Yes, I've Lost My Edge

Nati has already given me grief about not being on top of the Eliot "Client 9" Spitzer story. Certainly a funny post about former Gov. Eliot "$4500forahalfandhalfareyoufuckingkiddingme" Spitzer would be par for the course here at TFTDS. I am sure some of you were waiting with bated breath about how I would commentate on Easy E "I'vepickedupgirlsfromstarbucksandIwasbrokeatthetime" Spitzer's situation. But, I think the story has been done to death, and honestly - the only real shocker was that he paid so much. Ugly NFL linebackers are supposed to pay for sex, not high powered politicians. That's what the staffers are for.

Speaking of thieves and women, there is another one that I find way more interesting. He is not a governor or politician, although he has stolen his (much smaller) share of money. His name is Stephen Trantel, and I saw his story on 48 Hours (CBS) while I decided whether or not I should hang out with some girls in corsets at a Minneapolis club. Pictures will be up later, you be the judge...

Here is the digest... Mr. Trantel was your typical family man in the Wall Street trading biz. He loved his wife and family, and got caught up in the rat race of making lots of money to buy a house so large he could barely afford it, and trust fund level schools that his kids didn't need. The financial pressure hit him hard, and eventually he was forced off the commodities floor - essentially losing his job. No alternative means of employment was enough to make things happen, so he decided to hit Google and learn how to be a bank robber. He did, and came up with a successful set of rules that allowed him to rob at least 8 banks with ease. He was only captured because greed and success prevented him from changing up his MO before the cops caught on.

Aside from the secret life of the modern day Jesse James (sans death), Mr. Trantel seemed to be a loving father and devoted husband. And he was so successful, the district attorney over his case was forced to give him a sweet deal on prison time (8 years) because there was no other way to tie him to all the banks he allegedly knocked over. On the 48 Hours program he seemed geniunely contrite and sorrowful - acknowledging he did it all just to support his family.

So why did Mr. Trantel's wife leave him while he was in prison? She had some blame for his actions - she refused to be a part of the financial management of the household, yet she demanded the very things Trantel had to rob banks to finance. While I do not advocate theft as a vocation, you are not going to find a man more dedicated than him. Plus her notion of, "I deserve to have my freedom" was sickening. As I've said here before, the woman owns the emotional barometer of a relationship... if she missed the change in his life, she doesn't "deserve" anything. Rather than support her husband in his time of need; she hit the treadmill, and the singles bars looking for something new. Humbug.

At least Gov. Spitzer got something for the money he earned, Mr. Trantel only got eight years and no appreciation at all.

A Strange Thing Happened On The Way To The Weekend

I like beer. It's tasty. It's delicious. I have proudly had a Guinness and a chocolate donut for breakfast, without shame. I know where the best beer specials are in Atlanta, and I try to sample them all.

At the same time, I work out to lose weight because I don't want to feel like Jabba the Hut when I have a girl with a better body than Princess Leia walking around the place. (Yes, it's a Star Wars reference. If there was a better one, I would have used it. Sue me. No, don't sue me. Please.)

However, the story I will tell you still annoyed me. One Friday night I was out with a couple folks from my fencing club. One of the group was a cute twentysomething who was a bit of a health nut who never ever went out. (Strangely, I know more than one girl like that here. I need to meet more people). Given that it was Friday, a nice beer seemed appropriate, especially since I wasn't hungry. We were at Taco Mac, a bar and grill known for its average Southwestern menu and its extensive beer list. To me, it made sense to pan the sub-par burrito, and go with the quality pale ale special. And then I hear this, "Don't do it. You don't want to gain weight, do you?"

My, my, what have we here. My first instinct was to reply, "You can kiss my black ass." And believe me, those words formed in my mouth. But a strange thing happened. I ordered a water with lemon instead.

I was tired from fencing, so the water tasted fine - but there I sat, cowed. Cowed not because I thought she was attractive (an understatement), not because I want to date her (I do, although our ideas of nightlife fun are worlds apart), nor even because I want to look good for her (if that was a make or break issue, I would have given up long ago). I backed down because she reminded me of one of someone from my past.

At first I thought the person was my older sister, but that would be too creepy. No, she reminded me of me - the me that existed before I went to that pledge assembly almost eight years ago. It was the night I was forced to listen to some fat white girl talk about how alcohol ruined her life. The same night I decided that this woman was a loser and full of crap, and that if she's sober, I need to be drinking. The eve before I failed my first and only class - and lived to tell the tale (and be better for it).

