Breaking it Down: Dancing

Editor’s Note:  See what I did with the title?  Clever, I know.

As you can see from the title, this post is all about dancing.  You aren’t going to find that many people from my demographic that will talk at length about this topic so I thought I would give it a try.

I’m a good dancer.  No, really I am.  How do I know this?  Well I have the seal of approval from someone that knows a thing or two about the subject.  More on that later.   But here’s the thing:  I don’t want to be a great dancer.  I’m as good right now as I want to be.  As a white dude, there is a range you want to fit in.  No one wants to have two left feet.  But at the same time, you don’t want to be insanely good.  If you are out there stomping the yard (that’s what the kids say these days right?) people are going to want to know what’s up.  I know this may sound narcissistic, but I think I sit at the apex of acceptable white, male dancing.

Of course there are exceptions to this range.  The only one I can think of at the moment would be Justin Timberlake.  Now that is a dude that can dance.  This just shows you how low the bar has been set for white guy dancing.  Name another great Caucasian male dancer.  Sure, Conan has his novelty string dance but I would hardly put him in the same category as JT.

Despite this hat, he can still dance

While there is a range in skill level you want to find yourself in, there’s also an age range that needs to be considered.  I’m not saying old people shouldn’t dance; they should.  Is there anything more adorable than Ethel and Merle putting down their walkers to cut a rug at their 50^th wedding anniversary?  I’m just saying there is a shelf life for dancing the way I currently do.  No one wants to see a 46 year old guy pop lock and drop it.  It looks creepy.  Do you see any dancing in those Just for Men Touch of Grey commercials?

All right I feel like some of you are having a hard time following my rules for age appropriate dancing.  So here is a chart.  Feel free to make this into a laminate and keep it in your wallet.

Age	Dancing Status
0-9	Adorable – nothing more, nothing less
10-13	Awkward
14-17	Awkward with a constant erection
18-20	Still erect but wishing you were drunk
21-31	Drunk and loving life
32-44	Entering CreepyTown, population: You
45-64	Tell Dad to stop dancing
65+	Adorable once again

I must just have dancing on the brain.  I recently finished up a 4 week stretch that included two weddings, a bachelor party and a few nights out at the bar.  I was conversing with a few of my classmates as we were walking to the train and I noticed about 8 Chicago police officers standing on one street corner where there are usually none.  I wondered aloud why they thought they were so many.  ‘Oh it’s probably because of all the flash mobs recently.’  My response, ‘Really?  We need police officers for those now?’  Violent teen attacks v. random dancing in a public place.  As you can tell I need to hang up the dancing shoes for a bit.

More evidence I need to take a break, at one of the weddings I attended, I left the dance floor covered in sweat.  I mean absolutely drenched.  And I’m not even one of those dudes that typically sweats a lot.  But in this case I looked like Shaq at the free throw line.  In fact the only picture I have of myself with the bride and groom, I was sweating so much that you can see my nipple through my soaked white dress shirt.  Let’s all take a minute and soak that in. 

Part of the reason there are no prominent white male dancers is that it’s just not cool anymore.  Remember John Travolta and Patrick Swayze?  Yeah you do.  In their prime, these guys were two of the coolest dudes on the planet.  Both are considered good dancers but after a closer look, they benefitted from some help.  The setting for Dirty Dancing was 1963 in the Catskill Mountains.  Is there a stuffier group of white people on the planet than at one of those resorts?  And Travolta, he had the biggest hand of all—a Bee Gees soundtrack.  Anything looks good with the sweet falsetto of Barry Gibb backing your every move.  I believe it was the great Wayne Campbell that said, ‘I mean Led Zeppelin didn’t write tunes everybody liked.  They left that to the Bee Gees.’  Case and point.

The other thing about modern dancing that bothers me is the fact it’s been hijacked by 11 year olds.  Every dancing show you see on TV has a group of 4 pre-teens doing flips off the wall and spins on their head.  No pre-pubescent kid should have that much attitude.  They all stand around with the fingertips cut out of their gloves and their arms crossed telling everyone to ‘Bring it!’  The only thing lamer than this is when someone replies, ‘Oh it’s already been brought!’

