The Rules Of Talking Politics (Don’t Be A Pussidiocrat)

It is said that one is better off avoiding the discussion of sex, religion and politics in certain environments.

Sounds like a pretty shitty office party to me.

Personally, I like to hit on these subjects as often as possible. Sometimes I like to see if I can generate a spirited debate involving all three at once. Often times I am “successful” in this and find myself offending and/or alienating friends, family and strangers alike. Obviously, this is not ideal, but I accept it. Still, it leaves me to wonder when, and perhaps more importantly how we all became so damn sensitive. 

God forbid you suggest Christianity be removed as a staple of American democracy to a patron of the church. For shame you would boycott a fast food chain, or support it for that matter, for their position on gay marriage. And any philosophy advocating the distribution of any portion of our nation’s unmatched wealth with those less fortunate…well, that’s just socialism, bro. And you should be probably be lynched for suggesting it. 

Of course, these all pale in comparison to the unfalteringly consistent and utterly useless pseudo-replies from those “exhausted” with the self-expression of others via social media.

You know what I’m talking about… 

“OMG. I’m so sick of people commenting/tweeting about (insert subject). Enough already.”

and

“I really wish I knew your opinion on (insert subject), said no one ever.”

Perfect. Tip of the cap for putting the “wit” in “Twitter”. Rather than engage in in-depth conversation or simply ignore it in favor of a more productive activity, you hit others with unsolicited mockery, denying us of what I am sure is an immense wealth of knowledge on the topic.  

How long did we tolerate your Farmville obsession again? 

The reality is that our individual position, no matter how powerfully we may feel about it, is far less important than how we react to those who feel differently. Furthermore, the intolerance of the opinions of others does nothing but more deeply entrench our adversaries in their cause.

The real issue here is that many citizens within our great nation shine soft, insecure, uneducated, highly-impressionable and hyper-sensitive when controversial subjects are broached. The ease with which we are able to access information and the interconnectedness created through modern methods of communication, both of which should bring us closer and towards a greater collective empathy have, regrettably, amplified our collective ignorance. People without knowledge or the conviction required for debate yearn to disagree, to validate their position and identity and often end up the loudest voices of all. Meanwhile, those better equipped to articulate their point lose interest in drawing with crayon. 

Look, I get it. Many of us are passionate about our beliefs and the masturbation of one’s ego does indeed feel good. But passion not preceded with investigation and an open mind is not passion at all. Your so-called argument becomes nothing but loud, regurgitated hype. You become the Flava Flav of political discourse. That is, if Flava Flav were both surrounded and preceded by a thousand other Flava Flavs. Deep down (actually, probably not that far beneath the surface at all) we know this and we feel guilt, which makes us quick to become defensive and overly sensitive. Especially online. We morph into cyber pussies shrouded in a translucent layer of internet tough-guy and inevitably reveal our inner idiots. We become “Pussidiocrats”, if you will. 

Those of us secure and intelligent enough to engage in actual intellectual confrontation are tired of it.

In no way do I claim to be South City’s James Carville. As a matter of fact, I am pretty green to the world of politics. But I enjoy a good mental dust-up as much as anyone I know and as long as your expression of your beliefs does not impact me in some extremely personal way, I am not going to take it personally…or even that seriously. I will take it into consideration, however, because I care more about having the greatest possible understanding than I do instant and fleeting ego-gratification. What I have noticed is that when many seemingly intelligent sparing partners become frustrated or painted into a corner, they just get mad and defensive and the discussion becomes more juvenile than it should. I’ve been guilty of this myself. I imagine we all have. 

Example: I recently stated in a Facebook post that if you are voting Republican solely because Mommy and Daddy voted Republican, then you are an idiot who, for the greater good should probably not vote at all. I also offered that the only reason the statement was directed at Republicans was that they were the only ones I had literally heard this offered up as a reason for voting the party. One response I received from a friend said that it was in fact I who was the idiot for suggesting that anyone not vote at all.

Rock the Vote. Fine. Whatevs. 

A feed manifested and I apparently struck a nerve with some individuals who were probably less informed than they would like to be. In fairness, aren’t we all less informed than we would like to be? I know I am. Which is why I try to remain openminded. The fact that not one Republican friend agreed with me seemed odd. The conversation eventually took a turn towards my abhorrence of religion in government and things got even more ridiculous. Next thing I know I am being told that I hate God and those who believe in a god.

All this stemming from an opinion…a statement suggesting that uneducated voters not vote.

Jesus.

I can only assume that whomever the individual was that stated sex, religion and politics should remain taboo had a wisdom that I do not possess. He or she clearly understood that most individuals are too insecure for debate. He or she probably also identified it as a waste of their time. This column itself…probably also a waste of time.

But I can’t resist. I love all things polarizing because I believe they offer the most efficient path towards personal and communal growth. 

