The Fourth Kind

I’m nearly finished with the first year of my essay project, and after resolving last January to write an essay each week for a whole year, I’m nearing my first successful completion of any such New Years’ resolution. Looking back on the compendium of rants, raves and general irreverence that was my 2009, I’ve noticed a few things: (1) I have a penchant for lists of three, (2) I’ve left out some really good fourths, and (3) I never really revisit any topics - even after friends and family have commented on them and I’ve had a chance reflect and rethink. So, as an homage to the year that was, I’ve decided to unveil my top three fourths, er, not my top three quarters - well, you get what I mean.

So here they are - a year in review, of the things I left out:

Eyes, Eyes, Baby (A “fourth” for Shades of Lame)

Almost immediately after I published Shades of Lame, I realized that I had forgotten one of the most egregious and ridiculous sunglasses-related behaviors around, and with good reason. This particular bit of nonsense is not only not restricted to just southern California but I’m also fairly certain that it didn’t even start here. Every time I see this, I’m baffled by where such a trend may have originated, and how anyone might think that it actually looks o.k., let alone cool. And for what it’s worth, I’ve only ever seen this done by men - so ladies you’re off the hook (though your shades are all still way too big). I’m want to even come up with an adequately descriptive name for this eyewear inanity - but for now I think I’ll go with “high eyes”.

This is the practice of wearing one’s sunglasses just above your eyes, but still on your face. Now mind you, this is not wearing your sunglasses on top of your head; which while inadvisable and juvenile at least has some marginal amount of utility. But I can discern no practical purpose for leaving your shades on your face but not on your eyes. What’s more, it looks positively absurd - the same sort of absurd that I normally reserve for loud, bolt-on exhaust pipes on economy cars and skinny jeans for men.

After a brief survey, the leading candidates for answers to the proverbial and obvious question “WHY?” are the following:

1. While not necessarily needing the visual protection, the “high eyes” wearer still wants the fashion impact of their obviously cool shades;
2. Because you truly never know when the ambient light will become too much to bear, the “high eyes” wearer wants to minimize the time and effort involved in getting his sunglasses back over his eyes; or
3. Much like the Luna Moth, the “high eyes” practitioner is displaying a larger, douchier false set of eyes to scare off predators.

I personally think it’s the last one, and the fact that it also scares off attractive females, prospective employers, and anyone other than like-minded douche-moths is just an unfortunate side effect.

Putting the Der in Under (a "fourth" for A Healthy Dose of Shame)

To be honest, when I wrote A Healthy Dose of Shame, it was difficult to pare down the list of ludicrous gym behaviors down to just three. Because when the rest of the world has a problem where the self-absorbed attention-starved by-products of two generations of universal over-praising and over-investment of children in their own non-existent “specialness” has finally overcome any previously existing notions of good sense and decorum, and created a steady rain of unbelievably awkward moments and laughable scenes; Los Angeles will turn that rain into a hurricane of ill-informed pomposity, illegitimate arrogance and nearly unimaginable loss of individual perspective. And, on my very next trip to the gym, I realized that I had left out one very important shamelessly douche-tastic gym behavior: the Under Armor wearer.

For the uninitiated, Under Armour is a brand of sportswear which specializes in form-fitting (i.e. skin tight) undergarments that wick moisture away from the skin of athletes to avoid the discomfort of sweaty clothing. It was founded by, is built for and is primarily marketed to football players. It is designed to be worn under the pads, jerseys, equipment, etc. that athletes wear. And much like the name indicates, and much like its predecessor, just plain old underwear - it is not designed to be worn on its own as a primary garment. However, despite all this, not a visit to gym goes by where I don’t seem muscle-choad meathead doing just this. Because nothing says unmitigated badassery like a long-sleeved white spandex shirt, right?

Listen, even if you do have the sort of chiseled physique that can stand up to the unforgiving exposure that such a garment will provide (which, for the record, the vast majority of these cheesewads don’t), this just doesn’t look good. Because, just like it used to, skin tight clothing is the best way to let people know you’re trying too hard since the flop sweat. For the record, if you’re in good shape, it’s easy to notice, no matter what you’re wearing - and you'll look even better in something simple that everyone else is wearing, but just not quite as well as you. Do us all a favor: leave the spandex back in the 80’s where it belongs, and find a damned t-shirt.

Speaking A Loud (a "fourth" for The Golden Yield)

When I wrote The Golden Yield, I was catalyzed by the brutish and moronic behavior which seemed to surround modern-day elevator etiquette, and when I sat down to think about other examples of poor-mannered and self-centered conduct - they literally came flooding into my mind. I highlighted the three most prominent examples, but in the intervening months, I realized there was one very important one that I left out.

I’m not quite sure how or when the public at large started losing any real sense of the volume of their voices, but I am sure that in the past year, I’ve overheard vastly more conversations that I would have liked to, and as luck would have it, the inanity of these colloquies is always directly proportional to their volume. On airplanes, I have distinctly heard conversations multiple rows away over the roar of thousand horsepower engines and constant ventilation (and most recently through state-of-the-art noise canceling headphones). In coffee shops I have listened to mindless ramblings from dozens of feet away, despite being turned away, over the subtle din of other, quiet conversations, and through my iPod headphones. And in restaurants, I have endured alarmingly futile attempts at humor and over-eager sales pitches despite being so far away from the offending speaker that I wouldn’t even be able to hit them with well aimed steak knife (which I was then contemplating).

Here’s a hint: if you’re wondering why strangers keep turning around and glaring at you while you’re talking, it’s not because they’re eavesdropping, it’s because they wish they’re weren’t! Unless you’re conversing with a person who’s either deaf or dead, there’s no appreciable reason for you to be talking that loudly. Do us all a favor and do like your mom told you, and talk with your inside voice.

* * *

In the end, it’s a been a year of maddeningly frustrating behaviors, comically unaware douchebaggery, and one man’s struggle to keep from losing his tenuous grip on his quickly waning sanity in the face of apocalyptic-level stupidity. It’s been a year of finding a good reason to laugh amidst a good reason to cry and, more importantly, a good reason to cry amidst a good reason to laugh. And looking back on a year’s worth of essays, I found that while there were things that I missed, it’s been a pretty good year of hits. So I’ll close out 2009 with the top 3 things I learned this year, and leave it to you, dear reader, to send me a great fourth: 1. Inspiration, opportunity and salvation are not only not rare, they're all around you if you just take a look; 2. Though the latest generations will likely give us little else of value, they've at least given us something to laugh at; and 3. As doomsayers, fearmongers, and prophets of the terrible become all the rage, relax, things are going to work out just fine.

Happy New Year, everyone.

The Yule Tidal Wave

Despite the fact that this is my fourth December in Los Angeles, this year was my first doing any appreciable Christmas shopping here. I’m usually headed back home to Colorado - and not wanting to check baggage full of presents, I do my last-minute shopping there, where it’s never much of a problem. But this year, I’m sticking around, enjoying the weather and avoiding the hassle of travel. To my horror, however, I realized far too late that last-minute holiday shopping in L.A. was going to be different, to save losing what little faith I had left in my fellow man and to rip what little Christmas spirit I had violently away from me just a few days before the big holiday.

I’m not quite certain what it is about holiday shopping that generates this almost apocalyptic self-absorbed mania. I don’t know if it’s that the apparently rising waters of desperate consumerism brings out the worst people or simply the worst in people. All I know is that if you’re looking for evidence of social decay, or a descent into anarchy and madness, there is no better (or worse) place to be than a shopping mall in December. As we drifted slowly towards the penultimate holiday, I was beginning to feel the swell of universal forgiveness, a compulsion for charity and the bliss of a belief in the goodness of man. But in one trip to the Glendale Galleria, all that was dashed. I found new reasons to hate strangers, a resurgent belief that our collective intelligence is sinking to unthinkable lows, and a conviction that we have leveraged the freedoms and privileges of living in the world’s greatest nation at its finest hour to become perhaps its most bloated, ignorant and disgusting society. Merry freaking Christmas.

Unfortunately, amidst the din of manufactured winter mirth, contrived yuletide cheer and affected holiday bliss, you were likely want to hear the death throes of my Christmas wishes and goodwill towards men; so I thought I’d take a moment to write them down:

Children of the Scorn

A note to parents: the sight of your children waiting in line to see Santa or looking around wide-eyed at the elaborate holiday displays are immeasurably cute and the sort of thing that reminds us all that the holidays are really all about the kids. However, the sight of your children running around unchecked on rage-infused sugar benders screaming at the top of their lungs, throwing unthinkable tantrums and otherwise acting with all the behavioral control of a pack of rabid hyenas is the sort of thing that reminds us all that parenting is the only major responsibility that doesn’t require any training, education or qualification; or in other words that it’s available to careless mouth-breathers like you.

I’m not sure what it is about holiday shopping that makes it seem like dragging your extended family out is a good idea; but it’s not. The only places that three or more generations of any family should get together are a big house, a big church or a big park. What’s more, when did bringing children along at all to holiday shopping become o.k.? Part of my parents perpetrating the Santa Claus myth for as long as they did was not buying gifts in front of me -- especially at those ages when I was prone to being difficult to handle in public.

If the traditional naughty or nice paradigm is still being used to determine whether kids will receive Christmas gifts, then Toys R Us is about to have a very lean year. I’ve seen better behaved broods on Animal Planet - and for what it’s worth, sometimes cleaner.

