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.

A Recession Guide to Valentine's Day

In a statement that's likely to give impetus to the rapidly growing belief that I'm out of this world (down to earth on a casual conversation basis), I heart Valentine's Day!

Just kidding. Chill, I've never used the term "heart" and my masculinity will not be jeopardized in writing this blog. In fact, it will only be beefed up as I poetically share insights to the most frustrating holiday known to man.

In a time when money is tighter than Sher's botoxed face, I've decided to centralize the topic today, for the love of money, in addition to offering keen advice on how to win major points for marathon love making sessions to the break'a-break-a dawn y'all!

There's no dodging it. The economy sucks. The sagging effects of the economy even managed to hit my Monopoly board the other night. There was a housing crisis, one person collected all the money and refused to redistribute it, the $200 pass-go bailout was eliminated and the credit crunch forced me to nudge my fingers under the board and flip it with angst. I even crumpled a $500 bill and ate it to prove an immature point. I can't lose at board games. Sorry.

With that in mind, here's your guide for a recession-friendly Valentine's Dinner

First, get a napkin and write the short note: Meet me at my house, but please leave your expectations at your place.

Once she arrives, tell her your intentions to take her to a romantic candle lit dinner, but the economy has made that impossible.

Then just as the disappointment sinks in to her face, tell her not to worry since you've prepared a modest meal from the items in your house. Remind her again that it will be special, and there will still be a candlelight dinner (since you could not afford utilities this month and are currently without electricity and hot water) ...


Assure her that you're disappointed too. And then ask her to take a seat like the gentleman you are. (You sold your chairs on Craig's list, so comfort her with a pillow to sit on).

Once settled in, tell her about the appetizer dishes you've prepared. (You only had cheese whiz and some cottage cheese - which is likely curdled milk).

Build up the moment by describing reasons why she should be interested in putting bright processed cheese purchased from the gas station into her mouth. Provide evidence that it is considered a delicacy in certain countries, so by an extension of that thought, it makes it mildly exotic. If she scowls at the thought, direct her to the cottage cheese, and then bust out the emergency raisinets left over from Halloween to accompany the cottage cheese.

Be sure to thank her for bringing the wine. (Feel free to explain to her why you are drinking it from crumpled 7-Eleven paper cups fetched from the back seat of your car. You had to pawn your crystal wine glasses).

Let's head over to the main course now. Tell her you've cooked your famous shrimp scampi in a white-wine-and-garlic reduction sauce. (But it's 100 percent improvised).

Tell her she'll love the creativity in the meal, (in place of linguini, you've used ramen noodles, and you've substituted bacon bits for shrimp).

She will take one bite and certainly ask you what exactly is in it.

Tell her you didn't have any Chardonnay, so you deglazed everything in rubbing alcohol.

Begin eating, out of one large bowl (sine it's all you have) and it should add to the romance. Perhaps the both of you will even choose two ends of the same ramen noodle unknowingly and, slurping your way to the middle, your pursed lips will meet in a moment of preservative-laden bliss like Lady and her Tramp.

Remind her that the meal wasn't much, but it was prepared with love (and bacon grease because you didn't have any olive oil). This is what love is about. Love is about sticking with each other through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through wealth and agonizing, soul-crushing poverty. It's about supporting someone and not judging him, even if he has contracted scurvy and his only source of income is making regular deposits at the local sperm bank.

If she wants desert, try to avoid it (since all you have is a half eaten little debbie snack cookie from last week.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Rule #1: Money can't buy love, so if you're trying to impress her, do it the right way, like with some dope ass poetry that you've compiled from the lids of Sweet Leaf Tea bottles. Not by buying her a silver fleet yacht or a fuckin' diamond.

In an effort to always push the envelope, I contributed a story to my friend's blog. It's called, Shakespeare Finds Sexual Inspiration in Khia’s “My Neck My Back”

Rule #2: Don't ever put much emphasis in Valentine's Day. It's like the economy, except with increased diminishing marginal returns.

Rule #3: Say something genuine (with humor) at the right moment and I promise your chances for having sex will become 99 percent. What to say you ask? Figure it out tough guy, not everyone can place perfectly times comments like I can, I know.

