My Latest Girl Drama

For most of my life, I had a lot of female friends. I get along well with women who don’t expect anything from me but an ear and a sense of humor.

After I finished college, I came home and fell in with a crew of friends that's strictly male. I really didn’t think anything of it until recently, when I realized that the last few years of my life have been the most drama-free of my existence.

I don’t want you to misunderstand me, and think that I’m really bashing women here: I love women! But if you think that women don’t just inherently have more drama than men, you’re psychotic. If you’re going to hang out or be involved with women in any capacity, you just have to learn that drama is part of their charm.

I don’t mean to imply that guys don’t have drama. But guy drama is so different from girl drama. Girl drama is a hysterical phone call 3 in the morning saying, “I’m only attracted to assholes, yet I’m somehow surprised when all they do is treat me badly. I need to eat chicken nuggets and cry!” Guy drama is when your friend gets drunk and breaks his hand in a mock-boxing match on the frontlawn.

Unfortunately, because I choose to date women, I’ve been sucked back into the confusing, irrational, mind-fuck world of Girl Drama. That’s what I’ve been dealing with the last two days…and a good reason why the last two posts are late.

Amy is a girl who I’ve known since she was 16. And by “known” I mean “loved.” The first time I ever saw her, she came walking into a meeting, two hours late, wearing a blue-green tie-dye dress. She had long blond hair, brushed back. And she smelled like summer rain and wild-flowers.

The problem is, no matter how bitter and dramatic I get, I always end up back right where I am in this story: powerless, defenseless, and utterly head-over heals stupid for a girl.

We had a complicated relationship, the two of us. She’s very much into being independent, non-conventional, and generally unpredictable. She also hates talking about her feelings—I know, I know. She really is the perfect women.

We had a weird relationship—first friends, then strictly sex-friends, then sort of dating, then not, then we’re broken up (even though we never officially dated) then we’re back together…it was next to impossible to keep track of.

We’d see each other one night and she’d tell me she had a fantastic time. Then I wouldn’t hear from her for 3 weeks. So I’d go down to see her and we’d have amazing sex, after which she’d curl up in my arms and tell me how much she missed me. Then I’d get pissed because she wouldn’t call me for another two weeks and we’d break-up and she usually sounded like she was bored through the whole conversation.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident, you know that the worst second of it, isn’t really the moment of impact—it’s the second when you know, clearly, that you’re going to crash and there’s not a solitary thing you can do to stop it. That’s what my whole relationship with Amy was. It was me being totally, absolutely ready to do anything for this girl and knowing the whole time that I was doomed from the beginning. I had to try…It would kill me to think about her 20 years down the road and think I hadn’t done everything in my power to make it work, but at the same time I knew that she really didn’t care. That’s the heart of the whole thing.

Never accept excuses for important shit. I learned that the hard way. “It’s a bad time for me.” “I need to get my head together.” “I’m not ready for that step.” Bullshit, all of it. People aren’t afraid of commitment—they’re afraid of commitments to people they don’t love. When something or someone is important to you, you don’t let anything stand between you. That’s just how it is.

When we finally ended things, months ago, it was mostly because she didn’t think I was fun anymore. Which I understand. I was knocking myself out to try to win her over to such an extant that I wasn’t even me anymore. I was some weird mutation of what I thought she wanted and my own imagination and insecurities. It was also due to me knowing that I had to move on with my life: either she was going to be my life and be with me, or I had to start the healing process and find someone new.

It’s hard to get too upset about an ending you saw coming years ago.

I was fine. I was really fine. I was super fine…until…BAM, Girl Drama. Out of no-where I get an Instant Message from little miss long-lost-love –of-my-life:

“Hey, will you come to New Year’s with me and my family?”

You have to understand that when we were together she spoke to me of her own volition probably all of twice. But I had to make all the plans, I had to call her, I had to provide all the effort. And suddenly, she’s back, after all this time extending the kind of gesture that I had wanted from her for so fucking long I could taste it.

What was I supposed to think? I really had no idea what was being offered. Was she just trying to be friends? Was this a statement that she wanted me in her life? I had no idea.

And then typical Ehren-Amy relationship: I tell her that I have to talk to her. Could she meet me that night at midnight? “Sure” she said.

And so, like clockwork, I found myself in her drive way at 12:25 with no one to talk to but that sickly ball of rejection in the pit of my stomach. She called me an hour later and said that she’d gotten caught up in a Star Wars marathon. Well, at least it was something important. Now she was tired, though, and had to go to bed.

You know, after that, I really didn’t need to talk to her anyway. Her actions said everything I needed to hear.

And that, my friends, is fucking girl drama at its absolute purest: it sucks you in, just enough to give you hope, and then casts you down again into pits of despair. It involves you doing things that you KNOW are stupid, yet you’re always crushed when you fail. And then you get up and do them again and again and again.

So tonight, I plan to eat a pint of ice-cream and then call up my female friends and harass them with drama and self-loathing. Not really because I feel that way. Just so they can finally get a taste of their own medicine.

Body Hair

Puberty was a rough time for me. I guess it’s a rough time for everyone, though. I like to think of Junior High and High School as boot camp. It’s a miserable, sweaty, forced labor period of a person’s existence, where you feel that everyone’s going out of their way to make your life a living hell.

One of the weirdest parts about being a guy is the hair situation. I remember one day when I was 13, I was at the beach and I happened to look at my feet. “Holy shit! Why am I growing hair on my toes???”

Guy hair is strange because it just suddenly explodes over parts of your body that, as an adolescent, you’re already insecure about. It’s like insecurity highlighter. It never really stops, either. Just when you think you have handle on the hair situation, you find that the enemy has expanded its terrain. I’m convinced that by the time I die, I’ll be a dead-ringer for Cousin It.

Originally, I thought it’d be creepy to start shaving my body hair. I mean, guys are expected to have hair. Most of the girls I’ve polled on the subject agree that perfectly shaved is kind of scary. However, it reached the point where I decided that it’d just be too creepy not to. When you’re wondering whether you should dred or braid your pubic hair, you’ve officially reached the limit. Do yourself a favor and buy one of those hair trimmers.

The problem with shaving is that once you’ve tidied one area up and you’re standing in front of the mirror with a running clipper, the temptation to move on to other regions becomes entirely too strong. Listen to me, men: once the hair clippers travel north of the navel, you've officially crossed from self-improvement onto a slippery-slope of self-mutilation. Trust me, you’ve got better things to do then trying to get your armpit hair perfectly symmetrical again. And if you don’t…take up a hobby, for Christ’s sake.

I once dated a girl who asked if she could shave me. I told her, “Look, I don’t even trust you not to steal my wallet when I’m asleep. What makes you think I’m going to trust you with my cock?” in retrospect, I may have over-reacted a little. Here’s a free tip about women—um…don’t ever say that line to them. Because one way or another, whether you’re conscious or un, they’re going to shave something…and probably not just your balls. I just told everyone that eyebrows were over-rated, anyway.

I sometimes hear girls complain about men’s reluctance to give head. Girls, if a guy hates giving head, shaving probably isn’t going to make the difference. If he’s on the fence, though, you’re chances are a lot better if he’s not secretly wondering if your most feminine of regions shares a stylist with Don King. I’m not saying you have to scorch the earth bare…but at least trim the hedges. Nothing kills the mood quite like flossing pubic hair out of your back teeth, mid-kiss.

Fun In Moving Vehicles

I believe that there is a direct correlation between the decline of Drive-In Movies and the dearth of good sex. Think about it.

The drive-in movie has to make a comeback. I located one in Cap-Cod a few years back and it was all I dreamed it could be. It was phenomenal. And not just because of the cramped car sex. Ok, it was partly because of the cramped car sex.

We brought a cooler full of beer and a bottle of wine. If I were really enterprising, I would have brought a grill and tail-gated. I had my subwoofers blaring, so the sound was good, and it wasn’t technically “in public” so there were no needs for the symbols of our oppressive, puritan society. This is to say, I had my pants on for all of 15 minutes.

Car sex is this whole weird variation of sex. Suddenly, things you’d never considered before become vitally important. Things like, “Will my seat belt really hold my full weight?” “How far back does my seat go?” and “Is my dome light stain-resistant?”

Road head takes balls. It’s a certain kind of woman who risks discovery, the gag-reflex and both your lives for the sake of fore-play. My favorite Road Head story happened to some friends of mine. They were driving down Route 90, between Buffalo and Cleveland, when the girl decides to go down on her boyfriend, who’s behind the wheel. They were in an SUV, so they were high enough up off that she figured no one would be able to see inside. Turns out she had forgotten about tractor-trailers. If you think it’s hard to concentrate on driving while receiving oral sex, you should try concentrating on driving when a truck horn gives you blaring salute, mid-orgasm.

Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to give road head to a woman. It requires cruise-control, two legs on the dashboard, and a total disregard for the safety of everyone else on the road. ‘Nuff said.

I remember hearing that oral sex is outlawed in a number of states. What I really want to know is whether they have a breathalyzer for that. The fine would probably suck (no pun intended), but that’d be a charge that might be fun to have on your permanent record.

“Hey baby, I’m a convicted head-hunter.”

Mmm...Sexahol

I like to tell women that I’m not immature; I’m just stuck in that awkward phase men go through from age 12 to 85.

