Outside my cubicle

King of Pops, Inc.

2010-03-02T11:23:00.002-05:00

I’m not a corporation man, I’m a corporation, man. (Thanks Jay-Z)

After sufficiently severing my connection with AIG and enduring the annual process of winter, I’m nearly ready to turn a popsicle pastime into a popsicle profession.

To date, making popsicles has been a hobby – an expensive hobby. Trips to New York, Chapel Hill, Nashville, and California may not have been completely necessary, but proved enjoyable.

Weekly shopping sprees at the Farmers Market have helped me hone my craft.

And a nonstop 19-hour drive from San Antonio to Atlanta with a popsicle machine whet my appetite.

I’m ready to sell something.

Exclamation points - Girls use them & Guys confuse them!

2009-08-10T16:11:00.000-04:00

The proportion of written compared to verbal communication I do is increasing at an alarming rate.

For the most part, I've adjusted. My text messaging speed is fairly impressive, and I've become one of the foremost advocates of the predictive text. On Gchat or Facebook chat I'm sure to give my friends prompt responses, and in email I've gone so far as to attach a song just to provide the appropriate ambiance.

Still, I don't claim to know it all.

The exclamation point, in particular, has really been playing tricks on my mind. Every three or four text messages from a girl has an explanation point.

"Thanks for dinner"
Is the just polite.

"Thanks for dinner!"
Basically means that you had the best night ever, and things are on track for a trip to Vegas to elope.

"When are we going to hang out again"
Is what you say to an old friend.

When are we going to hang out again!"
Means, if you're still awake come over.

"Wish you were here"
Is basically just a space filler.

"Wish you were here!"
Is an abhoration of love, and if the sun is down a sexual encounter missed.

I surround myself by the classiest of women, so it's safe to assume that my interpretation of the exclamation point is off base. But help a brother, and just leave it out next time.

More to come!

Budweiser Salutes You (me) Mr. Cotton Candy Vendor

2009-08-03T13:34:00.000-04:00

I promise this will be my last post about cotton candy for a while. They play this about 1/5 of the games, and it instantly increases sales.

I have a lot to post later this week.

Just to help you visualize the cotton candy vending ...

2009-07-24T16:17:00.004-04:00

Usually smiling ...

Always making deals.

Recent observations

2009-07-23T18:12:00.000-04:00

The Braves are following up NASCAR night at Turner Field, with an event called Braves Go Green.

The specifics for Braves Go Green were explained to the fans fans as the sweet smell of gasoline permeated through the air. A train of authentic race cars circled the field, revving their engines and sending up plumes of smoke, while the same fans were encouraged to bring a bottle to recycle.

-----------------

The McDonalds on Ponce has a traffic cop that stops traffic from approximately 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. However, he isn't doing a public service. Instead he's giving every McDonalds customer preferential treatment.

As a result, every person travelling up and down this road is delayed. I'm a pretty big fan of free markets, and such, but a cop standing in the middle of a six-lane road for 15 hours a week during high traffic times just isn't right, and I'm guessing breaking some sort of law.

Question: When is it logical to operate illogically?

2009-07-17T20:00:00.000-04:00

Maybe, if you're trying to compose silly pictures.

Or maybe if you've run away from home, and your parents are asking each other, "if I was running away, where would I run to?"

Or maybe when girls don't like me, I try to act unlike myself. I do things that don't seem like they would be in my best interest, just to give it one last shot.

The Answer: Never. If you are knowingly being illogical, then you're doing so logically. Sadly, logic can't be avoided.

Now that I've solved that popular question, I'll proceed with my weekend.

Confessions of a Cotton Candy Vendor

2009-07-16T01:50:00.001-04:00

I've arrived.

Hundreds of thousands of fans have watched me apply my trade on the largest HD television in the country.

Young women (12 and under) have screamed my name, I've received cash with older women's phone numbers on it, and at the end of it all ... I've taken a bow.

It took a mockumentary commercial (based on the coors light series "we salute you beer man" played on the big screen at Turner Field) to realize that I'd reached the pinnacle of my career.

Like most ascents to greatness, there were times of struggle.

I've climbed to the top of section 409 after being hailed by a excitable teenage boys just to hear a them ask me where the popcorn guy is, and as I trudge back down it hurts to listen to them snicker.

I've looked at former classmates redfaced, and told them that this is what I was doing to hold me over.

And I've been berated by drunken rednecks, too impatient to wait for the beer vendor, calling me derogatory female terms.

At first this bothered me. Now I can sense who's ready to buy, I embrace my craft, and I sell them.

Instead of getting as close as possible to my customers, I pass my cotton candy down a long aisle of seats, attracting the attention of every kid on the way. I ignore people when I'm going down the stairs, and sell to twice as many on the way up. I give you your change before you have time to complain about the ounces of product that I've just sold to you for $5. I smile, I run, I linger, but most importantly I sell.

For three hours I get paid like a stripper. I'm the Brett Favre of cotton candy vending. I don't really want to continue, but I'm still too good to quite.

(I will post the video when I receive it.)

Allow me to reintroduce myself

2009-07-11T19:16:00.000-04:00

For the last year or so I’ve tried to write thought provoking, entertaining entries. I’ve thrown away things that made little sense, and focused on providing fleeting insight from my 25-year-old mind.

Why I thought this was a suitable plan, I don’t know – but it stops today.

From now on I won’t concern myself with such sillyness. I’ll post when I’m drunk, and mope when I’m sad. I’ve been bombarded by no less than four people, semi-enthusiastically requesting my return to the blogosphere. I couldn’t let them down.

I apologize for my absence, but with or without your help, I can get back on track.

And so it begins …

Today I had a single drop of sweat from my forhead run down my nose, drip onto my right shoulder, proceed just to the left of my belly button, accelerate through the hairless part of my upper thigh, and get within 18 inches of the ground. A total distance travelled of nearly five feet.

At one point I had to lay on my side, but I’m proud to say it made it below my knee before getting obscured by my leg hairs.

Male pattern betting

2009-05-25T20:19:00.001-04:00

Nobody likes to lose.

Gather a group of men who have found general success throughout their life, and that desire is increased exponentially. My brother doesn't beat me in ping pong, and I don't lose at Twister.

The addition of money only furthers this concept. I was reminded of my disgusting desire for glory a couple of nights ago when I unemotionally bet that the Cavaliers would beat the Magic in the Eastern Conference Finals. A $40 bet now dominates my thoughts.

My beloved Hawks have been defeated, so emotionally I could really care less. However tonight, as I watched the Magic vs. Cavaliers game I was completly attached to the Cleveland team. A missed shot hurt my heart and as their chances faded my mood turned negative.

A lighthearted bet with a good friend is now among my top concerns.

Win or lose, I lose. It isn't worth it, but I will continue to make needless, rash, and uneducated bets. I'm a man, that's what we do.

Fearing my newfound freedom

2009-05-19T13:52:00.001-04:00

I’m not sure if I should tell you what I’m doing right now.

By law I should be enthusiastically seeking employment. Maybe I should be in the gym. There is even a possibility I should be moping around my house feeling sorry for myself.

I’m not sure if I should tell you what I’m doing right now, because if I was at work and was doing what I’m doing right now it would have made me spitefully jealous.

So what am I doing? Aside from nothing, I’m drinking a pitcher of $3.25 beer. I’m watching this girl with a fedora drinking a diet coke at the establishment I’ve ended dozens of drunken nights. I’m typing this nonsense with a half smile on my face.

I’ve been granted an excess of free time. For the first time in my life I don’t know for sure what I’ll be doing tomorrow, next week, next year. And without a concrete decision I’ll continue to do nothing. My singular goal through this process is to avoid falling into something. I want to pursue something – a volunteer position, a job, a business – but I don’t want to happen upon the next thing that can sustain me comfortably.

Undefined amounts of free time are somewhat of a curse. Society, both fairly and unfairly, frowns on idleness. This principle has been ground into my brain. So I’m making lists, driving around town doing research, and begrudgingly checking job boards.

If someone calls I make a point of mentioning no less than three things that I’ve completed that day. If someone asks what I’m doing tomorrow, I’m likely to give them a dozen imperative tasks.

However, all too often I’m doing these things without happiness. I don’t pretend to think that there is a career out there that I will enjoy every day, but there is surely something I will be proud of. Right now I’m hoping that something involves me revolutionizing the Atlanta popsicle scene, but I’m ok with other equally important undertakings for which I’m capable.

Surely there is a future for a hybrid journalist/product manager with a gift for flipping the most perfect omelets.

Unpaid vacation

2009-05-03T18:09:00.001-04:00

Let me start by saying my trip to Europe was near perfection.

I shared a bottle of wine with a member of the opposite sex, my feet dangling over the Siene in Paris.
I danced with Spanish girls, with whom I couldn’t communicate, in the most impressive club I’ve experienced in Barcelona.
I experimented with mind-altering substances in Amsterdam.
And I drank pints of unfiltered cask ale with an obnoxious Brit.

But that is only in retrospect. If I consider my objectives before leaving, it was a near-failure on every account. I had several reasons for making the trip, but my reasoning was questionable by most standards.

I was kind of chasing after a girl that I’d met a few years before, and kept up with since. We’d spent time together when she was in the U.S., and video chat flirted when she wasn’t.

She’d tell me I should come to London frequently, but it was the kind of invitation intended to stimulate conversation. The same way phone sex only works if you have plans to meet at some point in the near future. Just we weren’t discussing sex. She’d tell me about the amazing Italian place that she’d just found or a new market she’d discovered, and end each sentence with, “we can go when you visit me.” The constant invitations, and my constant, “Ok, I’m really going to come,” made the distance feel much more conquerable. And while I tend to get prematurely over interested in girls, the concept of going to London to chase her felt romantic.

At the time I was employed at AIG. The deteriorating insurance giant, that owes the government over $100 billion. I sensed that my non-critical analyst job could easily be dropped, and the thought of failing to use my paid vacation hurt my heart. So I planned to use all of it on a single trip, and when I returned I could live without the fear of not having an opportunity to use my paid vacation.

Lastly, I had some extra cash that I felt like throwing around.

I’ll quickly summarize how my trip turned out:
• The girl is now a close friend.
• I got laid off before I could use all of my paid vacation.
• And it turns out that cash wasn’t really, “extra.”

Every once in a while you get gum in your hair

2009-04-30T15:11:00.001-04:00

Sometimes it doesn’t matter if your peanut butter is crunchy or creamy.

One example is when you get gum in your hair.

It’s true, some things matter and others don’t, but figuring that out is a tricky proposition.

On Tuesday my friends and I went to the Clermont Lounge for Karaoke. It’s an infamous location, and like most nights seedy and memorable were in perfect harmony.

One of the hosts, named Oslo, sang his part of Johnny Cash’s ‘Jackson’ flawlessly, as a lanky white stripper struggled to sing hers. All the while a hefty black dancer named Blue was doing the robot behind them.

People were having a good time, and I was taking it all in.

With the aid of a few unnecessarily large tips most of my friends managed to get on stage, and as last call was being announced three of my friends were on stage singing ‘Take me home tonight,’ by Eddie Money. (if you play the below video, I guarantee the song will be stuck in your head.)

It seemed like I had an undefeatable smile, as my friends were experiencing the overwhelming maximum fun that we know as karaoke.

Seconds later my attention was focused on a wet glob of gum stuck that someone had thrown into my hair. Angry, slightly drunk, and frustrated that I wasn’t focusing on my friends’ performance I tried to gather myself.

I could start a scene. Or I could let it go, walk home and apply peanut butter.

I can’t imagine the this person's intentions. I’m a social-setting chameleon, and I was wearing the least flashy of my western style snap up shirts. I hadn't said anything derogatory, and had tipped the bartenders well.

I glanced around with a pathetically disappointed look, hoping to instill guilt in the perpetrators heart. I’m not sure what I wanted other than a confrontation and an apology. The thought of getting on stage, taking the mic, and figuring out who did it crossed my mind. I’ve been in zero fights, but I wasn’t worried about that. People that throw gum aren’t good fighters.

Unemployed me getting in a barroom fight at the Clermont would be a treasured story for decades, but sadly drunken altercations aren’t my M.O. (which my brother recently told me stands for modus operandi).

Instead, I fruitlessly picked at the gum, and when everyone got off stage asked if they were ready to go.

Walking home I did my best to forget about it, and was relieved to see peanut butter sitting in my cabinet when we arrived. A few minutes later the situation was over, and I was peacefully sleeping.

I was wrong when I said that it doesn’t matter if you use crunchy or smooth peanut butter. If you use crunchy, you’re left with a bunch of peanuts in your shower.

Some things matter, and some don’t.

C'est la vie AIG

2009-04-22T08:18:00.003-04:00

With minimal regret, I must report that I’ve been laid off at AIG.

I lasted physically for two years, two months, and five days. I had been absent mentally since November, when the first round of layoffs was announced.

My suspicions concerning unemployment were confirmed in Amsterdam. I was checking my email in the hotel lobby, which allowed marijuana smoke, but not the cigarette variety.

My pot tolerance is admittedly low, but the consistent thick haze was enough to give a veteran a contact high. With my mind functioning at 58% I first considered the most recent life-changing news.

The ‘upset’ emotion wasn’t evoked. Instead, I dreaded walking back into the office and saying goodbye to everyone. I didn’t want to deal with the overly firm handshakes or the unlikely ‘keep in touch’s.’ I didn’t want to fill a cardboard box with items that I will never go through. And I certainly didn’t want to face the prospect that I might not be able to figure something else out, and I could end up in an eerily similar cubicle a month later.

I walked outside for some fresh air, and was greeted by the insoluble mix that is the Red Light District and daylight. The long shadows of night weren’t there to cover the urine stained walls, and the florescent lights were pathetic beneath a clear blue sky.

