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New Year No Sex: An Alarming Recession

This is not a drill people! I repeat, not a drill! No no, it’s not nuclear war. This is something much worse. Far worse than the 2008 economic recession, it has come to my attention that we as Americans are in a Sex Recession. That is right, you read that correctly, we have recessed our putting the P in the V. So call your local congressman, a lady of the night, fire a text off to an Ex. Let’s put our egos and standards aside to get this nation back on track. Who’s with me!?

Data recorded by the General Social Survey has found that the average adult  had sex 52 times a year in 2014 compared to 64 times in the 90′s. While 52 times would be a PR for me, from a population perspective, sex is vanishing into thin air. 

Why are we in a Sex Recession, you might ask? I mean who doesn’t like sex? It’s all over advertising and media, everyone knows sex sells. 

In her recent article published in The Atlantic, Kate Julian covers several contributing modern day factors as to why the kids aren’t getting their freak on. Lets break down some deets that’ll help you get ready to freak… a leak. Annnddd this would explain my own personal Sex Recession.

Single Livin’

About 60 percent of adults under age 35 now live without a spouse or a partner. One in three adults in this age range live with their parents, making that the most common living arrangement for the cohort. People who live with a romantic partner tend to have sex more than those who don’t—and living with your parents is obviously bad for your sex life.

There’s some gentleman, and maybe even some ladies out there who’d rather stay at Mom and Dad’s playing Red Dead Redemption and Fortnight. I’ve never played these games, but perhaps they’re better than sex? You’d think at some point you’d get hungry or even horny and head outside. Then again, sex requires effort. Why seek something from someone that I can do myself…

Too Much Chicken Choking

From 1992 to 2014, the share of American men who reported masturbating in a given week doubled, to 54 percent, and the share of women more than tripled, to 26 percent. Easy access to porn is part of the story, of course; The vibrator figures in, too—a major study 10 years ago found that just over half of adult women had used one, and by all indications it has only grown in popularity.

According to Kate’s “research”, there are nearly 10,000 vibrating options on Amazon and when porn is but a few clicks away on our smartphones, it’s no wonder masturbation has spiked and sex has declined. I may not know a lot of things, but I know my way around me. It’s easy, its cheap, and most importantly stress free.

Netflix and No Sex

Even people in relationships told me that their digital life seemed to be vying with their sex life. “We’d probably have a lot more sex,” one woman noted, “if we didn’t get home and turn on the TV and start scrolling through our phones.”

That’s it. I’m switching back to a flip phone. All I do is scroll and scroll, wasting valuable time that I could be having sex.

The Dating App Allusion

In reality, unless you are exceptionally good-looking, the thing online dating may be best at is sucking up large amounts of time. As of 2014, when Tinder last released such data, the average user logged in 11 times a day. Men spent 7.2 minutes per session and women spent 8.5 minutes, for a total of about an hour and a half a day. Yet they didn’t get much in return.

And then we get to the dating apps, the precious Tinders and Bumbles. I can’t tell you how many old, married dudes I’ve heard utter the phrase, “If I had these apps when I was single, I’d be tearing it up.” Well no, you wouldn’t… For average looking folks, these apps cause more self-doubt and confusion than potential mates. The catch is that for a lot of us, myself included, finding someone organically isn’t feasible anymore.

No Sleep For the Sexless

Other sources of sexual inhibition speak distinctly to the way we live today. For example, sleep deprivation strongly suppresses desire—and sleep quality is imperiled by now-common practices like checking one’s phone overnight. (For women, getting an extra hour of sleep predicts a 14 percent greater likelihood of having sex the next day.)

As if there wasn’t enough motivation to sleep. Please ladies, for the love of god, get some rest!

Anxiety, No Friend to the P or V

Among the contradictions of our time is this: We live in unprecedented physical safety, and yet something about modern life, very recent modern life, has triggered in many of us autonomic responses associated with danger—anxiety, constant scanning of our surroundings, fitful sleep. Under these circumstances, survival trumps desire.

Forget yoga and mindfulness meditation. I’m starting a new movement, Sex for Anxiety. No more medications or cognitive therapy sessions... Just sex.

It’s The End of The Sex As We Know It

Like economic recessions, the sex recession will probably play out in ways that are uneven and unfair. Those who have many things going for them already—looks, money, psychological resilience, strong social networks—continue to be well positioned to find love and have good sex and, if they so desire, become parents. But intimacy may grow more elusive to those who are on less steady footing.

Ominous words Kate… Ominous words. Looks like this dry spell I’ve got going ain’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

As a millennial, I’m happy to see that it is not my fault I’m on a six month dry spell. I’m merely a product of my environment. Leaving my bed is tough and socializing with people, let alone the opposite sex, is soul crushing. Modern life is headed in a bizarre direction that has us connected more than ever before, yet isolated into depression.

Here I stand before you, urging you to fight with me against the advances of technology. We were put on this planet to do one thing and that is to be freaks in the sheets. Don’t let the robots win. Let’s make it a goal that 2019 goes down as the year of Sexy Time. Let me clarify, protected consensual Sexy Time, of course. But nonetheless, let's put the bone to the grindstone!

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The Delayed-Text Back, A Power Move

Once upon a time, it was a day long horse ride to ask for a young ladies’ hand. You could write letters, and you know, send a raven. Then in 1876 it all changed when the homie Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. You could now call on a young lady, shortly after her dad answered the phone questioning who you were and why you were calling. That worked for a solid 120 years, until of course the advent of the smartphone and unlimited texting.

Oh how the game has evolved and I’d argue for the worst. If Mr.Graham Bell only knew about the sexting, the unsolicited dick pics, the sliding into DM’s, the never actually using the cellphone as a phone, he would have taken that first prototype and likely chucked it into the Ocean. “Get your lazy ass up on that horse and go ask her out!” - Alexander Graham Bell.

Today we don’t call we text, and text, and text. Which is horrible. I prefer a phone call, but to my surprise, calling has become socially frowned upon. Unless someone has died, I’ve found that people don’t much like chatting on the phone anymore. I could go on and on about how terrible this will be for our psyche and our overall health and wellness as a human race, but our beds have been made and this is the world we now live in.

Our texting society can be best exemplified in today’s modern dating scene via dating apps. Typically the scenario starts on a dating app, you know the ropes. You match, you check to make sure the other person's real, exchange numbers, and text... Sounds simple right? Well it’s not.

Texting in the dating world has become but a game of chess. Don’t double text. Don’t text back too soon. Don’t respond to a text with more characters than the text received, it just comes off as desperate. But, the biggest power move of all is the ability to make the other person wait. Make them think you’re busy, that you have more important things to do. Belittle them. Water the flower ever so slightly and give it time. Give it lots of time and watch the seed of envy grow.

Now there’s a time and place for this. I’d estimate somewhere between date two and three. In the beginning, texts are answered promptly to display interest. But once the groundwork of interest has been laid, the games begin.

I don’t know about you, but I spend a large majority of my work day on my phone. I often wonder what the poor saps before smartphones did to kill time, but I digress. What I’m getting at is that yes, I have a plethora of time to answer your text, but the other person doesn’t know that. Perhaps you’re busy closing deals, advancing in your career. It’s deceivingly attractive. It displays a persona of motivation, charisma, and goal orientation.

This method not only displays attractive qualities, it entices desire. We all want something we can’t have. The unattainable is addictive. The tension that results in desire grows with time. We’ve all been on dates with someone who is way too upfront and forthcoming. They come at you full speed ahead which unravels in a needy, unattractive vibe. It’s the ones who show just enough interest to keep us engaged, as if we’re looking for the next clue to solve this mystery of a person. Is it that we all want to be treated like crap? No, I think we all like a challenge. And a challenge you will be.

This theory was solidified for me in a past relationship. I had been on a few dates with a beautiful young lady that excelled in the delayed text back method. After about three or four dates I found myself debating whether I actually liked the girl or the challenge. The girl was attractive, however we really had nothing in common.

