. If not, the debate may end, since I really need to delete this image of David Hasselhoff from my computer before IT security runs it's weekly porno sweeps. I'm all about uncomfortable moments, but even I would like to avoid a conversation with my boss about why I keep an image of a naked, puppy covered Hoff on my desktop.

[Roger Clemens] [David Hasselhoff] [Andy Petite] [Brian Mcnamee] [Knight Rider]

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States Worse Than New Jersey

I was born and raised in New Jersey. To me, the Garden State is more than just big hair, Italian gangsters, and funny accents. It’s more than an area of 8,729 square miles that has produced luminaries such as John Bon Jovi, Jack Nicholson, and Shaquille O’Neal. It’s more than the bastion of wealth that boasts an overly educated and high earning population, yet also has within it’s borders two cities ranked among the ten most dangerous in America. To me, the land mass that stretches from the Jersey shore to Hoboken produces people with an attitude, energy, and outlook on life so staggeringly unique that whenever I hear it’s name one word dominates my subconscious, and that’s home.

Even as an unbiased native, I’ll be the first to admit that New Jersey is not without its quirks. Those rolling hills bordering the turnpike are actually overflowing landfills (On the positive side it was recently announced that all our landfill space is full!). That guy walking down the street in an undershirt wasn’t planning on wearing anything over that. And a fat cat isn’t an obese feline, but rather a heart attack inducing sandwich comprised of two cheeseburgers, French fries, lettuce, tomato, and onions crammed onto a single sub roll.

I love all of these things, but living in Virginia the last few years, I’ve discovered that the sentiment is not mutual. In fact, there are a lot of folks around here who openly dismiss Jersey as an “armpit;” code for a festering black hole of shit from which nothing good could ever emerge.

I encountered one such hater two weeks ago, and upon our first meeting she had no trouble launching into a fifteen minute diatribe about what she believed to be the many deficiencies of my home state. When I inquired where she was from, she replied, “Indiana.” Sadly, such encounters with total ignorance are not unique.

So in an effort to combat the confusion that exists, I’m going to return the favor, and list all the states I’ve visited that are far worse than New Jersey.

1. Kentucky-Just take a look at who wears those, “Getting Lucky in Kentucky” t-shirts, multiply by 4 million, and you’ll understand.
2. Mississippi-The state with the worst education system inexplicably has the hardest name to spell.
3. Indiana-I’m naturally suspicious of any people who would willingly refer to themselves as “Hoosiers.”
4. Alabama-Here they go out of their way to recognize the things that are truly important, like God, football, and incest.
5. Delaware-Home of tax free shopping is the perfect target for annexation by New Jersey.
6. Utah-How a can a place filled with preachy Mormons, polygamists, and an NBA team have so little alcohol?
7. New Hampshire-State motto is Live Free or Die, and after visiting the latter option didn't sound so bad.
8. Arkansas-This state’s biggest industry is poultry farming, which makes it the perfect spot to visit if you happen to love chicken poop.
9. North Dakota-You know things are bad when your citizens are jealous of those who get to live in the frozen emptiness that is South Dakota.
10. Michigan-People here will show you their town’s location by pointing it out on their hand because they think it looks like the shape of the state. From what I’ve seen, they’d be more accurate using their ass.

[New Jersey] [Bon Jovi] [Jack Nicholson] [Shaquille O'Neal] [Indiana] [Michigan] [Arkansas] [Fat Cat] [Landfill]

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How Do You Help An Alcoholic Friend?

One of my best friends in recent years is a guy we’ll call Dan. Dan is an alcoholic. We met, of course, at a bar, where we were both trying to gain the attention of the same girl. I tried to engage her by asking if she had any interest in books, while Dan, staying true to his indomitable style, asked if she had any interest in sex. Shockingly, neither of us got the girl, but Dan and I hit it off and wound up exchanging numbers.