Which is why those of us with the balls and the brains to drop educated knowledge must continue to be more vocal than those who have nothing but high-speed internet access…aka the Pussidocrats.  

But I’ll acknowledge that there should be some guidelines. If we’re all guilty of the same egomaniacal shortcomings to one degree or another, it is in our best interest to have some guidelines.

So, in the spirit of sacred unmentionables, I give you the 10 Commandments of Political Discussion and Debate.  

1. Thou Shall Have No Higher Purpose Than The Truth. There is a fine line between being steadfast in your belief(s) and being shamelessly loyal to your own narrow-minded  dogma. An open mind is a sign of integrity and when changed is not necessarily a declaration of defeat. It is merely the opportunity to more closely align yourself with the truth, which should outweigh your ego’s need to be “right”. 

2. Thou Shall Not Make For Yourself A Carved Believe System. At least not one of stone. It should be more like a bar of soap. Residing in any one set of beliefs by default is not only foolish but boring. Contrary to religious figureheads, there is no singular formula for ethical perfection, and even the most fixed items in the natural world are changing before our eyes. To quote a favorite Buddhist proverb, “The bamboo which bends is stronger than the oak which resists.” 

3. Thou Shall Not Make Ignorant Ass Arguments In Vain. I also recently posted an image that listed some of the retarded shit GOP reps have recently said in regards to rape. I posted it without comment for the most part…kind of felt the quotes spoke for themselves. But at least one person had the audacity to suggest they were being taken out of context and that it was just more Democrat propaganda designed to pick up sympathy votes. After all, who do rape victims think they are, wanting sympathy and crap?  

Regardless of which direction you lean, sometimes your guy just fucks up. Own it and move on if you see it fit to do so, but some shit is indefensible. That a female body has magic ways to shut down reproduction in the event of rape-induced pregnancy for example is clearly beyond ignorant; it’s horrifying. It is an example of an instance where you have no choice but to acknowledge your guy is a moron. At least in regards to the matter at hand. 

4. Remember The Present Day, To Keep It Holy. Things that held true for you in the past may not hold true for you in the future. To assume that your position is not subject to change is self-defeating and the worst kind of arrogance. I will most likely continue to be socially liberal. Though as I get older and hopefully continue to accumulate wealth, maybe I’ll become more fiscally conservative…who knows? But pigeonholing your beliefs only leads to a more lengthy maturation process.  

5. Honor Your Mother And Your Father But Make Up Your Own Mind. You did not choose to whom you were born. And you will most certainly take much of your upbringing into adulthood, for better or worse. But challenge your indoctrination from time to time. Hopefully, your parents gave you a solid foundation. But more importantly, they hopefully gave you the confidence to figure a few things out on your own. My parents made plenty of mistakes, but I can tell you one thing: they didn’t raise a doormat. 

6. Thou Shall Not Murder A Dead Horse. It is a blessing and a curse that we exist in an era that it is so easy to blast our position all over the social landscape like bukkake. Don’t beat a dead horse. Especially if it is clear that you have won the argument. If you know you have won the argument and your opponent is still fighting the good fight, you weren’t going to convince them anyway. At a certain point, let it go.

7. Thou Shall Not Commit Argument Adultery. I doubt I am the only one who has watched as someone adjusted their beliefs to better fit the company they kept. And double-shame on you if you stood witness to it and said nothing. This makes you as much of a little bitch as them.     

8. Thou Shall Not Steal The Beliefs And Arguments Of Others And Use Them As Your Own. Draw from the input of others, obviously, but formulate an opinion of your own based upon your experience and the most updated facts you can uncover. There is more information available to you than ever before in human history. Use it or stick to the topics you know.    

9. Thou Shall Not Bear False Witness Against…well, anything. Or anyone. In my own naivety I often forget about dishonesty. I suppose that because being forthright comes so naturally to me it often slips my mind that someone might make shit up just to win an argument. Lying, at least about most things, baffles me. For some people I think it may truly be a mental illness. Avoid mental illness when possible.  

10. Thou Shall Not Covet Donkeys And Elephants. People just love to adopt an identity. They fucking love it. It helps them to forget the parts of themselves that they hate, at least temporarily. Or until a more appealing identity becomes available. Is there a more effective way to cloud one’s judgment than to endorse a group’s beliefs in their generalized entirety? Do I lean to the left? Absolutely. I also endorse the right to bear arms, as well as the notion those receiving welfare aid should be drug-tested. Want to have a discussion about a direction our homeland should take? Cool. Using a political party to define yourself? Wack. 

Which brings us to the Golden Rule of talking politics: The moment you discover a conversation has less to do with the subject than the person debating it, walk away. 

Even if that person is you. 

Certified: Broadway Oyster Bar

There are places you go to drink and enjoy live music that require you check their website beforehand to see who is playing. Broadway Oyster Bar is not one of them.

