Advice From A Person Who Minored in Psychology

::The following counsel is not meant to substitute for professional therapy, the endorphin surge of a long run, prescription drugs, hot bubble baths, yoga, or rolling your car windows up and singing sad love songs::

Dear JJ,

I am in my mid twenties and I am experiencing the quarter-life crisis. I am not the adventurous type, but lately all I want to do is run naked across the city, grow a beard and write a lengthy how-to novel about dance moves for every occasion in life. Any sage advice?

-- Derek in Piedmont

Dear Derek,

It sounds as if you have gone completely existentially limp and the only things that interest you now are activities that swallow any level of maturity you may heave achieved. Is it your intent to recklessly embarrass anyone in your company? Good for you if so.

Your desire to grow a beard is not unlike any other man, especially if during your tenure in growing it you detach yourself from the tether of life's responsibilities and spend all your time watching Kung Fu: The Legend Continues.

Now, Derek, if anyone is going to successfully pen a book about specific dance moves for every occasion in life, it's going to be me, not you, so you can put that puppy to rest. Either way, here are some broad thoughts: Implement a trial and error strategy for finding the most chesty, uninhibited opportunities to expose your most uncalled for desires and run with it. I completely endorse the activity of running in the nude.



Dear JJ,

I just bought a pair of roller blades and I'm not sure what to do now. I mean, I LOVE rollerblading, but how do I tell my parents? I just wanna roller blade and maybe dance afterwards. Help me JJ.

Sincerely,
--Strawberry Swirls

Dear Strawberry Swirls,

Telling your parents that you are gay is never easy. But the first step is realizing it. I suggest just taking notes from a previous client I've helped.



Dear JJ,

What's in my stomach right now?

Sincerely,
--Hungry Hungry Hippo

Dear Hungry Hungry Hippo,

Breath mints and not a damned thing else. I know this because your stomach and I just happen to have a mutual friend. How else would I know this information? This is only an advice column, but I hear your stomach is feeling empty and is unsatisfied with work lately. Too much gastrointestinal buildup can lead to unneeded stress. My unsolicited advice to your stomach is to listen to it, build a deeper relationship with it and never ignore it when it's reaching out to you.



Dear JJ,

I am only happy when I eat. What does this mean?

Sincerely,
--When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping

Dear When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping,

I find your name humorous, but please don't think that I'm laughing at your expense. I suggest you look at yourself in the mirror and channel a resolve that is required when eating at a buffet and become reacquainted with that smile that surfaces at the sight of red velvet cake. Embrace your appetite, and welcome the inevitability in becoming morbidly obese. True happiness is found in food.

Dear JJ,

All I want to do is return to the '80s but I'm told there's no reason to go back. Can you shed some light on time traveling?

Respectfully,
--Slap Bracelets Rule!

Dear Slap Bracelets Rule,

It's no surprise that the '80s were spectacular years but I will not validate this inquiry with a response.

Dear JJ,

I am trying to avoid old age at all costs. Any suggestions?

Tom in Los Angeles

Dear Tom,

I am not a big fan of stating the obvious, but plastic surgery is a fine alternative to letting gravity take hold of your face. May I suggest you get an eye lift. Otherwise, if you do not have this procedure done, you will be condemned to the unspeakable state of looking at your age in the mirror every morning.

Dear JJ,

I love bananas, but why is it impossible for me to eat them when I'm in a public place?

-- Fruitless in Seattle

Dear Fruitless,

I suspect your fear of consuming bananas in public areas is a deep rooted insecurity that I am not qualified to answer. Logic would suggest that you consult with someone with a degree in culinary arts.

When Clammy Hands Eff My Life Up

::The following is a brief recap of the most epic moments in my life that ended terribly at the perils of my clammy hands surfacing at the most inopportune time, dampening my memory of the experience with failure and grief::

My 7th Grade Dance
I was 13-years-old and armpit hair was vaguely evident. My voice cracked Da Vinci codes and I was terrified of girls. My shy and quirky demeanor made the faintest attempt at gaining confidence a feeble cause. But something inside of me (testosterone?) told me to let them descend and become a man. So I approached the most unattainable girl in my grade who had the least bit of working knowledge of my very existence. I walked up to her, with my hands in my pockets (which were actually reservoirs of watery mayhem) and asked, "wanna dance?" "OK," she said. I extended my hand and she grabbed it, but it slid out of her grasp like a fish out of water. She winced in disgust and never looked back. The end. This single event would later lead to me taking up oil panting hand art as therapy.