I felt bad for the stocky middle-aged day shifters that inhabited the booths, as well as the bargain hunting clients they successfully seduced. In that moment my future was put in perspective. I will not grant myself a second of self-pity.

C'est la vie to my 12 square feet of blandly carpeted space, the 52 mile roundtrip commute, and Excel spreadsheets that that need to go beyond the 70,000 row limit.

And hello to who knows what.

Popsicles - a lifelong pursuit

2009-04-19T03:03:00.000-04:00

I made my first popsicle today.

Maybe I should clarify. I froze a number of substances in mouthwash-sized paper cups for the first time today.

I wasn’t alone. A fruitful trip to the Dekalb Farmer’s Market with my friend John yielded $70+ dollars of produce. My brother, and business associate, joined us shortly thereafter for a soon-to-be rewarding trial creation session.

With the information provided above, it might sound strange that my brother and I intend to open a popsicle (or paleta) store in the next two months.

I don’t know if it is unfounded confidence, or untainted genius, but I think I can successfully run a profitable business.

It’s been a brotherly discussion for a couple years now, and if it doesn’t happen and I find myself back in Corporate America, I won’t have enough stories to earn the label of “one of the most interesting white guys on the floor.”

So I look at it as an investment.

Upcoming blogs:

1. European adventures
2. Popsicle taste test
3. Status of "cubicle"

The Evolution of the Locker Room – Naked to Narcissistic

2009-03-13T13:30:00.002-04:00

Growing up I would tag along with my dad to the gym every once in a while. I don’t remember what we did, but I do remember the locker room.

My specific memories:
- naked men blow drying their hair
- naked men getting in and out of the hot tub
- naked men sitting on the couch watching tv
- naked men standing around talking to each other

True, at 4’4”, I was positioned at the ideal level to survey those that were and were not partaking in underwear. But who am I kidding, if there is a naked man lounging around me nowadays, I’m still going to notice.

Today at the gym the naked man is the exception. And if he does exist, it’s as brief as possible or he’s over 50.

The showers have curtains and too much blow drying still takes place, but it’s of the clothed variety.

In our increasingly internet-based culture, we know more about each other than ever. I know your high school, your last four jobs, and your favorite movies. And yes, I’ve seen the Halloween picture where you’re wearing the super short shorts.

But we’re hyper sensitive about our physical privacy. It has been hammered into our heads that, “my body is nobody’s body but mine.”

Man-to-man nakedness has gone the way of the jock strap, football players are all for it, but the rest of us … we’ll keep our man stuff to ourselves.

Calling all internet based dream interpreters

2009-03-13T11:20:00.001-04:00

I dream often, but remember rarely.

This morning as I awoke, it was as if I’d just returned from an unnamed grocer.

Dream recap:

I was buying fresh ravioli. There were five or six options, and they were each $5.

After settling on a portabella mushroom variety, a manager approached and told me that they were running a special – 25 five packages of ravioli for $25. He informed me that the ravioli is typically good for about 10 days.

After thinking it over, I decided I would spend $25 on ravioli. They only had 15 packages in the refrigerator case, so he went to the back to look for more. I waited and waited, but after about 10 minutes, an assistant insisted on replacing the missing ravioli with chocolate cake, multi-colored jello circles, and potato salad.

As he loaded my cart, my temper flared. I aggressively refused these items (which I actually enjoy). After ten more minutes of waiting I stormed out of the store, purchasing nothing.

Any ideas what this could mean?

Sorry for wasting your time.

The Weekend – is it really worth it?

2009-03-10T22:31:00.001-04:00

If individual nights of the week were for sale in a market, a typical Tuesday night would be worth about $6.

On the other hand, Monday mornings are so bad that I currently require approximately $75 before tax in order for me to partake in them.

You get the idea. Clearly, Friday and Saturday nights are the most valuable traditionally. High expectations, generally positive attitudes, and an abundance of available activities all help to increase demand.

Below I’ll review a handful of nights over the last couple of weeks, the amount the night cost, and what it was really worth.

Wednesday, 2/25/2009 – Delta Spirit concert. (Cost: $25)
I consistently overrate bands after I see them live, but in my mind this was one of the best shows I’ve seen and Delta Spirit is now one of my favorite bands.
ACTUAL VALUE: $60

Friday, 2/27/2009 – Dinner at Tin Lizzy’s followed by a drink at The EARL. (Cost: $35)
Dinner was enjoyable, and conversation interesting, but I was looking for more on a Friday night. I returned home early on a dreary Friday night longing for more.
ACTUAL VALUE: $25

Saturday, 2/28/2009 – Oysterfest, drunken paint session, and dance off at Cavern. (Cost: $110)
An unforgettable night that produced one masterpiece, a photo shoot with various hats and wigs, and new friends.
ACTUAL VALUE: $150

Sunday, 3/1/2009 – Watched Lebron defeat the Hawks by one point. (Cost: $30)
I was tired, but watching the most amazing athlete in the world is a good experience. If this is possible, the Hawks lost valiantly.
ACTUAL VALUE: $30

Tuesday, 3/3/2009 – Cooked white chili at Nick’s. (Cost: $4.75)
Unfortunately I missed out on all preparations. Instead of my nearly-inedible-because-of-jalapeño version, it was quite enjoyable.
ACTUAL VALUE: $8

Friday, 3/6/2009 – Went out to eat and then watched Friday Night Lights with a member of the opposite sex. (Cost: $70)
It’s hard to beat spending an evening with a beautiful woman (Saying I was with a woman still sounds a little weird. If I had my way I would say girl, but I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea). The hummus was tasty, but my steak with no sides was awkward, and a Friday night with only a few drinks left me with way to productive of a Saturday.
ACTUAL VALUE: $70.01

Saturday, 3/7/2009 – Dinner at Daddy D’z BBQ Joynt followed by bar hopping in the Highlands. (Cost: $75)
Started strong, and ended drunkenly. Always good to have a night of carousing with the dudes, but we struggled to stick together. Highlights include Complex games of chance to decide dinner and bar destinations, Que Wraps (BBQ pork wrapped in bite sized dough fried crisp and golden), and shutting down Neighbors with Frank.
ACTUAL VALUE: $50

Monday, 3/9/2009 – Quesadilla and TIVO’d episodes of Chuck and The City (Cost: $2)
My lone quesadilla topping, banana peppers, was lacking, but Jay left my girl Whitney making up for everything negative that happened that day.
ACTUAL VALUE: $6

In conclusion, the weekend is a pretty sure bet for a good time, but be on the lookout for value buys during the week.

How quickly we (do and don’t) forget

2009-02-25T13:21:00.000-05:00

A friend and coworker, who I talked to daily about work and non-work things for over a year, left on Monday.
I’ve already forgotten what it is like when he was here.

The memory isn’t repressed … if I want to think about his oft-creaking chair or relentlessly vibrating cell phone, my brain retrieves it in nanoseconds. Still, unless I’m given a reason, he no longer exists.

And this is sad. He was one of a handful of people that I truly trusted at work.

At the same time, an unanswered phone call that I made Monday evening, to a person I barely know, has dominated my thoughts.

We don’t have control over where our mind wonders, or in my case, where it stalls. The true beauty of human nature is rooted somewhere in this concept – the idea that the same brain that is constantly nagging you to do basic tasks like take out the trash, can just as easily nag you into something beyond yourself.

Hug it out. \(-,-)/

2009-02-20T10:36:00.000-05:00

FYI, I’ve never actually hugged it out.

It seems like an unreasonable solution to any genuine disagreement, but if one could heal with the power of a hug … it is probably me.

My mom has always told me I’m a really good hugger. Just like she tells me that I’m fantastic at giving back rubs. My brothers are vehement that it is simply a ploy by our mother to get me to perform the two activities more frequently, and this may be so. But it has worked.

Now, at age 25, I believe I’ve reached the peak of my hugging career. I’ve kept in pretty good shape, and my strength is contrasted by a hint of softness that comes with age.

You probably have tens of thousands more hugs to perform in your lifetime, so I’ve listed some things for below average huggers (you know who you are) to think about.

Tips from the pro:
- Confidence is key, avoid all hesitations.
- If you encounter a group, hug everyone. Do not be a selective hugger.
- Do not pet or pat unless you are doing a comforting hug.
- If it’s a man hug keep it brief, unless it’s a goodbye family man hug … then let it linger.
- Never clasp your hands together in back.
- If your hug counterpart is crying, wait for them to let go.
- Make sure you are properly clothed for a front hug, if you’re shirtless just go for the side squeeze.
- If you’re a woman, and trying to sex it up a little bit, go for the vertical arms hug or the around the neck hug. (Men avoid both of these)

Happy Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T04:00:00.000-05:00

Generation Y – Destined for Greatness or Disappointment?

2009-02-12T16:40:00.000-05:00

Today is my second anniversary at my current employer.

Missing was the congratulatory handshake, confetti, and cookie cake. In my time here I’ve had four bosses, three different job titles, and two cubicle moves.

I’ve managed to accumulate the best keyboard, the most impressive rubber band ball on the floor, and a sample award from the marketing department (pictured above).

Our coffee has recently been upgraded to a brand called Highland Estates, and we even have a new machine, imaginatively named the Cream n’ Sugar dispenser, that provides dehydrated cappuccino and hot chocolate.

Given the current circumstances, I’m happy to be spending my days reclining at various levels in my lumbar supported computer chair. I keep busy, and have gained a marginal amount of respect from my peers.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I was growing up, but it didn't involve the words auto insurance. Still, by all conventional measures, I’m doing well for a 25-year-old.

As I spend more time considering my next career move, my dad is consistently surprised. He doesn’t understand why I would ever leave a highly paid job with room for advancement.

He spent 30 years working his way up the corporate ladder at Hormel, and in time a job changed from a means to an end to an obsession. This isn’t even a joke, he is passionate about meat.

It’s not a new story, but things don’t work like that anymore. In part corporations have dictated the public’s current job-hopping tendencies, but I think the biggest reason is a unparalleled sense of entitlement. An entitlement that we cultivated as we were raised by the wealthiest generation in the history of the world.

I don’t mean to say that I’m not willing to work hard, but I might be reaching for something that doesn’t exist in the first place.

I was told I can do whatever I set my mind to … to follow my dreams. But we can’t all be astronauts, presidents, and firefighters.

Does entitlement enable us for greatness, or send us on a path to despair?

Taxi's are great, but free is better

2009-02-09T15:52:00.000-05:00

My walk home Saturday night (2.0 miles):

View Larger Map

After spending no less than $50 on alcohol, cover charges, and unjustified tips, I rarely feel like paying for a taxi. And since my pheromones are the equivalent of a late night lady repellent, I’m constantly on my own at night's end and there is really no rush.

Excessive alcohol, while debilitating physically, makes a potentially dangerous and long walk home seem like the obvious solution.

It’s the same drunken logic that convinces you to call, recall, and continue to recall an ex. Persistence deserves success, and there’s nothing to lose. Two blocks or two miles will be overcome, and you don’t have anything better to be doing.

Plus, you see some interesting things.

Saturday was no exception. About halfway home, I was walking by Blake’s, a gay friendly bar near Piedmont Park. The crowds were still dispersing and a group of three young guys were not far behind me, seemingly on the same route.

I heard them all start to giggle, and before I could turn around they came prancing by me on both sides, pants down, boyish white butts highlighted by the surrounding darkness. One jumped to the side and hopped off of a brick façade. And 20 yards later they were back to normal.

I’m not sure of their intention. They could have been searching for a homophobic reaction, or a possible lifelong lover, but I left them flustered with my completely unfazed acknowledgement. I gave equal attention to their white bouncing butts as I did to their euro-inspired faux mullets.

They continued along, and eventually, from a safe distance, yelled back to ask where I was going, in addition to other long range small talk.

Nothing else notworthy took place, and they took a side street a couple blocks later. I was alone again, getting closer to my place. The safety of the gay community was now long gone.

I got bored and started to run, much to the delight of passersby, who had limitless witty comments ranging from my inability to find a companion to the mere fact that I was running in jeans and button up shirt.

Soon enough I was approaching the home stretch. And regardless of the hour, the same shady men seem to be milling about on the corners.

Prematurely winded, and trying not to attract attention, I returned to my lanky gait. My pace couldn’t be mistaken for a swagger. It’s certainly not “hard,” but if needed it can convey the I’m-intentionally-keeping-my-head-down-don’t-mess-with-me image that can be necessary in downtown Atlanta after 3 a.m.

I made it to my car, and drove the remaining three blocks. I figured I would be ok on the back roads, and my car probably wasn’t safe where it was parked.

I probably only saved $8 or $9 dollars, but I’m pleased with my decision. Still, if you think you see me walking down a pedestrian averse road early in the morning be a pal and pick me up.

[Expletive] Yesss “So … you’re 18?”

2009-02-06T16:18:00.001-05:00

I try not to make a habit of hanging out with 18-year-old girls. Guys either for that matter. Last night I danced with hundreds of them.

I was at a monthly event called Fuck Yesss at The Drunken Unicorn, a venue/club just down the street from me. Typically, as I get older, the 18-21 group seems to appear increasingly younger, more tender – the opposite of wise.

Looking back, I can’t imagine how we didn’t attract attention in high school as we drank indifferently in public places. Sure, our hemp necklaces and witty t-shirts were shared by our college-aged peers, but it certainly wasn’t an adequate disguise for our baby faces and scrawny proportions. I couldn’t have been a convincing 23-year-old, as my ID suggested, but I was never hassled as I walked out of countless gas stations with a case of Natural Light under each arm.