Have you figured out who gave me the seal of approval that I mentioned earlier?  Think about it.  Who are the best dancers in our society?  It’s not a trick question.  Black guys.  I’m not being racist here either, they are good dancers.  Yeah it’s a stereotype but it’s a good one.  Michael Jackson, Usher, Chris Brown, Carlton from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.  The list goes on.  In my month long dance gauntlet, I was with some friends dancing at a bar when a black man came up behind me, crossed his arms and nodded his head approvingly.  He said, ‘Your boy’s got some moves.’  And then walked on.  I had to be informed of this later as I was too busy getting busy.  But once I heard the news, it was the best day of my life.  JT, continue to carry the torch for us but you best know I’m coming for ya.

Sounds Like a Hipster: Walk to the Store

Editor’s Note:  This post was written immediately after the events occurred to me.  Some of the details I didn’t want to forget so I wrote them down as soon as I could.  You’ll see why.

I am starting to think that living within walking distance of a grocery store is going to give me a lot of material for posts.  And that happens to be the case with this one.  This story starts out innocently; I just wanted to bake some chocolate chip cookies.  Simple enough.  I really like the kind where the dough is already made and all you need to do is slice it off, place on a cookie sheet and bake.  As any cookie connoisseur can tell you, once you get the idea of those fresh baked cookies in your head, only those will appease your hunger pangs.  So my mind was made up and I set off for the store.

It was 10 PM on a Sunday so I didn’t think there would be a lot of people out and about.  I was midway through my 73 second walk to the store, yes I timed it, when I turned onto the main thoroughfare where the store is located.  To get there, I walk to the end of my street, turn left and my local Jewel-Osco is right there.  I wasn’t exaggerating about the 73 seconds.  The relative short amount of time is important because I still can’t believe all this shit happened in such a short time period.

After turning left, I passed a bar and a couple restaurants.  The Italian restaurant I walked past offered ‘patio’ seating which is basically just tables out on the sidewalk.  (Isn’t it nice to know that restaurants have made us believe that sitting on a sidewalk, outside, engulfed by car exhaust is an acceptable way to eat a meal?)   

I was walking past some of the aforementioned outside tables when I spotted a woman in her 20s speaking to the passersby ahead of me.  As I was getting closer I could hear the woman repeating in a low monotone, ‘I don’t need lube.  I don’t need lube…’  She just kept repeating it as if it were on a loop.  I didn’t even bat an eye and kept walking to the store.  My first instinct told me that this woman was just trying to get a reaction out of the people that passed by in some attempt to impress her friends.  And my intuition was correct.  Once I was passed her table, I could hear her turn to her friends and complain that she couldn’t get anyone to react.

At first, I was happy with myself for not giving her the reaction she wanted but that quickly became disappointment in that I didn’t have a zinger ready to throw back at her.  Usually this is an area where I excel.  But then I realized I would probably have a second shot at this.  A rarity for sure.   How many times have you told a story, ended it and been asked if that's really what you said.  Instead you have to answer, ‘Yeah that’s what I should have said to him.’  Now I would have the chance to use whatever I came up with soon after.  I was only going to be in the store for about 5 minutes so I had to hop to it.

I went to the cookie dough section and started racking my brain.  I knew it would have to be short because I would only get a few seconds as I passed her again.  It didn’t take long but I came up with quite a few.  Here’s a list of the ones that didn’t make the cut.  Some aren’t bad and some could use some work.

• Really?  Hi, I’m Nick.
• Prove it.
• Sounds like my first time.
• Me too!

I told you they weren’t all winners.  I had settled on the first one or some variation of it.  I wasn’t thrilled about it but it was the best one I could come up with.  After I checked out and was carrying my plastic grocery bag home it suddenly occurred to me.  With the new quip I came up with I had to fully commit or it wouldn’t work.  I only had about 20 seconds between leaving the store and my next encounter at the Italian restaurant so I had to decide pretty quickly.  I had to win the battle with this wench so I went for it.

As I was approaching the outside tables, she was still trying in vain to get someone to notice her.  As I got closer I made eye contact with her and she started into her loop again, ‘I don’t need lube.  I don’t need lube…’  But this time I was ready.  I let out a half exasperated, half jealous sigh and said, ‘Lucky.  I go through SO much.’  I lifted my bag and nodded towards it as to convey the fact I had to yet again stock up on KY.  Her table started cracking up and but she couldn’t say one word.  I just walked on into the night.

