HONEST NOTES

Coming Soon...

2009-10-05T17:30:00.002-06:00

Let's be honest... We'll be back sooner than you think.

-HN

Pardon The Delay

2009-07-27T00:48:00.002-06:00

Honest Notes will be back on Wednesday, maybe even earlier if time allows. Hope you all had a great weekend. -HN

Better Bundle Up

2009-07-22T02:11:00.001-06:00

Let's be honest... Fashion is as much about functionality in daily life as it is an expression of style and personality. The choices made in attire serve as a uniform, whether for business or pleasure, that identify each person in that moment of time: the greasy jumpsuit of a mechanic, the skinny black jeans and American Apparel t-shirt of a hipster, or the wrinkled and rolled-up dress shirt with loosened tie of a claims adjuster. Of course, part of fashion is also incorporating certain pieces into a different context so as to blend in or stick out such wearing as combat boots as part of a casual outfit. The boots may appear to clash but they are not a superfluous detail in that footwear is a genuine necessity in the wearer's day. Unfortunately, however, there are those who add items, items which would otherwise be considered utterly normal, for the sake of completing the outfit they see in their heads when the context is simply questionable: multiple wristwatches on the same arm, multiple polos worn over each other in a "layering" effect, or one of the bigger offenders, wearing jackets, sweaters, or coats accompanied with shorts.

There is so much that needs to be comprehended with this travesty that Tylenol must surely be drooling at the thought of the possible revenue generated by the mere attempt to explain this mismatched combination. For the sake of time and simplicity, consider only the meteorological implications: just how cold is it that someone would need to layer themselves with a shirt and jacket but then somehow forget to cover the rest of their body? Or is that is just too hot for their legs to handle what their upper torso can with ease? Perhaps it was a hot day that quickly turned for the worst in the form of a sudden cold snap that caught them off-guard save for the cardigan that they conveniently packed with them but that they would normally only bring out during Christmas when the windchill is in negative territory. Maybe it was an unplanned January trip from the Virgin Islands to Newfoundland on the exact date for laundry day.

No one really cares what you wear but please stop treating your closet like a goddamn costume shop. You don't live in Milan, Paris, or in the unit across the hall from the Satorialist so just stop reaching for things out of your ass hoping that the next stab in the dark you make will be treated as avant-garde, let alone at all seriously, instead of the lotto quick-pick that it really is. It's just so fucking simple: if it's hot dress like it, if it's cold dress like it. People aren't looking at you thinking that you're cool enough to pull that down parka, short-shorts, and sock-less loafers, they're looking at you wondering what you did with your earmuffs, Casper & Friends coloring book, and court-appointed chaperone.

Wherever I May Roam

2009-07-19T02:02:00.000-06:00

Let's be honest... It would be amazing to pick up an instrument and without any prior experience be able to play lick for lick, beat for beat the same configuration of notes, tone, and accentuation as world-famous musicians. Imagine, putting oneself in those god-like shoes, either alone or in front of one's peers, from the very comfort of a living room. Recent gaming technology grants such virtual power and unsurprisingly it is a runaway hit that originally began as simple guitar interaction but has evolved to include a full band. The game series even continues to expand its song library from The Beatles to The White Stripes so as to involve multiple generations of rock fans. Seemingly, the sky is the limit for music-loving gamers; unfortunately, however, the "sky" is really just glow-in-the-dark cutouts shaped like stars and quarter moons randomly glued to the ceiling of their bedrooms save for the constellation that happens to read, "Mom loves you."

Sure, it's fun to hang out with friends and rather than playing against each other play towards a common goal but doing so under the assumption that it somehow makes somebody a musician or musician-like is a farce. You don't become the world's greatest lover by masturbating ten times a day so why would you think that practicing on a piece of plastic with plastic buttons will prepare you for the real thing? Hell, it takes most guitarists a while to get accustomed to not only a five-button setup that resembles nothing to actual chords or notes but also having to strum in a style that is dumbed down, even on "expert" mode, at best. With that being the case they should just rename the series, "DDR: Hands and Fingers Edition!" It's really nothing but a distorted fantasy when the irony is that all the time and money spent drunkenly fooling around after-hours with friends could have been best used to learn how to play these songs with wood and steel instruments in the first place, maybe even opening the possibility of playing something... original.

