You're so Weird

You can peep this article and over 100 pictures at the Statesman. Go to www.austin360.com/getout

It was a day where collecting sideway stares from your peers garnered respect and mutual appreciation. The more zany, bizarre and weird the more at home you might have felt since the idea was to be different.

If you’ve ever had the most random urge to run 3.1 miles downtown in an unruly Speedo as passer-bys marvel at your mullet and pale under belly that’s never seen the light of day, then the Austin Weird 5K was definitely your type of fun.

Logic would suggest that the Austin Weird Fest was an event that I could safely afford to attend, considering I always wanted to run downtown in a urinal cake costume.

It was an opportunity to revel in a collaborative fission of individualism that celebrates the essence of Austin. The rich diversity of costumes, eclectic characters and randomness seemed to flow cohesively as runners spilled into the street at the start line.

The race began at 6 p.m., but calling it a slow jogging parade draws from varying degrees of accuracy since the scorching sun was beating down, baking and punishing all those who weren’t wearing a Speedo, making the run challenging.

It’s safe to say that it was the most entertaining and wacky race since the old reality TV show Man vs. Animal. There was a collective of Dr. Seuss characters, a robot did the electric boogey on skates across the Congress Bridge and a scuba diver ran beside me.

As we turned onto 1^st Street/Cesar Chavez Street, I had already begun panting like some asthmatic dog and I needed water. But in lieu of a water stand I saw an Amy’s Ice Cream stand, of course. So I stopped and fueled up, realizing it was better than water.

The heat and the non-serious nature of the race meant I might finish it in just under one hour, which would be a deplorable feat on any given day. But I could care less.

On the final stretch I saw a man on stilts, people rowing in a cardboard canoe and two women running with walkers.

While music from What Made Milwaukee Famous and Alejandro Escovedo entertained families and racers were looking to cool down, I looked around and realized why I enjoy Austin so much.

How often do you get to take part in an all-musical, all-entertaining, all weird run of unbridled strangeness? Well, if you call Austin home, more often than you think and that’s why I love this city so much.

I'll Still Hoop Your Mom Up

After conclusive evidence, I have decided that challenging a female NCAA basketball player to a game of one-on-one is not the best way to earn a certified man-card.

Especially if you lose and then create elaborate explanations as to why it was nearly impossible to slide a slice of pizza under your sneakers as you hop shamefully for a rebound.

I found myself blaming my inability to hoop it up and cut across the court with the speed of a puma on anything from a loose shoestring or a missing contact lens (I don’t wear contacts) to the fact that we were playing with a girl’s basketball. I even blamed my sluggishness on the fact that my recent breakup with my girlfriend was emotionally heavy.

I might as well have entered a cookie-baking contest and followed suit with an extensive Lifetime channel movie marathon, complete with knitting, gossip and romantic novel reading club discussions.

As you can imagine, it’s the perfect way to exhaust and destroy any unbridled level of ape swinging bravado or machismo you may have. Why you ask?

Let me refer you to a little (BIG) event circa 1973, the Battle of the Sexes tennis match, between Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King. For all intents and purposes, Bobby Rigg’s career was remembered mostly for his loss to the great Billie Jean King.

I left my legacy on the basketball court, enduring not only one, but two convincing defeats. I had no idea that I was getting myself into a lose-lose situation. If I win, great, I’m expected to win, if I lose, I deserve to retire any inclinations I may once have had to watch the Godfather or eat 16 oz. steaks.

To recap the game is somewhat painful, however, I must add that Katelyn Benz (Washington State University) was one of the nation’s best basketball players and she stands at a modest 6 feet.

Once the game got underway she jumped out to a quick 7-2 lead, and I began to panic. So I considered flopping, calling fouls if she breathed too heavily on me and/or I considered throwing jokes around to make the game appear more casual, as if I weren’t really playing hard. Truth be told, I was in “Rocky” mode and could only hear the “Eye of the Tiger” theme music in my head.