Ideally, this is where I would end the post.  But this was just the midway point.  I made the turn back onto my street when I saw an attractive woman in her early 30s walking by herself.  As I was getting closer to her, an SUV with 4 or 5 dudes pulled up at the stop sign.  Their window was down and they started cat calling at her.  The typical phrases were thrown out: ‘Hey baby, you’re hot,’ ‘You make me hard.’  

I didn’t say or do anything because quite frankly I didn’t care.  The thing that bothered me about the situation was how unoriginal these guys were.  If you are going to holler out from a car window, try something they haven’t heard before. Here’s a suggestion:

• I'm imagining intercourse between us right now.  It would last around 30 seconds and I would cry after.  If cleaning up my post-coital tears sounds appealing then hop on in!

I’ve never understood why we as guys think that hollering at a woman on the street is a good idea.  What’s the best case scenario here?  She sprints for the car door, rips off her clothes and provides a pleasure so intense that 2 of the guys vomit in pure ecstasy?  Guys, I know I have a whole category dedicated to how awesome we are but stop this.  Besides, the only woman you should ever talk to through a car window is a night shift manager at Taco Bell or works for someone named Sweet Chocolate Clarence Quick.  (I’m not condoning prostitution but anyone who goes by Sweet Chocolate can’t be that bad of a guy.  I’m just saying, I’d sip some crunk juice from a chalice with that Don any day.)

So after about 15 seconds the SUV left and no one was any worse off.  I kept on my way to my apartment and when I got there, I saw a woman trying to get in.  But this wasn’t any woman.  This woman was a librarian.  There is no need to describe her any further because every librarian in every library looks exactly the same.  I’m not making fun of the librarian arts; I’m just saying there is a distinct look associated with that profession.

Librarian Porn

When I get through the first door into the lobby, I quickly found out that she was drunk.  We’re not talking tipsy here.  No no, this was ‘driving your Nissan Sentra through an antiques storefront because inside you saw a 1^st edition of The Great Gatsby’ drunk.  I was in no mood to hear the history of the Dewey Decimal system so I just pretty much ignored her and just walked to my unit. (That’s right, I ignored both ends of the female spectrum on one trip to the grocery store.  Clearly I’ve earned my Sweet Chocolate moniker.)  But as I was baking the cookies I sat there in disbelief.  When have you ever seen/heard about a librarian being drunk?  It’s so rare that I’m sure most of you don’t believe that part of the story.  But it did happen.  Oh yes.  But for now just call me Captain Ahab because that was one white whale of a night.

Sounds Like Some Man Love: Protect this House

Editor’s Note:  This next post could probably be filed under either ‘Sounds Like a Hipster’ or ‘Man Love.’  But I combined them because it’s my blog and I can do what I want.

After my bonding experience at the grocery store with my Italian brethren, I started to think about my other man moments.  I could only think of a few, but this one stuck out.

For two years of college, I lived in the same house.  It was in a series of homes located off the street.  A path separated two rows of identical houses.  Each residence had a front porch and generally possessed the look of typical off-campus student housing.  I feel like I’m not describing it well enough if you’ve never seen it so here is an awesome MS Paint diagram.  (Yes you ass, the path is supposed to look beaten and worn.)

One summer, in between semesters, I took a class on-campus so I could stay on pace to graduate in 4 years.  I was the only one living at the house at the time so I thought I would need some protection.  This was the time in my life where I started sleeping with a baseball bat, machete or nunchaku nearby in case of emergency.  I’m pretty sure every dude does this at some point.  Of course I didn’t have any of these so I had to settle for some pieces of metal framing intended for windows.  Yeah I know these don’t sound like much but they did the trick.  They were made of solid steel, roughly 3 feet long and weighed about 7 lbs. each.  When I first walked in on my roommates sword fighting with them, I thought they reminded me of the sticks used at BD’s Mongolian BBQ to cook their mountains of man meat*.  One of my roommates called them his muja sticks (pronounced moo-JA) so that’s what we’ll use.

