Bachelorette Andi Pre Season Rundown: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Well hello, Readers.  Yea, I know.  I still owe you that post-Easter post I promised.  All I can tell you is that it’s not for a lack of caring that it didn’t make it to print.  The lawyerin’ business is busy these days and I just haven’t had the time (more accurately, the energy) to sit down and write.  Hopefully, you’ve all been well over the past couple of months.  The good news is that I’m back.  The better news is that the profiles of the 25 raging metrosexuals vying for a potential shot at maybe one day becoming sort of engaged to our nubile bachelorette are posted. 

Before I give you the pre-premier rundown, I’d like to thank the ABC Casting Department, the ABC Wardrobe Department, and whoever airbrushed the headshots.  Your diligent work is tantamount to teeing up a softball on a pee wee field and then asking me to hit it over the fence with an aluminum bat.  Now, let’s get to it. 

Andrew, 30, Social Media Marketer.  He looks normal enough.  Cool, current job and comparatively benign head shot.  He hates it when a girl talks incessantly about herself and not enough about him.  That has the potential to bring up some PTFSD (Post Traumatic Fantasy Suite Drama) from Andi.  This guy is probably boring enough to make it past the first cocktail party. 

Bradley, 32, Opera Singer.  Haven’t we been down this road before? There are some major differences between this opera singer and last season’s opera singer.  For instance, Sharleen never wore pink and was comfortable with her masculine side.  This guy wears pink, dresses up and sings in theaters for a living, and loves Opera News Magazine.  I’ll go out on a limb and say Andi’s dad might have less in common with him than he did Juan Pablo.  On the plus side, both Sharleen and Bradley like men. 

Brett, 29, Hairdresser.  Good Lord.  Women go to the salon to complain about their husbands, not try and turn their hairdresser into one.  That’s like me heading to Hooters to propose to the hostess.  I suppose it’s possible for him to overcome the stereotypes that fit his job title, but the Captain and Tennille sweater and Bob’s Big Boy hairdo aren’t exactly helping.  His favorite “actor” is Ryan Reynolds.  Like the hair he styles, he’ll be cut.  

Brian, 27, Basketball Coach.  He’s the first one out of the gate who loves The Notebook.  Again, normal enough looking guy with an innocuous profile and a job that lends itself to caring about children.  If she’s not into money (and she doesn’t appear to be) he might stick around for a bit unless she can’t hear him over his loud, lime green t-shirt.  I’ll even give him a pass on picking John Grisham as his favorite author.  He might as well have said, “I love the stories in my coloring book.”

Carl, 30, Fireman.  A hoodie, Carl?  Come on.  Is he 5?  He’s a goofy looking dude who not only knows what a Lotus is, he counts it as his favorite flower.  That’s fantastic.  He and the opera guy should have some conversation starters aside from, “which one of us do you think will bang her in the Fantasy Suite?” 

Chris, 32, Farmer.  Nice hair.  His biggest date fear is Accidental Diarrhea.  I’ll have to assume he’s referring to his own spastic anus and not his date’s.  I’ll applaud him from coming back from what was likely a horrifying farm equipment accident.  Apparently, he lost his upper lip.  Let’s hope they don’t talk this guy into getting out of the limo wearing overalls and holding an ear of corn. 

Cody, 28, Personal Trainer.  Man, where do even begin with this guy?  He apparently borrowed his little sister’s yellow pocket tee and went to the Ed Grimley School of Hairstyling.  His favorite book is My Side of the Mountain.  Nice try, Cody.  I suppose we’re all supposed to believe he’s into coming-of-age books involving young boys but I think we all know it means he hasn’t read anything but the labels on his 1 gallon creatine supplement powder buckets since grade school.  I hope Andi keeps you around long enough so you can take your shirt off at the pool.  Just don’t dive in.  It would take the ABC interns weeks to clean up the slick of hair product on the water surface.  #exxonvaldez.

Craig, 29, Tax Accountant.  He’s a waifier version of Brian Austin Green who counts numbers in Iowa for a living.  I almost fell asleep typing that sentence.  Andi is likely to do the same before he even gets to the word “Iowa.” 

