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If I Still Blogged, This Post Would Be Called "I Was at Zach Braff's House Last Night"

2010-05-27T16:03:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago – back when "blogging" might still be listed on my Facebook profile under "activities" – Brooke got an invite to a book launch party for an author named Joshua Braff, brother of Zach Braff, who, hardly-incidentally-at-all, was hosting his brother's book launch party. Brooke forwarded the invite to me with a note saying, "We have to go to this, right?" to which I responded, "No duh."

The party was called for 9 p.m., and Brooke and I found ourselves standing on his corner at 8:55 p.m., due more to poor planning then uncontrollable excitement. Don't get me wrong, I really liked Scrubs. In 2004. And despite whatever revisionist hipster historians have to say about how Garden State is "quirkier than a coxcomb with a dandelion in his bonnet" (my ridiculous quote, not theirs), I still find it to be an entertaining movie. He rides a scooter! Anyway.

While Brooke and I are biding our time before going in, Brooke turns to me and says, "I bet it's not really Zach Braff's apartment. I bet it's some rental and they'll hang up movie posters and pretend it's his. He probably won't even be there." Cut to an elevator door opening onto "Zach Braff's" expansive apartment. If I had to describe it, I would say Wood. There was wood everywhere. Hardwood floors, wood barn doors, reclaimed wood walls, wood beams on the ceiling. Just lots of nice wood.

Brooke and I exit the elevator and are met by a tall guy wearing a tan fedora nearly identical to the one Brooke is wearing. He extends his hand for a shake: "I'm Zach Braff. Welcome. " Brooke, somewhat taken aback by the fact that it is indeed Zach Braff and he is indeed copying her signature style, shakes his hand and says, "Hi, wow. I didn't think this would really be your house." To which he responded somewhat confusedly, "Yes, this is my home. Have you met my brother Josh yet?"

Two things about this: One, rarely does a celebrity have the opportunity to be called a liar to his face in his own home by a complete stranger. (How quirky!) Two, the transition from "Hi, I'm Zach Braff" to "Have you met my brother Josh yet?" was way too obvious and curt. I get it, you don't want to be hogging the spotlight on your bro's big night. I think that's very astute of him. Admirable even. But here's the thing: You're Zach Braff. For better or worse, you're the reason most of these strange people came to your home tonight. No one was like, "We must go to Josh Braff's book party tonight. Too bad it's being held at his big brother Zach's apartment. Oh well." Just didn't happen. I mean, come on:

Is that the way it should be? Of course not. Maybe Josh's novel is very good. In fact, he said he wrote the book ". . . after hearing a story about a man who was an orthodox Jew, living in Long Island, who commuted to Times Square to run peep houses." I'm intrigued! But there's a reason the average person can name ten times as many current actors as they can current authors – because books are what we do to make pretend we don't love TV as much as we do.

So I shake Zach's hand and thank him for having us, and by doing so hope to plant the subconscious seed that he personally invited us to his home. (Brooke had to talk me out of bringing a bottle of wine, though I still contend that doing so would have gotten us invites to future parties, or at least a handwritten thank you note, to which I would have replied with another hand written thank you note thanking him for the thank you note, and so on and so forth until he broke down and took us to dinner.) Zach then said, "There's a bar over in the corner, please help yourself." He gets me!

After that we mingled a bit, gave ourselves the grand tour (his bedroom is separated from the large kitchen/living room by huge double doors – must be nice), and played with his dog (Brooke: "Do you think this is Zach Braff's dog?" Me: "Do you think that matters?"). After half an hour, the party filled up and I realized that my plan of becoming Zach's GF (Great Friend) was going down the tubes. We decided to leave, so we called for the elevator. After a few minutes, the elevator still hadn't arrived. Zach came by to see if everything was alright, and when Brooke told him that the elevator seemed to be stuck, Zach became visibly perturbed. I felt like kicking Brooke under an imaginary table and saying through gritted teeth, "Don't insult the man's elevator, we won't be invited back!" but it was too late. He was already on the phone with the front desk trying to get things sorted out. Sorted out for the two cranky guests who needed to leave RIGHT NOW even though Zach hadn't even BROUGHT OUT DESSERT YET. As I looked at him across the richly wooded room, politely negotiating a treaty to release the stagnant elevator, I realized Zach Braff and I would never be friends, unless maybe his sister designed a clothing line or his dad launched a line of artisinal colognes. So I did what any respectable guy would do: went to the bathroom, snapped a picture, then took the stairs.

It is a really romantic bathroom.

Things I Hate: No. 4

2010-04-28T17:50:00.002-04:00

After a man in an elevator told me to smile, I decided to start a series on Dan’s blog called 1001 Things I Hate. 1001 things? Well, yeah. I hate 1000 and 1 things, and I have a list.

Family Obligations

I recently conquered one of my greatest fears. No, not my fear of planes. Or the dark. Or dark planes. Or cold things touching my teeth (shudder). No, I conquered the fear of introducing Dan’s family to my family. Hmm, maybe “conquered” is not the right word. It’s more like acquiesced, was beat into submission, pummeled into the dark abyss where avoidance is no longer an option.

Those that know my family have often asked why I don’t blog about my father. Everything my Dad does is blog-worthy. In fact, I can summarize him with one anecdote: Last Halloween my stepmom, Theresa, dragged my dad to a haunted hayride where you walk through a spooky maze made of hay with a group. A 10-year-old boy ended up alone in my dad’s group. My dad told the kid not to be scared, to stick with him, that he would protect him. Minutes later, a Freddy Kruger-type psycho stumbled out of the hay and started chasing the group. Theresa tripped and landed on her butt. My dad – totally terrified – kept running, pushing the 10-year old aside while yelling “Every man for himself!”

(I know what you’re thinking. What if my dad reads this? And to that, another – shorter - anecdote: He once asked if he could email me something so I could print it and mail it to him. True story.)

So when Dan’s mom asked to have a family dinner, say, three years ago, it was a two-Klonopin moment. Like, How will this happen? How will Dan’s “normal” family (yes, Murphy’s – you totally get quotation marks on normal) meet my abnormal family (no quotes)? The solution seemed simple: I would have to tell the Murphy’s that my family disappeared in a mysterious waterpark incident.

And thus, The Elaborate Evasion began. We made plans and cancelled. We made plans and forgot. We made plans and told both set of parents different days and then, whoopsy-daisy, hit ourselves on the head. We even made actual plans and then subconsciously messed up the dates. We moved to Miami. And lo and behold, three-and-a-half blessed, family-meeting-free years passed.

And then, we got engaged.

This was it. The moment was upon us. There was no way – not with all my Machiavellian genius (and trust me, I pride myself on my Machiavellian genius) – I could dodge the family draft card. Dan’s family decided to have a small engagement celebration. And this was it, I decided. This was an out. Instead of Dan’s parents meeting my Dad, this would be a celebration of the children. Nobody would even remember to talk to each other in the midst of all the woo-wooing. Maybe I would even get pregnant for the occasion, really diffuse the situation (Ed note: No, I am not pregnant). So, after almost four years of our parents living THIRTY MINUTES APART, we caved and invited my dad to Dan’s parent’s house.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

You know how you build up something in your mind? And you think it’s going to be all bad and scary and horrible and then it’s not a big deal at all – like getting a shot at the doctor’s office or riding a roller coaster or the first day of school? This was nothing like that. This was every bit as horrible as I imagined. And here are some things that happened:

1. My dad has no problem with homosexuality. (Side note: He did recently tell me that he refused to use an enema because “What if I like it and it turns out I’m gay?”) But, say what I will about my parents (and I’ll say plenty), they’ve always been supportive – and liberal. They were onboard when I dropped out of college to pursue an acting career in Los Angeles. They didn’t judge when I went on tour with a country musician. And as far back as I can remember (probably when I was too young to understand), they said it was totally fine if I was gay. To be fair, in the way of the Jews, my mom said it was fine if I brought home a woman – as long as she was a doctor or a lawyer.

Anyhow, there was no discrimination in my house – except against the working class. So before we arrive at Dan’s parent’s I tell my Dad that Dan’s aunt is married to a woman, her partner. Thus we avoid any awkwardness about the two aunt scenario. Okay, check. I am on top of this. I am OK. I am going to make it through this.

We arrive. I immediately regret every decision I’ve made in my life that has led me to this point.

Dad meets everyone. Then Dan’s aunts and grandma walk in. I forget that Dad, who looks like a Jewish Dennis Leary, is now a little old and easily confused. Three women. Two Lesbians. He’s instantly confounded. “Hi! So you are? And you are? And you’re Dan’s aunt? And you’re both Dan’s aunt? And you’re with you? And… Oh. Oh!” That last “oh” was the sound of my soul dying. Later in the evening, as my Dad and Dan’s aunt are in the kitchen – at an event to celebrate my upcoming nuptials, mind you – he poses this doozy of a question: “So you two are married. What are the benefits of being married?” Like aside from the life-long commitment to love, honor, and cherish another human being? Sigh.

2. My dad has a new habit of taking a reusable plastic toothpick out of his pocket and using it. In public.

3. When we were talking about our friends' upcoming wedding in Arkansas, Dad said, “You know they kill Jews down there.”

4. The kicker of the evening was the ride back to the city. Dad graciously agreed to drive Dan, me, and my kickass, 19-year-old future-sister-in-law back to Manhattan. During the drive, Dad called Carla Bruni a sociopathic whore.

Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.

Thing I love: Magic.

13-Year Old Me Totally Hates This Random Kid

2010-04-15T15:18:00.004-04:00

Last night Brooke and I went to see Hair on Broadway. My good friend John works for the show's production company and he hooked us up with house seats. In return I plan on hooking him up with some schwag from my office, like toner or some witty repartee. (You're welcome, John!)

Of course, the production was terrific. Top notch acting and singing, dazzling set design, impressive hair. In lots of ways, though, the show seems dated – despite the fact that many of its central themes (war, peace, divisiveness, etc.) are so prevalent today. But to a crowd of people in 2010 watching a bunch of motivated hippies say, "Let's make paint signs and protest the draft!" is kind of confusing. Can’t we just create a Facebook group and promote it on Twitter? And should we really be organizing a march without bringing in some Marching Consultants to increase the reach and productivity of our protest? It's all so – unfamiliar.

However – and here's what they don't tell you in the Playbill (rated G for kids)– the show manages to pull it all together with the one central theme that is timeless, compelling, and timelessly compelling: nudity (rated R for thank you). Right at the end of the first act, everyone on stage strips down completely. Zero clothing. Wangs, boobs, junk, hoo-has – it's a veritable sex organ chef salad. I'd read the magazine articles; I knew it was coming. But I don't care who you are: Unless you've been in an orgy or frequent fringe Turkish bathhouses, seeing that many naked people at once is jarring.

Sitting in front of me was the tallest guy in the audience, possibly the world (or so it seemed to me in that moment). I tried to play it cool, like a thirty year-old consenting adult who has seen his fair share of public nudity, but when you're weighing things like "tasteful discretion" versus "a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see many attractive women, who were singing and dancing just a few moments ago, completely in the buff," craning your head to the side and maybe even lifting yourself up a bit out of your seat seems like a small price to pay for such an indulgence.

To the director's credit, the scene is staged perfectly. It's not like "NUDITY. (Curtain.)" There's a distinct pause in there, just enough for ones eyes to scan the group, linger when necessary, and come away with a feeling of satisfaction that the amount of nudity you have just absorbed is compelling and impressive without being show off-y. (Note: That "show off-y" part is entirely for the benefit of my generous friend who provided the tickets and the integrity of his impressive production. For my part, I would have worn a monocle – despite sitting in the sixth row – and even if they had performed the entire show buck naked, when it was all over I would still have bought the all-nude calendar and downloaded the Undress the Hair Cast iPhone app.)

So, sex organ chef salad. Mmm. Then comes intermission and Brooke and I don't really discuss the elephant's penis in the room because ~~we're~~ she's civilized. About ten minutes later, the lights dim a bit and the music starts up again, and while there's no one on stage yet I look to my left and in the aisle not fifteen feet away is one of the actresses from the show. And not to rank one character above another, but she was definitely the hottest one. And there she is in her crop top and low-cut jeans SLOW DANCING with a 13-year old kid from the audience. She's a solid six inches taller than him, so her hands are on his shoulders and his are on her bare midriff.

Now, let's just stop for a second and consider this. I don't know about everyone else out there, but I didn't see a real live naked girl until I was 16, which I think is pretty fair considering my poor choices in hairdos around that age. Here's this kid though, no older than 13, who moments ago saw not a totally naked girl, but like eight at once. And now, not TEN MINUTES LATER, one of those very naked girls is slow dancing with him. I, for one, am entranced. I can't stop staring at this kid who, to his credit, doesn't seem to have a visible erection. If it were me, not only would I have had a raging hard on, but I probably would have thrown up a little.

So there they are, gently swaying back and forth, and I notice that both their mouths are moving. Could they really be having a conversation? Not only could I not converse with girls at that age, but when a girl first took her shirt off for me I didn't talk to her for a week because I was afraid doing so would disrupt whatever made her take off her shirt in the first place and it would never happen again. But there was this kid, chit chatting away with a statuesque blond, presumably not about how, while scanning a Broadway stage from left to right some fifteen minutes ago, her vagina was the first he'd ever seen. I am baffled, truly dumbstruck. And more than that, jealous. Not because I wanted to be that kid in that moment (I'm marrying a girl who considers nudity a right, not a privilege), but because I wanted to be that kid 17 years ago – to be able to go into school on Thursday and tell my friends that I saw a woman's vagina and then danced with her. I imagine that night will be the best night of that kid's life for a long time to come, while my most memorable moment at the age of 13 was when I learned to pop a wheelie' (on a bike, not in my pants). I envied that kid for everything he was and everything he would become thanks to that one shining moment. (Note: The rest of this post is best read while playing this song.)

Then the music swelled and the cast started filling the stage. Their time was coming to an end; she was being called back to the bright lights. The big city. The two stopped dancing and looked into each other's eyes. Without a moment's hesitation, the actress leaned in and gave the kid a hug. Somehow he wasn't openly weeping with joy at that point, though I practically was. Then she turned and ran away from him, like so many other women will in the years to come, and as I watched him go back to his seat, head down, emotionally exhausted, all I could think was, "Savor it, kid. You may not realize it now, but what just happened here was, all things being equal, as good as life gets. These are, indeed, the times to remember."

I’m Going to the Non-Denominational Beach Ceremony and I’m Gonna Get Ma-a-aried

2010-04-08T15:48:00.008-04:00

Hey, it’s Brooke. Long time, no write. I’m not going to make excuses like Dan – cause let’s be honest, this isn’t my blog and I owe you people nothing. But today, I thought I’d write. Is it because my new position in corporate American is slowly sucking out of my soul? No, I love my job. Go team! It’s because sometimes people need a creative outlet where they can say things like cock-sucking, motherfucking whore bag, and not be censored, you know? Also, I’m so happy! To be engaged. And I wanted to share my first bride-ish experience: dress shopping.

See, every little girl dreams of getting married. Except me. I dreamed of living alone in a massive hotel suite, where I was beautiful, famous, and fascinatingly eccentric (a cross between Greta Garbo and Miss Havisham). And I had teams of servants would bring me anything I wanted, and I’d never have to make my bed. Ever. As I got older, I always prided myself on being a non-girlie girl. Not that I don’t like clothes and shoes – I do. But I don’t want to spend the day chitchatting with a girlfriend about her fight with some other girlfriend while shopping for said clothes and shoes. I want to drink scotch and shop online. So the idea of planning a wedding seemed, hmm, not fun. Daunting. Horrible.

Why not elope, you ask. There was just one problem. No, it was not Dan’s mom, who said to me a year ago, “I’m not sure what’s taking so long, but if you guys want to elope I support you.” Nor was it my dad, who when I call to say I have news, always shouts with joy, “You’re pregnant!” No, there was no family pressure. But here’s the thing: I like the nightlife. I like to boogie. And while the idea of picking out tablecloths or discussing the seasonal availability of hydrangeas makes me want to die, I did, it turns out, want to commemorate our marriage with more than a celebratory smoke and a pocket pair at the poker table.

So we decide to have a wedding. And I tell friend Kristen, who I wouldn’t call a girlie girl (because she reads this), but I will say that her boyfriend once walked in on her stuffing wedding magazines under the couch like fetish porn. So the lovely Kristen sets up some wedding dress appointments (did you know you need an appointment to shop for a wedding dress? I did not). And I reluctantly meet her and friend Jess on a Saturday at a wedding dress shop. I walk in to the showroom: lace, chiffon, white clouds of tulle for miles – it’s a billowing sea of estrogen. They take us into the private dressing room, with the three way mirror and the pedestal and flatteringly lighting. The dress consultant (real person, real job) gives me a white corset to change into. Then she and my pals go raid the showroom. I sit sullenly in the dressing room, wearing my corset like a half-dressed Bridal Barbie.

Ten minutes later, three giddy girls return with cascades of white fabric – and it begins. I step into the first gown. The consultant clips me in (they use industrial-strength clothing pins). I slowly, carefully, get up on the pedestal and turn to face the mirror. And that’s when it happens. I am a princess! I am a beautiful, magical princess. I want to melt into the sweet, soft petals of silk. I want to prance around while holding the train in my hands. And more than anything, I want every ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had to walk in at that moment and see me – this me! this perfect me! – forever washing away his previous image of me screaming and throwing my cell phone at him. This is the effect of trying on a wedding dress.

You suddenly, shockingly, become that girl.

But don't worry – while you can’t take the dress out of the girl, you can take the girl out of the dress. You know, for sex. (Bam, I still got it.)

Brushing Up on My Bird Death Humor

2010-04-07T14:42:00.002-04:00

You know me. I love a good bird death joke as much as the next guy who thinks birds are delicious. But someone had better call Homeland Security because we've got a LOOSE CANNON at livescience.com.

Hahaha, wait what? I think I missed the joke. Let me retrace my steps: bleeding to death, being blown into a craggy cliff, blinded by dense fog . . . oh I get it! Because fog is . . . nope, lost it. Let's keep on reading, maybe it'll become more clear.

Now we're cooking with laughs! In fact, this reminds me of another joke I heard. It was about a dog who got caught in a bear trap (like the cartoons) and apparently dragged the metal contraption 50 yards through a dense field of thicket, stopping halfway across to drink from a puddle of water, before bleeding out. I mean, that must be a really funny story because I'm crying – like when you laugh really hard, or that inexplicable tightness in your chest overwhelms you. I don't know if I can take any more of this zaniness!