Lots of Love

Unfortunately, the horror of holiday shopping usually begins long before you even make it into the shopping venue itself, out in the suddenly undersized parking lot. Now, parking lot behavior that was already rife with the inconsiderate, the ignorant and the just plain unaware has now become gridlocked by shoppers who appear baffled by basic traffic laws and lack any appreciation for simply taking turns. For what it’s worth, the good folks that run these retail churches had the foresight to know that their traffic flow was about to turned into traffic not flow and hired additional personnel to help direct the traffic for maximum efficiency. Unfortunately, the folks they hired wouldn’t know maximum efficiency if it walked up to them in a t-shirt that said “Maximum Efficiency” on it. Honestly, I’ve seen more cognitively-capable staffing cleaning up roadside debris. Installing people in the middle of already congested traffic flow who couldn’t optimize their own bowel movements, let alone two way traffic is like staffing additional cash registers with people that don’t know how to add or subtract. Do us a favor and spare us these parking lot wizards and leave us to our own terrible devices.

As for the remaining bad behaviors in parking lots, there are some basic principles to keep in mind:

1. Driving at 3 mph to be able to cash in on an ideal parking spot left by someone leaving (otherwise known as parking stalking) during normal shopping times is annoying, and during the holidays is criminal. If you think that you not having to walk the additional few hundred yards demanded by getting a spot somewhere else in the parking structure outweighs the need for everyone waiting behind you to park at all, here’s hoping someone gives you the gift of a dent in your door while you’re gone.

1(a). Additionally, if you’re truly worried about the marginally increased physical exertion involved in having to walk a few extra hundreds of yards to the actual mall, it’s more than likely that you can actually use the exercise - so why not kill two asses with one stone?

2. Driving around the parking lot like you’re Jason Bourne or James Bond does not make you similarly cool or debonaire (besides your Honda Civic isn’t exactly spy material anyway). The acoustics of these enclosed spaces make the revving of your Mitsubishi Lancer’s engine or the screeching of your 15” tires all the more insufferable and turns what is normally just annoying into reasonable grounds for assault and battery. Trust me, there’s not a jury in the land that would convict me for dragging you out of your neon green Neon and beating your wanna-be Fast and Furious ass.

3. Indictment of parking stalkers notwithstanding, if you’re one of the lucky few who’s actually getting into your car to get out of the shopping carnage, then is not a good time to check your mirrors a dozen or so times, rearrange the stuff in your center console or otherwise sit in your car with your back-up lights without moving for any appreciable amount of time. All of us are waiting on the jerk off who’s decided to wait for you. Don’t worry, we’ll give him a piece of our mind - but do us a favor ... and move your ass!

Pardon Me

I’m not quite sure what set of rules governs the right of way in pedestrian situations, but it would appear that the following groups are to be yielded to under all circumstances:

• Families with two or more small children;
• Middle-aged women;
• Teenagers in packs of three or more; or
• Any group not speaking English.

On my trip to the mall, I was forced to yield to each of these groups, on a number of occasions despite carrying any number of bags, being in a visible hurry and/or moving through these crowds alone as an adult man. And by yield I mean that I had to either stop completely, squeeze myself up against a wall or actually go back they way I came to avoid them. On a few occasions, I was unable to make myself small enough to actually keep from having them run into me or my bags. And despite the fact that none of these minor collisions was my fault, I apologized each time, though, in fairness, without much vigor - simply a reflex from not being raised by wolves.

Listen, folks - not a moment goes by in these indignant crowds that I don’t fantasize about simply squaring my shoulders and plowing through you like a bunch of doughy bowling pins - and all it’s going to take is one more ill-behaved child or bad parking lot experience to put me over the edge. And trust me, I’m not the only one. Do yourselves a favor and watch where you’re going.

* * *

I imagine that there is some larger social lesson to be learned here; some commentary on the commercialization of a holiday and/or the commercialization of a society. There is likely some conclusion to be drawn about our rabid consumerism getting the better of our notions of good manners and basic respect for others. There may even be some moral about how we are often at our very worst when preparing to be our very best. But for me, I’ll simply take away two important lessons from my holiday shopping nightmare. First, holiday shopping is best accomplished before Thanksgiving, in front of your computer or, if you wait until the last minute, very early on weekdays, and second, there's nothing like spending a few hours amongst the hordes of savages, malcontents and morons who appear to be ringing in this most festive of seasons by turning a shopping mall into a third world street market to make you appreciate the simple beauty of a quiet Christmas morning.

Merry Christmas, all.

Stopping to Ink

In contravention of the motherly advice given all over the world, I’m here to tell you that getting a tattoo is a fantastic idea. To be fair, I just got a tattoo a week ago (that wicked cool Navy piece pictured here) so I’m not as objective as I would have been had I written this a month ago, but trust me, I would have given the same advice back then. We have seen tattooing go from prisons and biker gangs to suburbia and celebrities then back again. It remains, however, the seminal act of rebellion and one of few permanent things still available to us in the era of months-long marriages, annual job hopping and suburban home flipping. Though tattoos mean something to each of us, and they also mean something different to each of us. For many, they are cultural, and for others they are the ultimate lack of culture. For some, they love or hate them openly, and others, love or hate them quite privately. But having heard the arguments for and against them (some of which I’ll review below), I can’t really come to any other conclusion than to tell that if you’ve thought for a while about getting yourself inked, go ahead and do it - and make your story beautifully immortal.

It Hurts

It’s a misrepresentation to say that getting a tattoo hurts badly. It would be much more accurate to say it hurts significantly; and that’s really sort of the point. After all, it’s a very small needle putting ink under your skin a very small bit at a time. It’s a quintessentially adult event and surely not for the faint of heart. But, nonetheless, it’s a good kind of hurt; like the burn of a shot of really good tequila or that deep soreness you get after a really good workout. And much like those hurts, it doesn’t last very long - while the ink itself lasts, well, forever. How much it hurts depends a whole lot on where you get it - as a good rule of thumb, if it’s someplace that it would hurt more to get hit than another, it’ll probably hurt more to get a tattoo there (i.e. anyplace without a whole lot of “padding”). Note: this is not a plea for you to get ink on your plushest parts, just a fair warning for when you don't.

In fairness, if the reason you’re not getting a tattoo is because you’re afraid it’s going to hurt too much - it actually may not be such a good idea for you. Those of us who do have a little ink would rather not have any more sissies running around sporting wanna-be tats. But if it’s simply an item you have in your “cons” instead of “pros” columns - rest assured, it’s not as bad as you think.

On a final note regarding the pain, if you’re planning on bringing friends along with you, put on a brave face - because if you don’t, the jokes about how big of a Sally you were will be as never-ending as your tattoo.

When You’re Older

This is the reason I hear the most often: when you get old, it will look terrible on you. Well, here’s a news flash, Nostradamus, when you get old, all of you is going to look terrible - especially naked. Trust me, when you’re 65, a slightly misshapen tattoo is not going to be the least attractive thing on your naked body, in fact, it’s probably not even going to be in the worst five things on you at that age. Who are you kidding? Have you been to the gym lately and seen what happens to bodies as they age? And those are the ones that are being taken care of! If anyone wants to see you undressed when you’re that old it’s either (a) someone who loves you enough to care less about your old tattoos or (b) someone you’re paying enough to not to care about your old tattoos. Either way, again, your old ink doesn’t matter.

Besides, what exactly do you expect to be wearing in your retirement years? There’s a high likelihood that the number of low-rise jeans, sleeveless shirts, or bare midriffs you’ll be sporting will be significantly reduced from your days of wine and cheese. At that age you’ll be showing less skin than a nun in a Boston winter. For all you know, the folks down at the rest home might have full tattoo sleeves and golden eagles across their chests; because they’re wearing pants pulled up to their armpits, support hose, long sleeved sweaters and collars buttoned up high enough to hide the stack of skin that used to be their necks.

There are a lot of good reasons not to get yourself tatted, but this isn’t one of them.

What Not To Wear

Not all tattoos are a good idea, in fact, the web is littered with a bevy of ill-advised tattoos (http://www.badtattoos.com/; http://www.mytattoosucks.com/; http://www.shittytattoos.com/) which are instructive on a number of counts:

1. The percentage of tattoos on those sites that are “portrait pieces” is not an accident. If you want to remember someone’s face, take a picture, shoot a movie or even have a painting made; the one thing that won’t look good stretched, sagged or faded is a line drawing of a loved one’s face;
   
2. If you think a cartoon character is a good idea for a tattoo, you’re too young to get one - this applies no matter how old you are;
   
3. While intensely personal, make sure someone you know and trust (besides your tattoo artist) sees your design before you get it done. This has a high likelihood of preventing any “naked lady” pieces or anything with someone else’s name;
4. If waking up in strange places with strange people hasn’t taught you this already, decisions you make while drunk (or otherwise impaired) are not the sort you want to be permanent;
   
5. Finally, if it’s on you, you’d better know what it means - this applies to equations, quotations, poetry passages, and most importantly, foreign languages.

* * *

In the end, the stories of our lives often go largely untold. For some, we are simply unwilling to tell them - either we fear the scabs over old wounds are not as thick as we would like them to be, or we have made ourselves who are in spite of who we used to be and don’t wish those who a part of our new lives to know about our old ones. For many others, however, we simply lose them. Because as time passes, memories fade and we have fewer and fewer occasions to share who we are as we grow older. Younger generations seize the days and our dim recollections grow less and less relevant. But stories can and do live beyond our memories; both on our pages and our bodies. By committing just a few important pieces of yourself and your life to the permanence of ink, whether on paper or on skin - you both bravely forego the ability to ever completely forget and bravely commit to telling the world, not just who you are, but who you were. And in that simple way, you can live forever.