Dylan, 26, Accountant.  He’s a young, less pudgy version of Russell Crowe with a penchant for balance ledgers and a fear of his date being mute and having an awkward time.  If he stays away from the accounting babble and plays the Russell Crowe angle he’ll stick around.  His favorite drink is apple juice.  Maybe he can borrow Carl’s hoodie and eat a grilled cheese sandwich on his way to the bounce house place in his car seat.  

Emil, 33, Helicopter Pilot.  He loves twerking and thinks it’s romantic to give his girlfriend of 3 months a card with a description of everything they’ve done since the day they met.  Where I’m from that’s referred to as stalking.  ABC will be glad to have this guy around.  He’ll save them the cost of 10 helicopter pilots over the course of the season.   The macho job and the stories that inevitably go with it should keep him around a while unless he’s a chach. 

Eric, 31, Explorer.  This is the guy who passed away in a paragliding accident.  Frankly, he’s a normal, good looking guy who died way too young.  That’s a shame.  The upside is that he apparently died doing something he loved.  Let’s pray his family takes some comfort in that.  I’m sure ABC will overdo it with the “A member of the Bachelor Family passed away” montage, but let’s give them some leeway.  This isn’t exactly par for the course. 

Jason, 35, ER Doctor.  Good job, good smile, stupid hair.  He looks like Prince Valiant for crying out loud.  This guy has Andi’s dad’s favorite son-in-law written all over him.  That should get him some traction.  Just get a haircut, doc.  Maybe talk to Brett before the cocktail party. 

J.J., 30, Pantsapreneur.  Hey, J.J. F-you for making me type “pantsapreneur”. . . twice.  Between the Jacques Cousteau-esque sweater and looking like Tony Robbins' illegitimate son, you could at least spare me the made-up career title.  

Josh B., 29, Telecommunication Manager. Pink shirt and boring behind the eyes.  He won’t stand out.  He’ll stand outside . . . waiting for the cab to the airport. 

Josh M., 29, Former Baseball Player.  First of all, being a “former” anything does not constitute a “current” occupation.  Second of all, did the ABC Wardrobe Department take all of these guys’ shirts and wash them in hot?  He appears to be wearing a collared wetsuit. 

Marcus, 25, Sports Medicine Manager.  Vague career description aside, this guy is a tool.  The five-o’clock shadow is two hours out of control, the profile is about as generic as it gets, and the meticulously manicured blonde hair is a bit too Aryan for my tastes.  He also doesn’t consider himself “the party starter.”  Translation, he’s about as exciting as a tax accountant from Iowa. 

Marquel, 26, Sponsorship Salesman.  Finally, a guy who can pull of a flashy sport coat.  He’s on the younger side but he’s got a Master’s degree and a confident look about him.  Andi might be interested, but he won’t be. 

Mike, 29, Bartender.  Poor man’s Chris Hemsworth.  He loves his job because it’s fun and easy and he gets to meet lots of people (read "women") and has summers off to travel.  He also skis or snowboards every day.  Wow.  He has settling down for marriage written all over him.  This guy’s greatest achievement was Chris Hemsworth getting cast as Thor.  I’ll bet you 50 bucks I know what Mike was for Halloween last year. 

Nick S., 27, Pro Golfer.  He looks like Adam Levine’s older, balding brother.  And what's with the fake dog tags?  The over-groomed facial hair and tiny purple v-neck don’t exactly scream manliness.  If she’s into metrosexual “pro”golfers he’ll do well. 

Nick V., 33, Software Sales Executive.  He’s way too homely to not be rich.  His profile implies that he’s smarter than the stupidity he’ll be required to bathe in this season.  He wishes he “could be some sort of performer or something.”  Hey, Nick.  You’d better figure out that whole performance thing just in case you make it to the Fantasy Suite.  He could be this season’s Frank.  ‘Member that guy? 

Patrick, 29, Advertising Executive.  His profile says he played pro soccer.  Know why he’s not a “former pro soccer player”?  Because he has a job.  That’s a good start.  Normal guy with a normal profile.  I’ll look past the aqua shirt.  At least it fits him.  He also shaves.  That should distinguish him from the rest of these bozos. 