Listen, livescience.com. I get that writing about birds can sometimes get boring. And then all the editors get together and are like "Bird story brainstorm!" and because the weather was nice this morning and someone brought in donuts, you're all kind of giddy to the point where someone is like, "Can you believe this story about birds flying into mountains?! It's like (sticking arms out to simulate wings) vroooom, splat!" And the managing editor is like, "I think you've got yourself a thesis!" Then everyone else is like, "lede, deck, nut graph!" and other stupid publishing words before Jeanna Bryner ends up back at her desk with a little powdered sugar on her fingers, still kind of chuckling at Phil's bird impersonation, and starts writing about how all this these birds flying to their death is HIGH-larious (that one's a freebie, livescience.com). But next time, let's leave the bird corpse humor to the bird corpse humor professionals in Britain, ok?

Happy Boob Day Week!

2010-04-06T12:34:00.004-04:00

On a day marked by resurrections, one Easter event failed to rise to the occasion: Boob Day. 75 degrees. No breeze. Sunny as an undercooked egg. It was supposed to be – it needed to be Boob Day, my first one back since a two-year Boob Day hiatus in Miami. And yet, it flopped. (Pun intended? What does it matter . . .)

Maybe it was the religious undertones that threw everyone off. After all, a holiday with such rich traditions as hiding eggs and having brunch at the club shouldn't be sullied by low cut shirts. I at least thought the Jews would step up (full disclosure: I'm marrying one). Coming on the heels of Passover, which is basically a week long South Beach diet, I figured tight, attention-grabbing clothing would be a no-brainer.

No dice. There Brooke and I were, walking the streets of New York Sunday afternoon, nary a boob in sight. Sure, there was the stray reveler – a v-neck here, an ill-fitting sundress there. But basically it was amateur hour at the cleavage show – sample act: an open front cardigan with a tank top underneath. What's your encore, a responsible pant suit? I mean, come on. I was dismayed, as was Brooke. "My boobs are out," she complained out loud. "Does everyone else think they're too good for Boob Day?" Although in everyone else's defense, Brooke's boobs are always out. (High five myself.)

But then a miraculous thing happened, and I'm not just talking about a certain carpenter's apprentice rising from the dead. Monday morning I had to get to work early. I was out on the street by 8:30, fiddling with my iPod and remembering what a truly fantastic song this is, when all of a sudden it hit me: a woman's boob. Right in the arm. And when I looked up from my iPod and turned onto Broadway, there they were, all in front of me like a rolling hillside. Shirted boobs of every ilk: side boob-friendly tanks, more-appropriate-as-pajamas tees, and the textile-defying "stretch" Oxford.

By lunch time, SoHo was awash in cleavage. It wasn't just Boob Day interruptus; it was what you might call a hooter IED. Apparently, everyone's collective abstinence from the day before had built up such an unbearable pressure that one ordinary strength Boob Day wouldn't be enough to relieve all the tension. Because you know what? Same thing this morning: Up and out early, wading into a veritable Mardi Gras. And with three more days of sunshine and mid-70's temperatures, I don't see it ending anytime soon.

That's right, folks: It's Boob Week. Cherish it. Revel in it. For all we know, it's the Halley's Comet* of cleavage. There's no data! Like the boobs themselves, we're flying fast and loose. Enjoy it while you can.

___________________________________
* Not to cast a pale over Boob Week, but isn't there something really sad about the fact that Halley's Comet only comes around every 75 years? I remember everyone making a big deal about it the last time it was visible in 1986 and I was like, "I'll catch it next time," because seven-year old me didn't really understand the concept of aging yet. I mean, I'll be 82 the next time Halley's Comet appears! Even if I'm still alive, I'll probably be like, "WHAT? Who's Halley? A comet? Sounds like a nice piece of tail!" (Because though incontinent, I'll still be hilarious.)

I Do: Think Wedding Registries are a Racket

2010-04-02T12:31:00.008-04:00

(I never thought I'd be planning a wedding. Then again, I never thought I'd convince a girl to marry me. But here I am embarking on this grand adventure. I will chronicle my trials and tribulations in a new segment called "I Do.")

You would think that registering for presents would be the most fun part of getting married. It's like Christmas but with a higher price point. And since you've presumably reached a point in your life where you are nearly self-sufficient, you already own all the boring necessities like underwear and water filters. Your wedding registry, then, is reserved solely for crap that you want – stuff that you might point to while window shopping one spring day and think, "Soul-crushing consumerism aside, that's a really attractive serving bowl."

But I soon learned that wedding registries are all smoke and mirrors. Like strip clubs, they are great in theory. Naked women serving you drinks in between provocative dances involving polls? Heaven. Then you get there and the women are subpar, the dances are half-hearted, drinks are overpriced, and nudity is top only. The disappointment is only compounded by the immensity of your expectations.

So too is it with registries. For example, Shitty Fact #1: You can't register everywhere. So let's say I really want this set of antique dueling pistols. And why wouldn't I? Vintage is really hot right now, and I'll be needing to defend my wife's honor, right? Not according to Williams Sonoma! Because neither they, nor any of the other members of the United Confederation of Wedding Registries (UCWR) sell my coveted antique dueling pistols.

So what's an antique gun enthusiast like me to do? Well, one option is to create some sort of freestyle registry where you pull together items from all over the Internet into one big wish list, regardless of where they are sold. But if you think that sounds too easy, congratulations for paying attention. Apparently you can't just go making up catalogue of items on some renegade registry site because Shitty Fact #2: there are fucking RULES here. This is wedding country, and you're just visiting.

For example, you've just announced your engagement, be it via blog, Facebook, or old fashioned word of mouth. Apparently, this sends people into an etiquette frenzy. My mom called the other day and was like, "Are you registered?" and I'm like, "As a sex offender?" and she's like, "There's no time for jokes." It seems ever since word got out that Brooke and I are making all the premarital sex legit, people have been asking my mom where we are registered. And my mom, who has made it clear that she is neither a money tree, a house keeping robot, or a wedding registry directory, is flustered.

Brooke says there's only one way to solve this: register on The Wedding Channel, STAT. For those of you unacquainted with The Wedding Channel, it's basically the site where THE ENTIRE WORLD INCLUDING AUSTRALIA goes to search for you gift registry. And since they only partner with certain stores (isn't it everyone's dream to register at Kohl's?), you're not only cock blocked from those antique guns, but also from cool stores that have their own registries (CB2 comes to mind) which The Wedding Channel refuses to partner with, presumably because of NATO alliances.

Of course I balked at signing up at first because "disestablishmentarianism" is my middle name. I mean, I use Firefox for Christ's sake. Take you’re wedding registry puppy mill someplace else, Wedding Channel. But then Brooke explained that if we want presents (which we do, because one of love's greatest rewards is a vegetable juicer) then we have to do it. Short of creating a viral video entitled "Megan Fox Justin Bieber sex tape starring Dan and Brooke are engaged," this is how people find out where to buy you all the stuff you want.

The other problem? Shitty Fact #3: This has to be done now. Not five minutes from now, not after you're done with that ice cream cone – now. Brooke even made me miss this week's episode of Lost so we could register. I told her we'd better order a crapload of presents, because that's all we'll have left when we're social pariahs.

So there we are at Crate & Barrel with the gun thing, which everyone makes such a huge deal about regardless of the fact that it's basically technology from the 80's. Still, there's something fun about being sheriff of Crate & Barrel Town gunning down my enemies. BAM! Highball glasses. BAM! Table lamp. BAM BAM! Cheese platter and matching knives. I am the Wyatt Earp of home entertaining accoutrement.

Once the novelty wears off, though, Shitty Fact #4: it becomes overwhelming. Sample situation: There's a glass pitcher that seems kind of cool. It's sitting on a picnic table with colorful placemats, a tin ice bucket, and an umbrella overhead. You think, "That pitcher is part of the life I want to have." So you scan it. Then you leave the store and you start to think. Do I really want that glass pitcher? Do I put things in pitchers? It's not like the last time two of my friends came over to watch the game I was like, "Let me mix up a pitcher of lemonade." Panic sets in. What is someone is on The Wedding Channel RIGHT NOW purchasing this pitcher and I don't even know if my friends like lemonade!

This is how it goes with everything on your registry. The anxiety is oppressive, which inevitably leads to insane arguments like:

Brooke: "We should register for a lamp."
Me: "We already have three lamps."
Brooke: "Someday we'll need more lamps."
Me: "If we get a fourth lamp now it's going to look like a lamp store in here."
Brooke: "I'm registering for a lamp."
Me: "STOP SAYING LAMP!"
Brooke: "I can't believe this is my life."
Me: "Why don't you buy a lamp about it?"

But even though you're just a pawn in the Wedding Registry game and the powers that be at have exercised so much authority over your whims that now you're stuck getting all your wedding presents from Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn (or CB2 and Amazon.com if someone were so inclined to look), every so often an item comes along that makes it all worth while.

Bend over, Wedding Channel. I won this round.

How to Propose in Seven Easy Steps

2010-03-30T15:46:00.001-04:00

Remember when I said I wouldn't disappear for long stretches anymore? That was funny. Not as funny as this picture of a kitten eating a house plant. And no where near as funny as the fact that I've managed to bury the lede this deep, so here we go.

Brooke and I are engaged. To be married. To each other.

I'll give you a minute to let that sink in. I was shocked too. It was like when I was ten and I asked my mom if I could ride my bike to my friend's house which was like a mile and a half away. I had no idea how she'd react, and then when I finally got up the courage to ask she was like, "OK." When Brooke said yes, it was exactly like that, except fucking life changing.

So how'd I manage to lock down such a great girl? Was it bribery? Hypnotizing? An electronic fence? I guess it depends on whether you consider standing in front of the door while she's trying to leave "hypnotizing." Regardless, let's take a look at how I swung this one. Frankly, even I'm impressed.

Start a Blog. In my experience, this is the best way to meet a girl.^1. When coming up with a name for your blog, go with something crap-based – something that says, "Don't worry about me maturing too fast!" And most importantly, write about your ex-girlfriend. In the parlance of dating experts, this "demonstrates value." Basically, you become more attractive because you demonstrate that you are capable of making a commitment and writing flattering things about The Devil Wears Prada.^2.

Choose a Girl. Luckily, Brooke was the first of an inevitable cascade of tail to fall into my lap. The vetting process was easy, because it was all done via e-mail and scotch. Most importantly though, the month-long written courtship made me fall in love with what is on Brooke's inside before I fell in love with what is on her outside.

Now Wait. This part is key. Though from very early on you know you want to spend the rest of your life with her and that no girl as smart and pretty as Brooke has any right waiting around for anyone, let alone a guy who doesn't even use a Mac, just kind of wait. Move in together; move to another state together; raise a dog together – all the while biding your time. I know that this seems counter-intuitive. For the life of me I can't figure out why it worked. But you can't second-guess science!

Buy a Ring. Once you've decided to propose, you'll need a ring. You'll want to pick it out yourself, which is very cute and stupid. You'll need some sort of guidance. Gold or platinum? Round or square? Big or small? Contrary to The Real Housewives of Tucson, not every woman wants a huge diamond. Some just want a huge ~~cock~~ sense of humor. A few practical suggestions: 1) Don't make pretend you know what you're doing when looking at rings. You'll only look that much more ridiculous when you ask what cut and clarity a diamond is and the salesperson says, "That's an earring." 2) When asking about the ring's return policy, be sure to act kind of shy and nervous. Explain that you're not sure she will say yes because you haven't been the same since you got back from the war, but you're really hoping once she catches a glimpse of that sparkling ring she'll start taking your phone calls again. 3) Once you've purchased the ring, hide it somewhere she will never look, like inside your MacGyver DVD box set.^3.

Make a Plan. First, acknowledge that this is your weakness. Do you know where to rent a helicopter? Do you know how to fly one? Then you probably shouldn't plan on proposing in a helicopter. Keep it simple. For example, if you are taking a trip to Los Angeles, plan on proposing there. It will be warm and relaxing and you'll definitely be having some cocktails which is very conducive to her saying yes. Of course, if a few weeks before the trip your girlfriend tells you a story about how her friend was just proposed to while on a vacation and your girlfriend says, "That's the worst. I would never want to be proposed to while out of town," then now is a good time to panic.

Pay Attention to Details. When you change your plan and settle on proposing to her the night before you leave for Los Angeles instead, be sure to double check the flight time on the ticket. It would be a huge mistake to spend the entire night drinking champagne and scotch only to realize at 2:00 a.m. that your flight doesn't leave at 12:30 p.m., rather it arrives at 12:30 p.m. Remember all the reasons you love your girlfriend when she comes stumbling out of the airport bathroom at 6:30 a.m. with a thumbs up saying, "Kept it down. No worries."

Enjoy. The important thing now is not to get ahead of yourself. Sure, there's a wedding to plan. Invites to send. Gifts to register for. Before you know it, Brooke will start shooting super children out of her uterus, who I hope will come out reading Hemmingway short stories and quoting Arrested Development. But for now you need to just enjoy the fact that a really hot girl just agreed to be your best friend forever, with benefits, and the dog comes too. All because three years ago you started a blog. That's pretty amazing.^4.

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^1. When I say "a" girl, I literally mean one girl. Brooke is the only one I've ever met from my blog. [redacted] cannot guarantee the quality of girl you may meet from your blog.
^2. This was the first post of mine Brooke ever read. She says it's like only yesterday she was asking her co-workers if they thought I was gay.
^3. Yes, you are marrying her despite her bad taste in fantastic action/alt-crime procedurals of the 1990's.
^4. But not as amazing as this kitten eating a houseplant.

An Open Letter to My Pants

2010-03-05T17:13:00.000-05:00

Dear Pants,

Hey, Pants. What's up? I think we need to talk about what happened yesterday. I know you have a lot going on, so I'll refresh your memory in case you've forgotten.

It was about 4:00 in the afternoon. I had just returned to the office after running an errand and Puppy was pretty happy to see me. He's like that. Sometimes when I take the trash out, I return to find him sitting by the door with his tail wagging like, "I missed you!" It's an ego boost, but also a little disconcerting because I imagine that this is what it will be like someday when my parents descend into the depths of dementia.

Anyway, Puppy was being all cute and playful, and when he picked up his toy I bent down to play tug-of-war with him. And, Pants, this is where you come in.

It sounded just like it does in the movies, which surprised me because nothing sounds just like it does in the movies. The first time I was punched I remember thinking "Ouch" and then "But that didn't sound like THWUMP?" But no, this was just like so many slapstick comedies I'd heard before – a slow, burning rip.

So there I am bending over playing with Puppy, ass seam undone, and for a second I am frozen in fear. Whoever said there is nothing to fear but fear itself clearly never ripped open their pants in an office with a 90% female population. It's pretty scary.

Clearly, you put me it a difficult position, Pants. I rose slowly, scuttled to my desk, and sat down. Then I tried to surreptitiously reach my hand under my butt to assess the damage. This proved tricky. Have I mentioned I work in an office full of women? Touching anything in the groin-ish area is really frowned upon. Being innocuous isn't an option; if you're not careful you could quickly be labeled The Guy Who Touches His Butt at His Desk. And everyone would come to know you by that because if you're not The Guy Who Steals Other People's Cereal or The Guy Who Wears Big Shirts, then you must be The Guy Who Touches His Butt at His Desk.

Just as I finished assessing the damage (assessment of underwear showing through gaping hole in my pants: not good), Brooke came over to my desk and asked if I'd join her in a meeting. "I can't," I replied, to which she replied, "Why?" to which I replied, "Um . . ." to which she replied, "I'll see you in the meeting." I'm not gonna lie – I blew that one.

So I put on a sweater and pulled it down low before going to the meeting. I sit down, and when anyone asks me to reach for something or pick up something from the floor I roll there in my chair. In fact, for the rest of the day I make rolling around in my chair an art. I do it with a blasé nonchalance, as though it truly is easier for me to roll my chair over to a co-worker's desk than to stand and walk there. This gets me through to the end of the day, at which point I put on my shoulder bag to cover my rear end, and make my exit.

Pants, this is unacceptable. You have two jobs: 1. Hide my junk, 2. Make me look stylish. And if you're only going to do 50% of your job, it should always be the half that includes hiding my junk. That is paramount. What's more, when I finally told Brooke what happened when we got home, she called me fat. "It's okay, Fat Ass," she said. "Maybe you're just retaining water." I'm not sure, but I think she was implying that I got my period. I hope you understand, Pants, why I can't open myself up to jokes about having my period. Brooke is a clever girl. Those opportunities won't slip by her.

So here I am at work today, and I think I managed to fool everyone – this time. I don't know how lucky I'll be if it happens again. And of course Brooke isn't letting it go so easily. When I reached for a cookie after dinner, she said, "Are you sure?" Just now, in fact, Brooke came over to my desk all serious-like and said, "I need to talk to you about something." Then she whispered in my ear, "You have a fat butt."

Next time do you fucking job, Pants.

Sincerely,
Dan

The Bachelor Season Finale Recap

2010-03-02T14:11:00.006-05:00

Note from Brooke: "I refuse to participate because Jake's a tool."

Fair enough. Jake is, in fact, a tool. Perhaps the tooliest of tools. The monkey wrench, if you will. I imagine he's one of those guys who makes faces at himself while he's thinking, like if he's on line at the deli deliberating between turkey and ham, he'd be like, "Turkey is lower in fat. (Head nod.) But you just had chicken last night and they're practically the same thing. (Smirk.) I can't have ham without cheese (smirk), but I haven't been to the gym in three days so maybe I should lay off the Swiss (chuckle). A turkey wrap it is. (Big smile.)"

And I hate people who order wraps.

So that's where I am with Jake when the show starts. All the stock catch phrases are being bandied about: "One true love." "Hardest decision of my life." "Follow my heart." Jakes sums up the emotional voiceover by saying, "Love is what's making this so difficult." Yes, it's not the producers or the tiresome shooting schedule or the fact that the search for your soul mate has rules like, "Any girl who receives a rose while participating in a group date will be exempt from elimination at the weekly rose ceremony." Clearly it's the love.

Now it's time for both girls to meet Jake's family. Jake shows up at his parents' house wearing a really gay shirt, but it's OK because all three of his brothers got the memo and each wore their gay shirts, too. In a surprise twist, his mom and sister-in-law are wearing the same ugly outfit, perhaps trying to throw the contestants off their game. Sneaky.