The Job Interview Handshake I was sitting in a large advertisement firm several years ago during the final round of my job interviews. I had nailed all three meetings, and articulately explained my experience and skills while outlining heroic work stories and life experiences that were laced with charm and humor. The only thing that stood between me and employment was the handshake, which is anything but a perfunctory gesture. I slimed the hiring manager with my sweaty palms, effectively defining myself poorly. It was the worst handshake ever, lacking key components: a swift, elegant movement toward the waiting hand, wise use of the eyes, grip strength, even the rhythm of the shake was off. And it was one of those glued handshakes that exceeded four seconds. I watched his smile instantly become terror when our palms collided and I knew it was over. Thank you clammy hands!

Being the Hero

I simply couldn't hold on. She slipped because of my clammy hands. I would be a hero, and a real man if I just held on to her.

When I Was Asked to Win the Game

The game was tied. There were two seconds left on the clock. I was called off the bench. All we needed to do was score and we win and I would be carried off the court and probably become the first freshman prom king ever. My teammate passed me the ball. I was wide open, but the ball slipped right through my fingers and into the hand of a teammate, who was behind me. He caught the ball, shot and scored. I briefly considered stealing the ball from my own teammate. To this day, I am certain that had my hands been dry, and I caught the ball, I would be playing semi-pro ball in the Ukraine. I was relegated to riding the pine and preparing Gaterade for everyone thereafter, sometimes dying my hands red in process.

Ending My Hand Modeling Career

I had it all. I was on top of the world. Making good money, and being recognized as the premiere authority in truly beautiful and dainty hands. I kept the secret hidden, until I was confronted by jealous fat hands, which were more like chubby paws. They released viral video of me wiping my hands on my pants at a rampant rate. During a photo shoot, my hyperhydrosis sweaty palm condition accelerated at such a rate that it began to rain during my audition for jazz fingers. It was grotesquely embarrassing and tragic. To this day, my hands are now known as slip 'n slides with zero marketing ability. The embarrassment keeps them in my front jean pockets most of the time now.

That Time We Took That Artsy Photograph In theory it was genius. Take a picture with everyone's hands bearing a pile of colorful pastel chalk powder. It was then that I realized my clammy hands do not welcome lilac colored chalk powder, since it created the volcanic chemical reaction of mixing baking soda and vinegar. A pungent odor killed the collaborative spirit of the group, prompting everyone to isolate, and shun me, while turning my hands into the subject of an unbelievable photo opportunity. While trying to wash off the chalk, I realized my sweaty palms might be hazardous, so I sheathed them in HAZMAT gloves for several months, avoiding direct sunlight and cameras.

Romantically Reading Palms

I had reached the summit of my romantic life. I was ringing door bells and holding single roses in my mouth, reciting obscure lines in classical French literature, and doing all the little things, like not describing wine as "alcoholy" or "wine-a-licious." But I crossed the line when I decided to go to have a palm reader analyze my palms and read into my future.

Palm Reader: Crisco shortening and Dove Soap will make an unthinkable business merger and you will lead the way with your cosmically impossible clams for hands. I can't guarantee love is in your future. You will get slapped in the face by sweaty gym socks. She will leave you for another man with dry, callous hands.

::she hands me a tissue to dry hands::

This blog is supported by the guarantee that I no longer have clammy hands. I promise.

The Odyssey of Breakfast: A Pitchfork Review

::Three blogs in just as many days is unheard of, I know. But I'm kinda on a roll (yes, I am actually butter) so I might as well keep it going::

Best New Albums
Pretentious reviews of this week's new album releases pertaining to JJ's breakfast experience at a coffee shop. Since he is alone, and in a coffee shop, he can safely afford to make hyper critical observations that claim unjustified merit.