Men get a bad rap a lot of times for being shallow and obsessed with sex. I don’t think that women really get it. Even girls that really love sex don’t understand. Sex isn’t just something that men like to do; it’s this urge that everything in our body pushes us towards.

My basic train of thought at any given time on any given day is typically like this:

“Gotta get those reports done. That girl on the stairs had a fantastic ass. Now was I supposed to check those against the numbers for the day or for the week? What the hell happened to all the good blowjob givers? I think girls are getting lazier. I should check my notes from the week so I can type up a summery. Remember that time that you moved that girl’s bed across the room because you were plowing her so hard?”

It sucks! Being a man is like being a crack addict. I'm ten minutes away from making a sign that says, "Will Give Head For Sex" and standing on a street corner. Sometimes I think of all the extra shit I could get done if I weren’t totally obsessed with it. Then I wonder what my odds are of meeting a pair of double-jointed Japanese twins.

I remember being so much more relaxed as a child. Maybe it’s because my brain wasn’t constantly screaming, “THIS IS TIME THAT COULD BE SPENT FUCKING!!!” As soon as they make a patch substitute for sex, I’m there.

My friend Rashad has a theory that everything a man does is basically motivated by ass. We shave so that we can get girls. We buy fancy cars to get girls. We go to college to get good jobs to make money to get girls. (Of course, college in and of itself is usually enough to get sex).

I sat with him for about 40 minutes and tried to poke holes in this theory. It took me two days to think of a single thing that guys do or buy that was not somehow linked to getting ass: sound systems.

I rushed next door and told Rashad about my idea. He pondered for a moment and then said, “I don’t know. You ever had sex in front of a matched set of 12” subwoofers?” Touche, my friend.

Women, I hope you’re taking notes here. A man’s world can be boiled down to three goals: sex, sports and occasionally subs. That’s it.

It’s an illness. When there’s a real possibility of sex, men can be convinced of just about anything. Here are some lines that some how seemed plausible to me at one time:

• “Your friend and I have been broken up for almost 2 days. He won’t mind if we sleep together.”
• "My boyfriend never comes home early."
• “When you put the seat down, the car is just as spacious as a four-door.”
• “My room-mate’s asleep. She’ll never hear a thing.”
• “It’s not difficult to drive while getting a blowjob.”
• “Don’t worry. No one can see us behind these trees.
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks the Janitor’s closet.”
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks in my suite-room.”
• “My shower has a non-slip floor.”

So girls, the next time you see a man staring at your chest while you’re talking, or catch him checking out your sister’s ass, or finding mid-thrust in your neighbor, just remember: We’re addicts. We don’t know any better.

The Merciless Regime of The Flower Children

Here's the lovely, wonderful, amazingly hypocritical thing about the 60s generation: it was a crock. Everyone loves to talk about how rebellious that generation was, how open-minded, and high-moraled. They rallied behind such noble causes as equal rights, world peace, voting rights, yet once you get by all that, the fact is that these people weren't trying to transfer power from the high to the low; they were trying to transfer power to themselves.

I make this statement because that generation is now the one in power. The rebels have become the empire, and they are just as grudging relinquishing their influence as any generation before them has been. But worse than that, they didn't even hold on to their ideals at all. They still say they were opposed to Vietnam, but how many now support war on Iraq? They say that they are for equal rights, yet they support, hell, encourage the purchase of goods made in sweat-shops.

The generation that was in charge during the 60s garners more respect from me. They may have been horribly prejudiced and conservative, BUT THEY MADE NO EXCUSES ABOUT WHAT THEY WERE. They came from a background that was just that and made no pretense. They didn't grow up calling the system evil then say, "ooops! Now that we're reaping the benefits, the system is just hunky-dory."

The Hippies and Flower children didn't want an establishment that excluded them. Now that they have the power, they don't want one that diminishes their own, bloated needs. They have no problem selling the new generation out with issues such as Social Security. What makes them despicable in my mind is not that reluctance to dilute their influence, but their continued insistence that they "changed the system," that they remain rebellious, that they remain liberal.

Their power came from the fact that they were a generation united: perhaps they all had different causes to fight for, but the single characteristic of the age was rebelliousness. Our generation has no united cause. To quote Chuck Palahniuk, (author of some wonderful books like Invisible Monsters, Choke, and Fight Club):

"We're the middle children of history, no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives."

To put it simply, we have no united cause. We're a generation of Nintendo addicted, Ritalin abusing, crack babies and abortion rejections. Any situation that pits us against our elders will result in our whole sale massacre. The 60s had the focused, "grab the power," "change the world" messages of Bob Dylan and The Beatles. Ours the ineffectual, adolescent, misdirected rage of Limp Bizkit and Eminem. They are united, we are not.

It depresses me that my generation is inferior to bunch of hypocrites. Make no mistake: we need them more than they need us. Our economy is so fucked that few of us will ever be able to afford our own houses and support our families. The few of us who do will be sent running back to our parents' basements when the inflation, caused by the government's inevitable monetizing of our national debt, reduces our savings to nil.

We've been hopeless screwed by these hemp-smoking hypocrites. If I have to read one more account of what wonderful rebellious people they were, I'm going to go on a yuppie killing spree. My generation sucks, but the saving grace of apathy is that it's impossible to whore out.

What Would Jesus Drink?

Christmas is a great time for us Jews. All the carpenter worshippers are staying home, stuffing themselves with food and swapping presents. Some Christians think that the Jews are jealous of the pageantry, decadence, and full-on hedonism of Christmas. They couldn’t be further from the truth: We’re just happy to get you people off the streets.

It’s a day when Jews can once again roam the earth, without fear of racists, rednecks, or republicans. That’s the real magic of Christmas.

I hear that Christmas is a big drinking holiday. I think that if you’re using the Virgin Birth as an excuse to drink, you may have a problem. But hey, what ever gets you through a day with your family. If you are drinking, on this, the holiest of day of the Christian faith, you should take a moment to reflect: What Would Jesus Drink?

Everyone always serves egg nog. What’s the deal with egg nog anyway? Why do we need the word “egg” in the name? I’ve been on this earth for 26 years now and never once encountered any other kind of nog besides egg. Then again, maybe somewhere there’s a whole family gathered around a piano, singing carols and sipping nice big mugs of Beef Nog.

It doesn’t seem like Jesus would be much of a nog drinker. It’s definitely a little too festive for him. Let’s see...born to carpenter who had to put his pregnant wife up in a stable: sounds like a 40 of Olde English to me! Yeah, I can see it now: Jesus and the apostles hunched down with a bunch of lepers behind a seven-11, sipping OE out of paper bags. I guess every Easter the Apostles would get together behind a convenience store and spill some out on the ground. “Here’s one for me, and one for my hommies…”

I recall that Jesus hung out with a lot of destitute peeps, so maybe a box of wine. Of course, he was Jewish, so maybe it should be Manishevitz.

Then again, Jesus probably wouldn’t be much of a wino—I mean, if the dude could make it from water anytime he wanted, it’s probably the last beverage he’d want to party on. Maybe mixed drinks? There’d be something poetic about Christ walking into a bar and ordering a Bloody Mary.

I bet Jesus could walk into any tavern and someone would say, “That’s the son of God! Somebody get this man a margarita!” Then they’d slide up next to him and make him do some of his magic tricks.

The more I think about it, the more I think that Christ probably doesn’t care what you drink. According to the Catholic Church, he had sacramental wine running through his veins. “Who are you to tell me I’ve had enough, Jesus? You’re blood-alcohol level is 12.8 percent! Next to you, I’m the fucking pope! Now give me your keys. Remember last time when you said you could drive on water? Come on, man, give me your keys.”

Folks, if you’re depressed this time of year, letting the man get you down, hanging out in gangs, bemoaning your absentee father, and falling over drunk, just remember: you’re only following Christ’s example.

Happy holidays! Drink up, bitches!

Delayed Gratification

And now a quick word about anal sex.

Considering how generally homophobic large groups of men are, it’s always seemed weird to me that they tend to go on and on about how much they enjoy anal sex with women.

I’ve never tried it. I’m not morally opposed to it…I just never really had a desire to try it. I always sort of figured that if you’re running out of holes then you’re not really using your imagination.

The guys I’ve spoken to about it all seem to agree that it’s a power thing. It’s supposed to be the ultimate form of possession—an act of exerting power. I say that if you’re looking for power, try taking up martial arts…or do it the American way and buy a gun.

Some day, maybe I’ll be motivated to try it. Until then, I’ll just content myself with hetero-sex.



Sex about to be had is infinitely better than sex already experienced. It’s because you always end up imagining some sort of sexual perfection. It’s the best part of a new hook-up or relationship: the discovery and the anticipation. For the same reasons, young love isn’t really sweeter—it’s just newer.

I guess it’s a delayed gratification thing. For some reason, I get a twisted amusement out of making out with a girl on a first date, getting her and myself all hot and bothered—and then driving home. In my experience it does three things: first it establishes that you have self-control and self-discipline. Second, it states that if she wants you, she’s going to have to bust her ass. Lastly, she’s going to be that much more wound-up and waiting for it the next time you go over.

It’s pretty evil, I admit. But it really goes back to my earlier posts that state that respect and attraction are not always the same thing. Obviously, you don’t want to over-do it. If you keep neglecting a girl, she’ll walk. But if you mess with her just a little, go out of your way to seem a little unobtainable or mysterious, she’ll usually respect you for it. At least, that’s always been my experience.

