Hi, Watch Me Not Impress You

Alright, so I rarely write about detailed meanderings with the ladies, but this one was too funny not to share.

I met this girl a couple weeks back at the fine social hub -- unofficially designated for grassy gnomes -- also known as DB's on West and 5th streets. I was standing behind her and she set her purse down on a chair in front of me at the bar and I advised her that she shouldn't leave her purse around and she said, "Oh - I've been watching you, so I know."

Not certain what the meant, I got her digits. We texted each other intermittently over the course of a week and finally met again yesterday for coffee.

The first major problem the meeting posed was that I didn't know her name. Since she was simply listed in my phone as "Hot Chick" I considered avoiding the subject all together and call her any pronoun in lieu of her proper name.

So we start talking, conversation is fluid and non stop. I ask her a range of questions from favorite flavored toothpaste to geographical living preferences to interests in flutes and previous week experiences.

Totally legitimate conversation. Until I remind myself that I didn't know her name. So I began scheming like a soap opera villain with wayward intentions. I convinced myself that SHE, in fact, had no idea what my name was too. It went like this:



Unknown girl: Absolutely, but when it comes eggplant and salmon, I'm not sure it's a good combination [CUTOFF mid-sentence]

Me: You have no idea who I am do you? You don't even know my name.


Unknown girl: Um, JJ, what are you talking about?

Me: ::SILENCE:: {{Crickets}} {{Thumb twiddling}} OK. (Stupid blank look washes over my face).

Those who know me, are not surprised at the nature of an abrupt comment like that from me.

Unknown girl: Wait. You don't know my name do you?

Me: What? Don't be ridiculous. I was certain you didn't know my name ... I just don't know how to spell your name, that's all.

Unknown girl: It's Gertrude.

Me: Duh. I know.

Unknown girl: No it's NOT. It's Juliana.

Me: ::SHIT:: OK, so yes I was busted. I didn't know your name.

Thinking it would be a good idea, I made the poor decision to inform her the name that appears on my phone every time I receive a text from her. I dig an even deeper hole to lament in.

Me: This was the only name I knew you by. "Hot Chick"

The girl formerly known as unknown girl: Wow. You have really managed to impress me.

Me: So now that we got that out of the way, what are your plans for the weekend?

{{It's only Tuesday, who the hell plans for the weekend on a Tuesday?}}

Juliana: I don't know. The week just started.

Me: I plan all my social outings two weeks in advance.

{blatant lie}

Juliana: Well, I'm going to this prom, at LBJ or something.

Me: PROM?!?!@?@#?!!?@

{{SHIT! She's still in high school! I must leave this scene as soon as possible. Calmly I continue.}}

Me: So how old are you?

Juliana: How old do you think I am.

Me: Considering you just told me you are going to prom, please tell me I'm wrong when I say this, but 18?

Juliana: Um no. I'm 25. It's called prom, for UT's LBJ graduate school of public affairs. So you think I look like I'm 18 huh? That sucks.

Me: Are you Italian?

Juliana: HUH? No. German and French. Why?

Me: Who going to win March Madness?

Juliana: What? You're asking random questions.

Me: Oh -- look it's almost 8 we've been hanging out for about an hour now and I have to meet some friends. {{blatant lie part II}}

Juliana: Oh - OK. Sure. Well it was interesting hanging out.

Me: Yea we should do it again, like this weekend.

Juliana: I don't know. Actually, no. But we'll see.

So that was that. Lesson to be learned fellas. A) Know a girl's name. It's the least you can do. B) Don't let her know that you think she's hot.

Ernest Hemingway Blogs About March Madness, SXSW and Rebounding

It truly was utter chaos in the nights of South by Southwest and I feel like death, nay like six feet of pummeled lump flesh that is yielded after tracking and shooting bear in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina.

Cheers, South by Southwest. Hazy you were, but nonetheless jolly. I can't say the same for my NCAA tournament bracket though. Coming off the heels of SXSW and jumping into more March Madness of a different ilk is making my noggin spin.

It is fair to say that my blog writing shall be characterized by economy and understatement, so keep that in mind, chaps. SXSW has drained me, and typically I am the stoical man who exhibits grace under pressure, but I am gelatin today.

Of men and glory. Let's talk basketball.



Alas, I wish for you all loyal readers to know that my intentions to write another great American classic novel have been sullied, marred and capsized by moderate drinking habits that are nothing to write home about. But I am writing a short basketball review for the Penny Press Courant, where I analyze basketball teams.

North Carolina Tar Heels

What say you North Carlina Tar Heels? Roy Williams is soft. His hands look manicured. They have never pulled tobacco from the dirt. He has never gutted a fish fresh from the sea. Soldiers shoot soft men in the back rather than follow them into battle. Williams should look out. He should watch his back. But junior forward Tyler Hansbrough is a 2-ton bull in baby-blue shorts. When he broke his nose last year, he saw red. He charged. His horns went down and gored opposing players. I would fight with this man. I would die for him. If a bullet met him, I would cradle his head till he left this earth. After the platoon's soldiers shoot Roy Williams in the back, they'll follow Sergeant Hansbrough into combat. Hansbrough and UNC charge to the Elite Eight.