But fine, it's a total blast to sit in front of a TV, press some buttons in time with pretty colors on the screen, and hear yourself "play" and judged in front of a virtual crowd. I bet at parties you have girls come up to you requesting you to do "Master of Puppets" just so they can whisper behind your back, "Wow, did you see him solo? OMG. He must masturbate like ten times a day!" Right. Well, while you're off in the den showing how it's done to "Freebird" I'll be tuning a guitar in time for your girlfriend to tell me how she picked a song to distract you long enough to show me her tits while I play her "Yellow Ledbetter."

Saturday Night Fever

2009-07-15T01:07:00.002-06:00

Let's be honest... Everyone deserves to let off some steam after a long week at the 9-to-5. If only for a couple of hours once a week, people should be able to unwind with a friends and a few drinks so that their stress and obligations can be put on hold. Perhaps within the context of this leisure activity one can allow himself to be more open to possibilities: less-than-intellectual conversation, crude jokes, nostalgic music, and maybe even getting to know the person occupying the next stool. Romance does not have to be on the evening's agenda but if such an opportunity presents itself then why not throw caution into the wind? It all seems like such a casual event but do not be so quickly deceived.

Someone once wrote in an online article on the benefits of going out that, "Clubbing is what separates the men from the boys. You’re either one of the guys dancing with women on the floor, or you’re on the sideline with your Corona watching him. It’s difficult, but definitely possible." I would recommend that the only kind of "clubbing" this author experiences intimately be the business-end of the type endured by baby seals in the infamous Northern pastime. Apologies aside, square-toed shoes and extra-large barely-buttoned dress shirts purloined from a Mervyn's outlet paired with an overpriced Miller 64 hardly separate the "men" from anything other than their common senses and their cash from their wallets. I will just skip all together the part about the vomit-inducing "music" coming from a DJ whose tastes include whatever he can lick out of Ryan Seacrest's anus that week. One of the core issues that should bare the most importance is the thought of the club as a meat market where somehow one will distinguish oneself from one's carbon-copy clone brethren enough so that the night's prey takes notice or is danced with long enough, or be made drunk enough, to be left distracted and lower its defenses. And this is the "norm," this is the strategy, this is the natural game plan that goes unquestioned and undeterred.

It's embarrassing. Either you're too stupid to realize that it's loud, out-dated, pay-to-play live version of "Hot or Not" or you're too shallow to even care. Or maybe you're not that interesting in conversation outside of mouthing enough syllables to ask if she'd like another drink so you let your Al Gore-like dancing and roofie coladas do the talking for you. If it's a bit of fun and companionship you're after then find a place with a bottom line that is just that instead of waiting in a long line to pay $20 for the chance to play in their sandbox. Go have a good time but skip the douchebaggery of lousy club drinks, creepy dudes complaining about the sword fight they've unknowingly created themselves, and the person whose life ambition is pressing "Next" on her iPod while sitting behind the speakers. Fuck, you do so much better than that.

Dressed to Kill

2009-07-12T03:46:00.004-06:00

Let's be honest... there is little as classic and timeless as a man in an immaculate, well-fitting suit. One can almost feel the genuine pride he puts into calmly buttoning each shirt hole, one by one, choosing the right tie while using the right knot with just a touch of slack, and then facing himself in the mirror while taking care to lightly brush off stray pieces of lint that may have attracted themselves to the fabric since the last time it was pressed. Everything has come together in harmony as he sits down, reaches forward, and begins to tie his Chuck Taylor sneakers. Wait, what? All that effort cheaply thrown into the pyre because of a pair of shoes... for what reason?

Actually, there are a number of feasible reasons; take for example the case of Coaches Vs. Cancer Suits and Sneakers Awareness Week that took place earlier this year that had basketball coaches around the country raise money and awareness for the American Cancer Society simply by wearing sneakers when they would normally wear a pair of dress shoes. Other examples of situations where one would choose sneakers over dress shoes would be because of a lack of time, a lack of memory, or a lack of sobriety. That would be about it.