To a lesser extent, the same theory applies in bed—delayed gratification is better than instant gratification. Nothing, NOTHING sends a woman into a frenzy quite like taking her to the brink and then stopping at the last moment. Then you do it again and again. It’s a trade-off of quantity for quality. When she finally orgasms, you’ll be lucky if your back has any skin left on it.

One of my favorite moments was back at college. My girlfriend of the time and I had finished an afternoon quickie, and I threw on a T-shirt and went down the hall to the bathroom. I was throwing water on my face and gargling, when the guy brushing his teeth next me gives me a double take and says, “Dude, are you ok? You’re bleeding.”

I take a glance at my t-shirt and I’ve got red stains spreading down my back and sides. I guess I my mind had been otherwise occupied.

Delayed gratification had cost me a T-shirt. But that’s a trade-off I’m always happy to make.

Girls, Sports, and the Return of Black Jesus!

I was visiting a friend and her family in upstate New York a few weeks ago. I sat at a table with her, her mom, her grandma, and her father sipping coffee. I listened to the girls rattle on about decorating the front room and who was dating who for about 40 minutes. Finally, I turned to the dad, who was sitting right next to me and asked about his new GTO.

I swear it was like a bomb threat had been called in. My friend got up and loudly declared how she had to get going, while the mom and grandma decided they needed to get a start on wrapping the Christmas presents. I got dirty looks from the friend for the next 10 minutes as I drove her home.

Basically, we guys were expected to listen to a twenty minute list about why Brad, the guy around the corner, was bad for Julie, who went to middle school with a friend's sister, but the second I tried for a side chat with the father about somthing we found interesting, forget it. How dare we disrespect the conversation like that!

See, situations like this absolutely crack me up. This is why I start to laugh every time girls ask me, “What’s the deal with guys and sports, anyway?” As if girls aren’t perfectly content to ramble on and on about the latest episode of “One Tree Hill.”

I’d like to make something clear: I’m not looking for a girl who can recite the starting lineup for the 1961 New York Yankees. I don’t even need a girl who fakes an interest, because she’s out of her mind if she thinks that I’m going to sit through anything on the WB.

All I ask is that she understands that a few nights a year are off limits. I don’t care if there’s a fire, flood, or rise of the living dead—I’m watching every single Yankee Playoff game.

I’m not sure if girls get concerned over their men and sports because

1. They feel threatened by the obsessive level of interest when most guys can’t even remember their anniversary or
2. They begin to get serious doubts about the maturity levels of a man who has his own touchdown celebrations.

Deep down, every guy thinks that under the right conditions he could have been a professional athlete. It’s ridiculous, I know. But ladies, before you laugh, think about the stuff that you’re watching. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not on Dawson Creek and your chances of looking or living like any of those characters are about as good as me starting at short stop for the New York Yankees.

It’s nice to have a girl who’s a little bit of a sports fan. One of the sexiest things a woman can say is, “how about we cuddle and watch the Mets get their asses handed to them?” (Of course, the sexiest thing a woman can say is the same line, with a certain Boston team inserted instead of the Mets). But honestly, it’s not a huge deal for me.


__________________________________________________



On another topic, my post from yesterday got me thinking. I’d like to get an artist and write a comic book. Anyone interested, should send me a message. It would be: “The Adventures of Black Jesus, Featuring the God Squad.” I imagine the entire thing would be a blaxploitation story. I’ve already got a few lines in mind such as:

• Black Jesus doesn’t go out like no punk bitch, Judas!
• My will be done, cracka!
• My Dad told me about you. He said He’ll be seeing you real soon, sucka!

I picture him dressed in a black leather robe busting the skulls of Romans and sinners.

“I hear that cat Black Jesus is a bad mutha--”
“Shut your mouth!”
“But talkin’ ‘bout Black Jesus”
“Then we can dig it!”

Mmmmmm…sacrilicious…

Happy Kwanzaa, Bitches!

I’ve officially reached my gift limit. That’s it. I’m done. I thought I’d finished my shopping on Friday but I keep getting over-run by cards and gifts from friends and family who weren't on my list. And everytime I get an unexpected gift, I have to go to the mall to buy a present for them in return. And each time I have to go to the mall, I die a little inside. Damn my charming personality! My New Year’s resolution is to make fewer friends so they’ll stop guilting me into buying them presents every year.

I’ve had it. I’m not buying anything else until X-mas 2006, so if you’re sending me a gift, you’re shit out of luck. All I’m giving out from now until next year are drop-kicks to the torso…and I’ve got plenty to go around.

I’m not doing the Christmas card thing, either. I can never find ones that properly convey my feelings for this time of year. So I made my own card that really sums up the Holiday spirit. Enjoy:

I’m Dreaming Of A Black Kwanzaa

This year, we must continue our fight against the man in honor of one of the greatest superheroes of all time: Black Jesus. The white man has tried to steal black Jesus from us and tell us he was weak, white, punk. We must keep the truth alive, brothers and sisters.

Conservative, republican white devils look at Jesus and pay lip service to his religion. They claim to be all for his teachings of uplifting the downtrodden, healing the sick, and giving away your wealth, then violate our civil rights with the Patriot Act, cut medicare and welfare budgets, all in the name of giving tax cuts to the rich. Fuck white Jesus!

It’s at this darkest of times that we must bring the fight to the doorsteps of our enemies and keep the name of Black Jesus alive and true. In his name, I urge all my brothers and sisters out there to take back Black Jesus! I have taken the first step by re-coloring a crucifix in my local church. And while the clergy and the Police say I’m being held on charges “Vandalism” and “Breaking and Entering,” I know that all I have vandalized is their evil, self-serving ideals. All I have broken is their tenuous hold over our spiritual insignias. All I have entered is a higher plain of enlightenment.

So I end this holiday message with prayer that we all free ourselves from the tryanical rein of white men and their fairytale savior. All praise black Jesus!

As sala'amu alaikum my family and a happy fucking Kwanzaa, bitches!

-Ehren

Sex Reference Questionaire

I really think my idea for dating resumes could catch on. I was speaking to a girl and the topic of sex came up. I said, “I have references!”

The conversation progressed from there until she asked how she would contact them. I guess I imagine that girls chat about this type of thing all the time. It shouldn’t be a big deal to call someone up and say, “Hey, I was thinking about sleeping with Ehren. Can you share some of his high points and low points?”

One of my jobs a few years ago was calling references that applicants had placed on their resumes. Basically, they gave me a questionnaire to read. In order to help my brilliant idea for dating resumes catch on, I proudly present the “Sex Reference Form”:

• How would you describe the individual's sex drive? (rating 1-10)
• How would you describe the applicant’s foreplay skills?
• Does the individual perform well orally?
• How do you rate the individual’s responsiveness?
• Was the applicant open to criticism, suggestions, and new ideas?
• Does the individual have any quirks, preferences or needs that might be considered “out of the norm”? If so, please describe.
• How would you describe the applicant’s physical equipment?
• Please rate the individual’s stamina. (rating 1-10)
• Please rate the individual’s recovery time. (rating 1-10)
• How many times, on average, did the applicant succeeded in bring you to climax per session?
• If you had to pick one area in which the individual could improve, what would it be?
• What is the applicant’s strongest attribute?
• How would you rate the individual’s overall bedroom abilities?
• Is there anything else that you’d like to say?

You know what? Screw the sex reference; this is the type of thing you should have to fill out after every hookup! This is the type of shit that people need to know.

I can just imagine it now: we’re both all sweaty, lying in bed, gasping for breath. She reaches out to ruffle my hair affectionately, when I whip out a clipboard and a pen and start on the questions. What can I say? I’m a sucker for romance.

The problem is that people tend to get way too uptight and defensive about sex. Like there was one girl I dated who gave the WORST head ever. There was jamming into the back of the throat, teeth were involved, and I have the sneaking suspicion she was gargling with concentrated bleach. The problem was, she was sure that she was a great at it. I’m betting that somewhere, some guy was too scared to tell her the truth and she just assumed herself a great cocksucker from then on. Much in the way that no one will ever tell a couple that their baby is ugly, people have a hard time saying when you’re bad in bed.

I remember a girl who was crushing for me in the worst way. She was pretty good looking, too. But she kept blowing herself up because we’d make out and she tried to stick her tongue down my throat. It was like a scene from “Alien.” After 10 seconds there was more of her spit in my mouth than my own. I'd tried to suggest that she back off a little…maybe not make it her goal to lick my kidneys, and she'd just look at me blankly. Eventually, when the suggestions didn't get through, I sat her down and explained that I’d like her to try some changes in her kissing technique. She got pissed.

Oh well. Folks, you heard it here first: flexibility (in every sense of the word) is the key to good sex. Play limber, people!

George Foreman Is God

About three years ago I was driving down the road, when I happened to glance out the window. House, lawn, rotisserie oven, trash can. OK.

I kept going for about 40 seconds before I yelled, “Rotisserie Oven???” I screeched a u-turn nearly killing a mom and a van-full of kids and roared back up the road. I drive a Honda Accord—not exactly a speedster, but I swear I went from zero to a buck-twenty in about 15 seconds.

I pulled the car over and there I saw the greatest love of my life. You have to imagine it: A run-down house, paint-pealing, screen door busted. A tattered lawn gracefully rolled up into a mound of trash. There cardboard boxes overflowing with baby toys and trash bags leaking their fluids into evil puddles on the withered grass. But there, off to one side, sat my baby. I could almost hear a choir of angels singing as a divine light dropped from the heavens to illuminate it, sparkling off its white exterior and highlighting those bold red letters: George Foreman’s Big Rotisserie Oven.