I’ve now known Dan for three years, and learned that he is actually two very different people. Sober Dan is quiet, contemplative, and regularly goes out of his way to help others. He enjoys watching Animal Planet on TV and working at his pizza shop. Drunk Dan is boisterous, rash, and crude beyond all belief. He enjoys alcohol, women, and more alcohol. These personalities are so different it’s hard to fathom that ten Bud Lights are all that separates them.

In spite of this contradiction, I’ve seen the transformation happen a lot, as Dan and I go out to bars once or twice a week. On those nights, Dan will be drinking when I arrive at his apartment, and he will also drink in my car on the way to the venue. In fact, like a cagey squirrel, Dan has mastered the art of hiding beer in my car, as I have discovered bottles in the trunk, under the seat, and, my personal favorite, in the glove compartment where I keep my license and registration.

Dan’s roommate, John, is also a lush, and at 3am they will frequently start wrestling, demand Taco Bell, or both. For example, last week they were able to order without incident, but at the pickup window John put Dan in what he called a “rear naked choke.” Dan responded by getting out of the car and challenging John. John’s response was to charge Dan, knocking him into the bushes where they would spend the next twenty minutes grappling. Unfortunately, I didn’t have money to pay for their Cheesy Beefy Melts, and the ten cars behind me started honking, while I did the best I could to avoid the glare of the drive-through cashier, a young, cross-eyed Asian guy, who probably thought earlier in the day that life couldn’t get any worse.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about Dan’s drinking, my role as an enabler, and what, if anything, I can do to help him quit. Having raised the subject of alcoholism to him before on numerous occasions, I know that when confronted Dan will acknowledge he has a problem, tell me “I’m ten years too late,” and then quickly change the subject. I’ve considered not driving Dan to the bar anymore, however I fear he will attempt to drive himself, or turn to John, who is no better an option.

So that’s where the situation currently stands. If anyone has any suggestions they would be greatly appreciated, since I have no experience dealing with alcoholism and am completely out of ideas. Until then, I don’t see anything changing, and Dan’s steady deterioration will continue.

[Alcoholism] [Taco Bell] [Animal Planet]

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To Dye or Not to Dye: A 30 Year Old Guy Battles Grey Hair

It used to be that worrying about one's appearance was a strictly female enterprise. These days, the paradigm has shifted, and this has placed men in an interesting position. We are post Queer Eye and the metrosexual revolution, where gay dudes taught us that we could manscape and spend $80 for shirts, yet a little of the sagging and plumping that accompanies normal male aging is still considered distinguished, even sexy, by a certain segment of the female population.

These parallel lines of reasoning presented me with a quandary when I noticed my first grey hair earlier this year. The tipping point in favor of action came when one of my company’s interns referred to me as “sir.” Sir! While ideally she would have referred to me as the “cool guy who is going to come over later and tear through me like a tornado in a Texas trailer park,” any vulgarity or profane adjective that comes to mind would have been far preferable to sir, a designation she probably reserved for old men of her father’s generation.

My initial plan to combat the grey involved plucking them out with tweezers I bought at the local supermarket after telling the cashier a long winded story about how my girlfriend needed them because they caused her less irritation than traditional waxing. Having procured the tweezers, and befuddled the cashier, I would spend fifteen minutes every week in front of a mirror searching for and removing any grey hairs I could find. Although I did this alone, I began feeling somewhat self conscious, and mentioned this weekly ritual to my doctor. His response was, “I wouldn’t worry. My wife does that.”

After having been completely emasculated by my doctor, along with his wife, I stopped plucking and decided to explore the world of over the counter dyes. I went to the drug store with my friend “Irish” Patrick for support. Irish was 29, had a similar issue, and was considering the possibility of splitting a bottle of Just For Men. We have different hair colors, as mine is black, and his is brown, but we figured we might be able to get a shade in the middle, saving ourselves some cash in the process.

