3 Dance Dance De-Evolutions

There's no doubt that dancing changed my life. It was the singular vehicle responsible for transforming me from a shy wallflower to the gregarious extrovert that most of you know today. I’ve written many times about the joy and wonder of dance, suggested it as therapy for just about any manner of blues and waxed poetic on the dance club where I really learned what dancing was all about. But in keeping with their tradition of bastardizing, perverting and utterly destroying any institution they get a hold of, the latest generations are having a similar effect on my most beloved of pastimes. There are of course, notable exceptions. At its highest levels, dancing has actually become more athletic, more artful, and more amazing. Unfortunately, everyone else couldn’t be further from these talented artists. Today’s dancing is yesterday’s seizure, lewd gesture or assault. After nearly twenty years spent on dance floors of nearly every shape, size and style, I may not know what good dancing is, but I surely know what it’s not. Here are 3 of the very worst examples of bad dancing for the casual observer:

1. Drop it like it’s not. Ladies, when someone asks you (1) if you like to dance or (2) if you know how to dance, please understand - they are asking two very different questions. The biggest difference being, the correct answer (for the vast majority of you) to the first question is “yes” and to the second question, a resounding “no.” You being good at shaking your ass is not you being good at dancing, it’s just you being good at shaking your ass (and most likely deluded even about that). Dancing like a stripper - sans pole, Motley Crue music, acrylic heels, or getting paid for it - makes you look, at best, desperate, and at worst, like a whore. Trying to look sexy looks just like trying to do anything does (or in other words, not sexy). The key element is not looking like someone with a muscle condition while dancing is to be genuine, because there is no other activity where being affected is more obvious (or more difficult to watch). Trying to emulate moves you saw on a Britney Spears or Pussycat Dolls video is a solid guarantee you won’t look anything like either.

2. Doin’ the Hump. Gentlemen, sneaking up behind a girl and driving your pelvis into her backside is not an invitation to dance, it’s sexual battery. While this type of behavior may be o.k. in rap videos, Spring Break in Mexico, and the Real World - everywhere else it’s actionably criminal. And though this will likely come as a shock to anyone who regularly engages in the this type of behavior, you’re not a star musician, a party host in Cabo or on reality TV. I honestly can’t recall when this became a widely accepted method of asking a woman to dance, but I suspect it was right about the same time that young men starting trying to attract women by making their crappy cars louder (rather than making them less crappy). What’s more, on the off chance you have successfully achieved an invitation to dance with a woman, a clumsy imitation of your sexual technique is about as enjoyable to watch as two dogs going at it in an alley. Trust me, you have a better chance of getting lucky with a proposition on a hand-painted sign around your neck than you do with your epileptic air-humping.

3. Strictly Ridiculous. Listen, I think it’s great that you’ve got the time and dedication to have taken ballroom dance lessons, and even better if you’ve done it with your significant other and the two of you are able to waltz the night away. But please be clear that (1) not every dance floor is a ballroom and (2) ballroom dancing to music other than ballroom music is like wearing black tie attire everywhere you go; or in other words: it makes you look like an asshole. Bringing special dance shoes to a nightclub is the only thing lamer than bringing your pool cue in its own little suitcase. Dancing with the Stars is a hit because it’s ridiculous, not because it's awesome. Besides, watching you prance around like you accidentally sat on your plunger isn’t even fun to laugh at, because you’re not famous. There’s a reason that ballroom dancing competitions (that don’t involve celebrities) are hard to find on television: because no one wants to see them. Besides, the last time being good at that kind of dancing made you look better than everyone else, folks were wearing powdered wigs and tights. If you find, while looking around to see how impressed everyone is with your hand-placement or soft-shoes, people looking at you like you’re covered in a thin layer of feces, take a hint and save that crap for rest of the douche-bags in your dance class.

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To be certain, this list could have been a whole lot longer. I just didn’t have space to mention flailers, bumpers, and mimes (just to name a few dance floor tragedies that I’m sure you’ll recognize). But for all the horrors I’ve seen on countless dance floors, both public and private, I’ve seen just as many amazing, hilarious and heartwarming things. And for all the times I’ve wanted to run from them screaming (or at least scratching my head), there’s still no place I’d rather be. And with all that time on the dance floor, I’ve learned a few inalienable truths: First, good dancing has a lot more to do with being yourself than it does with technique, skill, or fancy moves. Second, it’s almost impossible to overcome a lack of rhythm, but a good sense of humor is your best hope. And third, unless you’re dancing for money, relax - it’s supposed to fun, and no one worth worrying about really cares anyway.

