Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Off Season Post 16: The Dos and Don'ts of Match.com

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to this week’s off season post not about The Bachelor Pad. Granted, my readership has dipped considerably; however, I’m certain those of you reading this are the most loyal of the bunch and I’m excited to grace you with my nonsense for yet another week. Thanks for hanging in there.

To you, I suppose, I’m like that new puppy who just chewed the skirt off your semi-new living room sofa. Sure, you’re disappointed in me, but it’s impossible to hate me. Hey, I’ll take it where I can get it. The problem is that I haven’t had it in so long I’ve forgotten where I can get it. Please spare me the “this is where you can get it” emails. I’m certain I’ll figure it out.  I have plenty of sex.  Now I just need to find a partner. 

Before I get to the substance (if we want to call it that) of this week’s post, I’d like to point out that Some Guy in Austin recently reached a significant milestone. While perusing my site the other day I accessed my “Stats” page and noticed that last week’s post was my 100th post. That’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Like the U.S. Postal Service or chronic hemorrhoid pain, I’m consistently around. Thank you to all of you who make it possible for me to flex my creative muscles once a week. Writing this every week is as therapeutic as a glass of red wine and two Valium. It helps me forget what’s wrong with my life, if even for a few hours. With that said, let’s get to it.

After last week’s delve into my take on relationships, I began to purge the Inbox on my blog email. When I re-read some of the emails I noticed that I had forgotten to address a topic that came up several times from several readers from around the country. I had about a dozen or so emails asking questions about dating websites like Match.com or eHarmony.com. The one email that stood out constituted a plea of sorts from what I’m sure is a lovely young lady regarding the best way to get a “good” man’s attention via her profile.

It seems she tends to get responses from a bunch of weirdoes. One guy, for example, liked to pretend he was a fish when he walked through the supermarket. It’s beyond me how any person would consider that little detail either relevant or attractive, but, God willing, we all know there’s someone out there for that guy. Notwithstanding my inability to guarantee a “good” man, I think some ground rules when it comes to presenting oneself online are within my area of expertise. My initial take on the email upon re-reading it is that there’s something wrong with the bait, not the fish. I’ll elaborate.

As a true student of the game, I felt it incumbent upon myself to conduct a little research. I have to confess that a few years ago I actually got sucked into the inundation of Match.com promotional emails and out of sheer curiosity created a profile. Let me say that I’m no more opposed to meeting a person online than I am anywhere else. In fact, if we’re honest about it, a person is just as, if not more likely to misrepresent herself in a bar as she is in an online profile. Like any first meeting, these sites are an effective way to get the ball rolling. However, after about 3 weeks on the site and a few dozen emails, I cashed in my chips. It just wasn’t for me. However, luckily my old ID and password are still active. I typed in a few parameters and surfed a few dozen profiles as I took notes. The following are my observations as a man looking through the sea of potential muses.

1. Everyone “Loves to have FUN!”

In looking through close to 50 profiles of women all across the country ranging from 21-41 (I assume that’s a good cross section of my demographic since most of you tune in to The Bachelor), I was amazed at how many women used the words “I love to have fun” or something similar in their profiles. Love to have fun? No sh*t. Who doesn’t like fun?

Webster’s defines “Fun” as “something that provides mirth or amusement.” By definition, everyone likes to have fun. That’s why they call it fun. Sure, that could mean different things for different people. “Fun” for me entails downing a dozen Lone Star beers in a dark honky tonk and scooting a lovely young lady around the dance floor. “Fun” for Charlie Sheen would probably be something a bit different. While it’s a relative term, “fun” means something we enjoy doing. Telling me that you like to have it says absolutely nothing about you. You might as well follow that up with “I enjoy speaking in generalities and my favorite color is white.”

In the interest of beating a dead horse, let’s assume that statement means something. The best way to get to its point is to make the inverse true. What if someone wrote into her profile “I don’t like to have fun”? See how that works?

Tip Number One: Unless it’s between 1949 and 1989 and you live East of the Berlin Wall, it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ll be seeking a mirth filled time in a relationship. On the other hand, if your desire is to incessantly brood into your wedge salad while pondering the hopelessly flawed nature of humanity over a few glasses of wine at a fancy dinner, I suppose a potential date would find that information pertinent prior to asking you out. Please mention if you hate fun.

Instead of globally stating your affection for being in a joyful mood, give me examples of what you consider fun. “I love to go skiing” or “Backgammon is a huge aphrodisiac” or “Slow dancing makes me giddy” are all examples “fun” things to do. If I have an idea about specific things you enjoy, then I can both relate to you and plan accordingly on a date. It also gives you an idea how much I pay attention to your needs. That’s important to know up front, isn’t it? Guess what? I like to have fun too. Apparently, that means we have something in common.

In my example above, I’d continue reading if the girl liked skiing or dancing, but I’d probably move on if I didn’t know how to play backgammon. Define “fun” for me and let me go from there. Your other option is to have me show up and take you to the local Snake Farm during feeding time at the python cage and then look at you and say “what, I thought you liked to have ‘fun’?”

When the lights go off and the chairs are stacked at closing time, it’s all about compatibility. You might attract a broad range of guys with global, non-committal, generally meaningless statements about yourself, but if you want someone you have some things in common with to respond, then don’t hide the balls. Besides, that also gives you a much better chance of getting to see my balls. (First anatomy joke. You’re welcome.)

2. Jeans vs. Getting Dressed Up

Another big theme in the vast majority of the profiles I perused was what I’ll call the “Cinderella” theme. Apparently, single women are under the impression that it’s necessary to differentiate themselves from all of the other single women who spend time exclusively in either an evening gown or in jeans and a flannel shirt.

Look, you’re not Erica Kane or Crystal Carrington and no man believes that all you want to do is get gussied up and hit the local martini bar for a few cosmos before sauntering into the main dining area for some foie gras and chardonnay. We know you don’t brood around your mansion in a rhinestone bedazzled, form fitting dress wondering if Victor Newman is alive or not.

Incidentally, if I could learn how to talk like Victor Newman, I would. That guy is money. Of course, I’d lose the porn mustache and wouldn’t be so serious all of the time, but than again Victor Newman has a lot to worry about as long as Jack Abbot threatens Newman Enterprises. Annnyyyyyhooo . . .

Conversely, no man believes that you wear nothing but jeans and t-shirts. Women who do that aren’t available anyway because they have softball practice three nights a week and already have girlfriends. Again, this piece of information doesn’t help me figure out who I’m dealing with. You have a limited space in which to serve up a hot plate of first impression. Don’t clog up that plate with parsley. Give me the meat and potatoes. Besides, that gives you a much better chance of seeing my meat and potatoes. (Anatomy joke number two. You’re welcome).

Tip Number Two: “I prefer formal to casual” or “simple over complicated” is more informative than putting yourself into the “I love X but also love the opposite of X” conundrum. Pick a side, if even subtly, and stick to it. Every man knows that a woman enjoys being wined and dined every now and then. There’s no need to waste valuable, limited profile characters by telling him that. Tell me what kinds of food you love and I’ll figure it out. If a man isn’t smart enough to know that Chez Whitey or whatever doesn’t serve chili dogs then you’re probably not going to be doing much formal dining anyway.

3. Pictures Say More Than You Think They Do

Ladies, ladies, ladies. This is an area that can use the most improvement on these sites. Look, we all know that the profile questions (all 20 of them) are nothing more than a cursory way to identify the most basic preferences of the user in order to “match” that person with a series of other users with statistically similar answers. I didn’t go on the site but I understand that eHarmony has a more involved survey than Match.com; however, I suspect the outcomes of any “matching” would be eerily similar.

Frankly, that’s the exact same thing we’re doing when we choose a particular location or event to meet people, aren’t we? After all, if I like country music, for instance, I’m very likely to meet a person who also likes that music at a place that either plays it or at a concert of a country music performer. Insert whatever like or dislike you have and the results are the same. We go places we like. Therefore, it follows that we’re apt to meet people with the same or similar interests at those places since they also venture there because they like it. Granted, that may be all we have in common, but the same is true on the Internet. Church, concerts, the lake, Hitler Youth Rallies, etc. You get the picture.

Speaking of pictures, what women on these sites desperately need to understand is that men are extremely visual creatures when it comes to attraction. While women often back their way into a physical attraction by seeing other aspects of a man’s personality, it doesn’t usually work that way for men.

Tip Number 3: Choose a half a dozen recent, clear, color pictures of yourself and leave it at that. There is definitely such a thing as too many pictures. I’m not prepping you for plastic surgery and I’m not a special effects supervisor making a stunt dummy of you. I don’t need to see you from every possible angle with three different hair colors and I don’t care that you’ve been to Machu Picchu, the Parthenon, and Wrigley Field. I can Google those locations if I’m interested in checking them out. When I’m on a dating site, I care about how you look and that’s what I want to see.

A smile, a close up, a tasteful full body shot, and a couple of normal shots of you not posing like Paris Hilton on a red carpet give me a good idea of your physical appearance. Oh, and don’t hide what you think are your flaws. Put your best foot forward but don’t set me up for disappointment when I meet you. For instance, if you’re a curvy, short woman then own it. If you’re seven feet tall, then own that. Show me some pictures that show who you are. Make them recent and make them honest. There’s no quicker way to kill a real life meeting than to show up looking nothing like the pictures you put on line. You want a man who loves you for you, right? Then don’t hide it up front.

