The Fourth Horseman

History is filled with transcendent trios. Bands of heroes, villains, saviors and songsters have come in threes so often that we've become accustomed and comfortable with the idea and even the superstition that good things come in threes. The Three Musketeers, Charlie's Angels, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the Three Amigos, just to name a few. While the first foursome that comes to mind are those famous horsemen who foretell the coming of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death. As I prepare to depart Los Angeles after a shorter-than-it-seemed five year stay, I'm also leaving my own group of horsemen; a foursome to which I'm not certain I ever truly deserved to be a part of, but one that never made me feel like I did anything but.

I've lived a life of ancillary-at-best connectivity, treating each place I've stopped as simply a way-station on the way to bigger and better things. And as you might imagine, that sort of attitude doesn't lend itself to making great or lifelong friends. I've frequently felt intensely and secretly jealous of people who have best friends that they've known forever; people who would give or do anything for them, and for whom they'd do the same. Though through the years, I've had some close calls, I'm not sure I really ever had a best friend, let alone more than one. What's more, if you were to survey most folks on the places you might be least likely to make an actual connection, I would expect that Los Angeles would end up either at or near the bottom of the list. And not without good reason, the majority of the city is shallower than a spit puddle, and emotes a collective narcissism so intensely extreme that it's a wonder they don't commit all eight million of us. But it was here, in the most improbable of places, that I found three horsemen to ride with, and with whom I hope to frequently ride with again.

The Big 3

Sanchez, Joey and the Hawk. That's them. Sounds like a modern day A-Team. And I suppose we are an A-Team in a way. Though, I imagine that every group of male friends has a Hannibal, a Face-Man, a Murdock and a B.A. Barracus - or maybe more than one of each. David (Sanchez) is definitely our Murdock - crazy, wide-eyed, and an ability to find a smile in just about anything; though not without moments of unexpected lucid insight that are so profound that they often leave you simply shaking your head. Joey is surely our B.A. Barracus - though I expect if asked, that he'd tell you he's the Face-Man. He's certainly a fighter, and no mohawk notwithstanding, has gone through a number of haircuts that I'd never even consider. He's a man of few words, but constant presence; a fiercely loyal band member who often can't be convinced to do anything he doesn't want to do (though with sufficient tranquilization - or intoxication - he usually comes along). The Hawk is sort of half Face-Man and half Hannibal. He's surely the most well-dressed of the pack, and is legendarily suave with the ladies - then again, he's also the natural leader of the band. He's a business man, a family man, and one seriously big son-of-a-bitch. His demeanor is unflappable - and always seems to bring a purpose, a peace and a plan to every operation. They are an unlikely band of brothers, from wildly different backgrounds and with unimaginably different personalities, though I met them all in the same place: on the floor at STAPLES Center.

You see, we were all Clippers cheerleaders together.

Four For Fighting

I consider these three the brothers I never had, and like brothers, we certainly haven't always seen eye-to-eye. In fact, as I sat down to think about it, as ill-advised as it was, I realized that I had nearly come to blows with each of them (on separate occasions, mind you - no one's dumb enough to take all three of them on at the same time). But, brothers fight. It's as predictable as the rising sun. We challenged each other - drove each other to our absolute best, and absolutely crazy - usually at the same time. And when that got intense, well, it got intense. But just like brother fight - brothers understand when you mess up, brothers forgive, and in the end brothers stick together. To be honest, I don't regret the fights. I think it's how I knew; how I knew we were brothers after all.