She posted me up and it was turnaround jumper after the other. I think she even yawned at one point and asked if I could touch the net. That game ended with me pointing to my ankle and the blister that threw the game for me, so we played again.

And though the second game had her winning 12-11, it was even more painful because it proved that the first game was no fluke. There was nothing I could do. And when things did go my way and I blocked her shot really hard, I felt really out of line for my obnoxious Mutumbo-like swat (but it sort of felt good).

I could have asked for a third match, but I feel like I would have entertained a perilous voyage into shame that would have proved to be minimally satisfying since she was losing interest in the challenge of playing me.

I thank the hardwood heavens that only a handful of people were witnesses to my crushing defeats.

There was an important lesson learned here though. I used to scoff at women’s basketball because I’m not a fan of jaw dropping lay-ups or bounce passes, but co-ed sports will never be looked at with the same futility and casualness as before.

Remember guys, if you don’t play hard, you’ll lose, regardless of gender, and I’m empirical evidence of that.

Now I must go redeem my man-card by absorbing countless punches to the midsection from Chuck Norris while reciting every line to the Godfather as I aggressively box out any motion to ask her for a rematch.

It's a Washboard. Yup.

I recently considered lifting my T-shirt up and over my head, removing it completely from my body and exposing some torso ... in public, at the running trail on Town Lake. Yes, I contemplated being that guy, only for a moment though.

It was a haste thought that was gone once I consulted with the ‘how to behave stupidly’ guide.

I remember several years back when my roommate asked me which laundromat I take my laundry for washing. I responded by pouring a glass of deep purple wine on myself and then ripped my shirt off like the Incredible Hulk and began washing the stain out of my shirt on my abdomen like some arrogant donkeyass in an infomercial.

That varies slightly in truth, but point being, I’m going for gold in getting a ripped midsection. That is why I joined a core fitness class.

It kicked my ass today and pummeled me into a mound of hamburger meat that was left on the grill, charred and chewed, but hardened, like gum beneath your desk.

But the fact that it also kicked Derek Johnson’s ass made me feel better. Yes, that’s right, the former Longhorn and NFL pro-bowl player and I were the only two guys in the class.

We don’t really know each other, though we did have a class together back in 2004 and we worked on a group project, which I shouldered all the work.

He parked his aerobic step next to me and we started talking about the secret gold mine that the class was … lots of “honnies” as he put it. I asked him if he'd ever done the core class before and he made it clear, "Hellz naw holmez, but I am now."

At any rate, class started and we were both so off the mark in keeping up with everyone it was just embarrassing. People were laughing at us. The instructor made little effort to go more than five feet away from us because we were out of control and shitty at core development apparently.

And we were only 10 minutes into it and I had already switched on the ‘profuse sweating’ button that I typically reserve for trips to the sun, saunas, awkward conversations with girls and fevers.
He then started grunting uncontrollably once the instructor asked us to pick up the weights to do some knee lifts. I thought the grunts were unnecessary. Everyone already knew he was struggling, why drill the point deeper? It's like saying, "Hi, I lift weights in my spare time and when I'm not doing that, you can find me lifting heavier weights."

“I can’t do this,” he said to me. I said nothing. But the instructor came and put her hand on my lower back to correct me and encouraged me to push. Apparently I couldn't either.

You’ve got to be kidding me though. An NFL linebacker who gets millions for his athletic prowess can’t lift 20 pounds and lunge forward at the same time like some homosexual ninja trying to stretch out his fancy pants?

It certainly made me feel better about barely being able to do a reverse kickback while pumping my shoulders in the air to the tune of Night of the Roxbury theme music.

This leads me to believe that if I endure these classes twice a week and stick to my running regiment, I’ll be washing clothes in public. Word.

Chew On This For That Dirty Mouth

I woke up at exactly 7:49 a.m. in all my disheveled glory, despite the unruly exhaustion raging unabatedly through every subatomic particle in my being.