You just go.

You wake up one absurdly nice March morning, run a few errands with your favorite Pandora station cued up and almost suspiciously serving your favorite tracks with little ad interruption…you do a little yard work…you realize it is a perfect night for Broadway Oyster Bar. You call a close friend you have known since high school, one who after so many years of good times and laughs you know will be able to comfortably relax with you into the ambiance of the event, and you go.

You just go. Because you know the place you are heading will deliver.

Broadway Oyster Bar delivers.

Ironically, I had been there many times before I ever sampled the oysters. I’m not really into oysters. They remind me of snot. That is until you cover them with garlic and butter and parmesan cheese and grill those sons of bitches, which Broadway Oyster Bar does with precision.

Whether their oysters are an aphrodisiac, I cannot say. I have been too busy enjoying the refreshingly balanced ratio of women to men. In fact, the first time I sampled their signature dish, a girl I had met that night convinced me to give them a try and showed me how to slurp them properly.

Later that night she introduced me to a bottle of wine I also had not tasted before. At her place.

Oysters may be an aphrodisiac.

There always seems to be attractive women there. And not the insecure, uppity women that flock from Washington Avenue club to Washington Avenue club with lips puckered in contempt even tighter than their buttholes. Generally speaking, the women who frequent Broadway Oyster Bar will actually smile back at you. Appears to come from a mutual appreciation of our collective humanity or something.

Baffling, I know.

While I have never met the person or people who own the place, or even those who manage the place, what is clear is that someone there is doing something right.

Saturday night was no exception. My friend and I arrived a little after 10 o’clock, about the same time the band Big Brother Thunder & the Master Blasters took the patio stage. Theirs was a high-energy act with a Prohibition, speakeasy type flare…funky, soulful brass instrumentals with sexy, playful lead vocals in a delicate red dress.

Flawlessly tangled between their sets were the talents of one DJ Mahf. If you have not bared witness to the stylings of Dan Mahfood – mix master behind local hip-hop group Earthworms – you probably don’t get out much. The dude is simply a staple of the local music scene; a true artist in every sense of the word and one hell of a nice guy.

Frankly, if you find yourself at a venue with him operating the turntables and people are not bobbing their heads in accordance, leave immediately and begin stocking your pantry with batteries and potable water: the zombie apocalypse has begun.

Big Brother Thunder & the Master Blasters, on the other hand, I had not heard of them prior to Saturday, yet I enjoyed them just the same.

This is why Broadway Oyster Bar is a success. All aspects of the operation are evenly and tastefully distributed in such a way that it would be difficult to leave dissatisfied.

Everywhere you look, the place is accented in a kind of raw, artistic fashion. Oyster shells garnish the mural on the wall to your left as you enter the outside bar and are also used in the landscaping as one might use loose rock. Christmas lights add to the festive atmosphere without giving it the feel of a college dormitory. Even the cramped, mosaic-mirrored restrooms are somehow endearing.

Somewhere Jimmy Buffet eats a cheeseburger and is pleased by all of this.

Baseball season is now right around the bend and preludes the immediate and oft-unjustifiable patronage of bars and restaurants neighboring Busch Stadium. In droves we will head south to the cavernous warehouse that is Paddy O’s to loiter with fellow fans and north to Shannon’s Outfield where we will tolerate the awful playlists of Curt Copeland and Z107. Both will honor our patronage with outrageous drink prices and an indifferent staff.

That’s not a shot; it’s just the nature of the beast. There is no doubt a time and a state of mind suitable for such environments. I’ve had great times at both.

But just yards away in distance and miles apart in value, Broadway Oyster Bar waits coolly with fair prices and the aesthetic appeal of a place that has weathered time. It is a place you can count on to provide a vibrant and diverse scene, unpredictable but good music, and arguably the best Cajun-Creole fare in the city.

They have been around for over 30 years already. I’ll never forget attempting to tell my dad about the place and discovering that he knew more about it than I did.

Oh, and the best part about Saturday night? My bar tab was $18.

Eighteen dollars, y’all.

Certified.

Why Women Love Ballplayers

A work buddy and I were talking about possible topics for this column when he brought up what I thought was a good one:

Why do women love ballplayers?

A little background on my friend…he played college ball – he was a pitcher – with a guy named David Freese. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Since he and I are both rabid baseball fans and sit adjacent to one another, we often shoot the shit, argue about trades and signings, analyze ballplayers’ bodies of work and Hall of Fame worthiness, et cetera. We often disagree.

For example, I recently identified the mercurial Manny Ramirez, signed out of retirement by Oakland in the midst of a PED suspension and a player I never cared much for personally, as one of the best hitters in the history of the game. He disagreed, even though I pretty much clobbered him with indisputable evidence. (19 seasons of .312/39/129…are you kidding me?)