Kansas Jayhawks

As for my ultimate sleeper team of drunken, hung over death. The Kansas Jayhawks.



I do not trust men from the plains. They have no beasts to hunt. They have no stormy seas to tame. They have no mountains to climb. There is nothing in their lives that tests their constitutions. Men without tests are not men. Coach Bill Self has shown this. In two of the last three years, he has been pistol-whipped by teams in the first round. That does not happen to real men. I have no strong opinion of there poultry mascot, but I doubt he could juke a marlin with his dribble. This team is left without honor in the second round.

Duke Blue Devils

Coach K is a platoon captain. He can lead men to war. Men would gladly die for him. They would run over barbed wire. They would charge into a battery of machine guns. They would limp toward a field of death on his word. In this game, they shoot for him. They press for him. They pick and roll for him. Coach K harnesses the manly terror that only mad men from advertising agencies inflict on competitors from the roaring 1920s. These men are gifted. These men are winners. These men will be the champions.

It is tough for me to write, struggling to bounce back from violent debauchery, but I will say this, the key to winning championships is not defense, or teamwork. It's REBOUNDING!



In my experiences, chronicles, travels and epiphanies, I have discovered that there are seven stages of drunk.

1. Subject's face begins to stretch, as if struggling to keep eyes open, while neck and goiter of subject seems to visually expand and quiver unattractively.

2. Subject begins to threaten loved ones with shoes, staple guns, other unconventional weapons.

3. Small racist man appears out of subject's pants, begins to tell impolite "jokes".

4. Falling violently to the floor, subject begins to bleed from knees, already scabbed over from previous drunk.

5. Subject insists on making a tortilla with beans and lots of mustard.

6. Tarot cards are revealed. Subject insists on reading stranger's cards.

7. Ignoring the concept of time, subject begins calling old friends who live three time zones ahead of them. While trying to form reasonable sentences, subject passes out on couch with head tilted back, mouth open in underwear only.

Gentile Culture, Brah!

In an undeniably disturbing manner, I reach the fruitful nucleus of my day when I do something undeniably stupid. I know all you readers have been begging for a good suckling from the literary mammary gland, yearning for some sweet, sexy nectar gushing forth from the inner depths of my hambro soul.

Having laid out the precursor to what I'm about to say, just remember, it's spring and your mom has sprung.

So I'm fulfilling my stupid quota for the day in revealing a bit of information below.

I love equestrian girls.

I know, weird. I imagine if the ghost of James Brown were to reply to that comment he'd say something like:

Hot pants! Yeow!
Sex machines! Uh!
Whips! Good God!
Blazer! Maceo!
Mashed potatoes! Ha!



I don't have the faintest clue why equestrian girls turn me on the most. Yes, even more than all you little arty girls with pretentious tendencies oozing from your every pore. I wish I could say it was just a fad. A seasonal interest that sweeps in during the Kentucky Derby or the Country Club Olympics or some shit, but sadly, it's year round.

To the reader, sure it might appear as though I need professional therapy, psychotropic medications, a hot bubble bath, a few horseback riding lessons, or a rhino sedative, but I think a bowl of Cracklin Oat Bran cereal will suffice (275% dietary fiber, bitch).

I have concluded it is the gentile culture thing. Having said that, my first reaction, I have to say, is, "Codswallop!" Did I really just say that? I am as ignorant as the proverbial dinner guest who knows not his marrow scoop from his halibut fork after trying to understand the equestrian fetish. On a second thought, no, it's not the gentile thing that drives me insane.

Maybe it's my desire to live the high-brow life? Whatever it might be, thinking about the "equestrian urban chic" is burning my loins, brah. In an unbidden way, this blog reminds me of a song that plays in repeat in my head. Imagine a truly irresponsible, regrettable house party, where people end up naked, the front lawn catches on fire, and someone puts lipstick on the family pig and you make out with it endearingly. It's a hyperactive, spastic fit with 1980s synth ... but I don't know the name of the song.

I should get hyphen-happy and ultra-specific in this blog, but instead I think I'm going to go to Urban Outfitters and shake a Magic 8 Ball that I'm not actually going to buy, and pose the question, "Where are the equestrian urban chicks?"

Leave it at that, bro.

Bro! Dudebro, hambro, sasquatch, brethren ... This blog might not have earned me a three-part power handshake.



Thus, remember back in the day on Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That on Television" ... well, similar to that show, I feel like I should get slimed for revealing this secret fetish of mine in this blog.

Whatever. Peep the new music playlist. It's dope. I never say that enough. ... and I will prove the naysayers wrong and write two blogs a week, consistently, right after SXSW. By the way, I read a review that claims my crew over at Zebra is Food are the most clever dudes on the Interwebs. Here's my latest for them. Slick Rick talks about Unicorns over here.

Word.