That said, I witnessed a phenomenon last night. It was midnight and the place had just opened. We were standing at the back of an unexplainably long line, which, 30 yards ahead, turned into a clump of over-anxious weeknight club goers. The mass of people near the front was prime for line-cutters. After five minutes, and no line advancement, we gave up and headed to a neighboring bar.

Expectations for the night were pretty low, so a PBR and a game of Big Game Hunter would have been enough. But since there are three S’s in Fuck Yesss, we decided we should give it another shot. When we got back the line was a lot shorter, but after a few minutes we realized it still wasn’t really moving.

Then someone asked, “Are you guys going to be drinking?”

I do like dance, but dancing sans alcohol is risky, “Yeah, why?”

“The 21 and up line is up there.”

Turns out, there wasn’t really a line, just because nobody else over 21 was waiting. I glanced back at the line, not fully comprehending that the hundred or so people that were behind us were under 21. I guess we were important because we would probably be giving money to the bartenders, instead of the local Xanex or ecstacy dealer.

The music was average, but the place was absolutely packed. Every square foot of space was occupied except a three foot area around the DJ on stage. I started to fade around 2 a.m. and had work in the morning, so I headed for the door.

Bars in Atlanta stop serving alcohol at 2:30, and close at 3, but there was still a line when I left. Since they wouldn’t be drinking I guess they still had an hour, even so I’ve never seen a line for a club this late, especially a line 50 deep.

It’s true, I’d had a valiant run of white Russians (I have half a gallon of milk left, the official expiration date is today.) before I left, and I probably wasn’t at my sharpest. Still, that’s when I realized what my mind had been thinking all night.

Hipsters look old. It adds anywhere from three to five years to your appearance.

I’m guessing that probably 75% of the crowd was under 21, but I couldn’t tell. I could have been dancing with a girl who has health class in the morning, but every single person looked like they were in their mid twenties.

It’s the perfect match. Excessively skinny bodies, thin patchy facial hair, and longish unkept hair are associated with both hipsters and teenagers. It’s the perfect cover, and I now understand why it’s a popular lifestyle choice. Don’t get me wrong, emo music can be catchy, but they really just want to look older.

My Bromance at LA Fitness

2009-02-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

I've been going to the same gym since I started my current job, which is about two years now.

Occasionally I half-heartedly lift weights, ride the stationary bike, or swim in the pool, but 90% of my time is spent on the abbreviated basketball court. It has two goals, but the three point line nearly reaches half court and instead of sidelines, there are plaster walls. It is the perfect size for the everyman who has been idle at work for the last eight hours.

It’s hard to say who’s going to show up. I’ve guarded Dominique’s brother, former NBA player Gerald Wilkins, and I’ve guarded overweight 14-year-olds, who, full of fear, shoot the basketball the second they catch it, regardless of location. There are guys who throw themselves alley-oops off the backboard, and a broad-shouldered, overweight guy that plays in wrestling shoes.

Regular players come and go, but there is a handful that I’ve now known for a long time – eight percent of my life to be exact. It’s strange to consider, but during this time period I’ve seen these guys more often than my parents, my friends, and just about anyone else.

I don’t know much about them outside of the gym. I know James is a cook at Wild Wings, just because I’ve seen him there. And supposedly Stat is a rapper, but I’ve never heard any of his tracks.

I do know who is going to be a ball hog, who will make an overdramatic fuss if they don’t get the call that they want, and who will give me the best chance of winning.

Despite conversations that rarely meander far from the world of sports and entertainment, I feel like I know these guys. I know them by the way they carry themselves. I guess a big part of it is their consistency. Same time every day, same jokes, same ugly jump shots.

Basically they're my bros:

DZ – 5’5” Guard. He’s round. He’s loud. And he will literally lay on the court until he gets his way. Loves to shoot, and although he rarely makes it, when he does, he’s sure to make a spectacle.

Damien – 6’3” Guard. One of the best players. Always sporting a backwards cap. Kind of a jerk, but nice if he’s winning.

Chris – 6’4” Center (280 pounds). My arch rival. He’s considerably stronger than me, but luckily he’s lazy.

Ivan – 5'9" Forward. Jovial, but unexplainably slow mentally. His left arm is seriously attrophied and cannot support the ball on its own. Loves to joke around.

James – 5’10” Forward. Quietly confident, except when he’s not quiet. Usually among the first to arrive, last to leave.

Cliff – 6’ 1” Forward. Ultra aggressive. Our heads butt occasionally, but if I’m 48 and have an attitude like this guy then things must have turned out pretty good.

Ado – 5’ 8” Guard. His typically broken English is interrupted by his catch phrase, “Let’s play,” which he yells every time before the ball is checked.

Jay – 6’3” Guard. My main teammate. Probably the best athlete in the gym. Can take over, but makes a point of involving his teammates … if he feels like it.

Russ – 6’ 0” Forward, overweight and overconfident. He played for about four months with a cast on his shooting arm. This didn’t stop him from taking shots five feet behind the 3-point line.

Me - 6'3" Forward. Sweatiest guy on the court. The kind of sweat where his t-shirt maintains a consistent color because it is all drenched.

One Man, Three Gallons of Milk, Expiration date: Feb. 5

2009-01-29T10:52:00.000-05:00

Things rarely go as planned. I envisioned my White Russian themed party as a hip affair featuring a beverage that appeases two of my vices – alcohol and dairy.

In the end I got my fill. By midnight I had indulged in approximately five of the featured drink and pushed as many as I could upon my guests.

If your White Russian count has reached two hands, you’re playing with fire. Milk and vodka both have the potential to wreak havoc on the stomach, add in the intensely sweet flavor of flavor of off-brand Kahlua and you can easily find yourself sober and heaving into the toilet.

With the shrewdness of a man who had recently reached the quarter century mark, I refrained from pushing the limits of creamy goodness and settled on rum for the rest of the night.

I woke up in an unexpectedly sprightly mood the next morning. The party had been a success and my twice proven method of intense dancing without drinking to end the night had once again rendered me hangoverless.

Still, my planning must have been flawed. It seems I overestimated my power of influence, and underestimated exactly how far a gallon of whole milk goes when making White Russians (my current estimate is 40).

When I opened my fridge the following morning I was greeted by nearly three full gallons of milk. Two gallons of whole milk, which I can barely drink, and the majority of a gallon of 1% were instantly a liability.

My mom said I should return one of the gallons, but who does that? So the last few days I’ve been on a mission. I’ve been overeating cereal and taking my milk and cookies obsession to the next level. I was mixing the 1% with the whole milk, but I've now finished the good stuff and barely put a dent in the heavy variety.

I’m a pretty big milk fan. I live by myself, but still buy full gallons. But two more gallons on the heels of a three day milk binge might be too much to handle.

I’m not afraid to push the limits of expiration a few days, so I’d say I’ve got about a week left. And I need your help.

Whole milk is great after a long run, or to add some body to a nice cup of cocoa on a chilly night. Stop by with all your milk garnishes. I'll provide the main course.

My fruit tree

2009-01-26T16:34:00.000-05:00

First try in the Second City

2009-01-21T14:17:00.000-05:00

CHICAGO – Good Midwestern ladies. That's what we were looking for. After all, my mom is from the Midwest, and it's probably the most socially acceptable construct of the whole Oedipus concept, right?

I didn't have a good reason to be in the Chicago. It wasn't the right time to be visiting; the night I arrived it went down to -40, supposedly the coldest day in a decade. Our room had a view of Lake Michigan, and people tried to describe an elusive beach that locals consistently claimed would appear a couple months later. Instead, we looked out over a white expanse with strangely symmetrical wind blown patterns scattered as far as I could see.

My friend had a med school interview, and his dad got him a room at the W hotel. Chicago seems like a place everyone should see, and I’d never been. So on Tuesday night I bought a ticket that left late on Thursday.

On Friday I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, something I would treat with marginal irrelevance in Atlanta, but as a visitor it seemed imperative. After taking in some of the most cutting edge art our country has to offer, I felt like I could return to the W with my head held high.

While trekking around on foot afterward, trying to absorb the city, I was forced to purchase my first scarf. An item that is appropriately bemoaned in the South by men, but necessary for all in the hellish climates to our north. I was unable to replicate the standard scarf wearing techniques, and settled for an arrangement I call the double noose.

Despite the temperature, I was really impressed with the place. And as we headed to dinner at a Chicago style pizza establishment, I had a good feeling about my decision to come.

All day we had been inquiring every friendly faced individual under the age of 30 for the ideal location to enjoy a night full of overindulgence. Our list was unrealistic:
• Attractive girls
• Authentic
• Lots of energy
• A grandpa like bartender, who loves to tell stories about the good ole’ days.
• Reasonably priced drinks
• Other acceptable establishments nearby, in case things go awry

Surprisingly, nothing fit our requirements, and we settled for a place named Rockit.

When John proposed I come with him for the weekend, he claimed that together we would "take the city over." True, Chicago is the third largest city in the country, but he rarely lies and we set out to do just that.

We bought an overpriced beer, and continued our now five hour long dialogue. Basically we were vibing. So much so that the only women who paid any interest to us were less than three feet away. Our vibe must have been misconstrued due to our new geographic location because they said, "you guys don't look like you're having fun."

Grateful for the new company, we immediately switched into hilarious mode. John took a liking to one of the girls, and after about thirty minutes I caught myself wondering.

Enter Jolene, the singular animate love of my trip. I’m not sure if that's a Midwestern name or not, but she certainly fit the wholesome prototype I was searching for – a simple seeming girl, who's an honest to God straight shooter.

Girls from the South are often referred to as 'sweet.' I think girls in Chicago would take offense to that adjective. I don't want to exaggerate, but I got the sense they were more interested in visualizing their independence than creating heart shaped cardboard cutouts for their significant other.

I love the feeling of freshly cut cardboard in my hand, so I’m not sure which I prefer.

Anyway, I'd like to think Jolene and I hit it off, but she left less than an hour after we met. Disheartened, I resigned to tagging along with John and the girls he was sitting casually with now.

About an hour later, after a 1/16th of a mile taxi ride, the girl John was with got a text asking her to give me Jolene's number. I instantly texted her, but she was in bed. However, she asked if we wanted to come to a party the next day.

We danced, drank, conversated, and checked our coats in and out of numerous coat checks.

After 3 a.m., regardless of consumption, I begin to sober up. Tired and approaching grumpy I snuck out to get a taxi, thinking I was doing John a favor by leaving him with his special lady friend. A couple minutes later, in the middle of a conversation with my driver about typical seating arrangements in taxis (I always try to sit in the front seat, and he claimed I shouldn't as a safety concern), I get a text from John asking if I'd already left.

He arrived home a few minutes after me, and we fell asleep with all of the lights on.

My President

2009-01-20T09:36:00.000-05:00

Eight years ago, before I was eligible to vote, I was at the first inauguration of George W. Bush. It was an unforgettable day. I could feel the attention of the entire world focused on the stage that was laid out in front of me.

The inauguration of Barack Obama will unquestionably be more closely watched, but this time, instead of just attention, the expectations of the billions will weigh much more heavily.

Today, sitting in my office 638 miles from Washington DC, I’m more excited than I was in 2001. And it's not excitement concerning the lavish celebrations and parties that TMZ will doubtlessly be diligently covering.

I’m glad Obama will be the face of our country, but I’m ecstatic about the energy that he’s brought to so many lethargic citizens. At 24 I don't have the most perspective, but I know this day will take up significant space in U.S. history books.

Driving in to work this morning, I noticed dozens of lingering McCain bumper stickers.

Several of the stickers remain thoughtlessly, yet most of them are respectful and not so respectful protests to the decision that our country made. A decision that is made every four years, which divides our country into groups. One group a couple of percentage points larger than the other.

There is no way to know what the future holds, but I feel like there is more at stake with an Obama presidency. With great hope, comes the opportunity for great disappointment. However, to me, the fact that everyone agrees there is so much at risk embodies why we’ve made the correct choice.

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I just watched as much of the inaugeration ceremony as I think I could get away with.

Nearly 60 people crammed into our cafeteria to watch a 21 inch television that only plays CNN. Tears welled in my eyes and a lump in my throat as Obama bumbled over his few statements as he was being sworn in. Aside from the humm of freezers and clanking of pans, the only noise came from the TV.

Me and Jenna Jameson's unpaid intern

2009-01-16T13:30:00.000-05:00

It can cost a lot to decorate a home. And after six months I’ve finally made it to the third of three rooms in my place. The bedroom.

I’m not talking about anything too serious, but my cliché urban loft motif just doesn’t match a hand-me-down floral bed spread.

We’ll just call it a bed makeover, and my bed, obviously of the female variety, was equivalent to a grandmother from the Great Plains. I’m going for something more Scarlet Johansson.

A trip to Ikea, the mecca of affordable and urban furnishings, yielded an adequate duvet cover and I headed home without even stopping for 50 cent ice cream cones or a plate of meatballs.

It’s a small room, and with a donated mirror-centric decoration hanging above my bed it seemed adequate. It wasn’t Scarlet, but it would do, and I ambled around in the evenings satisfied with the lady I would soon lie down with.

In my mind I was done, until my mom stopped by and said that a black bed skirt and sheet set would really make it my bed ‘POP.’

My sheets, although comfortable, were starting to look ragged, so I complied.

Black sheets have a stigma, but I figured if my mom, a deacon in our church, was suggesting them, then it couldn’t be too bad. I’d just be sure to stay away from satin, and I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.

Desperate for the ‘pop’ that I now felt I had been missing all along, I started a fervent internet search. I scoffed at the Playboy black satin sheets, clearly Jenna Jameson, and settled on a mysteriously low priced Egyptian cotton 600 thread count set.

