Bachelor Sean's Season: DP Rates the Ladies

Hello, Readers.  That’s right, it’s time to kick off the next season of the show I’m completely sick of watching but personally obligated to review for you.  It’s time to put the substantive topics and sophomoric high school antics stories away for a while and dust off my Bachelor speak in preparation for yet another (boring) Texan’s amazing journey to find the sugar in his tea or the spurs on his boots or—in Sean’s case—the gel in his hair. 

If you’ve been sticking around and putting up with my unpredictability over the past few months, thank you.  If you abandoned me in order to spend more time on Pinterest, Reality Stan, Pioneer Woman, or whatever alternative blog tickles your collective fancy then welcome back.  Now let’s get to it. 

Sean.  Sigh…  Ok, so he surveyed well after getting dumped on his “aw shucks, I’m such a nice guy even though I squint uncontrollably” ass by Emily in favor of the filthy rich Mormon with the sweet ranch in Utah.  Oh yea, and Jef had a personality too.  Look, I don’t want to be too hard on Sean . . . yet.  He’s clearly built for the obligatory three shower scenes per show, seems like a nice enough guy in spite of his oculocutaneous albinism, and was sufficiently interesting enough to stick around for the final three last season.  We all know that’s enough to overcome ABC’s aversion for the risk of actually going out and searching for a new guy to assume the helm of the S.S. Bachelor this season.  In short, we’re stuck with this guy for the next few months.  We might as well begin by giving him the benefit of the doubt.  But first, let’s run down the ladies. 

DISCLAIMER:  I don’t know any of these broads.  My comments here come strictly from two things.  First, the head shot.  Granted, they’re air brushed and polished more than the Queen’s silver teapot, but that’s all we have go by in the looks category until the big show airs.  Second, the woefully inadequate profile featuring such earth-shatteringly insightful questions as “If you could have one superpower, what would it be and why?  How would you use it?”  (Riveting) and “Do you consider yourself a romantic?”  A more useful inquiry would be “do you consider yourself crazy?” 

Let’s see what Sean has to work with this season. 

1.         Amanda—Blessed by a fortuitously alphabetical-ordered name, Amanda makes it clear right out of the gate that this year’s Ubiquitous 30-foot Scarf is the Statement Necklace.  I have it on good authority (see SLF) that over sized, colorful necklaces are trending upward.  Amanda seems cute enough and, while the ages of the ladies are conspicuously absent this time, appears to be one of the younger ones in the bunch.  She has an affinity for writing in second person and would choose teleportation as her superpower because it’s “easier than traveling.”   Someone over at ABC needs to explain to her that teleportation is, in fact, a form of traveling.  Maybe Sean could use that as an ice breaker.

PREDICTION:  Amanda and her Statement Necklace will make it past the cocktail party.

2.         Ashlee—Again, riding the happy accident that her parents chose the letter “E” rather than the letter “Y” at the end of her name, she ranks alphabetically first in a series of Ashlees this season.  Also  failing to distinguish herself by attempting to distinguish herself with a Statement Necklace, Ashlee smiles pensively through her thick brown hair and subtle highlights doing her best to not look like Fergie.  If she could have lunch with one person it would be (brace yourselves for this one) Adele.  Just in case my instincts were incorrect I Googled “Adele” praying that there was some historical figure who shared the same name as the portly singer.  Nope.  If Ashlee would have lunch with any person in the world, she’d pick Adele.  As I’ve said before, “Sigh. . .”.  PREDICTION:  She gets the boot. 

3.         Ashley H.—Remember when I referred earlier to Sean’s oculocutaneous albinism?  I’m not sure this combination would fly over at Kensington and Smith’s mansion of a playhouse at Sean’s brother’s place in Plano either.  On the up side, I’m sure Kensington and Smith will ask her if she’s there to clean the playhouse. 

Alright, perhaps those comments are in poor taste.  However, in context, I find it disturbing that ABC caved to the pressure of having a politically correct amount of diversity in its selections.  Look, if Sean was involved in the process and picked all 25 of these women, then I’m wrong.  Ashley H. is very pretty and her profile is straightforward and simple.  She also has one hell of a Statement Necklace.  Sean would do well to give her some one-on-one time at the cocktail party rather than wasting his time with some of the others.  PREDICTION:  She’s a top 5 finisher. 

4.         Ashley P.—This season’s first hermaphrodite and definitely the least attractive of the Ashlees.  Again, I’m just going by the head shot but her features are a tad on the masculine side.  In her profile, she alludes to the fact that all of her friends are married which means she might be a bit older than the median age of the bunch.  That could mean that she’s taken the time to learn and mature in her life.  It could also mean she’s got more baggage than the Samsonite store at the local outlet mall.  PREDICTION:  She’s more attractive in person and makes it past the cocktail party. 

5.         Brooke—You know what would have worked better than those feather earrings?  A Statement Necklace.  Her favorite “holiday” is her birthday.  Apparently, Brooke not only has poor taste in earrings, she’s also a rampant narcissist.  Normally, a person has to either discover a new continent or be assassinated in order to have his birthday designated as a holiday.  My favorite holidays?  Christmas, Labor Day, Easter, New Year’s Day, and Brooke’s Birthday.  Sort of a non-sequitur, isn’t it?   PREDICTION:  She’ll drift away like feather earrings in the wind. 

6.         Catherine—My initial reaction upon clicking the forward arrow on my screen and seeing her picture come up was, “she’s cute.”  That’s not a word I use often; however, I think it is the perfect one here.  Pleasant face, pleasant smile.  Rather than going with Oprah (or Adele), Catherine chose the more vague, infinitely inclusive “anyone who can look beyond themselves and unselfishly help others” for her Who do you admire answer.  Presumably combining a trip to her half-homeland with her bucket list, she tells us that she wants to ride an elephant in Thailand.  If she plays her cards correctly, she’ll likely get to ride a beefy albino in Dallas.  Now that’s what I’d call a happy ending.  PREDICTION:  She’s either certifiably crazy or she’ll make it to the Fantasy Date.