My face was glued to my pillow, muscles and bones snapped, stretched and cracked loudly as if a batch of celery were being twisted. I was still wearing my going-out clothes from the previous night and there was evidence that a mysterious black felt tip sharpie had come in contact with the skin on my wrist. Phallic symbol. How funny. Dragons could have been slain at the slightest exhalation of breath.

It's safe to say I was an ungodly hungover of a mess, rife with cheetos cheese dust in my bed and a fresh stench of that devil brew that made Milwaukee famous likely seeping out of my pores.

And then, just as I yawned and sucked some air down, a bent and bizarre thought struck me harder than a devastating kick to the jowl after a Thanksgiving dinner:

"I didn't brush my teeth last night!"

The thought met me with the urgency and immediacy of some inexplicable priority.

I shit you not. Forget the fact that I was teetering on the brink of comatose. I was under the false impression that since I forgot to brush my teeth, it would inevitably lead to a general demise in my day that would leave my million dollar smile riddled with decay and wayward off-white squalor.

Yes, I take pride in my grill, but it was mad weird to scamper to the bathroom and brush my teeth while lacking the wherewithal to even wipe away the ravine of saliva left on my pillow and emptying onto my face.

Operating under the theory that germs are exponentially more potent with time, meaning there's a direct correlation to the degree of badness in how long something remains idle without being rinsed, washed or changed (see 3 second rule) I guess when I'm nursing a hangover it's all that matters under the adage of 'cleanliness is next to Godliness virtue.'

I could be swimming in puppy urine, but as long as I remember to brush my teeth, life's good.

p.s. I'm not really as unhygienic as this post suggests.

Ode to Summer

The greatest season on earth is making its arrival this weekend and I haven't done anything outrageously adventurous, spontaneous or noteworthy thus far.

Highlight of my summer? Getting a roll of pennies and discreetly spreading them across the sands of some beach only to watch some guy with a metal detector uncover the biggest buzz kill treasure ever.

No not really, but I'm also holding to the fact that summer hasn't even started yet.

Unlike most people, I really enjoy summer's heat and the discomfort that being outside may create. Whether that means constantly pulling away sweaty pants clinging to your thighs, generating Olympic size pools of underarm sweat, or grazing some waterhole with the synergy level of a pregnant cow and a slow moving rod of lightning during a lazy summer shower.

I love summer.

Every day is like taking a walk down Lollypop Lane, only more dope. With attractive girls in sun dresses abound how can you go wrong? Everyone looks impossibly tanned, and a lot of time will be spent on patios and lawn chairs. Life is simple, the way I like it. Austin summers even smell awesome.

Unlike one summer in Mexico City several years ago. That's one smell I'm still working to forget. There's nothing like stepping outside to the smell of bum urine that's been baked in the stagnant summer air.

Today smells a lot like the first of March, which also smells like your mom stepping out of the shower. Douche! [bag] comment ... on a Summer's Eve ... ZING. Wow! Why am I so dope?

In the spirit of summer, I want to continue compiling the experiences that will be wired straight to the memory bank. Not some offshore account, where I'll forget in a drunken haze. I mean, real time summer adventure.

That said here are some realistic and tentative goals I plan to achieve this summer:

1) Throw darts at a spinning globe and head to that place ... and then realize I can't afford going to Argentina to ride a mule into the countryside just yet, so I throw a dart somewhere in Texas ... MARFA, TX!

2) Marvel at the rich diversity of ass during at the next 'Mom Jeans' convention ... arguably viewable at your local Whole Foods.

3) Take a pale moonlight paddle on Town Lake by myself. Wearing a snorkel and fins.

4) Go to a family reunion and feel strange and stirring feelings towards your third cousin from Arkansas who convinced you that you're not related. KIDDING.

5) Attend a friend's wedding. I'm attending more and more of these and they're scary, because it's just a reminder I'm getting older.

6) Park my car in the sun and turn off the engine. Sit silently with the windows rolled up until the visions come.

