My years-long affair with singledom seems to be the topic of a lot of conversation these days.

I mean, I’m used to the occasional, “OMG Brandon! You’re so smart, talented, beautiful, pure, integral to the survival of the human race against unseen alien threats – how in the hell is a catch such as yourself single!? If a beauty amongst beauties like you can’t get a man then there’s clearly no hope for me! Ahhhhhhhh!!!!! *suicide*”

My usual response is to accept the compliment with grace as I gingerly step over the body.

But lately there haven’t been any suicides.

As time passes, I’m finding that the question of my singlehood seems to be posed with less casual interest and is veering more into the realm of genuine concern.

“No seriously, Brandon, why the fuck are you still single?”

I guess at this point it is a genuine concern to some. Not that anybody with a brain puts a time limit on how long you’re allowed to be single before you’re certifiably unlovable, but I suppose when an emotionally available guy in his 20s with a generally healthy body image goes almost four years without even a casual relationship, people naturally start to wonder if he’s maybe a little bit frigid.

Or psycho…that might be a possibility.

Then there’s the tried and true your-standards-are-ridiculously-high-Mr. Perfect-doesn’t-exist-you’re-gonna-die-alone-moron rationale. And this is one theory that I’d never really considered until a few days ago, when while at a Qdoba a friend decided it was the perfect time to explore my lack of man love.

(Maybe it was the beef burrito my lips were wrapped around.)

He asked me the question that I’d answered for the umpteenth time that week, “So, why are you still single?”

“I don’t know — It’s not really something I think about. I’d be open to dating if I met a guy I sparked with, but I suppose I’ve been single for so long because until I actually meet a guy like that, I’m not going to go out searching for a relationship.”

In truth, I did know the answer to that question, and I did think about it. A lot, thanks to nosy people. I’d responded without really thinking because that had to have been the tenth time I’d been asked that question this month.

“Well, what exactly do you look for in a guy?”

Now that question I wasn’t prepared for. And it’s surprising, actually – of all the times I’d been asked about being single and of all the times I’ve pondered that very question in my own solitude, I’d never thought to qualify exactly what it is I want in a guy, or in a relationship. Without time to really think of my answer, I rattled off some usual things, like smart and funny and has some drive, to which I got “Your standards are too high. Relationships aren’t like Disney movies.”

And though this would go on to be only a small portion of the conversation that evening, I’ve been thinking about that exchange ever since.

Are my standards to high? I mean, I never really saw myself as having “standards.” Sure, we all have those things that draw us to a person, things that we consider “must haves” for a relationship to work. But I’ve always viewed “standards” as something physical. And, besides having a penis, I can’t think of any specific physical trait that a guy must have for me to want to date them.

It took me a few days, but I actually laid out exactly what it is I want out of a relationship for the first time. Make fun, or not.

–He has to be able to talk
This is the big one. And, really, it should go without saying, but you’d be surprised. I’m a mouthy person, I have an opinion about anything and everything, and if I don’t know enough about a pertinent subject to talk about it, believe that I will ask a ton of questions and by the next time you see me I’ll have wikipedia’d that shit. And I don’t do awkward silence. I believe that a person’s ability to speak is a good measure of their general passion, and nothing turns me on in a guy more than being able to convey passion, or even just a vague interest, with spoken language.

–He has to be intellectual
This goes along with the “talking” thing, because ultimately even though being able to talk in itself is awesome, actually having a point would be kind of nice, too. And note: “intellectual” doesn’t mean “college-educated.” Those two things aren’t mutually dependent. Maybe I’m snobbier than I thought, but the person for me will have to, you know, ­read books. Occasionally. I want a guy who not only has an opinion, but can intelligently argue it. Because I love a good debate.  I want a guy who watches CNN or reads a news blog (or, hell, even the paper) so that he has a general sense of what’s going on in the world. Because if it’s May 22^nd and I make a joke about how I spent all of May 21^st naked in preparation for the Rapture, and your response is “What’s a rapture?” It’s probably not going to work. I’m not in a relationship for a student-teacher experience.

–He has to have his own life, and have the confidence to let me have mine
I’m on the lookout for someone I can spend my life with …but not literally spend my life with. I have interests, and hobbies, and friends, and all of these things are important to me. And because all of these things are important to me and exclusively mine, any guy I’d date would have to understand that he isn’t going to seamlessly fit into all of it. Likewise, I want a guy who has his own thing going, and maintains that regardless of whether or not he’s in a relationship. A guy who can say, “Hey babe, I kinda have this thing that I’m doing with my friends, but I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” and not feel like he’s doing something wrong. Because he’s not. Separate but together is how I’ve always viewed the perfect relationship for me. Because I can say from experience that being with a guy who is literally counting down the minutes until he sees you again sounds good on paper (Stephanie Meyer’s paper), but gets old fast in reality. And God help the man who dares try to come between me and my friends. I’m not the kind of person who treats friends as nothing but placeholders to be dropped when a boyfriend comes along, and I couldn’t respect the guy who was willing to do that to his friends, even for my sake.

–He has to have a plan
He doesn’t have to make a lot of money. He doesn’t have to be decorated in any major way, nor does he have to any lofty goals. But the guy for me will have something. Something specific that he’s passionate about. A goal for his life. Even if it’s something as random as wanting to build the world’s tallest house of cards, he has to have something that keeps him from just sitting on the couch all day. This goes along with the passion that I’ve emphasized is so important to me. One of the sexiest traits a person can display is passion. For anything. And nothing gives me a boner quicker than watching a guy doing something he loves to do.

–He has to understand that I far prefer the simple pleasures
The guy for me will understand that I don’t really have a preference for “the finer things.” Sure, I like to try new things, but I’m really a simple boy at heart.  The guy who gets me will understand that, every so often, the best way to my heart isn’t a trip somewhere or reservations to some restaurant where I have to dress up. Just maybe a walk, or some park. Something that pulls me out of the monotony of daily life. Hell, just a bottle of wine and a joint rolled for two would make me feel all kinds of special.

…that’s if I smoked joints.

…which I totally don’t.

–He has to have balls
I can be very argumentative and emotional in a conflict. In fact, I always tend to come off as more upset than I actually am. I’ve always known this about myself. It’s something I’ve been working on to a certain degree, but a lot of it is just part of who I am. And it usually has to do with the fact that it takes a lot of confidence in being right before I argue with someone in the first place. So any guy who ends up with me has to have the guts to stand up to me. Nothing disappoints me more than a guy who backs down. Have the balls to know not only when to take me seriously, but to know when you have a point and don’t be afraid to tell emotional ol’ me to “shut the fuck up so I can get a word in edgewise.” Because I always come to my senses eventually, and when I do I’ll respect you more for holding your own.

