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Bachelor Ben Episode 4 Recap: Look At That Beaver, Damn

2012-01-25T00:47:00.003-06:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome to Epidode 4. Some Guy has been inordinately busy doing some fancy lawyering lately and that's put a cramp in my style larger than the mythical "don't swim less than 30 minutes after eating" type of cramp. My mother used to tell me that in addition to swearing that if I watched too much television my eyes would turn into squares. Ah, God blesss my mother. It's that type of under-parenting that made me who I am today. I always knew square eyes was a reversible condition anyway.

At any rate, I forced myself to endure the full two hours of our least favorite favorite show last night in order to share my thoughts with all of you today. Sure, I'm a day late, but like a high school girl's period, I'm certain you're all relieved that I showed up. The new job is great, by the way. Thanks to those of you who took the time email me your best wishes and recognize that it's taken a real effort to get the show watched and the posts up on the site lately. I'm confident that I'll find the balance I forever seek eventually and those of you who choose to stick around will undoubtedly be the beneficiaries of that balance. With that out of the way, let's get to it.

We begin with shots of the wonderfullness that is Park City, Utah in the Fall. Like every first trip setting before it, it's deemed "a perfect place to fall in love." Rolling hills, colored foliage, and pure streams cradle Ben like a tiny, v-neck wearing infant as he takes in their majesty aboard the ubiquitous Bachelor-copter and then on horseback. He looked as out of place atop that horse as...oh, I don't know...an Italian cruise ship atop a bunch of underwater rocks.

V-neck shirts now yield to v-neck sweaters as Ben recaps and the girls FlipCam their way to Utah in off-the-shoulder sweaters and 35 foot scarves breathlessly anticipating the arrival of their knight in shining armor. After woo-hooing the hotel suite and sighing collectively at the absence of a telescope, they get a surprise early visit from Harrison and his flip collar sweater. Not one for ceremony this season, he restates the rules, drops the first date card, and hightails it from the suite undoubtedly in search of a highball.

"Rachel, Let's let nature take its course. --Ben," the card reads. I was thankful that Lindzi proved her ability to read. Chalk up another point in the "Hot" column for her. I prayed that the Fall climate in Utah would deprive her of enough Vitamin D so that her skin would return to a normal tone. I also prayed that whoever is in charge of the bronzer and the light meter during pre-production blocking sessions would fall ill with some sort of stomach ailment so she wouldn't be painted like an Ooompa Loompa in the first (and best) Willie Wonka movie.

Rachel and her husky voice take her bangs (and her heretofore well-concealed hooters) back to her bedroom to give those puppies a little breathing room before packing her bag and putting them back in their kennels. In the meantime, Kacie (bless her 24 year old heart) begins the Ashley-esque, post superfun first date decline by letting us know that she's in love with Ben. Poor Kacie. That first date is always a tough one. If it sucks, she has to worry about getting booted. If it's wonderful, she has to worry about the other broads throwing some come-from-behind moves at Ben for a couple weeks until she gets another date.

She did seem overly neurotic, however. Perhaps she was worried about her unfilfilled Administraive Assistant responsibilities back in Tennesee or perhaps her mother yelled at her for not putting her pajamas in the hamper and leaving them on the floor of her room before she left to go find love.

While she laments her lack of focus, Rachel leaves with Ben on the first helicopter date of the season and they ignore each other until they arrive at their lake for a secluded canoe ride and a picnic. Rachel does an excellent job speaking in Hemmingway-esque sentences and Ben does his best to coax each word from her perpetually sealed lips. Not until they hop aboard the canoe christened "Jupiter" do they abandon all hope of conversation in favor of some kissing. Incidentally, I assume that "Jupiter" was one member of a small fleet of similarly christened canoes. I suppose we'll have to wait until Fantasy Suite week for Uranus to appear. (I'll be here all week, folks).

Luckily, whoever edits this show shares my unapologetic affinity for anatomy jokes and innuendo because we simultaneously got a shot of the still upset Kacie talking to the always make-upped and updo-ed Monica about "how hard it is" and "how hard it's going to get" while Ben dropped "look, it's a beaver dam" on a mute Rachel before telling us that there is something Rachel has that he "just can't put his finger on." Apparently, they outsourced the editing of that segment to the Park City Junior High School Audio Visual Club this week. Nice work, boys.

Rachel certainly didn't do herself any favors on the first part of the date. To her credit, she admitted that she has a communication problem (read: severe trust and intimacy issues), but didn't seem too intent on solving it right away. It's usually the ones who can maintain a cool head amidst all of the spilling estrogen that are more emotionally removed. I was bummed to see that Rachel was a bit too removed. She's attractive and, up until this episode, seemed fun and cool. I was still rooting for her, but like most of you probably felt, I was discouraged. Props to Ben for not giving up too.

Back at the hotel the girls devour glasses of wine proportionate to their oversized scarves and the Dreaded Group Date Card arrives. Jamie, Casey S., Blakeley, Samantha, Nicki, Kacie B., and Courtney get the "Let's see if you're a great catch" card and Emily and Courtney take their places on opposite sides of the cat box.

With crabcakes cooling on the counter, Ben takes out his can opener and attempts to pry any information out of Rachel that she'll volunteer and she gnaws on her lips for fear that if she releases them from the steady grip of her incisors they might form a word or two. Ben eventually gives up in favor of shoving that delicious crabcake in his mouth. Again, I'll give him credit for trying. He tossed more softballs than Jenny Finch and Rachel simply wouldn't swing.

In lieu of any substantive information, Rachel gives him the "just ask if you want to know" speech before actually gaining some ground and making an adequate, albeit poor, recovery and earning a rose. Getting that safety rose was tantamount to reaching first base after a third strike is called and the catcher drops the ball. That "just ask" speech will work . . . sometimes indefinitely . . . in the real dating world, but not here. Rachel, you're hot and I like you a lot but it's time to put the crock pot away and turn the microwave on high. At this rate your bangs will grow out before you open up to Ben. If you like him, find a way around it and take a chance. If not, throw on some waterproof mascara because that limo ride to the nearest airport is lurking behind you.

Group Date time. The girls arrive proving they can follow the "jeans, ubiqutous 30 foot scarf, and cute seasonal winter boots" dress code suggestion on the back of the date card. As they await Ben's arrival on the river bank he awkwardly rides up on the least aggressive horse the animal consultant hired by ABC could find in the dude ranch barn and still almost castrates himself on the saddle horn while attempting to execute his best Tristain Ludlow in Legends of the Fall arrival by crossing the river on horseback. He should have tried side saddle for crying out loud.

I'm certain Lindzi will share that story with Mr. Ed or whatever her horse's name is when she gets booted. Knees bent, heels down, sit up tall, and take a deep seat with your weight on your butt and not your crotch, Ben. Forget any of those and you'll be pulling your testes from above your v-neck back through your inguinal canals. Poor form aside, he made it across the river and the girls pretended to be impressed.

After a steady horseback ride though the beautiful flora and fauna, the girls suit up with Ben for a day of fly fishing and for the first time in the history of this blog Some Guy was jealous. That jealously yielded to sheer aggravation when it was clear that the scenery, horses, and opportunity to spend an afternoon (for free no less) fly fishing in a pristine river was lost on most of them. I suppose those same girls would feel the same way if they took me to Nordstrom's or Nieman's and allowed me to try on whatever I wanted all afternoon. I get it, but I was still annoyed.

Courtney is relieved to have a stiff rod in her hand and manages to get Ben alone and distract him while the producers pull a half dead trout from a nearby cooler and slap Courtney's fly in its mouth. The envy lasts long enough for the girls to give up on the "fishing" in favor of the contents of the other nearby cooler and the entire excusion turns into a wine party again. Sigh...

With all of that icky outdoors stuff out of the way, the girls are thankful to return to their natural habitat: the poolside martini bar. Casey S. looked pretty, but she's also as mute as my television during the State of the Union Address and I wasn't much more interested in hearing her open her mouth any more than I was interested in listening to that speech. She's done a masterful job of looking pouty and hot in the background all season and between her and Jamie, I'd be remiss to tell you who'd win a round of The Silent Game.

Nicki is first up for some alone time and margaritas her way into trying to "relate" to Ben by telling him that her boss recently passed away. Come on, Nicki. "My boss recently died"? Dude, his DAD died AND he's his own boss. Read the notes in the packet you got before leaving Hurst and heading out to L.A. Despite the pathetic effort, Nicki stumbled into getting a "you thrive in a group setting" from Ben. Wow. That's a lot like "you have the perfect face for radio" but Nicki seemed satiated and returned to the herd.

The next exchange will almost certainly sit atop my favorite Bachelor moments of all time list. After greasing her wtih a couple of those giant glasses of wine the procuction crew sends in Former Miss Pacific Palisades, Samantha, to c*ck block Nicki and question Ben's judgment. After donning an appalled look and a grin of sheer disbelief an incredibly even tempered Ben suggested that she's "kind of highly emotional" and quickly followed her indignance with "I can't justify a one-on-one based on what I've seen so far" and punting her out of the end zone. Her cry-face was worse than Jaclyn's too. I didn't even think that was possible.

I strongly considered simply retiring after that exchange. Hell, Ben didn't even need that fat guy with the leather hat who helped Roz pack her s*it after she banged a Producer and Harrison had to clean up the mess to help him get her out of the mansion. Unlike that panty waste Jake, Ben did the job himself.

The entire crew is probably still laughing in the production van outside of the resort. As I've said many times before, "desperate and alone equals limo ride home." I'd like to amend that truism by adding "desperate and alone and a bitchy tone equal instant limo ride home." Do your homework, Samantha. You won't be doing the point and wave out of the roof of that limo when it pulls into Pacfic Palasades. Priceless.

Finally, the Date Card arrives and Jennifer, our "red head" from Oklahoma is asked to "pick our love song." She pakcs her purple suitcase as Ben follows producer's directions by taking Kacie and her off-the--shoulder sweater and royal blue bikini top to a secluded couch and making sure her Crazy remains in check.

Courtney--we have to give credit here--sees the lip gloss on the wall and gets Ben alone for a brilliant preemptive strike against Emily and her co-conspirators. She masters the art of the uncomfortable silence and actually has Ben use the word "us" in reference to them, gets a direct apology from him for not trying harder, and eventually gets him to go downstairs and take the rose from the plate in the middle of the party and give it to her. She played that perfectly. Granted, it was deceptive, manipulative, anti-social, and a case study in self-centeredness, but it was pretty to watch. She lost me with the Charlie Sheen-isms, but she's clearly experienced at that whole act. Marry her and Ben can look forward to a lifetime of that exact scenario--well, at least until she tires of him and he can no longer forward her modelling career.

Ben picks up Jennifer and they head to a crater for some light spelunking and Jennifer shows Ali how a yellow bikini should look. I'll gloss over this entire date by saying that Jennifer is exactly what Ben thought she was: laid back, cool, relatively fun, sincere, and less enthusiastic than the other girls. In other words, she's normal. I like her. I just don't see the sparks there. I think it's telling that she appears to get along well with all of the girls, including Courtney, really well. She's a catch. However, she's not a catch in this environment. Her quiet class will be mistaken for a lack of enthusiasm for Ben and her redeeming qualities will be eclipsed by the over-the-top personalities and gamesmenship of the other women. She'll do fine back in Oklahoma. She's more likely to find a guy who can dance too.

The date features a "private" concert by Clay Walker. The guy is a Houstonian and it's arguable if he's actually "country". That's a tough one for me because he's on the fence between real "country" music and that garbage that jerkoffs like Jason Aldean are getting rich off of today. "Where Do I Fit in the Picture" is my favorite Clay Walker song, if you're interested. Check it out.

Incidentally, a few years ago (10 or so) I met Clay Waker at a private donor party for the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo. The company I worked for was a major sponsor and he gave a concert for about 100 people at a private residence and I was invited. He talked a lot about his Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis and about what he does for local hospitals and for people with the disease. He was a decent guy and I was relieved to see him rather than Chicago, Train, or Jeffrey Osborne.

I'll gloss past all of the details of the cocktail party. Not because I don't want to share, but because we've all seen it play out the same way for the past three seasons or so. Keeping in line with most unprepared girls in recent history, Emily ignores her PhD caliber intellect and allows Courtney to get in her head. I hated to admit it, but Courtney proved herself to be smarter than Emily in this environment. She stirred the pot until the Crazy Stew was perfect temperature and then allowed Emily to fill up her bowl and go feed it to Ben while she sat back and drank about 3 bottles of red and 1 bottle of white wine.

Emily regresses and makes an arguably bigger mistake than The Former Miss Pacific Palisades and Former Miss Bachleor Contestant, Samantha, made by dropping the "there's a girl here who acts differently in front of you than she does in front of us" speech. This is also known as "The Right Reasons" speech but that nomenclature has clearly been outlawed by the powers that be. Complaining about Courtney is tanatmount to Martha Stewart complaining that Rachel Ray has her own cooking show. It's useless and pointless. I'm sure she'll regret the hell out of that choice when she gets herself sent home next week after squandering her second chance by making the same mistake twice. She'll have plenty of time to think about it while icing her puffy eyes and sipping through a couple bottles of chardonnay in her apartment near campus while listening to Pink's Missundaztood album over and over again and ignoring her girlfriends' calls and texts. Ph.D? PHenomenally Dumb move, Emily.

Again, Courtney emerges victorious and puts a big fat (and well-deserved, I might add) cherry on top of her Emily cobbler by throwing in a "what an idiot" when she finds out what Emily did. If you'll recall, I predicted that Samantha would be the first to get booted for this particular breach of Bachelor ettiquette. I wasn't all wrong, but Emily should have learned her lesson.

After shaking off the laughter and getting himself together, Harrison rings the champagne glass and the rose ceremony begins in earnest. Emily sweats and Courtney gloats. She had a 1 in 8 chance of getting booted heading into the cocktail party. By caving into her own stupidity, upped her odds to 1 in 2. It went down as follows.

1. Jennifer

2. Courtney

3. Rachel

4. Lindzi

5. Jamie

6. Nicki

7. Kacie B. (keep it together, honey)

8. Elyse (why?)

9. Blakeley (she's calmed down)

10. Casey S. (Silence is Golden)

11. Emily (You're more sane than Samantha and you're not bi-sexual)

SEE YA, Samantha and Monica.

Well, there you have it. With the Amazing count at a steady 32 and the Journey count at an early season 12 (the "Journey" has not yet begun), we finally head out of the Western United States over to lovely Puerto Rico for next week's festivities. Until next time, take care of yourselves. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be searching hard for a beaver dam. DP

Bachelor Ben Episode 4 Recp

2012-01-24T17:56:00.002-06:00

Busy day in Austin! Blog wil be up later tonight. DP

Bachelor Ben Episode 3: On a Scale of 1-10 I Just Can't Take It

2012-01-18T22:30:00.002-06:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to a VERY late on-season post. I'd apologize but who'd listen? Truth be told I changed law firms over the past two weeks and I've been inundated with the new gig. It's been a positive move so far, but The Man has a way of keeping his foot on my neck. Between that, my rampant alcoholism, loose morals, and my last two trials at the old firm and Some Guy simply hasn't had the time to type.

Nonetheless, I've dedicated the next couple of hours to you in the spirit of elevating your day like a goose in the rear end lifts up an old lady in an elevator. Before I get started on my metaphorical goose in your collective rear end, I'd like to thank all of you (all 191 of you) who emailed me various links regarding the selection of our newest Bachelorette--Emily and her white shorts. I do have to give a special shout out to my fellow blogger, Captain Barbarossa at www.barbarossasblast.blogspot.com, who emailed me weeks ago generously sharing that particular piece of information he apparently obtained from a very reliable source. Nice work, CB. If that source can get me that pair of white shorts for my mantle, I'd appreciate you looking into that for me. Benjamin Franklin would be very proud, if you know what I mean.

I'm fairly excited at the prospect of watching Emily skip around the beach next season in various stages of undress. How badly do you think Mondays are going to sting for our old buddy Brad, though? Ouch. I saw him at the gym two days ago, by the way. While his legs stay the same size, his chest continues to expand each time I see him. I'm beginning to wonder if Axe Body Spray comes in testosterone scent. That would explain the localized muscle growth. Annyyyyyhooo . . . Let's get to it.

Sans a couple of last week's crazies we begin Episode 3 a mere 44.5 miles (thanks, iPhone) from Sonoma, California in picturesque San Francisco. We see our standard shots of Alcatraz, trolley cars, Coit Tower, that big gazebo thing and, of course, the Golden Gate Bridge before Nikki debases it all by saying she's "like totally pysched" to see the city. I was already "like totally bored."

Incidentally, there's no need to go across the Golden Gate when traveling from Sonoma to San Francisco. Marin County lies across that bridge so I was mystified as to why they insulted all of us by taking that route. Good views, I suppose, and most of us were probably none the wiser.

Forgetting that he referred to Sonoma as "my home" as many times as Courtney referred to herself as a model last week, Ben strolls aimlessly through the Castro in search of a hot oil rub and tug at a local bathhouse before meeting himself in drag at a local restaurant.

Himself in drag turns out to be his equally nice sister, Julia who has unfortunately drawn the "we need someone for Ben to talk to while he recaps the past two shows" card and is forced to sit there and force a smile while she's force fed every fact about forces of nature, forceful women, and forced conversation. She feigns interest well and they adjourn . . . forcefully.

After woo-hooing in their heels and scarves while tooling around the Fairmont Hotel and ending up in the community hotel suite, the women become fascinated with the telescope in the room. Frankly, most of them are probably fascinated by anything long, stiff, and cylindrical, but that's beside the point. Courtney uses her thinking muscles and manages to put the narrow end to her eye instead of her mouth and seems relieved to learn that it's a telescope.

As a cool sip of Lone Star Beer was pulled from the cold neck of the bottle, I sat up in wonder when Harrison walked into the suite in full v-neck sweater complimented by a full v-neck undershirt and a sport coat. Suck it, Ben, I thought. That's how you make a solid v-neck work. Put that in your cut off jean shorts and smoke it.

Harrison does his job, drops the date card, and splits for some absinthe at the Fairmont Bar in order numb himself for the impending cocktail party.

"Love Lifts Us Up. --Ben" the date card reads and Emily who is "coincidentally" afraid of heights draws first date duty with our poorly coiffed Bachelor. She squirms in her seat a bit but is generally gracious and excited about the big date. She leaves to go buy some new hiking boots and Courtney drops "book smart can be a little boring." Then again so can vapid self-importance and transparent jealousy, but what do I know?

Proving she takes direction well (she's a PhD. candidate, after all) Emily does an alright job executing the jog, jump, and squeal greeting. She's no Jillian, but she makes it work. At this point, I frankly saw more chemistry between Ben and his sister, but I like Emily and again, she seemed grateful. That's a good quality to have and I don't think it's one a person can fake for very long.

Ben tells her that San Francisco is "my home" and that he's been in "every nook and cranny in the city." Look, I know there's an obvious gay joke lurking in the shadows, but I'm not going to take it. Gay people get enough fun poked at them from behind their backs and I'm not going to torpedo them over and over again like that. It's simply mean to bend a group of perfectly peaceful folks over a barrel by making them the butt of a joke all for the sake of a cheap laugh. It's not fair to drag them around town like that I just won't do it. The last thing they need is a pain in the ass like that. Being gay is extremely hard, even in open-minded cities like San Francisco. (You're welcome)

Speaking of gay, Ben shows off his Lululemon (I have to be psychic) yoga shirt and tells Emily they'll be exposing her greatest fear by climbing the suspension cables of the Bay Bridge. That date looked really fun, by the way. That sure beats the hell out of walking around town and buying trinkets from Rastafarians in Jamaica.

I will say that I was impressed with Emily's ability to "conquer" what obviously was not a real fear and have fun with Ben. For those of you who actually have a genuine fear of something or have experienced a person with that type of fear you know that Emily was pensive, but far from "afraid." I once had to spend half an hour coaxing a friend of mine down from atop an 8 foot wall. He was afraid of heights and when that fear unexpectedly took hold of him at that short of a height he became literally paralyzed in fear of his life. THAT's real fear. Before we go and give Jake credit for his little crying fit atop the bungee stand, I can tell you that what he was experiencing was not vertigo. He was just being a p*ssy. There's a difference. Annnnyyyyhooo . . .

Fake fears aside, Emily dons a purple dress (that color suited her) and Ben puts on a lot of lip gloss as they metaphor their way through the rest of the date before capping it off with fireworks and a big kiss. Good date. Good girl. Ben would do well to keep her around. She's not as wild and exciting as some of the others, but she's also not bitchy and vacant either.

Knock knock. The much maligned Group Date Card arrives and Blakeley, Jaclyn, Elyse (man), Jamie, Kacie B., Erika, Samantha, Monica, Rachel, Nikki, and Casey S. get the "Let's Cross Something Off Our Leap List" invite and a meaningless discussion ensues. Sigh.

Sporting ubiquitous oversized necklaces and accessories, the girls leave the hotel in order to meet Ben in his purple t-shirt and yet another pair of jean shorts. These were grey and I couldn't help but say a silent prayer that those were not THE gray jeans. You know, the ones that go so well with that yellow sweater.

In a shameless and gratuitous plug to the Honda whatever, the group piles in some sponsor cars and pretends to be fascinated with the feature allowing a driver top post a head shot of his favorite Bachelorette. What. Ever. Are the production folks at ABC really that lazy? At least attempt to disguise it for crying out loud.

Ben and the women arrive at a fake snow covered San Francisco street and proceed to risk torn knee ligaments and ice burns by skiing in their bikinis. Ben saw fit to ditch the purple shirt and the urine soaked hippies seemed to enjoy the show. The drunkest looking hippie was treated to a real show when Kacie inadvertantly found herself roaring uncontrollably backward down hill while bent over. In nature, that little trick is known as "presenting." She's lucky that telescope wasn't at the bottom of that hill or it would have ended up at the top of her throat.

Knock knock. I found myself missing the ding dong of the doorbell, which I found extremely ironic. Not being able to find a ding dong in San Francisco is certainly ironic. At any rate, the next date card gets dropped. A less-than-enthused Brittney gets the "let's unlock our love with the key to the city" card and proceeds to hate all of the potential fun in addition to hating all of the actual fun. Lindzi feels left out. Emily is positive. Jennifer and Courtney can taste the disappointment. Boooooring.

After retiring from street skiing the group ends up at Tonga, which apparently has "a pretty rad" pool according to Ben. Rachel lays on a lei and throaty voices her way into "you're greats" with Ben. Kacie's claws come out but she resists the urge to bend over and take a backward run at Ben. She gets some outdoor alone time and a kiss. Keep it together, I shouted. You're fine.

Ben tells us that "something about Kacie B. sparkles." It's her dress, dumbass. Well, either that or she dated that brooding a-hole in the vampire movies who sparkles in the sun.

Brittney and Emily discuss the fact that both of them need to lighten their roots if they stand a chance at the Fantasy Suite before Brittney disappoints her aging grandmother by throwing in the towel and hitting the road. She characterized that choice (more than once, by the way) as "the hardest choice of my life." Either she's clearly oblivious to overstatements or her life has been a freaking ferris wheel ride. Incidentally, that sweater she was wearing might have actually been the worst decision of her life.

She "struggles" some more with the enormity of packing her suitcase and changing her flight home before c*ck blocking Blakeley and telling an apathetic Ben that she's "leaving forever." Let's hope that it's forever forever and not Brad, Jake, Bentley, or that D-bag Ryan "forever." Poor Ben.

Like a newly discovered beauty queen college sex tape, Brittney's departure clears the way for Lindzie to pinch hit on the one-on-one date. Ben finally shaves whatever that thing on his face can be characterized as and Lindzie puts on a very flattering short dress in ignorant of the fact that her entire date will be tainted with the smell of stale urine and nicotine as she's forced to ride on public transportation and hang out at City Hall where some jackass who sounded like Adam Levine and Dave Matthew's love child serenaded them as Ben proved, yet again, that remedial dance knowledge is nowhere on the Bachelor application form.

Ben rallies, however, and they visit a speakeasy dive bar for dinner as Lindzie sits in Brittney's chair and eats Brittney's dinner before quickly earning Brittney's rose. She was like an older, hotter Goldilocks. Ben Grobans it up again on the piano and I was reminded why I like the guy. I'm rooting for Lindzie. Perhaps I'll send over a coupon for some dance lessons at Arthur Murray when they get engaged. Lord knows that effeminate bore Neil Lane won't get them anything.

Here's where the show began to get stupid.

Ring ring. Still no ding dong. ABC plays both ends of the pre-recorded Harrison/Shawntel phone call and Harrison commits to lose the silk hotel robe and slippers in favor of his well-tailored black suit and "come down" to meet Shawntel in order to escort her to the pack of fully accessorized, Jimmy Choo-wearing, wine swilling wolves at the cocktail party in the lobby.

I'll make this short because it frankly doesn't deserve the time it would take to play-by-play it back here. Shawntel shows up, the women go absolutely ape-shit, and Nikki plays a flash card game with Ben. The best line of this segment came from the normally droll Courtney who hit Blakeley with "she's the kind of girl your boyfriend cheats on you with." Ouch. That one falls into the "I'll give credit where credit is due" category. That's exactly what I did after I stopped laughing.

With estrogen flying around like women's underwear at a Chris Harrison hotel suite after party, even the sane women get caught in the frenzy. The heretofore resilient Emily diagnoses Courtney with a "social disorder." It looks like SOMEONE's been studying for finals, I thought.

Courtney secrets Ben away in some anteroom where JFK cheated on his wife with Marilyn Monroe and they have an eighth grade "I like you" conversation before he kisses her lip implant and she says, "we could make cute babies." Yea, and crazy ones too. I instantly pictured a swaddled baby boy with Ben's hair and Courtney's inflated lips. It wasn't very cute.

Shawntel ends up wishing she'd embalmed herself prior to walking into the party, Ben drops a "holy sh*t" when he sees her, she pretends to like him and unattractive Jaclyn proceeds to make herself really unattractive by aggressively going after Shawntel. Lindzi "big balls" Shawntel (I love Lindzi), and Elyse almost pulls out her balls and puts Shawntel to shame . . . and probably Ben too (sorry, MH. She looks like a man).

Cringing behind a throw pillow I endured this in real time for you, my loyal readers. As painful as it was it all became worth it when after the usually calm Rachel asked in a bitchy tone, "why are you here." Shawntel didn't do herself any favors by playing the "I have Harrison's cell number" card. The looks were priceless.

Another thing I couldn't figure out was when the women characterized Shawntel as "Brad's dumpster trash." I suppose Ashley's dumpster trash doesn't bother them, but that's neither here nor there. "So she just did the season before this and she just gets to come back," one of them asks. Uh, yea. I was over it at that point.

Harrison shows up looking like the freaking Cheshire Cat and the rose ceremony begins amidst classless and catty behavior usually reserved for the Flavor of Love and shows of its ilk. Erika the law student passes out proving she's not cut out to be a trial lawyer and the entire bulls*it is put on hold as she's tended to. The best part was that Ben still dumped her anyway. It went down as follows:

1. Lindzie

2. Rachel

3. Emily

4. Courtney (Ben called her bluff)

5. Kacie B.

6. Elyse

7. Jamie

8. Jennifer

9. Casey S.

10. Blakeley

11. Monica

12. Nikki

13. Samantha

Booted: Erika, Jaclyn (good), and Shawntel (I guess Ben didn't want to spend Christmas in Chico).

Well, there it is. With the Amazing count at 23 and the Journey count at 10 we head into next week. Thanks, as always, for sticking around even in spite of my tardiness. Take care of yourselves. Until next week, if you need me I'll be cutting off all of my variously colored jeans at the knees. DP

Bachelor Ben Episode 3 Post

2012-01-17T17:59:00.002-06:00

I'll be posting late this evening or tomorrow before lunch. My "real" job is riding me like Lindzi rides her horse. Hope you're all well. DP

Bachelor Ben Recap Episode 2: Orange You Glad It's Bachelor Season?