7.         Daniella—A clearly more “mature” woman with “blonde” hair and a gift for dirty come hither looks and brevity in her profile answers.  PREDICTION:  Like her Statement Necklace and her profile answers, her stay will be unremarkable and brief. 

8.         Desiree—Her name is exactly one “E” too long.  She’s a brunette with pretty eyes and an average smile. “Eat, Pray, Love” is her favorite book because she characterizes it as a “personal journey of overcoming and finding love.”  I’m not sure how a person overcomes love.  I have to disagree wholeheartedly with Desiree about that book.  It’s about a rich woman who goes on a self-indulgent trip because she can afford to do it.  The only “journey” in it is the one where she runs away from her own responsibilities in the name of eating and sleeping her way across several continents.    Desiree also doesn’t like a guy who tries to impress her, which should serve her well when it comes to Sean’s personality.  PREDICTION:  She’ll be sent packing after the cocktail party.

9.         Diana—Puppy-eyed girl next door type with a plunging neckline and an obvious affinity for tanning beds.  She’s physically attractive but I can’t get past her profile.  She wants to be “treated like a lady,” which is fine provided it doesn’t mean “I want my ass kissed all day.”  She also wants to be Taylor Swift for a day to know what it feels like to be “extremely talented.”  Good Lord, where do they find these people?  PREDICTION:  She’s Never Ever Ever Ever Going to Win.  (Props to me for the Taylor Swift tie in.  I’m horrified that joke came so easily to me.) 

10.       Jackie—She’s my favorite.   Granted, her picture is air brushed to the point of not looking real and the lighting makes her eye makeup look more like war paint, but I love her profile.  It’s honest and—unlike the majority of the rest of them—doesn’t scream “I’m trying too hard to impress you!”  She also forwent the Statement Necklace in favor of a simple gold locket.  Bold, considering her peer group, wouldn’t you agree?  She not so subtely tees up this season’s first suffering parent story, so I’ll have to reserve judgment until I see how that’s positioned.    PREDICTION:  She’ll stick around for a while.

11.       Kelly—Another “blonde” with a lot of make up.  She looks like Carmen Electra’s younger, sluttier (if that’s possible) sister.  Like David Bowie, her eyes are different colors.  She characterizes herself as “Adventurous” (read, promiscuous) and her profile is rife with clichés like “first and foremost.”  She also admits, albeit subtly, to reading self help books.  She’s either really cool or really nuts.  We’ll see.  PREDICTION:  She’ll be around for a few shows. 

12.       Katie—Pretty brunette with Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons hair.  She’s very pretty and is also a member of the Statement Necklace Team.  She loves “The Southern Region,” which might prove advantageous for Sean if he keeps her around for the Fantasy Dates.  Ah yes, I’m back.  We’ve gone from race stereotyping all the way to anal sex references.  I’ve missed doing this.  PREDICTION:  She seems normal.  She’ll fly under the radar for a while and might even be a dark horse.   

13.       Keriann—Ho Hum.  She loves salsa dancing and has an unbelievably naïve definition of marriage in her profile.  PREDICTION:  She’ll make it past round one.

14.       Kristy—She’s another one of my favorites in the looks category.  She loves “Father of the Bride” and “Dirty Dancing” which means she’s overly romantic and wants to be swept off of her feet.  Considering the fact that Sean threw that giant log so hard in his kilt until it eventually broke last season, it appears that Sean is capable (at least physically) of performing that act.  She also loves “exotic places,” which (say it with me) might prove advantageous for Sean if he keeps her around for the Fantasy Dates.  PREDICTION:  She’ll make it far.  

15.       Lacey—Another “mature” and “blonde” woman.  She and her stripper name like “being mysterious,” which is good because she’s going to have to lie about her age.  PREDICTION:  She should book a return ticket to Cougarville right away.

16.       Lauren—She’s my favorite for Sean.  In fact, she’s perfect.  She’s blonde, perky, and likely a dunce.  She’ll fit in perfectly in Uptown Dallas.  She uses “My brothers and I” incorrectly and tells us that the best book she ever read (on tape, no doubt) was written by that literary titan Katie Couric.  PREDICTION:  Fantasy Date.

 

17.       Lesley—She looks like Nicole Ritchie if Nicole Ritchie took up eating.  Her favorite memory from childhood is “the whole thing in its entirety”.  In fact, her childhood was “perfect.”  Run, Sean.  She’s either spoiled rotten or her expectations for a man are unattainable.  Apparently, her childhood was not that perfect.  She failed to learn English grammar.  PREDICTION:  She’ll make it past the party. 

18.       Leslie—She wants to be homeless.  Attractive but unremarkable.  PREDICTION:  Sean will drop her off under a bridge after the cocktail party. 

 

19.       Lindsay—Another favorite—She’s the “party starter” with the best head shot.  Her horrible date story is that she once got set up with “an old man”.  He was totally like almost 40.  She’s hot and fun.  PREDICTION:  Top 5.

20.       Robyn—Attractive, but an oddly creepy smile.  She admits to stalking her friend’s ex-boyfriend. The jury is still out on this one.  PREDICTION:  She’ll make it past round one.

21.       Sarah—She’s the aging college drop out who went to art school.  She also refers to her dog as her son, which is one of my pet peeves (no pun intended).  She’s  Gwen’s age for crying out loud and it appears that she borrowed her Statement Necklace from her bestest high school friend, Nefertiti.  Google it.  That’s a good joke.  PREDICTION:  She’ll be in her home town well before the hometown dates.