But he occasionally brings the kind of insight only a guy good enough to play at a collegiate level alongside a future World Series and NLCS MVP can bring. It’s the unequivocal difference between one who has learned something academically and one who has learned it experientially. I’d like to believe I represent a balance of both, but the nuances of the game, the lifestyle of a ballplayer…even at the relatively low level he survived, I never reached such heights.

Having neither his nor Freese’s permission to expound, all I will say of my friend’s tales of Wild Turkey and pot-infused glory is that they never fail to entertain. Still, when Freese is on national television generically mentioning some of the less sensible decisions he made prior to enjoying big league success, I can only assume there is an overlapping of events.

And I can’t help but envy a scenario where hot, horny college girls pay you homage simply because you are a ballplayer.

They called them “cleat chasers”.

This got me thinking about David Freese’s recent social ascent…the Country Music Awards with Erin Andrews, appearances on talk shows, Alive Magazine cover shots…and perhaps my favorite, subject ofThe Onion’s “David Freese Swarmed In Saint Louis By Hordes Of Swooning, Average-Looking Women”.

There is naturally an oversimplified assumption that women like ballplayers because they are fit and financially well-off. Of course they do. But this doesn’t give the vast majority of women – namely, those who are not sluts with daddy issues requiring influential dick to curb their insecurities – the credit they deserve.

Whether men and women realize it or not, the underlying and supremely-attractive trait demonstrated by ballplayers is focus.

Sure, it helps to be a chiseled specimen of physical fitness. Most women do like muscles. But focus, and the draw it receives, are not exclusive to professional athletes or to those who have achieved celebrity status.

A man’s ability to focus helps satisfy one of women’s most primitive prerequisites: mental stability. For purposes related to both her and her potential offspring’s survival, she desires a man who can hone in on the task at hand at a moment’s notice; one who is in control of himself, but who also commands a certain level of power over the world around himself.

Modern society obviously requires this be translated a billion different ways by a billion different women, but whether a woman’s gaze has become fixed upon a slick-fielding, power-hitting ballplayer, an edgy, hipster guitar prodigy, a deft-handed auto mechanic, a dutiful father showering a child with the attention it deserves, or the village’s most successful hunter making it rain sweet meats and the warmest of pelts, focus, and its assumed byproduct results, turns women on.

When she tunes in to a Cardinals game – especially one deemed “important” by the masses, further validating the players involved – she sees men engaged completely in their craft. She sees Wainwright glaring at the strike zone and Carpenter scowling at an opposing, two-bit Brewers outfielder (Ahhhhhhhhh). She sees Molina maliciously scanning for baserunners from behind his mask. She sees Freese going oppo in Game 6 for extra bases and capping it off with possibly the coolest fucking pose in the history of the triple…and then she sees him deposit a home run onto the Busch III centerfield grass for arguably the most exhilarating win in Major League Baseball history.

This corner of baseball reverence will also miss watching Colby Rasmus dig in with a vengeance…

Guess somebody lost a bat in the cave.

The dynamic distinguishing the professional athlete from the layman is really just the illusion created by media coverage. We view athletes and celebrities for the time allotted and from the lense of public perception as they perform at the highest level. It’s not until Britney exposes her unruly muff or Scott Spiezio singes his soul patch on the crack pipe that we realize these individuals have problems just like us.

It remains their ability to focus, and sometimes refocus, that continues to attract us to them. Talent is prevalent, no doubt. But without focus, talent is nothing.

The caveat is that focusing on shit that sucks, or that is useless and offers zero peripheral benefit to society does not count.

Halo does not count. Your six fantasy leagues? Also do not count.

What counts are the activities that give your life meaning. Acts that bring you to that elusive state of focus, not to be confused with numbness…acts that produce, or at least have the potential to produce positive results of some kind.

Ultimately, we’re talking about the kinds of activities that bring about genuine happiness and personal growth.

I’m not knocking your Xbox obsession. It’s just that it’s really hard to find – and keep – a quality woman if your ass never leaves the bean-bag chair.

Focus is the reason women get all hot and bothered about guys like David Freese. Especially guys like Freese. Guys who have fought through adversity in order to accomplish something significant. What women love watching us do most are usually the things we love doing the most.

Again, presuming those things have purpose.

In fact, generally speaking, women are predisposed to nurture and assist us as we do those very things.

And if you catch one that doesn’t, throw her back like Cubs fans will be Freese’s longballs this year at Wrigley.

Revisiting Your Failing New Years Resolution

It happens every year around this time. Well-meaning herds once committed to better health in the New Year begin to thin, fading into old habits and addictions.

By spring the vast majority have fallen short. In like a lion in January…out like a lamb by March.