And that’s it. This is really the first time I’ve listed exactly what it is I want out of a relationship. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe my standards are too high, but it’s what I want. I honestly don’t see how I could relate to a guy without these things.

This rubric also explains why I plan on being single for a bit longer. But that’s for another blog entry.

I’m getting old.

So, I have this ritual. Well, ritual is kind of a strong word. More like this thing I do.  Whenever I can manage it, after work on Tuesday evenings I go to a bar. Alone. Some people may have an issue with drinking alone, but I’m not one of those people. And the point isn’t really the drinking, anyway. It’s a therapeutic experience.

(Really! This isn’t some ploy to mask rampant alcoholism, I swear!)

The bar I go to is a gay piano bar complete with all the things you’d expect when you imagine a piano bar: sophisticated cocktails, dimmed lighting, mirrored walls and leather chairs. You feel like you’ve stepped through a time portal to the 50s when you walk in, and really you might have; Tavern on Camack is –I’m pretty sure- the only piano bar in Downtown Philadelphia with live piano playing every night. And the man who tickles the keys on Tuesdays is especially fantastic. The vibe is really relaxed during the week, and absolutely perfect for winding down after work.

Not to mention the piano player will let you sing with him. I’ve perfected my rendition of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” at this place. Really, I pretend like I’m on the balcony and everything.

It has sort of become my Cheers thing. I don’t go every Tuesday, but I really look forward to it when I know I can manage it. I go, have a drink or two (at most), and allow myself to stop thinking about the things I have to do, or worrying about the future I’m still not too certain of. And I really don’t mind that I go alone; it’s one of the few things in my life that’s a simple pleasure and all about me. My own personal escape. I allow myself a few hours to get out of my head, listen to live music, maybe sing a few songs, and be inspired by the total strangers around me.

And now I’m not sure I can go again.

You see, I wasn’t kidding when I said it was one of the few things I allow in my life to be all about me. For a few hours on Tuesdays I don’t think about family, friends or coworkers. Heck, to be truthful I don’t really think about myself. And I definitely don’t think about guys, though it is a gay bar and I’ve been hit on a few times. I’m just not there to think about boys or dating or relationships. I’m not there to think at all. It’s me time. I just sit, sip and listen.

But then two weeks ago I met a guy.

I had seen him at the bar before, but it wasn’t until I overheard him trying to defend Bill O’Reilly that I engaged him in conversation. Before I knew it, I was noticing how genuinely intelligent the guy was, and then how attractive he was. I then noticed that he was also checking my out whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention. That’s when I started flirting. And he flirted back. It was the fun kind of flirting – the kind where you go tit-for-tat, trying to get a rise out of each other while knowing it’s completely harmless. He called me handsome. I told him I really liked the color of his skin. At the end of the night we said goodbye without breaking eye contact.

We didn’t exchange numbers. I think we both realized that exchanging numbers would have broken the completely casual spell we had weaved.

Work the next Tuesday couldn’t end quickly enough, and before I left the café I spent at least 10 minutes in the restroom making sure I looked as cute as I could manage in my work clothes and smelling like coffee grounds. When I got to the bar I got my usual drink, sat in my usual seat at the piano, and listened.

Only I wasn’t really listening. My attention was on the door, and every time I heard it creak open I’d quickly glance over…before remembering to be casual because creepily staring at someone the second they walked into a room was probably not hot.

It was two hours later when I realized he most likely wasn’t coming.

He didn’t show up the next week, either.

I wasn’t sad that he didn’t show up. We’d only spoken once, after all. It wasn’t as though I’d planned our marriage, the names of our three adopted children, the colleges they’d attend, the wedding gifts I’d get them, and the amount of tears I’d shed as I gave his eulogy praising the terrific husband and father he was, all after one conversation.

…honest.

No, the best way I could describe it is the disappointment we all felt at some point, typically around junior high, when the guy or girl you had a secret crush on and liked to stare at in 5^th period wouldn’t show up to class. A very shallow sadness.

And at some point last week, when it became apparent that he wasn’t showing up again, and that shallow sadness started creeping up on me, it hit me that I’d let my special thing stop being relaxing. Without realizing it, I’d let my little Tuesday ritual stop being about me and become all about a boy…and another source of stress, however small.  He doesn’t show up, and I spend the night paying more attention to the door than I do the pianist. And, if I ever do run into him again, I’ll probably feel too awkward to act natural.

And I know I’m being a little dramatic, but part of me feels like the whole experience has been ruined. I think I need to find a new end-of-the-work-week-thing-I-do, and exercise a bit more discipline. Having been single for three years now, boys are on my brain enough. I need something in my life that supersedes thinking about them or anything at all.

(Just be forewarned: I don’t plan for this post to be extremely long. But, that tends to be how most of my posts start out…)

Just a little nugget of thought before I go to bed.

So, like countless bloggers before me, with the onset of a fabulous new year I devoted a little time to thinking about any bullshit resolutions I’d want to fantasize about actually accomplishing. Just the usual suspects like living healthier, being more environmentally conscious, starting a business, being more charitable, and having a ménage à trios with George Clooney and Hugh Jackman while Daniel Craig films and provides the commentary.

You know — the usual things all people hope to achieve.

But, after about five minutes of thinking about it, I gave up. Why? Because I inevitably thought back to the previous year, when an intensely hopeful and optimistic (and sinfully gorgeous, might I add) version of myself sat at a bar surrounded by friends, toasted in 2010, and filled his head with all sorts of fantabulous things he was definitely going to accomplish by year’s end. Of course, as is the case with most people, 90 percent of those resolutions are now lying in a ditch somewhere nestled between a stack of soggy newspapers and Lindsey Lohan’s career.

Remembering these failed goals only served to make me depressed.

And I couldn’t help but wonder why we, as in humanity, do this to ourselves. This self-torture of setting up completely overblown and ridiculous goals for ourselves that we swear we’re going to accomplish, but almost always don’t. We set ourselves up for failure and the accompanying guilt and diminishment of our self-worth with an almost masochistic fervor. And this isn’t just my pessimism talking: A quick Google or glance at the January edition of most magazines will feature some article or discussion about “sticking to your New Year’s resolutions” or, “accomplishing your goals for the New Year.” Hell, it’s almost become a nationwide joke to make weight-loss a part of your NYRs. Seems to me like there are more people out there failing than succeeding with their New Years goals. I’m definitely one of those people.