Jake tells his family that he's fallen in love with both girls and knows all the things he likes about them, but he "needs a second set of eyes" Like he's working a missing persons case? He goes on to let it slip that Vienna was the girl that everyone else in the house hated. Mom's like, "Um, maybe there was a reason for that," and Jakes stops short of saying, "Um, but have you seen her jugs?" Regardless, Jake is emphatic that it is very important to him that his family like the girl he chooses because he plans on spending "the next 60 years of his life" with her. I'm not thrown at all by the prospect that Jake has planned out when he will die and/or get divorced.

First up is Tenley. Having not watched any of this season, this is the first time I'm meeting her, and I have to say my first impression is, I like her. She seems pretty and put together – a real crowd pleaser. The family thinks so too as they take to her like a Labrador puppy. They're all kind of playing it cool, but you can tell that deep down they want to react like when they MOVE THAT BUS on Extreme Makeover. At one point Jake's dad cries and Tenley touches his arm. I try to picture Brooke touching my dad's arm to console him if he was crying and I have to take a break and get some cereal because things just got weird. Tenley finishes up her family visit with a one-on-one with Mom in which Mom asks how Tenley would hold the family together after Mom dies. Mom's not fucking around.

Next up is Vienna, who looks like she has an STD. You just get that vibe from her. Maybe not that she has one right this second, but that she definitely has experience with them. Jake's mom senses this too and hates her right off the bat. Kudos to the show's producers who refuse to edit out the many awkward pauses in the family's conversation with Vienna, which seems to be centered around the fact that no one likes Vienna. At one point a sister-in-law asks Vienna if it's a common experience for her to not be liked by other girls. Hey, Sister-In-Law, Kate Gosselin called and she wants her first haircut back – with residuals.

Basically the whole visit is a train wreck. Mom is obsessed with Vienna getting along with the sister-in-laws like she's running some sort of day camp. The sisters are obsessed with pointing out that they loved Tenley, and that Vienna is the complete opposite of Tenley, so . . . And Jake is just like, "But the jugs!" In the end, the family comes around and says they managed to look past Vienna's STD exterior to see the real her, and that they guess she's OK, but you still get the feeling that for years to come the family's dinnertime conversation will include phrases like, "That human-rights activist seems nice, but she's no Tenley." (Cue dad crying.)

With family visits over, it's time to go to Saint Lucia, where you can save 60% on deluxe accommodations with the Red Rose Romance Package. Vienna goes first for the one-on-one date. Jake takes her to a sulphur spring, because nothing says romance like the smell of rotten eggs. Vienna, not one to mince words, is like, "Why are we at a rotten egg spring?" and Jake is like, "Mud wrestling!" The two proceed to smear mud all over each other – like a spa treatment, but whorier.

At the end of the date, Vienna gives Jake the promise ring that her Dad gave her. I'm not going to lie, I had to pause the show here to try to figure out what was happening. Apparently Vienna had been married before, and it so upset her dad that when Vienna got a divorce her dad gave her a promise ring. And now Vienna was giving that ring to Jake, which, technically speaking, endows him to Vienna's dad I think? In any event, her boobs are huge.

For the second one-on-one date, Jake takes Tenley snorkeling with dolphins (it's no sulfur spring) and everything's going swimmingly (nailed it!) until he basically tells her that he's not attracted to her. Whoops! He tries to backtrack, like, "That’s not what I mean though! What I meant is your breasts aren't big enough! I mean emotions! Connection! . . . Um, line!" Tenley handles the whole thing gracefully, and oddly this is the precise moment where I start to hate her. It starts as a twinge, and I'm like, "That's weird. She's so nice and pretty. Why would I hate her?" Then, back at the house, she very skillfully broaches the subject of Jake not finding her attractive in such a diplomatic, emotionally self-realized way that I'm taken aback. Just like there's no crying in baseball, there's no self-actualization in The Bachelor. And yet, my hatred grows. By the time she's done talking, it's a runaway train of abhorrence. I just can't control it.

So many questions going into the final rose ceremony! Is Tenley too uptight? Does the family's opinion really matter? Has Jake realized that his "special feeling" for Vienna is really just an erection? One thing's for sure – Jake is completely torn. At this point it seems like he might just choose them both and move to Utah. Personally, I can't make up my mind on which I like/dislike more. On the one hand, if you're going to find your wife on a reality TV show, shouldn't it be someone like Vienna? Like when you tell people you won her on a TV contest they'd be like, "I see that." And then there's Tenley. I feel really bad for hating Tenley. I've tried rationalizing it (the small mouth maybe?) but at the end of the day it's inexplicable, but very real. Even worse, that means Jake and I might be on the same page about something other than our abs

At the dramatic, M*A*S*H-like helicopter landing, the first girl to arrive is . . . Tenley! Which means he's not choosing her, and you can tell she kind of knows it. She has a dead woman walking face on. Just from the tone of Jake's voice she knows she's a goner. In his pre-dump speech, Jake uses words like "temperament" and "positivity" to describe what he likes about her. (Why not just call her fat?) Of course, she handles the whole thing with aplomb, making my rage grow. It's fascinating. By the time she tearfully whispers, "Thank you for making me feel special," I want to punch her in the throat.

Jake seems pretty broken up too, but judging from the angle of his leaning-over-the-banister-crying posture, he'll get over it – especially when he puts his penis in Vienna, which is all he's wanted all along. He may as well have gotten down on one knee and said, "Will you sleep with me?" Jake tries to make the whole thing more suspenseful by first giving the promise ring back to Vienna, making her think that he isn't going to propose, but then pulling a 180 and proposing, because it's a common dream amongst women to be proposed to via the old switcheroo.

More secrets are revealed in the After the Rose Ceremony when it is announced that Jake will be participating in the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars. Somewhere backstage Tenley is like, "Good for him! I hope he wins and has a very happy life while learning to dance many different ballroom styles." I hate her so much.

Like a Collapsed Lung The Bachelor Season Finale is Impossible to Ignore

2010-03-01T14:10:00.001-05:00

I've been pretty busy these past few months, so I haven't really had the opportunity to watch this season of The Bachelor. Although when I was ten years old and my mom gave birth to my little sister I made my aunt let me finish watching the last half hour of Star Trek IV* before going to visit them at the hospital, so I've never really let life changing events get in the way of my entertainment before.

I guess at the end of the day I just didn't want it enough. I tried, really. Brooke and I watched the first twenty minutes of the season premier, but as soon as all the girls were done exiting the limos with their boobs and daddy issues all hanging out, and Jake was like, "Gosh!" I automatically tuned out, because what it really boils down to is that I can't bring myself to root for a guy who says "gosh" unironically.

But then things got interesting. Some girl made out with a producer, which is a great testament not only to the quality of woman on the show (she's so open to the possibility of finding true love that she accidentally found it in a producer's pants) but also to Jake's irresistible magnetism, which is so strong that sometimes it goes full circle and actually pushes women away.

Then a different girl left the show in tears, choosing a job in ad sales at Facebook over Jake, but then wanted to come back because she realized the only thing more boring than Jake was a job in ad sales at Facebook.

And now it's down to two women who I know very little about except that Tenley must move around a lot because everyone calls her "the girl next door" and that Vienna posed topless with a Burberry scarf covering her chest for a pinup calendar for a company called C.O.D. Trees, Inc., which would be sexy if it wasn't so sad. I also learned that Ali and Jake had a secret reunion and it was Vienna's worst nightmare and that Jake refused to exercise the Bang Card with either of them out of respect. Respect for what, I'm not sure. Their sexual frustration, I guess? He really respects how sexually frustrated they are and doesn't want to do anything to upset that?

So now that the season finale is upon us, what am I supposed to do – just ignore it? Just pick up a copy of Great Expectations or a non-fiction work about the complex entanglement of American culture in a destabilizing global economy and sip my cup of Earl Grey like I'm too good for true love? Jake is going to propose to someone! And then cry! And it's all ON THE WINGS OF LOVE! Stock the mini fridge with insulin, it's gonna be sweet.

It won't be a live blog like last season, but I'll recap it tomorrow for everyone who either didn't watch or did watch but think that watching TV without reading someone else's commentary the following day is so 1992. For everyone who's all caught up on the season, feel free to fill me in on any details you think I should be aware of before tonight's finale.

_____________________________________
* And that was the one with the whales!

Some Things I Will Miss About Miami

2010-02-24T16:27:00.004-05:00

Ask Brooke if she had any reservations about leaving Miami and as soon as she stops laughing in your face she'll say, "No. Nada. Nyet." Brooke wanted out of Florida like it was some giant beachfront prison camp. We would have fights all the time because I would say something like, "This pizza is pretty good," and she would reply, "IT IS NOT. It's good for Miami. This pizza couldn't suck New York pizza's dick." She felt strongly about leaving.

I was a bit more ambiguous. While Brooke would land at JFK, step up to the exhaust filled taxi stand, take a deep breath and smile, I immediately felt my blood pressure rise just from catching a glimpse of the skyline out the plane window. I'd run over elderly people on my way out of the plane, because in New York if someone gets from Point A to Point B faster than you, you lose.

Don't get me wrong – I'm happy (nay, ecstatic) to be here now, but that doesn't mean that there aren't things I will miss about Miami.

My nice apartment. I've accepted the fact that I will never live in a nicer apartment than I did when I left Miami. I mean, delivery men would compliment my apartment! Coming from a long line of New York shitholes, the last time anyone complimented an apartment of mine was when, after an ill-advised attempt to "get to know my neighbors" my sophomore year of college, I invited over the girl across the hall for drinks. While sitting on my couch, awkwardly sipping a beer, realizing very quickly that we hated each other, she commented, "Nice place" – the most backhanded of compliments considering the fact that we had the same exact apartment, except mine was decorated better. You could just hear it in her voice: "Nice place. I would have spent more time decorating mine, but I've been so busy banging dudes who sleep on air mattresses."

On the plus side . . . We didn't have to buy any furniture for the new apartment because we already had the three pieces needed to fill it.

The Beach. I don't have any case study to reference because that's not my style, but someone somewhere once told me that some Asian scientists did a study where they hooked up people to brain wave machines and sat them down on the beach looking out over the ocean and all sorts of pleasure centers lit up – ones that normally are only activated through things like extreme fighting and intercourse. Sure, there's some holes in my research. I don't know where they plugged in the brain wave machines on the beach. But the point is, the study was conducted by Asian scientists – the same ones who engineered the Opening Ceremony of the 2008 Summer Games. So obviously it's true.

On the plus side . . . It's nice to have sidewalks again, because sometimes it's like, "I just wish there was some concrete so I knew where I was allowed to walk."

Lower Cost of Living. I'm no Republican, but if New York is going bankrupt and has state income tax and Florida isn't going bankrupt and doesn't have state income tax, then isn't New York doing something wrong? I mean, where's all my money going? To trash collection? Libraries? Central Park? Schools? Police? Firemen? Street cleaning? Museums?

On the plus side . . . My wallet was getting so heavy!

Working From Home. We've been over this, but I can't emphasize enough how suited I am for working from home. This isn't to say that I don't relish each and every one of the coworkers with whom I now share office space (especially the ones who read this blog), but if home is where the heart is, and I should be putting my heart into my work, then I'd much rather not have to carry my heart in a messenger bag with a magazine, iPod, and meatloaf sandwich the 20 blocks to an office, where you're not even allowed to have a bed let alone work in one. And don't even get me started on drinking at you're desk. They're practically Draconian about that.

On the plus side . . . I've started flossing for meetings.

Filtered Water . . . From My Refrigerator! So you know how lower middle class people have Brita filters? Well I had a water filtration system BUILT INTO my refrigerator. It even dispensed ice cubes made of filtered water.

You can't possibly understand the joys of clean ice and water on demand until it is taken away from you and you are forced to use poisoned tap-water ice and a Brita, which is always empty but it's such a pain to refill that you just stand in front of the refrigerator and enjoy a few mouthfuls of saliva instead.

On the plus side . . . There's a water dispenser at work, so I get most of my hydration done there.

Rainbows. Do you know what happens when there's a rainbow in New York? Someone buys it. And then they charge people to look at it. And then Sex and the City mentions it in a movie and then rainbows are "the new hot thing." Then rainbows jump the shark and everyone thinks rainbows are lame and sunsets are the new rainbows.

On the plus side . . . Those rainbows that form when the light hits a puddle full of leaked gasoline just the right way is kind of the same thing.

Serotonin. Here are some jokes I wrote about my serotonin levels.

"My serotonin levels are so low I got a tax credit from the Obama administration."

"My serotonin levels are so low that Jon Gosselin looks down on them."

"My serotonin levels are so low that sometimes I stare deep into the black void that is my future and think that today is as good a day as any to just give up."

Ha?

On the plus side . . . Depression is like exercise for the soul.

Happy homeless people. The other day I was walking through the subway carrying Puppy (don't tell anyone) and we passed a deranged homeless guy pounding away on a Casio keyboard and kind of scream-moaning like he was very sad, and very angry about it. Then as Puppy and I walked past, he shouted, "What, you two don't like my music? You suck!" Really? My dog sucks for not liking your homeless guy music? Maybe if the lyrics were more like "Here Puppy, Puppy. Here's a treat for the good Puppy! Now let's go out and pee, ok?" he would have been a bit more receptive.

On the plus side . . . all the more motivation to not become homeless!

Having two bathrooms. I will look back on having two bathrooms as one of the best times in my life. Never having to wait for someone to finish, never having to worry that you're taking too long. It was a dream come true. I'm tearing up just thinking about it.

At least I'll be able to tell my kids grand stories of back when I had two bathrooms. "Artemis, Clementine," I'll say, as we stand in line outside the one bathroom in our apartment. "Once upon a time your father was somebody. I had two bathrooms. Full bathrooms, not halves. Showers and everything. I was living the dream!" And then Brooke will come out of the bathroom just as Artemis pees his pants. And Clementine will push him to the ground and run inside, slamming the door behind her. Then Brooke and I will lock gazes and she won't even have to say it. I'll know exactly what she's thinking as she looks at our poor, vulnerable son, curled up in the fetal position covered in urine. "We're not moving. No fucking way."

Comeback of the Decade?

2010-02-22T14:32:00.001-05:00

Insulting a girl is never easy. Technically the only right way to do it is to wait for another girl to say out loud what you are thinking privately, then kind of nod in agreement. It's very complicated and hardly cathartic, but any guy who has ever called a girl a bitch or lumpy to her face knows that whatever relief may come with unleashing your anger is vastly outweighed by the immediate sense of shame, not to mention her yoga-trained legs attacking your crotch like a chorus line. I've never heard of a guy insulting Brooke to her face, but I always imagined that if it did happen Brooke would come home out of breath with blood on her hands and when I asked what happened she'd be like, "He said I was obtuse. Can you grab me my passport from the night stand?"

As it turns out, though, Brooke isn't always as ~~insane~~ spontaneous as she appears. Because on Saturday when a random guy on the street called her a [c-word] to her face, she didn't do anything! Except almost become an accessory to murder. Let me explain.

Brooke and her 23-year old cousin from Long Island were walking around our neighborhood doing girl things like shopping and complimenting each other's outfits. Brooke was holding an unlit cigarette like she does sometimes, because she doesn't smoke, she just likes to embrace all of life's possibilities. When she was done with it, she dropped it on the sidewalk – a donation for the local homeless. (So thoughtful!)

Right then, a man who was walking perhaps ten feet behind her says, "You [c-word]!" Stunned, Brooke and her cousin turn around, at which point the guy approaches Brooke and says, "You almost burned me with your cigarette, you [c-word]!"

Noticing a discernable amount of crazy in his eye, Brooke resists all of her take-no-prisoners-especially-if-they-call-you-a-[c-word] instincts and opts for the diplomatic approach. "Excuse me, but the cigarette was not lit and it was also nowhere near y–"

Right then her cousin, a petit blond with a French manicure who clearly hasn't noticed or doesn't care about the crazy eye, jumps in. "You can't call her a [c-word]! What kind of guy calls a girl a [c-word]? I could set you on fire and you still can't call me a [c-word]!"

(groin kick, groin kick, groin kick, groin kick) Sorry, when I think of the story that's how I like to picture it, because the way Brooke tells it the guy just slinked away without another word. And who could blame him? At best he was offering a trite apology for an unforgivable outburst; at worst he was getting set on fire to prove a point, which is this: just don't insult women. It's not worth it. And if one ever sets you on fire, remember to call her pretty when asking for the first extinguisher.

[redacted] FAQs

2010-02-19T12:11:00.001-05:00

I know you all probably have some questions, as well you should. I figure we could either all go into an online chat room and sort this out 1998-style (Ok, who brought the pedophile!), or I could curate a sampling of the most common questions and concerns and preemptively address them here. So let's get down to it.

How was your Christmas?
It was lovely! Brooke got me an antique tie clip that everyone compliments me on. I know I'm a little late to the Mad Men fashion party, but if you ask me, not dipping your tie in your soup never goes out of style.

Where have you been, asshole?
Oh right. That. Well I guess we should just get this out of the way. I know I disappeared. And not like a magician, although if that's what you want to tell your friends I'll back you up. No, I disappeared more like a fun-loving though inherently flawed dad from a broken family who is either a loose-cannon police officer, semi-pro rock guitarist, or race car driver. And I promise it won't happen again. Until it does, and then we'll all officially be part of a "vicious cycle" just like those people on Intervention.

I've heard rumors that you are no longer living in Miami. Is that true?
Yes, the Internet got that one right.

Why did you leave?
There comes a time in every man's life when he has to decide if he's ready to get busy living or get busy drinking mojitos for lunch. Luckily that time never came for me, because my favorite flavor of mojito is Lunch Mojito. Instead, that decision was made for me when Brooke and I got the news in early December that we were being called back to the Big Apple for work reasons. We spent most of December in New York looking for an apartment and most of January packing up our place in Miami. We made the permanent move back to New York on January 24. Really the best time to be in New York. (Insert sound of head hitting wall.)

You know, I'm still mad at you.
I know. I feel like that prostitute who does everything but kiss, but only so she can put herself through law school. Then when she finally gets to law school, she finds herself sitting in the library yearning for the days when she anonymously approached strange men who wore pocket squares, not knowing whether this would be the go-around that netted her a book deal, or if it was just another run-of-the-mill spike-and-rob scenario.

What the hell does that even mean?
I'm sorry. It means I'm sorry.

