Let's Hear It For the Boy

The large scale campaign conducted by the women of world to convince men that they are the only gender subject to the visceral weakness of our base desires has been wildly successful. In fact, if not for the periodic reminder that I get from a particular kind of young lady (including one particularly poignant example this weekend), I would have bought it lock, stock and barrel myself. Strip clubs, adult book stores and porn websites all cater almost exclusively to the Y-chromosome set, and the few all-male revues that do appear, at least to the exclusion of the gay male crowd, to be directed at women are often reviled as caricatures and are almost always overtly campy in their presentation. We have been told and shown time and time again that while women can always resist a gorgeous man most men are powerless to resist their female counterparts. In fact, as you read that, you men are probably nodding your heads and you women are smiling to yourselves in the global fraud that you have successfully perpetrated. But alas, you’ve been betrayed by one class of the sisterhood that, despite an almost universal attractiveness and, in many cases, high level of education, loses all perspective and judgment around their chosen type of man. Behold the Athletic Supporter.

Of course, I don’t mean the elastic protective device used by male athletes the world over to protect the family jewels from harm – although the parallels are both entertaining and difficult to ignore. I.e. uncomfortably clingy, never quite as good a fit as you were hoping for and, even with bleaching, always just a little bit dirtier than you’re comfortable with. No, all enjoyable double entendre aside, I’m referring to professional athlete groupies – that dedicated cadre of loose women who attend sporting events they have little or no interest in with the hopes of attracting the attention of one of the well-paid sportsmen, if only for the night. What is extraordinary about this platoon of pretty girls is not that they exist in such large numbers but that they continue to exist – especially in this enlightened age of empowered and educated women.

The only plausible explanation for this behavior flies in the face of conventional wisdom regarding the sexes. At first, I thought it might be attributable to the exorbitant salaries paid to modern professional athletes. Even mediocre players in the major professional sports are multi-millionaires and the allure of moneyed men is a concept as old as money itself. But the traditional gold-digger is looking for a seat on the money train, and not simply a short tour of the sleeper car. The appeal of wealth is usually the security it offers – and we are often struck by the other shortcomings it appears to allow women to overlook in their mates (e.g. advanced age, physical unattractiveness, poor hygiene, excessive body hair, and/or tragic lack of personal style). But these athletes do little if anything to hide their philandery, and are usually prototypical physically. So, it’s not the money, at least not in the traditional sense.

So that left only their physical prowess. But these are grown women. Sure, we expect teenage girls to be prone to flights of fancy regarding starting quarterbacks, hunky heartthrobs, and consummate bad boys. But the women populating this corps of marginally chaste ladies are usually in their mid to late twenties – and often times older. And here I’ve always thought that coming of age as a woman meant casting aside childish desires and searching for a man who, depending on their level of sophistication, could satisfy their emotional and intellectual needs, or at least reliably fund their shoe budget. The majority of these modern-day gladiators are hard pressed to offer much more than monosyllabic mumbling or the occasional visceral grunt in the way of conversation and not a whole lot more in way of emotional availability. Given their level of cognitive maturity, one might almost consider an academic attraction to men like this be like cerebral pedophilia.

We expect or at least tolerate attractive girls in their early to mid twenties to be gallivanting about town and making poor life decisions about who they spend their nights with – we certainly also expect them to grow out of it by the time they can drive a rental car, or at least before they stop getting carded on a regular basis to get into a nightclub.

These athletes offer little more than a one night soiree – and I can only imagine the sort of personal treatment offered to these ladies once the evening’s festivities have concluded. It certainly seems like the sort of blatant and obvious disrespect that only strippers and crack whores would be likely to endure of their own volition and even then, only in exchange for money and/or illicit drugs.

But these “teamwork hoes” (a term I first heard on the Stanford campus, no less) regularly volunteer for this treatment. They are grown, educated and intelligent. They are frequently well-groomed, well-heeled and well-spoken. And, yet, they persist in attending to this class of men as though they were gods – happy to simply be in their audience for a few moments, even if those same moments are stolen amidst a chemical and alcoholic haze in a hotel room from which they’ll be summarily dismissed once the chance encounter has been hastily consummated.