But this year I decided to break the cycle. Instead of coming up with an extensive list of hopes and dreams and ideas that I was definitely going to see to fruition in 2011, I was going to leave my mind a blank and open canvass, and let the result of my work and actions ultimately do the painting. In 2011, I was not going to partake of the hope-bong, so to speak.

And of course, the way my mind works, I didn’t just stop with that thought. I let it spread through everything. If 2010 was the year I put too much pressure on myself to accomplish and reach with only busted efforts and no returns as a result, 2011 would be the year I’d take my time. If 2010 was the year I promised to give 150 percent, 2011 would be the year I dialed it back. And then it hit me:

In 2011, FUCK giving 150 percent

And the more I thought about it, the more I began to believe that whoever first came up with the idea of “putting 150 percent into everything you do” should be taken out back and shot. Dissecting the saying, we’re basically telling ourselves to take 100 percent of what we’re capable of at our peak, and adding on the equivalent to half of that. No wonder we as a society get our rocks off to setting ourselves up to fail, the idea is ingrained in our minds from birth.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am in no way championing living a life of resolved laziness. On the contrary – here’s what only giving 100% means to me.

Having confidence in yourself. Because when you tell yourself that you have to give 150 percent to accomplish something, what you’re basically telling yourself is that you aren’t good enough. That you at your best is still unworthy.  The saying is demoralizing at its core. And, I don’t know about you, but me at my best is a thing to behold. It’s true that, sometimes, I just don’t put the required amount of energy into a goal that I should to accomplish it. But then maybe it’s time for me to stop living my life at 50 percent (60 percent on weekends). I should spend more of time realizing my full potential than convincing myself that even at my full potential, I just won’t make it. Of course, there will be times when 100 percent me really isn’t enough to accomplish a goal, but then maybe it’s time to consider this next thing:

Knowing when to admit you are taking on too much. Last year, for a span of a few months, I became a yes-man. A super man.  An anything-you-suggest-I-can-and-WILL-do man. I took on extra responsibilities at work, made a pledge to blog once a day, attempted to start a web-design business, tried to be Mr. Fixit at home, made an impossibly long list of all the books I planned to read in a 6-month span of time, and a host of other things that were suggested that I do. I did this pretty much all at once, and when I decided that something was my new goal to accomplish I blindly attacked it without a proper plan or assessment of the amount of work that would need to be done. Because, you know, if I just gave 150 percent I could do anything.

Of course, practically everything blew up in my face. I found myself reaching so blindly in every direction to get everything done that by year’s end I had to face the fact that I got nothing real accomplished, and that all I’d really done was heap tons more stress onto my year than there ever needed to be.

I don’t want 2011 to be a lazy year. I’m not saying that I don’t want to be productive or forward-thinking, nor am I going to nix goals that aren’t immediately accomplishable. What I will do, with this new “100% or bust” me, is really start paying attention to the people/places/things that I devote my time and energy to. When a new opportunity or challenge presents itself, I’m going to stop fantasizing about the finish line, and start realistically assessing the required journey. I’m going to stop saying “yes!” first, and worrying about where I’ll get the energy later.  I’ll ask myself if I have the time and energy to take something on and, more importantly, ask myself if I truly care about something enough to want to devote myself to it in the first place.

And, if I don’t, I won’t. Simple as that. My time and energy is precious, and I need to treat it that way — instead of whoring it out to whatever bright idea or pleasant thought happens to walk by. Had I thought like this last year, my stress level would have been a lot more manageable, and I probably would have accomplished more.

Knowing when to be content, and knowing when it’s time to grow. I want my life to be exciting, but sometimes it won’t be. That’s ok. In 2011, I’m going to stop the mindset of “do do do!” and half-assed applying myself to whatever (or not getting anything done at all), and accept the fact that sometimes I don’t have the room in my stomach to eat more than what’s already on my plate.

In my last blog I talked about how sick I was of my life being nothing more than the journey between home and work. Well, the sad thing is, maybe that’s all I had energy for. Maybe last year was the year I needed to really focus on getting those two things on track before I could move on and add something else to my life.

It might be embarrassing to admit but, hell, it’s an accomplishment: 2010 was the first year since I’ve been adult that, from January 1^st to December 31^st, I held the same full-time job. I wasn’t fired. I wasn’t laid off. I didn’t quit for something better (that would only turn out worse). I accepted my lot and did what I had to do (work a dead-end job with more downs than ups) because it was responsible. And maybe that needed to be my focus last year.

When I finally joined the Philadelphia Gay Men’s Chorus, it wasn’t without a lot of thought. The chorus would be a once-a-week commitment (with the occasional extra rehearsal or concert). There would be three dues to pay a year and I’d have five months to find a cheap tux somewhere. But I knew I could handle it. I could handle the once-a-week commitment and with more responsible spending and saving my tips from work, I knew I could handle the dues. Not to mention, I love singing and PGMC has been an organization I’ve wanted to be a part of since I moved here. Joining this concert season just felt right. I knew PGMC wouldn’t force me to output more than I was capable of.

I want this process to be a part of everything I decide to take on in 2011. I don’t want to do anything if it doesn’t feel right, nor do I want to take on anything if 100% of what I’ve got won’t be enough.

So 2011 be prepared, because I’m going to give you all of me. No less, but definitely not a dime more.

A long, long time ago, when I first started keeping a blog, I had a tagline to go with the name I came up with. When I first started this blog its official name was “YoBrando.com –Blogging What Happens Between Paychecks”.

I was going for dry, CNN-appropriate candor at the time.

As cute and witty as I thought tagline was , I ultimately scrapped it because everyone seemed to be doing taglines on their blogs (sorry, but this bitch sets trends, honey) and, as much as the tagline rolled off the tongue, I really didn’t like what it said about me. “Blogging what happens between paychecks” made my life seem a bit…I dunno, empty? Devoid of any worthwhile activities? A life so dull that the only highlights were, indeed, the semimonthly paycheck that was only a stone’s throw above minimum wage?

So I got rid of the tagline, with the hopes that my posts would blend together and tell the tale of a life richly lived – full of excitement and adventure and a drunken romp or two…hundred. Full of learning and happiness and anger and, Lord willing, maybe even a few book reviews.

But, even though I scrapped that tagline over a year ago, it’s still with me. And while it’s not up on the front page of my blog, photoshopped with a chic eye right next to my title, I still see it. When I tell people that I keep a blog, it still slips out of my mouth when I tell them the name.

Why? Because despite how long it has taken me to admit it, that tagline was born of my gut instinct. It was the first tagline that came to mind. And while I don’t usually go with my gut instincts, my gut instincts are usually always right.