I ran track in high school. There have been times in my life when I had to haul ass. Let me tell you, I’ve never moved faster than I did cramming the oven into the trunk of my car. The whole event was a lot like losing my virginity: draining, life-altering and over in about 60 seconds.

When I finally got it home, I had a chance for closer inspection. The outside was dusty and dirty, but the inside had never been used. Everything was still in its wrapping with the instruction manual. I bleached the hell out of everything just to be sure. And thence began a golden age of cooking in my life. For about two months straight I cooked everything on the rotisserie oven: chicken, potatoes, hamburgers—I was about three days from making soup and coffee in that sucker. It finally got to the point where my friends had to have an intervention.

“Ehren, when we first became friends, you used to cook all kinds of things: rice, biscuits, pancakes, and eggs. Now you only slow roast savory courses in their own juices. I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

“You guys just don’t understand me like George Foreman does! I can quit any time I want!”

I guess what this whole story really underlines, is how into cooking appliances I am. Last night, one of my friends made the mistake of giving me the Webber Baby-Q propane grill. What he knows is that I’m going to be using it a lot this summer. What he doesn’t know is that I’m kicking off the grilling season tomorrow night, ankle deep in snow in 10 degree weather.

If you think I get way too excited over cooking apparatuses, you should have seen me when I got my vibrating seat massager.

I recently realized how attractive I find women who can cook. I dated a girl whose family had the most enormous kitchen you ever saw, complete with every possible amenity and gadget for food preparation. And they cooked nothing. They didn’t even know how to make eggs. I didn’t break up with her because of that…but I might have stuck around longer if I suspected that there’d be a roast beef or something in it for me.

There’s something attractive about a girl who cooks. Maybe it’s because, deep down every guy wants a bit of the traditional wife.

There’s a downside to the change in the perception of women since the 50’s. As unfair as the idea was that a women should just be a home-maker, it was an expectation that was easy to live up to. Now the standards are so much higher. Girls are expected to be bread-winners, home-makers, care-givers, partners, and bedroom-freaks.

Guys are looking for a mixture of 1954 and 2005. We want a smart, sophisticated, sexual-uninhibited woman, with her own life plans, who can still whip up a turkey, patch up our jeans and still shuttle the kids to soccer practice on time.

I guess if there’s a moral to this whole random post it’s this: buy a rotisserie oven.

Music and Attraction

Dating a musician is not like dating ordinary people. My dad really described it best:

“For most people, music is something going on in the background. But for musicians, it’s all there is.”

People get annoyed with me when I’ll interrupt them to point out a drum riff, or a guitar solo, or a great lyric. I don’t mean to be rude…I just feel like music is generally more important.

If you read this blog regularly, you’ll know that I think and talk about relationships and sex a lot. The only thing I think about more than sex is music.

Music is important. REALLY important. Other people can get by saying, “Oh, I like a little of everything.” Musician’s can’t. I have to know that you’re into good music. For example, I have a friend who dated a drummer. The drummer played death metal. My friend hates metal, but tried to fake an interest…or at least a tolerance. Unfortunately, this meant that she had to listen to metal every time they got in the car, he talked about it all the time and then there were the actual shows she had to attend. Try to imagine an Italian Princess from Long Island at a death Metal show. Needless to say, the whole thing was a disaster.

I’m a sucker for creative girls, but especially musicians. I’m such a groupie. I don’t really care whether they sing, play guitar, or play the electric xylophone, musicians really Roger my Hammerstein. Maybe it’s because I know that we’ve got that one special thing in common. Or maybe it's just because I can see their good with their mouths or hands. Either way, I’m not fighting it.

I’m not really sure what it is that attracts women to musicians. We’re unstable, unreliable, and probably substance-addicted. I’d say that it’s creativity, but I’ve seen really, really bad musicians get girls just because they played. So who the hell knows? I guess it’d be hypocritical to get too rough on them considering I’ve got the same weakness. Whatever the reason, thank God!

I was recently asked about my favorite sex songs. Music to have sex to is key. It’s got to have a groove, but it can’t rock too hard or it’ll kill the mood. You want it to be mellow, but not too mellow. If anyone’s looking for a good list, I humbly offer the following suggestions (some of the songs are a bit rare—you might have to do some digging to find them):

AC/DC – Ride On
Al Green - Here I Am Baby
Albert King – I’ll Play The Blues For You, Pt. 1
Allman Brothers – Stormy Monday (live from the Fillmore East)
B.B. King – Blues Man
Bill Frisell – Over The Rainbow
Black Crows – She Talks to Angels
Dave Brubeck – Take 5
Derek Trucks – D Minor Blues
Dire Straights – Sultans of Swing
Dusty Springfield – Spooky
Eric Clapton – Layla (acoustic)
Etta James – At Last
Lou Reed – Take a Walk on the Wild Side
Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World
Medeski, Martin and Wood – Bubblehouse
Nina Simone – Sinnerman
Otis Redding – Try a Little Tenderness
Stevie Ray Vaughan – Little Wing
Sublime – Santeria
Susan Tedeschi – Just Won’t Burn
Robert Rodreguez – El Mariachi
Tracy Chapman – Give Me One Reason
Van Morrison – Moon Dance


Obviously, this is a partial list. I left off the obvious ones like “Let’s Get It On” and “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” (Marvin Gaye and Barry White). The problem is that songs like that have become too much of a cliché. If anyone’s got other suggestions, post up, bitches!

Friends With Benefits

It’s time to discuss the “friends with benefits” thing in a little more detail. I’m aware that some girls will read my blog and think I’m a shallow scum-bag. My defense: hey, I’m a guy. There’s a big secret about women that females don’t want broadly publicized: girls like sex.

It’s shocking, I know. I’ll give you all a minute to let it soak in.

Men are so upfront with their sexual desires that maybe we don’t take the time pick up the signals that the fair sex sends off. They want ass, too—they just have more conditions: class, dignity and quality. We guys are never thinking that far ahead.

So negotiating a deal isn’t all that hard; after all, everyone wants the same thing. There are, however, a few key elements necessary to make things run a little smoother.

First, it helps if you actually enjoy the other person’s company, even if you’re not emotionally attached. It sounds simple, but if you can hang out with a person when there’s no sex involved, everything stays a lot cooler. Why? It goes back to my statement that women have conditions. The first one is that they want respect. Even if deep down, she knows that you’re only coming over for wild monkey sex, she needs the out of thinking that you respect her. Respect is a tough thing to fake, especially over long periods of time and especially after you’ve already fulfilled your needs for the exchange. Suck it up and have a conversation before you start plotting about grabbing your pants and making an exit.

The next key factor is quality. I’m pretty open about sex…it’s just the way I am. From my very diverse poll of women I’ve chatted with, it seems like there are a lot of men who just aren’t putting in the work. I don’t pretend to be the world’s greatest lover (though I harbor some suspicions), but guys, the needed elements to being an adequate lover are well within your grasp. Stop obsessing about you dick size and do three things:

1. stop focusing on yourself and make it all about her
2. actually put some effort into it
3. Talk about it after and see where there’s room for improvement

Didn’t mean to preach there, but with the stories I’ve been hearing, I start to wonder where the American work-ethic went to.

There are good reasons to practicing the above items, even with girls who are just “friends with benefits.” The most prominent is this: if you want to be asked back, you’d better make it worth her while. There’s no reason for her to want bad, emotion-free sex.

The last real element to making the arrangement work is honesty. Think about it: this is a relationship where there’s no huge emotional bond. You two should be able to put emotions on the back-burner and talk things through. If one of you gets a real significant other, you should be able to part company with no ill-will. Just be upfront with what you want and what you think. When there’re no raging emotions, things go a lot smoother.

Under what conditions do I suggest the relationship? That would be pretty much never. It’s weird, because you go to her house to feel good, but you leave there you feeling worse than you did in the first place. Even if the whole casual sex relationship went smoothly, it always made me more acutely aware of all the things that I wasn’t getting: like security, affection, and a real partner.

Here’s a secret about men: we want relationships, too.

I know some scummy guys…there’s a dude I know got hammered drunk and hooked up with a girl. It was her first time out of a long relationship, and they’re making out like kids. She decides to find out what she’s got to work with and decides to get him ready for the main event. So her head strays south and she starts doing her thing. Only problem is, this guy’s had about a bottle of whiskey and not everything is functioning to its peak ability. The poor girl is down there for 10 minutes: nothing. 20 minutes: nothing. Finally, 30 minutes in, he says, “Why don’t you just bite it?” Girl leaves in tears.

Let it never be said that I don’t know low-class guys. But each of them, believe it or not, is still really looking for that perfect girl to settle down with. I guess it’s strange that in a world where everyone wants the same thing, we have such a tough time getting it.

Relationship Withdrawal

Let’s face it—I’m a junkie. Why do I dedicate so much space and so many words to relationships and sex? It’s because I’m a relationship-whore.

From 1998-2003, I was nearly always in a relationship. It’s a terrible, horrible, life-destroying addiction. I’d get drunk, sleep with a girl I knew and then do something dumb like say, “Let’s be official” or “I don’t want to see other people” or “I respect you as a person.”