The selection we encountered was staggering. Everywhere you looked there was a box adorned with a rugged guy enjoying the freedom and confidence his newly invigorated coif provided. In spite of this initial optimism, things went downhill fairly quickly. Irish and I couldn’t agree on an intermediate shade, and then all of the products I saw for my hair color featured black guys with beards and jheri curls. Twenty minutes later we would leave the store empty handed.

So that’s where I'm at right now. On a theoretical level, I believe that human beings should age naturally, without the use of artificial means to preserve an image that is hollow and vain. On a more practical level, I like dating 21 year old girls, which means my battle against grey hair will continue.

[Just For Men] [Metrosexual] [Manscaping] [Jheri Curl] [Queer Eye] [Grey Hair] [Richard Gere]

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Warning: Barak Obama Can Be Addictive

Living in the Washington, DC area for the better part of five years, I have witnessed my share of rabid political supporters, from the conservative Christian base of George W. Bush, to the liberal feminists lined up behind Hillary Clinton, to the roving bands of Oompa Loompas that follow around Dennis Kucinich and his hot young trophy wife. However, I have never seen anything comparable to the unmitigated devotion inspired by Barack Obama in recent weeks.

Obviously, Obama, as the first serious African American contender for President, has been drawing a tremendous following from the black community, spearheaded by none other than all powerful Oprah, but what has been most amazing to me is the wide cross section of Americans who have been streaming into the Obama camp. I had two experiences this weekend that cemented this view of Barack as the Real Uniter.

The first took place near the mall, as I walked past a group of Puerto Rican youths gathered around their cars and blasting music with a thumping baseline. Being somewhat ignorant, and an avid watcher of the nightly news, I thought that the assemblage was gang activity, or at the very least an impromptu car wash.

Upon closer inspection, I was shocked to find that the meeting was political in nature, with people holding up signs reading "Obama for President" and "Obama para presidente." Eventually, the Hispanic teenagers were joined by older white people, many of whom tapped their feet and reminisced about Jennifer Lopez's performance in Anaconda.

The second incident occurred over dinner at a Moroccan restaurant downtown. My friend's wife was celebrating her birthday, and one of their guests was a doctor from Israel. He entered the establishment clutching a picture of Barak with Hebrew writing that translated to "Barack for President." Apparently, he had decided to have this poster with him at all times until the election, and yet, somehow couldn't quite figure out why he didn't have a girlfriend.

Moments into the meal, a member of the Muslim wait staff came across the poster, and asked who it belonged to. Due to historical concerns, everyone at the table became anxious until the waiter broke into a toothy grin, announcing that he would also be voting for Obama. On this night, Barack’s power was such that he was able to bring together Muslim and Jew in a soulful duet of political kinship.

I am still firmly in the corner of John McCain, but if Barack's ability to garner support across the political and cultural spectrum is truly as strong as demonstrated this weekend, then he will be our next President. On the one hand, it makes me proud that as divisive and angry as our nation can sometimes be, we can move past those differences and elect an African-American President. On the other hand, it pisses me off that Oprah is right again. She already decides what we watch, what we read, and what we eat, and now she picks the president too.

We might as well prepare for a Dr. Phil/Steadman ticket in 2012. You heard it here first.

[Barack Obama] [Oprah Winfrey] [John McCain] [Dennis Kucinich] [Oompa Loompa] [Hillary Clinton] [Jennifer Lopez]

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Love Really Does Hurt

Thursday will be the first time this decade that I'm going to be spending Valentine's Day on a date. In previous years, I had been able to insure that I was either not in a relationship, or we happened to be on a "break" when February 14 rolled around. Things are different this year because Mandi, the girl I’m sort of seeing, proved to be a diabolically clever opponent.

Mandi laid the groundwork for her scheme about a month ago, after we had a discussion regarding how I hadn't been to a college basketball game since school. A few days later she called to tell me that she had purchased tickets for us to attend Georgetown vs. Villanova on February 11. When I first heard about the tickets, I was touched, and considered them to be a harmless gift borne out of an agenda free spirit.