I don’t know if this girl knowingly employed the delayed text back method, I know she had a job where she was making phone calls all day, so I would imagine that maybe she truly had little time to spend on her own phone. Sure people have busy lives and busy jobs, but let’s be honest in 2018 no one can go a minute without their phone. Hell we buy expenses waterproof cases to ultimately take our phone in the shower with us. But what do I know?

I’ll tell you what I know, I was hooked. The obstacle of limited communication motivated and intrigued me. We texted very little, mostly because of her delayed responses, so all I could do was set up the next date. I’d leave these dates wondering why I kept going on them only to find myself hours later wondering why I hadn’t heard from her, needing to see her again and validate that she was interested.

The silence left me wanting more, questioning interest and my self-worth. She displayed interested in person, but the moment we separated, she had no time for me. As much as I tried to ignore this cycle and rationalize that she was an adult with a full time job, I was all in on the challenge.

The relationship eventually ran its course and after a few days of sadness and defeat, pondering what I could have done differently, I realized I wasn’t that interested at all. When the dust settled and I was out of the delusion of desire, I discovered the trap I had laid for myself. I was a victim of the delayed text back method. It had worked like a charm.

Is the delayed text back method cruel at its core? Some could argue yes; purposely ignoring someone that you are “interested” in could be viewed as rude, but anything goes in love and war. It’s a power move I encourage you to enact in the most dire of situations. With great power comes great responsibility. Be mysterious, be borderline rude and watch your new match crumble with desire and wonder.

Image: https://www.lifewire.com/glossary-of-common-texting-abbreviations-4061650

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Just An Observation: Women Love Dogs

Everyone loves our adorable four legged friends. Heck, they wag their tail and lick your face upon greeting, if that isn’t love I don't know what love is.

Dogs are awesome, there is absolutely no argument between dogs and cats and if you come across a “cat person” there’s a strong possibility he or she is a sociopath and needs to be avoided at all costs.

This thought was solidified for me when I learned that if you die in a house alone with your cat it will eat your face the moment it gets hungry. A dog, on the other hand, would rather starve to death before it eats you. I assume that’s why dogs are referred to as man’s best friend.

And this brings me to my point. While traditionally dogs are known for their bond with man I’ve recently discovered that women absolutely lose their shit over dogs. They’re down right obsessed.

I slowly began to notice a trend while hopelessly swiping through Tinder and Bumble. You may not have noticed, but there’s actually an info section where girls can write about their interests and/or personal preferences.

I know, I know, a girl’s hobbies and interests? Who cares? But while stumbling across said info section I noticed 9/10 girls describe themselves in a variation, sometimes blunt, sometimes witty, of “I FUCKING LOVE DOGS.”

I’m dead serious girl after girl, “Swiping for your dog,” “Burrito and dog lover,” “I love my dog ten times more than I could ever love a man.” Just for intents and purposes I went on Tinder as I paused to write this sentence, first girl to appear described her life’s passions as, “I like dogs and food.”

This had me thinking, what is it about our four legged friends that make girls loose their shit? Would purchasing a pup be a solid investment into my swipability?

I did what any acclaimed journalist or scientific expert would do, I hit up Google. But, to my surprise, I found very limited research on the topic. So I concluded, with my Bachelor of Arts degree from an unprestigious state university, I would devise my own hypothesizes based on my own credibility as a unreputable source.

Here’s what I came up with:

Independent Women Who Don't Need No Man: Based on my research through various dating apps, women like to describe themselves as loving their dog more than they could ever love a man. Perhaps this is a desperate attempt to proclaim their independence. They don’t need you, they have a dog. Precisely why they’re on a dating app in the first place? It could be assumed this is their method of gaining the upper hand. If you’re a good boy who obeys commands and wags your tail when she’s around, she just might fall for you. Fail to meet the requirements and she’s got her pup, someone who’s never argued with her questionable logic.

Afraid of Hot Takes: Perhaps liking dogs is simply “in.” Females are terrified of hot takes. They’re constantly seeking the approval of other girls, I mean at the end of the day we know that guys couldn’t care less what a girl wears as long as its revealing. I assume some female celebrity figure pronounced her love for a four legged friend and the rest followed. Good on you dogs. Enjoy it while it lasts.

They Make Good Instagram Props: It’s comical to think that dogs evolved from wolves. Once incredibly dangerous killing machines, now bred into small docile handbag props. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Women love posting on Social Media. It’s a chance to strut their stuff and show off the goods, but these precious posts can’t be too blatant. They’ll climb a mountain, drive hundreds of miles to a trendy location, and spend hours laboring over a single photo just to get the perfect shot. Dogs offer a unique opportunity to share with the world their love for their K-9 companion as well as their fun new outfit they bought from Nordstrom!

Don’t get me wrong, dogs are really cool. Hell I’m very tempted to go out and drop hundreds on a puppy at this very moment. Could dogs be the answer to all the worldly problems we face in the modern age of 2017? Could a dog be the answer to my desperately single status? I'm beginning to believe the answer is yes...

Image: https://www.rover.com/blog/top-25-cool-dog-names/

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Shiver Me Timbers, It’s Sunday Night

Friday's are heaven sent, Saturday's are for the boys, but Sunday's… Oh how I hate the.

Sundays, in theory, are half the weekend, but they sure as hell don't feel like it. For many, it's spent in absolute horror as the fun winds down and terror sets in. Reality rears its ugly head, crashing the party to remind you no matter how much you drank to forget this weekend, there’s still that 9-5 job you utterly despise.

Some attempt to run and hide, participating in a “Sunday Funday” activity, hoping to numb the pain. Run all you want, but you can't escape time. Have a few drinks, soak up some sun, but come Sunday night, say at about 8 pm, you'll find yourself balled up in the fetal position sobbing back tears

I assume these “Sunday Scaries” began for me when I became fully employed. Sunday's in college were somewhat unnerving. Maybe a term paper or test was on the books, but in my youth I could easily bounce back from a hangover. And let's be honest I had one, maybe two, classes on a Monday with the rest of the day at my disposal. High school, grade school, no worries in the world come Sunday. You had enough weekend sports and family, you were more than happy to get back and see friends.

Monday's in the real world are far different. 90% of your day is booked with work you don't want, but are obligated to do. There’s no one in the office you look forward to seeing, in fact you dread the dull conversation that begins each Monday morning with, “How was your weekend? Do anything fun?” You can’t admit that you spent your entire weekend in a bar drinking copious amounts of Miller Lite. So, you prepare a dull, deflecting phrase to be repeated several times Monday morning, “Pretty laid back weekend, did some things around the house.” You mosey on into your office only to find a stack of papers waiting upon your desk. Did you forget about that work that was due Friday? Remember, you decided to say “Fuck it, I’ll worry about it Monday.” Whelp, now it’s Monday. Thanks Friday-at-3pm-self.

We all know that alcohol results in a crippling hangover accompanied with depression. Basic science. It’s the cherry on the top of “Sunday Scaries” and by cherry I mean regret and remorse. But I’ve had plenty of Sunday’s where I didn’t drink Saturday night and my horrors were just as, if not, stronger. 

Suddenly, you realize that you never left your house, but once to get late night Cookout, as you devoured three seasons of Mad Men. What at the time felt like a relaxing getaway, now feels like a total waste of an oh so precious weekend. You wasted valuable freedom staring at screen when you could have explored the world or even mingled with the opposite sex. Possibly why you’re depressingly single? Yep, hangover sounds pretty good right now.

I get very sentimental on a Sunday. I start thinking back to my childhood, Sunday’s spent tossing the baseball with Pops. What a brave man he was to overcome his own “Sunday Scaries” and have a catch with me. I think about the good ole days, the days of my youth with no responsibility. I think about where my life is headed. How did I end up where I am? I was suppose to be an astronaut, not a salesman. Has my life been a total waste? Am I supposed to be married by now? My parents were married at my age. Why am I so broke? What am I possibly spending so much money on??