You make it so hard to stay mad at you. Do you at least have a place to live?
Yes, I do. After an exhaustive search that involved at least ten real estate brokers, thirty-five apartment viewings, and over six hundred mini-strokes, Brooke and I found a great one-bedroom in Greenwich Village. I know what you're thinking. "Well hey, Richy Rich! Congratulations, Mr. Look At Me, I Get Extra Boosts At Jamba Juice." But that's not the case.

You know when you hear stories about people who have an unbelievable deal on an apartment? Like their elderly neighbor died and no one noticed until one day they caught a whiff of something awful? So they went in and disposed of the body, stole their identity, and have been living in a rent-controlled junior four ever since? Well now I'M THAT GUY. Except the previous tenant didn't die, she just moved to London, which is really more like a rebirth, especially if you love tea and watching great American TV shows on a one year delay.

How do you feel about being back in New York?
I know that when I left New York two years ago I was pretty excited to be leaving a place where I actually used a light therapy lamp to treat my Seasonal Affective Disorder. Just me, sitting in front of a fucking lamp for twenty minutes. I would have made fun of myself if I could have mustered a joke through all the tears.

But Miami is – god, it's so many things. Unfortunately one of them isn't "the perfect place to call home." And sure, no place is perfect. Just the other day I spent six dollars on a gallon of milk here in New York. I'm pretty sure at that cost it's economically feasible to invest in a cow. But at the end of the day, New York is home. It's a place where I have "guys." Like a shoe guy in Little Italy or a stand-up MRI guy in Queens. And that's good living by any standards.

How is Puppy handling the transition?
The beauty of Puppy is that he hates all seasons equally. He's neither a summer dog, nor a winter dog, so going from Miami to New York is a zero sum game for him. Plus, while we were looking for apartments and packing up our Miami place, Puppy stayed with my parents on Long Island. For over a month he ran around in the back yard, learned to use a doggie door, and ate wet food. It was like a doggie Sandals. And now he gets to come to work with us every day where he does funny things like poop under my boss's desk and try to jump on my HR manager's lap. I'm pretty sure he's fine.

So what now?
I guess we get back to this blogging thing. Sure, it's about as culturally relevant as the series finale of Arrested Development, what with all the Facebooking and Twittering and Apping (is that a thing?) going on these days. But like my high school girlfriend always said, "What are you doing? That feels weird. Stick to what you're good at."

Final thoughts?
The other night I was walking home from the gym at a pretty brisk pace when out of the corner of my eye I spotted what appeared to be a cat slowly ambling across the sidewalk towards a mound of trash bags. I didn't really slow down, because Hey, cat, learn your place. But as I got closer I noticed that it wasn't a cat at all. It was a possum.

Unfortunately at this point I was so close to the thing that I was committed to walking right past it, which WAS NOT an option because the thing's tail was probably a foot long and clearly if it touched me I would die. The only thing to do was vault it, which sounds athletic and cool but in practice looks more like a little girl skipping over a puddle. So there I was, a grown man covered in post-gym sweat dandily leaping over an enormous rodent who was on its way to a pile of garbage. Bottom line: It's nice to know that after all this time New York can still surprise me.

30 Things I've Learned By The Time I Turned 30

2009-11-10T11:00:00.004-05:00

This past weekend I turned 30. Unlike most sitcom characters and women on Jdate, I wasn't afraid of turning 30. Like the national deficit or the amount of times I've taken a girl's virginity, it's just a number. It's not like I'm an NFL running back, right, predominantly female readership?

But 30 is a good opportunity to take a look back and survey the scene. See what you've done (got molested in Asia), what you haven't (ridden a tiger), and, most importantly, what you've learned.

1. It's not how long you last in the sack, it's how much you can get done.

2. No, you'll never use all that math you learned; and if you have to, there's an app for that.

3. A man should have either a woman or a dog.

4. The best way to settle an argument between two friends is to make a preposterous argument yourself so that they will be forced to align against you. For example, if two girls are arguing over which one has the better fashion sense, you claim that you have the best fashion sense and they will join forces to mock your Pumas.

5. Yogurt is much more delicious than you remember it being.

6. Oatmeal is not.

7. You don't take movie recommendations from the ticket seller, so why take food recommendations from your waiter?

8. Have music on.

9. Never ask a woman the same question twice, but always inquire more than once. Use different words, and follow the second answer.

10. If you have to punch someone, do it in the nose.

11. Drink the good liquor.

12. Read the hard books.

13. Don't wear socks if you don't have to.

14. Relax, no one's going to poke their eye out.

15. A list of things not worth the extra money: orchestra seats, organic cucumbers, designer underwear (men only), imported Swiss cheese, premium gasoline, brand name recordable CDs, a porn website membership, hardcover books, long-lasting batteries, valet parking, additional identity theft protection, souvenir cups, next-day delivery.

16. Something you wouldn't think is worth the extra money but is: premium paper towels.

17. Poetry is for reading, not writing.

18. There's nothing better than a good action movie.

19. When complimenting a woman, think small not big. Eyes instead of hair; necklace instead of dress; laugh instead of sense of humor.

20. Organic macaroni and cheese.

21. Sometimes judging a book by its cover is just a good time saver.

22. On a road trip, the person not driving has an inherent responsibility to navigate regardless of how tired they might be. Conversely, the driver has an inherent responsibility to know where the hell they are going.

23. Yes to writing love letters. No to quoting song lyrics in them.

24. Every relationship is allowed two and only two break-ups.

25. Avoid movie quotes and the people who use them to describe complex personal emotions. (eg. I don't know if I should take the job. But it's like Andy Dufrense says: Get busy living or get busy dying.)

26. Overrated: Make-up sex. Underrated: Quiet sex.

27. There's no point in having a credit card without a rewards program.

28. Television is not bad for you.

29. Vegetables over fruit.

30. Two words: face moisturizer.

That Time I Was In Asia: So You're Interested in Seeing a Thai Sex Show

2009-11-04T15:21:00.004-05:00

Whoops! Blogging. Forgot about that. Would you believe me if I said I had swine flu? More importantly, would you have proof that I didn't? Okay, swine flu it is!

So after Vietnam we went to Cambodia. One would think that I'd have a ton to write about Cambodia. But you know what? Cambodia is awesome. No one tried to jerk me off, we ate great food, and we rode everywhere in a tuk-tuk. It's like an ecofriendly convertible. Plus, when you ride in one you feel like you're in a Wes Anderson film.

But after that, we went to Bangkok. Ah, Bangkok. It seems like just yesterday I was trying to erase the memory of you from my brain. Perhaps that's why it's taken me so long to write about it: because I needed an adequate amount of time to first suppress the memory to the appropriate depths of my subconscious, let it fester a bit, then rear it's ugly head unsuspectingly, like if Brooke suggests going out for Thai food I would scream "Why don't you go out for Thai food!" and curl up sobbing on the bath mat. And now that I've done that, I am ready to peel the onion, as it were. The awful vagina onion.

(Speaking of that, you might want to skip this post, Mom. I mean, you can read it if you want. But remember that time we were in Scotland and you were grossed out by the haggis? This is a lot worse than that time.)

So while in Thailand, Brooke and I decided that we should visit the Red Light District. I mean, it's famous; and famous for sex, no less. We love sex. It seemed like a natural fit. And though we were well aware of the all-too-seedy underbelly, we were assured by more than a few people that the current version of Patpong (the district's name) was a watered down version of its nefarious predecessor. I mean, the New York Times recommended going there in their 36 Hours in Bangkok article. The last time the New York Times recommended something "gritty and dangerous" it was a Michael Moore film. We felt pretty secure.

The real question, then, was this: Should we go to a sex show? They're all the rage in Bangkok (like Uggs or the new Melrose Place) and I have to admit we were curious. In our heads, it was like a 1940's burlesque show. Sultry music and scantily clad women dancing around a stage, perhaps with a horse whip. Good times.

In hindsight maybe we should have known that a place like Thailand – where the last prime minister was ousted when he went on a trip to the U.S. and the military wouldn't let him back in (the old "you move, you lose" trick) – isn't built for nuance and subtlety. So we shouldn't have been surprised when the cab dropped us off at Patpong and we were immediately approached (you could call it "assaulted" if you wanted to get technical) by men inviting us to sex shows. Each one promised that his sex show was the best. To prove this, they would show you a list of what the show offered, like an x-rated Broadway playbill.

The first time Brooke looked at one, her reaction was a mix of surprise and indigestion. I'll admit, I lingered a bit longer studying the card. There is an inherent fascination to combining the word "pussy" with other surprising nouns like "chopstick" and "rainbow": a Finnegan's Wake of sex show menus.

We took a lap around the market to get our bearings. We noted two types of shows: the ground floor, where girls in bikinis dance on stage, and the second floor, on which Brooke commented, “You know the expression – never go upstairs in Patpong.” Then we sat down at a bar and regrouped with a beer and a shot of whiskey. All around us were scantily clad women lingering in doorways; some leading Western men arm-in-arm to nearby hotels. A boy walked by selling lighters that also projected a small image of two people fornicating – so you don't have to stop watching porn when smoking. Obviously.

Brooke and I ordered one more round and looked deep into each other's eyes. This was the second to last night of our sixteen day trip. We'd been through a lot. We were tired. All along, we had followed the "When in Rome" logic. Eat Vietnamese street food! Get massages! Steal a Cambodian baby! (Brooke almost did.) Perhaps now was the time to let that ideology go by the wayside. Just get some curry and hit the sack.

It would have been a great idea, except for three nagging words: Ping pong pussy. They bounced around my head like, well, a ping pong. They say that curiosity killed the cat, but curiosity has also done a lot of wonderful things for cats, like help them discover their love of milk or string. What if ping pong pussy was my ball of string?

Luckily I didn't have to mull that over, because before I knew it Brooke spotted a group of six Americans (three men, three women) following a man with a pussy menu into a sex show. She decided we should follow them, nevermind the fact that it was up the stairs, breaking her sole rule pertaining to the Red Light District. Her logic ("It must be safe if they're going") was admittedly flawed. We went up anyway.

You know how when you're watching a horror movie and the main character is going to walk into a dimly lit room where you know the killer is going to be hiding, and you're like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU STUPID ASSHOLE? DON'T GO IN THERE!" Well we were those stupid assholes. We walked up a narrow staircase that opened up to a second-floor space about the size of a Starbucks. It was a round, dimly lit, smoke-filled room with a round stage in the middle. Small tables lined the perimeter with all seats facing the stage. Most tables were full (about 30 people total) and the clientele ranged from frat boys to – I'm totally serious – an elderly couple, whose faces never changed, even when an errant dart launched from a woman's vagina landed gently on the old woman's shoulder pad. Nothing.

As our waitress was leading us to our table, the feel was more apprehension than excitement. I'd only glanced at what was going on on the stage; it wasn't until we sat down that I really took in the scene. Three women entirely lacking both attractiveness and enthusiasm meandered on stage half naked, setting up for whatever the next act would be. Apparently it was Pussy Open the Bottle, because just as our waitress came over to take our order, a woman on stage, with as little fanfare as possible, squatted over a bottle of coke and popped the cap off with her labia.

Brooke: "Holy shit! Beer, please."
Me: "Me too."

Before she left, we noticed that the menu had no prices on it. I asked how much the beers were, and the waitress said they were 100 baht a piece – about $3 (expensive by Thai standards, but look what it came with!). The women popped a few more bottles on stage. No one clapped.

For the next ten minutes, the three women on stage ran through a procession of acts. There was Pussy Blowing Candle (on a birthday cake, no less!); Pussy Shoot Balloon, in which a woman launched pointed darts at helium balloons from a backbend position; and Pussy Smoke, which is really kind of boring after seeing Pussy Shoot Balloon. At some point, a random waitress/hooker had come by and leaned in to shout some question to Brooke and me over the loud music. We communicated that we didn't understand her (not because of the music but because she was speaking Thai) and she gave up – but not before leaving her cocktail behind on our table.

I tried to get her attention, but she was gone. And then I looked around the room. Almost every table had a random cocktail just like ours on it. Fucker. It's a scam. That drink (at a premium, no doubt) gets tagged onto your bill. Patpong: 1, Me: 0.

We finish our beers and contemplate our next move. A woman on stage plays a recorder with her vagina. It's time to leave. There is a can on our table, presumably for money. Perhaps if we just leave 200 baht in the can and make for the door, we can avoid any kind of discussion about this random cocktail.

As soon as I take out my wallet, though, the waitress swoops in and lifts the can off the table. She brings it to a main table up front and tells us to pay there. Behind the table sits a large 40-something year old Thai woman with a face as serious as murder. Without saying a word, she shoves a piece of paper towards me. The first thing I see is the total circled at the bottom: 3,400 baht ($100). Brooke looks over my shoulder and immediately goes on the defensive. "No, no, no," she yells over the music, "we ordered two beers," holding up two fingers for emphasis. I look at the charges: 300 baht per beer, 1,200 for the random cocktail, 1,600 for the show (which was touted as free).

I say to the woman that the waitress told us the beers were 100 baht. She says that this is her bar and only she sets the prices. I contemplate the viability of trying to explain to her that while she is technically correct, it's just good customer relations to inform the customer of the correct prices up front – but I'm interrupted by Brooke, who is continuing to yell over my shoulder and has now emphatically stated that we are not paying that bill.

The Thai woman quickly snares the bill back and crosses off the charges for the show and the mystery cocktail, bringing down the price to a more reasonable, though still inflated, 600 baht (about $20). Basically, she's saying "Your move, cowboy." At this point, I'm almost more afraid of dealing with Brooke if I decide to pay the 600 baht, so I stick to my guns. 200 baht – not a penny more. I throw the money down on the table and stare the woman in the eye. Somewhere behind me on stage a woman is doing something unbelievable with her vagina. The tension is palpable. Brooke makes the next move: She grabs my hand and says, "Let's go."

Wrong move.

Before she can pull me an inch towards the door, an intimidating sort of man, who up till now had been sitting quietly observing the whole scene, stands up from his chair next to the table. With the quickness of a much younger Thai woman, the headmistress steps out from behind the table, stands toe to toe with Brooke, points to the stage and says, "You don't pay? You dance!"

For all of you who have never found yourself face to face with a Thai sex shop operator who is telling your girlfriend that she should blow out a birthday cake, shoot a dart, or play a tune with her vagina, let's be perfectly clear: It's pretty terrifying. Earlier that day, Brooke and I had discussed the movie Brokedown Palace, starring Claire Danes as a mildly attractive American girl who is tricked by a cute boy into unwittingly trafficking narcotics. Neither Brooke nor I could remember if she died at the end of the movie, but we did remember that all the stuff leading up to the point where she did or didn't die sucked HARD. Did I really think that some Thai goons were going to pull me and Brooke into some back room right in front of all these people? No. Was it worth risking? Not really.

Apparently, Brooke saw things differently.

While most women would cower in the face of an irate mama-san, Brooke remains defiant. She is shouting “No! 200 baht! No more!” and pointing to the money on the table. The mama-san is pointing to a bucket of ping pong balls on stage and using a very liberal interpretation of the word "dance." I've got my eye on the guy behind the mama-san standing with his arms crossed. I assume he knows martial arts. This isn't good.

Just then, I remember that the 200 baht I used to pay for the beers was the last money I had in my wallet. Besides that, all I had was some coins. Brooke had the rest of our money in her shoulder bag. I decide to change tactics. "I don't have any money to pay the bill!" I say. To prove this, I take out my wallet and open it up.

The woman looks curiously at me, and insists that I have more money. "Empty your pocket!" she demands. I do, making a big show of it by slamming down a few coins on the table and holding up my chapstick. "You want me to pay the bill? I have to go to an ATM." The mama-san looks Brooke up and down, eyeing her shoulder bag. Brooke clutches the bag like it’s her baby cub, challenging the woman to touch her.

The mama-san backs down. "Fine, you go to an ATM. Right outside! Then pay bill!" I grab Brooke by the hand and drag her past the muscle towards the door and down the dark stairway. Out in the street I continue dragging her through the market. It was like that scene in any movie you’ve ever seen where a man drags a woman through a market as they run for their lives. We dodge through venders, dart between tourists, jump obstacles. I am heroic throughout. Finally at a safe distance, we stand outside a quaint restaurant and catch our breath.

"That was a hell of a show," Brooke says.

"Yes," I agree, "it was. Now let's go home."

That Time I Was In Asia: Vietnam Odds and Ends

2009-10-19T13:45:00.007-04:00

• I'm not saying that the communist propaganda is blatant, I'm just saying . . .

• While in Hanoi we saw a water puppet show. It's a puppet show that takes place in water. Here's what I wrote in my journal about it: "Show lacked developed plot. Everyone was chasing something – fishing, hunting, courting. The symbolism was heavy handed." While that's douchey, it's no where near as douchey as the guy who sat in front of me videotaping the entire thing. Like no one from home was going to believe he went to a water puppet show? Or am I to assume that a few weeks after he and his wife get home this dude's going to be like, "Hey honey, let's open a nice bottle of wine and watch the water puppet video." I just don't see it happening.

On the plus side, the music was mesmerizing. At one point Brooke leaned over and said, "Is that guy playing a fish?"

• One day I wanted to get a foot massage but was afraid the masseuse may try to jerk me off with her foot.

• Best conversation of the trip goes to an exchange I had with a random girl working at our hotel in Phú Quốc island (Slogan: "It's Relax Times!"). She was probably 19 (35 maybe?), pretty, and a bit shy. Regardless, when Brooke left to go inspect prospective rooms for us to rent, I stayed behind in the lobby watching soccer on TV. A couple of minutes in, this girl walked over and sat down on the couch next to me. We exchanged smiles, and then the questions started. Clearly, she enjoyed practicing her English. Our conversation unfolded like Chapter One out of an ESL textbook.

Her: "Do you like to sing?"
Me: "No, I do not like to sing. Do you like to sing?"
Her: "Yes, I like to sing. I am the best at singing."
Me: "Do you like to dance?"
Her: "Yes, I like to dance. Do you like to dance?"
Me: "Yes, dancing is very fun."

And so on and so on utilizing every other verb you learned in freshman year Spanish. Then after we had exhausted the list, there was an awkward silence before she continued.

Her: (pointing outside to where Brooke went) "Your wife?"
Me: "My girlfriend."
Her: "You swim now?"
Me: "No, we drink beer now."
Her: "Oh! How many beer do you drink?"
Me: "Five."
Her: "That is a lot!"