I also realize that you love your dog, cat, fish, parrot, or whatever and I know that you love your friends, your mom, and your brother. I don’t need to see a group shot of you and 5 friends and figure out who you are. I don’t care how ugly your friends are, it’s not good to put them in the photo sections. The reverse is also true. I saw a couple profiles where the friends were actually hotter than the person posting the profile. I was tempted to send an email asking for the number of the girl to the right of you in picture number 3, but I thought better of it. Focus me on YOU, not your friends.

A shot of you and a pet is fine as long as it’s not weird but a solo shot of your pet IS weird. I’m not looking to get matched up with your dog. Mention that you have one in your profile and leave it at that. Oh, and bathing suit shots are fine as long as they’re tasteful and not “modeling shots.” A woman with 25 professionally taken photos on her profile screams high maintenance and vanity. If you post that kind of stuff and you’re going to get a bunch of emails with Italian accents. You’re likely to find a personal trainer with a “night job” who has just as many pictures on his profile. Those qualities are fine, but remember, it’s not the fish’s fault he’s attracted to the bait you put on the hook. If you bait the hook with junk, that’s what you’re going to get . . . shots of some dude’s junk. (Anatomy joke 3. You’re welcome.)

4. Be Honest But Not Too Honest

To be fair, I found some of the profiles that I scrolled through to be well thought out and, in fact, am taking a lot of my positive advice from those. The ones that caught my attention shared a good deal in common. If I could pick a few words to sum them up I would use “brief,” “informative,” “honest,” and “personal.” They were the action filled trailer rather than the entire movie.

One of the most direct profiles I saw specifically said, “If you don’t earn over $250,000 a year then I’m not interested in you.” As vapid as that seems, it’s clear and aside from the hate mail she’ll get from Gary in IT who just wants to find a woman to love him like his mother never did, it’s doubtful that any person outside her proposed demographic is going to respond.

Granted, the sorry bastard that does will probably regret it once every 30 days when he writes a handsome spousal support check before getting in his car and driving it over to deposit it into the mailbox in front of the house he used to live in, but at least she’s up front about it. Remember, Fish vs. Bait.

Tip Number 4: In line with that, it is possible to be too honest. Several women came extremely close to bashing ex-boyfriends and husbands. Several women criticized other women. Several women listed all of their requirements in a husband. Husband? That’s putting the cart pretty far in front of the horse on a dating website.

Coming across negatively is never a good thing when trying to get a man’s attention; particularly when you come across as a man hater. Would you trash your ex-boss in a job interview or talk about how poorly your co-workers did their jobs? If so, you’re probably still looking for a job. If you need to hash out some personal issues then do it prior to putting yourself on the dating block again. If I want to carry baggage, I’ll get a job at the airport.

5. Remember the Prize

This brings us full circle. After reading the first 10 profiles I’d say that about 70% of them contained one or more of the above mistakes. Now keep in mind that we’re all operating under the assumption that I am a “good” guy to meet, so take my advice with a giant grain of salt. However, it’s fair to say that I have a job, take care of myself, am usually fun to be around, respect women, and generally get along with everyone. I’m not starving full figured women in a dungeon in my basement and making them rub lotion on themselves so I can kill them and turn their pelts into a full body suit in order to become a woman (that’s the plot to Silence of the Lambs in case any of you missed that), and I sure as hell don’t envision myself as a fish when I’m in the grocery store. This brings me to the point of this entire exercise.

When creating (or now editing for some of you) your profile, keep the goal of the site in mind. The goal is to MEET someone with the intention of seeing IF he is compatible with you. The goal is not to find a husband. If that’s your goal, move to Utah and start knocking on compound gates. You’ll be married faster than you know it. Granted, you’ll have to sew your own blue Little House on the Prairie outfit and share some sixty year old guy with a couple of 13 year olds, but you’ll be married.

Approach your profile like you would your resume. Paint the absolute best picture you can of yourself with the understanding that you’ll eventually have to back up everything in there. There’s no sense in saying you’re “laid back” or “easy going” if you’re really a Type A control freak. Perhaps, “I like to take care of a man in relationship” or “I like some structure in a partnership” are more appropriate ways of communicating that idea. There’s no need to show us the entire blueprint. All we need is a look at the front (and perhaps the rear) of the building and a peek inside the lobby. If we like what we see, you’ll get asked out. Simple, right? Let’s hope so.

Well, there you have it. For you married folk, I promise to have a more relatable post for you next week. I’m just trying to help out my single lady friends this time. I hope y’all have a wonderful week. Take care of yourselves. In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be looking for someone who loves fun. DP

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Off Season Post 15: Relationship Advice 201

Hello, Readers. As always, welcome back to this week’s installment of the blog not about The Bachelor Pad. I hope those of you who are still managing to read this and continue to watch that masterpiece are enjoying it as much as I’m enjoying not watching it. Let me guess: Vienna’s a pain, Kasey is still nuts, and Jake is a bigger peckerhead than he’s ever been. Am I close?

As the careful readers among you know, Some Guy was in Vegas this weekend. Considering the fact that for the past three days I’ve had the same eating and drinking habits as Snooki, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’ve retained the ability to type. I found myself constantly reminding myself that when in Vegas it is imperative to pay close attention to Temperance and Chastity. Well, not too much attention. If you pay too much attention to Temperance and Chastity, the other strippers tend to get jealous. Annnnyyhooo . . . .

From what I recall about the trip, I had a lot of fun. Thanks to all of you who sent me questions. As is my custom, I try and cull the emails down into themes and then globally answer. If your question didn’t make the cut, email me if you’re still committed to the question and I’ll answer it as fast I can.

Before we get started, this week’s shout out goes to one of my longest, most loyal readers, Stacey in Florida. Stacey has been reading and commenting faithfully for years now and she was nice enough to take time out from dilating and delivering to send me two pictures of her gorgeous new born baby girl, Addison. Addison weighed in at a healthy 8 pounds and 9 ounces. Thank you for taking the time to send those pictures. Congratulations. Oh, and since you’re in Florida, you may want to invite Derek and the Boys to the baby shower. I’ll bet they throw a hell of a party. Just think of the diaper cake. With that said, let’s get to Relationship Advice 201.


Man, you people aren’t wasting any time this week. This was actually the very first email question I received. I’m certain that the reader who sent this is probably pacing aggressively around her bedroom gripping tightly to the end of a butcher knife in anticipation of my answer, so I’ll get to this one quickly.

Let me preface this answer by saying that I think it’s important to note two extremely relevant points before addressing this understandably sensitive issue. First of all, any issue can be defined in extremes. There is always the fringe element composing the exception to the general rule.

In other words, there is a certain portion of the male population that will cheat under any circumstance in any type of relationship. It’s simply true. A portion of that portion is literally diagnosable with some sort of deep psychological flaw or condition (see Madonna-Whore Syndrome, Narcissism, Bi-polar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder). Any host of traumatic childhood experiences from alcoholic parents to sexual abuse can contribute to serial addictive behaviors or poor choices such as infidelity. Anyone with any experience in the field knows that self-destructive behaviors (infidelity included) are more complicated than simply chalking it up to being a jerk. The other portion of this population watches Jersey Shore and that new show about being single in Dallas and thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to be a promiscuous jerk.

The second point is that all of the above points are also true for women; they just don’t get the kind of press men do and when they have those types of issues they often focus on other behaviors like binging and purging, for instance. My answer below is not about this element; rather, it’s about the Regular Guy who cheats.

The short answer to why men cheat is “The same reason women cheat.” The perception, even today, when any man cheats is that he does it simply for sex or for some sort of male validation that his loins still work or whatever. That’s simply false—even in the John Edwards and Tiger Woods-type cases. Before you log out and go to Oprah.com, allow me to explain.

Most infidelity occurs in any relationship because the cheater is not getting something that he (or she) needs from the other person in the relationship. Yes, you heard that right. Again, with the exceptions above noted, infidelity is also the “fault” of the party being cheated upon. Granted, for any of us (me included) who have been cheated on that is a difficult pill to swallow because the choice to cheat on a partner is indeed one of the most selfish things another person can do.

Let’s face it, it hurts and, while the vast responsibility lies upon the cheater, it’s the lack of “something” in the relationship itself that causes a normal, loving, decent guy to go and cheat. The woman is not “responsible” in the sense that she forced her guy to cheat; rather, it’s a problem with the relationship of which she is an equal part. Top that off with the Cool Hand Luke problem (a failure to communicate) and Cheater Stew is brewing on the stovetop.

Here’s the difference between men and women, though. That “missing something” that pushes men into affairs is often sex. Considering the fact that men walk around in a perpetual, albeit mostly controlled, state of arousal on any given day it’s not surprising. The other thing that men need in a relationship that often goes missing like a Joren Van Der Sloot girlfriend is, well, feeling like The Man.

Just like women want to feel pretty and have all of the plucking, waxing, painting, shaving, and primping appreciated by a man, men want to feel important too. When the sex declines over time and he only gets what he wants on his birthday and Arbor Day in addition to not having his ego stroked, resentment can build. Throw in a twenty-something who thinks he hung the moon and trouble occurs. In short, it’s never ONLY about sex.

Honestly, it’s the same scenario when a woman cheats. The difference is that she’s usually looking for a different “something” and that doesn’t always entail sex; rather, it’s usually intimacy. In today’s climate, I think that women are more often cheating because of sex, but that’s a different answer. I think what’s so shocking to a lot of women who have either been cheated on or are helping a friend who has is that the answer from the cheater when he gets caught is often that he does not want their relationship to end.