My life is a little empty. It’s not crammed full of worthwhile, left-field activities that make great stories to tell. My life right now isn’t particularly funny or warm, or even dark and dramatic. There are no fiery romances or haphazard romps with men of the moment. My life is just there. Like that last pancake on your plate when you’ve already had seven.

Yeah, seven. You can diet all you want.

As much as I don’t want to accept it, my life does just boil down to stuff that happens between paychecks. It’s split between home, an unsatisfying job (unsatisfying if for no other reason than it’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life), and occasional forays to the bar. Nothing that I would call exciting. Nothing that I can look forward to when I wake up in the morning.

Nothing at all like I want my life to be.

I came to this realization gradually, like a series of hors d’oeuvres that lead up to a grand course of what the fuck am I doing with my life? They were little things, like one of my roommates possibly moving out and starting the next chapter of her life; my other roommate, best friend, and former partner in singledom entering a relationship that quickly turned quite serious; and an ever growing string of friends and coworkers who, at random and seemingly with little effort, just up and deciding to leave the country.  Normally, these happenings around me wouldn’t be enough to shake me…that is, until I’m asked the question, “So, what have you been up to lately?”

Then the reality of my life, in comparison to the rest of my peer group, hits me.

Nothing. I’m up to nothing.

I go to work. I work my shift. Once that’s done, I go home. Occasionally, there’s a detour to Chipotle, or a trip to my local bar if it’s a Wednesday (when my roommates and I go out). Other than that, I’ve been doing work and home, as I’ve always been doing.

But hey! I do keep a blog. It’s www.yobrando.com…Blogging what happens between paychecks…

And you can feel sad for me if you want. Lord knows for a while I did. But, you know what? I didn’t write this blog post to be pitied. Hell, I didn’t even write it because I haven’t updated in almost three months. I wrote it because I want to be empowered. Empowered by the energy I feel when I can look at my own situation squarely for what it is and take action.

Last month, it was a customer who asked me what I had been up to lately and broke the camel’s back. And when I realized the woefully pathetic state I was in, I was forced to think long and hard about my life, and about the choices I was and wasn’t making.

When I was a kid growing up in a Southern Baptist church (don’t judge me), there was a saying that my pastor often used that has stayed with me even today: don’t block your blessing. Now, I’m no longer a very religious person (Jesus and I are having a very awkward phase in our ongoing relationship), but that saying has stuck with me because it’s one of the few Christian sayings that really puts the work in your hands. It’s not about faith, or asking God to give you something, or simply praying for things to turn out alright.

No, that saying is all about doing. If you want good to happen to you, don’t do anything that would block it. Don’t let action, or even inaction, keep the blessing from your life.

If I want my life to be exciting, funny, and romantic I can’t just sit here and wait for it all to come for me. I can’t waste time feeling bad for the state of my life and what isn’t happening for me.

I have to take stock of my life, what it is that I want, what I want to achieve, and I have to start doing.

Because, as they say, when God shuts a door he opens a window…but opening that window is pointless if all I’m going to do is stand there staring at that closed door all damned day. If I want my life to be something more, lamenting the fact that it’s not something more isn’t going to change anything. I have to get the fuck out there and Do.

And once I realized this, I decided to start small.

I want to go back to school, and early this year I started paying back my student loans, so this is only a matter of time and little more planning.

Well, what else is there? It wasn’t difficult to figure out. I wanted some excitement back in my life. I wanted to be doing something, so that when a regular customer came into my coffee shop and asked me what I had been up to, I would have something to tell them.

And so I auditioned for the Philadelphia Gay Men’s Choir, and I got in.

That may seem pretty random, but trust me it isn’t. Maybe you have to live or work with me to know that I enjoy singing, a lot…and at awkward times…with awkward song choices. I’ve even been told that I can carry a tune. And I’ve wanted to join PGMC ever since I moved to Philadelphia and discovered its existence three years ago. But, for some reason or other, come audition time I would always chicken out. Though the excuses would always be different, at their core they were the same: I was always waiting for some magical moment when everything would align, and I would be able to walk into that audition without fear and belt out “I Will Always Love You” so effortlessly that I would be begged to join the choir in a position of immediate esteem. In a sense, I was waiting for the choir to come to me. I was letting my inaction block my blessing.

And the new me who sees his life for what it is can’t have that.

So I forgot the nervousness (or, at least, realized that I would just have to cope with it); I stopped over-thinking it and making it this big production, and I just did it. On audition day I walked right on over from work to the church where the auditions were being held. I stood in line without even realizing that I needed an appointment, and when the choir director allowed me to try out I marched right over to his piano and belted out…”My Country Tis of Thee.”

And I didn’t “belt” it so much as I struggled to keep up with him in the key he was playing it in.

But I got in, and starting next week I can no longer work Wednesday nights.

Go on, ask me why.

Why, you ask? Because I have rehearsals on Wednesday nights.

Seriously, I haven’t experienced the sensation of “looking forward to…” something this strongly in a really long time. And this is just the tip of the iceberg, and all because I accepted what I let my life become and channeled the energy from that realization into making a change.

Not to pat myself on the back, but…go me.

Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.

Brandon’s blogging again.

So, I’ve been thinking.

Like, you know, really thinking.

(I know, right?)

Maybe it’s the changing of the seasons. The onset of Fall. Fall is the season for thinking, I feel.  Everything about Fall puts me in an introspective mood.The changing color of the leaves and their inevitable falling to the ground. The return of hot drinks. The comfortable, in-between weather, and never quite knowing if it’ll get chilly enough to warrant a jacket. The warm, golden hue the world seems to take on. These upcoming months are all about transition. Winding down from the heat of Summer, and preparing for the cold of Winter. I tend to sit quietly more often, and If I’m travelling somewhere by foot chances are I have to tack on an extra 10 minutes of travel time because, in the Fall, I’m more likely to spot something on my walk that makes me stop and stare, and think in a series of spiraling tangents (college students playing in the park. A water fountain. A frustrated mother yelling at her kid to stop begging for more cookies or some shit). Mundane, typical, everyday things take on new meaning to me in the Fall.

Fall is usually the time of year that I figure things out.

It was a series of mundane events this week that finally got me in the mood to blog again.

It was nothing, really. Twice this week I hung out with coworkers. Not that I’ve never hung out with coworkers outside of work before, but it had been a while, and again it’s the season for these commonplace sorts of things to really have an impact on me.

The occasions were very similar. On Monday I did my typical closing shift at the café with another coworker, and after work we spontaneously decided to hang out. The second time (the very next day) another coworker had finally moved to a new place on the other side of town, and decided to invite people over that evening on a whim. Both nights pretty much went the same way – a group of people sitting around, Pandora in the background. There was laughter and loud-talking; there was gossip and excursions outside to keep the smokers company. There were random liquors that people scrapped together from other, planned occasions and a random assortment of the sweet and carbonated to chase them with.