Rules in fashion encourage those to constantly challenge its boundaries, but they're also there to encourage you not to look like a complete fucking tool. We get it, you want to look all dressed up and proper without sacrificing the real you who plays by his own rules and who just because puts on a suit doesn't mean is one. Give us a fucking break. Hell, even as great as promoting a cause like cancer awareness is even the cancer society knows what a complete fucking eyesore sneakers with a suit is, that's why they do it to get attention in the first place and also why they know to keep that shit limited to a fucking week. So stop being such a "rebel" by copying what you saw some cokehead douchebag celebrity wore on a red carpet that one time back in '99 and put on some real shoes. Here's $5, run over to Payless before someone sees you like this, dumbass.

Blues Brothers

2009-07-12T00:57:00.000-06:00

Let's be honest... Sunglasses are the epitome of instant style. They project a sense of mystery while also serving to protect the eyes from harmful ultraviolet rays. So many media icons have relied on them throughout the years as their signature from Roy Orbison to ZZ Top, Tom Cruise in "Risky Business" to Arnold Schwarzenegger in "Terminator 2." Indeed, shades have proven to be a lasting fixture in the arsenal of cool but their effectiveness and credibility quickly diminishes as the sun sets on the horizon. Who are these people who have never appeared to have received the memo regarding the nightfall, who press forward plastic-to-nose in mocking defiance of the sun?

It's unknown how exactly this phenomenon came to be. Are people mimicking their musical idols Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder or are they simply paying homage to their favorite 1980s horror movie, "They Live?" However ludicrous the explanation, it's difficult to deny the utter pretentiousness exuded by these people regardless if the sunglasses are worn ironically or otherwise; it's dark yet they're wearing sunglasses.

So really, just take them the fuck off already. You'll just be saving time in the long run since you'll need to have them off by the time the police department takes your mugshot and books you on soliciting sex from a minor anyhow.

Apologies

2009-07-09T02:50:00.002-06:00

Things have been a bit busy lately, today's edition was late and Sunday's never showed. There'll be a 2x1 on Sunday to make up for the lack of effort.

Thanks for continuing to read.

Cheers,
HN

Loosen Up

2009-07-08T23:59:00.001-06:00

Let's be honest... There is nothing funnier than fashion trends that come out of Williamsburg, unless of course it's a fashion trend out of Williamsburg featured in a Wall Street Journal article about four years too late. What is on tap for their next issue, supporting a charity while looking trendy with a LIVESTRONG bracelet accessory?

But skip past the obviously slow news day at WSJ headquarters and focus on the meat and bones of the matter: skinny jeans. Testicular ischemia-inducing denim leggings are not anything new. They were popular in the 1960s, reborn in the 1980s, and like clockwork have come back again in the 2000s; some would even argue that they have never really gone away since their initial popularity and have survived year by year traveling from one niche to another. Nonetheless, when the mania reaches a peak as it has (or did) in the past few years it is hard not to notice and create a definite opinion when confronted with it on a near-daily basis.

Let us be clear: we're not talking about slim jeans, rather those pairs of you-can-see-my-leg-veins-through-the-denim, do-you-think-this-lump-on-my-penis-could-be-malignant, I-hire-dwarves-to-hand-sew-denim-to-my-body-every-morning jeans. Proponents claim validity in the aesthetic behind buzz terms like "clean profile" or "Dior-inspired" similar to the way the public justified the castration of young boys in the Middle Ages so as that they later be hailed as angelic Castrato singers. Undoubtedly, it's not just a look, it's a lifestyle.

Look, you're not circa-1960s Mick Jagger or Iggy Pop, you walk about as "normally" as a samurai-era previously foot-bound Japanese woman, and are you completely sure you're comfortable with publicly displaying that Rolo you call a dick? Ironically, those jeans should actually be freeing up more oxygen-enriched blood to flow to your head to better enable you to realize just how fucktarded you look.

Home of the Free

2009-07-01T02:18:00.002-06:00

Let's be honest... The United States of America has been a pillar of democracy since its inception over two hundred years ago. Countless men and women died to establish this country and its values while more continue to die in its protection. Regardless of sex, religion, ethnicity, or political affiliation its citizens are granted equal unalienable rights. But overlooked are these immeasurable sacrifices and Constitutional liberties by those nationals who find comfort in romanticizing the governments of other countries while criticizing their own using information they loosely gather from Twitter updates and their local neighborhood conspiracy-blogger barista.