(pause)

Her: "How many beer your girlfriend drink?"
Me: (contemplating) "Six."
Her: "Wow! She is the best drinker."
Me: "(gleaming with pride) "Yes, she is."

• Of course there was a fish at baggage claim.

• If our friend who is currently teaching English in Vietnam hadn't warned us about the death-defying act of attempting to cross the street, there's a good chance Brooke and I would still be standing outside out hotel in Hanoi wondering what the hell to do.

I tried to get a good video to show how truly hazardous it is, but every time Brooke and I crossed the street, we did it together. This way, if we died we would die together, and the other person wouldn't be left to explain to our grieving relatives how their loved one died while trying to get a good video of crossing a Vietnamese street for [redacted].

Luckily, I found this video on YouTube, shot by a less forward-thinking couple.

Basically, you just had to accept the fact that you may crap your pants. It was a real possibility. On the plus side, it really conserves energy when you are forced to stop and think about how badly you want to get to the other side of the street. Is it really worth it? Indeed, I imagine entire Vietnamese families have decided where to live based on what side of the street they were currently standing on. "Well, well," they might say staring out at the sea of menacing motorbikes, "this corner seems as good as any!"

• I love the idea that Vietnamese people are learning about America through MacGyver. Like I go to Asia and assume everyone knows martial arts, and they come to America and assume everyone knows how to escape from a meat locker by combining seemingly useless items into a chemically engineered blowtorch.

• When Brooke and I told Buffalo Joe that we wanted to start a website called ThingsOnaScooter.com, he seemed confused. "Yes, we carry many things on a scooter," he informed us with the nonchalance of an American being told about a website called ThingsInYourSUV.com. But I challenge anyone to name something that you think wouldn't fit on a scooter, and I will shout back in your face that you are dead wrong. One time I even saw a scooter on the back of a scooter. I can honestly say it changed my life.

That Time I Was In Asia: Halong, Baby!

2009-10-15T16:13:00.006-04:00

Brooke and I liked to play this game where we came up with tourism slogans for Vietnam like, Vietnam: Where the only thing harder than the language is your bed. Ha, get it? But seriously, the mattresses were like coffins.

Anyway, it turns out Vietnam's actual official tourism slogan is "Discover the Hidden Charm," which should be read more like an imperative challenge than a whimsical suggestion. "Go ahead," they defy you, "just try to find the charm. It is exceptionally well hidden."

So after three days of meandering through windy alleys in Hanoi trying to ferret out the charm, Brooke and I decided to take off for less congested pastures – Halong Bay. The picturesque cove is home to thousands of limestone isles which jut up out of the water like geological erections. We had heard that it was a UNESCO (I'd link to it but their website is so boring) World Heritage site, and while we had no idea what that meant it sounded very important. Since it's a four-hour drive from Hanoi to the coast, most people make an overnight trip out of it. To those people we say, "Hey, lame-os. Want another Stella d'Oro treat with that vagina?" We hired a driver, woke up at 7:00, and made a day of it.
______________________________________
Our driver is ten minutes late, and Brooke and I are pissed. There's two good reasons for this: ^1. Clocking in at $180, this is the most expensive thing we've paid for yet (hotel rooms included). Hanoi is absurdly inexpensive; your whole perception of worth is skewed by ¢15 beer and $2 cab rides. Couple that with the fact that in Vietnamese currency it cost 3.2 million dong (giggles), and you can't help but expect to be treated like royalty; and ^2. Americans are treated a bit like royalty in Vietnam. Maybe it's the tourism dollars we bring along, or the curiosity of our progressive demeanor in a throw-back communist setting – whatever the case, I've never felt cooler than I did in Vietnam.

When our driver finally does show up, the tour guide with him apologizes profusely. "Traffic," he explains in what is probably the best English I have heard a Vietnamese person speak the entire time we've been there, which is still just like being the thinnest kid at fat camp.

Immediately it is made clear that the driver doesn't speak English – perhaps doesn't speak at all. The tour guide though (a Vietnamese guy who is 25-going-on-16-year-old-girl) is clearly very excited for the ride. He introduces himself as Quay, but tells us to use his nickname, Buffalo Joe. When Brooke asks how he got his nickname, he says, "Because I was born on the back of a buffalo while my family was escaping the flood," without a hint of excitement, as though she had asked Fat Albert how he got his nickname and he replied, "Because I'm fat." Skirting the obvious follow-up questions ("Was it at least your buffalo?"), Joe starts inquiring about us.

Joe: "What is your profession?"
Me: "We are writers."
Joe: (genuinely shocked) "No! I think actors. Or FBI agents."

It's about here where I start thinking that Joe should be the best man at my future wedding. I mean, I really can't explain the rush you get when a Vietnamese person assumes you are an FBI agent, but I have to imagine it's akin to the way George Clooney feels every time he looks in the mirror.

My excitement is short-lived though, because the more I chat with Joe, the more I come to understand just how out of touch he is with American life. For example, he mentions going to askmen.com for all his dating advice – and not in the sarcastic way. And after seeing the Steve Carell/Anne Hathaway film Get Smart, he assumed that everyone in America had a handgun because they "were fun." Finally, when he pointedly asks why all Americans are fat (cute!), I try to explain how in America fresh, healthy food can be more expensive than fattening, processed food. I use McDonald's as an example (of which there are none in Vietnam), and again, Joe is shocked. Somewhere down the line, Joe got it in his head that McDonald's was a very expensive restaurant, "one of the nicest in America." He pulls one of those comically overdone double takes when I tell him that it costs more money to cook a plate of rice, vegetables and fish than it does to buy a Big Mac.

This leads to a long conversation about some of the hardships Brooke and I have faced in trying to find something undisgusting to eat in Hanoi. Joe gives us a few recommendations, at which point Brooke, never afraid to ask the hard questions, acknowledges the Marmaduke in the room and pipes up with, "Do you eat dog?"

A bashful look comes across Joe's face as he answers that yes, he does eat dogs. Everyone eats dog. Remaining true to my non-judgmental attitude, I kind of just nod my head, the way you might while looking at a particularly well-trimmed hedge. Brooke, however, presses on. "But they're so cute! What do they taste like?"

"All different," Joe replies.

"We have a dog as a pet. But you wouldn't like him," Brooke says, showing Joe a picture of Puppy on her iPhone. "He's one of the little fluffy ones."

"Oh!" Joe shouts excitedly before catching himself and continuing more slowly. "Those are the most delicious kind."

And with that – Joe's confirmation that Puppy would be a hit delicacy in Vietnam – I think it's safe to say the final gauzy layer of the cross-cultural veil was torn down. You win, Vietnam. You're fucking crazy. Hand jobs, mixed meat, Buffalo Joe and his John Grisham fantasies – I don't get it, and I probably won't before we leave for Cambodia in three days. But you know what? I want to make this work. So I'm just going to accept you for who you are, common ground be damned.

We arrive at the dock in Halong Bay and Joe walks us out onto the pier. There are about a hundred boats – in Vietnamese they're called "junk" (giggle) – all docked at odd angles. Joe says, "Choose." Fuck yeah, 3.2 million dong (GIGGLE)! That's more like it. Brooke and I choose our junk (GIGGLE) and climb aboard.

For the next five hours, we have the entire boat to ourselves. Brooke and I have a few beers, and before you know it the two of us and Joe are like old friends. We're laughing, swapping stories about communism and Mad Men, and having a grand old time. When the boat moors at one of the limestone islands so we can go explore a cave, Joe makes an entirely too loud comment about the attractiveness of two late-teen blond girls there with their father. We all laugh – except the father. No matter, we're having a blast. For the first time, Brooke and I can honestly say that unlike most soldiers in the 70's, we are having a terrific time in Vietnam.

Note to hidden charm: You've been Westernized™.

That Time I Was In Asia: Massage in the First Degree

2009-10-14T14:05:00.001-04:00

In the few short, hot hours we had been there, Hanoi had managed to effectively put us in our place as Westerners far, far from home. Fine. I'm no ethnocentrist. There's no better or worse – just different. Granted their different is objectively more nauseating than the Omaha Beach scene in Saving Private Ryan, but still – no judgments here.

So instead of retreating to our hotel, we decide to shake off the E. coli from lunch and walk down a block to a massage parlor that our taxi driver had pointed out to us on our drive in from the airport. (Wow, I never realized how seedy that was until I wrote it out.)

We walk in the front door and are met by three exuberant Vietnamese women dressed in brightly colored uniforms. We say massage. They say massage. It's pretty clear we're there for massages. We're led through a curtain, up a set of stairs, and into separate rooms.

The set-up is less what you might expect from a spa and more like a cleaned-out storage closet. There's no towel or slippers – just a table with a comically baggy pair of cotton shorts laid out. Through some not-altogether-internationally-recognized hand gestures, it is agreed that I will take off all my clothes, put on the skorts, and lay facedown on the table.

My escort leaves the room. Suddenly, I catch a whiff of excitement (which looking back may have also been terror or food poisoning). I'm getting a massage in Vietnam. It's all gone by so quickly that I've hardly had the time to digest that I am halfway around the world. This wanderlust, combined with severe jet lag and the perpetual state of confusion caused by not understanding a word of what is being said around you, is my only excuse for the piss poor judgment Brooke and I have shown thus far – including our choice of massage parlors.

The masseuse comes in and, with a swiftness that can only be described as catlike, jumps up on the table and sits on the back of my thighs. Then she cracks her knuckles and starts hitting me. Hard. Initially I'm concerned – not unusual when someone smacks you as hard as they can. But since she's doing it with her hands formed into some kind of dual-fisted karate chop, and the blows are producing this unique hollow cupping noise, I assume she must be using an ancient Vietnamese technique designed to release my chakra. (This traditional massage beating would prove to be a common occurrence, leading to the creation of our second vacation game, "Crime or Cultural Norm.")

It goes on like this for a while, her hitting various parts of my body; me resisting the urge to defend myself. Things almost boil over when she is massaging the back of my legs and, as she runs her hand up my skorts (without the least hint of modesty) half her hand swipes clear up my unclenched butt crack. I lift my head off the table with a start but quickly compose myself. Be cool, Dan! Be traditional!

Finally she tells me to roll over and, while straddling my shins, starts tickling my kneecaps. Now I admit, in hindsight this is where I should have known that something was wrong.* But at the time all I could think was "Who am I to question the ancient art of Far East massage? Maybe all those Western massages I've gotten are just pale imitations, like a shot of Starbucks espresso compared to a café in Florence. You know, you can't go off to the other side of the world with a closed mind and expect to come away with a broader perspective, educated worldview, or any of the things you were hoping to find when you planned this trip in the first place. That would be the height of ignorance."

Unfortunately, by the time I'm done thinking all this the masseuse is unabashedly cupping my balls. "That's not very traditional," I think as she continues coming on with the aggressiveness of a summer camp counselor. As she reaches over for the bottle of massage oil while leaving one hand firmly ensconced on my genitals, I sit up and start saying "No" in as many internationally recognized ways possible. A wave of confusion comes over her, and if facial expressions could be translated into words, I'm pretty sure our conversation would have gone something like:

Her: "Are you sure you don't want me to jerk you off? I believe in America they call it a "happy ending," and it is quite popular, especially as a humorous nod towards perceived Asian customs."

Me: "While you seem like a very nice girl with a surprisingly strong grip, my girlfriend is right next door and she frowns upon other women fondling me, whether paid for or not."

After a longer amount of time than it should take for someone to remove their hand from underneath your baggy cotton shorts, she climbs off the table and leaves the room. I get dressed, find Brooke sitting in a bizarre waiting room with two Vietnamese women staring at her, and say, "Let's go."

We silently put our shoes back on, pay, and hurry outside. I am the first to speak.

Me: "We need to regroup."
Brooke: "Definitely."

(Pause)

Brooke: (hesitantly) "Did she hit you?"
Me: "Hard. And she touched my privates."
Brooke: "She just kept whacking my head like she was mad at me."
Me: "At least it only cost $11."
Brooke: "True. You can't put a price tag on being beaten and molested."

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* Brooke would later modify this experience into the educational game "Massage or Molestation" where she would touch a part of my body and I would have to determine whether it was the good kind of massage or the bad kind. Either I have a ton of erogenous zones, or this game was tougher than it sounds.

That Time I Was In Asia: Lunch in Hanoi

2009-10-12T14:47:00.012-04:00

There I am, sitting on the floor at LAX next to some pay phones, positioning myself near one of the few available electrical outlets. Our connecting flight to Taiwan doesn't leave for a few hours, so I'm recharging my laptop, which contains the entire second season of True Blood (don't ask).

As I'm sitting there preparing myself for the thirteen hour flight ahead, an Asian-American girl sidles up next to me, opens her backpack, and proceeds to empty out about five large bottles of vitamins and supplements and a scotch tape dispenser. She waits a beat, and then asks me if I would watch the items for her while she takes care of something. I agree and scoot a little closer to the pile in a gesture meant to bolster her confidence that I could effectively guard her supplements. Then she leaves.

After about ten minutes I start to wonder if she is coming back. Then I wonder what I would do if someone actually tried to take a bottle. I mean, supplements are popular, and not exactly cheap. What would I say? Would I take a punch for these supplements? I ran through all sorts of scenarios in my mind: someone bigger than me eyes them suspiciously, and without saying a word I get up and walk away; an attractive woman compliments my supplements and I give them to her as a gift; a skateboarding punk comes whooshing by and tries to swipe a bottle, but I tackle him in time and when the Asian-American girl comes back she gives me a $500 reward.

Just as my imagination has moved on to the thought that maybe the supplements are in fact a bomb, the girl comes back. She thanks me profusely, and we have a chat in broken-though-respectable English about destinations and such. Then Brooke texts me that I'm needed at the ticket counter, so I say my goodbyes and run off.

I didn't realize it then, but that would be the most English I would hear from someone other than Brooke for the next five days.
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When people say off-handedly "everyone" in Vietnam speaks English, they mean everyone understands the word "water" or "toilet"(though not “bathroom,” which resulted in a curious incident for Brooke that she will recount at a later date). They do not mean that everyone understands things like "What am I eating?" or "Why are you hitting me?" – phrases that over the course of our stay would prove to be infinitely more useful. Which is kind of ironic, because when Brooke and I planned this trip we said the whole reason we were going to Southeast Asia was because we wanted to feel totally out of our element, to experience life differently. In retrospect (i.e. after peeing in a hole in the floor a few times and, if you're Brooke, hiding the used toilet paper behind a bucket of water because you don't know what to do with it) it's funny how innocent the intentions sound.

Still, we wanted the real deal. We didn't want to be the losers who land in New York City and eat dinner at Planet Hollywood. We wanted to dig our hands deep into the soil that is the Vietnamese culture and then wipe them on the seat of our pants. And just like that last sentence, we were really stupid.
______________________________________
We arrive in Hanoi, drop our bags in the hotel room, shower, and decide to go right out for lunch. We ask someone in the hotel lobby if there is a good place to eat nearby. He says something about water and points left, but that is the extent of it, setting a precedent for the trip: No matter how you say the word "restaurant", it won’t translate into Vietnamese. In Spanish it's "restaurante"; Italian "ristorante"; in French there's the verb "restaurer". In Vietnamese it's "danh từ." And don't think you can pronounce it, because you can't.

Taking the non-verbal cue, we head left outside the hotel. And lo and behold, up ahead there is a lake! But the road splits around the east and west bank of the lake. We stand there confused. Sensing our confusion, a kindly old woman sitting outside a shop shouts something at us and then points down the street to the left. "Amazing!" I think. "She knows we're looking for a place to eat and is pointing us in the right direction." We say thank you and go off down the street. (If this logic seems erroneous to you, two points!)

It's not exactly an ugly street. Maybe by my bourgeoisie Western standards it would be more aptly categorized as a lane than a street. And the shops would be bodegas. And the restaurants would be holes-in-the-wall. But damn it we're in Vietnam, so we're doing it Vietnam style.

We continue down the street, slowly casing each eatery. Since the annual climate change in Vietnam ranges from hot to unbearably hot, and air conditioning is something of a luxury, most small stores have no front door. Instead the entire front of the shop is open to the street. Which is how Brooke and I found ourselves uncomfortably standing in the middle of what looked like a cute café with a family eating lunch, but turned out to be someone's cute living room with a family eating lunch. (We would later turn it into the popular Vietnamese street game "Living Room or Restaurant.")

Rattled but not discouraged, we exit the nice people's home and see a bunch of happy-looking people sitting outside on a grassy strip on the bank of a scenic lake. They're all eating and drinking beer and there seems to be too many of them to belong to the same family, so we assume we've found our place.

The décor is minimalist: small tables set up on the grass with mats for diners to sit on. Some teenagers are sitting in the street on miniature plastic chairs (ubiquitous throughout Hanoi). We follow suit, and a young boy – who may or may not work at the restaurant – brings us a menu. It is entirely in Vietnamese except for the first three items, which are described as "chicken," "fish," or "mixed meat." Our confusion must be evident because the boy jumps in and points to "mixed meat." Brooke seems skeptical, but in the spirit of authenticity I take the waiter/street boy's recommendation and order one mixed meat. Brooke orders two beers (she is fluent in “beer” in 27 languages).

A few minutes later, the boy comes back with a big metal pot, portable gas burner, a bowl of dry ingredients (noodles, leaves, spices, etc.), and our beer. The pot is full of some sort of liquid. He turns on the portable gas burner, and leaves. We are actually kind of excited – apparently we ordered soup, and it was going to be prepared right in front of us. How traditional!

Our excitement quickly wanes when the boy returns. In one hand he is holding condiments; in the other, a large plate of various types of raw meat and fish, all cut up and divvied into distinct piles. He puts it on the table, and Brooke and I look at each other with an incredulous gaze that says, "Authentic?" Before I can decipher what exactly is on the plate (I successfully identify squid and clams), Brooke begins the age-old soup dance: Make eye contact with one of the teenagers, pick up a plate, nod. If you get a return nod, proceed. If you get a giggle, stop. This goes on until the waiter/street boy motions for us to put the meat in the soup, which, in turn, begins the age-old "But how do you know when the meat is done?" dance.

You know when you went to Colonial Williamsburg when you were a kid and there was a woman dressed in an old-timey costume whose job it was to churn butter? And the eight-year-old version of you looked on in horror in learning that this was where butter comes from? But then when she was done, she took a sample, spread it on crackers, and since everyone else was trying it you had to try it too, but when you did you were pleasantly surprised at how delicious it was? That's exactly what didn't happen here.