Ron, 28, Beverage Sales Manager.  Also known as “the other black guy”.  Like the first black guy, he’s a good looking guy with a confident smile and a job.  He also appears to have big connections in the Caribbean, which means he might be worth hanging out with for a while.  If Andi ditches him, perhaps Harrison will befriend him.  He hates it when his date “tries too hard.”  Based on her showing in the Fantasy Suite last season, I doubt he’ll have any problems with Andi. 

Rudie, 31, Attorney.  Pink undershirt guy who could be a stand in for David Copperfield.  He went on a surfing trip with his Uncle Mitch and he used the word “amazing” in his profile.  Did anyone else find Rudie with an “IE” annoying or is it just me?  That’s just sillie. 

Steven, 30, Snowboard Product Developer.  Bitchin’.  He surfs and snowboards for a living and loves to teach kids to surf and snowboard.  I hope this guy wins.  His hair is job-appropriate.  He gets a pass.  I hope he makes it to the Fantasy Suite. 

Tasos, 30, Wedding Event Planner.  Are they serious with this guy?  My guess is that he’s not going to be planning a wedding with Andi.  Tasos? 

Well, there it is.  I’m looking forward to a lot of material this season.  Do women Andi’s age really look for over-trimmed, over-ironed, and over-feminized guys like these?  John Wayne would be so upset.  Hell, I’m upset about it. 

As always, thanks for either sticking around or checking back in just in time for the big season.  Follow me on Twitter @someguyinaustin or drop me a note in the comment section below.  We’ll talk soon.  In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be washing my colorful, v-neck undershirts in scalding hot water while simultaneously trimming my facial hair into sharp angles.  DP 

   

  

A Little Post Season R&R

Hello, Readers.  Some Guy is just checking in today.  A new post is in the works and will be up shortly after Easter.  Enjoy your weekend!  We'll talk soon.  DP

Off Season Post: Reflections from 30,000 Feet

Hello, Readers.  I suppose a “surprise” is in order.  Yes, Some Guy has found Some Time to write last week prior to the big (and probably anti-climactic) Bachelor finale while your DVR’s were bristling with anticipation. 

So, what was the occasion, you ask?  When I began to write this I was somewhere over the great state of Colorado at a cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet traveling around 498 miles per hour—at least that’s what my Flight Checker told me.  My usual modus operandi from my comfy and well-earned 1A seat is to throw some Red Dirt music (Google it) on the iPod and then slumber away until I’m inevitably awakened by the slowing of the plane on its approach into Austin Bergstrom International Airport in my beloved Austin, Texas.

   

Below is the fruit of my labor on that flight. 

Normally I sleep on planes.  Like Pavlov’s dog, there’s something about grabbing a seat that makes me sleepy.  Not just any seat.  Usually a right hand aisle seat is my preference when I book because I’m left handed and I can’t stand being crowded on my left side.  Even in first class, I feel most comfortable with a clear left side—another one of my quirks.  Even Mrs. Some Guy knows to walk to my right and sit to my right.  Normally, however, I sleep.   

Today, I’m in a different mood.  I’ve spent the last 4 days with my twin brother and 4 of my closest friends in Vail followed by a quick one night stint in Denver due to the fact that their airport is closer to Kansas than it is to downtown Denver.  It might even be in Kansas.    

I suppose the nature and substance of the trip can collectively be described as what most of you would refer to as “A Guys’ Trip,” but it occurred to me up here in the deep blue something that---for me anyway—the one or two times a year that I’m fortunate enough to find the time to get away and meet up with my friends in such exotic locations as Vail, Vegas, or New Orleans these trips amount to more than ritualistic male bonding sessions involving a lot of jokes about the (alleged) filthy reputation of one’s mama and binge drinking. 

Granted, there’s no shortage of the former or the latter; however, even that aspect of the trip has its own unique, albeit distorted, value.  Before I get to my point, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the spouses on the other end of the cell phone.  It’s worth noting that there are three options in response to the question,

“[Insert generic platitude] we’re thinking of heading to Vail in March for a few days, is there any problem with that?”  

The options include: 

1.         No f*cking way;

2.         I’m not comfortable with it but you can go.  However, from the date of this notice to a date well past your return that only I know, I will passive-aggressively inject my hostility into every aspect of our relationship; or

3.         I don’t understand these trips but I understand and love you and I respect your friends.  Go, have fun, and please check in to let me know you’re safe. 