2012-01-10T15:06:00.000-06:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to what has quickly proven itself to be the b*tchiest season in Bachelor history. For crying out loud, what is the world coming to when we can’t even count on our reality television to fairly and accurately represent a cross-section of our population?

Then again, if we narrow that cross-section down to attention seeking, morally flexible females who have the ability to ditch their lives for five weeks with no consequences, then I suppose we got the real deal on Monday night. Top the cat fights, crying, and pettiness off with the fact that I missed the first half of the National Championship game to watch the show and Some Guy is a little disenchanted. No worries, however. My disenchantment often breeds sarcasm and sharp insults. Let’s get to it.

We begin—oddly enough—as we’d begin our hometown episodes usually much later in the season. After some gratuitous bikini shots and a sneak peak at Blakeley’s inexplicable frilly, turquoise bathing suit which, based upon the size and girth of her implants I can only assume was reinforced with some material taken from Superman’s leotard, we see Ben walking his Jack Russell terrier through the mean streets of Sonoma, California in an army green shirt he clearly borrowed from Ames.

Grapes, sun, and the hominess of Ben’s home town are interspersed with Flipcam (or the latest equivalent sponsor) shots of the girls in their casual airplane attire . . . and heels . . . arriving at the local airport. In anticipation of their arrival, Ben drives aimlessly amidst the grapes in “his” Scrambler with his dog as the women hop aboard convertible Studebakers and coif champagne while—you guessed it—driving through the grapes.

Two points before I move on: First, Jack Russell terriers are terrible dogs. They suck. Sure, they’re cute and all but they’re surprisingly nasty, they never calm down, and they stink like a homeless man under a bridge when they get older. They’re horrible with children as well. If you have one (a terrier not a child) please save your time defending the breed. I don’t care how “intelligent” they are and I don’t care that John Mahoney had one on Frasier. I’m sure they’re lovely in the right environment.

Second, what happened to the budget on this show? Upon further reflection, I assume the top picks will be traveling somewhere exotic. It makes no sense for ABC to drop significant dough on the window dressing. Still, hometown walking tours are about as cheap as it gets. Like ABC, I’ll chalk that up to Ben’s “simplicity” and move forward. I miss zip lining and bungee jumping, though. Remember when Jake—who is allegedly a pilot—cried like a fairy at the top of that bridge? Now THAT was good television. Annnyyhooo.

The girls arrive just in time for Blakeley to exit the Studebaker in her younger, smaller sister’s romper that she borrowed because “it would look SO cute on.” I’m not a big fan of the foul language and blatant insults spewing out of the women’s mouths like fresh oil from Spindletop (we’ll get to that later), but I have to agree that she looked as cheap as a stolen pistol in that getup. I smiled, shook my head, sipped my Lone Star, and sat back waiting for Harrison to arrive and welcome everyone to “an emotional week” before dropping the first date card.

Sadly, an early Harrison appearance was not in the budget this week either. What. The. Fu*ck? No Harrison? Having Ben welcome the ladies to Sonoma and drop his own date card instead of Harrison is like going to a strip club and having the bartender hop up to center stage and do a pole dance. I felt cheated and I let my television set know it. Regardless, Kacie B.—who looked lovely, by the way--gets the first date and the back biting begins in earnest.

Ben tells us that he wants “to show her something that’s extremely personal.” Now we’re talking, I thought. Usually we have to wait until Fantasy Suite week for thinly veiled statements about unabashed, anonymous copulation. Kacie throws on some tiny black shorts and a striped sailor shirt and Ben arrives—for some reason—in an oxford and a vest. A vest? Is he a magician? A blackjack dealer? Is he a banker in the 1800’s in Tombstone, Arizona? Is he moonlighting at Chippendales? Does he work in the mall? Is he planning on trying his hand in Vaudeville? Does he own a haberdashery? A vest?

By the way, feel free to post your comments regarding other proper places to wear a vest. In the interest of time, I’ll move on. A vest?

After strolling past the Sonoma Cheese Factory—where they would probably find Jake, Wes, and Brad—Ben does another Josh Groban impression at the local hotel piano bar and heads to the local candy store for some lunch box and baton shopping with Kacie. They “quaint” and “so neat” each other (and us) to death before having some good dinner conversation and some laughs.

I’ll say this about Kacie: she was attractive, fun, a good listener, and seemed to genuinely appreciate Ben and his home town. She’s didn’t come across as fake, uncomfortable, or insincere. Top that off with the fact that she has the flexibility to leave her administrative assistant job and high tail it from Tennessee to California and we may be looking at a finalist. Then again, Brad had a killer first date with Ashley before she melted down over the course of the next few episodes. It’s early, but she hit a home run on this date. She got a rose before heading to the theater for some home movies.

The only thing I’ll say about this portion of the date is that I’m glad it was Kacie and not one of the fake, insincere, attention seekers who got to share the dad video with him. I’m sure the Producers knew that when they called her parents for the video. My only regret is that we didn’t get to see Blakeley’s childhood videos. My guess is that she would have been wearing that same romper. Granted, it would have fit a bit differently.

Ding Dong. Date card. STILL no Harrison. Brittney, Rachel, Jennifer, Blakeley, Emily, Jenna, Shawn, Monica, Samantha, Jamie, Nicki, and Jaclyn get the “Come play with me. Ben” date card and Blakeley gets bitchy. By the way, I thought Rachel and Jennifer looked great. With toned down make up and hair they both looked several years younger and much more attractive than I gave them credit for initially. Sure, the “red” hair is a bit over the top, but I’ll chalk that up to lighting and television. Monica, on the other hand, looked as bad as she did last week. She had enough rouge splattered all over her face to repaint an old barn.

Ben wanders around with his borderline feminine dog in white cut off knee shorts that we assume once held the same proud place as the gray Levis in his closet before becoming shorts. Blakeley shows up in her romper with her boobs flailing around like flags in a windstorm and tells us that she hopes Ben “sees her.” Trust me, Blakeley, with that outfit and those implants Helen Keller would have seen you. She looked cheap and unattractive in the daylight. She acted like it too.

As Samantha commences peppering Blakeley with the “hooker” and “whore” comments that would eventually drive Blakeley to fake cry under cover of rolling luggage bags, we learn that the community theater will host “Prince Pinot of Bachelorville” as written by Sonoma’s fifth through seventh graders. I’ll skip the tryouts in favor of pointing out that the kid who upon realizing that Blakeley’s outfit wouldn’t fit his younger sister asked her if she could jog in slow motion. I’m not sure if it’s a statement about me, eighth grade boys, or men in general, but that’s exactly what I was thinking when she hit the stage. Her whole cans hanging out and sexual energy act might go over like gang busters at whatever VIP lounge she waitresses at, but Ben and his small town are not likely to buy it.

Incidentally, I have to give Jenna’s psychiatrist proper credit for phoning in the right dose of sedative for the group date. Up to this point in the show, she was surprisingly calm and docile. I’ll also go ahead and back off my “gorgeous” comment from last week. She didn’t look very good even before the meltdown this week. Even Some Guy makes a mistake every now and then. Hell, she’s so tiny that she probably has a hummingbird feeder instead of a refrigerator in her studio apartment in NYC. I’m certain that the Xanex she took was in liquid form. A pill was likely to get stuck in her esophagus.

As the play takes place it becomes glaringly apparent which girls have the motherly instinct and which ones will continue soaking their ovaries in vodka appletinis until they stop spitting out eggs. As over the top as it was, I found myself actually appreciating Ben. They guy is a real guy and he’s clearly not worried about how many egg whites he eats or what scent of Axe Body Spray compliments his deep v-necks. He clearly put in the work in the gym in the off season but didn’t overdo it. It sort of annoys me that I like the guy. Hell, I have a lot in common with him. How am I supposed to insult him for another 10 episodes? I’m sure I’ll figure something out. There’s always that haircut.

After the play and another few “b*tch, slut, and hooker” comments concerning Blakeley, we head to the Fairmont Spa for the after party after all of the girls stop off for an over application of eye make up and tanning cream. Samantha ends up “slut and hookering” herself into a frenzy and escapes to the bathroom to cry about it before the well grounded girls enter the fray and attempt to calm her which proves as effective as urinating into gale force winds.

Before the hot tub fondling begins we cut back to the mansion where Kacie reads the “Let’s Spin the Bottle. Ben” date card meant for Courtney. Erika gets annoyed, Kacie gets offended, and Courtney gloats. At least I think she was gloating. It was increasingly difficult to tell based upon the vacant look that was constantly plastered on her face. At least she didn’t mention she’s a model prior to rubbing the date card in the face of everyone within close proximity.

As chicken fights ensue Blakeley sheds some light on her overly competitive, spiteful behavior by attributing all of it to the fact that she’s a Scorpio. Whatever. Jennifer and Ben get some alone time in some interior hot tub lined with votive candles and she sneaks a kiss after pronouncing the word “perfect” correctly for the first time in the last two seasons of this show. As I said before, she looked good this week and she didn’t overdo it by trying too hard in the hot tub. She was sufficiently engaging without being overly anxious. Some of the other girls would do well to take notes of her performance. She ended up feeling a bit insecure about the entire interaction; however, from the male perspective, she earned more points than the sexually aggressive Blakeley and her frilly turquoise bathing suit. Michelle Money learned that lesson the hard way a couple of seasons ago. Apparently, Scorpios don’t watch television.

Despite homely Jaclyn’s “Blakeley is super-fakely” zinger Ben dons a tank top that matches Blakeley’s frilly swimsuit and presents her with the rose. That rose presentation was as staged as a Don King Promotions title fight. Oblivious to the Producer’s manipulation, the heretofore confident and calm Jennifer has a semi-meltdown before getting it together and Samantha again “slut and horseys” herself back into that aforementioned frenzy making one of the cardinal sins of mansion living proximity by allowing Blakeley to get in her head. Amateur.

Ben arrives along with Scotch the dog to pick up Courtney the fox in her white Emily-esque shorts so he can drive her past another few miles of grapes in order to show her some firm, hard wood. In the absence of firm, hard wood, Ben takes her to a redwood forest instead. Once she dropped the vixen act, she actually seemed nice—vacant and boring, yes, but nice nonetheless. Ben’s black jean cut offs seemed to agree. All of us have been attracted to a person solely based on looks and there’s no bigger bummer when that turns out to be the only thing worth noting about that person.

After a tractor ride through—you guessed it—more grapes and dinner in the vineyard, Courtney uses the word “cathartic” before garnering a rose from a tipsy Ben. Look, she did well and they seemed to get along fine. I tend to think that was more about Ben’s openness and comfort rather than any overwhelmingly fantastic personality trait she possessed. At any rate, she gets a rose as her hotness eclipses her lack of personality thereby fooling Ben.

Overall, it was a vanilla evening and Courtney came across as extremely hollow. To paraphrase a famous poet; This is the way the date ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. I suppose we’ll have to wait until Courtney makes it to the Fantasy Suite before anything ends with a bang. T.S. Eliot probably just rolled over in his grave. For you literature buffs out there, I promise to tie in Heart of Darkness sometime this season.

Back at the cocktail crying party Ben arrives dressed like The Transporter and we get some clever juxtaposition a la Ali v. Foreman between Blakeley and Courtney’s scheming. Like the hypothetical WWIII in Red Dawn, that conflict is bound to happen sooner than later. My money is on Courtney. She’s hotter, more subtle in front of Ben, and “my girlfriend is a model” sounds better than “my girlfriend is a nudie bar waitress.” Regardless of the outcome, that one should be interesting to watch.

Monica shows off her Rosacea, Lindzi looks orange, and Jenna still appears medicated and sober although I noticed her sipping some chardonnay. As we’d soon see, the synergistic effects of alcohol and anti-anxiety medication are never pleasant, especially in neurotic, bulimic waifs.

Ben and Lindzi get some alone time. She admits to never wearing make up, driving an F-350 pick up truck, and being at home in the country. Had she also mentioned an affinity for Lone Star Beer and honky tonks I would have instantly forgotten about Emily’s white shorts. She’s cool and she kept her head about her. Sadly, that combination doesn’t equal success on this show, but I still like her.

Moving from the sublimely hot to the pathetically ridiculous, Ben makes his way from Lindzi to Samantha who “jugs and hookers” her way into her third Blakeley frenzy. Ironically, Blakeley’s c*ck block of Samantha saves Samantha from making another cardinal mistake in the Bachelor world: being the first to badmouth another contestant. I think we can all count on that occurring much sooner than later and it will likely be Samantha who does it. Oh, and the first girl to say “I hate drama” and “I promise I’m a really cool chick” doesn’t hate drama and is a pain in the ass more often than she isn’t.

Enter a chardonnay-primed Jenna on the heels of the freshly Christened “Blakeley Situation” and proceeds to (see the above rule) tell Ben that she’s “not like your typical girl” before literally melting down in front of him like Frosty the Freaking Snowman on a hot day. Blakeley was so sick of it she went to go fake cry in the corner of the “Luggage Room.” Poor Ben. To hell with pruning and trimming. He’d do better to just torch the whole forest and start over.

Just as the wheels are about to come off (and the channel was about to get changed), Harrison arrives on his steed with his magical champagne glass and butter knife. It’s about freaking time, I said to my television set. Let’s get to chopping.

After dealing with the carrying on, Ben dispenses the remaining 13 roses as Kacie, Blakeley, and Courtney reveled in their safeness.

1. Kacie

2. Courtney

3. Blakeley

4. Jennifer

5. Elyse

6. Jaclyn

7. Erika

8. Rachel

9. Lindzi

10. Nicki

11. Casey S.

12. Samantha

13. Monica

14. Jamie

15. Brittney

Jenna and Shawn get sent packing. Predictably, Shawn is silent. She likely packed immediately while simultaneously calling her daughter and telling her she couldn’t wait to get home. Jenna, on the other hand, reverts into her familiar state of shock and mortification while crying uncontrollably. That poor girl needs Dr. Jamie.

Well, there it is. With the Amazing count at 16 and the Journey count at 6 we head West/Southwest to San Francisco for another week of stupidity. Until next week, take care of yourselves. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be coating my face and neck in orange tanning cream. DP

Bachelor Ben Recap Episode 1: Flajnik at the Disco

2012-01-03T13:55:00.000-06:00

Hello, Readers! Happy New Year and welcome back from what proved to be a long off-season. If you’re like me, I’m certain you’re all recovering from shaking your respective tail feathers until the wee hours of the new year. For those of you who stuck around and attempted to digest my drivel each week, I’m thankful. For those of you who rely solely upon me for Bachelor material, well, I’m thankful for you too. From the looks of it, I’m going to have a lot from which to draw from this season. It’s good to be back again.

In hopes that some of you (a lot of you, actually) are new readers, allow me to dispense with my once-a-season disclaimer before we begin in earnest. What I comment on within the pages of this blog is based 100% on the first thing that pops into my head when I watch the show. I watch it once without rewinding and then I write. No edits, no rewrites. It’s that simple. Take what you see with a big fat grain of salt and, most importantly, enjoy it. If you don’t, then thanks for trying me out. With that out of the way, let’s get to it.

Yes, folks, it’s that time of year. It’s the time of year when we put away the holiday decorations, stop pretending to be cheery, retrieve the liquor from wherever we hid it so as not to alarm judgey mothers-in-law, and return to the droll, unsatisfying grind that we call life. Alright, hopefully it’s not that bad for most of you, but you get the picture.

Some Guy spent the weekend dismantling the tree in the living room. I carefully stored my colored balls. You know, so as not to damage them. And, as is my tradition, the last thing I did was (sadly) put away my mistletoe belt buckle for another year. Then, like an overgrown goldfish in an aquarium, I waited patiently for my manna from above. Finally, there it was: The Bachelor season began.

We begin as we always do—slowly and repetitively. I will admit that it was nice to be reminded that I liked Ben last season. Fortunately for him, Ashley didn’t feel the same way. He showed some sack at the Final Rose Ceremony and left, albeit on a fishing boat in a tuxedo, with a modicum of dignity. Frankly, I’m surprised he took the gig, but why the hell not take it, right? He gets a free trip around the world (again), tons of attractive (notice I didn’t say sane) women fawning over him and his poor haircut for 6 weeks, and the option of tapping the three hottest ones like kegs of fermented grapes in the Fantasy Suite in some tropical locale. All of that and he gets to hang out with Harrison and Neil Lane. Odd are if he’s cool enough they’ll deal him in on the yearly poker game in Harrison’s tropical cabana. I’d do it and that’s saying a lot.

Down to Earth or not, we still need to address the issue of Ben’s wardrobe prior to getting the to back biting, blatant bisexuality, and bipolar bulimics this week. As predicted, ABC had the wherewithal to stay away from Ben’s sub par Bachelor build and lack of supplement rich diet in favor of the ample scenery of Sonoma, California and San Francisco Bay.

Granted, Ben does look like he added some muscle in the off season. I could tell that because I saw his arms and shoulders through his coral tank top with the blue trim as he drove “his” yacht and “his” Scrambler around various local landmarks. Ames would love that tank top. In fact, he probably sent it to Ben as a congratulatory gift when he got the Bachelor job. However, Ben is comparatively soft around the mid line and no one wants to see that. Gasp! That would be too close too---well, reality.

We see a few more minutes of our formerly “emotionally stuck” Bachelor as he demonstrates the deep v-neck t-shirt in every color of the rainbow in addition to several earth tones. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I suppose. That little montage—plus or minus some shower and gym shots—has worked for 16 seasons.

In summary, we all got the point: Ben is eligible, his heart is healed, and he’s as available as a Congress Avenue hooker on a rainy, cold night. Ashley Smashley. For those of you with skulls as dense as a bank vault door, ABC took the liberty of dressing Ben up in a royal blue oxford and a sport coat and slapping him in front of the piano at the mansion so he could further drive the point home amidst the sweet sounds of the ivories. The guy already looks like Josh Groban and they dress him up like Josh Groban and throw him behind a piano? I sighed as I sipped the year’s first Lone Star and said aloud, “where’s Harrison, for God’s sake. I get it.”

Thankfully, Harrison emerges from the subtle blue and purple back lighting on to the freshly sprayed cobblestones of the mansion driveway. I was also thankful when he cleared up the pronunciation of Ben’s last name. “Fl—ANN—ick” is apparently the proper way to say it. I’m certain I’ll have something clever to say about the silent “J” as the season progresses but for now, I’m ust too tired to think of any okes. I’ve been uggling a lot over the holidays and now that anuary is here, I’ll need to get the ingle bells out of my head and ust relax in order to og my memory for some good material.

It is later revealed that Ben is spawned from an Italian/Slovenian father and a German/English mother. I suppose that means he’s a ¾ fascist who drinks tea ¼ of the time. Now, let’s get to the ezebels.

Prior to the arrival of the estrogen and champagne loaded limos, we see a disinterested Harrison meeting Ben for a sit down and some more (you guessed it) recapping. The “A” word is revisited as Ben puts a good (and boring) spin on getting dumped in the tropics. Surprise, he’s over it and ready to move on. Throw in Dr. Jamie and a gallon of Axe Body Spray and this is beginning to sound familiar.

The message carried the same weight as when it was delivered via tank top and deep v-neck mere moments before. Again, aside from the haircut, I like Ben. Let’s hope that he picks the right one this season. Meeting adjourned, the limos begin to arrive and we quickly learned that each woman was clearly instructed (or given) to invent a gimmick. Frankly, the entire thing was painful and obviously scripted. Reality Schmality. Even Ben looked bored.

Now comes the problem with the first episode for Some Guy. This one is always especially hard to write about because it’s not chronologically organized and many of the key “characters” get a lot more air time than the rest of the temporary tramps. What I’ve elected to do is to break down the 25 (plus the old maid) “women” in alphabetical order and then comment a bit on the big cocktail party (poor Jenna). As the herd is culled, I’ll revert to my preferred format.

Harrison checks in as usual and lets us know that the limos are packed with women who have come “to specifically meet Ben.” I suppose that beats generally waving to him from a distance as one bachelorette would soon discover, but whatever.

1. Amber B., 23 --- I know, it’s shocking that there’s more than one “Amber” in the mix, right? This one arrives in a flowy, multicolored dress. It reminded me of a dress you’d see at the annual company awards banquet for the top sales achievers in Maui. She likely bought it for that occasion and recycled it. Her last name is Bacon. After hearing her badmouth the other girls in a brutal way—that’s so unattractive—I quickly learned that she’s named after the breakfast meat and not the famous author. Ironically, her hooters were so big it looked like she was smuggling two hams underneath that awful dress. Trust me, ladies. Few things are less attractive to a man than an attitude like hers. Thankfully, she got No Rose.

2. Amber T., 28 --- I know, it’s shocking that there’s more than one “Amber” in the mix, right? She’s the nurse from Nebraska who loves to eat cow balls. We call those Calf Fries here in Texas. We see her shooting skeet over a cornfield in Nebraska while dressed from head to toe in camouflage. I realize that it didn’t strike the vast majority of you who believe that hunting or shooting is an activity reserved for unsophisticated rednecks; however, I know no one who dresses in full camo to go shoot skeet. It’s not like the skeet are going to see her and change direction. Unnecessary perpetuation of stereotypes aside, I got what she was going for. She’s a tomboy and a daddy’s girl who’s not afraid to get dirty. She showed up to the mansion in a yellow dress that was the opposite of camouflage and hair looking a la Nikki Sixx circa 1987. She seemed cool, but alas, No Rose.

3. Anna, 25.--- She’s 25 and a “student.” In reality television world, that means she’s taking a semester off while working at Hooters. She went with the no introduction fly by. Guess what, you dunce? That equals No Rose.

4. Blakely, 34 --- She’s a VIP Cocktail Waitress with 4 tattoos. Her dress was awful but she’s very pretty even though her face is longer than Mr. Levi or whatever Lindzie’s horse’s real name is. She had a pseudo make out session with Monica and appears to be a bit naughty. She has a forearm tattoo and a slutty disposition. She seems smarter than her career choice implies. We’ll see how she does. She got a Rose. Duh. If Ben is smart he’ll take her and Monica along on one Fantasy Date. From the looks of it, that could work out well for Ben in addition to saving ABC the cost of a helicopter rental for the third date.

5. Brittney, 26 --- She’s in medical sales and she’s from Colorado. She brought her grandma to show solidarity to Ben’s family commitment. Clearly contrived by someone other than her, Ben was able to look past the stunt and appreciate the fact that she’s nice. She got a Rose despite being brutally stabbed in the back.

6. Casey S., 26 ---She’s from Kansas and she kept it short and sweet. A nice smile along with staying below the radar often equal no elimination in the first round. She proved that. She got a Rose.

7. Courtney, 28 ---I think she’s a model from Santa Monica. She made it a point to drop that into the conversation a half dozen times. She also dropped “I deserve a 2 carat ring” and “I’m better than the rest of the girls.” She’s clearly this season’s vixen. While my initial take on her was a hopeful one, she appears to be a snotty, self-important brat with no tolerance for anyone but herself. Like Michelle Money before her, her mean streak will backfire. Being competitive is one thing, but being cutthroat is another. In the understatement of the newly christened year she says, “I think Jenna might be a little sensitive.” Right. I think the Germans might have been a little aggressive in the late 1930’s.

She bonds with Ben telling him (after she mentions she’s a model) she’s Italian, Scottish, and Native American. That means she’s 1/3 fascist who drinks 2/3 of the time. Perhaps Ben can talk her into selling him her dress for a handful of trinkets and some fire water. From the looks of the previews, he apparently does.

Ben will likely remain oblivious to her conniving ways considering the fact that she’s super hot. Sorry ladies, but that’s how it works most of the time. As for me? I’m disappointed. Her looks will eventually fade and she’ll be left with the sad inadequacies of post-mid life plastic surgery. She might as well change her name to Janice Dickinson right now. No surprise, she got a Rose.

8. Dianna, 30---Cute brunette in a white Fay Wray dress who was so perky and tongue tied Ben had trouble not laughing in her face. King Kong’s giant hand should have mercifully emerged from stage right and scooped her off the show. She seemed nice enough but she didn’t stand out. No Rose.

9. Elyse, 24 --- Personal Trainer from Chicago who attended the Ashley Hebert School of Diction. It’s in Madawaska, Maine and they offer online classes and a night program. She got No Rose but will undoubtedly parlay her limited appearance on the show into multiple “celebrity” appearances at local Chicago gyms. She still looked like a man. She got a “you’re less worse than the bottom 8” Rose.

10. Emily, 27. She’s working on her PhD. in epidemiology. She showed up with mouth spray and anti-bacterial lotion to drive that point home. I was impressed that she worked in a kiss, but my joy quickly faded to horror. Apparently, all of that time buried in textbooks made her oblivious to the fact that white women should never try to rap. She’s like a female Jason Aldean for God’s sake. That whole exchange wherein she rapped some ridiculous verses about Ben and epidemiology was horrible. I contracted a sickness from watching it. Like walking a tightrope drunk, that’s never a good idea. She did enough to get a Rose, but she needs to relax on the gimmicks if she’s going to stick around.

11. Erika, 23 --- Law student with a lip tattoo from Chicago with the horrible purple sequined mess of a dress and the equally horrible “the verdict is in and you’re guilty of being sexy” opening line which she drove home with finger guns. Go back to Chicago and work on your Esquire. She annoyed me, but not Ben. She got a Rose.

12. Holly, 34 ---She wore a giant Kentucky Derby hat to hide her weathered skin, Vienna-esque eyes, and accentuate her marginally attractive boobs. She tells Ben that Kentucky is known for Beautiful Women and Fast Horses---or was it the other way around? Regardless, the stunt lost steam down the stretch and she didn’t Win, Place, or Show in spite of dropping the word “cock” into the mix. No Rose

13. Jaclyn, 27. I still find her incredibly unattractive. However, I liked her personality. Ben did too. She got a Rose. I hope she gets a one-on-one date before she gets sent home. She seemed sweet.

14. Jamie, 25 – She’s an RN from NY with no dad. Dude, when I’m right, I’m right. I was called a misogynist for the following comment based upon her picture and profile last week.

“Hey Ben, run. The career choice is nothing more than the manifestation of her disproportionately overwhelming desire to care and nurture others caused by the neglect of an emotionally unavailable father. She’s looking for everything he wasn’t. Get out while the getting is good.”

Look, she seemed nice and I found her attractive. She just seems to have a lot of baggage stemming from her childhood. If it comes out the way it did in a brief interview, then it’s bubbling just below the surface. I like her and like Lucius said to Maximus in Gladiator, “I shall root for her.” I’m afraid her baggage will prove too heavy for Ben to manage. She got a well-deserved Rose.

15. Jenna, 27 ---Alas, Poor Jenna. I knew her, Harrison, a woman of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. She hath bore me on her back a thousand times, and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it.

Notwithstanding my blatant Hamlet heist, I had such high hopes for our blogger from New York. The bottom line is that she’s troubled. I suppose her big meltdown and her clear anxiety issues made for good TV, but I actually felt sorry for her. She’s gorgeous, albeit a tad thin for my taste, and her profile made me laugh. I suppose she’s comfortable at home in her 400 sq. ft. Manhattan loft with everything in its place exactly where it should be in support of her daily routine. We saw that in her lead in as she blogged and walked around town in a sarong. It wasn’t until later that we found out that something was clearly “sarong” with Jenna. She squeaks more than a rusty swing set.

People with her types of issues do not handle change, conflict, or stress very well. We saw that in spades last night. I won’t even pay homage to the “share a tampon” comment. Suffice it to say that I think we’re all hopeful that she’ll emerge from this as unscathed as possible and move toward dealing with her obvious anxiety issues. She’s gorgeous and she drinks wine while blogging. I’d be lying if I didn’t’ say she made my gorge rise. She got a ratings Rose.

16. Jennifer, 28 --- She’s a red headed accountant from Oklahoma. I was a tad harsh on her when I saw her head shot. She looks older than 28 but seemed relatively nice and certainly “together.” She’s probably too nice for all of the back biting and gamesmanship, which is a shame. Regardless, she’ll be on the Trail of Tears back to Oklahoma very soon. Rose.