I let the pot boil. Brooke takes the opportunity to second guess my choice of mixed meat. Finally the street boy comes over and motions for us to put some of the soup into our bowls. By now, we have drawn a crowd of kids delighted by the sight of Westerners who don't know how to cook their own soup. With so many people watching now, Brooke and I feel compelled to try it. In an effort to avoid the meat portion of things, Brooke reaches for the dry ingredients bowl, but the boy seems to think that this is a crazy thing to do – as though the noodles were just for decoration and Brooke was attempting to eat the table's center piece.

Luckily we are starving (and authentic!) so we start in. "Do you know what this one is?" Brooke asks, holding up a piece of white meat. "Not sure. How about this one?" holding up something round and gray. At one point I swallow a fish bone and think, "At least I know that was fish."

It goes on like this for a few minutes, us eating mostly in stunned silence, before Brooke looks up at me and probingly says, "This is really authentic."

"Very," I respond. "One might even say it's too authentic."

"Yes," Brooke agrees. "This is the deep end of the authenticity pool."

Even at this point we're thinking that perhaps we should stick it out a little longer. When in Vietnam . . . But then Brooke turns my attention to a woman behind me. I look over my shoulder and see her sitting on one of those little plastic chairs, transferring what seems to be animal entrails from one bucket to another. I do a double take, thinking perhaps I am exhausted and had watched too much True Blood on the plane, and if I just shake my head from side to side I would instead see a woman petting a doe-eyed golden retriever.

No such luck. And with that scene, Brooke and I simultaneously come to our senses. We really look around. The décor isn't minimalist, it's trashy. The lake isn't scenic, it's polluted. The people aren't happy, they are barefoot and drunk. In our quest for authenticity, we had stumbled into the most authentic thing of all: the shitty part of town.

We ask for the check, which is met with some confusion because there's so much mixed meat left to finish. But we insist, pay 200,000 dong (about $10), and leave feeling worse for wear. Like Icarus, we flew too close to the authenticity sun and burned our stomach linings. Hanoi: 1, Us: 0.
______________________________________
If anything good came of that meal, it's that we took away a valuable lesson (or as Brooke says, "It's imprinted on my brain like a dead bug on a windshield"). Sometimes it's okay to be touristy.

And with that we decided to treat ourselves to something very touristy – massages. But even as we washed our hands of the genuine Vietnamese soil, little did we know things were about to get much, much dirtier.

Back in the U.S.S.R.A.

2009-10-07T18:09:00.001-04:00

Here's something they don't tell you on CNN – Asia is nuts. Mind-boggling. And not in a good or bad way, but in a uniquely ambiguous way, where one day you find yourself saying, "This is insane," but even you don't know if you're referring to the three live pigs strapped to the back of a scooter or the 15-cent beer you're drinking while watching it drive by.

So how was it? Well I saw things I'll never be able to unsee, ate things I'll never be able to uneat, pooped in places one should never have to poop in, and was (pulling cardigan tight across my chest) taken advantage of by more masseuses than I care to count. And it was awesome, and there's stories behind it all.

Unfortunately I can't tell you any of those stories right now because I am literally falling asleep at my desk. I mean, I knew going in there was an 11 hour time difference, but apparently I had no concept of what that means. Honestly I still don't. All I know is that somehow through the magic of time zones and jet engines, I left Thailand Monday morning and landed in Los Angeles on Monday morning. I almost cried trying to wrap my head around it before Brooke just pat me on the head and said, "Does Dan need a hamburger?" and I let it go.

So yeah, we'll hold off on the stories for now. Oh, and as for the devastating natural disasters terrorizing Southeast Asia that ~~so many~~ one of you posted concerned comments about, thankfully Brooke and I managed to avoid the worst of it. In fact, having no internet or TV, we had no idea what was going on until we got to Thailand with five days left in the trip. We had just checked into this great oceanfront resort on an island called Ko Samui, and when we went to the room to drop our bags off there on the coffee table was a newspaper.

Before I could finish saying "Holy crap" the phone rings. Brooke and I look at each other inquisitively. I pick up.

Me: "Hello?"
Mom: "What is wrong with you?! Why haven't you called? There's a frickin' typhoon you know!"
Me: (imaging my mother on her cell phone being pulled in a rickshaw on her way to find me) "This is weird."

I have no idea how she tracked us down, and I didn't bother asking. But I learned a valuable lesson that day: No matter how different Asia may be, there's some things (like a mother's loveable insanity) that always remain the same.

[redacted] Is Going to Asia

2009-09-18T13:22:00.002-04:00

In case you didn't know (and why would you, you're not my mom – or are you?) today I'm leaving for Vietnam.

While many years ago, that sentence may have meant a big going away party where I get laid a thousand times and people hug me saying things like, "Good luck in The Shit, boy," now in 2009 all it means is that I'm taking a vacation. A long, much-needed vacation.

What's that? You say I just got back from a vacation? Something about a road trip? Jesus, detective Blog Reader, you really pieced together that puzzle. Fine, Colombo, you caught me. Brooke and I (and Puppy) just went away two weeks ago. But our Labor Day road trip to Apalachicola was more of a warm-up. A dry run, if you will. Even though Brooke and I have taken some business trips to New York this year (and Brooke even went to Cabo for the weekend to raise a lion king without me), this trip to Southeast Asia would have been the first proper vacation we've taken since Costa Rica. And since we almost drove into Nicaragua by accident and nearly died while playing indigenous river games, I thought maybe we should brush up on our traveling technique.

It wasn't pretty.

First, Brooke got sick. The day we were supposed to get in the car and drive the nine hours to a small coastal town on the Florida panhandle, Brooke woke up complaining of a stuffy nose and sore throat. We immediately got into a small fight because I still haven't realized that when women complain about feeling sick they don't want you to say things like, "I'll get you some Sudafed," or "It's not too late to back out of the hotel reservation with no cancellation fee." What they want to hear is, "WHY, GOD?! WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO BROOKE? SHE IS TOO GOOD FOR THIS. Stay alive, sweet woman. I will love you no matter what." I'm working on it.

The entire drive would be too ambitious to tackle after work, so we planned to stop somewhere for the night. I voted for rolling the dice on Priceline for a three-star hotel along the Florida Turnpike. (I’m a gambling man.) Brooke vetoed that idea, insisting that we stay at a seedy motel to add a sense of danger to the trip. She was all excited about sex in a Motel 6 off the highway, like we were having an affair in a movie about the Midwest. We compromised on a Ramada Inn, which, it turns out, is approximately 65% less nice than how you picture a Ramada Inn. The room was like where they hide people in the witness protection program, because apparently if the Russian mafia is after you the first place they look is a Marriot or Holiday Inn Express.

We woke up bright and early the next morning, mostly in anticipation of leaving the motel room. Brooke's conditioning was worsening, though I assured her that it was a passing virus, nothing more than a 36-hour bug. Like those famous New York Times travel columns: 36 Hours in Brooke's Immune System. Before hitting the road, we stopped at McDonalds to get coffee, because that's what you do at exit 427 on the Florida turnpike. No amount of reasoning about how a quaint mom-and-pop diner would really suit this neighborhood will change that fact. Especially when it would have to occupy a space next to this:

Luckily, Brooke was somewhat fortified by our arrival at Apalachicola. And how could you not be? It's the kind of place they write hand clap songs about – turn of the century bed and breakfasts, old fishing boats, and a store run by the retired editor-in-chief of the Apalachicola Times who now sells Tupelo honey. It was all Brooke could do not to knock him unconscious and bring him home with us.

The next morning, though, things took a turn. Apparently, Brooke is allergic to old-world charm. She got worse, not better, and fell into the depths of an Afrin addiction (seriously, I found a bottle hidden under the couch last night). She tried to power through, trooper that she is, but it was futile. The cold was winning.

A typical vacation photo from Apalachicola.

By the third day, shit was hitting multiple fans. I started getting sick, too, and in a tiny town where all there is to do is eat and drink, we were two sad, pathetic people who couldn't taste food or stomach liquor. All that was left to do was hang out in our room. I'm not going to lie – Puppy suffered the most.

Deciding what to do next.

Being silly to pass the time.

In fact, about the only good thing to come out of the trip (besides a new appreciation for Tupelo honey) was learning that Puppy really isn't as dumb as he's pretended to be his whole life. You see, the bed in our so-charming-you'll-shit-your-pants bed and breakfast was about four feet off the ground. This was a problem for Puppy, who is accustomed to sleeping with us. It may have taken him a day and a half to learn, but apparently with the proper motivation (snuggles) he too can achieve greatness.

All in all, not the most reassuring practice vacation. But the way I see it, now that the colds are over with, our immune systems are stronger than ever. Plus I learned a valuable lesson about how to properly order an egg cream in a traditional soda shop. How this will help me in the jungles of Cambodia has yet to be determined, but Brooke and I remain confident that we're good to go.

So I'll be gone for the next sixteen days. I won't be blogging from there because one of my life rules is "Never use sarcasm in a communist country," but I'm sure that upon my return there will be a story or two, probably one about how some Thai masseuse asks me if I am "happy at the ending of my massage" and there's some big (zing) misunderstanding.

And please, if you don't hear from me soon upon my return, assume that I have been captured and sold into the seedy underworld of human trafficking. Band together and stop at nothing to find me. Or at least make a Facebook group in my honor. Thanks, you guys are the best.

Road Trip!!!

2009-09-03T14:48:00.002-04:00

I know the three exclamation points may create an air of false enthusiasm, like when you write to a friend "I can't wait to see you!!!" what you really mean is "It really hasn't been that long since we saw each other last and honestly so little has happened that I'm afraid we'll run out of things to talk about twenty minutes in, but it's important that we keep in touch because emotional connectivity is what separates us from the animals!"

But I'm actually really excited about this road trip. It's the first one Brooke and I will be taking together, if you don't count the time it took us nine hours to drive home from Key West. But that was our mistake. The normally three-hour drive became a nine-hour odyssey due to Memorial Day weekend traffic. It was so unbearable that halfway through we pulled off for margaritas, pulled back on two hours later into the same traffic, sat for half an hour, and then pulled off again into the same restaurant for more margaritas. (Note: It's not considered drinking and driving if you're just drinking and inching forward.) So yeah, I don't think that one counts.

This time we're headed to a small fishing town on the Florida panhandle called Apalachicola. (I like to think the natives gave it such a stupid name to scare away infiltrators who may be intent on pilfering it's fresh seafood, old-world charm and gold.) I haven't studied up on it much, but I do know that for the next four days Brooke and I will be staying in a quaint bed and breakfast (cute!), chowing down on fresh oysters (sexy!) and . . . antiquing maybe? I don't know. This is uncharted territory for me. The last time I drove through the Florida panhandle I ended up at a foam party in Panama City. But I don't think it will be anything like that. Hopefully.

For the record, Brooke just came in and read that last sentence over my shoulder and said, "What do you mean 'hopefully'? You never know what's going to happen. That's the beauty of a road trip!" Um, really? Because I always thought the beauty of road trips is the quiet contemplation of a barren straightaway; the cosmic gut-check of experiencing the world's enormity one mile marker at a time; the liberation from schedules, lunch hours, and the awful familiarity of the day to day; and, of course, the freedom of the open road.

He knows what I'm talking about.

Happy Labor Day, everyone. I hope your long weekend isn't so baaad.

Magic Broom Sweeps Its Way Into Public's Heart

2009-08-31T14:32:00.002-04:00

Holy shit! Literally.

Listen, I get it. It's the summer. Down time. Everyone's on vacation. News is hard to come by. The State Fair closed up last week and since the economy crashed no one has money to drink and drive. And the heat! Even murderers are waiting for the humidity to subside before getting back to work. Slow times at Ridgemont High. I get it.

But if you're going to cover the holy broom story, at least cover it right.

Hey Ladies, I've Found the Man of Your Dreams. Literally!

2009-08-27T14:21:00.002-04:00

(Click to enlarge)

Now I'm in no position to judge the ways in which a man goes about finding the love of his life. I've wrangled up girls from bars, state colleges, and, most recently, my blog. I once even went out with a girl after my friend yelled at her and her friend off my fire escape as they walked by. (She was prettier from one story up.) But I'm fairly positive that of all the ways a man can meet a woman, posting a lengthy missed connection ad on Craigslist with a Sixth Sense-type surprise ending for a woman who doesn't even exist is definitely the worst way.

That being said, I made a new year's resolution and I'm sticking to it. Granted it was new year's 2008 and I've made no attempt whatsoever to stick to it until right now, but like my grandfather always said, there's no expiration date on not being an asshole.

Dear Dream Man,

This is truly a miraculous! I have envisioned the same dream you envision many times. Each detail is the similar – the bar coins, "Ludicrous" and the beautiful woman who appears as a more tan

Mikal from Wristcutters (my favorite band!)

Often I wake up from this dream in a heavy sweating, transfixtured on the mysterious woman who vanishes from my life (just like you!). I hope someday to meet her and to marry her, because of course I am the lesbian, who shares your dream of a goddess on the earth, who is in a dream, but hopefully on earth too.

I am glad we could share this dream.

Love,
Lola

Catching Up With Allure: Have You Fucked Your Hairstylist Lately?

2009-08-26T14:45:00.002-04:00

Anyone in the mood for a blow out? How about a new 'do? Perhaps some bangs? Or maybe you just need a highlight in your vagina. (Overkilled it!) Well you're in luck, because it turns out you're already paying for it.

Never one to shy away from controversy, Allure has recently exposed the unique phenomenon of women sleeping with their stylists. To plebeians like you it may seem straightforward. Perhaps you think sleeping with your stylist is the same as sleeping with your bartender or handyman or gynecologist. You'd be wrong. Aside from a chocolate fountain, an affair with your hairstylist is the most important thing missing from your life.

Take it from Alix, who likens the forbidden dance of hair cutting to tried and true seduction tactics like a boxed wine or cunnilingus.

It's like a fairytale! Woman seeking hot guy with marketable skill and no personality on which to comment finds him in the unlikeliest of places – a place where she goes monthly and pays tons of money for him to touch her head for an hour. Like the end of My Girl, I never saw that coming. Nor did Meaghan, who was starstruck by her coiffeur.

A car? Sushi? A private hair washing room that exists in an alternate reality which is in some way detached from the "real world"?! That's some Vidal Sassoon-type shit. I'm almost convinced that banging your stylist is the new black, but first I need to hear the other side of the story.

While to my untrained heart the story of a man cutting a woman's hair in the bathroom at JFK may seem so mind-numbingly idiotic and unsexy that I wish there was a way to reverse masturbate to it, clearly I never went to J school. Nor have I ever liaised with my hair stylist – though in truth it wasn't for lack of trying.

The year was 2001. I was living on my own in New York city and involved in an on-again-off-again relationship with the girl who, in the annals of my girlfriend history, would later be known as "the crazy one." For convenience sake, I always got my hair cut at the same place: a trendy, though inexpensive salon around the corner from my apartment.

While I frequented the place almost monthly, I almost never got the same stylist twice. Appointment averse, I always just walked in and took whoever was available. That is, until I the luck of the draw led me to Sandy.

Sandy was a petite blond from Australia. She was friendly, though she dressed as though she may be moonlighting as a superhero crime fighter after work – black leather pants, tanks tops, etc. She was also tough as nails, as evidenced by the fact that she cut my hair with a razor blade. When I asked why, she said scissors were boring. To this day, I have no idea what that means, but will always be impressed by a woman who finds a potentially deadly object utterly unexciting.

I began making appointments to see her, and only her, every month. We developed a rapport, and got to the point where we would "catch up" on each other's lives. I was convinced that our relationship could exist outside the salon, but was always too shy to make the proposition.

Then one day I was walking past the salon on my way to the food store and there, sitting on the sidewalk up against the salon, was Sandy. As I got closer I noticed she was crying. "This is it," I thought. "This is the perfect opportunity." I would console her and she would see past my dirty blond hair and into my soul.

The only problem was that she was on the phone. Obviously I couldn't interrupt her call, but I also couldn't run the risk of her getting off the phone and going back inside before I had the chance to make her love me with my kind words and gentle hand. I decided the thing to do was linger just far enough away that I wouldn't be noticed, but that I could keep tabs on her and swoop in (casually, of course) just as she got off the phone. So I stood on the busy sidewalk, pretending to look in the window of a shop a few doors down, which was unfortunate because it was a medical supply store. "Nothing unusual here," my casual demeanor suggested. "Just window shopping for a new walker."

Out the corner of my eye I saw Sandy start to stand up, though she was still on the phone. I was getting nervous that I would miss my window of opportunity. Then, through a crowd of people, I saw her hang up. "Go!" my mind said. "GO! GO! GO!" I moved towards the store thinking, "Am I really going to do this?" and as I got closer I thought, "There is no way I can do this." But suddenly there I was, a few feet from Sandy. I tried to make eye contact, but she wasn't looking my way. I walked slower, trying to grab her attention. Then, just as she was turning to go back in the salon, and our eyes met. I smiled; she smiled. Then, right as I was about to speak, a person walking down the sidewalk cut between us. Like that, she was gone, back on the other side of the seemingly impenetrable divide: her a stylist, me just a customer.

A few months later she moved back to Australia and the salon raised their rate for a men's haircut by $5, so I stopped going.

So yes, I know what it is like to yearn for the forbidden fruit that is one's stylist. But perhaps it's all for the best that we never got together.

And at the end of the day, any woman can lick your cow, but it takes a special woman to service your cowlick.

Funny Sex

2009-08-24T14:21:00.001-04:00

Have you ever had funny sex? Not funny like "he drugged me" funny; funny like "haha" funny? Because Brooke and I occasionally do, and while you may think that chuckles and intercourse go together like rainbows and unicorns (weee!), it's actually a bit problematic, as evidenced by what transpired here yesterday. (TMI? Excuse yourself now. That means you, every person I'm related to.)

So Brooke got back from the gym at 7:00 and I was cooking corn. (With sentences like that, you may want to keep a glass of ice water handy for your loins.) Then Brooke said, "Let’s do it. Do you want me to shower first?" Roar! I thought about it for a second and opted for pre-shower because the corn was on.