20 Mistakes Women Make In Bed With Men

1. ADMITTING IS THE HARDEST PART - You, yes, you make mistakes in bed... and contrary to what you may believe your vagina is not so magically wonderful that we don't notice. Oh, we may not SAY anything, but we noticed. The sexual revolution was FIFTY years ago, and the secret is out, WOMEN ENJOY SEX TOO ... so stop acting like it's a favor you're doing for us.

2. TAKE IT ALL OFF - Listen, if we're having sex with you, we like your body... ALL of it, so leaving your shirt on because you think your breasts are too small is just stupid, and you're not fooling us... it's not as though we think, "Well, I can't see that part of her so it must be FANTASTIC!" Get naked!

3. LINGERIE IS NOT FOR US - Asking us what kind of underwear we'd like to see you in is like asking a shark what kind of seasoning he'd like on his next kill... The fancy underwear you buy is for you to feel sexy, or for your girlfriends to tell you you look sexy in. Two things you should know about us - (1) we're not looking at THE LINGERIE in the Vicky's Secret catalog, and (2) if we think you're hot, we will HONESTLY think so NO MATTER WHAT YOU'RE WEARING (especially if it's not much).

4. MAKE SOME NOISE - We understand you being shy when we first meet you. We understand you being shy when you meet our friends for the first time. Hell, we even understand you being shy when we're out in public. But, please, when it's nakey-nakey time, a little feedback is nice. I mean, you don't have to get into the full on nasty talk (but it's ok if you do) but a little moaning, or geez, even a little heavy breathing is nice encouragement. If all we wanted was peace and quiet, we would already be SLEEPING.

5. NIPPLES ARE THERE FOR SHOW ONLY - Okay, we understand how you can be confused about nipples... Yours are beautiful, unique and fun. But please understand, ours are simply decorations. No matter WHAT you've read in magazines, or heard from your friends. It does literally NOTHING for us for you to touch, lick, caress, etc. them... and if I EVER find the person that invested you all in the idea that BITING them is ok, I will drag them out into the street and kill them with a shovel.

6. HAIR PULLING - Another one-way street. Listen, we get that there are certain "positions" and situations where you ladies (especially with the long hair) like this - and most of us are happy to oblige... but please understand, our hair is MUCH closer to the roots, and it HURTS when you do it to us... additionally, while we like it when you take charge from time to time, we DO NOT LIKE being on the receiving end of the whole domination-submission thing. Plus, if we ever do go bald, we'll likely blame it on you.

7. DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL - Listen, we know it's not cool to ask you if you've climaxed. We don't like asking. It has all the charm of tripping while carrying dinner to the table, and similar appeal. But please understand - there's NO FOOLPROOF WAY TO TELL... and while we love you being a little mysterious and YES that's part of your appeal, would it hurt you to let us know? Aren't you glad that we're concerned? If you don't feel like you should have to tell us, then perhaps we feel like we shouldn't have to induce your "super-secret mystery orgasm".

8. THERE'S ONLY ONE WAY TO SCREW UP FELLATIO - Teeth. Enough said.

9. THAT BEING SAID... - When we were 18, we BELIEVED there was no such thing as a bad blow job. Mostly because we were so happy to be getting one, and it barely took a dirty movie and a stiff breeze to get us off, so we didn't really care. But things change, and yes you can be bad at it. If we're not barely holding on to keep from "finishing"... you're not doing a good job, period. We're not like you, we don't need a warm up and some secret technique that is unique to each one of us - just ask the one of your friends who you KNOW knows what she's doing... or one of your "fabulous" gay guy friends... they know, it's not THAT BIG of a secret, and it's not rocket science.

10. THE ONLY THING I'LL SHAVE FOR YOU - is my face. And yes, I want you to shave yours. Yes, I know it's a double standard, but I also pay for dinner and carry all the heavy shit from your car. Yours is built for shaving - it's flat. Ever tried shaving the outside of two coconuts in a Safeway bag? It's a bad plan, and you're damn sure gonna cut that bag - no thanks. We trim, you shave. It's kind of like: we sweat, you glisten. If you want to see completely hairless male genitals, your options are: rent a porno, date a porn star, or a 13-year old... the only one we'll stick around for is the first one.

11. PLINK, OW! - There is nothing, repeat NOTHING cute about plucking the one or two random hairs that may occur on our backs or shoulders, ESPECIALLY after sex. Is it not enough that we only have one or two? Is it too much to ask that you simply NOTIFY us, and let us handle the removal? Please. Nothing is more certain to guarantee you WON'T be getting a "Round 2".

12. IF YOU WANT TO YANK ON A JOYSTICK - Buy an old Atari, and leave us ALONE. That's about as much fun for for us as "fisting" is for you. It's sensitive, that's why it HURTS SO MUCH to get kicked there. If we want it rough - rest assured, we'll say something. If you sense a look of pain on our faces - no matter WHAT we say, go with your feeling - it's hurting, so STOP!

13. WE HAVE ONE EROGENOUS ZONE - It's not: our backs, legs, arms, chest, neck, ears, and it's most definitely not anywhere near the ol' poop chute. Want to know what we're thinking when you are touching those areas on us? "Oh, I hope she gets to my dick soon!" Ok?

14. COSMO IS WRONG - The "100 Sexy Surprises to Drive Your Man Wild" article has at least 83 things that will make us NEVER WANT TO SLEEP WITH YOU AGAIN. Here's a good litmus test: If you think it's something that we'll think is weird, crazy or deviant, DON'T DO IT. I'm not sure where they find the men they interview for these articles - perhaps in the offices of a magazine written for women - do you really think these are the men that should be advising your sex life? Want some advice from a magazine? Read PENTHOUSE LETTERS - YES, we know they're completely contrived - but at least they won't get you kicked out of bed.

15. TALKING ABOUT YOUR EX WHILE IN MY BED - Is just as off-limits for you as it is for us. Yes, we know you're just talking about his cool job, talking to him about his latest vacation to Spain, or some restaurant he owns, but unless you want us to mention how thin OUR ex was, or how fantastic her breasts were, steer clear. This is supposed to be OUR moment.

16. DRAPING YOUR LEG OVER US AFTERWARDS - and laying your head on our chest is perhaps one of the greatest feelings you can give us. Laying COMPLETELY ON TOP OF US AFTERWARDS is not. It doesn't matter HOW little you are, it's not comfy - and NO it doesn't mean you're fat. It makes it hard to breathe - we want to relax, too. GET OFF!

17. YOUR HAIR ITCHES - We love that it smells like flowers, we love that it's soft and pretty and we love to have it all over the place ... DURING sex... Afterwards, it itches, so do that flip and tuck thing that you do - and keep it away from us.

18. STAY IN THE MOOD - There are VERY few ways to not at least cause SOME sort of break in the action when it's time to install the prophylactic, and it usually was VERY, VERY hot right before we do. We are being responsible and respectful, so PLEASE don't take the opportunity to coax yourself out of the mood - not even SLIGHTLY. There is nothing worse than FEELING BAD for putting a condom on - they're not the most comfortable thing - and YES it feels different than without. So do your best to be just as encouraging when we're finally "dressed for battle."

19. HEAD IS A QUID-PRO-QUO SITUATION - and YES, that goes for both. You want head? You give head. Fair enough. But beyond that - Please know that no matter HOW MUCH we may love you, want you, etc. If you have ANY grooming issues, AT ALL, we're not goin' down there. And we know you feel the same way so it's ONLY FAIR. It's a big commitment for us, and a tough mission to take on, with a HIGH failure probability - if it looks like a beautiful flower, and smells like one too, it makes the whole thing a LOT better for us... and if it looks like a forest and smells like one, too? We'll tell EVERYONE.

20. WE FALL ASLEEP AFTERWARDS, GET OVER IT! - Okay, listen: there is absolutely no greater way for us to be sent off to dreamland than this - and it is a COMPLETELY NATURAL MALE RESPONSE to fall asleep after sex. Round 2 may happen, after we have a little 10 minute nap... Every moment you try and keep us awake? We like you a little less. If you have something to say, make it profound and keep it brief. The good stuff can be said in a few seconds. The story about "that bitch at work" can't. Anything more than a few sentences, we're not listening to.

Shades of Lame

California has more days of sunshine than another other state in the union, and this comes as absolutely no surprise to anyone who’s paying rent or a house payment here. The weather is often considered the primary reason for the premium we’re paying to live here (mostly because the rest of it seems to really suck for the price) and, in fairness, it is pretty awesome for it to be 85 degrees and sunny on Thanksgiving. But with this much sun, you would think that California would have mastered the art of wearing sunglasses. Unfortunately, it seems like no one’s getting it quite as wrong as we are. The constant abuse of sunglasses appears to have risen to epidemic levels and I just can't keep quiet about it any longer. Although there are countless other methods of abusing this eyewear staple, I have outlined the three most egregious offenses below in the hopes that I might reach enough of these people (or people that know them) that they will return to using sunglasses for keeping the sun out of their eyes rather than for demonstrating their outright douchebaggery. But if not, at least after today you’ll know that you’re not the only one laughing at them.