It is safe to say that a healthy majority of these people have never left the sanctuary of their air-conditioned Urban Outfitters to step foot on a battlefield or be stationed halfway across the world years on end far away from their friends and families. They glamorize countries that have never gone to war or have higher rates of literacy. They blame problems, ones they do not personally face nor fully understand outside of Fox News soundbites, on one political party or another different from their own. They lament how other countries, never bothering to specifically mention an example, are somehow above these domestic issues without actually knowing the logistics of the countries' politics let alone are able to name their respective heads of state.

It begs the question, "When did it become cool to despise the country to which you were born?" Is the grass really that much greener or is ignorance merely bliss?

Honest criticism is an attribute so important that our forefathers found it crucial to protect it under federal law as a basic right; without it we would remain stagnant, sheltered, and blinded (Ed: and this blog would sincerely suck ass.) An honest voice should be a welcomed guest to every occasion, good or bad. But where is this sense of honesty in a person with such strong negative opinions based on such minimal, if not also misunderstood, information? Is it really that much easier to tune out, give up, and tell people you can't wait to get back to Europe where people really know how to live?

Look, every country, including the one in which you were raised, is flawed but it's the only one you have. Accept it and treat it as you would a family member. Just stop joining the club, drinking the Kool-Aid, and wearing your free "Nader '12" t-shirt when you couldn't even name a president past Bush that isn't featured on currency. Show a touch of respect, hell, maybe even some pride, for the people and the home which have allowed you to be free to open your mouth long enough to be the clueless dick that you are. Don't worry, either; your friends know who you are and have long ago uninvited you to their bbqs and firework displays. But hey, you were probably too busy making plans for Bastille Day, anyway.

Happy Fourth of July from HONEST NOTES. God bless America.

Guest Series: Hipsters

2009-06-28T12:12:00.001-06:00

Let's be honest... We all know an open bar is a key feature of any organized gathering. In fact, the dynamic of the party is completely dependent on the open bar. Sometimes a certain brand of beer will sponsor an event, and whether it’s a good brand or not is irrelevant; it's free booze. However, a party thrown by a hipster guarantees that only one bartender will be on staff, resulting in over-crowding and impending sobriety. But the hipster attendees will actually be ok with this. Forgive the impatience, but while you wait in a 45-minute line for your warm Red Stripe, I’m going to go next store and spend $2.50 for a pint.

Submitted by: AM

Guest Series: Hipsters

2009-06-24T00:01:00.000-06:00

Let's be honest... the real reason you pretend to enjoy blue-collar swill like Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon isn't because you empathize with the working class, nickel-and-dimed Americans who also imbibe the beverage, it's because you're a cheap bastard.

Look, I know things are pretty bad -- even the trust funders are being priced out of Brooklyn and forced to move to Bushwick, or worse -- get jobs! But come on, you really can't knock back cans and bottles of that crap and say it tastes great. That shit-eating grin on your face -- from the looks of what you've been imbibing -- isn't ironic. There isn't a problem with being a tad economical in this climate. I mean, you already frequent the Salvation Army, so just admit that you're also a fan of "thrift beer."

Happy hours notwithstanding, and unless you're lucky enough to live in Portland, the microbrew (and unemployment) capital of the US [Ed. note: no wonder there's so many hipsters there], you're going to be hard-pressed to find a drink that tastes great for the price. Why do you think you frequent so many gallery openings? Is it to support your fellow bohemians, or enjoy the free booze? The correct answer is most likely the latter. Why? BECAUSE REAL PATRONS ACTUALLY BUY THE ART.

But listen, I know John Deere shirts and trucker hats have long gone the way of the pleated pant. I'm not calling you posers for popularizing lo-fi ales, all I am saying is that if you opt to drink shitty beer, don't go thinking to yourself that sympathizing with the working poor will make it go down any better. It's ok to cut corners here and there: coke is an expensive habit to maintain.

Submitted by:JDL

Fathers Day

2009-06-21T06:00:00.000-06:00

Let's be honest... A wise man once told me, "Any sonuvabitch can have a kid but it takes a real man to be a father." So use today to give a nod to the father or fathers in your life; if he happens to be your biological half then you should be so lucky. Make those twenty-four hours meaningful to show gratitude for a year-round job that is always on-call, never on vacation, and is typically under-compensated with ugly macaroni art and shitty ties. Just what would we be without them?

