Whoa, man.

I have time to kill this afternoon at work (perhaps a calm before another Stein Mart storm). So I'll share with you kindred bored souls (the tens of thousands of you that have been left without a post for oh-so-very long) what has been collecting in the back of my brain.

This is my short (albeit, growing) list of Menswear Do's and Dont's. The more I rotate around the working world of Midtown - from buttoned-up lawyers, to street-side preachers, gym-goers, and graphic designers - I've found there's quite an array of DON'Ts worth noting. Let's start with one I just saw on my coffee break.

#1
NERDS GONE WILD.

What, young working man, does this say to you in the mirror? "Can Corporate America hold THIS wild card down? Gosh, no! See these short sleeves? I live on the edge of the mainstream! Sometimes I even wear sandals to work. That's right, WITHOUT socks."
There's only one way to make this offense more "yeeeeesh"-inducing: DENIM.

As I see it, when it comes to mens' wear, may blue canvas be kept to the leg region only.

#2
I'M SO DARK, I MIGHT AS WELL GET DRESSED IN IT.

Yeah, I get it. You're dark. And dangerous. And angry at the world. How do I know this? From the factory-designed, mass-produced, band-worship you advertise on your chest. Rock ON.

#4
ACCESSORIZE MY DOUCHE

It doesn't matter if we're talking one single sentiment (above) or a Flava Flavarray of bling, (the mess below)

Either way you pile it on, we're still talking about the levels of douche-baggery you display.

#5
LETTING THE MAN-PUPPIES OUT TO PLAY.
Exposed chest hair will never be the male equivalent of exposed cleavage. Do you think it makes you sexy? Because it's really just nasty. And not like, as in dirty talk nasty. I just mean unsightly nasty.



#6
IS IT COLD IN HERE? OR IS IT JUST MY ARMS?

I think Dimitri Martin put it best when he said the only thing a sweater vest protects you from is pretty girls. That and really narrow cold fronts.


#7
SHIELDING MYSELF FROM STRANGLERS

I've yet to see a man in a turtleneck that came remotely close to sexy. Unless you're Mike Myers as Sprockets on SNL. And, wait a second... that wasn't sexy either.

And what could be possible worse than a man's turtleneck? (Sorry Steve)

Worse than a full-on terrible is the halfway attempt at terrible. (aka, the mock turtle neck). If you don't want to expose your neck, please oh please just wear a scarf instead. Or shit, I'd even prefer you pop your collar.

#8
HOLLA HOLLA FOR MY POPPED COLLA.

No, wait. You'd still be a douchenozzle. Just in more company. Sorry for lying to you back there.

#9
QUICK-DRAW MCPRICK.

Just....Stop it.

#10
THE SWISHY-SWISH-SWEATSUITER.

Absolutely not. Not unless you've just come off the field of a professional athletic endeavor (like this pretty man wishes me to believe).

#11
"ASSHOLE, WHERE ARE YOU? HAS ANYONE SEEN AN ASSHOLE?"

Again, I'll agree with Dimitri on this one: these pants do not camouflage you. They only make it easier to spot you, the asshole, in a crowd.

#12
JUST GO AHEAD AND POKE MY EYES OUT.

Men's hair dye AND/OR Men's hair product: should never be made for men. Stop sculpting your head, grab some tools, and go build something semi-manly, please.

(Case in point: I went on ONE (!!!) date with a guy who admitted to buying a $200 straightening iron. A price even I would never pay for a primping tool. How disappointing for an attractive, intelligent guy to admit to that level of vanity. Needless to say I ended the conversation abruptly, paid for my own meal and never answered a call from him again. But not, of course, before I got a chance to question his sexual preference over casual margaritas.

So, as long as I keep meeting men worth making fun of, I'll have reason to continue this post.
(stay tuned...)

Adding up insult and injury

I know this is probably just a ranting pot calling a kettle black, but, in any case, I have to throw it out there:

What's up with dudes and unrelenting sarcasm?