7) Skinny dip with morbidly obese people and then vomit profusely.

8) Stay for an entire set of a live music show. Until the very last song. I just realized I've never done that.

9) Run the Margarita 5K and get so slosh faced that I attempt to run it backwards and call it a day after I stagger into a ditch half-way through the run.

10) Wear a suit to the grocery store and chat it up with some attractive lady at the produce aisle. Only if I'm able to grow an unruly mustache though. A sweet alternative, drink water from a yard hose in that suit. I've always wanted to do that.

11) Create a devastatingly funny T-shirt. One that involves literal and figurative speech, coupled with duo-meaning and Nintendo references.

12) I have just over one month to decide and plan my life out. That's no joke. My lease ends and I'm getting bored with my job. Changes are coming. Exciting.

13) Seek the advice from a grizzled Tom Waits look-alike who's bloated from Lone Star and BBQ and talks in a syrupy southern drawl. I have questions.

14) Slay a school of salmon with the ferocity of a native Ameircan and/or a black bear ... I need to go camping or fishing, in other words. I'm thinking when I go to Marfa, TX I'll do these two.

15) Eat ice cream in the dark. What the fuck JJ? Thanks for comin' out.

16) Write something very prolific that is very unlike me.

17) Think heavy and hard about a plan to make Argentina work.

18) Have a really bad, ill-advised conversation with my news director about being real.

19) Make more money, without having to whore myself out in the process.

20) Get back to the basics. It's the little things in life and in summer more specifically that make it so memorable for me. It's just the little things. Reducing shit to the most common denominator.

Marinate on This Bitches ...

This is my 2nd blog post in less than 30 mins. but shit, I can get away with it (please refer to the very top of this blog ... Who's dope?).

I just had to share some thoughts on something.

The wimpy Brits behind the song "Yellow" ... you know, Coldplay ... well, I just listened to their new album in its entirety this morning.

And yes, I am fully aware that their target audience might be young women with heavy hearts, but fuck that ... their new album is - dare I say - a trippy bombast of good shit.

Some people might balk at such appropriations but each song carries a unique otherworldly element that finds a natural place in the wide-open sound.

It makes me want to fly. gay? yes.

Correction: It makes me want to crack the spine of some dusty book sitting in the dark and dampened corners of my head and reread it while strumming memories and sturdy melodies backed by universal themes ... because that's what this album is all about.

As the title suggests, it's all about love, war and peace ... and people, I promise this is the ONLY fagelleh post I will ever write, but I appreciate fine art, and this harkens that, and the album's triumph lies in how exciting Coldplay makes the prospect of love, war and peace seem.

Everyone knows I tend to shy away from mass appeal, but listen to the album and tell me you don't like it, and I will take you to Austin's finest eatery (at your expense).

Douchebag Played Out?

Courtesy of a few strains of virulent pop culture, we see the douchebag in proper form ALL the time.

Whether it's the frat daddy who shamelessly says 'sup bra', the narcissist 'tard without charm ... the political pundit minus the brains, and anyone with hidden agendas -- it is evident that there are a lot of unsavory characters who beg comparison to vaginal irrigators.

The term is overused.

I feel we've come to throw the word douchebag around to loosely when the term 'tool' will suffice. I still feel a tool is more biting than douchebag. And we don't truly employ accurate adjectives anymore because assholes are collecting the term of ill-willed folly moreso than the actual dick knobs are. There's a difference people.

Next time you encounter a real douchey guy, instead of just slapping him with the term douchebag, consider something new ... like 'wet fart' ...just sayin

The American Apparel Reality Check

I did it people.

I went to American Apparel to see what life is like in skinny pants.

Before I continue I just want to preface this entry in saying there's nothing wrong with skinny pants, but I'm just not that comfortable being that well-defined.

Let me explain. I rolled up into American Apparel and was immediately greeted by the most dainty man I've ever seen. In fact, he looked anemic, pasty, light enough to hover.