Before that evening, I was the arrogant smart kid who was extremely Christian and conservative. I would have late night loud arguments about abortion, I felt uncomfortable being alone with women, and I could convert binary numbers to hexadecimal numerals in my head. I listened to classical music, and only learned enough about hip-hop and Top 40 music just so I could communicate with my peers. Whenever I felt blue, I played chorales on my trombone. I dressed up for College Republicans meetings. My every waking hour not spent studying was spent with my nose in a book. And my nose was still hard and my head was still hot from all the fights and scraps in my public school career.

It was after that evening I learned that working my tail off for the rest of my youth was a sad arrangement. I realized that trying to convince people of anything against their will was a waste of time. I decided to master that easiest means of communication, charm. And I developed a taste for alcohol and other legal vices. My trombone was abandoned to its case, and I spent years rediscovering the music of the 1980s and 1990s that I had shunned when it was actually current.

That me is the one that convicted me that night. And as the topics strayed away from fencing and turned to the arts - opera, musicals, shows, etc; I couldn't help but realize as I watch the basketball game above my fellows' heads that I used to be interested in these arts - and I used to hate basketball. Then again, I used to hate sports and exercise in general. Part of me wanted to engage, but I felt like an outsider, a hanger-on who wanted no part of being the only cool kid at the table.

I don't feel I am worse off then before that fateful night. The charm and pragmatism that I picked up has helped prepare me for a much more lucrative and profitable sales career than of a hard-nosed analyst or something like that. I certainly have a LOT more fun, and people have even more fun around me. Even so, I still feel the need to oblige every now and anon the warnings of the spirit of my sober and less tactful past - even when it speaks through the mouth of a pretty Hispanic girl.

Starting the New Year

Thank God for insurance. I got caught in another flooded street on Sunday morning, and had to get a rental car while I wait for repairs. The Enterprise guy was pretty cool, and he was encouraging me to get the extra insurance. Usually I don't bother, since my company has its own insurance that supposed to cover me when I travel, and my personal insurance is meant to cover the rental.

But then I remembered, its New Years Eve. The amateur drinkers top national holiday (followed by St. Patrick's Day and Mardi Gras). And the last time I drove anywhere on that day, I was in Minneapolis partying with some friends at the U of MN and some jackass broke my rearview mirror. So I got the extra insurance.

The night was a lot of fun... I hung out with some very cool people, drank a lot, and let random women take advantage of me. However, the whole evening was colored by the fact that I learned the day before that no matter what happens - life really does come at you fast. I can't leave anything to chance. Real men can't afford to be careless.

Beyond Being Cool

As an adult, I try to look past the paradigms of what makes someone cool or not. For me, being cool was all about self-confidence, and the ability to encourage people just by being around them.

One of my friends from Indy was a former car thief, a serial adulturer, and an admitted wife-abuser. Other than that, he was an awesome guy to hang around, great with the ladies, and even his ex-wife had to admit he was cool as hell. This guy is an extreme example, but being cool is not about what you do, but how you do it.

Knowing this, I avoid characterizing people into cool/not cool compartments until I had a chance to get to know them. Being able to do that allowed me to learn that chess parties can be a lot of fun and sometimes people act nerdy as a front to avoid opening up to colleagues. I even like to see myself as the porno producer in Girl Next Door, a guy who looks beyond popular characterizations because he lives life in a way that is both incredibly awesome and wildly unpopular. Think about it, a guy who orders around pornstars for a living is the ultimate expression of James Dean cool. He looks at T&A all day, and the hottest ones kiss up (among other things) to him - yet society as a whole reviles and condemns him (mostly hypocritically).


You DO want my life Moxon!

But sometimes, especially when I am around the younger folks, I get pulled into recognizing those popular distinctions. Not because I am trying to fit in, but because I would rather be left alone. And if someone is going to try to interact with me, they had better be cool. Looking beyond the surface takes work - and I am kinda lazy and have better things to do.

Interclass Dating

A while ago, I mentioned an article in this space talking about the growing acceptance of interracial dating. If television is any guide, the relationships you see on Fox's "24," the interracial petting you see on SpikeTV's "MANswers," and the black-asian relationship on that doctor show I am now sick of illustrates how far race relations in romance have come. Of course, I still stand by maxim, that the real race issues come out when one's daughter is involved.