And then I would sober up and realize that there’s a reason I only ever thought to say this while drunk: it’s because while drinking I have the decision making skills of a neurologically impaired, crack-addicted chimp. Who am I kidding—it’s not like I’m much better while sober.

When the relationships finally ended, there were two distinctly different withdrawal symptoms. The first hit about two weeks after the break up and was purely physical. I didn’t care if I was getting the most inanimate, uptight, embarrassingly poor sex in the world; two weeks later I was ready to stab someone. I remember that there were a few girls who were so bad that I decided sleeping with them wasn’t even worth the car-ride over. It was like making love to a corpse that’d been violated by a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. None of that mattered. Two weeks after the supply lines had been cut, I thought I was going to die if I didn’t see naked breasts.

The next part is the emotional withdrawal. I’ve been in love three times. The worst part about those break-ups is not even the pain, but the feeling of “oh fuck, you mean I put all this work into this and now I’m back to square one?” Even when the relationship sucked, I at least had a sense that I knew what I wanted—I had something to work at and towards…and then it was gone. That’s what the emotional withdrawal is all about. You sit on your ass, sure that you’re never going to find love again, replay old relationships in your head, and start planning on a long life where your most meaningful relationship is with your cat.

I’m back to the depressing stage of relationship withdrawal. It’s so bad…I’m a total chick right now. I’m obsessing over meeting someone (which is the worst, because as soon as you start looking, you stop finding), and feeling generally unattractive and worthless. I swear to God, I’m about a pint of ice-cream and a bad hair-cut away from bitching about my thighs.

Deep down I know hope is not lost. I had a friend who recently told me that Hell would freeze over before I got married. I sort of take that as a compliment. Because as many heart-breaks, betrayals, and bad break-ups as I’ve had, I’m still not ready to settle. I’m not ready to just say, “I can’t deal with the self-degradation that the dating world requires. I’ll just marry the next thing that comes along so I can stop this living Hell.”

A co-worker commented to me recently that I had contradicted myself. I had said that I had no standards and was looking for a very particular person. Everyone listen up: I’ve got low standards for interviewing and the very highest for promotions. Meanwhile, I’m going through both emotional and physical withdrawals in the worst way. So here’s hoping a worth-while applicant comes along before I get drunk and tell some innocent girl I respect her.

Work-Related Drinking, Hallmark, and Happy F*cking Birthdays

Granted, I never took any business classes at college, but it seems like there’s so much of the business world that’s a total mystery to me. I’m currently working at my first real corporate job and I’ve been struggling with the proper etiquette for the daily situations.

Example: Work-related drinking. Apparently it’s bad form to show up for work drunk. Yet it’s good form to accept your bosses challenge to a Cognac drinking competition. Yet more proof that the most valuable things I learned at college were not taught in any classroom (well except for the time that some of us broke into the lab with a case of whiskey…)

This is the first year that I’ve had actual corporate co-workers, and I’m starting to get concerned about the birthday and Christmas situations. I don’t want people sending me cards! If they do, I have to get cards for them…I can’t even remember my parent’s anniversary! This is just another one of those times where I walk in and I’m the only one without a gift or card. It’s a vicious, horrible circle, where the only real winner is Hallmark. Damn you Hallmark!

It doesn’t help that I’m not a big birthday guy. My parents want to make big deals about them and I keep telling them I don’t care. First of all, I get hosed on presents. Any time, I get a gift it’s a “Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas.” Next, no one’s ever around and nothing’s ever open. Pssssshhhhtt…what’s Jesus ever done that’s so great? Besides all those magic tricks? I guess that’s the price I pay for being born on Christmas-Eve.

If my birthday does anything, it makes me wonder about how everyone views me. For example, last year I received the following gifts:

A Bottle of Johnny Walker Black
A Box of Cigars
A Flask
A Porno Magazine
A Mattress

Apparently, I’m an out-of-control, hard-drinking sexaholic, intent on killing himself by cancer of the mouth. I know people say that success comes from within, but if this how I’m viewed I can rest assured that I’m doing something right. Bah-Humbug, losers!

Break-Ups

One thing I don’t think women are unfair about is their need to talk about relationships and commitment. I don’t blame them because dating is such a weird, transient, drifting thing these days. For example, just because I went on three dates with a girl, doesn’t mean I’d consider us “dating.”

For me, relationships have clear rankings:

Seeing: an occasional date
Sleeping with: no emotional relationship is implied
Dating: regularly seeing each other—no exclusivity is implied
Girlfriend: dating regularly and exclusively

Of course, after girlfriend, comes fiancé and wife—I doubt that those titles need much explanation. My favorite definition of the word "Husband" came from a book called The Devil's Dictionary. "Husband: One who has tasted the cake and been forced to keep the platter."

Where things get weird, though, is the etiquette involving ended each of these relationships. I think up until 5 dates, either party has the right to simply stop returning phone calls. Things don’t always work out and that’s the way it goes. There’s no need to make a big deal over it. I always like to give one follow-up call if I don’t get a callback. After that, it’s time to cut your losses and move on. Ladies and Gents, if you call more than three times you’re obsessing and you’re border-line stalker.

At five dates, I think the other party at least deserves a phone-call break-up. At seven, you need a face-to-face sit down.

Here are some rules. No quibbling, non-negotiable, if you break any of these rules you’re a jack-ass:

1) Be decisive. If you’re finished with someone, don’t give them the idea that you need time or a break. Establish a clean break so that you can both get on with your life.
2) Be polite. These things are never easy, but if you get drawn into a discussion about her short-comings or faults things will get very bad, very quickly. The last thing either of you needs is an assault charge. There’s no need to make any life-long enemies.
3) Show some remorse. It’s just common courtesy. Rejection isn’t easy to take, so at least let them think that it wasn’t easy to give.

I’ve been involved with some truly memorable break-ups, and most of them were because I was too dumb to follow the rules above. Yes, I know I’m a jack-ass.

Horrible break-up number one happened because of a monumentally stupid move on my part—I opted for the snap-decision break-up. Let’s call her Anne—I need a fake name because I’m pretty sure that she will actually come to my house and stab me if she reads this. I had invited her over to my house. I had cooked dinner and had a whole evening prepared. She showed up and we started fighting about something. I honestly don’t remember what. I made my first mistake, when I tried to win the argument. She then said, “Oh yeah, do you remember three weeks ago when we were standing out in front of our friend’s house? I turned to say something to you and you started talking to your friend. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THAT FEELS???”

To which I replied, “I’d don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about! How could I possibly know how you feel?”

Things degenerated from there. The climax of the story is that a week later I received a 12 page letter from her filled with such cheery phrases as, “If you live a hundred years, you’ll never outlive all the pain you’ve given me” and, “We’re going to meet again in a happy place, even if this is after death.” Then the letter launched into four pages of song lyrics.

This brings me to my next rule of break-up etiquette: take it like an adult. Even if you’re heart-broken, don’t call and leave rambling, sentimental messages. Don’t send threatening letters. Don’t put up passive-aggressive away messages. Just shut up and don’t make yourself look like a prick, wimp or psycho. Also on this note, if you’re being dumped, don’t insist on “being friends” if you can’t take it. You’re just making yourself more miserable.

My favorite passive-aggressive break-up story is this: The girl I’d been seeing me had just dumped me. We had a whole bunch of mutual friends, one of which I saw at a Halloween party a week or so later. I stumbled in drunk, dressed like “The Crow” and had a long chat with him. He told me that he’s seen her making out with a guy just before she dumped me.

So I went home and wrote an away message. You have to keep in mind that virtually ALL of her friends were on AIM and checked these things obsessively. The message was:

White face-paint: $5
Black overcoat and leather pants: $150
Hearing from a mutual friend that your ex-girlfriend is a cheap, lying skank: priceless.

I got about 20 messages from friends. I hear that she was reduced to tears. Hey, I was drunk!

It also led me to my next lesson: revenge dating is not a good idea. A few months later I started dating her best friend. Here’s something you may not know: girls don’t like when you do that. Even if they broke up with you, they don’t approve when the best friend sweeps in. However, that’s nothing compared with how angry they get when you dump them and go for the best friend. I know.

I didn’t really mean to date a girl, take her virginity, break up with her and then date her best friend a week later…it just sort of worked out that way. Besides, now I know that girls don’t appreciate these things.

I like to think that she got equal revenge, though. She spread the rumor that I beat her. Then she called the girl I was dating (her former best friend) and said that I had given her an STD.

For the record, both statements were absolutely false. I’m respectful and I’ve been tested.

I guess what I’m saying is, boys and girls: play nice. And when you’re done playing, don’t throw a tantrum.

Discussing My Gentilas With Cops and Other Fun Stories

What in the world could turn a normal, red-blooded American Boy into the monster that possesses the twisted World view of the abomination that stands before you today? I blame the schools. And some really interesting sexual experiences gone horribly wrong.

Example? Let’s just say it appears that I’m allergic to Spermicidal Lubricants. It’s a lesson I learned (excuse the double meaning) the hard way. You don’t really know the meaning of "awkward" until you have to explain to an officer that you were speeding because you have to get to the Emergency Room before your crotch kills you.

Then there are the interesting break-ups. Apparently there’s a whole code involving what it’s ok to say about exes that I was not privy to. Example? Apparently it’s perfectly ok for your ex to call up your current girlfriend and say that I gave her STDs. See, now I know these things.