They arrived a couple days later, and I eagerly opened them. From the packaging they looked about like what I wanted, when I put them on my bed I was horrified.

Scarlett had certainly eluded me, what’s worse, I’m now sleeping with Jenna’s unpaid intern.

I always included the bedroom in the tour of my place. Before I would prepare my guests by saying I haven’t gotten to my bedroom yet – now I just blush.

Challenging the bite-sized paradigm

2009-01-13T20:02:00.000-05:00

I’m a pretty big fan of snacks in general. They are the sole occupants of the top right drawer in my desk at home, a primo location usually reserved for the likes of pens, post-it-notes , and scissors.

The most obvious reason my desk operates as a miniature pantry is to free up one hand during the trip from the refrigerator to my computer. Instead of struggling with tattered packages of half eaten bags of cookies, I can practice sign language or snap along with the relentless pop melodies in my head with one hand as I carry a glass of milk in the other.

(side note - I’m a big fan of the new Oreo packages. You wouldn’t think the sticky stuff would last long enough to make it through the whole package, but they do. It’s easy to open and an overall delight to work with.)

Other reasons have been suggested to me. Silly notions like I want to keep them all to myself and nobody would look in the desk for food, or the even more amusing idea that I’m lazy.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a snack drawer at work, but there always seems to be something laying around that appears like it would be enjoyable to eat - from old Halloween candy, leftover cheesecakes from the executives board meeting, or chicken fingers from the pot luck that the girls in marketing unsuccesfully tried to organize.

However, more often than not, the snacks don’t fall into these nice categories. Usually, you’re faced with a wild card. And as an open minded individual, more often than not, I partake in these wildcards.

A couple weeks ago I spotted a box of chocolate covered cherries. I’m not sure why these are always disappointing. It’s a solid concept, but why is the middle composed of a cherry mash, instead of an actual cherry?

Not easily deterred, I picked one up and took a bite, or more like a nibble. Still in stride, without thinking, I tossed the rest into the trash can.

It took me a second to realize what had just happened. Sure, it didn’t taste good, but I’d just thrown away the majority of a overpriced, sugary snack. This had never happened before.

Until this point I’d never considered this strategy. It's a 'bite-size' snack, and I couldn't bring myself deviate from the instructions that are there very being. But for the last week I’ve been walking around sampling the foods my office has to offer, and if I don’t like it … throwing it away.

I wont' say I'm an innovator, but this is the type of forward thinking that gets people places in life.

Another date recap - because now I can't influence what she's already said

2009-01-12T13:38:00.000-05:00

When I suggested to Reneé de la Curée that we get together, my intentions were two-fold.

I wanted to manufacture something to write about, but selfishly I wanted to read a straightforward assessment of my first impression.

She said that she was expecting me to be geeky, but later wrote I was a “cute young professional who was confident, polished, and completely unfazed.”

My expectations for her weren’t any better. I was expecting a self conscious overly eager slut, but she ended up being the innocent and sweet type, the kind of girl that takes the time to remember your family members' birthdays. The girl I would normally assume is more interested in holding hands than performing some type of sexual maneuver she only describe in her blog only as “the piledriver.”

It really made me wonder about how well I really know some of the girls I’ve met over the years. Is it really this easy to put on an act? Or is my distinction between sexual promiscuity and outward appearance seriously flawed?

I guess I'll never know.

With first impressions over and written in our respective blogs, the most interesting development is the difference between our perceptions of what happened that night.

I remember smiling on my way to dinner as I considered sneaking in my recorder. I really wish I would have now, but there were a couple moments that still stood out.

As noted in her blog, the first thing she said was, “what’s your out?”

To me, this was completely impractical. It’s clear that you’ve put in the time to think of what you’re going to say if things are going bad. For her it had something to do with an opportunity to use a special telescope, but bringing it up just means you won’t be able to use it as intended. It means you are trying to manufacture conversation, and it struck me as a comment that someone a little unsure of herself would make. Not a person who confidently talks about her mastery of the opposite sex.

My guess is she was attempting to catch me off guard, and although it did, I don’t think it could have had the desired effect.

We talked a lot about past relationships. I never mentioned sex, but she felt compelled to reassure me that her sexual promiscuity was limited to a small and exclusive group.

She wrote that I came off as arrogant, which I think I’m rarely regarded, while my impression of my comments were more self deprecating.

For example, when we were waiting at the valet, she said, “Now I get to judge you by the car that you drive.”

“Judge away,” I responded. “It’s only the hottest brown Pontiac Grand Prix you’ve ever seen.”

And oh yeah, after my friend read her entry yesterday, he asked, “so you split the bill?”

“No,” I answered. “It was actually 60/40.”

Post-date reflections

2009-01-09T15:22:00.000-05:00

When you read a book and then see a movie, the cast rarely matches the mental image you had created.

Since each of our mind's are superior to Hollywood casting agents, the characters’ images never seem to exceed expectations, they’re usually let downs. And when this happens it usually ruins the movie, but the integrity of the book remains.

In social situations, this is a dangerous dynamic. I guess this is why they don’t have online dating services that operate without pictures. No matter how much looks don't matter to you, they still matter a lot. It takes less than a second for your brain to make the decision, and then when you get to know someone, your mind can do its best to alter that image.

I hadn’t thought about this until I got to dinner last night, and sat in front of someone that I knew only from periodic blog entries.

I’ll admit she was prettier than I had envisioned. She lacked the attention grabbing bar attributes that I assumed were a prerequisite for her risqué tales. Her gentle features didn’t match the often obscene things I’d read about her doing.

She was reading a book when I got there, just as I had intended to do if I had arrived when planned, but I would have been reading something that I would have hoped impressed the opposite party. She was reading a history book of sorts, so instead, I just felt old (I later found out she’s 2.92 years younger than me).

She had a glass of Chardonnay when I arrived, which I noted was quite classy, an adjective she said she strives for, but is rarely considered. I'm sure if she continues to date guys that she meets online, it will only occur more often.

We spoke comfortably, and she noted, to my delight, that I was much more confident in person than in my blog. She wasn't phased when I told her that I had met dozens of women online, and then a little surprised when I told her I was joking. She had a pension for pulling on both sides of her longish brown hair during conversation, as I arranged and rearranged my silverware in geometric patterns.

The conversation kept coming back to our blogs. Not so much content, but why we do it. She explained that she wanted to eventually write a book, and her current work would be a good foundation. And I confided that it makes my corporate existence slightly more palatable.

As things wrapped up, she said she was going to go to a bar down the street that night. I didn’t press for an invitation, I had a football game to watch, and I didn’t want to push my luck.

I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t say that it was a good date, but I’m anxiously awaiting her next entry. I think there is some type of holdout until i wrote my post-date entry. I think I'll have more to say after she blogs about it. My guess is the highlights will come from the night after we split up.

Preparing mentally for my first internet romance

2009-01-08T17:28:00.000-05:00

First date jitters – not so much. I probably should be nervous, though. I’m going on a date with a girl that I've never seen.

Here’s the thing, I met this person on the internet (read that aloud to make me sound even more pathetic), and she wants to meet me at a place called ‘the big house.’ Well it’s actually called Casa Grande, but my attempt at a joke isn’t as obvious for my English speaking audience, so I thought I should highlight it.

I’ve envisioned a couple scenarios that could lead me to jail (or the big house … just to drive it home):

• She’s insane, and when I don’t compliment her matching neon green earrings, necklace, and stilettos, she goes mad. My efforts at self defense get misconstrued and I’m hauled to jail for domestic abuse.

• She seduces me with her blogging prowess and takes me home. Seconds after it’s too late, she informs me that she is underage, this is a set up, and a police officer will be in to escort me to jail as soon as she gives the signal.

• In an effort to spice up my mundane blog, I decide that I’m going to abuse hard drugs for the evening (a la Hunter S. Thompson). Conveniently she tells me a place I can get some. Since we’re in separate cars, she says I should pick them up while she picks up her place a little bit. After the purchase I’m heading over, and can’t resist a small sample. Being a drug novice I think I have cocaine and ecstasy, but it turns out I have ether and mescaline. The results aren’t as anticipated. I crash my car into her lobby. A foot chase ensues, but I’m caught lying in the pond at Piedmont Park, body submerged, attempting to breathe through a straw.

So if nothing like that happens, it should be a good night.

This mystery date has a blog of her own, and commented on one of my posts a couple of weeks ago. After reading the majority of her blog, I decided it would be interesting to meet this person, more interesting to write a about the date, and even more interesting to hear what she has to say about me.

I have my first date rules, but this won’t be a typical first date. I've never heard her voice, but I know about her and her friends' sexual encounters with random flings and ex boyfriends that she has refers to as A-I.

The good thing is that I have zero expectations, so nothing can go wrong. If it goes great, wonderful. If it goes awful, then that’s probably better material for the reader.

I’m guessing she will be slightly confused on exactly how to play this because, while I write about problems in the bathroom, she seemingly bares her soul.

We meet at 6:45. I better go.

Casing my own house - An open door policy

2009-01-06T10:12:00.000-05:00

This morning, after my consistently rushed 20-minute routine, I noticed that I had left the door to my loft cracked overnight.

I did a quick inventory of my valuable items: television, laptop, iPod. At this point I realized I don’t own much of value. For a second I empathized with a potential robber – this place would be a total bust.

My beloved fridge and other appliances would require disassembly in order to begin the painstaking trip down the narrow stairwell. My alcohol inventory is highlighted, not by Dom Pérignon, but wines purchased at Trader Joe’s and liquor priced under $30. And my artwork, not yet precious, is either my own creation or a collaborative effort with a good friend of mine.

This may be why I sleep so well.

In my youth, I would lay in the top bunk, eyes wide open, running through scenarios for a potential house invasion. I wasn’t as inventive as McCauley Culkin in Home Alone. In fact, each time I came to the same solution. I would have time to get two shots off with my paintball gun. I would have to hit each of his eyes, and while he’s dazed, round up the family.

Nowadays, locking my front door probably happens just over half the time. And it’s not like I feel like I’m living in a safe neighborhood. I’m confident the hotel around the corner is running some type of prostitution ring, I’ve awoken more than once to cracked out homeless men conversing below my window, and to me the sound of sirens have the same effect as the sound of a summer night or running stream that some plug in a device to listen to.

I guess I just figure that if they go as far as checking the door to make sure that it’s locked, they’ve probably already gone far enough to figure out a way to get in. So maybe if it's left unlocked, they'll figure there is nothing worthwhile.

That said, the whole leaving the door open thing must stop.

My name is Steven, and I’m addicted to the internet

2009-01-05T10:14:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at brunch with a good friend yesterday, enjoying my cilantro corn pancakes, discussing what to me has become an absurd search for the ideal significant other, when I realized I don't have a New Year's resolution.

We talked through a couple of ideas – drink less when binge drinking, exercise at least five times a week, eat fewer cookies, spend more time painting, writing and reading. With food completed and conversation topics exhausted, we split the bill and I headed home.

I was driving back to my place satisfied physically, but mentally something remained unsettled.

I had a couple hours to kill before I had planned on meeting up with some friends to watch football. When I walked through the door, like usual, I headed directly to my computer.

I went through my typical internet routine:
• Check email.
• Look at Facebook.
• Open my blog to check for any comments (there rarely are … thanks readers).
• Check headlines on espn.com, nytimes.com, and ajc.com.

No emails, no ex’s or girls of interest changed relationship status, nothing happening on my blog, the news is heavy and I’m not up to tackling the latest in Israel.

Completely free time is rare, so I decided to attempt to sit in my cliché ultra-modern, highly uncomfortable chair from Target and read my book. I made it approximately three pages, at the blazing speed of a page every four minutes, and had an undeniable urge.

Something was happening on the internet … and I needed to know about it.

So I satisfied my impulse. No email, no new pictures of people I barely know, my blog is still featuring the same disappointing post, and the news is still overwhelming.

I chose a new song, and head back to my book. Ten minutes and two pages later, I’m back at the computer.

This is when I realized the absurdity of my internet addiction. I’m checking and rechecking things as if they are of the utmost importance. As if I’m getting a Facebook invite to party of the century that happens to be starting six minutes from now, or an email from the editor of Esquire requesting permission to feature their blog in an upcoming magazine, but I have to respond by 12:17 p.m.

I spend eight hours a day sitting at a computer during work. I probably spend two or three more when I get home, and sadly another two or three anxious about what I’m missing.

My New Year’s resolution this year is to check email and Facebook less than 10 times a day. I can read as much news as I like, but I can’t just click around from site to site looking at headlines.

It might not seem like much, but it’s a start and I need your support.
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My pathetic attempt at reader participation:

Please post your resolutions for 2009. If you don’t have any, say so, and I’ll come up with one for you.

Hello MMIX, goodbye MMVIII

2009-01-02T12:34:00.000-05:00

Until I decided to show up at work today, 2009 has been all a guy could ask for.

On New Years Day an impromptu party swelled to 25. Attempts to prepare the requisite New Year provisions may have caused irreparable damage to my kitchen. With my hosting skills in overdrive, I barely had a chance to watch Georgia defeat Michigan State, but I was able to remain undefeated in 2009 in Twister.

When I woke up this morning on my couch, a friend comfortably tucked into my bed, depleted alcohol receptacles, uneaten food, and more dirty dishes than I knew I owned covered all elevated surfaces.

It seems like 2009 is going to be alright, but before we get too far along, I would like to take a minute to properly thank our good friend 2008.

Thanks for:
1. Not sucking.
2. Kindly leaving after your 365 day term.
3. Being an even number.
4. Having a name that is easy to rhyme with.

And with that, let’s continue to develop our relationship with 2009.