But as a life-long penis owner, this behavior is far from inexplicable. Like it or not, and despite our intellectual development, we are all still physical creatures. We are sometimes subject to and victims of our baser desires. As much as we’ve learned and matured in our lives, sometimes all it takes is the robust display of cleavage (be it of the chest or bicep variety) to make us forget ourselves and behave recklessly. This is far from an indictment. In fact, it’s comforting to know that for every Carmen Electra and Megan Fox we’ve got, you girls have some second baseman or quarterback whose only appeal would be their quiet acquiescence to a shameless romp in the hay. So thanks to the Athletic Supporters (including the one I met recently – you know who you are) for cheerfully reminding me of the immanent corruptibility of the fairer, smarter and more temperate sex. Besides, it’s nice to have some company down here in the gutter – especially when it smells like flowers.

Anything You Can Douche, I Can Douche Better

There is something truly incredible about the men of Los Angeles; something that defies all logic or understanding. Because just when I think that I've seen the art of douchebaggery reach its highest, or rather, lowest point, and without even seeking it out, I come across someone (or two) ever so much worse. It's as though L.A. has become the epicenter for dressing yourself like an asshat and then acting as though you're walking around in classic Armani suit. I'm not certain whether to laugh or to cry. But, ever since I read in my April Esquire magazine about "end of the douchbag era" (courtesy of Stephen Marche's 'A Thousand Words About Our Culture' column) I've been waiting to see signs of this downturn. From where I'm standing, however, I fear the Marche may have posted the proverbial "Mission Accomplished" banner on his cultural aircraft carrier just a tad too early. The douchebag movement is apparently alive and well here in the City of Angels - and may even be gaining momentum.

Skinny jeans, over-sized v-necks, highlighted hair and eyeliner are apparently not enough. Because while sitting in an Irish Pub (yes an actual Irish pub - the only place you'd be less likely to spot the common L.A. douche than a Men's Wearhouse) on the north side of town this weekend, I was confronted by a brave new step forward in fashion dumbassery - the coordinated kung fu headband. At first, I thought it was some sort of joke - as though some group of kids were having a theme party and the pub was simply a stop on their bar crawl. Sure they wouldn't fit in, but that was sort of the point of such an adventure anyway, right? I couldn't think of any other reason why two of these young men would be wearing tied headbands that matched their outfits: one white and one black. It was like some post-modern good vs. evil chode war - or as though the Karate Kid and Criss Angel had a love child (or two).

At least one of them had the good sense to use a handkerchief (of course that same dickwad did not have the good sense to keep his pants from falling off his ass - despite the fact that he was wearing a belt - but that's a different story). The other looked as though he had crafted his from an old white undershirt. I can almost imagine the scene at his house:

Assclown 1: "Yo, you ready yet?"

Assclown 2: "Almost... YO! Sweet headband!"

Assclown 1: "Yeah, chicks love this thing - Spencer was totally rockin' one last week at the club... I got black to match my jeans and eyeliner"

Assclown 2: "Dude, I don't have a white one to match my shoes..."

Assclown 1: "Yo, just cut up an old shirt!"

Assclown 2: "Sweet!"

You know, now it looks like I just transcribed outtakes from "Dude, Where's My Car?"

But seriously, Mr. Makeshift Headband was a serious limp and one crane technique away from being Daniel Laruso. I had to fight the urge to go over and ask him if he was from Reseda and how Mr. Miyagi was doing these days.

In all honesty, all of it would have been fine if they were joking. You know, a Karate Kid theme party wouldn't be such a bad idea - I'll bet you could even get Elizabeth Shue to show up depending on which bars you went to and if you had bottle service and a decent amount of cocaine. Hell, I might even have joined in with some movie quotes and maybe bought the group a round for their sheer audacity and brilliance. But, no. This was no tongue-in-cheek send up of 80's pop culture. This was latest ring quest of another Frodo and Bilbo Douchbaggins - lowering the bar to impossible new depths, and turning an otherwise tremendous local pub into a weak hipster rest stop. As they laughed at their own unimaginably stupid jokes, and strutted around the bar like peacocks, their woefully underfed Ingénues in tow, I struggled in vain to ignore them and was left trying to glean some sort of lesson from having to bear witness to this latest fashion tragedy.