How can a man cheat and then not want to end the relationship with the person he cheated on? That answer is not as complicated as it may seem. Men have the ability to compartmentalize their emotions a hell of a lot more than women do. Women (generally speaking) are “done” when they decide to cheat. Women want intimacy, friendship, and companionship all in one partner. Men, however, are more “flexible” in this regard. As messed up as it sounds, if a man can meet all of his needs, he’s happy. If those needs are met in different places, he can still love the person he’s with for her companionship, etc. and compartmentalize the sexual relationship with another person. Crazy sounding, yes? True? Also yes.

The bottom line to all of this is that with the exception of that fringe element and what can probably be characterized as one time severe lapses in judgment, infidelity is a cancer rather than a shot to the heart. The seed gets planted, watered, and grows a long time before it blossoms into an affair. Two people in a relationship need to recognize these pitfalls and address them. The signs are always there. Always.

A man needs to have the courage and the trust in his partner in order to sit her down and say, “Listen, I have been tempted to have an affair. I don’t want that to happen and I’d like to address our problems.” That’s a hard thing to hear, but it’s better than finding lipstick on his collar and a hidden bottle of Axe Body Spray in his car. Hair plugs and a sports car will soon follow and that can get very messy around Christmas time. Real people in real relationships have the courage to share difficult feelings and problems in order to resolve their issues. Those who can’t or won’t are simply at a huge disadvantage and risk the pitfalls of an unfulfilling relationship.


This one cuts both ways. I assume this question came from a married person who has watched a once oiled, perfectly shaped six pack turn into a well-rounded keg. Let’s face it, as we age, we all lose a bit of our appearance and that’s a difficult thing to discuss with an otherwise wonderful partner. Physical attraction is important, as is staying healthy.

Remember the paragraph in my last answer about sharing difficult feelings? The same applies here. If the reason for the weight gain is uncontrollable—accident, medical issue---then kid gloves are probably needed. If your husband is the great guy you say, then he’ll be receptive to you sharing your fears about his health and your desire to see him happy. Approaching it from that perspective rather then hitting him with, “You’re so fat that when we make love I have a hard time hearing the stereo” is probably a better way to get the result you want. If the weight gain is due to laziness, then that’s a health issue that needs to be addressed.

Here’s some other advice. I dated a woman years ago who was a college athlete and blew out her knee several years later while we were hiking. She had surgery and a great deal of pain. Although she didn’t let herself go, the stress and inactivity took a toll and she gained about 25 pounds on a 5’4” frame. If I admit it, I’d have to say that I found her considerably less attractive physically and the stress she felt because of the weight gain made her a lot less tolerable to be around. In short, she was a chubby pain in the ass.

Knowing she was competitive and extremely athletic, I suggested we train for a triathlon in Austin that was about 6 months down the road. I went online for training schedules and bought a book and a CD-Rom where we could get tips and record our results. We started slow and often argued, but we both ended up getting in great shape and doing the triathlon. In fact, it was my first one. She lost the weight (and then some) and we were able to spend a lot of time together when training.

Find something that you can do together in order to help him lose the weight. Set realistic goals and support him by helping him. Rewards are important and I’ll let you decide what those should be. My suggestions would likely get this blog censored via your office’s IT Department. It’s a lot easier to accomplish something if a person has a support system. Be that support system, talk to him about the weight gain, and then join him in reaching his goal. If you’re not willing to do any of those for him, then I suppose his lack of interest in his physical appearance might just have been explained. Good luck.


Wow, no one is throwing any softballs at me this week. You’re making me work after a long weekend in Vegas. Here’s my best answer.

All unsuccessful relationships are frustrating. If I had to guess, I’d bet that the person who sent this question has had a series of unsuccessful relationships and is now at the point of being frustrated with all men to the extent that she believes she can seek an honest response from a guy like me in order to have a hard and fast rule to generally assess all men she’ll date in the future with the hopes of weeding out the jerks and finding Prince Charming.

Incidentally, if you haven’t watched Snow White in a while, pop it in or see what you can find on YouTube. Prince Charming looks like a gay flamenco dancer when he shows up at the end to kiss a catatonic waif who’s been known to cavort with seven male dwarves. Annyyhoo. . ., back to the question at hand.

Here’s the answer: While there is no general answer to the “red flag” issue I’d be willing to bet that we all know what they are. Like a woman’s daddy issues, men are susceptible to a series of pitfalls that make relationships with them difficult. Men are often unemotional and have a difficult time with feelings, for instance. If those things are too out of whack, he’ll be distant and inattentive and you’ll feel lonely and insignificant.

Here’s the big “however.” However, I think the mistake many women make is that they have “a type.” They have an idea of the kind of man they want to be with and they search high and low often ignoring huge exceptions to their own standards in the name of hooking the fish they want.

I’d be willing to bet that he person who sent this can find the exact same flaws in all of the people she’s unsuccessfully dated over her entire life. The “red flag,” in short, is your own inability to move beyond men with incompatible or unhealthy characteristics and find a man who has what you truly need. Breaking that cycle and choosing what’s healthy for you is a difficult, humbling thing to do, but if you don’t do it you’re going to pick the same guy over and over . . . and over.

Figure out what’s broken by searching for the pattern. You’ll be surprised how quickly one materializes. Realize that the poor choices stem not from “ignoring” red flags but from your own inability to set a standard and stick to it. Realize that there is no “right” and “wrong” but only what makes you fulfilled. If you’re needy, find someone who will cater to that characteristic. If you’re fiercely independent, then find someone who is also. It’s about meshing your own strengths and flaws with another person’s strengths and flaws rather than ignoring your own needs for the sake of a relationship. Oh, and don’t be afraid to dump a guy early if after a reasonable chance he isn’t what you need. Work on yourself and you’ll find that you attract fewer red flags.


Yes and no. Again, the paragraph above is probably a good place to start. Of course the initial phase of any relationship is exciting. We grin when the phone rings, laugh a bit too hard at his text haiku, and annoy the hell out of our friends at the wine bar by regaling them with stories of our new man’s wonderfulness. We’ve all been there.

Incidentally, with respect to the cheating question above, it is usually during this phase of the relationship that a man feels most like The Man. You pay attention to us, unconditionally accept us, allow us to take care of things, accept our wardrobes, and never complain about the condition of our living rooms. Once you settle us down and start nesting, things can change quickly. Keeping that respect we’re shown from you during the “Chase Phase” alive is a key to long term success. No man wants his testicles cut off and placed carefully in your clutch purse where they reside for months at a time only to be set out for a limited viewing time to time like the Shroud of Turin.

A man in search of a committed relationship will not lose interest if he’s allowed to progress at his own pace. Perhaps the person who sent this is seeking a big commitment too quickly or trying to “fix” the man she dates. A man dates a woman with the expectation that she won’t change. A woman often dates a man with the expectation that he will. Again, what I see in this question is a pattern, rather than an example of one guy who lost interest. If there is a pattern you need to ask yourself what you are doing to contribute to that pattern. After all, barring the fact that you’re not dating the entire NFL like a Kardashian sister, the only common denominator that all of the men you date share is YOU. Perhaps looking in the mirror first would yield the most constructive answer.


Put on a Streisand album and see if he knows the words. Alright, that’s a joke.

Holy sh*t. What happened to questions about my anatomy? Here are my thoughts on this one. Oh, and I assume something bigger than the fact that he loves Maroon 5 and sips sangria at the sports bar is contributing to your suspicions.

I suppose this one might be in line with the Red Flag question above; however, it sounds like we may have a Pink Flag issue here. My general sense of this one from personal experience—we all know one couple like this—is that it’s patently obvious to everyone around when a man has a “beard.”

It’s often the man himself who is struggling either with his own definition of his sexual identity or with some other outside expectation of that identity. Rather than sit down and tell mom and dad he’s gay, he’ll get date women or even get married. It’s usually something in his background that contributes to denial that deep. If you know him well, the signs will be there. Be mindful that sexual identity issues run as deep as any issue and if not handled properly can literally ruin a person’s life. After your conversation, perhaps some professional help would be well worth seeking depending on the answer.

We can all say what we want about sexuality, but your boyfriend is a human being, which means that he has feelings, vulnerabilities, and flaws like all of us. If he’s not gay or bisexual but simply feminine or androgynous, then it’s an injustice to him as a person and as someone who is currently investing time in a relationship with you for you not to address the issue. If he is truly gay or bisexual then it’s an injustice to you as a person and someone currently investing time in a relationship with him for him not to address the issue. That’s a difficult conversation to have, but you need to have it. Good luck.


Wow. Who sent this, Hedda Gabler (Google it)?

Look, I’ll make this short and sweet, but I’ll answer it like a lawyer. It depends on what you mean by “listen.” If, for instance, you mean that your boyfriend has a poor habit of playing golf with his buddies or texting away on his iPhone while you’re trying to share your deepest, most intimate feelings with him, then try getting him in a setting with no distractions at a time when he will not feel the pressure of a deadline or some other obligation in his life. Tell him in a non-confrontational, sincere way that it’s important to you that he addresses the issue because it’s contributing to some real problems with your feelings for him. He will either choose to act or he won’t.

Incidentally, if you can put your issue into terms that he’ll relate to by way of analogy a non-listener will often get the point. If he likes football, tell him that it’s fourth down and he’ll need a Hail Mary to get the win. You get the picture. Make it simple. Guys who have trouble with feelings and listening don’t like to feel backed into a corner. Put it into language he’ll understand and you’ll get a better result.

Important point: Listening, like being on time or having a sense of direction, is not always a choice. Listening is a skill that can be sharpened and even faked, but what you’re probably seeking from him is more akin to empathy rather than the actual act of hearing what you say. You want a result when you speak, not just a nod of the head or even an acknowledgment of what you said.