On one hand, it’s a relief. The gym just gets too fucking packed. This year I joined a new one because of it. The last straw was my having to stand in a filthy, crowded locker room holding all of my belongings, waiting for a locker and a place to change that wouldn’t require someone getting sexually assaulted in the process.

To the disappointment of the message boarders, an inadvertent rusty-tromboning is not in my fitness game plan.

Attempting to sum up the psychological grounds for maintaining or abandoning a workout routine is foolish…there are so many variables. However, a few culprits exist that we can probably all agree on.

Below are the most common reasons your local gym is getting fat on the direct debits of members who haven’t broken a sweat since Valentine’s Day.

The Reason: Results 

You got off your ass, made long overdue changes to your diet and lost weight. You enjoyed some deserved success and have never felt better…than you did a few weeks ago.

You haven’t been to the gym since.

Whatever newfound strength you found is already leaving you, as is your resolve to a healthier diet. Soon the euphoria of your initial success will be gone and you will have to pick yourself up all over again, just as you did a few short months ago in an act of courage that probably took years to manifest.

The Fix: Remembering the reasons you began working out in the first place 

Did you jump on a treadmill for the first time in your life to be ten pounds lighter for a month and a half? If so, you have shitty goals.

You began exercising for the right reasons. You wanted to look and feel better for the rest of your life. You wanted to be there for your loved ones long-term. You wanted to abolish the insecurity that had been pummeling your confidence every day for good. The reality is that none of this had anything to do with the New Year.

My advice: write out as comprehensive of a plan as possible and track your progress, at least in the early stages. Use a journal to whatever degree you are comfortable, logging both your daily routine and dietary intake, at least for a while. The key is maintaining your routine by any means necessary.

It is all about establishing the routine…creating the habit.

The Reason: Lack of Results

There are so many reasons an exercise routine fails. A bad program or trainer, poor nutrition, unrealistic goals, to name a few. Even when you do all of the right things results may elude you at first.

Unfortunately, this is probably when we need them the most.

For the obese – the fruits of one’s early efforts are often hidden beneath a layer of fat. Even the scale works against them, reflecting weight gains as they build muscle. I was scrawny when I began exercising and can only imagine how demoralizing that would be. But I can tell you from my own experience that the feelings of weakness and intimidation one who is underweight deals with during those first few months can be overwhelming as well.

The Fix: Discipline 

A few years before I decided to start exercising, I quit smoking. A month after my last cigarette, I watched as my grandmother, a lifelong smoker suffering from cancer and emphysema lay on her death bed vacillating between what was clearly a tremendous amount of pain and the numbing effects of medication. Her body was swollen and discolored and it was horrifying. I do not wish such a death upon anyone.

Correspondingly, I think the phrase “trying to quit” is the most absurd statement someone can utter. I find it pathetic. In the case of smoking, you either raise the cigarette to your mouth, accepting the risks, or you do not.

Like Yoda said in Star Wars, do or do not. There is no try. You either committed to the practice of wellness or you did not. Stop being a pussy about it and decide what you need to do.

Then do it.

The Reason: Injury

Injuries are a real and valid threat to any workout program. If professional athletes can’t avoid them, neither can you.

The fear of injury alone can make for an easy excuse to quit. Until new habits are firmly in place, until the mind embraces change, the transition is uncomfortable and we look for excuses to ease that discomfort. This same mental mechanism defends our addictions – food or otherwise – allowing us to perpetuate them.

The Fix: Reduce the Risk

When first getting started, it is easy to get amped up and go a bit too hard in the paint. This is also when you are most susceptible to injury because your body has not yet adapted to the new demands you are placing on it.

Folks, this is a lifestyle change. The most important thing you can do is set reasonable goals and implement a practical, safe routine while erring on the side of caution.

Learn good form if you are using weights and machines, and pace yourself on cardio equipment. If you feel you lack the necessary knowledge, hire a personal trainer. If you can’t afford a trainer, ask gym personnel for specific tips. If nobody employed by the gym is available, befriend members who are fit. If all else fails, message me. And always consult with your physician if you have special needs or concerns.   

What you will find is that people who have learned fitness are happy to share their knowledge. Why? Because they know how hard it can be at first, but also how much it has enhanced their lives. It’s human nature to want to share that with others. And no matter how far you’ve come, there is always plenty to learn.

Remember: Becoming fit will require a patience similar to the one you employed in becoming unfit. Neither philosophy requires you to meditate on the results in order for those results to happen. You can avoid injury by being as relaxed with your workout routine as you were your non-workout routine.

It’s just another integral part of your life…no big deal.

*Legitimate injuries (not to be confused with normal soreness) are to be honored and tended to, but it is crucial to get right back into the game.

How you wish to live and die is as personal a decision as there is. There are individuals who seem perfectly content regardless of their physical condition. I respect it. But what is neither respectable nor conducive to a state of happiness is permanent residency upon the fence.