White Frames

White framed sunglasses for men are an integral part of the douche apparel trifecta (along with the iconic trucker’s hat and Affiction/Ed Hardy t-shirt) and may be the worst thing to survive the 80’s since the New Kids on the Block. To be honest, I’d rather still be seeing girls with crimped hair and pegging my jeans than watch some Douchey McChoad pimp his knockoff white RayBans like he’s trying to channel Corey Haim from License to Drive. There’s simply nothing masculine about white sunglasses. Which is not to say that everything a man wears needs to be a leather biker jacket or an Armani tuxedo, but c’mon, this is the eyewear equivalent of a denim mini-skirt. You can wear them, but as fair warning, the two things everyone’s thinking when they see you are: 1. I wonder where his boyfriend is, and 2. I’ll bet he wears those inside and at night. Which brings me to my next point:

The Light Unkind

I understand that sunglasses aren’t simply utilitarian; they can be as much a fashion statement as anything else you have on your head, but they have a time and a place: and those are during the day and outside. You might have a really cool umbrella, but wouldn’t you be kind of an ass if you carried it around open when it wasn’t raining? There are a number of exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, they probably don’t apply to you. I imagine that most of the ego-bloated asswipes (both male and female) who insist on wearing their shades inside and at night are trying to be mysterious, and keep us wondering what’s going on behind their dark frames; but we don’t need to wonder, because the only thing they’re hiding is that minimum-wage stare that accompanies a brain nearly choked off from meaningful input and filled mostly with malt hops and bong residue.

As for the aforementioned exceptions, they include:

1. Anyone famous enough to be photographed by paparazzi while they’re at the airport (note: this isn’t you);
2. Professional poker players playing at a World Series of Poker event (note: this isn’t you); or
3. Any professional law enforcement/physical security agent (e.g. Secret Service, FBI, P.Diddy’s bodyguards, etc.) (note: this still isn’t you).

As a general rule, if you’ve got your sunglasses on indoors or after sunset, and you’re wondering if you should or not, you shouldn’t. If you’re not wondering, then you’re the douches we’re talking about.

A Bug’s Life

I’m not quite certain when women’s sunglasses designers started getting into a competition over who could make them the biggest, but I am certain that the only real loser in that battle is the women who wear them. To say that these things look kind of ridiculous is like saying that Lindsay Lohan has a bit of a substance abuse problem. There hasn’t been this reliable of a bitch indicator since the pet chihuahua. Honestly, I swear that Barbara Bush would look like a entitled bimbo in some of these shades. The only point I can imagine to having outsized frames (unless you’re an actual clown) is to hide the majority of your face - which seems sort of counterproductive if you’re trying to get people to notice you. I mean, if more than 50% of your face is covered in black plastic, just how reliable of an impression can you possibly make? What’s more, I’m quite certain that there’s nothing sexually attractive about looking like a bug - in fact, there isn’t even such a fetish listed in the Psychopathia Sexualis (and believe me, there’s some perverse shit in there).

The only explanation I can possibly muster is that this is simply the latest trend that has been preached to women by the beauty-industrial complex. The BIC, which controls the vast majority of information consumed by the modern woman, has, in recent memory, given us a wide variety of ridiculous, unflattering and inexplicable fashion trends, such as the gladiator sandal, the poncho and the skinny jean. The giant bug shades are just their latest item of Emperor’s New Clothes. Trust me, no matter what the girl at the counter tells you, you look like a well-dressed praying mantis in those things.

* * *

Listen, Timbuk 3 and Corey Hart notwithstanding, I think we all know deep down inside what and when we should and shouldn’t be wearing with regard to sunglasses - and I think that the way it’s gone here in California is simply a function of our own unwillingness to point out the ridiculousness going on around us. We seem more content now than ever to ascribe shameless self-promotion and the incessant need for attention to idiosyncratic personality quirks rather than systemic social failures. Unfortunately, I think the sheer volume of these behaviors seems to favor the latter. But for my part, I’m content for now to provide a little volume and clarity for that still small voice in your head that sees someone wearing sunglasses like those mentioned above and whispers in the hopes you’ll repeat it, “Take off those stupid ass sunglasses.”

The Other Island I Lost

It’s often said that “you can’t go home again”, but as I recently found home isn’t the only place that may vanish when you’re not looking. The news hit me like a a shot to the gut. I was simply surfing the internet, using Google to check up on people and places long gone from my life; taking a break from worrying about my future to see how my past is holding up. And while pondering a trip back to Florida, which I last saw in my rear view mirror on my way out of the Navy and into law school, I looked up an old friend and learned the unthinkable. According to the Disney website: “By September 28, 2008, all of the nightclubs on Pleasure Island will close. It will be last call for the last time at 8 Trax, The Adventurer's Club, Mannequins™ Dance Palace, BET Sound-Stage™ Club, Motion and The Comedy Warehouse.” Nearly twenty years after it opened, the world’s greatest nightclub shut its doors. And just like that, I found out that not only had I lost the greatest place I had ever known, I had missed a real chance to say goodbye.

I know what you’re thinking, it’s a nightclub. But you’re wrong. Pleasure Island was far more than just a nightclub. It was the king of the nightclub universe in the nightclub era. You can keep your Studio 54s, your Hammerjacks and your Viper Rooms, I’ll take P.I. The island was the street party that we all imagined when we trekked down to our local nighttime entertainment districts. There were clubs for everyone, a DJ in a booth high above the street, live music, bars everywhere, professional dancers and every night for fifteen of those twenty years, a new year’s midnight countdown complete with confetti and singing Auld Lang Syne with people you hardly knew. It was a place which seemed to finally have achieved the Disney moniker of “The Happiest Place on Earth” - and mostly devoid of the commercialism (overpriced food, cheap souvenirs and ill-behaved children) that seemed to plague the rest of the Disney empire. More importantly, it was the first and only place I ever felt like I fit in.

The thing to do at Pleasure Island was to dance. It seems like a simple thing, especially when dance clubs have now become as common and commoditized as coffee shops. But I had never seen, nor have I seen since, a place so devoid of pretense as the Island was. It was a massive, nightly, large-scale version of the reckless abandon which you usually only see for brief moments during wedding receptions and bar-mitzvahs. Strangers danced with and around one another as though it really was New Years Eve. In the literally hundreds of times that I spent my evening there, I never once saw a fight. People danced in the clubs and danced in the street. People sang along with the bands and the songs. People took pictures they’d share as the highlight of their vacations. People kissed at midnight. People did things that they just don’t do anymore.

But as important as it was to the world at-large, P.I. was ever so much more important to me. When I first stepped foot on the Island, I was less than a year removed from living at home and graduating high school, and my social awkwardness was so painful to observe that I often had a hard time trying to convince any of my friends to take me out with them. At 5’8” and 135 lbs, my clothes fit me like a blind store clerk had tried to dress an undersized mannequin, and that was saying nothing of the horrifyingly bad fashion sense that growing up unpopular in a small town in Colorado had given me. I liked dancing, but the one time I had tried to it in public (at a school dance) I had gotten hit so hard that I literally slid 4 or 5 feet on my face. Needless to say, I was a little gun-shy. But at the Island, everyone danced like I did and like I wanted to. There was dance culture of respect there which not only allowed everyone a chance to shine in their own way, but also celebrated it.

The characters that I met and became friends with on the Island are indelibly printed on my memories. They were amazing dancers and larger-than-life personalities. There was Carl, the greatest street dancer I’ve ever seen - who famously “retired” from street dancing once he got a professional gig. Then Guyton, the other white guy in the crew, with whom I never really got along - because I think we were far too much alike for comfort - but who put an edge into his dancing that I always tried to emulate. Then Dave, short and insanely acrobatic, making up moves as he went along and the only dancer who I ever thought had as much energy as I did - and with a seemingly insatiable and indiscriminate appetite for meeting girls. And finally Herman, the clown prince of street dance. A guy who taught me about dancing and about life; a guy who taught me the secret of knee pads under my jeans and the delicate art of dance-floor clowning; a guy who taught me that it’s not the baddest moves that make you the memorable dancer, but rather the ability to unashamedly and loudly be yourself. I’ve danced, and lived, that way ever since.

I had two extended stays in Orlando, and two amazing runs at the Island. During those times, I was frequently there four or five nights a week dancing for four of five hours at a go, sometimes even bringing a change of clothes to school with me so that I could change in the parking lot without having to go home. And no matter how many nights I reprised my experience, I was never able to keep from actually running from my car to the front entrance with excitement, and I never got tired of that feeling of peace and joy that would wash over me as soon as I stepped onto those street bricks and into the world’s greatest party. In the years that followed, I visited less and less frequently, and each time, the Island was a little less like I remembered it, and there were fewer and fewer familiar faces. And finally, I stopped going altogether - confident that the Island would always be there and that I’d find my way back.

But, as it’s want to do, time marched on. The Island stopped celebrating New Years every night. There were no longer dance revues on the outdoor stages. Old clubs were replaced with more modern venues and people seemed more content to eat, drink, shop and stand around rather than to join in on the fun. And ultimately, the good folks at Disney chose to shut down the iconic clubs and turn Pleasure Island into another Disney-themed and ultimately forgettable shopping and eating venue. Thanks, Fat America - you turned the happiest place on earth into another tribute to your apparently unflagging appetite for consumption and the avoidance of anything even remotely physically taxing.

In the end, time and progress will take many of the places from us that shaped who we are and what we’ve become. Losing Pleasure Island was a poignant reminder of two important lessons. First, to take the time to revisit the important people and places from your past. They won’t always be there, and they often provide an otherwise unavailable perspective on how far you have (or haven’t) come. Memory lane is a great place to spend some free time and there’s nothing quite like a actual visit. Second, to take the time to remember and record the memories of those places and times in your life. Because, the only timeless thing we really have are those thoughtful recollections, colored by our own perspective and the only way they truly survive is in the words we write.