Having had a chance to reflect, I now realize that she knew the obligation of the game would keep us together until the middle of February, and that this kind of shared experience, combined with the impending holiday, would prevent even the coldest of hearts from ignoring her on the 14th. In essence, these tickets conferred upon me admission not only to the game, but also to a Valentine's Day where I have to pay for candy, flowers, and dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t have a slogan along the lines of, “eating good in the neighborhood,” which means it will be expensive.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with Mandi; she’s a cool girl and we have a lot of fun together. However, there is a major sexual problem that threatens our relationship. Without getting too graphic, she has informed me that we don’t fit together very well, and she believes that this space issue, combined with my vigorous nature, may have caused her to suffer internal bleeding and bruising.

My reaction to her statement has been twofold. Firstly, I was surprised by her use of the adjective “vigorous” to describe my style, as I had previously heard ladies throw around terms like sweaty, surprising, methodical, and unorthodox, but never vigorous. Secondly, I can now definitively say that while there are many aphrodisiacs in this world, having a girl explain that you are causing her internal bleeding and bruising is not one of them.

In light of these obstacles, I suppose that this Valentine’s Day will be a test to see whether Mandi and I actually have a chance, or if we are simply two different people spending an evening together out of the fear of loneliness and the bonds of social obligation. Either way, due to our physical incongruity, there will likely be no sex at the end of the night, and if that’s the case, maybe we’ll wind up at Applebee’s after all.


[Love Hurts] [Internal Bleeding] [Valentine's Day] [Applebee's] [Villanova University] [Georgetown University]

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No IPOD: Am I Weird?

So I'm going to confess once and for all that I do not own an IPOD. That's right, no Shuffles, Touches, Nanos, MP3 players, or Minis, in any of the various colors, shapes, and sizes available. If you don't believe me, you can search my apartment, and even go into my closet, where you'll find no IPOD related undergarments, such as the IPOD boxer shorts or the new IPOP bra (link below).

http://www.pocket lint.co.uk/news/news.phtml/2964/3988/ipod-accessories-iron-ibra gadgets.phtml

How do I play mp3s when I'm at the gym or walking outside? I don't, I actually listen to what's going on around me, which can be beneficial. For example, if a car is coming straight at me while frantically honking its horn, I will hear it and move, whereas my hip friend entranced by the beats emanating from his 15GB Nano will not. Perhaps this is modern evolution via technology. Take that Galapagos turtles.

While we're on the subject of technology, I might as well also admit that I do not own a TIVO, a video game player, anything hi-def, a blue tooth, a flat screen TV, premium movie channels, Wi-Fi, a BlackBerry, a satellite dish, a home computer, or most of the other modern marvels that people claim they can't live without. My cell phone does not flip, nor does it feature a camera with any megapixels to speak of. I do have a DVD player, but it is of such low quality that I have seen better in the shopping cart of the local homeless man whom I pass every morning at the bus stop.

I have been informed by my new blogging friends that many of you reading this admission will find my circumstances quite strange, particularly since most in the blogger community are quite savvy when it comes to the latest gadgets. While I understand your amazement, from my perspective, waiting in line for the privilege of being among the first to plop down $400 for an IPhone, or spending all day at the Apple Store salivating over the selection of products would feel equally weird.

Basically, I've gotten along okay for 30 years being firmly entrenched behind the technology curve, and I don't see myself changing any time soon. Of course, if somebody ever buys me a pair of IPOD boxers, then perhaps I'll have to make an exception.

[IPOD] [Galapagos Turtle] [BlackBery]

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The End of Will Ferrell?

Like a lot of you, I have been a staunch Will Ferrell supporter for many years, from his days as prodigious cowbell maven Gene Frenkle on Saturday Night Live, to his legendary performance as the excitable Frank "the Tank" in Old School, to the seminal moment in AnchorMan when his character Ron Burgundy reveals to the world that San Diego actually means whale vagina. However, I think that Will is starting to brush up against the wall many comedians face when their shtick goes from fresh and hilarious to tired and antiquated. Part of this transformation is actually a sign of distinction, that one's style of comedy has been so successful, and consequently imitated, that its no longer original.