3 Bad Threes

So far it’s been a pretty good year of threes. There have been good threes and bad threes, threes to laugh about and threes to cry about, but there’s no doubt that no matter what the threes have been, it’s been good to have threes. It’s been said that good things come in threes, and that three is a magic number. And while I am certainly and obviously a fan of threes, there are certain threes that should be avoided. You know that tricky third step down to the basement, that third period geometry class and Door Number 3 during Let’s Make a Deal? Of course, those are the evil third, threes and triples that you already know. So as your resident master of threes, here are 3 threes to steer clear of:

1. The third drink. There come a point in every evening which involves adult beverages when the decision is made to either keep it slow and steady, let the buzz wear off and get yourself home in decent shape or to pound them like you’re at a frat party, lose almost complete control of yourself (including your major bodily functions) and rely on your friends (or the kindness of strangers) to get you home. And this point is directly following your second drink. You see, the first drink is a nice reminder that you’re a grown up, usually something tasty (top shelf stuff), and is just enough to take a little edge off your day. The second drink is a confident nod to the cocktail waitress or bartender, a confirmation that the work day is officially over and a little well-deserved comfortably numb. At this point, you can still have an intelligent conversation (provided you are capable of one sober), walk around without stumbling, and reliably tell the difference between what’s funny and what’s not. You can even look cool turning down that all-important third drink - decrying the need to drive yourself home, work tomorrow, or just not hate yourself in the morning. But one drink later, you’re that guy/girl, forgetting yourself and your better judgment, apt to do at least one thing you’ll regret or have to be reminded about, and irrevocably altering peoples’ opinions of you. Tying one on regularly is a solid plan, tying three on regularly makes you a drunk.

2. The third course at a meal. It’s no secret, the United States is a fat-ass nation. Or perhaps more accurately, the U.S. is a nation of fat-asses. We do portion control like the Middle East does human rights. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a good meal, and like nothing more than the amazing variety of food that is at my fingertips as a result of living in America. But no matter how fancy, incredible or enjoyable the meal, having a third course is the difference between a having great eat and needing a second seat. In practice, what this means is having the appetizer or the dessert - but not both. Sure, they’re going to try to sell you both, but that’s because they make more money when you do - and they don’t have to pay for the gym membership, the bigger pants or the diabetes medication that you’re going to need when you start free-basing chocolate cake to punctuate your nights spent dining out. It’s always shocking to me after eating at a place like the Cheesecake Factory which brings out livestock-sized portions for entrees that you couldn’t finish with three goes at it, and then has the audacity to come offer you an 8-inch high slice of cheesecake that you can gain weight from just smelling. Of course, a quick look around, however, debunks the mystery of who exactly they’re catering to when you spot a couple of super-sized patrons plowing through their dessert course like it’s trying to scamper off their plate. Trust me, unless you want to look like a walking “Before” picture, keep the number of courses at two.

3. The third unbuttoned button. The buttons on a man’s shirt seem innocuous enough. I mean, at first glance, they’re just there to connect one side of the shirt to the other - but in practice, they mean/say so much more. The top button is simple: the only good reason to fasten it is to button a collar in preparation for a tie, because without a tie, a buttoned top button is the most reliable indication of religious zealotry outside of carrying a bible. So, unless you’re strapping up for business, you get one non-button for free. One. The second button is the difference between business casual and actual casual. It’s a necessary accompaniment to wearing that same shirt untucked. It’s the last button you should have to undo on your own during a sufficiently romantic evening. The third button, by comparison, should only be undone when removing the shirt. An unbuttoned third button is the dress shirt equivalent of having “Affliction” written on your t-shirt, and male equivalent of the bare midriff. If you think you need to have three buttons undone to comfortably wear your shirt, there’s a strong possibility you need a bigger shirt and an even stronger possibility that you’re vastly overestimating your size, the aesthetic appeal of your chest, or the likelihood that everyone around you wants to see it. Trust me, the only thing that you can have hanging around your neck that I’m going to need to see is a winning lottery ticket with my name on it. Everything else makes you look like an even bigger douche than your vastly over-bared chest is already doing. If someone really wants to see your torso, they’ll let you know; for the rest of us, two buttons worth is all we can handle.