Me: "Yo, I'm looking for a pair of pants."
Guy: "These are super sweet [points me to bright red pants].

They looked as if I would have trouble even fitting my arms through each leg. FUCK yes! This was going to be ridiculous.

Guy: "They're a little small but once you wear tight-pants you don't ever wanna go back."

Hell to the fuck yes!

I take the pants to the dressing room and literally could not get the size 31 waist pants all the way up my legs. But after much hard work I got them on.

The first thought that came to mind? Take them off.

But I was able to button them up, flex my soccer-legs that can also be mistaken for tree trunks and only wished I was wearing one white glove, because I had this incredible desire to do a Michael Jackson snap kick, spin and moonwalk across the floor to see people's reaction.

Instead I ripped them off and concluded they're not for me.

Professional Identity

Being the sharply observed repository of random musings that I am, there's an obligation I have to write a short explanation about career identity while supplementing evidence that I am really really dope.

Dolla'Dolla bills y'all!

That said, I might make $25,000 per year or I might make $831,600 per year as a journalist (not including my side gig as a back up joke teller for another publication).

What?! Was that some sort of gay joke dude? No, but good luck getting a straight answer about my salary. ZING mother fucker.

I hit up a young urban professional happy hour yesterday because someone informed me that it's what the deliciously wealthy, devastatingly successful and outright pompous socially elite twenty-somethings are doing these days.

Naturally I belonged there.

There was an urge spawning from the bowels of my soul to wash people over in waves of douchebaggery at the Belmont on 6th street. I had plans to douse myself in expensive cologne (imported from Africa and contains lion saliva), put enough product in my hair to last through the following calendar year, and pounce every opportunity to impress a girl with my large wallet and topical conversations that only discuss me and my incredibly superior station I have attained through my career.

But that urge died once I made it to the bar and asked the bartender for a Lone Star.

The request for our state's lower quality, cheaper beer revealed me as the lowly paid journalist that I might actually be. But I was fine with that, because I really have never tried to impress people ... unless you're a prospective employer or if you are of the attractive, smart and sexy ilk of the opposite sex. But even that's arguable how far I go to try to impress people.

So we schmooze it up all night with young twenty-somethings who all want to avoid lateral movement in the work place as much as they want to avoid impending debt. Skyrocketing to the top is the common ground we all stood on.

It was an aggregate of shiturgy, which loosely translates to a shitload of lameness, but not to discredit it too much, there's something intriguingly hilarious about handing out business cards.

I have an entire box of cards that never see the light of day. In fact, I use them when my joke material gets really bland while at work. It's an easy button for laughter.

"Having a bad day? ... Here, take this, it will do the trick." [hands business card to person]
"HAHAHAAHA ... it's a card. And look, there's your name. And even a job title! haha. Thanks JJ, you're the best!"

But people ask me for my business card and are mysteriously enthralled with my job title for some ungodly reason I will never understand. I delicately decline when I say I don't carry business cards with me.

Professional? No. But the cards literally won't fit in my wallet.

And I know people who strategically and creatively use their business cards to their advantage. For instance, one of my friends who will remain nameless, offers his business card to girls and even includes a fake British accent and gives the impression that he's a charming blue blood with a vernacular for otherworldly.

Another friend uses his business card to scrape bird poo-poo from his car windshield.

Me, I think my business card would find a happy home in a urinal at GSD&M. Someone would have the wherewithal to actually contact me, only to say, 'dude, your reputation is literally in the toilet" ... but I like you shameless attempt at viral marketing yourself.

I handed one business card out last night. I hope she maximizes its utility and studies my contact information with the proficient dexterity of a double-fisting alcoholic staggering in and out of consciousness. And emails me to say, "is that a real job."

So after the drinking barrage with the 30k millionaires and real estate agent girls looking for lawyers, we headed over to another bar that was more my scene on Red River. Cheap, grimey and real.