To me, Ferrell's problem stems from over exposure and formulaic movie choices. Usually a comedian has only so much funny in him, or in extreme circumstances, none at all, ie Jimmy Fallon/Dane Cook. He can either stretch the funny out over several years, or work incessantly to produce as much content as possible over a relatively short period of time. Will has obviously taken the latter approach, and I think it was his lackluster Super Bowl commercial that finally broke me.

In case you didn't see it, Will was hawking Bud Light using the character Jackie Moon from his latest film, Semi-Pro. Jackie is a basketball player from the 70s, and for this role Ferrell really stretches, playing a guy with bad hair and a huge gut, who blurts out random, disjointed phrases with an assured glare that is quickly betrayed when his features reveal him contemplating a final moment of self-actualization as to his own absurdity!

This latest offering means that in only a few short years Ferrell's covered NASCAR, soccer, figure skating, and basketball. God Will, just because a sport exists doesn't mean you need to make a movie about it. Is jai-alai next on the agenda? What about pinochle? Nobody has done anything of note lately in the elderly women card game genre.

I realize that I'm doing quite a bit of hating here, but I'm hating because I care. As a fan, I don't want to watch Will Ferrell descend into the murky depths of safe, predictable comedy. Hopefully, if enough of us speak up the message will get through, and come next Super Bowl we'll be spared the sight of Will in full jockey regalia, selling Bud Light from atop a racing camel.

[Will Ferrell] [Jackie Moon] [Gene Frenkle] [Saturday Night Live] [Ron Burgundy] [Cowbell] [Whale Vagina] [Old School] [Jimmy Fallon] [Dane Cook] [Jai-Alai] [Pinochle] [Semi-Pro] [Anchorman] [Camel Racing]

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Super Bowl Sunday as the New Father's Day

I watched the Super Bowl yesterday at a friend’s house in Arlington. All of the attendees were Giants fans, with the exception of a lone, brooding Patriots fan who displayed the same arrogance and lack of sportsmanship we’ve come to expect from Belichick and company. Overall, it was a fun time, as there were plenty of people, beer, and cupcakes.

I was, and still am, shocked that the Giants won. Growing up in New Jersey, I’ve followed the team my entire life. While their victory was pleasing, this was not for me; this was for the hardcore fans. For those of you unfamiliar with the hierarchy of football fandom, allow me to break it down:

Hardcore fan: Daily uniform consists of red, white, and blue Giants zebra pants, white hi-top Reeboks, #56 jersey, mullet, and wrap around sun glasses. Staunchly anti-gay yet has nightly dreams of holding Phil Simms. Weeps after losses. Would attend Giants game over birth of first born child.

Regular fan: Watches most games on TV. Attendes one game per decade. Claps politely after Giants victory.

Speaking of first born children, not only was this a day for the hardcore Giants fans, but this was also a day for fathers. On a more personal level, I think about my friend who hosted the party. He has a 1 ½ year old son, and is a great Dad. From watching him and some other new Dads, I’ve picked up a few rites of passage that appear integral to modern fatherhood.

1). Once you have the baby, the first thing you do is go out and purchase a really good TV. I’m talking about a big screen, blue ray, Hi-def, surround sound monster complete with over a thousand channels and a TIVO.
2). Then you call up and order a piece of home fitness equipment, like a bow-flex or one of those total home gyms that claim you’ll get buff in only twenty minutes a day three times a week. The trick with this piece of equipment is you don’t actually use it, but you stick it in the corner of your basement, toss some clothes over it, and have it sitting there just in case you ever have the need to bang out some last minute bicep curls or leg extensions.
3). You get all kinds of baby equipment in manly colors. Diaper changers, baby carriers, and strollers now come in black, silver, and even camouflage for that Dad who still wants to look badass while cradling a newborn. Its like saying, “Once the little one finishes eating his stewed peas, and I change this diaper, you are so dead.”
4). Finally, you alter your speech patterns so that your voice shifts from a deep bass to a lighter, more delicate tone, making sure to end every other word in an “ey” sound. For example, whereas before you might say “Champ, put down that wire cutter before you get hurt,” as a new Dad you would say, “Champy, give Daddy the sharpy before you get an owy and go cry to Mommy.”