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In this year of threes, it’s turned out that there are just as many bad threes as good threes, and perhaps even more. And while three is certainly a special number, sometimes it’s just as good of indicator of what not to do. As you might expect, I’m usually a big fan of folks getting to three, because for me, it usually means that I’ve gotten someone to read past 1000 words, and in this age of twitter feeds, micro-blogs and instant updates, that’s a miracle all its own. But, I’d gladly sacrifice a few readers if it meant dealing with a few less drunks, fatties or chest cleavage-baring ass-hats. The fact is that there are no magic numbers, three or otherwise, that excuse you from using your three most important weapons against dumbassery: your brain, your judgement and if all else fails, a mirror.

3 Facebook Fails

At present, there are two kinds of people in this country: people who use social media, and the incontinent. The age (or otherwise) excused from reliable bladder control notwithstanding, first MySpace and now Facebook have become as ubiquitously a part of our life as cell phones, DVDs and, unfortunately, Justin Bieber. This development means that the same internet which originally purported to be able to connect us all, is finally doing just that. And once we finally ditched the glitter-gasm spam-fest that MySpace devolved into (and left it for the tweens, permanently "aspiring" recordings artists, and insatiable famewhores), we began to reconnect with long lost friends from our home towns, alma maters and old jobs. We finally figured out the difference between oversharing and sharing, the banal and the truly interesting, and real friends versus Facebook friends. But like any other public space, no matter how clean and awesome it starts out to be, the public invariably finds a way to eff it all up for everyone else. On the eve of the feature film that celebrates its improbable birth and rise to power, here are 3 things wrong with Facebook - or perhaps more precisely 3 wrong things you can find there:

1. Private Parts. As a general rule of thumb, if you’re trying to capture on camera something that you’re too embarrassed to have someone else help you take a photo of, don’t. If you can’t think of a single soul who you could ask to photograph you, what on earth makes you think the rest of the world at large has any interest in seeing whatever tragedy you’re trying to record? The mirror-assisted self-portrait is the most reliable indicator of mental disability this side of a helmet, and doing it shirtless or in your underwear makes you look as desperate as you do stupid. And though I’m not the first to say this, please stop making that ridiculous kissy-face - the only people that should be seeing that are people you’re going to kiss. It’s not as sexy as you think. In fact, it’s not sexy at all. It just makes you look like a jackass trying to mug for a reality show where you sell your dignity instead of getting a real job. If there is a dearth of pictures of you on the web, there’s probably a good reason. Just because you have a place to post this kind of self-debasing nonsense, doesn’t mean you should.

2. Dumbville. Sometimes I could swear that the folks who killed MySpace are still hungry for social-network blood. Because just when I think Facebook has finally settled down and become a relatively gentrified place for friends and folks to share their lives with one another, another opportunistic bastard attempts to profiteer on what I can only guess is widespread intellectual dissatisfaction with real life, by creating yet another mind-numbingly trite “social game”. As a result of these obsessive pastimes, instead of getting updates about what my friends are doing, where they’re going, or who they’re hanging out with (things I might actually be interested in), I get an endless stream of notices about whose mob family is growing, whose farm animals have escaped, or what new fish someone got. All this is made exponentially more asinine by the fact that none of these people are in the mob, on a farm, or even have an aquarium. If reality is too boring for you, take a nap, read a book, or catch a movie. Maybe then you’ll actually have something to share that doesn’t make me want to slap you with that shovel you need for your fake farm.

3. Unlikeable. For all that Facebook has, and for all the ways it has connected our lives, both online and off, there is one big thing missing: the “dislike” button. The “like” button was brilliant. A way to indicate approval without having to come up with a catchy comment (the pressure of which can sometimes be overwhelming); a way to support the ideas, preferences and discoveries of your friends, even if you have nothing necessarily to add. But where is the “dislike” button? When did Facebook become “Happyland”?! Why is it that the only two options I have to respond the veritable universe of often inadvisable crap that is posted by my friends for public consumption is either to “like” it or ignore it? It’s like the internet version of the old maternal maxim: “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all” Are you kidding me? If you have the kind of friends who won’t tell you when they don’t like something you’re doing/saying/ingesting, etc., then you don’t really have any friends. Or maybe that’s why you’re on Facebook in the first place?