I hope you stick with it. I really do. It is a fulfilling and rewarding choice you have made. But if you are not going to stick with it, please get out of the locker room.

Shoot Her Straight

I’m only a partly rehabilitated pool hall junkie. So, there are times when the felt beckons and I must escape to a nearby watering hole and pocket a few balls.

When the urge strikes, I am not interested in socializing. Generally, I make a beeline to the table and lay my quarters down. Sometimes I’m forced to wait, to post up against a wall and stare at some voiceless sports production overhead. Like a phantom unacknowledged by the crowd, anxiously waiting to avenge a haunting of his own.

Sometimes, if a table is open, I will enter, run a few racks and leave without saying a word. But sometimes I am forced to wait…to enjoy a beverage or two.

Sometimes great conversations just happen.

Beneath the rail, my coins landed next to four other stacks. Four stacks representing four slow, monotonous games yet to be played. God bless them, they were having a good time, but I would be waiting a while to shoot. After I racked that first game, I probably would not have to rack another, but until then I would be watching hockey.

Beneath the screen in front of me was a pub table where two girls sat alone. Another table was pushed against theirs which offered a better view of the games being played. I asked if they minded me taking a seat next to them and they seemed happy to have company.

They were very friendly, pretty girls. We chatted casually and I confirmed that I was there by myself, killing time and waiting to play. I kept an eye on the table as they teamed up on a text exchange that appeared to have been going on for a while…a game of their own.

“So, who is this poor guy you two are obviously terrorizing?” I joked.

Their boisterous laughter had little to do with me being funny.

The guy was a former love interest of one of the girls. After a month and a half – a month and a half that nothing significant had happened on a sexual level – the relationship had fizzled. Until one night the guy called her, allegedly hammered.

He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her real bad.

Even now I could tell she liked the guy. I mean, why else would they be giggling every time they hit “send”? She told me they met up at her place or his place or something like that and that one thing led to another. That’s when he broke out the big guns.

No, not wine and some Isley Brothers. Not KY Warming Massage Oil or even his penis. All of which would have been at least somewhat acceptable. It was the following, as typed verbatim by her onto the notepad app on my phone:

“I want to eat the shit out of your box and make you feel like a princess.”

I nearly pissed myself. I was expecting that about as much as she probably was when it happened.

No sex was had that night. Not that night…not before…and to at least that moment in time, not after.

From what I gathered, the guy was a good sport about it, and he was clearly still in the ballgame despite the swing and the miss. But the girls encouraged me to write a column about it, assuring me that he would read it.

So, without further ado, a little post-game analysis for Dan.

First off, honestly, I feel you. In the game of pool it’s what we call a low-percentage shot. You acknowledge to yourself that it’s unlikely to drop, but you shoot it anyway because it’s the only shot you have. After a month and a half you were ready to take some risks and I don’t blame you. But after a month and a half, even in the most irrelevant of relationships, most women have established a degree of emotional attachment.

A Hail Mary becomes an even greater improbability, if not an unforgiveable offense.

That’s not to say what you did doesn’t work sometimes. It does. Just not in the scenario you were in, and normally only with girls who have been banged more than South Central LA. There were clean shots all over, but you tried to bank and cut when you had a duck sitting in the corner pocket.

What you did was ballsy, Dan. But in a way that resembled too closely actual balls. Which, surprisingly, it turns out most women do not covet.

Secondly, there are no less than 700 ways to say exactly what you said without sounding as bad as you sounded. I’m not necessarily suggesting something PG; I’m a huge fan of talking directly and explicitly. But I think it’s safe to say even the most sexually uninhibited women would suggest we take the word “box”, put it in a proverbial box, and not open that proverbial box unless the word “box” is needed in order to reference an actual box. One with 90 degree angles and one that does not involve sexual activities.

For the only exception I can think of, click here.

Lastly, and correspondingly, to my knowledge you cannot “eat the shit out of” her “box” AND make her feel “like a princess” at the same time. It’s just not realistic. In fact, it’s contradictory. What you said sounds like something Pauly D of Jersey Shore would say. But Pauly D has a television show and a partnership with 50 Cent.

What the hell kind of Disney movies did you watch growing up anyway?

Maybe you were really that drunk. Maybe you really are a good guy and were just saying what you thought she wanted to hear. Maybe – and for the sake of all men I hope not – this phrase was truly constructed from key components of your vernacular. But to me it just appears you spit weak game for a month and a half, got bored or lazy, half-way moved on, then got drunk and returned for a final stab at it because you felt you had nothing lose and made an ass of yourself.

We’ve all made asses of ourselves. I’m not judging you. Plus, it was hilarious and makes for a great story men can learn from. Just remember that girls tend to get their feelings hurt when we do things like this. You just happened to stumble upon a very cool, very forgiving one.