The more I hear people rely on it to be funny, the more I realize it's like the butt-ugly runt of the humor family. And when used as a go-to for the easy joke, it can quickly escalate from tolerable to an alarming level of poke-your-own-eye-out annoying.

Sure, some people can totally own it. Say, a Jon Stewart or a Stephen Colbert (both of whom I obviously adore). But, for most, it's a deceivingly tricky weapon -- one that should be handled with care, one that can easily be misfired, and one that should always be followed by something pleasant to soften the blow.

Because seriously, there is a fine line between making "fun" of a person and straight up injuring one with a blunt-edged insult. It's fine when your target is your own self, but when you're poking at someone else's soft spot, it's a dangerous tool of rhetoric I prefer to keep a safety on.

The most ironic thing about this kind of sarcasm is that it always seems to come from the most insecure guys. Like the flimsy shield used to deflect from their own shortcomings. (wink, wink. jab, jab.)

Yeah, I get it, Mr. Funny Guy. And I'll dish it back all day if that's the way you want to steer this bitch. But let's just take a look at what's most likely guiding your weak attempts at wit -- and I bet it has something to do with what's lacking in your pants.

That's right, I'll say it again: you've probably got a case of tiny wang-bone.

A final word to the wise guys: don't insult your date, give her a wink and a nudge, and shrug it off like it was just a way to flirt. That's not a way to impress her, or make her think you're better than you really are, and it's definitely not a way to keep healthy conversation alive.

I mean, one shot can be funny, two might even bring a wall down, but take enough at me and I'll be aiming right back with my knee to your balls. And what kind of injury would I be giving if I didn't add the extra "just teasin" wink and a "right back atcha" finger-gun as I walk the hell out the door?

Dan's wisdom for the day

On working and life in general:

Try to keep your talk to action ratio relatively even.

A good reason to wake up early.

"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live ...." (Thoreau)

Ad-nauseam

Thank goodness for the much needed break. My brain needs a breather. And a refill.

Overheard on the singles' circuit

"So, what brings you fine ladies to Atlanta? Business? Family? ... Financial endeavors?"

It's about that time.

I'm currently teetering on the edge -- staring down into the dark, scary tunnel that is grad quarter at the Creative Circus. So, I figured its high time I start using this silly little blog of pointless brain matter to display some of my more polished brain matter (i.e. the ads I've produced over my time and tuition at this wonderful portfolio school)


So lets start with some good ol'fashion headlines, shall we?

Art directed by one of my faves, Miss Amarena Diaz.

Just another Friday night in Hotlanta.

Either that or a still frame from the blockbuster hit "The Day After Tomorrow."

I give you -- Team Dockside

That's me in the wench costume, wielding a barely visible pen (afterall, it is mightier than the sword)

I don't think its a half bad sketch of myself, maybe I missed my calling as an illustrator. But probably not.

Get in where you fit in.

It's like Cheers -- where everyone knows your name, your mother country, and where to find the best banitsa this side of the Black Sea.

The newest, coolest phone technology since the beeper

Karen's completely functional phone-purse. Sure, you have to plug the whole bag into a jack to get a dial tone... but come on! It's a phone! And a purse! Its a purse thats a phone that will ALSO carry your wallet, keys, and -- supposedly in the newer models -- your Blackberry.

Did you get your tickets?

I know I did.

3rd time was a real charmer

Close to a year after the first two hit-and-attempt-to-runs, we apparently still have not learned our lesson.

3 a.m. Friday morning: we hear a large THWAP! sound outside. We all jump out of our beds, like little kids on some twisted version of Christmas day, knowing instinctively what's in store.

Another one of our cars was victimized by another terrible driver. And while we knew what to expect before we even opened the front door, we never could've predicted what the drunk-driving fairy had left on our door step this time around.