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In general, I’m grateful for Facebook. Because as a result of its existence and development, I’ve finally got a way to keep people up to date on what’s going on in my life (and vice versa), without having to spend hours and hours that I no longer have on correspondence, etc. What’s more, its nearly universal appeal has allowed me to find long-lost friends from lifetimes ago, and allowed many of those same folks to find me. It even has a much cleaner mechanism than real life for getting suddenly unwelcome people out of your life. But as Facebook has grown, and tried to continue to sanitize its way as far from the teenage wasteland that its peer network has become, it will discover/has discovered an inalienable truth. The more real life that gets absorbed into it, the dirtier it will become. Because no matter how you scrub it, segregate it, or censor it, real friends, real relationships and real life are messy. And the real success of Facebook will not be finding a way to help us cleanly stay connected, but rather in finding a way to let us all get messy together.

3 House Horribles

As someone on the brink of first-time home ownership, I am keenly aware and even anxious about how to fill up my new house - especially since I’ve mostly lived in apartments for the last ten years or so. As opposed to apartment living, there is a veritable universe of options when it comes to things to populate a home with: furniture, appliances, decorations, etc. After watching years of Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous and Cribs, I have some very big ideas, and after living by myself for the past six years, some very strong preferences for the small stuff. But, in my searches and observations I have come across some items that you should definitely not put into a place. And so, in the hopes that mine won’t be the only house I’ll never have to see these articles in, here are 3 things that should not be in your house (or anyone else’s):

1. Unbreakable. The 1970’s was an era of fashion, style and home decor that is usually best forgotten. It was also, as it turns out, the last time that ceramics were a welcome addition to interior design. With the notable exception of handprints, ashtrays or other basic pottery made by your own young children, the only thing in your house that should need to be “fired” is any interior decorator who thinks it’s ok to put this kind of kitschy crap where you live. And you can only hope that the worst ceramic thing you’ve got is pottery, because the only thing creepier to have in your house than ceramic figurines is human body parts. Honestly, I’d rather stay in a house full of feral cats and discarded food containers than one full of Precious Moments and Hummels; at least I know the cat-owning slob in the first house isn’t going to trying to make me a life-size part of their “collection” of pretty things. “It puts the lotion on!” If you need something fragile in your house, stick with your ego, and leave the ceramics for the garage sale.

2. Work Outdated. There is only one type of product that gets outdated faster than the consumer electronics in your house, and that’s exercise equipment. Which is unfortunate since it’s usually really expensive, really big, and has the aesthetic appeal of your average dungeon setup. Of course, there are some less-expensive options (i.e. infomercial fitness), but if you’re the kind of person who will display anything in your house that you bought from a television commercial airing after midnight - you’re likely beyond any kind of help that I can offer. For the price of one decent piece of equipment you could buy a couple of years worth of gym membership, where they keep the equipment updated and repaired regularly. But for some reason you don’t want anyone to see you work out? Listen, don’t buy into the advertising, not everyone at the gym is a fitness model. In fact, most of the folks there will be there for the same reason you are - to get their fat asses into shape. Besides, which would you rather have as a totem of your utter lack of resolve and laziness: a barely used membership card, or a stationary bike/treadmill/Bowflex machine with a year’s worth of dust on it? Only one them will fit into a drawer when you’re having company over that may want to have some kind of respect for you.

3. Going Down. There is one fixture that you can have in your house that makes you, inalterably, into an asshole. One device that, no matter what other tasteful and carefully considered items you fill you house with, will make everyone who visits think you’re a douchebag. And that item is an elevator. There is simply no defensible reason to have an elevator in your house. If you have more than three floors in a house that only you live in, you’re an ass. If you have three floors or less, there’s a solid possibility that you could use the exercise that a couple of flights of stairs could regularly provide. Seriously, you could have a laboratory dedicated to finding a cure for cancer, three bedrooms for orphans and a soup kitchen for the homeless, and as soon as I see an elevator I’ll want to punch you in the mouth. I’d rather see a full-sized bronze statue surrounded by painted portraits and a wall-sized photo montage of just you than one elevator - and the personal shrine is the only one of those two options that won’t make me want to slap you. Having a home elevator is an excellent way to make your guests (a) wonder where your stairs are in case your house burns down and (b) hope they get used for that very same reason.