But drunk or not, if you are going to insist on tossing up the ‘ole junk ball, be sure that it’s directed at scallywags that don’t know any better, and/or those who have not invested more than a week or two into a potential relationship.

Otherwise, you’re just making things difficult for the rest of us.

The Metrosexual Is Dead (Sorry, Sebek)

I blame the eighties.

It was a time when men sported eyeliner, stone-washed jeans and neon accessories, and women donned massive shoulder pads velcroed into their blazers. Miami Vice, Prince and Boy George gender-bent masculinity in the name of high-fashion, while Dynasty and Madonna implored women to express themselves with gaudy jewelry and the proclamation they were as worthy of wealth and status within the workplace as men (an exercise in women’s lib I sometimes wonder if they secretly regret).

To those infatuated with the musical contributions of the era, stop. You are celebrating a novelty. I’m man enough to admit that I enjoy more than a few George Michael tracks, but the majority of 80’s music sucked and we all know it.

It was the age of androgyny. And while many among us were either unborn, too young, or too busy snorting lines in night club restrooms to remember how fucked up it all was, some still cling to its fundamental flaw, which is the denial of our own sexuality. Pop culture created the illusion that being just a man or just a woman was not enough…we needed to be both.

In this way, the 1980’s live on. I’m talking about you, Metrosexuals. And though I kid my friend Matt Sebek – self-proclaimed as “one of the world’s nerdiest metrosexuals” – aside from a hearty passion for hair product, I don’t see the correlation. Nerd? Absolutely. Metrosexual…in my opinion, not really.

The problem with writing an article of this nature is that no one man has a lease on style, and therefore no man has the right to define it for others. But, in my humble opinion, recognizing the differences inherent to men and women just makes good sense.

This is why the whole “metrosexual” phenomenon baffles me. It is typically a woman’s inclination is to emphasize the packaging of the product, while relying upon her discerning eye to interpret the subtleties of men, because we are not wired to do so. They masterfully scrutinize everything from our style of dress, to our smiles and facial expressions, to our body language and mannerisms. Why more women do not play poker, I will never understand.

Men, on the other hand, even at their most attentive, seldom delve as deep. This is why I can’t understand why so many men – many of them friends of mine – fail to realize the pointlessness of enhancing themselves with layer upon layer of commerce and cosmetics, fashion and trendiness. I know more than a few who think spray tanning is the answer for something.

Spray tanning is never the answer.

Even if a woman’s initial interpretation of your excess is incorrect, it is usually done with such blistering speed that it, more often than not, leads to a swift dismissal. By trying so hard, you basically render yourself into one of those little picture books with the thick cardboard pages.

If my small and comparatively futile man-brain serves me with any degree of accuracy, the book reads something like this:

*Interest piqued* OMG, look at him! He’s hot! I like his (insert trendy fashion statement). And what a cute, shiny shirt he’s wearing! I do like shiny things. Nice shoes, too. And his hair is so, uh, sculpted. Not a strand is out of place! LOL Everything is shiny and in place, actually. I bet he’s successful! Money is great for buying shiny things. And his eyebrows are perfect. And he’s so tan! Even in January! He’s way more tan than I am. He cares a lot about his looks. That’s a good thing…right? I mean, I care a lot about my looks, too. But he definitely cares about his. Wow. He might care about his looks even more than I care about mine. He might care about my looks even more than I care about mine. Maybe I should care more about my looks. He probably won’t even notice me. He probably won’t think I’m pretty. Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have worn this outfit. I look fat. I look like a fat pig in this outfit. I look like a fat, pasty pig in this outfit. I look like a fat, pasty pig with awful eyebrows in this outfit. I wish I looked more like (insert hot friend’s name). My (insert physical feature) is way too (insert adjective). And my (insert other physical features) are way too (insert adjective). He’s not interested in me. He’ll just try to sleep with me and then he’ll be cruel to me. What an asshole. Who does he think he is? I’m hot. I’m totally hot. Aren’t I hot? Yes, I’m hot. And I have an amazing personality. But he’s totally wrapped up in himself. What an asshole. He’ll probably end up screwing (insert slutty friend’s name). She’s such a slut. He’s not even that hot. And I’m way prettier than she is. He’s probably awful in bed. He’s totally trying to compensate for his (the only place penis is being inserted this evening). What a loser. LOL *Interest rescinded*

Nanoseconds, y’all.

The real issue here is not the shiny shirt or meticulously-groomed eyebrows worthy of Nana status. She quite possibly digs everything about your style, your dress, your “swag”, if you will, but in opting to obsess over your appearance and to put forth – I’m just going to say it – an unmanly effort, you have denied her the opportunity to do exactly what she hopes you might do for her, which is like her for who she is. And, perhaps more importantly, for who she is not.

Inexcusable.