There was pseudo-philosophy. There was dorky anime talk. There was sex-talk. At the second of these impromptu gatherings it got a little too late, and I crashed in a spare room.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun.

As I was walking through the city the next morning, enjoying the cooler weather, I thought about why it had been so long since I’d had that kind of fun. Back when I was in school in Pittsburgh, gatherings like that were so common. When you’re a student living on a campus with 15,000 other students all looking for a distraction, house parties and invitations to someone’s dorm room to drink bottom-shelf liquor were a dime-a-freakin-dozen.

But, at some point, it gets harder to do be that spontaneous. You go from living on a college campus to living in the real world, with real neighbors you’ll probably never get to know. You change cities. You turn 21 and go to bars, and your tastes graduate from “whatever liquor is on-hand” to proper cocktails and imported beers. You enter into a relationship. Your bills get more numerous and harder to pay, and you work full-time jobs and become career-minded. You start to tire.

You’ve grown up.

And you forget the last time you had a hastily-chased shot of cheap booze.

Now, you plan parties, and you schedule months in advance for friends to fly in to visit. And when they arrive, you go sight-seeing. You grab dinner somewhere. You take your friend to a bar where you’ll introduce them to a select few of the people you’ve recently inducted into your life. It’s fun, but it’s coordinated.

You probably won’t sit on the floor, drinking booze out of a coffee mug and having your tarot cards read on a Wednesday, like you used to.

And if you would, I applaud you. I could learn from you.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with growing up. Don’t mistake this for a nostalgic post full of whining for times that are long-since gone. Growing up is inevitable and important.

But, as I was walking home on that Fall morning, I couldn’t help but wonder if we shed too much of ourselves in the process of growing up.

I decided that, more than just the experience – more than just the drinking and sex-talk and crashing at someone’s place mid-week, it was the spontaneity that I missed, and that had made this week so fun. My roommates and I go out at least once a week, on one of our planned nights (Wednesday and Saturday) to catch up with each other. I wouldn’t trade this for planned gathering and opportunity to catch up with my roommates and dear friends for the world, but there’s something to be said for absolutely off-the-wall nights of doing something different and drinking something different. Talking to different people. Sitting on the ground and letting yourself just be in the moment.

And then waking up the next morning, and walking home on a nice Fall day to do your laundry, clean the house, and prepare for work the next day.

Oh, and blog.

My blogging joints have all just cracked from lack of use, but lets get this going.

All my life, I’ve always been attracted to structure. Granted, this doesn’t mean I’ve always been the most structured person. On the contrary – my adult life has been rattled from dives into absolute chaos more times than I’d like to think about. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m prone to being all over the place, and that if there was one word I didn’t know the definition to it’s “agenda,” and they would be right. Not going to lie. Life’s all about fessin’ up sooner or later.

But as chaotic as my priorities are known for being, I still insist that I’m attracted to structure. The problem is, as I have known for a while now, that it just isn’t structure that I create for myself that I love so much.  Let me explain (not that I don’t think you’ve followed me up to this point, but I tend to explain my own language a lot when I’ve been drinking. An endearing or annoying trait depending on how you look at it): I was successful all throughout my youthful years because the structure within which I lived was set for me.  Legally, I had to go to school, and all I had to do there was give my guidance counselor a general idea of where my academic passions lay and I had a customized schedule set for me. I had 7-8 classes a semester that I was expected to attend, with assignments that I was expected to complete. These assignments came with instruction and tangible goals (this is what you need to do, and this is the date by which you need to have it done, or you fail). I had nutrition and field trips and school dances for recreation, all outlined. And thus, I did very well in school.

At home, I had a no-nonsense mother who made sure that I respected my house by keeping it clean, and that I respected my elders by obeying them. The rewards here were also very obvious: if I was obedient I was rewarded with privileges and trust. I obeyed my parents to a T and was the most well-behaved kid in my generation. And I had good grades. The result of that was, by the time I was 16, I could literally walk out the door and not come back for two days without fear of punishment. I had so earned my parents’ trust that they knew, without a doubt, that I wasn’t doing anything irresponsible (and it’s the truth. The one time this happened, I had gone over to a friend’s house to study for final exams, and I ended up staying the night because it was so late, and spent the entirety of the next day playing Dreamcast. Oh what a rebel I was). My sister, on the other hand, couldn’t leave the house for five minutes without our parents breathing down her neck.

Coming from a childhood that was so structured, where my goals and priorities were laid out so neatly, it was a shock when I thrust myself into the adult world, on the opposite end of the country, by myself. From the point on, it was my responsibility to create my own structure. I was solely responsible for organizing my goals and priorities, and I didn’t do so well at that. I did horrible, actually. College didn’t go so great, and my adult life has been one orgy of moving from place to place, trying to find myself and that one scenario that would just fit and make everything work out for me. And it’s a failing that has sort of continued on with my life. I excel in areas that are well laid out for me – I’ve always done well at the various jobs I’ve held, or things that I’ve volunteered for. Anything that came with a rigid set of requirements and expectations, I’ve met without fail.  Anything that has required me to limit and police myself? Not so much.

But that is something that I desperately want to change.

Enter Google Calendar.

If the first half of 2010 has been about getting myself grounded and stable, the latter half will definitely be about moving forward. It’s time for me to stop thinking about simply working a job and spending my money wisely.  It is now time to start thinking about the future.  The ways that I want to revise my life and how I’m going to make that happen.  This, of course, requires a lot of planning. It requires a lot of goal setting and providing structure for my own life. These are precisely the things that I’ve never been good at.

So what have I been doing to change this? Why, the oldest trick in the book: taking it one day at a time.

And that’s where my Google Calendar comes in.

I’ve always been a fan of technology, for some reason, I’ve always been able to relate to it more than something analog. I attempted keeping a physical journal several times throughout my life, but it wasn’t until I discovered livejournal that I was able to do chronicle my life with any consistency. I’ve always been bad with budgeting, until I discovered www.mint.com.

The same goes with scheduling. Until I discovered Google Calendar. The fact that it already interacts with my email, social networking outlets, and (most importantly) my Blackberry, makes it so much easier to consistently stick with. Last week I started off slowly; I only filled in my work schedule. This week, I entered in my work schedule and, besides that, started every day with a particular activity outside of work that I wanted to accomplish. And I’ve been surprising myself with how closely I’ve been sticking to it. I made an appointment to visit a doctor for a long-overdue checkup. I scheduled in time to read and exercise. I even scheduled time to blog. And, obviously, so far so good.  It’s so easy to follow along with my schedule when it’s kept so neat and organized. And, when I plot my week in my Calendar, I can then tackle every day and every task as it comes to me, instead of having a jumble of things I have to get done swirling through my head untamed. Google Calendar has enabled me to keep track of these things in a way that allows me to get over this hang-up I’ve had about structuring my own life. It’s refreshing.