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There may be no more personal canvas for you than your home. It is, inside and out, an expression and reflection of who you are, where you’ve come from and what you want the the world to see. It is both intensely personal and inescapably public. And notwithstanding the foregoing, I’ve always believed that you have an absolute right to do whatever makes you happy behind the closed doors of that home (provided you’re committing no felonies). But that said, with this freedom comes the responsibility for what you choose to do with it - and my right to mock/judge you for abusing it. In the end, you can fill your house with whatever you’d like, hopefully steering clear of all of the above. As for me, I’m hoping to fill mine with three things of my own: love, friends, and way too many toys.

3 Gridiron Goods for Girls

It is difficult to mark the passing from summer into fall, even in my land of threes, without noting the glorious return of our real national pastime: football. What has for the past six months been my passing, ancillary and utterly marginal interest in sports has now turned into a ravenous information, betting and televised game-play hungry beast that no one dares leave unsatiated. The American obsession with this weekly symphony of violence is well-documented and ever-growing, but not truly understood. I, for one, believe that as our society has become more and more gentrified (i.e. wussified) our need for vicarious blood-lust has grown. You know, how every kid in youth sports gets a trophy, how you have to wear a helmet to do anything more dangerous than walk down the street, and how you haven’t seen a public spanking in ten years, but see a kid that deserves one a dozen times a day? So, while we suffer through weeks where no one hits anyone (no matter how much they need it) and all just grin and bear it, we wait for the weekend, when we will watch armored warriors battle over inches and yards. It’s also no secret that the fairer sex is about as interested in this annual revival as their hairy-knuckled counterparts are in Sex & the City, Cosmo or anything Danielle Steele has ever written. But, while there is never a good reason for a man to watch Lifetime television, here are three reasons ladies should tune into a little pigskin:

1. Quality Time. It’s not easy being a man these days. The modern day man is about as useful to a woman as a jock strap (and only slightly more comfortable). Ladies can now do most of the things we used to be able to do for them, for themselves. The opening of pickle jars, the fixing of busted items around the house and even the lifting of heavy things can now be accomplished by even the daintiest of females (with the help of a little technology). Academic arenas once the exclusive purview of men: law, engineering, mathematics, etc., now have as many or more female students and scholars than their male peers. And while all of this sounds fantastic, it robs men of the one thing they want most in a relationship (well, aside from seeing women naked), and that’s to feel needed. I’m not sure when or how I learned as much about football as I know, but I know I’m not alone. You can put any two guys together from vastly different walks of life, educational backgrounds, or professions and we will be able to speak fluently in football - a language that most women think sounds like a cross between throat singing and a really long dirty joke. Watching football with you (as opposed to simply near you) will give us the rare and wonderful opportunity to actually explain something to you and know what the hell we’re talking about. Besides, we’re much less likely to screw that up than trying to actually repair any of your appliances.

2. The Zen of Hitting. Let’s be honest, you ladies have got a little more violence in you than you’d like to admit. Sure, it’s been socialized out of your since you were old enough to talk (sugar and spice and all things nice, right?). But you know there plenty of moments in your day when you just want to grab a bitch by the hair and throw her to the ground (you know what I’m talkin' 'bout Elizabeth Lambert) And since you’re not playing in a college soccer game anytime soon, what is your outlet for this supposed to be? Rachel Ray reruns? Kate Gosselin updates in People magazine? Lifetime Original movies? C’mon. That’s going to end in more frustration and disappointment than your prom night. But, it’s also not a solid idea for you (or your criminal record) to actually go out and start hitting people, either. So, while it’s certainly not the same as personally laying someone out, watching 275 pounds of muscle and pissed off lay the wood to some mouthy, pretty-boy receiver is sure going to do a whole more for your inner ass-kicker than watching Merideth Baxer-Birney blubber through another contrived mother-daughter reunion. Trust me, you don’t have know or like a whole lot more than just plain hittin‘ to just plain enjoy football.