I put the muja sticks between my headboard and pillow but never thought I’d actually have to use them.  Summer nights in the 2^nd floor of a 50 year-old house with no air conditioning were just a tad hot and humid, so accordingly, I usually slept with my window all the way open.  It was about 3 AM of the second night sleeping with the sticks under my head when I heard glass breaking outside.  In one swift move, I reached underneath my head and unsheathed a muja stick in fractions of a second.  The one I grabbed was resting on the other so when I pulled it out, the metal on metal sound was almost identical to that of a knight brandishing his sword.  My heart was pounding and I was covered in sweat almost immediately.  I wanted to figure out what was going on but the awesomeness of my natural instinct to pull out a muja stick at the first sign of trouble was not lost on me.  (Imagine any war movie where a guy sleeps with a gun or knife in hand. There’s always that moment when they are woken and hold the weapon at the throat of their comrade until they realize they aren’t an enemy.  That was me.)

I jumped down from my loft and stormed through the house to see if anyone had gotten inside.  Being the middle of summer, the temperature was in the 90s, and since I was the only one in the house, I slept naked.  And for the rest of this story, yes I am naked.  I will allow for a moment to let the ladies who read this blog to calm down.
 

For those of you who don’t know me, I am quite possibly the palest mofo on the planet.  Conan O’Brien could star in a remake of Roots if he stood next to me for any length of time.  If for some reason you want to, imagine a luminous bastion of white light toting muja sticks and moving with a purpose.  I checked all the windows and locks and found that nothing was wrong with my collegiate palace.  I went to the front door and looked through the transom to survey the situation.

I couldn’t see anything suspicious going on.  As it ended up, a plasma TV was stolen from the house across from me.  I stayed up for another couple hours, never more than an arm’s length from my muja sticks, and kept watch out the window.  Nothing ever happened but that’s not the moral of the story.

I did what men do.  I protected my house.  Even if there was no actual threat, I was proud of the fact that at the first sign of trouble I whipped out a muja stick and prepared for battle.  I was ready to impose my own castle doctrine if the situation called for it.  Luckily I didn’t have to.


Sidebar: Hopefully some of you noticed that the layout of where I lived in college had no impact on the story whatsoever.  I just wanted an excuse to use MS Paint.  Have you ever used Paint for anything other than screwing around?  Yeah me neither.  This was my first time.  You guys just took my p-card.

I feel like I’ve been practicing for that moment my whole life.  Playing with swords and bow staffs are two things I still like doing to this day.  About a month ago when I was waiting for the cable guy to set up my new apartment, I played with a 5 foot wooden dowel for about 2 hours.  There was literally nothing in my apartment because I hadn’t moved in yet, so I entertained myself with a long piece of wood (giggity).  In simple terms, I wildly swung at invisible enemies, made the accompanying sound effects and generally acted like I was fighting an endless Samurai army.  (Everything gets a sweet name when I fight the Japanese.  The piece of wood I was swinging over my head became a bushido blade and my apartment was then a dojo.)

I actually asked my girlfriend at the time for this for Christmas. 

I was being serious but she said no.  Instead I got a nice blue button down shirt and a V-neck sweater.  Yeah I know, package those with some dark jeans or khakis and you’ve got the perfect outfit for a nice dinner out with friends.  I mean, that's what I've been told looks good.  I’m not saying I don’t look nice in what I did receive because obviously I do.  (Did you not hear what I just described?  A V-neck over a collared shirt is lovely.)  But that battle axe would have been so much more practical.  I mean, what else am I going to use to take on an army of 8-year olds jacked up on juice boxes and Gushers?

*If Mountains of Man Meat isn’t the best name you’ve ever heard for a gay porno then you know way too many gay porn titles.

Bucket List

People are always doing bucket lists and they are usually pretty lame.  So here's mine.  Hopefully it's not as lame or else I look like an idiot.

