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.

Sounds Like a Hipster: Grocery Store

Editor’s Note:  Today I will be introducing the first of several recurring segments.  The first one is probably going to be the most common.  I will relate a story that happened to me with the idea in mind that people really need to hear it.  I'm sure you see where I am going with this.  I'm going to sound like a hipster.  Only this time, the subject matter and perspective from which it is written will be from somebody that considers himself part of society.

There are some times in life when I just feel like a man.  When I look down and examine what I am doing at that moment, I feel like I’ve earned the pair of nuts that swing betwixt my legs.*  This doesn’t happen often mind you, but it happened yesterday and it just felt right.  It always feels good when I have one of my ‘man moments’ but this one felt better than usual.  Bill Gates is well aware of the fact he is rich but when he hears he is worth more than the GDP of the Dominican Republic, he probably goes, “Wow, I’m rich.”  This is one of those moments.
*Some nuts dangle and some nuts swing.  Mine are of the swinging genus.


The weather the past few days has been in the 80s and sunny.  So it was the first really nice day of the year.  With the nice weather comes my favorite part of summer: grilling.  With that in mind, I went over to my local Jewel-Osco (your standard Midwest supermarket) to get some hamburger buns for the dozen sirloin burgers I recently acquired.


Sidebar: Why do grocery stores have such weird names?  If you didn't know Jewel-Osco was a grocery store chain you would have no idea what it was when you heard the name.  Whatever you told me Jewel-Osco was I would believe it.  Grocery store?  Sounds good.  Dry cleaners?  That works.  Poor sap who has this name because his mom is a crazy feminist?  Sure enough.  If you think someone named Braden Jewel-Osco isn't going to get the shit kicked out of him at school, you're crazy.  You would think grocery stores, and really everything, should give the consumer an idea about what that business provides.  Safeway, Giant, Albertson's, Publix, Meijer, Dominick's  - all grocery store chains but you'd never know it by just the name.  But when these places start getting named Valu-Foods or Grub and Stuff no one wants to shop there.  Call me old-fashioned but I'll get my oil changed at Jiffy Lube and my groceries from Meijer. This is the first instance where having a somewhat misleading name is a good thing.  It's also reason #48 why I don't shop at Whole Foods.

Although I only needed the buns, I thought I would pick up a few things so I wouldn't have to come back a few days later.  By the way, I shop the way you should. I start at one end of the store and weave up and down the aisles towards the other end of the store.  If you don't shop this way, you won't get this next part.  When I grocery shop, you have several encounters with people in the same cycle as you.  You walk past each other in one aisle, then you go onto the next and walk past each other again and so on. (By the way, this is a great way to check out the ladies. Unfortunately, not a lot of females I would call 'lookers' spend a lot of time in the Pop-Tarts and Bagel Bites section.  This is another reason why I can't pick up chicks at the grocery store: I'm not smooth enough, and they aren't drunk enough, to overcome my 3 boxes of Fruity Pebbles and quiver of burritos.)


I had gotten into a cycle with two middle-aged Italian gentlemen that appeared to be brothers.  Every time I passed them in an aisle, they were arguing over something and waving their hands like any good depiction of older Italian males you see in the media.  When we got to the bread aisle, I was looking for normal hamburger buns.  Just whatever was on sale so I didn't need to eat my burgers on bread.  I picked out my Jewel brand buns and felt a hand knock them out of my grip.  This is roughly the exchange I had with the gentleman I will call Giuseppe.  Feel free to give my shopping buddy a thick Mario-like accent because, well, he had one.


G: You grilling burgers?  You don't want a-those.  The bread is important.  These won't do.
Me:  Yeah, I was just looking for something on sale so I didn't have to use bread...
G:  No, no.  Take these.  Just like my mother used to make.


He handed me a bag of 8 artisan kaiser rolls that were roughly 2.4 times as expensive as my basic buns.  I thanked him and put the rolls in my cart and went about my business.  I didn't really want the better kaiser rolls but that wasn't the point.  This gentleman obviously was passionate about grilling and food and he wanted to pass it on.  We passed each other a few more times with each passing he told me how much I was going to like the rolls.  When I got over to the meat department, I obviously didn't need anything but I wanted to at least look like I was looking.  I do this every time I'm in a grocery store.  Looking at piles of red meat packaged with saran wrap and Styrofoam just puts hair on my chest.  Not long after I arrived so did Mario and Luigi.  And of course I was looking at the wrong meat.  They told me how ground beef wouldn't do and picked out some nice brisket for me.  (I'm sure a nice brisket sammich on one of those kaiser rolls in the hands of the right person would be amazing.  But I'm not that person.  I didn't have the heart to tell them I would be grilling on a frying pan fueled by a gas stove, in a studio apartment a few blocks from Chicago's gay district.)  


But I couldn't not accept the brisket; these guys were awesome.  I felt like they saw the potential in me and didn't want to see it go to waste.  Still wanting to converse with them, I asked how one cooks brisket.  So I got a detailed story about how he gets up early in the morning and starts the slow cooking process and doesn't eat until late that night or sometimes the next day.  So I said I would try that, put the brisket in my cart and went to check out.  I did a few laps and circled back to the meat department and dropped the brisket off.  I was never going to get it but I couldn't let these guys know that.  A) I already had some respectable sirloin burgers waiting at home and B) I don't know a lot of single guys living alone that cook meat for 12 hours. Now if we're talking about beating my meat for 12 hours a day, well then, I might be singing a different tune.  You will soon find my ability to shoehorn a masturbation joke into any topic is matched by few.  I paid for my groceries and started walking home when suddenly a huge smile lit up my face. It was one of those smiles that couldn't be suppressed if I wanted to.  The kind that get new recruits in trouble with the drill sergeant at basic training.


Sgt. Hulka:  Whatchu smiling at boy?
Me:  Nothing sir!
Sgt. Hulka: Boy wipe that smile off your face before I stick my boot up your ass!


If this were the case, my colon would have looked like the interior of a Porsche Cayenne.  Why was I so happy?  Grilling is one of the manliest things you can do.  It goes back to the reptilian, cave-man part of our brains where our instinct is to kill something, and roast it on a spit over a fire.  I think I will have finally paid off the mortgage on my nuts when I have my first cookout at my home in the suburbs.  The closing papers will be signed when I'm talking with a fellow manager buddy of mine, beer in hand, commenting about the Lions' weak secondary, and staring at the flames slowly cooking my man-meat. 

Hipsters Keep Out

This is the first post in what will hopefully be many.  As you might be aware, this blog is dedicated to the ridicule of hipsters.  Why hipsters?  Well quite frankly they deserve it.   This video will show why for those of you not already on board.

I told you.  Hipsters are truly awful people. 


The goal of this blog is to be the mouthpiece for sensible, moderate and mainstream America.  A variety of societal and pop culture topics will be covered.  If something needs to be addressed it will be.  Consider this the first week of school and you just received your syllabus.  Tomorrow the fun starts.