As you can see the inner dialogue of a grown man on a Sunday evening is a horrific scene. I hate scary movies, but I’d much rather pay $12 and sit through a viewing of the Exorcist than be in my head on a Sunday afternoon. At least I know that’s not real. Sunday’s are real. IT'S ALL TOO REAL.

I suppose I’m stuck with “Sunday Scaries” until the day I retire. Then again retirement in itself is like an on going “Sunday Scary” in that it’s not Monday morning knocking on your door, but rather, death.

Maybe Sunday’s evenings are an essential part of adult life. It makes you truly appreciate every other day of the week and celebrate each Friday-Saturday like Christmas. Once you get through Monday morning, it's all through the motions. You look forward to Taco Tuesday, Hump day, maybe sneak in a beer Thursday, and then it’s Friday and all is right in the world.

….but just like that, it’s once again, Sunday afternoon. God help us all.

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Yet Another Hangover From Hell

I'm a beer drinker, a pretty casual beer drinker. A mere shell of my college self. These days I'm a Friday night, three beer, pass out on the couch kind of guy. Once upon a time I could drink until the sun came up. But at 26, I'll chalk it up a wild, sinful night if I make it to a bar’s closing time. That’s a whole 4.5 hours past my bedtime.

However, and unfortunately, every once in awhile I get a little too bold. I get bold and venture out of my comfort zone to indulge in poison and by poison I mean hard liquor, very toxic stuff.

We all know how it ends, but in the moment there’s no better idea, “Shots!?! Yeah I’ll take a shot, shots are fun!” If only your future, hungover self could break the space-time continuum to slap your already buzzed self. Reminding him that you’re going to pay for it the next day and as you enter into your late 20’s, possibly the day after that. Oh yes, now there’s such a thing as a two day hangover. Simply put, don’t write a check your butt can’t cash.

I learned a long time ago that I can’t handle liquor, even though recent evidence would suggest otherwise. In college, my liquor drunk ego had a nickname with close friends. I’d come stumbling into the apartment look at a roommate and greet them with, “Hey! Fuck you.” Immediately they knew someone had been in the sauce and “Gator” was out to play. Sadly, I have yet to come to my senses. Once in a blue moon “Gator” will return to rear his ugly head, leaving me to sort through the debris.

I write this with shaky hands, the room spinning around me. Three waters and two ibuprofen are my only saving grace. All I could eat for breakfast was a pint of oatmeal raisin ice cream, because I deserve it. I attempt to go back to sleep, but as I lie down my stomach turns, threatening to erupt with God only knows from the night prior and my poorly chosen, dairy rich breakfast. I pause mid-sentence and sprint towards the bathroom, clenching cheeks with all my might. My body proceeds to “evacuate the dance floor,” ridding itself of the evil I voluntarily poised myself with. An all too familiar experience I've come to coin as “liquor shits.” A rare trip to John where you don’t dare bring your phone, reviewing drunk texts or Snapchat stories is all too terrifying. So you sit in silence, you paint the bowel and reflect on the poor decisions you drunkenly made. A “Sunday Funday” for sure.

I tell myself I don’t drink liquor, “Stay in your lane and stick to a couple harmless cold ones.” Beer makes you a happy, gullible, goofy drunk. Sure after a few you say some silly stuff, but it’s all in good fun. Liquor drunk is a different monster all together. On liquor I have violent, and I mean violent, mood swings like a child without an afternoon nap. One minute I’m holding back tears having a heart to heart, and the next I’m yelling at a guy for looking at me too long, “Hey buddy, we got a problem?!” We’ve all been there, texts to an ex-girlfriend, face planting on the sidewalk, puking in Ubers, getting our ass kicked. A story as old as time itself.

So here I ask, Why? Why may we never learn? I’m good for a month, at my best maybe two. Then a random Friday night down the road, for no apparent reason, a Vodka water is the only beverage that will quench my out of the blue thirst. “I’ll have one, no biggie. Once I start feeling good I’ll switch back over to beer.” Yep, sure...

And to the guy who buys his boys a round of shots because, “We’re all getting blackout tonight,” I sincerely dislike you. Side note: I’ve been that guy on many occasions but I never said I liked myself. Anyways, it’s nearly impossible to politely turn down a shot from someone who just purchased it for you. In many ways its rude and then of course there’s the peer pressure from the rest of the group, “Dude, don’t be a bitch.” So there you are trapped. You reluctantly take the shot and hold on for dear life. Jesus take the wheel, as they say.

I’m feel dumb asking, but what in our drunken state makes us think, “Man I’m feeling great right now, confidence is high, feeling loose. The only thing that could make me feel even better is another one of these bourbon gingers. That's exactly what I need.”

So here I lie, dehydrated, crippled, and depressed. I could lie and tell you I learned my lesson last night, I’ll never drink liquor again. I’ll change my ways. I’m a beer guy, specifically Michelob Ultra because it's for athletes. But as my head throbs and the rooms spins, my darkest realization is that this is far from the end. In a month, maybe two, "Gator" will have me back in the fetal position. Escaping this cruel reality through another Netflix sitcom, hitting pause only to sprint to the bathroom in order to unleash painfully toxic material into a porcelain bowel.

Image:http://www.gq.com/gallery/hangover-surviving-food-grooming-style

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Greetings, From Dating’s Rock Bottm

The dating world is cruel. 

Lately, work and extracurricular activities have pulled me away from the dating scene. I deleted the apps and gave up swiping left and right, accepting defeat. I was under the impression I had hit the dating world’s rocky bottom. I was okay with that, it's all up from here. Or so I thought.

I would soon come to realize, after a phone call from my grandmother, I had merely breached the surface of rock bottom. You see I came to find that there is no rock bottom to a single man’s dating world, but rather a bottomless pit.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my grandmother. She is a sweet old lady who I know only has the best intentions for me. That being said, whenever I see her calling I know that it’s usually something uncomfortable I’m going to have to do. My cousin’s high school graduation, dinner with my grandparents, a tutorial on how to delete a picture off her Ipad. These are all minor inconveniences that I’m happy to oblige.

But this phone call was different. This phone call was life-altering. One five minute conversation that would crush any self-esteem or resemblance of confidence I thought I had attained.

After struggling to get through another Monday, I was lugging crap in from my car, ready to rip off my khaki pants and hop into some lounge wear when my phone rang. “Crap, what now?” I’m ashamed to say was my first reaction.

I quickly changed my demeanor, put on my charming, grandson-like character and answered the phone.

“Hello?.... Hello?” My grandmother doesn’t have the greatest hearing which always entails for an awkward phone call.

“I was talking to one of the other ladies in our community and she has a granddaughter that went to the same college as you.” “Oh really? That’s cool, great school,” I replied, terrified as my mind started to connect the dots as to what would soon follow.

“She’s really a beautiful girl and I think you two would hit it off. She’s single and would love to meet you.” My stomach turned, I nearly dropped the phone. “How can we make this happen? Should you come over to our house? We can introduce you two, that way you can go off into sunset.” Her words not mine.

I began to panic, my mind raced to find an escape, but I was trapped. “Yeah maybe, I’ve been meaning to ask you how was your trip to the river?” No bite. “Well I’ll go ahead and set it up!” She cheerfully announced. “Wait, how about I look her up on Facebook and get back to you?” In a panicked state, that’s all I had to stall, at least for a couple days.

That evening I looked the girl up on Facebook. There was about a 2% chance she was actually attractive. If my grandmother said she was a beautiful girl with a great personality, she had to be hideous.

To my utter dismay, she was not hideous. In fact, she was beautiful. At first, I was excited even relieved, until I realized that here was a gorgeous girl that was now most definitely, for me, officially off the dating market.

Days later, I had thought little about the catastrophe, hoping to erase it from my memory and let time heal my psychological scars. And then, another phone call. I knew what this about and as my stomach again turned, I reluctantly picked up the phone.

“Hey Grams, how are you?”

“What?”

“I SAID HOW ARE YOU?”

“Oh good, did you look her up? She’s anxious to hear from you!”

“Uhh yeah she’s a really pretty girl,” I politely replied.