Understand that true empathy is like a sense of humor or the ability to sing: you’re either born with it or you aren’t. Again, empathy exists to an extent in us all, but some people just don’t have it in the quantities necessary for it to be evident without significant effort. For example, I can run but if someone asked me to run 100 meters in 9 seconds it would be physically impossible for me to do so.

In short, you can ask your boyfriend to be a good listener but he might not be able to listen for 100 meters. If that’s the case and he’s willing to try then you’ll have to accept what he’s willing to give as long has he’s trying his best. You too, after all, have limitations. If being a good listener is a must have and he doesn’t have it, then you have to either accept it or—more likely—have the courage to walk away.

If by “listen” you mean “obey,” then good luck with that. If you solve that problem, you’re likely to get a primetime slot on the OWN network. You can’t force someone to obey you and expect a good result. Open a history book and you’ll see that a lot of people who were once considered kings and queens lost their heads for the very same thing.


Another question from an Ibsen fan. Good Lord. The short answer is that you can’t “get” a man to do anything. Hatching a plan to get engaged is a bad idea. Attempting to force another person—male or female—into any situation breeds resentment and is certain to end up poorly.

The best you can do is to share your desire to be in a long term relationship with the man you’re interested in having as your partner. Be clear and make sure he understands that you do not want to simply date casually and that you expect him to respect you enough to tell you if his expectations are not the same. Men are no more commitment or marriage averse than women are; they just don’t like to be told when those things are going to happen. However, if you tell him your expectations without demanding an instant result, then the metaphorical ball is in his court.

Now here’s the rub.

The mistake that women make after having the wherewithal to have the above conversation with the man they want to marry is that the above conversation has no consequences attached. I’m not suggesting ultimatums or deadlines. That’s the last thing that needs to happen. He’ll run away faster than O.J. from a murder scene.

However, AND LISTEN TO ME HERE LADIES—if you are not getting the result you want in a relationship and you’ve done everything within your power to communicate what it is that you need in order to feel fulfilled within that relationship then it’s your own fault if you do not walk away from that relationship.

Simply choosing to exist in a bad relationship where you’re not working together to accomplish a common goal—whatever that goal is--is tantamount to beating your head into a wall. It’s like wearing the wrong sized bra. If the relationship is unhealthy, then try your best to communicate why it’s not working for you to the other person in that relationship. If you don’t share a common goal (marriage) and you want to share that goal, then tell him without demanding it happen and, again, if he’s not on board, it’s difficult decision time.

Well, there it is. That’s my best advice. Although the subject matter was pretty heavy this week, I do appreciate the questions and the comments. I suppose it’s fun to get a new perspective. Thanks again for tuning in this week. I’ve got a good idea for next week’s post and I’ll try and make that as funny as I can in light of the ominous tone of this week’s post. Take care of yourselves and I’ll see you next week. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be working on my feelings. DP

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Off Season Post 15: Almost in Jeopardy

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to this week’s off season post. I’m always brutally honest with all of you and that’s even truer when I answer off line emails from the Readers. I’ll continue my honest trend by telling all of you that there is no possible way that I could be happier with myself for deciding not to recap The Bachelor Pad this season.

I really needed the break from the television and despite the 107 degree heat this week, I’ve been using my new found time to run and bike on various trails close to home. I also took some time tonight to touch up my summer haircut with my Wahl clippers in addition to cooking a lovely grilled salmon filet topped with a fancy black bean, tomato, and chili pepper sauce that I improvised. Hell, it’s getting late and I haven’t even popped my first Lone Star. I hope you’re all enjoying it, however, and I look forward to recapping the next Bachelor. Before we get started with this week’s entertainment, I need to provide some relevant background into my personal life and on how I reached the decision to write about these events.

This upcoming Friday morning Some Guy in Austin is going to hop on a plane and be Some Guy in Vegas for the weekend. Yes folks, it’s guys’ trip time of year and I’m so excited to go I could just pee all over myself. Gambling, drinking, debauchery, and a little pool time are all in my future and I’ve earned the days off of work. I’m certain I’ll have something worth writing about when I return but just in case you don’t hear from me on Tuesday, please do me the courtesy of calling the local Clark County jails and detention centers to see when I’ll be arraigned.

I was thinking about my upcoming trip in addition to reviewing some of the reader suggestions for DP Tells All 3 that didn’t make the cut. One of the big requests was for me to continue recapping funny stories from my much wilder younger days. Coincidentally, MH—who is now semi-famous as a major contributor to the comments section of this blog—called me to chat. I told him about my upcoming trip to Vegas and he reminded me of the story I’m about to recount. Granted, I don’t find it as funny as the My Big Sex Scandal post that also involved MH and me but I’ll let you be the judges. With that said, let’s get to it.

Many years ago my brother and I took some sort of aptitude test and scored high enough to get bumped ahead a year in school. Couple that with our December birthday and the result was that we graduated from high school at 17 and were well into our first year in college before our 18th birthday.

Growing up I played a ton of sports, had girlfriends, a job, mowed the lawn every weekend, and did the normal stuff kids do. Although I grew up around a lot of people who did, my family had little expendable money. My parents both made a lot of sacrifices so my siblings and I could grow up where we did and the lack of cash prevented us from eating out, traveling, or generally getting out of the house as a family.

While most of my friends’ parents put on a tie and drove their sedans South on Highway 59 into Downtown Houston, my dad put on jeans and work boots and drove his truck North to Cleveland, Texas where he climbed telephone poles for a living. Instead of going to Jazzercise in the morning and playing tennis at the club in the afternoon, my mom worked retail at the mall in the next town over and worked two nights a week and weekends at the local health club as the receptionist and events planner. I didn’t get a car at 16 and didn’t get to go traipse around Europe in order to find myself prior to getting an all expenses paid four year ticket to the University of my choice. I worked.

In hindsight, I never really wanted for anything as a kid, but the lack of experiences did leave me a bit sheltered from the rest of the world. I want to be clear that this is not my sob story. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, but that’s for another post. My point in telling you this is to illustrate the fact that my entire existence up until college took place within the confines of my home town. I didn’t get out much and neither did my family.

One of my favorite shows growing up was Jeopardy. As most of you are aware, I am a literal encyclopedia of useless information. My family would routinely play Trivial Pursuit for hours on end and my brother and I eventually reached a point where we could beat my dad—which wasn’t easy. I can’t really explain why I remember that stuff other than to say that I have the gift of retention and in addition to getting me through school that gift is responsible for most of the junk that inhabits my brain. Like pigeons in the park, those thoughts wander around my head pecking away in search of nourishment grateful when they finally get it.

While sitting on the couch watching Jeopardy one day I noticed an advertisement for College Jeopardy. After looking into it, I followed the instructions by putting my name, age, college, and some general information on a post card and mailing it to what I assumed was Alex Trebek’s house. Much to my delight, I received a packet in the mail several weeks later letting me know that I had been selected for a “regional tryout” involving a written test, oral interview, and—if I was lucky enough to pass the first two—some one-on-one with the show’s producers in order to get passed to a “final tryout” in Los Angeles.

The tryout would be held the week before Thanksgiving at a hotel in New Orleans, Louisiana—a city where I had never been. Excited, I called MH who was in his sophomore year at a college in Huntsville, Texas. He committed to making the trip since he’d never been to The Big Easy before and we agreed to book flights and to stay at the hotel where the tryout would take place because they offered a discounted rate. We could only afford one night in the hotel, but we decided to make the most of it.

With no more knowledge about New Orleans than the address of the hotel where we were going to stay and the 7:30 a.m. start time of the tryout a 19 year old Mike and a 17 year old Some Guy in Austin boarded a plane from Houston to New Orleans on Friday morning. This is where it gets interesting.

MH and I arrived in New Orleans at precisely 2:30 in the afternoon. I know this because we were drunk by 4:00, but more about that later. We grabbed a cab which took us to our hotel located fortuitously in the heart of the French Quarter (read: Bourbon Street).

For those of you who have never been to the French Quarter picture Las Vegas getting drunk and picking up an overweight, past her prime, chain smoking, whiskey soaked Branson, Missouri in a hotel bar around 2 a.m. for a one night stand. The product of that one night stand and all of the issues that it would have later in life is the French Quarter. It’s safe to say that Louisiana is literally its own country and nowhere is that more evident than in the French Quarter. Back to the story.

Realizing we were foreign men in a foreign country, MH and I agreed that we needed to find some local guides to show us the ropes. I pointed out that John Smith had Pocahontas and we agreed that guides of the female persuasion were preferable. As we went to the front desk in our hotel to check in, MH and I noticed that the two girls behind the desk were rather fetching.

Notwithstanding my use of the word “fetching,” I’ll let the readers know that at that time in our lives MH and I literally dripped pheromones and it wasn’t uncommon for us to find us in the company of some lovely ladies. Indeed it was like fishing with dynamite—or at least that’s what we told ourselves—and we immediately turned on the charm.

Much to our delight, the two girls were receptive to our beaming smiles and answered some general questions about the logistics of getting around and suggested we stop first at the French Quarter landmark, Pat O’Brien’s, for a hurricane. “Perfect, it’s early and I can drink in the afternoon. After all, I have to be in bed at a decent hour in order to get up for the tryout,” I thought.

At that time if a person was under 21 in Texas his ID picture was taken from the side and a large red stamp reading “UNDER 21” was emblazoned across the license. Upon being handed my ID and looking at it, one of the girls said, “That sucks. I wouldn’t even bring this with you to Bourbon Street. You can drink all you want but leave this in the room.” Smiling, I responded with something like, “Good idea, what time do the both of you get done working?”