Produce Aisle Vegetables
Nothing to Write Home About
[Supermarket Records;2009]





Chewing on the Produce Aisle Vegetables latest release is anything but fresh. It's a lot like trashy but savvy brats, where you just want to hit it, quit it, and then spit on it. The limp celery in my omelet doesn't quite mesh well with the rotten tomatoes. It's reminiscent of the empty sonic sound associated with sticking your index finger in your cheek and making that hollow, unsatisfying, childish 'ploop' sound. A disappointing attempt at conceptualizing the marvelous morning by way of a not-so-fresh omelet. Opening track, "Spinach plus artichoke" is ultimately as trifling as refrigerating after opening is essential.


The Sick Thrills
Roller Coasters Are Good Places To Be
[Up and Down Records;2009]




On the title track, of the Sick Thrills' third album, we get a glimpse of true formless songwriting that's ragged, raw and downright thrilling. Themes as bold as French roast, people watching, spilling muffin crumbs on your pants and searching for vacant power outlets are fierce. The album makes sitting in a coffee shop seem energized, whimsical and painstakingly charming. The ups and downs of melancholy and isolated mayhem come alive in a textured homage to flipping your stomach inside-out and vomiting when listening to the "quiet mumble of people chattering" and "yoga moms come here to blog." Sitting with your laptop open becomes exciting, and the Sick Thrills highlight a deft percussion when patrons croon with baristas about the joys of caffeine, which take you to limitless realms of conversation and work productivity.


Gourmet Coffee Snot
The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping
[Half & Half Records;2009]





The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping is an unheralded work of pompous, appalling and inhumanely possible craftsmanship that lacks craft. Imagine empty notebooks sitting next to uninviting pens, patrons sitting cross-legged, with unlit cigarettes dangling from lips while holding books that never get read and that's not unlike Gourmet Coffee Snot. The album grows massively unqualified and tragic with incredibly nonchalant tracks that lack cogent melody like "Bike-Sexuals, mustaches and neck tattoos." Your skinny pants dreams, ironic T-shirt acceptance and inner 'litster' (hipster + literature nerd) is never really questioned in their latest album. They simply go with the trend. Not cool.


The Random Electric Shuffles
On Repeat
[Heavy Rotation Records;2009]





The Random Electric Shuffles release their latest compilation of music and progress from one song to the next with deft abandon. The term 'apples and oranges' is redefined in this record as Brittney Spears follows Grizzly Bear, who precedes that "I like to MOVE-IT-MOVE-IT!" song in complete incoherency. The order and arrangement of songs will suck the life from you. Comparing hyenas to uranium is the new 'apples and oranges' since apples and oranges are too similar for this dangerously unbalanced album. To make this hellish experience even worse, some tracks are disturbingly played again, and again.


Reading Lazy Rainbows
Taking Care of Business
[Don't Procrastinate for Me Argentina Records;2009]




Moving at a glacial pace when studying, or getting work done in a coffee shop is at the heart of the latest concept album by Reading Lazy Rainbows. Staring at tasks and responsibilities with a crushing indifference becomes paramount, but the sound is too similar to trite Chinese fortune cookies and proverbs. The songs run loops of unmotivated, rickety choruses that run off-beat with knotty-linguistics about Gchat. In the spirit of procrastination, this album was long delayed but I wish it was never created, especially after wasting my morning. The lone highlight of the album is the song "Focus You ADD bastard," belting lyrics like, I text, chat, and surf the Web/I might as well have never left my bed. The album is slightly less mild than the yawn inducing, sloth subject matter itself.


The Chairs
Sucky Posture
[My Neck, My Back Records;2009]





Fussily polished post modern rockers get too fancy and create a disastrous mess that's painful to the ears and the back. There's nothing fans of The Chairs can do but hope that the Swedish IKEA knockoffs disband and regroup after studying the principles of Feng Shui more earnestly. Form sadly shadows function in My Neck, My Back and the music mostly lies limp form the beginning. That tingly, numbing sensation you get in your butt is never a good one. This record is as uncomfortable as it is horrible.


Driving Hard Bargains
The Cost of Living Fast
[Soul For Sale Records;2009]




Forgoing the flimsy sound of their typical catchy loops rife with cash register *cha-chings* and baller bling-bling subject matter, Driving Hard Bargains embraces a new sound that's eerily similar to that of thumbing through wads of cash. It's experimental freak-folk that falls flat on its face, however it's a cheap way to pass the time and grab a reasonably priced bite to eat. But then again, so is McDonalds. Driving Hard Bargains should stick to what they know: down south booty bumping music.