Eventually, I would like to add more things to my Calendar. Like searching for a counselor/therapist, volunteering more, keeping in touch with old friends, and tackling financial hurdles that keep me from going back to school.  I know it’s not going to be easy. Part of the reason I was so good at following structure that was imposed on me over structure that was self-influenced was because I didn’t really have a choice. Having a choice allows for procrastination and broadens my margin of error, and keeping my Calendar updated is definitely something I’m going to have to enforce on myself. But, part of the reason I’ve been able to do it is that I’ve finally started looking at the things I’ve wanted for so long as non-negotiable. And, because of that, taking the necessary steps to get those things is not so much a choice anymore. These are the things I want out of life, this is what I have to do to achieve them, or I fail.

We can be honest on blogs these days, right?

Yes? Good — because right now I’m going to be honest in a way that I’m usually not. I’m going to have one of those brief moments of complete and unabridged honesty that enable a person to admit something a little more than potentially embarrassing. One of those honest-to-god truths that could very well change how people perceive you. Something that goes so against the good, wholesome, nice guy image you spend every waking moment aspiring to.

What am I going to be honest about? Here it is:

I’m addicted to the Missed Connections section of Craigslist.

Ok ok, I hear you now:  being obsessed with Missed Connections is nothing new. Everyone I know checks it every now and then, but I tell you, I’m absolutely obsessed with it. Whenever I’m near an internet connection for at least 5 minutes you can be guaranteed that I’m going to check the m4m section of Missed Connections at least twice. And I always joke that if someone left me a Missed Connection, I’d die right after reading it…or be so overcome with jubilation that I’d ascend to heaven right then, my life’s destiny having been fulfilled.

But now, I’m starting to think that might not be such a joke anymore.

The eye-opening moment occurred just a few days ago. I was out having a few drinks with friends (because I don’t do that nearly enough), when I noticed a guy across the bar staring at me. I mean, like, really staring at me.

I’m talking full-on, I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-god-given-life-with-you-but-not-before-I-make-sweet-sweet-love-to-you-right-here-right-now staring at me.

Yeah.

And when I say this guy was attractive, he was freakin’ GORGEOUS. I’m talking good-looking on a level that’s dangerous, because the guy is so much more attractive than what you’re used to that you’d be tempted to enter into the most fucked up, dysfunctional relationship in the world just to be around him.

(You know, like with Hugh Jackman. So what he’s married to a woman he loves? So what they have kids that he loves even more? So what the aforementioned factors heavily indicate that he’s straight? By all that’s holy, you’d make it work.)

And here he was, this guy, this most perfect guy, devoting most of his attention (he was with friends, too) to me, and I’d had the required amount of rum-based drinks to flirt back! I had the sexy-eyes set to “full boner.” I was even doing the thing that you do when you’re out with friends and you’re flirting with someone – you know, where you glance at the guy and then quickly look back at your friends and laugh really loud and look completely invested in the conversation your friends are having, when in reality you couldn’t care less what the topic of conversation was because you’re too busy playing eye-footsy with the guy across the bar. I even managed to covertly loosen a button on my shirt to give him ample view of my man-cleavage.

(give him ample view of my man-cleavage…yes, I just typed that out…yes, that’s just how hot this guy was and how bad at flirting I am…)

But he was eating it up. Every time I looked over at him his eyes were dead set on me. Piercing, brown, and totally interested.

And I know what you may be thinking now, “Brando, I hope you’re writing this post from one of those hip  megabuses with the free wifi, sitting next to your new boo and on your way to start your new life in one of those awesome states that allows to gays to marry.”

Unfortunately, no. I’m writing this post from the laundromat – currently booless (but soon to be heavily stocked on clean underwear).

And why? Because instead of getting some nerve and walking a few feet over to the other side of the bar to initiate conversation, I stayed on my end and continued socializing with my friends. And when it was time to leave, I left.  And my leaving without talking to the guy was very much intentional. Not just because I was a little too chicken-shit. Not just because I smelled like a mixture of coffee and dirt after having worked all night.

No, I mostly withdrew with the conscious hope that the mystery guy would be so enamored with me that — as I’m sure you figured out by now — he’d leave me a Missed Connection.

Needless to say, but the time I got on the subway I felt like a right idiot.

That’s right, my obsession with Missed Connections runs so deep that I passed up the possibility of romance just for the snowball’s chance in hell that the hunk would leave me a message on a public website about…the possibility of romance.

And there’s my moment of honesty. Because, as you now see, I can bitch about being single on my blog as often as I’d like, but it’s eye-opening moments like this that demonstrate that, more often than not, I’m the orchestrator of my own loveless circumstances. And my path to forced solitude can take various avenues (self-absorption at the forefront here). And maybe that’s why I’m so obsessed with Missed Connections. Taking control and taking charge with guys in a public setting has always been an issue of mine. With the Missed Connection, a semi-anonymous declaration of affection put out for the world  to see, you don’t really have to worry about all that.

Maybe I should start looking for more romantic fulfillment in real life, instead of hoping for a non-committal Missed Connection…

Fuckity-Fuck-Fuck

Another week, another overblown piece of Lady Gaga “performance art.”

I should admit that, contrary to the tone of this post, I do like Lady Gaga. She’s got some catchy songs, and for better or worse, she’s gotten people talking about Pop music as a serious genre again, so that’s nice of her.

But, as I sat for eight minutes and forty-four seconds taking in her latest video for ‘Alejandro’ — that strange second track from The Fame Monster that sounds like a mix of Madonna’s ‘La Isla Bonita’ and pretty much everything Ace of Base ever recorded – I couldn’t help but think of how tired it all looked. How tired Lady Gaga looked.

I’ve mostly been a fan of Lady Gaga’s 9-minute videos; I appreciate the style, the tongue-in-cheek, and the Tarantino references. But with the ‘Alejandro’ video, it seems as though Gaga is using the power of her own inflated ego to propel her level of creativity into the realm of philosophical and, worse, important. And oh, how she falls flat.