Fact: When it comes to knockin' boots, plainly acknowledging what's happening is a mistake. Done properly, no one should ever be 100% aware of what they are doing during sex. Or it becomes like a highly choreographed fight scene that just looks fake. Real fights, like real sex, are chaotic messes of scratching, clawing, biting, kicking, and crying. It's never like, "Well, now I should punch you in the face." If you're going to punch your lover in the face, it should always be spontaneous.

The other problem is that this heightened self-awareness inevitably leads to laughter, which while good for the soul is awful for intercourse. After a few moments of awkward chuckles (she was wearing running sneakers), we managed to right the course. We had successfully purged all hints of humor – until I looked up. There on the other side of the bed was Puppy, gently rocking to and fro while staring off into the distance. He looked like a captain manning his ship over rolling seas; the only thing missing was a slight breeze in his fur.

Dramatic re-enactment*

It was an impossible situation. The more I moved, the more he moved. He was too far away for me to swat without Brooke noticing. A decision had to be made, and wanting to avoid yet another interruption I decided to close my eyes and forge through.

Afterwards, I clued Brooke into what had happened and reenacted the hilarious scene for her. But while Brooke's laughter was innocent and genuine, mine was tinged with something far less amusing: The knowledge that the last thing that went through my mind before the end was Puppy gently swaying at the foot of the bed with that wayward, far off look in his eye.

Dramatic re-enactment

________________________________________
* Any questions on the making of the dramatic reenactment can be emailed to pleasedontaskmethat@redactedblog.com.

Breaking News: Yahoo! Commenter Improbably Solves Complex Gender Issue

2009-08-20T16:27:00.003-04:00

BERLIN (AP) -- Facing questions about her gender, South African teenager Caster Semenya easily won the 800-meter gold medal Wednesday at the world championships.

Her dominating run came on the same day track and field's ruling body said she was undergoing a gender test because of concerns she does not meet requirements to compete as a woman.

The process requires a physical medical evaluation and includes reports from a gynecologist, endocrinologist, psychologist, internal medicine specialist and gender expert.

COMMENTS

(Scene: Sports Testing Laboratory in Berlin. Everyone has German accents. Stefan is reading Yahoo!)

Stefan: "Hans, have you seen this?"
Hans: "No, what?"

(Hans leans in over Stefan's shoulder and reads.)

Stefan: "Has anyone tried this?"

(Pause.)

Hans: "I feel very stupid for not thinking of this."
Stefan: "It is not your fault, Hans. We are scientists! We are trained to question."
Hans: "But the solution was right there before our eyes!"

(Pause.)

Stefan: "Would you prefer to lift her tail or do the looking?"
Hans: "We will flip a coin."
Stefan: "Okay. What is heads and what is tails?"

(They both break out into hysterical laughter.)

Hans: "I am German and that is even funny to me!"

An Open Letter to My Fever

2009-08-19T12:44:00.003-04:00

Dear totally random 100+ degree fever,

You are such an asshole. Why are you such an asshole? What did I ever do to you? At least if you were Tetanus I could be like, "Maybe I shouldn't have eaten off that rusty picnic table," or if I had to cut my foot off because it was trapped under a boulder I could blame it on my poor judgment in mountain biking during an rock slide.

But you, you little son-of-a-bitch, you just came out of nowhere. I was all happy on Sunday night, minding my own business. Typical night: oral sex, bowl of cereal, a chapter in my book and then off to sleep. Then WHAM.

I just love using this video.

4:00 in the morning I wake to the odd sensation that my body is on fire in a meat locker. I grab Puppy for warmth and comfort, but he senses that something is wrong (probably from the tight, shaky grip I have around his neck) and he wriggles free. For the next hour I drift in and out of a hazy sleep filled with hallucinogenic dreams of soccer, which makes the long, torturous night seem even longer.

Monday morning. Boom, roasted. Literally. Brooke goes right into caregiver mode and I know I am really sick when she makes a naughty nurse joke and I feel nothing but the hollow depths of my overheating soul.

So there I am laying in the bed, huddled up in the fetal position under all of the blankets in Miami, kind of delusional while Puppy stares into my face from a few inches away, simultaneously not caring that Brooke is witnessing this pathetic scene and acknowledging that I definitely never intended for Brooke to witness a scene as pathetic as this. "Two years, ten months. That's how long we went before the thin veil of manliness was torn down." All because of you, you stupid asshole fever.

And the worst part is, aside from popping Tylenol like Flintstone vitamins, no one knows how to get rid of you. Like the old saying goes, "Feed a cold, starve a fever." Or is it, "Feed a fever, starve a cold?" However it goes, here's one thing it certainly is: the worst piece of medical advice ever, mostly because no one can fucking remember it.

At one point I had two blankets and a heating pad on me because Brooke was convinced I should sweat it out. When I weakly protested, "But won't it cook my organs?" she replied with a soothing, "Shhh." If that's your game, fever, to turn Brooke and I against each other – it won't work. Our love is . . . fuck I'm feeling light headed again. You asshole, I'm not done with you.

Where was I? Oh right, you're a dickweed, dickweed fever. If you were a person, you would be Glenn Beck's girlfriend. Because of you I haven't eaten anything except toast in two days. Tonight, I am supposed to go to a yacht party. Do you know what happens on yacht parties? Neither do I, and now I NEVER WILL because my body is ravaged from overheating like a menopausal dinosaur. And no, I don't have any idea what I'm talking about. Thanks to you.

All I know is you'd better not come back anytime soon. Because next time I'll be ready. I even made this handy diagram as a reminder for future use.

Because it's "Feed a cold, starve a fever." Not because colds are black and fevers are white. We're past that. Obama is president. Come on.

Go fuck yourself,
Dan

The Secret Lives of Digital Photo Models, Vol. 2

2009-08-13T13:27:00.002-04:00

(Brooke and I were given a digital picture frame as a gift. While hooking it up I found that there were several photos on there already. The instruction manual says that they are just sample pictures, meant to show you how the display will look. I like to think there’s more to the story.)

"Of course they know nothing. They are just children. Not even my children. Just kids."

This thought ran on a loop in Tony's brain as his family posed around him. "Not mine, not mine, not mine."

Of course he knew. He'd always known, regardless of the fact that he'd wished he hadn't. It was one of the many lies a man tells himself to avoid the unbearable conflict of a falsified life.

"How could she?" he'd wondered from time to time. But those questions were always drowned in another business trip, another holiday, another family vacation like this one.

No more. It was time for the truth to set him free. This picture would mark the end of the fraudulent family portraits; the end of the family altogether. Not that it was all bad. He would miss the soccer practices, the recitals, the look on his daughter's face when he handed her another trinket from a hotel gift shop in middle America.

"But I'm young enough," he convinced himself. "Young enough to start again. For real this time. No more faking it."

He huddled together with these people one last time.

It was over in a flash.

Nine Reasons Why Scattergories is the Most Hateful, Divisive Game in the World UPDATE: (Now With More Angry Pointing!)

2009-08-12T16:47:00.008-04:00

While staying at a beach house this past weekend, me and ten of my friends partook in such a heated game of Scattergories that men screamed, women cried, and the very fabric of our friendships was left more frayed than my girlfriend's jeans in 1995. Why? Because Scattergories is evil.

1. There's no rules. Did you know this? Presumably because everyone thinks they know how to play Scattergories, no one ever looks up how to play Scattergories. Which is a good thing, because if they did it wouldn't be much help. The official rules amount to something like 1. Roll the die. 2. Write down answers. 3. Count them up. The only concrete clarifications are:

- Zero points are given for duplicate answers.

- A player cannot use the same word for two different categories in a single round.

- 'A', 'An' & 'The' cannot be used as the start of an answer.

- If the answer is a persons name, then the first or last name can be used.

In other words, go fuck yourself. It's like when you were a kid and you played cops and robbers. The only rules to cops and robbers is that there are some cops and some robbers. Then halfway through the game, you (the robber) are riding away on your make-believe horse, and the policeman catches up to you on his real bicycle and you're like, "A bicycle could never catch a horse!" and your friend is like, "Oh yeah, well then how come I caught you?" and you're like, "Because you're on an actual bike!" and then your friend rides off down the street and the game is over.

All of which means . . .

2. You have to make up the rules. Fact: Rules aren't meant to be created by the masses. That's how Lord of the Flies happened. Even in a representative democracy, laws are drafted by professionals so that we're not all voting on Proposition 1378: Happy endings shall be a mandatory option on all massages costing over $100usd.

Our group tried to tackle the task civilly by going around the table and giving everyone the chance to explain how they play, but it soon became clear that all we were doing was providing a platform for everyone to disagree with how other people play. It was like a town hall meeting on health care reform, except instead of old people screaming about things they don't understand it was young people screaming about things that aren't really worth understanding. Some points up for discussion include:

- Do proper nouns count as duplicates, e.g. Alexander Hamilton and Alexander the Great. Clearly they are two different people (different answers, as it were) but do they cancel each other out since they are the same word?

- Modifiers: creative, or a cheater's bread and butter? Should a person get two points for "excellent eggs"? How about "eggs over easy"? Where does one draw the line between adjective and modifier in a compound noun?

- What level of ridiculousness will be tolerated? For a category like "Things you throw away," almost any answer can be acceptable. Babies, in fact, have been thrown away – but it is something you would throw away? And if your baby was burping, would you get two points?

3. The loudest timer ever. It's like having someone over your shoulder screaming, "GO, GO, DO IT, SO IT, THINK! ALLITERATION, BITCH!"

4. It's political. Without a set of hard and fast rules, voting becomes a popular medium through which people assume a fair and logical conclusion can be made, except, of course, in the cases in which people do not vote for what you think is fair and logical. Vote enough times and you're bound to form alliances with like-minded players. One time a team that had steadfastly voted down outside-the-box answers, suddenly shifted gears and voted for "Optimum online" as a viable answer under the category "Tools." The sudden shift was so shocking that one team labeled it Scattergate.

5. It's subjective. So while one team gets credit for "Optimum online" as a "Tool," my team does not get credit for "lyrics" being an "Instrument" despite the fact that the dictionary defines an instrument as "a means whereby something is achieved, performed, or furthered," and if I asked you to name one song on the Billboard Top 10 right now that achieved success without utilizing lyrics YOU WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO. And I will prove my point with my fierce pointing.

But it's cool, I'm over it now.

6. Cheating is easy. Unless you audit everyone's answer sheet, it's impossible to tell if they are changing answers at the last minute, or simply saying an answer other than what they have written. This suspicion quickly breeds contempt. So much so that by the end of the game when "F" was rolled and the category was "Objects in the room," three of the answers were "frauds," "fucking fuckers" (two points!), and "fucktards."

ANGRY POINTING.

7. You can't drink for two minutes thirty seconds at a time. Ironically, during the most stressful part of the game (where you can't remember what the fuck the name of that goddamn river I even though you've driven past it like fifteen times and you know for a fact that it starts with a "P") you can't sip your cocktail. I tried once and immediately sprayed bourbon all over the table to ensure my friend got down American Apparel before time ran out. (Perhaps Brooke was on to something . . .)

8. Did I mention you have to make up the rules? It got to the point where an argument between me and Brooke about an answer was decided by a headstand contest.

Luckily I am very good at headstands and Brooke was sufficiently drunk.

9. It proves you are not as smart as you think you are. With the aforementioned incredibly loud timer mocking you as it ticks away the seconds of your pathetic, unfulfilled life, it's really hard to concentrate. So when the category "Politicians/World Leaders" comes up and, just before time runs out you suggest to your partner that he write down "Langley" because "They named CIA headquarters after him – he must be famous," and you lay out this very same argument to the other players while they scoff and snicker before informing you that Langley is, in fact, the name of the town, not the founder, it makes you feel a little stupid. It's cold comfort when your partner says, "I thought you said Lang Li, like some ancient Chinese ruler. I was excited about getting two points," because you realize that this is your partner.

Life's a Mother Fucking Beach

2009-08-06T14:31:00.002-04:00

This is it for the week because tonight Brooke and I take off for a sunny, beachy, cocktail-filled vacation – basically just carrying on our normal everyday schedule but at a beach house in Long Island instead. (You could almost call it a staycation, but then you'd die, in accordance with the agreement I signed with myself earlier this year to eradicate the use of the phrase AT ALL COSTS.)

Also though it will be much different due to the fact that we'll be there with my parents and all our New York friends, meaning nude yoga is definitely out of the question* and we will have to pleasure each other sexually the old fashioned way, by secretly exchanging erotic and sometimes graphic notes to one another – though for all Brooke's prowess in the sack past experience indicates this method might be a bit unsatisfying.

The beach house is something of a tradition in my family. This will be our 11^th, 12^th, or 13^th year going (I'm not big on traditions) and though it may seem silly to fly 2,000 miles to go to the beach when you live in Miami, the two locales couldn't be more different. Where we're going is a little town on Fire Island called Davis Park. The only way to get there is by ferry, and there's no cars – or roads for that matter – on the island. It's just one main boardwalk with a dozen or so sort offshoots leading to quaint bungalows and the occasional driftwood mansion. There's a fire station and a post office, though most of the addresses are something like "12 Sandy Lane" or "5 Board Walk," so I imagine people are too embarrassed to have anything important shipped there. There's no street lamps and very little cell phone reception and the overwhelming feeling is that you are secluded on a somewhat primitive island. I'm kind of describing it like the ideal place to commit a murder, but really it's quite lovely.

So that's where I'll be until Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. In the meantime, have fun Yearbooking Yourself.

In 1960 big chins were all the rage.

___________________________________
* Not that we've ever done that, but this definitely won't be the weekend we start.

Wrong Reasons Alert: Was Ed Caught Cheating on Gillian?

2009-08-05T16:37:00.005-04:00

To recap: Ed was dating a couple of girls, but none of them were on a TV show so he decided to date Jillian because she was on a TV show. A few weeks in he was homesick for a romantic relationship that involved fewer than twenty men, so he e-mailed his girlfriend, "I'm coming home!", made up an excuse about pressing needs at the internet consulting factory, and went home.

So then he's back home banging his girlfriend and she's like, "We should go to a wedding." So they went to a wedding and took some pictures, but the wedding made Ed realize that he loved Gillian, so he told his girlfriend that he was going to Texas on a business trip, but by "Texas" he meant "Los Angeles" and by "business trip" he meant "a reality television show."

And Gillian, who was clearly deceived by Wes but says that there is no way she was deceived by Wes, was also deceived by Ed and is saying there's no way she was deceived by Ed.

And somewhere Michael is watching this video like . . .

Reader Contribution: The Worst Thing Said on a Date UPDATE! with Winner (Loser?)

2009-08-04T12:47:00.007-04:00

"I like to Sea-Doo."
- Jenny K., August 21, 2004, before the appetizer even arrived.

(Share yours in the comments. Best one gets posted so everyone can pity you.)

Third Place: Peterdewolf

"I want to take you home to meet my parents."
- While making out on first date.

Second Place: Sparkle

"But I've been thinking about you all week!"
- On our second date when I told him I wasn't going to be having sex with him.

Winner: Natasha

"I actually have 3 kids, not 2 like I said before."
- (No context necessary.)

Natasha, from everyone here at [redacted] I would just like to say that you deserve better than a guy who loses track of how many kids he has. Good luck!

When Parents Text, Everyone Wins

2009-08-03T13:40:00.005-04:00

A week or so ago, Brooke's dad (who has just recently learned to send text messages) called Brooke with this question: "When do I know to stop texting?"

Um, LOL? But seriously, it's not a bad question. Certain situations are easier than others. Like when you text a girl at 2:00 a.m. "Want to meet up?" and she texts back "Already home – maybe brunch tomorrow?" obviously the conversation is over.

But by and large the medium is a tricky format. Whereas you can ignore a phone call or put off responding to an e-mail, the whole point of a text message is instant communication. Once you have engaged in a conversation, you can't very well ignore it at will. Like this actual text conversation from a few months ago:

11:02 p.m. Friend: "Dude, did you watch Lost?"
11:04 p.m. Me: "Yeah. This show is going bonkers."
11:05 p.m. Friend: "I know. What's with all the insane time travel shit?"

(the next morning)

10:31 a.m. Me: "It's nuts."
10:33 a.m. Friend: "What?"
10:37 a.m. Me: "The time travel on Lost. It's crazy."
10:38 a.m. Friend: "You're an asshole."

But because husband and wife writer team Evie and Jack Shoeman are the only ones willing to write the definitive Text Messaging Survival Guide (Sally thought she knew what 'TTYL' meant. Sally was wrong – dead wrong), newcomers to text-messaging, particularly those who may be accustomed to the politesse of phone call sign-offs like "Goodbye" or "Go to hell, crap bag!", are left floundering to decipher the rules. (Like how when my mom first started instant messaging she would finish every message with "Love, Mom." Like "Good morning, Dan! Love, Mom.")

And when they go to more experienced texters for guidance (like Brooke's dad did), novices are met with confused looks or pitiful head-tilts meant to convey a sympathetic appreciation for the quaint notion that there are no stupid questions, only stupid people who are afraid to ask questions, because boy that was a stupid question.

(Note: Brooke's dad is in white, and hasn't yet figured out auto-spelling or how to punctuate.)

But the thing it, it's not a stupid question! Think about it: When do you know to stop texting? It's like the old, "I love you," "No, I love you," "You hang up first," "No, you hang up first!" conversation which goes back and forth until someone literally drowns in a saccharine mess of high fructose corny syrup. The short one-liners and cute sign-offs could go on ad infinitum. Even practiced texters have trouble determining the end point of a conversation, like when girls fret over a guy they like who isn't texting them back even though the last thing they wrote to them was "Bye." "But it's his turn!" they might say, as though there is some huge scoreboard that keeps track of who texted whom last and all text message sign-offs are mere place holders in the time-space continuum for one eternal conversation to pause and resume.

No, I like it better Brooke's dad's way.

NPR Is Brooke’s BFF

2009-07-31T13:00:00.003-04:00

Brooke: “Did you know that most mothers instinctually carry their baby on their left-hand side because it’s close to their heart?”

Me: “Where did you hear that?”

Brooke: “A friend told me. I can’t remember who.”

Me: “Was it someone who just has a baby?”

Brooke: “It was someone I was driving with in the car.”

Me: “You don’t drive around with that many people.”

Brooke: “Wait. Never mind. It was the radio. Sometimes it feels like NPR is talking just to you, you know?”

1001 Things I Hate: No. 3

2009-07-30T13:01:00.000-04:00

After a man in an elevator told me to smile, I decided to start a series on Dan’s blog called 1001 Things I Hate. 1001 things? Well, yeah. I hate 1000 and 1 things, and I have a list.