We'll Make You Famous
Forget What You Heard
[Word of Mouth Records;2009]




This follow up to their 2006 debut is packed with thick and gauzy guitars, manic synths and unbelievable buzz. Experiencing this coffee shop is an enhancing trip full of depth and otherworldly, furious instrumental passages that beckons fans of all interests. Tracks like "I Told You It Was Good" shine like malevolent moonlight. We'll Make You Famous finally lives up to their hype, and makes music that does the impossible: loudly exceeds their reputation. It's best to listen to Forget What You Heard with headphones, since you will be forming your own opinion of the coffee shop.

Interview with the Cookie Monster

::The following is a recent conversation I had with the Cookie Monster during a chance encounter at Tiff's Treats::

Me: Yo, whadup Cookie Monster. I didn't know you were real? What are you doing here in the bathroom of Tiff's Treats?

Cookie Monster: ::humph:: {sigh} ....

Me: What's wrong? You look a little down and out. Wanna get something off your chest?

Cookie Monster: Me have problem. Me know. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn't normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

Me: What are you talking about bro? You're the Cookie Monster. That's what you do. You eat cookies and you have crooked, zany eyes and you mumble incoherent fragment sentences and drivel cookie crumbs. You're a monster.

Cookie Monster: No. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way. Me hate going back to apartment and can't stand looking me in mirror after cookie binge. Fur always matted with chocolate chip and covered in crumbs. Me try to clean life up, but just can't do it.

Me: Yea. That's because you're a hideous monster. It's cool. We love you for it though. Wanna hug it out homey?

Cookie Monster: Me no understand why me monster?Dracula guy with unhealthy math fetish more monster than me. Me pretty sure he's undead and drinks blood. And Big Bird. Don't get me started on him. He gigantic yellow talking canary. How that not monster? And wooly mammoth very existence monstrous!

Me: Whoa Whoa Whoa. Cooks' chill. I grew up watching you. You inspired me to become the little tub of fat boy lard I was. I even tried to talk like you.

Cookie Monster: Please be quiet. Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

Me: You're being way too hard on yourself. I think you just need to have a cookie and relax. Here {Hands him GIANT M&M cookie} There. See? All better?

::Cookie Monster does that thing where he destroys the cookie with his hands and shoots crumbs everywhere but in his mouth::

Cookie Monster: Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

Me: Hell Yea! That's the spirit Cookie Monster! You're so money and you don't even know it. You don't even need cookies. This is a really good cookie though.

Cookie Monster: Give me that! Now! GRRRAAAGH ::chomp chomp chomp:: Who me kidding? Me monster.

Me: Dude. So not cool. You didn't even eat it. You wasted my cookie. You're kind of a mess dude.

Cookie Monster: Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can't swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

Me: You really aren't a monster. All it takes for you to reach happiness is cookies. That's all you want in life. I admire that. And at a very primordial level, I see myself in you. No moderation with the cookies. Veggie Monster would never work. People can't relate to it.

Cookie Monster: 'C' is for cookie and that's good enough for me!

Me: Word! Cookie Monster, I'm glad we had this talk.

The Skills I Know (In Crushing Detail)

I'm sitting here, late Saturday night, vying for time as I try to revise my resume before my intense euphoria simmers to a perpetually achy, and regretful, sober afterthought.

That's right, I'm writing a resume, fueled by an unruly buzz from drinking the following: caffeine, fructose syrup, beer, unicorn blood, purple stuff, OJ, and fresh African tap water that contains trace elements of lion's urine.

It's working to poetic proficiency as I glom over the skills and experience section of my resume with a glazed, wry smile that smacks with immaturity. Revisiting what you write is key. And don't tell me writing my resume while operating at a 22% brain power is unwise, because it packs a punch, even if it sometimes sits uneasily in your stomach like a vodka-battery acid mixed drink.

My resume glows in the dark now, while yours likely sits in a boring folder called "Resume" and it will never see the light of day. But hopefully, after reading my career objectives and skills that I will be sharing with you, I might mildly inspire you to spill booze on your hard copy resume, sign it with your left hand and draw penises on it with magenta crayola. It's a riveting experience (boozing and resume-ing) that puts your career in perspective.