Outside, we find our main character -- a girl who has just managed to wedge the nose of her Nissan under the back bumper of Patrick's large and in charge Tahoe. She opens the scene by puking out her driver-side door and all over her deployed airbags. Her "friend" is there to help... her "friend" who had not-so wisely decided to follow her home. He asks her if she's okay and if she wants to get out of the car to which she responds, "yeah... yeah. Ok... I should probably get up now." Groggily. As if he'd just woken her up from a deep realm of REM. She then makes the astute suggestion that they "should probably just go on back to his place now." It is at this point we know standing barefoot, in robes, out in the freezing cold will totally be made worth the price of admission.

The five of us stood in our spectator's row of a driveway, mouths agape. We'd seen people hit, we'd even seen people unsuccessfully run from our victim cars, but we'd never seen any violators so obviously sloshed as this young bar-crawler.

Cut to the late-as-usual cops arriving on the scene to gather details from the accident. They ask the standard questions -- her age, her registration, her eye color. To which she notably responds that her eyes are in fact a shade of "doo doo brown."

Hmmmm....

Now, if I were a cop, and not even a very good one, I would take this as reason enough to whip out the trusty ole breathalyzer. But that was just not so with this observant gentleman of the law. Instead, he comes to question Patrick, who's just rolled out of bed at the sound of his car being plowed into, to see if he might somehow be at fault.

Finally we convince the cop that, since the girl has all but taken a swig from a half empty handle of whiskey right in front of us, perhaps the next step would be to see what caused her to run into a stationary truck, puke up the proof of her bar tab, and liken the color of her own eyes to that of feces.

And so, at this point, he did what any well-trained officer would do: he called for backup.

The rest of it is history: a typical DUI test, including one memorable moment where our young heroine told the cop she couldn't blow hard enough into the breathalyzer because she suffered from "bad lung capacity". Cut to girl thrown in back of cop car. Girl goes to jail. Girl's "friend" goes home without his easy score.

The end.

Here's what the iPhone captured from the leftovers of the girl's car. After both airbags deployed and the tow truck crushed the rest of it down, her "friend" tried to save the car from being "made worse" by the pitchfork removal. We politely informed the loveable sidekick that his friend's car was, put quite frankly, fucked beyond repair.





So hopefully, after this lucky third contestant in the row of dumbasses behind the wheel, we have learned our lesson... don't park on the street in front of our house. But maybe, if you park just after the speed bump, you'll be safe.

Overheard at the Circus #339

"You're an enigma, wrapped in a clue, wrapped in a lesbian, stuffed inside a cardigan."

Overheard at the Circus #338

"Green tea is like the Paris Hilton of teas. Earl Grey? Well, Earl Grey is good after bacon ... and weed."

Overheard at the Circus #337

"I don't have any cash, but if it comes down to it... I can always pay with nature's credit card."


(alternately titled: "So which way do I swipe this thing?")

Song of the day

Really, I just like the echoing "Owws" that pepper this number.

Like cocaine for the tastebuds.

I was watching Family Guy the other night and laughed out loud (not an LOL, mind you) when Peter related a moment of let down to the disappointing flavor of Fruit Stripe gum.



I know I'm not the only one who fell victim to the catchy jingle, bought a pack, chewed a piece and upon that initial burst of flavor, was on top of the world like a soon to be addict on her first fix of kid-cocaine. Then, only to find seconds later, that the come down left me fiending for another piece... and another. Until I'd finished the whole pack in 10 minutes.


Man, that one Peter Griffin analogy sent me straight back to my youthful adventuresome days as a crack (er, candy) whore.

And on a slightly unrelated topic: Seth McFarlane, if you're reading this, call me. I love you.

Overheard at the Circus.

"Ashley, you just need to grow a lesbian sac, and make a move on the girl."
-- Gay Boy #1

"Hmmm... lesbian sex. I always picture that sounding like polite claps at a subpar movie."
-- Straight Boy #2

"Yes, groans and golf claps. That sounds about right."
-- Gay Boy #1