17. Kacie, 24 – Naughty looking administrative assistant from Tennessee. She’s dumb. Really dumb. Notwithstanding that, she had a decent personality and proved herself a contender at the cocktail party by remaining sane and sober which, as you’ll all undoubtedly agree, proved to be a challenge for a good deal of the “ladies.” Her solo shots showed her watching the Bachelor and walking around her home town. Does she have any interests? I suppose we shall see. She got a rose.

18. Lindzi C., 27 --- She’s a DP front runner and by far the most attractive woman in the bunch. I know I’ll get some push back from some of you, so allow me to explain. Yes, the whole horse entrance was hokey, but we all know she didn’t invent it. She’s attractive, seems normal, has a true passion, and seems to have her s*it together. My favorite part was that she saved the “Welcome to Dumpsville, population you” text she got from an ex-boyfriend. Sure, it’s a little creepy that she saved the text, but just think of the high fives that guy got from his buddies in some Bellvue bar as he sipped his pale ale and exclaimed “I nailed her” before picking up the complimentary shot on the table and pounding it home. Either that guy is a Class A Jerk (or is it erk?) or there’s more to that story. She got a much deserved First Impression Rose. Hokey equals memorable and watering that stunt down with a nice smile and some sanity equals a good start. Stupid name spelling (which is not her fault) aside, she’ll do well.

19. Lindsie J., 29 ---She’s the English broad with the giant, attention seeking personality and the John Travolta chin to match. Her lead in featured her donning various costumes from around the world and dancing around in them while spouting off various colloquialisms. Mary Poppins would slap her. As painful as that was, it was less awkward than her over-the-top recitation of a poem to a clearly horrified Ben in the driveway. If she tones it down, she’ll find a guy in Phoenix. No Rose

20. Monica, 33 --- Incredibly bitchy, Type A, Alpha Female who looks like a poor man’s Paris Hilton. She’d likely be asked to star in a pornographic parody a la “Nailin’ Palin” if Paris hadn’t already made one. Her claws came out the second she hit the mansion door and put her broom in the hall closet. Perhaps she’s just mad a house fell on her sister. Annnyyyyhoooo.

She went after Jenna well after it was apparent that she won the first exchange and she demonstrated her bisexuality by openly hitting on Blakeley. She also accused Jenna of having no class for mentioning the word “tampon” even though she dropped the “C” word in addition to words likely to make Joe Pesci blush all over the mansion. She was mean and that will likely be the extent of her role this season. She’ll serve as the evil nemesis to Jenna’s anxiety ridden sweetness. She got a ratings Rose and I assume she’ll be praying for a jaunt through Holland where she’ll undoubtedly get her finger caught in a dike.

21. Nicki, 26 --- She’s a cute dental hygienist from Hurst, Texas with a penchant for posing on top of longhorns. She married at 21 and then divorced, which is her big cross to carry this season. She’s as dingy as a rowboat but was sufficiently nice and perky to keep Ben’s interest. Her cocktail dress looked like the Von Trapp nanny sewed it from curtain fabric but her intro was short and she seems sweet. I like her. She’s from Texas too.

22. Rachel, 27 --- She’s the one who looks like Olivia Newton John who looked great in her red dress and attempted to mediate the Lesbian vs. Looney battle between Monica and Jenna. I really liked her and the “My middle name is Rose” line actually worked. She also dropped my favorite quote of the evening when asked by an irrationally upset Jenna, “Why does Monica hate me out of nowhere?” Rachel calmly responded, “Because that’s what girls do.” Solid. She earned a Rose.

23. Samantha, 26 – Exits the limo perkily in her “Miss Pacific Palisades” sash. “I’m Miss Pacific Palisades,” she announces to an obviously unimpressed Ben. Uh, no Samantha. You WERE Miss Pacific Palisades. Now you’re just weird. Her most priceless moment of the night came when she saw Monica and Blakeley cuddling on the couch. The stunned look on her pageanty face said, “ooooooo, you could totally lose your crown for behavior like that forcing the runner up to assume your duties and ending your pageant career leading you to pursue unlimited fame and fortune as a pop star or an actress.” Priceless. She got a Rose.

24. Shawn, 28 ---She’s this season’s single mom and I have to admit that she looks much better than her initial head shot. We see her in her daily life as a finance manager and then reading to her child after bringing home the bacon. “What’s the difference between a fast poke and a slow poke,” he asks as she reads him a passage from an age-appropriate book. I’m certain she responded by making the distinction between time in the hot tub vs. time in the Fantasy Suite, but I’m not sure what she said.

We all know—minus that harlot Michelle Money—that single mom’s tend to exhibit an exorbitant amount of maturity and composure when compared to the rest of the drunken twenty-somethings on the show. My guess is that Shawn will be no different. She seemed nice. Too nice for this mess. She got a Rose in spite of an ill-fitting green dress and a Bump-It.

25. Shira—She’s the ageless waif of an actress who can’t remember the lines she wrote for herself. I could just see her agent cringing behind his pillow when he realized that the favors he cashed in to get her on the show were all for naught. She was plain and Ben realized it early. No rose

26. Sheryl—She’s the sweet and out-of-place grandmother who killed everyone’s buzz when she crashed the bitch party. She’s 72 and dropped, “if I was 30 years younger” she’d be into Ben. 30? Try 45. If you were 30 years younger you’d be Gwen. She seemed sincere and sweet although she didn’t “get” the show. It must be nice for Brittney to have her in her life. Many people (including me) don’t get the chance to know their grandparents like that. Cynicism aside, I’m glad the old biddy showed up.

After more drama than a summertime production of Shakespeare in the park, the roses are handed out by an ice water with a lemon toting Ben and the stage is set for another season of addictive ridiculousness. It’s good to be back. I’ll be seeing all of you every Tuesday—give or take—this season and I look forward to a fun ride. With the Amazing count at 8 and the Journey count at 3, we head toward next week. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be sorting my R.O.Y. G. B.I.V. tank top and deep v-neck collection. DP

Off Season Post 29: 'Twas Ten Days Before Bachelor

2011-12-21T12:27:00.000-06:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to the final off season post before the start of our favorite show. Granted, there will be a lot going on for all of us over the next ten days, but the January 2nd launch looms largely in the back of our collective minds. Relaxing and vacationing this time of year always turns out to be hard work, doesn’t it?

I’d like to thank all of you for sticking with me for another year. I cannot express how much joy (and that is the right word) I get knowing that you all log on from some place far away from my keyboard and read what I have to write. Knowing I’ve brightened a day or put a smile on a face is a great feeling. Even the negative comments resonate with me. To Alice in Tulsa and Some Girls who believe I'm a misogynist, believe it or not, I'm glad you took the time to check me out. I appreciate you all and I’m lucky you take the time to read this.

I’d like to wish all of you a happy, healthy, and fun holiday season. I hope the jockeying for position at the mall, rushing to get last minute gifts, paper cuts, and egg nog hangovers are all worth it. Me? I plan to eat, exercise a little in order to assuage the guilt of my overindulgence, kill a few Lone Stars, watch some football, and generally enjoy myself. My Christmas shopping will take place on December 23rd between noon and 2 p.m. After that, I plan to relax.

Now, let’s get to it.

'Twas Ten Days Before Bachelor

An adaptation by Some Guy in Austin

'Twas ten days before Bachelor, when all through the Pad

ABC interns were stirring, cleaning up after Brad;

The T-backs were hung by the hot tub with care,

In hopes that Ben Flajnik soon would be there;

This season’s bimbos were nestled, all snug in their beds,

While visions of cocktail parties danced in their heads;

Some Guy in his Snuggie, had just popped the cap,

Off a frosty cold Lone Star, post off-season nap,

When out near the mansion there arose such a clatter,

Harrison sprang from his suite to see what was the matter.

He paid his sleeping escort then he flew like a flash,

Pulled on a black suit and threw an intern his hash.

The moon on the breasts of the girls on the show

Gave the lustre of mid-day to the wet driveway below,

When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,

But a stretch Hummer limo, filled with desperation and beer,

And there stood Ben Flajnik and his bad haircut it seems,

As Some Guy sat and wondered what Ben’s last name means.

With tons of eye make up and fake tans, they came,

Chris Harrison whistled and called them by name;

"Now, ANNA! now, AMBER! now, KACIE and JACLYN!

On, JENNA! on NICKI! on, RACHEL, Meet HARRISON!

To the blue neon lit mansion! Evening gown and all!

Now dash away! Drink away! Get drunk ‘til you fall!"

Like Axe Body Spray they linger. They laugh, and they lie,

When they meet the next Bachelor, they give a bat to the eye,

So up to the house-top the bimbos they flew,

With livers full of booze, and Chris Harrison too.

And then, in a twinkling, across the living room floor

The prancing and pawing was too much to ignore

As I puked in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the grand entrance came Ben with a bound.

He was dressed in grey Levis (remember those?), and a queer yellow sweater,

Some Guy wondered and wondered why Ben couldn’t dress better;

A bundle of roses he had flung on his back,

A big giant d-bag, like his predecessor, Wo-mack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

He looked for a virgin, alas, not a cherry!

He had not a six pack nor muscles and knew it

He’d gained no street cred by banging Love Hewitt (allegedly);

The First Impression Rose he held tightly in his teeth,

As the strong stench of jealousy hung around like a wreath;

Girls soon will be sent--- crying in the limo alone

Think Fantasy Suite, Ben. Send the bitchy ones home

His looks were just average, although dressed in some finery

And I laughed when I saw him, his trump card his winery;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Is all it would take to get these contestants in bed;

Ben spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And cut all the loose ends who then called him a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

Harrison grabbed his blow and left with some Ho, Ho, Ho’s;

He sprang to his suite and gave the women a whistle,

And away they all flew toward Ben’s awaiting love missile.

But I heard Harrison exclaim, when he drove out of sight,

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL! SEE YOU ALL ON MONDAY NIGHT!

Well, there it is. My final post of 2011. Thank you all again. Enjoy your holidays. In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be ironing my grey Levis. Ho, Ho, Ho. DP

Off Season Post 28: BACHELOR PREVIEW TIME!

2011-12-09T14:37:00.001-06:00

Hello, Readers and welcome to an extremely late post. Between trials, my berfday, and my other obligations, it’s been tough to get the time to write. In the spirit of the unbelievably aggressive ad campaign launched last week by our friends at ABC heralding the January 2nd start of the Bachelor starring the wimpiest bachelor since . . . well, ever, I’ve taken the liberty of breaking down the female suitors after reviewing their profiles and head shots on the ABC website. Before I begin, I must share with you the real reason why I didn’t post this until today.

Picture Some Guy sitting shirtless--which is much easier thanks to a certain other blogger posting that infamous picture of me on her website--at the desk in his bedroom staring blankly at his keyboard in hopes that Inspiration would knock on the door, walk to the ‘fridge, grab a cold Lone Star, and sit down on the edge of the bed in order to share himself with me. Strike that. Let’s picture Inspiration as a hot, olive skinned, brunette in a knee high summer dress and cowboy boots. Much better.

Incidentally, I think “Inspiration” would make a fine stage name for an up-and-coming stripper. I have no intention on trademarking or copyrighting it, so if you’re destined for the pole, feel free to steal my idea. Granted, it’s not a city in Nevada, a spice, a fruit, a palindrome, and it doesn’t end in an “I,” but it’s a valid stripper name nonetheless. You’re welcome. Back to my story.

As I began to type the first paragraph of this post on Wednesday evening, I thought I heard a beeping sound coming from the front of the house. I got up to inspect it and indeed heard a faint beeping sound. When I opened the front door (I live in a condo) I was hit squarely in the face by the piercing scream of the fire alarms running throughout the complex. “Odd,” I thought as I saw my neighbors on the phone with who I assumed was the fire department. “If there’s a fire, they’ll let me know,” I said aloud and closed my door.

I walked back across my living room and noticed what I thought was smoke coming from the closed doors of my laundry room, which is located outside a double sliding glass door on my balcony. “Oh God,” I thought, “my dryer is on fire.” I threw the glass door open, stepped out on the balcony, and put my hand on the closed laundry room door. It was at this point that I noticed I was standing in a pool of water and the “smoke” was actually mist. I opened the door and, like Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon, was showered with a waterfall of cold water coming from the sprinkler head above the washing machine. Soaked and sufficiently pissed off, I shut the door and went back inside waiting for the remaining sprinklers scattered throughout the house to begin spraying at any moment.

In anticipation of the soaking all of my belongings would soon take, I retrieved a duffel bag from the closet and began packing a change of clothes, my phone charger, my iPad, and my “Insurance” folder from my file cabinet. Oddly enough, I felt no need to pack anything else. In the middle of packing, I heard the familiar sound of sirens in the distance and knew that help was on the way.

Still unsure if there was a fire and convinced that my sprinklers were on the verge of bursting at any moment, I opened the front door and sat on the couch, soaked from head to toe, drinking a cold Lone Star waiting for the cavalry to arrive. I felt like the band playing on the deck of the Titanic. Granted, I was wet, shirtless, and I wasn’t headed for certain death in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, but you get the picture: there was nothing I could do.

Mere minutes later, I heard the clomping of fire boots headed up my stairwell and I arose to greet them. Within moments a herd of yellow fire suits stampeded into my place in search of the danger. Unfortunately, the 12 (yes, 12) firemen who barged into my place elected the 12th guy leader and authorized him to speak with me. They could have saved themselves a lot of trouble—and me the need to steam clean my carpets—if they would have made the first guy the speaker. As they searched my entire place high and low with their axes and oxygen tanks attached, I pointed to the balcony and suggested that Mr. December corral Mr. January through Mr. November in order to fix my sprinkler problem. Here’s where I find the humor.

The entire time I was standing there wet and shirtless with 12 young, muscular, damp, determined fire fighters standing on my balcony only two thoughts kept spinning through my head. The first one was “how many firemen does it take to turn off a water sprinkler?” The second, and most important one for our purposes, was “I can’t wait to tell Lincee (www.ihategreenbeans.com) this story.”

I felt like that helpless lady on the cover of a romance novel being ravaged by a raven headed Indian on the frontier. I half expected to look at my open front door to see the back lit silhouette of Kurt Russell or Fabio running toward me in slow motion before throwing me over his shoulder and whisking me to safety where he would revive me by performing CPR whether I needed it or not. “Dude, Lincee would love this,” I kept thinking as I smiled in relief when the sprinkler was turned off and I realized my home, my belongings, and my person were all in tact.

I offered Mr. January through Mr. December the remaining 11 beers in my 12-pack. After all, one guy had to drive the fire truck. Incidentally, Mr. March appeared to be the most capable of that task—or at least that’s what I told myself. They all laughed and politely declined. I shook their hands as they wished me a Merry Christmas, apologized for the dirty carpet, and accepted my sincere thanks for the work they do. Thanks to the Austin Fire Department. My only regret is that Lincee wasn’t there instead of me. With that out of the way, let’s get to the women.

It’s that time. It’s time for this year’s bachelor, the aforementioned wine making wimp, Ben Flajnik, to comb through a pile of 26 women in search of the person he’ll sort of get to know over the course of five weeks, propose to in the crushing heat of a tropical location after meeting with the ambiguously homosexual Neil Lane, attend countless parties and photo ops with, and eventually announce (regretfully) that after trying super hard it just wasn’t meant to be.

After seeing the previews on ABC’s website (yes, this is the only time of year I actually research before I write), I found myself wondering what in the world the Producers are going to use as first-episode filler in lieu of the 20 minutes of shower and work out scenes we’ve come accustomed to seeing over the past few seasons. Ben is far from a doughy mess, but he doesn’t exactly ring the bell at the top of the rock wall in the hot body or looks category. If I want to see a pu*sy shower, I’ll go to the Men’s Locker Room at my gym on Bring a Guest Day. My guess is that they use the Sonoma Valley grandeur in the absence of Ben’s grandeur. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.

As most of you know, I actually liked Ben last season and I respected him for getting pissed at the five head when she dumped him. He—say it with me—showed some sack. However, it is incumbent upon me to bust his grapes this season. First, let’s concentrate on his 26 options for the maybe soon-to-be possible fiancé and perhaps eventually at some indefinite time in the future Mrs. Flajnik.

Oh, and Ali and Roberto broke up. Shocking. Ali was nice enough to assume we cared and—in an effort to protect the “privacy” she and Roberto need at “this difficult time” she ran straight to the cover of People Magazine in order to tell us what happened. “We both realized we were unhappy more than we were happy," she said. "And we both deserved more." Ok.

Nice job, Ali’s Publicist. Now let’s translate that back to how it was originally communicated to the aforementioned publicist. “Roberto realized that he was unhappy with my incessant nagging and demanding more than he was happy with my incessant nagging and demanding. Roberto deserved more; and frankly, should have no trouble getting it.” Now, let’s get to the women.

“These women will compete for Ben but only one will win his heart,” decries the ABC website. I assume that due to the limited space on the web page, they deleted the full sentence.

For the record, it read, “These women will compete for Ben, unlimited and undeserved publicity, free alcohol, a 28 day trip around the world, a modest per diem, and Ben but only one will win his heart before the constant media pressure reveals all of the slutty secrets she haphazardly buried in a shallow grave before signing ABC’s airtight yet unconscionable release in hopes of becoming famous.”

1. Amber B., 23 --- I know, it’s shocking that there’s more than one “Amber” in the mix, right? Regardless, the Canadian and alphabetical-order-blessed Amber B. tells us that Eat Pray Love is her favorite book. That means she bought the book at the Barnes and Noble for that tiny Canadian dollar amount in the corner above the real price and put it on her coffee table next to her potpourri and on top of her Paula Deen cookbooks after hearing about it on Oprah or from one of her girlfriends at the wine bar who bought the book after hearing about it on Oprah. She probably thinks Julia Roberts wrote it.

That movie is not about soul searching and finding oneself, by the way. It’s about a selfish woman with enough money to take a year off and tramp around the world indulging herself until she’s ready to come home. There’s nothing romantic about it. Amber B. will soon be OOT of the running.

2. Amber T., 28 --- I know, it’s shocking that there’s more than one “Amber” in the mix, right? This one looks like a man. “The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” she says in her carefully crafted profile. Utter lack of originality aside, she’s wrong. You’re close, Amber T. The real way to a man’s heart is a little lower than his stomach. I’m certain you’ll figure that out. Provide she’s not “The Crazy One” this season, she’s likely to make the cut. At least she didn’t say “the best way to a man’s heart is through his ribcage with a sharp kitchen knife.”

3. Anna, 25.--- She’s 25, but she’s Canadian. With the exchange rate, she’s actually 14. She also looks like a man. It doesn’t help the case for androgyny when she tells us that she “Loves dressing up.” Let’s hope that the original sentence didn’t end with “as a woman.” If Ben takes her on a beach date, he’s bound to discover the truth.

4. Blakely, 34 --- She’s definitely the hottest head shot picture taker. She’s a VIP Cocktail Waitress with 4 tattoos. You guessed it; she’s my favorite. Her job description screams fancy club or nudie bar. Either way, she probably knows 50 Cent, P. Diddy, and all of the Oakland Raiders.

5. Brittney, 26 --- She’s in medical sales and she’s from Colorado. Notwithstanding the fact that her roots are darker than Blakely’s past, she’s likely got her sh*t together. We’ll see how she does.

6. Casey S., 26 --- Doe-eyed, blond with Shirley Temple curls and the girl next door look. She appears as pure as the driven snow—and about as smart as it too. It’s always the sweet and quiet ones you have to worry about.

7. Courtney, 28 --- My prediction is that provided she had a scintilla of personality and a modicum of class, she’ll make it to the Fantasy Suite. She’s simply too hot not to. Sorry, but that’s the way it works. She’s a model from Arizona. You know who else is a model from Arizona? Brooke Burke. Ahh, Brooke Burke (insert DP dream sequence here). At any rate, Courtney says, “I'm a hopeless romantic. Love is my religion. I'm in love with love. All I want is to find the right guy & love him forever.” Ampersand aside, that’s a ridiculous answer.

8. Dianna, 30 --- She’s a non-profit director who loves ‘N Sync. That’s hot. She also admires Oprah more than any other person. That’s not so hot. She’ll do well.

9. Elyse, 24 --- Personal Trainer. Another hermaphrodite. What in the hell is going on with the selection committee this year? Granted, a head shot can be misleading, but if you look close enough you can see chin stubble and an Adam’s Apple on this broad. She “loves making people happy.” You know what that means? I have four letters for you. S. L. U. T.

10. Emily, 27. She’s another front runner according to my brilliant picking skills. She’s an Emily from North Carolina—No, not THAT Emily, but an attractive girl regardless. She’s working on her PhD. too, proving that even smart girls can make dumb decisions. You can hear her voice in her profile answers and she appears to have a good sense of humor. I like her. If this trend continues into next season, I’m going to suggest that every pregnant woman who knows she’s having a girl move to North Carolina and name the kid Emily. Your kid is guaranteed to turn out hot.

11. Erika, 23 --- Law student with a lip tattoo. BOOOOORRRRIINNNG.

12. Holly, 34 --- Her age column should read “At least 34.” Look, if you’re going to bleach your hair blond and lie about your age, at least pick an age that works for you. If she’s really 34, she needs to stop tanning and smoking. She’s aging faster than Lindsey Lohan. It’s difficult to tell, but she also appears to have Vienna-ism of the eyes. Oh, and she also looks like a man. What gives?

13. Jaclyn, 27. Poor Jaclyn is blond and unattractive. Her fantasy date is “being whisked away to an undisclosed spot.” Where I’m from they have a word for that. That word is “kidnapping.” Enjoy your free drinks and your tour of the mansion. Make sure you put the free soap in your purse because you won’t be staying overnight.

14. Jamie, 25 – She’s an RN. At first glance she’s cute and perhaps has a naughty side (it’s in the eyes). She looks for “loyal, respectable, funny, approachable, charismatic, honest, hard-working, intelligent, kind, polite” men with great "father" qualities. Hey Ben, run. The career choice is nothing more than the manifestation of her disproportionately overwhelming desire to care and nurture others caused by the neglect of an emotionally unavailable father. She’s looking for everything he wasn’t. Get out while the getting is good.

15. Jenna, 27 --- I like her too. She’s a Blogger which explains why she has such a good profile. She’s witty and attractive. Ben should be aware that everything from how loud he snores to the size of his wiener will be posted online the second she learns it. Provided the size of his wiener is not something he’s ashamed of, this one may work out. She’s also a DP front runner.

16. Jennifer, 28 --- She’s a red headed accountant from Oklahoma (or as we call it in Texas, ‘Mobile-homa’) with a fake smile broader than the Three Gorges Dam in China. She tells us that her favorite book is The Notebook. HOWEVER, “I don't read love stories because they often seem unrealistic - this one though does it for me.”

First of all, nothing Nicolas Sparks writes is realistic. That’s why women love to read it. Second of all, if you don’t read love stories then how did you stumble upon The Notebook? As the only red head, she’ll stand out but she’ll have to do more than wax poetically about Noah Calhoun is she’s going to stick around.

17. Kacie, 24 – Naughty looking administrative assistant. She’ll go far. These kinds always do, if you know what I mean.

18. Lindzi C., 27 --- I’d like to thank her parents for the glaring spelling error in her name. “Lindzi” with a “Z”? That’s ridiculouz. She tells us that she’s “allergic to sun.” I’m not certain what that means. The irony is that she lives---where else-- in Florida, the Sunshine State. Someone needs to tell her that she’s also on a show where the winner has to move to sunny California. She’s hot in a sort of younger Heidi Klum without the creepy looking husband and 7 kids kind of way. She’ll stick around. She’s a DP front runner.

19. Lindsie J., 29 --- Prognathism (Google it). She lists her occupation as “Internet Entrepreneur.” Much like “VIP Cocktail Waitress,” this job description implies something untoward. I’m certain that all of the members of her bedroom-based chat room are excited to see her with clothes on; however, they’ll have to get used to being unable to type “show me your cooch” into their sticky keyboards while simultaneously watching it happen.

20. Monica, 33 --- She loves lip gloss and San Antonio, Texas. Whatever.

21. Nicki, 26 --- She’s a cute dental hygienist from Hurst, Texas, which is a town just outside of Dallas that people from Dallas refuse to acknowledge as a suburb of Dallas. To be fair, Hurst doesn’t have valet parking and you’re not required to wear a sport coat everywhere you go. That alone disqualifies it as a suburb of Dallas. Nicki has the “ability to make people feel comfortable.” Let’s hope she’s referring to her Fantasy Suite skills. My hope is that my fellow Texan will do well.

22. Rachel, 27 --- She’s the one who looks like Olivia Newton John. That would have worked for me in a big way circa 1978. It’s too bad that I’m over it now. Ben will likely feel the same way.

23. Samantha, 26 -- She has 3 tattoos in “various locations.” First of all, no sh*t? What’s the alternative, “a single location”? Spare us the vague description next time and just say “I have a tattoo near my cooter.”

24. Shawn, 28 --- She has 5 tattoos also in “various locations.” Now we’re talking. Set aside the fact that one of those “locations” is her lower back, and I dig it. Conservative, grape-squishing Ben, on the other hand, will likely draw the line a one tattoo. She looks slutty in her picture too. Oh, and if she’s 28 then I’m 16.

25. Sheryl, “age is just a number”. Why are they wasting my time? She’s at least 60 and I’ll give her an “attractive,” but come on. Unless Ben is an anililagnious weirdo, this is a pathetic stunt that, frankly, will backfire. If I was the Bachelor, I’d call her bluff and get her to the Fantasy Suite, but I doubt Ben has the balls to do that. Who knows, he might learn a thing or two---or sixty.

Enjoy you’re 15 minutes, your soda water at the cocktail party, and the hug you get from Ben on your way out the door. I’m certain the women at the bingo hall will love hearing the story.

26. Shira, she responded “??” to the age question. That answer screams body-morphic and aging issues. Ben would do well to run away from her and her trick mirror.

Well, there it is, a rundown of this season’s upcoming Parade of Poon based solely on their head shots and profiles. I can’t wait to figure out who’s going to go crazy first. Enjoy your weekend and look forward to next week’s post. I plan to continue my “Night Before Christmas” tradition of bastardizing a perfectly good Christmas story into a bachelor parody. If you’re interested in seeing last year’s click on the December 2010 drop down and read my “’Twas a Week Before the Bachelor” post from last year. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be sharpening my pencil. DP

DP RETURNS....BUT WHEN?

2011-12-07T10:44:00.000-06:00

Hello All. I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving and a couple weeks after Thanksgiving as well. I'm back from my pseudo exile and ready to post again. I plan to get a brand spanking new post up here no later than tomorrow morning. Thanks for the emails and messages. As always, thanks for hanging in there. You'll hear from me soon!

DP

Off Season Post 27: Le Thanksgiving is Here!

2011-11-22T15:10:00.000-06:00

Hello, Readers, and welcome to Thanksgiving week’s installment of my blog. It’s been a hectic month for me and it’s nice to have some down time in which to collect my thoughts and put them into writing for you to absorb while waiting for the perfect moment to sneak out of your respective offices or cubicles and begin your long weekend.

Between trial notebooks, pretrial hearings, and other boring stuff that I have to do in my day job, I took the time to ponder a timely topic on which to pontificate this week. Sure, I could have opted for the traditional stuff about family feuds or alcohol-soaked, tryptophan-filled, comatose, flatulent uncles snoring away on couches in front of the television; however, I didn’t want to rely on the obvious. Besides, after last week’s trip directly into the gutter, I feel like I should deliver some higher end material this week.

Like most of you I’ve been contemplating my Thanksgiving Day plans and looking forward to a long, food-filled weekend sans the responsibilities of the office. In an effort to keep myself in shape, I talked myself into running an 8 mile race on Thanksgiving morning in the name of having an excuse to be somewhere and as a justification for all of the food I’ll undoubtedly be stuffing into my face and washing down with copious amounts of booze while simultaneously spraying profanities toward the football game on the television in front of me.