“Okay well I’ll set it up!”

“No wait, how about you get me her number and I can reach out to her,” I pleaded, looking to stall for at least a minute.

5 minutes went by and another call.

“Hey Grams.”

“877…”

“One second, hold on let me get something to write this down.”

“Okay well you better call her! She’s waiting to hear from you and time is of the essence,” she earnestly stated.

“Okay yeah, you bet.”

And here I was, stuck with the number of a beautiful brunette girl... given to me by my grandmother. As a young teenage boy, I always envisioned that once I reached my mid-twenties, once I had some confidence and self-esteem, I’d be reeling in numbers. Approaching girls at bars, buying them a drink and grabbing the digits, you know with swav and swagger. But nope, here I was at 26 years old, collecting digits from my grandmother. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

I had two options. One, call or text the girl, risking total embarrassment. Who knows if the girl was actually expecting to hear from me. I’m nearly positive she was only being polite to my grandmother and hers. The thought of her receiving a text, “Hey I got your number from my grandmother,” and screenshotting it to post online, terrified me.

Two, ignore the entire situation and know that my grandmother would never forgive me. Visions of my grandmother lying on her deathbed, her last, living breaths, “Why? Why did you not call her?” played out in my head.

Quite the dilemma, some might call it a pickle. The girl is beautiful. We could hit it off and live happily ever after, yet every time someone asks how we met, “Our grandmothers lived in the same retirement community.”

I’m not sure how I got here. Maybe it’s a sign from the dating gods that I should announce to the world, I choose to be single for all of eternity. Maybe I just have shit luck and a grandmother who cares too much. But at the end of the day I can’t ever show my face to this girl. Right?

My only conclusion here is that dating sucks. Grab someone you’re mildly attracted to, preferably someone you can stand more than 5 minutes and get the hell out. Don’t do it for love, but rather out of fear that your grandma may one day call you about a beautiful girl she needs you to meet. I never thought it would happen to me, but here I am.

I believe the lyrical genius, Sturgill Simpson, put it best, “Life ain’t fair and the World is mean.”

Decisions, Decisions.

Image: https://videokilledthemoviestars.com/tag/hemmingway/

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Brunch Sounds Fun, But I’ll Pass

Nothing makes me cringe quite like the words, “Let's do Brunch in the morning.” Sure, I'll play along to avoid rocking the boat, but there's no shot in hell I'll be there the next morning. On a given weekend, at the ripe age of 26, I have one good night of drinking in me. That's it. The last thing I want to do is wake up the following morning and delve into endless Mimosas and/or Bloody Mary's. On the other hand, asking a mid-20s white, female what she likes to do for fun could be comparable to a conversation with a vegan. They're chomping at the bit to tell you how much they love brunch. “Well I really like going to brunch with friends, brunch brunch brunch brunchity brunch brunch.” Now I'll agree that Brunch has some valid qualities. At this stage in life I'm a big fan of day drinking versus late night bingeing. The thought of going out drinking and arriving in bed at a decent time, for a quality 8 hours of sleep, gives me goosebumps. That being said I do not, under any circumstances, want to drink in the morning. My sacred morning time is reserved for a warm cup of coffee, or if I'm feeling frisky a cup of cold brew, and some well deserved time on the John surfing through the endless pit that is social media. I can’t fit Brunch into my schedule. I’ll admit it sounds like a really fun time. Who wouldn’t want to sit around drinking sugary drinks while enjoying breakfast food. I’ll argue anyone that breakfast foods are the best foods. However, if I went to Brunch every weekend I’d look like Violet Beauregarde after chewing that blueberry gum in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. A night of drinking is a night of carb loading. Getting out of the house and being social nearly always entails pounding some carbs, it’s the price you pay for a good time. Yet, waking up and going to Brunch would be carb loading, after a night of only carb loading. Sure you got some eggs and bacon, but your drinks are composed solely of carbs and sugar, not to mention the hash browns, pancakes, biscuits, etc. As I’ve entered into my mid-20’s my metabolism has come to a screeching halt. If I want to stay looking mediocre at best naked, I'll have to forgo Brunch. It can’t all be fun and games. By now I’m sure you’re wondering, “How can you not fit a Brunch into your schedule and/or lifestyle, what are you doing instead?” I thought you’d never ask.

After a long night on the town, my day after routine goes a little something like this. First, I wake up with a pounding headache and a deep feeling of regret in the pit of my stomach. I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table that my drunk self thoughtfully poured the night before, “You're going to need this tomorrow man.” I fumble for my phone, terrified at the possible notifications and text messages that may await me. Quickly, I delete any drunk text message threads so that to me these conversations never happened. I'll hop in a shower and piece together more of the night, embracing the warm water as it washes away my regret and remorse. 

I’ll then shuffle down to the couch in my pitch-black basement where I'll lay for hours, reflecting on the bad decisions I made. Drunken promises, heart-to-heart conversations, and embarrassing dance moves slowly creep into my memory, each recollection like an uppercut to the stomach. The hours will slip into the evening and by then I’ve had all the regret I can take which means one thing, gym time. It's never a good day in the gym and it takes every ounce of willpower I can muster to get there, but it's always good to sweat out some toxins and avoid the feeling that the entire day was worthless. 

I arrive home from the gym refreshed and pop into some lounge wear, eat dinner, and flip on a worthless Netflix series. I'll look at my phone to find a text from a friend, “Hey man you headed down town tonight?” “Yeah where you guys headed?,” knowing all too well that my ass ain't moving an inch off the couch. I'll be back out there on the town, but it'll be a good five or six days before I lace up my drinking shoes once again.

Call me a loser and tell me I’m missing out, but with age comes consequences. As Toby Keith once amicably put it, “I ain’t as good as I once was,” and you know what? I’m okay with that. I enjoy my warm cup of coffee and time spent on the John. I do love breakfast food, but I already have it for dinner at least three nights a week. Drinking is fun, but too much carb loading and they’ll start having to roll you to Brunch. With the sorry state my metabolism is in, I'll have to tie a knot on it after a night. 

You however, go enjoy Brunch. It's your world, eat it up sunshine. But the next time you ask me if I want to come along, it's still gonna be a, "Sounds fun, but no thanks," for now.

Image: http://www.eatthis.com/worst-breakfast-foods-for-weight-loss

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RedBull Vodkas and Married Women

Job searching while struggling to keep his current job had left John beat, but thankfully this week, Wednesday was his Friday. In a few short hours, John would leave this cruel reality behind and head towards the coast for a weekend excursion in Pawleys Island, South Carolina. A tropical destination where anything seemed possible. 

Perhaps he’d even have the chance to meet a beautiful young lady at a beach themed bar. John hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in God only knows how long, hadn’t been on a date in a year. He was rusty, out of shape, but this weekend was different.

This was exactly what the doctor had ordered. The mini vacation eased in with a Thursday night spent at a local dive bar, heavy emphasis on the dive part. The only single lady, an elderly woman smoking Marlboro Reds, assumed to be named Edna. Friday entailed a poorly played, yet “fun” round of golf and some R & R on the beach. An early wake up call prevented the men from Friday night adventures and just like that the vacation was almost over. After a morning on the water reeling in Red Fish, the boys were left with Saturday night. How quickly it all had gone by. Thoughts of a daunting Sunday drive began to surface in their minds, yet they vowed to make the most of their final night out. One last hoorah.

And so, the story begins. Bellies full from a hearty dinner, they made their way to Murrells Inlet, a strip of bars along the Coastal Marsh. They saddled up to barstools at the infamous Wicked Tuna and began scoping the venue. At first glance, their chances looked dim. Located forty-five minutes South of Myrtle Beach, notorious for late night adventures and bad decisions, Murrells Inlet had its fair share of retirees and a seemingly limited field of young, single women. But, the night was still young. John noticed a look of defeat on the faces of his three friends, “Hey, we didn’t come all this way to sit and mope, if we’re going out, we’re going out in flames. How about a round of Redbull Vodkas?” A dangerous idea, yet the others applauded and agreed, drinks were ordered.