22.       Selma—Very easy on the eyes.  She’s apparently mastered the head tilt cutesie smile pose.  She wants to be Oprah but I won’t hold that against her in light of her appearance.  She’s “sentimental” but not “romantic” which might mean that she’s got a solid head on her supple shoulders.  Sean should definitely stand up for his rights and stage a big march on Selma.  He should judge her not by the color of her skin but by the content of her character.  MLK and Selma references.  See what I did there?  PREDICTION:  She’ll go far. 

23.       Taryn—Another aging “blonde.”  She has a gift for sentence fragments and looking like Olivia Newton-John.  Other than that, I find nothing worth noting.  Time will tell her fate.  PREDICTION:  She’ll get expelled from Rydell High School.

24.       Tierra—Her name means “land” in Spanish; however, this Tierra is not del Fuego.   She has a bit of a naughty look to her orange tanning creamed face and body.  I’ll bet Tierra can’t wait to get plowed.  I’ll bet she can’t wait for Sean to survey her acreage.  I’ll save the rest of my Tierra land jokes in hopes that she makes it past the cocktail party.  PREDICTION:  Pray she makes it.  I’m warehousing jokes as you read this.   

Yes, we're missing 25.  Gee, I can't wait to see what the surprise is.  Well, there it is.  My rundown.  The big show starts January 7.  I have an off season post or two I’ll be getting to between now and then. Enjoy your holidays.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be shopping for Statement Necklaces.  DP

A Word About My Father

Hello, Readers.   I trust everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving had a meaningful and restful holiday weekend.  It was nice to have a few days free from the cluttered pile of work on my desk and--as is always the case--it sucks to be back. 

 

 

I ate more than a fat kid in a candy store.  I feel like Kirstie Alley for crying out loud.  I'm so bloated I've resorted to taking Midol and water pills.  Late-70's Elvis would look at me and say "Man, you look bloated."    

 

 

I'm like a terrified puffer fish. I sneezed earlier today and gravy came out of my nose. My six pack feels like it's been vigorously shaken. I'm as blocked up as the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour. Mt. Vesuvius was less angry than my digestive system is right now.

 

 

I trust you're beginning to get the picture so I'll stop beating the dead horse--although, as I type that sentence it occurs to me that a bloated farm animal in extremis is perhaps the most accurate metaphor for my post-Thanksgiving condition.  At any rate, I ate a ton and I had a good weekend.    

I awoke early this morning, a rare exception to my biologically imposed status quo and an amazing feat for me in the absence of an angry alarm clock.  Some Guy is a bona fide night owl with diagnosable insomnia and I have been since perhaps the age of ten or so.  I have vivid memories of my father literally dragging me out of bed for 8 a.m. soccer games when I was a child.  In fact, the majority of the posts on this blog have been written between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m.  In law school, those were also my most productive study hours. 

After reading my current literary choice for a bit (I won't bore you with the title), I grabbed my iPad and began to peruse the news.  Let me restate that.  I went straight to my TMZ App in order to see who was arrested last night.  I guess that's "news."  LiLo and behold I was shocked to see that, yet again, Lindsay Lohan had been arrested in GASP! a New York night club and charged with assault.  Frankly, I don't know how that self-entitled little brat has stayed out of jail as long as she has, but she's apparently going to have a bit of time to contemplate that in her new cell for 6 months to 1 year very soon.  The up side for her is that she'll have nothing to do all day but smoke.   

Amazed, I got up and jumped in the shower thinking about poor LiLo's (I hate the new trend of abbreviating celebrity names, by the way) run ins with the law, which inevitably lead me to the topic of personal responsibility.  At this point it is difficult to argue that she is anything but responsible for her own situation.  However, between Dina and Michael Lohan, her "parents," it's almost impossible to ignore the deplorable example they've set as human beings.  It's incredible that she made it past adolescence although I suspect that has something to do with the fact that she's been a cash cow since she was a child.  It's sad, really. 

Inevitably, my thoughts wandered to that aforementioned rude awakening by my own father who, from the first time I stepped on a field, court, diamond, or track coached every sports team I was on until those duties were wrested from him by junior high and high school coaches.  I have a vivid memory of my father running from the parking lot late for soccer practice with clipboard and whistle in hand still in his work boots and jeans after getting stuck at work because of the 1983 phone company strike.  My father didn't believe in unions or in strikes and he was one of very few people to cross the picket line and continue to work.  His reward?  90 hour work weeks, little sleep, and the same gold watch he would have received anyway when he retired.  In hindsight, those were probably insignificant things to endure in exchange for keeping his principles and integrity.  I digress. 

With the exception of one high school basketball game on a Tuesday night that was a 3 hour drive from home both of my parents attended every single event I, my brother, and my sister ever participated in as children.  I've often reflected upon that feat as an adult trying to manage his own unbearably busy life and there is no other explanation for it other than the fact that my parents unquestionably and without hesitation always made us their first priority, often (very often) to their own detriment.  I'd like to share with you some thoughts about my father.  In the spirit of brevity and clarity, I'll save mom for a different post.

There is something inherently odd about reaching an age (my birthday is this Tuesday) that I have a clear and distinct memory of my father reaching when I was in my early teens.  When I think back to my earliest memories of my father I remember his hands.  I can't explain why, however.  I look down at my own hands now and I see his hands and I am forced to compare myself to my father not just physically but in every other way as well. 

I have many memories of my relationship with my father from my childhood through my early adulthood.  Few, if any at all, are negative.  My father was a consistent model of hard work (he began climbing telephone poles at the age of 16 for the phone company and eventually worked his way into management), dedication to his family, self sacrifice, and practicality.  We lived frugally not, as is the case with many people from immigrant parents like his, out of an unwillingness to spend money but rather from a constant shortage of money.  We certainly weren't poor, but--as I learned in an offhand comment my father made many years later--we lived literally paycheck to paycheck and, thanks to my mother's liberal use of the local mall, sometimes beyond that.  