Committed, I logged on to the website, signed up, entered my shirt size, and paid the fee. Paying to run 8 miles? That’s a lot like paying someone to kick me in the knees for 68 minutes. Regardless, after paying I received a confirmation email along with a coupon for $15 off a new pair of running shoes at a local running store that sponsors the event. Of course, I paid more than $15 to run in the first place, but hey, fifteen bucks buys 7 Lone Stars and leaves a buck for the band’s tip jar at my favorite honky tonk. After confirming the nearest location of the running store, off I went to get some new (discounted) running shoes.

Now as most of you know, Some Guy has a general abhorrence for ceremony, titles, pretentiousness, or anything self-congratulatory (well, other than this blog). As I flipped through the nearest addresses of the running store on my handy iPhone I noticed that the closest location was in a shopping area in North Austin called The Domain.

Shopping pisses me off enough; however, throw in the ceremony, titles, pretentiousness, and self-congratulation that accompanies “high end” shopping centers and I get irritable quickly. Include the holiday regalia (read: propaganda), and my blood pressure rises considerably. I’m not suggesting that I’m “right” and everyone who frequents these abominations on my Hill Country serenity is “wrong.” I’m just telling you how I feel about it.

Despite my genuine affinity for Bianca, Mary, and a host of other Dallas readers, there is a comparison to be made here. The Domain is tantamount to a group of engineers figuring out how to surgically remove 10 square blocks of Dallas and transplant them in Austin. Shops with fancy names with accents in them, promotional luxury cars strewn about the outdoor walkways, fancy coffee shops, Nieman’s and its offspring serving as the anchor stores, steakhouses, sculptures, and (my favorite) valet parking abound like pills in Courtney Love’s purse. I suppose it’s my fault for subjecting myself to this ridiculousness in the name of saving fifteen bucks, but that’s not the point.

I arrived and had the audacity to park my own vehicle in spite of the judgey looks I received from the pimply-faced, red-jacket wearing teenagers at the valet stand. I walked immediately toward the key map mounted in the middle of the entry way in order to find the store with my new shoes in it. Like most men, I’m all business when I leave the cave and go hunting for something. Unlike most women, I see no need to make a day of it.

As I perused the array of places designed to rip me off in the name of looking trendy, I made a mental note to grab a Diet Coke on the way to my store since—according to the map—there was a café situated about halfway between YOU ARE HERE and my shoe store. It was at this point that I became momentarily intoxicated with whatever substance is being pumped into the air by collusive retailers seeking to brainwash customers out of their hard earned money.

Diet Coke in hand, I strolled knowingly past the shops meant clearly for women in search of something to tickle my fancy. Lord knows I love my fancy tickled. I actually knew a girl once who loved her fancy tickled. However, I never went there. She had her fancy tickled so often that it wasn’t very fancy anymore.

Annnyyyhooo . . . .

I walked past a few stores and noticed a store filled with pots, pans, and other cooking stuff. “Why not?” I thought. I’ve got some time to kill. Besides, I’m certain I can find something I need in there. I approached and noted the name of the place. “Sur Le Table,” I said aloud. Of course, I pronounced it “Sir Lah Tay-bull,” but was later informed by the Special Lady Friend who sported that Tsk Tsk condescending smirk that women get when a man attempts to enter their playground that it is actually pronounced “Soor Le Tahb.” Excuuuusssse me. “It’s still an overpriced ripoff,” was my response.

Back to Le Tahb.

I entered an immediately noticed that there was no way to discern what, if anything, was actually for sale. Items were stacked haphazardly on metal shelves that seemed randomly placed around the store. The French presses were mixed in with the spoonulas, spatulas, and other platypus-esque mergers of kitchen tools for which I lacked the vocabulary to call by name. I quickly became confused.

Oblivious to my crisis and intoxicated with the possibility of purchase, hoards of anxious women one step shy from frothing at the mouth buzzed around me like bees on lavender bushes in search of stuff to adorn their kitchens and accent their dining room le tahbs. I felt like that kid in the LSD video they used to show in high school right after he takes his first hit of acid and the world seems to spin around him. LSD is, of course, not a gateway drug; rather, it’s usually progressively arrived at as the result of boredom with other drugs such as marijuana—also commonly referred to as “Mary Jane” or “Reefer.” Remember that movie?

At this point, my bladder began to realize that I’d ingested 20 ounces of Diet Coke and became pregnant with pressure. I needed the Sur Le Toilette. I made my way through the mish mash of Le This and Le That, stepped around some boxes, and began to relax my clenched bladder in anticipation of some alone time with Mr. Urinal. My expectations were quickly quashed when I noticed the unisex sign on the bathroom door and the word “Occupied” in the slot above the lock.

“Damnit,” I thought. “I really have to Sur Le Pee.” In an attempt to ignore the building pressure on my bladder walls, I turned to the nearest shelf of Le Stuff and examined various espresso accessories and wine openers, including one called “The Wine Saver” which consisted of a rubber cork and a vacuum thing to pull the air out of an opened bottle of wine in an effort to preserve the bold fragrance and satisfying woodiness of whatever was on sale at 7-11’s “wine” section that week. I found it odd that the Wine Saver was available in only one size. Never once had I opened a regular sized bottle of wine and not finished it. Sure, the giant Gallo jug size might need to be “saved” on an off night, but a regular bottle? Please.

Please was right at this point. I had to urinate so badly that I began eyeing the multicolored Le Creuset pots in the corner. I even contemplated giving that wine saver thing a try in order to seal things off for a bit. “Man, whoever is in there must have a real problem,” I thought. Just as I was ready to kick in the door like The Transporter in search of his Asian cargo, the door opened and two giggly women and their 40 bags of Le Junk emerged without a care in the world. It was then I was reminded that during shopping excursions women’s pack behavior is extremely prevalent. Fighting the urge to smack both of them with the Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One on the nearby shelf, I brushed passed them and found relief in the now empty restroom.

I exited and proceeded to the register with that Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One. I simply had to have it. When I approached the register it was impossible to determine if there was actually a line of women waiting to pay or if the women in front of me were simply milling around like those aforementioned bees. Gossip, Giggles, and Girl talk filled the air. The woman behind the counter—who was inexplicably wearing an apron—smiled at me and asked me if I was ready to check out. Thankful, I approached and handed her my Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One. An apron? Who is she Sur Le Kidding?

“Name and address, please?” she said as she simultaneously smiled from ear to ear and placed her hands in an at ready position over the keyboard in front of her. “Excuse me?” I said. “Name and address, please?” Name and address? I’m buying a Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One not enlisting in the military. Why in the hell do they need my name and address?

“Chris Harrison,” I said with a straight face as I made up a fake Austin address. Incredibly, she didn’t recognize me and the joke fell on her Le Deaf Ears. Le Whatever. I paid for my Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One thing and left the store still on my way to find some running shoes.

Wandering, it occurred to me that it might be a tad chilly on Thanksgiving morning at 7 a.m. I saw a store with headless mannequins clad in athletic attire and crossed the street to see if I could find some warm up pants to wear. I looked up at the sign above the door and realized the place—like the Artist Formerly Known and Now Currently Known Once Again as Prince—did not have a name; rather, it had only a symbol that looked like an Omega in the Greek alphabet. “At least the other place had a name,” I thought.

Before I could ascertain the name of my location, I was approached by a giant of a woman dressed in whatever the name of this place was athletic attire. I’m 6’1” and this broad towered over me like Godzilla above the Tokyo skyline. I was too busy looking for the remnants of knuckle hair and an Adam’s apple to realize that she was welcoming me to “Lululemon,” which I gathered was either “her” stage name in the drag queen show she performed in nightly or the name of that symbol above the front door.

I’ve since asked a few of my female friends about this place and, to my utter surprise, every one of them has delivered an impassioned response about the quality and durability of Lululemon yoga pants. I realize I’m about to teach Jesus about the Bible, but humor me here. For those of you (I assume the one guy who reads this) who aren’t aware, Lululemon is apparently the greatest yoga and athletic pant manufacturer in the history of the entire universe and everything that ever came before it . . . ever. More about that later.

She-Ra, or whatever “her” name was, guided me toward the “men’s” section of the store. Actually, I went there for fear that if I didn’t she’d body check me into a dressing room and violate me, but the result was the same: I ended up in the “men’s” section, where I had a difficult time seeing anything a man would wear.

She-Ra asked me what brought me into the store and rather than answer “stupidity, boredom, and morbid curiosity,” I made what I would soon realize was the cardinal faux pas of Lululemon. “I’m looking for a pair of warm up pants,” I said. (insert that Tsk Tsk condescending smirk that women get when a man attempts to enter their playground).

“Well,” said She-Ra trying to contain the rage boiling beneath her well-formed biceps. Incidentally, I’m certain that the only reason she didn’t give me the beat down at that moment was the off chance that I was some sort of pre-Christmas season mystery shopper sent by whoever invented that symbol thing above the door to ensure holiday staff readiness.

She-Ra quickly explained to me that Lululemon pants were “work out” pants and were not JUST for warming up. Excuse me, bitch. Big or not, I’m still a man and I was confident that given the opportunity to inflict the first punch, I could easily take her. It was as this thought was traveling through my mind that She-Ra grabbed several pairs of Lululemon pants off the rack and began her sales pitch.

Let’s see, there was the Kung Fu Pant, Trek Pant, Tight, Tight Luxtreme Pant, Formula Pant, and the Presta Pant. They ranged from $98 to $140 for ONE pair of warm up . . .errrr, work out pants. Give me a f*cking break. I almost hit her over the head with my Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One thing.

Let me say some final things about Lululemon. First, She-Ra—in spite of her intimidating appearance—was just as passionate about these phenomenal pants as my female friends. She was knowledgeable and was an excellent sales person. However, no one is a good enough sales person to get me to buy a pair of $140 “work out” pants named Lululemon. You’d think they’d have a guy line called Rocco lemon or Sluggo lemon or something more masculine. Apparently, it doesn’t bother the dudes going in there to buy them. I’m certain they’re boyfriends appreciate the Tight, Tight Luxtreme Pants as well.

I eventually did make it to the athletic shoe store and walked out with a new pair of running shoes. I plan to wear them on Thursday during the race and then carefully deposit them in the bedroom after I shower and put on my $18 warm up pants. My Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One thing should come in handy at the Thanksgiving table.

On a serious note: I’d like to wish a big get well soon to my close friend, Lincee Ray who had knee surgery this morning. Many of you reading this are reading it via her blog www.ihategreenbeans.com. Lincee has become a close friend over the past couple of years and I’m thankful that she’s there to cheer me on each week. Feel better soon, my friend. I look forward to the next two step.

Despite having to stomach The Domain and it’s odd stores, it did occur to me that I am lucky to be in position to afford a Fork, Spoon, Spatula, Grill Cleaner, Pot Scrubber in One and expensive “work out” pants if I chose to buy them. I’m lucky to be able to run 8 miles and even luckier to have some folks waiting at the finish line for me when I do. I hope you’ll all take time over the next few days to sit quietly—if not for just a few moments—and remind yourself of the truly good things, circumstances, and people in your lives. Friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, jobs, houses, and yes, even expensive work out pants enter and leave our lives often in irregular, unpredictable, and even heartbreaking patterns. Still, there are always blessings of which we should forever be vigilant enough to recognize and to foster. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Be safe, be happy, and most of all, be Thankful.

Until next week, if you need me I’ll be warming up in my Tight, Tight Luxtreme Pants. In closing, I’m reminded of a song by one of my favorite artists, Chris Knight. The chorus goes like this.

"I'm thankful for the things I have and all the things I don't.

I've got dreams that will come true and I've got some that won't.

Most the time I just walk the line, wherever it goes

'Cause you can’t hang yourself if you ain’t got enough rope.”

Enjoy the link below and enjoy the holiday ahead. DP

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHGXtkSyFAg

Off Season Post 26: The Jig is Up. . . and HUGE!

2011-11-16T10:58:00.003-06:00

Hello, Readers and welcome to this pre-Thanksgiving installment of whatever happens to be bouncing around in my head this week. It's always amazing to me where I find inspiration. This week I found it in an unlikely place. I’d like to give credit to my virtual friend, HK, who writes a wonderful blog entitled www.icantshavemyknees.com. She was nice enough to send me an email and when I responded I asked her how she was doing. After telling me she was having a lousy day, she suggested I respond with something to make her smile. In return, I did what I always do when I’m put on the spot for a quick laugh: I resorted to a d*ck joke.

As I’ve been whining about for the past two weeks, you should know by now that I’m staring back to back trial settings in the face and I’ve been busier than the new girl on dollar night at the Bunny Ranch lately. Because of that, my ability to post has suffered in addition to the quiet time I have to find ideas to post about. However, thanks to the A-hole that ruined HK’s day, I have found quick and easy inspiration.

For the next five minutes I am going to list every anatomy joke that pops into my head. Feel free to use these; however, after your effort is met with either laughter or an appalled look, please give Some Guy some credit for his material. I promise to have something substantive drafted for you higher thinkers out there in the next week or so. However, in the meantime, please enjoy your trip down into the gutter with me. Let’s get to it.

My d*ck is SO big . . .

. . . that IT has a nickname for ME.

It’s SO big, I once went to a nude beach and Greenpeace tried to throw it back in the water.

It’s huge, I’m telling you. It’s so big, it has snow on top of it in the summer.

In fact, most women need a Sherpa and an ice axe in order to get to the top of it. It’s THAT big.

It’s SO big, I have to wear a roller skate on the end of it when I go jogging.

It does two shows a day at Sea World.

GIANT, I’m saying.

It’s so big I can drive a stick shift without using my left foot.

It’s talented too. It’s so big and talented that it once tried out for ‘N Sync.

Lance Bass tried to make friends with it.

It’s SO big that when I was a little boy it had its tonsils taken out.

It’s difficult to travel too. In fact, I have to pay $25.00 to check it curbside at the airport.

I once went to Minnesota and Paul Bunyon tried to chop it down. I impregnated Babe the Blue Ox while I was there. HUGE, I’m telling you.

I went to Washington D.C. and Japanese tourists took pictures in front of it. It’s so big it has its own reflection pool.

I’m not kidding when I say it’s big. Military families tie yellow ribbons around it.

I drank too many Lone Stars one night and ended up giving the Grand Canyon stretch marks. HUGE!

It’s so big, the IRS suggested I list it as a dependent on my tax returns. BIG.

I went to Rockefeller Center at Christmas time and Mayor Bloomberg tried to light it.

It’s huge. In fact, the doctor had to use a hacksaw to circumcise me.

It once earned extra money when it got a summer job snaking the Alaska Pipeline. I mean the thing is enormous.

It has its own heart and lungs.

At boring parties, I use it as a limbo pole.

It’s so big I feed it mice.

Aaaand, finally . . .

When I'm done making love I have to yell "Timber!"

Well, there it is; a couple dozen d*ck jokes in under five minutes. I hope at least one of them brought a smile to your face, even if you’re ashamed at yourself for laughing. I’m going to take the suggestions I’ve received for posts and try to get something substantive written right before Thanksgiving so you have an excuse to retreat to a private place with your laptop or iPad and escape your family for a bit over the holiday. Have a fantastic, safe, and happy Thanksgiving week and get some rest in anticipation of Black Friday. In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be at Wal-Mart. My d*ck got a seasonal job as a velvet rope. DP

Off Season Post 25: It's Trial Time in Texas

2011-11-11T09:52:00.000-06:00

Hello, Faithful Readers. As always, welcome back to yet another week where you've generously tasked me with filling the white computer screen in front of me in the name of allowing you to escape whatever aspect of your life needs escaping for the 20 or so minutes it takes you to plow through my mess of ideas. Before I begin this week, I have a few requests.

It's that time of the Off Season when--notwithstanding the two trial settings currently looming over my head--Some Guy begins to get thin on ideas. Believe it or not, it's difficult to fill 10 single-spaced pages with an idea drawn from scratch in a matter of hours without the benefit of an overproduced, clearly contrived reality show for assistance. Top that off with my affection for Lone Star Beer and you begin to see my dilemma. In short, I need your help.

Like a Vietnamese prostitute on the outskirts of an American military base, I'm soliciting you for ideas for my next few posts. My challenge to you is to get creative. Stuff Chicks Like will likely be resurrected before the January launch of the next season of The Bachelor so feel free to send in those ideas. However, I'm looking for that special idea; that spark that lights my creative fire. Aim high and let's see what happens. You're welcome to email them to me; however, I think leaving them in the comment section for all to see and read would serve to keep all of our creative juices flowing. Man do I love to get my juices flowing. Annnnyyyyhooo. . . I look forward to your constructive participation. I promise to take the clay you give me and sculpt it into something wonderful.

Now, for the bad news. The bad news is that I’m swamped at work. I have two trial settings and they both look like they are going to move forward as opposed to settling or getting continued. Thanks to the work of our military and the wisdom of our Founding Fathers, every litigant is entitled to his day in court. I’d never deny that. Because of that, people like me spend hours upon hours preparing in an attempt to convince 12 strangers that our side is right. Because of that, I’m forced to choose my job over my passion this week. I’ll do my best to post before Thanksgiving, but my ability to do that will depend on what I can get done in the next couple of days. I’m certain y’all understand. I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m the only person with too many obligations from time to time.

Please, take care of yourselves this week and be sure to post your ideas for new posts below in the comment section. Happy Veterans’ Day. Happy Friday. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be diligently scrutinizing my briefs. DP

Off Season Post 24: Home of The Biggie

2011-11-01T00:54:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Happy Halloween, All Saints Day, or Dia de Los Muertos, depending on your affiliation and ethnicity. I’m certain that most of you had a wonderful time dressing up as a naughty whatever. I hope it was a good time.

It’s nice to be back in the blogging mode after what amounted to a week of running around the Great State of Texas in the name of various aggrieved parties in an attempt to depose, discover, and defend. I’m back in Austin for a short time now, and despite the two trips currently on my calendar for this week, it’s always invigorating to be back home for a bit. Thanks for hanging in there with me last week and thanks to all of who sent me encouraging emails wishing me safe travels.

After reviewing the past few posts, I realized that the blog has taken an almost preachy and certainly a (GASP!) serious turn over the past couple of weeks. In order to remedy that problem, I’ve chosen to dive head first into the holiday at hand and recount to you another classic story from my youth. As was the case in the past, this one also involves the now infamous MH.

For those of you who don’t recall, MH is my current close friend and also my former childhood best friend responsible for My Sex Scandal, various run ins with local law enforcement, countless acts of tom foolery, and the person who attempted to steal a wooden Indian with me in New Orleans while simultaneously rescuing me from stampeding strippers. He was once the Chewbacca to my Han Solo, the Hillary to my Bill, the steroid to my Albert Pujlos, and the Maroon 5 to my Derek and the Boys in Miami. The following story took place during my freshman and MH’s sophomore year in college on Halloween night. I hope you enjoy it.

Sitting alone in my room as a freshman in college I was distracted from my studies by the ringing phone. It was none other than MH who was calling from Huntsville, Texas where he had resided long enough to be a sophomore; however, his academic status was unknown. MH told me that he was coming back to our hometown for Halloween and suggested we venture out with a few dozen eggs and a 12 pack of beer in order to see if we could scare up a little fun. I, of course, agreed.

In order to properly set the stage for this story it is almost imperative that I date myself a bit. If we don’t count pizza places, at the time I was a freshman in college my home town had exactly one fast food restaurant within its city limits. When the Wendy’s arrived it provided more than MSG and empty calories to the teenage population: it provided a parking lot to hang out.

For my last two years of high school, the Wendy’s parking lot was the site of many break ups, hook ups, throw ups, and police round ups. When we got bored sitting on the tailgates of trucks in the middle of the place we affectionately referred to as “The Fields,” we headed to Wendy’s where we would inevitably run into the likes of Officers Bates and Sharman who would generously pepper all of us with threats of “going downtown” unless we “dispersed.”

My friends and I were well-seasoned in such legendary drive-thru pranks as ordering a full meal into the speaker and then driving out of line so that the subsequent orders were delivered out of chronology; ordering fictitious, sexually provocative items such as The Furrburger, the Furrburger with mayonnaise, and the perennial favorite, the warm Cherry Bend Over; in addition to the occasional naked drive through. One of our favorites was to have a person strip down to his underwear and wriggle around in the back of the truck with duct tape over his mouth and around his wrists while MH and I sat stoically in the cab waiting for our food. Childish? Yes. Funny? Hell yes.

It was during this wonderful time in my life that a Wendy’s marketing executive with no clear understanding of the mind of a teenage boy or any concept of an anatomy joke decided to launch Wendy’s answer to the Super Size It ad campaign that McDonald’s implemented. Much to our delight, the new marketing campaign introduced items with the word “Biggie” in front of them. What’s more, the roof of every Wendy’s, including the one in my home town, was adorned with a giant sign that read “Come Get The Biggie,” or something inadvertently suggestive to that effect.

Upon driving by and seeing it for the first time, my mind went where any overly virile, bored teenage boy’s mind would go. “The Biggie. Just like my d*ck,” I said to MH who through a hearty laugh opined that the sign, in fact, referred to his d*ck and not to mine. After some spirited debate, we agreed to disagree. However, we did agree on one thing. Like second base, wooden Indians, or the still-in-tact virginity of (some) of the girls on the drill team, MH and I needed to steal it.

After some careful consideration (and a few beers), MH and I reasoned that a good time to attempt the Biggie sign theft would be on the upcoming Halloween night since the local law enforcement (all 5 of them) would be busy ferreting out egg throwers, candy stealers, and other criminally mischievous novices. MH and I would simply shimmy our way up the back side of Wendy’s using the rain gutter for leverage and, equipped with a hacksaw and some wire cutters, steal the sign and escape before anyone knew what happened. We were like two drunken, less sophisticated, teenaged Thomas Crowns and that Biggie sign was our San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk by Monet.

While most of our friends were headed to their favorite stash spots to uncover their booze and eggs, MH and I were casing Wendy’s and the surrounding area in an effort to put the finishing touches on Operation Steal the Biggie Sign. Eggs, you ask? Yes. Egg throwing on Halloween was so prevalent that about a week before Halloween all of the convenience stores stopped selling eggs to anyone under 35 with a grin on his face. Like most of my friends I was proficient enough to hit a moving car square on the windshield with an egg from at least 50 yards away.

Unlike the overworked chickens that produced those eggs, my friends and I were not thrilled at our inability to purchase them on the best night to throw them. Still, necessity is the mother of invention. Ergo, booze stashes in the woods soon housed dozens of pre-purchased egg cartons in addition to bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry wine and cases of Keystone Light Beer.

Incidentally, my friend Jeff’s parents, whose half-assed under-parenting or half-assed over-parenting (we didn’t care which) allowed them not to inquire as to why there were an inordinate amount of egg cartons in the garage refrigerator in the days leading up to Halloween. As a result, Jeff made a handsome fee leasing space inside that refrigerator so the rest of us could literally buy eggs weeks in advance in order to avoid the lockdown. Brilliant. That's capatalism at its best. These days I often think where we would be if we would have focused half of that energy where it mattered. Sigh.

Oh, and by the way, that’s the same Jeff who was called upon to empty his bowels on command into the local swimming pool so we could hit the beach. If you haven’t read my “A Friend Does His Duty” post, please do. Back to The Biggie.

After hitting the county line and obtaining enough beer to give us courage but not enough to make us too drunk to scale the back wall of the Wendy’s and steal the Biggie sign, MH and I settled in on the tailgate and talked about nothing as we awaited “Go Time.” Regardless of the illegality and stupidity of what we were about to attempt, my veins coursed with the possibility of adventure. As I thought about what we were about to do, I could literally feel the steel bindings of the rain gutter against my hands and the brick beneath my shoes as I scurried up the wall. I anticipated the exhilaration that would hit me as fear mixed with excitement and the thrill of the danger of getting caught. That feeling is impossible to replace and there are few, if any, equivalents in the adult world. Sadly, in a few years the most realistic chance I’ll have at that feeling is a sports car and hair plugs. Then again, I hate sports cars and I have all of my hair. Sigh again.

MH and I were, as any well-planned sign stealers would be, dressed in black. I remembered to surreptitiously obtain a hacksaw and some heavy duty wire cutters from my father’s tool box prior to MH picking me up and I’d made a careful mental note to return them to their exact location once the heist was over. MH and I reveled in the genius of our plan as we killed our final cans of beer and mounted up in search of the world’s biggest d*ck joke.

Like Leif Garret and the rest of the Soc’s in his Mustang casing the park where Pony Boy and Johnny innocently walked, MH and I drove slowly around Wendy’s looking for signs of our good buddy Officer Sharman or his overweight companion, Officer Bates. We even parked across the street and made a gum and soda purchase at the convenience store so as not to arouse the suspicion of…well, anyone who might have been guarding the Biggie sign for potential thieves.

Satisfied with our recon, MH and I proceeded to our secret parking spot. We’d previously selected the parking spot keeping in mind the potential weight of the Biggie sign and our ability to run with it at full speed in the unlikely event of a foot chase. Just a year prior to this heist I’d been (allegedly) involved in a pizza theft from a Waco Pizza Hut where two friends and I were chased vigorously by both the police and the local Pizza Hut staff. We’d narrowly escaped that little scenario and, after much reflection, I’d concluded that our lack of absolute success could be attributed to poor planning and execution. I burned my mouth on that stolen pizza too (allegedly).

Pregnant with anticipation, MH and I exited the truck and began our trek through the woods leading to the back of Wendy’s ready to scale the back wall and begin sawing. As we approached the edge of the woods and saw our target, nervous laughter and conversation quickly turned to determination as MH and I lied there on our stomachs like lions in the Sahara stalking their prey. My heart raced as I looked over at MH and nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.

I quickly hopped up and ran full speed at the wall before bounding up it off my left foot and grabbing onto the bracket holding the rain gutter in place. Fueled only by fear and excitement, my body willed its way up the wall and I eventually threw my leg over the top of it and rolled onto the roof above.

I lied there catching my breath until MH came rolling on top of me about 30 seconds later. Drunk with the possibility of actually pulling off our plan, I’d forgotten the part where I was supposed to move out of MH’s way. I paid for it with an errant knee to the groin, but quickly recovered. The first part of our mission was accomplished. For some reason, I remember looking at my watch as if we were on some sort of Italian Job time crunch. We rolled over on our stomachs and got our bearings---after laughing hysterically, of course.

The roof was surrounded by a three foot brick façade that spanned all four walls. It was therefore possible to crawl without being seen from the ground below. Considering the fact that a good portion of the roof was covered in tar, this was a welcome development. The sign was on the opposite side of the roof on the side of the building facing the main road. We confirmed what our initial recon discovered: the sign was indeed secured to eye hooks via ¼ inch cables and the hacksaw and wire cutters were the appropriate tools for the job. I smiled like the Cheshire Cat when I reminded MH that he believed the sign was merely secured by rope.

We also delighted in the fact that all four cables could be reached without having to stand up thereby exposing ourselves to a potential bust. “This is going to be easier than we thought,” said MH. I nodded in agreement and we began to crawl around the air vents emanating the noxious smell of Wendy’s fast food. So far, so good.

We crawled to the first set of cables. MH took the one closest to the front of the building and I took the one to the rear. Our plan was to cut the rear ones with the clippers thereby releasing the lower corners of the sign and saw the front cables thereby allowing the entire sign to drop to the roof rather than waving around like a flag reading “Catch Us. We’re Up Here Stealing Your Biggie Sign.”

I clipped the first cable and the sign stayed put. As I crawled over to the other rear cable ready to clip I could see MH begin sawing the first front cable. When I arrived to the second rear cable I realized that it was secured differently than the first cable was secured making it impossible to get the wire cutters around the tail end of it. It was necessary to cut higher on the cable.