Don't worry about the economy - save it

2008-12-25T23:41:00.000-05:00

As families across the country sat down for Christmas dinner, millions of conversations were focused on our troubled economy.

At my parents house a healthy portions of uncertainty and second-guessing were served alongside a splendid ham, green beans, and butternut squash risotto. Should we have bailed out Detroit? Is Obama’s stimulus package going to work? And, how did you season the almonds in this salad?

Several bottles of wine later, it became apparent why the American economy will forever thrive – the people.

We cannot count on the government to save the United States of America. We have to rely on our most valuable commodity, our people and their ideas.

Here is one such idea:

Today, thousands of Katrina trailers sit in expensive storage facilities in Louisiana. As each day passes they are costing the taxpayers thousands of dollars. The maintenance alone has made the prospect of keeping them until they’re needed again unreasonable.

Rumor has it that these trailers will soon be for sale at rock bottom prices. After buying a couple dozen trailers, we will purchase an equal amount of Suburbans, Hummers, and Escalades. Although gas prices have subsided, the value of these vehicles has been drastically reduced … except in Alaska.

Follow me here. Once we have the SUV’s and the trailers, we create a caravan en route to Alaska. The last frontier requires 4wd, which sell for twice as much as they do in the lower 48, and trailers are hot commodities needed for prospecting land. As we make the week long journey through the Great North, my uncle, who lives in Alaska, will be lining up the sales.

With cash in hand, we charter a Halibut fishing boat and go out for an overnight trip. We each catch our 200lb limit and fly home the next day. We then sell these fish to a high-end seafood restaurant, and do it all over again. It's like printing money.

The first caravan leaves Tuesday, let me know if you’re in.

And oh yeah, if you think you’re just going to steal this plan, maybe I just wrote this to send you in the wrong direction. Maybe we’re headed to Nicaragua and plan on bringing back Marlin.

Maybe this is the American way.

Houston we haven't a problem - a quick Christmas Eve update

2008-12-24T15:06:00.000-05:00

I've helped bake approximately ten dozen cookies today.

My most important task today has been chopping walnuts. It took a great deal of concentration. If you chop them too small, you can't tell you're there. Too big, and you're mouth will dry and overwhelmed by walnut flavor.

Second in importance to my walnut preparation, is my job as internet recipe reader. I've become affectionately known as "Houston." On occasion I get teaspoon and tablespoon mixed up, queuing my mom to tell me that, "baking is a science." All said, I'm basically the brains behind the operation.

The fact that we're all together is just about the only thing that makes today feel like Christmas, though. It's over 50 degrees outside, and the overall buildup has been minimal. Is this getting old?

I hope everyone has a great Christmas.

p.s. I only put on the headphones for effect.

Solo Smiling – my first self-help introspection blog

2008-12-23T14:44:00.000-05:00

Smiling when you’re alone is always a little strange, but it feels really good – it’s sincere.

And on most Fridays just before four, when I have absolutely nothing planned, I get into my car, turn the key, and smile.

It’s a different kind of smile than stumbling on a funny YouTube clip or joking around with your friends. It’s being happy because you don’t have a reason not to. Sure, I won’t be going to work for the 64.5 hours, and I will probably overindulge myself with alcohol, food and sports, but smiling for the hell of it once a week isn’t enough.

Oftentimes, I think we hold ourselves back from being happy. For example, if I’m planning to meet up with some friends for dinner and a drink, I concern myself with being late or whether the scene will be satisfactory. When I could be smiling about the fact that there is an appetizer named The Tominator and beer is only $2.

I don’t have anything to be unhappy about. And if I find myself unhappy, and rationally write down what is wrong and compare it to the good things that are going on all around me, it always sounds ridiculous. I’m not saying everyone should be pleased with all life all of the time, just a lot more often.

Good things are happening all around you. Enjoy.

Christmas at the Carse’s

2008-12-22T14:29:00.000-05:00

Thursday will be my 25th Christmas. I’ve spent each of them with the same four people.

Sometimes relatives come over. On occasion a current girlfriend shows up, but every year, without fail, my two brothers, my mom, and my dad gather for Christmas.

I’m guessing this is fairly rare.

Although the company has remained the same, there are a few things that have changed. My first memories of Christmas morning involve me waking up, taking a second to realize it’s Christmas, throwing on my red robe (which I only wore once a year), and sprinting down the stairs before the sun was up. A new bike, Lego’s or a remote control car would be waiting in the living room fully assembled. Eventually my parents would hear that we were awake and stumble down to see what Santa had brought us.

At 24, I’m the youngest in the family. Still, Santa has never failed me or my 29 and 31-year-old brothers.

The difference is that now, if you wake up before 10 a.m., the gifts might not have come yet.

We give out our family presents on Christmas Eve. And although my adolescent anticipation has drastically dissipated, it is still one of my favorite nights of the year.

Before getting to the gifts, we eat clam chowder and go to the candle light service at church. I have distinct memories of this being the slowest three hours of my life – the anticipation to open gifts almost unbearable.

We usually got home around 9 and gathered in the living room. After turning 21 I made the discovery that egg nog is quite possibly the best mixer known to man. It tastes the same with a 1:1 egg nog to rum ratio as a 1:5.

With drinks in hand and cookies overflowing our plates, everyone tries to stall opening their presents so they won’t be left with none at the end. My mom still gets genuinely excited about a new pair of Thorlo socks, and my dad gets distracted and we have to go find him upstairs or in the kitchen so we can continue.

Things are slowly changing, though. For example, oysters have been introduced as a Christmas tradition simply because they are one of dad's favorite foods.

And maybe one day a woman will force us into marriage and ruin the fun for everybody.

Until then I’ll just keep counting on Santa on Christmas morning.

Not trapped on an inhabited island

2008-12-18T14:22:00.001-05:00

Here’s the thing about islands with fewer square feet than the house you grew up in – there isn’t a lot to do.

I guess that’s why it’s so much fun to ask the question, “if you were trapped on a desert island and you could only bring one thing, what would you bring?”

Everyone knows that all sustenance is provided by coconuts alone, so one only needs to concern themselves with is entertainment.

I was in a similar situation last week in the San Blas Islands, except that I wasn’t trapped, and I was able to bring as much as I wanted. I brought a book and an ipod, but neither were used.

No, I spent my time making up and playing competitive games against my brother. So if I was trapped on a desert island could I bring him along?

Is that weird, sweet, incestuous, or all of the above?
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This game requires balance and strength, focus and execution, but most vital are balance and ramming ability.

Nick tried an unorthodox backward toss in this event. It could have worked, but he had a little too much loft.

Possibly the strangest game we played, but do not underestimate the difficulty.

After taking the lead on the first corner, Nick didn't have many places to pass.

It's like they're speaking a different language

2008-12-16T15:26:00.000-05:00

I didn’t leave the country for long enough to miss anything. And truthfully, I didn’t want to come home.

There is, however, one thing that is nice about being home – English.

I spoke approximately 500 words in Spanish during my trip (1,000 attempts at words ended up not being words)

- 50% were “si”
- 30% were “bueno”
- 5% were items on a menu that I was simultaneously pointing at
- The remaining 15% were improperly conjugated verbs

A couple weeks before my trip I submitted a list to my brother, who lives there and speaks fluent Spanish, of things that I wanted to do while I was visiting. Most of the list was composed of things like surfing, drinking rum, or laying on the beach. Most of these were easily accomplished. Without much thought I included that I wanted to “have a 20 second conversation with a Panamanian in Spanish.”

My brother, always wanting me to have a cultural experience in addition to a good time, constantly reminded me of my goal. On the second day I realized how long 20 seconds actually was.

We were fishing in the Pacific Ocean, and I had just caught my first fish. I felt good, the sun was shining and the wind was in my hair. I was sitting a few feet away from our captain, and I turned to him and said in Spanish, “The fishing here is very good.” He nodded, and I’m not sure if he understood me. I didn’t time it, but I’m guessing this non-conversation lasted about four seconds.

No matter how special you feel when you’re talking to someone in another language, it’s just not very special to the person that hears it.

Here are a couple other attempts at conversation, most failed to elicit a response, none lasted more than 10 seconds.

“This isn’t my house … I don’t know.”
“I like the Atlanta Braves.”
“What type of tree is that?”
“Is the airport more big than here?”

It’s a frustrating and helpless feeling when you can’t fully engage in what is happening around you. It’s worse when you have to completely rely on your older brother, and just behind his face, he’s rolling his eyes at you.

It makes you feel like you’re an inferior being. And for nearly two weeks I felt less intelligent than everyone around.

By the end, I’d added an item to another list.

My life goals:

1. Raise a child.
2. Love a woman.
3. Have a career I'm proud of.
4. Learn a foreign language.

I prefer the memory

2008-12-02T11:03:00.000-05:00

As documented below, in my mind I totally killed it last week during karaoke. I remember a lot of cheering, enthusiastic dancing, and an inspiring musical performance.

When I watch it, it sounds somewhat demonic, my dance moves are overstated, and the guy singing the alternative vocals really gets in my head. Oh well.

As promised ...

And John, "Don't stop believing."

From the Pied Piper to Clash

2008-11-25T12:46:00.000-05:00

In my elementary school's rendition of the Pied Piper of Hamlin I played the part of cat #3. I delivered my single line surprisingly late to an audience cramped into plastic chairs designed for those four feet and under.

On Monday, close to 20 years later, I made my triumphant return to the stage.

My family isn't big with the whole performing arts thing. My dad can tell a good story, my mom can sing or hum the same line of a song for the majority of an afternoon, and once my brother and I were complemented on our voices when we were trying to sing in an obnoxiously low baritone at church.

That said, when we entered the bar, and the slightly dilapidated black stage loomed in front of me, I was both exhilarated and intimidated. I found a place in the back, a can of PBR in my hand, and watched the likes of Ron Jovi masterfully sing "Wanted Dead or Alive" and a guy named Kurt perform "On a Plain."

The performers knew what they were doing. They had confident, sensible mannerisms and were possibly in local bands. Nobody can rock like David Cross, but most of them could have held their own on American Idol.

I was with a group of four, and when one of the girls pulled me along to go look at the song list, I played along. When she flipped through the book once and submitted a song, I started to get nervous. Sure, I was a little nervous for her, but more importantly I was nervous because this meant soon enough I would be on stage as well.

The crowd was supportive. It couldn't have hurt that she was a cute blond with knee high black boots on, but as she worked her way toward the chorus of "The Boys of Summer" by Don Henley, it didn't sound that bad.

I was confused by her reaction when the song was over. She wasn't excited or relieved, she simply walked over to me and told me that I had to sing next. I already knew this. I'm not the kind of guy that is one-upped without resistance. But I let her feel like she was convincing me.

Like my mom, I only know the chorus of most songs. Flipping through the pages, Cheap Trick, Van Halen, and Clash all stuck out. I asked the girl collecting names to recommend something easy, and she pointed to "Should I Stay or Should I Go."

It's a popular song, but it's the kind of song that I don't know why I know it. I don't listen to rock on the radio and I don't have the Clash cd or any of their mp3's. This fact worried me, but other that general hilarity, I don't know why this woman I'd met a minute before would steer me in the wrong direction.

I went with it, and she told me that I had 15 minutes. I went to get a shot of Tequila and headed for a bench near the stage. I tried to repeat the lines in my head, but didn't get past the title.

I can't tell you much about the next ten minutes or so. Like any good performer I was getting in the zone.

Before I knew it, I was called to the stage. I had planned on saying “any fan involvement would be appreciated” before I started, but it didn’t feel right and I didn’t. I kind of have a gift. I would rate my current stage presence a 3, but my potential is 10.

As the song started I started to rock from side to side, emphasizing the hips. It was a good feeling to be up on stage with a band, and at that moment, at least symbolically, I was the leader.

With the familiar guitar chords being played to my right, I glanced up at the monitor. My glance turned into a stare, as I waited for the first word to change colors or something. They never did, and before I knew it the bassist was singing, "Darling you've got to let me know."

After that, I managed to catch on. The great thing about Clash, and this song inparticular, is that the lines are pretty well spaced out. My confidence grew with each line. Eventually I got my stage feet under me and incorporated a overdramatic indie quick bounce that was probably all the rage five years ago.

Halfway through the song another guy came on stage. I felt like I was doing pretty well, so I kind of nodded my head at him as if I knew what he was up to. Next thing I know, he's yelling inaudible phrases between my lines. The crowd seemed to like it, so I sent off as many embracing vibes as I could muster.

At the time I felt like we were really creating something special. Like there was some type of connection we had, and we were making something new and fresh. Walking off the stage, to a pretty good cheer from the crowd, I imagined me and this new guy taking the music scene by storm. I found out later that he was just singing the other part of the song.

It was an unforgettable night. I convinced my other friend to sing, and after a rousing version of "Don't Stop Believing," we called it a night. Luckily they were selling DVD's of the night's performances.

I bought one, and it is being mailed to me at this moment. If I can figure out how to rip it onto the computer, It will be on this blog. Check back soon ...

Love & Life just outside of Macy's

2008-11-19T10:40:00.000-05:00

Pictured above is four elderly men seated silently outside of Macy's at 11:20 AM on a Tuesday. It's the One Day sale, the biggest day of the year at Macy's ... and they are MISSING IT.

Initially, I had a somewhat feminine reaction, it was kind of sweet for these old guys to half-heartedly tag along with their wives on the big trip to the mall. After further inspection, I noticed they appeared somewhat miserable. I would find out why minutes later.

I needed a suit, and while Macy's doesn't always have the hippest of fashions, I'm not always the hippest of people. I tried to immerse myself in the all-important decision of grey or navy, but I was distracted by the mass of energy and movement 20 yards away in the dress shirt section.