3. Dance, Dance Revolution. You girls probably think it would be a whole lot easier to get you to watch football than it would be for you to get us to go dancing with you. But as it turns out, you’re wrong. You’ve just been looking in the wrong place. In fact, joining your main squeeze for a Saturday or Sunday of football will not only afford you the opportunity to finally see him dance, but he’ll also actually sit and watch other people dancing with you. Sure, it’s not Dancing With the Stars, but watching that celebri-smut is only rotting your brain anyways. It turns out that we just need a good reason to dance, and while anniversaries, receptions and nice evenings out don’t always get it done, scoring a touchdown, making a monster tackle, winning the big game (or watching your favorite team do any/all of the above) is usually just the ticket. Of course, the dancing that ensues is usually somewhere between seizure and falling down, but at least you won’t have to bother with getting us to lessons. We already know just what to do. And so you know, we’re even more likely to cut a rug if our friends are around - especially if they’re rooting for the other team. There‘s just nothing quite like the “your team sucks” dance. It usually even comes with a song.

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It was all that I could do to not include “because it’s awesome” on this list. Because, in fairness, when I sat down to think about why anyone should watch football, that was the first 10 or so reasons that came to mind. In a world where the stories peddled to us are ever-more simple-minded, patronizing and contrived, sports offers a measure of unpredictability that not even M. Night Shyamalan can produce on his best day (which I’m pretty sure was sometime in 1999). And no sport offer higher stakes and higher drama than football. While the other major pro sports offer 80 plus games (and baseball gives us 162), football only has 16 - with installments just once a week, like an old-time serial western. Each tilt, in its massive stadiums, top-to-bottom coverage and ravenous fans, feels epic, and its championship, the venerable Super Bowl, annually breaks its own record as the most watched sporting event of all time. So, ladies, why not give it a go? Trust me, it’s the sort of gesture that won’t go unnoticed, and may actually get you someone to hold your hand and pass the tissues next time through P.S. I Love You.

3 Bad Trips

I’ve never been one for vacations. In fact, to date, the total number of vacations that I’ve taken in my adult life could be counted on one hand (with five fingers left over). Yes, seriously. As the second straight year where my New Year’s resolutions have fruitlessly included actually taking that first professionally purposeless trip begins to come to a close, I’m ever more committed to finally taking the plunge, requesting the time off and buying the damned tickets. But because I’m not accustomed to taking vacation for vacation’s sake, I’m convinced that an event/destination trip would be a good first step to take as I slowly begin to learn how to relax. You know the kind of trip I mean, where you go someplace to do something that only happens there; like running with the bulls in Pamplona, falling down the hill after the cheese in the UK or having a cheap suit made in Taiwan. I’m afraid, however, that going overseas is a little ostentatious for this first-time hedonist, so I’m sticking to the good ol’ U.S. of A. for my event trip. As a word to the wise for my fellow vacation virgins, however, (from personal experience and reliable hearsay) here are 3 event destinations to be avoided at all costs (no matter what else you’ve heard):

1. Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I know. I know! Dissing New Orleans is about as fashionable as leg warmers and a Dukakis bumper sticker. So let me just begin by saying that I was completely wrong about the Big Easy when I predicted the end of that city after Hurricane Katrina. I didn’t think they had it in them. And, despite all the motivational tales I’ve heard/read/seen about New Orleans’ survivors and perseverance, faith and restoration, I have to tell you, I would have run out of there like I stole something (perhaps that’s a bad analogy). But amidst all the bad, the one good trait that the survival of Katrina has highlighted in the citizens of the N.O. is tolerance. They will tolerate near chaos with a smile. They will tolerate buildings literally rotting around them with an unwavering faith and complete disregard for personal safety. And they will tolerate a lack of sterility and cleanliness only otherwise seen in horror film scenes and third world prisons with a stiff drink and a cavalier attitude towards deodorant. Unfortunately, nothing highlights these disturbing strengths quite like their annual Mardi Gras celebration; when they fill an entire city with the kind of people you spend all your time avoiding when you go out in your own hometown. If the black plague ever resurfaces, this is the one place they can reliably start looking for “Patient Zero.” If you hold your health, safety and well-being in any sort of regard, just grab some beads and head down to your local bar for Fat Tuesday - and leave the civic anarchy to the folks who have perfected it.