Let’s see, we have obvious lifts from various works of Madonna (‘Like a Payer’ and ‘Vogue,’ specifically), shock-value defilement of religious symbols, men in various states of crossdress, and your typical full-of-poses dance choreography. Oh, and don’t forget a few references to Nazi Germany and the Holocaust. In short, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before — done previously and more genuinely by artists that have come before her. The video for ‘Alejandro’ seems like nothing more than Gaga attempting to demonstrate how “deep” and “important to our generation” she thinks she is. She describes the video as a tribute to the gay men she’s developed “pure friendships” with, the kind that she feels she’ll never find with straight men, or something like that. I guess the best way for her to do that is to hump a bunch of men in heels and swallow a crucifix. I’m surprised it didn’t occur to her to incorporate a scene where she’s swimming in a giant replica of Piss Christ and then claim it was commentary on the oil spill in the Gulf.

In short, it was nothing more than “KEEP TALKING ABOUT ME!” shock-fodder disguised as something worth taking seriously. Maybe it would be easier for me to take her visuals seriously if the underlying message wasn’t something so insipid and overdone as “I love my gay besties!”

The weakest part about the video to me is that it follows the trend of overblown Gaga videos that have absolutely shit to do with the song they’re set to. It was forgivable at first, as the videos for ‘Paparazzi’ and ‘Telephone’ were fun and told interesting stories of their own. But now, after ‘Alejandro,’ I have to wonder if her absolute refusal to connect her “performance art” to her music is less of a conscious decision and more because she just…can’t. I think it’s getting a little lazy. Gaga’s building her cred on being a new kind of “intellectual” pop star, well, it’s hard to believe that when she takes average electro-dance-pop/RedONE music and pairs it with absolutely unrelated and ankle-deep video concepts. When I watch a Gaga video these days, I find myself having to either separate myself from the visuals to enjoy the song, or vise versa.  Does she just not have what it takes to expand on the ideas she introduces in her music with corresponding visuals, or does she feel it isn’t important? I used to believe it was the latter, now I’m leaning toward the former.

And, through all the debating of whether or not Alejandro is deserving of the slack it’s getting, I’m reminded of a particular artist. A most perfect artist who had absolutely no problem marrying the creativity and point-of-view of her music with equally compelling music videos. The glorious Kate Bush. I can’t think of a single Kate Bush video that didn’t leave me with a better understanding or at least a different perspective of its corresponding song. Kate Bush was simply the queen of using music and visual to tell a story. No pandering, no unnecessary shock-value. Just pure storytelling. Gaga should take more than a few pages from her book.

Really, all this dissing of Lady Gaga is just a setup for me to post my favorite Kate Bush videos. After all, what better way to introduce Kate Bush than by placing her triumphantly on top of a pile of artists who’ll never be as good as her?

So I was at work the other day, sweeping the floor or some shit and looking out the windows at the park across the street that was filled with people doing a ton of not-at-work-hahaha shit that I wished I was doing, when one of my coworkers snapped me out of my daydream of lounging on plush grass underneath the shade of a tree and said, “Hey, I read your blog today.”

“Oh? What did you read?”

“The one about the gay things straight guys should do. It was pretty funny, I thought it was an article at first.”

“…oh,” I was surprised and flattered, though I didn’t know why – my blog is linked to my facebook account and I’ve never really kept it a secret. Still, I got an odd feeling from knowing my coworker had read my blog. Not a bad feeling, just odd. I stored it away as a singular incident.

Then later that evening, as I was having a drink with another group of coworkers at a block party, I was in the middle of subtly checking out one of the few men that I work with when another coworker confessed that she had read my blog. Well, one post from it.

“Which one did you read?”

“I don’t know, something about a Pussy Rest or something. I didn’t finish it.”

Again that odd feeling.

And, just now, as I was logging out of facebook, I noticed that my last blog entry had been “liked” by two people: my best friend from Pittsburgh, and one of my cousins. My favorite cousin, but still a family member that I hadn’t really spoken to at length in a while. And at first it didn’t really bother me that she had read (and liked) my blog entry about the gay things straight men should do…

…until I remembered that it had a vague reference to me getting pubic hair stuck in my teeth.

And I’m not so sure about how I feel about that. That odd feeling came roaring back, and I wondered if it was this feeling that keeps a lot of bloggers I follow from tying their blogs to their real identities:  the odd, exposed, almost embarrassed twinge in the back of your mind when something you usually keep separated from your real life is then reflected back at you by your real life.

My blog is definitely a place where I can be a lot more honest about and explorative of my emotions. It’s a place where I can not only be forthcoming with the things I’ve done, but where I can get feedback from people who don’t know me and who I’ll most likely never meet. Having a blog is a lot like having a livejournal, only to have a blog is to more overtly push for an audience. Specifically, an anonymous audience. It’s a more exhibitionist thing to blog, I feel, than it is to livejournal – which is why I never minded when friends and family visited my livejournal, and why I’m now having this feeling at the thought of real world figures of my life encountering this part of me.

I would have never written about a hot guy’s pubic hair getting anywhere near my teeth on my livejournal.

But I think, as odd as this feeling is, that it’s necessary. I don’t think I’m going to change the way I blog, what I blog about, and how openly I present it for anyone to read. I made a promise to myself a while back that I would become a more open person, that I wouldn’t be so borderline ashamed about some of the things I’ve done, my talents, or things that I’m into (sexual, dorky or otherwise).  Maybe I luck out in the sense that there’s nothing in my life right now that is truly keeping me from tying my identity to a website where I blog about things that aren’t exactly PC (I’m in no danger of losing my job over YoBrando), but as of now I see my blog as an exercise in honesty. A avenue by which I can present myself to the world – friends, family, and coworkers included.

Ok, I know – a popular stereotype for us gay men is that we generally take care of ourselves to a degree that most straight men would associate with women. A lot of us trim, cut, pluck, shave, scrub, comb, brush and relax within an inch of our lives, all for the sake of looking good.

(Of course, not all gay men are like this, but again, popular stereotype.)

Straight men like to refer to these behaviors when other men do them as gay or, my personal favorite, metrosexual, which of course is just the more PC way to blatantly call someone a flaming fag. That is, typical straight men are just as unlikely to indulge in behaviors that are labeled as “metrosexual” as they are in things labeled “gay.”

(Of course, not all straight men are like this, but again, popular stereotype.)

This post is inspired by a conversation I had with a straight co-worker who, when he noticed me applying moisturizer to my hands, yelled out “You moisturize? I thought only women moisturized!” in bug-eyed disbelief.

My response was a doe-eyed look and a confused-sounding, “but but…dry skin is gender neutral…why wouldn’t guys moisturize?”

“Men don’t moisturize. We don’t have to,” was his reply. This left me confused for the remainder of the day.