And though it's a little late and I couldn’t say it in person: goodbye, Pleasure Island. Thanks for the memories.

Fear of a Strange Red Planet

I have something to say to the red state zealots, to the right wing campaign volunteers, to the tea party protesters, to the Joe-the-Plumbers, and to the Populist movement who has turned a popular fear of government and the educated and moneyed classes into a political movement so sweeping and vast that the recent Presidential election, as a referendum on one of the horrific and tragically incompetent administrations in the history of American government, was actually a close call: I’m scared. I’m scared of you. I’m scared of your pundits. I’m scared that you’ve leveraged the technology around us to turn the Information Age into the Mis-information Age. I’m scared that we are on the brink of the ultimate Populist Revolt, the culmination of the rising tide of discontent against education, freedom and equality; and an intellectual apocalypse: the rise of the stupid.

The stupid have never had more power and influence that they do today. We’ve all seen the journalistic abomination that is Fox News, which has done for slanted and mindlessly partisan news coverage what Paris Hilton did for entitled celebutantes with loose morals: each of them now far removed from the sideshows, margins and shadows and suddenly paraded in front of us as the main act. With its hyper-stylized presentation and rapid fire pacing, Fox feeds the masses in the way they want to be fed, and allows them to ignore the substance of what they’re consuming. Much like Ray Kroc once opined upon reflection of building one of the greatest commercial empires of all times, Fox isn’t in the news business, they’re in show business. And the lesson that much of our country has failed to learn about food, they’ve also failed to learn about information: just because you like eating a Big Mac, doesn’t mean you should, and definitely doesn’t mean it’s good for you.

Glenn Beck is one of the most alarmingly ignorant and disturbing political personalities since David Duke. I’d like to say that it’s his manic mood swings that disturb me most about him. I’d like to say it’s the transparently nonsensical “logic” he uses to build and confirm his conspiracy theories and then passes off as “common sense” reasoning. I’d like to say it’s his clearly histrionic personality disorder (if you don’t know, please look it up). But it’s none of these things. What disturbs me most about Glenn Beck is that he’s popular. He generates ratings like Monday Night Football and Miley Cyrus, and people aren’t tuning in to see the train wreck. No, people are watching to learn; to have their own ethnocentric fears confirmed, and to join the angry hateful mob which looks at black man in the White House as a socio-political apocalypse. Glenn Beck is the face of a nation, and that scares me far more than anything that comes out Washington D.C. ever could. A parade of fools could scarcely pick a more appropriate grand marshall.

But compared to the most inciting modern rhetoric, usually passed around via forwarded e-mails and social networking updates, Fox News (Beck included) deserves a Pulitzer. Because when the stupid turns too ugly to be mainstream - it must be passed around virally. In the past year, I have either been sent the following:

• At the end of an e-mail incorrectly recounting some of the President’s actions to date in office, with special attention to his approval of assistance to Palestinan refugees and diplomatic approach to Middle East foreign relations:
  
  “WE are losing this country at a rapid pace.
 Now we know why he got so much campaign money from the middle east!”
  

• The punchline of a mortifying “joke” about three strangers in an airport:
  
  Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks, "At onetime here, my people were many, but sadly, now we are few." The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and leans Forward, "Once my people were few," he sneers, "and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?"
  
  The Montana cowboy shifts his toothpick to one side of his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a drawl, "That's 'cause we ain't played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do believe it's a-comin."
  

• And a photo that pasted the President’s head on the photo of a scantily-clad witch doctor, complete with a photoshopped bone through his nose and references to Soviet socialism that I will not dignify by reproducing it here.

The worst thing about all of these things is that they came to me from my family.

To call these kinds of things “disgusting” is to vastly understate the matter. This type of thinly veiled racism is the sort of thing that embarrasses me, even as someone who served for ten years in defense of my country, to be an American, if this is really who we are. We have unprecedented access to information, including primary sources: black-letter law, court decisions, and legislative documents. And yet, we are more prone to let our news be spoon-fed to us by increasingly less intelligent and increasingly more hateful commentators than ever before.

This isn’t a battle of ideologies, because those battles are fought on intellectual grounds. This is a battle of emotion and fear versus intellect. This is an unwinnable battle of what “real America” is all about. The red state faithful will tell you that “real America” is white people living in suburban communities where American flags fly in front lawns, kids walk to school and play in the streets safely, and all you really need to know you can learn from your parents or at church. In this “real America” you need to be able to carry a gun, because marauders, communist sympathizers and foreign combatants masquerading as immigrants are amassing on the horizon. In this “real America” knowledge and education are “brainwashing” and if you can’t figure it out with “plain ol’ horse sense”, it ain’t worth a’knowin’. They’ve convinced a frightening majority of the people in this country that being stupid goes hand-in-hand with apple pie and baseball; and that being “simple” is being “genuine”. And that’s scary; like zombie movie scary.

As a matter of fact, it’s starting to feel a lot like a zombie movie, lately; where everyone save a few rugged survivors has been turned into mindless, shuffling consumers of brains - out to turn every remaining human into another drooling and moaning member of the infected masses. Because, like a super-virus, stupid is also infectious, contagious and dangerous. Ignorance offers comfort and offers up untenable and fantastic platitudes to conquer fear. Dumb is cheap and easy, and what could be more attractive in these difficult times? And how much do the pictures from PeopleOfWalMart.com need to look like cut shots from Zombieland or 28 Days Later before we do something about it?

It appears as though the Red Scare is back for a third go-round, and it looks a lot like the first one did back in 1917. Once again there is mounting fear and anxiety that a revolution that will destroy property, Church, home, marriage, civility, and the American way of Life is imminent. And once again the media has exacerbated those political fears into widespread xenophobia. But this time, it’s the “red” that purports to be the good guys, the warriors against socialism and the protectors of the American ideal. It seems that black is the new red, and red is the new, well, white? At least they’re still fighting with good ol‘ fashioned hate and fear-mongering. We clearly didn’t learn our lesson the first two times, and as the old saying goes: we’re doomed to repeat it until we do.

As in both previous Red Scares and zombie moves, the faces of these foot soldiers for idiocy and imbecility are the faces of our friends, neighbors and even families, and it makes the terror all the more real. Because we used to know these people and now we hardly recognize them. But the enemy of this new Red Scare is not the equally fallible “Blue”, the DNC, or MSNBC. Because a scant few years ago, they were scary in their own right. No, the only real weapon against the mindless is the mindful, the only way to defeat ignorance is with knowledge, and so that’s how I choose to fight: with my facts, my knowledge and my keyboard. But unfortunately, for zombies, well, you’ve still got to blow their heads off.

For Hate of The Game

I hate the Yankees. That alone hardly puts me in unique company, the Yankees are one of the most divisive professional sports franchises in the world. As the old saying goes: you either love ‘em or you hate ‘em. And I hate ‘em. But I think I may hate them more than most, and I can’t keep it in any longer. With apologies to those friends I have who do, inexplicably, love that team, I’ve got to let this out. The Yankees are the purest evil that isn’t an actual despot dictator or corrupt government. They are more despair inspiring than the entire cast of The Hills and a greater barometer for sweeping social decay than the mortgage crisis, political scandal and Miley Cyrus’ career combined. The Yankees have taken two of our most storied American institutions (baseball and New York City) and turned them into lessons in oppressive monopolism and narcissistic self-obsession being sold to us as confidence and sportsmanship. As a nation of sports fans, we deserve better, and we should demand it.

I swore that I would not watch the World Series upon learning the Yankees would be participating in it. I had watched the majority of the playoffs, and enjoyed the competitiveness and the annual demonstration by the baseball world that most expensive team is not necessarily the “best”. And with that cathartic proof less and less likely, I settled comfortably into the football season and put off thinking about baseball until next summer. But I did give one caveat: that if they would start throwing baseballs at Alex Rodriguez, I would tune in. In fairness, I said this mostly a as a throwaway - conventional baseball wisdom would nearly prohibit plunking a team’s best hitter; especially in the championship series. And Alex had, of late, come perilously close to actually earning a fraction of the quarter billion dollars he was being paid to consistently hit baseballs. But after news came over the wire that, impossibly enough, A-Rod had been hit three times in two games, I made good on my promise and tuned into the Fall Classic. I wish I hadn’t. Watching the Yankees win the World Series was like watching the rich kid in your class get the girl you had a crush on; or watching Goliath beat David. No moral, no inspiration, no joy. Just the affected and rehearsed mirth of a couple dozen millionaires and the smug applause of sixty thousand or so New Yorkers who seemed more relieved than actually excited. The Empire had struck back, and to my horror and disgust, evil had finally prevailed.

To be clear, I don’t hate the institution that is the Yankees. To love baseball in any capacity is to appreciate who the Bronx Bombers used to be. You can hardly talk about the lore of our national pastime without mentioning Micky Mantle, Lou Gherig or the largest character of them all, Babe Ruth; each of them Yankees, and remembered best in their pinstripes. But the modern day Yankees are no more that institution than Megan Fox and Kate Beckinsdale are Marilyn Monroe and Greta Garbo, Ryan Seacrest is Dick Clark or in terms closer to my heart, the Notre Dame football team is the same storied group that inspired ‘Rudy’, gave us Knute Rockne, or was even worth watching. At some point, as institutions mature and adapt over time, many of them lose so many of the identifying characteristics of their historical namesake that the name is really the only thing they’ve retained. So it is with the Yankees. Aside from playing in New York City and wearing mostly similar (albeit updated) uniforms, these are not your father’s Yankees.