Much like economic turn around - we must be cautious to announce the end of the douchebag era before it is truly nigh. In all likelihood, it will take years to undo the damage done by Afflication, Armani Exchange, Diesel and most of the Persian and Armenian guys I've ever met. Because just as one tool recognizes the errors of his ways, buttons up his shirt, takes off his jewelry and turns his car stereo down, another will take his place; under the same misguided delusion that such behavior is all that's standing in between him and a life of perpetually available sex with supermodels. No, it's going to take a nation of us to stand up; to continue to rage against this rising tide of overgroomed and undersmart scrotes, to finally point and laugh and yell: "What the hell are you wearing?"

Or just one of us to sweep the leg.

A Little Piece of Quiet

I'm not sure that reading about economics is the healthiest thing for me. One one hand, it's intellectually enriching and allows me to explore a topic that I never had the good sense to get into while still in college, and develop a new skill set as a businessman. However, on the other hand, it gets me thinking about just precisely what I would pay for certain things, no matter how unsavory they are. Because, in a purely economic world, if people are willing to pay for something, it would be for sale.

Unfortunately for my girlfriend, if she ends up in the car with me, this means having to listen to me rant about precisely how much I would be willing to pay for a traffic-free rush hour trip to (or from) work (I've currently settled on $20 each way - if that can give you some sense of just how bad the traffic in L.A. is). As traffic worsens (inevitably), this leads me to point out all of the cars (and drivers) on the road who clearly wouldn't be able to afford such a toll, and beginning to opine about a requiring a minimum car value to use the highways or an intricate system of driver training and licensing that will keep all but the most skilled drivers out of the left-most lanes. In the end this usually devolves into a sort of driver's fascism that is a little too angry and serious to really be funny, and does little to calm my nerves.

But, since I have, despite its inadvisability, been reading on economics recently, my world view has become bent on pricing out of my life things that annoy me. Which became particularly tasteless during my flight from Burbank to Portland this past Thursday when I was seated a scant five feet or so from what I have determined to be the most terrible and annoying child I have ever encountered. We'll call him Jeffrey; for no other reason than it seems to fit. For reference, coming from someone who was raised by a mother that did in-home childcare, has four neices and nephews of his own, and has spent no less than eight years as a barmitzvah DJ - this is really saying something.

I had spotted this little bastard in the gate area. In fairness, I'm not sure if Jeffrey was a bastard. He was traveling with only his mother, who wasn't wearing a wedding ring. But I offer up the description as more of a declaration of his character than the martial status of his parents. I hadn't previously imagined that a 3 year old child could be a bastard, but now I'm certain of it. Normally, my least favorite groups of children are infants and teenagers. Infants who really can't help being noisy (and whose parents should keep them home), and teenagers who make noise because they're too stupid not to (whose parent should also keep them home). But, for the most part, kids between the ages of 3 and 6 are precious little mini-me's, who capture all the innocence and purity of what it means to be young. But not Jeffrey. No, it was apparent from his behavior before boarding that his parenting had imbued him with the impulse control of your average neurotic Chihuahua along with any number of other behavioral afflictions. Jeffrey was bent on screaming at the top of his lungs at random intervals, and then smiling while his mother half-heartedly attempted to quiet him. I joked as I got on the plane that I didn't care where I was sitting, as long as it wasn't anywhere near that kid. I should have known better. The jinx law was in full effect.

As I took my seat, my heart fell as I spotted Jeffrey in his dirty Mr. Happy t-shirt close enough to reach out and slap - separated only by his mother, who looked like she'd offer little, if any, resistance to such an action. I immediately thought better of this (messy litigation and such), and hoped against hope that either the flying experience or his woefully unconcerned mother might be able to quiet him without my intervention. My hopes were dashed as his gleeful screaming recommenced immediately, and I knew I was in for a bad trip. I smiled thinking about soon being able to strap my headphones on escape to some musical bliss, accompanied by crossword puzzles and some light reading.