Rule #4: Buy your Valentine the finest Swiss chocolate, but leave it in your car on purpose and let it melt. Then present the gooey gift and remind her that there's only one way to eat it: off her neck. just kidding. I'm sure there are other ways to salvage the chocolate. (no, there aren't).

Rule #5: Don't even think about doing something stupid, like serenading your valentine to Boyz II Men "Water Runs Dry" and climbing her roof and falling off in the rain. Yup. I still laugh about it to this day.



What am I doing on Valentine's Day you ask? Shiiiiiit, I don't do Valentine's Day. I did manage to find an orange Crush soda in a bottle and plan to use that as a nice subtle gift though. I know, why the fuck am I so awesome?

I've made a little play list for y'all. One that strikes the perfect balance of tender, brainy and lusty tracks, a combination designed to make both the mind and the pulse race. The play list should be at the top of this blog.

"It's the only way I can relate to Valentine's Day. It's like ESPN sports anchors telling the story of Jesus Christ through catch phrases: A good carpenter doesn't blame his tools, or No one does the voodoo like Jesus do. -- JJ McLaughlin

If I Could Rewrite My College Application Essay Today

Since I'm not a curator of resemblance and pattern, I have to be positively tonic and unpredictable in every blog I write because somewhere along the line of life my healthy self-regard has exploded into obliterating narcissism. But it's that unpredictability that results in the pleasures of reading an exceedingly sharp pen connecting with an exceedingly inviting subject spawned out of nowhere.

Defiantly opposing repeated recourse, everything has to be new and different or I run the risk of getting bored. So it satisfies me tremendously when I write the following blog topic: JJ McLaughlin's College Application Essay, Revised (Almost 10 Years Later)

I would have little trouble convincing YOU, the reader, how amazing I am, in writing, but how would I stand at persuading an admission's director at a prestigious Ivy League college?

Let's push the envelope. I'm going to convince the admissions director to admit me, simply by explaining my hardship via a pop culture TV theme rap song.

Sure, I showcase a sharp wit in writing (thinly disguised as a dull one) that slashes with blunt slice-of-life insights and cutting remarks, sometimes nicking myself with self-deprecation in my dexterous jaunts with dopeass, mother fucking shit, but an admissions counselor doesn't care about my accomplishments in convincing girls to strip in hot tubs that contain no water. They want to hear my story of overcoming the odds. They want evidence that I've been tested in life and came out on top.

To that end, I present to you a glimmering narrative culled from the bowels of the early '90s, packed with a clobbering transformation of myself, embedded into every sentence which explodes with the delighted electricity of its creation. Enjoy.



Dear Harvard College of Fine Arts person,

I am presenting you with an autobiographical account of recent events that led to a topsy-turvy time in my life. I beg of you to remain seated as I take but a scant few moments of your time to recount how I transformed into the heir apparent of a tiny municipality referred to as Bel-Air, California.

Amidst the occident of West Philadelphia I was birthed, sprung to life and nourished. A lion's share of my youth and adolescence was consumed by the outdoor entertainment facilities at the park. Carousing with my pals, merrymaking to my maximum ability, and unwinding, I often participated in a friendly match of basketball at the schoolhouse's arena. It was during one of these excursions that a pair of rabble-rousing fellows instigated malevolence, wishing me harms and trouble. I took part in nothing but a single skirmish, yet my mother became entrenched in fear, at which point she commanded me to transfer my residence from her dwelling to that of my aunt and uncle in Bel-Air, California.

At the next moment, I proceeded to hail a taxi and, upon its arrival, I made out an inscription on the license plate that read "FRESH" and I was intrigued by a pair of dice draped over the rear view mirror. If nothing else, a claim could be made that this particular taxi was atypical; however, I came to the conclusion that recollecting this occasion in the future would be a fruitless venture, so in lieu of attempting to implant this incident within my memory, I implored the chauffeur to transport me to my destination of Bel-Air, California.