They started to hit a stride, brushing off the apparent lack of single women, when all of a sudden it happened, as if it were heaven sent. A group of girls all dressed in red making their way towards the dancefloor. One girl in the middle wearing white. Bingo, a bachelorette party. Three rounds of RBV’s and courage was an understatement. Our heroes were operating on nothing but pure swagger, and just in time. Two of the girls from the group approached the table escalating things towards the dancefloor. The DJ ripped out your generic, overplayed wedding songs; The Cupid Shuffle, Wobble, Cha-Cha Slide and so on. Not their cup of tea per se, yet with a belly full of RBV, anything would do.

Things were going smooth until the bar announced its impending closure. At 12 AM? The unexpected turn of events was quite the curveball, but as luck would have it the girls were not ready to call it quits either. Per the bride-to-be, orders were given to cross the street and head towards the Crooked Creek Lounge. An invite to our main characters was extended.

And so they marched, following a pack of red dressed, stumbling women with heels in hand, the bride-to-be barking orders from the middle as if to shepherd the flock across the road. The scene across the street was night and day from what they had left on the pier, bumpin’ tunes and a lively young crowd. The party resumed underneath a starlit South Carolina night. As the music progressed, the boys all happened to find themselves a young lady to share the floor with.

Yet another crisis was averted when the bride-to-be announced she was ready to go home. By the grace of God, she gave her blessings to four of the young ladies, they could stay and enjoy the rest of the evening. As most of the girls flocked home with the bride-to-be, one turned back to John and drunkenly uttered, “Not to like ruin your night, but I hope you know all these girls are married, sooooo like don’t get your hopes up.” A dagger yes, but at this point in the night, it was all they had to go with. The music played on, John somehow found himself wrapped up with the most beautiful brunette he learned to be named Elizabeth. She was from Cleveland and had recently married only a month prior. She was spoken for yes, but he and her were on vacation, from work and from life. They were hitting it off like they had known each other for years. Like it was meant to be. Sweat dripped from John’s brow in the humid summer night. Elizabeth wrapped in his arms. Justin Bieber’s rendition of “Despacito” rang out through the speakers. The night was his. His shitty job, the long impending drive home absent from his mind. He was completely present in song and dance, his hips moving with hers.

He went in for what he had been waiting for all night. A meaningless dancefloor kiss that would mean the world to him that evening. But as fate would have it, right when the courage to make his move had surfaced... the lights flickered on announcing the closure of the Crooked Creek Lounge.

Slightly confused, John used his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Someone grabbed his arm, but it wasn’t Elizabeth. It was his friend, an Uber was outside. He turned to look for his dear Elizabeth but couldn’t spot her in the crowds of people headed towards the exit. She had vanished into the night like a modern day Cinderella. The Uber ride home was one of disappointment. One by one, they discovered their dancefloor partners were all married. John opened his Facebook app, realizing he never got Elizabeth’s last name. He foolishly typed “Elizabeth Cleveland” into the search bar and laughed at his pathetic attempt. Perhaps it was better that way, no sense in dwelling on something that would never be.

Had John fallen in love? Hard to say. What he did know was that the next morning entailed a long drive back to reality, back to a landlocked town and a landlocked job. For the night, he was alive. He had met the woman of his dreams, but as John made his trek home to Virginia she would be flying home to Cleveland, Ohio, back into the arms of her loving husband. “Why are all the good ones taken?” he audibly groaned. An eventful weekend, a night filled with excitement, but what’s the use if left with a broken heart and a dose of Sunday Scaries potent enough to bring a grown man to tears.

John belly-flopped onto the air mattress, half-inflated on the floor,

set his alarm,

clicked the lock button on the side of his Iphone,

and let the Redbull Vodka take him deep into a drunken slumber.

Image: http://www.notey.com/blogs/yacht-week-croatia

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Jimmy Fitch Live

In an age of music where pop and country are indistinguishable, there’s a notion that all hope is lost. Thankfully, if you turn off your radio and scour the depths of Spotify and/or YouTube, you can still find songs with lyrics not only about pickup trucks, chicks in cutoff jeans, and/or dirt roads. A courageous, select few still sing lonesome, heartfelt songs so sad they’ll bring a tear to your eye. Enter Jimmy Fitch.

I’m proud to say that I’ve known Jimmy for quite sometime, in fact he was the first friend I made as a freshman in high school. We both attended Benedictine High School, an all-boys, military, Catholic school in the city of Richmond, Virginia. In military school, our version of homeroom class was morning formation. The school was divided into companies and each morning we lined up to salute the flag and receive school announcements. My first day of high school was chaotic to say the least, I was scared to death and lost. An older student I knew from grade school called out to me and said “Didn’t you play a brass instrument in middle school? Go form up in band company.” Before I could explain that I quit the baritone years prior in order to be a cool kid, it was too late. Here I was, the first day of school, stuck in a company with band geeks. I stood in the back with the other freshman and the kid to my right asked me what instrument I played, “I don’t play any instrument,” I angrily replied. “Yeah I play guitar, not sure what the hell that has to do with a military band company,” Jimmy responded.

From there, the rest was history. Jimmy and I eventually escaped band company and worked diligently to get our street cred back. Over the years we certainly found some trouble. Weekend trips to Nashville during college, skipping the first classes of the semester to make the long 10-hour drive. Writing songs in strip clubs. Taking Steve Earle lyrics way too literally waking up lost at truck stops. But, as an artist, it’s essential to have experiences to write about and I’d say Jimmy and I got into enough mischief to write a country song or two. At the end of the day we were really just making art.

Jimmy has always been inspired by the stories told in vintage country songs from artists like Merle Haggard, David Allan Coe, Johnny Cash, George Jones and so on. While it’s obvious country music then and pop country music today are at opposite ends of the spectrum, people are too quick to conclude that good music is dead. Quality music is still out there, you just have to go searching for it. The search for good music lead Jimmy towards the Texas Country music scene also known as Red Dirt Country or Americana. It all started with a band from Austin, Texas, Reckless Kelly. One of our friend’s brother roomed with a native Texan in college and he brought back the beautiful sounds of Texas Country to Richmond. We had a rare opportunity to see Reckless Kelly that summer in Richmond and after one concert we were hooked.

Jimmy and I quickly went down the rabbit hole of Texas Country music discovering artists like Robert Earl Keen, Pat Green, Aaron Watson, Randy Rodgers, and many more. Texas Country was incredibly alluring because of its roots in storytelling, which had traditionally been the backbone of country music for generations. After the Reckless concert, Jimmy and I took every opportunity to see a Texas Country show on an East Coast tour that came anywhere near Richmond. We attended the Turnpike Troubadours’ first ever show in Virginia and waited around after the concert for a meet and greet that ended up turning into a night on the town bar hopping with the band. Another trip found us driving two hours to D.C. in order to see the infamous Stoney Larue. Little did we know, the so called concert was actually a congressional fundraiser for tornadoes that had tormented the Oklahoma region. The tickets costed well over a hundred dollars and we were the only ones not in a coat and tie, in fact, Jimmy was wearing a Turnpike Troubadours shirt that read “Shit Kickin’ Music.” The high ticket prices and mild embarrassment  were quickly forgotten when we realized included with our tickets was endless Midland Texas BBQ and all you could drink Shiner Bocks.

Jimmy was inspired by Texas Country and began adding songs to his own set lists. One show at a time, Jimmy was introducing Richmond’s bar patrons to Aaron Watson, Turnpike, Cody Johnson and more. In October of 2013, Jason Boland & The Stragglers had a concert date set in Richmond and after a few emails with the band’s manager Jimmy secured a spot as an opening act. The show was a success and Jason Boland himself applauded Jimmy on his performance and original songs. In a way, it was Jimmy’s unofficial induction into the Texas Country scene.