And it was there where we encountered a real life homeless man who approached me with an industrial size roll of aluminum foil. He asked me what my favorite animal was. I told him a zebra for some reason.

He wadded up the foil and created a fuckin badass zebra, even had stripes too! And he had his own assistant, who held his foil for him. I should have asked him to make a duckbill platypus or some shit instead.

"That's my executive assistant," he said. All I could think about was how cool it was to have an aluminum foil zebra. I was enamored and told the guy he was really talented and I envy him for his craft.

If I could make animals out of tin foil I'd take those skills to the Bellmont. I'd instantly become a class C celebrity. But I would only make doucheman, not to be confused with horse feces. But is almost interchangeable.

Speaking of class C elebrity and/or being freakin dope ... I was at a West 6th Street bar last night and ran into three girls who I know, who confessed that they actually read this.

I've never felt more stupid in my life. haha

Tetris Thinking

It's like playing Tetris and you think you have your shit together on level 9 when all of a sudden that mother fucking dissimilar oblong looking pariah of a geometrical mess drops more unexpectedly and faster than an ill-advised bowel movement after an Exlax milkshake.

It doesn't correspond in nature or structure and it's quick descent forces you to think quickly. Your reaction is a standard detour from the distinguished tongue: 'Fuckin' bitch!'

And then before you can even finish spouting out the word 'bitch' an upright elongated column drops from the unforgiving Tetris heavens and parks itself on your haphazard tower of Jenga atrocity, full of holes and impending doom.

And at that point it's too little and too late. The game signifies your suckyness by making that sound effect that sounds eerily similar to a duck getting a prostate exam or something, and the screen is full of blocks.

And you're so determined to set it right in the next game. Clean slate. But the effects and remnants from the initial game carry over into the next and in a haste panic to get back to where you were at level 9, you screw up early on.

At this point, your confidence is shot after bowing at at level 2. Your level of annoyance is only rivaled by a retarded clown who out smarts you and twists your nipples repeatedly.

That's what the hell happened people. Things started slow, sped up and I just couldn't manage how fast it was shaping up for me.

Sometimes I say to myself, 'shit, I wanna rock that brown paper bag over my head' because I suck so bad at Tetris... but then I remind myself that it would be a huge disservice to girls who are seeking pleasant looking faces. SNAP! But I might do it anyways.

This Tetris thing is obviously a metaphor for something else ...

I wish I could situate all of it and make it fit nicely like it once did. Perhaps I should stick to colors instead of shapes, Dr. Mario.

The Radical Honesty Post

It's 7:12 a.m. and I'm pounding the keyboard loudly with the ferocity of a geeked out wood pecker whose hollowed laurels are fulfilled once humans are annoyed.

I want people to know that I'm working, so I peck like a mother fuckin' character from Willow.

Oh the places you'll go in this mixed media world of mayhem I'm immersed in right now.

This is the honesty post, so I have virtually parked my rear end on the world-wide-web this morning, gravely surfing YouTube in search of really engaging and intense thumb war battles, street-wise bohemians freestyle rapping about the good life as a starving artist in Grenich and how-to instructional content about how to write a thank you note.

In no order of importance here are some truths that I must confess:

I still read Cosmopolitan magazine when accessible

Yogurt has become the sensible baby food of adult culture but I'm still embarrassed when I eat it in public ... do I chew, straight swallow or drink?

I recognize the coffee mug advice that gives me pithy, perky, predictable, trite advice on how to live.

Girls love me because of my low-maintenance style with androgynous shag haircut and simply cut clothes that say, "damn, too much style, coming through .... make way."

I linger at the self-actualization aisle at Barnes & Noble with a book from another aisle in my hand to act discreet. "Self Reliance" by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Tackle that mother fucker with the craziness of a linebacker with a chemical imbalance.

I think everyone needs a good sports nickname ... sincerely, JJ "THE HAMMERIN' HOMUNCULUS"

I say things for sport: Who does that?