After exchanging a giggle and a glance with her friend and MH nodding at me in order to signal dibs on the girl on the right, she responded, “Six o’clock, but we brought stuff to change into.”

“Perfect. Why don’t you grab your friend and meet us at, Pat O’Brien’s was it?, at 6:01,” I assertively responded grinning from ear to ear. Plan in place, MH and I high-rolled it up to our room and had a couple of whiskeys out of our minibar until MH found the inventory card and we figured out how much they cost. We musked up with enough cologne to repel an army of mosquitoes (and any woman over the age of 18), put on our best shirts, and headed out to greet the French Quarter. It was about 3:15 and I was excited because the way I saw it I had at least 9 hours of carousing to do before getting to bed in order to make the 7:30 a.m. tryout.

Now despite our testosterone induced bravado, I think it’s fair to say that both MH and I were a bit uneasy about walking underage around The Big Easy with pockets full of cash and no identification. We decided to test the waters a bit prior to actually entering any drinking establishment. Walking out of the hotel we followed our lovely guides’ directions and made it down to Bourbon Street. I broke out a five dollar bill and approached a street vendor who was selling hurricanes out of a cart. “I’ll take a hurricane,” I said with less confidence than I needed to appear over age. “Do you want the 24 or the 32 ounce?” was the response. You’ve gotta love Louisiana. God bless their revenue-hungry-look-the-other-way attitude.

With 32 ounces of illegally obtained booze in our hands, MH and I decided to take a stroll down Bourbon Street in order to get the lay of the land. We had a couple of hours to kill before meeting the ladies anyway.

We strolled down Bourbon Street swilling our hurricanes anxiously awaiting the buzz that would soon follow. Neither of us was a liquor drinker so the booze took a hold of reason very quickly. At one point, I accidentally slipped into a large crack in the sidewalk and the heel on my boot (and only pair of shoes I brought) became loose. Frustrated, I ended up finding a hardware store of all places on Bourbon and St. Ann right outside of what we would soon learn was the gay section of the street. I purchased a small bottle of quick drying all purpose glue before walking out and continuing to sip my hurricane.

MH and I decided we needed a snack and ended up at a restaurant called Port Orleans where we ate shrimp by the pound and drank dollar beers for an hour. At this point, the bread and shrimp had slowed down our inevitable ascent into inebriation and along with the booze came the confidence we lacked when we got there. Our stomachs were full, we were buzzing, and we were ready to meet the ladies. Life was good and we knew it. We both relaxed and simply enjoyed being there.

As I mentioned earlier, I purchased a bottle of glue for my boot heel at the only hardware store on Bourbon Street. Incidentally, how do you think that guy decided to open a hardware store amidst a bevy of strip joints, porn shops, and bars? I suppose stripper poles need to be maintained and sex toys need batteries. Annnnyyhooo . . .

As MH looked at his watch and noted that we had about 20 minutes to kill before heading down to Pat O’s to meet the girls, I simultaneously noted that the quick drying glue took—you guessed it—20 minutes to dry. This information was followed by a warning not to glue anything you didn’t want separated again to anything else—forever. Needless to say, in addition to my boot heel, we decided to glue our plates and pint glasses to the table.

We ordered a final round and sat there patiently applying even pressure to the tops of our plates and glasses before quickly but definitively making our way to the door. Like Lot’s wife, I was overcome with the temptation to look back and when I did I was delighted to see the waitress and what I assumed was a manager staring at the now permanently affixed plates and glasses on the table in utter confusion. Immature? Maybe. Funny? Without question.

MH and I giggled like school girls on our way over to Pat O’s and when we arrived were happy to see the out-of-uniform, newly make-uped young ladies anxiously awaiting our arrival at the back bar. After some awkward getting to know you conversation we noticed that it had begun to drizzle. The ladies suggested an alternative location and perhaps some dinner to which MH—who was as in the bag as I was—responded, “F*ck dinner.” The girls agreed to f*cking dinner and we gladly followed like Labradors down the street to a very quaint, very French bar that we learned was haunted by French ghosts or something. I believe I commented that they should just find some German ghosts to run them out of town, but that joke fell on deaf ears.

MH and I regaled the ladies with tales of our post-check in adventures and we continued to drink. It was 6:30 now and I had a solid 6 hours of drinking left. If I factored in a few glasses of water before bed, that tryout was mine. I’d be telling Alex Trebek the story of how I glued my plate to a New Orleans’ table prior to getting on the show when he interviewed me between single and double jeopardy. Hell, when I won I could tell him another story on the following show.

After a few minutes of being charming I noticed that the bar we were in had a wooden Indian in the corner. Now to most people a wooden Indian is of little consequence; however, I had always wanted a wooden Indian. Being my best friend, MH was well aware of my passion for wooden Indians and laughed heartily when I pointed it out to him. Oddly enough, our interest in the girls took a back seat to my passionate insistence that we attempt to steal the wooden Indian and get it back to our room. Frankly, I had no time to waste. I had five and a half hours of drinking left and that wooden Indian would serve as the perfect good luck charm. “Get that back to the room and you’re sure to ace the tryout,” I told myself. We quickly hatched a plan.

Ignoring two perfectly lovely girls with pulses, MH and I headed for the wooden Indian. The bar was small and crowded and—we reasoned through the haze of hurricanes and beers—the dim lighting and abundance of moving patrons would provide sufficient cover for us to surreptitiously move the Indian to the doorway before picking it up and running it out of the bar.

I chose the words in the prior sentence carefully, because beyond inching it up to the door slowly and then picking up the four foot tall, bottom heavy, 75 pound piece of carved wood we had no plan. If I’m not mistaken, we didn’t even agree on which way we should run with it. Details.

MH and I carefully inched the Indian from his location in the corner closer and closer toward the doorway. Because I was a gentleman, I insisted on continually checking with the girls for approval. Their responses ranged from tepid nods of the head to sarcastic thumbs up and I was certain that I could recharm my way back into their good graces once my mission was complete. Unfortunately, I would never get the chance.

After about two beers and a whole bunch of inching, we positioned the Indian as close to the door as possible with MH’s 6’3” 225 pound frame in between the Indian and the bartender’s line of sight. Anxious to finish the task, I prepared myself for the big jump. However, prior to making our move, MH and I heard, “hey, you two” from behind the bar as we put on our best “who us?” faces and looked at the bartender who walked around the bar with a steel pipe in his hand and said, “put the Indian back and get the f*ck out of my bar.” So much for the wooden Indian.

After a feeble effort to “explain” that we were not, in fact, stealing the Indian, MH and I backed slowly out of the bar away from an angry, pipe wielding proprietor and quickly walked down the street praying the New Orleans Police Department wasn’t interested in speaking to us. We were, after all, drunk, underage, and had just been prevented from committing an intentional wooden Indian heist. Despite the liberal interpretation of the laws on the books within the confines of the French Quarter I was confident that “theft of an indigenous statue” would not be overlooked.

After gathering our wits, MH and I ended up in another bar and literally had another drink in hand before realizing that besides the wooden Indian we’d forgotten two things back at the other bar. The first one was the girls and the second was giving them the money we owed them for putting drinks on their tab. Ooops.

We briefly felt bad about it but I reminded MH that we couldn’t dwell on it because a.) there were plenty of other women on Bourbon Street and, b.) we had 4 hours left of drinking time before I needed to get to bed for my Jeopardy tryout. Worrying was a waste of valuable time and we’d be on a flight back to Texas before we knew it. Carpe Bourbon.

MH and I finished yet another drink and upon visiting the men’s room and attempting to stand still while emptying my bladder I realized just how drunk I was. Undeterred, I vowed to make it another 4 hours but made a note to drink extra water when I got back to the room. Ah, the folly of youth. Remember that I was 17 years old.

When I returned to the bar, MH looked as if he’d been doing some serious thinking during my absence. “Let’s go to a strip club,” he said. Normally, that request involves some planning; however, in the French Quarter strip clubs are as common as venereal diseases and I agreed. I’ve made no secret of my abhorrence of strip clubs, but I was in Rome and I figured I’d give it a go. To be honest, there was a practical side of me still functioning behind the sea of alcohol coursing through my head. “There’s no way we’ll get into a strip club. Bars and restaurants are one thing, but even this city has to draw the line somewhere,” I thought.

The “gentlemen’s club” that we chose was called Big Daddy’s. We chose it not because of its proximity to the bar, its sophisticated yet demure reputation for having New Orleans’ finest women, or its drink specials. Rather, we chose it because it had a moving set of fishnet covered women’s legs that opened and closed above the door. Subtle.

Much to my chagrin, we literally walked in unabated past a very large black door man who made even MH look tiny. Not one to shy away from the spotlight, I took my place in the chair at the front and center of the stage. I noticed the stench of stale beer and the absence of any gentlemen. After a glance at my watch I noted that I had a solid 3 hours of drinking time left. Frankly, I was ready to slow down and I’d be thankful drink the 8 dollar bottle of hotel water chilling in my minibar.

After a glass of stale beer I looked up to notice my first performer. She was as dirty and used as my beer glass and I was frankly so drunk that I couldn’t keep my head up long enough to enjoy whatever she was doing. About halfway through the first song I picked my head up long enough to notice the backs of two heels on the stage on either side of my elbows. I looked up and the naked women bent over and while upside down and looking between her legs said, “if you’re not going to tip, don’t sit front and center, asshole.”