At approximately the seventh or eighth hour of the day, I disembarked and proceeded to inform the driver that I would inevitably become acquainted with his pungent odor at a later point in time. At this juncture, I looked on and beheld my new abode and came to grips with the fact that my mission to become the heir apparent in Bel-Air, California, had been consummated.

Respectfully -- Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

Post Script. I was once mandated by the harsh perils of poverty and reality to take risks and avoid law enforcement, but I gained invaluable life experience, building and developing street credibility in my business ventures and endeavors at the tender age of 15. Urged by older brethren to market and deliver an unknown product to older, wiser superiors in low lit alleyways, I have come to grips in understanding that there is always a way out. You can make 'change' happen.



I'm convinced I would strum a tender chord with this story and earn a pretentious point or two.

This is my first blog entry in far too long. In fact, I'm ashamed of my delinquency. A lot has happened recently and I have neglected you for too long. I know I promised I would write a giant end of year review ... but alas, I have failed you in meeting that requirement. But let me summarize 2008 in two sentences and we can move from there.

There were icy patches that marred life's sidewalk, but the ice in my life was much more slippery and the falls much more spectacularly funny, but now that I know where the ice patches are I'll know to avoid them. Ironically, it was the falls that made 2008 a cartwheeling year of whimsical exclamation points and joy.

I'll continue 2009 in my unbending social samurai ways, remaining mysteriously unpredictable, shrouded in pseudonyms and rumor, untouched by expectations while writing my own rules.

(I'll add a new music play list this evening. It's dope as fuck too!)

What Critics Are Saying About My Sleeping Lesson (Dream)

The relative flatness of the learning curve experienced when reading my dope ass blog shouldn't be looked upon as a bad thing. After all, the joy in reading it is derived from the intrinsic understanding that "dope ass" is already a byword for genius.

Sure, your chances are greater finding streaks of brilliance jolting about during a child's sugary display of Crayola poetry during nap time, but my morning bender of a dream was a cataclysmic explosion of infinitely dense matter that begged to be blogged about.

It proves that my fragmented, damaged and imaginative world of delusion and abstract thought process (while asleep and sometimes not) is something that needs to be studied by behavior scientists and such. I'm not sure what must take place during the course of your day that results in having a dream that you are a frog and your girlfriend is a unicorn. But I'm sure this has zero implication to reality. Before I tell you more about this dream, here are some sharp reviews from dream critics who explored the profound landscape of my head. My dreams are getting rave reviews.

"JJ's dreams strike a match on your eyelid and, before using it to set the cuffs of your underpants on fire, asks you to consider the color of the flame. -- Dark and Out of Nowhere

"His dreams are fatal fiber emissions that could trigger mass panic during pillow talk, whether sleeping alone or with Mother Goose." -- Fast Food Before Sleep

"They are tender moments of detached folly, loosely strung together by the thread of resignation and departure. Much like the fleeting feeling of writing an essay with no thesis in sight." -- There's No Method To My Madness

"We rarely experience a more provocative work of sexual prowess. There's a sincere magnetism that poignantly pulls otherwise unattainable women to JJ. Scenes of festive eroticism shower the viewer with sensual bliss, in which you pray that the dream never ends." -- Jizzed In My Pants

"Walking through JJ's dreams are no different than calmly walking into your family den on Christmas morning, nonchalantly asking family members if they have seen any clothes that might belong to you, since you'd be in the nude." -- Through The Halls of My High School

"Sometimes mute, and gray, the sluggish and trite meanderings soar with warnings, fraught with vague but sinister meanings that make the heart grow faint when you realize every turn brings an old familiar face. It's scary, but soothing." -- I Get Emotional In My Dreams?

"This guy is fucked up. There is no better, more apt way to say it. Fucked up." -- I Keep It Real

After undergoing an intense Q&A with my better judgment, I decided to actually turn my alarm off on my phone after it was ringing for too long. Glued to my disheveled nest of layers of bedding, I thought about how absolutely convinced I was that my girlfriend was a unicorn and I had wiry green legs and an incredible bounce to my step.