My parents made significant financial sacrifices so my siblings and I could grow up in a safe place with an excellent school system that would prepare us all for a college education--neither the former nor the latter were afforded to my father who had both the intellectual capacity and the desire to attend college. 

While most of my friends' fathers came home with fresh shoe polish on their shoes and a sharp crease in their slacks my father came home with fresh mud on his work boots and fresh grease on his jeans.  On many occasions he shared that he regrets allowing himself to be talked out of his first semester of college by his parents and extended family in order to "find a trade" and "put money away for the future."  Not everyone benefited from the Depression mentality. 

As short sighted as that advice may have been it's understandable considering it came from uneducated, Italian-speaking immigrants who arrived on Ellis Island with nothing and who had sacrificed greatly in order to establish themselves.  My grandfather's name was "Faustino" until his first American teacher declared it "too silly for a little boy" and began calling him "August"--the month he began school.  He was "Grandpa Gus" for the rest of his life and, in fact, into eternity because his gravestone bears that rather than that silly other name. 

 

I am fortunate that my father realized the value of both education and environment long before I was born and I am even more fortunate that he was unselfish enough to do whatever it took in order for me to have access to both after I was born.  

 

There's a point to all of this and I'll get to it . . . eventually. 

I recall being dragged out of bed on a Saturday morning in order to play a soccer game.  I was probably around 10 years old.  We got in the van and my father drove through our neighborhood and picked up a couple of the other boys who played on the team with my twin brother and me. 

Assuming the roles of both coach and bus driver were things I took for granted at that time.  It never occurred to me that the reason that both roles were available for my father to assume was because the other fathers weren't clamoring at the doors of the gymnasium on registration day in order to assume them for him. 

 

On the way to the field, we stopped at the local Shell station for gas and headed to the field where my father coached the game.  An hour later we loaded up to head home and dropped all of my friends off at their houses.  Incidentally, I recall pulling in a one of those boy's driveway and seeing his father sitting in a lawn chair reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee and waving to my dad as he dropped off the man's son. 

My brother and I were playing the requisite game of grab ass in the back seat when the van stopped.  I remember looking up and expecting to be in our driveway.  However, we were back at the Shell station and my father was inside talking to the cashier.  He quickly returned, put the van into gear, and headed home.  My brother asked, "Dad, why did you go back to the gas station."  My father looked calmly in the rear view mirror and said, "because I realized at the soccer field that I was in such a hurry this morning that I forgot to pay for my gas."  "Oh," we responded in unison. 

In retrospect, I don't believe I could have been given any lecture, textbook definition, admonishment, or any other form of lesson that would have so succinctly and cleanly illustrated the concept of honesty.  In fact, I cannot think of any other instance in my life since that day that has. 

As formal as I've made him sound, my father also has quite a sense of humor.  Indeed, both of my parents are inherently funny people.  I have to admit that my saltier side comes almost exclusively from my maternal roots; however, the clever side may be traced back squarely to the paternal ones. 

From the time I was old enough to assist my father insisted that my brother and I help him with the yard work.  In retrospect, our yard was a standard sized corner lot in a suburban neighborhood but to a kid saddled with the duty of mowing it, it seemed much larger.  Yard duties consisted primarily of 3 things:  Mowing, Edging, and Sweeping.  When we were big enough to manage the mower my father gladly surrendered that chore in favor of edging.  My brother and I (never without a fight) would switch from week to week between mowing and sweeping.  Invariably, my father would be the ultimate arbiter on "who's turn it was" to mow or sweep.  This was usually preceded by 15 minutes of "did not", "did too" followed by a fist fight.  Boys. 

Now, in my neighborhood yard work was a standard burden for all school age boys.  Like Toughskins jeans, it was passed down from older generations to younger ones.  However, if you'll recall earlier I listed among my father's greatest attributes "practicality."  While the majority of my friends mowed their own yards with the Holy Grail of lawn mowers--the self propelled, self bagging, super efficient Lawn Boy--my brother and I were relegated to the cheapest model my dad could find at the local Sears store.  Another important fact to mention for those of you reading this in far away places is the fact that Texas is rife with St. Augustine grass.

 

It looks like this:

 

Remember Toughskins? They looked like this:

St. Augustine grass is used for a few reasons:  It's thick as hell, impossible to kill, and outgrows weeds.  In short, if it's left to it's own devices it will be thicker than spray tan on Snooki.  Add in a good rain and it gets mushy and squishy to walk on--also like Snooki.  Whenever my brother and I would bitch about it being too difficult to mow due to the aforementioned qualities, my father's response was a canned "tough" or "Can't means you're not trying hard enough"--one of his favorites.  In retrospect, his refusal to assist me forced me to figure it out--albeit while cursing his despotism.  That skill--figuring it out--has been innumerably applied throughout my adult life.   

 

One Summer evening, I recall my father standing in the driveway with my mother talking to our neighbors as I struggled tremendously to push the mower across the lawn after rain had soaked it the day before.  I failed to mention that the average high temperature in Houston, Texas in the summer is around 98 degrees, which much to my chagrin, is also the average humidity. 

 

As I pushed and pushed I succeeded in getting the mower to go five to ten feet before stalling under the suffocating thickness of the wet grass.  Frustrated, I'd clear the mower, restart it and push some more.  After stalling for the fifth or sixth time I remember my neighbor, Nancy, looking over at my father and saying, "You really need to get yourself a self-propelled mower."  My father, without hesitation, replied, "I have a self-propelled mower.  I put a kid behind it and it propels itself."  Oddly enough, I found that neither humorous nor practical at that particular time.  I still don't.   

 

I mentioned my father's propensity for dispensing wisdom to me with a single word or a simple phrase.  As annoying as those bits of wisdom were to me at the time, their repetition has permanently embossed them on my brain.  Below are a few of them.    