It's a strange brotherhood, this cheerleader thing. All of us athletes in our own right, all facing the same ever-present emasculating stigmas, jealous jeers, and temperamental partners (which may be the hardest part of all). Trust me, no matter how much fun they look like, those tiny little girls we throw aren't always a barrel of laughs. I personally think it's because they're underfed (because I know how cranky I can get when I'm hungry) but who knows - all I can tell you is that it certainly mitigates any titillation you think we're getting from the process. The reality is, it's not easy on the line. Especially not on a pro line. And the guys are a much tighter knit group than the girls are - we have to be. We're not out there to look good - we're the muscle that makes it happen, and makes it happen with a smile. No one's looking for a picture with us, our autograph, or a calendar filled with us in our bathing suits. No, we have each other. Don't get me wrong - I love the STAPLES crowd, staff and the team we cheered for - but when it wasn't good, I had three guys on the line who were there. Every time. And for all the fighting we ever did amongst each other, we always fought better together.

The Back-Up Plan

There are a lot of things you can't count on your guy friends for: clean sheets at their place, something to eat in the fridge, keeping the noise down in the bed next to you when sharing a room in Vegas, a decent smelling bathroom and sympathy when you hurt yourself. But for all of that and more, there are a precious few things that you can count on your friends for, and of those, the most important is having your back.

The Urban Dictionary (the web's leading source for slang and truthfully horrible euphemisms) defines to have someone's back as:

An expression assuring someone that you are watching out for them. Comes from making sure you are safe by watching what's behind you when you're busy looking ahead.

But to be honest, that doesn't really capture it all. In a way, we knew about it much more intimately than most friends would have. After all, in a sport where "spotting" is a fundamental virtue - keeping an eye on your friends' safety becomes second nature. But, as cheerleading is full of just as much drama as you might imagine - there are other moments where it would be easy to not step in; easy to pile on rather than stand up; to run with the mob rather than step out alone. Each of these guys has had my back on countless occasions - not only in situations where I wasn't looking - but much more often in situations where I wasn't even there. They were there to defend me, who I am, and what's true about me - even in the face of not being popular or well-liked. I have done my best to do the same for them - because I believe that each of them is a better man than I am, and I won't suffer anyone saying otherwise - even if it means my ass.

* * *

Every day I spent on the line with these three fellow girl-wranglers, I wondered what I had done to get there, and if I ever really belonged amongst such a talented group. Joey could stunt with anyone and make it look like they weighed a hundred pounds; the Hawk could shoulder press a girl with either arm like it was a foam-covered aerobics weight, and Sanchez could do a back flip as easily as he could walk down the sideline. They were all better cheerleaders than I ever was. Joey has a National Championship, the Hawk was a team captain for one of the best squads in the Pac-10, and David logged seven years with the Clipps - and may be the most recognizable guy in the arena outside of Clipper Darryl. But they never made me feel like anything but an important part of the team; and just as proud to be standing on the line next to me as I was of them.

I often wondered what it is that I bring to the group. I am no Hannibal, no Face-Man, only a little bit Murdock and certainly no B.A. I'm not the oldest, the biggest, the fastest or the best-looking. What I am, however, is the piece that fits by not fitting. I'm not sure these three musketeers would ever had really fought for one another without a fourth. As we rode for the last time together this past weekend, we realized it was the first time we had done so since I retired from the line three years ago. And that's when I knew. Sometimes what great trios really need isn't any more talent, muscle, or brains. Sometimes they just need a fourth horseman; someone to hold the line together.

See you guys in Vegas.

Resolute

New Year’s resolutions have their origins in ancient Rome and Babylon, where the mythical Roman king Janus with his two faces would look both at the year past and the year to come (and after whom the first month of the Julian calendar is named) and the Babylonians would return any farm equipment they had borrowed the previous year and start anew. Regardless of their origins or traditions, the marking of a new year has always offered a unique opportunity for reflection and renewal across cultures and eras. Reviewing the disposition of previous resolutions is not nearly as popular as the declaration of new ones, but since I had the unexpectedly good fortune of actually keeping my first year-long resolution in 2009, I have the chance to do both with equal vigor as we roll headlong into 2010.

My primary 2009 resolution was to write an essay a week, each week for a whole year - which turned my previously mundane blog into the essay project which you’re now reading. And to my great surprise, I actually completed this resolution - which inspired me to make a few more resolutions this year, in the hopes that I can repeat my previous success. I’m listing them here, so that I’ll have a few more people to be accountable to (should things get a little off track) and perhaps inspire you to some resolutions of your own.