• Use an escape pod and/or hatch
• Take my glasses off, gently bite on the frame and whisper ‘Make the call.’
• Earn the nickname Dr. Funkenstein
• Grow a salt and pepper beard and only be seen in cardigan sweaters
• Emerge from a burning building baby in hand and ask the mother, ‘Is this your child?’
• Knock the contents off a desk and make sweet, sweet love to a woman
• Receive a tap on my shoulder in a French restaurant and be rushed out the back by security
• Incite a riot after my wrongful conviction
• Take shrapnel damage and utter the phrase, ‘I ain’t got time to bleed.’
•  Find gold in them there hills
• Train my dog to fetch me beer, slippers, and loose women
• Be money and not even know it, baby
• Create a method to teach women math and science
• Kill a dictator, arrive late at a party and say, ‘Sorry, I got held up.’
• Trademark the phrase ‘I fly below the hard deck.’
• Be mistaken for a young Clive Owen
• Dispatch of 5 henchmen, spit on the ground and say, ‘You’re not so tough.’
• Win a Grammy for my spoken word album titled: Balls Deep in Bakersfield
• Pull my gun from its holster and state, ‘Your move, pal.’

Breaking it Down: Body Wash

Editor’s Note:  Today will be the introduction of the last planned segment.  Breaking it Down is where I take a closer look at something that many may quickly glance over.  Absurdity and ridiculousness abounds in today’s society and I want to bring some of these follies to light.

The above picture is the back label to my recently purchased Suave For Men Body Wash.  I want to be clear that I didn’t purchase said body wash because it was made (read: marketed) for men, I bought it because it was on sale and it was the first bottle I saw.  When I shop, grocery or otherwise, when there is a product I need, I simply take the first one that satisfies my needs.  This has been both the cause for me spending as little time as possible shopping and my acquisition of a Hello Kitty notebook.  (All right you caught me.  I didn’t actually buy a Hello Kitty notebook.  I got the matching stickers and eraser tops that came as a set with the notebook.  That’s just good value shopping.)

Why is this body wash made specifically for men?  Is there something in its ingredients that allows for it to navigate the unkempt maze that is my chest and body hair?  Of course not.  This body wash is no different than any other one out there.  It’s just simply marketed towards the male demographic.   Now don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with products being marketed towards one sex or the other, but please follow through when you take up that endeavor. 

Look at the label where it says ‘To Use.’  (Actually let me step back a second.  Why is there a ‘To Use’ section on the label?  The name of the product tells you what to do with it.  Wash your body.  Although it’s a good thing I was told how to use this fine product because I had it all wrong.  I was planning on sautéing some potatoes in it but now I will just stick to degreasing my balls.)  The line in the ‘To Use’ section that I take umbrage with is where is says to use a wet bath pouf.  I had to Google bath pouf to figure out what hell one is.  Once I saw a picture of one I quickly recognized it as a common, everyday bath item. (See below)

But why would a body wash aimed at men be encouraging use of a pouf?  Do they think guys just hang around in showers at the gym using poufs to wash off the stench of some pick-up basketball?  “Hey Jerry, no pouf today?  Here take mine; I carry a few extra with me for just such an occasion.  I was caught pouf-less once before and my wife could smell my sack when I pulled in the driveway.”  Men don’t use poufs.  Just saying the word makes me want to drink some scotch and make a pass at my secretary just to compensate the loss of testosterone.

Men would rather use a pine cone to wash with than have to admit they use a pouf.  I have a theory that addresses this and should be put into practice.  It goes something like this: when every man turns 16, by law, they must take a pilgrimage to Hawaii.  Once there, they must hike to the top of Diamondhead where they will meet a drifter named Lyle*.  The pilgrim will enter a circle of fire and must wrestle Lyle to the ground in less than 3 minutes.  If he succeeds, he will be led by one of the many wenches to the Sacred Cove.  There he will be given a pick-axe and told to chop off a piece of pumice to use as his man pouf for life.  But that’s not the world we live in.  And it's a God-damn shame.

*If Lyle is unavailable, his half brother Gus can be substituted but the time to pin him drops to 90 seconds.  Gus has lost a step over the years and will mostly like be drunk on Wild Turkey.

Man Love: Ron Swanson

Editor's Note:  Today I will be introducing another planned recurring segment.  Man Love will deal with all things concerning men.  Dare I say, it will be a celebration of my male brethren.  Too often we as guys hate on each other.  I want to buck that trend and show some of my brothers (meant in the urban sense) some love.