But I was wrong. Jeffrey had apparently tuned his tiny little lungs and vocal cords to produce a frequency and volume which penetrated any possible masking. It blasted right through the rumble of the jet engines, the white noise of the cabin ventilation, the murmur of other conversations, and unbeliebably enough, the music in my headphones. I turned up my iPod to maximum volume, still to no avail. I tried pressing them into my ears the point of actual physical pain - and still, his chirpy little warble got right through. I looked back over my shoulder at the pair of them, seething and frustrated, and the look of glee on his face seemed to foreshadow a life of killing household pets, slapping around girlfriends and starting his own militia group. And yet, they were no more affected by the palpable air of discontent that surrounded them than if it were a light summer breeze, and I thought how liberating it must be to have that little concern for those around you.

It was at this point my mind turned to how to solve such a problem. This certainly wasn't the first time that the quiet enjoyment of my own life has been brutalized by disinterested parents and misbehaved children. I actually had to stop going to my local Costco for the same reason. But because I can put a price on my frustration, I began to try and think of a way to purchase my way out of it.

1. Bribery. I thought briefly about how much money I could directly offer the apathetic mother to quiet her child, and then realized that the she would no doubt view the task as Herculean and require a commensurate sum of money. I wasn't ready to forgo a nice weekend in Vegas just to get a little nap.
2. Drug Money. I then wondered if I could offer to buy the child a glass of juice which would perhaps have some night time cold medicine mixed into it. Or perhaps speak to the mother about the extreme hazards of airborne allergens on airplanes with regard to children and just happen to have a double dose of Children's Benadryl handy. Of course, I then realized this would only really help me next time (mental note to add to the packing list) and also required a mother who didn't treat their accompanying toddler like nothing more than an exceptionally noisy piece of luggage.
3. The Other AAA. I've often fantasized about an All Adults Airline. I know it's not the sexiest thing to fantasize about, but keep in mind that I'm usually doing it under the duress similar to what I experienced on my flight to Portland. I mean, it's not that there aren't any adults who aren't annoying - it's just a much smaller percentage, and you can also call them out for being obnoxious without earning the ire of their parents. I think I'd pay at least an additional $50 to be guaranteed that there would be no one under the age of 18 on my flight. Richard Branson can you hear me?
4. Loud Class. Imagine if you were the first airline to offer a seperate seating area for "families"; a soundproof compartment at the extreme rear of the aircraft which could come complete with crayons, Disney movies and an infinitely patient flight attendant. You wouldn't even have to charge extra. A small surcharge on all the non-family tickets should be adequate and if anyone was not willing to pay it - they could be invited to travel back in the "Loud Class" seats. You could even let them board the plane first (as they always seem inclined to do, anyways). Besides, it's been my experience (recent and otherwise) that parents seem completely immune to the cacophony of their brood - so they probably won't even notice!

In the end, it's unlikely that any of these solutions will be adopted. Polite society has somehow come to believe that the miscreant behavior of small children is one of those things we simply have to endure, since even the most blatant failures of parenting seem to be inviolate. We won't let someone's dog pee on the trees on our front lawn, but their children can ruin everything from restaurants to sporting events to travel without so much as a word from us. And if any of do dare to speak up, we're cast as children haters, or as though we're somehow infringing on a parent's seemingly fundamental right to raise whatever kind of social disaster that they choose.

For the record, I don't hate children. In fact, I rather enjoy them. My sister's four kids are amazing - but she's also one hell of a mother, and believe me, if any of them acted up like Jeffrey in a public place, they'd be having a very bad day very quickly. Of course, I suspect my sis also has some emergency Bendryl in her purse, too. But I don't find a lack of volume control in mixed company to be charming or a fundamental right of childhood. I just find it rude. Of course, in our Brave New World - which seems devoid of any sense of shame, I suppose the best way to spend the money I've allocated to peace and quiet on the airplane, is on a Xanax prescription and a stiff cocktail.

Cheers, Jeffrey.

As Far As I Can V

When I set out to write a weekly blog for a whole year, I truthfully didn't expect an appreciable percentage of my pieces (if any) to be about fashion. I had no fashion sense to speak of until I was thirty years old, and even then it took me a few more years to really get comfortable in what I was wearing. As a point of reference, a law school colleague (who was a year behind me) once told me that when he saw what I was wearing in class during his visit to the campus (I was 29 at the time), he thought to himself "if that guy can do it, I know that I can." True story.