 

• The saddest thing in life is wasted talent
• Always do your best
• You don't get rewarded by me for doing what you're supposed to do in the first place
• Education gives you options
• Can't means you're not trying hard enough
• If I told you to jump off a bridge, would you?  (His response to "He told me to do it")
• Were you raised in a barn? (upon seeing my disheveled room)
• Get out of my chair
• Apply Yourself (this in response to a poor progress report or difficulty with homework)

Am I plagued with the impression that my father is perfect? Absolutely not. Like any human being, he has flaws and weaknesses.  He is, however, by any measure an exceptional person.  Time has proven him to be a consistent, moral, humble, dedicated person.  Indeed, I have been be direct beneficiary of all of those things in my lifetime.  However, there is a bitter side to that realization as I approach the date of my birth.  I do not have my father's habits nor do I have his integrity.  I have often fallen short where he has succeeded.  I have wasted the precious talents I was given.  I haven't always done my best nor have I tried my hardest.

 

I think it might be comforting to a person who grew up with a disinterested or abusive father to realize that he has overcome his father's faults and has emerged a better person than his father.  I, on the other hand, have become less than he was at my age and am less than he is now.  That realization makes me admire him more and it makes me want to do better in the years ahead of me.  I'm thankful I have access to a good set of blueprints in order to try and make that happen. 

 

Thanks for reading this week.  Take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be shopping for a self-propelled mower.  DP   

I'm Thankful To Be Back

Hello, Readers.  I know it's a huge assumption on my part that my salutation is still plural; however, I'm feeling horribly optimistic today.  I'm certain that most of you ceased wondering where I've been and when in the hell I'm going to post some time ago, but humor me here.  I'd like to explain for--if nothing else--my own edification.  I'll be brief. 

As most of you know, Some Guy's day job is as an attorney.  Granted, that word alone conjures up images of greedy, ruthless, money-hungry hucksters uttering nothing but half-truths sandwiched between words like "notwithstanding" and "allegedly" or pointing directly at you from a highway billboard or the back of your phone book. 

Incidentally, if you currently use a phone book for anything other than a booster seat during your toddler's haircut, please open the door and walk outside.  There's a whole world out there waiting to surprise you with its technology.   Phones are actually their own phone books these days and they no longer have cords.  They do, however, make lousy booster seats.  Anyhooo . . .

I suppose my industry has its fair share of those aforementioned huckster types, but in my experience it's not any better or any worse than any other industry.  It's more apparent, perhaps, but not any different.  The profession is much maligned.  I believe there are many reasons for that; some are fair, most are not. 

For the past 14 months I've been working on a case involving the most horrible death imaginable.  For privacy's sake and out of respect for the surviving family members--of which there are many--I won't go into detail.  Suffice it to say that the case is an extremely contentious one between the opposing parties in addition to being especially adversarial between the lawyers.  Put all of that in a bowl and mix in an inordinate amount of travel, many 12-14 hour days involving shouting matches, verbal jousting, not-so-veiled threats, graphic color pictures, and diametrically opposed theories of the apparent cause of the "accident" and you'll get an idea why I have had neither the time nor the inclination to wow you with witticisms lately.

Everyone is playing for keeps with this one and I take my duty to vigorously and unapologetically advocate for the family's interest very seriously.  Granted, I take that duty seriously in every case I handle.  I this case, however, I've come to take it very personally.  At my level of experience, that occupational hazard rarely, if ever, makes an appearance anymore.  When it does, however, it's difficult to handle.  I hope that explains my absence.  With that out of the way, let's get to the good stuff. 

Happy Freaking Turkey Day, Folks.  Yes, it that time of year when retailers across the world fill us with holiday cheer like Thanksgiving Day turkeys packed from neck to rectum with stuffing.  It's time to shake off the serotonin stupor and post-alcohol haze in order to venture out at 4 a.m. on Friday in anticipation of the opening of the nearest Best Buy or Wal-Mart to land the best Black Friday deal possible while simultaneously trying to avoid being trampled literally to death.

It's time for perfectly rational mothers to shake off any modicum of civility toward any other human being in the name of securing the last (insert name of this year's hot toy) in the store so her little angel--sleeping innocently and unknowingly at home or perhaps locked in the laundry room with a jug of water and a sandwich while 'mommy shops'--can have the perfect gift from Santa this year.  It's time for everyone's overbearing mother-in-law or creepy uncle to add stress to an already stressful weekend.  It's time for single, childless people and the black sheep of the family to huddle together and drink their faces off attempting to kill the pain of being ostracised.  In short, it's time to forget about the real reason we have a couple of days off this time of year.   

School children are forced to memorize outdated, historically inaccurate, culturally insensitive songs about Indians and Pilgrims harmoniously breaking bread together in the New World in order to perform them for anxious parents obliged to sit on miniature plastic chairs in the school cafeteria while others jockey mercilessly for position in the SRO section with cell phone cameras and iPads fighting for a glimpse of their little angel mouthing the words in unison.

 

 

Incidentally, I've been to one or two of those "Fall Presentations" before and they never teach the kids a catchy jingle about giving the Indians small pox and "purchasing" their land with fire water and shiny trinkets before herding them together like the buffalo they used to hunt and making them walk to Oklahoma in the cold 210 years later.  Perhaps that bit was cut due to time constraints.

As if the blatant mischaracterization of their history and the complete marginalization of the systematic disassembly of their entire way of life are not enough, we rub it in by dressing the kids in construction paper head dresses and face paint.  There's always that one chubby white kid or the Asian kid in the Indian costume that strains the authenticity of the depiction for me.  There hasn't been a casting error that blatant since Leonardo DiCaprio played Howard Hughes in The Aviator.  They might as well take the chubby white kid and the Asian kid and put them in blackface during the Civil War reenactment play.