Happy Fathers Day.

Friends of Haynes

2009-06-17T04:32:00.004-06:00

Let's be honest... Automobiles are moving symbols of machismo. They indulge man's desire of independence and adventure. They're boisterous, dirty, smoky, hot-headed centers of attention. They'll fearlessly go as fast and hard as they please without regard to the safety of others. Yet, for as much as they are driven to serve as exaggerated reminders of fleeting mortality there are still owners who treat them as air-conditioned boxes, nothing more than four-wheeled stereos, without the slightest worry in discerning the difference between an air filter and air freshener.

Checking the oil, adding antifreeze, jump-starting the battery... The most basic of routines and still some men would rather camp out overnight for pit tickets to the next Lilith Fair than attempt to solve the veritable Rubik's cube waiting underneath the hood. At what point did they stop caring? At what point did cars become so reliable and automated that they became excuses for ineptitude? Do not look to the sculpture of metal, glass, and plastic for clues; in the century of its existence not much has changed as the basic necessities of breaks, gas, tires, and a steering wheel are all still there. No, look to their resigned owners whom are content for even the smallest maintenances with leaving their vehicles to strangers with tools much the way a parent would trust a random individual off the street with watching their newborn for a few hours and changing his diaper.

It is not to say that our Y chromosome comes equipped with the proper information with which to overhaul a transmission, rather, common sense dictates that specialized repairs involve specialized tools and training. Common sense also grants us the permission to seek help when conflicts of schedule and urgency disable our hand in the matter. However, as men when caught drowning we should not instinctively reach for the lifesaver but kick our legs and flail our arms as an exercise in self-sustainability and survival. Perhaps in picking up that wrench we might learn a little more about ourselves and the machines of which we've grown fond. So put down the AAA card and your cell phone, pull out the jack from the trunk, and fix that flat tire your-fucking-self instead of waiting around for a half hour just to have Jeff the tow-truck driver laugh in your face about being such a blatant pussy for not knowing how to remove a couple of lug nuts.

Guest Series: Hipsters

2009-06-15T03:17:00.002-06:00

Let's be honest... Some topics are simply too large to handle oneself; I am, of course, writing of the topic of hipsters. Luckily, a few friends have felt up to the task of tackling one of society's greatest social dilemmas by submitting their remarks on a variety of subtopics. I present to you, "Electronics":

Among your myriad collection of $3 old man trousers and Sunset Junction sunglass purchases, what's perplexing is where exactly you got the money to afford that $2700 Mac Book Pro. Its not like you’re running Final Cut, so what is it you’re actually doing that requires the performance of the highest end model? From what I understand, all you need is iPhoto and an internet connection to blog about the photo you took of the stray cat rummaging through discarded Taco Zone wrappers.
Submitted by:AM

When Joe Becomes Jolene

2009-06-10T13:12:00.001-06:00

Let's be honest... For the past twelve centuries, billions of people have partaken in the consumption of the product from the ritual of adding roasted, grounded beans to hot water, a deceptively-simple brew that has become a genuine staple for nearly every culture on earth. It wasn't until the 17th century, however, that experimentation began through the addition of sweeteners and milk. Sadly, it would not be too long before other societies and, more significantly, businesses would prove unsatisfied and bored with the restrained beverage; thus, the ice-blended abortion was dropped from its diseased womb.

The uncomplicated nature of the cup of coffee shares little with the characteristics of the ice-blended drink whose options can include the terms "one scoop," "soy," "no whip," and "light" among others. Yes, the eyes of the reader do not betray them for as mid-1990s fashionable it may be to for a young man to be seen handling what is essentially a milkshake in coffee's clothing, they are afforded the option of doing so while "actively" demonstrating concern for their waistline with the request of making it "light." Not all are gripped with this fear, however, and press forward undaunted on the Diabetes Express seeking fanciful flavors such as Mocha, Mintopia, Oreo Crumble, and Turtle, among others, to satiate their sweet tooth. How much more masculine can one get than hurriedly cramming their favorite candy snacks into a blender with ice, milk, flavored sugar powder, and, of course, a shot of coffee as one would not want others to confuse this with an item from their childhood malt shop instead of the adult drink that it is, all topped off with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?