The Yankees payroll last year was just under $210 million. Half of that was accounted for by just four players, and nowhere in that four was their World Series MVP or their fabled closer, Mariano Rivera (one of the few Yankees I do not hate). The Yankees overpay for talent like normal people overpay for movie popcorn. The real problem with this is that that’s $60 million more than any other team is paying, and it’s more than the four lowest payroll teams combined. Oh, and it’s near $100 million more than the team they were playing in the aforementioned World Series. In a nation where we demand fairness in our competitions, and talk of “even playing fields” has dominated our political and social landscapes since time immemorial, our appointed “national pastime” allows and even celebrates this inequity. So, in effect, we’re using the Iranian election method to determine a baseball champion.

So, how did this happen? It happened because Major League Baseball doesn’t have a salary cap, they have a luxury tax. Which basically means that if you spend more than a certain amount on your payroll, you have to pay a little more to the League. That’s right, the punishment for spending too much is, well, more spending. I’m not quite certain how requiring extra money from a group who can’t control their spending is an actual deterrent. I’m just glad the penal system doesn’t use this same methodology to control rape and murder. And who are the primary proponents of this “luxury tax” plan? The ownership of the Yankees. So to be clear, we’ve given the folks in New York City the opportunity to give the League and the rest of the country the middle finger and be the best by buying away every other team’s best players, and it’ll just cost them a little extra cheese? The same people who will spend in excess of $2,500 a month for a 500 square foot studio apartment, just for the privilege of living in their city? Normally you have to be a member of the Lohan family to get that kind of enablement.

And what of the lesson this teaches to those kids whose dads take them to the ballpark? I can just picture a father leaning over to his begloved son, face still stained with ballpark mustard and fingers still sticky from his first real box of Cracker Jack and passing on the timeless knowledge: See son, winners don’t make money, money makes winners. Wow. I can almost smell the American pride from here.

But I would be remiss not to mention the thing I hate most about the Yankees. And that’s Alex Rodriguez. "Pay Rod" is the most easily hate-able sports figure since Barry Bonds. Just a few years ago he was cast as the player who would save us from the Bonds scourge by wiping his name from the record books and doing it the proverbial “right way”. Ha! But it’s not solely the Yankees to blame for blowing up Alex’s head like a party balloon. After all, it was the Texas Rangers who gave him a 10 year contract in 2000 worth $252 million dollars. It was simply the Yankees who provided welcoming arms for a player who ultimately grew to believe he was actually worth that kind of money, and possibly more.

I could mention his marginal performance on the field (or at least marginal for someone making $200,000 for every game he plays), his recently admitted steroid use, his marital infidelity (and with Madonna, no less), or his notorious indifference over his own failures, but that’s really not it. It’s really the way he appears to be keenly aware that he’s Alex Rodriguez and that you’re not, and he’s bent on making sure you understand that. It’s really the way that he celebrates even his most benign accomplishments as though he’s some sort of underdog, and not one of the highest paid athletes in the world. It’s really the fact that you don’t just want him to fail, you want him to fail profoundly. You don’t just want the pitcher to strike him out, you want the 98 mph fastball to go cruising into his dome hard enough to wipe that damned smile off his face. It’s really that he is the consummate modern day villain: overpaid, under-talented and generally indifferent about the fact that he’s an absolute ass.

The modern day Yankees are, in many ways, simply a reflection of what we have all become, and in that, perhaps we have only ourselves to blame. We worship at the altar of material wealth with such great fervor that it has seeped into other, previously inviolate, areas and given us a single measuring stick for personal value. Nearly gone are the days of underdogs, hometown heroes and rags-to-riches fables. We’re left only with the hyper-rich becoming hyper-richer and overpaying to simply bear witness from our firmly entrenched seats in the proletariat. But for those of us who can’t or won’t give in to this sad reality, who believe there is something more and something better, and who love sports for the fairness it offers in an often unfair world, I offer you a start to your salvation in the form of a little sports hatred, or on the off chance you’re a major league pitcher, in one good hard throw at a guy’s head you can’t possibly miss.

A Healthy Dose of Shame

Despite the fact that we are the fattest nation in its fattest era, a robust health and fitness industry has provided us with greater access to the technology and know-how we can use to keep ourselves in good shape than we’ve ever had before. We have dozens of diets, devices and drugs, all designed to make and keep us thin, strong and generally looking good naked. There is, perhaps, no better indication of this than the rise of the franchised super health club. In communities and neighborhoods both small and large, rich and poor, monolithic fitness centers have been propped up. These churches of physical betterment offer the latest pieces of fitness equipment, a bevy of personal training experts, and an environment engineered specifically to motivate us sweat and push away those extra pounds and puny muscles. Unfortunately, it seems that a few of my fellow gym patrons appear bent on dressing or behaving in such a way as to leave little doubt as to why, amidst all these agents for self-improvement, we’re still a nation of fat slobs.

The Tank Top Brigade

Let me just say, I get it. I understand how flattering a fitted tank top can be for a guy. I’ve personally been wearing them for undershirts for most of my adult life. However, they’re just that: underwear. I can’t honestly think of a good reason for a grown man to wear one of these shirts by itself - including in the gym. And yet, I see dozens of men wearing these to work out in. And strangely enough, they’re often paired with oversized shorts or pants. But I’m willing to give this entire ensemble a pass, because there’s a new breed of tank top (if you can even call it that) that’s to the tank top, what the tank top is to the t-shirt. I’m speaking, of course, of the giant sleeve-hole t-shirt, or the douche top.

This shirt is commonly executed by first taking the sleeves off of a regular t-shirt and cutting out the neck. This allows, ostensibly, for greater visual access to one’s guns (because if you wear a shirt like this, you invariably refer to your arms as “guns”) and enough space to show off a little pec-cleavage (and perhaps some stylish neck jewelry). But the next step really takes it up a notch. You cut the sleeve holes open down to the very bottom the shirt, leaving just enough fabric to hold the shirt together. This gives much more liberal access for admirers to your entire upper body, and if you’ve done it right just a peek of nipple from time to time. After all, people are at the gym to get motivated, and what greater motivation than being able to see your sculpted torso, right?

Wrong.

Honestly, in addition to a dress code which would allow anyone wearing something like this in a health club to be immediately removed, this sort of apparel should constitute legal grounds to take someone outside and beat them with a dull shovel. No one wearing a douche top will contribute anything valuable to the world, and will likely spend the majority of their days preying on young women with self-esteem issues or, once they’re too old, telling stories of how they did. I’ll bet a year’s salary that Levi Johnston has a drawer full of these. Do us all a favor and put on a damned t-shirt. If anyone wants to see more, they’ll ask.

The Screamers

Lifting weights is a brilliantly visceral experience. Anyone who’s done it for a while can tell you about the rush you get when you push something impossibly heavy through a range of motion for the first time. There’s probably some sort of endorphin/adrenaline science that can explain it - but all I know is that its reliable bliss, which is often in short supply. Additionally, because of the intensity of the experience, its often difficult to appear at one’s absolute best. Some of the scariest faces I’ve ever seen have been on people lifting. And sometimes, the experience is so intense that the occasional grunt is involuntarily let out. Usually, this involves enough weight that its completely understandable. However, there are a precious few people who feel compelled to actually scream while lifting weights, or grunt so loudly that it may as well be screaming. And by “loud”, I mean, loud enough that I can hear despite the fact that I have my earphones in and my iPod at the highest volume I can stand.

For the most part, these weight room chodes aren’t lifting enough to warrant a good sweat, let alone any accompanying noise. And yet, they’re compelled to make sure everyone within earshot understands that they’re exerting themselves into even greater sculptitude, and we really ought to pay attention. For the few of them who are actually trying to lift something challenging, they’re doing it in the least effective way possible, or hardly lifting it at all - screaming all the while, just to make certain we’ve all taken a good look at precisely what they’ve racked up. In addition, these are the same jerk-offs who feel compelled to drop whatever they do manage to lift in the loudest way they can muster, so that if I failed to notice the screaming, there’s no way I’ll miss the dumbbells hitting the floor from two feet up.

A few important notes here:

1. If I came to gym to hear people working out, I wouldn’t have headphones in. And strangely enough, the vast majority of other patrons have them on as well. Take a hint: we don’t want to hear you.
2. Rest assured that if someone does rack up and lift something impressive, I’ll notice.
3. Invariably, every person I’ve seen do something I’d qualify as “impressive” in a gym has done it with hardly a sound. To put it in simple terms: they let the weight do the talking.

That’s the only thing in the gym that I want to listen to, so shut up and lift.

Pretty Angry Girls

From the looks of it, there’s something really bad going on at the gym for almost every girl there. Because I haven’t seen that many pissed off girls in one place since the prom queen announcement. Honestly, what is it, ladies?! I mean, I can understand the need for a plaintive stare at a nightclub, but at the gym? Despite the fact that I’m always at the gym wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, headphones in and focused on my own workout, whenever I glance at a female gym patron (not counting any I showed up with) they look at me as though they recognize my face from the sex offender registry (for the record, they don’t). Now keep in mind I’m not leering or even attempting to initiate any sort of conversation, I’m just looking around the gym because staring straight ahead was something I had my fill of at military school. And yet, I’m forced to make a point of looking into obviously empty space to avoid hearing someone’s rape whistle and getting pepper sprayed while I’m making my way to the lat pulldown machine.