Despite her unique presentation skills, in hindsight her “request” was fair. The last thing I’d want if I was a dirty New Orleans stripper was to entertain a drunken, broke 17 year old with an attitude. She was simply informing me about the rules of etiquette. She was like a slutty, upside down Emily Post. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it that way at the time. I simply smiled and raised my beer glass while MH clapped his hands and howled with laughter.

After two more “ladies” danced on the stage and essentially shared the same information with me, I began (for no good reason at all) to be offended. When the original stripper reappeared on stage she walked straight toward me and smacked me on the forehead before insinuating that I had a sexual relationship with my mother. As she turned around and walked down the stage I reached into my pocket and grabbed the handful of change I had and simultaneously hurled it down the stage.

Hearing the ruckus she quickly turned around and slipped on one of the coins landing hard on her bare rear end. Silence filled the room as the handful of patrons took their gaze off “Chastity” or whatever her name was and looked at me. MH and I, realizing that we were in a bit of trouble, looked knowingly at the very large black man at the door who sat there stoically with his arms crossed. He simply nodded his giant head toward the door and MH and I took the hint as we stood up and walked quickly to the door. After all, I had a Jeopardy tryout tomorrow morning.

We walked past him without making eye contact and I took two steps out off the sidewalk and into Bourbon Street. Just as I turned my back on the opening and closing legs above the door I heard, “YOU SON OF A B*TCH!” Before I could process what was happening I was tackled in the middle of Bourbon Street by what I was certain was a New Orleans Police Officer. Cautious about fighting back and drunk out of my gourd I rolled over only to realize that I was being beaten and scratched by the two strippers I had offended. I was literally on my back on Bourbon Street fending off two naked strippers intent on gouging out my eyes. “This is bad,” I thought.

MH acted quickly. He grabbed one of the women, picked her up, and deposited her back into the doorway of the bar. Simultaneously, the big bouncer gently grabbed the other woman and did the same thing as I willed myself back to my feet. The bouncer looked at us and said, “I suggest you get out of here.” Although we didn’t thank him for his advice, we followed it and MH and I ran as fast as we could for as long as we could before ending up breathless and exhausted in an alley behind our hotel laughing like hyenas oblivious to the fact that we had both come within inches of negatively changing our entire futures forever. Remember that part about the folly of youth?

Incredibly, MH suggested we go to another bar. After all, we had an hour left of drinking time. We committed to refrain from stealing any wooden Indians or inciting strippers or large black men and we returned to the only place we knew—Pat O’Briens.

We got back to Pat O’s and ran into our “dates” who we had long forgotten since the wooden Indian fiasco hours before. Frankly, that incident might as well have taken place months earlier at that point in the night. The girls looked me up and down and noticed my half untucked shirt, my oil, grease, and God knows what stained jeans, the scratches on my face, my tussled hair, giant pupils, and the gentle sway of my body as I tried to smile and look charming. “What the hell happened to you two?” one of them asked as they both broke out in laughter.

We had another drink (or two) and recounted the goings on and they must have been either impressed or felt sorry for us because neither of them brought up the unpaid bar tab. They were nice enough to walk us back to our hotel and we both got a kiss on the cheek and a smile. I walked into our room, noted that it was well North of 5 a.m. and passed out in my dirty clothes on top of the comforter. My 7 a.m. wake up call came early. Oh yea, I was in New Orleans to try out for some game show.

After less than two hours of sleep (and no water) I picked myself up from the bed and staggered still very drunk into the bathroom to throw some water on my face and fix my hair before heading downstairs to impress Alex Trebek. Before leaving, I took a moment to look at MH who was sleeping peacefully beneath his covers. Jealous, I left for the tryout.

I walked into the main ballroom and it was filled with college kids, many of whom were with a parent and all of whom were wearing their college sweatshirts. “Damnit, I forgot that part,” I thought as if that was the only thing wrong with me. I grabbed a water and an orange juice off the buffet table and sat down at a community table.

“Where are you from,” a voice asked before every person at the table smelled the stale alcohol and Bourbon Street grime emanating from my body and my clothes. “Texas,” I managed. “What did you do last night?” I asked hopeful that everyone around me would talk so that I could sip my orange juice and attempt to sober up in silence. The kid next to me said with a straight face, “Nothing. My mom and I went over a bunch of quiz questions so I could be ready for this.”

Needless to say, I didn’t make the show.

Well, there it is. My first trip to Bourbon Street. As eventful as that was, it still pales in comparison to some of the other trips I’ve taken there over the past few years. Just in case you’re curious, I haven’t made it back inside the famous Big Daddy’s since the incident, but I do fondly wave to whoever is guarding the door when I walk by now.

Next week’s post will be answers to all of the relationship advice questions that I got from the Readers over the past few weeks. If you have any you’d like me to take a crack at, send me an email or leave them in the comment section. As always, thank you so much for sticking with me in the off season. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be staying out of jail. DP

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Off Season 14: DP Tells All for the Third Time

Hello, Readers, and thank you for returning to the blog after what turned into an exhausting Bachelorette season. Yes, I realize that this post is up on my normal Tuesday post date as opposed to being the bonus post I promised last Thursday. Yes, I realize I haven’t mentioned the ATFR or MTA shows. Yes, I realize I owe you an explanation for all of the above.

First, I took the time on Wednesday of last week to watch both MTA and ATFR and, frankly, I just couldn’t bring myself to write about either. Ryan provided some good material when he mentioned reading relationship books prior to showing up at the mansion and William teed it up for me to drive down the fairway when he tearfully apologized for, well, being himself. However, I’m tired of this season and I just couldn’t bring myself to invest the hours it would have taken to wow you with my beguiling take on the aforementioned shows. If that disappoints you, I sincerely apologize. My sanity is important to me and I had to make an executive decision. I also had an impromptu work trip that sealed the deal.

Next, I needed time to amalgamate the couple hundred questions for my DP Tells All 3 that were streaming into my Inbox like sluts into a Miami nightclub. I usually narrow them into categories (the emails, not the sluts) and then narrow them into compound questions in addition to picking a couple that interest me and/or make me laugh. I’m happy to say that I’ve got a list to answer below and I hope you enjoy it. As always, if your specific question did not make the cut, it’s nothing personal. Again, my sanity is important to me. What I do try and do is include all of the information sought into other responses. If you don’t get what you’re looking for here, email me and I’ll try and answer.

Last, I’d like to break the news that I am not going to be recapping the Bachelor Pad this season. The premier was literally three hours long. Three hours? I had to review the cast selection and make sure Kevin Costner wasn’t in it. I also watched the teasers and the Internet clips on ABC’s website when I was trying to decide if I was going to do it. You’ll have to trust me when I say that it was a difficult decision for me to make and it wasn’t one that I arrived at hastily. I just can’t do it. I need a break from the shows and I have a lot of ideas for off season stuff that I’d like to explore. Again, if that disappoints you I sincerely apologize. Hopefully, you’ll continue to read the off season stuff and, if not, I hope to see you back here when the next season of the Bachelor begins. If you’re gone for good, I wish you luck and thank you for reading what you did. With that said, let’s get to DP Tells All 3.


Such and important question to tackle, isn’t it? Before I give a definitive position on this one let me say a few things about what I believe are women’s perceptions based (accurately, I might add) on how men’s desires are portrayed in the media. For the record, I’m assuming the person who asked this meant blonde or brunette women.

There has been for as long as I can remember a perception that every man wants a nubile blonde with a big set of hooters in a skimpy outfit to feed him grapes and rub his hard working feet in addition to catering to all of his other needs. Granted, the last part of that sentence is quite appealing; however, I’ll tell you that the first part is the exception and not the rule. For instance, I personally find no redeeming qualities in Kendra, Holly, and the other blonde that Hefner used to pretend to date. Bleach blonde hair, overtly fake boobs, tons of make up, and tiny outfits are for cartoon characters as far as I’m concerned. A lot of men I know agree. Allow me to explain.

In my experience as a man—as opposed to my experience as a woman?—I can tell you that men do not find blondes any more attractive than they do any other category of women. Any “scientific study” that says anything different is simply not accurate. Sure, blondes may be more recognizable in a crowd, but there’s a difference between garnering attention and men finding them more attractive. Hugh Hefner’s preferences and the fact that he’s owned the most widely circulated men’s nudie magazine for the past half century haven’t done anything to dispel that myth, but out here in the real world women of all shapes and sizes get it done. More about this in a later question, but now my answer.

Although I appreciate the qualities that I consider to be beautiful in all women of all shapes and sizes, I am more attracted to brunettes than I am to blondes. I suppose this attraction began back in Kindergarten when I developed my first crush on Kristin Cunningham who had dark hair, olive toned skin, and a set of light blue eyes that made my Legos melt. I would have gladly given up my bowl of stale Cheerios at snack time for a chance to sleep in the cot next to hers at nap time.

The biggest thrill of my young life came when she and I were named square dance partners in music class. I was as dedicated to the dosey doe as any kindergartner could be and, although I never confirmed it, I believe she was into me too. I suppose my preference is equal to any proclivity that naturally occurs in any person. We like what we like, right. I have a best friend who’s never dated a girl who wasn’t rail thin, blonde, and over 5’10”. In fact, he’s married two of them.

Oddly enough, I have olive skin, dark hair, and blue eyes. I wonder what that says about my relationship with myself?


Here’s my opinion on all activity that takes place between two consenting adults: It is unequivocally the sole business of the two people involved in the relationship and has absolutely no relevance outside the context of that relationship. Despite what Gloria Allred thinks, what two people do behind closed doors or via their own phones is their business. Period. Now let’s get to the however.