I vividly remember sitting on a park bench, talking to said unicorn, when a I asked her why she was constantly walking but getting nowhere. Upon further review, I noticed she was on a treadmill and she was wearing a cape and I had a magic marker and was drawing festive rainbows on her white coat of hair, feeding her cotton candy, too. We then galloped to a nearby civil war reenactment, where I said, "I wish I had mutton chops."

This is all I remember. I considered the meaning of this for about 30 minutes as the sun light punched me in the face. I opened my laptop and things were a little more lucid when I randomly began listening to this song that I've included with this blog. (It's long but suitable). Who the hell dreams of being a frog? More importantly, what the hell? Strange, but not so surprising.

Italy - Akron / Family

Wow! What A Headband!

This blog will be short and painfully sweet. So sweet that your teeth will begin to rot after reading this initial sentence. So short that you will become overwhelmed with an uncontrollable desire to weep like a baby, demanding more literary indulgences.

In fusing the scientific rigor of logic with any sentence that bursts from my mouth, one will likely roll their eyes and feel compelled to correct me in fear that my grossly mistaken take on something could be potentially detrimental to the nobility of owning a college education.

Sure, a lot of the claims I make are based on flexible fact, but I assure you when I say this: The power of the headband will consume you. (And I am NOT enrolled in aerobics class).

The following excerpt is written from the perspective of someone on the outside looking in, at me, while I'm wearing a headband. Yes, this blog is in response to someone who spread vicious rumors about me attending aerobics class.

5:30 p.m., Tuesday

You attend a core workout class at the gym (thinly disguised as an aerobics class). You are accompanying JJ because he has told epic tales of being so sore the next morning that he has considered crying in the corner of a doctor's office.

Stepping into the class, you notice the instructor (who looks like Olivia Newton-John) getting vigorous to "Physical" while wearing a headband and a leotard, and she's not sweating. Why is she not sweating? To answer this question we must reverse it and ask ourselves why JJ is not wearing a headband and a leotard and why he IS sweating?

It's clear why he is sweating. He is watching the illusion of nudity, which is the leotard and the symbolism of discipline: the headband. The instructor is doing all the work for him.

Upon further review, you notice that JJ is among only a few other men in the predominantly female class, certainly the only straight one at that. You have a sneaky suspicion that he is only attending the class to gawk at the lovely collective of female ass, when he suddenly pulls out a headband and slides it over his head. You immediately understand that JJ means business. It's going to be a serious workout.

Your initial impression that it's a low-intensity step class with high spirited gayness begins to fade away as you notice JJ squatting 900 pounds and lunging forward like it were a strongman competition. Any hope of making fun of JJ for attending a class that involved Rockette-like high kicks, hip-pivots and jazz fingers were squandered since such routines were nowhere to be found.

The song "Physical" became synonymous with promise. The guarantee that you will get the shit beat out of you in a hardcore workout. There was even a bench press portion where it appeared that JJ was raising a heavy bar to an unseen God.

But then it comes. Finally. An exercise that is questionable and involves routine and rhythm. YES! This is it! I'll be able to tell everyone that JJ does aerobics! And you glance over at JJ and it's apparent he has reservations about doing the exercise.

If we got inside his head, it probably looked like this: superego asks the id, "What are you doing? Don't make me look stupid," and then the ego and id respond, "Go lift weights, meathead. I am working out like Olivia Newton-John!"

Because he actually began doing the routine. But I suspect only because in his head, he thinks it's a core workout class and not an aerobics class.

Regardless of the class, I must admit, JJ makes it work with the headband. Even the girl next to him seems to agree as she seemingly doesn't care that he keeps sneaking peeks at her ass. I was ill prepared in not bringing my headband (or leotard) and I've come to the conclusion that there's no way I can possibly make fun of JJ as long as he's wearing head accessories that catch sweat.

Yes. To all you who think it's aerobics, I maintain that it's core training class. Unless I forget my headband. Then we might have a problem.

BUT, y'all can certainly make fun of me for wearing folded bandannas. Here's a video of me wishing I was wearing a sweatband, instead of a bandanna. Flight of the Concords styles. Only half of the spontaneous performance could be posted. Apparently YouTube can't handle the full three minutes. This was sad, since the conclusion was the best part. And something tells me I didn't exactly make this blog short.