Is that really necessary? Look, I know there are guys at the gym who can be a little lecherous. But if you’ve been paying attention, they’re really not that hard to spot. Aside from the groups mentioned above, anyone wearing Under Armor (or anything skin tight for that matter), anyone wearing a necklace you can see, or anyone flexing in the mirror are safe to give your “look” to. For the rest of us, we’re just trying to get a decent workout in without being distracted by bad shirts and gratuitous yelling.

Additionally, if you show up to the gym with your hair and make-up done, in an outfit that looks like it costs more than your annual membership dues and showing more skin and cleavage than you do when you go to Vegas, having to deal with a little smarm just sort of seems fair, doesn’t it?

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It’s not as though I expect the crowd at my local gym to look like a Bally’s Fitness Center commercial. I’m not sure I’d even want to go a gym like that (or else someone there might end up writing a piece like this about me). I’m just looking for a little less “crazy” in my workout facility. What’s more, no matter what someone looks like, if they’re in there seriously trying to improve themselves, far be it from me to give them any hell about being a work in progress. That’s what being there is all about, anyways. Unfortunately, too often it seems like many of the folks that show up really need work in the one area the gym can’t help them with, a severely underdeveloped sense of shame.

Common Nonsense

The populist rebellion is in full swing these days. The gap between the educated and non-educated factions of Americans appears to broaden daily as partisan politicians, retail marketers and thought leaders try to capitalize on our socioeconomic prejudices for their own benefit. The poor blame the rich for the economic collapse, the rich blame for the poor for ever-increasing tax obligations. The poor popularize the scandals and salacious habits of celebrities in order to point out how undeserving the rich are (e.g. TMZ, gossip magazines and E! TV), while the rich point to isolated, fame-seeking members of the poor whose shameless academic failures have become the stuff of viral videos and television the world over (e.g. Ms. Teen South Carolina, Jay Leno’s “Jay-Walking” and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader).

Despite the fact that the internet has made the sum total of the worlds knowledge nearly ubiquitous, the latest generation is less knowledgeable than any that has preceded it since single-room schoolhouses on the prairie. The value and quality of American higher education continues to plummet, while the price of it continues to rise. The dilution of the value of a college degree has become obvious as the school business has become big business. Who isn’t offering a degree these days? Yet, those same degrees have become less and less accessible as the prices of college continue to reflect the desperation of current economic times rather than the reality. The chasm between the educated and the uneducated is becoming more of the gap between the well-educated and the poorly educated. But a plague as foul smelling as by any other name. We’re not just losing the financial middle-class, we’re losing its intellectual counterpart.

The refrain most often heard from the populist crowd is that the educated elite in this country lack “common sense” - as though the nation’s academic elites have all been educated in cloistered and hallowed halls so far removed from the “real world” that they can scarcely be relied upon to tie their own shoes. C’mon people, put down the Grisham novel and step slowly away. Colleges haven’t looked like that for a hundred years, if ever. Most college campuses look like Abercrombie & Fitch commercials with less attractive people and more hand-painted signs. And the fraternities and sororities are no more powerbrokering secret societies than your local Elks Lodge is.

So what exactly is this “common sense” anyways? Most proponents of the theory employ the Justice Potter Stewart method of defining it; not attempting to list all the things that are included, but rather by just saying that they’ll know it when they see it. If this sounds like shaky ground upon which to indict a large portion of the population, it should. The idea that there is a special subset of knowledge available exclusively to folks who shun traditional education is just as absurd as the notion that the knowledge held by the educated or financially elite is unavailable to the population at large. It’s a farce either way.

And yet, we feel a special connection to the notion of “common sense”. We should. After all, it was Thomas Paine’s famous pamphlet of the same name, published in 1776, which became the most widely published and read writing in American history. Credited as a catalyst for the American revolution, it plainly and eloquently warned of the dangers of government and monarchy. It may be one of the most recognizable pieces of populist literature ever printed. But despite these storied roots, more recently common sense has come to mean “street smarts” or “life skills”; the knowledge of which parts of town to avoid, or how to successfully accomplish your own laundry. I’ve even heard it used to refer to skills as varied as interpersonal relationship prowess and fashion sense. What’s so “common” about all of that? And when’s the last time you took fashion or relationship advice from someone without an education?

What the new “common sense” is really, is intellectual segregation, born of the populists’ dissatisfaction with the current distribution of wealth and influence. What else would you call the concept that there are separate, yet equal spheres of knowledge and understanding that are divided along the same lines that dictate what part of town you live in and what job you have? I would hope that we learned a long time ago that there’s nothing equitable about this kind of exclusivity, and there’s nothing equal in “separate, but equal.”

“Common sense” is a pacification in the face of long odds; the exact opposite of the American “bootstrapping” ideal. As the socioeconomic gaps become wider and wider, they become more perilous and daunting to try and cross; and yet, it is precisely that challenge that has always given us our greatest leaders. The satisfaction crusade sweeping the nation, eager to tell us that being a little bit fat, overextended financially, or emotionally unstable is completely o.k., wants nothing more than for you buy into the fact that you’ve already got all the knowledge you’ll ever need, and that anyone who has more is trying to put one over on you. The real truth about the value of education is something Sir Francis Bacon knew over 400 years ago: knowledge is still power.

So, where do we go from here? Perhaps a good place to start are some things we can all agree on, no matter our education level or station in life:

1. Having a college education doesn’t make you smart and not having one doesn’t make you street savvy;
2. There isn’t a “better” way to learn. Where or how your get your information doesn’t have any impact on the knowledge or your command of it; and
3. The knowledge you do have does not dictate the knowledge you can get.

When we’re criticizing someone for not having any so-called “common sense”, we ought to take a good look at what we’re actually saying. One one hand, if we’re indicting their lack of intelligence on relatively pedestrian matter (e.g. unable to work a parking meter, confused by basic traffic patterns, etc.) we can just go ahead and call them stupid. After all, there are no special kinds of stupid. In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, stupid is as stupid does. On the other hand, if we’re challenging their lack of perspective, perhaps we should take the occasion to either give them some, or try and understand where they’re coming from. Either way, putting a finer point on your criticism both increases the chances you’ll be listened or responded to, and makes your own sense seem a whole lot less common.

To be certain, a decision not to educate yourself is a personal one, but it’s also one upon which you should, and ought to be, judged and it doesn’t make you privy to some special kind of knowledge. The idea that it does is both foolish and dangerous. In this Information Age it’s never been easier to learn, and there’s never been a time when it’s needed more. In fact, it seems the only people who lack any sense, common or otherwise, are those fail to do so.

The Write Stuff

Today I found out that I didn’t win a short fiction contest that I entered this summer. In fairness, I didn’t really expect to win, nor did I have much of a chance. I’m not a fiction writer, and it was a national contest run by a magazine that features some of the best authors and writers of our time. But motivated by my girlfriend (an actual fiction author who entered and also didn’t win) and a fair number of cliches that are designed to keep me from allowing the statistical impossibility of things from paralyzing me into inactivity (e.g. “he who will not risk cannot win”, “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” and something about the “road less travelled” that I should be able to recall but cant), I entered anyway. It was a difficult but enjoyable project, and in my secret heart, where I keep my dreams of winning the lottery, making out with Carmen Electra and playing electric guitar for AC/DC, I hoped to see my name and my story printed in my favorite magazine. And in the most inglorious way possible, by opening the latest issue delivered to my house and flipping through, happening upon the winning entry a full three months before I thought a winner would be announced, I found out that it wasn’t mine and it wasn’t me.

So, instead of waxing poetic about the latest invasive public behavioral trend that makes me simultaneously loathe traveling, big cities and the public in general, I thought I’d take a moment to reflect on why it is that I write. For the record, had I not come upon this epiphanic moment, I’d be writing about the gentlemen in the row ahead of me, who is the latest in a string of middle-aged men who seem bent on attempting their strained and painful version of flirting with the poor women who made their travel plans too late to avoid getting stuck in a middle seat next to them. Invariably, whether a function of the pervasive and palpable awkwardness or simply a general lack of concern for collateral impact, these men lose control of the volume of their voice and I am bombarded by a stumbling and desperate monologue whose volume, consistent lack of humor, and intensity is impossible to ignore (despite my noise canceling headphones and the rumble of a jet aircraft). In addition to desperately hoping that they’ll find a reason to shut the hell up, or possibly be stricken mute by some sort of biological miracle, I’m left to wonder when the point is reached where communication with the opposite sex regresses to the same level it was at when I was 14 - because it seems to, thus far, be getting easier every year, and these guys can’t be much more than 10 years older than I am. Is like some sort of “flirting stroke” where I’ll suddenly start to slur my speech, not be able to feel half of my face and end up recycling tired social commentary to every strange girl unfortunate enough to get stuck in a seat next to me? But I digress. This is about writing, and I’m sure he’ll shut up soon.

So, I’m not winning contests, my book hasn’t generated any interest amongst literary agents, and I haven’t been published in a major periodical since law school. And yet, I still write. Why? For now, I’m lumped into the same category as the midwestern women who write short stories about the adventures their cats have in their dreams and demented home social scientists who are writing manifestos about the dangers of processed foods and the radiation from cell phones. If it were any other endeavor, I would have long ago cast my implements into the same storage area that holds my long-unused rollerblades, golf clubs and Rock Band drums. But I don’t write because I want it to make me rich or pretty and I don’t write because I want it to make me famous. In the simplest terms, I write because I’ve got something to say, and I want people to listen.