Then there are the wonderful relationships that I’ve actually been in. A little known piece of etiquette: It does not leave the best impression on a man when you cold cock his friend’s fiancé after being invited to dinner at their house. I assumed this was common knowledge. Turned out I was wrong. Keep in mind: this was not an open hand slap. I’m talking rear-back-and-uncoil-a-right-hook-like-you-see-in-Rocky-Movies-kinda-punch. I haven’t seen a blonde drop like that since the Pam Anderson video.

Some ladies say they don’t know what guys mean when we say that girls are hard to read. When I hear that, I like to tell the story of a girl met while walking home from class:

I was ambling home, listening to music when a girl next to me dropped her bag. So I stopped and helped her pick up her things. Naturally, we fell to talking and I walked her home. She said, “I’m going to a poetry reading tomorrow night. Do you want to come?” I agreed to meet her at her place at 7:30. The next evening I show up there and the girl is MIA. Her roommate tells me that our girl hasn’t been home all day. So I leave my name and number with a note like saying “sorry I missed you. If you’d like to get coffee sometime, give me a ring.” The next day I get a call. The girl is very apologetic and tells me that there’s a party on Saturday Night. Why don’t we meet up? So I walk over again on Saturday and...Once again our girl can’t be found. She had to call and make sure I couldn’t plan anything else for Saturday. What bugs me so much about this story is not that she stood me up, but that she stood me up twice. I challenge anyone to explain that one to me.

I know I’m weird, because occasionally I’ll open my mouth and have absolutely no idea what’s going to come out of it. Usually the results are hysterically funny. Example: I was at the coffee machine at work, waiting in line. Some one in front of me comments that they had to have their morning caffeine jump or they couldn’t function in the morning. A wiser person would have nodded or said something like, “I hear that.” Instead my mouth opens and I realize that I’m going to say something that will forever change how people at work view me.

I blurt out, “I found that coffee just wasn’t giving me the kick that I needed. That’s why I switched over to PCP!”

There was a moment of silence as everyone considered if my desk provided a clear firing path to where they sat. Then, like the Red Sea, a path to the coffee machine parted. You could almost hear my career being leveled by a bus, mid-stride at a cross-walk.

PCP. Mmmm…smooth!

The Call Back

I had no idea there were so many mixed feelings about the “call back” waiting period. Yesterday I had a few people contact me with their opinions on the waiting time required before calling a person. Apparently there’s a huge controversy about this.

One side feels that calling a woman back the day after you get her number is a positive: it enforces that you’re interested, it sends the message that you’re serious, and also it says that you don’t play games. People of this view think that women will respond well to the early call back for all those reasons.

Logically, those features would make you attractive. In practice, they undermine your chances. Let me explain why. What I write below should not be construed as an attack on women—men are just as guilty as women here. This is a fundamental truth about people.

Those of you who remember my very first blog entry will recall that I proposed that people write up Dating Resumes. The idea was to make dating a more left-brain process and move away from making all our relationship choices based on feelings. Calling a girl back immediately says that you’re interested, straight-forward, and available. While girls say that those things are attractive, the truth is that those things are a turn off. It’s a fundamental philosophical truth about people: we pursue that which retreats from us.

You see this type of thing all the time. Guys run off on their wives with young, flighty girls. Women spurn the steady, reliable friend for the guy that’s done nothing but treat them poorly. Everyone wants love—but we want to feel like we earned it, like we worked for it. When love is easy people suspect it’s false or fleeting.

While reliability, honesty and straightforwardness are key to a working relationship, they really don’t play too much of a role in attraction. No one ever says, “Boy, I can’t wait to see Bob. He just swept me off my feet with his raw punctuality and animal responsibility.”

Relationships have to start based on attraction. Waiting a few days to call a woman lets her know that you’re interested…but not over-interested. It also gives you a little time to mull over your own feelings regarding your target. There’s a reason that guns require a waiting period—it’s not the type of purchase that should be an impulse buy. You should expect nothing less of your relationships.

F*ck Disney, College Girls, And The South!

On Friday, I agreed to take my sister to go see “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.” I’m not sure if everyone heard, but apparently this movie is being marketed to some religious groups as a deeply Christian film.

This is the type of thing that gets me angry. If you think, from reading these posts, that you’ve heard what I sound like angry, think again. Two things have the ability to incense me beyond words: Religion and Politics. I’ve tried to back off. Really. I reached my cracking point during the last election when I found myself standing on a chair yelling at the TV set during the Republican National Convention. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was to the point where if I continued to pay attention I’d die of a stroke within a week.

Before I get into why making this out as a Religious Film pisses me off, let me just say this: Christians, if you think that this is the big Mainstream Cultural event that will bring millions to God, you’d better grab up some of those communion wafers and sit your robed fannies back down on the pews. You’re going to be waiting for a while. The movie was really bad. Essentially, it’s impossible to relate to any of the characters. Every single one is a two-dimensional card-board cut-out. It’s the kind of movie where you can tell inside of 10 seconds what each character’s role is. The plot plods along until it stumbles to an end with the battle scene everyone knew was coming. The battle scene pretty much sums up the film: characters we feel nothing for jumping through hoops that enforce why we hate them. You never get the sense that anyone in the film has any choice about their actions. They’re all one dimensional roles following their obvious paths.

I’m not surprised that Disney tried to market this as a Christian Film. Let it never be said that Disney is above pandering to religious groups to make money. I’m going to let you in on some advice: if you’re older than 8 and you can’t wait to go see the next Disney Film, kill yourself. Seriously. Thanks for calling. Make sure you get your whole head in front of the shotgun. We, as a culture, need to get you out of the gene pool as quickly as possible. Disney has really only ever made one film. All they do now is change the cast. Every single animated film is the same. Every single sports film is the same.

A lot of people think that I’m over-stating things when I say that Disney is evil. One of the few things I take very seriously is the importance of stories (I was an English major, for Christ’s sake!). Disney is on an unstoppable quest to kill all that is original, meaningful, and precious about our culture’s stories. If you’re one of those college girls who wears pink pajamas, has a thousand stuffed animals on her bed and rushes out to buy the re-release of each new Disney DVD, do the world a favor and take up a hobby: like chugging anti-freeze or sculpting nuclear waste. You might, in all seriousness, be the end of our species. You are the meteor of stupidity that ends the age man, reason and creativity. In my book of evil corporations, Disney ranks only SLIGHTLY behind Halliburton and FOX.

Now on to what really bugs me about the whole thing. The last time I read the Narnia books I was 6, so my recollection of the story is rather hazy. Now if you want to make the case that some of his story was inspired by the Bible, I’ve got no problem with it. The Bible is the single largest source of our culture’s stories. Every writer takes some of what’s out there before and uses it to make his own point. But making the step from saying, “Some of the ideas of this book were inspired by the Bible” to “This is a Christian Book” is insulting. Why is it that super-right wing Christian’s always seem to have trouble with subtly? Rather than saying that the Bible has some very enlightening and meaningful passages concerning philosophy, spirituality and our relationship with our inevitably fleeting time on this planet, you have to demand that everything in the book is totally one-for-one true. It’s not a contradiction to believe in evolution and the Bible. Christians, get this into those red-neck, republican, homophobic, misogynistic, racist, anti-Semitic, sheet-wearing skulls: there’s more to life than black and white. Shades of gray are acceptable.

But how dare you. HOW DARE YOU drag down the writings of C.S. Lewis, one of the greatest writers of the World War II generation. I’m not sure who sold the rights to Disney, but there should be a special place in Hell for him. When you start making claims about the intent of a writer who can no-longer defend his work, just to support your cause, you never really had a cause in the first place. The man did things that you never could. So stop trying to pull your Religion up by his coat-tails—because all you really succeed in doing is dragging him down to your level of raving, inbred fanaticism.

Pick-Ups

I don’t think guys are given nearly enough credit for the difficulty of pick ups. It’s really tough. There are all these other factors and rules and perceptions that girls mostly take for granted.

So let’s start at the beginning of the night. Guys have to get dressed up, look right and smell right. I read somewhere that one of the first two things that girls look at is a guy’s shoes. I can’t pretend to speak for every man out there, but I don’t even put that much energy into shoe shopping. I currently own three pairs of shoes: my dress shoes (weddings and funerals only), my sneakers (worn exclusively May-September), and my boots (worn exclusively October-April). That’s it. They’re comfy and practical. That’s pretty much all I care about. I figure, feet are feet no matter how you dress them up. Of course, I once dated a girl who owned over 370 pairs of shoes. No exaggeration…and yet all I ever saw her wear were her old converse all-stars!

So guys try to get spruced up, when we know that no matter how much effort and thought goes into what we wear, we’ll always be under-prepared compared to the ladies we’re looking at. Here’s a confession about my clothes: I go shopping once a year. My best friend and I just do one full day of clothes shopping and that’s it. Usually we’re done in about 3, maybe 4 hours tops. And then I’m set for the year.

Next, we have to get the crew together. Why? Because women don’t want to talk to guys who go drinking alone. It sends a bad image. However, once you have a crew of guys together, it’s generally a lot more trouble than its worth. There’s cock-blocking, teasing, arguments about where to go and when to leave, and then there’s always that one dude who gets way too drunk and starts shit or yells inappropriate things to you just as you strike up a conversation.