While I was sitting there processing this information, MH, oblivious to the problem, kept sawing. Before I was able to communicate the problem, the cable MH was sawing snapped and the “IE” end of the Biggie sign snapped free from its location and began flailing around like the freaking American flag during the Battle of Baltimore in the War of 1812. I half expected gallantly streaming ramparts.

“Oh shit,” said MH as I sprung into action. I quickly crawled over to the remaining cable so I could cut it and allow the banner to fall down. The banner was waving around and the loose and frayed cables posed a real danger and a big impediment to getting the job done. It was at this point that it occurred to me (and I assume MH) that our brilliant plan lacked brilliance.

Scrambling to cut the wire I said in the loudest whisper I could muster, “hold the thing straight, MH. I need to get the cutters around the wire.” Responding to my request, MH stood up to grab the flailing corner of the sign and inadvertently exposed the majority of his torso to whomever happened to be in the parking lot. The big problem with that is that for the past 60 seconds the sign had been waving around more vigorously than the Grand Marshall in a gay parade and had undoubtedly drawn the attention of every person in the parking lot.

Luckily, I was able to cut the wire and the sign fell on top of both MH and me as we lied there and tried to catch our breath while thanking our lucky stars that our heads had not been severed by wind blown wire cables. The past five minutes looked a lot like that rooftop battle beneath the Silvercup sign in The Highlander minus the sword fighting and the homoerotic banter. We were both exhausted.

Remember the part where I said that I half expected gallantly streaming ramparts? Well, my wish didn’t exactly come true. However, as MH and I were collecting our tools and rolling up The Biggie sign in preparation for our descent of the rain gutter and our triumphant return to MH’s truck and our remaining beer, we saw the rockets’ red glare. Much to our chagrin, the red glare was accompanied by blue glare, then red glare, then blue glare.

As we sat there horrified on top of the roof of Wendy’s with a hacksaw, a wire cutter, and a Biggie sign in our hands we heard the unmistakable voice of our good buddy Officer J. R. Sharman over a bullhorn. “We know you’re up on the roof. Put your hands up and begin to come down.” Almost instantaneously, we heard the unmistakable voice of our good buddy Officer Bates on the opposite side of the building. “We have the premises surrounded. Come down now.”

Keep in mind that just a mere three months prior to the current circumstances MH and I had been caught three times in one day by Officer Sharman. The last of the three entailed what he believed to be a homosexual tryst in the neighborhood pool with menthol cigarettes and wine coolers. On that occasion we’d been given the “if I catch you so much as breathing wrong again then your asses are grass and I’m the lawnmower” speech and were sent to walk home wet and humiliated after promising to never again cross him. If we were caught this time there would be no mercy.

Paralyzed, MH and I sat there motionless lying on our backs shoulder to shoulder while our minds attempted to process our next move. As a seasoned veteran of both well-deserved interrogation (see again, My Big Sex Scandal) and downright harassment (see again, My Big Sex Scandal) from the Harris County Precinct 4 Constable’s Office, it occurred to me that I heard neither MH’s nor my own name over the bullhorn.

DP: “MH, they didn’t say our names. They have no idea who’s up here.”

MH: “So, they’re going to come up here and nail us.”

DP: “The hell they will. You think Bates’ fat ass can scale that pipe? I’m 18 years old and I barely got up here.”

MH: “What about Sharman?”

DP: “He’s 125 pounds. He’s too big a p*ssy to get up here.”

MH: “They do that kind of stuff in the Police Academy.”

DP: “Yea, the HOUSTON Police Academy. That’s why they’re Constables.”

MH: “You’re right. Let’s stay here. What if they get a search helicopter?”

DP: “From where?”

MH and DP: Laughter

And so it went. As MH and I lied there on our backs staring above into the vast expanse of the Milky Way awaiting for our fate to unfold, I vacillated between laughter and fear. I admired Orion’s Belt but prayed I wouldn’t feel the handcuffs from Sharman’s belt. I identified the Big Dipper but feared being identified by the same nickname in the Harris County Jail. Minutes seemed like hours yet somehow I felt an odd peace about me. It was as if I was exactly where the universe intended me to be at that very moment in my life. As odd as that sounds, I’ll never forget that feeling. I’m certain MH felt it too. It never occurred to us that they would get a ladder.

Luckily, it never occurred to them either. After about half an hour the red and blue stopped reflecting above us and the Q-beam search lights stopped shining. The bullhorn threats stopped alternating from each side of the building and proved to be as empty as we hoped. Afraid that we were being lulled into a false sense of security, I rolled over on my stomach and told MH to stay put while I crawled over to a drainage hole on the roof.

Peaking out I saw nothing but empty spaces and as MH and I made our way around the walls of the façade in search of those drainage holes we relaxed again before realizing we needed the courage to make the trip down the rain gutter like a couple of itsy bitsy spiders before hitting the ground and hauling ass back into the woods like a couple of itsy bitsy cock roaches.

MH: “Did I ever tell you that I’m afraid of heights?”

DP: “Yea, well I’m afraid of jail.”

MH: “No, seriously. I’m afraid of heights.”

DP: “I’m going to go first. Follow me. Keep your hands and feet on the gutter and don’t look down.”

I crawled close to the side of the wall and threw my feet over the side straddling the rain gutter. I slid down the wall and turned to run into the woods. Safe, I turned to see MH repeating the same thing. Apparently his fear of being cornholed at the county jail eclipsed his acrophobia. As he hit the woods we both took off in a full sprint trying to contain the adrenaline escaping as laughter through our smiles. We reached the truck and as MH hopped in he leaned over and unlocked my door.

DP: “We forgot The Biggie sign and the tools.”

MH: “Yea, but we still have the beer and the eggs.”

As MH and I drove away from our secret parking spot we noticed that we were both covered in roof tar and smelled like fast food. Laughing, MH took a turn down a well-traveled main road and in the distance we saw the familiar reflective paint of a Precinct 4 Constable car. MH slowed down and as we passed by under the posted speed limit MH rolled down his window and gave the horn a friendly “honk honk” before we exploded into laughter upon seeing the stoic look on the face of Officer Sharman.

DP: “He knows it was us.”

MH: “No way.”

DP: “Take me to The Home of The Biggie.”

MH: “You mean my house.”

DP: “No, mine.”

MH: “Whatever.”

And there it is. I hope you enjoyed a little Halloween cheer. I’m back on the road today so please hit me with your comments and emails. They make a lonely hotel room less lonely. Be safe. Be happy. Until next time, if you need me, I’ll be scrubbing the tar off my Biggie. DP

Off Season Post 24: DP IS LATE!

2011-10-27T16:56:00.002-05:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to what now amounts to an post for the week. I've been traveling for work more than Jack Kerouac and I've scarcely had a moment to sit down and type. Right now, I'm looking out of the window of my plush room at the Overton Hotel and Conference Center in lovely Lubbock, Texas.

I'm sorry to say that I've got to rush out and meet some clients for dinner after working in town all day combing through documents. It's back on the plane tomorrow morning and I'll make a quick run through Dallas before returning home, repacking, and heading to the flat state of Kansas next week. I'll TRY my best to post on my regular Tuesday post.

In the meantime, I'll entertain you with a couple seasonal jokes to get you in the Halloween spirit. Here goes.

Did you hear about the two gay ghosts?

They gave each other the willies.

AND

How do you get a witch pregnant?

You f*ck her.

Thank you, folks. I'll be here all week. Incidentally, that last joke works with pilgrims, elves, cupids, leprechauns, and whatever mythical creature happens to be seasonally appropriate. You're welcome.

Have a wonderful weekend! DP

Off Season Post 23: Lessons at 30,000 Feet

2011-10-17T11:28:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to this week's post. I'm starting to wonder if, aside from the guy who screens this thing for inappropriately foul content from his cubicle located on the third floor of Blogger Headquarters in some Midwestern customer service center, anyone is actually reading anymore.

Before I wow you with some observations from seat 3A I’d like to announce the winner of the Truism Contest. There were a few dozen entries and I have to confess that the vast majority of them were good. In the absence of an objective test to evaluate that sort of thing my general rule is to advance the ones that make me laugh upon my initial read and then go over those in order to select a winner.

This week’s winner of the Truism Contest, however, is a person who I can’t identify. Because of the comment problem, the comment disappeared from the site. Luckily, it made it to my Blogger email notification before that happened. The winning Truism is: “Always Stay Two Drinks Behind Your Boss.” Brilliant. If the person who posted that could please come forward, I’ll arrange an autographed something or other for you. Thanks to all of you who played along. The decision was a difficult one. When all the cards were on the table, I selected this one because it is indeed universally true. Congratulations, Mystery Responsibly Drinking Reader. Now, to the air travel.

I've been preoccupied as of late. Like most of you, the biggest source of stress in my life these days is my day job. It wasn't always that way, but it's been that way lately. I've been traveling quite a bit and, although the trips are usually short flights within the Great State of Texas, being up and down on a airplane a few times a week is like going to bed with triplets: it's pretty entertaining at first but after a while everything tends to get jumbled together and eventually you'd rather just sleep than do anything else. It gets expensive too.

For those of you who travel frequently, you'll understand it when I say that my (our) experience at the airport, on the plane, and in a different city is far different than it is for the person who packs a suitcase once a year and rarely, if ever, flies.

It was the once a year traveler who was on my mind as I was hit with the idea for this week 's post. I was standing in the Big Shot line with my fancy ticket and my Get Out of Jail Free card waiting for the two people in front of me to get their respective ID's checked before I could get through for the elastic stretching of my Fourth Amendment rights by the TSA agents with the razor sharp minds and the doughy soft bodies manning the security stations.

By the way, it seems to me there should be at least a nominal fitness requirement for that job. After all, these are the people tasked with taking down international terrorists. Aside from simply falling on them or temporarily (and accidentally no doubt) obstructing possible escape routes, I'm not sure that many of the TSA agents I regularly encounter could do much else in the face of danger. In fact, a good deal of them look like that only thing they've spent any time trying to tackle is the beef lo-mien on the buffet at the in-terminal Chinese restaurant.

Notwithstanding my lack of faith in our government's best and brightest airport employees, I made a mistake that turned out giving me some good seeds to sow in the way of blog material this week.

Normally, as I walk into the airport I pull out my freshly charged and loaded iPod in preparation for my big trip. The ear buds go in the second I make it through security and they don't come out until after I land and make it to the exit of whatever airport I happen to be in that day. As I made it though security last week, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my iPod. I was horrified to see that there was very little charge remaining on it. I assume my charger must have been unplugged; although I still haven't solved that mystery.

Regardless of how it happened, I was horrified at the possibility of facing even a short flight without the benefit of my iPod. Because my flight was boarding in less than 10 minutes, I had no time to put even a cursory charge on it.

I resigned myself to turning it off for the ridiculous instructional portion of the flight in addition to leaving it off until we hit 10,000 feet; you know, like Federal law requires. That way I'd have it for the bulk of the actual flight. Oh, and yes, I know it's against the rules to keep the thing on, but I do it anyway. That's not because I think I'm better than the next guy. I saw a Mythbusters once where they literally tried for an hour to take down a plane with a cell phone and an iPod. The iPod myth proved to be just that: a myth. My general rule is that if I get caught by a flight attendant astute enough to notice that I'm tapping my foot to the beat then I'll turn it off. Otherwise, like an ape in transport, the music soothes me.

Of the hundreds upon hundreds of times I've found myself in an airplane over the last few years, I rarely, if ever, listen to the preflight instructions from the flight attendants. You know, the ones where they pretend that they are "there for your safety" and that the arbitrary in-flight rules have been carefully created for a reason other than pacifying you into a false sense of safety.

My favorite instruction is the one where they start with "in the unlikely event of a water landing." First of all, commercial air liners don't "land" in the water; they crash in it. They should just call a spade a spade. If I'm 30,000 feet above anything and the pilot's only option is to put it in the water, we're not landing. That Sully guy might have done it once, but let's be honest. We're not going fishing in an isolated Alaskan village. Our plane doesn't have giant kayaks strapped to the bottom of it. The only true part about that statement is the word “unlikely.” It’s extremely “unlikely” that a jet liner loaded with people, fuel, and luggage screaming toward the open water is going to “land.”

Back to the other day.

I boarded and then I sat there annoyed at the prospect of listening to the Southwest flight attendant--who was an obviously homosexual man wearing those snug khaki shorts, a golf shirt, and some cute white ankle socks with his pristine white tennis shoes. I chuckled to myself at the thought of some sort of tragedy befalling the flight. "What is this guy going to do, shoulder carry me down the aisle through the flames and kick open the door in the event of a crash?" I thought. I had visions of him trying to save his accessory bag before me.

However, as I listened for the first time in a very long time to the instructions, it occurred to me that the preflight presentation given thousands of times a day to oblivious, cynical travelers like me who pay more attention to the status of the overhead bathroom light than they do anything else on the plane is the perfect metaphor for life. Let's break it down.

1. Like most things in life, the opening presentation is an event put in place by someone who doesn't know you and, in your absence, has decided what he thinks is best for you.

Life is filled with obligatory events and the best we can do is sit there quietly through most of them while avoiding the urge to bury a pencil in the nearest jugular vein--which sometimes happens to be our own. Still, hidden somewhere in the stack of garbage is occasionally a piece of treasure worth digging for. It's not often we find that treasure--on the plane or in life--but it's at least the belief that it's out there that keeps up in our seats, isn't it? I imagine that's what also keeps us from picking up that pencil.

Like fastening your seatbelt, stowing your carry on luggage in the overhead bin or beneath the seat, or powering down all electronic devices, our days are filled with rules we all have to follow. Most of those rules--absent the structure and uniformity they create--are meaningless. The real irony is that the people who create those rules are, in fact, responding to another set of rules created by another set of people in response to yet another set of rules about what the rules should be.

Perhaps Dr. Seuss was on to something in Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? when he wrote the following:

"Oh the Jobs people work at!

Out west, near Hawtch-Hawtch,

there's a Hawtch-Hawtcher Bee-watcher.

His job is to watch...

is to keep both his eyes on the lazy town bee.

A bee that is watched will work harder you see.

Well... he watched and he watched,

but in spite of his watch,

that bee didn't work any harder. Not mawtch.

So then somebody said,

'Our old bee-watching man

just isn't bee-watching as hard as he can.

He ought to be watched by another Hawtch-Hawthcer!

The thing that we need is a Bee-Watcher-Watcher!'

WELL...

The Bee-Watcher-Watcher watched the Bee-Watcher.

He didn't watch well. So another Hawtch-Hawtcher

has to come in as the Watch-Watcher-Watcher!

And today all the Hawtcher who live in Hawtch-Hawtch

are watching on Watch-Watcher-Watchering-Watch, Watch-Watching the Watcher who's watching that bee. You're not a Hawtch-Watcher. You're lucky, you see!"

Life is filled with a lot of Hawtch-Watchers. Stopping to remember that life tends to move forward whether we always follow the rules or not is often more valuable than always following the rules. Dr. Suess knew that. That’s why he was Dr. Suess.

2. There is one way on the plane but there are six ways off the plane.

Notwithstanding that annoying two finger point that the flight attendants use and undoubtedly have to master before graduating from wherever it is one goes to learn to be a flight attendant, I found this part of the presentation extremely enlightening.

Woody Allen once said that 99% of life is simply showing up. As true as that is, the hardest part about anything in life is the 1% of the time we are called on to act. It's those of us who take the most advantage of that 1% that leave a mark on the world--or more importantly, the people in our little section of the world. Being great is not about the showing up part; it's about what you do after you show up that matters.

On an airplane, there is one door that you must go through to get on the plane. In order to get to that door you have to get to the airport early, wait behind a lot of other people, plan accordingly, and rely upon more than one person to get you to the right gate.

Trusting others while being self-reliant is a difficult balance to strike and all it takes is one person with an ill will and you find yourself halfway across the airport at a different gate headed for a different destination. After that happens once, it's a bit tougher to rely upon the kindness of strangers. I believe life teaches all of us that lesson more times than we'd like it to.

Opportunities in life often have one, narrow, conditionally accessible way in and when we get there things often get difficult. When they do we tend to look for at least six ways out. Sometimes it's better to remain seated with your seatbelt securely fastened. In air travel as in life, bailing out too soon can prove disastrous. It’s always wise to figure out and remember where the exits are; however, it’s not always wise to run for them every time something seems wrong.

3. In the unlikely event of a cabin depressurization a yellow mask will drop from the overhead. Use the elastic strap to adjust the mask. Put on your mask first and then help the person next to you.

Helping people with their problems is an admirable thing to do. Self sacrifice, modesty, and charity are all wonderful things. However, no person is capable of living his life through another person. In order to assist someone, you have to take care of yourself first. Then, and only then, can you truly be useful.

Unlike an airplane, our lives often have a way of taking the breath from our lungs on a regular basis. Being aware of that depressurization and being prepared to help ourselves by staying alert enough to take the steps to get ourselves through it is a necessary part of life. A healthy body and a clear mind are two of the most powerful tools a person can store under his seat in the event that life drops that little yellow mask from the ceiling. Help others, but help yourself first.

4. No smoking, even in the bathroom.

This one needs no explanation. If you smoke, quit.

5. The pilots are behind a locked door and you’re not allowed to go near it.

Aside from the really important function of delivering your seven, vacuum-packed peanuts and 7.5 ounces of whatever beverage you desire, the flight attendants are simply window dressing. The vast majority of the important stuff on a flight goes on in that small space behind that innocuous door known as the cockpit. Once the plane is in motion, the best that you can hope for is to adjust your seatbelt, turn that useless air vent thing, and slide the window shade down to an acceptable level in order to make yourself as comfortable as you possibly can for the duration of the flight.

Most of what goes on in life goes on beyond the seat you’re given to sit in for the ride. As undesirable as that fact is to admit, it’s really the truth. Concentrating on what we can control and maximizing our comfort level is the key to a satisfying trip. It’s pointless to obsess over the stuff behind the door because what happens behind it is going to happen regardless of how much or how little we worry about it. Be grateful for the peanuts and the drinks that come your way and enjoy each one of them. Despite expectations, the ride is usually much shorter than expected.

6. Other Truisms from Air Travel

And now for the part where I brilliantly tie all of this together.

Aside from the five items in the pre-flight presentation, I realized that in the absence of my iPod and the Zen state it creates for me that there are many life lessons that can be gleaned from a simple trip on an airplane. Below are a few of them.

No matter what the circumstances are, in life, as in an airplane you will inevitably encounter people who cannot follow simple instructions. Whether it’s getting a grasp on the term “overhead bin” or matching a letter and a number in order to find an assigned seat, there is always a universe of people who will fail miserably at understanding basic things yet succeed immeasurably in annoying you. Learning to successfully navigate these situations is essential to maintaining your sanity on the ground or in the air. Accept that fact that you will regularly be in the presence of idiots but also understand that the day and circumstance will come when you are the idiot. Knowing the latter will help you stomach the former.

You will often have to listen to someone tell you what to do. Even the most powerful of the powerful have to follow instructions every now and then. Henry VIII beheaded a lot of people who told him what to do and Stalin simply sent them packing to Siberia. For every person sent to Siberia or every head to hit the basket after the fall of the guillotine blade, there will be two more people in line ready to tell you what to do. If you happen to be married, there will usually be only one person in front of you telling you what to do but it will certainly feel like two. Chopping that person’s head off is never a good idea. Ask Henry VIII.

Much of what is discussed never happens. Water landings, turbulence, depressurization, iPod interference, and emergency evacuations are all real, albeit small, possibilities when we choose to get on a plane and leave the confines of solid ground in favor of having ourselves and our luggage hurled through the air at 500 miles per hour in search of our destination. While these things are all possible and indeed need to be discussed, none of them will likely happen.

Life is filled with negative possibilities as well. Many people spend a large portion of their day worrying about negative things that could happen. While it is safe to say that something negative will eventually happen in any person’s life, the vast majority of the things we spend the limited time we have here worrying about never come to fruition. In fact, even less of those things seem to enter the world of the living if we consciously choose to focus on the positive things in our lives. Like I learned in Cub Scouts early in life, being prepared is the best solution to stuff that happens. It took me much longer to realize that I can’t prepare for every single thing that might happen.

You're better off carrying only what you need. There is nothing more frustrating for me than watching a clueless passenger attempt to yank an overstuffed, oversized piece of luggage down the aisle of an airplane only to realize that it won’t fit into the overhead bin. Simplification is a worthwhile exercise to undertake when packing for any trip.

We spend a lot of time outside of Tuesday Morning, Target, or Wal-Mart waiting for the doors to be unlocked so we can go inside and find that perfect what not to really tie the living room together. Valet parkers in any city in America carefully select the nicest, most expensive cars to back into the closest spaces to the fancy restaurant so everyone knows that important people eat there.

We are conditioned to accumulate “things” in the name of appearing “happy.” The more stuff we have, the happier we must be. The examples are endless. It’s usually not until one of those negative possibilities I mentioned earlier actually occurs that we are forced to look at our lives and determine what we actually need rather than what we actually want.

Simplifying our lives by purging them of the mental and physical clutter that we’re all force fed on a daily basis is a difficult thing to do. However, that process is far more liberating than a person usually imagines it will be. We’re all “Hoarders” in one way or another. Just because we don’t have feral cats hopping around junk filled rooms doesn’t mean we don’t have things we can’t get rid of in the name of making our lives a bit quieter.

We all, however, have those feral cats hopping around in our heads. Purging our minds of the junk is a difficult but necessary step to take. Fortunately for us, like the cylindrical fuselage of a 747, our minds offer more than one exit for us to use. The key is finding the gay guy in the tight khaki shorts and cute white shoes to point them out.

Well, there it is. It’s amazing what thoughts enter my mind in the absence of the iPod. May Steve Jobs rest in peace. He’s truly the Henry Ford of our generation and I can attest that my life is very different because he lived. Take care of yourselves, tell someone you love them today, and if you happen to be flying make sure and turn your iPod off for a bit. On the plane, as in life, never expect more than one free drink. Until next week, be safe. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be ironing my khaki shorts. DP

Off Season Post 22: Knick Knacks are Heavier than What Nots

2011-10-12T10:18:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Still mad at me? Yes, I realize that my inability to post last week probably sent some of you into a frothy frenzy; however, I've only got 10 fingers and most of those were busy typing various pleadings, letters, and emails to people much less accommodating than the majority of you. Plus, I traveled for work on Monday and Tuesday in addition to my myriad responsibilities here in Austin. For those of you familiar with the exciting world of civil litigation you’re aware that, like an A-list German porno star, things tend to come in spurts. For the past few weeks, I’ve been directly in the path of one of those spurts. Disgusting imagery aside, if you'll forgive me, I'll try and do better.

Despite the busy nature of my week, my weekend actually turned out to be a pleasant one. While I did make a trip to the office in order get organized for my upcoming Monday and Tuesday travel, I did manage to spend some time in the company of several of my closest friends. It's nice when life slows down for a few moments as if on cue and you're able to slow down with it. It's also nice of The Man to give me a break now and then. Until I find that subservient nymphomaniac with a trust fund that has heretofore eluded me, I suppose I'll have to settle for the brief indulgences that I was able to enjoy this weekend.

Before I move toward this week's subject, I wanted to announce the extension of the contest initiated in the last post concerning life's truisms. I've received about a dozen so far and I'd imagine that the sparse participation stems from my aforementioned tardiness in addition to the comment problems on the site. In light of that, please email me your truisms at dp010835@gmail.com if you can't post them in the comment section. I'll announce the winner in the next post. Incidentally, all of them have been funny. I'll post them all, but definitely decide on a winner. With that out of the way, let's get to it.

As I went merrily about my business last weekend, my phone rang and I recognized the number of my previously mentioned Special Lady Friend. I've mentioned before that I don't enjoy giving specific details about my personal life and I'm certainly not in the habit of giving out details of the people in my life--well, other than the ones who trespass and spontaneously defecate into public pools; however, I believe that if a person chooses to do that sort of thing, he's probably going to reasonably anticipate that his feat will be shared with other people into perpetuity.

Because she's graduated over time to my unwritten yet firmly hardwired "Always Answer List,” I answered. By the way, let's not pretend like the majority, if not all, of you don't also have an Always Answer List. That's the narrowly defined group of people whose calls always get answered and never screened. In fact, these are the people who inherently know that when they get your voice mail it was your choice to send them there. My list has no more than 5 people on it and my boss isn't one of those people. I tried that once. A word of advice: If your boss is on your Always Answer List then you work too much and there are other relationships in your life suffering because of it. Perhaps that’s another Truism.

Upon answering I was greeted by what all men know to be the universal--yet subtle--female demand for immediate help: "What are you doing?" She might as well have said, "bring your truck, a good attitude, a willingness to follow orders, and meet me at my place."

Her "place," by the way, was changing over the weekend. No, it's not the same as my place and I thought I'd avoided any chance at a stint doing manual labor by artfully suggesting that "she" would be much happier with the relocation if she hired movers to pack her stuff and move it for her.

"That way, all you have to do is leave your old place for a few hours while they pack, return and give them the thumbs up, and then drive over to your new place and watch them unload. You'll be done in a day and unpacked by the next day. Easy." That was the assumptive close at the end of my sales pitch. After she bought it, I frankly didn't think I had to fear recruitment; however, I might as well have been an 8 year old boy from Sierra Leone: I was going in whether I wanted to or not and I was destined to emerge a changed and bitter shell of the person I was before I joined. I didn't even have a chance of discovering a giant blood diamond with which to buy my freedom.

Rewind to about 10 days prior to the day of the big move and you'll see me sitting on my couch enjoying a cold bottle of water after a mid-afternoon run. I picked up the phone and dialed the SLF and she answered. I led with what all men believe is a reasonable inquiry when starting a conversation (nothing more. nothing less.), "What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm packing," was the answer. Mystified, I asked why in the world a person who just hired movers would need to pack. Apparently, I'm an idiot for not understanding that there are just certain belongings a woman possesses that are forbidden from being handled by third parties; particularly sweaty male third parties. Granted, I can see heirlooms, jewelry, and the unmentionables drawer being off limits; however, I quickly realized that her list extended far beyond these common sense items to, well, everything in her possession, custody, or control.

Now far be it from me to question a woman in that situation. That's like leaning over to inquire what kind of raw meat a lion has in front of it. I took the path of least resistance by gently lobbing a "do you need any help" over the fence all the while knowing that my half-assed offer would be refused. Satisfied that I had dodged another bullet I threw on a little Mythbusters and went about the rest of my day.

Fast forward back to the big move and I'm on my way over to the new place prepared to endure some "does this look good here" and "what do you think about red curtains for this window in here" and "should I put my shoes on this side of the closet or this one" types of inquiries.

Of course, every man is taught early in life that the secret to appearing sensitive and concerned about things as inane as these--and thereby keeping any hope of obtaining the affections of the inquirer alive--is to nod his head while knowingly wrinkling his brow and saying something like, "I trust your taste but what about over there" while pointing vaguely in any direction. Realizing she'll make up her mind ten times before deciding upon the first option to cross her mind is an important thing to keep in mind when fielding these inquiries.

When I got there I saw the moving truck expertly parked as close to the sidewalk as possible and I walked over and greeted the two men now in her employ. I knew we'd be sweating together as subjects of her kingdom for the next couple of hours and I figured that until one of us developed Stockholm Syndrome it would be nice to begin the male bonding that occurs in these types of situations. I then greeted the SLF and awaited my orders.

Now, before this post costs me more than the sweat that went into creating it, let me clarify a few things about the SLF. First, she's unbelievably calm and level headed. She's easy to deal with all of the time and indeed her ability to remain calm in situations that would frankly warrant a freak out is one of her most endearing qualities.

Second, she's not a ball buster. I believe it's been well established that I'm about as happy to have my balls busted as the Romans were to see the Huns trudging over the western hills of their empire in the third century. Incidentally, I read an article about the Huns recently that said that their reign of terror ended somewhat abruptly when they inexplicably broke up. Perhaps one of them started dating Yoko Ono.

Annnyyyyhooo . . .