Let me back up a little. I'm done. [Sips a tall glass of Spain's finest Estrella Damm]. I'm changing careers and I'm done with journalism. Wise men talk of mountains to climb in life, while dull men speak of plateaus, where they have kicked rocks and milked goats with a complacent ambition. I am of the plateau ilk right now. I once saw a man get kicked in the balls by a goat and it reminded me of that sinking feeling of helplessness. Plateaus will get you nowhere in life, and only goats roam those geographical landscapes.

Let's begin. I must preface this all in saying my buzz has grown exponentially in the several minutes it's taken me to reach this point in writing. Beware of swooping pterodactyls, stray exclamation marks, electric pelvic shakes and unrequited metaphors.

!!!!!!!!! (I warned you).

I'm not sure what career field I'd want to enter, so it's a general resume, specifically outlining my not-so-general skills. I got off to a fast start by opening my resume cover letter with the following explosive sentence:

"I am a skillful medieval swordsman who will take your company to the next level by rolling up my sleeves and flexing my Nintendo Power Glove."

My ultimate genius letter writing skills opens with a "what-the-hell?" uppercut to your jowl. Prospective employers might immediately think I just wasted seven perfectly good seconds of their time, and they might think staring blankly at their desk was an alternative of equal merit.

But check out the following sentence:

"I am interested in employment with your company because I have a licensed Zapper that will terminate rogue ducks."

Before you jump to conclusions, the body of my cover letter contains what I truly have to offer.

"Gaining a Nintendo skill set has taken my career to dizzying heights, whether making non-human faces across cubicles or social notworking on Facebook."

(For those who aren't aware, social notworking, is the practice of spending time unproductively on social-networking Websites, especially when one should be working).

My cover letter further explains how I managed to successfully place co-workers in submissive Indian leg-lock holds and force them to do my work for me while I research Dr. Mario's medical credentials, considering he was a only a plumber.

"I have excellent project management skills that illustrate my leadership ability."

While simultaneously demonstrating a stern responsibility to my craft of writing and researching.

"I think creatively while engaging in dubious thumb war battles despite carpal tunnel syndrome. I am resourceful and never back down from a staring contest with my computer screen. I take all my information from the most credible sources, i.e., Wikipedia, blogs and that giant rat from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."

Stop judging me. It gets better.

"My background in ancient Egyptian literature, combined with my familiarity with Sesame Street color schemes will benefit your company greatly. I embrace obese people with a maternal fondness and will successfully retell stories using pace and detail to entertain co-workers on a consistent basis."

Moving on to my resume, my objective reads as such:

"To obtain a job in the performing arts that requires me to thrust my midsection repeatedly, effectively humping the air, while only wearing a lime green bow-tie on stage in a masterpiece theater reenactment of Chip 'n Dale's Rescue Rangers."

Now to the wizard like skills that I can offer.



SKILLS

▪ Effective troubleshooter who uses wax product from hair to creatively solve problems.
▪ Industry experience wasting time conjuring up passive-aggressive compliments stolen from Prince lyrics; pontificating why Karma is being called a bitch.
▪ Reading and writing, plus some arithmetic skills.
▪ Dance Dance Revolution provocateur.
▪ Takes chaos of office and reforms it into a semblance of simple disorder by applying KFC grease to index finger, thumb and rubbing my nipple.
▪ Interprets socially inept language of IT geeks and relays message to normal people.
▪ Reading and writing, plus some arithmetic skills.
▪ Questions others' work with a 6th grade curiosity about the birds and the bees.
▪ Skilled in creating awkward moments during botched power handshakes.
▪ Analyzes information written on bathroom walls; contributes reports.
▪ Capable of selling ordinary items for extraordinary prices on Craig's List.
▪ Sharp eye for details; the other eye, not so sharp and a little lazy.
▪ Skillfully poof fashion trends and redefine company culture with headband attire.

These are my skills. Any idea what market my skill set might be best for me? If so, contact me at jj.mcla@gmail.com. Yes, there's a new playlist at top of this blog and the video below aptly describes what it feels like to camp out on a plateau in life.

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.