Alright, I'm exaggerating.  Lord knows I'm not that cynical and all of you know that I'm far from that culturally sensitive.  All I'm saying is that they should at least make the Mexican kids play the Indians and the white kids play the Pilgrims.  While they're at it, they should give the fat kid a hall pass and send him to the back of the classroom with a snack.  After 65 days at sea on the Mayflower I seriously doubt there were any fat Pilgrims.  Now let's get back to my cynical side.  I find it far more interesting than my preachy, indignant side.
 

Here's a Thanksgiving kid's song I found online. In addition to its fiendishly clever lyrics, its author was so devoid of originality it was actually annotated above the song that it is to be sung to the tune of "I'm a Little Teapot."  Sing along with me, would you? 

I'm a little Indian on the go,
Here is my arrow and here is my bow.
When I go a-hunting, hear me shout-
Bears and buffalo better watch out!

I'm a little pilgrim on the run,
Here is my knife and here is my gun.
When I go a-hunting, hear my shout-
Deer and turkey better watch out!

 



As delightful as that is, I've taken the liberty of writing a few supplemental versus.   Sing along with me, would you?

I'm a displaced Indian on the go

The paleface took my arrow and stole my bow

When I'm robbed of my dignity, hear me shout

Small Pox and Dysentery, I'd better watch out!

 

I'm a Presbyterian Puritan watch me twist

I'm an old fashioned English Separatist

The Indian people helped me and that's just great

My progeny will oppress them until they assimilate

Now THAT'S the version I want to hear the kids singing at the play.  I find the thought of the judgey school moms' jaws hitting the floor between their seasonal winter boots--which are so in this year, by the way--hysterically funny.

Incidentally, while Googling "kids pilgrim costumes" in order to find the pictures above, this popped up--which I also find hysterically funny--and unusually confusing.  I'm guessing that there were few Pilgrims dressed like this in Plymouth.  Perhaps this is the traditional dress of the San Francisco Pilgrim who, unlike the Plymouth Pilgrim, had an affection for chilled sangria and dancing.

Alright, let's talk about my real opinion of Thanksgiving. 

Throughout my entire life my Thanksgivings have--like for a lot of people--grown increasingly secular in nature.  It's another long weekend to be enjoyed with friends, football, and plenty of the aforementioned fire water.  However, I always take a moment or two alone to say thanks for the things in my life that were supposedly placed there accidentally by Someone responsible for making us all. 

I suppose we all have a version of that Someone and we all have a version of how "accidental" the things in our lives actually are.  The Pilgrims believed in pre-destination.  The Indians didn't.  The Pilgrims wore funny hats and doilies around their shoulders.  The Indians were shirtless and wore headdresses.  They believed that the Earth was where God showed himself and found the Bible to be nothing more than a book as strange as the people who brought it across the ocean with them.  The Pilgrims were a structured, patriarchal society governed by strict rules dictating their entire existence.  The Indians were a largely matriarchal society of hunters and gatherers who lived communally. 

They were opposites.  Regardless of what Manifest Destiny would eventually visit upon the Indians and in spite of the strife the Pilgrims would endure in their New World, they were all able to come together as equals in November of 1621 and be thankful for the good things in their lives.  The first Thanksgiving was a recognition of an abundant harvest in spite of seemingly insurmountable difficulties.  Take a few moments during this hectic weekend and sit alone in order to appreciate the abundant harvest in your own lives in spite of your own seemingly insurmountable difficulties.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.  Gobble, Gobble, Gobble.

Thanks for continuing to stick around.  I'll post as often as I can.  Enjoy your weekend.  In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be hanging out in the back of the classroom with the fat kid eating a snack. 

DP




 

 

Off Season Halloween: It's Scary How Long I"ve Been Gone

BOO!  Remember me?  A little?  I suppose I deserve that.  For the past six weeks or so DP has lived on an airplane and in various swanky hotels across the great State of Texas and beyond.  Without depressing you, I've been working (a lot) on several catastrophic cases that demand my attention.  Like you coming here for a laugh, people hire me to do what they believe I do best and I owe them the same focus I gleefully find here when I can make it work.  Unfortunately, the "real" world and this one don't always peacefully coexist. 

 

The good news is that the year is winding down and I'll be getting back to regular posts.  I'm well aware that I have to earn my audience back, but I'm anxious to draft something that doesn't start with the words "To the Honorable Judge of Said Court." 

 

Happy Halloween to you all.  Whether it's some innocent trick or treating or some good ole criminal mischief that happens to be on your evening agenda, have fun.  In light of my lack of post this Halloween, I'll direct you to a classic Some Guy in College Halloween memory involving Austin, Texas and my old roommmate, the now infamous Lenny.   Enjoy. 

 

http://guyinaustin.blogspot.com/2010/10/off-season-post-3-beer-batman-and-beef.html

 

 

Oh, and just for good measure, I'll leave you with a Halloween joke. 

 

How do you get a witch pregnant? 

 

You f*ck her. 

 

You're welcome.  Granted, that's creepy on an entirely different level but feel free to use it on your least sophistocated friends.  I miss the blog and I miss all of you.  I'll be back as soon as I can. 

 

DP

Off Season Post 39: DP Carries On

Hello, Readers.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Some Guy in Austin.  I write a blog solely for your reading pleasure.  I’ve been woefully absent as of late and I realize it’s been an incredibly long time since I’ve posted.  I won’t bore you with the details but for those of you who are lawyers out there or have the misfortune of being married to one you’ll appreciate the fact that the ebbs and flows of the business are often extreme.  When it rains, it pours.  In short, it’s been pouring a lot lately.  Nonetheless, I’m back for now and I’ll try to make this post less introspective than the last.  In other words, I’ll throw in a lot of d*ck jokes.  As always, thanks for reading. 

 

Before I begin—you’ve waited two weeks, you can wait another minute—I’d like to send a shout out to a reader and a commenter you all know as dp2.  dp2 and I have been corresponding via email since she began reading this blog over two years ago.  Like me, she’s a sometimes disgruntled attorney in addition to sharing my affinity for anatomy jokes.  Her comments are always insightful and our email exchanges range from the highly ridiculous to the semi-intellectual. 