I’ll only speak for myself and not the others, but it’s fair to say that while I am lucky (and I mean lucky) to have a spouse who currently subscribes to Option Number 3, not all of the guys do. 

Thank you, Mrs. Some Guy.  These trips—whether you ‘get’ them or not---are invaluable to my sanity, peace of mind, and, in turn, invaluable to the effort I gladly put into my role as Mr. Some Guy.  And yes, I took my wedding ring off and put it in a safe place when I went to bars so I wouldn’t scratch it.  I’m kidding.  (She hates that joke.)

Now, let’s get to the point:  Friends.

Christopher Hitchens wrote, “[a] melancholy lesson of advancing years is the realization that you can’t make old friends.”    

Now, I know my usual perspective is the male/female relationship, but humor me here for a bit and let me explain how these male friends I’ve known for the better part of my adult life (and in the case of my twin, 9 months before it began in earnest) and I can derive great pleasure in insulting each other in the most debased and inappropriate ways, sticking each other with large bar or taxi tabs, laughing uncontrollably at legitimately painful injuries (we’ll get to that later), and simultaneously strengthen a shared love for one another that none of us—if our lives depended on it—would openly admit, much less be able to articulate. 

The truth is that there are many people who, at certain times in our lives, stand squarely in the center of our world.  These people enter our lives regularly and they are the most important thing in our lives at the moment they occupy that precious space.  

However, with age, experience, and exercise of the introspection necessary to gain perspective it becomes abundantly clear that the majority of these people’s influence over our lives is temporary and that it is more often their departure from our lives rather than their presence in them that holds significance. 

First girlfriends, mean bosses, chatty co-workers, and casual acquaintances have profound influence over our daily lives; however, their importance in the grand scheme of our lives often dwindles over time as we hit each stepping stone and land, firm footed toward the next phase of our lives.

The conundrum is value, I suppose.  And what seems to be the problem is one of both perspective and myopia.  Most of us live our lives within the confines of our immediate perception and fail to even consider the possibility that there exist infinite possibilities over the lip of the horizon.   

The harsh emotional accessories of life we bear like tumors are inevitably heavier than the problems they portend. The value of these temporary people, these harsh emotional accessories, is always defined by the power they possess over us.  They are like heavy overcoats.   

There are many heavy overcoats in our lives.  Friendship is not a heavy overcoat.  It is a freshly washed cotton shirt or a favorite playlist on your iPod.  It is beef stew on a cold day or a cold beer on a hot one.  It is soft while life is hard.  It is a safe place to fall.    

This is why friendship cannot be undervalued.  It cannot be dismissed, nor should it.  The people in our lives we can call true friends are rare:  old friends more rare. 

I have been blessed with a small group of friends like this and I am grateful for the limited, but meaningful time I carve out of a 365 day hustle to spend with them.   

“Seek not the favor of the multitude . . . But seek the testimony of few; and number not voices, but weigh them.” ― Immanuel Kant

Kant, like Hitchens, understood that there are precious few people in our lives who actually matter.  And when you’re lucky enough to find them, they are worth holding on to forever.  

C.S. Lewis put it another way in The Four Loves.  “I have no duty to be anyone's Friend and no man in the world has a duty to be mine. No claims, no shadow of necessity. Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

For those of you who care, the difference between the philosophies of Lewis—a towering Christian apologist---and Hitchens—an ardent and unapologetic atheist—is about as subtle as the Grand Canyon.  Yet, friendship is their common ground.  Perhaps I’m overstating it, but I find the irony very telling. 

I spent the better part of the weekend in various stages of a beer buzz wandering through Vail Village defending my mother’s honor.  There’s something very liberating about being truly known by the people around you.  Under normal circumstances that’s tantamount to walking into a crowd naked; however, because the trust of many years of friendship is there, there is no fear.  No shame.  Just security.  There is a happiness that grows out of knowing that no matter how severe the attack on one’s maternal roots, there is, as I said before, a safe place to fall. 

I won’t belabor the point.  Rather, I’ll end with an anecdote that I believe sums up perfectly what I’m trying to communicate here.