At any rate, my point about the SLF is that if indeed I was going to be subjected to the despotic reign of any one person, her reign would be on my sort list of despotic reigns to subject myself to. I'm certain the movers felt the same way. Now, back to the big move.

After agreeing to "help in any way I could" and suggesting that she not worry her pretty little head about the big, heavy man work outside, she went inside to begin the unpacking process while, like worker ants in search of food for the queen, the movers and I methodically approached the truck.

Being much older--and theoretically smarter--than the two beefy movers with me, I decided I'd let them handle the bulky furniture and I would stick to the boxes on the truck in the name of saving my knees and back while maintaining the appearance of helpfulness. After all, I was technically the only person of the three of us moving that wasn't getting paid for my efforts. However, if I failed to provide adequate assistance, it would cost me far more than it would cost either of them. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

It took me one box to realize that I'd made a horrible error in calculation. Below are some of the things I learned about helping a woman move all of her stuff.

1. Women pack with no regard for the combined weight of the material going into the box.

As I lifted the first box--innocuously labeled "Decor for Living Room"--it occurred to me that the SLF gave no thought whatsoever to the ability a person who "chose" to lift the box would need in order to get it from the floor, onto the truck, and to whatever location she deemed fit. After all, it was never contemplated that she would be the one to lift it. Besides, all men are "strong" and can lift heavy things. The concept of relativity--not in the Einstein sense but in the strength to weight ratio sense--was clearly lost on her. "Does she think I’m an ant?" I thought praying my intestines would not thrust themselves beyond my inguinal canals. I longed for the tiny underwear I donated to that six year old in Bastrop.

Now granted, it is possible that she envisioned that I would be the one lifting the box and it was therefore safe to assume that, like Hercules and Samson before me, I could handle the task. However, I'm almost certain that my superhuman status didn't cross her mind. I'm certain of that because my superhuman status is, of course, bullshit; but don't tell her. I'm almost certain she still believes that.

2. "Miscellaneous" is a vague term

There were many labels I encountered as I made repeated trips from the truck to the new cabana. However, one of the recurring labels was simply "Miscellaneous." I soon came to learn that the term is synonymous with "heavy shit." I looked it up. It comes from the Latin root words “Miscell,” meaning “heavy” and “aneuous,” meaning “shit.”

In fact, after lugging several boxes replete with various miscellanea up the stairs, I began to surreptitiously open them all the while expecting to find bricks or perhaps lead inside. "Maybe this is some sort of loyalty test," I reasoned. I can think of nothing within the entire universe of my possessions that weighs so much yet occupies such a small space.

To my surprise, upon opening a couple boxes I discovered candles. Candles? Who in the hell owns 200 pounds worth of candles? Apparently, a lot of women as the look I was shot from the kitchen to the living room after I asked that question demonstrated. There was enough wax in those boxes to supply Madame Tussauds’ next exhibit. There were fewer candles in Sting’s “Wrapped Around Your Finger” video. Those trapped Chilean miners used less candles during their month trapped below ground. Like those miners, I felt like chopping off my arm and eating it at this point in the move. Two. Hundred. Pounds. Of. Candles.

Now glistening with sweat like Secretariat after an early morning jaunt around the track, I returned to the truck in search of something heavy enough to avoid looking like a p*ssy but light enough to avoid having my tailbone rip through my lower back. That proved to be a difficult balance to strike even though that gray area seems immense.

After a subtle search I settled on a box labeled “Accent Pillows/Shams.” “Sham is right,” I thought. After being brought their under the guise of providing “a little help” I now realized that I’d been tricked into hard labor. I might as well have been asked to break rocks along an Alabama stretch of highway in August. I longed to be waist deep in the muddy waters of the Sierra Leone diamond mines.

“Accent Pillows?” To me, a pillow is something you rest your head on when you nap or settle down at the end of a long day. In a perfect world, it’s something that t-shirt and panty-clad sorority girls hit each other with during slumber parties, but that’s neither here nor there---unfortunately. As I labored up the stairs, I wondered what type of accent her pillows would have. I suppose that would depend on what country they were from and how young they were when they first learned to speak English, I reasoned as I carried the bulky yet thankfully light box and rested it upon a couch that was apparently in much need of accentuation. I wondered if the candles had accents as well and I made a mental note to tell the SLF that she should be careful not to commingle the ones with the French accents with the ones with the German accents. After all, you can’t have your candles surrendering in the middle of a romantic evening.

Yea, I know. She didn’t enjoy that joke either.

After sipping some water out of a glass but picturing myself sipping it out of a ladle like Cool Hand Luke on the side of that aforementioned highway, I returned to the truck for another box. I turned a box around to read the label. To my surprise it read, “Accent Pillow/Shams." I felt like Neo in that strange train station between the Matrix and reality. “I just carried this f*cking box,” I thought to myself. This place has more accents than a Swiss bus station.

It was then that I began to think about Apollo 13. Humor me here.

I have at least one reader who works for NASA (or did) and she’s likely laughing about this comparison right now. For the benefit of the rest of you who fail to see the connection, allow me to explain.

Space exploration is—as you might imagine—a tricky thing. Anyone who followed the Space Shuttle, for instance, knows that a tiny, seemingly harmless detail, if overlooked, can lead to disaster. If a major system malfunctions there can be irreversible trouble. A lot of these lessons were learned when Apollo 13 had its trouble and the major systems now have several redundant back ups in case of a failure. The same is true in airplanes, which can run on only one of several engines, for instance. So, how does this relate to accent pillows?

Like a space ship floundering in orbit miles above the Earth, women have a bunch of redundant sh*t. However, women’s redundant stuff—to me anyway—has no discernible purpose. Even if we allow room for seasonal shams and accent pillows, for instance, it seems that women will accumulate several versions of something that they only really need one of in order to survive. Several sets of China, several iterations of the same shoe, multiple sets of flatware, blankets, comforters, potpourri dishes. I could go on . . . and on.

What baffles me is that—after carrying all of it up the stairs—I was simply asked to put most of it in the spare bedroom out of the way so it could be dealt with later. For any man, anything that can simply be placed in a box behind a closed door for an extended period of time is not worth loading up and carrying from place to place. Men call that trash. Serial killers call that a dead prostitute. Women call that stuff they “need.”

Again, let me clarify with respect to the SLF. What gets me is that she’s as minimalist as a woman gets. She’s practical, modest, and she won’t be seen arguing with her relatives on her front lawn on Hoarders any time soon. Yet, she still somehow has more inventory than the 21st Airborne in Iraq. Go figure.

When I strategically posed this question to her well after the big stuff was put away, the furniture was in place, and the accent walls (to talk to the pillows and shams, perhaps?) were painted and dried, the answer I got had something to do with a woman’s tendency to “nest.”

I suppose that’s as viable an explanation as any other. However, as I pointed out, that’s one big nest. Big Bird could get lost in that thing . . . along with Snuffaluffagus.

Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. As always, your feedback is welcome in the comment section. Don’t forget to send me your Truisms and I’ll announce the winner next week. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be tucking my intestines back up my inguinal canals. DP

Off Season Post 21: Just Do Your Job

2011-10-07T14:00:00.001-05:00

Hello, Readers and welcome back to this week's installment of the world's best time waster. Wow, it’s been a hell of a week for me. This is the first week in about 2 years when I’ve actually not had the time to post (or drink heavily), and that disturbs me greatly. I’d almost rather be severely constipated. Actually, depending on how you view the content of this blog, I suppose an inability to write, for me, is akin to being constipated.

I do want to thank those of you who still take the time to comment despite the inevitable frustration created by Blogger's inability to solve what seems like a rudimentary issue. Your emails are appreciated as well. I try and give more than a cursory response to the ones I get; however, that's not always as possible as I'd like it to be.

Still, I've yet to create a canned email response, so I'll trust that most of you still get that special, fuzzy feeling when you see whatever name you've assigned to my email address pop up in on your screen evidencing that I've taken time to respond to you accordingly. Whether it seems like it or not, I actually care in an odd way about each one of you who reads this and perhaps gleans something from it each week.

As I sat here writing on Monday in hopes of finishing before my week started to get hectic, I was fresh off a mountain bike ride, a self-cooked meal, and a brief review of the Amanda Knox reversed conviction--thanks to the spot on reporting of that dreamboat Anderson Cooper. As a lawyer, I think the jury made the right decision. Let's hope so for the sake of that poor girl who can no longer speak for herself and for the family that had to sit there and watch this unfold. May she rest in peace and may Amanda Knox do something valuable with her own life.

I suppose now we can add "Don't travel abroad and immediately associate with African drifters who may kill your roommate" to "Never start a ground war in Russia in the Winter" and "Never Play Cards with a Guy who has the same first name as a city" to Life's Little Book of Truisms.

Speaking of Life's Truisms, why don't we have a contest of sorts? Of course, I'll offer some sort of meaningless prize. Send me your own truism via the comment section or email and I'll pick a winner next week. Actually, considering the vast knowledge we'll all gain by undertaking this exercise, I think we're all winners--or something like it. With that out of the way, let's get to it.

As I went through my week, I thought about my daily routine. Everyone has one. Of course, for people like me who travel for work and have a lot of things going on, that routine can differ greatly from week to week. However, even I have some cornerstone practices and some eccentric habits (some of which I'll share but most of which I'll keep secret) that get me through what would otherwise be a mundane existence most of the time. I suppose "mundane" is relative, but you know what I'm talking about. Everyone takes solace in their rituals.

Notwithstanding the aforementioned routine, there are times when I simply like to take a right turn off the path in order to just see what happens. No, I'm not sending "Brett Favre" pictures to underage girls over the Internet (yet), but I do like to keep things interesting.

As my still faceless yet very resourceful commenters Donna and Some Girls from Austin can attest, I am a creature of habit. I walk the same path to the elevator, park on the same floor in the garage, eat at the same place for lunch after walking the same route to get there, and I usually order the same thing. I hang out regularly at about 4 different places and getting me to go elsewhere is like moving a mule across a pasture without any carrots. I'm a big thinker and I don't like to be bothered with dozens of meaningless decisions on a daily basis. I revel in that predictability. Ironically, it's that predictability that allows me to keep things creative inside of my own head. Balance, remember?

Rather than walk down Congress Avenue to my favorite lunch spot on Monday, I chose to hop into the car and try my luck at a local place called Austin Java. There are several of them around town and the one I headed to has a nice patio. Since we’ve finally received a break from the 107 degree temperatures we had for 90 plus days in a row in favor of temperate October temperatures, I figured I’d give it a shot for lunch. As its name suggests, it’s a popular place for breakfast.

I’ll cut to the chase in the name of getting to the point of this post. The service was substandard. Check that. The service was f*cking terrible. As anyone who knows me can attest, aside from my almost pathological abhorrence for having to wait in line for anything my biggest pet peeve is bad service. Obviously, that includes restaurants, but my peeve extends to any interaction between me and someone from whom I’m either purchasing something or who is tasked with the job responsibility of providing me with something.

I’m neither arrogant nor unreasonable (my friends can also attest to this) and I agree that every rule has an exception, but I do expect a minimum level of competence in the person I deal with in addition to a lack of apathy. In short, I just want the person I deal with to “do his job.” A perfect example of this minimum level of competence would be having the waiter demonstrate a working knowledge of the ingredients contained in the items on the menu or the service guy at my car dealership being able to estimate within an hour or so when my car will be ready for pick up. Is that too much to ask?

As I sat there for literally 10 minutes frustrated at my table with no menu and no drink and no one to greet me--at the very least--with a “I’ll be right with you,” I searched desperately for clues in order to discover the person responsible for waiting on me. Several people wearing the tell-tale half apron and Austin Java t-shirt passed by using only their peripheral vision for fear of being identified as my server. The clocked ticked forward as my patience ticked backward. As I sat there steaming, I thought back to my days in college as a waiter, caterer, and bartender.

The bottom line is that there is no excuse for bad service. Surprisingly, I think it’s disingenuous to blame the actual servers. It’s really a management and culture issue in any company and the employees inevitably reflect management’s ability and often desire to provide whatever standard of service they see fit to provide. Companies who don’t care will hire and retain employees who don’t care. Companies that do care will weed out those who don’t in favor of those who do. It’s really that simple. That’s true whether they’re hiring waiters or attorneys. It’s not industry specific.

Eventually, “Mitch” fought through his hangover and did me the favor of taking my order after undoubtedly heading out back near the dumpster for a leisurely smoke and a few texts to his girlfriend who was probably doing the same thing in whatever restaurant she worked in thereby unknowingly linking me with whatever poor sap sat searching for her so he could order his lunch.

Eventually, I got what I ordered but unfortunately had to eat it without the benefit of my beverage because despite the fact that the glass containing my Diet Coke was opaque, Mitch remained oblivious to the fact that I drank it all during my 20 minute wait for my food. Of course, Mitch filled it up while simultaneously dropping the check and having the balls to write “Thanks, Mitch” adjacent to the “Tip” line on the receipt. Fortunately for Mitch, my prior years slaving away on the floors and behind the bars of several restaurants have made it impossible for me to tip less than 15%, even in the face of Mitch’s patent apathy for his job responsibilities.

Oh, and before I’m forced to read “give the guy a break if he was busy” emails, let me address that issue as well. Again, I see this as a management issue. Granted, there are times when a place gets unforeseeably busy and its service suffers as a result. The operative word in that last sentence is “unforeseeably.” Service in any customer facing business should never reach a point of abject failure. Any place that routinely serves customers should know within reason when it will get a rush of customers and they should staff accordingly in addition to staffing it with their most competent employees. That seems like common sense, but apparently that eludes a large portion of management meetings more often than it gets discussed in a lot of places.

At this point in the post I have to confess that rather than exercise my usual stream of consciousness writing method (I rarely, if ever, edit—ergo, the “Think-It” name of the blog), I have been piece mealing this post together for four days now in various airports, restaurants, and at home. I feel compelled to post today, so I’ll wrap this up in the name of giving you something to read on a Friday and a promise to do better next week.

As I was reading through the first part of this post with the help of my “Read Later Instapaper” app on my iPad2 on the plane, it occurred to me that I’ve been flying Southwest Airlines for quite a while now. I’ve earned Platinum A-List status for the past few years in a row. That’s 100 round trips minimum per year, so do the math. I fly quite a bit.

With the exception of the time Southwest put my luggage on the flight behind me when I was traveling to Colorado for a triathlon that forced me to check a bag (I never check a bag), I have literally never had a problem with any aspect of Southwest’s service. In fact, the lost bag was partially my fault because I showed up within 20 minutes of my flight and checked a bag. Even then, they brought the bag to my hotel and made sure that I was satisfied by making a follow up phone call to me shortly after its delivery.

I have been to virtually every major and most minor airports across the country at one time or another and I’ve made it a habit to routinely change my departure times, locations, and dates. Southwest has always been accommodating and eager to assist me. I was once summoned to the gate by an agent and offered the final remaining standby seat on an earlier flight simply because their records showed that I checked in early at the airport. If only my pal “Mitch” was as proactive in his approach to table maintenance.

The final note I’ll leave you with relates to a horribly bumpy flight I took from Phoenix to Houston on Southwest. After being tossed around the cabin like the new guy taking his first prison shower, I got off the flight and made my way home. About three days later I opened a letter I received in the mail from Southwest Airlines. It was signed by a Vice President and contained an apology for the turbulence in addition to a $200 voucher for my next flight. Perhaps I should have used it to fly Mitch to waiter school.

Thanks to all of you for understanding this week. I’ll try and deliver big next week. Don't forget to send me your Truisms via the Comment section or Email. Have a wonderful weekend. Until next time if you need me I’ll be refilling my Diet Coke. DP

Travel Time

2011-10-04T18:06:00.001-05:00

Traveling again for work. Post will be up tomorrow.

DP

Off Season Post 20: A Ride on Lady Bird

2011-09-28T14:47:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Welcome back to yet another day-late posting on my wonderful blog. You’ll be happy to know that I used the extra time to contemplate life’s most pressing issues in order to wow you with my rhetoric and thrill you with my seemingly endless knowledge this week. Actually, I was swamped (yet again) at my “real” job as an Austin litigation lawyer. Sigh. The good news is that I get paid for that gig. The bad news is that my boss knows how much I get paid for that gig. Ergo, the extra work. Please direct every bit of your dissatisfaction at him.

It goes without saying that I never want to disappoint those of you who take the time to shirk your responsibilities by shutting your office doors, crouching unassumingly in your cubicles, or handing your children some candy and instructing them to explore the closest drainage pipe behind the house for a bit while you read. In light of that, I’ve got some random thoughts piled up that I’d like to share this week.

Before I begin I’d like to give this week’s shout out to a person who has read and commented on this blog almost as long as I’ve written it. Her name is Mary Pruitt and she writes a blog entitled www.putaruffleonit.blogspot.com. It has tons of chick stuff on it. Mary is actually the person who sent me both the idea and the “recipe” for the now infamous Diaper Cake.

After a few years of intermittent yet oddly consistent correspondence, Mary and I finally got to meet face-to-face after she was summoned to Austin by the previously aforementioned and much maligned “real” job. She was nice enough to trade in her Christian Louboutin Miss Chacha Sandal Pumps for a pair of boots and accompany me to one of my favorite local honky tonks for a few drinks and some live music. She opted for a fancy drink rather than a Lone Star, but hey, she’s from Dallas. I won’t hold that against her.

It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Mary. Perhaps I’ll go to Barney’s or Nordstrom and get a pair of whatever the male version of Christian Louboutin is the next time I make it up to the Big D. After all, I’d hate to stick out. Does that guy make boots?

Incidentally, if you haven’t read my Stuff Chicks Like series of posts, feel free to waste some more of your boss’s time today. I had fun doing those and the diaper cake is still to this day one of my favorite posts. Throw this into your browser-- http://guyinaustin.blogspot.com/2010/05/stuff-chicks-like-diaper-cake.html. I’m strongly considering a new run at the Stuff Chicks Like. I’ll get back to you on that.

Diaper cake in place, let’s get to it.

As was the case last week, I struggled for subject matter this week. In light of my recent athletic underwear purchase (I went with Champion if you’re interested), I had little to go on after bearing it all. Incidentally, I smiled to myself repeatedly this week at the thought of some pre-pubescent, fire weary boy taking comfort in his new set of tiny underwear. Charity warms the heart, doesn’t it? Annnnyyyhoooo . . .

As was also the case last week, I decided to climb on my mountain bike in order to clear my cluttered cranium and search amidst the serenity of the cedar tree silhouettes for inspiration. Because my schedule was tight, I threw the bike onto the rack and headed to work with the intent of riding around Town Lake (or Lady Bird Lake as it’s now known) after I put in my daily time for The Man.

After a day of some fancy lawyerin’ I donned my bike shorts (lesson learned) and headed to my parking garage to symbolically unlock my bike from captivity so that it could feel the warm Austin evening air coursing around its frame. It occurred to me that, like my bike, I would soon be thankful to be unlocked from my sedentary post in order to feel that air on my face. Symbolism kicks ass, doesn’t it?

As I began my ride many thoughts filled my head. Work, life, obligations, Oprah Winfrey…you know, the standard stuff. However, as the steady crunch of the pink granite gravel beneath my tires began to lull me into serenity, my mind cleared and I resolved to keep track of my surroundings and the thoughts that they provoked. I decided to forego my ever-present iPod in favor of the sounds and sights of Austin, Texas at five thirty on a Monday afternoon. Below are some of the things I noticed and what I thought about them when I did.

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER ONE

Because I chose to head East away from town and toward Longhorn Dam riding on the south side of the lake, I ended up biking for a short distance on Riverside Drive. To answer the question undoubtedly posed by the perceptive ones in the bunch; yes, I was riding around Town LAKE. However, the three “lakes” within the Austin city limits are actually dammed portions of the Colorado River. Thus, “Riverside” Drive.

As I pedaled quickly up the gradual hill in search of re-entry on to the trail I noticed many of the businesses along the street. There were restaurants, a dry cleaner, various jewelry stores, a pawn shop, and some other dilapidated buildings that once housed businesses in search of the hustle and bustle of anxious customers in need of whatever the sign on the door said was for sale.

As I rode further I noticed a newer set of buildings. It was the 21st Century version of the strip mall, which is to say that it was an upscale apartment complex (now referred to as an “urban living center”) complete with first floor retail shops and restaurants accented by heat-loving succulents and other perennial plants and xeroscapes.

Frankly, I don’t know why places like these garner higher rents. The day someone convinces me that I should pay more to live above a sports bar is the day stop participating in my own life. The last thing I need is a bunch of fat guys in NFL jersey’s swilling pitchers of flat beer and screaming at Tony Romo mere feet below my bedroom. Props to whoever invented the marketing plan for those places. They appear to be catching on.

“Progress,” I thought to myself sarcastically as I pictured that entire complex one day retreating into dilapidation like so many of the formerly shiny buildings around it. It occurred to me that behind every one of the doors in those strip malls lived the dream of a human being. Granted, it’s not MY dream to open a pawn shop in a sketchy neighborhood and fence (allegedly) stolen property prior to reselling it, but it was someone’s dream and that person made it happen.

To be fair, I doubt the guy who had that dream wants a house in a suburb on a cul-de-sac where he can mow the lawn and pour Dixie cups of random chemicals into his pool every weekend before picking up the Honey Do List from the kitchen counter and heading to Home Depot to get that ceiling fan his wife has been nagging him about installing in the sun room where she watches the kids swim in the pool because its simply too hot to sit on the patio furniture she made him buy via the Honey Do List a few weeks ago so she could watch the kids swim in the pool so she didn’t have to sit in the uncomfortable lawn chair that she made him buy via the Honey Do List a couple months ago so she could watch the kids swim in the backyard so she didn’t have to stand out by the pool and watch the kids swim in the backyard.

You get the picture.

Regardless of our use for them, each place, each business holds within in it the fruition of an idea that began inside a person’s head with the desire to make his life a little better. Each business is the manifestation of someone’s desire to control his own destiny in this world and evidence that the person who opened the doors there had the courage to strike out and challenge the odds of failure. I admire and respect that and it makes me a bit sad to see that a small business has failed. Hell, I even wondered what the former owners of Mr. Dong’s Vietnamese Palace were doing these days. With a name like Mr. Dong, I’m certain that he has options. I don’t even want to know what Mrs. Dong is doing. I wonder if they have a daughter?

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER TWO

As I made my way back onto the trail and settled into a comfortable cadence I noticed a man a few hundred yards in front of me bent over on the side of the trail with a trash bag in his hand. As I got closer, it became clear that he was an older man—probably in his 60’s—walking his informally adopted section of the trail in search of the Styrofoam cups and aluminum beer cans that inevitably snuck their way onto this section of the trail in spite of his diligence.

I smiled as I watched him untangle a plastic bag from the thorny branch of one of the indigenous plants that I see almost on a daily basis yet have no idea what it is called. I smiled for several reasons. First of all, the white senior citizen demographic is literally non-existent on the East side of Austin. That means that this man made a conscious choice to venture out of whatever retirement community he now calls home in order to drive over to the East side and do his share by cleaning up a small portion of the hike and bike trail.

Second, Austin is filled with people of all ages who feel like he does about his city—me included. It’s a wonderful—albeit often subconscious—thing to live in a place where the residents feel a tangible, almost paternal attachment to the land upon which their homes stand and the trees that offer the shade they desperately seek in the summertime.

People here actually care about their city and they pay more than lip service to their desire to keep it clean. Not everyone falls into that category, but in Austin the ones that do outnumber the ones that don’t. As I rode past, I nodded my head, smiled, and offered a modest and inadequate “thank you” and I meant it. It’s nice to be in a place where the land isn’t treated like dirt.

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER THREE

I made my way to Lakeshore (I suppose that’s appropriate but the irony is that it intersects Riverside) Drive and headed North across Longhorn Dam in anticipation of the turn back West toward Downtown. As I crossed the dam I noticed a bus stop on the opposite side of the road. Next to the stop was an incredibly haggard looking homeless man who stood there having a heated debate with several people. The problem with that was that he was standing there alone. “It’s unfortunate that he’s crazy,” I thought, “but at least he’s not lonely.” Life has a way of balancing itself out sometimes, doesn’t it?

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER FOUR

As I headed back toward town I began to see the familiar sight of office buildings and I counted the buildings poking upward as if seeking attention among their peers in the Austin skyline. More than half of the buildings I counted had literally not existed a mere five years ago. “Progress,” I said again, but this time with more melancholy than sarcasm. From a distance, the city looked serene—asleep almost—but as I approached its boundary the unmistakable movement of its inhabitants became evident.

I approached a water station—another Austin luxury provided by the business owners close to the trail—and I stopped momentarily to fill my water bottle and splash the salty sweat from my eyes and face in preparation for the remainder of the ride. I filled my water bottle and placed it back in the cage on the cross bar of my bike where it lived the majority of its existence.

I pulled one of those triangular paper cups from the sleeve by the water cooler and marveled at its efficiency and the creativeness of its design as I sipped the cool water from its insides. The cone is the perfect shape in order to maximize the strength of the thin paper used to make it, the volume of liquid it can hold, and the number of cups that will fit into the box. It’s brilliant really, and I was glad I was given the opportunity to marvel at the simplicity of the design while enjoying the benefits of the complexities it addressed. Nice job, Triangle Cup Designer Guy. Nice job, indeed.

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER FIVE

Refreshed, I again headed west and as I passed the Four Seasons Hotel on the north shore of the lake I noticed the Texas flag prominently displayed out front. As you know, the Texas flag signals home for me and wherever I happen to be it reminds me of Austin.

Upon seeing the flag wave lazily in the dull evening air (calling it a breeze would be too extreme an exaggeration, even for me), I remembered a time when I was in the fifth grade. I was a member of the Safety Patrol and was given the duty of heading to the front office ten minutes prior to the morning bell so I could retrieve both the Texas and American flags, hang them with the assistance of a classmate on the flagpole in front of the school, and then return to the office where I recited the Pledge of Allegiance over the loud speaker prior to the principal (Ms. Lazarine) making her morning announcements.

That doesn’t sound like much today, but trust me, I took those responsibilities seriously back then and I often lost sleep in the wee hours of the morning just prior to sunrise questioning my ability to perform them satisfactorily.

I remember the first time I was tasked with doing that. Ms. Jackson (Tracy’s mom) was the front office secretary and the holder of the key to the flag cabinet. She handed me the flags and my co-flag hanger and I hung them and said the pledge without incident. With the first time jitters out of the way, I confidently returned to my classroom only to hear my name over the loud speaker minutes later requesting that I immediately return to the office. What had I done?

Nervously, I walked from my classroom---which might as well have been three miles away—to the office where I saw Ms. Lazarine and my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Cummings, waiting for me—thankfully—with smiles on their faces. As she was inclined to do, Mrs. Cummings put her arm around me and walked me outside to the front of the school beneath the flagpole.

“Now DP, I know this was your first time, but do you notice anything wrong with the flags up there,” she asked.

Dumbfounded, I looked up to see the American flag in all its glory waiving serenely above the Texas flag in all of its glory. Aware there was a problem, but unable to quantify what it was, I simply responded, “I don’t know. The Texas flag is on the bottom?”

Aside from the obvious pride at my intent to put the Texas flag above our nation’s symbol of freedom, Mrs. Cummings smiled, knelt down to my level and said the following words, which I have not forgotten.

“The Texas flag is upside down and a parent called Ms. Lazarine to tell her. This is how you remember which way it goes. The blue stands for loyalty, the white for purity, and red for bravery. A lot of men died for that flag and their blood was red. We hang the flag with the red on the bottom so the blood of the men that died for Texas doesn’t drip on to the white, which is the pure part of Texas. Got it?”

I got it. To this day, I still got it.

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER SIX

At this point, I was beginning to feel the sting of the lactic acid building in my legs. My thought process became less contemplative and served more to distract me from the pain of the remaining miles of my ride.