I can't swim, only doggie paddle and when required to swim it's a crushingly embarrassing experience.

I twirl the few chest hairs that I have when I'm lying in bed.

There's a feign interest I have in watching older, distinguished men read the back of wine bottles and critique its quality. Once they put the eye-glasses on half way, I'm already taking diligent notes on how to be a man.

I don't enjoy compliments like most people do. It makes me feel uncomfortable because I feel required to return the volley.

I have an uncanny knack at telling a woman's dress size.

Speaking of dresses, I love sundresses. Hot girls + sundresses = amazing day.

Every play-list in which I create seemingly of random songs provide a secret message to one person.

I enjoy delivering eulogies.

No one can beat me at caressing a woman's neck. Back of my fingers, in a slow fan. I'm not joking. Same goes for the lip lock. No one.

That's it for now. back to work.

I Just Threw Up A Little Bit in My Mouth

I was feeling dangerously experimental this evening.

Trying to remedy that hellish hour of boredom that had me considering ungodly activities for fun, like changing my voice mail greeting or seeking the wisdom hidden in the multiple fortune cookies I was eating at the time.

*Notes of interest:

I will not return your phone calls unless you leave a message and sing it to me in E minor.
I once got a fortune that said, "It is impossible to please everyone, so please yourself [in bed].

So, what was I to do to entertain myself?

Since I'm a word wrangler of such gritty minimalism whereby apostrophes will hug and cling to these sentences like saran wrap, I'll keep this entry short and sweet. I'm really not terse, but I will be for this entry.

I showed up to Hooters, in search of all things hot. Bosoms of spicy chicken and the scantly-clad '70s porn star themed waitresses. So I roll up in that mother fucker (I don't know why I just used such vulgar language there) and eat generous servings of fried gobs of chicken that would either a) feed several small African villages b) pose a threat to your esophagus and contribute to other worldy indigestion.

After eating, only minutes after swallowing greased lightning in the form of hot wings, I decided to run three miles for good measure.

For all intents and purposes, I had just eaten two pounds of butter. And the after taste tasted like axle grease ... and I felt like the business end of your shoes after you just sludged through a bar bathroom.

It was bad. And I needed some quick, spiritually uplifting health fix it was that bad. I think the atrium valves in my heart were signing up for Yoga class or some shit. So I washed all the grease out of my clogged arteries with ice cream. Wow!

This came half way through my run mind you. I stopped, bought ice cream and continued my run.

Dope? no sir. Contradictory? yes.

It was an intriguing exploration of the brilliantly simplistic premise that I completely negated the process of achievement when I decided to run. Yes, run. I had reached great feats by stuffing my face with fried goodness, and ruined it with a run.

Peace Out!

There's always something bewitching and unsettling when it comes to saying goodbye to people who you are only vaguely familiar with and you aren't sure how to bid farewell.

Hand shake? Fist pound or knuckle knocking explosion in unison, or a risky attempt at an elaborate thugged out, seemingly choreographed handshake that typically ends in some half ass man hug?

Whatever. I'm the "just throw two at 'em" kinda guy who just says peace with a sideways peace sign. I have clammy hands, which makes hand contact impossibly awkward, especially when it's with another dude.

My clammy hands effectively make the hand exchange seem more gay than a collective of wizards poofing fashion trends while blogging about Sex and the City at the same time. That's pretty gay, my friend.

There's not many things more awkward than someone trying to shake your balled up fist too. Don't be foolish people, if I extend a firm fist, it is not summoning your palm, so please refrain from making an ass out of the two of us., please.

Unless you genuinely thought we were playing the interactive version of rock, paper, scissors and you were showing me how paper is capable of suffocating rock, you are certainly not and never will be dope ass.

But I'm liking the revival of the Medieval handshake where forearms are grabbed ... the Japanese bow works too, and shit, even the Middle Eastern man kiss is less gay than an uncoordinated, misguided plunge in coolness when two people fumble their way through a good bye.