 
 

At any rate, she was in the great city of Austin, Texas for a friend’s wedding recently and I had the pleasure of being their tour guide for an evening.  We took in some live music at a couple of my favorite honky tonks and she was kind enough to buy me—you guessed it—a couple of Lone Star Beers.  She even got to meet the Special Lady Friend and Soon-to-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin.  They got along famously.  Thanks for the booze, dp2.  It was great meeting you and your friends. 

 
 

Now let’s get to it. 

 

 

 

I’ve mentioned many times in the past that I am a creature of habit.  While I’m not obsessively compulsive about the routes I take, the places I frequent, or the number of times in a day when I wash my hands, I am extremely consistent.  I take comfort in my routine and the structure provided by the habitualization of the more mundane, predictable aspects of my day allows my mind to roam as free as the wind in other areas.  It also ensures that I’m aggravated as little as possible. 

 

 

 

The other day, as I was in the middle of my lunchtime gym/turkey sandwich routine I noticed a man standing in front of me in line at the sandwich shop across the street from my palatial office.  In front of him was a fairly non-descript baby stroller containing what I assumed was his child.  Apparently, mommy had at least part of the day off and this guy attempted to boldly go about his day in spite of the responsibilities at hand. 
 

 

 

Incidentally, I applaud dads who have the “courage” to care for their children unassisted by mom and I applaud moms who have the wherewithal to give their baby daddies credit for being competent enough to figure out how to parent without them.  Indeed, certain vestiges of the 1950’s mentality linger in our culture and the notion that a father is inept when it comes to childcare is one of them.  Granted, Dad doesn’t have a pair of hooters from which he creates the milk of life nor does he have the ability to gestate a fetus.  Other than that, however, Dad is no less capable than mom when it comes to taking Junior out for a stroll around town.  Post-Pilates mimosas often necessitate the need for dad to step in and co-parent every now and then and it’s nice to see that occurring.     

 

 

 

Notwithstanding my respect for dad’s assumption of the traditionally uterine-bearing duties, I noticed that he was carrying an inordinate amount of baby supplies.  He had enough wet wipes to service a Fourth of July barbecue picnic.  All of his baby ammo was stuffed into a powder blue diaper bag adorned with yellow rubber duckies hanging from his shoulder.  Like a safe falling on my head from an upper story window, I was hit with inspiration.  There are just certain things that men should never be seen carrying in public.  Below are a few of those things.   

 
 

1.         Diaper Bag.  I’ve already laid the predicate for this one.  Look, being out all day in public with an infant or a toddler requires more skill than most people can appreciate.  Throw in the 100 degree heat of a Texas Summer or the sub-zero temperatures of a Chicago Winter and simply getting in and out of the car becomes exponentially difficult.  Because of that, it’s essential to arm oneself with an appropriate supply of wipes, powder, diapers, formula, pacifiers, snacks, rattle toys, and at least one change of clothes.  I get that. 

 

 

 

HOWEVER, there is no rule that says that all of that stuff has to be housed in the most ridiculously humiliating handbag possible.  Any “awwww, look how sweet” appeal a man gains by caring for an infant with mom nowhere in sight is inversely proportionate to how awkward a frilly handbag looks dangling from his shoulder--undoubtedly in place of his built in “handbag.”  Buy a backpack for crying out loud.  It’s not difficult to find one that matches the Baby Bjorn if that’s a concern.  All the fellow dads out there will appreciate (even envy) it and the Hooters girls won’t ignore you when you roll in for dollar wings and fried pickles on a Friday afternoon with the baby in tow.  Indeed, the only thing better than carrying a puppy on the beach for attracting young women and sending their ovaries into an egg-firing frenzy is an infant.   Ditch the duckies and bust out the backpack. 

 

 

2.         Flowers at the Airport.  I know what you’re all thinking:  Come on, Some Guy.  “Flowers are a wonderful gift to see when stepping off an airplane after an arduous girls’ weekend and I, for one, would love my man to do that for me.”  Whatever.  First of all, flowers are expensive and they do nothing but die slowly over time despite our best efforts to keep them alive.  Come to think of it, one could make the same generalization about most relationships. 

 

 

Annyyyhooo. . .

 

 

Every guy (and I mean EVERY) knows that all (and I mean ALL) women love to get flowers.  That’s just a given.  Sure, a lot of women love to say things like, “Oh, I don’t like flowers.  I’d rather my man save his money and spend it on something nice for us to do together.”  Right.  If you believe that you’ll also have no problem believing the biggest female falsity of all time. 

 

 

Say it with me.  “It doesn’t matter how big the diamond in my engagement ring is as long as I know he loves me.”  Frankly, it’s almost impossible to type that without choking on the words. 

 

 

Don’t believe me?  The next time some “lucky” woman strolls casually into a wine bar after announcing via social media that her boyfriend popped the question see what the first reaction of every woman is when she sees the bride-to-be.  The single ones in their early 30’s choke back their envy and feign happiness as they grow one step closer to being “That Girl” while the married ones smile from ear to ear content in knowing that another naïve single woman is about to enter the race to see whose husband is first to find his favorite recliner.  Regardless of reaction, every woman asks first to see the ring.  Don’t tell me size doesn’t matter.  It does.  There’s a reason that the word “fiancé” looks a hell of a lot like the word “finance.”  Don’t let the accent over that last “e” fool you.  I digress. 

 

 

Seeing a man awkwardly holding a bouquet of fresh flowers at the base of the escalator bank in Baggage Claim is difficult for a man to process.  On one hand, we all appreciate the “benefits” that come from forcing ourselves to suck it up and look hopelessly p*ssy-whipped.  The problem is one of scale.  In other words, the more p*ssy-whipped a man looks, the greater the effect on a woman.  Throw in a giant “Welcome Home” balloon and a stuffed teddy bear with those flowers and a guy is certain to score before he pulls out of the airport parking lot.