Why don’t men have to moisturize? Despite popular belief I’m a man, and I have to moisturize. If I don’t moisturize my skin will turn into a dry, dull, ashy shadow of its usually perfectly glowy and soft self. Do straight men not do it because, in this male dominated world, perfectly healthy skin is not needed to attract desired females? And clearly, I could tell by the way he was looking at me as I continued to apply lotion to my hands, he was storing that very lotion away in his mind as reason #567,909 why Brandon is gayer than Christmas.

And I couldn’t find the sense in it, and it goes beyond moisturizing. There are so many things that are stereotypically labeled as gay by straight men for no good reason other than they don’t want to do it. Things that, if they embraced them, would not only enrich their lives and appearances, but increase their chances of getting laid by exactly 45.8 percent.

That’s science, folks.

So, in an effort to do my part in contributing to the betterment of the world, I took it upon myself to compose a list of the top 5 things straight men should stop labeling as gay.

1) Moisturizing: because dry skin looks bad…on everyone.
Of course, this would be the very first thing. Now, I understand that I come from a somewhat biased position. As a black person, dry, ashy skin is a little more visible against our ebony complexions. So because of this, moisturizing isn’t quite as taboo for black people, or anyone with dark-toned skin where dry skin is a more visible issue. That said, several fair-skinned guys I have spoken to decry moisturizing as a pointless, expensive habit. They also say that since lotion is made up of unnatural chemicals not produced by your body, you don’t need it.

Well, guess what? Deodorant is also made up of unnatural chemicals. Are you going to walk around smelling like a locker room after training camp?

Don’t answer that question.

The truth is, dry skin keeps your skin soft, healthy-looking and, in a lot of cases, protects you from the outside elements. And you know what? That chick you’re checking out at the bar? What’s the first thing she’s going to notice about you? Hint: not your bank account.

That right: your skin. So keep it moist and smooth-looking. Or do you want her to subconsciously think of vaginal rug burns at the mention of sex?

2) Trimming: not all treasures should be hidden in a dark forest.

Along with moisturizing, trimming should also be standard amongst my straight brethren. And I’m not just talking about quick trim of the old mustache or sideburns.

I’m talking about taking the occasional weed whacker to that mass of fuzz surrounding your junk.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it’s necessary for a guy to shave it all off (I don’t know about you, but I personally don’t like feeling like I’m doing naughty things to a prepubescent boy), but the occasional trim with a pair of scissors goes a long way.

Here, let me put it to you another way:  have you ever had pasta florentine with shrimp? One of my favorite dishes – the delicate sauce, the pasta cooked perfectly al dente, the succulent shrimp – there’s nothing not to love about it…except for when certain people prepare the shrimp without removing the shells. And do you know why that’s annoying? Because instead of being able to enjoy forkful after uninterrupted forkful of this delicious dish, every so often I have to pause, pick at the shrimp with my fingers and remove the sticky shells. There is no classy way to do this.  And occasionally I’ll miss a bit of shell, and it’ll end up caught between my teeth.

Gents, your dick’s the pasta florentine, and your messy pubes are the shelled shrimp. When not kept under control, your pubes take what could (and should) be an enjoyable oral experience and make it unnecessarily messy. No girl likes getting pieces of shell caught between her teeth and the same goes for your man-forest.

Don’t let the sight of your junk make a girl wonder if she remembered to put floss in her purse. Trim that shit, yo.

3) Gay Bars: not just a haven for penis.

This one rings a little personal for me, because I have been in the position, more than once, where I’ve invited good straight male friends to come out to a gay club with me, only to get this response: “Dude, that’s a little too much for me.”

Guys, you are seriously missing out. I mean, the opportunities here should be dead obvious. Most gay guys have friendships that are composed of a) other gay guys, and B) straight girls. When we go out to gay bars, we don’t go alone; we bring those other gay guys and straight girls.

So follow along, you have a club full of straight females drinking, and watching us beautiful gay men dance and hump each other inappropriately while immersed in a bright but tastefully done lighting concept. The girls are getting slightly aroused by all the guy-on-guy impropriety, but aren’t getting any action because we’re all gay.  You get that? It’s a smorgasbord of aroused females. What a perfect opportunity for you, the straight man, the swoop onto the scene with your straight and perfectly accessible penis.

Maybe this is a secret I shouldn’t have given away. But I’m surprised more straight men haven’t caught on to this one yet.

4) Modest Farting: because farting in public stopped being cool in middle school, and even then it was questionable.

Picture this scenario, because it’s happened more than once. I’m in a room full of my (mostly) straight friends. Without warning, I excuse myself to the restroom only to come back less than a minute later.

“Dude, what was that about?” one of my friends would say, noticing I wasn’t gone long enough to have done one of the three things men usually excuse themselves to go to the restroom to do.

(Not going into detail on what that third thing is…)

I usually respond with a cryptic, “I…uh…had to take care of something.”

Without missing a beat, because I’m known for this, my friend understands, “did you just leave the room to fart?”

“So what if I did?”

“Dude, just let it rip!” and without warning I’m greeted with laughter and a symphony of farts that usually sends me running from the room and looking for the number to a local hazmat squad.

Guys, everything about farting in public is gross. The sound, the smell, the way you laugh at it like it’s something to be proud of. Look, I understand that it’s a normal function of the human body and nothing to be ashamed of, but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to then sit in a room that smells like a bowl of egg salad that’s been left out in the sun too long.

Guys, you have an opportunity to impress the ladies by being the only guy in your group that doesn’t smell like ass. Seize it.

5) Bitch Drinks: because liquor is just a whole lot classier.

I get it guys: you like beer. You know what? Every full moon or so even I enjoy beer.  But there’s no need to label classy cocktails as “bitch drinks.” I may be the minority opinion on this well, but cocktails beat beer for the following reasons:

a)      It can be mixed into a wider variety of flavors.

b)      A cocktail can go from being “I’ll need six of these to feel buzzed” weak, to “I can drink one of these before I’m  trying to make out with the doorman” strong.

c)       They come in pretty glasses. Hell, that matters!

Yeah, you might not look as masculine holding a cocktail glass full of a pastel-colored liquid that’s got fruit floating on top of it as you would holding a frothy pint glass, but there’s no harm in switching it up a bit. Show a girl you can be impulsive by ordering something sweet and rum-based. Show her you’re capable of trying new things by ordering something that’s got the word “breeze” in the name.

Show a girl you’re thoughtful by ordering something that will reassure her that you won’t be a mess of farts and belching by the time she’s tipsy enough to consider taking you home.

Yeah, beer does that to you.

To the ladies and gays out there, got anything that you think straight men should quit labeling as gay?