The real difficulty, however, is in interclass relationships. The issue reminds me of a Thursday night last year at Laseter's - a dive bar just north of me here in Atlanta. I was out of work that summer and took advantage by starting Happy Hour at 4pm and finishing up right around 2am. It was one of those nights that I met a sultry white brunette who worked for the city. We were flirty right away; I was bored and horny, and she was drunk and loved my aftershave. Our conversation turned from me getting her out of the bar to her work with the downtrodden and how the capitalists are screwing everybody. She probably assumed since I spoke in complete sentences (the best way to exude intelligence) that I actually was interested - and she went on and on about there not being enough social services. I tried to make a cogent argument against her reasoning, and she countered that I wouldn't understand because I am part of the "upper echelon" - whatever that is. She even revealed she makes about $32K a year with few benefits. She was also unimpressed with my rejoinder that I was currently making absolutely nothing.

So here I am in a bar, with a woman who makes less money than I did when I first left school - and I am using the fact that I am unemployed as a selling point? Maybe this interclass thing really isn't a good idea.

Life's Little Metaphors

This past weekend I helped referree a tournament for the Georgia High School Fencing League. Mostly this involved wearing a jacket and tie in a hot and humid gym, and looking mean and cross as I directed bouts. That was pretty easy because I was wearing a jacket and tie in a hot and humid gym. During the DEs one thing I noticed that pained me was how a lot of the kids seemed to give up in the third period when they were only down a few touches. It's one thing to get murdered, or to try something and fail. It is quite another to give up hope. I firmly believe if you give up hope in sports, you will give up hope in real life. Even if you know you can't win, you play for pride - just so your psyche remembers to hold on when it really counts.

It reminds me of my first official date in Indianapolis, back in 2001. She was a pretty petite blonde, who was introduced to me by her identical twin sister. I was excited about our date, but I also didn't want to screw up the golden opportunity to tell the story of the genesis of our relationship six years later. The plan was for her to meet me at my place, and I would drive us downtown to Palamino's in the Indy Circle Center.

Things got hairy when I was looking for street parking for about five minutes, and Ginger got tired of waiting. Just at that moment, I saw a space right across the street from the restaurant. I eased in front of the space, and as I prepared to back up to execute the perfect parallel park - Jerry Seinfeld started directing. Yes, a late model yellow Corvette pulls halfway into the space, just stopping where I am halfway in. Sonofabitch.

I make motions telling him to move on, and he flips me off. Personally, I was ready to just give in - I was hungry too - but then I heard Ginger speak. "You aren't seriously gonna let this guy have this space, ARE YOU?" You see, this is why women are responsible for all the violence in the world. If one of my guy friends said that, I might brush him off. But on a first date with a hot girl who wants a manly man, there is no way I am giving in to some douchebag in a penis car. So I start honking, a lot. Then I flip him the bird - with both hands. And for good measure, I back into the space at speed, at the same time. He is driving a brand new sports car, I am driving a company car that I was gonna wreck sometime anyway. Guess who got the space?

She smiled lovingly and tossled her hair when I executed the best parallel parking job of my life. Honestly, the rest of the date was wrought with bullshit (racist waitress who kept giving her wine in a soiled glass, neighbors who ambushed Ginger when she got back to my place - eliminating any chance of a "nightcap") - but I doubt I would have dated her for a year if I gave into that yellow Corvette.

Sometimes you gotta know when to fold them; but if it is time to hold 'em, you fight to the very end.

When Alphas Collide

There is nothing like honoring tradition. Especially when that tradition involves hanging with two of your best friends and tearing up whatever town in which you happen to land. To many folks the three of us are known as those crazy guys who made a boring night awesome - we call ourselves GND - just the Guys Next Door.

The three of us come from completely different cultures, yet we are very much alike. Weezy is from a liberal upper middle class background in the Northeast, T-Nuts is from a conservative middle class Nigerian background, and I am from an ultra conservative lower middle class Midwestern culture. Each of us - in our own way - is funny, charming, interesting, attractive and a great time to be around. Each of us are also often arrogant, stubborn, foolhardy, short-tempered, condescending, jealous, self-centered, and can be a preening primadonna. Each of us is also fiercely independent, and we all tend to attract (and be attracted to) sycophantic women. So for most of the year my friends and I are used to getting our way, enjoy not taking crap from anyone, and in our off time we relax while hot women tell us how cool we are. Then for a week I get to hear my friends tell me I am full of absolute shit, and I tell them the same. It is a hard thing to deal with that transition, and we end up with a recipe for a lot of fun and a crapload of drama. This might be why George Clooney and Christian Bale don't hang out.