2. New Years Eve in NYC. Like most things on television, this looked like a better way to ring in the New Year than I could ever hope to replicate in whatever little ‘burg I was turning the calendar over in (including Los Angeles). It just seemed so cool. I mean, it’s in Times Square - the center of the commercial universe; there’s Dick Clark, MTV personalities, singers and other celebrities; there are countless throngs of people, that giant ball, the countdown, and that fateful moment - where hundreds of beautiful, fresh-breathed strangers will want to celebrate the occasion by kissing you while Auld Lang Syne plays loudly in the background. Which all sounds great, except, that’s not how it really goes down. First off, it’s cold. I don’t mean “a little nippy” either. I mean the kind of cold that makes “global warming” seem about as believable as the Easter Bunny and renders your entire cognitive process capable of only one thought: “Fuck, it’s cold!” And since they don’t make clothing (other than spacesuits) able to keep warm-blooded animals alive in that kind of weather, no matter what you wear (and especially if you try to dress fashionably) - you’ll be freezing your ass off. The famous people? Well, they’re actually in Times Square. Your pedestrian ass won’t be anywhere near Times Square because 500,000 people had the same good idea that you did. Trust me, you’ve never seen 500,000 people in person before - because if you had, you wouldn’t want to ever see it in person again. For reference, it’s like taking your average NFL crowd and multiplying it by ten, and then turning it loose on surface streets. And like that same NFL crowd, it's mostly populated by people who have breath that smells like burnt hair and wet dog, and who have imbibed to the point of forgetting any notions they had of good manners, personal space or volume control. Unless your resolution is to lose faith in humanity less than five minutes into the new year, watch your NYC New Years like you watch your pro football: on TV.

3. Halloween in (the) Castro. Though I give Portland credit for sincerity and effort, the real capital of weird is and will always be San Francisco. For those who have been reading me for a while, you know that I have an especially pointed hatred for the “city by the bay”. But for all of the horrible and terrifying parts of “the City”, I always had a special place in my heart for the Castro. For the S.F. uninitiated, the Castro is the traditionally “gay” part of the city - where the freedom to love who you want, how you want is a civic mantra so strong that the entire borough seems to be infused with the same rainbow that adorns the flags which mark its streets. It was also the only place in the city where I didn’t fear for my physical safety after dark. Or at least it used to be. As a law student in nearby Palo Alto, I was convinced by friends that this stronghold of proud individualism would be the perfect place to celebrate Halloween. I mean, what better place to play dress up and make believe with your friends, than a place which encourages and celebrates the same year-round, right? Wrong. Way wrong. It’s difficult to describe the true horror of the Halloween scene at the Castro. It felt like the truest approximation of what I would expect to see in the streets at the Apocalypse. Social order wasn’t being blithely ignored, it was being forcefully abandoned. There wasn’t so much shouting as there was screaming. There wasn’t pushing and shoving, there was fighting - with weapons! Windows were being smashed, cars rolled, and trash bins lit afire. One of most peaceful, jubilant and tolerant places on earth had been transformed into a living nightmare. So, if you’re looking to simulate actual hell during your October 31st festivities, you now know where to find it. For everyone else, stick to your local costume party, and save the hell for Sundays.

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I’m all for experiencing new things, and certainly an advocate for getting yourself outside of your comfort zone every so often. That being said, I’m also no proponent of putting yourself purposefully into your discomfort zone - as I am similarly not a proponent of festering, freezing or bleeding. It’s cool if you’re into that sort of thing, as long as it’s cool with you that I’m not. Vacations, like any time off, should not, as a rule, involve anything particularly painful - because, well, that’s what the gym, work and watching The Notebook with your girlfriend are for. Like stocks, investment opportunities and anything advertised on TV after midnight - if something sounds too good to be true, it is. So the next time someone is telling you what an awesome time they had collecting beads, New Year’s kisses or drug-laced candy corn, it’s best to remember three important things: (1) it’s not you they’re trying to convince, (2) misery loves company, and (3) you avoid contracting 100% of the diseases you don’t hang out with. Safe travels everyone, and I’ll see you in Philly in December.

3 Fall Fashion Faux-Pas

To be honest, I wouldn’t know “fall fashion” from its other seasonal counterparts, except that when it gets colder, I tend to put more clothes on. That being said, it seems that no matter how much advice is offered on what not to wear these days (i.e. a Google search of “what not to wear” yielded approx. 726,000 results), there seem to be more and more examples of people who either got dressed in the dark or let their pets/pre-adolescent children choose their clothes. I recently had an occasion to be at a grocery store near the middle of the day and it looked like everyone there had gotten dressed out of the “free” box at a garage sale. And trust me, I’m no fashion snob - I think it makes about as much sense to pay $300 for shoes just because they say “Prada” on them as it does to try and retrieve items from a garbage disposal while it’s running. That being said, there is simply no viable excuse for deciding to wear cutoff jeans 3 sizes too small, or a t-shirt that was last washed during the Clinton administration. And so, as a word of a advice to either take or pass on to a friend who desperately needs it, here are 3 things you really need to stop wearing:

1. Sleeves Optional. There is only one group of people who are truly allowed to wear anything sleeveless in public, and those are women whose underarms stop shaking as soon as their arms do. Note, there are no age restrictions here, but if you have enough extra arm hanging where there’s supposed to be a tricep, that there’s an outside chance you might be able to fly, you need to do us all a favor and try to cover some of that up. For the opposite sex, there is simply never a good reason as a grown man to wear something without sleeves. Let’s be honest, there’s an overwhelming probability that you don’t have the guns to pull it off (especially if you ever refer to your arms as “guns”), and even on the off chance that you do, you look like a complete asshat for needing everyone to notice. The only time I can ever recall a man looking correctly dressed in something sleeveless was when Cooter Davenport was doing it amidst fixing the Duke boys’ car and shouting “yee-HAW!” over the CB. So unless you’re a slender young lady, or are fixin’ to help Bo & Luke get away from Roscoe again, find some damned sleeves.

2. Dragons. There was once an innocent time when I thought that crosses and skulls marked the height of screen-printed douchebaggery, and that seeing there was no place to go but up, our latest generations would seek out at least marginally less ridiculous totems. But alas, I was wrong. Amidst a generation obsessed with adolescent wizards and gay vampires, they’ve come up with something even more absurd to plaster all over their clothing: dragons. Seriously, post adolescents haven’t been this obsessed with these oversized lizards since the Middle Ages (which was, at it turns out, the last time it was showing up this frequently on clothing). Dragons are to bad-assery what Shape-Ups are to athletic prowess; you may think that you’re sporting can’t miss indicia of your mad skills, but you’re really just wearing orthopedic shoes. I truthfully can’t imagine taking anyone seriously who was wearing something with a dragon on it. The only thing I should see dragons on in 2010 are my Chinese take-out boxes. If you want to look exotic, try a tan, darker hair and a bigger butt - and leave the dragons to the nerds with the 20-sided dice.

3. Mixing Brands. It’s one thing to have personal taste so bad and a self-worth so pervasively low that you need to display the brand name of the clothing you buy as boldly and loudly as you possibly can. It’s quite another to lack the good sense to avoid doing this with more than one brand at once. Honestly, I’d rather see someone wearing both horizontal and vertical stripes than a Juicy Couture sweatsuit, oversized D&G sunglasses (worn inside, no doubt), Ed Hardy Ugg boots and a Louis Vitton handbag. These personal billboards of desperation make me feel the sort of vicarious embarrassment that I usually reserve for people unsuccessfully auditioning for American Idol. And like those same “Idol” wanna-be’s, the real tragedy of the situation is not their failure, but their utter obliviousness to it. On balance, these fashion brand pimps likely consider themselves to be at the pinnacle of personal apparel, all the while looking like a homeless person who raided the dumpster behind a fashion show. If anyone besides Joan Rivers ever asks you “who you’re wearing”, that’s a fantastic excuse to (a) never speak to them again, or (b) slap them with a shovel. Come to think of it, the same actually holds true for Joan Rivers. Trust me, no one worth caring about really cares.

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It would appear that personal fashion is experiencing a bear market just as dismal as the U.S. economy of late. Despite our most fervent high hopes and the previously cyclical nature of such things, the apparel awareness of the public at large continues to plummet, with no hope of recovery in the foreseeable future. Just when it appears there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon (e.g. trucker’s hats falling out of vogue, everyone starting to pull their pants up, or women realizing that no one looks particularly good in a poncho) another even more absurd, inexplicable or downright foolish fad pops up to take its place (e.g. the faux-hawk on grown men, gladiator sandals, or the widespread acceptance of Crocs as acceptable footwear) and down deeper into the fashion abyss we plummet. One can only hope that this absurdity of style reaches some sort of critical mass, where even amidst our ever-deepening self-absorbed hazes we will all stop, look at our ostentatious screen prints, faux workout gear, gaudy hats and ridiculous footwear, and then collectively ask each other, “what the hell are we wearing?”