Example: My friends are out drinking one night. A cute girl comes up to my friend outside the bar and asks him for a light. Now, in any civilized culture, his boys would take a hint and go grab another drink, or head off to buy more smokes. That being the case, two of them immediately walk over and insert themselves into the conversation. When he finally gets rid of them, another one of his crew comes stumbling out and starts belligerently hitting on the cute girl’s friends before walking over to my friend and asking at the top of his lungs “Are you going to fuck her?” From here the night disintegrates into a bar-fight and some petty vandalism.

The worst part is the actual pick-up, though. I don’t have any “pick-up” lines, because I don’t think they work. Generally I just ease myself into whatever conversation and hope for the best. It’s a tough gig, though. Guys have to deal not only with fear of rejection, but with the knowledge that their whole crew is watching and ready to tear you apart if you don’t come back with a phone number.

Then, once you have the number there’s the question of how long to wait before the call back. Girls I talk to about this are always like, “You should just call her the next day.” This is really dumb. Here’s what I’ve learned about women: no matter how much they say they don’t want games and they just want honesty, they might want it, but they don’t respect it. It’s a key difference. I’m always pretty upfront with how I feel and what I want. But if you don’t make girls a little insecure they think they can walk all over you. It works the same way for guys. The perfect example: my friend got a girl’s number and waited three days before calling her back and leaving a message. For the next four days he talked about nothing but her and stressed about when she was going to call him back. She waited four days and now he can’t wait to see her.

Was this whole interaction pointless? Of course! Would it have made more sense to just call each other back right away and get together the following weekend for dinner, or one evening for coffee? Yeah! But I don’t think either one would be quite as keyed up to see the other if it happened that way.

It’s a funny situation. It’s like as soon as you exchange phone numbers, you immediately regress to a 6th grade relationship. “Does she like me? I want her know that I like her, but I don’t want her to think I like her more than she likes me. Do you know her friend? Did she say anything about me? Maybe I can sit next to her at lunch.”

People ask me why I play guitar. I like to tell them it’s because I’m not handsome. Good looking guys have such an advantage. It’s like they get loved without putting in any effort. They don’t have to work at being funny, smart, charming, sensitive, interesting or talented. The rest of us have to bust our ass.

Get A Sense Of Humor!

And now a short disclaimer: Ladies, the things I’ve written in my previous posts are meant to be funny. My statements are overblown and intended to be tongue in cheek. So, feel free to call off the hounds.

I received a number of angry Instant Messages yesterday, from people who were hurt, angry or simply wanted to fight. So let me say, “I applaud the way your gender has rallied around Cock Blocking.” It’s touching, really.

However, if you do want to rumble, please note that “you’re a terrible person” doesn’t really count as an argument. I actually took a few debating classes at school, and you’ve got to remember that attacking your opponent’s character is only a valid technique in politics. Got that, you skanks?

Hahahahahaha…I’m just kidding.

In light of the personal attacks, I’ve decided on a new prerequisite for my perfect girl: sense of humor. It’s got to be a GREAT sense of humor. See, long ago when I was a lad, way back before the weight of the world crushed my spirit; I decided that a sense of humor was vital to survival. There was some generally horrible shit going on and I was getting depressed and moody, when finally I just started laughing at it.

In a sick way, life is really very funny. My philosophy since then has been, “life is a joke that you’re on the wrong end of.” That doesn’t mean you can’t argue with me. I actually really enjoy a spirited debate, but you’d better realize that I think just about everything’s funny and I take very little of what’s said personally. See, the really smart people, watch what you do not what you say.

I need the kind of girl where when we fight (and fights are pretty much inevitable, or you have communication problems) we can turn to each other and just crack up. Then have fabulous make-up sex. Then laugh some more...then more make-up sex...then...well, you get the idea.

The worst thing that can happen to a person is a loss of sense of humor. It’s what all fanatics have in common. The Christian right, the protesting hippies, and the Muslim fanatics. That’s really the scariest thing about terrorists: they’re a people who wandered the desert for years and never encountered a knock-knock joke. Maybe because they lived in tents. But you would have thought that’d at least have dreamed up a flap-flap joke.

There’s a special ring in Hell for people who take themselves too seriously. Unfortunately, we now have so many of them that they’ve brought it up here to the rest of us.

I’d like to end this rant with a quote from George Carlin:

“Anything can be funny. Even rape! You don’t think that rape can be funny? Ok, then picture Elmer Fudd getting raped by Bug Bunny. See? Rape can be funny!”

Sharing Is Caring

I made a discovery not long ago: girls are weird about sex and sharing.

I had been sleeping with a girl rather casually. Circumstances arose where it would no longer be in everyone’s best interest to continue our arrangement, which is to say that she met someone she wanted to date seriously. You should understand that this not something I normally do…anymore. However, while sex with someone you care about is always better than sex with someone with whom you have no connection, poor casual sex is still infinitely better than no sex at all. Both of us knew going in that this was going to be a casual, no strings attached thing. I was happy for her when she told me that she had found someone.

However, things started to get weird when I asked if she had any cute friends. All of a sudden, she got a little offended. Now, if we had dated seriously, I could understand that. But it seemed like we had parted ways on pretty amicable terms, and it’s not like we shared any kind of close relationship. We only slept together a few times over the course of no more than a month. So I figured there was nothing wrong with asking for a hook-up.

But when I asked, she said that she would never introduce me to her friends—that she’d be angry with one of them if they slept with me. This really came out of left field. There are at least three girls that I’ve slept with who I know have slept with one of my friends. Hell, I have ex girlfriends who I’d have no qualms about setting up with my friends.

Actually I recently found out that a close friend of mine and I have a girl in common. We had a great time talking about it and I didn’t find it in the least disturbing.

I guess what I’m getting at here, is I’m not really sure what kind of code there is among girls about sharing guys. It would seem to me that if there’s a guy that you had fun with, who you think is cool, but don’t want to date there would be no problem with hooking him up with a friend. Is it possible that I’m just being kept in “reserve dick” status? Am I the “In Case of Emergency, Break Glass” ass?

I really hope not. Because 1) it bodes really poorly for Mr. Steady-boyfriend if she’s lining up an emergency lay and 2) in some countries, cock blocking is punishable by hanging.

You see? This is exactly the kind of thing that makes me suspect I’m making a mistake by befriending women.

Low Standards, Long Distance, and Why I'm a Hopeless Romantic

Folks from out of the state, county or country often ask me, “How bad could Rockland be, really?” To place this into the proper perspective, let me put it this way: I’ve lived here since second grade and I’ve never slept with a girl from Rockland.

The only girl I’ve ever dated who lived here was way back in high school. She tried stalking me for two weeks, sent me threatening letters, and later moved to Wisconsin with an alleged rapist. That was the high point of my experience with local girls.

Everyone else local has been from either New Jersey, Westchester, or Ulster. At this point, I have to seriously suspect that they’re putting something in the water.

What this means is that when I do find someone fun, I’m in for a drive…up to a point. I got a call late one night from my dear friend who had to drive a girl of his back home…to Queens…at 12:30AM...on a Wednesday. He needed someone to talk to on the ride home so he didn't fall alseep, so I agreed to ride with him. As I’ve said before, really do enjoy driving, but there’s a certain ratio that applies to long-distance relationships. There’s a direct correlation between a girl’s attractiveness and the distance that a man is willing to travel. Talent in bed goes a long way, as well.

I know, because at 2 AM somewhere on the West Side Highway, I turned to my friend and said, “Man, I don’t know that she’s cute enough to justify this kind of commute.”

My friend replied, “Yeah, but she does some great things in bed.”

My response: “I don't care if she's double jointed and knows the Karma Sutra by heart. I don’t think she has enough holes to be worth this drive.”

Not me at my most charming, I know. But however unrealistically high my standards are for long-distance relationships, they’re subsequently low for local girls…but some how I always seem to be holding the bar too high. Let’s put it this way, ladies of Rockland: At this point a keeper would be a literate female (for you trannies, that means that the operation’s already been done. Don’t try to sweet talk me with this “but I have a cootch on lay-away!”) with no noticeable burns and who’s no longer selling her body for crack.

What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

Why Clubs Suck and I Don't Dance

For years, I stuck to a stringent “no dancing” policy—and with good reason: I’m white. I realize that I’m white and I’ve moved on with my life. Believe me, the world is a much better place for it. I’ll tell you the story of how this edict came into existence:

When I was in college I dated a Puerto Rican girl. Actually, she was half Rican, a quarter Cuban, and a quarter Chinese…but that’s not really vital to the story. At any rate, she was real big into dancing. For months she hounded me and I kept telling her “listen, I don’t dance. Seriously…it’s more like a full-body dry heave, set to music.” None-the-less, she insisted.

So finally, heavily inebriated one night at a house-party, I went up and danced with her. At the end of the song, she looked at me and said, “OK, you need to go wait for me in the basement.” This was not a joke. No smile, no pulling me back when I left. Apparently, I’m that bad.

I don’t have a problem with it. As I said before, I’ve come to grips with my racial handicap. However, after spending a night out at the bars over the weekend, the time may finally have come for me to re-evaluate my position on dancing. This has nothing to do with me trying to broaden my horizons, or making myself a better person. This is pretty much because it appears that “dancing” has been eliminated from social interactions among people my age.

I observed people moving to music for the better part of an hour on Saturday night. From my research, it’s become clear that a man’s role is simply to put their arms up and provide an object against which ladies can grind and dry-hump. I would guess that you get extra points by swaying your arm to the music and occasionally putting a hand on their hips, but all that seemed pretty optional. Once again, any action that could be interpreted as esteeming the girl at any level beyond crack-whore is unacceptable. This includes: talking (other than grunts “yeah!” “Ugh!”), smiling, and eye-contact.