On a more national paternal level, I think about Eli Manning’s father Archie, who had to endure years of the fans and media lambasting his son Eli on everything from his performance to his aloof demeanor to his patchy facial hair, while his other son Peyton was winning a championship and being exalted as a football God in Indianapolis. Even Archie had to admit that Eli often looked like he was more cut out to be the assistant manager at a rural Georgia Waffle House than an NFL quarterback. Seeing brothers who were such polar opposites was a lot like the movie Twins, where Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character is perfect, a flawless specimen physically and mentally, while Danny Devito plays the short, unattractive brother described as being “all the crap that was left over.”

Prior to Sunday, Eli was in some respects the proverbial, “crap left over,” and I’m sure Archie had a few pep talks ready in case of a Giant’s loss. Fortunately, such speeches would prove unnecessary because Eli’s play propelled him into the stratosphere of New York sports legends. For Archie, the hardcore Giants fans, and all the other fathers out there, this Super Bowl victory exemplified the persistence, determination, and toughness they show every day. It also means that somewhere in Georgia there’s a Waffle House with an assistant manager opening, and it looks like their going to have to wait to fill it for at least one more year.

[Eli Manning] [Peyton Manning] [Archie Manning] [New York Giants] [Super Bowl] [Danny Devito] [Arnold Schwarzenegger] [Bill Belichick] [Phil Simms] [Waffle House]

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Addicted to Blogging

It started for me with a post on an early Tuesday morning. It was 2am, and I was exhausted, physically and mentally, as my head occasionally fell to the carpet, and my eyes strained to read an entire sentence. I knew I should be sleeping, not sprawled out in front of a computer screen in the middle of the living room, but I didn't give a shit. I had to finish. Finally close to satisfied, I pressed the publish button around 3:30am, and the exhilaration of seeing my article appear washed away the fatigue and left me with a sense of relief.

In the months since that initial post I've added numerous more. Any time I go beyond a day without writing I can actually feel myself weighed down by all the frustrated thoughts demanding to be expressed. And now that I've discovered blog layouts, color schemes, templates, and the host of nifty buttons available, its become even worse, because when I'm not writing I can still spend five hours searching the web for how to set up an RSS feed (If anyone has an idea please let me know).

So looking at the evidence, my conclusion is that I'm addicted to blogging, which is an odd thing for me to say because I'm not sure I've ever been addicted to anything, and believe me, I've tried. I don't think its to the point where the mental hospital will tie me up in a straight jacket, place that Hannibal Lecter contraption over my face, and have two staff members throw me into a rubber room with a couple CCs of sedatives coursing through my bloodstream for good measure, however, if I were forced to spend a couple days without being able as to so much catch a glimpse of my blog, I might be severely agitated.

It would be great if there were a nicer way of phrasing my fondness for blogging. I could suggest that I have a blog fetish, but to me, the term fetish always conjures images of whips and paddles and tall Nordic women snapping on latex gloves so that they can best punish you for being naughty. Something along the lines of blog obsession doesn't seem awful at first glance, but then I think about those cheesy black and white perfume ads where shirtless models on horses just whisper obsession incessantly to one another as they gallop across the countryside en route to nowhere. Other possibilities also fall flat; blog mania sounds like I'm going to don spandex and wrestle my blog, while blog infatuation creates the impression that I might sheepishly ask my blog if it will accompany me to the springtime formal.

I guess that after further review, blog addict might be the best term of the lot, and thus I will answer to it proudly. All that I ask is somebody give me notice prior to any sort of intervention; if I'm going to be busy for a few hours, I'd like to be able to get in a little blogging first.