I approached cautiously, still in the mens section, to see a horde of women surrounding a 15'x 10' table full of packaged dress shirts.

If I had to guess, the average age was 65. And while there were a few men jockeying for position, the vast majority were women in the grandma category. It was the "Morning only" sale, and the shirts were going for $9.99.

They clutched shirts of creamsicle orange and blue and green plaid, confident they were briging home a winner. I started to wonder if their husbands still worked, or if they have just been programmed for this sort of behavior.

One thing I'm sure of, is that the men that were waiting outside weren't interested in what they had to offer. Their perfectly worn in sweater jackets, and flannel shirts were there for the long run. And since this Macy's "biggest of the year" One Day Sale, is supposed to only happen once a year, they've surely got the next dozen years covered.

I'd like to consider myself a romantic, somewhere between hopeless and hopeful. But if this is the grand finale, I'm not sure I want continue my search.

Another amazing feat of balance

2008-11-14T14:01:00.001-05:00

I didn't spend more than 15 minutes working on this.

What's in a name?

2008-11-11T16:26:00.000-05:00

Say your first name aloud. Repeat it until it starts sounding strange.

For me it doesn’t take long. Around the third time, I begin to say it mockingly.

“Steven, Steven, Steven.”

If I think about it, Steven sounds like the appropriate name for an uppity receptionist at a downtown law firm, more concerned with the company on his boss’ business card than his own role.

The abbreviated version isn’t much better. Steve, to me, is the guy who wears a different windbreaker vest every day, and shakes your hand a little too hard and a little too often.

I’m horribly inconsistent with choosing which name version I introduce myself with:

Job interview – Steven
Friend’s friend – Steve
Girl – Steven
Family member – Steve
Call in radio show – Steven
Forwarded email – Steve
Restaurant hostess – Steven
Fightclub – Steve

As you can see, it’s a lot to remember. Sometimes I wonder if anyone’s first name is their first choice.

In the 13th century people started a practice known as “rhyming nicknames.” That’s how you get Ted for Edward, Bill from William, and Bob from Robert. Those are pretty common names. These people are so dissatisfied with their name, that they abandon the first letter altogether.

When that isn't enough, there is always the middle name, which is pretty much a backup plan. I’m confident that this is why it was invented (also useful for creating embarrassing initials … mine are S.A.C.). If you find your first name so unacceptable that you can’t derive a different version from just one to two of the letters, you’re granted an entirely different set.

If you're in the public arena, like actors, radio personalities and strippers, you probably use a stage name.

I’m not sure of a solution. I don’t particularly like the sound of my social security number. And if we waited until adulthood to choose our name I wouldn't know what to choose, except for purposes of self amusement.

So I guess I'll just have to settle for the name I have. And next time someone tells me, "you don't look like a Steven," I'll be sure to return the favor.

The Cold Hard Truth about having a Wingwoman

2008-11-06T11:49:00.000-05:00

The wingman is an impossibly selfless and depressingly necessary component when talking to a foreign member of the opposite sex.

The wingman can be bad. They can be rude, annoying or awkward, and what does that say about you?

They can be too good. If they are funny, they’ll steal your thunder. If they’re too good looking, well … you’ll look bad.

The purpose is to make you look better. Better than you really are. So wouldn’t a beautiful woman, a wingwoman, do the trick?

The answer, simply, is no.

I learned this first hand at a bar aptly named Teasers in St. Simon’s last weekend. Our group arrived at around 10, with 19 people crowded into a van taxi. I quickly bored of playing pool in the back, and went with my friend Fred to analyze other costumes.

We spotted an above average Betty and Wilma, and we decided to talk to them.

I asked what their costumes were, not because we didn’t know, but so they would ask us what we were.

First, it should be known that Fred is Jewish. I feel like I can say this, because for years he has lovingly called me Aryan. Anyway, we look different. He has a full beard, and I have 13 chest hairs.

Thankfully they inquired about our costumes, and our hearts filled with glee. With the precision that could only be attained by two guys who’d drunkenly annoyed their friends with the same joke for the last five hours – we responded.

“We’re Identical Twins!” we yelled, as our faces struggled to contain our smiles.

Somehow they weren’t impressed. Their friend interrupted to inform us that they both have boyfriends and pulled them away.

This phenomenon repeated itself a dozen times, until Fred was summoned by his girlfriend (remember to write future article about why guys in relationships aren’t ideal wingmen).

I don’t want to say Fred was a bad wingman. I guess the problem here was that we were more amused with ourselves than the women we were talking to.

Alone and dejected, I did what any man in his mid-20’s would do – head toward the closest live country band. Lucky for me, they were less than ten yards away.

A couple of the girls that had made the trip down with us sensed my despair, and asked if I wanted to dance. Dancing with friends’ fiancées and girlfriends is a difficult proposition. If you don’t have fun, then you’re boring, if you have too much fun, well that’s not ok either.

Although they were better looking than the other girls on the dance floor, they were relieved by my wondering eyes. Instead of formulating an undeniable plan, as Fred and I had earlier, they started to push me toward another group of girls.

I’d imagine that this method has worked for them. Get a big group of girls together, giggle, and bump into guys. I’m not a girl, but I’m pretty much positive that this is how it works.

The first time I bumped into the girl they had chosen as my ideal dance partner, it wasn’t that bad. I glanced over my shoulder, said sorry, and tried to smile. I think I’ve read that smiling is good in either Maxim or Seventeen magazine.

After the first bump it got a little weird. Sure, I should have just asked if she wanted to dance, but I didn’t. And with Dixieland Delight playing in the background, I found myself trying to shuffle appropriately, all but abandoned by my most recent dance partners. They remained a couple feet back, like proud mothers, prodding me to “go for it.”

I’d been uncomfortably in their space for too long now, and this was clear to all parties involved. By chance my beer was empty, and I suddenly really needed another drink.

I returned to the friends, and they seemed amazed that their master plan hadn’t worked.

Maybe it was the girls, maybe it was the country music, and maybe, just maybe, it was me. But I spent the rest of the night dancing by myself.

Dancing with girls is overrated anyway.

What we've accomplished this year

2008-11-05T11:33:00.000-05:00

He did this ...

I did that ...

Heaven at the Corner of Randolph and Bay

2008-11-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

JACKSONVILLE – “Too much watermelon, not enough turtle necks.”

It doesn’t make much sense. But as I sat down to write about my love affair with our tailgate spot, one that I’ve traveled near 3500 miles for the last five years, this line is repeating itself in my head.

Let me set the stage. A man in his late 40’s is approaching, wearing a blue dri-fit-ish turtle neck, carrying a plate of cut up watermelon. Just before he passes, I yell, “too much watermelon, not enough turtle necks.”

He’s looking right at me, somewhat confused as to why someone is yelling from less than eight feet, and his head cocks a little to the side. At the same time, my friends begin to yell. A chorus of “Ohhhhh”’s, and the catch phrase for the weekend, “you just got got … kinda” are echoed by about a half dozen friends standing within earshot.

There really isn’t anything to say in response to this comment.

Does it make more sense now? … Exactly

Ok, well that story doesn’t really do this 1,000 square feet of grass justice. Just trust me, it's really great.

It has history – a depressed hedge, where my friend Homer fell and eventually passed out, has not yet recovered. Tattered remains of plastic bags used for holding makeshift signs are still wrapped around street signs.

It has friendship – old friends reunite, and the most recent girlfriends are assessed. Strangers fail to walk by and become new friends.

It has passion – the comments range from mean spirited to nonsensical, but it doesn’t really matter. People usually appear appalled when they look at us, but it’s the reason they’re there. What happens on the football field matters only because the fans care. And most of the fans that make it to Jacksonville care a lot.

Post any clever or not so clever things you said, or heard someone else say, to Florida fans below. I tried to think of a bunch, but haven't had much luck.

Going Bananas with Busch Light

2008-11-03T12:24:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure why my hand looks incredibly fat or why the beer appears to be an extension of my palm, but I intend to elaborate extensively on my recent trip to St. Simon's and Jacksonville.

What you have to look forward to:

Potential sound bites (if I can figure it out).
A run in with an A-list commercial celebrity.
A visit to an establishment named Teasers, which isn't a strip club.
Campaigning for an unknown political candidate via techno dance moves.
An epiphany in the midst of one of Georgia's worst losses I've been a part of.

Unforgettable and Non rememberable

2008-10-30T13:59:00.000-04:00

I’m 24 years old. I have a steady job. And I have no known mental conditions.

Still, my actions over the next few days, in preparation for the Georgia-Florida football game, won’t support the above statements.

The following will take place:

I’ll leave no later than 6:30 a.m., over an hour before I leave for my paying job.

Several dozen student athletes, whom I have little in common with, will become the focus of my existence.

I’ll be drinking beer before 9 a.m. Not because I want to, but because I feel like I should be.

I’ll share drinks with teenagers, and idolize intoxicated grandparents.

Certainly nothing that takes place this weekend will make logical sense, and to be honest I didn’t really plan on going this year. I toyed with the idea, but in my heart I thought I had moved on.

Not necessarily moved on from the trip, but the environment. I pictured my next trip to Jacksonville taking place in a nice hotel room with adequate space and possibly including a planned meal.

Instead, I’ll get nineteen people relentlessly drinking. In the end I really couldn’t miss out.

This weekend will be unforgettable and non rememberable

I can’t wait, but when does it stop?

The Car Stereo – not standard anymore

2008-10-28T13:15:00.000-04:00

Due to theft, my car has been without a stereo for 11 of the last 15 months.

I’m in the car a lot – I commute 50 miles a day, my parents live about an hour away, and the University of Georgia plays its home games in Athens.

I’ve spent over 10,000 miles in silence.

For less than $100, I could get a new cd player. And it isn’t that I don’t have the money. I’ve had bar tabs, single bets in Vegas and gas station stops that have cost more.

I’ve genuinely asked my friends to trade cars with me for the week dozens of times.

I’ve avoided driving on countless encounters with girls I’m interested in. When this isn’t an option, my go-to joke is delivered without thought, “I had the cd player removed so we would be able to have uninterrupted conversation.”

I leave a little bit of shattered glass in the back seat so the break-ins seem fresh.

My brown 2002 Pontiac Grand Prix, which is certainly flashy, has been assaulted on three separate occasions.

3 a.m. July 12th, 2007 – Lenny’s Corndog-O-rama
The perpetrator broke my rear passenger vent window with a rock. The best deal I could find to replace the window was $850, instead I bought a used door for $275. Add $100 for a new paint job, and I was pleased with my $475 savings. (They were unable to match the eight years of fading on the paint job, resulting dual colored paint job.)

12:30 a.m. November 8th, 2007 – Midtown Atlanta
This was the best break-in I’ve ever experienced. In the midst of a busy parking lot, the intruder entered without any significant damage and kindly removed my cd player.

9:30 p.m. March 15th, 2008 – Screvin Drive
The rear passenger window once again fell victim to a nearby rock. I’ve realized, when it’s not raining, this is a great window to lose. I choose not to replace it for about four months, enjoying the thoughtless thermostat and white noise that the missing window provided. Eventually I found a replacement window in a junkyard.

I used to tell myself, and others, that the quiet gave me time to think. This is a lie – I miss Atlanta sports coverage, useless morning talk shows and the latest in pop music.

My First Date Rules

2008-10-23T13:41:00.000-04:00

There is no logical path to becoming a first date expert. If you’re good at them, you wouldn’t need to go on very many. If you’ve been on a lot, you’re probably doing something wrong. Still, a quick search reveals hundreds of websites with lists written by self-anointed first date specialists.

For example, Don Diebel (pictured), who drops pearls of wisdom like, “Don't pick your nose or scratch or readjust your crotch,” and “If you are taking medication, excuse yourself and go to the bathroom and take your pills. Don't take them in front of her.”

With intense concentration, I was able to follow Don’s advice. I haven’t gone on a second date yet, but she has referred to me as ‘babe’ in several text messages. I think this makes the date a success, plus I had fun.

Below is a list of rules I found on the internet, and a quick post-date assessment:

1. If you’re meeting somewhere, give good directions.

My date called when she was getting close to make sure that she was heading the right way, and I told her “If you get to the big brick building, you’ve gone to far.” Needless to say after seeing a dozen brick buildings she turned around prematurely, thinking she’d missed my street.
2. Don't act desperate.

I asked her on dates consistently for three weeks, is this what you call “desperate?"
3. Keep it light-hearted and don't act as if you are auditioning for a lifetime commitment.

On the way to dinner, ten minutes into the date, we discussed our deceased grandparents.

4. Don't pretend to be funny or humorous. If you are putting on an act, it will come across to her as phony.

This tip is worded incorrectly. It’s a statement saying that I’m not funny. Direct quote from my date, “Has anyone ever told you you’re funny?”
EAT IT Don Diebel!

5. Don't go to the movies (Even if suggested, the movies is a TERRIBLE first date it's just not personal enough, unless your 18 and trying to grab a tit in the theater)

We rented, but this rule must have been written before the release of the all-time great date movie, Ironman. An egotistical weapon-producing genius turns good and creates a nearly indestructible iron suit to stop terrorism – this movie screams first date.

6. On a first date, dress conservatively. This is no time to wear any provocative or sleazy clothes Conservative? Please, I was rocking my Club Monaco pullover with a Westerner underneath.

7. Don't bitch about your previous girlfriends or ex-wives on how they mistreated you, dumped you, cheated on you, took you to the cleaners on child support, etc.

We both failed miserably in this regard. I did manage to avoid talking about getting taken to the cleaners, and child support, though.

8. Don't get drunk! This really turns women off and makes a bad impression. Don't drink at all or limit your drinking to a couple of drinks.
I win this one – no thanks to me. I drank the entire time. I had Margaritas at dinner and a rum and coke when we got home. But I never got drunk, didn’t have time.
9. Keep it upbeat.