And yet there are alternatives for even the hottest days this side of the solstice: the iced coffee and, for those seeking a dagger rather than a butter knife, the iced espresso. Ice was a non-existent commodity during the hundreds of years that coffee was consumed throughout the scorching Middle East; perhaps, then, it should be viewed as the luxury, and not the necessity, that is is. But hey, since people sometimes need their coffee milkshake might I point out that Coldstone's is next door, so can you please get the fuck out of my line so I can order my cup of coffee, "Irish it up" in the parking lot, and get on with my fucking life?

Look, Ma...

2009-06-07T02:24:00.002-06:00

Let's be honest... Every day men are pushed further and further towards the complete relegation of their meathooks: hands-free this, voice-recognizing that, and motion-sensing the other. And when we are finally allowed to curl and gesticulate our bony digits they remain fruitlessly bound to plastic-pebbled tablets and rubber-riddled joysticks. While our forefathers used brick and stone to construct town halls and churches, today our "monuments" are built virtually of transient ones and zeroes.

Our changing lexicon reflects our evolution towards inactivity. When was the last time someone said they had just returned from the "tool shed" to mean a site for storing hardware instead of describing some ultra-lounge along the Sunset Strip? "Screwdriver" is a form of unwinding after a long weekday and "Saw" is another deplorable installment of Hollywood's latest profit-seeking bowel movement. Their spellings have remained identical while their souls have been replaced to what a marketing company's most recent focus group has deemed relevant and hip.

Even the best of us can become complacent if we are not vigilant. Thankfully, under the luckiest of circumstances, there can be hope in a swift ass-kicking from our friends; my compadre at Secret Service was kind enough to offer his boot by way of a Pinewood Derby. Quickly, I got to work:

So use those appendages God gave you. Build, blister, bleed. Just fucking create.

Blog News

2009-06-03T21:41:00.000-06:00

I wanted to thank you for the kind words and general response the past few days. It would appear that even people I don't know in other countries have unfortunately chosen to waste their time reading my inebriated keystroke-lashings, and to that I thank them.

The plan for now is to update the blog on Wednesdays and Sundays so please stay tuned. Or don't, you're probably tanned enough from the computer monitor as it is.

-Albert (U. N. Owen)

Field Trips

2009-06-03T21:40:00.000-06:00

Let's be honest... Some guys define "commitment" as "the surgical reimplantation of the umbilical cord to a new maternal host."

We should celebrate the occasion of a person finding their equal in another but there should be clearly defined boundaries for both involved. How many of us have friends that use their significant other as a social home-monitoring bracelet? Children are a completely understandable factor in this circumstance; hell, that DVD player isn't going to turn on and play "SpongeBob" by itself. For the rest, however, their partner becomes the automatic excuse to preempt any attempt at fun by having to seek out prior permission.

Overheard when planning a recent outing to a weekend sporting event: " I'd like to go but I think my fiancee doesn't have plans which means I have plans."

And yet we remain friends with these people... Why? The reasons are simple: committed friends need single friends to remind them of places and times free from responsibilities and full of while single friends need committed friends to remind them why they're single in the first place. They co-exist as examples for each other.

The debate shouldn't be focused on whether a guy is trained into this position, openly sought out to be in this situation, or a combination of the two; instead, the discussion should be how to provide him with positive reinforcement and opportunities to act like the drunk lunatic originally befriended.

Heaven knows not all of us have not been able to grasp the concept of commitment for we drink half & half and live with the television permanently set on picture-in-picture; still, odds are we'll be naturally inclined to head down that path at some point and when that day comes we should all pray that those we call our friends have contingency plans for such an event. So come on, come out and have a beer with us and stop being such a pussywhipped little bitch.

Dress to Impress

2009-05-31T20:28:00.005-06:00

Let's be honest... You are not an MMA fighter, you do not listen to Pantera, you do not ride a motorcycle, nor have you ever enlisted in the SS. Why, then, do you insist on dressing in that manner?