Sexting is the modern day extension of the windshield note from a mistress, the cocktail napkin bearing the lipstick phone number, the suggestive phone message, or any other method of standard delivery through the ages. I suppose it would have been difficult to suggestively flirt via Pony Express, but the telegraph would have solved some of that problem. However, I can’t imagine walking through the dusty streets of my frontier town to hand the guy at the post office a filthy message to tap out to my special lady in Dodge City or wherever.

I’m certain there are suggestive cave drawings somewhere around the world and I’m sure those made it to papyrus once the Egyptians figured that out. Granted, it would have been difficult to sneak into the cave and paint a message on the wall, but the point is that this is nothing new.

The trouble with putting anything that personal down in any permanent form and sending it to another person is that it exists forever. Couple that with the fact that it can now be sent instantaneously around the world and the problem is apparent. If the recipient happens to get mad, it’s human nature for vindictive thoughts to follow. Instead of a keyed car and some profanity laced voice mails about the new love interest, disgruntled ex-lovers now turn to the text and email stash.

It’s not wise to engage in sexting or Anthony Weiner-esque picture taking indiscriminately. Having an affair via text, sending compromising pictures or emails, or doing all of the above on a company phone or computer is a recipe for disaster. It’s not the content of the message or even the shocking nature of it that gets a person in trouble, it’s the number in the “send” category that does. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I’ve learned that lesson—the hard way.

I’d dare say that there is not one person’s sex life, if published, that would not bring utter shock to everyone who saw it. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. I can’t say I blame anyone who finds himself or herself confronted with content of that personal nature—particularly people with something to lose—find it necessary to lie about it. Like Watergate and every scandal since, it’s never the act that causes the greatest trouble; it’s the cover up. I suppose the solution is to make sure that the sexting exchanges are mutual. It’s always nice to have enough fire power to dissuade the initial attack. In short, new adventures in any relationship can be fun and sexting can certainly spice things up in an established relationship. It’s essential in today’s environment to be careful how adventurous those adventures are though. Rule of thumb: Don’t send anyone you don’t trust explicit pictures of your “thumb.”


Great question. I think to answer this is to answer how my view of myself has changed since I’ve gotten older. My problem in the past could be described as passive co-dependence. I’ve said before that I enjoy the security and familiarity of a relationship. It’s fun having a partner and a person to call when I need a break or have a funny story to tell. It’s nice to have someone who knows me deeper than most other people. It’s nice to take someone to Chili’s for a burger instead of shelling out a C-note for a steak and some wine and listening to an idiot I knew I didn’t like the second she opened the door drone on about her cats for three hours.

The problem with managing that trepidation when I was younger was that it came with a great deal of insecurity as well. I had a tendency to hold on too tightly and often stayed in extremely destructive relationships simply for the sake of being in those relationships. It wasn’t until one of those relationships ended about as badly as a relationship can end that I was forced to pick up the pieces and reevaluate my life.

The difference today is that I view relationships as complimentary to my life rather than as a necessary foundation. I have the courage to walk away from a person who is no good for me; to tell a person the truth even though it hurts sometimes; and to be clear about what I need in a relationship. Because I don’t need a relationship to define me, I am able to accept a relationship unconditionally and openly. Without the pressure of failure, I am able to enjoy another person rather than checking the “must have” boxes on my list.

The bottom line is that I think I’m a lot more at peace with who I am and what makes me tick. My needs are no longer convoluted; rather, my list is short and simple. As a result, I am able to communicate those needs to another person with the understanding that a relationship is a mutually shared experience between two people. It makes no sense for one person to take what he needs and give nothing back. I am more open, receptive, and empathetic than I was in the past. I’m better in the sack too.

That simple take on relationships has allowed me to find a degree of happiness within myself and within a relationship that I had formerly given up on finding. Knowing the Golden Rule is important. Following it is essential. If you follow the Golden Rule and you’re not getting what you need, it’s time to walk away.


This one really got the wheels turning. In short, I have too many to choose from. My road trip experiences make Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas look like a children’s book. I’ve made a list of the top three and at least one of them will make an appearance in the off season. I have to check on certain statutes of limitations in some other states before I decide on the others.

Fights with strippers (male and female), booze, beauty pageants, stolen wooden Indians, bikini contests, brushes with the law, College Jeopardy tryouts, gorilla glue, impromptu karaoke performances, run ins with airport security, destroyed rental cars, $3,600 roulette payouts, tattoos, and a whole bunch of other stuff I can’t mention are all involved and I’m excited to share those stories. Stay tuned and thanks to the person who sent this for the idea.


No, it’s certainly not bigger. However, it is longer. Thanks for asking.


“The only two things in life that make it worth living are guitars tuned good and firm feeling women.” --Waylon Jennings

Wow, I write a blog on the Bachelor and all of a sudden I’m the Dali Freaking Lama. Thanks to the aspiring Buddhist who sent this. Oddly enough, it was my attempt to answer this question years ago that led me to writing this blog in addition to making some other sweeping changes to what had become a cluttered, confused, and unfulfilled life.

Let me first disclaim my answer by stating that I am no way under the delusion that what I live is “a good life.” I struggle—sometimes daily—with the choices I’ve made in my life and as I get older I struggle with my station in life. I’m certain that most if not all of you reading this do the same. I will say that over the past few years I’ve had some things occur in my life that have forced me like a dog getting its nose rubbed into a urine soaked rug to deal with my own inadequacies and address my shortcomings. There is no way I could have reached the clarity that I have without being forced to deal with those issues in my life. Denial and finger pointing are pretty sturdy crutches and if you couple them with alcohol and cocktail waitresses, you rarely find yourself looking into the mirror.

The problem with most of us is that it takes an extremely dramatic, almost earth shattering event to force us to deal with—and perhaps even admit--the difficult things in our lives and those types of extremes (thankfully) don’t come along often, if at all. What did I learn? I’ll tell you.

First, the “secret” to a clear conscience is honesty. That doesn’t mean we don’t tell a little white lie to Mrs. Whoever down the street when we’re invited to her fruit basket party or whatever and don’t want to go. It doesn’t mean we don’t fudge a little on our resume or exaggerate a bit when telling off our biggest rival. It doesn’t mean faking a headache when we’re not in the mood. What I mean is being brutally honest with yourself.

Most people literally lie to themselves, albeit passively, in their own heads. In a nutshell, I think the problem that most of us have—indeed the seed that grows into our greatest internal struggles—is the fact that what they really hold dear and consider important deep within their own conscience does not match our actions to the world.

For instance, ask any person what’s important to him. Normally, you’ll get an answer like God, Family, and Health. However, when we look at that person’s life we see that he rarely goes to church, prefers football or golf over family time, and eats cheeseburgers and fries five times a week. You get the picture. There is a severe contradiction between the answer and reality. I think this or a version of it is true for most unhappy people. We’re all too busy trying to “succeed” in the outside world but we rarely sit down and come to terms with what we really want to do. Paris in spring? Climb Everest? Write a book? Dance the cancan?

We all spend a great deal of time trying to reconcile what we truly feel in our hearts with how we believe we’re supposed to be and appear to the world. Don’t believe me? Go to a house party in the suburbs and listen to the small talk or go to a staff happy hour and listen after a everyone gets a few margaritas down.

Reconciling the inside with the outside is a key to living openly and honestly. By way of example, I can tell you that I formerly spent a lot of time driving a fancy German car and parading around Houston trying to be the best darn lawyer in the city. When push came to shove I had to admit that status and possessions made me miserable because I hated where I was living, who I was working for, and what I had become. However, any person would have looked at my house, cars, bank account, and life and concluded that I “had it all.” Once I simplified, I found the peace I thought those other things would bring. I’m certain you all have a parallel story. My advice is to have a talk with the mirror without holding anything back and then find the courage to act, even if it’s a small step. That leads me to my next point.

The other key to a good life is balance. My old boss is literally going to die one day at his desk with a law book in one hand and a Dictaphone in the other. However, he’ll die happy. You see, he’s structured his whole life around being a lawyer and working hours upon hours to try lawsuits. He’s passionate about it and he pursues it with an unmatched fervor. The people in his life and in his employ all know this about him and they are not around long if they don’t support it. Good for that guy, but that’s not for me.

Finding a balance between what life requires us to do and what we are truly passionate about is essential to finding stability and happiness. Rarely do those two things coincide and it’s even more unusual to find a person who gets paid to do what he is truly passionate about doing. Sure, things occasionally get out of whack; however, finding an overall homeostasis that allows us to grow is what we should all seek in our lives. That’s the best answer I can give you. When I have all of the answers, I’ll write you back.


From the sublime to the ridiculous. Incidentally, this is why I love the readers. My audience is truly a mix of every walk of life. While one person worries about a deeper reality, there’s always another one sending me questions about celebrities or certain parts of my anatomy. God bless all of you, even the atheists in the mix.

First off, my preference between these two is completely unimportant. I suppose this is a question for Brad Pitt to answer but, upon further thought, he’s already answered it, hasn’t he?

I think both of these women are nuts but in different ways. Angelina has the characteristics of a classic beauty: Pouty, thick lips, high cheek bones, big sparkling eyes, curves, etc. Granted, she’s got the personality of a dull knife, but she cleans up nice. She’s attractive; however, I don’t find her very appealing. She’s too waifishly skinny for my taste and there’s just something dirty—bad dirty not good dirty—about her. Her movies suck too.