The Four Seasons is a fancy hotel. Still, you can put a silk at on a pig and it’s still a pig. I don’t know why people get so uptight about the bedspreads in hotel rooms. Of course they’re disgusting. Anything that doesn’t get washed for five years is probably disgusting. However, what people should really be worried about are the pillows—not the pillow cases, but the pillows. Pillow cases are made of thin, breathable cotton. They can’t protect a person from the stuff that must be in and on those pillows. I should write about that.

And, I just did write about it.

RANDOM THOUGHT NUMBER SEVEN

Fighting to catch my breath after grinding the largest gear I could grind for the last couple of miles, I limped into my parking garage ready to dismount after what had been a cathartic and satisfying after work stress reliever. I put my bike back onto the rack, locked it, and headed up the elevator to retrieve my laptop and the clothes I’d worn that day before changing in my office.

As I sat there in my office chair drinking a bottle of ice water I looked out the window at the lake and the trail I’d just ridden. I thought about the fact that I spend literally 800% more time sitting in my office chair each day pecking away at the keyboard in an effort to be a lawyer than I do on my bike riding around the trail.

I spend 800% more time with my nose buried in a statute or an appellate opinion searching for snippets of language supporting whatever argument I’m paid to make for my client than I do enjoying the city I live in.

I spend 800% more time each day not doing what I truly love to do in the name of escaping early so that I can do what I truly love to do. That makes no sense, does it? Surely, that 800% must mean something. Then again, I can think of no good reason it must.

Well, there it is. Congratulations on being privy to the seven random thoughts on my mind this week. I’ll post as early as I can next week and, as always, I appreciate you taking the time to read. Skip something you don’t like this week in favor of something you love to do. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be talking to myself at the bus stop. DP

Off Season Post 19: Thoughts on My Underwear

2011-09-21T16:17:00.000-05:00

Well hello there, Readers. As always, welcome back to another week and another off season post showcasing my meaningless banter. I’ve got a housekeeping issue to handle with respect to a reader comment about last week’s blog and then I’ll get into the meat of this week’s post.

As is usually the case when I’ve got a lot going on in my work and social life, I tend to get distracted during the week and before I know it, it’s Monday and I haven’t written a darn thing and, what’s worse, I haven’t even pondered a good subject about which to pontificate. Shame on me, I know. However, Some Guy leads a busy life and as much as I’d like to trade it all in for a cabin in Montana sans electricity and running water in order to tap out my anti-government manifesto and live on kidney beans and rice, I’m not in a position to make that move quite yet. In short, I’m sorry I didn’t post on Tuesday. Sh*t happens sometimes. Now to that housekeeping thing I mentioned.

Before I get to the comment, let me apologize for the difficulty in leaving comments on the blog sometimes. That little problem has been under the “Known Issues” tab on my Blogspot management page forever now. I’m helpless to fix it, but I appreciate everyone’s efforts to get their comments on the site. God willing, the husky guy in the short sleeve shirt and tie responsible for addressing these types of issues will put his donut down long enough to fix it soon.

The following comment was left yesterday by an anonymous reader:

Anonymous said...

'That drink screamed high maintenance—as if the outfit didn’t—and I quickly prepared myself mentally to drop a ton of cash on dinner. “This broad had better put out,” I thought as I pictured waking up next to her with make up all over my pillow cases.'

I think you were at least semi-serious with this comment. I'd love for you to explain this male mentality which is very foreign for me as a female. I am not the type to go on a date in order to get an expensive dinner, [sic] I'd rather pay for my own dinner. I'm not trying to antagonize you, I appreciate you sharing with us what you really think.

Fair enough, Anon. Here’s your answer.

First of all, you didn’t “antagonize” me. I’m always open to Reader questions and comments. I’ve only ever deleted one comment after much thought and that had to do with some ridiculous Jewish vs. Catholic holy war a well-meaning yet misguided reader posted in a flurry of emotion. Your question is fair.

Second, I’ll let you know that just about everything I put into writing on this site should be taken with a big, fat grain of salt. I often use hyperbole in order to drive home my point, and the text above is a good example of me taking an extreme position in order to illustrate something that single men who date around regularly find frustrating. So what’s my point?

Being a man and going on a blind date with someone you realize within the first 15 minutes is not going to work for you is like going into a fancy spa for a massage and realizing within the first 5 minutes that the massage is going to be substandard: you have no choice but to lie there and make the most of it and you regret dropping $100 on it the second you leave.

I realized within the first 15 minutes of my date—prior to the conversation about “Daddy’s” money and the spontaneous defecation—that this girl was not for me. However, I’d already committed to a fancy dinner that was going to run me north of $100. That’s like you being forced to buy a dress at Neiman’s even though it’s the wrong size. The “put out” comment was the hyperbole.

Finally, as for your “I’d rather pay for my own dinner” comment, I’m not sure I see the relevance. If I ask a woman—or in this case, make the plans—on a date then I fully expect to pay, regardless if that woman is capable of paying or not. I have no problem if a woman pays for me provided she asks me out and even then I’d expect to pay for a couple rounds of drinks, parking, or whatever. I’m traditional that way.

It’s nice to go out with a woman who allows her door to be opened, takes my arm when I offer it, and let’s me take care of her, if not for just the evening. That’s not sexist or degrading in my mind. I don’t view women as inferior and I think most women appreciate those courtesies—if for no other reason than they are traditional things that show respect and consideration. Any woman who views those as some sort of sexist repression—in my humble opinion—has been reading too much Betty Friedan or simply wishes she had a penis.

The final point I’ll make about this subject is a regional one. Before I crafted this answer I asked several female friends what they thought about a guy opening doors, paying for dinner, and what they thought he expected in return. Surprisingly, three out of four of them—and these are all decent, considerate women—admitted to going out with guys they didn’t really like simply because they wanted the free dinner at a fancy place. One even admitted sleeping with a guy afterward because it was easier than telling him to go kick rocks. All of them admitted that this occurred in their early 20’s and made me promise to make the point that this was not the case any more. I was in my 20’s when the story occurred, so I think my assumptions were fair.

My lady friend from Minnesota did point out that every time she walks into a place to meet my friends and me, all of us jump up and offer our chairs, bar stools, etc. That’s just the way it works here in Austin. I can’t imagine sitting there pulling on a Lone Star while a woman stands there, purse in hand, with no place to sit. That’s rude. She pointed out that it works a bit differently in the Midwest and on the East Coast where she used to live. Fair enough. Perhaps I’m a victim of geography. I hope that answers your question. I do appreciate the feedback. With that out of the way, let’s get to it.

As I mentioned earlier, the busy nature of my existence has put a bit of a damper on my creativity as of late. In order to find time to really clear my head, I often jump on my mountain bike and ride for an hour or so or I go on a run through my favorite wooded trail down the road from my Stabbin’ Cabin—that’s what I call my place; however, I will more than likely have to rethink that in light of the acquisition of my Special Lady Friend. Anyyyyyhooooo . . .

On Saturday I threw on a pair of workout shorts and my “Cowgirl Butts Drive Me Nuts” t-shirt, loaded my bike on the rack, and headed to the trail for a “Brick” workout, which is a bike ride followed by a run. My plan was to ride the 15 mile trail and run 3 miles all while thinking about a topic for this week’s blog. Putting myself in that Zen place while mashing away on the pedals or dragging my tired bones the final half mile down the trail usually produces a few ideas. The pain sucks, but it’s cathartic and I have a very delicate love/hate relationship with it these days.

Normally, while riding this particular lakeside trail I wear an iPod which is invariably tuned into Pandora radio’s Chris Knight or Robert Earl Keen station. There’s something about riding around the lake listening to what’s known as Red Dirt music that puts me at peace. It’s like rubbing that one spot on a Labrador’s belly that puts him in a trance. However, about 3 miles into my ride I began to notice what would become a significant impediment to both my ability to complete my workout and my much needed entry into my special Zen trance. Like Pirsig before me, I was trying to enter the world of Zen and the Art of Mountain Bike Maintenance but I was being prevented from doing so.

Incidentally, if you’ve never heard of Pirsig or his book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, check it out. It’s an interesting contrast between the Romantic vs. the Practical views of the world and how those views affect a person’s ability to function. Like Pirsig, I often find myself understanding both but torn between the two. He apparently wrote that book by waking up at 2 a.m. and writing for four hours a day for four years while working at his day job and catching sleep when he could. Remind you of anyone? Back to the story.

Because there is no delicate way to characterize my problem, I’ll just come out and say it. Because I failed to wear my normal Pearl Izumi biking shorts on my ride (I literally placed the two pairs I own into the washing machine before heading out the door) I developed a chaffing issue. My cotton boxer briefs—which, as you know, offer the comfort of a boxer with the support of a brief--were simply not getting the job done.

After several well-timed adjustments and the realization that a Desitin purchase was in my future I toughed it out and made it through the ride. The run was a lot easier to deal with, although because of the aforementioned adjustment, there was an uncomfortable yet manageable bouncing issue that occurred.

The long and short of it (no pun intended) is that instead of basking calmly in the deep corners of my complicated character in order to ferret out a profound topic or a humorous anecdote to write about, I spent the vast majority of the trip around the lake thinking about purchasing newer, more form fitting underwear. By default, that’s what you get to read about this week. Now let me try to make this interesting.

Now normally, I’m tougher than a two dollar steak. It’s common knowledge (in Austin anyway) that Some Guy has the strength of ten men (give or take 9 men) and I’d usually look past a seemingly small problem like some localized chaffing. However, the chaffing occurred in an area close enough to my wedding tackle that it couldn’t be ignored. I got home, showered, carefully applied ointment to the affected area, and headed immediately to Target in search of some undergarments suitable for my work outs.

In addition to seeking the aforementioned athletic undergarments, I was also in the market for a fancy new iPad2. After several unsuccessful attempts at dealing with the “Genius Bar” at the local Apple Store, I resolved to purchase it elsewhere. I simply got tired of milling around a crowded, counterless retail store filled with customers and 100 people in blue Apple shirts with an iPad in one hand and a headset on who couldn’t help me.

“Let’s set an appointment so you can wander aimlessly around our store for an hour in hopes that you’ll talk yourself into paying $35 for an iPhone cover even though you’re here for an entirely different reason, Sir.” Appointment? Dude, this is the Apple Store, not the dermatologist. F*cking help me. Whatever. I set off to kill two birds with one stone apathetic at the possibility of being the subject of the Target Break Room fodder as the guy who bought underwear and an iPad2 in the Express Lane. Again, whatever.

I got to Target, parked, and began my quest for the best athletic underwear that mid-level retail distribution could offer. I entered the store and immediately identified the “Men’s” sign displayed prominently from the ceiling toward the back of the store. As I was walking back there I grabbed a shopping cart and simultaneously answered my cell phone which started to ring. It was my close friend Chris who was in Colorado for the CU v. CSU football game. His old lady was primping and he had some time to kill before they headed out to the stadium.

Without realizing it, I again found myself in the exact state of distraction that I’d been trying to avoid the entire week. I was in mid-conversation with Chris when I arrived at the underwear section. In addition, I received multiple text messages from a friend I was supposed to pick up at the airport later in the day. He and his Special Lady Friend took a hop to the Midwest to meet the family and were about to head home. Multitasking, I talked to Chris as I read the text and simultaneously selected a couple packages of “Evolve 2pk No Show Athletic Trunk” underwear. In spite of my multitasking I did take the time to confirm that they were indeed a spandex and cotton blend which would provide the support had heretofore eluded me.

The next decision I made was an important one and—as I would later discover—one in which the margin for error was extremely narrow. Without providing the details, I’ll represent to the Readers that Some Guy’s waist is trim 31 inches; however, depending on the brand of jeans and the style I buy, I can purchase anywhere from a 31 to a 36 waist. I have long legs and it’s often tough for me to get stuff that fits the right way.

The general rule with jeans is that I try and buy them a bit loose in the waist to allow for shrinking, etc. By “shrinking” I’m of course referring to the jeans themselves and not certain parts of my anatomy. Conversely, the general rule with athletic underwear is that you get them a tad snug.

If you can’t understand why, I’m sorry, you wouldn’t understand even if I attempted to explain. In light of this rule of thumb (no pun intended), I selected the Medium size, which was for a 28-34 inch waist thinking that they would be sufficient to adequately secure the precious cargo they’d be tasked with protecting without risking sterilization. I smiled and went to purchase my iPad2 still on the phone with Chris.

I hung up with Chris because I’m an idiot when it comes to technology and I wanted to focus on my purchase. I ended up getting the 32G iPad2 and, so far, I love it. I’m still messing with the Apps and all but I’m glad that I blew the cash. After some iffy looks from the cashier and what I was certain was her making a mental note to relay my purchase to the other cashiers in the Break Room, I paid and left with my iPad2 and my new athletic underwear. Excited about the iPad2 I simply took the package of underwear out of the bag and put them into the backpack that I take to the gym each day.

Sunday was an off day when it came to working out. I did laundry, loaded some Apps on the Ipad2, and watched a little football before running some errands. That evening, I packed the same shorts I’d worn during my chaffing incident in order to preserve all of the experimental variables with the exception of my new underwear. I wanted to do a test run at the gym during lunch hour in order to see how they compared to my woefully inadequate cotton boxer briefs and it was important to me to test them under similar conditions.

I worked Monday morning and headed to the gym for a lunchtime run on the treadmill anxious to test my new trunks. When I arrived at the gym the stereotypical hot gym chick behind the counter greeted me and handed me a towel before pretending that she wanted me to “have a great workout today.” Look, I know that’s bulls*it but I appreciated the effort. I smiled and fought back the urge to tell her that I was about to test drive some new underwear.

I got to the locker room and began to undress while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with any of the other men doing the same thing. After all, I wasn’t in Ancient Greece or San Francisco and I had no desire to make any new “friends” in the locker room. I unbuttoned my shirt, took off my boots, and opened my backpack to get out my workout stuff.

I threw on the t-shirt I brought, removed my jeans, and prepared to replace my cotton boxer briefs—which were perfect for the office, by the way—with my new athletic underwear. I picked up the package, opened it, pulled out a pair and stopped in my tracks. Uh oh. At that moment, it hit me that I had purchased these things while talking to a friend on the phone and texting another friend via the phone and thinking about my Ipad. I had only looked at the material, the size, and noted the word “athletic” on the package. It never occurred to me to get a good look at the actual product I’d be putting on my body—in front of a bunch of dudes in the locker room nonetheless.

How shall I describe these things? For those of you resourceful enough, you’ve undoubtedly already Googled them and are probably laughing hysterically at the thought of me prancing around the Men’s Locker Room in them. For those of you who haven’t Googled them, let me describe them in detail.

They were white, tiny, and sheer with a pouch up front accented by a light blue and silver (yes, silver) elastic waistband and identical blue and silver trim around the legs. They were, in a word, as gay as the day is long. They looked like something Freddie Mercury would have worn on stage. Check that. Freddie Mercury would have found these things too gay to wear. Hell, Derek and the Boys in South Beach might be too masculine to don these things. I mean they were gay. And small. I actually checked the package again in order to see if the 28-34 was in centimeters rather than inches.

Not wanting to draw attention to my half-naked self, I quickly put the panties back into to backpack and realized that I had three choices:

A.) I could get redressed and walk out;

B.) I could work out in the cotton underwear and then freeball it back to work; or

C.) I could throw on my shorts and work out with no underwear.

For reasons still unclear to me, I chose C. For the next hour, I bent over, pressed, pulled, stationary biked, and stretched with no underwear on under an extremely baggy pair of shorts. I even took the time to help a woman who was confused as to the proper operation of one of the machines. Not wanting to alarm her, I chose not to tell her my little secret. I made it back to the locker room, showered, and returned to work with my underwear in place.

I can’t believe I’m typing this.

When I got home, I immediately began to undress in order to feed my curiosity as to my errant undergarment purchase. I pulled them out of the backpack and proceeded to put them on. Well, I proceeded to ATTEMPT to put them on.

As an aside, even with the obvious opportunity here it occurred to me that it’s this late in the post and I have yet to make my first anatomy joke. Allow me to correct that problem before I continue.

Now putting on what amounted to Men’s Boy Shorts was tantamount to stuffing an elephant in a shoe box. I might as well have been trying to cram my testicles into a key hole for crying out loud. In addition, my junk is huge. I’m mean it’s really huge. I went to Minnesota once and got excited and Paul Bunyon tried to chop it down. Huge, I’m telling you. I once went to a nude beach in the South of France and PETA showed up and tried to coax it back into the water. It’s giant. In fact, I have to yell “Timber!” when my erection subsides. It’s big. I once earned extra money when I got a summer job snaking the Alaska Pipeline. It’s gigantic. My junk is so big that IT has a nickname for ME.

Alright, that’s enough.

I finally managed to wiggle myself into these things and as I entered my bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror I actually started laughing out loud at myself. I looked like a five year old ready to play “Fort” with his brother in his parents’ bed. It was like my junk was wearing a straight jacket. It looked like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I half expected an Indian to come out of nowhere and smother it with a pillow before jumping out the window and running for freedom.

After assuring myself that I could never be seen at the Target Customer Service counter attempting to explain why I was returning these things, I resolved to simply donate them along with a bunch of other stuff I’d put in a box from my closet to the fire victims in Bastrop. My office building is taking donations and I plan to drop them off tomorrow morning on my way up the elevator. I’m certain some six year old will appreciate my generosity. For the record, I’ll be returning to Target in the next day or so and this time I’ll be carefully scrutinizing my purchases.

I hope you enjoyed reading about my underwear. Until next time, if you need me, I’ll be packing them for my trip to meet Derek and the Boys in South Beach. DP

IT'S COMING! I PROMISE

2011-09-20T11:32:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers.

Unfortunately, I'm traveling for work today and a post is just not going to happen. However, I'll be posting tomorrow for your reading pleasure. My "real" job tends to get in the way sometimes. If any of you have the funds to finance me, please let me know and I'll quit and do this full time.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with a joke I heard recently.

How do you know when it's raining cats and dogs?

Easy. You go outside and step in a poodle.

Thanks for being patient. Feel free to leave suggestions for tomorrow's post as I will not be writing until later tonight. Take care. I'll talk to you soon.

DP

Off Season Post 18: A Squishy Situation

2011-09-13T13:56:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Congratulations on making it back for another time killer this week. I have to confess that I’ve been a little short on creative ideas lately and today’s topic was difficult for me to come about. I tried meditation, drinking, and drinking while I meditated in order to find motivation. Fortunately, during one of my drinking sessions, a friend reminded me of something that happened to me in my early 20’s and after some real debate, I’ve decided to share it with all of you.

Before I begin my tale this week, I’d like to thank all of you who emailed or commented displaying support for my post last week. It’s not always easy to hit the “Publish Post” button on my screen when I’ve been that honest on the page in front of me. Your support and comments let me know that I made the right decision. I also wanted to acknowledge those of you who sent emails or comments about how something in the post spoke to you or really hit home.

It’s flattering to know that an idea or experience that I reduce to what feel like feeble words gets communicated in such a way that it makes deeper sense to someone reading in a far off somewhere. It’s a humbling thing to know that this blog is sometimes helpful to at least some of you out there and your feedback is a timely and welcome reminder perhaps from somewhere above about using the gift I was given. The feedback I get from all of you is as valuable to me as any small piece of accidental insight contained in my ramblings. Thank you again. Let’s get to it.

I have to admit that aside from a few folks in my tiny little trust circle, I haven’t shared the following story with very many people at all because for well over a decade now I’ve been sworn to (almost) absolute secrecy by the person who is responsible for the entire thing occurring in the first place. In fact, I put it so far down on the “Stories in My Back Pocket for Special Occasions” list I’d all but forgotten it until one of my best friends reminded me about it last week. I’m a lot of things, but one thing I’m not is a blabber mouth. I have a talent for keeping secrets.

However, after much thought and the realization that I haven’t talked to either of the key people in this story save for the occasional bump into at some random place for years now, I believe the statute of limitations has expired on my prohibition from repeating this story. Besides, it’s really funny.

Now as most of you have probably guessed by now, I’m a barrel of fun when I’m in my element. I’m an extremely social person who loves to have plenty of people around to talk to. I’m often the person in the kitchen at various wedding showers or engagement parties telling stories and usually end up being the center of attention for at least part of the evening. That spotlight used to be one that I craved; however, these days it’s often one that finds me in spite of my attempts to avoid it. Half the time I’m convinced that the people listening to me are just grateful they don’t have to watch the happy couple open up their junk from Crate & Barrel or Pottery Barn.

When I was much younger (circa the now infamous underwear photo posted repeatedly by my “friend” Lincee Ray at www.ihategreenbeans.com), I was often the recipient of many requests from my female friends to accompany one of their friends who was “just perfect” for me on a blind date. Notwithstanding my severe aversion to blind dates, I did end up getting suckered into going on a few. The following is a true story about the last blind date I ever went on. You’ll soon see why.

The setting of this particular story is in Houston, Texas. I was between undergrad and law school, single, and about as available as fleas on a yard dog. I went out quite a bit (read 7 days a week), made great money at my job, and lived in a swanky place just West of Downtown. Sure, I was full of myself, but at that age I’d been fortunate enough to stumble into success and by Houston standards, I was somewhat of a catch.

Before you accuse me of being vain, let me just clarify what I mean. As far as first dates are concerned, let’s be honest, appearance matters. I had a nice car, a good job, was young and in shape, and had plenty of expendable income, and a plan for the future. As for what was behind that façade; well I’m not sure it’s any different than it is today, but the outside of the building was appealing. Most guys my age were still sitting around in their apartments with their roommates playing video games and waiting for the local wing place to open up so they could throw on a jersey and waste the day swilling pitchers of beer and screaming at the big screen TV. I, on the other hand, was dateable and set up-able. That’s all I meant.

Now because of my overwhelming appeal—or perhaps it was because my knuckles didn’t drag on the ground when I walked—a work friend of mine who I shall refer to as “Jill” decided that I needed to meet a friend of hers who I will call “Kathy” who had recently moved to town from Nashville, Tennessee. Kathy was described in glowing terms and after grilling Jill and determining that Kathy was actually cute from head to toe rather than having “a pretty smile” or “a huge heart” I consented to the set up. Incidentally, when a woman describes another woman in the aforementioned terms it has been my experience that the only thing that’s “pretty” and “huge” about her is her rear end. Annnnnyyyyhoooo . . .

Jill and I were friends but only in a very pedestrian sense. We talked at work, had lunch together on occasion, and were about the same age. When she offered to set me up we actually had to exchange phone numbers because we rarely, if ever, saw each other after hours with the exception of work happy hours or parties. She agreed to pass on my information to Kathy and I agreed to shower, shave, and refrain from what is normally a prodigious use of a certain four letter word rhyming with “truck” as Kathy apparently possessed a modicum of Southern charm and etiquette that precluded her virginal ears from comprehending such filth. I should have known right there it wouldn’t work.

After confirming with Jill that it was only Kathy’s ears that were virginal and getting a clarification that derivatives of the word rhyming with “truck” were also off limits, I agreed to the terms. What can I say? I love a f*cking challenge.

At this particular time of my life I spent a large portion of my available social time at two particular bars in Houston: Blanco’s, which is the closest thing to a real honky tonk that Houston has, and Kay’s Lounge, which is a dive bar with a Texas theme and cold Lone Star beer---in the bottle, of course. In fact, to this day they are the only two bars that I will actually hang out in when I go back to Houston.

I’m not much on pretentious places with velvet ropes and a 6’5” Neanderthal in a $1,500.00 suit and that elastic wire protruding from his jacket and tucked in his ear guarding the entrance while attempting to subtract 21 from the current year as the Mmmmch, mmmmch, mmmmch beat of that pseudo techno music permeates the neon lit walls.

Dude, you’re a bouncer. Get over yourself. I also don’t like to pay eight bucks for a beer and if I can’t get into a place with boots, jeans, and a pearl snap shirt on then that’s not a place I want to be anyway. If I want to hear a bunch of self-important jerks in sport coats talk about themselves I’ll go to the Travis County Courthouse.

The week of the big date actually went by without incident. I worked, worked out, and even went to the Galleria to buy a new shirt for the big date. On Wednesday evening—as if on cue—Kathy called my cell phone and I answered. She was very formal—a condition that I attributed to the awkwardness of calling a strange person in a strange city based upon nothing more than a friend’s vague descriptions of me as a ‘nice guy’. However, after a few minutes she loosened up a bit and I noticed a wonderfully charming, bona fide Southern accent. Formality aside, I’m a sucker for Southern accents.

After some general banter, I asked her if she had any thoughts about our date or if I should take the initiative and plan it on my own. We agreed that I would pick a local place with some Texas charm to meet for a cocktail and that she would pick the restaurant where we would dine. Since she had just moved to town, she was staying with her parents in a suburb and agreed to drive into town to meet me. I, of course, chose Kay’s Lounge.

Before I get into particulars, I’ll tell you that I chose Kay’s for a couple of reasons. First, it’s my type of place and my type of environment. My philosophy—even at that stage of my dating life—was that if a person couldn’t accept me in my natural environment then dating her wouldn’t work. I was more than willing to go to a fancy dinner or hang out in a swanky place with her, but she had to know what I was about first.

Second, Kay’s was close to my place and close to Blanco’s which were both on my pre-planned escape route if the date went south. I’d already gotten a hint that this girl was a little too Scarlett O’Hara for me and I wanted a way out just in case I found myself frankly not giving a damn. Fiddle-dee-dee (Google it.).

Incidentally, it also occurred to me that her “I’ll drive into town to meet you” ruse was actually her planned escape if I turned out to be a putz, which was, of course, impossible. We were like Fisher and Spassky eyeing the chess board before the big match. As transparent as it was, I admired her plan.

On the Friday of the big date I called Kathy to confirm our plans. Well, that’s not entirely true. I called her to throw a wrench in her strategy. I offered to pick her up at her parents’ house but she stood her ground and shut me down. Point Kathy.

I told her that I’d be done with work around 5 and that I’d see her at Kay’s promptly at 6. I let her know that I’d be the good looking one at the end of the bar in skin tight jeans. Oddly enough, she didn’t find that amusing. “We’re in for a long evening if that’s the case,” I thought. I actually debated a trip to the mall to buy the tightest jeans I could find, but I nixed that plan just in case she turned out to be hot.

I wrapped up work around 4 that day and headed to the gym where I worked aggressively on my beach muscles. After all, it’s foreseeable that a lady of her pedigree would expect me to offer my arm, pull out her chair, and help her exit my truck. I wanted to be adequately pumped so as not to disappoint her. Hell, that’s not true. I just enjoy working out.

At any rate, I showered, shaved, and threw on my best cologne. I can’t remember the name of it but it was probably something like “One Man Show” or “One Night at My Place” or simply “Stud.” Whatever it was, I’m certain that it had the musky smell of irresistible pheromones guaranteed to tempt even the most reserved Southern woman. Throw in my beguiling demeanor and the light blue shirt I’d specifically selected because an old girlfriend once told me that color “made my eyes pop”—whatever that means--and I was sure to win the chess match. I didn’t even stuff my pants. I smiled knowingly at myself in the mirror before grabbing my keys and heading out the door. Game on.

Like a lion strolling through the Serengeti, I arrived at Kay’s about 10 minutes early and made my way to the end of the bar which was in direct eyeshot of the door. The place was empty save for a few local drunks and I wanted the advantage of scoping out the scene before she arrived. I waited 25 minutes before breaking etiquette and ordering my first drink. If she didn’t have the courtesy to be on time, then I’d start drinking without her. After all, that delicious, cold Lone Star wasn’t going to drink itself and Some Guy didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Being on time is a pet peeve of mine, particularly when a week’s worth of notice and a confirmation phone call have been given. I was already mildly annoyed. Granted, Houston traffic is a pain and I wasn’t Germanicly adamant about the exact time, but she could have called to let me know she was running late. I could have caught the last 10 minutes of Cops instead of rushing over to Kay’s.

After finishing my first Lone Star I got up and went to the restroom. Upon returning, I sat down and the door opened. As if expecting a round of applause Kathy stepped in to grace us with her presence. Let’s see if I can describe her.