The following summer Jimmy landed an internship in Austin, Texas to test out the Texas Country scene first handedly. During that summer, he played in some notable Austin venues like The Mean Eyed Cat, Saxon Pub, The Moontower Saloon, and The Blind Pig Pub. In between working and playing shows, Jimmy was able to record his first EP album, Promised Land EP, with some of Texas’ finest artists. The album was recorded at Ken Tondre’s studio who for ten years was a drummer and band leader for country legend Kevin Fowler. On the album was Michael Tarabay, a bass player who oddly enough went to the same high school as Jimmy and I and was once married to the the Dixie Chicks’ Natalie Maines. Noah Jeffries, long time acoustic guitar and mandolin player for Jason Boland. Kim Deschamps who played the pedal steel in bands with Charlie Robinson and Cory Morrow and finally, David Grissom who played lead guitar for John Cougar Mellencamp and the Dixie Chicks. Needless to say, with the new album, the local gigs, and the experience playing with some country music’s most talented artists, Austin, Texas was a priceless experience for Jimmy in his budding career.

After graduating from Virginia Tech, Jimmy decided to chase the dream a little further and enrolled into a Bluegrass Old Time and Country Music program at Eastern Tennessee State University. He is currently entering into his second year of the program where he regularly plays with the programs band, Tennessee Fire, in the tri-cities area of Tennessee know primarily as the birthplace of Bluegrass music. Jimmy continues to explore the roots of country music through his studies which in turn has been reflected in his lyrics and on-stage performance. 

The sky's the limit for Jimmy’s career as an artist in my opinion because of his authenticity and loyalty to country music’s roots. I'm excited to see where the road takes him. I've always admired Jimmy's passion for music and his desire to grow as a musician. If you haven't heard Jimmy's music, his EP album Promised Land EP is on Spotify and ITunes. He also regularly plays in the Richmond area and in Eastern Tennessee with Tennessee Fire.

When was the first time you picked up a guitar/how long have you been playing music? “I guess I was around 13 years old when I first started taking lessons on the electric guitar.  I got my first acoustic guitar a couple years later and took a guitar class for three years in high school where I learned basic music theory and got more interested in bluegrass music. I didn’t start singing until my freshman year in college (spring 2011). Before that I didn’t even know If I could sing or not, I just started doing it.” Do you have a pre-show routine/ritual? “I don’t have a routine necessarily, but I do have kind of a weird “ritual,” if you can call it that. I wear the same pair of pig boxers at every show I play and one of two pairs of these awesome Johnny Cash socks I bought after a few too many beers one night. One pair is his mug shot and the other pair looks like an old hatch show print. My boxers are starting to fall apart though, so I may have to find another ritual soon.” Musical role models? “When I was growing up, my main memories are listening to music on the radio and going to concerts. I was listening to a lot of the 90s country music, or neo-traditional country music as some folks call it. Alan Jackson, Brooks & Dunn, Randy Travis, Mark Chesnutt, and all the other just classic 90s sounds back then. I think Brooks & Dunn was actually my first ever concert. On the other hand, I was also listening to classic rock and southern rock. Bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Marshall Tucker Band were always some of my favorites and still are to this day. My all-time favorite musician and artist, however, I would have to say is Merle Haggard. I was lucky enough to be able to see him in concert twice before he passed away last year. If there’s a country song written and recorded before I was born, chances are I’m a fan of it!” Favorite original song? “Of the 4 songs on Promised Land EP, I would have to say that my favorites are “Drinkin’ for Two” and the title cut, “Promised Land.” “Drinkin’ for Two” is just a fun song I wrote that has turn into a fan favorite and definitely a wild one to play live with the audience singing along. “Promised Land” is another favorite of mine because I think it my best song lyrically. It talks about a drifter, trains, whiskey, guns and heartbreak: the ingredients to any great country and western song!”

Ever have an "ah ha" moment or experience where you realized that music was something you wanted to chase? “I’ve worked 40 plus hours a week, fabricating rebar in a hot factory, and I’ve shoveled feces out of crawl spaces. But I’ve also sang for hours to a packed bar and got paid to do it. The moment I realized it was possible or at least somewhat attainable for me to pursue music for a living would be my “ah ha” moment.” Do you ever get nervous going on stage? “I get more antsy than nervous. I always have a lot of fun playing for people and I just want to get up there and do it, so the waiting around before each show is what I can’t stand.” Favorite gig you've played? “I played my album release show at the Cellar in Blacksburg, VA on a Wednesday night going on three years ago now. I knew that I had a pretty big following in Blacksburg and this wasn’t the biggest venue in the world so I was going to attract a good crowd, a rowdy crowd at that. I warned the bartenders and waitresses to be ready but they kind of shrugged off my advice. Come show time, the place was absolutely packed and over the course of the night, they sold out of every single bottle of domestic beer. Every. Single. Bottle. Guys were trying to get up and dance on tables and everything. That was probably one of the most fun times I’ve had playing thanks to my good friends in Blacksburg, VA. I’ve had several shows like this since then but this one will always stand out in my mind.”

 Favorite Austin, Texas story?

“I somehow met and got to talking with Dale Watson after one of his shows one night. I think he was playing the Broken Spoke. We got to talking and I told him that I just moved here for the summer, I was a big fan and I was a country musician also. He then proceeded to try and hook me up with the girls behind me by saying "Hey ladies have you met Jimmy? Look at this tall handsome man!" A few nights later Dale and his band played at the Continental Club and during the show he saw me off the to the side of the stage and invited me to come up and play a song. I then started coming to see dale every Monday night when he played at the Continental and he always brought me onstage. It was the coolest thing ever!”

 Proudest highlight or accomplishment in your musical career?

“I'm very proud of my first ever EP that I recorded in Austin but I'm also just proud of all the strides I've made in general. I've played shows in at least 8 different states, gained fans across the country and even a few overseas, and just grown as a musician. It's been a fun ride that I hope is just getting started.”

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Chronicles of a Cold Brew Addict

It began with a brief phone call from my brother one Saturday morning, “Dude, just got a Cold Brew coffee from Dunkin, you have to try it.” “You mean like iced coffee?” I said, as I poured myself a warm cup of joe. “No dude, game changer, this is coffee that's never been hot, it's steeped into filtered water and left to chill for 24-36 hours. Oh, and it has twice the amount of caffeine as a regular cup of coffee. This is the greatest beverage I’ve ever had.” “Interesting,” I thought. My brother has a tendency to get overly excited about new finds, but even so, I was intrigued as I had no idea such a beverage existed. Could it really be that much different than the already delectable iced coffee?

Days later I was in the car with my brother and as we drove passed a Dunkin he begged me to turn around, “Dude come on just try a sip of Cold Brew.” I hit an aggressive u-turn and we ordered two medium Cold Brew coffees with one creamer and no sugar. My brother eagerly watched as I raised the straw to my mouth and took my first sip. I looked at him with a blank face, I had no words, no way of expressing what had just taken place in my mouth. “Yep, what did I tell you, fucking unreal.” It’s a day I will never forget. I was on top of the world. With Dunkin Donut’s Cold Brewed goodness coursing through my veins, I felt invincible. I had reached the pinnacle of human existence through a frothy beverage, but just like that the roller coaster ride was over in a matter of minutes as I reached the bottom of my cup.

Unfortunately this is no story book tale with a happily ever after ending, it's a story about addiction and delicious coffee with side effects comparable to cocaine. You see once I reached that top of the mountain, I couldn’t stop until I found that orgasmic sensation once more. This led to Cold Brew after Cold Brew searching for that elusive high. Chasing a Dragon that was a twelve ounce cup of chilled coffee with enough caffeine to give a senior citizen a stroke.

The moment I took a sip from that straw was the moment I sold my soul to the devil. I had been a warm, black coffee drinker since my early college days. I never explored the realms of espressos, various creamers, or other trendy coffee accessories. I liked my coffee like I liked my women; hot, black, tall, and fresh off the pot. How quickly I forgot about my always faithful warm cup of coffee and fell head over heels for a cool brewed temptress. My fate was sealed when my lips met a much stronger, colder beverage.