If you are watching the three of us at a restaurant, in the span of five minutes you will hear uproarious laughter and frenzied arguments at least three times each. In fact, there are a few general themes for every time we get together.

• Hilariously wild stories from college retold, and sometimes relived.
• Horribly embarrassing stories from college retold to each other, and sometimes to girls who were interested in one of us before they heard the story.
• Pissing matches over nothing, both figurative and literal, commence at least once a day.
• Argument and offense is forgotten in the next few minutes.
• Girls will join our group, drawn to our natural energy. About half of them then be repelled by our caustic behaviour. No comment on the other half.
• Even though we all went to a top 10 university, at one point we will talk down to each other like children.
• At least one of us will end up in the hospital and/or deathly ill before the trip is over.

Hanging out with these guys really brings the "iron sharpening iron" line to life. Even though we are at each others throats, we still have a great time together and all the steam that has built up from work, life, and love is gloriously released on a GND outing.

Thankfully, I managed to actually stay healthy this year.

O Brass Ball Where Art Thou?

Getting older kinda sucks. You are less willing to do stupid things, and your risks become much more calculated. When I was 20, I had no issue with walking up to a girl on a date with her boyfriend and hitting on her. Of course, back then even my enemies said I had two sets of brass balls - and besides, the guy never bothered to simply kick my ass. From my senior year through my fourth year out of college I partied hard during the week and still enjoyed the occasional hot college freshman.

These days I have a mortgage, a car payment (the days of company cars are over, for now), and my life after work/fencing during the week consists of "That 70's Show" reruns on TiVo and censored "Sopranos" on A&E. I thought about getting into a relationship - but for some reason I met girls who thought building a relationship involved plying me with sex and terrifying me with craziness. That shit is fun for about a week and a half, after that - fuck it.

For the next few months, I am pretty much gonna do nothing but hang with friends, study Turkish, and watch football. In other words, the blog may get kinda boring for a bit. Feel free to look at the archives on the right - there is plenty of craziness there to keep you unproductive.

Then again, I am spending a weekend with some college buddies at Myrtle Beach, so you never know. And then I am going to a burlesque show. And it is about that time for a Guinness event. And tailgating for football. And Halloween. Wow, doing nothing is tough.

What A Difference A Year Makes

While walking around the office today, shaking off the last bit of hangover miasma, I noticed on the big flatscreen in the lobby that it is now my one year anniversary at my new company. Wow. A lot has happened since then, and bears the need for some reflection.

• I am 25 pounds lighter now than I was when I left my old job, and I gained a fair bit of muscle in the meantime. And my high blood pressure disappeared. I also get up easier in the morning. Maybe it was good I got out of there.
• Travel has always been important to me, but I find it is less necessary when I am comfortable at home with friends.
• While short-sighted, I still stand by my decision to make a play for the hot blonde from my old office when I was out on a date with an cute unemployed brunette from Wake Forest. If you want to dip your pen in the company ink, there is no better time than right before you leave the company.
• Going out and partying while I was unemployed seemed reckless at the time, but ultimately it was a good idea. It got me out of the house, kept my spirits up, and an upbeat spirit ultimately got me a new job.
• Fencing is great for the mind, body, and soul. Period. Thank God I was able to get into this sport - I don't want to think about where I would be without it.
• I really have some great friends. The collection of wisdom and levity I have access to allows me to get into the maximum amount of trouble possible without ending up dead or in jail.

That's pretty much it. Here's to another great year.

A Man's Guide To The Topless Beach

That's neat! Can you tell time with a watch too?

Few things are more uplifting in the summertime than the topless beach. You and your friends are walking along, and then out of nowhere God shines his blessed rays of sunlight on a pair of beautiful tan titays. Our male unevolved brains want to instantly sport wood, turn our eyes in to sauce plates, and our hands into tense boob sized claws. Our male unevolved brains also has no concept of jail. Thankfully, the 10% of the brain we men do use knows what jail is, and is willing to learn what it takes to enjoy the bountiful goodness of the topless beach, without causing undue offense. Here are some tips.