Reading What I Preach

Some time ago, I stopped reading books. Which is not to say that I stopped reading. Actually I read every day - but I read the news, magazine articles, columns, essays and other short form prose, usually things that I can get through in a single sitting, a few stolen moments, or during an unexpected delay in doing something else. But between my ADD and my otherwise busy life, I stopped really reading books.

Now this is particularly hypocritical because I’m often telling people that want to become better writers that the one unavoidable prerequisite for great writing is great reading. And despite the fact that I endeavor to be a great writer, I haven’t done any great reading since I plowed through Olive Kittridge on my Kindle early last year.

So this year, I’ve resolved to read two books a month - and before you go sending a ton of suggestions, rest assured that my reading list is already quite full of suggestions, purchases and loaned books that have queued up as a result of my shoddy reading behavior over the preceding twelve months. I doubt I’ll be firing up book reviews here - but I may mention the titles from time to time. But that’s about two weeks per book, and as a part of this resolution, I’ve also resolved to spend a minimum of one hour per day reading (and to compensate I bought my TiVo a new 1TB hard drive to hold all the TV I’ll be missing).

Time to reconnect with the bookwormy dork that got me through middle school with great grades and no social life.

Three Things and the New Essay Project

With any project, if you don’t keep adapting it, it will become irrelevant, uninspired and uninteresting. And because I don’t want Tru Love to meet such a fate, they’ll be some changes coming to the blog and the project in the coming weeks.

First off, the essay project will be reduced in frequency to once monthly and, second, a new project called “Three Things” will take its place as my (at least) weekly creative output. Three Things will be a shorter version of my favorite thing: lists of three - sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant, always just three things long - well, not counting subparts, etc. Perhaps it’s better just to assume it will be three-ish things. The essay project will be moved to once monthly to ensure the essays get a little more attention and cover bigger things. Additionally, I’ve resolved to start submitting the monthly essays for publication elsewhere to see if I can expand my audience beyond friends and family - though I truly appreciate the support.

I’m truly excited for the format change and I’m looking forward to using the lessons learned from last year’s essay project to have an even bigger and better year of writing (and publishing) in 2010!

Sundry

Then, of course, there are those resolutions which aren’t really a whole year long, and aren’t really the sort of thing that require a whole lot more explanation that just to list them:

• I’ve resolved to start eating healthier - a whole lot healthier - because I got way too close to 200 lbs., and no, they’re not making the pants in my size smaller all of a sudden...
• I’ve resolved to de-clutter my life; which mostly means throwing away a whole lot of stuff, except books, which everyone should keep forever...
• I’ve resolved to send more cards, because everyone likes getting them, and who am I kidding, I’ve got the time...
• I’ve resolved keep fighting back from my injury - because giving up sucks...
• I’ve resolved to save more and spend less - because that house I want isn’t going to buy itself...
• and finally, I’ve resolved to cut myself a little slack; it may not mean finally taking my first vacation, actually spending a whole weekend doing nothing, or gracefully taking a compliment, but hey, it’s a start.

* * *

2010 isn’t the year we thought it would be when we were kids. There are no giant orbital space stations, self aware computers, or colonizations of other planets pending. There are no hover cars, or hover boards for that matter, we’re not wearing a whole lot of silver (if you don’t count the metallic print on Affliction t-shirts) and we still can’t “beam” ourselves anyplace. But it’s still an amazing time to be alive. We live in a world of constant wonder and change, where more than any other time in history, we can make ourselves anything we want to be. There’s no doubt that the last decade provided disappointingly few opportunities for optimism and hope, but as each new calendar appears, we are given just that. In this time of looking forward to endless possibilities, seize the chance to write down just a few of them; dream big and imagine that this might be the year that changes everything.

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.”