Sizzling Summer

Fellas. Is it my imagination or do girls seem more radiant this summer than most? Now, I know these words sound easier coming out of Matthew McConaughey’s character in Dazed and Confused, but it seems right. And girls, please don’t read into this and make it a statement that it’s not. I’m not sitting in a lawn chair with my feet in a kiddie pool, wearing a wife beater, balding, and drooling over girls as they walk past. That’s not me. I still have all of my hair.

But, seriously. What the heck happened this summer and who do I thank?

I’ve noticed more girls are taking an interest in what they look like this season. It’s honestly a welcomed change from the bum inspired, vomit inducing, and Ugg fueled fashions of the winter. What the hell are girls thinking? Oh God, I just got a mental image of a pair. Gagging.

It’s a good thing I can catch a nice pair of gams (legs) while I dry heave the image out of my head. Thank God for girl shorts. While I’m at it, thank goodness for fedoras and the gorgeous girls that can pull them off. And let’s get a round of applause for short dresses. You really deserve it. There’s nothing quite like realizing that my stroll has been interrupted for the past two minutes because I was watching a cute girl cross the street.

To the ladies that read this blog and think that I’ve been describing you in this post, congrats. And no, I’m not checking you out.

Now, back to my kiddie pool. 


I Am Not a Black Guy.

Coffee. Black. Two words that scream “bad ass”.
Wait. “Bad ass” is two words. I didn’t think this through.
OK. I got it.
Coffee. Black. Two words that are more manly than I am capable of being.
It’s the time of year when iced drinks are way more prevalent than ever. Especially of the coffee and espresso variety. Look around and you might see people driving or walking down the street with their iced cappuccinos, frappuccinos, blended drinks, or frozen margaritas. Me? I’m more of the iced soy chai kind of guy, which brings me to the topic of this blog.
Am I less of a hard dude because I like sugar in my coffee? Mind you, we’re not talking about fun dip sweet. I just mean two packets of sugar in the raw, maybe some simple syrup if it’s iced.
I remember seeing an episode of How to Make It in America and one of the smaller characters mentioned that he takes his coffee black. What really stuck with me was how he ordered it. He said the two words with such gusto that they could knock out a horse with one punch. That was when I decided I would take out the milk from my coffee prep. Granted, “black with sugar” doesn’t have the same umph, but I take joy in ordering black coffee at the diner and adding the sugar myself. For that split second, I am all that is man.
Now, I’m still not at the level of drinking black coffee, but I’m completely fine with that. Honestly, unless my taste buds up and move and I’m left without that wonderful sense, I’ll probably always have sugar in my coffee. I take a look around at the people sitting near me in any given coffee shop and I know for a fact that there are frillier drinks in the hands of most guys.
But one thing’s for certain. There is no way I’m ever using splenda.

Can I hear you now?

Isn’t technology amazing or as most moms would say “isn’t that something else?” I’m only saying it because this is being typed on my phone while I wait in a doctor’s office. Earlier, I used it to catch up on twitter and attempted to stump a friend in a game of hang man. Although entertaining, it doesn’t keep me from chuckling at the woman sitting a few feet away from me, commenting on what is on the tv. It also helps that she is sitting with her face only inches from the screen.
Of course, I stopped writing this to read an article in the latest Antenna Magazine* that discussed an experiment where the participants went without their phones for 48 hours. It was a fun read but I immediately felt like a failure when I picked up my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed any tweets. Then I remembered the woman who looked like she was making out with the female host of a day time show (It’s cool. That’s legal now). Talk about instant gratification.
Now, as great as phone technology has become, I still don’t understand why people talk on their phones while driving. No, I don’t mean the tool bags with their Bluetooths, in their Mercedes that will cost more than the artificial insemination my future wife and I will go through because things like this get on my nerves. I’m talking about the people who still hold their phones. Unfortunately, the tools have it right here. Their Mercedes is less likely to end up in the rear of my sweet Protege.
Well, before I really start sounding like a jaded douche, I’ll end with saying that I love my phone. I’m also very addicted to it. So addicted, I’ve taken up stealing.
*Pete, I swiped the issue from your coffee table on my way home Monday morning. Don’t expect it back. I’ve sold it.

Get It Together, Man!

A startling revelation occurred this morning while I was getting dressed. I had just finished taking a nice shower, washing my hair with my designer shampoo and conditioner, and shaving with an old fashioned safety razor and a mug of warm shaving foam that I whipped myself. Freshly clean, I stepped into my room and went about my usual morning routine (a loosely used term since I normally wake up at 11am or noon).

I reach for the top shelf of my dresser and pull out a pair of clean boxer briefs. I step into them and admire myself in the mirror. Both arms slip through an undershirt and I’m ready to continue. That’s when it hit me.

Let me go back and elaborate a little. Everything about the shower was completely true. I spend way more on toiletries than most men and like to think that it shows. I do shave with a safety razor and whip my own foam because I get a better shave from it. That’s where the truth ends, or rather, where I decide to omit it.