To be fair to her, like her life partner, she’s probably a better actress than she can get away with being and instead of carrying around a toy dog in a purse and espousing the finer points of an affluent and superfluous lifestyle, she’s out there rebuilding New Orleans, giving real money and time to charity, spending time in Africa, and adopting children in need. She seems serious about these commitments even though she doesn’t get credit for it.

Like her, Brad Pitt could be pulling a Warren Beatty by remaining perpetually single in Hollywood until he runs through every cocktail waitress, budding young starlet on her way up the ladder, and every post-blossomed old starlet on her way down the ladder. Instead, they both live elsewhere and appear to put their money where their mouths are, which is rare. Remember that part about the inside matching the outside?

Jennifer Aniston, on the other hand, is in a word, a mess. Is there anyone in California who she won’t date? She’s like an on ramp. Fewer men have gone through the L.A. bus station. Instead of maps to the stars homes they should just hand out a map to her house with instructions to be there around 8 on Saturday night with a bottle of zinfandel and a pack of Marlboro Reds. She’s easier than first grade math, for crying out loud.

I’m so tired of seeing pictures of her trying to fake like she’s quit smoking as she forlornly strolls on a Malibu beach after being dumped by whoever was holding the next numbered ticket in the “Date Jennifer Aniston” sequence at the local deli. Hell, I’d marry her if it would keep her off the cover of OK Magazine.

She’s attractive enough, seems to have a sense of humor, and has things in life that most of us can only dream about. It seems to me that she needs to read my answer to the question above and perhaps she’ll find the happiness that eludes her. I’d be willing to bet that most of the men in her life would agree as to the reasons they stopped dating her. Well, all of them except for John Mayer who is perhaps the largest douchebag in the world.

My overall pick---since I have to pick—is Angelina.


Nymphomania, subservience, and a Trust Fund. Alright, that’s a joke . . . sort of.

This is a tough question because the answer to it is incredibly subjective. However, I think the most constructive way to give the reader who sent this question what she’s seeking is to tell her generally what I believe a key thing that men are not looking for in a woman. Keep in mind that I’m far from an expert. Perhaps Dr. Jamie could assist.

When men—particularly married ones—are sitting outside of female earshot, the following subject is bound to come up somewhere between sports and home improvement. Men are not looking for a woman to “fix” everything in his life. For example, I had a friend who got engaged recently and his fiance moved into his condo after selling all of her stuff in an out-of-state garage sale and moving to Austin.

She immediately threw away all of his stuff and redecorated the entire place with new stuff. To be fair, she paid for the majority of it and the place does look lovely. However, let me make a point or two about this. Oh, and I think it’s fair to assume that this little spring cleaning will unquestionably be extended to his wardrobe and any other portion of his identity that he currently maintains a tentative grasp upon.

Here’s the point. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth keeping. Granted, most women don’t see the beauty in the Dogs Playing Poker series of paintings, but that doesn’t mean they should get thrown away or banished to the one room that a man can call his own. The house is shared living space. Women should respect the man’s input. If he has none, then so be it, but understand that it’s disrespectful to dismiss his taste as unimportant in favor of your own. This rule also applies to every other aspect of the relationship. I think women are culturally groomed and even genetically wired to assume that they have a corner on the decorating and appearance market. Put an engagement ring on a woman’s finger and it’s like giving her a contractor’s license.

When it comes to how a man dresses, I’ll be the first to admit that many men could use a bit of assistance. However, it’s better to go about it in a constructive manner. Imagine you coming downstairs in a cute little cocktail number for a night on the town and your man rolling his eyes and ordering you back upstairs to change. It doesn’t work when the rolls are reversed, does it? Respect who you’re with and don’t try and change him. That may work when you’re in the honeymoon phase, but trust me, resentment will eventually creep in if he’s not heard and respected. Remember that Golden Rule comment? It applies here too. Just because it’s not important to you doesn’t mean it’s not important. Take a deep breath and repeat that to yourself before you try and make him throw out his Night Ranger Seven Wishes concert t-shirt.

Incidentally, if any of you know any subservient, rich nymphomaniacs with a trust fund do me a solid and send them the blog address, would you?

My favorite part about this question is the qualifying parenthetical “if you read.” I suppose it’s a fair assumption that I don’t read considering the fact that I blog about a reality show the majority of the time. Hell, based on that it’s a fair assumption that I’m illiterate. However, I read quite a bit.

What I read depends on my mood when I go to the book store. My favorite book store is called Book People. I go there often and—like I’ve been doing since I was very young—often spend significant amount of time in there amongst the books. When I was in college I used to have a 4 hour break on Mondays and I’d head to the local book store and wander the aisles. I’d usually end up in the Literature or Philosophy sections. I was even more pleased when I discovered that doing that gave me some sort of Lord Byron-esque aura that attracted budding intellectual co-eds. It was like putting on a pair of jeans and finding ten bucks in the pocket. Annnyyyhhoooo . . .

Sometimes when I’m in the book store something piques my interest immediately. Other times, I spend a lot of time and buy nothing. Sometimes a particular subject is in my head when I enter the store. Other times, I randomly select a book. When I’m almost through with a book I go to that store and pick out another one to put on the nightstand just below the one I’m reading. I read quite a bit for work so it’s nice to escape into a book I’ve chosen rather than being forced to read commercial contracts or pleadings.

I appreciate a good story but most of all I appreciate a well written book that evokes the emotions it seeks to evoke and paints a vivid picture of its characters and situations. Language is extremely important to me. I don’t like Cormac McCarthy, for instance, because I think he’s overly choppy and simplistic, although his stories are good. On the other hand, I love a lot of Russian writers but find it equally frustrating trying to make it through 1500 pages of text. I gravitate toward fiction, but appreciate stories based in reality. I like stories with a lot of layers to them.

One of my favorite books of all time is The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. Now, before you drop the “Isn’t that the movie with Nick Nolte and Barbara Streisand” comment, please spare me. I have never and will never see that movie. The closest I’ll get to Streisand is the comment on this blog from Derek and the Boys in South Beach telling me how delightful she was the last time she toured.

Pat Conroy is a brilliant contemporary writer and that book is rooted in his experiences as a child and a young adult growing up in South Carolina. It’s wonderfully written and the story is—to me anyway—compelling. I love it. If you don’t, I understand. If you’re wondering what it’s about, just grab a copy at the local book store and read the prologue.


Let me just disclaim this answer by saying that my number one goal in any race I enter is simply to finish. I’m far from the well-conditioned, no holds barred athlete that the word “triathlon” conjures up. I try my hardest and that’s about it. I’m currently signed up for a biathlon and a 10K in the next couple of weeks. I’ll pick other races after that. For me, I need a goal to hit or I just flop around the dock like a newly hooked fish.

After that horrible end to that relationship that I mentioned earlier, I maintained an active lifestyle prior to blowing out my ankle on a trail run here in Austin. That was followed by about a year and a half of blatant inactivity complimented by a lot of Lone Stars and a significant time shuffling my boots in various local honky tonks.

I got back on the workout wagon about 5 months ago and I exercise about 5 days a week now. I make time during lunch for spin class, run after work at the trail down from my house or near my office, and usually have a long bike ride and run (known as a “brick”) on the weekend.

In short, I think we all find time for what we deem important. The difference to me now is not an influx of time; rather, a shift in what I deem important. Incidentally, I worked full time and went to law school simply by cutting out a few nights a week in the honky tonks. I think any person can take an inventory of his life and find a few hours a week for what’s important. We all spend a lot of time and energy doing things that simply aren’t constructive or important.

The final point about this revolves around the words I’m typing how. This blog gets done every Monday night/Tuesday morning when I’d otherwise be sleeping. Again, it’s important to me and because I love it, it’s not “work” for me. It took me a long time to figure out how to indulge myself in things that I love to do. Being tired on Tuesdays sucks, but it doesn’t suck as bad as not writing.


I purposely saved this one for last. “Perfect,” huh? Thank you, but allow me to stop laughing for a moment. No, Some Guy is FAR from perfect, but I think this question goes much deeper than it first appears to go.
Aside from these Tell Alls when I stop clowning around for a bit and give you some semi-serious answers to your questions, what you get every week when you log on to this site is, in fact, the “perfect” side of me. You get my unapologetic, uncensored sense of humor. You get my best thoughts put into words about a subject that I’m passionate about. In other words, you get the best of what I have to offer. I’m usually in a funny mood when I write and even when it becomes a chore, I still enjoy doing it. We’re all at our best when we are pursuing what we love and that’s what you see on the pages of this blog.

Now, turn the computer off and hand me a big fat stack of stuff to do on a bad day and then deal with me. I can be moody, intolerant, and dismissive. I’m not a lot of fun to be around. At times, I have overwhelming feelings of sadness and self-doubt. I wrestle with my mistakes on a daily basis. I’m an insomniac. I drink too much. I’m often impulsive and I hate to be told what to do even if it’s good for me. In short, I’m a normal person who happens to have a strong sense of humor and a way with words. Let’s not confuse that with perfect. I’m not trying to save the world one waterless heater at a time, but I’m no better or no worse than the next guy.

Well, there it is. Some Guy Tells All 3. I’ve got what I believe are some good ideas for off season posts and I’ll continue to post at least once a week on Tuesdays. I sincerely hope you’ll continue reading despite my decision to forego the Bachelor Pad this season. Thanks to all of you for reading, commenting, and taking the time to send me questions. Tuesdays make me smile just as much as you. Take care of yourselves. Until next time, if you need me I’ll be doing anything but watching the Bachelor Pad. DP