[Addict] [Fetish] [Hannibal Lecter] [Mental Hospital] [Obsession] [Intervention]

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New Kids on the Block Must be Stopped

According to the investigative journalists over at Yahoo Headlines, the groundbreaking boy band New Kids on the Block will be re-uniting for a world tour. This means that somewhere out there, five special guys are getting shot up with Botox and fitted for new sequin vests, while hundreds of thousands of women in their 30s and 40s will soon be Hanging Tough and abandoning their children for the night so that they can rekindle the magic of decades past.

I was thirteen when the New Kids phenomena first hit. The girls in my eighth grade class talked about them incessantly, and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of each member’s personal information that extended from their favorite food to the color of their underwear. For those unaware of the phenomena, here is a breakdown of the group's members:

Jonathan Knight-The ring leader who ensures that everyone is focused on the gig at hand by shouting catchy phrases like “yeah” and “come on.”
Jordan Knight-The bland older brother kept around for supervision and in case anyone needs to serve jail time.
Danny Wood-The pseudo-ethnic complete with fake tan and gold chain. Often mistaken for limo driver/cook/housekeeping.
Donnie Wahlberg-The guy with premature facial hair who looks like he’s got a pot of meth and a fourteen year old backstage.
Joey McIntyre-The androgynous young heart throb. Took longer than a member of the girl’s Chinese gymnastics team to reach puberty.

The success of these five kids spawned not only lucrative albums and concerts, but dolls, lunch boxes, t-shirts, and anything else you could imagine affixing their image too and selling at a 2000% mark up. One girl actually trampled me, not out of malice, but because I was standing between her and her hot pink New Kids thermos that she had to show to her friends so that they could come in with one the next day. The fact that the thermos was empty, or that I was on the ground suffering from internal injuries, was irrelevant. More important than the merchandise, New Kids would create the blueprint for future acts like NSync, 98 Degrees, and Backstreet Boys, who carried the boy band mantle into the new millennium.

Looking back, my only regret is that no one stopped New Kids the first time around. I was merely a child, but where was everyone else? Where were the listeners of good music to combat the possessed pre-teen hordes? Where were the parents to tell their children that supporting certain musical acts was unacceptable and would result in grounding? Where were the Terminators? If the future could send them to fight over scruffy resistance leader John Connor, you would think that someone in 2050 would care enough to send them to stop New Kids and save the future from generations of shitty rip off acts.

But none of this happened. New Kids thrived, and if the reports are true, they’ll be back shortly. Although it seems as though it’s too late to put the breaks on NKOTB, perhaps their inherent suckiness can somehow be counter-balanced in the musical cosmos by the reunion of an amazing group. As far as I’m concerned, there is only band up to this challenge: Guns N’ Roses.


The original Guns N’ Roses, the one with Slash instead of that guy wearing a KFC bucket, is the only antidote to the bubble gum scented, streamlined pop of New Kids. In case you’ve somehow forgotten, absorb an eye full of the pic above, and you'll be reminded how every song on Appetite for Destruction reeked of booze, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. Mix in thrashing guitars and Axle Rose’s catchy, misogynistic lyrics, and you have arguably the greatest album of all-time.

I know there are challenges to a G&R reunion; particularly that everybody in the band hates Axle, and the original drummer, Steven Adler, had a drug induced stroke that left one side of his body paralyzed. However, money, time, and more money are known to heal major rifts among bandmates, and as for Steven, if Def Leopard can play with a one armed drummer, then I’m sure Guns could rig something that would work for Steve (Maybe saw a drum set in half, let him play with his good side, and then crazy glue a couple tambourines to his bad side).