'I won't publicly endorse a product unless I use it exclusively and I really believe in it. My only official recommendations are US Army issued mustache trimmers, Morton's Salt, and the C.R. Lawrence fine two-inch style oscillating knife blade.'



I wish I could say this quote came from me but sadly it did not.  (The great Ron Swanson, from the NBC show Parks and Recreation spit this wisdom and I simply couldn't let it go.)  I don't know if I will ever be able to use a mustache trimmer.  A) I can't grow a mustache.  I've tried and it looks horrible. (Note: Simply having hair above your lip does not constitute a mustache)  B) It looks horrible because my facial hair is blonde with red highlights.  (Did you hear that?  That was the sound of zero panties dropping at the thought of a ginger-blonde 'stache.)  Even if I could grow hair thick and bushy enough to be considered a mustache, I wouldn't do it.  Having a blonde mustache with red highlights defeats its purpose. 


Parks and Recreation is the only product/show I will endorse on this blog.  Although I think I'm more endorsing the Ron Swanson way of life.  If you haven't been able to tell,I try to follow the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness, which can be seen here.  The other reason I'm posting about Ron Swanson is that I wanted any excuse I could find to post this animation:

The Godfather

My goal in life is to grow up to be like Ron Swanson.  The man dresses in Eddie Bauer, sports a Tom Selleck-esque mustache and has two ex-wives both named Tammy.  (I'm sure there are some hot Tammys in the world but let's be honest, no name better is a better indicator of mom jeans and a Dodge Grand Caravan than Tammy.  A Tammy would show up to a PTA meeting toting her famous lemon squares while wearing a denim vest she embroidered with flowers.)


Ron Swanson is the anti-hipster.  Everything he does is the opposite of what a hipster would do.  He fishes, whittles, and consumes copious amounts of pork products.  He even hired a hipster because he knew she would be horrible at her job, which was exactly what he was looking for.


From now on, this blog will refer to Ron Swanson as the Godfather.  No other name is more appropriate or fitting.  With every post I write, I will ask myself if it would please the Godfather.  For now, I am going to put a fresh coat of lacquer on my antique chifforobe and curse the man for his capital gains tax.

Hipster Hunting: Habitat

An encounter with a hipster is akin to getting crabs.  You are out looking for a good time and its ruined by an unwelcome guest.  Sure you can rid both with the threat of shampoo but the psychological scars remain.  More than likely you will have one of these 'accidents' if you go to the hipster's natural habitat.  In New York that would be Brooklyn. Washington, D.C. has Columbia Heights and Chicago's infestation is rampant in Bucktown.  Starting a database of the hipster sections of major cities across the world will hopefully be my legacy.  It's important to know where the species live so you can avoid that area; or if you wanted to be proactive, slip in some non-organic alfalfa sprouts into their wrap when they roll their eyes at you.  (Fun fact: since hipsters' eyes are constantly rolling and shooting apathetic laser beams, and not being used for their intended purpose, 75% are legally blind.)


When you are in one of the aforementioned disaster zones, look for anything that is not an actual place of residence.  Hipsters can't live in modern dwelling units.  That is way too mainstream.  Instead, they opt for converting an existing building into a place to live.  Warehouse, doll factory, polio clinic and slaughterhouse are all viable options.  "Yeah my bedroom is the kill floor and I do my painting in the industrial freezer."  Why is living in a normal apartment so difficult for these people?


The only place a hipster would live in that was built as an intended place of residence is a loft.  Although said loft would have to be in a very specific part of town, such as the furniture district.  It could also be located above something like an abandoned pen factory or used book store.  When they travel, hipsters will either crash on a sofa or hit up a hostel.  The United States has roughly 3 hostels and each one is crawling with hipsters.  $30 a night and sharing a sink with an Apple Store employee sounds awful.


If you do find yourself in the known habitat and think you've found one, don't ask if they are a hipster.  A) It's pointless because by definition hipsters don't think they are one.  If for some reason they did, they would never talk about it.  It's pretty much a way douche-ier version of Fight Club.  B) I would never wish the deep sigh and lethargic look you will surely receive on anyone.  Instead, just simply pull out your phone, put the black and white option on and take a picture.  It's best if the subject is halfway out of the shot and staring longingly an wrought iron fence.  Put that baby up on your tumblr and give it this caption: douche.