Flying

Man, I hate flying. Dan already wrote about the time we taxied for an hour: I woke up from my Klonopin-induced nap right as we took off and shouted “We’re all going to die!” terrifying a young girl next to me. My phobia was jumpstarted in the late 90s by a haunting flight aboard Tower Air (anyone remember Tower Air?). Basically, we were in such bad turbulence that people were in the aisle praying. (Then again, Tower Air went from L.A. to N.Y. to Israel, so maybe the flight wasn’t even that bad.) Since then I’ve required two airport Bloody Marys and a Klonopin to not feel, despite rationally knowing better, that I was surely going to plummet to my death.

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt that level of irrational fear. But it’s basically like your stomach is trying to climb out of your throat and your skin tingles and you get hot and sweaty and then you cry. I’ve tried to find ways to calm myself. But truth be told, my pill/vodka mixture doesn’t actually help. (And here I thought substance abuse was the answer to all my problems. Turns out, it only works on depression and loneliness.) Anyhow, the Rx combo only made me tired. So instead of feeling like I was surely going to plummet to my death, I felt like I was surely going to plummet to my death and I was sleepy. But I’ve since discovered a new anxiety-relieving system: talking to the pilots. See I don’t particularly like being in a car either, but it’s helpful when I can see what’s going on. I know Dan won’t pummel into the divider because I can see the divider and shout instructions if necessary. (He loves that.) So before I fly, I go into the cockpit (hehe) and ask what to expect. The pilot, without fail, makes the same joke: “It’s my first time flying.” (Not funny, dude.) Anyhow, it makes the turbulence less scary when I know it’s coming.

So the last few times I flew I didn’t cry or shake or anything. But whatever, flying still sucks. The recycled air, the teeny bottles of alcohol, the total body dehydration, and how if for just one second you relapse and get scared and perhaps grab the muscular bicep of the man next to you, his girlfriend acts all weird.

#3a: Bitchy flight attendants

Look, I like flight attendants. I like anyone who will bring me booze really. And I respect that it can’t be an easy job, and most people don’t follow instructions. But why is it that there’s always that one super nasty flight attendant? Look, Bitch, my seat back was all the way up. I do not need you to press the button for me and force it up further. And I am turning off my computer. What does it look like I’m doing? They’re like the assistant principals of the sky – drunk with power.

#3b: Long announcements

Wouldn’t it be weird if at a restaurant your waiter read the menu out loud and then introduced you to his fellow waiters? I don’t need you to go through the roster of food and drinks or introduce me to your pals. And pilots, I don’t care what our cruising altitude is, where the crew is based, or the current temperature in New York. Just get me there safely and shut up so I can sink into my drug-induced happy place.

#3c: People who clap when you land

Assholes.

Thing I love: Freshly laundered towels.

The Secret Lives of Digital Photo Models, Vol. 1

2009-07-29T12:32:00.000-04:00

Diego peered deeply into Elizabeth’s eyes. Gunshots rang out in the distance. “You’ll get your dress dirty,” he smiled. She was too sad to laugh.

“Take me with you!” she pleaded. “I’m your wife now. We can be happy together in Mexico!”

“You can’t even make a taco,” he joked. She was growing tired of his jokes.

“These past fifteen days have been the best of my life,” she lamented. “I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but I always thought that maybe . . . somehow . . .”

The explosions grew louder. The ground shook and the air smelled of salt and gunpowder. Diego took one last look at Elizabeth; tears filled her eyes.

“I left money for you in the hotel safe,” he started. “It should be enough for you to-” she cut him off with a kiss, a deep, passionate embrace meant to convey to him through all the words she could not find that no matter what happened, he would always be her husband.

He hopped into the boat, untied the stern line, and turned the ignition. Looking back one last time, he cocked his head. “We’ll always have Senor Frogs,” he chuckled.

She couldn’t hear him over the rumbling of the engine, but she knew it was a joke. The boat sped away. He was always telling jokes.

The Bachelorette Season Finale Live Blog

2009-07-27T19:57:00.033-04:00

7:57 Brooke: I'm early. Also, Dan got Final Jeopardy.

7:59 Dan: Final high school Jeopardy. And none of the other kids got it. It’s the telegraph, assholes.

8:00 Brooke: WHAT?! (The screen was glitching. Brooke is on edge.)

8:01 Brooke: I'd like to start off by saying I'm completely uninterested in the outcome of this. Also, I'd bet Puppy that Ed wins and Kiptyn is the next bachelor.

8:02 Dan: EPIC RECAP. Behind Door #1 it’s a guy with rock hard abs, an endless array of ill-fitting suits, and a forehead with more character than a Paul Haggis script. Behind Door #2 a guy with erectile dysfunction who loves IT Consulting. It’s every girl’s dream!

8:05 Dan: Jillian and Ed are dancing around the E.D. issue so expertly that it should be nominated for an Emmy in outstanding choreography.

8:06 Brooke: What is he bringing Jillian’s parents? Is that, a rug?

8:09 Dan: Jillian’s mom is grilling Ed. His face is like, “This is harder than an IT consulting interview!”

8:10 Brooke: Ooh, starting off with "Do you want kids?" When Dan met my mom, she told him she didn't think I was the mother type.

8:12 Brooke: Who's dressing these people? It's like they're all in matching Island Casual attire. Awful.

8:13 Brooke: Jillan's cousin - like a hot Jillian.

8:14 Dan: Jillian is happy that things didn’t get awkward or weird. This voice dub is played over a clip of the entire family dancing the hula in coconut bras.

8:17 Brooke: Yellow again! Somebody get me the wardrobe consultant!

Dan: Jillian is happy that she “got to that place that she needed to” with Kiptyn. Can we please stop talking about soft penises? Please?

8:18 Dan: Jillian to Kiptyn: “My family is a lot like yours”? Does she have a second family? Like one that owns the first family?

8:20 Brooke: The fact that she thinks he's so hot confuses me. Has she seen those ears? It's liberating to objectify men.

8:21 Brooke: Mom asks "How important is communication?” What's he gonna say, It's not important? Way to lob softballs, Mom.

8:22 Dan: Yikes. Dad asks “Are you in love with Jill?” and Kiptyn responds, “I’m getting there.” It’s not like he asked, “Are you almost done remodeling the kitchen?” Just say yes.

8:25 Dan: Bandslam – High School Musical with instruments. Where can I invest?

8:29 Dan: Mom says both guys are “here for the right reasons.” Someone’s learned the lingo.

8:31 Dan: At this point, I think I’d rather listen to the family discuss Obama’s health care plan.

Brooke: You know what's a good show, So You Think You Can Dance.

8:33 Dan: The cousin says that sex is “a big thing, a very big thing.” Why don’t they just punch Ed in the kidney and get it over with?

8:37 Brooke: No. Ed's wearing a tank top. Again. It's not ok, people. NOT OK.

8:38 Dan: While in a helicopter flying over volcanoes, Ed makes a joke about one of them erupting. Now you’re just asking for it, Ed.

Dan: Holy crap, Ed gets off on exploding volcanoes?

8:41 Brooke: Eeps. He's attacking her face with his tongue. And she was pulling back. If I was a body language expert in US Weekly, I'd say "Fail!"

8:42 Dan: All Ed ever talks about is how hot Jillian is. Personally, I think she’s an enigma. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. Every so often the light catches her face a certain way and you can just tell that her face is expiring in about three years.

8:43 Dan: These two have done more kissing in water than dolphins. Horny ones.

8:44 Brooke: Ed, "I'm ready to take this to the next level." Translation: "I will show you my love with my cock."

8:45 Brooke: It's pretty pitiful. He's like the representative for every guy that couldn't get it up and asked for a second chance. That's how you know it's not reality. Cause in real life, those guys are branded impotent for life. And then you tell your friends.

8:45 (As Jillian and Ed shut the lights out in their room, the producers cut to a clip of a volcano exploding.)

Brooke: Unbelievable.
Dan: Believe it.

8:48 Dan: The producers upped Kiptyn’s meds backstage, because now all he can talk about it how he wants to marry Jillian.

8:49 Dan: Jillian, “I need to know Kiptyn is in this for the long run.” (Cut to scene of speed boat taking off.)

8:50 Brooke: Uh oh. She just said "I love Kiptyn." What I said before about betting Puppy, I was just kidding. You can't hold me to that. You have no proof!

8:51 Dan: Does anyone else feel like Kiptyn is a bit rough with Jillian? Like Lenny?

8:52 Dan: Kiptyn and Jillian are out paddling on a long board. Even on Kiptyn’s date, Ed can’t escape his E.D.ness.

8:52 Brooke: Friend Amy texts in: "Are we sure Ed's not gay?" Friend Amy, though about ten minutes behind, makes a solid point.

Dan: That would explain his attitude of “I love everything about you except your scary vagina in the dark” towards Jillian.

8:56 Dan: The fact that Amy Adams is in a movie about blogging makes me hopeful for the day when Zac Efron will play me in [redacted]: Better than Brian DePalma’s Movie.

8:58 Dan: Kool-Aid promises “more smiles per gallon.” Hypoglycemia will do that to a person.

9:00 Brooke: “Hehehe. ‘Kiptyn’s always been the dumper!’”

9:01 Dan: Jillian has officially made her decision. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that it was The Hardest Decision She Has Ever Had To Make™. Meanwhile, Kiptyn and Ed choose their rings, which is the easiest decision ever because the network has already bought them (like in all good love stories).

9:04 Dan: Jillian is crying. Already. I just realized now that I stopped liking her at least four episodes ago.

9:05 Brooke: A white wedding dress? For the proposal? Ridiculous.

9:06 Brooke: OK, they're about to walk into the rose ceremony and we have an hour to go. They're going to have to stir up a lot of drama to make this work.

Dan: My guess is that it has something to do with a man whose name rhymes with “weed.”

9:09 Brooke: Friend Amy on delay: "Ew, they both picked the grossest rings." So true. That heart-shaped diamond was hids.

9:13 Brooke: How awesome would it be if she picked Chris Harrison!?!

9:14 Dan: Walking up to Jillian, Kiptyn says, “The impossible is possible.” (Sad trombone sound.)

9:14 Brooke: The producers must have arranged this with Kiptyn. Telling him to say he was going to propose, so he's a more sympathetic Bachelor. Bet on!

9:15 Dan: Jillian to Kiptyn: “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.” Kiptyn: “Hmm. This hurts.” (Bear hug.)

9:17 Dan: On the Limo Confessional Cam Kiptyn says he wishes he had more time to tell Jillian how he fe-

9:18 Dan: On to more important things – why would a girl want vibrating mascara? If there’s one body part where I want to keep all vibrating objects away from it’s my eye. No?

9:25 Dan: Jillian is really good at pulling off the smug look of “I’m so happy everything’s settled and there aren’t any surprises coming.” Even while the ominous music plays!

9:26 Dan: Reid comes out of a minivan and tells Chris that he made a huge mistake by getting kicked off. Then he goes out and hugs Jillian – but so passionately! And then he proceeds to say nothing. That’s so Reidy!

9:27 Brooke: Whoa. He's going to propose. And he had to pull strings to come back? Like say yes when the producers offered him 50k?

9:27 Brooke: They're both sweating profusely. How romantic.

9:28 Dan: Jillian, “Letting you go was the hardest thing I ever had to do, except when I let go of Kiptyn ten minutes ago.”

9:29 Dan: The producers are so pissed they couldn’t score the rights to “Don’t Stop Believing” for this scene.

9:30 Dan: Reid’s reason why he never had anything to say: “It’s indescribable because it’s meant to be.” You can’t argue with logic, Jillian!

9:31 Brooke: (Reid gets down on one knee and proposes.) Text from friend Amy, who has caught up: “Ahhhhhhhhh.”

9:32 Dan: Jillian, “I can’t make a decision like this!” She doesn’t even have her flowcharts.

9:33 Brooke: No! What?! It must be hard to say no to a proposal. We women are groomed to want to be proposed to. To want to put that ring on. When she saw it, she even looked confused. "Me want ring. Grrr!"

9:37 Dan: Friend Amy: "I hope she picks him. Good Jew."

Brooke: Friend Amy is Jewish, so that's not offensive.

9:39 Dan: ABC’s Fall line-up includes shows about cougars, witches, and gravity. What is this, 1960?

9:40 Brooke: Poor Reid. They're just making him stand out there in the sun, sweating.

9:41 Dan: Chris Harrison should have his own show called “Chris Harrison’s Emotional Advice.” And on the premier episode he should box Dr. Phil.

9:43 Dan: Reid: “How are you?” Jillian: “Emotional.” I think he was being rhetorical.

9:44 Dan: The way Jillian talks about this decision sounds just like how I sound when I talk about choosing what to have for dinner. That says something bad about one of us.

9:45 Brooke: Nice, Jillian. Now Reid will never open up again.

9:47 Brooke: I give Jillian and Ed a 50-50 shot. 50 percent they make it through the first round of publicity. 50 percent they don't.

9:48 Dan: Think of it this way, Reid. How many guys can say that the last two times they were dumped they were whisked away in a limousine? Not many!

9:49 Brooke: Anonymous commenter 4, I'll give you that the dress is pale pink. But still, a sweetheart neckline with a full skirt? It screams bridal.

Dan: Yes but what do you wear to the most pathetic moment of your life? Where is this month’s Martha Stewart Living when I need it!

9:53 Dan: DATING IN THE DARK! DATING IN THE DARK! Please tell me you saw that!

9:55 Dan: Ed calls Jillian kind, beautiful, funny. This is what Reid was never good at – adjectives.

9:57 Dan: Ed’s down on one knee and you can see it in Jillian’s eye: GREEN CARD!

9:58 Brooke: Oh god, that ring. Honestly, if after all that, he gave me that ring, I might cry. It's a heart-shaped diamond, for fuck's sake.

Dan: I heard it’s a blood diamond!

9:59 Brooke: Weird country song montage. They deserve this music.

Dan: The fact that the Jillian and Ed Music and Picture Montage doesn’t include a shot of Ed back in his office in Chicago pining for Jillian while doing internet technology consulting is a crime. Like, “Well, sir, I’m not sure your baud is up to speed.” (Breaks out crying.)

10:01 Brooke: I know Kiptyn is the next Bachelor. But I really wish it was Reid.

10:02 Dan: (Secretly records Dating in the Dark while Brooke isn’t looking.)

The Bachelorette Season Finale Live Blog Starts Tonight (Because It’s Live)

2009-07-27T12:33:00.000-04:00

I know Brooke and I dropped the proverbial ball of processed love two weeks ago when we failed to recap the penultimate episode of The Bachelorette. And we’re sorry, but something important came up. It was dinner, and it was delicious. I had the Farfalle. Very fresh.

But tonight we’re not letting food get in the way of our mission: live-blogging the shit out of The Bachelorette season finale, which promises to be (Can you guess? No really, can you? Here’s a hint, it rhymes with “pragmatic.” Yes, that’s right) THE MOST DRAMATIC ROSE CEREMONY EVER.

For everyone with a life and a modicum of dignity who hasn’t been keeping up with the show, here’s a brief recap of what happened on the last episode so we’re all on the same page going into tonight.

KIPTYN

With the field down to three, Jillian knows that things were about to get real. Really, really real. Jillian loves Kiptyn’s abs, but needs to know that she can trust him. So the show starts with Jillian and Kiptyn going on a ~~metaphor~~ date at an obstacle course. Perched some 20 feet in the air and secured by only professional-grade harnesses, Jillian and Kiptyn simulate a real-life relationship by tackling a series of problems, difficulties, and tribulations, like a rope bridge and a zip line.

On the final task, Kiptyn coaches Jillian through a particularly tough totem pole exercise by saying, “If we can do this, we can do anything [except achieve world peace or a universal health care system].” Jillian fails and is saved only by her harness, then says, “That is exactly what I needed.”

The Bang Card comes out for a second time, and Jillian manages to make the prospect of sex on a tropical island unimaginably boring. I wouldn’t be surprised if she measures all the guys’ cocks and enters the data into her Who’s Here For The Right Reasons Bachelor Compatibility flowchart.

REID

Reid finally gets to go on a helicopter and is like, “Finally, a helicopter ride.” Every other moment of their date is awkward. Jillian is like, “TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL” and Reid is like, “I FEEL LIKE WELL THE THING IS I’M LIKE YOU KNOW.” He resorts to showing her how much he likes her by spreading his arms as wide as they’ll go and saying, “This much,” and Jillian is so happy because he loves her approximately 5’ 7” worth.

Again, Jillian describes all of the special learning and bonding that should come out of the special Bang Card night and the look on Reid’s face is like, “You mean sex, right?”

Ed surprises Jillian by saying that he flew his parents in to meet her and she gets so excited that Brooke is like, “What the fuck is wrong with her? No one gets that excited about meeting a guy’s parents.”

Meanwhile, Ed is dressed like a 1970’s jogger and he and Jillian go sailing and swimming and making out – a lot. Unfortunately, Ed’s cock is like Checkov’s gun: They’re doing so much dry humping and talking about how special their connection is that you just know somebody’s gun is going to misfire.

Lo and behold, the Bang Card comes out and Jillian is like, “Yes please.” They retire to the fantasy suite and start to rub each other down with oil from many different camera angles. But when it comes time to seal the deal, E.D. lives down to his name and fails to rise to the occasion (KABOOM! Word play overload!)

Or, to put it more tactfully, Ed “couldn’t show her that he’s in love with her with his cock.” Jillian chalks it up to sunburn (?), stress, and exhaustion. Brooke is thoroughly disappointed in Ed.

ROSE CEREMONY

Jillian has a “special chat” with Ed, which I assume goes something like, “Does your cock work?” “Yes, my cock works,” so she keeps him. Kiptyn’s forehead is also relieved to make it through, leaving Reid as the odd man out. Ironically, in the Limo Ride Confessional, Reid perfectly vocalizes how he feels about Jillian, saying “I was falling in love with her” and somewhere Jillian perks up and a tear comes to her eye as she senses someone opening up and finally respecting the process.

TONIGHT

Live blog starts at 8:00 p.m. EST and goes until I say it’s over. Or someone’s heart is broken. Whichever comes first.

This Guy Is a Crappy Teacher*

2009-07-24T14:18:00.002-04:00

Seems easy enough.

Um, refund please! My wolf training video is broken.

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* Alternate title: A “Howl To” Video. (What, I couldn’t just leave that one on the sidewalk to die.)