Whatever the answers, a plan for G&R is needed, and quickly, because a New Kids on the Block reunion show may be coming to your town sooner than you think. Without at least the promise of a G&R concert in the near future, there will be nothing to sustain you if you happen to find yourself standing between a much older, much bigger, yet no less passionate New Kids fan and her thermos, a position just as dangerous today as it was in 1988.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/eonline/20080128/en_music_eo/3740734d8c3a_43e3_9959_6a0ee4d6832a

[New Kids on the Block] [Slash] [Guns N' Roses] [Axle Rose] [Backstreet Boys] [Def Leopard]

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Making Friends on the Internet

This a transcript from a brief online chat I had on Friday afternoon with a 34 year old Malaysian blogger inviting me to be his "friend" on Technorati.

START
Him: Hello
Me: Hey
Him: Do you have big peni?
Me: What?
Him: Do you hae big peni?
Me: Are you asking me if I have a big penis?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Dude, that is sick.
Him: No?
Me: Well, yes.
Him: So you have big peni.
Me: Listen, I'm not into that.
Him: We be friends.
Me: Uh, no.
Him: We be good friends no?
Me: No.
Him: Yes?
Me: No. I have to go.
Him: Chat later big peni?
Me: Never!
END

I think the best part of this conversation is that even though I was not down with this guy's indecent proposal, I still had to make sure he knew that my equipment is substantial. This will no doubt go a long way towards enhancing my rep in the notoriously fickle Malaysian gay community. And just in case there was any suspense, I ultimately declined his friend request. We haven't spoken since.

[Technorati] [Malaysia]

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Subtle Racism in Sports

I'm sick. I probably have a cold, a flu, or pneumonia, but I'm not sure how to tell the difference. All I know is that I've got a wicked cough that makes my throat seize up, my whole body aches, and I can feel the fluid building in my nose. Not helping matters is that my project at work involves cutting and pasting thousands of zip codes into a spreadsheet, a task my boss has told me may or may not actually be needed.

Along with the shitty job, I blame my illness on the excitement from football last weekend. I watched the Giants game with "Irish" Patrick, who grew up on a cattle farm outside of Galway, and spent the entire contest with a glazed look on his face. His only moments of excitement came when he showed me the Blade Trilogy DVD Box Set he had recently purchased, which he then pressed to his chest, as though he wished that somehow the former vampire hunter and current tax evader Wesley Snipes could suckle from his bosom until he was strong enough to shoot Blade 4. When the final whistle blew, and a Giant's win was secure, I began raising my arms in victory, while Irish turned to me and asked, "Is the game over?" Obviously, my attempts at assimilating him into American culture have a long way to go.

Something else I noticed that has a long way to go is sportscaster's vocabularies, particularly when it comes to describing certain players. Obviously, there's the notorious Kelly Tilghman "lynching" comment in regards to Tiger Woods that has drawn so much well-deserved publicity, but the kind of language I'm talking about is often more subtle in nature. All one has to do is watch a regular football or basketball game, and they will find TV analysts use certain words exclusively to describe white players and other words only for black players. These are just a few examples likely to be heard on any given broadcast:

White Player/Black Player
1). Scrappy/Has a swagger
2). Shifty/Explosive
3). Moves well in the pocket/A threat to run
4). Needs to get more athletic/Needs to get more fundamentally sound
5). Reminds me of Ricky Proehl/Reminds me of Randy Moss
6). Stiff/Fluid
7). Typical Coach's son/A natural athlete
8). Heady/Emotional
9). Hard worker/Has so much God given ability
10). There's Mom and Dad in the stands/The whole family is here tonight

Look out for such descriptions next time you watch sports on TV and I guarantee you'll recognize at least a couple of these stereotypes. This overlooked form of discrimination does not appear to be malicious, and probably exists at a subconscious level, however, a little imagination and persistence could make such statements relics of the past. Not that it matters for Irish Patrick; he's got nine hours of movies to re-watch before I make him sit through the Super Bowl.

[Super Bowl] [Racism] [Sports] [New York Giants] [Blade] [Wesley Snipes] [Black Athletes] [White Athletes] [Randy Moss] [Ricky Proehl] [Tiger Woods] [Kelly Tilghman]

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