And so my journey began, searching for the world’s greatest Cold Brew beverage. I made detours on my way to work trying Starbucks, Gas stations like Sheetz and Wawa, Krispy Kreme, local hole-in-walls, etc. I knew I was headed down a dark path when I nearly started a pileup on I-95. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a sign for the rare Caribou Coffee Shop and swerved through multiple lanes in order to make the exit. The things we do for Cold Brew...

After I had traversed the map and tried nearly every available option my town could offer, my brother and I ventured into home brewing. We each purchased our own pitcher with a filter that strained grinded up coffee into cold filtered water and sat four 24-36 hours in our fridge. From Folgers to local Craft Coffee shops, we tried it all. I went to bed each night excited, not to sleep, but to wake up and get my fix of Cold Brew.

And that’s where things took a turn for the worse. I could no longer contain my drinking of Cold Brew coffee to the morning. My mornings at work were exceptional. I was more productive than I had ever been before, alert and efficient. Yet after lunch I started to crash and drag. The only cure, more Cold Brew Coffee. I knew this wasn’t healthy, but once you see how you could be operating its nearly impossible to go back!

I knew I had a problem one afternoon when I decided to have a Cold Brew before my daily kickboxing class. I was exhausted from work, but absolutely needed to get a workout in. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon and I assumed the caffeine would wear off by the end of the workout, certainly before I went to bed at 10 o’clock. Wrong. I dominated my class with energy that obviously wasn’t natural, the performance enhancing brew worked phenomenally. But, the joke was on me. After the class I still felt like I could run 5 miles. Hell I could run through a brick wall. When I laid down to go to bed that night, I was entirely too awake. I laid there for hours and hours and finally falling asleep in the early hours of the morning. What did I do the next day to wake up after a sleepless night, Cold Brew Coffee. What did I do to stay awake during the day, Cold Brew Coffee. What kept me up that next night when I so desperately needed sleep, Cold Brew Coffee.

I had a seriously problem on my hand and it was time to cut ties with my cold brew mistress. It was fun while it lasted, but I can’t handle that kind of thrill and excitement on a daily basis. I needed something constant in my life, like a warm cup of black coffee. I threw out my home brew kit and vowed to never drink the devil’s concoction again. I know temptation will always be there and I'll certainly slip up. But that's the life of a Cold Brew Addict. I just can’t handle the big leagues. I don’t want to marry the swimsuit model, it’s too much stress. I need a 5 who isn't easy on the eyes, but has a sweet loving heart and will always be faithful. That’s my cup of black, hot coffee I blandly brew in my Keurig each morning.

If you haven’t tried Cold Brew Coffee I hope you heed my warning. It’s a rabbit hole you don’t want to go down. If you’re feeling frisky and want the thrill of the chase you’re better off doing heroin or some other light weight drug. Just please for the love of God, don’t take a sip of the Cold Brewed Temptress.

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To The Girl Who Made Out With My Face, Thank You

Guy walks into a bar. That guy was me and it was my first time back in a bar in quite some time. Working weekends and traveling left me vacant from bar hopping shenanigans for well over a month. I've always had a love hate relationship with the bars. In many ways it's a waste of money to go stand in a loud room, hopelessly attempting to socialize. But it's what people in their 20's do and if you're not out there crushing brews and mackin on hunnies, severe FOMO never ceases to set in. Needless to say I was itching to get out there, buy some overpriced beer, and fall in love with every girl that walked by.

I called up a go-to-bro and decided to tag along as he met up with some old college friends, who I didn't know, at a local spot. Five minutes into our arrival and I remembered precisely why I hated the bar scene and how I most certainly hadn't been missing out during my time off. 

It’s the same old song and dance, you get introduced to friends of friends only to forget their names and never see them again. You stand in a circle next to the people you came with, looking around, scouring the landscape for a familiar face in order to let the people around you and your own ego see that yes in fact you do know people and you are a big deal. 

There’s beautiful women dressed ever so scantily sure, but for guys like me, middle of the road appearance standards, it's as strict look don’t touch, don’t even offer to buy her a drink, policy. And finally, there’s the dudes who could care less about socializing or girls, they came here to do two things and that’s flex in a shirt two sizes too small and kick anyone’s ass who looks at them the wrong way. They’ve spent hours in the gym and hundreds on supplements, tonight is their return on investment. God forbid you brush against one of these dudes in passing, “Yo what the fuck bro, we got a problem?” But I digress. 

So yes, after five minutes and a revelation, I was ready to head home. Waste of money. Waste of time. But just as I had made up my mind something peculiar happened. Something way out of the norm…

I had been standing around a table with my buddy and his friends, attempting to make small talk over the loud music. I was standing in a high traffic route for people trying to get to the bar so I was continuously moving back, sideways, forward, to let people past. With my peripherals I spotted an absolutely beautiful brunette headed my way and instinctively moved to let her pass by. But she didn’t pass by, she stopped and tapped me on the shoulder. My first thought was shit what did I do now? I’ve been here for five minutes, maybe I bumped into her roided out boyfriend on my way to get a beer and now he’s sent her over to tell me he wants to kick my ass? 

“Can I kiss you?” She asked with the most incredible smile, the kind of smile so sweet I knew if she asked me to go warm up her car and get her a sandwich, with all my might, I could never say no. “What?” I replied with laughter and confusion. “Can I kiss you?” She repeated with no further explanation. This had to be some sort of joke, but no harm in a quick peck on the cheek, “Yeah, sure why not.” Without hesitation she went in, but didn’t stop at my cheek. 

The next thing I know my lips are tangled with the lips of the hottest girl in the bar. Completely taken by surprise, my legs went weak, the room slowed down, yet somehow I had the wherewithal to kiss her back. For fifteen long seconds that felt like a lifetime, ecstasy ensued. Obviously as you already now know, I do kiss and tell. And the kiss was incredible, no tongue, it was too intimate for the lustful use of tongue. But as much as I was enjoying the kiss, I’m not one for PDA, in fact I hate PDA. I began to feel the stares from around the room as the bar patrons watched in awe while this scene from a movie unraveled. I pulled away and just like that she was gone. No name. No explanation of her actions. Just a kiss.

I came back to and looked around in my immediate space to find blank faces of astonishment. Judging, I'm sure by my reaction, that this act of passion was not planned, the surrounding strangers applauded me. At least two guys I had never met walked up and exchanged a high five with me, “Dude, Nice!” My friend I came with patted me on the back and said, “You don't know that girl do you?” In hindsight, I could have played it cooler, but I could barely stand let alone think of a witty response. 

As I’ve rewound the scene over and over in my head, the cool play would have been to grab the girl, initiate the kiss, snag the name and number, then look at the dudes around me confidently announcing, “And that's how it's done boys.” But sadly, I let her get away and in my flustered state all I could come up with was, “Well that was unexpected.”

I looked over at the direction the girl had escaped to find what looked to be a bachelorette party. Ah, things began to make more sense. But that didn't matter. My entire outlook on the night had changed. In my first five minutes at the bar, I had already reached first base with a highly attractive female, putting out little to no effort at all. If this was any indication to how the night was to go, I was in for a blast. 

This is what I love about the bar scene, so much opportunity, so much spontaneity. I think the great romance poet Ke$ha put it best, “let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young.” Forget the overpriced drinks and dudes in cut off shirts looking to tussle, I had already Carped the Diem. The night was young. It was mine for the taking. It's like I always say, you have to go out and live it up on the town. You can't experience this kind of stuff on the couch. It's out there for you to go and get. If I can do it, you can.

I know I know, I'm a hypocrite. But that's why I wanted to take a minute to thank the beautiful young lady that made my night. It may have been out of humor or dare, but we shared a moment. For a good five minutes, the bar was mine. I was ready to go home, call it quits on the bar scene and find a different hobby. But in an instant, the tides changed and you took me by surprise. I ended up having a great night out with friends. I had a great story to tell as well as a confidence and swagger about me that couldn't be bought. So again I say thank you for making a guy's night.

Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic. I'll never know your name or real intention. The kiss we shared was immaculate. Like a pair of horny thoroughbreds, we took the bar by the reigns and made the patrons our audience. I'll never forget you. I'll never forget that kiss. If you're out there reading this, I fell for you the moment our lips met. Do you believe in love at first kiss? Because now, I do.

As the lyrical prophet Rihanna rightfully predicted, it looks as if we fell in love in a hopeless place.

Image from: https://www.pinterest.com/lauren_belaire/bites-kisses/

[biggwillystyles-blog]

A Man’s First Hot Yoga Experience

I was skeptical for many reasons. First, would I be the only guy in the class? Would my female classmates accept me as individual curious about the benefits of hot yoga or assume I was there for the girls in yoga pants. I was fearful what my guy friends might say if they were ever to find out. I'd attempt to explain the various health benefits associated with the practice and the intensity of the workout, but the moment they heard the word yoga the endless ridicule and scrutiny would ensue. And of course I pictured myself passing out from the heat in front of a classroom of girls, losing whatever man card I had left. While these thoughts are irrational, I’m sure I’m not the first man attending his first yoga class to conjure up these haunting ideas. Stepping out into an unfamiliar environment, swallowing your pride and accepting the vulnerable role of “the new guy” is difficult. I’m a firm believer in becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable and therefore before I could talk myself out of it, I booked the $23 Yugala Yoga class encompassing 25 pairs of yoga sequences in a 75 minute class.

Now, I’ve done some yoga on my own with the help from Youtube videos, mostly just to stretch out after a lifting sesh. Hot yoga is an entirely different ball game, this stuff is no joke. The room is set at a temperature of 104 degrees Fahreneit and tacked on is an added 40 percent of humidity. You might be wondering why the heat? My research revealed that the specific heat generated by the Far-Infrared Radiant Heating system helps one emit detoxifying sweat, ridding muscle and blood of metabolic waste and various toxins. The hot temperature also elevates the heart rate causing the body to work harder than at room temperature, thus burning more calories. Through hot yoga one can develop strength, flexibility, and cardiovascular health. Yoga in heat can allow the body to relax and heal, it can improve breathing, mental focus and stamina. I like to consider myself in decent shape, and for a male somewhat limber, but my research into the topic had me worried. I read the class description that explained if nauseous or lightheaded, curl up into child’s pose; *googles pose for safety measures.* Depending on the class and the weight of the person, one can burn anywhere from 600-1200 calories in a session; as mentioned this is no easygoing, stretching seminar.

I grabbed my mat, towel, and water bottle and headed to the highly recommended Hot Yoga Barre. I wore a sleeveless shirt and gym shorts and although I was informed male students often go shirtless, I decided to make my maiden voyage conservatively. As I drove to the location I finish yet another cup of water. I had been excessively hydrating during the day, so much so that I could feel the liquid slosh around in my stomach as I took sharp turns. I entered into the busy shopping plaza where the studio was located and felt butterflies start to turn in my stomach. Am I really about to do this? What if I see someone I know? Will my Dad disown me as a son? Well, too late now, my money has been paid and I’ve driven all the way here. Time to man up and get into that yoga studio, wait no that doesn’t apply here.

I parked and saw middle aged women toting their yoga mats and water bottles as they crossed the parking lot. This must be the place, I thought. I entered the building and started climbing the stairs looking for the studio. I could hear girls laughing at the top of the stairs. Were they already laughing at me? No couldn’t be, not yet. I walked up to the front desk and the receptionist was very pleasant. She asked me if this was my first time and I replied, "Yes, what gave it away?" She kindly explained, "Well you brought a pilates mat which is a nice soft, spongy mat, but it won’t work in our class, you can borrow one of ours." Great start. She said I was one of two new males in the class which made me feel somewhat optimistic. She continued to give me instructions, however overwhelmed with information, I simply nodded my head and smiled. "That all make sense?" she asked. "Yes, of course thank you." By the time I checked in and signed the paperwork, saying if I died it wasn’t their fault, the class was nearly full. I found a spot in the center of the room and tried to line up my mat and look normal, like I’d been there before.

My first observation of the studio was how tightly packed the classroom was. You have maybe six inches on either side before the next person. I did a quick prayer to the yoga gods that I wouldn’t fall on top of someone or kick the poor girl behind me in the face. I looked around to see what the class was made up of. There were probably about 30 people. I would guess about 25 of them were women and out of the five guys I was the only one wearing a shirt. Of course there were soccer moms and business women, but to my surprise the large majority of females were young 20 somethings.

And then it hit me I was so caught up in the initial stress of the new experience that I had totally forgotten about the heat. It was warm in here, but it wasn’t that bad, this should be a piece of cake. Most people were still stretching so I decided to do a couple stretches I had picked up over the years playing different sports, none remotely related to yoga. 

The instructor gathered the class’s attention and it was go time. We started off with some deep breathing as we lied on our backs and faced the ceiling. She instructed us to inhale with a sense of relaxation and exhale our stressors from daily life. It felt a little free spirited, but I went along with it and tried to relax my body for the impending exercise.The movements started off easy and I began to think this wasn’t all it's cooked up to be. Fast forward ten minutes and I'm drenched in sweat, contorting my body in ways I never imagined possible. Five minutes after that the shirt had to go. It was too hot to acknowledge any insecurities. Now I've done high school football two-a-days in the middle of August and I've done some intense cardio sessions, but never has sweat poured from me as it did during this class. I entered the class feeling like I had to pee after all my liquid consumption and halfway through the class this was no longer an issue. The first piece of advice I'd give anyone entering into a hot yoga class is hydrate and then hydrate some more.

This particular class was ideal for beginners in that you can go at your own pace. There are variations of each pose that can make it more or less difficult. There's always the option to lay on your mat, but honestly whenever I tried to catch my breath it didn’t work in the heat, it continually weighs on you. About three-quarters through the class, even the easy movements now seemed daunting and impossible. With no clock in the room I had no idea when Satan’s yoga class would end. The only thing that kept me from blacking out was the cold water in my bottle and child’s pose. As I laid there in child’s pose, I had an inner conversation ridiculing myself about how this was the dumbest idea I’ve ever had and I would never do it again, not for a hundred attractive females in yoga pants. The session finished up with some ab work in the form of leg raises and flutter kicks, the ultimate kick me while I'm down ending. Finally, we laid on our backs and took in our final humid breaths, leaving our stress on the mats.

I was thrilled when the instructor announced the end of class. I wiped down my mat and went to get my shoes and belongings. Unfortunately, I only brought one shirt and I had been using it to wipe myself down during the class because my towel became drenched minutes into the practice. I reluctantly put on my sweat-drenched shirt and sprinted to get outside in the cool air. In a wet sleeveless shirt and shorts, I walked across the parking lot to my car in a 40 degree February night, one of the most refreshing experiences of my life. As I drove home, I noticed how calm and relaxed I felt. I truly felt stress free and renewed. My opinions started to change almost instantly about the class, I couldn’t wait to go back. Sure the class was hell, but this post hot yoga sensation was worth it, almost as if I needed to go through hell to make the rest of the day feel like heaven. I slept great that night and the next day I felt loose and relaxed, my mind felt sharp. I went to the gym the next afternoon and had one of the best workouts I’ve had in ages. I felt incredibly fresh and for the first time in forever I lifted in no pain. I was able to get much lower in my barbell back squats and cardio was pleasant in comparison to the night before.

I will definitely go back to Hot Yoga Barre. The classes are reasonably priced, there are endless physical and mental benefits, and of course beautiful women. I’m not sure how often I will go, ideally once a week to start. It is a great outlet to use as a stress reliever. I can foresee myself going to class on the weekend or Friday afternoon pending a stressful work week; a much healthier option than heavy drinking. I think it will fit perfectly into my weight lifting schedule, allowing me to keep my routine and my body fresh. Hot yoga is not easy, and especially as a male, swallowing your pride can be just as difficult, but I survived and I am here to tell the tale that hot yoga is worth it. If you’re not at the physical or mental state you’d like to be, you’re only hurting yourself not giving it a try.