Stepping into my room is like walking through a scene in Aladdin. There’s dirt on the carpet, clothes hanging and thrown about the room, and a fez wearing monkey. Ok, maybe the monkey doesn’t exist, but for all I know he could possibly be living under my bed (I haven’t looked there in years). Frankly, I rather my room be named the Cave of Wonders with my own Princess Jasmin waiting to show me “a whole new world”, but there never is and there probably won’t be if I keep this up.

Sadly, I must continue my confession. The top drawer is empty. The boxer briefs were pulled out of the laundry bag on my floor and they’re ripping. Lord knows when the last time I folded my laundry and placed them in my dresser was. There’s also no mirror because I’m a pretty big guy and I’m sure I’d just get sad every time I looked into it.

But, seriously. When did I become this unkempt version of a man I never imagined myself to be? I’m sure I’m not the only one either. One look at some of the places my friends call home can help validate my point. Of course, I’ve never really noticed any of this until I found it in myself and neither has anyone else. It just seems that somewhere down the line, we gave up caring about our surroundings and solely focused on the immediate self.

Well, here’s my personal challenge. Get it together. This is a challenge from myself to myself. Get things in order and become a man. Not just a teenager living in the body of a man and foregoing all the lessons my family taught me. Do I really want my mother yelling at me to pick up my room?

Several people told me that my last post made me out to be someone who thought they were cooler than most and a ladies man. I hope that this has shown them that I’m not at all what they perceived. 

You Just Hush Your Mouth

When I was a younger guy, I took pride in the fact that I could talk to any girl in the bar. My friends held me in high esteem for this, what I considered very simple, ability. They would send me into the field when all hope of leaving with a lady’s number seemed all but lost. In retrospect, I’m making it seem like I was a Green Beret of vagina. But, that’s what it felt like.
I’d get my directive and hone in on the target. My approach would be stealth, their defenses down, and I’d move in for the kill with a swift “hey, what’s going on?” of my mouth machete. By the end of the night, everyone was laughing and a conversation was had. Sometimes it ended with makeouts, others with hugs and handshakes, while most ended with numbers exchanged. My friends were happy and things went better than expected.
Now a days, I’m like the bitter, old vet who scowls when they see something they don’t like. I find myself not having any patience to speak to some girls when only a few years ago, I’d talk to any of them. If she wasn’t interesting, I wouldn’t ask for her number at the end of the night. She would just be someone to chat with and I’d find something that would link us together and carry the conversation for the rest of the evening. We’d laugh and in the back of my head I’d silently whisper, “gosh you’re a dumb girl.” Those words are now a struggle to keep in my head and the booze ain’t helping. 
It’s no longer about trying to keep the girl entertained enough to get a reward at the end of the night. If she’s (let’s call it what it is) an idiot then I will have absolutely no tolerance for it. The worst part is that I don’t leave. Why don’t I leave? It’s not hard to simply turn around and walk away while she blabs on about her crappy day care job. My brain is yelling at me “freaking bail, man!” But I don’t. 
Know why? Because I’m cooler than her. That’s why! 
This conversation is no longer about you. No, it’s not about getting your number nor because you have the hottest body in the joint. It’s because I’m cooler than you and I’m not leaving until you know it. It’s about me and how cool I am and how much you suck compared to the thunderbolt of awesomeness that is my life. You’re going to love me and find me witty, funny, and charming. Maybe another idiot will fall prey to your trap, but not me.
Well, I guess I’ll try my hand at speed dating. Seems like those people might have the right idea.

The Larry Crowne Affair

I’m pretty sure most of us are aware of Tom Hanks’s new movie coming out next weekend, Larry Crowne. Well, when I first heard about the movie there were two reasons that I didn’t want to see it.  First one, off the bat, was that I assumed it was a spoof of the similarly named The Thomas Crown Affair. I have nothing against The Thomas Crown Affair. In fact, I’ve never seen it. This meant that I would have to watch two movies now instead of the one. I’m not that lazy, but I am a New Yorker. Instinctively, we will “eh” at any requests appended to the original and just blow off the whole thing.
My other reason was that after seeing the trailer for the first time, I ended up really liking it. He seemed to be a lot cooler than I was and that set me off. I’m 27 years old and I don’t live nearly the cool life that he does. No one has ever asked me to join a scooter gang. So what if I don’t own a scooter! No gang has ever offered me a spot. The scooter isn’t even the point. Hanks reminds me of being on one and that makes me love him for it. Then I turn around and get upset again because, damn it, Hanks, why can’t I stay mad at you? 
It does suck that his character losses his job and has to go to college. But, maybe I want to go back. With all the knowledge I now posses of the “real” world and how woman truly act, I would ravage college chicks. Yes, these are the words of a delusional male.
I won’t even touch the fact that he makes out with his teacher. Even entertaining that thought would force me to hurl this table at someone. Granted they’re middle aged and in their complete right to make out with whomever, no matter how gross adults look when they’re making out. Especially at the bar. Did I mention I was 27?  
Now, I’ll sit back and wait for the movie to come out and I’ll be sure to bring a date. If that’s not happening, I’ll wait for it to come out on DVD/Bluray and drown my lonely tears in a snot covered pillow.