I'm not certain if the public at large has just gotten more shameless in dressing themselves, or if it's just southern California. But for whatever reason, even with my limited capacity for noticing the same, I see egregious and shameful fashion violations every single day, and when any of them reach critical mass (the point at which I've seen them often enough that I can no longer ascribe them to just a few isolated individuals' bad taste) I finally have to write about them.

And here we are again.

One of my personal fashion staples is the V-neck t-shirt; plain, usually white, sometimes colored and never screen printed (especially with "Affliction", "Armani Exchange" or "Abercrombie"). I find these to be just slightly more mature than a crew-neck t-shirt, and subtle enough to let my personality do the talking and not my outfit. But, I digress. Something's gone terribly wrong with V-necks lately. Well, men's V-necks, that is. They've gone the way of breast implants, french fries and Kirstie Alley's dress size - outrageously super-sized and, if you can believe it, growing. Honestly, when did a plunging neckline become an okay thing on a man's shirt?

There are certainly some fashion and grooming staples of the gay community that have greatly benefitted the average straight man's appearance and appeal. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, anyone? Man-scaping, a well-tailored suit, and jeans that cost more than forty bucks, just to name a few. But, just as importantly, there are some other staples of that same community that ought to remain there. For example: a vest with anything but a 3 piece suit, anything ribbed that isn't a condom, and chaps. Of course, included on this list of please-don't-let-this-get-adopted trends was the oversized v-neck t-shirt. Unfortunately, t-shirt necklines have made the transition and the last time you could see this much chest while everyone was still dressed, the Bee Gees were selling out concerts. It's as though just when we've finally convinced the world's men, even the smarmy ones, that it's not okay to wear a dress shirt with any more than two of the top buttons undone, we've now got to deal with a whole new slew of overexposed and underwhelming displays of man cleavage.

Now there's only really two ways this can go: (1) you're going to see some particularly unsavory chest hair, or (2) you're going to learn more than you wanted to know about some stranger's proclivity for hair removal. Let's go over why these are both way wrong... in order (so no one gets confused).

1. The Forest For the Trees. Listen, there hasn't been an acceptable purposeful display of chest hair since Magnum P.I. went off the air. There really hasn't. Which is not to say that you need to shave yourself like an Olympic swimmer if you want to wear anything that doesn't hug your neck - hair removal isn't for everyone, especially if you'll lose a couple jacket sizes if you do. But, just know that for the exceptionally small number of number of women who do actually get turned on by your front-mounted Sherwood Forest, they know how to find you and will appreciate a more private showing anyways. And speaking for the rest of us - the small amount that peeks out of your normal shirts is plenty. We've got to eat, you know.

2. Smooth Operator. If you've gotten your grooming habits into the twenty first century, especially with regard to hair removal - good for you. But I don't need to know. No, seriously, I really don't need to know. Think of it as a private gift, or an inside joke between you and whoever (if anyone) sees you naked frequently. A list which doesn't include me, or most people for that matter. I totally get that you want everyone to know you've got a great chest and can bench press a car. But I have it on pretty good authority that this is completely noticable through a shirt - with the added bonus that you won't look like a date rapist who has more invested in the rims on his car than he does in his living arrangements. Enough said.

A t-shirt can be a very powerful tool for a man. It's an iconic piece of clothing that it's nearly impossible not to look good in if you're in decent shape, and is the coolest thing you can wear that costs less than twenty bucks. James Dean, Marlon Brando (a young Marlon Brando), Paul Newman, and the list goes on. These paragons of bad-assery all looked their baddest in just a plain white t-shirt. Did you really need to see down to Brando's navel to know that he'd beat your ass if you tried to say something about his girl (or his hat)?

For months now, I've railed against the feminization of the American male, and from the looks of this latest trend in marginal shirtlessness, it's showing no signs of slowing down. Skinny jeans, eyeliner and jihad scarves; now we've got young men wearing ladies' necklines on their shirts. I'm not sure this is going to stop until teenage boys start running around in high heels. Of course maybe that's just what we need. When guys start breaking more than just the long understood basic laws of manhood by walking around dressed like women, we might just find our way back to the cave.