I’m really not sure what the fuck is going on with women these days. I mean, it seems like they’re still into equal rights, promotions based on ability, and being viewed as actually having and using brains. Then again, I see 12 year olds at the mall all slutted up, while girls my age wear pants with writing across the ass and dry hump random guys to horrible music at clubs. What the hell do I know, though?

I don’t understand clubs anyway. I’ve never been a guy who’s been able to pick up girls based solely on my looks. I’m realistic. I know that in order to have a shot with a girl I need to be charming, funny and smart. And I am, when I want to be. But clubs are designed to be totally incompatible with any kind of interaction. The music is not only as a rule horrible, but pumped at volumes to make attempts at conversation pointless. It occurs to me, that maybe my last blog about picking up girls online is pretty pointless when I can’t do it in person at the chosen gathering points of my generation.

How The Hell Does Online Dating Work?

I think I’m behind the eight ball on this whole Internet thing. I was still shocked to find out that the Internet came on computers now. When the hell did that happen?

In the course of my life, I’ve never dated anyone that I met online. I’ve met someone in person and then made the step from “prospect” to “starter” through online flirting, but how do you go from the virtual world to reality? Everyone’s got to be a little wary about internet folks. Like everyone else who first went online in the mid 90’s, I was taught to believe that everyone who talks to you on the internet is:

1. A 45-year-old male who lives in his mom's basement
2. A child-hungry pedophile.
3. A chronic masturbator and/or sex offender.

My friends keep telling me that My Space is some sort of Mecca for desperate singles, so I guess someone’s figured out the necessary steps. If you’re one of those people, post up and fill me in!

Here’s what I suspect the steps are:

1. Initial message through My Space: send comments on a blog or some aspect of their page.
2. If they respond, write back and ask a few questions.
3. If they respond again, add them to your “friends.”
4. Ask for an email/and or Instant Messenger name
5. Flirt online, and then ask for phone number.
6. Call and arrange a meeting in a place with many, many witnesses.

Is that too many steps? It seems unnecessarily complicated. If it’s going to take this much work before I can even start working on a girl face-to-face, I seriously have to doubt the efficacy of online dating. At this rate, I’d be better off just downloading a whole bunch of porn.

Oral Etiquette

One of my friends runs a blog on "Bedroom Etiquette" which I highly recommend...even though she doesn't update it nearly enough for my taste (get off your ass, Emilie!). I pitched her a couple topics, and here's one of the items that apparently didn’t make the cut. So here it is:

Oral Etiquette

First off, it’s never required. For some reasons, guys seem to expect it much more than women. I have male friends who are shocked when they find a girl who doesn’t do it. I’ve never been someone who believes that everyone has to give head. Different people like different things and have different boundaries. Plus, women have the MUCH worse end of the stick (forgive the slip of the tongue…ummm…that is, turn of phrase). Proper Lubrication, dealing with teeth, suction, gag-reflex, fluids gushing at unexpected moments…guys, you have no case. It’s got to be much more difficult for them.

Men on the other hand, seem to think it’s a special occasion if their mouth strays south of the boarder. It’s always been mystifying to me. Compared to what they deal with, we’ve got it easy. But fellas, for Christ sake, if you’re going to do something, do it right! Don’t try to stay clean…it’s like eating a lobster. You have to dive in and put your heart into it.

Which brings me to the real part of this little blurb: there are cons on both sides of the equation, so there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to do it. However, if your partner does it frequently and well, it’s rude not to at least make an offer. You don’t have to do it every time, or even do it well. All I want to see is the gesture. It’s just plain rude otherwise.

I’ve been with a few girls who were the first to grab me by the hair, but refused to even offer reciprocation. They don’t want to do it? Fine! But don’t be shoving me down that direction every time we get into it! It’s like having a friend who buys you a gift every year for your birthday. When his birthday rolls around, you’d better at least send him a card.

Cute, Beautiful and Hot

I was contacted recently by someone asking what the definition of "cute" was (it's in my Dating Resume, which, like the rest of my blog is absolute must read material). In my mind there are three very distinct variations of attractiveness: Cute, Beautiful, and Hot. So here are my definitions:

Cute:
If you're cute, people come up to you and just want to hug you and pinch your cheeks. A lot of cuteness is in the face: Big eyes, sweet smile, and long lashes. Famous Cute Person: Natalie Portman.



Beautiful:
There are some people who are just beautiful no matter what. You know what I mean? It seems as if whatever pose, crazy hair-cut, weird face or humiliating situation they're in it just oozes out of them. Much in the same way that someone is funny. It doesn't really matter WHAT they're doing, they're always funny. When you see someone beautiful, you don't necessarily think of sexuality, rather it makes you want to spiff yourself up so that they'll notice you. Famous Beautiful Person: Charlize Theron.

Side Note about Charlize Theron: Remember what I said about beauty not being related to sexiness? Perfect example is Charlize at the Oscars (Picture at the site below). She looks perfect...TOO Perfect. Seriously, unbelievably beautiful, but it's almost as if she's a piece of wax fruit. It's like she's plastic. Knock-out gorgeous, but I've no sexual attraction to her. I gave this same rant to my friends, and they just look at me like I'm totally nuts. They probably have a valid point.



Hot:
If you're hot, people basically just want you for one thing. It's just a raw-sexuality that some people give off. You don't really care about what they have to say, or what kind of sub-human personality they have, you just want to strip them down and do things I've only read about in books (how exactly do you use the stuffed buffalo, a putter, and three jars of peanut butter to maximum efficiency?). Example of a famous hot person (again, hot, but utterly reprehensible as a musician, actress and person): Jessica Simpson.



Needless to say, there are mixtures and hybrids, but everyone's primarily one of the three. I long ago came to the realization that I'll never be able to pull off dark, dangerous, mysterious, or bad. I'm just going to have to content myself with cute. That's ok, though...I'm evil and hot when it counts...mwahahahahahahahahaha!!!

Stressmas In November

…And so we enter that magical time of year when Old Man Winter bends us over and makes us his bitch.

Ah the winter! I remember when the seasons change meant snow days, sledding and gifts. Now, it means…well…pretty much the same actually. Except snow days mean I have to drive, sledding is what happens when my car goes down the hill on the way to work and gifts are what I’m buying for other people.

I was in a pancake joint the other day (people in Rockland—try the new Pancake store next to Rockland Bakery. They gave me, conservatively, 8 pounds of pancake. It was pancakes for 41 immigrant weddings), anyway, I was drinking the last shot of syrup from the dispenser, when I noticed that the radio was playing Christmas songs. One after another, after another…What the hell??? It was a day after Thanksgiving and already I have to hear Silent Bleeping Night?

Maybe what’s wrong with our culture is that we never take time to smell the roses anymore. Or in this case, the left-over turkey and mashed potatoes. We can never simply enjoy a time for what it is—we always have to rushing to the next big event. I really don’t have anything against the Holidays. But isn’t time to admit we’ve gone too far? Even if I’m wrong, I’m punching out the next person who wishes me “Happy Holidays” before December 1.

If this last post seems a little surly, forgive me—I’m still working the maple syrup out of my system.

Ehren's Dating Resume: Feel Free To Circulate

As promised, I've created my "Dating Resume." It still needs to be ironed out a bit, but I think it's a good start. I was thinking that these things should probably have a seperate folder with sexual preferences, "turn-offs," "turn-ons," pictures and "open to" catagories...but that might be more personal than you, the random, cyber-space floater really want to know about me.

Objectives:
Seeking a relationship that is physically, emotionally and spiritually fulfilling. Willing to start at an entry-level position if there is opportunity for later advancement.

Looking For:
Cute (there's a difference between cute, hot, and beautiful...maybe tomorrow's blog will have more detail), funny, intelligent, independent, sensitive, talented female, at least 23 years of age.

Turn ons:
Pretty face, deep eyes, musical talent. I'm an equal opportunity dater--I don't discriminate by race or religion. Unfortunately, I have been known to discriminate against really, really, dumb people.

Attributes:
Funny,
Smart,
Faithful,
Open to Commitment
Easy-Going,
Disease-Free,
Open-Minded,
Cute.


Experience:

Long Term Boyfriend:
1998-2000
-Lived in same building
-Charmed hell out of her family
-wrote romantic letters

Fiancé:
2000-2001-Built Father-in-law-to-be’s pool deck
-Cooked Dinner with-Mother-In-Law-To-Be
-Charmed Hell out of family of different racial and religious background

Friend with Benefits:
2001-2002, 2004, 2005
-provided guilt-free sex
-non-judgmental environment
-still maintain great friendship with all parties involved

Long Distance Relationship:
2002-2003
-Remained 100% faithful
-Wrote Romantic Letters
-Called regularly
-Frequently wrote explicit emails about how pretty she was, generally while I was drunk out of my mind.

Lover on the Side:
2004-2005
-Provided judgment-free sexual release
-Never was the source of stress, work, or responsibility
-Was the very embodiment of discretion

Skills:
-General Bedroom abilities—specifics available on request
-Low-Maintenance
-Good Listener
-Plays Music like a mother fucker
-loves to go out on the town
-loves to have a romantic evening in

References: 6 available on request