Writing is a special form of catharsis. Writing is the best version of my voice. In its measured phrases, sentences and paragraphs, I speak as efficiently and exactly as I’d like to speak in person. You know that feeling you get after you’ve had a discussion and you think of the perfect thing to have said? Or in a verbal confrontation when you come up with the perfect comeback but it’s too late to fire it? That’s what writing can give you. A chance to say it just right. And for a child who had a serious speech impediment growing up, the kind that required countless hours of humiliating speech therapy to correct, the ability to say something that right means ever so much more. Imagine knowing what you’d like to say and then being physically unable to say it. Imagine everyone around you looking at you with pity and disdain because you’ve been stricken dumb by your own mind. And then imagine what you might say when you finally found your voice. Imagine how you might never want to stop saying things at all.

Writing is a chance to inspire and entertain; each purpose with equal value. Writing is permanent and tangible. Writing endures. Writing is a snapshot of your mind, much like a portrait is of your body, and I’m sure you’ll agree that each can be equally embarrassing if you look far back enough. I try to hide my first stabs at writing as far away as I do pictures from high school and college. But the essays I write are the very first thing that I have ever done of which I am truly proud. I can look back, read some of the things I’ve written and be in complete and utter disbelief that I wrote them. I don’t want to change or improve them. I’m happy with them just the way they are. And contentment, for me, has always been in short supply.

I can finally understand the minds of those countless souls who trek out to Los Angeles, in the face of impossible odds, and an impossibly dirty and horrible business, to try and make it as an actor or actress or is some other creative art, because they truly believe their stuff is good enough. We’ve taken a special interest in watching the dreams of these intrepid souls get crushed, as the “open audition” episodes of our favorite TV talent shows draw astronomical ratings, inspire dozens of viral videos and become the stuff of entertainment commentary for weeks. But, it is the precious few of those starry eyed artists who actually do have the right stuff that go on to inspire us all. Without them, we’d simply have our 9-5 jobs, our overpriced lattes and our network news, and everything would be a fine shade of gray.

And so I keep writing; for the kid that wanted a steady sure voice more than anything, and for all the kids that still do. I keep writing for chance to write just one great thing, or a library full of them; to inspire the world, or just one person. I write to make sure that I was here, and for everyone else who did the same. I write funny things to keep from crying and heavy things to keep from, well, more crying. I write to keep you from reading Us magazine, watching the Tyra Banks Show and listening to Miley Cyrus. I write to make you laugh and I write to make you think. I write because I’m a writer, and because you’ll never know how much it means to me that you read.

Oh, and in case you'd like to read the ill-fated short story... you can find it here.

Driving Down Crime

Racial profiling is a volatile and hot-button issue, which pits our ever-increasing desire for personal safety in an era of terror and violence against the desperate defense of our civil rights as their systemic erosion seems more and more inevitable. We all like to think we know what criminals look like, but then realize that not everyone that looks like our stereotypical criminal is one nor does every criminal fit such a description. Bernie Madoff looks about has harmless as your accountant, yet perpetrated the world’s greatest fraud; while Chad Ochocinco (of Cincinnati Bengals fame) looks straight from a gangster rap video, gold teeth and bad fashion sense included, and has never had anything more than a speeding ticket. There isn’t really any easy way to resolve this matter, and I won’t presume to do so here. But there is a type of profiling that is not only non-discriminatory, but also appears to be wildly effective; a way for law enforcement officials to locate criminals without ever seeing the color of their skin or the way they’re dressed. And that is: vehicle profiling.

It’s certainly no violation of civil rights. You can look and look in the Constitution (Bill of Rights included), the Federalist Papers, the Declaration of Independence or even Locke’s Social Contract theory and never find a mention of a right or relegation to a certain kind of vehicle. The car you drive is not an immutable trait, and is not culturally exclusive. What you drive and the way you drive are some of the most American freedoms that we have. In fact, it’s hard to imagine a more universal example of our freedom of expression than our vehicles. And therein lies the genius of this new science. Because our cars say something about us that we’ve chosen to say out loud and to the world at-large.

Reckless Drivers

As the world, and consequently, traffic moves ever faster, reckless driving has never been more dangerous. And I know how to spot it before it happens. If you see a compact car that is painted some obscene color or has rims that appear to cost more than the vehicle or, and this one is essential, has a bolt on exhaust device that makes the otherwise-economy car sound like a jet-powered leaf blower, that car will engage in some sort of reckless driving within five minutes, guaranteed. It doesn’t matter who’s driving; their race, gender or socio-economic background are meaningless. If you follow that car, they will break the speed limit, engage in street racing, accelerate in a reckless manner, or any other number of traffic violations that endanger other drivers, pedestrians and bystanders. And they will do it quickly. Who needs speed traps? These cars are easier to spot than Waldo on a page with only two people. In a world of champagne colored Lexus SUV’s, red Mustangs and silver sedans, how hard can it be to locate the lime green Mitsubishi?

Don’t believe me? Then try it for yourself. Follow one of these cars around for the requested five minutes and see if you don’t see something stupid. I’ll bet you a metallic purple Honda civic with an airfoil that you do.

Proximity Alarms

Of course, it’s not just the type of cars that can be profiled, it’s also the condition. Want to know which car has a habit of following too closely in traffic? It’s the one with enough dents in the front to make the bumper look like your ex’s teeth. Want to know which car is prone to sudden and dangerous stops? It’s not the service truck with that actual warning on the back of it. Nope. It’s the car whose rear end has more pock marks in it than the kid who serves me my fries at McDonald’s. That’s the most effective way to say “keep your distance” since the hippy hatchback covered in bumper stickers. The fact that these vehicles haven’t been fixed after multiple accidents is also telling - the driver knows there’s no point in spending good money on fixing something they’re bound to break in the near future.

Why not keep a closer eye on these folks before that add another notch to their belt (or their bumper)?

Minivans

Listen. I get it. It’s not like you can ferry around a good-sized family in a standard vehicle, but if I had to pick out the most consistent type of vehicle that I see involved in dangerously bad driving, it wouldn’t be the aforementioned “sport imports”, the dent brigade or any of the other vehicles here, it would unquestionably be the mini-van. Aside from its abject emasculation and uncoolness so pervasive that it actually makes the cars around it start to suck, it appears to be the last bastion for the driver whose awareness bubble extends no further than their front and rear bumpers. And unless you drive one (and, for some of you, even if you do) you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Of course, we can’t say anything or do anything about it. There’s probably a family in there, which is the most inviolate thing in America next to the flag itself. No matter how badly a family acts, you can’t really say a thing about it (including the Kardashians, the Gosselins and even the Gottis). Which is why I’m certain this would be the most difficult part of my profiling plan to implement. But I’m absolutely confident that you can follow a minivan (especially on the highway) for less than five miles and see some manner of public endangerment: impeding the flow of traffic, signal-less lane changes, and general highway dumbassery, just to name a few. Seeing a minivan in the left lane of a highway is like seeing Kevin Federline in a music studio: technically they’re allowed to be there, but it’s probably going to end in disaster, or at least a lot of angry and frustrated people.

Cargo Vans; Big, Dark, SUVs, and Toyota Trucks

Windowless cargo vans were the best thing to happen to perverts, kidnappers and burglars since the car itself. If you see an unmarked cargo van anywhere near a residential area or any non-industrial area after business hours, you don’t need to wonder whether it will be involved in something nefarious - you can just know it. It should constitute probable cause just to see one of these things.

Additionally, if you see an oversized SUV (e.g. Cadillac Escalade, GMC Yukon or Chevy Suburban) that is dark enough to not actually see into any place except the windshield, there is something in that vehicle that they don’t want you to see. And it’s usually not the driver or passengers.

Finally, if there is an early model Toyota truck driving around (i.e. late 80’s, early 90’s vintage) with tires balder than Dr. Phil and a suspension that looks more worn out than the springs on Paris Hilton’s bed, during rush hour please, please, please pull this car over. You want to know what causes accidents? Cars that stall in the middle lanes of the highway, or on busy interchanges and on ramps because they should have been fixed or taken out of service years ago. Listen, there’s something wrong with that car that you can give a ticket for (broken light, emissions, uninsured, etc.) and you’ll prevent more accidents than you ever could by pulling over the college student who’s texting in stop-and-go traffic.

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In the end, it both is and isn’t true that you are what you drive. A cool car won’t make you cool if you’re not, and an expensive car won’t make you attractive (it may, however, get you a hot date). A hybrid car doesn’t make you a better citizen and truck that can pull a house doesn’t make you more manly (however, pulling a house with your truck does). But the new-found glamor of behaving badly, or at least selfishly to the point of endangering others has enabled those mostly likely amongst us to engage in such behaviors to advertise it with their means of personal transportation.

People that buy red cars know that they’re three times more likely to get pulled over for speeding - and yet they still buy, and there’s no outcry over red car discrimination, because hey, red cars do tend to speed (though they’re not the only ones). So why not expand this vehicular profiling past hot-colored sports cars and onto the ones detailed above, and many more that I’ve certainly overlooked (suggestions, anyone?)? You never know, all those cops on the street might finally actually make them safer ... or at least more likely to use traffic stops to stop actual criminals instead of those of us just trying to get where we’re going or simply most likely to pay the fine.