• Wear sunglasses, especially your first time. Sunglasses mask the natural radarlike twisting your neck will do as you look from one succulent chest to another. Plus a decent pair of sunglasses help you feel cool, which will help down the road.
• Avoid twisting your neck like a radar dish. It makes you look like an amateur, and a little creepy. Instead, take in a large view and focus on interesting points from right to left.
• Try to have a general smile the whole time. This will help you avoid a reflexive shit-eating grin when you see a Scarlett Johannsen calibre set.
• Take about ten minutes to scout out your general area, then establish a base a few yards from any topless girls you will be approaching.
• Once you set up base camp, take a dip in the water (bringing along any frisbees, footballs, etc)... this will calm your nerves and give any perspectives a chance to look at you.
• IF you see a benuded girl you want to chat up, be sure to approach her from a vector where she can easily see you coming. Also call out to her from a close, yet safe distance.
• When chatting, maintain eye contact and smile. If she hasn't put on her top by now, feel free to hazard an easy yet quick glance.
• If over the course of your conversation she still hasn't put on her top, feel free to make a cute comment about how the tanning is coming along. If she is not with a significant male other, feel free to offer her a drink.

Follow these rules, and you are guaranteed a day of beautiful views and bountiful scenery.

Mr. Rogers Is Better Than You

It has been a while since I thought about the show, but Gorilla Mask had a link to a great post discussing the greatness of Mister Rogers. Without ever lifting a weapon or saying an angry word, he humbled celebrities, inspired politicians (in a good way), and brought down the entertainment industry in one of the first fights over intellectual property. Back then, the evil device du jour was the VCR.

This story in particular was moving, although few things he did do weren't moving.

Once, on a fancy trip up to a PBS exec’s house, he heard the limo driver was going to wait outside for 2 hours, so he insisted the driver come in and join them (which flustered the host). On the way back, Rogers sat up front, and when he learned that they were passing the driver’s home on the way, he asked if they could stop in to meet his family. According to the driver, it was one of the best nights of his life—the house supposedly lit up when Rogers arrived, and he played jazz piano and bantered with them late into the night. Further, like with the reporters, Rogers sent him notes and kept in touch with the driver for the rest of his life.

Such kindness allowed him to save public television under the Nixon(!) administration, inspire thieves to return a car they stole from him, and make hardened NYC commuters in a subway burst out in song. I actually shed a few tears reading about him again.

On Winning

When you first enter my home, the first thing you notice is how small the living room feels. There isn’t a lot of standing room, but it is very cozy for sitting down to listen to music, watch TV, or cuddle by the fireplace. On the mantle, you will notice my humidor, flanked by DVDs, flags, and of course, my fencing medals. If you are truly observant, you will notice that only one of them is gold.

While I hate to jinx myself by saying that 2nd/3rd place may be a way of life for me, there is some evidence of that. With the exception of academics, I have rarely won anything outright. I remember getting 2nd place in my elementary school paper airplane competition, two years in a row. In elementary track and field, year and years ago, I only managed to get third in the dash. I came in second every time I ran for class president in High School. Even now, as I work my ass off in the grand sport of Olympic fencing – I have never won an individual competition.

However, I can’t say I have never won anything. In music, my ensembles usually got I ratings, as did the marching band. In my brief attempt at Science Olympiad, my partner and I won a gold medal for an experiment that I really can’t even remember. In college, I won my fraternity’s presidential election, but only after assembling a group to help plan my victory. Even my first hook up in college was supported and cheered on my friends visible in the background but just out of earshot. And my single fencing gold medal was earned in a team men’s epee event – where both the responsibility to succeed and the glory were shared.

Looking at this interesting contrast, I begin to ask myself – who really, truly, wins alone? Every person who has beaten me in a gold medal bout has had his or her (yeah, I know) parents by his or her side, cheering them on and making sure that every need is met. Even the adults without parents are supported by their clubmates, folks who are willing to drive, bring food, whatever it takes to allow their chosen athlete to focus on winning. However, I have gotten used to never being supported by my parents. I’ve always provided for myself; and I fueled my ambition on the sighs and moans of the family of my opponents. But as I begin to make more and more friends in my club and people begin to tie their hopes to mine in camaraderie – that outside support is translating into more and more individual success for me.

Even a solitary night needs a squire… you really can’t win alone.