I was in and out of sleep for the last hour of the movie. I woke up comfortably confused with a beautiful woman resting her head on my chest. I’m confident she was sleeping too, but I stand by Ironman as the greatest first date movie of all time.
10. Never, never end the night by asking for a second date like this: "I'm not doing anything on Saturday, are you?"
I would never do that. I waited until we were chatting on Facebook the next day.

A Week's Work

2008-10-17T11:15:00.000-04:00

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Inter-urinal Difficulties

2008-10-16T11:17:00.001-04:00

One of my company's Vice Presidents was urinating in the space next to me today. I have no problem when a stranger or a peer is standing next to me, but I've noticed I generally have a hard time going to the bathroom when a superior is next to me. It's a mental block. In an instant my confidence is shaken, and I'm made to look like unsure little boy.

I'm aware of this limitation, and oftentimes I challenge myself. It's true, I've managed a weak stream while conversating with the CEO. My sporatic piddle was a big step, but didn't merit celebration. I'm sure that my manhood has been questioned throughout upper-management because of this very issue.

Today I had my chance for redemption. Today I was destroyed. It was the sports equivalent of getting blown out by the third string in the Super Bowl, but instead of going home, being forced to go with the team to Disneyland.

First of all, I really had to go. This wasn't a time wasting move. My mid-morning water binge had just ended, and I had between 72 and 84 ounces ready to roll. I walked in to the empty bathroom, and chose the taller of the two urinals.

Just as I unclasped my belt, I heard the door swing open and the confident steps of a man that had flanked someone in the men's room hundreds, if not thousands of times. I'd been here before, I'd overcome bigger demons, but I never could have prepared for what came next.

My stare was fixated on the grout between the off white tiles, but it was clear that both of his hands were busy doing something, and it was above the belt. I had been standing above the urinal for thirty seconds now, and nothing was coming.

My embarrassment would have been worse, but it was clouded by astonishment. He was writing an email on his blackberry, while peeing. I was looking, but I wasn't. I'd already pushed bathroom etiquete far enough, I was standing idly next to another man while he used the restroom.

He finished - I hadn't started.

I knew the second he walked away I would be back to normal, but he didn't walk away. He glanced at me, and then back to his blackberry. If I were to smile at this point, out of the absurdity of the situation, I'm certain I would have been escorted out of the building for sexual harassment. He had finished using the restroom, with no hands, but he hadn't finished his email.

I waited, shifting my focus to the recently polished stainless steel plumbing, but it didn't matter. I was devastated. I sensed the cold sweat of embarassment coming, and I had to leave. He was fully aware that I'd stood next to him, urineless, for probably two minutes. I turned around, washed my hands and returned to my cubicle.

I'm all for career advancement, but if this is what it takes to become a Vice President - I'll pass.

Finding balance at AIG

2008-10-09T10:23:00.000-04:00

True, this blog is supposed to be about happenings outside of my cubicle, but I'm too proud of my magical push pins to keep them to myself.

MJQ - Sparks were flying

2008-10-07T13:24:00.001-04:00

Imagine this … you sit down at your favorite local restaurant, but before you’re able to make your typical meat loaf order, the same familiar waitress informs you that they are serving Filet Mignon (which normally isn’t on the menu), and it’s free.

This happened to me Saturday – only it was better.

I was ordering a round of beers at MJQ, a club that is literally underground, when I was informed that Sparks, an alcoholic energy drink, was free. This drink is legendary in my circle of friends. I’m not sure why, but it is always greeted with a great deal of enthusiasm.

Sometimes, in an effort to maintain an above average alcohol content and decrease the cost, we mix a Sparks with a Miller High Life, a drink that has been dubbed a ‘Low Life.’ On this day, that wouldn’t be necessary.

It wasn’t like there was a lone cooler off in the corner, with crowds swarming. Sparks, Sparks Light, and Sparks Plus were available at the bar, and I was treated like an actual customer. Naturally, I ordered four and left an ∞% tip.

The Sparks marketing department really has their shit together. For example, they also sponsor the 2007 U.S. Air Guitar National Champion, William Ocean (http://williamocean.com/). Still, I assumed that their supplies would be depleted by the time I’d finished one.

I hustled through my first, and approached the bar with some reluctance, half expecting to be disappointed. I was already having a good night. My beer pong team, The Hurricane Dieselz, had left the party with the best record (5-2) and I was within walking distance of my bed. However, on this night, it was the Steel Brewing Company, makers of Sparks, that took my night to the next level. They refused to let me down. I went back to the bar countless times, and was pleasantly greeted with one of their products.

For such a great night, I make this pledge to the Steel Brewing Company:

“Whenever I’m bordering blackout drunk, and in the market for an alcoholic energy drink, I will buy a Sparks.”

Las Vegas, Day 1 - Let me upgrade ya

2008-09-26T13:37:00.000-04:00

I’m not cheap. Overall I would say I’m a liberal spender in the realm of frugality.

Still, en route to Las Vegas, we rode Marta to the airport, arranged to bring mini bottles on the plane to avoid buying cocktails, and we stuffed six people in our friend from L.A.’s car to avoid a taxi fare.

Once in Vegas, frugal is a little different.

My bribe to the woman at the front desk was $20, not $100, I preferred my chips in the red $5 variety, not the green $25, and I collected ‘free’ passes to the clubs vehemently.

They know my type in Vegas. I’m the type that doesn’t keep the city going, but I certainly don’t hurt. At the front desk of the Treasure Island they responded to the $20 bill that I not-so-coolly placed between my license and credit card appropriately. Our room near the top of the hotel with a strip view was adequate, but more importantly they acted like they gave a damn.

From work, for weeks leading up to the trip, I’d proposed lists of ideas for each night. Before I could finish my first unpleasant drink, consisting of whiskey and Rockstar, I knew that none the plans that I’d longingly anticipated would take place. And this was perfectly ok.

We left our room and gambled, uninterrupted, for the next five hours. It didn’t matter that our combined salaries couldn’t buy the Lamborghini parked in front. When you’re young and bright, sometimes you bank on what’s to come. Knowing you’re going to succeed and giving yourself a little a preview - an incentive to work hard. I’d say that’s the American Way.

It took a little work, but by 2 a.m. we’d all congregated, and were ready to try to get in a club. We were on a list at Tao, one of the more popular clubs in Vegas, and we crossed the street to try our luck.

It’s my experience that there are quite a few types of lists. Lists that actually mean something, lists that get you to the front of the line, lists that get you in a different line, and lists that don’t exist.

I’m not sure what we had. We kept dropping our contact, Jessie’s, name. Unfortunately we thought Jessie was a girl, so our pronoun form was she, instead of he. Eventually we bypassed the line, and were granted entry for the bargain rate of $30. As a group we declined, and proceeded to aimlessly wonder around the Venetian Casino.

The Baby Maker found a group of drunken Eastern Europeans, and attempted to hold all three of their hands at once. The Red Lobster, Hyphen and Westin went off for untold gambling adventures. So that left me and The F Man.

We spotted two good looking girls headed toward Tao, and asked them if they would help us get into the club. We talked to the same guy as before, and he put is in the final queue for entry. We paid $20 to get in, and the girls got in free. After entry, they didn’t say another word to us. I won’t say this act alone shattered my confidence, but over the next couple of hours, and countless uninterested dance partners, it was crushed.

The place wasn’t a complete bust. A substance I still believe is most closely associated with snow fell from the ceiling, there were beautiful women in bathtubs covered only by rose petals, and I danced near some pretty hot girls.

We got back to the room just before 5 a.m. The Hyphen was in an unknown location gambling. I was slightly concerned he was out by himself, but my general exhaustion and the fact there was nothing I could do comforted me as I fell asleep.

We’d been in Vegas less than 12 hours, and already I was dreading Sunday, when we would return to reality.

Las Vegas - The Second Annual

2008-09-24T15:52:00.000-04:00

For me, a good trip to Las Vegas requires a period of reflection in order to grasp what took place. I had no idea what to expect when I left, and when I got back I didn’t have much better of an idea.

We left nearly two weeks ago, equipped with a dozen mini bottles for the plane ride and a certainty that many of the stories that took place in the next 72 hours would be repeated for the rest of our lives.

I never blacked out. I know that my friends - The Baby Maker, Red Lobster, The Fuck Man and The Hyphen - all got nicknames. I know pictures were taken with Mike Tyson, and we shared a cabana with a Playboy Playmate. I now know that my company, AIG, was considering bankruptcy, while my primary concern was not jinxing myself on the craps table.

I guess what I’m trying to say, is that throughout my time in Vegas I had a pretty good idea what was going on around me, but I’m just now trying to figure out what really happened.

Panama City, Day 3 - How did this happen?

2008-09-07T18:06:00.001-04:00

A few murky brown drops struggled to cover the bottom of the sandy ‘Margaritaville’ tequila bottle on the kitchen table. Empty beer bottles, of varieties we never purchases, laid strewn around the room. A mysterious pair of smooth, bare legs rested perpendicular to Tyler’s on the L shaped couch, both of their heads buried under pillows to block the light.

Behind me was a sheet-covered body, asleep courteously on the far right side of the bed. It was Sunday, our time was up in Panama City. The clock read 10:30. Multiple alarms had been set for 7 a.m., so Tyler would have a chance of making it to work. Let’s just say he wasn’t going to make it.

Let's flashback 24 hours to see how we got to this point ...

Saturday started much like Friday, except that the newness had worn off. Although I’ve been on a dozen trips with John and Tyler, this was the first of the three person assortment. After 48 hours of straight hanging out, pleasantries were nonexistent. With such a small group, the mood is incredibly variable. We slowly congregated over different breakfasts. Golden Grahams again for me, Pop tarts for John, and a cheese stick for Tyler.

In a matter of minutes we faced the reality that we were out of alcohol. The fact that more money would need to be spent, in addition to the impending trip didn’t help morale. What’s more, the passenger side window was left cracked on Tyler’s car, and somehow the entire side of the interior was soaked. Tyler, not getting the sympathy he felt he deserved, slumped into the saturated passenger seat. Justifiably, negative remark followed by more negative remarks flooded into my right ear. We were near an all time low.

The Big Easy Liquor Store was the first we saw. John, lacking an I.D., and Tyler, lacking a positive attitude, decided to stay in the car. I walked in and again, instead of a liquor store, with liquor on the shelves and beer in coolers, I saw a full bar. There was a handful of old men working crossword puzzles at the bar, while the women sat at a table talking. Including me, the average age was in the upper 60’s. They sensed my confusion, and the ring leader, a woman of 90 pounds, told me that the liquor store was just through the door. A statement that she's surely made over 10,000 times.

The kitchen-sized store, although not ideal, ended up being sufficient. For Consistency sake, I bought another case of Miller Lite, and added the cheapest vodka I could find that was in a glass bottle. It ended up being from Australia, and was somehow made from grapes. It took a painfully long time for her to ring me up, and I struggled to carry the alcohol in addition to two bags of ice through the bar and back to the car. My efforts would quickly be rewarded as Tyler, ever grateful, asked, “What took you so damn long?”

While I loaded the cooler, John scoped the beach for the most happening spot. We’d already confirmed that from over 1,000 feet it was impossible to tell if someone was attractive, but he was more confident than ever. He guided us to the right, roughly 100 yards down the beach. We were flanked on our right by two girls with the nicest beach chairs I’ve ever seen and just beyond them was a group of 15 girls of varying sizes. On our left was a slightly overweight guy, easing Bud Ice’s out of his cooler every couple minutes. We tastefully cracked jokes at his expense, until his good looking girlfriend greeted him with a kiss and a glare at our shabby setup – me sitting on the cooler, John and Tyler in second-hand chairs, and our gear in a plastic grocery bags.

It was a truly beautiful day. Any tension was released after the fourth and fifth beers were opened, and soon after we had struck up conversation with the two girls next to us who were college students down from Ohio. They spotted dolphins, and John corrected them, since they were probably porpoises. Not to be outdone, I confirmed the fact that they were porpoises by explaining that dolphins swim west to east, and these were going east to west.

Things were going good, I was proud of my clever comments, and for the first time Panama City seemed to have some potential. Moments after this realization, four young men showed up. It turned out they were with the girls we’d just met. They proceeded to chase and throw sand at one another. Disappointed with the recent development, we threw the Frisbee for a bit, and eventually decided to explore the other side of the beach. Time was flying by, and clouds were starting to roll in.

Down the beach we ran into a group of girls that we’d talked to briefly the day before, and decided to move our stuff down and sit with them. One of them was training to become a courtroom reporter, the other a teacher in Dalton, and the last was a student at Kennesaw. These seemed like satisfactory achievements to celebrate, so we got out the bottle of vodka. Along with a two liter of coke, the bottle was passed around. Somehow it came out, as I’m sure it always does, that one of the girls brother was Cohutta from the Real World Australia.

The conversation was engaging, nevertheless I was distracted when I saw a group funneling beers, an activity I hadn’t enjoyed in years. I used the distraction to escape our conversation, and as I approached I noticed a couple of girls heading the same way. We arrived at the same time, and within 30 seconds, one of the girls had the funnel full of beer. I waited patiently, beer in hand, for my turn. I doubted my funneling abilities were going to impress her, but I was at least hoping for conversation.

I never funneled a beer, instead she started talking to me about her infatuation with ducks. And since my shirt had a duck on it, saying , "The duck stops here," I was in luck. In an attempt to play it cool, I went back to my group, only to see John teaching Cohutta's sister how to throw the Frisbee, and Tyler still drinking straight vodka with the other girls. Somehow they were being entertained without me, so I stumbled my way back up to the intriguing duck girl. After more conversation we decided to go on a sea slug hunting adventure. We grabbed a cup to collect our findings, and headed down the beach.