As y’all know, I grew up in the Lone Star State—southeast Texas to be exact.  The closest thing we have to snow on Christmas down there is those Styrofoam packing pellets protecting our Christmas gifts.  

I also didn’t grow up with any money.  Ergo, I’m not a snow skier.  However, the Mrs. is quite the ski bunny and I’m what would probably be described as “the outdoor, adventurous type” if I were to create my Profile or whatever it’s called.  She talked me into trying and I enjoyed the hell out of it.  Still, although I’m athletic, I’m not a good skier . . . at all. 

Flash forward to me all geared up riding a gondola up to the top of Peak Something in Vail with a pair of poles in one hand and a set of rented skis in the other.  My friend JV grew up in Golden and, as such, is more comfortable on a set of skis than he is in a pair of loafers.  My closest (and oldest) friend has lived in Colorado for the better part of 10 years in addition to skiing in college.  My college roommate (not Lenny, but the other one) grew up in Minnesota and has snowboarded for over 10 years as well.  In short, I was like a virgin partying with a few of well-seasoned Corinthian women at the local brothel.

That's me in the back there.  

I made it from the gondola to the ski lift and we all took off down the mountain with me bringing up the rear.  They quickly disappeared into the fog.  Oh, did I mention it was snowing too?  As I tried to remember my ski instructor’s mantra “French fries to speed up, pizza slice to slow down,” I tried the ole, side to side technique to get down the mountain without incident.  I’m a jump in and learn later kind of guy and my rationale was that the more I sucked it up and just went for it, the easier it would get for me. 

As I gained confidence, I gained speed down the mountain and decided to French fry it rather than pizza slice it down a semi-steep but hardly daunting section of the run.  I made it about halfway down before I heard my college roommate yell as he went flying by on his second run.   I knew the others wouldn’t be far behind.  At that moment I turned and instantly felt my skis stop abruptly in the snow.  The only problem with that is that my body didn’t stop with them. 

I landed squarely on my left shoulder and heard the unmistakable sound of my ribs cracking inside my body before sliding to a stop and thanking God that I didn’t land on my head.  

Then the pain started. 

As I lay there in pain, looking skyward, my friend JV skied up next to me.  “Are you alright?”  “Yea, I think so.”  “Come on, I’ll get you down the mountain."  And he did.  For the next few minutes, ribs tightening, I stayed on the capable heels of  my friend JV until he got me safely to the gondola. 

“I’ll find everyone and we’ll meet you at Vendetta’s for pizza.  You sure you’re ok?” 

“Yes (wince, wince), I’m good.”

After some pizza, we walked back to the condo to meet my brother—also a non-skier who (wisely, in retrospect) opted for Facetiming with his kids and listening to his iPod over landing face first in the snow at top speed.  

My oldest friend conveniently happens to be an ER Doctor.  We’ll call him CG.

SGIA:  Can you look at me?  I think I broke some ribs. 

CG:  (Laughing) Yea, JV said you ate sh*t. 

SGIA:  (wincing as he examined me)

CG:  Nothing is sticking out.  If they’re cracked there’s nothing you can do anyway.

SGIA:  So what am I supposed to do?  Give me your medical opinion.

CG:  Take some Midol and drink through the pain. 

JV:  Here (handing me a beer).  Maybe you can sue someone.

Twin of SGIA:  Pussy.

College Roommate:  (Hysterical laughter) How are you going to bang CG’s mama tonight? 

SGIA:  I suppose I’ll have to give up my spot in line.

Twin of SGIA:  Dibs.

All:  Laughter

And so it went for the rest of the weekend and beyond.  For the record, I opted for ibuprofen over Midol and I did “drink through the pain.”   Actually, the real pain didn’t set in until my flight on the way home.  It still hurts . . . a lot.   However, the broken ribs are much like the other tribulations that have entered my life since these friends have been in it:  temporary. 

These friends, however, are not.   Well, until they all find out I’ve been banging their mamas. 

Call a close friend today and thank that person for being in your life.  Take care of yourselves and the people around you who actually matter.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be trying not to breathe, sit, sleep, or sneeze.   Please don’t let me sneeze.  DP