 

 

Like anything else, however, that rule will eventually reach its exception.  Add a bunny suit and a “I’m Hoppy You’re Home” sign to the balloons and the flowers and she’s likely to skip baggage claim altogether in favor of a cab.  It’s a delicate balance to strike.  There’s always the possibility of showing up with a fist full of carnations and a modest Hallmark card in hand and being forced to stand next to the guy with two dozen roses and the Lavender Spa Indulgence Gift Basket or whatever.  That’s always the boyfriend of the woman your lady friend sat next to in Coach and chatted with during her entire flight.   

 

 

For other men simply minding their own business in the airport that sort of abject public humiliation is difficult to watch.  It’s like watching a hobo beg for his dinner or seeing a puppy stuck in the median on a busy road.  Sure, we’re all rooting for the guy, but then again, we’re glad it’s not us sitting there atop a big podium of ridicule in the name of meeting our Love Language requirements.  My advice?  Avoid the entire situation by keeping the flowers in the passenger seat and surprise her on the way home.  Of course, that assumes the windows are tinted.

      
 

3.         A Tiny Dog.  I witnessed this while running around the lake the other day.  An otherwise normal looking man and his attractive wife or girlfriend was walking toward me as I ran toward them.  As they got closer I noticed that the man was carrying a Chihuahua in a pouch in his right arm while holding the woman’s hand with his left.  I felt compelled to stop and remind him how foolish he looked but I thought better of it.  There’s simply no saving a man who’s willing to do that, I reasoned. 

 

 

I blame the toy dog carrying trend on that spoiled, talentless C word, Paris Hilton.  What’s beyond me is how it migrated from a vapid bore like her to the male species on my jogging trail.  I can think of nothing that could possibly make that situation more emasculating.  Real dogs are too big to carry around while simultaneously holding your wife’s hand.  If a man feels compelled to carry around something small and hairy in a pouch in public, he should start with his testicles. 

 

 

4.         Feminine products at grocery store.  This has to be the Holy Grail of things a man should never be seen carrying.  This one, however, is not entirely within the control of the adversely affected man who has undoubtedly been forced to venture into the nether regions of the store aisle innocuously labeled “Feminine Products.”  Any woman who sends a man on an errand like that is unquestionably a sadist. 

 

 

I know I share the sentiment of most men when I say that I can’t even walk through the living room while the Special Lady Friend and Soon-To-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin is filling her estrogen tank watching whatever “men are evil, women are victims” movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney and Treat Williams on Bravo or the Lifetime Network and a commercial for any product beginning with the letters “Vag” is on the screen much less stroll through an aisle filled from floor to ceiling on both sides with them.   That sort of pressure is tough for a guy to absorb.  It’s super uncomfortable---or is it super plus?  You’re welcome.   

 

 

Aside from the obvious lack of “equipment” from which to form a frame of reference in  the selection process, that aisle appears to get longer and higher every time I walk by it on my way to the beer section.  The choices are overwhelming.  Every time I pass that aisle I literally picture myself walking into a giant, unfriendly uterus.  I feel like Charlie Bucket floating uncontrollably toward the giant fan atop the Fizzy Lifting Drink Room in Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  As disturbing as that is, it’s the truth.  I’m certain Freud would have an opinion about that, but that’s an entirely different blog post. 

 

 

My point?  My point is that in the event a man is goaded into actually heading to the store to purchase a Vag-related product for his special lady, it is a given that he will be provided a piece of paper with a very specific description of the product and the correct size, color, and possible location of it in the aisle.  Women are particular creatures and will not relinquish the performance of such a profoundly important gender-specific errand like that without being able to control the details of its execution. 

 

 

After all, you wouldn’t want a Chevy if you had the option of getting a Mercedes, would you?  Taking that metaphor a bit too far, you wouldn’t want a Mack Truck when all you need is a Mini Cooper.  That’s like trying to stuff a bag of cotton balls into a keyhole or, conversely, like throwing a teddy bear into Niagara Falls.  As is the case with diamonds, size matters. 

 

 

Now that I’ve beaten that point to death  (I have a REALLY inappropriate joke here, but even I am going to censor myself for fear of offending all of your delicate feminine sensibilities, but man do I hate to waste a good joke), I’ll explain my problem with the Vag List.  Carrying around a list that says “Kotex Sleek Tampons with Perfect Touch Grip, Regular, Assorted Colors, 18 Pack” (Thanks, Google) is a horrifying proposition for any man. 

 

 

Factor in Murphy’s Law and I’d probably get into a fender bender and be forced to take down the other driver’s insurance information on that piece of paper as the driver and a police officer stood over my shoulder.  I’m sure I’d hear things like “boy you really absorbed that impact” or “this accident is your fault, period” or “it’s too bad you didn’t have the Perfect Touch Grip on your steering wheel.”  Down the road, I’d be forced to produce that piece of paper to the other side in the event I was sued as a result of that accident.  The case would undoubtedly require a trial and 18 months later that piece of paper would be labeled “Plaintiff’s Exhibit 1” and be blown up on a giant screen in front of a packed courtroom.  I’d be called to the stand where I’d be forced to explain that list to 12 jurors missing their jobs in exchange for ten bucks a day.  Like I said, horrifying.  Do us a favor, ladies.  Please go to Sam’s Club and stockpile Vag-related products.  If there ever was any line of products that should be sold in bulk, those are the ones.       

 

 

Well, there it is.  Only you can decide if it was worth the wait.  Just so we’re clear:  I love writing this blog and I plan to do it as often as my often busy life will allow.  I’m grateful for all of you.  Keep clicking.  I’m traveling the remainder of the week, so keep me grounded and entertained with a comment if you can.  I’ll be back soon.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be carrying a toy dog in a bag on my way to buy maxipads.    DP