She showed me how purple ink comes out when you smush them, and with sea slug ooze seeping out from under my heel, I smiled at the amazingly random absurdity of life. She was beautiful, and seemed to be enjoying my company, or at least my shirt. It was a nice shirt, but I agreed to give it to her if we met up later.

When we got back, we proudly displayed our finds. Nobody was overly impressed, and the first group of girls decided to go back to their room. We agreed to meet up with them for dinner. I exchanged phone numbers with the duck girl, and we filled Hot Wheels with all of our empties.

We got ready for the night, and about an hour later the girls were there to pick us up. At dinner Tyler seemed frustrated, John displayed his knowledge of fish, and I made up lies to entertain myself. I talked for way too long about living inside of a whale. I don't think they believed me, but I considered it a win just because I was allowed to talk on the subject for nearly three minutes. One of the Ohio girls from the beach was seated right next to us, and the young man she was with sat quietly. I secretly studied their awkwardness, until I heard a roar from the bar. I immediately knew what it was, and hurried in to see Michael Phelps win his eighth gold medal. I enjoyed my patriotism for a minute, and headed back to the table.

We finished up, paid our tab and headed back. On the way home we stopped by the Winn-Dixie liquor store, and bought the aforementioned 'Margaritaville' tequila. We decided to go over to their condo. Impromptu drinking games were created, and eventually a game of charades broke out. Camels and Ostriches were easy, even a sexy lizard was quickly guessed. Still, all of my efforts couldn't get anyone close to the butterfly that I was trying to be. My tactics were solid, and they knew I was some sort of flying object, but my coming out of a cocoon act merely confused my teammates. Frustrated, we walked to the Tiki bar, where the other girls from the beach were waiting. On the way we tossed the tequila bottle into the bushes for later.

End of Part 1

Panama City, Day 2 - Eighteen to party 21 to drink

2008-08-26T08:57:00.000-04:00

I have always been able to avoid hangovers. It’s not a secret. In fact, typically when I wake up after a long night of drinking and start washing dishes or being generally jovial, I share this technique. It consists of water and positivity. I feed off of others’ negative energy.

On this day, I was tested.

I woke up on the chaise section of a lime green couch. This couch is a pullout, but the bed remained folded underneath the cushions and Tyler’s semi-naked body. My hand rested on the touchpad of my Macbook, my index finger seemingly pointing at the empty king size bed ten feet away.

The sun hadn’t reached its apex, so I was thankful that I had caught the fourth or fifth hour of the sun rise. After a brief chuckle, Tyler headed for the bed. I dozed in and out of sleep for a few minutes, and then realized it was Friday and I wasn’t at work. This fact alone made my day.

I hopped out of bed, enjoyed a bowl of Golden Grahams, and headed for the pool.Since my day was made, my focus shifted toward making this day enjoyable for Tyler and John. Between pages of my book, I schemed as to how I could make this happen. My plan was simple. Tyler needs alcohol and John needs girls. I was willing to selflessly sacrifice to make both of these happen.

I smiled inwardly as Tyler approached with a bottle of water in one hand and a tall glass of what I was certain must be rum and coke in the other. My small victory was quickly overshadowed by the news that Tyler brought. My two friends had been talking in the room about possibly leaving early.

Tyler has a job. A job so important that on a regular Saturday he’s willing to bail if we’re going to get breakfast or to see a movie. He had mistakenly scheduled for Sunday afternoon, and in order to make it we would have to leave at 6 a.m. Everyone knew this wasn’t happening, but the fact that it was mentioned goes a long way to describe my friends’ attitudes.

Aside from some flashy skim boarders, our beach was pretty dead. So we did what any group of guys looking for a nice stretch of beach to drink and people watch at in Panama City … headed to La Vela. With Hot Wheels filled to her capacity, we got in the car and headed over. On the way, John received a call that his neurosurgeon friend saying that he had hand delivered his last recommendation for medical school. John claimed this made his day, but I didn’t buy it. He needed girls.

After the 12 mile drive, my heart sank as we pulled into the desolate three acre parking lot. The massive crowds we expected were not to be found. The deep sand once again deemed Hot Wheels inoperable, and I struggled to carry the loaded down cooler toward the ocean. After a short walk, we picked a spot that was adequately busy. Drinks were opened, and I believe I unpersuasively said, “It doesn’t get better than this.”

Despite the Euro trash man, whose incredibly loud music I could have created on a Casio keyboard, flying solo right behind us, we managed to consume several drinks. Tyler complained about sand, and John suggested we move to a ‘better’ spot. Over our shoulder, the famous Club La Vela sign mocked – “Party with Thousands.” Dejected, I decided that we should retreat back to our beach.

After arriving at our home beach, to Tyler’s delight, we picked up our drinking pace. The sun felt glorious, and before we knew it the golden hour was upon us. I lobbied to stay on the beach, but was overruled by my cohorts. In the room we cooked frozen pizza’s, and decided that La Vela’s disappointing day performance would not deter us from a return trip.

Sufficiently drunk, we talked too openly about which outfits looked best on each other. John settled for the ultra stylish shirt I had worn the night before, and I opted for a similar cut Western shirt. Tyler went with a plain looking navy blue shirt, which would become a problem later in the night, as he was nearly impossible to spot.After an eventful $25 dollar taxi ride, in which John did as much damage on a fifth of Bacardi as possible, we arrived at about 11 p.m.

Thankfully there was a small line, and a subdued excitement in the air. We were grateful that, for a $10 upcharge, John was allowed in as an 18-year-old. Our hands were marked, Tyler and I on the left for over 21 and John on the right. We walked toward the obscene amount of bass, prepared to be blown away.

There are several rooms at La Vela, however, on this night one of the rooms put all of the others to shame. The ceilings were probably 40 feet high. Three bars surrounded a depressed dance floor, with a stage, overflowing with girls, in the front. The girl-guy ratio was surprisingly good, and you couldn’t get the grin off of John’s face. Immediately his hand went up in the air, bouncing up and down with the beat.

All things considered, I’m a below average dancer. I’m an average dancer for a 6’3 white guy. Add in some green lasers and a strobe light, and I’m pushing above average. Armed with this knowledge Tyler and I proceeded to put on a 'Walk it out' exhibition.

For me, the deal breaker for any club, is whether girls will openly dance with people. I’m not really looking for much. I’m not above taking a girl from La Vela home, but I’m more concerned with a good time. La Vela passed this test with flying colors. My dance partner count was in the double digits, and that doesn't include Tyler or John. Maybe it was because everyone was letting loose on vacation, or maybe we were just looking that good, but my dancing confidence was at an all time high.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, three large pyramids descended from the ceiling. I stopped for a second, confused, when blasts of cool fog starting pouring out. In a matter of seconds you couldn’t see more than a foot. Naturally, everyone went crazy.

After a bit of exploring, I met a group of about 30 that come down to Panama City every year, and one night during their trip they all wear white and go to La Vela. They seemed to be having a good time, and their solidarity enticed me. Talking led to dancing, and before I knew it I was sandwiched between two girls, unsure of how to execute this dance, but enjoying it nonetheless.

We parted ways, agreeing to dance again later.From the perch that the white group had overtaken, I spotted John and Tyler. We decided to check out another room, and after Tyler told the new door guy that it was his birthday, he begrudgingly let our underage friend in. The room had a techno feel, with classy 60’s style women painted on the wall. Only about a dozen people were in the room, and we quickly found out that all of them were from Ukraine. For some reason I really enjoyed the fact that the Eastern Europeans were in this room. I assumed that when they were in the club it was as if they'd escaped back to the motherland. We danced, and tried to talk, but they didn’t understand much. In the end, we stuck to words like “Beautiful,” “Pretty,” and “Party.” They all seemed to like these words, so we decided to take some pictures.

It was getting late, and we headed back into the main room, which could have been considered too crowded by some. I spotted the white girls on stage, and pushed my way toward them. John quickly warned me that the bouncers don’t allow guys on stage, so I stood below doing my best to establish eye contact. I’m not sure I can take credit for this, but a few seconds later, one of the girls wearing white, that I’d been dancing with before, started to lift her dress. I’m pretty sure I stopped dancing. This must have worked because seconds later she was jumping onto me. I obviously went with it, and with her legs wrapped around me, I tried my best to keep up. This got a lot of attention, and soon enough her guy friends showed up. One had a bottle of Grey Goose, and the other with a fistful of one dollar bills. She got off, drawn by her friend's alcohol. The friend with the money made it rain, and at that point I knew that I’d been outclassed. We never spoke, but looking back I realize that there was really nothing to be said.

Tyler and I continued to dance until about 3 a.m., when we realized we hadn’t seen John in a while. When we ran into him we were quickly introduced to the first Mongolian woman that I’ve ever met. She was beautiful, and I felt bad prying him away from her, but they exchanged numbers and agreed to meet up the next day. Drenched in sweat, we left.

The same taxi driver that brought us, amazed they’d even let John in, took us back. We made it home, and I immediately got in the gigantic bed. I didn't have any dreams that night. What's the point?

Panama City - Just livin' the life

2008-08-26T08:37:00.000-04:00

When the big guy has three or more buttons undone on his shirt, the Ukrainian women come running.

Panama City, Day 1 - A near roller skating experience

2008-08-26T08:36:00.000-04:00

The location – exotic. The premise – simple. My two best friends and I would take a couple days off of work, drink excessively, get a tan, and create stories. Panama City, once the mecca of the Florida panhandle, is only a half-day drive from most of the Southeast, but it's a different world.

For those born in the 80’s the place has a certain stigma. A reputation so powerful that, independent of economic or supernatural forces, will keep people coming back until my generation no longer has the strength to travel. For me, the lasting memory is intentionally sitting in traffic on the strip, going from car to car. Driving was a new phenomenon, and scantily clad girls held my attention for hours. Panama City is Vegas without the gambling or glitz. It’s New Orleans without Bourbon Street or the culture. It’s thousands of people waiting around for something to happen. Waiting and waiting for something to happen, so eventually it does.

We arrived just before 2 p.m., armed with a new cooler that would later be named ‘hot wheels,’ two cases of Miller Lite, and a handle of Appleton Rum. I’d felt like a salesman for this trip for weeks. We had a free place to stay, but conversations on the trip down were generally negative. My friend John had forgotten his wallet, and Tyler and I talked about how this was the least anticipated trip we’d ever been on. I’d invited all of my close friends, and this is what I ended up with. In hindsight, it couldn’t have been a better group. However, at the time, it seemed slightly awkward and forced.

Coolers with wheels are great, and I don’t regret the $3 upgrade, but they aren’t made for beaches. Things looked bleak. The typically aqua waters were overwhelmed by red sea weed, and instead of a crowded beach with gorgeous women, I saw scattered clusters of beach chairs struggling to hold their occupants’. With Hot Wheels in tow, our efforts to walk to a more ‘happening’ part of the beach were slowed mentally and physically. Our attention shifted from potential female conversation partners, to the contents of our cooler. We took a seat just past a large group of sea slugs, and opened our first beer. The Frisbee came out, and we dazzled ourselves with our long range abilities. John consistently executed his patented late-spin-and-catch trick, while I converted nearly 40% of my through-the-legs-from-behind-no-look catch. We told jokes, and spoke of how fortunate we are for being so funny.

With the golden hour approaching, and our first case of beer all but depleted, we drug Hot Wheels back down the beach. From the room we watched the sun set, and agreed that ideally we would have invited girls up to the room. Rum and coke would have to do. After showers and a quick Olympic viewing fix, we decided to eat our obligatory sea food for the trip. We ended up at a place called Sharkie’s, and somehow lucked into a spot that seemed closer than any of its handicap counterparts. Things were looking up, as the ocean breeze greeted us under a gigantic thatch roof. John didn’t get carded, so we got a round of beers and waited.

Snow crab, Mahi mahi, scallops, and fried goodness soon covered the table, and our waiter tried to make up for the fact that he wasn’t the good looking waitress in the other section by giving us advice for what we might want to get into later that night. He mentioned a weekly event called 'bar wars,' and on this particular night it was at Rockin' Lanes. Bowling and $1 beers seemed hard to pass up, so after helping John crack crab legs for 20 minutes we headed out.

I'm not sure why I was at all surpised by what I saw when I walked in. There were two dozen pool tables straddled by a gigantic roller skating rink and 30 plus bowling lanes. It was only nine, but everything was in cosmic mode. The place was filled with teenager girls wearing clothes their parents wouldn't approve of, and future Panama City taxi drivers. Each of them a few years from cutoff Russel Athletic shirts, manicured beards and the notion that they actually were living in paradise.

We would soon find out that the future taxi drivers were the current servers. Bar wars was for those that worked at restaurants or bars, and an old pay stub was required to get the cheap beer. It didn't matter much anyway, they weren't impressed by John's printed License, Passport and Birth Certificate. We bowled a game, but lack of alcohol had made John grumpy. We headed for the door, looking back over our shoulder at the roller rink. It would have to wait for another day.

We raced to the liquor store, and were confused when we walked in and saw a complete bar surrounded by liquor bottles. With John waiting in the car we shrugged and settled for a couple of pints of rum. Unfortunately the receipt had a tip line, and the liquortendor lucked into a sweet $1.50 tip. It was getting late, so we headed to the beach bar close to our condo.

Things start to get hazy here. The DJ was an overweight woman who was seated behind her laptop. A veteran showed me where a bullet grazed him, a couple from Dallas tempted me to steal an open beer from behind the bar, and two blondes held the attention of thirty men surrounding them. Needless to say, it was a good night.