Those overpriced articles of clothing do not instantaneously and continuously announce to others nearby that one's testosterone levels have reached near-Himalayan peaks. Yes, the rest of society was equally as shocked the first time they heard that fact back in 2003. One would think that a shirt would convey as much attitude as the "hardcore" imagery of skulls, demons, and tigers wish to portray but actually it works against itself as those subject to being within its proximity are fully aware that the cloth is not hiding the ink of many tattoos nor the muscle capable of transforming bone to dust.

Sirs, your clothes betray you. Any woman worth her salt sees straight through the facade and acknowledges you for who you really are: a weekend warrior who plays by his own rules at the stroke of five o'clock because nothing can contain him, his intravenously-induced energy drinks, and the urge to drunkenly exclaim "TAPOUT!" after a third Dos Equis. Within those set of rules that you hold so dearly, the first of which is that there are no rules, there cannot afford to be a gap in masculinity at any level regardless of how hard you cried in the darkness of your condo living room at the conclusion of Lifetime's Movie-of-the-Week that you "accidentally" TiVo'd. Sadly, those rhinestones, too, which are cleverly adorned to sparkle attraction your way do not appeal to a woman's fascination with shiny objects, rather, the glittering rocks evoke a response similar to that of seeing fresh sawdust piled up in a high school hallway after a lunchtime milk chugging contest.

Your male friends, or "bros," who claim to have your back are often of little assistance in this type of crisis; they went with you to the opening of the latest Michael Bay feature, helped you sneak back into Papas and Beer last spring break after getting thrown out based on a 20 year-old coed's accusation of being approached by a "creepy old guy," and even held your hand when you sat in the chair at Supercuts to get the mohawk you've always wanted to show your manager at Best Buy that simply because you're an assistant manager does not put you under his control. Therefore, your pals either are joining you as brothers of the tasteless cloth or long ago accepted you as the "mainstream but edgy" garden-variety tool into which you blossomed, neither of which aid you against your self-inflicted onslaught.

While the term "douchebag" may be heard when you enter a room so much so that you habitually glance down at your chest to check for a name tag, do not fret as salvation can be both quick and painless. All it requires is the purchasing and wearing of plain t-shirts which come conveniently in packs of three for under $10. Fucking buy some already, you look retarded.

When in Rome

2009-05-31T00:32:00.006-06:00

Let's be honest... It should be safe to assume that most people don't go to their barber and ask for a hand grenade and a blowjob, or to their local carwash and solicit a printout of sexual predators living in their area, or to their cobbler and request a discourse on applied astrophysics. Why is it, then, that some gentlemen feel the desire to adhere to their ritualistic ordering of cocktails, libations so dainty they would make a Sunday afternoon tea party crumpet blush, regardless of a bar's specialty or the presence of conscious females of proficient hearing and sight?

Overheard at a busy neighborhood watering hole known for its extensive beer and whisky bill of fare:
Bartendress: What'll it be?
Young Sir #1: Hi, can I get a Stella, a glass of water, no ice, and an Electric Lemonade.
Bartendress: Sorry, we don't make club cocktails.
Young Sir #1: What?
Bartendress: We don't make drinks that you'd order at a club. This isn't a club.
Young Sir #1: Well, what do you make?
Bartendress: We mix liquor plus water, soda, or juice.
Young Sir #1: (Relaying unnerving information to Young Sir #2 and others in his party) Ok, I guess he'll have a gin and tonic?
Bartendress: Any special kind of gin?
Young Sir #1: Well.

Poor Young Sir #2 had to settle for the lingering taste of juniper berries and quinine, a drink of satisfactory taste to the masses who wished to prevent malaria in the 18th century, instead of the soothing synthetic blue from the island he swore rhymed with "Morocco." A different night, perhaps. Young Sir #1 should be nominated for a Bronze Star for his effort if it weren't for his guilt by association for allowing his companion to order well anything.

The problem, friends, was not in the tropical drink itself but in the context; an Electric Lemonade could be the perfect accoutrement on a muggy day in the West Indies or a cool night at a local Tiki-themed establishment. No, the hiccup was in that the cocktail was his go-to choice in this scenario, behavior I would liken to the case of squashing a cockroach by instinctively reaching for a loaf of Wonder Bread.

Next time, play it safe and simply order a beer or a glass of something that contains a liquid or two of which at least one is 80-proof or higher. This isn't club night, stop looking like such an asshole.

Cheers.