The thing is, she welcomes your flaws (most of them, at least) because your acceptance of your own imperfections allows her to accept her own in your presence. The beauty of this is that she is probably more accepting than you will ever even aspire to be. And you should probably appreciate her for it, because it is the only way she can move on in any direction with you knowing the reality is that you are incessantly searching for the most perfect, physical manifestations of femininity. A nice, round ass…a pretty, symmetrical face…shapely hips and tits…just to name a few.

Ultimately, she wants to believe that you are capable of becoming fixated upon more than her exterior. For she knows what we men often disregard, that those qualities will one day vanish in her, but also in you. And let’s face it, that they are attracted to us to begin with is a miracle.

So forget about the fact that waxing any part of your body whatsoever and buying only designer jeans with ornate stitching on the pockets should have died along with WHAM! in the spring of ’86, and remember what it really says to her when you are so painstakingly absorbed in your own image.

Resolutions, Revelations And Baseball

They were an offensive juggernaut…truly a force to be reckoned with. Albert Pujols, Jim Edmonds and Scott Rolen had career years and came to be known as the “MV3”. If “MV4” had a more harmonic ring to it, Reggie Sanders and his 22 jacks might have been included as well.

It was a team that popped off for 214 long balls (a slugging 2011 team hit only 162), and four of the rotation’s starters had at least 15 wins. Jason Isringhausen (47 saves) proved to be a filthier backend stopper than Erik Everhard.

Yes, the 2004 Saint Louis Cardinals were legit. And they were poised to bring Saint Louis a 10th World Series crown after a lengthy layover that had spanned over two decades.

For reasons I don’t understand – insecurities of my own, I suppose – I have always enjoyed dramatic challenges of self-improvement. That fall, as the Cardinals rolled towards 105 wins, I decided that as a karmic offering to the baseball gods I would refrain from alcoholic beverages for the entire duration of the postseason.

This lasted about an inning and a third, as I happened to hustle some tickets down by the ballpark and proceeded to indulge heavily as the Cards bludgeoned the Dodgers in Game 1 of the postseason.

This apparently displeased the baseball gods and, after an epic NLCS against Houston, they collapsed against the Red Sox, gifting an anticlimactic Fall Classic to Boston in embarrassing fashion, 4-0.

They were too damn good to deserve such a fate. I blamed myself.

In 2005, I attempted abstinence for the month of January and succeeded, but sports deities are not easily impressed. The Astros beat the Cards in that year’s NLCS to advance to the World Series, getting swept by yet another Sox squad rabid for a title.

That’s when I knew I had to go all in in 2006. Drinking wasn’t necessarily a problem for me as much as it had become a costly, less-than-healthy habit. I was a beer-guzzling pool shooter trying to balance parenthood with the recreational activities available to a guy in his early-to-mid twenties, and one with an ever-increasing desire to be healthy and fit.

It was the habits. I felt in me the need to create better ones.

I succeeded this time and the Cardinals won their 10th World Series. The baseball gods were pleased. When it was all said and done, I didn’t drink a drop for nearly 4 ½ years.

I’m obviously being facetious about my role in baseball history, but, again, for reasons I don’t understand, this particular lifestyle change resulted in the enhancement of my quality of life. Not to mention the quality of my workouts, friendships, relationships and parental aptitude.

My diet also improved. As it turned out, my affinity for a chicken ring meal with cheese on the side of the fries plus two jalapeño cheeseburgers had more to do with being drunk than it did the quality of White Castle food.

Who knew?

My experiment isn’t for everyone, but there is a reason gyms make fat stacks in January and February (even more over the remaining months as they continue debiting the accounts of members who vanish back into lethargy by March). The New Year is a great time to identify a personal flaw and to conquer it.

The real beauty in doing so has more to do with exercising your will than it does anything else. Defeat one bad beast of a habit and suddenly you know can do so.

Wrap your brain around that for a moment…the thought of being able to make a personal change for the better whenever you want simply because you want to.

Sadly, many never learn to do this and potentially life-changing resolutions remain like apparitions…daunting, overwhelming and earmarked for failure. You start believing you are incapable of the changes you want to make. The whole process becomes ”unrealistic” and your practice of excuse-making gets stronger instead. Before you know it, you give up on personal growth as a whole without fully considering the consequences.

And then you suffer those consequences with regret.

Fuck that.

This year I’m tackling a number of things. Some I’m just trying to fine tune – cutting out the Black & Mild cigars and energy drinks for good…stepping up my cardio routine a bit – but the watershed event is going to be the subtraction of fast food as option.

That’s right. Zero fast food for 2012. No tacos dipped in creamy buttermilk ranch sauce. No golden fries dipped into tiny, serene ponds of processed cheese food.

My mouth waters even as I write this column.

But I will not falter because I have learned that my will is my own. And I learned this through a single, once seemingly impossible exercise of it.

Take it for what it’s worth.