Kathy was dressed from head to toe in white. I couldn’t decide if she was there to date me or to put a coat of paint on the exterior of the building. Throw in a black bowtie and she looked like a slutty Good Humor Ice Cream man. She had on white heels, white dress pants, a white blouse, a white sweater, and she carried a white purse—all of which looked expensive. Her entire ensemble was perfectly accented with gold accessories except for her earrings which were diamonds—trust me, they weren’t CZ.

Her blonde hair was long, silky, and contained enough hairspray to hold a wheat field in place on a windy day. She was extremely pretty but her features were obscured by a preponderance of foundation, rouge, and thick eye make up. I’ve seen stucco applied more sparingly. I pictured Michelangelo lying on his back painting the Sistine Chapel using her make up kit. If I wanted to, I could have carved my name in her cheek.

“Well hiiiiii. You must be Deeennnisss. Niiiice to meeeeet youuuuuuu,” she said in an angelic Southern accent that distracted me momentarily from her make up. “That’s me,” I responded well aware that my previously open mind was slowly closing. I resolved to give her a chance and suggested that we sit in the booth farthest away from the entrance so that we could have a little privacy. She agreed and sauntered over to sit down.

Kay’s doesn’t have a wait staff, but the bartender was bored and he stepped around the bar and walked over to take our drink order. You all know what I ordered. After some thought, Kathy actually asked for a mint julep. Granted, she’s from Tennessee and all, but it wasn’t Kentucky Derby time and we were at a dive bar. That drink screamed high maintenance—as if the outfit didn’t—and I quickly prepared myself mentally to drop a ton of cash on dinner.

“This broad had better put out,” I thought as I pictured waking up next to her with make up all over my pillow cases. I wondered if Borax got make up stains out of cotton and it actually occurred to me that there was no way that the mountain of junk on her face was water soluble. She probably used a quart of motor oil to remove it every night.

We got our drinks and as I sipped my Lone Star I casually glanced at my watch and realized that she was 42 minutes late. I abandoned any hope of even a casual apology and as she sipped her fancy drink she began to talk about herself. She went to Ole Miss—a bastion for spoiled Southern girls on Daddy’s dime seeking their MRS. Degree—and majored in Business.

I’m sure she had a host of sorority sisters named Muffy, Peyton, Blake, and Lane and they all dated guys named Hunter Something the Fourth or whatever. I pictured her in a yellow dress and white gloves strolling across campus to Home Economics class. Oddly enough, I was in the Italian Fraternity in college: Kappa Kappa Chino. I actually dropped that joke on Kathy—she failed to see the humor in it but politely smiled. I’ll be here all week, folks.

Her father, to whom she referred to as “Daddy,” also went to Ole Miss and was “in construction.” I was temped to ask where the building on campus that was named after him was located. It quickly became apparent that rather than being “in” construction “Daddy” made people “do” construction for him. The guy wasn’t operating a jack hammer or lugging two by fours around all day. He owned the place. “What about your Daddy?” she asked. “What does he do?” “Well, my daddy didn’t go to college and he climbs telephone poles for a living,” was my answer. I believe it was at that point that Kathy realized we weren’t meant for each other and I could see it in her face. “At least now I can say that word that rhymes with ‘truck,’” I thought.

Let me say that Kathy wasn’t all bad. Granted, she was self-involved, clearly spoiled from birth, and could not have cared less about me, but I’m not a judgmental person and although she and I were as different as it gets, there was a certain charm about her that I found attractive. I was sure that Hunter Whatever the Fourth would see that one day. Of course, I believe that Kathy translated “different” to mean “better than me” and I frankly saw no need to try and change what had clearly been drilled into her pretty little head since her first cotillion. Besides, I take comfort in being a dirtbag and there was no changing me either.

Here’s where it gets weird—and funny.

After hearing about “Daddy” and his money for another 15 minutes, something odd happened. Kathy abruptly excused herself from the table and made her way to the bathroom, purse in hand. I assumed she was over me and was heading there to make a call to Jill in order to put her escape plan in action. Either that or I assumed she missed a birth control pill and, conscious of wearing all white, was responding to a cramping issue or something like that. Far be it from me to understand how that works, but it did occur to me that “starting” in that outfit would be more of an exclamation point than a period.

Far from being insulted, I was actually relieved. “I’ll finish my beer, be polite, and then just level with her,” I thought. “Then I’ll head to Blanco’s and find a woman more my speed with a ton less make up to twirl around the dance floor all night.” Perfect.

Kathy returned to the table and I politely asked if she had selected a place for dinner. My intent was to let her open the escape door on what was quickly becoming a debacle of a date and then suggest we call it a night. Oddly enough, she said she had selected a place called Pesce—which she pointed out “means feeeeesh in Eye-tal-eee-an.” Surprised, I agreed to go to dinner and we agreed to have one more drink before heading out for our 8:30 reservation.

As I sipped my next beer I couldn’t help but notice that Kathy looked noticeably uncomfortable. She squirmed in her seat, was short with me, and seemed unusually preoccupied. Struggling, I tried everything from jokes to rescued puppy stories but I just couldn’t get her to engage. When I finished my drink I decided to head to the restroom in order to give her some privacy. Of the million permutations running through my head, a few of them revolved around perhaps an ex-boyfriend she called while in the bathroom. Perhaps I’d offended her or perhaps she too was just being polite in hopes that I would end the date. I would head to the bathroom and let her make a phone call. Perhaps it would be sorted out when I returned.

After taking my own sweet time in the bathroom, I returned to the table literally reaching for my wallet in order to pay the tab. You can imagine my surprise upon seeing Kathy sitting there with another mint julep in front of her and an entire pitcher of Lone Star beer in front of me with a nice frosty mug beside it.

Confused, I poured a beer and said something like, “thirsty or are you not hungry yet?” She offered a polite smile but nothing more. After a beer and a half from the pitcher I realized that I had not eaten anything since a sandwich at around 11:30 a.m. It was quickly approaching 8:15 and I was starving as well as beginning to feel the five beers I’d already had. Kathy probably weighed a whopping 105 pounds and had to be feeling her mint juleps by now.

“Look, I’m starting to get hungry. Why don’t we finish these and get out of here,” I said trying to get things going. “Uh, oookaaay,” she said. Still, something was not adding up. It actually occurred to me that Kathy may have been running from some sort of criminal activity she participated in back home in Nashville and was nervous about getting pinched. Hell, that explanation was as reasonable as any other in light of what was going on.

I nodded, stood up, walked over to the bar and paid the tab. When I sat down again, I sipped the remaining quarter of my beer quickly and reached for my keys. “Do you just want to ride with me to the restaurant and I’ll take you back here when we’re done?” I asked. As an unmistakable panic came over Kathy’s face, I struggled to comprehend the next few sentences. I hadn’t noticed it before but I could clearly see that Kathy was actually sweating through her make up.

“I cayeeent go to deeeener with youuu, Deeennnisss,” she said.

FINALLY! She was giving me the out I needed. See, I knew she wasn’t into me and I should have just said something a couple of beers ago.

“Look,” I offered, “I know that there’s really no attraction here. We’re both really different people and I respect that you have the guts to tell me that. You’re very attractive and seem really nice. What do you say we just call this a friendly dinner and I’ll be your new friend in a new town?”

“Nooo, that’s not eeet, Deeeenniss,” she said still sweating.

“What is it, then?” I said more confused than I’d ever been on a date.

And then it came. The explanation I’d been waiting for. Now, before I tell you what it is let me just say that the following information never—and I mean never—crossed, nor would it have crossed, my mind as an explanation for Kathy’s odd behavior; however, upon explanation it all made perfect sense.

“Well, what is it then?” I said quickly becoming annoyed at the vagueness.

“I sheeeeet in myyy paynts.”

INSERT ABSOLUTE SILENCE AND A BLANK STARE

“I’m sorry? You what?” I said.

“I sheeeeeet eeeen myyyy paynts. I went to the bathrooooom eeen my paynts. I have dye-ah-reeeee-ahhh.”

Oh boy. At this point I have to admit that I was, in a word, dumbfounded. I doubt Emily Post has written extensively, if at all, on the proper way to handle the “what if my blind date craps herself in a public place” problem. It was never more apparent to me that she and I were also sitting in the booth furthest from the door and would have to walk across what was now a fairly crowded bar in order to get out of there not to mention the fact that I was a regular in the place. I couldn’t stand to have my image soiled like Kathy’s expensive white pants. I’m certain Kathy had already been trying to get her pretty little head around that problem. It goes without saying that this conundrum was not addressed in Home Economics class at Ole Miss. Then again, perhaps that’s what the white gloves were for.

After seriously considering simply hightailing it out of the bar, I looked sympathetically (the one time in my life when I was glad that empathy was not an option) into Kathy’s horrified face and said—for lack of nothing better to fill the silence—“what do you want to do?”

“Eye don’t knooooowwww,” she said with tears beginning to appear.

I told her to sit tight—as if there was another option—and I walked calmly out of the bar toward my truck. I remembered that I had a dark colored towel in there I’d used on my seat after a run in Memorial Park the day before. Lucky for ole Kathy, I’d forgotten to take it out of the car. I rolled it up and as discreetly as I could I tucked it under my arm and re-entered the bar. I actually felt sorry for Kathy at this point but I was still not about to escort a crying, fecal stained debutante through the crowd.

I sat down and handed her the towel under the table. “Look, if you wrap that around your waist and. . .”

“Just go, please,” she said.

“But I. . . “ I said.

“Just go. I’ll feeeegyer eeet ooouut,” she begged.

Not one to miss an opportunity, I stood up, thanked her, and then hightailed it the hell out of Kay’s. I respectfully waited until I was at least 100 yards down the street before beginning to laugh hysterically. I stopped off at a local taco place for a quick dinner and then made it to Blanco’s on time to meet up with some friends who asked me how my date went.

“It didn’t go so well. We were just too different,” I said not wanting to explain.

“That stinks,” said a friend.

“You have no idea,” was my response.

Well, there it is. To this day, I haven’t seen or heard from Kathy and my guess is that she prefers it that way. Jill eventually forced the story out of me but didn’t believe me until Kathy apparently confirmed it months later. Another point of interest is that the booth where this entire fiasco occurred is the identical booth that Lincee Ray and I sat in many years later and after filling me with several Lone Stars she won a bet that forced me to cough up that now infamous shirtless picture that exists in cyberspace in perpetuity. If I ever return to Kay’s, I’m going to avoid that booth like a bad case of the runs.

Thanks, as always, for sticking with me in the off season. Take care of yourselves and stay in touch. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be cleaning my white pants. DP

Off Season Post 17: Thanksgiving Come Early

2011-09-07T15:57:00.000-05:00

Hello, Readers. Conventional wisdom says never start off anything with an apology. Since I fancy myself as far from conventional I want to start off by apologizing for posting a day late this week. However, I have a lawyer’s explanation for my (alleged) tardiness.

Yes, it’s technically Wednesday; however, this blog is traditionally posted two days after the end of the weekend. Granted, in most cases that day falls on a Tuesday. However, because of the long weekend it happens to fall on a Wednesday this week. Ergo, my post is timely. And I thought law school would never do me any good. At any rate, it’s fabulous to have all of you back and I hope that you all had wonderful weekends of your own.

Before I begin this week, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the goings on in and around my beloved Austin. Unless you’ve been in a hole this week you should be aware that Austin is battling several wildfires around Austin in Steiner Ranch, Leander, Cedar Park, and Bastrop. My brother and his family are in Steiner, my sister and her husband are in Leander, and my parents are in Cedar Park. The fire in Bastrop is in Bastrop State Park and at last count had taken some 30,000 acres of pristine land. I used to camp and hike there quite a bit and was there just a few weeks ago.

My story is not unique. Austin still operates like a small town and virtually everyone knows someone who has been touched by these fires. In addition to family in those areas I have many friends who have been affected and I’m certain that I have many readers that I’m not aware of who have also been affected.

The Central Texas area is far from the flat, tumbleweed infested, windblown desert that most non-Texans picture when they think of my state. Austin and the surrounding Hill Country are beautiful, lush, vibrant, and serene. They are just as much a part of me as the fingers I use to type this blog and it’s heartbreaking to me to see any part of them destroyed. I doubt I have much pull with The Man Above anymore, but my prayers go out to all of you reading this that have been displaced or affected by the fires. Thanks to the brave people who choose to go out there and fight them for us. With that said, let’s get to it.

Some Guy had an interesting weekend. I traveled to Snyder, Texas to visit some close friends and meet up with other friends from all around the country for a dove hunt and the John Wayne Film Festival which benefitted the John Wayne Cancer Foundation. As many of you know, through sheer accident, I have some fancy friends. It’s always wonderful to see my fancy friends in a laid back environment and it was even nicer to know that we were all there for a good cause.

I’d like to thank all of the folks who showed up. Thanks to Barry and Leslie for putting the entire event together and allowing me to help when I could. Thanks to the Wayne family for trusting me with a small portion of The Duke’s legacy. It was good to see all of you again. Thanks to Larry McMurtry and his lovely wife for making the long drive from Archer City to help out the cause and thanks to James McMurtry for his fireside acoustic version of “DP’s Lament,” which was inspired by the only regrettable events of the weekend. Let’s hope that little tune doesn’t make the next album. We worked on putting that event together for a year and to see it all go off without a hitch was very gratifying. It was wonderful seeing all of you and it was a big, fat ball of fun knowing the money all went to charity. Finally, I’d like to apologize to all of the dove I shot this weekend. If it’s any consolation, you were delicious.

Incidentally, I hope you all appreciate the irony of me going bird hunting with the Pulitzer Prize winning author of a book entitled “Lonesome Dove.” Watching a 75 year old with a 12 gauge take aim at an actual lonesome dove frantically searching for the cover of trees while being peppered with buckshot in spite of its status as the symbol of peace was almost too much to digest. It was certainly too much for me to invent.

So, I know you’re all asking yourselves, “What’s up with the self indulgent, name dropping lead in, DP?” Well, let me respond by saying that I’ve only dropped names where necessary. There were other big shots there that will go unmentioned, but my interaction and experience this weekend in addition to the fires here in Austin put me in a contemplative mood, which brings me to the point of all of this name dropping and self congratulating.

Some Guy had a lot of time to think this weekend. Maybe it was sparked by my interaction with the fancy folks in my life. Maybe it was the 5 hour drive from Austin to Snyder. Maybe it was the drive back. Perhaps Some Guy spent 12 hours in the Scurry County Jail alone in a cell. Perhaps the time sitting alone in a field taking in the scenery around me as I waited for birds gave me time to collect my thoughts in a way that my usually hectic life here in Austin doesn’t afford. Perhaps it was the substance I drank from the innocuous clay jug with the three “X’s” on the front of it.

Regardless of the vehicle that took me there, I realized in a profound way what I am indeed thankful for in my life this weekend and despite the fact that I won’t leave you laughing in your seats this week, I’d like to share just a few of those things with you. Besides, I have two killer stories lined up for the next couple of posts which should have you spitting your beverages on your computer screens. I the meantime, I would appreciate your indulgence.

FRIENDS

We throw around this word on a daily basis like pills at a Charlie Sheen pool party; however, we hardly ever stop and think about its true meaning. As I’ve alluded to in many past posts, I’ve been through some rather dark times in my life—the most recent of which were brought on by my own arrogance and stupidity. It’s during these times when I’ve learned which people in my life are there unconditionally.

It’s often tougher to appreciate a true friend under everyday circumstances; however, there are times like this weekend when I have been lucky enough to realize in real time the value of true friends.

While contemplating these moments I recalled a time in my life when I made choices that ultimately let down a large number of people I considered to be my friends. To be fair to those people, I’ll own the fact that during the time I’m about to recount, my life took a very sharp turn off what appeared to be a very solid road. I was selfish beyond measure. I lied. I cheated. My life literally collapsed around me.

Granted, under the circumstances all of these people had a right to their first reaction. All of them had a right to feel disappointed, angry, frustrated, deflated, shocked, or whatever other emotion bubbled to the surface immediately after discovering what was, in fact, a harsh truth to discover. However, what was heartbreaking about the entire situation for me is what happened after the dust began to settle.

Ominous, vague allusions aside, what happened is something that taught me one of life’s most valuable lessons. Shortly after the big explosion I began to receive emails from several “friends” essentially telling me that our friendship was over. They all ended with very Edward R. Murrow-esque themed “Good Night and Good Luck” salutations.

After contacting a friend who didn’t send me an email I later found out that a family member of mine held a conference call about me and directed everyone to abandon me in the name of setting me straight. To this day, that is one of the most painful things that ever occurred in my life and it has a profound effect on how I treat both the people who abandoned me and new people I bring into my life.

Before you reach for an aloe-infused Kleenex and weep for my misfortune let me share some perspective. I think most people fall into the realm of the former friends who chose to abandon me. Most people carry with them their own group of issues and limitations and setting those aside for the sake of anyone but themselves is a Herculean task, especially when a betrayal of an extremely personal nature has occurred. When a person who is respected for a certain quality acts in stark contrast to that exact quality, the person who held him in high esteem is bound to have a strong reaction.

It’s difficult to swallow a tennis ball sized helping of pride and most people choose to pick up that tennis ball and hurl it toward the guilty party. That’s a hell of a lot easier than dealing with whatever issues we carry around with us on a daily basis. It’s much easier to blame someone else for everything even when only part of what that person has done is responsible for whatever emotions erupt. In that regard, the reaction of these folks didn’t surprise me.

As I’ve said, I deserved the first reaction. It’s what happened afterward that stuck with me. The friends that stuck around were the ones who were able to overcome their initial reactions and look at me as an entire person rather than viewing me through the narrow telescope of the worst time of my life. I’ve since forgiven in the truest sense all of the people who walked out on me. However, I have no desire to have a relationship with any of them anymore.

The good news is that after sting of being hit by those tennis balls began to wear off, there were people left in my life that chose to remain there rather than walk out. It is this group of people who I was with this weekend. These are the people who I laugh heartily and unapologetically with even though the joke is aimed squarely at me. These are the people who have keys to my car, my house, and I trust with my deepest secrets. These are the people for whom I will stop anything at any time of day and at any place on earth just to pick up the phone when I see their name on my screen. These are the people who make me feel loved and I am thankful for all of them. There is good in everything and everyone. When that good is directed openly and honestly at us, we should learn to embrace it unconditionally. Doing that often helps us find the good in ourselves even when it is obscured by terrible things.

TEXAS

I was in Vegas recently and was talking poolside with a guy named Bill I met because we shared the same cocktail waitress. Ménage a tois imagery aside, Bill and I struck up a conversation about my beloved home state. Bill is a New Yorker through and through and made his living deep in the heart of the action on Wall Street. He enjoys fine foods, expensive wines, exotic cuisine, foreign cars, and recently refurnished his swanky Manhattan loft. After talking with Bill for a few minutes, it was clear the guy was loaded. What happened next, however, was quite telling.

After some discussion about New York, Bill turned his attention to Texas. After testing the waters with “you all ride horses to work and wear cowboy hats” comments Bill could tell I wasn’t amused. I’ll give him credit for recognizing my lack of receptiveness because he asked me, “What is it about Texas? Everyone I meet from Texas has a thing about that state.”

I’m not sure about “everyone” but here’s what it is to me. Every child in a Texas public school is required to say the Pledge of Allegiance and the Texas Pledge of Allegiance before school every morning. Every child in a Texas public school is required to take a Texas History course early in his education. We know the state nickname, the state bird, the state tree, the state flower, and we learn about the men who fought and died to give Texas its independence from Mexico. We celebrate Texas Independence Day on March 2 with the same zeal we celebrate the Fourth of July. We learn that Texas was its own country before joining the United States and we learn every river that defines our borders and every battle that made it that way. We are taught from a very young age why Texas is Texas and we’re taught to love and respect it.

Granted, that sounds like indoctrination, but there is a distinction to be made. Texas is a fiercely independent state and it’s big too. Texas is bigger than France and unlike living on the East Coast like my friend Bill, it’s entirely possible to drive for hours upon hours and never leave the state. Texas feels like its own country and it’s comforting to know that by living here I’m a part of something bigger than myself. Texas is not just some place to put up a house and find a job. Texas is home and that mentality is ever present in its residents, especially in Austin.

With rare exception, every person who lives in Austin feels lucky to live here. That’s a special thing to encounter and as someone who has traveled all over the country for extended periods of time, I have yet to find a place like it where that mentality permeates everyday life. The people are wonderful, the hills and lakes are comforting and peaceful, the food is great, and, of course, Lone Star Beer is made in Texas.

I suppose if I had to explain it to the ones of you who are reading this and rolling your eyes, I’d say that the Texas Pride thing is tantamount being a Red Sox fan in Boston or a die hard Cubs fan in Chicago. It’s something you carry with you wherever you are and I, for one, smile each time I return home from a trip and raise the airplane window shade on descent to reveal the Austin skyline. I love it here and I’m thankful to be a Texan. I’m also thankful that guys like Bill can appreciate that.

MY SPECIAL LADY FRIEND

I’ve never directly addressed this particular subject in my blog. In fact, it’s a subject—among others—that I’m extremely reluctant to discuss on the pages of the Internet. Contrary to the emotions and musings I share on this blog, I’m an intensely private person and I don’t share a great deal about myself beyond my aforementioned circle of close friends. I’m not distant or unapproachable; however, I’m careful about sharing everything with everybody. In short, there are plenty of tickets available to the DP Theater but very few people get a back stage pass.

While contemplating the people in my life during my downtime this weekend, many things occurred to me; some of which were frankly difficult to admit to myself. The truth is that I’m an extremely flawed person. I’m moody, sometimes selfish, obstinate at times, and often in a dark place. I’m hypercritical of myself and tend to store a lot of that burden deep within myself rather than asking for help carrying it. I suppose all of this is tempered (even hidden) by my giant personality and sense of humor; however, that also makes me tougher to handle when that sense of humor goes into hiding for a while.

To set the stage, let’s just say that the horrible events to which I’ve been referring above are a major sign post in my life. For the past five years or so, it’s been difficult, if not impossible for me to completely and totally open up to anyone in any sort of long term, meaningful way. I’ve had flings, dalliances, short romances, and even walked away from what could have been constructive relationships all in the name of getting my head on straight.

I’ve struggled with my station in life and grappled with my personal demons. I’ve been in denial, denied nothing, drank myself into oblivion, stayed sober for months at a time, talked to no one, talked to everyone, wandered around, stayed in seclusion . . . you get the picture. I’ve struggled. It might surprise you to know that many of what I would consider my funniest and most creative blog posts have been written through tears in the middle of the night. I’m not sure how that works. It just does.

Throughout those times, it’s been rare for me to find a person interested in shouldering the consequences of my actions and accepting me for exactly who I am today. During the recent past I’ve—as they say here in Texas—gotten my sh*t together—and am today a much happier—albeit still flawed—person. I’m focused, back in great shape, positive, and open. I’ve gained perspective and realize what I want out of the rest of my life and I have accepted myself for who I am. I understand and realize my limitations and own the talents I’ve been given. I’ve realized only recently that coming to grips with every word in those last two sentences is the only way for me to truly appreciate another person in my life.

Now, it’s not important how, why, or even where we met. We met and, like other people in my life at the time, I chose to know her without the commitment or responsibility of letting her get to know me emotionally. In short, like the majority of the people in my life since the big explosion, she got a ticket to the theater and not backstage.

Thinking back to when we met, I remember several things about her that struck me. She had a natural, almost understated beauty about her that didn’t require any accoutrements. She was dressed simply yet what she wore seemed suited exclusively for her. Her eyes were sincere and positive to look at and her smile lit up her entire face. Her laugh was contagious and occurred often. She was quiet, yet confident and had a knack for listening intently. She was warm and open and emanated a certain intangible femininity through small mannerisms that intrigued me and captured my attention. She smelled nice too.

Now let me say that these are all qualities I both look for and have found in other people. In fact, when asked I’ve told other people I’ve seen the same or similar things. After all, these are the things that I find attractive in a woman. However, I’ve rarely, if ever, found all of them in one person and, despite my conscious efforts to deny it, these were all voluminously present in her. In short, she was an attractive broad and I dug her.

Our relationship was long distance, which under many circumstances spells imminent doom. However, keeping in mind where I was emotionally and what had happened in my life, the distance was actually a positive in that it gave me small doses of time to both get to know her and slowly open myself to her. In short, there’s no way it would have worked if she lived in Austin. I simply wasn’t ready. We saw each other on occasion and began to talk regularly; however, we both avoided “The Talk” as we both had issues and other people to deal with. We both knew—I think—that we were interested in knowing more, but we were both oddly comfortable with the distance and perhaps afraid of a committment.

Fast forward to present day. The truth is that I’ve made many mistakes in the relationship—regardless how that’s been defined over the time we’ve been seeing each other and what level of commitment was expected. I’ve been selfish at times, confused, scared, and she’s been forced to bear the full weight of my shortcomings. In response, she’s been inexplicably patient and unflinchingly kind to me. She has never been jealous or controlling and she’s always been able to set aside her own pride in the name of giving me the time and the room I need to figure things out.

She makes me laugh and she’s a big fan of the blog and in spite of the fact that I have an overwhelmingly female audience she has never once asked me to acknowledge her or made any effort to mark what she can rightfully claim as her “territory.”

In spite of my mistakes, she has remained a consistent, positive presence in my life and has demonstrated a true ability to forgive me when I sincerely apologize. She’s stood up for herself and has set reasonable expectations for the future. Most importantly, she has unselfishly looked past my inability to accept my own feelings--often at her expense--and has helped me understand that her feelings for me are unconditional. She has allowed me to be a better person on my own terms and for that I am indescribably grateful. She also laughs at my jokes.

Often when we realize we have someone in our lives like that it’s often too late. Fortunately for me, it isn’t. I’ve been through quite a bit in the last few years and my time alone this weekend has helped me amalgamate those events with the people currently in my life. I’ve realized unequivocally that I want all of those people to remain in my life, especially her. In short, Some Guy in Austin is officially off the market. I’m thrilled that I’ve finally learned to listen to myself and I’m lucky to have a person in my life who has been patient and supportive enough to let me figure that out for myself.

Well, there it is. It’s amazing what a person can discover sitting alone in a field with a case of 20 gauge shotgun shells and a six pack of beer, isn’t it? When I shared the subject of this with a close friend she told me that I was going to lose a large portion of my audience. That’s crossed my mind too, but the truth is the truth, Readers, and my Special Lady Friend has earned the right to let the truth see the light of day.

Thank you all for reading this week. In exchange for indulging my metamorphosis this week, I promise to deliver big next week. I’ve got a couple of stories in mind that should do the trick. Thank you again to everyone involved in the John Wayne Film Fest this weekend and thank you to those of you reading this that made a donation to the fund. Please keep Austin and its residents in your prayers. Take care of each other. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be writing love letters. DP

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

2011-08-30T15:41:00.000-05:00

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

Off Season Post 15: Relationship Advice 201

2011-08-23T13:15:00.000-05:00

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.

WHY DO MEN CHEAT?

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.

HOW DO I TELL MY MAN HE’S GAINED TOO MUCH WEIGHT ESPECIALLY WHEN THE RELATIONSHIP IS OTHERWISE GREAT?

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.

WHAT ARE RED FLAGS THAT WOMEN TYPICALLY OVERLOOK OR RATIONALIZE AWAY?

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.

MEN I DATE LOSE INTEREST AFTER “THE CHASE” PHASE. WHY? IS IT ALL ABOUT THE CHASE?

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.

I THINK MY BOYFRIEND MIGHT BE GAY OR BISEXUAL BUT I’M AFRAID TO ASK HIM. WHAT SHOULD I DO?

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.

HOW CAN I GET MY BOYFRIEND TO LISTEN TO ME?

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.

HOW DO YOU GET A MAN TO COMMIT LONG TERM?

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

Off Season Post 15: Almost in Jeopardy

2011-08-16T14:38:00.000-05:00

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